This version isn’t too bad but he sings ’switchblade’ instead of ‘ratchet’. And there isn’t enough bass either.

Look at this…

There aren’t enough tears in my head.

The number of times this greeting has been shrieked from motor vehicles is beyond count.

It depends on how many scummers there are in the car. If two then I might flick the traditional ‘V’s but if more I just pretend I never heard it. I don’t want my baldy head kicked in.

Why my hairdo is of such interest to young men I cannot fathom. Perhaps they would like to step out of their Mum’s car and see who has the biggest penis. Or who has the hardest knuckles. Either way, I win.

At risk of my blog turning into a John Martyn fanclub you might want to have a look at this.

Solid Air was written for Nick Drake.

Thanks to Mani for cooking my dinner and to Doc Holiday for filling out my DLA form. He ran out of room on the bit where you have to put your complaints in. Nice man.

There are some things that I have done and some things that I am not particularly proud of.

Today, for example, I nearly had a fight with some builders. Okay, so they laughed at me, but at least I put my point across.

Have a look at this.

I had a go at salvia the other day. The first hit was nothing. The second (out of an ice-bong) put me into a different world for ten minutes. I dreamt that I was under a boat in clear, clear water. The broad weeds were coming past. The hull was coming over me and I was frightened that the prop might hit me.

It was all a dream.

Make of that what you will.

John is dead and Beverley used to play in Brighton.

Oh well. Give us a ring. When you get there.

Guess what. I did some laundry.

When I fell and smashed my face there was quite a lot of blood sploshed about. ‘Ha ha’, I thought, I shall simply bung this load of tat into the washing machine. Unfortunately the washing machine and I have different ideas as to what cleansing means.

Personally, I would like to put in a sheet covered with blood and have it come out not so. The Creda Simplicity 1000 has a different idea. Lemon fresh but still bloodstained. I’ll have to throw the thing away.

What am I supposed to do? Boil the fucking thing in Vim for an hour?

My nose and my cheekbone are still broken but my duelling scar is healing nicely.

How I’ve got away with this for so long and still remained so beautiful is a constant source of amazement to me.

Incapability Brown broke one of my canvas frames by sitting up against it. I might cut a hole in it, put it over his head, and call the photographed work something suitable.

Any suggestions?

A while ago I got a new pair of specs and very nice they looked too. A little more expensive than I had anticipated but they fitted over my donkey ears.

Bifocals.

This means, as far as I can gather, that using the bottom section to, say, type, you have to press your oily nose upon the screen. To use the top section you need to grow arms five feet long to keep things in focus.

My eyesight is very important to me as it is one of my few capabilities that actually works. I have noticed that in my right eye there is a sort of ‘nothing’ spot. It’s not a black spot or anything. Just a nothing - I hope it’s not a retinal bleed.

I wonder if it’s too late to train as a piano-tuner?

As all you well-read fellows will know, The Creeper is the bloke who lives upstairs.

The block that I live is converted commercial premises (yeah, converted by a posse who rode into town on horseback, brewed up some cawfee in an enamel jug and chowed down on some stew and beans) so because I live on the first floor my actual floor is made of jolly old concrete. Upstairs, however, is a different story…

The Creeper’s floor, and my ceiling, is made of wood. Plus, I strongly suspect that he is one of these people who feel it trendy to rip up the carpets and nail down some thin planks for that ‘modern’ look. Personally, think it’s the ‘annoying’ look but then my own floor-covering is composed of dirty clothes and newspapers.

Anyway, I was trying to work out from the sound effects what he was trying to do this afternoon. Was he getting some equipment to get in shape for some Olympic weightlifting? Was he trying to get a motorbike up the stairs?

I am extremely sensitive to noise. It makes me depressed.

I did join up in the end.

The Lodge is dying on its proverbial because the members keep dying and no one is joining.

This is a shame because I nearly split my sides laughing.

What I never knew is that, unlike the sneaky Masons, you have to ask them. They never ask you if you want to join but all you have to do is express an interest.

Getting into the ceremony was a little odd but I did swear some declarations that I actually believe in, cynical old bastard that I am, and I learned some passwordy things and then spent the rest of the evening holding my nose and trying not to laugh.

It was like being in Court but with people taking the piss out of each other.

I even was the first raffle winner but all the prizes were chocolate and cakes so I gave my token back and asked a redraw.

The funniest evening that I’ve had for a long time. And I know something that you don’t know. Unless you join up, of course.

Went the bell.
Guess what, it was my doctor, Doctor Who, or as I prefer to call him. Steve.

Here’s a thing I picked up recently and I’m still washing my hands with Domestos. Let’s see what you can spot:

“Item 1 was simply a must do top priority. Our financial performance was poor
and reasons are well documented. Our improving performance is truly vindicating
all the steps we have been, and are continuing to take.
Item 2 - The totally obsolete and outdated IT equipment had to go. It was
costing us a fortune to keep it going and could not give us any of the facilities we
needed to even start to think of building a strategy.
We had to communicate with you first and then to the outside world. If we
were forced to employ strategists, printers, consultants and the myriad of other
costs involved would most certainly have resulted in outlays beyond that which
we would have spent by getting an up to date IT System. Not only for finance but
also for this part of our Way Forward.
Item 3 - With the new IT system in place it has opened up a world of opportunity
for us to communicate and present ourselves to a vast market place. With effective
use of these facilities we are in a position to commence this very important
phase of the Way Forward.
Item 4 - The natural progression to item 3 is to recruit like minded people to
our wonderful organisation. The improved communication between the
management of the Order and the membership at large has created an
atmosphere of trust and support which will encourage new members to remain
and grow with us.”

Well for fuck’s sake I have seen some mangled English before but this is piss-poor.
Ignorance and stupidity is nothing that I want anything to do with.
Stalinist nonsense doesn’t hold with me. They can stick their so-called ‘brotherhood’ where the sun doesn’t shine.

The only real brotherhoods were the French Revolutionaries and the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood.

So there.

This morning I was lying on the floor and looked at how beautiful the ceiling was.
Having spoken to several medical type people that have kept me up til 04:10 I was starting to get a bit annoyed.

I can tie a clove-hitch and I can tie a noose. The noose goes under the left ear just by the jawbone. Pierrepoint could do one in 9 seconds.

But I’m fed up. I want to live in a land of wisteria and with hawks flying. I want to live in the land where poppies grow.

Is it really too much to ask?

I was invited round for dinner this evening by some of my neighbours.

We started off with some beetroot in a sauce that Mani had made. Beetroot? Me? It’s the most disgusting vegetable on the planet.

As I was eating it I realised that that the only reason I don’t like it is from school dinners when it bled into everything and tasted like pigpoo. This evening I enjoyed it. I wouldn’t have picked it off a menu but it did taste good; it came from a farm up Chertsey way.

Next we had some steamed rice served up with a delicious soupy thing with all prawns and spinach and was so yum. I started off by trying to dismantle the prawns but then I gave up and ate them whole. Yes, even their little faces. I crunched up the lot and it was SO delish.

Then I went back home and had some insulin and then went back out into the gardens where Sim was showing what he could do with a diabolo. I had a go and I was worse than crap. Sim could sling this thing, which had all lights on, most of the time, right up in the air and everything. I amazed his girlfriend with my amazing vanishing cigarette trick.

Do you want to know how to do it?

Right. What you do is make sure that your audience isn’t behind you, preferably in front.
Lick your thumb from the distal joint to the nail. Then, take a ciggie and hold it between your first finger and the joint of your thumb. It will stick. Pinch it like you are going to do a magic trick. You can do this in a T-shirt, I did tonight, and it still amazes people.

I just go 1-2-3 whilst waving my hands about but you can go wazzoo, wazzoo, what am I going to do?

As long as they don’t look at the operating hand you are safe.

I open my hands and the audience can see that there is nothing there.
the ciggie is stuck with lick to the back of my thumb.

Then I do a ‘foldover’ or whatever it’s called, and, Hey Presto, the fag is back.

I had a nice dinner - shame I’m so shite at diabolo.

I am a stranger in a strange land.

There was a time when I had what you might call ‘authority’ but I don’t have that any more.

These days, thanks to arthritis, I can’t even get the top off a jar of pickled onions and my face is so smashed up. I have to rely on my neighbours for help. They are good and they support me and I thank the Upstairs Person for that.

But just because your body doesn’t work any more it doesn’t mean that your brain has shut down. Mine still goes at 3000 miles an hour. It’s horrible. Being trapped inside a body that used to work so well but now has lost the plot. For me, the future is horrific.

So, I walk with a limp because of the arthritis in my pelvic girdle. I have brain atrophy and have had type 1 diabetes for 20 years. I’m supposed to take 14 pills a day but I can’t be bothered.

I often think back to Kenneth Williams’ diary and the last thing he wrote was ‘What’s the point?’

A profound statement / question.

If you know the answer to that one, please let me know.

I was having a long read back of the limericks.

It’s funny how often the title phrase appears. And I invented it.
In the limericks which I also invented.

Maybe you might want to disagree with me and you can do so in the chatroom which I also invented.

Honestly, I should get into boat design or something instead of pissing about with writing or painting.

What I was going to write next is lost to the winds. I’m 50 you know. And I’ve got brain atrophy.

Trouty needs but one answer to finish her prize crossword.

Clue: ‘UK Band known for the hit, ‘Wires’.’

7 letters.

So far she has got A?H?E?E but don’t blame me if any of these letters are wrong.

Please put us out of our misery.

The above title is, of course, the title of a John Martyn song.

I listen to the radio all the time and when I heard that lightning, thunder and wazz down rain were expected all night long I was really happy.

The train bastards were supposed to be about and throwing cement-mixers at each other last night but it seems that a little inclement weather puts them off. It didn’t half chuck it down and a clap of thunder went that made me wonder if a you-know-what had gone off.

Mani came round and he seemed a bit depressed that I was still living in a pigsty.

Incabability Brown, who I caught drinking cider outside the station on Thursday morning, was supposed to come and get his bicycle out of my hallway and that I keep breaking my ankle on in the dark. Did he turn up? Did he Frying-Pan.

Here’s a warning to everything that lives in the North Sea. Trouty is going to eat you all next week so I’d move elsewhere if I were you.

If your address is Cromarty, Fisher, Gerrman Bight, Humber and blah, blah round to Trafalgar then you had better watch out - unless you are an oyster. You can carry on eating germs because Trouty won’t eat you.

This evening I watched ‘KES’ (again) and now I’m going to go to bed. Unless I break my ankle on that stupid bike in which case I shall struggle to the telephone and call an ambulance (yet again).

Nighty night!

Quick blog because there’s nothing I can say.
It’s a secret.

Ever since I got the grubby note from the contactors half-heartedly poked halfway through my letterbox I have been fuming. If this grubby load of scummers think that they have carte blanche to ruin my life then they are very much mistaken.

So, this morning, I gave them a little ding-a-ling. The pillock who answered my call couldn’t even be bothered to ask my name or address (Subtext = We don’t care).

I reminded Mr Moron that they aren’t even allowed up my road and that I have plans to prove it. He said that he would pass the information on but when I asked to who(m) he wouldn’t tell me.

So I thought ‘I’m not having this’ and I phoned up the council. Again.

“Hello, this is Mr W. here” and I could just about hear her eyes rolling back in their orbits as I continued. “Blah, blah, blah, stupid letter, Blah, blah, blah, baseball bat, and etc. ad nauseam.

We shall see. It’s due to kick off on the 16th. Let’s see how long it takes me to get nicked.

Well, scuse me but I’ve got blephitis and I can’t see properly.
St Just was an inspiration to one of my fave artists, Ian Hamilton-Finlay.

Anyone who, like me, is interested in The Terror of 18th Century France should watch this.

Robespierre was a mad tyrant but St Just seems a bit reasonable to me. Didn’t stop them getting the chop though.,

Tra Lah.

H.

The first thing that happened was I noticed that a bit of paper had been slipped through the letterbox. Not all the way through, mind, just stealthily slipped in probably in case I killed someone.

Notwork Snail wished to inform me that they intend to carry out works starting on the 16th from 00:30 until 04:30.

They slid it in so sneakily that I suspect that the word must have gone out; don’t wind up that bloke at the end because he’s a nutter and always complains.

Too bloody right I do. They ruined my life for a year and punched a hole through my 18 months of sobriety. Unfortunately for them they have included phone numbers on this scummy bumwad and I’ll be using them on Monday. At Notwork Snail they have orders to disconnect me if I ever phone them but this time I have numbers for the contractors. ‘Pon the Monday I shall give them a ring and remind them that they aren’t actually allowed up my road (it’s a private road) and I have plans from Surrey County Council to prove it. They’ve got a railway so why don’t they come by rail instead of getting a load of shaven-headed scummers with their hats on back-to-front to start up generators and angle-grinders in my front garden at 3 o’clock in the morning?

The next jolly thing that happened was when I went out and noticed (I’m a right nosy bastard) that my neighbour Mani’s door was open. So I rang his bell but there was no reply. ‘Here we go again’ I thought but then I saw him up the landing. He was talking to my neighbour who has an American Bulldog about the size of a Shetland pony. He used to bark at me (the dog, not the neighbour) but he’s a bit more used to me now.

What happened was that the people who used to live upstairs from my neighbour had done a moonlight flit and left the flat in a right state. The overflow had been running for quite a while. I think I mentioned the other day that a ‘plumber’ who should have been wearing a cowboy hat rang my bell and asked if I knew where the stopcock was. Well, mate, if you’re a plumber and you can’t work out where the stopcock is then maybe you should get a job washing cars in Tesco’s carpark.

I heard my neighbour on the phone and he was using the words that begin with the letters ‘F’ and ‘C’. He had already hoofed the door in because there was all water coming through his ceiling and he wasn’t best pleased. I went in and had a look. I found three stopcocks and turned off two of them but the third I couldn’t shift - I’m old.

Then we went up into the loft and he borrowed my little torch that is on my keyring. While he was tutting I found a lightswitch. “Fiat Lux” I proclaimed but nobody got the joke. We jammed the ballcock up with a bit of wood that I found and then went to have a look at the horror story that this so-called ‘plumber’ had left behind him.

What a bloody mess. We did what we could but we had to deal with an uncapped pipe.

It turned out that my neighbour had been talking to an answerphone and he said there must have been a hundred messages on there. He also said that when he saw this bloke he was going to kill him. “I’ll stab him - with my little finger” he said. Do you know, I wouldn’t be at all surprised if he did.

Laughing Len Cohen is playing up the road tonight. Shame it’s wazzing down with rain. All adds to the atmosphere I suppose. Maybe when the gig’s over he could come round and play a happy tune through my neighbour’s letterbox. Except I don’t think that he knows any.

I was having a bit of a read-back and I started thinking to myself, ‘maybe you aren’t so bad after all’.

A few years ago I used to knock about with a gay man in Brighton (don’t worry, I knobbed his sister) and when we got back to his place he realised the flat had been burgled. Happy Christmas. And then the training kicks in and I’m going ‘dugh dugh dugh’ and I said to him, ‘You stay here and I’m going in’.

I went through the whole flat but I couldn’t find anyone. If I had done then God knows what would have kicked off. I have a particular dislike for burglars.

But I can walk through anything. I feel indestructible. I’ll walk through anything and everything.

I’ve done it before and I’ll do it again. Nothing scares me any more.

Usually I see my doctor on Thursdays. Every Thursday at 10:45. I don’t quite know why; I think he must like me because I’m not some boring old bag with bunions and we can have a nice chat and he gets paid for seeing me. I wish I got paid for seeing him but I don’t.

On Wednesday I got a call from the surgery saying that my doctor was ill and so my appointment would have to be rearranged. Oh dear. The trouble with him is he goes on holiday too much and then he always comes back ill. Thus I refer to him as Doc Holiday.

The bullet-proof receptionists know my little joke and they laugh about it but the one I was speaking to didn’t get it. She said, “Doctor Who?” So I said “No, not Doctor Who, Doctor [I won’t type the name].

Anyway, the appointment I was offered was for 08:20 today and that cost me 3 squids to go one stop on the crappy train return. That’s 50 pees a minute.

The doctor presented himself and I made a quick diagnosis. He always has to have what I’ve got. If I moan about arthritis he has it worse and all that. This time it was migraine. If I was allowed to write scripts I’d have gone for Cocodamol or diamorphine but no one ever listens to me. Don’t get me wrong; I love my doctor and he saved my life.

We had a nice chat and then I went to the chemist to get my script filled.

Then I went to see Rocco who has a business that is going bust. How he keeps going is little short of a miracle. I’ve known Rocco for years and he tries so bloody hard but he’s going under.

When I phone the surgery I give my name and then remind them that I’m the bloke who doesn’t know what day it is. They know me but the ‘Doctor Who’ still makes me laugh.

Have a good day.

I had a reason to post this elsewhere but I love it so much that thought I should spread it about a bit.

Thank you, The Cranberries.

Vodka Mick tells me that the vocal technique is called ‘hitching’ where you ping your throat up an octave or two.

Thanks for all your support and just when I was about to pack it all in.

My regards,
H.

Hello John!

I don’t know you and I didn’t know that you were one of my many fans. Glad you like my stuff though. I went to Edinburgh in 1986 when I was walking from, yeah, yeah yeah, you have heard it all before.

The festival was on and so were the Commonwealth Games. Trying to find a place to sleep was a nightmare. Walking through I found a good way to find that you were outside a pub was all the blood on the pavement.

I hoyed over the road bridge and saw the rail bridge to my right.

Sometimes I wonder how people find my blog but I know that I have readers in Canada and the Useless of A. In Australia and, like Grant, in the far east.

Come on, John, and introduce yourself. Post more because I feel lonely sometimes. Maybe I’ll point you to a certain site where you are bound to feel at home.

Thanks JG but we already know each other. I was wondering if it was your tent that I was outside when me and Ross came wandering over and I was sick. I’ve a nasty feeling that it was.

La la. Happy days.

Thanks to Grant I have decided to reopen the world’s most fabulous blog.

He lives about 12000 miles away but he’s interested and I can’t really let him down. Plus, he reminds me that there are nutcases all over the world that read my guff. I don’t suppose for a minute that they would die without me but it would be nice to have some comments from wherever.

Tell you what, dear reader, let’s see if Grant is right. Type in a comment and say where you are. This could be interesting.

Owing to interference from persons unknown this blog is now shut.

Thanks for your interest and support.

I did nothing much and then the doorbell rang.
It was a plumber who was trying to work out how the system worked.
Nobody actually knows.

The doorbell went again and this time it was Incapability Brown (aka Vodka Mick) and he used my antique compluter to play Monkees records.

Then we went up the garage and I bought him ten fags (life expentancy about 10 minutes) and then he toddled off and I walked home through the puddles.

This was on the compluter…

Then I spoke to Trouty and now I’m going to burn a pizza.

Unless I’m completely wrong (which, of course, has never happened before) the land around here is full of wormwood.

Rather a dull looking plant but in the olden days they used to lay it on the poor and workhouses’ floors to try to keep the bugs down. I suppose that’s where the name comes from.

I should have posted a picture but you can look it up yourself if you are interested which I don’t, for a minute, suppose that you are.

Absinthe, the Green Fairy, is made from wormwood.

Earlier today we discussed schools and I knew that they had just wasted 11 years of my life. I could already read and write and I’m not interested in sums. The things that interest me for about three weeks are art, poets, physics except I know it already, biology (an ‘ology!’) and as I am an autodidact I just pick stuff up along the way.

Medicine interests me but not particularly - I’d rather shoot a golfer’s hat off with an air-rifle to be honest. The annoying pom-pom.

My brain sucks up information like a Dyson but none of that came from school. Anything that I know comes from the school of hard knocks. I love knowing things but, at the same time, I hate it. Being daft must be so much easier.

In the meantime I just knock about knowing wormwood when I see it and know what it’s about.

I took my super new magic trick over to show Mr Barge. He seemed a tad underwhelmed.

Then he got out some packs of cards and I was glad I had no socks on because they would have been blown right off.

I’ll be dreaming about the bloody ace of bloody diamonds for quite a while now. He couldn’t tell me how the tricks worked because he must have signed the magicians’ code or something but he did give some hints.

Buy a pack of cards and knacker them before knackering the ones in the trick pack. Seems reasonable. He showed me a cunning way to split any number of cards. He showed me loads of things that I instantly forgot. Well, it’s not fault I’ve got brain damage, is it? Alright, so it probably is.

The walk on the towpath was lovely now that everything is in bloom. It was all dry except around the dog-holes. I talked to loads of people and had some fun with the hire-boaters. One fellow was trying to spin below Coxes and I knew from the start that he wouldn’t make a neat job of it. Sometimes I wish I had a pipe so’s I could have a contemplative puff or two. He was bollocksed before he started. He did try to get the boat onto the towpath but that didn’t work either. I just sat on the bridge and waited for the weir drift to hit him.

Once they were safely back in the lock I gave one of my free-of-charge clove-hitch lessons. Going uphill is very different from going downhill. You need to be tied and the clove-hitch is so easy. As usual, no one paid any attention.

At the moment I expect their boat will be sideways on outside the Anchor.

Still, I tried.

I’ve been spun outside the Anchor on two occasions; the first was down to my own incompetence but I got away with it. The second was when I got rammed by a Trust dredger and barge and I got away with that as well. Skillful boatman, see?

That’s enough of me; I’ve had a long day. I’ve learnt some things but now I’m tired.

Sweet dreams.

Oh, afore ye go, I’ve seen loads of vetch of late. Beautiful purple flowers and bipinate (is that the right word?) leaves.

Ahah! Well, contrary to all beliefs I DID manage to make it to the pool in time.
I knew that there was a 7 o’clock in the evening but guess what and listen to this; they have one in the morning as well!
I know, I could hardly believe it myself, but it’s true.

All nice people. Very nice but I could sense the raisings of eyebrows and the shakings of heads. They suggested that I went for a splosh in a disused lane. This was the first time that I had been in a swimming pool for over ten years. I entered the water gracefully which inflated my £3 shorts and made me look as if I had blown off. I did a few lengths but I can only do breaststroke. I took my glasses off which meant that I could only see about 6 inches. Diving was not an option because I have only recently broken my nose and my cheekbone, yet again, so I didn’t fancy the impact.

I sploshed about and swam down to the bottom of the 3 metre deep-end. I spoke with one of the instructors and look! I can tread water and do it with my arms up in the air.

The hour was up so I helped get the cylinders out of the water (they weigh a lot) so that they could be hosed. The chemicals in the water knacker all the mouthpiece and hose lines. Then I went and got changed. I had already decided that this was all a bit strong for me. In the cafeteria I charmed the lady into putting a pack of Ribena Light into a mug and microwaving it for me for old times sake. She wasn’t meant to do it but I promised not to tell.

The long and short of it is that these people mean business. They dive lakes and the sea. If I was 25 again I might be in the league but I’m not. The instructor was trying to be polite and he very much was but we all knew what the conclusion was. Thanks for coming and making the effort.

Thanks very much, Fatty, but the equipment costs at least 1500 quids - but it was nice to see you!

At least I made the effort. It cost me 3 quids on the train and on the way out I asked how much just a swim costs. 4 bloody pounds and 10 pees.

The other side of that field there is a canal.

Still, it was a good day’s work and I felt the better for it. I know where I am now.

And I met some lovely people.

Up the shop there was a stall selling magic tricks.
I expect that when I was in hospital they must have fitted me with donkey ears and tattooed ‘MUG’ on my forehead because they saw me coming alright.

This bloke showed me a couple of tricks. The second one has only got three cards in it. I couldn’t work out quite how it was done but the end result was amazing. It was a variation of the three-card monte but on the packet said ‘COLOR MONTE’. Hmmmm….

‘How much is that then?’

‘Six quid.’

‘What’s your best price?’

‘Six quid.’

I’ll give you four.’

He started putting the packets back together with rubber bands round them so I let him waste his time for a bit.

‘So you want six quid for three cards made in China do you?’

‘No, they’re made in England.’

Well that must be the England where they can’t spell ‘Colour’ for a start so I offered him four again.

He was starting to get a bit annoyed now so I let him smell the money. I wafted a tenner under his nose. I offered him a fiver.

So I got my magic trick for a fiver and now all I have to do is work out how it works. It’s only three cards and I thought that even I can do that. The bloody instructions go on for about a year.

He did show me a good one which was a pack of cards that he spread out to show they were all different. Then he turned them over and riffled through and I had to pick one. I took one and it was the 7 of spades. Then he put the pack back together and said ‘OK, now put the 7 of spades back on the top’ and then he turned the deck back over to show they were all different. Then he did it again, 7 of spades, and for six quid I would have learned the secret. But I didn’t.

You wait til I get good at my Colour Monte though. I’ll have your pockets inside-out.

Anyone who has ever overnighted in hospital will know that there is a great deal of farting goes on.

The first time I enjoyed this was in the Royal Sussex and so tremendous were the blow-offs that I could hardly sleep. A patient who was in a close bed kept pooing his jimjams. The nurse started to get a bit exasperated and suggested that this man should no longer wear the jimjams.

I got moved to another ward which was smaller and in the bed next to mine was a prisoner from Lewes Gaol and he had two prison wardens with him at all times. He was bright yellow because his insides had packed up. The nurse was a gay man which I didn’t mind at all but the lag wasn’t happy one bit.

Now, there is no dignity in hospital.

They whizzed the curtains round but I could hear the doctor talking to him…
“There seems to be a problen with your bile duct and that’s what’s made you go yellow. We will insert a probe to try to clear it”

I found it hard not to laugh out loud. If he didn’t like gay nurses I wondered how he thought the probe might be inserted. I didn’t say anything. Perhaps he thought it might be some magic keyhole surgery. I thought that the suffix ‘hole’ might be about right but that the prefix ‘arse’ might be more accurate.

Anyway, when I was kipping in the hospital the other few days I was reliably informed that my very own bottom had gone off at regular intervals and had disturbed the slumbers of several patients.

Now I don’t like to be an annoyance but I was trying to be a vegetarian. Hospitals are so funny. You can actually tell someone that they blow off all the time without a fight starting.

Maybe this is why I live alone.

Here’s a yarn that I may have spun before. I don’t know whether it’s true or not but it makes sense to me.

Someone that I know left the police and wound up working as an HGV driver. One day he was pulling out onto a road and checked the offside window to see if anything was coming. There were two cars coming and they were both the same. He was seeing double because he had had a stroke.

I was reminded of this today when I was at the doc’s and he mentioned that my facial smash-up may cause double vision because the damage I have done to my face may result in double vision by poking one orbit out of alignment with the other. That’s why Stirling Moss had to stop racing after his prang.

My doctor opined, ‘Nice scar’, which isn’t exactly how I feel about it but there you go.

My friend who had had the stroke had to go to a clinic thing and he was asked how he felt about what had happened to him.

“Angry.”

“I see. And what, exactly, makes you feel so angry?”

“Well, I have just bought a new string of lights for the Christmas tree but if I had known that I would be seeing double I needn’t have bothered.”

This is what I refer to as a police joke. It works because the cause is tragedy but the joke leaves that so far behind. You have to become unhinged from ‘normal’ life to get these things and the job makes you leave the planet just to survive. There are simply too many horrors and they aren’t just things on the telly either - they are daily life and matter of fact.

I was on duty in the comms room once and some poor sod had to go to a call which involved maggots coming out from under a flat door. He kicked his way in and found a man who had been dead for a few months sitting in an armchair. I asked if he had found any ID but he hadn’t. I asked if he was black or white.

“He’s black now.”

I might go and mag the lock out and sit with my new plimmers in the water to soften them up a bit. Or I might not. I hate this hot weather.

This is something that you absolutely HAVE to watch.

David Hockney is a genius. His recent return to oils is a triumph.

I beg you to watch this.

I’ve been up for hours.
It’s horrible when you can’t sleep but it’s not the end of the world.
I read back through my blog and, on the whole, I was quite pleased by what I saw. There are little moments that crackle and please. There are some bits with holes in, of course, but I like to think that mostly my posts have been good.

Some bits have been better than good and I like to think that I have provoked interest in some artworks like Ian Hamilton-Finlay and the works of the PRB. My own artworks have featured and I like to think that the way that I write helps things along.

In my shabby life I must do what I must do. I am driven, you see, by a force that will never let me stop so the blog keeps pounding away in my head and will never let me go.

All that I find interesting must be reported on and can never be ignored. I post links and paintings, songs and photographs. I have to keep doing this because otherwise I shall surely die.

We will die and that is guaranteed but this is my life. I can’t stop. This is me.