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They say...

That when you quit smoking you get your sense of taste back.

Well, tonight I found out that this is in fact true.

Having been off the cancer sticks for almost a week now due to my lungs being utter bastards who decided to rebel against my best efforts to turn them into shriveled sacks before I hit the age of fifty, and a chest infection.

Having lived almost exclusively on cheesy pasta and microwave meals over the last week I decided that tonight I'd treat myself to a nice mixed kebab from the local kebab house. And what did I find? They taste fucking awful! Seriously, I've eaten some right old shite in my time, most of which I cooked myself and therefore have no-one to blame but me. But I know realize that nothing I have ever created in Ross' Country Kitchen can hold a candle to the mixed kebab
I just choked down my gullet.

So, it's either back onto the lung busters again or never darken the door of the local kebab shop again. Which is a double edged sword really, either I start smoking again and risk an early death or the local kebab shop goes out of business and Ali sells his Mercedes Benz and moves back to Turkmenistan. Or wherever the fuck it is that he comes from. How do I know? It's not come up in our conversations.

Truth be told nothing much apart from "Do you want salad and sauce" has came up in our conversations.

Since my chest infection got really bad...

Last Wednesday, I've had to stop smoking.

Which is not a good thing at all. I like smoking, it's cool. We all have to die and it's totally out of our control so why worry about it?

All the coolest people smoked. Bill Hicks smoked, James Dean smoked, Einstein smoked, Jean-Paul Satre smoked, Keith Richards smokes, Johnny Cash smoked and John lennon smoked. Tony Blair and George W Warmonger don't smoke. Point proven. Case closed. You can keep your government statistics and your surgeon general warnings. I win the argument.

Thankfully not too many people know I've had to stop smoking. I've been cooped up in the house attempting to defeat this chest infection all week and haven't seen anyone. Tomorrow will be a different thing altogether though, I'm back to work tomorrow and I'll no doubt be asked by several people why my stress levels are higher than a hippy on the third day of Woodstock.

I just hope that they can put up with the stream of abuse that'll come out of my mouth.

It's not everyday...

That I have to fight the urge to knock some decency into someone. It's more like once a week.

Today must have been the exception to the rule though, I had the overwhelming desire to knock seven shades of shit out of at least two people.

Firstly, there was the bus driver. I got on the bus and dropped in £2.50 and asked for a daysaver (Normal price £2.30) and the driver said in an abrubt tone of voice "These buses don't give change, you've just lost your 20p." I let the remark go, took my ticket and said "Thanks." To which the driver mumbled "Yeah pal, whatever. Are you going to sit down or are you going to stand there like a prick all day?"

I lost it. Shamefully. Full on rage took control of my mouth and I let loose...

"Listen fuckface, I didn't get on this bus to get lip from a jumped up arsehole like you. I got on the bus to get from point A to point B so just shut the fuck up and do your job... Drive the fucking bus. And if you say one more word I'll tear your spinal chord out and beat you to death with it."

The driver closed the doors of the bus and I walked down the aisle to get a seat just in case he decided to take his revenge by knocking me off balance by accelerating quickly. As I walked down the aisle I noticed that almost everyone else on the bus was sat with their mouths hanging open like an assembly of cheap plastic fuck dolls. The only person not sitting with their mouth agape was laughing his head off.

Twenty minutes later I got off the bus and made my way to the Sighthill Health Centre to hand in my prescription. I walked along the corridor and approached the receptionists desk. A very pretty looking receptionist sat behind the glass screen and a skinny junkie was attempting to put some kind of point across to her.

As I stood patiently waiting the junkie looking fuckwit became more and more animated and was begining to lose control. As the receptionist said, for about the fifth time; "Sorry sir there really isn't anything I can do about that, you'll need to consult with the doctor." The junkie shouted "For fucks sake ya stupid fucking slag, Aw ahm wanting is ma fucking script changed! Fucks sake. Dozy fucking bitch."

Once again I lost it.

I stepped in closer to the junkie, pushed my full weight against his back, grabbed his wrist and his neck and squeezed. The junkie began to squirm and I said to him "Stand still or I squeeze a lot harder. If you make any attempt to move I'll smash your head right through that glass partition in front of you."

The junkie muttered "Ok big man."

I continued speaking... "If you think that the nice receptionist won't back up my story that you headbutted the glass in a fit of rage then just remember how you just spoke to her."

Once again the junkie said "Ok, big man."

"Now, what I'm going to do is this. I'm going to let you go and you're going to apologize for speaking to this nice young lady like that then you're going to walk out of this building... Clear?" I said.

"Aye man, clear as daylight." Said the junkie.

I let go of him and much to my surprise he turned to the receptionist and said in a very timid voice, "Sorry about that hen. It'll no happen again." And then he turned and ran. I handed the receptionist my prescription, she said "Thanks." and I walked out of the health centre.

As I walked from the health centre I spotted the junkie reading the times of the buses at the bus stop I was heading towards. When he noticed me he took to his heels and sprinted away like the roadrunner.

My bus took about a minute to arrive and while I waited I read my book. As I stepped onto the bus I held up my daysaver for the driver to see and was surprised when a voice said "This is yours."

I looked up from my book and saw that it was the same driver as I had as I made my way to the health centre, and moreover he had a twenty pence piece in his hand. "Sorry for being a dick." He said, as I took the 20p and made my way to a seat.


If I see one more...

Top 100 show I'm gonna start hunting down TV executives.

(This next bit should be read as though I'm screaming out. Mainly because I am.)

Why, in the name of all that's fucking holy, do TV execs think I give a good god damn what the 100 most embarrassing moments of the 1980's were? Why, please, tell me why! I lived through the 1980's and believe me I know they were ass cringing awful times when it came to Music, Fashion, Politics and TV. There's no need to spend three hours of TV time showing me shit that should have been consigned to the waste basket of history twenty five seconds after it was first shown.

And to add insult to injury B-list Celebs are asked what their opinions are. But here's the rub on that one, none of them actually remember the 1980's, oh no, if they remembered the 1980's they'd be sitting with their heads in their hands mumbling things along the lines of "Oh my god, I actually bought that record. I thought it was great." Or "May the lord forgive me for wearing leg warmers." or "Yes, I did have a pink sports coat that I wore with the sleeves rolled up so I could look like Don Johnson did in Miami Vice, even though I lived in Reading."

But that's the thing most laughable about those shows, no-one admits to having done any of the embarrassing things that they've been told to reminisce about. It's always a case of "I had a friend who..." Or "I hung around with a guy who..." Or "There was this one girl at school who..."
It was never them that bought a copy of the Kajagoogoo album and had their hair done just like Limahl. Nope. It was always the tragic character that they knew when they were younger.

But, there's an exception to this rule. The comedians. They say in a proud voice "Yeah, I had my hair done like the guy from flock of seagulls, wore leg warmers over my jeans, had a lilac sports jacket and sang Where's your mamma gone by Middle of the road out loud in the street. All at the same time. Oh those were hapy days. And the joy of it all is that due to my memory being shot to shit after half a lifetime of drinking I can't even remember the beatings I used to get at school."


In an ideal world....

When you hit the age at which you realize you're gonna die there should be a government representative comes to see you and asks you how you'd like to go.

This would eliminate diseases such as Cancer. Who in their right mind when asked how would you like to die? is gonna say, "I think I'll have the Cancer please. There'll be none of that sudden death nonsense for me, I'd rather spend the last six months of my life rotting away in a hospital bed while my family watches the slow steady ruination of my body."

You could choose a charitable death. Which, at first glance, may seem a bit hard to put a finger on but imagine this...

You're driving along the highway and come to a blind bend in the road. As you sweep around the bend a deer appears in your line of sight... You swerve to avoid killing this poor defenseless animal and crash through the poorly constructed barrier which lines every road in every country the world over... The car you're driving flies gracefully through the air for a couple of hundred feet and then lands with an earsplitting crunch twelve feet from a brick wall... As momentum carries the car forwards it slams into a mime artist and pins him to the solid concrete wall.

Taking a mime artist with you when you go is, undoubtedly, a charitable death.

Plus, and here's the true advantage of the aforementioned death, your last words could be "Mime your way out of that, motherfucker."

It has occurred to me...

That I need a picture for my new MySpace profile.

Everyone else manages to look quirky, interesting, funloving or just downright sexy in their picture and all I manage to look like is someone who you'd rather not meet in a dark alley.

I could use one of the ones taken while I was on holiday in South Africa. And as this is a public forum type of arrangement I could throw it open to the vote.

So here goes. It's your call. Which one of the following pictures should I use for my new MySpace page?

Should it be...


Picture #1. The Tattoo I had done while in Durban.

Me Versus the Indian Ocean.,

Picture #2. Wandering out into the surf at Mtwalume.

Surfs up.

Picture #3. Looking quite cool. Even though I had just had a near death experience.

So now it's all down to you lot out there in web land. Take your pick of the pics and leave a comment. I'll let the vote run for a couple of days.

Now you lot can...

Find me on MySpace

Whatever the fuck that is. I dunno, the things you do for friends.


It's not the cough that carries you off...

It's the coffin they carry you off in.

I've got some kind of chest infection. I'm hacking up lumps of phlegm that you could put posters on walls with. But, never one to be put off by minor things, I'm still smoking like a very stressed lab beagle. Well, why not. I aint scared of dying. At least not since I found Jesus.

Big J has my name on his list now. He's due me a favour after I rescued him from a savage beating in the pub last week. Allow me to tell you the story...

It was late on in the night, I was drinking a nice long glass of rum and coke and Jesus was keeping the crowd entertained by doing parlor tricks, you know the kind, 3 card Monty, levitation, water into wine, passing beer nuts through the holes in his hands etc etc, when a large and surly drunkard made a comment about Jesus' mother being a bit loose after a couple of Pernod and lemonades.

Which may be fair comment if you ask me, I mean who ever believed that Jesus was an immaculate conception? Apart from Joseph, obviously. But then again he was a bit of a waterhead anyhow. Having spoken to some close friends of Joseph I know this to be a fact.

According to one guy, who went to school with Joseph, Joseph was always the butt of class practical jokes. Even the teachers and the school staff got in on the fun. One day Joseph waited outside the janitors office patiently for three and a half hours thinking that the janitor was going to come back with a long stand. And lets not even begin the story of the when Joseph was sent on work experience and was sent to get a bucket of sparks for the welder.

But, I digress. Back to the pub...

Jesus, not being the type to whip out a fist and slam the guy in the face, stood up to his full height of 4'6" and said to the crowd that had gathered around to watch the show "I forgive you for your transgression. Peace be with you." To which the drunk answered "Ok fuckface, outside. I'm gonna smack some sense into you."

At this point I felt I should step in. I've never enjoyed seeing a six foot man beat the shit out of a midget, though I do enjoy seeing midgets beating the crap out of other midgets, and said to the big guy "Hey man, that's a bit out of order. Pick on someone your own size."

His reply was not exactly the most eloquent retort I've ever came across, but it was certainly the most effective. He lifted me up by my hair and headbutted me. After letting go of me I dropped to the ground and slumped into a ball. Much like a ragdoll that's been cast aside by a surly child. And that's pretty much how I looked. If Toys "R" Us sold a doll named My Recently Punched Playmate that is.

At this point the landlord shouted out, in a voice which if it was baked goods would have been a Cornish pasty. "I'll 'ave no trouble in moi pub, the powleece 'ave been telephoned and they'll be comin shortly. Now 'oo ordered the scaampi in a baaasket?" Strange, when you know that the landlord is as Irish as the blarney stone, Guinness and the word feck all put together.

The drunk thought about the idea of meeting the police in their formal guise and quickly dismissed it. Then he took the same action towards the pub interior; quickly, he dismissed it.

Jesus walked over to where I was and extended a hand towards me. "May I help you up kind Samaritan?" He said. "Sure." I said, and used the midget Jesus' head as an aid to help me stand. I'm sure I actually heard his spine compacting as it struggled to put up with my full weight upon it but Jesus didn't complain.

"May I get you a drink?" He asked.
"Yeah, I could do with one." I replied.
"Will wine suffice?" Enquired Jesus.
"No, I'll have a rum and coke thanks very much. Just because you can do that water into wine trick doesn't mean that you skip out of buying someone who just took a smack in the mouth for you a drink." I said.

Jesus wandered off to the bar. The landlord, who for some reason had developed a strong Jamaican accent, said, "Ya man, is you be wantin' a drink now? Or may-bee Somet'ing a likkle bit stronger? I 'ave dem quality 'erb now, make ya see Jah Rastfarai, Bob Marley and Harry Belafonte dancin' and a kickin' it up on de dance floor like a likkle posse a rude boys."

"Can I have a rum and coke please." Said Jesus.
"Sure now, de man is wantin' a rum and coke for his likkle helper." Said the landlord. The landlord placed the glass of rum and coke on the bar and Jesus told him to put it on his tab.

Jesus walked back to the table I was sitting at and handed me the drink. I scooped the ice out of it and dumped it into the ashtray in front of me. There was a small hissing sound as the ice extinguished my cigarette. "Bollocks." I said, reaching into my pocket for my pack of cigarettes.

As I lit another cigarette Jesus said "Those things will kill you."
"Yeah, well, so will living." I said.

At closing time the landlord appeared and said, in a heavy Australian accent, "Ok sports, that's time. Here's a couple a tinnies of Fosters to see you right on ya way back to the Sheila."

As I stepped out into the night Jesus told me to give him a shout if I'm ever in trouble and could do with a bit of divine intervention...

Maybe I'll give him a shout to see if he can do something about this fucking cough.


Today's listening.

Today I have been listening to some high quality comedy. Here's the list.
  • Redd Foxx. (Title unknown.)
  • George Carlin. Napalm and Silly Putty.
  • Redd Foxx. Your momma.
  • George Carlin. Carlin On Campus.
  • Redd Foxx. You've got to wash your ass.
And also on the list for listening today has been the following music tracks.
  • Matchbox 20. 3am.
  • Matchbox 20. If You're Gone.
  • Matchbox 20. Unwell.
  • Matchbox 20. Push.
  • Matchbox 20. Bright lights.
  • Matchbox 20. Disease.
  • Matchbox 20. Bent.
  • Hard-Fi. Living for the Weekend.
  • Hard-Fi. Cash Machine.
  • The Editors. Munich.
  • The Sneaker Pimps. Six Underground.
  • Gorillaz. 19-2000.
  • Dirty Vegas. Days Go By.
  • Tool. Aenima.
  • Kelly Clarkson. Behind these hazel eyes.
  • Kelly Clarkson. Because of you.
  • Kelly Clarkson. Breakaway.
  • Kelly Clarkson. Since you've been gone.
And that's about it.

Other than that it's been a day of sitting on my ass reading or playing games. I took a wander into town last week and bought Transworld Surf and Tony Hawks Underground for the X-Box so I've spent a good few hours getting into these.

I learned something today.

Whenever you're having a bath, and are having your evening meal whilst doing so, try not to have steak pie. Picking the crust of the pie out of the bath, when it's been immersed in warm soapy water, is a difficult task.

However, should you choose to do this please bear in mind that some flakes of pie crust may have inadvertently found their way into the crack of your ass. When toweling yourself dry try to remember this as seeing brownish colored flakes gently floating floorwards can cause some anxiety.

I'm not even going to mention the angst that the two or three baked beans falling from beneath your scrotum can elicit in you. And, spaghetti should be avoided at all costs. Seeing a long strand of spaghetti falling from a personal area could induce a coronary.


Book review.

The World According To Clarkson. Jeremy Clarkson.

Ok, firstly, ignore the review that the above website gives this book. It's from the publishers website and is hugely biased towards this book. Secondly, and this is for information purposes only, from now on I'll be using the acronym T.W.A.T to describe this book to people. Well, It seems apt.

If perchance you are stumbling through your local bookstore, or are clicking away on and see this book, please, for the love of god avoid it. Consider it to be on a comparison with a syphilitic whore. Not only will you feel used and dirty after completing the deed, but you'll also have a terrible memory of that horrible day when it seemed like a good idea at the time.

And before you think I'm being a bit harsh on Jeremy Clarkson remember this, I have read this book. Cover to cover. First page to last page. No chapters skipped, no delay taken. (Mostly because I wanted it to be over as quickly as possible. Kinda like a jail rape.) And therefore have a better insight into it all.

I normally like Jeremy Clarkson, god knows I've watched Top Gear and have almost shit myself laughing when Clarkson gets all worked up, about some strangely designed Swiss car, and goes into Ranting Upper Class Mode. His facial contortions, his voice and his Fawltyesque body movements are funny enough to make Abu Hamza laugh dementedly and Cliff Richard say "Fucking hell that's funny." And I'm no different. These things, however, don't come across in his writing.

Perhaps it would have been a funnier book if Clarkson had employed stage directions to put across which body parts you should picture him moving, which tone of voice the words you're reading would be spoken in and what look you should imagine on his podgy face. As a Penguin published book this wouldn't have been an altogether bad idea. They've always done good books for kids and retards.

Which is exactly what I would have been if I had paid full price for this book. But I didn't. I paid £0.50 for it in the "We couldn't sell this as kindling" bucket at my local Bargain books.


If you don't laugh at this...

You may be dead. Seek professional help immediately.

Click here.


The worst thing...

About spending the day cocooned in the house reading books and listening to music, is the knowledge that at some point you will have to leave the glorious warmth and step out into the wind and rain to get a pack of cigarettes.

Which is exactly what I'm about to do.

I'll be right back honest...

What's even worse about having to drudge along to the local shop is to find that they have run out of your brand of cigarettes and have nothing but Marlboro red in stock. Which means making a longer journey as you have to trudge to the local 24 hour garage, Gas Station for all you Americans reading this, to get some smokes.

But that's neither here nor there. The point I'm attempting to make, and failing quite spectacularly at, is that since giving up smoking an average of 15 joints a day my cigarette intake has ballooned like never before. I'm now a forty to fifty a day man.

Previously I was a pack a day bloke. You know the type, the kind of person who smokes but not at a really dangerous level. But now I'm borderline being known as "The-guy-who's-gonna-die-before-he-hits-his-fifties" by people.

But this will also have it's benefits. If I do shuffle off this mortal coil in my late forties/early fifties I'll be more than happy. Live fast, die young and leave a good looking corpse and all that.

Straightening out...


Once more I'm off the demon weed. No drugs (Other than a small rum or three) has passed through my system in the last three days. And to cap it all there has been the offer of free drugs! Free, no charge, gratis, call it what you will, point is that I have had the chance to stray from the path towards rational sanity and I've resisted.

Refusing free drugs caused much concern to the person offering them. After I said, "No thanks man, I'm off the drugs." I was stared at, as though I had just told the person that I had cumfaced his sister, but the shock of it all hadn't allowed it to sink in. (The claim of me being off the drugs. Not, as some of you may have thought, the cumfacing.)

Damn, my mum will be proud of that last paragraph. Though, I suspect, not as proud of the fact I'm attempting to get off the drugs.


There's a child in all of us...

Unless you're Michael Jackson that is, in which case there's a bit of you in a child. But that's never been proven beyond a shadow of a doubt.

(Just give it time... One day Wacko Jacko will turn up toes and die. And on that day there will be a small, hidden, room found in the Neverland Ranch filled to the ceiling with blood stained Action Man underwear and pictures of Mcauley Culkin with a pained look on his face.)

But that's enough of that. Back to the point of this screed. The little kid in all of us.

I went into town today and bought a copy of Star Wars Battlefront II for the X-Box. So this week I'll be flying around the galaxy doing battle against the forces of evil, or perhaps with the forces of evil depending on how the mood takes me.

Should there be a small break in between playing this game and reading the books I bought today I'll write a little something on here to let you all know that I'm still alive.

Until then, May the Force be with you.

(This is the point at which you should begin to hum the Star Wars theme.)

This week I will be mostly reading...

Terry Pratchett. Sourcery.
Terry Pratchett. The Colour of Magic.
Terry Pratchett. Night Watch.
Saul Bellow. Humboldt's Gift.
Saul Bellow. Collected Stories.
Jeremy Clarkson. The World According to Clarkson.
Jean-Claude Schertenleib, Stan Perec & Lukasz Swiderek. The Motorcycle Yearbook 2005.


This week I 'ave been mostly listening to...

Because I have fuck all to write about tonight I thought I'd list the music I've been listening to on my MP3 player.
  • Ten Pole Tudor. Swords of a Thousand Men.
  • The Lemonheads. Mrs Robinson.
  • The Presidents of the United States of America. Kick out the jams.
  • The Streets. Dry your eyes.
  • ACDC. Back in Black.
  • ACDC. Who Made Who.
  • America. Horse with no name.
  • Armand Van Helden. You don't even know me.
  • Ash. Starcrossed.
  • BBC Radiophonic Workshop. The Dr Who theme. (1970's version.)
  • The Beatles. Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds.
  • Blind Melon. No Rain.
  • John Lee Hooker. Boom Boom.
  • The Blues Brothers. Rawhide.
  • Bob Dylan. Lay Lady Lay.
  • Cast. Walk away.
  • The Chemical Brothers. It began in Africa.
  • Coolio. Gangsters Paradise.
  • Creed. With arms wide open.
  • Cypress Hill. Hits from the bong.
  • Daft Punk. Around the World.
  • David Bowie. Space Oddity.
  • Depeche Mode. Personal Jesus.
  • Dj Jazzy Jeff & The fresh Prince. Summertime.
  • Dr Dre. The Next Episode.
  • Dr Dre ft Snoop Doggy Dogg. Still Dre.
  • Dropkick Murphys. Irish Drinking Song.
  • Eels. Novocaine for the soul.
  • Elliot Smith. Because.
  • Elliot Smith. Miss Misery.
  • Elliot Smith. Say yes.
  • Elliot Smith. Angeles.
  • Elvis Presley. American Trilogy.
  • Eminem & D12. My band.
  • Evanescence. Bring me to life.
  • Buffalo Springfield. Expecting to fly.
  • Brewer and Shipley. One toke over the line.
  • Fishbone. Jamaican ska.
  • Foo Fighters. Darling Nikki.
  • Fishbone. One Day.
  • Foo Fighters. Everlong.
  • Foo Fighters. Learn to fly.
  • Harry Connick Jr. It had to be you.
  • George Clinton and Parliament. Make my funk the P-Funk.
  • Will Smith. Gettin jiggy with it.
  • John Belushi. Pep talk. (The Animal House.)
  • Green Day. American Idiot.
  • Green Day. Time of your life.
  • Groove Armada. I see you baby.
  • The Prodigy. Voodoo People. (Chemical brothers remix.)
  • House of Pain. Jump Around.
  • Ian Dury and the Blockheads. Hit me with your rhythm stick.
  • Iggy Pop. Real Wild Child.
  • Sam and Dave. I'm a Soul man.
  • James Brown. Try Me.
  • Jem. Just a ride.
  • Jewel. Foolish games. (MTV unplugged version.)
  • Johnny Cash. Ghost Riders in the Sky.
  • Keane. We might as well be strangers.
  • Keane. Bedshaped.
  • Kelis. Milkshake.
  • Kings of Leon. Mollys chambers.
  • Kings of Leon. The Bucket.
  • Kula Shaker. Govinda.
  • Led Zepplin. Moby Dick. (Live)
  • Maroon 5. She will be loved.
  • Mazzy Star. Sweet Jane.
  • Nick Drake. Could have been.
  • Nick Drake. Day is done.
  • Nick Drake. Way to blue.
  • Nick Drake. Know.
  • Nick Drake. Northern sky.
  • Nick Drake. Pink Moon.
  • Nick Drake. Place to be.
  • Nick Drake. Things behind the sun.
  • Oceans 11 soundtrack. Ruben's Inn.
  • OMD. Enola Gay.
  • Outkast V's Rage against the machine. Bombs Over Baghdad.
  • Fifty Cent ft Snoop Dogg. P.i.m.p.
  • Pink. Just like a pill.
  • Pink Floyd. Delicate sound of thunder. (Full live album.)
  • Portishead ft Paul Weller. Wild Wood.
  • P.I.L Rise.
  • Radiohead. Creep.
  • The Ramones. Hey ho, lets go.
  • Red Hot Chilli Peppers. Love Rollercoaster.
  • Nick Drake. Road.
  • Jason Nevins & Run DMC. It's like that.
  • Snoop Doggy Dogg. Bow wow wow yippie yo yippie yay.
  • Richard Strauss. Also Sprach Zarathustra.
  • Sugarhill Gang. Rappers Delight.
  • Talk Talk. It's my life.
  • Talking Heads. Once in a lifetime.
  • The Chemical brothers. The Golden Path.
  • The Rasmus. In the Shadows.
  • 2pac. Until the end of time.
  • Van Morrison. Into the mystic.
  • The Verve. Bittersweet symphony.
  • The Eagles. Hotel California.
  • Neil Young. Out on the weekend.
  • Deacon Blue. Wages Day.
  • Madness. Nightboat to Cairo.
  • The Doors. Riders on the storm.
  • The Verve. The drugs don't work.
  • Adam and the Ants. Goody two shoes.
  • Jamiroquai. Love Foolosophy.
  • John Lennon. Mother.
  • Marvin Gaye. Sexual Healing.
  • John Lennon. Stand by me.
  • Ash. There's a star.
  • John Lennon. Beautiful Boy (Darling Boy).
  • John Lennon. Working class hero.
  • Deacon Blue. When will you make my telephone ring.
  • The Doors. Spanish Caravan.
  • Steelers wheels. Stuck in the middle with you.
  • Gorillaz. Dare.
  • Gorillaz. Fire coming out of the monkeys head.
  • Moby. Why does my heart feel so bad.
  • Jimi Hendrix. Star Spangled Banner.
  • American Music Club. Firefly.
  • Deacon blue. Queen of the New Year.
Once more I would highly recommend listening to any, or indeed all, of these tracks.


Falling from a wagon...

Can be very painful. Just ask Yakima Canutt.

I fell off a wagon yesterday. The Wells Fargo express, it was not. Oh no, my wagon was, as the Guardian of the Emerald City gate would say, a horse of a different color.

...This post is rapidly turning into a repository for links to Wikipedia... But, fuck it, I'm in no hurry if you feel like filling your heads with knowledge about any of the above links. Take your time. Just remember to come back here and finishing reading this post... You never know what you might miss. I could inadvertanty shit out the secret to eternal life. But I doubt it very much.

Anyhoo, as I was saying.

Falling from a wagon... Been there done that. The wagon I fell off was the 3:15 to Cleansville. And was caused by me smoking a joint. I know, I know, I shouldn't have succumbed to the demon weed but it has a strong grip on me. I can't think why, it's not like I'm addicted. Shit, I know people who have smoked hash every day for forty years and they're not addicted.

I would attribute my slip to there being a small part of me that keeps whispering in my Mind's ear telling me to "Just say yes."

(Side thought...) Do you have a Mind's ear? I know we all have a Mind's eye but are the rest of the facial features included? Is there a Mind's nose? Do we, as a species, have a Mind's knee? How about a Mind's navel? (Should you have an opinion on this please feel free to leave a comment.)

Perhaps this is because for so long I have allowed this voice to be the one I listen to the most. I'm sure there is a little voice of sanity in my head that insists I think of the possible consequences before doing something, but, whats to say that my voice of reason hasn't decided I'm a lost cause and has packed it's bag and wandered off into the distance?

I hope that I'm wrong in assuming that. Perhaps several years with an addiction can do that to you. I know, for a fact, that smoking hash for as long as I have alters your perception to a level where you can see the cycle of life at work in all things. And, I'm pretty sure annoying your voice of reason to a point where it says "Fuck It." And hands it's notice, (Perhaps to chase it's dream of working on a cattle ranch in Montana, being Hanks' voice of reason when he thinks to himself "That there is a damn fine lookin heifer...") would be a cakewalk in comparison.

But who knows?

Not me and that's for damn sure. I'm way too stoned to work it out.


"Ground Control? The Major's gone..."

I have a terrible habit. Whenever someone tells me someone I know has died the first thing I usually say is "You're kidding?"

(Why this is, I have no idea. As if the person who has just broken the news to me is going to reply "Yes, actually I am. They're not dead at all. I just wanted to see your face when I told you that they'd died.")

When I walked into work today I was informed of the death of Peter Beveridge, AKA The Major. "Fuck me..." I said. "I liked The Major."

The last time I saw The Major he was being wheeled out of the club in a wheelchair with an oxygen mask over his face and a frightened look in his eyes. I remember thinking at the time "I wonder if I'll ever see him again?" And I think in my heart I knew I wouldn't, so I stood at attention and saluted him. "See you later Major." I said as he trundled past me. He saluted me, said, "See you later Captain." through the plastic mask that was feeding his lungs pure oxygen, and attempted to smile.

I never knew The Major very well. But I liked him. In his 70 and some years on the planet I know he did things that I could only dream about...

He fought in a war... He married his sweetheart... He loved and lost... He laughed, cried and swore just for the fun of it... And he drank enough rum to knock an elephant on its arse. Regularly.

At the end of my shift tonight I sat with a rum in my hand as a tear formed in my eye and said aloud to The Major. "Where ever you are Major, give 'em hell."

In my heart of hearts I know that he's on another ethereal plane with a rum in his hand, a glint in his eye and his old war friends and his wife are sitting with him.

And tommorow morning he'll have a hangover big enough to make the gods take alkaseltzer and his wife will be wondering where he got the energy...

(AKA The Major)

Peter Beveridge.


Ever since...

I crashed my motorcycle a few years back I've had dicky knees.

After I've been sitting down for a long time I have to twist my leg to get my right kneecap to click back into it's proper place. I did this last night, as per usual, and was hit by a massive jolt of pain the likes of which I have never experienced.

Now I can't bend my knee without it feeling like there is bone grinding against bone.

So tomorrow I'm going to call my doctors and make an appointment to see if I've done any serious damage. I'll no doubt be chastised by him/her for signing myself out of hospital an hour after uprooting a concrete fence post with my right leg at a speed of about 60mph. (I was more worried about my Ex-girlfriend, who was lying on a stretcher in A&E with two broken ribs, a punctured lung and a badly twisted leg.)

I was told at the time by an A&E Doctor that I should have gotten x-rayed to check for damage but didn't heed his advice. Well, I say I didn't heed his advice, I actually screamed at him "I don't give a fuck what you think... Just get me the forms to sign before I'm not the only one who's in pain." And then hobbled over to the nearest nurse and quickly signed the piece of paper letting the hospital off the hook if my kneecaps dropped out of the bottom of my jeans and I decided to sue them for malpractice. Or whatever lawsuit a money hungry lawyer decided to lay on them.

I'll keep you all up to speed on whatever I've done.


In a remarkable display of self control...

I haven't had a joint for two weeks.

(Insert round of applause here.)

(There now follows a small speech.)

Thank you, thank you... I couldn't have done it without the help of Lothian and Borders Police force, who busted one of the largest drug hauls this side of the sixties a couple of weeks ago. I'd like to thank Delia True who introduced me to the music of Elliot Smith through one of her posts on her blog. I'd also like to thank my Ex-girlfriend Jennifer Young, who if it wasn't for her ripping my heart out my arsehole I'd never have attempted to smoke myself into oblivion. And finally I'd like to thank the people whom I've met in my lucid dreams over the last couple of weeks as I've slept the untroubled sleep of the clean and sober.

Thank you one and all.


I have a day off work.

Thank fuck for that. I'm sure if I spent another shift in that hellhole of a club I'd be sacked for shoving a glass into a members face. And before you think "That's a bit extreme..." Take a walk in my shoes bubba...

So today I'll be having some "Me" time as a life coach would no doubt say if I was stupid enough to hire one. Which I promise you I'll never do.

I fully intend on having a nice long lie in my bed accompanied by a good book, "Para Handy" by Neil Munro, some music by Elliot Smith a pack of cigarettes and nothing more.