Drunk myself unconscious Friday night. This came as something of a surprise, given that as far as I was aware of it, I had no plans for such foolishness. Heading out to a wedding that I had no real stake or interest in, slightly confused by the invite itself and a little out of sorts to be clad in a suit and a crisp pink shirt and tie, I figured a couple of beers, a few conversations, then slink off back into the night to concentrate on resting up from a tough week.

I woke Saturday feeling fresh, but something was clearly wrong. For one thing I wasn’t in bed I was on the sofa downstairs. Oh well, nothing too strange about that, stairs can be a challenge if you stay up late at night, but why was I wearing swimming trunks and a bright yellow tshirt?

Rompost’s head peered around the door. ‘Oh you’re alive then?’
I nodded, still feeling cheerful, but slightly bemused and I shut my eyes. One of those maybe if I don’t get up to face this, it will go away feelings, but no, when I opened them again I was still wearing the swimming trunks and rolling over I could clearly make out the distinctive patterning of drops of stomach contents on the floor.

I jumped up, the room spinning, legged it upstairs to the bathroom to find my suit trousers soaking in the sink, my jacket in the kitchen sink, my pink shirt in a crumpled and brown heap outside the door. What was the meaning of these harbingers of doom?

Hmm the meaning was clear. Something was awry, but what had happened. I cast my mind back, remembered the early part of the evening, sipping of pints and spouting of small talk. No food and drink hitting the empty stomach. I remembered witnessing the shared embarassment of the first dance, remembered a bit more shouting with old acquaintances about this and that, remembered having some trouble with my words, but where had that come from?

A sudden memory, Rompost returning from the bar, maniacal glee on his face proferring out the first small glass of fine single malt. A name: Glenfiddich. More memories, in the bar demanding more of this stuff from our new best friend: A chinese barman of impeccable decorum and drinks bringing ability.

Memories of chatting to a sprightly 94 year old, Lurcho’s Grandad about the joys of caravaning, the difficulties of sailing, the cruise life. Monaco, travel the wonders of a beautiful women. Were there women there? Certainly some swimming in Pink Linen, but too far past that now, barmen bring me another Glenfiddich, drinks for Crimpino and Rompost harranguing someone with a beard at the bar. “What you up to Terry Waite?” Amazingly the man likes his new moniker, we begin drinking with Terry. Lets have a drinking contest you bearded weirdo, and Waitester buys up a round of Amarettos….. Back at the bar fumbling with my pin number, struggling with 3 syllable names of drinks and paying careful attention on the stairs outside. After that nothing….

Ah, now it makes sense, spirits rinseout. The drinks I pretty much banned since Uni because of their unique ability to take away my rhyme and reason. I am a strong drinker, but not in any useful sense: I get pissed as fast as the next man, but where they fall off, somewhere around the six pint mark (if we’re being honest), I can keep going. I can drink till I don’t know who I am. Till I’m mad dog drunk, incapable of speech, incapable of movement beyond drink spilling, shouting. I can really drink. I can drink till the cows come home, but I can’t drink like Rompost, it leads to disaster.

Anyway, in the event, I think I was lucky Friday. Preliminary reports to fill my memory blanks suggest limited debris causing. No fighting with the groom or setting the curtains on fire. Instead, I slurred my way to incompetence before falling unconscious on a table a little before our cab was due to arrive. Sleeping the journey home I could not be awakened at the other end, stacking out of the taxi to bang my head on the floor and then fireman’s lifted by Rompost, by this time lost in his own world of cleavage obsession and antagonising friends. “No, no leave me on the floor out here”. This concrete drive is my new home. These snails and the cracks in the pavements are my friends and the reassuring feel of cool stone on my forehead.

Inside and Prov’s attempts to rouse me with a sustained burst of loud drum and bass were effective. At least enough to reactivate organs, which in all sense finally declared fuck this for a game of soldiers. Lets get rid of this poison. Lets deposit these finely aged spirits on our finely tailored clothes. Death or victory!

Right, so that explained things and all things considered I didn’t feel too bad. Still drunk for much of yesterday and out to buy carpet cleaner. The self service machine rattling that ‘there is an incorrect item in the bagging area’. God that hurts my brain, only answer to hit it with my right fist, throw coins at the next machine in line and storm out clutching my carpet cleaner under the arm.

Well, what conclusions can we draw from this sordid tale? Spent parts of yesterday trying to work out if there was an underlying reason for me wanting to drink myself stupid, but coming up short. Maybe there are no reasons. Maybe as Rompost suggested ‘you think too much, you drink too much, you are just a fiend!’. Hmm maybe, a lesson once again that I am not indestructible. That too much drink makes a beast of us and that self-restraint where it comes to chemicals and inebriants has never been one of my hallmarks.

But weird though, walking down to the station, the hangover kicking in and the ipod up loud enough to drown out the brain hum, I am hit with a wave of euphoria. I am still alive and what a thing that is. My hands and legs move as they are supposed to, the road moves under my feet and my plans take shape dimly upon the horizon. Things in my life are great, I have luck on my side and if I can just hold that thought for long enough, maybe I can get down to Balham rest this damn aching, bruised up head and emerge like Lazarus, a man reborn, half drunk, half-sober, who wouldn’t have it any other way, but still, my suit is most probably ruined.

Like many people right now watching the tennis and surprising myself by rather enjoying it. However, what I am not enjoying is the crowd, extracted from the bowels of some god awful school in Godalming for a day of Pimms and strawberries, half crazed on teen lust for mop haired automaton tennis players who clench their fists on hitting an occasional good shot. Now, I’m all for a little bit of patriotism (well maybe not that much), but the roars of approval on the sight of the British opponent cack handedly smashing the ball into the net or double-faulting on every single point they lose seem a touch harsh. This is not a Take That concert you bunch of mongs!

For those of you keen to keep up to date with the progress of the King of Queen Street, I suggest you look at this. However, probably best to avoid sending him a maniacal note of rabid congratulations through the listed email (as I did), as this goes to pretty much his whole company.

Other than that, ashamed by my lack of input into Bolo of late. Suffice to say that the walls of intense work, house buying and general rinsed out late night, screen burn came firmly up and put paid to my efforts for a while. Hopefully now that I’m back from Berlin with some renewed energy formed from a mixture of break from computers, spending time with my ladyfriend and hareing it about in a giant skandinavian convertible, we should see a continuation of some form of no doubt hair-brained normal service. Peace to the brethren.

Two toff guys chatting at the wash basin while I’m draining the weasel:

“You see that’s the difference between us. I was taught at Harrow to wash my hands.”

“Quite right dear chap, but then of course I was taught at Eton not to piss all over myself.”

Spent a bit of time this week driving around the unfamiliar land of South London. Sometimes aided and frequently hampered by the presence of a TomTom shouting skewed directions about bearing left and advising illegal manoeuvres and the avoidance of invisible speed cameras.

Driving in London is a considerable challenge these days due to the need to skip in and out of lanes as you come round a corner and somehow find yourself in a bus lane, risking a massive fine or castration or both.

Ah well, we have the Mayor to thank for that and of course now is the time to pick the new one. This is no easy choice given on the one hand we have Red Ken, two terms in and half mad on government subsidies and low congestion policies in the one corner and on the other, wearing a blue handkerchief on his head, Boris the buffoon, capering about like a cat with rabies.

Paddick may still be hovering somewhere about the fringes. I can’t remember and although I have a soft spot for the chap due to his role in the ill-fated Lambeth experiment, somehow I don’t see myself voting for him. No, I feel a spoiled ballot coming on.

The chance to do this has come from the Conservatives. For reasons unknown to myself I seem to have managed to get removed from the electoral roll, but fortunately the beady eyed researchers at Tory HQ have observed this and sent me all of the required forms to remedy the problem. The only flaw in their plan is of course that I won’t be voting Conservative.

Anyway, all that was the last thing on my mind as I bopped about London in the Clio, a week past its MOT and making ominous noises as I drove around corners. Quick heel toe movements and remembering to push down hard on the brakes when the traffic moves again from 2nd to 1st gear. Staying safe and avoiding having to explain to some angry Camberwell resident that you crashed into the side of their vehicle because you were shouting about the Olympics and failing to realise that your wheels had fallen off.

Still, as a wise man once said, it is not the destination that is important it is the journey and indeed, this was important wisdom for me to consider on Saturday as I reached my destination, Eltham palace. It was important because Eltham Palace, previously unbeknownst to me was mysteriously closed on a Saturday and all I had to show for my trip was an empty Salmon sandwich box, cramp in my left foot, and of course, the inevitably journey back again.

Generally taking the time to get away from the evil screen for a couple of days, spending a bit more of my life bopping about in the bank holiday blighted world of the replacement bus and the underground, to rant about UK hiphop to comparative strangers in the Eastern suburbs. Always a fine selection of beverages to be found on a bank holiday, and nice to swirl a bit of whiskey around the tumbler with a few old friends. A tasty selection of takeaways and a few films on the big screen while home and sofa bound with the omnipresent reassurance of a bit of Playstation time filling to see us through to work again. Yes not too bad a bank holiday at all.

2008 is so far turning out to be a year of lucky breaks for me. Round of about the closing days of December of every year I run around telling everyone I meet and ringing up my long suffering mates to say that the next year is going to be the best yet. That the platform is finally there for the good ship Bolo (and by association the Groover) to reap the dividends of years of late nights, furious thinking, growing hard work and sadness and loss for the ones we left behind.

Of course, things never quite pan out quite that way, as the weeks and months fly by and you settle into old patterns, shelve plans for movie scripts and get on with scheming about Friday nights down the pub, late night donner kebabs, and keeping out of argument with your work colleagues on a day to basis.

But this year I was doubly determined and so far, whisper it mind, I can confirm that things are going smoothly. As an example, (and the only one that seems fair to talk about here) my prognostications of doom about the house buying have turned out to be untrue. After a brief spate of viewing unsuitable shanty town properties and shirking my property searching responsibilities I let upon a fine flat in the distant shire of Ealing which seems perfectly adequate for my needs. Following a couple of days of offer making and general estate agent rinsery I find myself with an offer accepted and the thought of imminent financial ruin offset by the delight in a good deal, done quickly allowing decent living and (perhaps most importantly) preventing any sort of return to the parental mansion.

Those of you who are familiar with the crazed world of English property buying will be quick to point out, that an offer accepted is by no means a done deal. That now I must be wary lest I get gazumped (which twat invented that word?) by some plumbait or be fearful of a poor survey result or the chances of the process dragging on for months and months. However, for the moment I am content to ignore these concerns, and to revel in the possibilities of progress, an escape from the suburban dark ages (well semi-escape), the prospect of choosing life, a wide screen television and a well stocked fridge full of fine delicatessen delicacies and strange and obscure liquors.

It’s funny because years ago, when I was younger (inevitably), more foolish and sometimes more perceptive, I realised the link between the system (the man) and the property-ladder and the dangers it posed to the best intentions of the individual. To illustrate: As a generally socialist and free-thinking individual I am not down on the asylum seeker or the junkie seeking therapy. I feel for the kids on corners hanging around with nothing to do rather than put their hoods up and shit up old ladies with their mobile phone tunes. I am free to do as I please, to leave the country, to stop work for months at a time or to spend my wages on loud music and trainers.

As a home owner, I have to start worrying if someone builds something down the street that affects the value of my property. I have to keep an eye on mundane percentage figures and the economy. The bank will own my soul and in times of trouble can finally turn the tables and seize my worldly assets if I get unctious or refuse to pay my offensive debts. Oh yes debt. Debt to the hilt and beyond, the kind of staggering figure which is so large in terms of comprehension of salary, overdraft and that jar you keep with your bits of change and carpet fluff, that it is a figure without meaning, an immense pound sign that owns your soul, hangs a noose over your children and threatens to shut down your brain if the web work stops coming and the coffers dry up.

Home ownership takes away a little of your freedom to do as you please and forces you to stay within the confines of society. It keeps you pushing towards the big bucks and putting your feet on the faces of the proletariat. Ah Marx, you never saw London house prices coming.

Still, I wanted to do it. Partly peer pressure I guess. Didn’t want to be the last person in my group to own a small bit of space, four walls and a three piece suite. But also something deeper. Maybe something in the classic adage about an Englishman and his castle. After all these years of flat sharing and seeing the washing up pile up while the walls get covered in the dirt from scuffles, exploding bottles and office chair rides down the stairs, the urge to claim a place of my own. A safe sanctuary where no fucker, be they landlord, drunken pal, or wandering gate crasher can rain on my parade. A place to plot future plans of world domination, to escape from these petty provincial despots and to create great things in peace and safety.

Jesus, that sounds like a distant dream. Like an advert for a car, or maybe Playstation 3. A perfect hermitage in a digital landscape, but I’m not sure. I think there is some resonance here. I think this could be the right way to go, that this place of tranquility could exist for real. Perhaps most importantly that it could be the right time to set up headquarters, that it probably is about time that I get some space, convene my best generals and plan the next (ideally mortgage clearing) epic campaign.

Ah well, who knows. The deal is done now and tomorrow the estate agent will be ringing to advance the process. I could duck his call, plead insanity or a lack of clean underwear, but I am pretty certain this will not be the case. I will answer the phone with a gag ready for him to laugh at (he’s paid well to laugh at my jokes), and the great wheel, despite my best efforts, will keep turning.

Spent a couple of hours this evening sipping strong filter coffee and nibbling at a rock cake, contemplating a series of expensive houses on t’internet and thinking – jesus, this is the calm before the storm.

At the moment I am invisible to the estate agents, but tomorrow I must stop putting off the inevitable. To ignore it any longer is to invite getting my current residence sold out from under me and find myself deposited back in the unwilling arms of the parentals. That is not good ju-ju, not by any means, so yes, the only answer is to pick up the phone and start baiting these clowns. Get real visible as a potential chain-free client with a bag of website money burning a hole in my pocket. It’s going to be open season.

From tomorrow, I will be afraid to pick up the phone, lest it be some scraggly yoot from Foxtons looking to pick my pockets, but for tonight I still have some peace. So I’m sitting here drinking this coffee and listening to the wind bash the windows, watching my phone blink silently and not feeling all that bad. Any fast movement could provoke danger, but maybe if I keep real still, things will be alright for a while.

Hey you, no peeking! You know who you are….

To the rest of you, you will no doubt, be amazed/aghast/ashamed/delighted (delete as appropriate) to know that Bolo is now 2 years old. This means that while it is perfectly acceptable for bolo to run around shrieking, drink from a beaker and watch tellytubbies, the rest of you are old enough to know better. Here’s to another year of strange tales and happy accidents.

I have never felt threatened by immigration and I have often delighted in arguing with various people over the years over the value of bringing new people in to shake things up and change the social environment. As a result, I was pretty chuffed when I was asked by a friend of a friend to help them out in getting a site up and running which would help people to come to England without suffering from conmen, plumbaits or robbers, and putting them on the path to contributing to the legal economy. The site is now in final testing phase (bit rough around the edges, but coming along) and I invite anyone who wants or needs to to check it out at work-in-england.co.uk.

I find caffeine in both hot beverages and coca cola a major aid to staying up late pulling websites from my sleeves. However, there is only so long you can go after a few days of seeing how long you can go. That time has passed and it is now imperative that I switch off the evil machine, have a last cup of tea and a conflab and then hit the road. The trip is short and hopefully incident free and before I know it I will be home, taking off my jacket, planning a sandwich a small dosage of tv and then the blessed arms of deep and restful sleep. Hooray for cheese and pickle blessed night terrors and the ominous chance of Estate Agents leading crazies into my room if I once again oversleep.

Being a suburban dweller, I probably spend more time on the London Underground bopping about the place than most people. Probably more than is healthy in fact. It’s either that, or restrict myself to the insular world of North West London life and I’m sensible enough to know that that way leads only to madness, potential smack addiction and severe lack of women.

So, in the interests of keeping sane and healthy I like to jump on the train a few times a week, heading to Shoreditch for a few brews, the West End for a spot of Chinese food or Waterloo for a touch of culture followed by a bit of Waterloo sunset promenading along with the tourists, the buskers and the endless stream of loved up couples, crossing the bridge with little care of anything else in the world. Sometimes I go further afield, like last night ending up in the high-rise, high crime nexus of Canning Town, but that’s another story and best kept for another time.

Like all Londoner’s (even those like myself tenuously hanging onto that tag with a greater London postcode), I have a fair bit to complain about on the tube, but all that has been said a thousand times before and actually I wanted to talk a little bit about the things that amuse me on the tube rather than the crumbling infrastructure itself.

Like yesterday, trying to catch a few moments of sleep on the way into Baker Street and these two Asian kids sitting on the aisle opposite are shouting out their conversation for all to hear. It was the age old conversation between two guys where one of them is going.

“Yeah, I been seeing this girl for a month man, she works for Harrods as an Assistant Manager blad, she’s got her head locked on man, you know she’s cool.

and his slightly more cocky mate, who thinks he’s seen a few things is going.

“Yeah, but have you banged her man?”

“Nah, man I haven’t, you know she’s not like that. Like, she ain’t like other girls you know, she’s, ah, you know, I dunno……”

“Blad, a month – I wouldn’t be waiting two hours, blad. Seriously, my girl , I’m going to see her now, man. When I get there she got dinner ready for me and everything. And when I finish that, you know she’s going to be rolling me up a spliff and then you know we’re going to be heading to the bedroom.”

Mr slightly less cocky, has got his eyes wide open now, like he’s hearing of the promised land or something, but he’s telling his friend:

“yeah, but what can I do man, you know these things take time, you got to pick the right moment, yeah.” Fortunately, asian lothario man has got a plan. I was a little cynical about it, but I’m going to pass it on in case it works for anyone else.

“I tell you man, this is what you gotta do. Just go over there now, right and then say you’re like tired right and like go to sleep in her bed, and you know she’s going to go to sleep with you and then you know you can get cuddling and that and you know take a few clothes off. Before you know it blad, everything going to come right”.

“Yeah I got to do that man, that’s a good idea you know”.

Hmm, so much for romance, but good crack for the idle ipod listening Groovernort, slightly more aware of other conversations on this day because his headphones are breaking so he has to twist the wire to get stereo sound.

It’s not always that way of course. Sometimes people just want to fuck with you. Like two days ago when I’m travelling back from Moorgate in the day and a couple of work colleagues get on and sit down in the aisle opposite. Now, I’ve been working like a bastard all morning and I know when I get back to the office I’ve got to work like a bastard again, so I’m doing a little time management by eating my beautiful Pret all-day-breakfast sandwich on the way back. I know that the smell of food can bother some people, so I have purposefully picked an empty carriage, but these two new ingrates insist on getting on and sitting close to me, presumably so that one of them can cast harsh gazes at me a few times before muttering loudly to her colleague:

“Someone’s got the munchies”. and then:

“I often wonder whether they should ban food on the underground, but I guess no-one would take any notice anyway”. – cue withering glance in my direction

To address these comments in turn, I’m sitting there thinking ‘the munchies’, no I do not have the munchies thanks, it’s lunchtime and I am hungry. I am engaging in that strange and not uncommon human tradition known as lunch. I am eating to survive. I am not stoned, I am not eating bacon bits with icecream and a mars bar. I am eating a sandwich because I need to live. I need to work.

The second comment does it though. By then I feel like this silly bitch is trying to bully me. Trying to make me feel bad about eating my lunch so I start staring at her. I’m considering living up to her expectations of loutish youth by opening my mouth so she can see my partially chewed food, by throwing the remains of my food at her frustrated pinched face, seeing the bits of egg and bacon dripping down off her cheekbones and straggly hair, obscuring her nostrils and staining her trouser suit.

This seems, a step too far, and I remind myself that my whole aim to start with had been to not offend anyone. To keep my bacon out of the eyesight of muslims and jews alike. So, instead, I just start smiling, I shift in my seat to directly face my assailant, I peel my banana and I sit there grinning, then I get my shopping bag out of my rucksack and crack open a few more items I had been meaning to save for later. A can of shandy, a pack of celery, some cheese slices, a babybel, a yoghurt, a bottle of vegetable juice, some crackers, an apple, a pack of ham. A whole healthy picnic wielded by a grinning man, eating slowly and rustling the packaging. By Wembley Park, the lady looks pretty green, sickened by the mound of rubbish that I make a point of putting back into my bag for efficient and legal disposal later, and I feel full.

My word, what a strange tangent that was to go off on. Ah well, writing that out was quite cathartic and lets face it, I think I may have succeeded in demonstrating that the tube is a strange and amusing place, peopled by lunatics, some of which may possibly include me. Vive next week fellow bolos, it’s only getting worse, but lets face it, we’re getting better.

The new year has kicked off without the politeness to stop and allow me to catch breath. A solid dose of work as suddenly all who have been promised websites or graphical works of great wonder are suddenly determined to collect by the end of the month. Fortunately, this plan fits right in with me, pinwheeling through the days in a blaze of confused bureaucratic phonecalls followed by week nights of strange coding insights and shouts of weird syntax.

Finding time in between that to hit the winter streets and prop up bars, ranting nonsense to strangers, discussing the merits of a fine port with a learned barman and accomplishing brandy endorsed missions with old work pals. Avoiding kebab based chicanery to jump onto the last train as the doors close behind me. Whack the ipod on, pass out, head out into suburbia for the obligatory chat about Nigerian politics with the taxi driver and the promise of cheese and lucid dreams to follow.

In fact, just the right start for a man on a faltering new year’s mission, hat at a jaunty angle and spring firmly in step.

Ah, as ever, so much to write about and so little time to do it in. I must berate myself anew and get on with telling some godamn stories. In the meantime, I just want to encourage all members of bolo to stick it to the man wherever possible and to not take any guff from these swine. This fellow has the right idea:

www.youtube.com/watch?v=rm9dzLxLvxc

A few months ago, I started getting paranoid about the number of pictures featuring me going up on Facebook for the world’s consumption. Suddenly it was possible to meet me on a Saturday and by Monday be perusing pictures of myself aged 6, 18, or 21. A potted history of the Groover all contributed by unreliable witnesses, snapping off shaky digital camera shots and publishing them with little thought of whether I thought it appropriate to be pictured maroot in hand or with my arm draped around some hapless girlfriend, long since ashamed to have known me.

When the number of such photos reached 48, I decided to take definitive action, locking down my profile to a Fort Knox degree, so that it is now pretty much impossible to view anything more than my name and my profile photo. You can’t write on my wall, and I certainly won’t be joining any efforts to kill vampires, cowboys, gangsters, or super poking you.

Then I tuned out of Facebook completely. It had become infested with people I hardly knew insisting that I was their friend. It felt rude to refuse them, but I began to realise that I was collecting up faces for my virtual book, without ever emailing them. A sort of human Pokemon where the playing cards were all people who I had talked to once at sixth form and never ever thought about again. Some of my real friends (primarily those in doss jobs or unemployment) are still in their element with it, firing off wall posts and collecting items for their aquariums, but mostly they fall into the easily distracted category, just killing time, or poking about with other human relations because the boss is out for the afternoon.

I’m being a bit cynical, because I do see that there is fun to be had with this social networking thing. I do still check it every couple of weeks for salient communications from people who I do actually know, but whose email addresses I’ve lost. I’m just saying I’ve stopped counting how many friends I don’t really have.

An old man once told me that the only truth in this world was in the behaviours of animals. However, having spent the last few months working in a house full of cats, I beg to differ. Duplicitous little fuckers, they feign affection on the off-chance of some scraps of food and then when you don’t give them any, they wait until you are looking the other way before sticking needle type claws into your legs.

Actually, I am getting to like cats, because they look nice, they are quite soft and you have to admire the cheek of them really. Still, I vastly prefer dogs, which though pretty much imbecilic by nature are dependent are enough on you that it makes you feel like you are needed. Popped over to the parentals’ house the other day to be greeted as ever like a long lost celebrity by my dog. Despite his advanced years, the little bugger insisted on raising his heart/breathing rate by tearing around the house with a number of soft and squeaky toys, urging me to wrestle him for them before throwing them into another room, to cue a mad scramble towards recapturing them again.

These are pretty simple pleasures really, but I admire my dog’s refusal to acknowledge that he is anything other than a puppy. Despite rheumatism, greying coat, confused mind etc he seems unfazed and very much determined to go on generally acting the goat, biting postmen and sleeping in the one patch of sunlight that hits the lounge carpet in the mornings. I have been preparing myself for the inevitable for some time, but I truly think that when he goes it will be a pretty dark day and may lead to much whisky drinking, crying into my sleeve and smashing up of Estate Agents cars.

A mature reaction to grief has never seemed right to me, as despite the inevitability of all things coming to an end, it still seems deeply unfair. A good friend of mine, recently lost a close relative far too early and all I could think was “what a gyp”. What a colossal rinseout of everything right and decent. I started to envisage God as some semi-illiterate pikey, stealing lives from their rightful owners so that he could trade them in for a wide screen television for his caravan. I haven’t thought of a better vision than this, so I’m prepared to stand by it. Truth, beauty, epiphany, these are all noble words and powerful sensations, but then so is taking ecstasy and that can kill you as well, along with sex, going out, drinking beer and smoking cigarettes. Spending time with your pets seems pretty wholesome on that basis (unless of course you are some kind of animal fiddler), so maybe the old man was right after all.

I semi-swore to myself that I wouldn’t do a bah humbug it’s Christmas post this year, but seriously how likely was that to happen? Yes, bah humbug it is indeed Christmas.

The streets of my village metropolis are teeming with people rushing around carrying a number of bags, the look of desperation in their eyes as they go hunting for the perfect economic transaction to make the day of their nearest and dearest. Jostling for space in the cold meat section of M&S, poking trolleys into gaps that are too small for wheeled cages, and harrumphing mightily when you grab the last jar of branston pickle before their slow hand can dart in.

You know it’s a strange time of year, when you slow down the car to let a couple of PCSOs cross the road only to have one of them jump into the road and do a little dance, strangely misconstruing your act of kindness for an attempt to run them over. Caffe Nero is full of old-aged pensioners sheltering from the cold and young girls with too much make up and giant moon boots.

I for one am making a decent effort to avoid most of this excitement through the twin tactic of a) working so hard that the weeks spin by and Christmas creeps up on you without you noticing any of the preamble and b) not doing any Christmas shopping. My plan is to swoop somewhere towards the middle of next week and buy up all that I need to avoid family exile. This should work fine, but I must confess that the sight all around of other people making more timely preparations is giving me the fear to some degree.

Ah well, this is the season to be jolly, so perhaps it’s somewhat inevitable than in my usual cantankerous fashion I seem to be nestling around the edges of depression. Seems like the time has come for the buck to stop here or something like that, but lacking most of the energy to do it. Everything seems a little bit tawdry and washed out and I have the feeling the only solution is for some more big decisions, the resolve of a lunatic and just the right amount of magic. The lazy, low-self-esteem apart of me is bricking it about this to a substantial degree while another more optimistic part looks on with excitement, willing for new opportunities and new joke to be caught. A veritable powerhouse of demonic energy, smashed glass and mouth wide open laughter. Yes, it is long overdue to repeat the words of the good doctor: “well, here we go again”.

The day starts slowly in the Outzone as the light from a distant star is reflected across the galaxy by a series of giant mirrors, rotating in minor increments to simulate the beginnings of light round about 3am on the place I call home. The old sun was moved for tax reasons a long time ago, its warm glow a distant memory, depleted by the early millennium attempts to brand it. The first giant coke logo went quite well, merely creating a dark zone in Africa where the kids grew up with no resistance to sun, an almost preternatural ability to see in the dark and an intense hatred of caffeine based products. The second mission from Nike went rather less well as halfway through drawing the ‘Swoosh’, a part of the sun blew off taking out the colonies at Rigel 3 and making the decision inevitable to move it to somewhere where its supernova brightness wouldn’t ruin the experience for tourists quite so much.

So now the light bearing down on the lonely figure comes from further away – Alpha Centauri and beyond, moving out in light tunnels ten thousand miles wide, bouncing off of the reflectors at the light hub constellations, increasingly known for their lawless behaviour and the threat of someone putting the light out, before hitting the filtering station at Saturn, which removes some of it radioactive properties, colours it according to the telephone vote of the previous day and sends it onward, warming people lying by the pool and enabling people going about their business to see. Branding is much easier these days because you can apply your logo directly at the filtering stage, removing much of the risk of destruction and merely causing waving of fists in the areas of the planet that end up shaded for up to a month by the ligature points of a logo, before the advert changes to something else.

Of course, none of this light stuff means all that much to the figure because he is totally blind and anyway, doesn’t really give a fuck about sunlight. An early convert to the virtual brainsets of 2042, photorealistic head pods that plugged directly into your brain to stimulate every experience of a game or televisual experience as though it were real life. Why go outside and meet people when you can load up fourth life and walk around wearing better clothes, meeting attractive women/men (delete as appropriate) who hang on your every word. Why not go out on a three day coke session when it doesn’t hurt your nose? Why get a job when in the world of the screen, you rule a mighty army, you’re hanging about like the rat pack, throwing out epithets like confetti, an endless hullabaloo.

Inevitably, there’s a catch because all the while you are hooked up to the mainframe, talking to the digital recreation of Lindsay Lohan, having custody battles with Britney Spears and scheming on caving in Pete Docherty’s face, somewhere back in your flat, your body is sitting in a heap, sweating and voiding itself, your eyes peeled back and your eyes slowly drying out from lack of blinking, your brain dying from lack of thinking about anything other than what colour tie goes best with a cerise Ralph Armani suit.

It was common around about that time to see the decaying bodies of the half alive slumped in the vid kiosks, their only hope that their phone credit would run out and some half scrupulous character at the banking corporations would pull their overdraft before they went past the point of no return. This rarely happened because the workers in the banks were on commission and anyway since the buyout by Starbucks had to divide their time between paying in cheques, giving unsuitable mortgages, not answering the phone, with making lattes and playing awful middle of the road jazz albums.

Patrick was lucky in some respects, 30 days into his epic voyage, 30,000 miles under your consciousness, a carrier of the B3 disease, saw him for a soft touch and attempted to pick his pockets on breaking into his apartment looking for a place to crash and shoot some mendephol. However, having no hands he fucked up the extraction process, pressing the wrong button on his hover cane, pumping a few 100 volts of electricity into Patrick’s piss stained tracksuit bottoms instead of magnetizing out his wallet. The result for Patrick was that his fucking of Shannon Docherty was interrupted as his headset rebooted, confused by the introduction of too much power. For a fleeting second Patrick knew who he was again, knew where he had been and knew that he was in trouble (at the same time he was regretting that it had all been a dream).

The B3 carrier sensed his target’s vulnerability was fast fading, dived in with both stumps, managing to put one in Patrick’s throat and one in the squishy part near the kidney’s. Patrick took umbrage from this, tore the headset off his face before bringing it down in a clattering fashion on his assailant’s head. After 30 days he was intensely weak, but he was lucky, B3 sufferers have soft heads from a chronic deficiency of iron and the erosive effects of the disease. The head in question popped like a grape and Patrick was left lying in his own filth, covered in stinking brains and rapidly starting to realise he couldn’t see shit. His headset was blinking out an unseen ‘Game Over’ message, his bank account was empty and that meant the enforcers from Claims Direct were already on their way.

I was feeling just about as low as I cared to feel on a Sunday. Old time urges to get the monkey off my back and retrospective thoughts about other paths I could have taken, other people I could have been. I was at a point in time where it felt like I knew too much, but had so little ability to act on what I knew. I was like a clown without a clown suit, left trying to make mime jokes without an audience, without hands and without an appreciation of mime. Fuck mime, I hate it.

Suddenly seems a much more exciting thing to be a part of now I have read this article. All I can really say is “good work Frenchies”.

Way back when, long before the internet had really kicked off and people were forced to venture out into the wild once in a while to catch up with old friends and drink themselves into inebriation, I worked for the big M, flipping burgers for small change. I was young, but I had big dreams of Friday nights spent downing pints and staring at cleavage and that required some sort of fundage.

The money McDonald’s paid was pretty poor – I think I was on about £3.40 an hour at the time, but it was either that or Sainsbury’s and that was well known as being even more oppressive and dull. McD’s was partially alright in that while it was a) full of plumbait management that lacked any form of ability or power of communication and b) full of rude customers that believed entirely mistakenly that they were better than the 17 year olds manning the tills and c) a land of constant peril, where the repetitive tasks could lull you into a false sense of security causing you to hideously burn your hand on a grill or slice a wrist on a tomato slicer; it was redeemed by a good quantity of the staff. From A-level students (the vast majority), crazy economic migrants, reformed criminals, drug dealers, to young strumpets, miserable school leavers and black power supremacists, you were always guaranteed a laugh during the few hours you spent greasing up your hair and skin over the grill plattens.

I was consigned to the kitchen along with many of my closest acquaintances (we all pretty much joined up at the end of one summer in classic late adolescent sheep tactics), due to my inability to be polite to ingrates at the till and my saving grace of being able to simultaneously cook up to five types of burger at one time without breaking a sweat. Commonly teamed with Lurcho, Crimp or Steedo (on till for his greater skills of diplomacy) we would spend all day shouting abuse at each other, eating cheese and lecturing the constant stream of new recruits on the fine art of burger dressing, indie music and management baiting.

Sometimes I would work late, cleaning up equipment before clearing out the doughnut cabinet, while other times I would rock in at 7:00 on a Saturday, reeling from drunkenness rolled over from the night before. The trick on those occasions was to quickly fire everything up, get some food in the stager and then lie on the cool tiled floor, watching the ceiling spin until you felt a little better. Bloody hell, that was a long time ago. Before I had to pretend to be able to blag my way through decisions. Before the freedom and excess of university. A time of hideous A-levels you didn’t want to be taking, precariously balanced with a growing appreciation of the attractions of fucking about.

Anyway, it wasn’t all good, but it’s done now and in fact McD’s in Pinner closed a good year or so ago now. The franchisee wasn’t making the returns he had been used to now that the nation had suddenly gone health conscious and anyway, the groups of hoodies frequenting the place in the evenings were making the whole thing more trouble than it was worth.

It closed its doors and stood empty for a while until rumours took hold that it was to become a Wetherspoon’s. This wasn’t entirely unwelcome as though this portended the prospect of a town full of a old and unpleasant alcoholics at all times of day, in the last year, many of the pubs had closed down. The powers that be have decided that Pinner is to become one of those places full of restaurants that inextricably attract enough customers to make money while avoiding alcohol related disorder, noise and everything else that offends rotarians, spinsters and people who think that a Heath Robinson museum is a good use of a few million pounds of public money. The result of there being no pubs, meant nowhere for the upwardly mobile youngsters to go, which had detracted from the area, forcing me to near enough entirely avoid it in my weekend hours, keeping my money firmly in the illegal economy and out of the hands of faux Italian restaurantiers that charge high prices for poor food presented nicely, while people sit there going “lovely, lovely”, because they don’t know any better and it all feels like something slightly mundane, but no-one dares call it.

Anyway, that’s a bad tangent to go off on. The point is really that Wetherspoon’s did not move in the space left by the Golden Arches. Instead they were outbid by the zenith of evil as we know it. The prepubescent boys of Foxtons Estate Agents have descended and now we are all doomed. Their sign lights up the dark street (primarily featuring signs fitted in the 1970s) changing colour as if to say I have no knob, but I shine very brightly, their scribbled on mini-coopers fill the carparks and pull out of intersections driven by scrotes that can barely see over the wheel. These same scrotes then turn up putting leaflets through my letterbox once a week telling us that we could sell the house with them for five billion euros and if you let them in, lecture you about Sport, the state of the market and their inability to give anything, but the best service. Knock-kneed greed merchants playing on the size of their organisation to practice unfair competition (they have launched with a no-fees for six months offer) on an already saturated market of independent providers, loss-leaders that can guarantee with a voracious approach to sales motivated by a policy of publicly humiliating low-performers on a regular basis, the right amount of shoeshine and enough Amy Winehouse powder on the nostril, that success is just around the corner. Ah, I have so much to say about this, but first I have go to go and plan a new strategy. The battle of Pinner has just begun and there is nowhere to get a cheap slab of meat wrapped in ketchup, plastic cheese and bread, to keep our sustenance levels up.

A touch taxed today after a high speed run down the drisly M4 coping with a hangover and the urge to pass out at the wheel, to go careering between lanes before going into some kind of death spin. The trip to Swansea had been an undoubted success, but one too many beverages the night before and the prospect of a Sunday traffic four hour journey had somewhat dented my enthusiasm. In the end, the most dangerous moment on the trip inevitably came right near the end, where desperate to drain the weasel and trapped behind a 15mph learner, I executed a high-risk overtaking maneuvre, getting back to the correct side of the road just in time to avoid the Tesco’s truck.

Ah well, these perils are small prices to pay for the usual onslaught of amusement to be caught by catching up with old friends. Swansea is becoming synonymous in my mind with rest and recreation, neatly balancing ‘heart of darkness’ town life spew in the gutter night life with nearby open beaches that stretch off a mile into the ocean at low tide. High points include Mr Unholy’s comments about Bobey’s family news, while low points include being accused of stealing a kebab. Small knocks indeed and I have returned feeling ready to re-engage with the animal frenzy of work, manic eyed and loose-limbed.

I found an article today that filled me with hope. Yes, if it all gets too much, I’m off to Gliese 581C.

Working from home throws up a range of semi-uninteresting differences. One of these is that I catch a bit more daytime television than I used to. Probably a bit more than I really need to see, truth be told.

My current favourites are:
Doctors – an improbable disease accompanied by bad acting accompanied by a bit of light-hearted oh life’s not too bad really comedy action is brilliant late lunch fodder.
Loose Women – Nothing is better for relieving stress than hurling some abuse at a bunch of jaded harpies ranting on about rice cakes.
Neighbours – An old favourite, but still worth a mention. Current most excellent storyline is the guy in the wheelchair who is slowly regaining the use of his legs. Seeing his little toes flicking about and the resulting gush of emotion from his buxom cast members is enough entertainment to keep me chuckling all the way until the next tea break.

Anyway, today I discovered a new one. A game show format lifted from family fortunes – just remove the family and score higher points for getting the answer that’s a) on the board AND b) was said by the least people (cunning eh?). There’s an inevitable array of pitfalls on offer for the slack-jawed contestants to negotiate and the winner emerges from their half hour of bemusement and ‘comedy’ responses with about 50p. I think I was lucky to catch it today because one of the questions was ‘which part of your body would you be prepared to sell for a million pounds?’ After a couple of easy ‘little toe’ ‘hair’ responses, things took a turn for the weird.

One contestant suggested ‘lungs’, clearly forgetting he needed these to breathe. One contestant (presumably a non-drinker) was keen to offer up their ‘liver’. I was just recovering that when the final guy suggested ‘all of me fingers’.

‘All of your fingers?’ Brian Connelly cried (for yes, I am ashamed to say, it was he), ‘then you’d look like this’ (holds hands up and proceeds to do an amusing, but extremely inappropriate mime action of having no fingers involving a fair bit of fist wiggling).

‘Yes’ the contestant replies ‘it wouldn’t really bother me’ and so saying he holds up his as yet unseen hand to reveal nothing but stumps on the fingers of one hand. Brian Connelly looks abashed, like someone’s just crapped on his grandmother. Nothing like this has happened since 1986 when Jeremy Beadle tried to shake his hand at the Royal Variety Show. He has nailed himself to his own cross.

I fall off my chair. Then I figure I better get back to doing some work.

Much as I am a jaded soul, there are a range of small things that bring intense delight to my days. A few food based ones are:

Weetos – clearly the food of the gods. Great in both crunch and milk-softened form. Try heating your milk first for an insomniac snack that guarantees sleep.
Kool Aid – made from depleted uranium and enough sugar to make a small child’s head explode, but tastes so good.
Potato waffles – it’s got potato, it’s got air, it’s got enough crunchy greasiness to cure hangovers and nourish leanheads. Amazing with cheese and/or barbecue sauce.
Ham – amazing animal death based tastiness. Apply mustard and bread for maximum results

Well anyway, that’s enough Delia. I’m off to throw rocks at passing estate agents.