I know what you’re thinking, you’re thinking, ‘Henry, we all know that you are above vanity but how do you explain the, ahem, rather AIRBRUSHTASTIC quality of that picture up there?’

Listen; it’s NOTHING to do with me. When the Franklin Mint people make a limited edition bust of me I expect that they will be tinting the faux-marble with more accurate hues than you see above - my gnashers will be done in ‘caramelised gooseberry’ and my receding gumline faithfully rendered in ’somewhat kumquat’.

I expect that leading Brighton Cyber-Artist, Youngblood, had very good ARTISTIC reasons for colouring-in my teeth with bright white electrical paint.

NEXT TIME

Fab photos of the tendon-snipping machine and a trip down memory lane.

ON DECK

Belgian electronica combo, THE GO FIND. Excellermellent!

Like the new header? Good, innit? My son made that, he did, with his bare hands and I think it’s lovely; so much more grown up than the last one and a real reflection of my progress.

Tonight’s title is also the title of an album by prog. rockers, Messrs. Yes - an album that I don’t have. But I have got ‘Close to the Edge’ (which is not an album by Messrs. U2) so I’ve got that on instead. But our story tonight involves a different relayer; the Hanover relayer.

Our story begins in the yellowed and crumbling electrical files of Digital Spy. I was trawling through the fora because I am interested in radio and there I discovered a story that interested me because of a connection with Brighton - I used to live there.

There is an area of Brighton called the North Laine and it’s where the shops are small and highly trendy and the caffs are groovy. It’s a bit off the boil now but it’s where the beautiful people of Brighton (and quite a few super-Ug ones) hang out. According to the story, quite a few of these hip establishments used to play the same radio station, a really hip and cool radio station. It’s this one and it’s called FIP.

The radio station is hip and cool and FRENCH. They play an eclectic mix which can be seen by studying their playlist.

The station was broadcast on FM and the signal was good. Brighton isn’t marvellous for reception because of the surrounding hills but the FIP signal was fine even though it was being transmitted from France.

Or was it?

There’s another trendy area of Brighton which lies a little to the east and it’s called Hanover. Apparently, FOR THE LAST TEN YEARS someone had been quietly relaying the signal for FIP radio from a house in the Hanover area with all its groovy music and quiet bits of spoken French and NO ADVERTS and, I gather, people assumed it was a freak of atmospherics that allowed Bohemian Brighton to tune in. Man.

But, no more. The relayer got busted. I’ve been listening to FIP on the stream and I really enjoy it. If I was Mort and could speak perfect French as well as liking trendy music I would enjoy it even more I expect. Give it a try for some background music, why don’t you?

OTHER NEWS
Plan X has bumped into an obstacle but I refuse to see it that way. The way I see it is that Plan X just hasn’t made itself plain enough yet but every day it gets a little clearer.

Today I spoke to a police officer who wanted to bring me up to speed with the case of the Bicycle Thief that I had apprehended last year. Guess what, he’s being done for over A HUNDRED offences of bicycle theft and it’s all because of me. I shouldn’t be at all surprised if the grateful local community don’t have a whip-round to buy me a big hat so that everyone knows how important I am.

NEXT TIME
I have discovered an old machine for cutting through the Achilles Tendons of the unwary.

I’m in quite a good mood today. I mean that I feel happy inside, sort of laughy, but without any particular reason.

If anything I should be feeling glum because I have got pneumonia of the arm having been given a pneumonia jab and it STILL hurts like flip. AND I’ve got the leftovers of a cold.

So here’s a picture of me being happy the other day and I hope it makes YOU happy too.

No news from the hospital yet as I haven’t managed to speak to the person that I need to speak to. But at least I’ve tried.

Recently I’ve been thinking about a little poem that a friend of mine wrote a good few years ago. It was written by Captain Lush and I can’t remember what title he gave it but I can remember EXACTLY how it went. I’d hate to think of his poem not being published worldwide so here it is…ahem…..

The Marlboro Lights were shining,
The night we went out dining,
You never left off wining,
And ended up totally pissed.
You Cow.

Now I think that poem is really funny and it makes me laugh out loud whenever I think of it which has been quite often of late.

Isn’t laughter the completely best thing in the world? I think so.

Night!

Hello!

I’ve been boating and away, therefore, for a few days. Boating is good for me because it confirms my validity for me. I am good at what I do, I take it seriously, I am competent. No one can criticise what I do by using the good old knock-me-down of me and drink because I have removed the drink. Nowadays anyone who wishes to criticise me will just have to criticise ME and I’m happy about that because I am secure in myself.

Or am I?

This weekend I met a man who was plainly underwhelmed that I am in receipt of sickness benefit. There are a lot of people like this man; flabby-dewlapped broadcaster, Nick Ferrari for example. They like to see recipients of sickness benefit so incredibly sick that they shouldn’t even get sickness benefit because they would be too sick to spend it anyway. It really makes THEM feel sick when they see anyone on benefits who isn’t in a wheelchair or a coma and preferably both at once. What happened was that someone started asking me some personal questions. What I should have said was “You’re fucking nosey, wind your neck in” but, of course, I didn’t. My three-decade history of low self-esteem means that I am programmed to think that anyone at all can rummage through the debris of my life and get all judgmental over what they think they see there.

No one has the right to treat me that way but I’m still trying on my new life for size and I’m just not used to it yet. I STILL have yet to learn to stand up for myself, not to be embarrassed about who or what I am, not to feel guilty all the time. People with letters after their names run my life for the moment because when I tried to run my life I made a mess of it. I AM an alcoholic and I always will be, I AM still ill. BUT, I am NOT taking the piss, I AM improving, I am good at what I do and I’m getting there.

Do you know, I have spent the whole weekend worrying because someone who is a painter and decorator (rather than a doctor) might report me for being in receipt of benefit when in the opinion of the painter and decorator I should be working. And then I get visions of Kafkaesque nightmare interviews and my imagination runs ahead at a million miles an hour and and and and and….

I have been interviewed before about benefit claims. Government agents have come to my home and whipped out their spy cameras and photographed my documents and made me feel rather apprehensive about the whole thing happening again. And so I worry. And I worry. But I don’t drink.

And I DO have an idea about work; I’ll tell you about it later and I bet you’ll think my idea is great.

Now then, my SECRET admirer. I had a comment on my blog the other day and it was quite a coincidence this comment arriving when it did because only last week I had been rereading the particular blogs to which the commenter/ator(?) refers:
“Hiya, Just found your blog. Nothing to do with Lesbos, which is a shame as I have always fancied going there. I have had a totally crap year and consequently have drunk myself into a mess. I was thinking of having a drink tonight but read your blurb on giving up It made me feel happy. I am going home sober tonight. Thankyou, it’s the most sensible thing about giving up I have read on the entire net. Cheers. N x”

The comment is from ‘Nadezhda’ and delightful it is too. I felt so happy when I read that and really proud and pleased. When I reread my ‘How to stop drinking - Easily’ posts I thought they were rather rubbish; a bit curate’s egg but too unstructured and difficult to read fluently but here was my very first ‘customer’ that seemed to have really stumbled upon what I had written just in the way that I had hoped for. My experiment had worked and Plan-X seemed to be revving up at last! I wanted to write to Nadezhda and thank her for her comment and offer, well, the alcoholic hand, you know?

The email address didn’t exist. Or rather it did. This is what I saw in Google:
“We have been getting visits from gateway-[snip].gov.uk which is a backdoor for Government departments which don’t want to be traced back. Any ideas on which department this could be?”

So then I stopped enjoying the delightful comment and started wondering why people from Government departments that shun publicity were commenting on my blog. I can’t believe that my blog might have come to notice because I think Bliar is a twat? Perhaps it did and perhaps it didn’t. Anyway, Nadezhda, if you ever read this I really hope that you are okay and I DO thank you for your comment and maybe, if you would like to write to me, my email address is Henrythethirst@aol.com.

The overall feeling that I have is NOT one of paranoia though. Plan-X seems to be clunking along, crystallizing, solidifying even. What I am going to do next is revamp the header/banner thing for my blog. It’s time for a change and what I want next is the title ‘[snip]’ and the subtitle ‘OUT OF MY HEAD…’ - D’ja geddit? See what I did there? A skilled technician at House of Youngblood will be prevailed upon to create the work.

And I’m going to grit my teeth, gird my loins, cross my fingers and offer myself for voluntary work at the Drug and Alcohol Team at the hospital. I want to work there. My idea works and Nadezhda’s comment proves it. I know what you’re saying, you’re saying, “Hold on there Boozeboy, you’ve got no chance you unqualified ARSE!” but you’re only saying that because you don’t have what I have; VISION.

Tell you what, fags are drugs and a highly addictive one too. I could do presentations that would stop people smoking and I wouldn’t need to know anything about patients’ notes. I wouldn’t need to know anyone by name or anything. I can’t see how anyone might be compromised. My ideas would work for ciggies, swiggies, and probably loads of other things of which I have mercifully little experience.

That would be my offer, I could work for the NHS for nothing for a couple of days a week and see how things worked. The people who did so much for me and helped me towards my recovery could keep a close eye on me and maybe the miracle will get bigger.

Don’t forget, I’ve always felt that this is a miracle in progress. I am a lazy backslider so I don’t really understand what this is or how it happens or works, all I know is that I am IN IT like IT is IN ME.

I feel like a surfer waiting to catch the perfect wave; I can’t afford to miss it.

It sounds mythological, doesn’t it? But it’s a real place, oh yes, let me assure you. It can only be reached by two bridges or… BY BOAT!

But more of that later, firstly ATTENTION ALL SMOKERS!!
Look! Here’s what an x-ray of your bronchs looks like:

I’ve learnt quite a bit about chimneys recently, probably more than I wanted to even though I like learning about things that I can show off about later. Really it’s just the showing off that I like but I put up with the having to learn the things in the first place.

Things I have learned about chimneys are that they only last about three years before the sulphur in the coal turns into sulphuric acid and enknackerises them, that they come in standard sizes, that chimneys sold on eBay are likely to be described innacurately, that the rotting ex-chimney of the Charlotte Rose is not a standard size, that they cost double what you think PLUS V.A.T. and that exploring the world of chimneys is an interesting psychological adventure in itself.

We went boating this last weekend, Trouty, Vodka Mick and I. We went all the way to Godalming and we had some exciting times. I had better be careful what I say because I have found out recently that my blog is read by people that I don’t think about when I write. This weekend someone that I know told me that someone else had asked them if they were the author of my blog and they worked out that I must be the author of my blog. So that’s why I had better watch what I say from now on. Because I don’t want a punch on the nose. But it’s not my fault if people are funny and make me laugh with the silly things they do and then I write them down. I never mean to be unkind either, I really don’t, it’s just that some things make me laugh, that’s all.

So, I hope it doesn’t cramp my style but I must be careful from now on; no names, no punch on nose.

Actually, I just told a lie because sometimes I do mean to be unkind, of course I do. I mean to be unkind because some people ask for it and some people deserve it. What I do, I like to think, is just point at what’s been done. I point at it. ‘Look’, I say but some people don’t like to be pointed or looked at. I point at myself and I see what I do that is often ridiculous. What I think is that we are all children but just a bit bigger. We still have our insecurities and our dreams, we still lie and cheat and talk ourselves up. We are bullies and cowards and heroes sometimes, all of us, every day.

And I just got side-tracked. I meant to tell you about the man who tries to use his boat in a ‘front-wheel-drive’ style by means of the bow thruster or ‘cheat’ button. I meant to tell you about the woman who said so much wrapped up in the words that she actually said that it was like being able to stare into her soul but it’s getting late now and I know I won’t be spending too much longer writing.

I’ve watched this a few times…

…and I like the beard. But not just the beard either. Both thumbs up for scroobius pip.

This blog’s gone all disjointed. But I feel a bit disjointed too. I just had to break off to evict a massive night wasp that was helicoptering round the low-e bulb.

Disjointed.

Oh, and I never got marooned on Lesbo Island either no matter how much I pleaded with my scorbutic crew. But it is a real place though; I’ve been there, I’ve seen ‘em.

Every now and then I have a little look at a site I discovered a while back while I was looking for something else.

It’s a great, intelligent site that publishes strange maps and talks about their origins and about their content. The first map that I remember seeing on there was a map of how left/right hand drive is distributed over the world. Some are old and some are new, but always interesting.

Sometimes there would be some comments. Maybe around 20 would be a rough average figure. And then he went and published a map that related to education in Amerika. I’ll give you a link in a minute so’s you can have a look too. It’s map number 97 that I’m going on about and the title is “Where (and how) evolution is taught in the US".

Did he get many comments? Is that what you’re wondering? Well, yes he did; he got quite a few. Oh boy did he get quite a few. And then he got some more.

Ladies and gentlemen, walk this way to the world of Strange Maps.

Oh, and while I’m doing links, have a look at the link up there >>>^^^, the one marked Brighton Tales. It reads like a blog so start at the bottom and I’d ask you to look closely at the images the author has created to go with the text.

G’night!

It always makes me laugh when I see references to a ‘court of law’. As opposed to a court of tennis maybe? A court of squash? Yeah, that always gives old hands like me a chuckle.

I got a brown envelope in the post the other day; it contained the news that my name has been picked out of a very big hat and I’m to perform jury service. I’ll be starring at Guildford Crown Court in a couple of months and boy am I looking forward to it. The last time I had to fulfill this civic duty was in 1980 when I didn’t know very much at all but I found it really interesting and serving as a juror was one of the things that prompted me to be herded throught the ‘Goods In’ gate at Hendon’s constable factory.

As the judicial system has had to muddle through without the benefit of my advice for the last quarter of a century I shall have to be strategic to ensure that I get selected or, rather, don’t get bounced by the defence. I shall have to dress and behave as if I am of the ‘not guilty’ persuasion. Obviously I won’t be actually BUYING a copy of the Grauniad but if I find one on the train I might pick it up if I can fashion a tongs style handgrip thing. Once the defence have chucked off as many of Guildford’s Hyacinth Buckets as they can I’m just about guaranteed a seat.

Now obviously I’ll have a very long and disappointed face if I’m not made foreman of the jury. All my skills will be called into play to make sure that the jury gets this most important decision right. What I’m going to do is hire a legal type wig and gown so that everyone will know exactly how important I am just by looking at me.

As the foreman I get to sit nearest the judge in case there’s anything he needs to ask me or for advice or anything. That means, obviously, that I get the best seat but I’ve got another trick up my sleeve. What I’m going to do during the first adjournment is go to see the judge in his chambers (see, I know all the legal words) and explain to him, in camera, that I am disabled with some leg thing and that I have to stretch my legs a lot. If you say you are disabled it’s the actual law that they have to let you walk about so I’ll be able to see the counsel’s notes and go up to the accused and all that.

Another thing I have been doing is practicing taking my glasses off in front of the mirror and using them in an indicatory manner like for when I’m making a forensic point or something.

Something I’m looking forward to trying is when the jury looks like it might be going one way, I’ll vote the other just to drag things out a bit; there are two good reasons for this:

If I make it so we can’t decide I’ll be able to organise to have sandwiches sent in and they will have to provide the sandwiches I choose. Chicken and avocado for example. The people I like get the sandwiches they want, the others get, ooh, maybe egg and tomato. Something not so nice. That way the hierarchy gets subtly underlined.

Second, what I would really like to go for is a night in a hotel. I’ll have to be really careful to keep voting for the opposite of what the lesser jurors think to be in with a chance of pulling that one off though!

And on top of everything I’ll be getting a cool £5.13 per day subsistence expenses.

This is going to be great!

I believe that it’s ‘pestle and mortar’ and not ‘mortar and pestle’.

I believe that it’s ‘dustpan and brush’ and not ‘brush and dustpan’

I believe the Iranian Government and not the British Government.

Cheers Bliar, you twat.

I believe that I have been lied to. Over and over and over again.