Pirate Pickle

Thar be lonely souls a-wanderin' ye olde streets today, matey. Ghosts ye thought ye'd left behind creep up on yer shadow and scare an ol', souless, salty wreck such as meself 'alf witless.

What's a scurvy fool like me doin' dredging up that pot o' worms again? A pickled egg, a tot o' wine, an' forgotten treasure got me 'ead all addled wit barnacles, now din't it?

Aye, these be trecherous waters, an' no mistake. Me ol' map left me trove as bare as a blind man's eyeballs, if there be dubloons buried there, me eyes be too crusted up with ol' salt to see 'em.

Started thinkin' this new map aint so bad, run in to a few serpants on the way, no doubt, but aint nothin' I aint steered me vessel 'round afore. But then me old map reared up it's ancient 'ead again now, didn' it! The scurvy swine. I'd 'ad it locked away good an' proper in Davey Jone's locker afore now. But the sea be a fickle wench alright. She likes toyin' with yer. An' me peg leg an' parrot bein' givin' me jip O'late. I aint no cabin boy no more. Now I'm the ruddy cap'n. Gotta heave the crew into a port over-flowin' with gold and pineapples or they start grumblin'.

I can't take another mutiny on me rusty ship. Barely survived the las' one. Bitter fight almos' to me death, were that. An' Im too rusty meself for another skirmish.

Bubbles and Spirits

There is pandemonium on the streets.

Bodies clog the rat-runs as child-catchers and Vikings ravage the town. Youths drink liquor and crush bottles beneath designer footwear. Old ladies watch calmly, confusedly from their chairs, blankets warming frosted knees, clutching teddy bears as a substitute for forgotten love. Pre-pubescent girls stomp out their anxieties, craving anonymous attention, and their grandmothers applaud them. Peter Pan wonders at those who have grown up, those faces of past, present and future weaving around about each other. Bubbles and spirits meander from the haze.

Taverns overspill into the grit outside, men dressed as ladies spread their legs and hitch up their skirts to unwitting passers-by. Beer and balloons fly, the bitter sweat of alcohol as intoxicating as it is sobering. Hats and wigs play musical chairs upon the skulls of the gathering. As the bubbles go down, the spirits rise.

Later, the ribald screech of a cartoon character having sex in a cup echoes through a crooked house, guess who? Dogs leave their mark and are fed treats from guests, leaving glitter on their muzzles. Fish zip around the room, but as their destiny remains unfulfilled, they tidy themselves into a pile on the mantle. Bubbles mix with milk and spirits start to bubble.

A dark road home, an unexpected light falls upon nylon hair. Insipid tea placates the padding, restless feet from above, whilst there is much smoke and shivering under cape and clematis. The sun starts to yawn, the birds twit-twit-twitter.

As day dawns, the bubbles burst and the spirits hide until another night.

Marlon, Nikki and Richard

As the end of another monotonous week draws to a close, I sit here and I think to myself, "Thank fuck".

Of course this has actually been a rather entertaining week on the whole, it's only the last couple of days that seemed to have stretched all the way to eternity and back...

I ventured from the comfort of my small-town existence into the wide world of London at the beginning of the week. As it would seem there are too many little anecdotes for me to relay in detail, and as I am feeling lazy, I shall attempt to present them in list format:

SUNDAY

• Went to London. Sat next to old lady on coach who was wearing far too many lime green clothes for my liking. Even her shoes!
• Found my way back to the scabby corner of North London I had previously spent over two years of my life living in. Unsurprised to see that the streets there are still littered with chicken bones.
• Met old housemate in old house. Felt like I still lived there, it smells the same.
• Ate Polish food and slagged off all the people who still live there that I used to despise (mental note: must write blog about the lunatic Australian girl).
• Went to Camden, inspected a bloody lovely top hat until intimidating shop owner intimidated me.
• Stormed out of top hat shop.
• Wandered around lots of pretty things in the market, although I do not count Nikki from Big Brother as one of the pretty things.
• Went to pub with lots of black and yellow balloons everywhere.
• Dodgy bloke sat opposite me. He keeps stealing my liquorice papers to make roll-ups, but doesn't smoke them.
• Back at old house, sleep in my old room and start feeling rather sentimental, but about how much better everything is now rather than when I lived there.

MONDAY

• Had haircut, but the hairdresser reminds me an awful lot of the lunatic Australian girl.
• Wander around Camden again. No minor celebrities today though.
• Get on tube, stuck in tunnel for quite a long time, feel hot and sweaty. Nerve-wracking as it is September 11th.
• Tip-toe around the outside of the National Gallery, so as not to rouse the beast from his lair. Meet local mates.
• Pub. Continue to feel very hot and sweaty.
• Mates have been in the N.G. Impress myself, but probably no-one else by remembering a lot about the paintings in a verbal fashion.
• Tube again. Still hot and sweaty down there.
• Almost loose a member of our pack in the crowd, I get off to look for them, then they almost loose me.
• Meet up with more local mates and go and see childhood comedians make funny jokes for the radio.
• Have been drinking copious amounts of over-priced alcohol for the best part of the day, but feel horribly sober at the hob-nobbing after-show thingy.
• Burst of anger as bald-Marlon-Brando-at-his-scariest-coach-driver tells me I have booked the wrong ticket home. Mates try and give him money, but he's not having any of it.
• Watch mates disappear as I am ushered on to the coach I am booked on to. New driver says "Are you coming with me instead, luv?"
• Sulk on coach to Heathrow.
• Arsey driver from intended coach pulls up and directs me to ticket booth. No one there but a cleaner who directs me to a lady in a hut.
• Lady in hut is also arsey. Talks to me through window, tells me to get ticket from driver. Silly cow.
• Driver finally relents and lets me on coach after I apologize for getting angry and flutter my eyelashes a bit.
• Finally return to the bosom of my home town.

Creative Bloom of Frustration

Piss everything.

I strive to reach my long forgotten depths of creativity, like a blind man stumbling through life looking for beauty.

How can one create , dahrlink, if one does not understand the pissing resources available to them. My fantastic blog has been thwarted by having to use a namby-pamby picture of a pretty flower. The only input I had, other than wasting my time taking the picture in the first place, is to have used the negative setting on my oh-so-basic camera phone.

I have just spent the best part of an hour jiggery-pokering with an image I wanted to use, making what was a relatively shite photo into something simply marvelous. It would have provided me with oodles of inspiration to rant on in my favorite, deranged,dribbly manner. But no. The DUMBASS blog-site wouldn't upload it, cos they're crap.

So here we are. Just you, me, and the negative Gladiola.

She could be said to be a tribute to the late, great Alligator Guy. But she isn't. She will serve today as a symbol of my frustration. Something fantastic from me will just have to wait until another time...

DISCLAIMER: This is a crap blog. But it's not my fault. It could have been great were it not for factors outside of my control. Namely, my lack of computer-savvy. Savvy?

DISCLAIMER 2: I have checked and checked the spelling of Gladiola to the point where it does not even seem like a real word anymore.

Flight of Fancy

Ah! The bittersweet turmoil of suppressed thought-exposure. How free and easy is life when one can speak out in the dark with no-one to hear! Yet, how lonely and blue...ah me!

How we yearn for a voice to answer us from the darkness of our despair, but how we tremble at it's sound.

Oh! We are but maggots, writhing on the satsuma we call existence, and perhaps...Yes, just maybe...We will all become green and blue-bottles. But oh! Alas! Only after our bodies have scorched under the sun's hellish gaze for aeons.

And then?
YES!!
We will FLY! Fly, my pretties! How we will soar through the clouds of death! On, and on, ON! Ever onward! Until...

"WAIT! You there! Watch out for that swooping bat! Don't let your blue-bottle soul become a morsel for that furry prince of the night!"

"Oh! Doom! Oh! Despair! Have mercy, I beg of you, Oh! How I beg!"

"But wait!...What? What's that I hear you say? Can it be true, that this...this bat is kindly?
Oh! Joy! Oh! Sweet, sweet relief!"

The furry death-bat will get us all, in the end. He will devour us with the dripping jaws of childhood nightmares.

As he excretes your exhausted carcass upon the sleeping meadows beneath his erratic flight path...You will understand.

Yes! You, YOU will hit the sodden earth with a sickening THUD. Stripped of flesh, and dignity , your crunchy little fly-skeleton will eventually disintegrate beneath foot-of-cow and torrent-of-rain.

THEN, ah yes! Only then... As you have no choice but to absorb yourself into the slime of the earth from whence we ALL came... Only then, will you finally face The Truth, look Him straight in the eyeball, and say...

Disclaimer:
This blogtastic article was brought to you under the influence of pure, deranged, mind-dribbles. It bears no relevance too the past, present, or possible future.

I Wish I Was Death

I had great plans for this week off. I was to create wonderful things. But I have instead created hangover after hangover after hangover. Yes, this week has turned into a drunken blur of fear and self-loathing in Las Ringwood...

FRIDAY

Last day at weird work..Hooray! Buy Kylie top to celebrate, wear it to pub. Fun pub, lots of people but some of them are a bit blue. I get given lots of presents for some reason, CD's and a pirate mask. I am not blue, I am peachy!

SATURDAY

Hungover. Manage to heave myself out of bed at a relatively reasonable hour. Read comics. Go to pub. Feel less peachy than on Friday due to the arrival of some people I am not very familiar with. Feel a bit like a silly little girl.

SUNDAY

Hungover. Mum makes me an egg and bacon roll (at my request), it makes me feel sick. Got up early to spend a day wandering aimlessly around a field full of rubbish, burning plastic fumes and pikey students, oh yes, and famous music people. Start to remember that I sometimes don't like myself and experience niggling suspicions that I may not be the only one. Fall asleep on way home and am interested to observe that I dribble in my sleep even in the company of others.

MONDAY

Knackered, but not hungover. Got up at about 2pm. Barely able to move, start feeling rather despondent. Read a lot of comics as if my life depends on it. It doesn't. Fend off invitations to pub, as I am currently not worthy of company, and don't wish to inflict others with mine.

TUESDAY

Knackered for no good reason. Got up at about 1pm. Venture into the outside world, feeling dizzy and disoriented, but need to get the next hit of comics from my dealer. Outside cheers me a little, but after getting my fix, a growing sense of worthlessness increases by the hour. By the end of the day, I am barely able to communicate with my own mother, let alone anyone else.

WEDNESDAY

Knackered and miserable. Get up about 1pm. Am now well and truly wondering what the point of my existence is. Read more comics, obsessively. Although am hesitant for the same reasons as yesterday, agree to pub. Once have left the house, don't want to go back again, (especially now with the alcohol whispering sweet nothings to me from my veins). Don't have to go home, as kindly souls feed me pizza. All is well until people start having intelligent conversation, remember I know nothing about anything. Stupidly, drunkenly, unthinkingly mention my shortcomings. This aggravates my mental condition further as they then feel obliged to say things to make me feel better. This makes me feel worse.

THURSDAY

Hungover. Get up at about 1pm. Feeling of self worth ironically starts to re-emerge. Read comics. Go to pub. Get drunk and eat a burger. Home quite early, think will be able to get up in time to watch re-runs of "Friends" tomorrow. Can't sleep due to mind-daemons. Lie awake for hours, get up again, two hours later go back to bed. Lie awake for a while. Read comics. Finally get to sleep at about 4.30am.

FRIDAY

Knackered due to buggered up sleep. Get up at about 1pm. Cook noodles for my parents. It is not a success, although they don't seem to realize that...Or they are being polite. Go to pub. Get drunk. Probably stay later than I am welcome, go home.

SATURDAY

Hungover. Get up at about 1pm. Have to go to a party this evening but the thought of more alcohol makes me start hating everything. Buy a big bottle of vodka. Go to party, it is enjoyable apart from the fact that whenever I join a cluster of people, they all seem to leave. Get home, think a lot in the rainy garden. Steal a snippet of wine from my Dad's bottle. It sends me spinning over the edge into hiccup oblivion. Now I feel drunk. Lie on bed in a semi-catatonic state. Will these blasted hiccups ever end?

SUNDAY

Hungover. Wake up at 5am, hiccups gone but bedroom door wide open and lights still ablaze. Go back to sleep. Get up at about 12.30pm. Feel like shit after a week's hardcore drinking and wonder if I am turning into an alcoholic? Write blog. Fully expect to get the piss ripped out of me at the next pub meeting, as this post indicates the slightly distasteful fact that I experience feelings of doom and gloom. Just like everybody else...