Friday, 11th August, 2017.
Claygate? CLAYGATE!? I’ve never even heard of Claygate. It sounds like like an absolute cunthole, though. That’s the location of one of the places I’m allowed to bid on this week. Social housing. Damn my middle class upbringing.
Half way through August. No school place for Louis. Offers of living in, what sounds like, a hellish shithole. Am I feeling hard done by? Yes. Yes, I Fucking am!
Fuck it! My need for people to give a shit has been over taken by the, overwhelming, need to remove certain filters from my brain.
I didn’t go to work today. I felt shit when my alarm went off at 5am. I blagged illness and slept until 1pm. Then I smoked cigarettes. Had I had some crack……….
Trying to calm the beast is intolerable. Along with other, purchased, inebriates I am going to roll a collection of numbers.
At least one of them will contain a little bit of everything I have. Which one? We’ll leave that to the devil.
Saturday, 12th August, 2017.
We only lasted until 3am, then passed out. I rose at 11.30 with a head full of shit. Coffee, coffee, coffee, toast, coffee, bloody Mary, fried egg and bacon sandwich, cerebral shit removal and done. After several cigarettes I got a crate of Amstel and considered my next move.
Obvious next move really. Oblivion!
What’s in the tin? Nobody knows but me. Or rather, what’s left in the tin? Lol. At this point, I can almost hear you saying,”oh Mark, grow up!”. To which I respond, “go fuck yourself!”, and snigger.
A little time for payment to my sickness by messing with some old doodles.
Sunday, 13th August, 2017.
“I need something’s flesh!”. If only I could get out of my pit.
After some thought, boiled eggs was the answer. It’s not quite flesh but I had, smoked and cured, pig product yesterday. Chicken embryo seemed appropriate.
Along with the sensible, Absolut, bloody Mary. Heavily spiced for its cleansing properties, it felt like health.
Monday, 14th August, 2017.
Pull it to-fucking-gether, I said to myself in the mirror. Shaving only reveals cold sores and greying skin.
I don’t think plowing through Sons Of Anarchy boxsets and achieving very little else is getting me anywhere. We had burgers with Black bomber cheese and a clutch of spindley, pork fingers for supper………and maybe Another box of Amstel….
Back with the same old faces. There is a level of security in it, I suppose.
Come on Garvey. Save me today.
Even though, I feel more like this Garvey.
Industrial nightmare hell.
Luckily, I can cheer myself up with this quote from a wayward brother.
I wonder if this summer will give us any more summer? Probably not. How come life can’t be like the video for Club Tropicana or Long Hot Summer? I want to ponce about in cut down jeans and espadrilles, on punts, on the River….
Strange fish, have strange needs?!?!?!
Fuck it! I’ll eat some Shite for lunch then.
I got a new free credit on my audible account so I got, The Complete Sherlock Holmes. Read by Sir Stephen Of The Fry. Unabridged, of course. I’ve read them all enough, to know every detail but Stephens voice is so seductive.
If you have 71 hours and 58 minutes to spare……………..
Anyway,….. I’ve had to order Patron. It seems to have become a dietary staple. I read, somewhere, of the “health” benefits of a glass of tequila a day. I must be the healthiest man alive! It doesn’t help watching Sons Of Anarchy, either. They seem to go through bottles of it, every episode! When they are driving a truck or something, they have a bottle with a straw in it. Now, that’s livin’ !
Tuesday, 15th August, 2017.
*YOU ARE ADVISED NOT TO TRAVEL TO LONDON AT THIS TIME.*
What the fuck? I knew it was gonna be bad with 10 platforms shut, but not that bad. Any other day is have said fuck it but I want the money this week. I got on the slow train round Hounslow way anyway. If I’m gonna be stuck for ages, I want to be sitting. If I can get to Clapham, I’ll tube it from there.
I’m not feeling particularly good though. I had one of those, all too real, vivid dreams. I went to a house party with someone and spent the whole time trying to find them. Everyone kept lying about where they were. I woke feeling betrayed. It probably means something.
Don’t go to house parties or trust no one? I dunno.
Now this has shuffled on. Hhmm. Apt, somehow.
The “Day 3” backlash is chewing on my brain. It’s the last thing I need. I’m trying hard not to slip. Trying real hard!
This train of pain isn’t helping either. I’m dying for a cigarette and redemption.
“The place I love is a million miles away, it’s too far for the eye to see.”
I’ve just had to change at Clapham. I was going get the tube but, one extremely packed, train is going into waterloo. Train rage. Cigarette, cigarette, cigarette!!
Ok. Right. The voice says it’s a derailment. The train fell off the track. How that happens I don’t know. It defies the shape of the wheels really. Utter Fucknuts.
Jesus! I don’t like the look of that front right chimney at Battersea?!?
Things like this, are the reason people go postal!
Nine twenty four in the morning and I need a drink. I don’t know if that says more about me or the situation……OK, we know it’s me, but still……AAAARRRGGGHHHHH!!!!!
It was hardly worth the effort(apart from the money. Day rate!). Now I’m heading back to Waterloo to see if I can actually get a train. It seems they have cut it down to one an hour, so of I miss the twenty past, it’s a bit of a wait. We did find a proper caff though.
Shame about the fork!
After all that, I got on it and it left on time. They have cancelled the next 2. Lucky La Roo Hoo!
The train is actually half empty. I expect everyone assumed it would be cancelled. The benefits of media scaremongering. I guarantee, come 4pm, commuterville will be a Fucking slaughter house.
I’ve been home for 2 hours. I’ve drunk 5 beers, received a Tesco delivery(£180), and watched some Shite about a girl that went missing from a cruise ship in 2001 and was suspected to have been sold into the slave trade.
Time well spent? I think not. I think, I’m annoyed about the Amazon/Patron situation. Basically, they’ve run out, as I’ve drunk it all. I wished they would keep up. Useless, 2% tax paying, motherfuckers!
I’ve got myself aggravated now. I went to the local off licence, where I know they sell Patron. £59.99!! I’m going to Gerry’s, down old Compton Street, tomorrow.
I’m either buying 2 bottles or I’m going to get a bottle of Crystal Head Vodka. I’m not a snob. I’m just sickened by Society’s inability to understand the difference between good and bad.
I’m losing my temper.
Wednesday, 16th August, 2017.
I’ve recovered from my Patron/Amazon tantrum. I’ll gauge whether I’ll go to Gerry’s on a time/effort basis later. What I really mean is, I’ll decide on a annoyance/alcoholism basis. How many cunts will get in my way?, the whiteness of my tightly clenched fists? Chance me lashing out?, etc….
A metaphor for my life. I’m holding it together but it’s so very broken. Holding on both sides, but disconnected. I’m a terrible cunt. I don’t mind. It’s just the way it is.
Time drifts on, doesn’t it? Think about the past, think about the future, think about my liver. Hold on until the end. You might not want to see tomorrow but something could change your life the day after.
Daisies through concrete.
Another day, another fry up. The pricks I work with are in the bookies. Being more sensible, I had a pint. Lead from the front, and never look back to see if anyone is following.
Just another dull day in London.
Exit stage, left. My boot is virtually hanging off. Fucking, stupid laces. I hope Carter got me some more or I’ll just have to wrap gaffer tape around my foot.
Apparently, I have a letter at home saying that the school admissions board have been unable to give my boy a school place. Fuck this country. I haven’t read it yet but there must be an appeal process. Fuck knows what I’m going to do once I get us a place to live, just me and him.
Ok. So I’ve now read the letter. It doesn’t say he can’t have a place. It says he has to be assessed. The people who do the assessment only work in term time, so we will have to wait until term starts.
Louis’ main worry is being put in a year below his age. I get where he’s coming from. His confidence and self esteem have been damaged enough. Poor little fuckers. It makes me want to cry, seeing the fear in his eyes. I promised him I’ll do everything to try and fix it. I just hope I can.
The stresses of the day made me give up on caring about money. I’ll remembered a shop in Ashford I could by Patron so I scored this bottle of Anejo.
Kill the body. The mind soon follows.