091205

Morning campers,

I’ve been lying low and working hard, lots of trips away. Fallen in love 137 times in November alone and this hormonally imbalanced period has had a profound effect on my music.

Daylight has gone somewhere and the lords have been playing with time, they know not what forces they are tampering with. Drag self out of bed, no rodent offerings for some time now, think that rocket up her arse last month sorted that out. Met is bit busier, CD a little later. Asian bloke in suit sits opposite, full 60 degree genital display, snoozing and no doubt dreaming he’s an asset to the gene pool.

Life in London continues at a furious pace. Have been putting worms through detox recently, isn’t reality scary, it was best to keep life expectations sedated too. However they have now been released and are stinging me mercilessly.

Try out fast Baker Street train switching at Harrow on Hill. Join an already packed booth, remove Metro from seat and place above before sitting. I’m aware drab woman is watching from across the way, you should sort those roots out love. She scowls at me, quickly I realise it’s not my magnetism that’s her concern, it’s my Faith no More. Look love it’s a good job I’m feeling good today, I’ll overlook your gentle art and comply, once, commiserations on your hair. She has curtain ring wedding trophy and no accompanying sparklers. She glances a few more times and I think maybe she’s assessing. “Coconut neck thingy, worn leather jacket and fab hat, now that’s a bit different, not sure about the Sainsbury’s bag though. Big boy, give him a smile”. Look Darling I like little ones but come on try a wonderbra. ‘Bit different’? I think you’ll find it’s indulgence in ostentatious display sweetheart.

By Finchley, my music has reached the hormonal selection. Seems a lot of oldies today and I’m being scowled at so I crank it up a few notches. They don’t seem to be liking Rob Dougan : “Like a sentence of death, I’ve got no options left, …, and if you go furious angels will bring you back to me, they’ll bring you back to me”. Or is it “… furious grannies scowl at me, they hate my MP3”?

Arrived at work and checked image in lift mirror. Oh no rogue nose hair, quickly grab it and yank, “bastard”, yank, yank, “bastard”, yank, “gottcha bleeder”. Oh no another one, yank, yank, …. Tears steaming from eyes by now, lift door opens one before my floor, girl gets in and looks at my sorry moist cheeks. Bet she felt sorry for me thinking I’d had domestic, or granny had died or I was just a sensitive guy. If only she knew.

A few years ago my old Mum had her leg chopped off. Some years earlier my Dad had both of his off. Seems we have a serious family medical history problem when it comes to amputations. In preparation I’ve started walking around the house on my knees, preparing and toughening potential future stumps. I told a friend who proceeded to piss themselves laughing at my Mums demise and before the full horror of the story had unfolded. Good job I chose to tell the Mum bit before my Dads, I hated the bitch but Dad was lovely.

CD 9th Dec 2005