(This is just a placeholder for now. I’ll update it when more details are known. Anyone who wants input on what goes here, email sprocket@simong.org)

henry the thirst, as he was known to his many internet friends - David Windsor in real life - died on or around 19th June 2010. The cause isn’t yet known, but it seems like he went peacefully.

He was a kind, loving, and very funny man, and a lot of people will miss him greatly. If you knew him, feel free to leave your thoughts in the comments below.

Why I bother listening to the traffic news is quite a mystery.
In the last week, or so, there has only been ONE day when junction 10 has not been mentioned. Today it was on again, yes, how boring, it was on AGAIN.

There was a smash-up and the A3 was backed right up to Painshill and yesterday there was a lorry on fire.

I used to drive a lorry or two and I have driven, and walked, from down there to up there. But was is it with junction 10? Blah blah clockwise, backed up to Motorway 23. What is it?

Dame Helen Mirren should tear up her passport and flush it down the bog. Silly cow. Don’t bother coming back, luvvie. That platform was built by Amerikans and worked by Amerikans. BP is 40% owned by Amerikans. Embarrassed to be British? No problem. Just stay in Kalifornia and watch your career follow your passport. And feel free to hand back your Damehood.

Lorry on fire? None of mine ever did. How did that happen? Fag-end out the window? I dunno.

I don’t know if I’ve bored you with this before but a friend of mine was driving a lorry and he was pulling out onto a more major road. He looked through the offside window, as you do, and saw two cars coming towards him. Two cars, exactly the same. He had had a stroke.

At the hospital he got asked how he felt about what had happened. Now then, this is Police humour.

“I feel really angry”

“Angry you say. And why would that be?”

“Because I have just bought another set of lights to go on the Christmas Tree but if I had known this was going to happen I needn’t have bothered”

Boom Tish!

Got to go, I’ve just missed a call. Probably the hospital or a bill.

Are you talking to me?
Well, I don’t see anyone else round here.

It’s alright. Just calm down. Yes, I know that you knew where she was and that must have been very hurtful for you. I know, I know. Well, I know that you can tie better knots than, ahem, that what you called him, but that means you are sort of better.

We are just here to listen. I can’t tell you what to do. But calm down and have a think. Do you think that you might feel better if?… I see what you mean. We are always here to listen. Go to bed and not wake up? You sound so upset but I’m listening. It will be alright.

Rivers flow. So thanks for that. They flow and they will never, can never, stop. Thanks very much for an IQ of 170. Thanks for a brain that won’t leave me alone. Thanks for everything and nothing. Thanks for the head that won’t let me read books and won’t let me go on holiday. Thanks, so bloody much, for the evil in me that won’t let me go; for my childhood.

I live and I breathe (though lawks knows how) and tomorrow is another day. Another day and another battle. Kicking boots. Maybe I should make another Pixie Door and run away and hide. Live in a tent and hear the rain coming down.

“Press 1 if you want to waste some money. Press 2 if you are stupid. Your call is important to us. Press 1 if you want to waste some Vivaldi’s Four Seasons. If you are an idiot please press your head against the wall; no, harder. We value your customer opinions so please press 39347734739834 if you would like someone who can’t even speak fucking English to talk rubbish to you.

Please press 367-86766-67637 if you like Vivaldi. If you would like like a depressingly long wait, just press 7.

If you want to grow some opium please hold the line.

We are experiencing a great deal of demand at the moment (we haven’t got enough staff) so you may have to wait a few Wagner’s Ring and the whole of the Pink Floyd moments.

“Hello, this is”

Brrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrring".

All I had to bloody well do was get a signature. A signature that meant that they had witnessed me signing my letting agreement. Mani is on holiday so I tried the lezzers. Then I tried the twat with the dog etc.

His girlfriend came up and I distinctly heard him say “That weirdo".

Oh, a fucking weirdo am I? Well let’s put in a call to the RSPCA and see who is the weirdo. For a start you should not keep a dog in a flat. For second his dog is sick as fuck and should be put down. Thirdly he is a bloody nutcase.

All he had to do (and the lezzers) was witness a signature. Don’t want to do it? Don’t want to do it. Yup, hard luck to me.But it will be fucking hard luck for anyone that I catch at it. Weirdo indeed.

I hope that he pays Council Tax for his live-in partner. I hope he has a good excuse for that poor dog.

Make an enemy of me and you do it for life.

There aren’t many things that require the services of an angle-grinder. Yes. grinding an angle maybe, you at the back. One thing that the angle-grinder is NOT for is to piss me right off.

Scene: Kitchen window.
“Oi! Shut that up NOW!”

FX: Zzzzzscreezzzzscree

“Oi! shut up!”

So then I put on my kicking boots (handy hint - always have a pair) and then went down to, ahem, negotiate.

There was a spool that got the first taste. I kicked it about 3 metres. Then I met ‘Darren’ (what an awful name) and he thought that he might want to to have a fight with me.

“I’ve asked you once, I’ve asked you twice, and now here I am.”

I always let them have the first go because a) I am expecting it and b) they don’t know what I’m going to do.

I have shaved off most of my beard and I was wearing my leather. Although I am in my fifties I still don’t look like someone you would want a ruck with. I started to pull on the cable and out came the gaffer. He was quite nice but Darren wasn’t.

“Go on then, go on, go on….”

Young Darren seemed reluctant to lay the first one and good for him because it would all have got a bit messy. What’s that, Darren? Are you phoning your Mum or the Police? Beep beep beep, Well you can phone the Police for all I care BECAUSE I AM ONE. (I am a liar, of course, but quite a good one).

They packed up and went away. I didn’t have to have a fight which is a shame because I’m quite good at that kind of thing.

The secret is to get them on the floor - doesn’t matter how you do it so long as you are on top. Then you poke their eyes out and boot their throat. If you want to kill them you kick them in the nose so hard that it goes into their brain. I think that it is this knowledge that means that I haven’t had to have a real fight for ages. I just look like I can kill you and probably will.

I shook hands with the gaffer before they went. He knew.

At skool. you had to support some sort of stupid foopball club or another.

But get this.

A lot of boys supported the Cheleseas and made out out that they went up the Shed. Which they didn’t. There were harder girls with feather-cuts than grammar school boys.

I loved Charlie George because he had long hair and that made me an Arsenal fan. When Arsenal did the double and George booted in the best of goals I was so happy and I didn’t even like football. I still don’t.

First of all, listen to this.

The cover from ‘Bryter Layter’ is rather strange. The photograph is in a 19th Century mood. The graphics are from a century later. Leaning on artwork from the 1910s it always bent me. The photograph on the reverse shows Nick leaning against a motorway. The lights and the traffic.

The central shot is oval and might as well be a bankrobber. But it’s Nick, with kicked off shoes. Work that one out. What on Earth is he saying? It’s Robert Johnson. It’s Jesse James. It’s fucking cool; that’s what it is.

On my bidomadal (I don’t know if that’s a proper word because I just made it up. If hebdomadal means weekly then bidomadal should mean every other day) trip to the unSupermarket I got my bank account even redder at the cashpoint.

Hello, there’s a face I recognized; ’twas Dave who works for the Trust and manages a Lock which I shall not name. He looks a lot better now. He was ill for a long time, done his back in (and his brain from what the Towpath Telegraph told me), and he bought one of those things that you can dangle yourself upside-down with. It cost hime 240 English quids but he could feel all his vertebrae go sproing and now he looks so much better.

We talked about the Navigation and he hadn’t a clue who I was. The Charley, the Charley Rose. Looked like a Vietnamese gun boat. Pirate flag. And then he remembered.

We talked about boats (with which I shall not bore you) and he told me that this coming weekend is all set up for a barby. Bring your own and all that. I am no longer a member of the boat club but Dave assured me that anyone with a face is welcome. I think I may go because I have some stuff to return to Rodders so he had better let me in or he’ll never see them again.

I can’t quite decide whether to take venison or sushi. I fully expect Old Trev to be there and it will be interesting to see what he loses this time. Last I heard was that there was a suspect carp going round with his specs on (accident) and his false choppers (he was sick over the side of his boat. Serves him right for drinking half-pints of mysterious green stuff) and the carp should have phoned him up on his mobile phone (accident).

I might pop along but don’t tell Vodka because everyone hates him anyway.

Should anyone boaty feel like a night out I should be there on Saturday. Floor provided. Dave threatened that a ‘live’ (barely, I should think seeing as Rodders has booked them) band should be making nuisances of themselves.

You take care,
H.

As everyone knows I hate tattoos so, since I have started wearing my too small biker jacket again and seeing as I have got a set of Rotring pens stuffed full of ‘free’ Indian ink I have started writing on my hands.

It will soon wash off if I bother to wash.

Most of it is on my right hand because I am lefty. Most of it is scribble in a kind of Celtic way and some of it is writing. Looks good with leather even though I say so myself. I was talking to my Mum about me being asexual and she informed me that I have a lesbotic cousin. True fact. She had a Civil doo-dah just the other day. Well I never.

Leaf-blowing man was back today. He was keeping a crafty eye about and then he saw the magisterial bedroom window of Thirst Hall being thrown open and it stopped him in his tracks.

“Just five minutes, I promise.”
“Your bloody life expectancy will be about five bloody minutes. Why don’t you buy a bloody rake?”

Hot news from next-door where the dog the size of a horse lives. His back legs fell off and it cost 3000 English quids to have them bolted back on. The other day I saw him and his left eye looked all sore. I said to the owner that I had some drops from when I had conjunctivitis but he said there was no need. Apparently his eyes had fallen out and needed welding back in. Gawd knows how much that must have cost.

The bicycle boys? They were very well behaved but they thought I was taking the piss when I thanked them. Life isn’t easy for anyone these days.

Yours, asexually,
Henry.

“Hello, Radio Station and I would like to talk to him on there”
“And what would you like to say?”
“Well, I think that all Police Officers should be armed to the teeth and…”
“Sorry but I have to go now”
Beeeeeeeeeeeep.

So that just goes to show, doesn’t it?
This all makes me so depressed that I want to listen to a Lesbotic Tracy Chapman record.
Do you know what ‘chapman’ means? No, I thought not. It has a special meaning for me so I looked it up. So I know and you don’t.

My arm hurts so much. As I am nearly a quack I don’t think that they got everything right at the fracture clinic. My diagnosis? It’s dislocated and, what a fucker, its my most important arm.

I am REALLY disabled and it’s not very funny. Okay, so now I can do my shoes and I have taught myself to type again.I still can’t write or paint and I would love to get back on the water where I could steer with the small of my back. How dare they? Oh, brilliant - a stick. I only used mine for breaking windows and for getting into a flat where there was an old girl with Alzheimers. After a discussion I used my stick to open the door. Bingo!

As all proper Coppers should I kept a piece of industrial tape inside my silly hat. It’s for breaking into cars.

Next time: Me and the bicycle boys.

Hello, Henry bloody Meldrew here again or, should I say, Henry bastard Meldrew.
I had to go to the shop which meant me opening the door and we all know what that means; a bloody good job in Africa for a start.

I had a fag with Mani out on the balcony and he reckoned the rain was set in. So, I went back home and got my brolly and put on my leather biking jacket which appears to have shrunk. Then I set off for the shop, all dressed in black, and a car came past on the other side of the road. Now is it me or is this a local speciality? “BASTARD” came the friendly greeting and I responded with the traditional reply which begins with F and ends in OFF. And I don’t mean FOFF.

About a hundred yards later I realised that I had forgotten THE LOCK PRINCIPLE. There is a certain fellow who has experienced my wrath at Triggs Lock. Some readers may remember that unhappy day. Now that car was heading for a set of traffic lights at the bridge and I was armed with a deadly umbrella. What I should have done was to turn back, drag out the driver, snatched the keys and offered to poke his eyes out before I dropped said keys down a drain. But I didn’t.

Since my compluter went on the blink I have lost everything that I kept for speedy reference. There was a word that I wanted to look up but I couldn’t be bothered to go all the way to my bedroom to get my Chambers. I Googled for a dictionary. About 4th or 5th on the list was something that offered ‘Dictionarys’. Dictionarys? Never heard of them; must be run by a bloke who sells ’satsuma’s’ off a market stall. Have a look yourself if you don’t believe me.

TESCO GAME CODA:

I did my shopping and included a DVDVDVDVD (Borstal Boy, if you must know) which was priced at a reasonable 3 quids. As everyone knows, especially those silly people at the telly licence who have so far sent me 30 quids to shut me up, I don’t have a telly or want one. So I buy a cheapo DVDVD every now and then.

I paid up but I was careful to read my receipt. To customer services I made my way and admired a bottom (female) and then it was my turn.

“What can I do for you?”
“You’ve already done me”

I then produced the paperwork and explained that the DDDDDD whatever was clearly marked at 3 of the Queen’s quids whereas I had been charged 4.

“Have you got it with you?”

What? Did she think I’d gone in the bogs and eaten it?

Anyway. Double the difference. She gave me 2 shiny quids back. After the knock they got it looks as if the Tesco Game is back in action. So who’s the BASTARD now, eh? Tight bastard I’ll grant you but I have 2 golden quids to rattle in my pocket. Until I spend them.

Tarrah!

A quick introduction; here.
Never met him, never knew him, but one of his paintings is my wallpaper. Even I can paint better than that but I haven’t dropped about eleven million tabs of LSD.

When the Floyd were recording ‘Crazy Diamond’, which is about him, he appeared in the studio. Fat, bald and almost unrecognisable. He went.

Back to his mother’s house in Cambridge. Diabetes got the better of him and, I suppose he lived on royalties and, maybe, a bung from the band.

At a market in Walden I overheard (always listen) some traders talking and one of them knew where ‘Syd’ lived and he was going to get him to sign a guitar that he could sell in Amerika. I hope that flopped.

He painted and smoked roll-ups. His rabbits died because he forgot to look after them.

Mental illness? I could have looked after him better than that and I would have done.

Please call him Roger as he called himself.

Shine On.

Here’s a lovely song.

I’m surprised that no one ever got me. In the Job there were rumours but I started going out with Cath and then there was the abortion and all that. I’m just sick of all the lies so I have to start at square one.

My family is full of lies. But I’m no liar (although I have turned some smarters in Court) so, before I go, I have to tell the truth and all the rest of it.

Yes, if you are interested, I have shared a bed with a man. I shagged his sister. For the last few years I have found sexual activity boring beyond belief. What on earth is the point in trying to get bits of yourself into bits of someone else. Look up ‘meatus’ in the dictionary; I bet you don’t know…

Now I’m not gay or bi or straight or lesbotic. I’m nothing. Being nothing is a bit difficult but at least I can claim to be asexual and be proud of that. I don’t have to dress up as a laydee or get my head kicked in. What’s done is done.

Being diabetic has done it for me. We have all done things that we don’t talk about. When the price of cider goes through the roof I shall make my own or buy canna**s and eat it.

Ah, now that’s a weight off my mind. Yes, I did do this and I did do that. Thr*esomes actually.

If you don’t like this it can’t turn back the clock. I did what I did, just like you did, but at least I have the nads to say so.

Cheerio.

Here’s a quicky. Hold out your hand because it’s coming round round the corner just about NOW!

Much as I would like to snog Kate I have a feeling that this desire is not reciprocal.

Guess what. We have new neighbours on the landing but whenever I say ‘Hello!’ to them they ignore me. I spoke to a friend of mine and he assured me that they like to play golf in comfortable shoes.

Bloody Hell.

The best actor in the whole world ever is…
And I will brook no argument on this one because I am completely right and anyone who disagrees is completely wrong.
The best actor in the whole world ever is Robert De Niro.
So shove that in your bong and smoke it.

I got to thinking (Uh Oh) about a few things that I have seen and done. Probably not a good idea.

In the Job you get to see quite a lot. I never got to see the sporty car that flipped down Brixton Hill and smeared the top half of the driver like a snail trail. We never got jumpers because Brixton was at the end of the Victoria Line. But I have seen some things.

One morning, at about 5 or 6 I got booted by the driver of Lima 3. I had been keeping a close observation on the insides of my eyelids. She said “We’ll take that” and shoved her foot down on the loud pedal. “Eh, Wassah?” but I got on the wireless and acknowledged that Lima 3 were on way. I asked her what the bloody hell we were going to and she told me that it was an ‘approach with caution’. Oh dear. ‘Aproach with caution’ meant exactly that. We were the first ones there.

You have probably never seen anyone who has come off a tall building. He was obviously dead and had a mangled broken leg to go with it. He had a black bin-bag over his face and tucked into a denim jacket. Not much point in an ambulance and we were nearly off duty and had to get the wireless car back for early turn.

Up the building I went. On the landings were louvre glass slats and on the 8th floor he must have put his bin-bag on his head, tidied himself up, and taken a run down the landing and out into space. Then the wind must have caught him because he blew a load of slats out on the 5th floor and then bounced out, to his death, on the concrete beneath.

Half the Factory turned out for this one. The Skipper found the letter in his jacket pocket. We just took the car back and went home, probably to get drunk.

It turned out that his brother had jumped into the next world off a building in Clapham.

The first dead body that I ever saw had been murdered. Nude, up an alleyway, and she’d done a poo. The Guv introduced me to this like I was supposed to be scared or something. Except I wasn’t. Just really interested. I kept my guard and it wasn’t me who let the bin men empty the bins, oh no. Someone else got a massive bollocking for that but that was later when I was back at the Section House getting wrapped round a bottle of Scotch.

Another night a flat went up in flames. Booze + Chip Pan = Death. The Brigade had pulled this poor sod out to die on the grass so I had to stick to him until the mortuary for continuation of identification purposes. He had conked out next to the gas fire and burned his leg off. His sister turned up but we would only show her his face and she cried and cried.

These days, well, things like this don’t bother me. Little things can really tick me off but dead is dead and that’s that. I can go into a kind of autopilot mode where feelings don’t get anywhere near it. When a friend of mine got murdered and they found her head on a roof I just blanked it all out.

The world can, indeed, be cruel but tomorrow is another day. One day will be your last and, on that special day, you will be right. But don’t make it too soon, eh? I’ve seen some horrible things and done some things that I am frankly ashamed of.

But tomorrow is another day. Forgive yourself. If you don’t then I will do it for you - I’ve seen too much.