Woke to find my wonderful and deceased kitchen fitter, Mr Bucky Ditton, trying to steal my chrome bluchers. Later.
over a violent breakfast, he asked if he could visit me at my fancy office in the city. After.
scrawling an indelicate response across the living room wall he promptly broke down in tears!
Boo hoo you prick.
1) I once rang a radio station and pretended I’d burnt down my own kitchen
2) I once fasted for 14 days to avoid paying for a handmade suit.
3) I enjoy swimming, baking, cold filtering Co-codamol, trolling amateur poetry sites and stealing (shoes)
4) I once met Captain Sensible, only it wasn’t Captain Sensible just someone dressed like him. Or was it that he was related to him, or they’d both played in the same band at school. OH I DON’T FUCKING KNOW.
5) I once wired two plugs to the same flex to see what would happen if I plugged in my house.
6) I never, ever throw food away: hence the ASBO
7) Favourite fancy dress costume: stock pot.
“It must be wonderful to be mad again?” she said, stroking his hair.
“No,” he replied, “the pain of it. It’s practically physical.”
“Do you remember the morning we drove into Nuevo Laredo. We passed that motorcyclist selling garlic. Do you remember the bulbs darling? Big as blood oranges.”
“No sorry darling, I don’t.”
“Why not?” She snapped, slapping him three times on the forehead.
“Owwwwwww,” he moaned.
“Sorry darling, but you know how I get.”
There’s only one rule, and it’s got nothing to do with short sentences. It’s simple: Never write about _________.
That’s _________ saving good folks from harm, harming bad folks for no good reason, or going on ‘adventures’ that all end invariably with the words “and where the fuck have you been?”
No one wants or needs to know.
But one day I thought: what if I wrote the most fantastic __________ story. That would really shake things up right?
Then I got a grip on myself.
Until I read something, about how _________ can see things, things we can’t. I remembered how _______ would sit for hours, staring into space, laughing, its eyes transfixed.
I thought maybe just maybe there was something left to say and that’s how it all began.
Sixteen days later I was homeless and hiding out in a brick-wheeled RV parked in a disused logistics warehouse next to an industrial sized swinger’s club. My wife was dead, killed by a shock administered via a modified USB stick and a seemingly decent couple, both local celebrities, were looking set to serve life.
So as I said, don’t write about _________. Best just avoid the subject.
In the pub with my psycho-therapist Mr Pymps Cansbloth. He’s banging out Pertruska, while i scream “no thanks” straight into the nosh of some clump passed out at the bar. I’m on sausage, Pymps is on scampi: Good times