awkward on the ankle

Bitter yesterday or what? Seriously, I was not in the best of moods. You could take most of that away to be filed under “emotive output”. I am not about mulling over absolute rubbish, just the stuff I suspect to be true; they are quite different.

Gig tonight. Money woes remain. A busy few days ahead, then weeks, maybe months. I long to get a place away from my current house, which has turne out to be an error of some magnitude. Until the next time, off I go again.

on the bounce, like an egg

A new look, charming. It contains elements of developent, and change, and those things I have found so difficult to deal with continue to haunt me. Ghost like, daemon like, as I have always found, shadows are more frightening than the knife in the hand of a mugger, or certain words in the emails of old friends.
And so, to tears. Crying a lot more, and easier, than before. On Sunday I walked into town trying to stop myself from bawling but it’s getting harder. Silly things trip me up, like visiting memories from so long ago they appear only as faded clips from albums, or a stage-set, with actors I cannot recognise. Love is the drug, and it shakes me more than cannabis. Indeed, I prefer weed to anything else at the moment and even with this I can be an embarrasment. Point and laugh at the guy who tried to find a romance with a new person at work, only to be shamed by a reply full of stoic diplomacy. Laugh at me, so I may cry easier.
And so, yeah, good times. It all makes a day at the footie with the lads all the more meaningful. Tonight, love, and sex, and romance, and feelings, swim around the air, visible to almost every friend and stranger I see, but the air around me hangs stagnant. It is all daft and it is all selfish, but self-centered feelings are not by their nature invalid. Of course I still have friends, and I will bounce back, but things get harder, and my tolerance for all the knocks gets thinner, and devalues, every moment.

This is good, then. I should go somewhere else now. Night falls and this Internet booth is not available all the time.


Outside, rain. Cold, too. Hopefully this blog is not read by everyone I know, or those who know people who should not be reading here. See, my problem: worried about being rude, I am more so than I imagine. The fringes of being polite. The new house is not working out. My only chance of escape is hoping my old landlord writes a good reference letter. The coffee-mug-against-the-wall I did not get round to fixing – or mentioning – works against me.

Today, a challenge for my reader. No record of surfing patterns here, so I guess there may only be me and one other set of eyes. If the only thing you say to the woman at the corner shop is, “Oh, and 20 Richmonds please,” or if the one phrase shared with the bus driver whose name you don’t know is “Oreet”, or “cheers”, or “ta”, even, do all of us a favour. Change it. Say more than one thing to them. Ask the postie how he is, the ticket inspector about The Ashes, the post-office woman about the redesign of the £20 note. Have you heard of the odds-on favourite for the new tenner, incidentally? Dylan Thomas. I know, honestly, it’ll be fantastic…

So, go on. I have money to spend, hair to be cut. You are all forgetting the wonder of language. I want to hear more of it, from now, onwards.

everything explained

Where do I begin?

This blog was the escape route, plan B, a door to one side, from the blog I began with good intentions but had to curtail when certain people became aware of it. This blog has a danger within it, now, too, for all that is in my mind to write could be viewed by people who have become aware of it, and because nothing I do is planned out smoothly, or considered, I have wrapped myself up in knots of “politeness”, and “behaviour”. Caught out by my own “behaviour” one too many times…Where do I begin?

The distance between specific incidents and the present numbs not the pain I feel about lonliness, about concern for the unease I feel with every day…That which I could say has to be censured, for it is too easy to make vague points clear to certain eyes. No-one is that dumb. These words are not secrets. Although, sadly, they are. Tomorrow, I will wake up in a court of a faraway land, fed fresh, ripe pomegrantes, and sweet apples, from the golden plates supplied by a generous Arab, from a book I never read, or a dream I did not experience; and when I eat this food, I will be pleased, and generous, and grateful, but not satisfied, for I never am…

Where was I going with this? Everything needs to be explained. I despair at my country’s governance. The continued, frightening authoritarian streak of a government beyond all reasonable checks and balances. I am angered that the act of smoking weed, in my house, in my time, is an act which could throw me into gaol whilst “cold-turkey” drug addicts are given compenstation for their time without their horrid, soul-destroying ‘golden sugar’. Police around my city are raiding every house they’ve ever known about secretly, to crush the trade they do not understand. Economic benefits of decriminalising cannabis have never been so clearly obvious.

Then, in the rain, I cry, for I always do in times like this…Those who know me see it as “part of my character”. Currently, though, there is no character. My usual reaction to certain “personal” issues is to envoke friendships, honesty, love, and of course all that remains true, but for once I can hear just how terribly boring it all is. And one day is not very good, which grows questions in my mind about every word I have ever spoken, and every decision ever made; then I am watching American Psycho with one of my best mates, quietly stoned; or at a book club, swilling wine and trying to discuss a book I didn’t get round to reading, and….the quiet is too obvious.

Everything makes sense, clearly. Troubled. But to whom do I speak? The obvious answers, and their equvilant truths in reality, do not match. Of course I know my friends are there for me, all that is something I have spoken, and need never speak of again, unless, unless…There has to be something else. I write in my diaries, in my silent room, in my room where nothing happens other than thought, and sleep, and I read my earlier diaries, where the voice remains as haunting, as worried, and concerned….And everything makes sense.

Not sure if the recent weeks have been good or ultimately disastrous for me. I will have to come up with more answers, in time, to questions I cannot remember framing.


Moved into my new room, more or less. There are baby steps, and a creaking step, and the place has a certain atmoshpere I think will be comfortable, enjoyable. There are money issues, which I have always had, but given the changes ahead there will be more worries than I have ever had until the creases are ironed out. On Monday, at the supermarket on a lunch break, my credit card was rejected. If this is as bad as I suspect, then the only way is down. This fall will hurt considerably.

Last night was a pub quiz, which my new housemate assures me is the kind of night time activity which was once a habit. Joint second but as with life no prizes for coming second. Priority number one must surely be returning to the music scene, where I once enjoyed great times, and respect. My writing hand is sore, and following a week of emotion, my head needs to look at clearer waters. Storms pass overhead but there will always be rumbles of thunder. Somewhere there is green calm, although not if the front of the local paper is to be believed. Such are the ways of the world. Awkwardness remains, as a shadow.

More of all this in time, if I can maintain access to my computer.

you don’t need a weatherman…

It’s all going quite crazy round here, even for me, and nothing happens to me. Good friends setting off on their own adventures (one of whom has done so literally, taking off to the Colonies), and I find readjusting to my living arrangements, and it all flurries around like so many spinning plates.

This year has been due a round up given the extremes of brilliance and sadness which has whipped around stormlike almost from the very first click of New Year. Maybe I need to revisit the diary to get a grip on memory, and then begin a retrospective of sorts.

If there is a lesson in this madcap life on this troubled planet, there has to be a way to summarise it without instantly invalidating it by using “maybe”…there must be a way of knowing which way the wind is blowing without suffering a blow to the head from a passing branch, too. It could well be that I am analysing nothing to invent solutions to non-existent problems. Would you say that was like me, at all…?

Terrorism "threat" is cynical ploy

I have been around the block enough times to know a cyncial press release at face value. In the week George W. Bush is given a drubbing at the polls, with Iraq policy one of the main reasons for such a defeat, the UK leaps to the rescue with a nicely timed speech by MI5 chief Dame Eliza Manningham-Buller. The Honourable Lady gave facts, and figures, and handy soundbites, to assure Britain that all effort has to be made to stop the threat of terrorism being a shadow across our land “for a generation.” I have no personal doubt that this country is a target – but the United Kingdom has been such in the past, and has been through a lot more testing times in history than the tabloid stories and trumped up threats would have me believe. Not once during the IRA bombing campaign did the tarmac at Heathrow Airport rumble under the tracks of tanks. Why would the tabloid papers be fed untruths about ricin plots, or a serious threat against Old Trafford, other than to ensure the citizens of the UK remain fearful, and wary, and grateful for all the protection we are about to receive?

“Poisonous propaganda”, how Blair describes the threat against the UK, and the free world. Such poisonous policies as the prejudiced thinly veiled racism of his Terroism Acts have been frustrating British Muslims since 2001. A threat against this nation exists, and tragic though the 7 July attacks were, no good will be done by the constant prodding of a Muslim community who are exhausted with trying to justify thier right to remain in the country in which they were born, and educated. I do not ignore the reality of Muslims who are spreading evil across the world, spreading lies across the minds of innocent children, but I will not accept this “pulling the tail of a sleeping dog” approach, which comes along at very convienient times indeed for an establishment intent on stopping our civil liberties from ever again flourishing.

My only wish is for perspective, but all I see is a frothing uncontrollable xenophobic panic, hungry for control; ignorant of history: intent on destroying reason and honesty. It is born and raised within the corridors of Downing Street and Whitehall, and let loose across the country. These “threats” are almost entirely fantastic fiction. My only hope is surely fading.

and this is goodbye

I guess I will spend my life in railway stations.

Another suitcase, another picture from another wall. And what happens then…? With my usual characteristic flair for organisation, I have no organisation. Griddled pork chops rest in the stomach, whilst bags of books, overflowing like potato sacks full of autumn leaves, scatter around the feet. Three cardboard boxes rest dormant, like fat dogs snoozing. I have no car to get to my new house, nor do I have a good enough upper body strength to get there on foot. It would be laughable, but I am used to this sort of thing by now.

Work? Oh, yeah, fine. The updates from the office have been going on my other blog, largely because it sits better there, although relationships therin have not improved completely. There are roses, and storms, and there are tides. As for internet access, I will find out in time, and will update you as soon as I can. Heheh, “you” – who the Hell am I talking to?

This could be goodbye, for now.

smoker’s cough

Saturday, with one of my best mates and I, vvegged out on booze and little sleep, barely able to stop the television screen from floating into the wall. A presenter, a woman whose voice we had muted, baked a cake.
I have spent the weekend not doing anything. My house move is tickling the memory, like a smoker’s cough scratching the throat. Today, a cold, drizzly Sunday, I am determined to buy boxes. Start the week with good intentions.

Friday night was a friend’s birthday do. Before that, I was in the pub, with lager, and a free jukebox. I raised my glass to all those I call the closest friends: in tribute, I let the music speak; Nirvana, Interpol, Bob Dylan, The Charalatans, The Killers, Oasis. I know Sunday seems to be spent getting sentimental, romantic even, but I only say it because its true. My best friends know who they are, and I wish them all the best.

If you don’t laugh…

…this was going to be a different kind of entry all together. I have neglected my diaries for the past few days, for reasons a-plenty, and have been updating the 2006 diary with a summary of memories and recollections. I have sporadic fits in the same style of an anxiety-riddled loner. It still takes one tone of voice, one flippant turn of phrase, and confidence crumbles. This was going to be a different kind of entry all together, and it still can be.

When I moved to Lostock Hall, it was not quite planned out, nor well executed. I slept for the three months of staying there on three sofa-cushions in a room with no heating. Moving here was down to fate and happenstance. Moving away seems somewhat unreal, quite similar to getting here, like a dream through which I am floating.

I have tried to find some form of emotion other than satisfaction, for that seems rude. “Another Suitcase in Another Hall” or whatever it is, with all the lyrics so well connected to my own situation, and “Send in the Clowns” do not work to lift me from just going through motions. Suzanne Vega is trying her best. She has just replaced “Kid A” in my run through CDs, still packed on the shelf whilst the books now rest in carrier bags. From her, I will move to the Manics, of era yet undecided.

What went on from the “moment” of earlier this week? It needs to be said, for it needs to be continued. During my lunch “hour”, I spent a few minutes down a weed-strewn alleyway bawling my eyes out. The day began with a stand-up row, during which I was called a liar, sending the electricity in the air down my spine and out through my toes. All was fine until cold air hit my skin. A familiar refrain: whilst having an on-going argument with a former housemate, I was to be found on Moor Park, crying into the pond, asking to whomever could hear whether things would get easier. Should a man my age (any age?) be so open about letting the tears fall?

Anyroad, so, a day passed. Those who control the pawns ensured good serendipity. With a crack in my voice, I placed myself on the floor, and awaited the knife to the throat. It matters not, it is a currency with no value, when you know you are right when faced with an enemy who can never be wrong. This thread was going to be very different. This is an element of a wider issue, indeed. One blog for one audience, one for another, diaries for another. Scared of the public, that’s me. Worried so much about sitting between two stools that I end up flat on my arse. If you don’t laugh about it, you’d surely cry.