It May Be Sticky But I Never Complain

Poor, poor Sack Posset. Poleaxed in pyjamas after a night of smeared lipstick and slipper-cricket, midnight chicken and caterwauling to Kate Bush. Now I’m psyching myself up to crawl upstairs for a back-to-the-womb Matey bath with Dickens and a spliff. I had four rashers in my bacon butty but it wasn’t enough to salve my maculate soul. A bohemian lifestyle is all very well and good, but I must learn to buy my Lucozade the night before the morning after.

Halcyon Days

At the weekend we went gang-handed to the Monkeyfest and drank suggestively-named real ales in the fortuitous sun. Monkeyfest is an annual beer festival held at the excellently-named Monkey Club, a pub near Best Girl’s house. Best Girl got bitten by a horse and I got wee on my dress (both due to circumventing the loo-queue by pissing in the bushes) and later on our friend JP decided it was necessary to wave his willy about, but otherwise, a good time was had by all. I have just about recovered from the resultant hangover and the accompanying sense of sweaty, free-floating shame.

I bought a book from a charity shop in town. The book is called Talking with Serial Killers and is by a man called Christopher Berry-Dee. When I opened the book to read it, I found that the previous owner had written the following things on the title page: Rookbeare Farm Ice Cream. Scattegories Game. Follow Your Heart by Andrew Matthews published by Seashell. Being Happy by Andrew Matthews published by Media Masters. Serial killers, self-help books, board games and ice cream. Sounds like a heck of a party.

Just Say No To Alcohol

Most days I like to spend horizontal, belly-down and dreaming, haloed in skunk-smoke with my pen in my mouth. Today, however, was a day of action. I went to the library in my super neon Bat-Man trainers and came home with treasure including Taste: A Story of Britain Through Its Cooking by Kate Colquhoun, A Book of Nonsense by Mervyn Peake and Powers of Horror: An Essay on Abjection by Julia Kristeva. I am going to have dead funny dreams. On my way home I looked at all the rubbish I could see. Then we cleaned the house, more or less. When I emptied the toaster, out fell six toothpicks. That was a terrible fire hazard. Nobody admitted responsibility, but I don’t think I need to say who I suspect. Or what.....

I think the sentence “But who? Or what.......?” is one of the scariest in the world. I am proper squiffy. I have had the cheapest wine known to humanity, I have had it here, and I have had lots of it. And olives stuffed with whole cloves of garlic, the ultimate misanthropic snack. I will sign off with my thoughts on spring.

Underneath the eiderdown
Of prepubescent leaves
The purblind roots snout
And wean to green