First thing is, don’t take 25mg of diazepam and try to ride a bicycle. What happens is that you fall off and smash your hands to bits.

Second thing is a new link that I was sent from a site. Tom Evans from Badfinger singing ‘Sail Away’. He sings, ‘carry on’ to finish. A nice touch.

Third thing is that Trouty and I have split. That’s it. Over. Forever.

There’s an official reason which you can probably guess at but I have a theory too.

I may be right and I may be wrong.

Unfortunately I can no longer ’sail away’ but I will ‘carry on’.

So. Not the best of days but I saw it coming weeks ago. I’m good at reading people but I did nothing about it. I just bought a new bike.

Tom, I’ll carry on, like you say. You couldn’t but I will. I will.

Here’s a clip from when he was young and beautiful:

Sleep well, John.

Love and thanks for all the good times. Wish I’d met you but. well, hey.

Now you have the peace you were looking for all that time.

See you at the bar and, in the meantime, R.I.P.

05:44 MMM: the livestock bit at any rate

05:47 Henry Ex: livestock, you say, maaaaaaam

05:47 MMM: hehe

05:47 MMM: years of going to agricultural shows

In case I get run over by a bus (by the way, don’t bother wearing clean underpants in case you do. I have it on medical authority that if you ARE run over by a bus your underpants, well, how can I put this? They won’t be as clean as when you put them on).

Anyway, people read or say things. No music please. I want Ted to be on my chest, looking up and looking after me like he always did.

Cheap coffin - a cardboard box will do. For the commital I would like ‘Rock and Roll’ by Led Zeppelin as the curtain closes, or whatever, AS LOUD AS POSSIBLE. It’s off Led Zep 4 but you will have to buy it.

I will have to get the co-ords for where I want my ashes buried but it will be on the path up to Narnian Gateway.

Find somewhere nice on the Surrey Hills for me.

Now this is where you will have to be sly. Dig a hole at least 3 or 4 foot deep and put the pot in. Now everybody have a drink - I’ll try to leave some money for that. Everyone take a sip and let me have some, will you?

Take a stake of elm and smash it it into the ground; that’s all I want. No headstone. Just elm or ash, sticking out about a foot, just so that anyoe who is interested can find me.

Bring a tent. Have a party. Make sure it is all done properly.

I’ll leave a letter - make sure it gets found and gets read.

This photograph was taken at 15:55.

On Saturday.

I’m not sure what time sunset is but I AM sure that I don’t like a liar.

I have other photographs that show all the shutters down. Maybe there was a footie match on.

Don’t get me wrong; I have no car, need no tyres, need no exhaust. Call me picky but I would have thought that some people do.

If a postbox promised a collection at whatever I would hope that they weren’t telling porkies.

Maybe you might like to see how this is coming on.

Seeing as how I haven’t been a drinking and a smoking for a while, I thought I had better do some tidying up, see how the vacuum cleaner worked, shred everything that had my name and address on, wash up, spill orange juice on the kitchen floor - oh, all the usual.

I even threw away a fag.

If only life were so simple.

Then I bumped into an admirer of my paintings. He likes them a lot and he’s got a lot. He tells me that all but two are running wild in Europe. So he gave me 20 fags seeing as how I’ve broken my toe.

I’m not quite sure what he does with my paintings (apart from export them) so I got in the mood again.

Here is the beginnning of ‘The Smoker’. The inspiration is obvious and I like the bright colours. The photo is plop because I have to leave it awhile before I can finish it and I had to take the photo with flash and indoors.

Hope you like it…

I wonder how it will turn out?

My paintings come with a painted signature and a letter.

AND this evening I learned that my fame as a ‘foreign artist’ is doing well for him. So, good show and thanks for the fags, my friend.

I’ll photo the result.

A nice little bit of rain keeps the burglars indoors (watching some twaddle on a seven foot plasma).

(In which we see something about locks, a pedal disaster, economy and the death of Christmas)

Well, it looks like Christmas is over for another year…

Here we see some dead lock gates. They are, or rather WERE, the bottom gates of number two lock of the Woodham flight of the Basingstoke Canal. My bag and a canvas may emphasize the scale. The gates may be dead but they are still of interest; to me at any rate.

From this angle we can see the socket that sits on a pin and, upon which, the gate swivels. The mechanism is very simple. Anchored at the bottom by the pin and by a collar at the top. The gate must weigh well over a ton as these are the bottom gates and much taller than the top gates which have a much shallower cill.

This hole is where the paddle was fitted. On bottom gates they are always underwater.

Last Tuesday I tried to get to the phone before it stopped ringing. In doing this, without my specs on, I just about broke my little toe by stubbing it on a chairleg. It hurt so much that I nearly cried. I spent the rest of the day in bed feeling glum.

No swig - just a whimper when my toe caught the duvet.

On Thursday I had to see the famous Doc Holiday. Sarf West Trains, to aid commuters in these times of recession, have increased the fare to Worst Byfleet from 2.40 to 2.60 (God knows what that in percentage terms) and I had resolved never to willingly use one of their empty, lavatoryless cattle-trucks again. Even with a return ticket, that is 2.60 for a total of 6 minutes ride - 3 each way. Alton Towers must be cheaper.

Now I am as stubborn as a mule so I strapped on my hiking boots, set off early, and walked. I can do most of the journey via the towpaths where at least the lavatories grow alongside.

Here is a picture of a horse-bridge that I have to cross. You can tell that it’s a horse-bridge because of the wooden struts to stop the beasts from slipping.

The horse-bridge spans the junction between the Wey Nav. and the Basingstoke. Before it was built they used to have to ship the poor horses across to the next towpath.

Here’s a picture of the span.

For my next trick, an original Henry will get cable-tied to the bridge indicating, ooh, Rugby to the right and straight on for Birmingham. Something like that.

I haven’t had the heart or toe to go and see the pixie house for a while. I wonder if it’s still there?

Unfortunately, due to me getting the day wrong, I set off for the doc’s.
If you get there a couple of hours early you get seen a bit early. You get let in through the secret door and get to lounge about and talk about this and that until he gets rid of you. A couple of hours early is good but a day too early is not so.

Bollocks, I was a day too early and it was bloody freezing. Then the snow started.

Have you ever done something really daft? If I was Bob Dylan I could have written a song about it but seeing as I am not Bob Dylan I just made the Oliver Hardy face and turned about. The snow started to fall hard on my face and I was grateful to reach home.

I wouldn’t call it warm but it was better than being outside. Being in a public bog would have been better.

How come that someone as intelligent as what I am can be so stupid?

As things go, I suppose that I have very little to be depressed about.
Except the ‘lump’.
And hid. pov.
And a future, that if it stretches anywhere, stretches into nothingness.

There is a lump on my belly. As I am so clever and learned I suspect it is because of an insulin injection site. It’s about the size of an almond and doesn’t hurt at all. As I write this I can picture Doc Holiday writing out the referral letter because he’s going on… holiday, for a while, and he doesn’t like touching me. Can’t say that I blame him.

I need financial advice. Not from a financial advice type person but from someone who can tell me what to do so I can keep some. Or more than just some.

Brighton beach. 1980s

Unless the tide is low there is no sand and all the beach is made from pebbles. The colour is grey.

Five of the clock I threw stones into the water at the Hove end of the promenade. No one was about, not even the metal-detector boys, not that early.

I walked out onto the tide-breaker (I could show it to you now) which was covered in green slime. The smell of the sea is rare, there, right by it. When my foot slipped there was nothing I could do and I felt my head crack against the concrete.

Down, maybe six or ten feet to the pebbles. The sea was out.

‘Don’t drink and dive’.

Back home at Blatch I realised how lucky I was. I always seem to have been lucky. The burning car, the burglar with a screwdriver, the robber with a gun, scarlet-fever and all the things that I did with cars (sometimes terribly pissed) at well over the speed-limit. I’ve seen, saw and done things that should never be seen and I’ve done things that I won’t mention.

But back it comes, always the same. Depression like falling through into a dark vault from which there seems no escape.

For me, there seems to be no escape. No happy dog or little cottage. No book to sell or painting worth more than a pony.

And now the fucking lump which I can feel through two jumpers.

This is exactly what blogs are for; to say how you are and how you feel. I never want to read blogs about kiddy birthday parties.

So today I feel as blue as the stones on Hove beach. Tomorrow will be a different day.

Eventually you are forced to realise that the work that you produce, much like a top-flight banker or an estate agent, isn’t really up to much.

Being hyper-critical of myself doesn’t help.

Although I try to write and try to paint the more I look at what I’ve done doesn’t leave me very chuffed.

Imagine if I had a big bit of marble. I would call my piece ‘Cunnilingus’.

The thought of a man with one eye and his tongue missing admiring the pudenda of a one-legged lady who looked as if she had been sick into her hair might be realistic but certainly no Bernini.

I’m fed up with being rubbish.

I just made myself laugh.

Oh well.

Today I saw some scummers being led through the shop from quite near the boozular aisle. They were escorted by a man in a fluorescent jacket; I REALLY must get one of them.

Then came a retort, “Well I’ll go and shop in Marks and Spencer’s then”

This I doubt, seeing as they had clearly ridden a coach and horses through the first three sections of the Prevention of Scummerdom Act 2001. Also, as a result of some Top Secret Information that I have received, I think they will probably have to go to Kingston or Woking (aaaaagh, poo, I can smell Woking) to do ANY shopping in future.

‘Oh, I’ve been ejected from this shop so I’ll just pop next-door’. Err, no.

You will notice that there is no author to identify in this blog.

Well, no one got within a mile of an identification and, to be honest, I got fed up with writing them.

I wrote all of them. The pudding one sounded nice but I’ve no idea whether it would work or not. Get a Nigella book instead; she looks like a girl who enjoys licking a creamy mouthful or two.

So, I’m sorry. I couldn’t really go on any more because I am too honest and I wasn’t getting seen through.

I’m sorry.

If i stuck a stick up myself then I could do an impression of an ice-lolly. Probably not a very nice flavour but there you go.

Now then, who wrote this:

“No! I am no longer a child and no longer will I be treated as one".
Her father stood, as was his wont, with his back to the fireplace.
“I shall marry, with or without your blessing".
So saying, she ran from the room, the taste of metal in her mouth.

Nighty night.

There can be few more enjoyable sounds than drunken, shouting lunatics urinating outside your home when they realise that there are no trains. Oh dear. What a shame.

Nowhere for them to do whatever they want to do - except freezing of cold of course.

I prefer to sit and shiver at home (no Spoonerisms please). At least I’m not out celebrating the New Year by vomiting and defecating all over the place.

Don’t worry, I’m working on the next question. I’m quite surprised that no one has cracked one yet.

Very well, against my better judgement, here goes:

Sorry i forgot the parantheses last time… (is that what quote marks are?)

“After the beating I lay upon my cot. In the darkness I felt a single finger on my lips and a blanket over my back. I spoke not a word. It was XXXXXXX.
He had stolen fat from the kitcken and, using it, eased the shackle from my ankle.
In the darkness I felt a pair of shoes and slipped them on.
Through the darkness I fell and walked until I came to a rivulet. I walked upstream some twenty minutes as I could hear the hounds behind me.
My shoes and convict trousers were sodden, my blanket tucked around my neck and shoulders.
At a meadow I left the water.
When I awoke I was in the long grass and above me were the cherries”

Sorry, I know that parantheses are brackets. I just can’t remember the word for those speech marks things.

What’s your favourite aftershave pong? Mine is simple. It’s called ‘Nothing at all’.

It’s very cheap.