Going Out With My Girl

Well, it's Valentine's Day today so tonight I shall be seeing Stella, my lovely girlfriend. She is rather cold at times, but gives me a warm glow - I don't know how she does it, but she gets inside me. She doesn't mean it always but she plays with my mind - you know, makes me feel things about myself that aren't true. Boy do I love being with her - she gives me such ideas. I hold her, cradle her, and we communicate so much through lips - lips are the source of our relationship. Lips and tongue, of course.

Stella likes to be taken, repeatedly. She lets me have her four or five times a night. I struggle to keep up, to be honest and at the end of it I always feel dizzy, dozy, and sometimes a little sad - as if I've spent myself on this love that actually always makes me feel bad the next day.

Well, we're meeting up tonight - in our usual place: the bar. And I will be searching for love in her golden depths. As I do most nights. We might do dinner, but I think she loses her charm if food is involved - just a few bags of crisps - that'll do. And I'll take her home. With her stuck inside my head, to my utter, delighted, bafflement.

The Well-Fair State

More or less describes my weekend!!!


*hic* - cheers!!

Excellent Effort

I think this is a marvellous defence.

In fact I can speak from some experience on this subject, for, when I was arrested at the weekend, drunk, swearing and shouting, throwing bottles and threatening people, it was entirely because I was doing it as a publicity stunt, to draw attention to the terrible plight of those suffering alcohol addiction.

My protest did in fact garner attention from local police, local media (though they sensationalised it somewhat) and fellow sufferers, who threw bottles and engaged in sympathetic obscene shouting and what is quaintly known as "threatening behaviour". We even had a "fight" to try to show the desperate physical strains of alcohol abuse on the human body.

It was so successful I intend to repeat it this weekend!

You've Just Joined the Human Race

Not through mere existence: this is a ridiculous way of determining humanity. After all so many manners of subclasses exist and are disposable.

Which reminds me. I haven't put the bins out. Bugger.


Oh well.

No, I mean having a thoroughly shitty day at work, thereby reinforcing your status as a piss-poor cog in a broken wheel, your utter irrelevance, your wholly needless work which could and should be done by someone else: and then your relaxing into the not entirely fanstastical but certainly phantasmagorical world of alcohol. Oh truest of the true joys, oh maker of purpose, oh braver of cowardly feelings. Oh you salve my fear by making it real, oh you fantasise for me and bring it all through like a vomit of anxiety (with bits of fear-carrot).

Life without booze? Fuck me.

Or rather - there's the problem. Some bloggers write about the troubles of having sex, others are 13 again. *

Oi. Lawrence. Fuck off. Just because you don't have sex, it doesn't mean you're not a man. You're a fuckwit and your books are shite so just fuck right off back into the arseaching syllabus you came from. Where the fuck are my Sillitoe, Orwell, Amis (Sr & Jr), Larkin, Hughes (yes alright), Plath; where the fucking hell are my Greene books, my copy of Unman Wittering & Zigo; my Eliot; my VHS of Threads, my blog. Where is my blog? My Blog!!!


*Are yuz caalin me a fuckin vorgin?**

**Erm, for the avoidance of doubt, this post refers to my lack of sex in the modern age, not throughout time.***

***Not that that should be a problem to any discerning readers.****

****Not that I'm worried or anything.

Blimey

Stats for April show that _some people_ read TTD, and _a few more_ visited pages. This is remarkable and is almost solely due to that amazing chap CBI.

It was also an amazing month for posts, if I say so myself, with my creativity being at its refulgent best (c Will Self). My posting has been, by turns, funny, poignant, mysterious, witty, intelligent and thoughtful. I put this down, as my readers are aware, to the magical influence of the northern European psycho-active drug stella, found only in all retail outlets north of Paris. If I have interested anyone, at any time, it is all down to stella. My one true, my faithful darling (though I forgive her numerous flirtations with other men and women, I know she remains my own).

This Is My...Four Leafed Clover

Aha! I found the way to carry on nicking post titles off of Tears for Fears!


Well anyway, I was going to call it "Change pt 94" because I _didn't_ change cricket club and that was a terrible idea because I had 10 seven year olds running around in the mud loving the mess more than the batting. I was far more tempted by, er, other entertainments. What I mean is this. I had been at another teacher's house last night (we'll call him Mr C) and I drank all his beers. I mean all of them, except the ones he drank, and his partner. She knocked back a couple too. I decided to buy Mr C a load more and so I stored them in the staffroom but then I was gasping, utterly desperate for a drink at 4.30 so I...left them alone.

You see...stories don't need progression or endings. Though they do need problems. Without problems they are blogs. Or diaries.

You also need the confessional element. Even the most amazing political blogs are rarely without the personal element. In fact, these are sometimes informed more by the author's loathings and generalisations of his opponents than by his actual views. It is merely a miracle when he finds a Department of Bullshit graph to support his argument on bottom habits or whatever. I mean "merely" in its original sense of "solely" of course. A blog without an author whose ego is the size of six pints of Stella made into a wobbly tower is no blog at all. It is a history book, and a poor one at that. It is also tiresomely obvious when he presents the latest "report" or statement or just lie from whichever party he hates the least to support views he has held since he was 8 and so he can say "Ah, but the research shows..."

God how I loathe that clause.

And I capitalise "god" because it is the start of the sentence. Otherwise I'd join all the radicals who can't be arsed. "god", hey wow this like fucking magic. What about "mr (or even mrs) smith" - wooooow, how cool is that. Get in.

Bloody hell how I hate the way everyone wants to rule the world (c - you know who). Why does everyone want to be in charge? Want their views to be enforced at the point of a prison cell? Why do they want everyone who doesn't agree to be officially labelled "cunt"? Why are we such damned intolerant fuckwits? And the worst of it it's our brightest and best who are the most fanatical, who cleave to ideologies with the most desperation, seeking out all and any references to support them and using Google like a pistol to demolish anyone who disagrees? Why is it down to tenth rate minds like mine to say "actually I don't know...there might be something to be said...well...maybe...erm...er..."? And hence prevent the bitterness of revolution and the spread of the gibbet, which seems to be onrushing at the same speed as firsts from crap universities in marxist subjects?

And before anyone emails me with bucket loads of quotes from this very blog showing my own intolerance...where did I except myself, apart from the bit about the tenth rate minds? All I mean is that, yes, I am a cunt, but that in real life,when I really think, and really want to be sensible, I think like the quotation above.

So does writing make fanatics of us all. The diffusion of printed material and all that.

So too does alcohol make bastards and lackwits of us all. So I did turn out to be violent after a few jars after all. And there was me thinking I just got emotional and cried.

Never mind.

On the Sobering Effects of Alcohol

I don't even like calling beer "alcohol" because it's mainly water but anyway...long term readers of this blog will know that I frequently post when greatly refreshed and that is because it is easier and fun. Being a narcissist I don't really mind if it annoys or inconveniences anyone else. To my mind I think I have only deleted one post that I wrote under the influence - something about religion I think. Oh no, I tell a lie. I think I also outed myself once. That was more of a stealth edit though.

A trawl through some of these old posts reveal the same points being made over and over again (so what's new - it's a blog after all!) as well as a number of loathings and hatreds. This is normal and healthy. One of our modern pathologies is not anger itself but the desperate attempts to delegitimise it, to cure it, to squeeze it out of the personality. Our interest in suppression of this very natural emotion is interesting - I wonder what it's for?

Intriguingly for me there are also hints & guesses that I clearly keep leaving lying around on the pages of this blog. I ought to go through and delete them all, but I haven't the dishonesty. There are things (not evil things or owt like that - just normal stuff) which I just cannot bring myself to face or admit, even to myself, and the blog helps me to valve them out slowly without even knowing it. A diary would not offer me the same protection: I would be a lot more open. Writing a blog is therefore an exercise in social skills for me, as well as in self-absorption, which is maybe not so positive.

That point might seem counter intuitive, given all we hear about the eeeevil rightwing blogosphere - but it's true, for me at least.

This post, for the sake of clarity, was written with absolute sobriety moments before it was published.

SoberBlogging (Still)

Still off the booze as far as posting is concerned (not as far as real life is concerned, mind); it doesn't half make blogging tough work. Blimey I'm literally breaking out into a mild episode of writer's block trying to think up stuff to write - a problem I never have after a few Stellas and some crisps, and maybe a few nuts or pork scratchings or a kebab or something.

Budget Statement

Since we're approaching the start of the new financial year I thought I'd make a budget statement of my own to demonstrate to my reader the application of prudent fiscal management.

Firstly, GDP (Gross Drummer Product) is set to rise this year by whatever the bastards decide, not to exceed 2%. Probably about 1%. Debt, as a proportion of the GDP, will fall from 42% to 35%, as the laptop has just about been paid off but there is an expensive insurance claim yet to be settled. Exports are in their usual parlous state (the traditional drummer-favourable markets have been withdrawing their interest during the last two quarters) but imports, notably of alcoholic beverages originating in Belgium, are set to rise by 10%.

So to the changes in fiscal policy. Firstly spending on fuel will rise in line with the chancellor's rises in taxation. Spending on books has been hit recently by a disinclination to read: however to encourage greater growth in the studying of texts, spending on books will rise by 42%. Spending on alcohol will increase by inflation plus an additional 8% (see above); this is to offset the hectoring self-righteousness and nannying of the chancellor of the exchequer. Spending on crisps and other snacks is a difficult area of expenditure and it is with considerable thought that I have decided the following: crisps (cheese and onion): to remain static at 2 packets per 3 pints; nuts to fall by 5% (representing a real terms increase of 12% since 1997); chocolate: to fall by 20% to reflect the changing tastes of the market (ie it does not go well with Stella).

Gym membership expenditure will increase by 2%. This is, I am sure we can all agree, a major step towards making the drummer carbon neutral by 2042. It should offset 1% of the increase in alcohol expenditure. By 2009 gym expenditure will increase by a further 2% and by 5% in the three years after 2009. This will make considerable progress towards our EU target of "not being a fat bastard".

There will be a one off expenditure of 35% of GDP on hair transplants in this fiscal year. This will be offset by an increase in interest from other markets from 2009 onwards. (jeers from opposition benches) Yes, we can all complain can't we, but under the previous government interest from other markets was static at 0%. Only this government has brought sustained and effective interest - until recently - from desirable bodies located near the drummer. The loss of hair has been a global phenomenon for which this government cannot be held responsible. (more jeers)

I commend this Budget to the House as an example of stability and strength in these...zzzzzzzzzzzz....

A Unique Experiment (II)

In December, my reader might recall, I was asked to partake of a truly bizarre experiment - ie to drink an increasing number of "Stella"s - a little known concotion from Belgium, thought to contain alcohol (to a percentage of roughly 5.1). This experiment having gone exceptionally well, and having been successfully repeated many times - thus proving its results beyond doubt, except to the dwindling band of "Stella deniers" who insist that it does nothing for them), I have been asked to undertake a second, dangerous task.

This time I have been asked to "go to work".

I shall try to describe this disturbing experience as best I can - but be warned, it was deeply unpleasant, and readers of a more sensitive disposition might prefer to go to DK or Dizzy now.

Well, it started by my having to "get up" at 7am. My mouth was dry, my head was pounding. No-one told me that Stella-experiments and Work-experiments might not mix! If anyone wants my advice, may I suggest you don't try to partake of "work" if you have been "on the Stella" (as aficianados say, I am told!) the night before. Goodness me, this was painful. I levered myself out of bed and undertook breakfast - a meagre repast of Weetabix and tea. Ugh. It was unutterably ghastly. I tried to shower but I found myself falling asleep under the lukewarm water.

I drove to work. This was interesting, as it provided a chance for me to test my use of language, especially words we often call "inappropriate", when I was stuck behind slow lorries! I did enjoy doing that, although I even surprised myself at times!

Some time later I arrived at work. Upon arriving there I immediately engaged myself in "tasks". These are activities, not freely chosen, but attributed to an individual by another individual, which the former needs to undertake for, I believe, a largely indeterminate length of time. The latter is generally spoken to with respect, as I learned the hard way, when I accidentally told them to "fuck off"!

On occasion I was called upon to deal with "problems". These are events which are not controlled by an individual but which the individual is nonetheless called to resolve. I found this logic strange, but managed to undertake a few of these anyway. I think my "boss" was impressed - at least, that's how I interpreted their telling me to "get out of my sight" - I guessed I was no longer needed to solve problems!

I was struck by the logic of "breaks". These are moments of non-work: but, while my "boss" was largely able to identify and isolate such moments for herself, I was repeatedly told that I was unable to avail myself of these until I had completed whatever it was that anybody else had given me to do. Often another "task" appeared at just the moment I was to take a "break". Just my luck! Strangely, though, the person who had given me the task was often to be seen smoking or on Facebook while I was performing this duty. I wondered what appalling tasks they had been set that required them to inhale noxious gases!

Later it was time to go home. How can I sum up my impressions of this wholly bizarre activity? Well, I was very tired, quite angry, rather annoyed, somewhat disheartened and completely disillusioned. I was hungry, physically aching, and looking forward to tonight's "Stella" experiment. But I was missing something. I had been told that one received renumeration in return for work: ie, money. Coins. Notes. The things, which, I believe, one uses to pay for Stella. But I was told as my boss helpfully handed me my briefcase - although rather too rapidly for my liking! - that such compensation would not appear for over six weeks. Apparently, as well as being "at work", it was also called "being on supply" for " a bunch of cynical and money grabbing bastards in an old Cathedral city which also happens to have ancient docks and is not that far from Wales" -and so you don't get your "money" for weeks!

What a day!!

But I don't think I'll be "working" again any time soon!

Budget Fails to Curb Binge Drinking

The Tin Drummer today had 4 pints of Stella.

He did not buy them, cheaply, off a supermarket, but opted to pay the vastly marked up prices at a no-way-suffering-from-the-positive-smoking-ban-pub.

It was alright. A bit dear, mind.

Mortal Sins

According the blogosphere, The Pope should of said : "1. Being a Catholic" and then anything else would have come as a bonus. I find it a bit odd that the church has such immense influence in countries where hardly anyone is Catholic but anyhow. Plus that people listen to the pope on condoms but _not_ on the rest of sexual doctrine (ie keep it in your pants unless you're married), which in my not inconsiderable experience of being one of these cunts, weighs rather more heavily on the individual, seems a bit strange. Plus also the church must be actively stopping deliveries of condoms, like by hijacking vans and torching them or summat. I guess it's all true though, because unbiased commentators like St Polly of Toynbee and St George of Moonbat have frequently asserted it as fact. Ergo it must obtain.

Still, I can reassure my readers that on absolutely no account will I be immensely rich any time soon: nor, indeed, am I about to perform fiendish experiments on embryos, nor defile the environment (oh no actually I tell a lie: my little Fiesta was caning the A420 and A34 this evening in 2nd and 3rd. How much emissions is that). Nor will I be acting against fundamental human dignity, unless you count having my pants sticking out a bit.

Also as a pisshead I will be contributing far more to schoolsnospitals than any of those NewLabour twats: the fuckers are putting my taxes up again. So you can fuck off if you are one of those puritans who think that you're not puritans because it's a made up rightwing concept and all you're doing is trying to make people more respectful/better citizens/think the right thoughts - I'm making the schoolsnosptials even better with every Stella I buy. Plus I've never gone to A&E or owt like that.


Oi! Pint of Stella! and a packet of cheese&onion! Come on John, I'm thirsty!

Another Damn Valentine

Piss off, you damnfool twats, with your pseudo-romantic moneymaking gestures, your slighting of commitment for the one off splash, your fuck-awful pictures of rotting personalities behind beautiful bodies, your ghastly insistence on appearances, your fuckwitted obeisance to the god of sexual attraction, whoever it may be, that idiot deity who really ought to be shot and buried in a shallow grave.

Fuck me: once, loving someone meant attaching yourself, stitching your bodies and souls together so that you made a stronger defence against the storm tides of chance and bastard time. Now, it means: is his cock better than the other guy's? Are her tits a bit saggy? How good is the pussy I'm getting? How long does the cock last? A broken heart means an empty snatch or a pair of balls like two tins of fussell's milk (copyright Viz).

No-one gives a toss, no-one cares a single fuck for the idea that two people can, or even ought to, find themselves in each other, share a mystical or inexplicable attraction that solidifies until there is no telling between the two: once it gets tough, once you stop being basically fuck-buddies and something higher or more permanent threatens the lightly stained glass of your lives; once some prick turns up in a BMW or with some fuckawful job that makes him boss all the other cunts around, that's it - the "love" is gone and the relationship is over. So what? It wasn't fun anymore, it wasn't going anywhere, you stopped satisfying me, we stopped making sense, I wasn't feeling the vibes, we just weren't right, you turned out to be someone else.

So what? Who gives an arse? We're not monogamous anyway and any attempts to prove otherwise are doomed to failure once you've seen Milf Sluts Go Nuts Vol 42, not that I have. Jeesus, she comes like a train! He can go all night and look how hard he comes! Pornstars are the modern gods, except that they're largely unspoken leaders of our aims and ideologies (although apparently Jenna Jameson declared her support for Hillary C: fucking hell if I were a Yank I wouldn't be able to vote for Mike Huckabee fast enough). We're all too ashamed to admit that porn drives our images of male and female and that anyone who doesn't match up can fuck right off. I'm not saying that I don't, or that I'm shit in bed: whatever - who gives a flying fuck anyway?

Valentine's Day? Go fuck yourself, sonny, like a whole load of us have to.

So what if I'm bitter? It's hardly a valid criticism of a lemon, now is it?

Criminy (again)

Cop this.

Well fuck me (if you like, I can always give you my mobile number). Another study by taxpaid academics telling us we're all going to die. Listen you twats. We know this already. It's what happens to organic creatures. This time, "health experts" (the modern bishops) are telling us that "loads of us are going to die" when "it gets hot", as if loads of people didn't die when the climate was more to their liking, ie 1946-7 and 1962-3, to give two examples of what we are now supposed to believe is natural and good (you can have 1981-2 and others too if you like).

Question: how many fully paid up climatologists work for the Department of Health? My guess: somewhat fewer than the number of functional hair follicles on my head.

Still, I'd be happily proved wrong. Again.

Anyhoo, I have a solution. Reach for a cold one. Now. I've just done it - it works, I feel quite cool, in fact, although I am conflating different meanings of cool, obviously. But if the government took responsibility for ensuring that every household had, say, 10 tins of Stella in a fully functional fridge, these appalling projected deaths could be reduced. It could be called the "Sure Stella" project, and, needless to say, would need to be carefully aimed at the most vulnerable people, to stop those middle-class bastards muscling in yet again, cunts that they are. In fact each adult could have a Stella allowance, depending on their parentage and education. If you had a degree, say, you'd be expected to find your own source, whereas if you spent your teenage years drinking, you'd get it given to you by the government. Neat, huh? Some people may argue that drinking Stella causes dehydration. So what? you can line your stomach with water as much as you like; it's the fact of the Stella's coldness that counts.

I Was Pissed

Well so much for the resolution to drink more in accordance with government targets. An outbreak of outrageous, and indeed, inappropriate rebelliousness (in felicitous concert with the onset of early middle age) conjoined with an episode of good physical health (for the first time in ages) met to produce a substantial amount of drinking tonight. Or rather, "this afternoon". You see, my type of sub-middle class rebellion (more properly entitled "contrarianism" - as it is de facto the case that lefty stereotypes are true)is against government targets and the core principles of govt agencies. Yes I know it seems ridiculous to the point of being literally fantastic, but there we are. That's my life. I don't have masses of unprotected sex, unfortunately, which means I miss out on unlimited government support, and the moral support of people who think adults cannot be expected to look after themselves sexually, but I am: overweight, a drinker, not an atheist (wow, this should have those who refuse to capitalise God and who write letters to the Torygraph from the National Secular Society in a state of apoplexy: "Sir, In these pluraristic times, it is unacceptable that a non-atheist should occupy any post in civil society..."etc etc), a lover of poetry. All these things put me outside the realm of acceptability; I am well aware of this. Alas I am not a smoker, now-a-days. In the old days, I'm thinking around 1999 here, one would drink ale, eat crisps and smoke cigars, and discuss non-atheist topics (fairies, elves, dimensional transference, God, Christ and so on) until late at night or whenever the lock-in ended. All people do these days is drink orange juice, mutter about what a good idea the smoking ban was, and how much they're in favour of equality, and how awful it is that in this day and age not everyone is an atheist. Jesus this is the age of the grey person in a power-suit going on and on about following guidelines and how anyone who doesn't agree with one is bigoted/xenophobic/homophobic/racist/full of any other kind of hate. I mean, what other reason could there be? Why don't they all fuck off and become diversity outreach co-ordinators; we pay enough tax to fund endless of these non-jobs. Even fucking poetry is stuffed full of all this crap, little grey verse telling us how evil bigotry is and how much they've suffered from not everyone telling them they're wonderful all the fucking days of their stupid little lives. Oddly enough, a lot of it appears in magazines with "Funded by the Arts Council" stamped obscenely on the inside cover. It goes a little bit like this:

I came to England in 1981
and you called me a twat
and I carried this like a ball of cold cheese
in my poor suffering gut

and you never loved my views
or agreed about Mrs Thatcher
and you're a bastard,
a fucking old Tory tosser.

or something.

Surely it's obvious that I'm a fascist, and that if you put a bomb underneath my Ford Fiesta you'd eradicate fascism for a generation, or some such bullshit. Given that I teach one day a week in a state school, I guess I'm a subsidy junkie too, but I do whatever I can to subvert it, by asking questions of Al Gore, by questioning socialism, by reading non-socialist poetry (ie not Adrian Mitchell and such crap) wherever possible, but it never works.

Bugger, I'm sobering up. Arse. I want to spend as little of 2008 as possible sober. What a ghastly state, wherein the mind is forced to locate stability and purpose in philosophy or religion, or something equally appalling. I saw on tv once that elephants dart for the trees full of fermenting oranges, or something: even animals want to get pissed, so why should it be denied us? Ah, bollocks to it all. Not even alcohol is enough - mini cheddars, now that is where life really is at.

A Unique Experiment

As an expert in mind altering substances, as is the birthright of all human beings (c Graham Hancock), I was tonight privileged to be asked to test a little known narcotic, which, as I am told, goes by the name of "Stella Artois". I was asked, by a Mr C Smith*, if I could report my experiences to the world of my intake of this substance.

The first effect I noticed was upon my wallet. It immediately began to feel lighter on the pronounciation of the sacred words: "Pint of Stella, please". I believe that sometimes Stella-shamans are known simply to point to the appopriate "pump" (clearly this term derives from long forgotten methods of deriving alcohol) to obtain their Stella. I left the "bar" with my wallet lighter by the sacred "two-ninety"; I have been assured that this may be, as appropriate, "two-ninety-five" or, in certain areas, "three-ten".

Having had my wallet lightened by such an amount I sat down to taste it. It was cold, light, honey-ish (from inferior bees, perhaps) and of a golden, rich-piss colour.

Immediately upon drinking my tensions evaporated and I was enabled to read the ancient document known as "The Times" (I have on previous occasions sampled "The Daily Telegraph", but I have never dared to approach either "The Guardian" or "The Daily Mail" - I have been told that this latter can have a serious, even permanent effect upon the unwary experimenter).

I soon began to notice that the piss-poor music I had ignored upon my entry assumed a more powerful aspect: "Rihanna" and "The Hoosiers" sounded, not like cheap-standard EMI toss, but like fellow shamans, on their own, private journeys into the recesses of the human psyche. "Stop The Cavalry" by Jona Lewie, as referenced previously by this blog, occasioned a tear after a mere 1 pint of Stella.

The pint, incidentally, is a long held measure of this drug. It is thought by some that it is "just right". My own researches suggest that it may have been designed by our ancient ancestors to facilitate a key marking of psycho-active quantities AND bladder concentration. Could the human bladder have emerged into full evolutionary form at the same time as the brain AND tongue, around 40 000 years ago? As I sipped the amber liquid, I doubted it. More on this later.

After one pint, I enjoyed "The Times", though I found myself "tutting" at what are known as "PC gone mad" stories. I had heard that reactionary tendencies are a frequent side effect of Stella, but I was unprepared for that fact that these are surely not just the manufactured effects of a drug, but are windows into truth. What I experienced here, of authoritarian bastards masking their controlling impulses with a veneer of "respect", "fairness", or "tolerance", is, I believe, a portal into humanity's ancient origins.

After two pints, nothing more had occurred, though I needed more of what are known as "crisps". These curious beings jump and dance around one's mouth, releasing the inhibitions against one's desire for more Stella, and so they are a crucial part of the experience. Stella-shamans are known to match each pint of Stella to a packet of crisps. Needless to say, I tried to keep up!

After three, something curious occurred. The world began, not to spin, but to dance: a slow, ethereal, lovely dance. My pasts began to swim into view with every sound I heard; my every utterance bathed in genius and my own prejudices assumed the status of unimpeachable fact. It was quite extraordinary. I can only compare this state to a vicarious life, such as those who live through celebrity.

At the same time, I should report, I noticed an upswing in aggression: towards leftwingers, bastards, tossers, fuckwits and arseholes. Twats also. Dickheads, perhaps not so. My inclination was not to kill or maim them, but merely, should I come into contact with any of these groups, to confront them and perhaps disabuse them of their peremptory notions of human existence.

Finally, I ended my session after four pints, owing to an absence of "money" and an increase of shame at the concept of attempting to pay for booze by "card".

At this point, when my body was well enough to walk, and my mind well enough for me to consider all of my most shameful episodes without fear of a panic attack, it was time to go.

And, by a staggering coincidence, it was time for a piss.

Could this be chance? I don't think so. Stella taps into the recesses of the human mind, gives us access to areas of our life we had forgotten, and brings us towards harmony with painful or difficult pasts. Such, as I have said, is our birthright as human beings. Just like those pioneers, a mere 25 years ago who walked into pubs and had the courage, the sheer audacity, to ask for "a pint of Stella, please". Well done to them. We all raise our glasses. We are all Stella drinkers now.

ps. I had heard of the "hangover" -luckily, it seems, I have avoided this! By another staggering coincidence of nature, 4 or 5 pints of Stella necessitate only one piss and no hangover! More evidence of the infinite bounty of this psychoactive compound.


* Mr C Smith: name invented, to protect the guilty.

Tone-Deaf

God my last post was wishy washy and dull and boring. It's bloody hard to get the tone of this blogging thing right. You might have noticed that I am trying to tone down the swearing but all that comes out is fucking pathetic slightly old and wilted petal type writing.

Fuck the government and fuck their stupid arse-aching attempts to control our lives with piss-easy targets that all their chums in the lefty bloody academies and animal rights arsehole groups and socialist working-class-people-are-too-thick-to-eat-properly brigades applaud with media-hugging thunderous-fart talk. Fuck them.


Well, it feels better, but has it achieved anything?

And I'm not drunk, by the way, check the times on the posts. I'm not such a lightweight that I can go to the pub AND lose all sense of reason in just 10 minutes. I need to be sober to lose my reason.