there was a time, long, long ago, when I used to knock about with squatters in the arse end of Kingston. I must have been 16 or 17 because that was when the weather blew the long, hot summer of ‘76.

We drank in the Brewers, rather than the Fishes, and got chips to eat. Then we would go to the offy where there was a mynah bird and buy a bottle of cider and a bottle of mead each.

The winter was awful cold but in the summer came a move to Hawks Road and the sun poured down and would not stop. We were smeared with coconut oil (radiation factor minus 100) and used to lay about on top of an old Anderson shelter like something out of ‘The Cement Garden’.

In Canbury Park I saw Ian Dury (who was wearing a snazzy ‘razorblade’ type earring) but I didn’t hear him play then. The P.A. had blown up. That was when he was with Kilburn and the High Roads but I DID actually hear him in Berlin with the Blockheads.

Canbury was when I started to stay out all night and breakfast at Frank and Manny’s, next to the station.

All this is long gone now. About two square miles of Kingston long gone. But this is the way that things go. I used to work with a bloke called Jack (RIP) and he used to tell me tales of the prostitutes from London on barges and Irishmen, stripped to the waist, who would fight anyone outside pubs that just aren’t there anymore.

The guitar shop is gone (owner dead) and the Cinema 7.

All the market shops have gone and the Row Barge is now called John Lewis.

But, at its time, Canbury Park was beautiful.

The pleasant blend of blephitis and conjunctivitis that I have had for a good few weeks are starting to get on my nerves. My eyes get all stuck up with what is like Evo Stik and it makes it very hard for me to see.

One day, when you are bored, I might tell you the tale of Mr. ‘Stik Evo’ who was a leading light in Brixton’s squatter population. OK then, I’ll tell you now.

Never tattoo your own face in the mirror.

A lover of glue, he had a go and got all the letters the right way round. Trouble was, he didn’t get his eyes the right way round.

I feel like getting my eyes out with a warm teaspoon and rinsing them under the tap. They are so itchy (and scratchy).

Stik Evo told me that he used to hide his skag under dogfood in a bowl on the kitchen floor.

My eyes are hurting and I can’t see so well but, at least, I haven’t tattooed my own face.

Have a good week!

Oh dear, yet another day in Worst Byfleet.
Hello nice Mr. village butcher bloke. I fancy making a cassoulet. Got any duck?

Only breasts.

Hmmm, well they shall do. And a big sausage please while I go to see the doctor and the chemist and Messrs. Waitrose.

The doctor said I was the best that he’d ever seen me (until I showed my latest trophy scar).

Then I went back to the butcher’s on my way to the station.

Nice sausage.

Are these duck breasts frozen?

Weeell, yes.

Are they local?

No, they’re from Smithfield; I think they’re French.

At every interval in the conversation I could feel my left eyebrow getting half an inch higher.

Using my laser-powered eyesight, I’m surprised they didn’t start cooking on the counter.

Anyway, later in the day I saw Mani and promised him a loaf. I put it on and went to bed because I had been up for 40 hours. The smell of baking woke me up so, when the loaf had calmed down, I delivered it to him.

A little earlier I had had two double espressos. Never ask for one. Always ask for the double. No milk. It tastes like oil.

The cassoulet will just have to wait until tomorrow.

Ah, tomorrow…

I have lost so much weight that I can remove my trousers without undoing them or my belt (which is in last notch land). Really I should publish a diet book.

Frozen, French duck? I must be mad.

Let me tell you how it feels:

Like little electrodes in your head and neck and down your spine.

Spark, spark, spark.

Now, I’ve been awake all night; there is something that I have to do today. And, all the while the crackle and sparks kept flying. Just like before you have…

Then, this morning, I remembered. This is what happens before you start to fit.

So I’ve eaten about half a pound of glucose. You would think that after all these years I should be able to spot the signs coming on but the Hypos make me so daft that I don’t know what I’m doing. Last time(ish) that I was in hospital they had to inject me with about half a tin of Golden Syrup.

I just thought I was ill again and didn’t bother about it but this morning I had a clever idea. Just eat glucose. It seems to be working.

The sparks have gone and now I just feel tired. Hypos make you feel like you’ve been beaten up.

My clockwork compluter is causing me much sadness.

Suicide? Mortality? - You name it.

I don’t want to live like this.

As senses go, this is about the last one that I have left. I’m just about blind and my extremities are going numb (thanks, diabetes) but my hearing is not too bad; that’s how come I heard the water coming down from the Creeper’s flat.

We share a waste pipe. Because I had to dismantle the airing cupboard to mend the hot water tank and couldn’t be bothered to remantle it I can smell what he’s cooking and all that.

So, this morning I was lying in bed and whiff, whiff, what’s that I can smell?

Trouty will tell you (God, how I miss her) that I can smell loads of things. I don’t go around sniffing dogs’ bottoms but I could probably get a job at an airport. I can sniff things out a treat and I don’t even want a Bonio; just 60 grand a year will do me.

Sniff, sniff, sniff. Ahah! If I’m not mistaken it is the pong of Cannabis Sativa, otherwise known as ‘dope’.

No wonder their bath overflowed (although they will never admit it) because the new Mrs. Creeper was obviously whacked out of her head on the skunk.

I don’t mind people smoking a bit of weed, I done it myself about ten years ago, but this is starting to get ridiculous. Water through the ceiling? Pong of marijuana waking me up? Rude and obnoxious Creeper who refuses to say sorry? Bloody builders who have the idea of decorating involves the use of a Kango hammer?

I’m at the end of my rope and, although that is a metaphor, it may soon be literal.

Sorry to be the bearer of bad news but I needed to get this crap off my chest.

H.

The Beatles’ version is, of course, the best but this one is interesting.

It doesn’t have the backwards guitar that they smacked out in Abbey Road with George Martin but it still has the feeling of the song. As songs go it is my life in, ahem, my life in a bottle. ‘Float upstream’ - of course you can’t. If you float downstream then you are dead but in this song life is celebrated. Sleep. Blessed sleep. I try to spend at least 50% of my life asleep. Please don’t wake me, please don’t shake me. I’m only dreaming.

Have a good day.

H.

I don’t why but this song has always done it for me.

My fave album is ‘Revolver’ because there was so much George on it.

Enjoy this one:

The song ends so shortly. This is reflected in the lyric. Like the ‘relationship’ it just dies on its arse. Cuts off. If I sat up all night, scratching my head, I couldn’t write a better lyric; never mind a better song.

I know quite well who you are.
IP addresses and all that.

You know what my address is (henrythethirst@aol.com) so why not drop me a line?

My OCD is getting worse:

Bit more Otway, I’m afraid,

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3dc_ffPld9o

Now, how does this bloody bread machine work?

WARNING:
THIS IS NOT SUITABLE FOR WORK OR CHILDREN OR MOTHERS OR ANYTHING.

DON’T DO IT UNLESS YOU’VE HAD A FEW…

Welcome to Kunt and the gang…

Don’t say I didn’t warn you. You should see the rest of his stuff. Ha ha hah!

Everyone keeps going on about these ruddy breadmaking machines so, today, I went and bought one from Messrs. Tesco.

I haven’t used it yet, I’m not that stupid, I’ve been reading the instruction book.

Hmmmmm, loooks like I knead (need, geddit?) some strong flour and some dried yeast. I shall also need some powerful detergent seeing as how I haven’t washed-up since Christmas.

I just buy cutlery instead.

Still, I did clean the bog yesterday and now all I have to do is work out how much a ‘cup’ is worth in real money.

A ‘cup’? - depends how big your cup is, I suppose. My ‘cup’ is about a pint so if they want me to put a pound and a half of flour in then off we go.

Should you hear a loud bang from the New Haw direction it will be because I’ve turned this infernal machine on.

Oh, ha ha, Doc Holiday.

He hasn’t seen me for a fortnight and I’ve lost 10 kgs.

His Volvo broke down the day he got back but at least his Porsche still works.

Porkers should follow my regime and just eat tinned fruit out of the fridge.

Losing weight is easy. All you have to do is encourage a disinterest (not an uninterest) in food. Eat if you are hungry (which you shouldn’t be, seeing as we are the 4th richest country in the world) and, if you aren’t hungry, don’t eat.

Slimtastic!

I might be nearly blind but I do have a couple of senses that work pretty well; smell and hearing.

Hmmm, that’s interesting, water coming out of my bathroom light fitting. I knocked up.

I spoke to his bird and she declared no knowledge. One of the things I’m not is stupid. If there is water pissing through my light fittings then it must be coming from upstairs. Eventually the Creeper (for it is he) turned up and he came to have a look.

“Where’s this light fitting?”

“Well my guess is the one with water dripping out of it and a bucket underneath.”

Not a word of sorry. “Phone your landlord", says he.

My guess is that his new bird had let the bath overflow and didn’t want to admit it. Bloody litigious society. “I do this for a living, you know” is what he said before he declared my bathroom as “Whiffy” and left the premises.

Well, if I hadn’t had half a bathful of his crappy water through my ceiling then he wouldn’t have had to put up with my bathroom, whiffy or not.

I got on the phone to Vodka Mick and he knows a bit about plumbing. He put on his running shoes and came straight round. There is no way that I could pump water up to flood my own ceiling. The water had to be coming from upstairs.

Round comes The Creeper. Mick recognised him and told me that he does, indeed, work for the Water Board. He digs up drains.

My brother knows the Creeper’s dad and he told me years ago that he was a complete and utter…

Meanwhile I am left with a sodden carpet and water dripping out of my lightbulb.

And not a word of apology.

Having done some tidying up I left some bags of rubbish outside. I thought I’d better take them down to the bins but Hey! What’s this?

Someone had left a stick-in-the-mud right next door to my pots of weeds and mint. It looked a bit thirsty so I gave it some light refreshment. I haven’t a bloody clue what it is or who left it there. It looks about dead but I might be able to revive it.

Tell you what, life is bloody weird.

When boating, about the only knot you will ever need is the clove hitch.

Loop, twist and loop.

You can hold a twenty ton boat with this simple knot.

It always amazes me when I see ‘boaters’ trying to tie up with what looks like Grandma’s knitting or an effing birdnest.

Still, that’s because I’m brilliant and they aren’t. “How do you do that?” they ask and I show them. They never get it because they don’t pay attention. I’m like the Jack Hargreaves of the Navigation.

Silly Sailing Simon, just before he got the chuck off the Nav. taught me a few things. Some of whch I thought were lies but they weren’t. He could tell when a lock was opened or a boat was coming. The shock-wave off a boat goes about (and I’m not joking) about half a mile in front of it. He could tell by the pull on the mooring lines.

Here’s a thing he taught me: “If you can do it any more slowly then you are going too fast".

I had a go on Mr Dot’s boat the other day. Yes, I crunched it and he had to rescue me. The controls were alien and I didn’t know what I was doing. But I live to fight another day and I can slip clove hitches.

Cheers A and J, we had a lovely trip.

I have now not eaten for two days on the bounce.

It’s a bit of a shame because I’m not a bad cook really. Dining for one? Forget it.

Vodka Mick came round and helped me cut my hair. It’s just about down to the wood. Point 0.5 on the clippers and the beard and all. Skinhead.

Then we went down the Navigation and hitched a ride with some friends. It was so lovely to be back on the water - I missed it so much.

I walked back from Pyrford. It’s odd not having a beard anymore.

Well, we were looking for a Buffalo Song that had been lost for thirty years.
I found the lyrics in about 10 seconds and then I started looking for the tune.

I found this…

Enjoy.