When you are feeling glum it’s nice to try to help someone.

Coming back from the shop I saw an old man and his missus and they had a flat tyre. He had done everything right, removed the nuts before (yes, I said ‘nuts’. He had removed his nuts so stop laughing) before jacking up the car. But would the wheel come off? No. it wouldn’t.

I kicked it and everything while he phoned the RAC. ‘I’ll get this wheel off if it kills me’ I thought while the RAC told him they would be with him in 90 minutes.

It didn’t kill me. But did it come off? - NO.

Everything was right and there was no reason for it not to come off the studs except he was an old man and not empowered with the beefy strength of my unbroken wrist. He said he thought it was rusted on. Yeah, right.

On the way home I stopped at ‘Tyres and expensiveness R U’ and asked a mechanic what could have gone wrong.

“It’s rusted on”

Oh well, at least I tried.

On the way out I saw a jolly workman who had a cement mixer. I explained that I wanted to make a mud anchor (easier than explaining that I wanted a bike anchor) and he said he would do it for me in exchange for NOTHING.

My neighbour turned up with a crappy old bucket full of ballast. Actually it is Royal ballast but if I told you where it came from I would have to kill you. Or he would kill me.

All that the jolly workman wanted was a lend of my bucket and in exchange he will build my anchor when he knocks off.

Plus, when I stop being paranoid, I can sell it, so today has restored my faith in human nature.

The git who lives upstairs but one is moving out and I have got just about what I wanted. Goodbye depression, hello life.

Been awake since five. Thought about a walk down the cut but no one would want to see me and I don’t wan’t to see the disgrace the Charley has turned into. She used to look like a gunboat off the Mekong Delta and now she looks like a hire-boat. She worked and worked, that boat. She made me. I can’t think about this for too long or I shall cry.

Here’s a lyric pinched from the beloved Nick Drake:

“A black eyed dog he called at my door
The black eyed dog he called for more
A black eyed dog he knew my name
A black eyed dog he knew my name
A black eyed dog
A black eyed dog.

I’m growing old and I wanna go home
I’m growing old and I don’t wanna know
I’m growing old and I wanna go home.

A black eyed dog he called at my door
A black eyed dog he called for more.”

Depression is an awful thing. People who don’t understand it might think ‘Oh, grow up and stop being so selfish’. But they really don’t understand.

It swoops out of nowhere, for no reason, AND, and this is the worst bit, it will not say goodbye, just like it didn’t say hello.

Today I have it really badly. I didn’t ask for this or want it. I have no fags left to smoke and the only thing I want to do is to be able to paint a woman’s hair, with a plait, from the back.

So up to the shop for fags and swig. I’m glad for Mat that he won the Masterchef thingy.

Sorry, but the black-eyed dog is calling.

Well look what I found.
I was skulking around a building site, trying to blag some cement, but I didn’t get anywhere.

Even the pub of ultimate-swearification was no use because no one is working any more. Anyhow, I’v'e got my hook and now all I need is a big pot, some cement, a lot of swearing and Robert is your mother’s brother.

I got a call back from the crime prevention team. I explained that the woman that I had spoken to previously didn’t understand what I was on about. Most people don’t but she was taking the piss. Anyone who thinks that bolts can be slid from outside the door needs a different job as far as I am concerned. How about sweeping up hair in a salon, dearie?

FFS.

Bolt your door from the outside? And how much money is this silly moo on?

Some things beggar belief.

I’ll try not to make this too technical.

A Mud Anchor (or whatever it’s called) is used, surprise, surprise, on a boat.

What you do is tie up for the night but then along come some scummers and either untie your boat or pull the pins and the boat drifts, without you being aware, until it gets stuck on a weir or bangs into something.

I know this happens because I’ve heard about it, known people that it has happened to and actually seen it occur.

Sensible people (i.e. not me) drop a mud anchor over the opposite side from the bank at the upstream end. A mud anchor is basically a bucket that’s been filled with cement and with metal hooks set into the mix. You tie a rope to the anchor, lower it until it touches the bottom and then hitch it so it can’t be seen from the bank. Then, even if you get untied, the flow of water will keep you fairly well in position and you can sort it all out in the morning.

Now I thought it would be a good idea to buy a bicycle. The last time I did this was in 1994 and while I was away my flat got burgled and my bike got stolen. 400 quid up the shoot I swore I’d never buy another. My new bike has got three locks on it but it could still be carried away and put in a van and the locks removed at the scummers’ leisure. So, I need someting to anchor (see what I did there?) it to but there is nothing in Thirst Hall to tie it to.

My mad little idea is to make a mud anchor and use the strongest lock to tie it down. A bucket of cement weighs quite a bit and you would look silly trying to drag it down the street.

All I need now is a bucket, a scaffolding bracket and someone nearby with a cement mixer. A stick will keep the bracket clear of the mix while it goes off. Hey Presto! A bike anchor!

All I need now are the ingredients. Good idea, eh?

All I was doing was walking along the FOOTpath when I got scuffed by a cyclist.

On Oyster Lane, which is where I was, there is no cyclepath and anyone mental enough to want to take a bike down that bit of road should get off and push it.

So then I got a bit cross.

Next thing is another cyclist, on the FOOTpath headed towards me. Full marks for trying to dodge me but, as I have oftened mentioned I am about as dodgeable as a double mattress. So he came to a halt.

Maybe, when he is about five years old, his mummy might let him ride his bike without the stabilisers on and ride it on the ROAD where it should be ridden.

I pointed out to him that the cycle path starts from underneath the bridge. He continued on his way.

This, I regard, as a mistake.

It would be awful if someone recognised him (time clocked) and when he next came past shoved a broomhandle into his spokes. His bike could be damaged and he might lose some teeth.

Well, I did warn him.

What would you do?

How would YOU prevent crime?

I know what I would do but it would probably be illegal. BUT, there is stuff about that can help. There are are a few different types buut, basically, they involve I.V. spray with a specific D.N.A. code in each cannister.

All the old bill have to do is run a black light over a person or some possibly nicked stuff.

You can scrub yourself with a Brillo pad for weeks and it still won’t come off. The D.N.A. encoding ensures that whatever is tied to you and no escape.

Short of having Joe Pesci round with a golf club I can’t really think of anything better.

A combination of the two might work better but you can’t have everything.

I speak as the victim of crime.

Once I had an art teacher and his name was Joe Turner.

“Let the paint FLOW", he used to say. He was a kind man and very interested in the muck that us little tossers used to turn out.

As I write here I can hear the tawny owl outside. His call is unmistakable.

Joe Turner was a decent man. He was my tutor once, until I got sick to death of the process of being educated and walked out - a free man for the first time in my life.

I remember one day that his bag of shag got nicked and his pipe got snapped in half. I knew full well who had done it but I never snitched. Well, Mickey A[deleted], you mental fucker, I hope you enjoy getting shagged up the arse in prison which is where you must be now.

Anyway, apart from Mickey A[deleted] getting bumfucked in Broadmoor, Joe Turner taught me a few things about painting. Let the paint flow and always start from the back. A lesson that A[deleted] must be experiencing right about now.

What he taught me about drawing was quite interesting. When drawing a still-life you should look not at the objects but at the space between.

‘The space between’ is a great track by the Dave Mathews Band but I’ll listen to that later.

Thanks, Joe. You taught me well. If you are still alive I give you my thanks.

The owl is still hooting.

After the debacle that followed my publishing of the (unfinshed) ‘The Smoker’, I have decided to give it a rest for a while.

Yes, I realise that there will be many disappointed faces, world-wide, but it had to be done.

I am, at present, working on a painting that will probably be called ‘The day I got the water bill’ or something like that.

All the steps, so far, have been photographed and should be published as one.

What I intend to show is how a naive painter gets on with his little hobby.

The slum stinks of white spirit and I’ve got the landlord coming round tomorrow. He’ll probably have a giddy fit.

In the meantime I probably won’t post but until I do…

Love and luck,
H.

I’m not sure that I have bored you rigid with this one yet but I don’t think so.

Perhaps you might be interested in how I put a picture together.

I start a bit like this…

…and then I shall add curling brown hair to the left and, if I can manage it, curling smoke from the bottom left.

The trouble with oils is the time you have to waste (er, sorry, I meant ‘wait’) for the stuff to go off so that you can carry on.

I took the picture outside to photograph it whch is why the light is a bit harsh. In my head I can see the picture. This is a problem that I have and why I never seem to be doing anything. It all goes on in my head and as far as I am concerned it’s done. The story is written, the painting is painted and so on.

To me, this is one of my most important works, but I don’t see it as you can. To me it is finished so I don’t need to bother any more. The style is a little different but that doesn’t matter one whit or jot. The only reason that I’m posting this is to make myself finish it.

I really miss my art therapy sessions so now I have to therapize myself. ‘The Smoker’ will get finished because I’ve exposed the work so far. I’ve started, so I’ll finish. Thank you Magnus.

The other day I was looking around and realised that although I might be a bit of a wanker I am also a painter. I suppose it’s all I ever wanted, just took me half a century to realise it.

Thanks for looking.

I keep a special snow-shovel that was made in Alaska. It is hidden for most of the year in a secret cupboard.

The reason that I have to have it is because every bloody Valentine’s day there is so much post wedged through the door that I can’t even open it and I have to spend a couple of hours shovelling all the cards into the recycling bin in case there is a disaster and I have to vacate Thirst Hall as soon as…

The postperson should leave them in a couple of sacks outside so as not to endanger my life.

Why so many people send me these wretched things is beyond me; they are never signed so I don’t even know who to tell off.

It’s very annoying because there might be an important gas bill or takeaway leaflet hidden under all these cards.

Well spotted, Dorrie.

I hope you enjoyed my little clip of REEF (an anagram of FREE. Paul Rogers still doing well, Paul Kossoff dead, the other two I dunno).

But thank you Dorrie, for remembering after all these years.

Trouty remembered too and so did most of my family.

Anyway, by the time you read this I will be fifty years old. Fifty. Imagine that.

Trouty thinks I should get half a card from the Queen.

I never thought that I should reach this tremendous age. My friend got murdered and so did I (nearly) on a few occasions. I’m lucky to be here, really.

Fifty. It’s hard to believe.

Thanks to all my friends, my family and my readers.

With all my love,
H.
xxx

All I was doing was listening to this:

And then I wanted to go to the loo.

‘Simple’. you might think, until you tread on the lace of your snow boots.

Oh dear, the sink was coming up and I was going down. I managed to catch the corner of the the sink with an unimportant part of my my face.

When I woke up I made a quick check… Nothing appeared to be broken. I’ve been drinking for far too long to let things like this beat me.

My maxillary bones have only been broken once (by a a bottle, I think) and it won’t be happening again.

Tell you what, I have led an adventurous life. I sometimes wonder about it but I don’t think that I would swap it.

Having stayed up all night (nearly) worrying, I set the alarm for 07:00. When I got up I packed my little bag to take with me in case I got ambulanced to the St Peter’s home for semi-retired MRSA and C. Diff germs. Toothbrush and paste, change of clothes, bottle of swig but don’t tell anybody, Private Eye, paperback book, pens, insulin, list of meds., a few ciggies - all that sort of thing.

Then, a financial weigh-up. Did I want to give the railway a million pounds for a three minute ride? Return ticket when I might not be returning?

As I trudged along the towpath through the slush, the weather was still bad enough for other trudgers to speak cordially. By the time I got to Worst Byfleet I was rather damp. I had my snow boots on and normal clothing AND a tracksuit on top AND a puffa jacket.

At reception I explained myself - rather than drive myself mental pressing 1 or 4 or 3810 I had decided to just turn up and see who I could see and ASAP. The earliest that they had was a 10 o’clock slot with a brand new lady doctor. When I said “She’ll be pleased to see this then", indicating my sub-beltular area they asked if I would rather see, ahem, “someone else", I declined. I am quite used to exposing myself to ladies (that’s LADIES, not LADDIES) so I went to the waiting area. Eventually my name was called by a young woman of the kind that Private Eye might describe as ‘fruity’.

I explained to her that I would contravene the Patient Code and come straight to the point. I had three things to discuss; my lump, my weird feeling in my leg and my damaged right hand. Then I had to drop my (clean on) drawers while she fiddled about in the you-know-where region. I had explained to her that as I have been a type 1 diabetic for 20 years that nothing, ahem, embarrassing would occur.

She poked about for a bit and then (I KNEW this would happen) she sought a second opinion, this time from a male doctor. He had a fiddle about (so that’s four rubber gloves in the bin) and then, after a dicussion, they came to the conclusion (right, first time, JG) that I had an inguinal hernia and that I will have to join in a game of OPERATION. Then (I KNEW this would happen) the letter of referral was promised and etc. etc..

Oh, before I forget, here’s the rude joke:

A man says to his wife, “When we go to bed, if I want sex, I’ll touch your left breast. If you want sex then give my knob one pull. However, if you don’t want sex then pull on it about 150 times".

Then I went get my prescription filled and while I was waiting I went over the road and bought a DVDDVDVVDD of ‘Dial M for Moider’ for 4 of your worthless, English quids.

As it was really wazzing down with rain and the NHS didn’t see fit to ram scalpels into my down-belows I decided to enjoy an espresso at Rocco’s. I love espresso, it’s like drinking coffee oil. Top marks, Rocco (nice guy, known him for years). Then I paid a million pounds to ride home in three minutes on the train.

And here I am, waiting for the letter.

Don’t ever try to get non-urgent medical help out of hours.

The first woman I spoke to assured me that “cancer doesn’t hurt, anyway” which I found a strange blend of soothing and disturbing.

Cancel that ‘war’ in Afghanistan then; no more need for diamorphine.

The lump is growing. Hard, like a large marble under the skin, right next door to the base of the penis. A doctor phoned me and told me that it was probably a what’s-it-name.

I confounded him by saying that they only appear on the left side. I knew because I had already looked it up. He said that I should go to sleep (!) and that sometimes they can appear on the right. He said that I should see my GP but seeing as he is in New Zealand I don’t think I will.

So I can:
a) Appear in the surgery and ask to see a doctor.
b) Wear clean underpants.
c) Do some shopping.

I think I shall opt for all three.

Unluckily for me, but luckily for Doc Holiday, he is on holiday.

He doesn’t really like (along with many other people) actually touching me. He likes writing letters of referral.

If he he wasn’t sunning himself he’d be writing a letter to the bollock clinic. Never mind how I am supposed to get there. You see, the trouble is that I have got a lump.

Everyone knows that I should have qualified ages ago and I am also quite good at looking things up.

Finish your tea before you read any more.

Anyway, he’s off on his hols so I expect a beautiful lady doctor might have to do the necessary because I shall be up that clinic on Monday and no mistake.

I hope I don’t get Doctor Hi-Speed who might as well have a travelator running through his surgery. “Next” -zoom- “Next….

Trouble is, if I get a lady doctor (good song by Graham Parker) she might want to defenestrate when I tell her what the problem is.

Patient rules state that you talk a load of old rubbish and then, half way out the door, you say what’s really brought you there. “Thank you for seeing me and there’s blood coming out of my bottom” or something like that, and they have to drag you back in by the scruff of the neck and start all over again.

I break the patient rules.

When asked how much I drink I tell the truth. Usually they will double or treble it. When I tell them they can’t even double it because I would be on a slab. Henry’s hint: Don’t ever lie to doctors because it wastes their time. If you smoke 20 spliffs a day then just say so. If you do whatever just say so; it saves time and they don’t have time to waste.

On Monday I shall have to turn up at the surgery and wait until someone can see me. Of course, I have plenty to talk about. I came off my bike and hurt my left hand - look, you can see. My right hand got whipped by the handlebars and I might have broken this bone here (I haven’t) and now my right hand doesn’t work any more (true).

But, smashing the Patients’ Code I shall state that I have a lump.

It’s between the base of my penis and the top of my scrotal sac. I told you to finish your dinner, didn’t I?

It’s about the size of half a golfball. Doesn’t hurt. Right-hand-side, so that rules out a lot of things.

Now, if Doctor Myself can’t work it out I’m fully expecting a case conference. I want a team of doctors poking at my goolicular area and sucking their teeth but not at the same time.

With the state of my vision I can’t even see it but I sure can feel it.

It’s quite funny, really.

A friend came a long way to see me today.

Bob, for it was he, and I, seem to see things from just about the same angle.

We went to check on the pixie house. Of course, some little bastard had taken the door and chucked it into the cut. Not surprising - it lasted much longer than I thought it would have.

We negotiated the skid-row that is the towpath and the horse bridge, enjoyed the smell of the hardware shop and Bob bought me a lunch.

There is nothing like a wander down memory lane, shared laughter, enjoyment of the beauty of a wintered canal.

Today was a good day and it was all thanks to a friend, to MY friend, to Bob.

He travels miles, criticises not one bit, understands, provides support without asking awkward questions. He sees what he sees (and he’s seen worse) and he IS, without doubt, my friend.

Imagine that in the year 2009, an actual friend. He listens to my problems but he doesn’t moan.

Years ago I remember I had a room right above his and he used to hear me kick my boots off. BANG. BANG.

He’s got ten years on me. He’s rather a father figure. I think back a quarter of a century and I realise that he is one of the very few people that I actually trust. I think of what we went through together.

Nearly getting murdered together is a bit obvious but we had some laughs. Laughs that have lasted through the years.

Thank you Bob, for being my friend, for being one of the very few decent humans that I have met in my life.

Apparently it has been snowing.

Actually I know full well that it has because I went out for a walk about in it last night. Bob was supposed to be coming for a couple of days and I started to wonder…

I conversed with someone most kind on the worldwidewait which did me a lot of good (thanks, you know who you are) and had the occasional look out of the kitchen window.

I went to bed at about half four and was up by seven. If Bob was coming I should have hoovered the washing-up or something. The radio and a look out of the window told me that our proposed reunion was NOT going to occur. No buses at all and the only trains were the ones from Gatwick, depositing frozen visitors into a dead land where nothing worked.

There was a lot of snow (I haven’t seen anything like it in this country for thirty years) so I decided to go for a walk. I took my camera but there wasn’t anything worth snapping. I wore my snow boots, jeans, tracky bottoms, t-shirt, jumper, another jumper and my puffa jacket. And my hat, that like a twat, I had forgotten last night.

Having wintered in Berlin I regard a bit of snow as a mild curiosity and not ‘the end of the world as we know it’ that the English seem to see it as.

You know a broom? No, not a yard broom but one of them things that some people use to waste time with on the kitchen floor? Seeing someone with a foot of snow on top of his car trying to clear his driveway with one of them I find funny. Use a dustpan and brush - it would be just about as much use.

People engaging first gear instead of second I find funny. Talk about torque.

Walking on snow makes a noise like having an amalgam filling put in. It’s rather soothing and combined with the lack of traffic deadens all the the things that usually scare me.

Tesco WAS open (Marks and Sparks was shut) so I got what I wanted although I forgot to buy some cheese. So I shall be slim.

Taff wouldn’t let me in the pub of ultimate swearification because no one had turned up and he said he had to go to the bank. Heh heh, he’ll be lucky. Apart from having to dodge a Transit coming at you sideways it will probably be shut anyway. I heard a postal worker explaining that there would be no deliveries today.

The station is shut and peace and quiet reigns. Peace and quiet - all I’ve ever wanted.

Now what I need is the hypothermics downstairs to turn up their central heating. I haven’t got mine on. I wear things called ‘clothes’.