A lack of inspiration...

Inevitably leads to nothing worth writing about. Isn't it strange how these things seem to coincide?

A writer, such as oneself, needs inspiration to function properly or he loses his ability to construct wonderful worlds of phantasmagorical imagery. Without inspiration... I am a desert. But this easily overcome. All it requires is for me to excersize the imagination a bit. Picture the scene if you will, dear reader...

(If this was a movie there would be a gentle fade as we begin our journey into the past. But this is text so deal with it.)

It is a cold winter morning. The bedside alarm clock begins to bleep and I reach out and slap it quiet. My cat, Bagpuss, nibbles my nose and I stir into life. I sit up in bed and bang my head on the top of the cabinet that contains my bed when it is folded up. I swear quietly and rub my head as I swing my legs out of bed and pull my jeans on.

Five minutes later and I'm fully dressed and wating for the kettle to boil. I've turned the TV on to catch whatever was qualifying for news on TV-AM. The kettle pops in the kitchen and I go and make myself a cup of coffee.

I return to the living room, sit down on the sofa and stare at Anne Diamond. I drift into a dream...

(Once more, in the movie of this there would be a special effect here.)

Anne Diamond is sitting next to me in a leather basque. "Take me." She says in a sultry voice. She begins to kiss my neck and I feel her hand on my crotch.

I open my eyes and look at the small clock in the bottom of the TV screen. There is still forty minutes until my Dad gets up and I have to leave for work. I look at Anne Diamond on the TV and reach into my trousers...

(In the movie of this is where there would probably be wide shot, from behind the sofa, to save showing whoever plays the part of me wanking off to Anne Diamond. Whereas the next bit would probably be done in a series of rapid cuts to highlight the timing of the climax to this story.)

I build to a crescendo just as the half hourly news builetin begins.

(Rapid cut.)

I hear the living room door click open.

(Rapid cut.)

I realise that my Dad is about to walk in and in catch me spanking my monkey. Somehow, the panic tips me over the edge and I begin to shoot large strings of splodge in an arc across the coffee table.

(Rapid cut.)

My father stands with a look of shock on his face. As I attempt to shove my, still twitching, dick into my trousers he looks away and his eyes alight on the TV screen. Which just happens to be covering the story of a famine in a country far away.

My father quickly adds two and two together and makes five, does a double take that Charlie Chaplin himself would be proud of and comes to the, incorrrect, asumption that his son has been wanking off to some kind of sick and perverted video cassette featuring nothing more than starving Africans.

(In the movie version this is where we'd cut back to whomever is playing me typing this out. There would also be a voice over of the thoughts I'm putting onto the screen in front of me.)

For about a month after this my father and I couldn't make eye contact. Words were limited to such phrases as...

"Do you want a cup of tea?"
"Aren't you supposed to be working?"
"Are you going out tonight?"

Or, "Turn that off!" When the news reports the latest on the famine in a country far away...