Mouth like a tramp's arse.

Remember the opening titles of Fame, when blackladyteacherwithcanebetweenlegs says
“Fame costs, and right here is where you start paying”?

Imagine, instead, she was at tramp college, teaching how to dance with police officers when being asked to move on.

Mr Shorofsky(?) would be angry at Bruno because he gets his cock out when he pisses himself, claiming it’s what the public want, ya fugger, and the ginger curly pubehead would be telling a fire extinguisher how he could've ended up in “ER” via being a baddie in “Robocop” before crying himself to sleep.

Today, with stuff congealed in my moustache, a head like a vomit filled beachball and bowels so watery there’s an otter in me colon, I have graduated from said college, a First class degree, with Hangovers.

If an old person shook like I do now (my Native American name would be “Shakes Like Shitting Dog”), they would be asked where their tablets were before being gently clubbed to death with a brick. I’m unshaven, sunburnt, have a bandage on one hand, for christsake, and woke myself up by coughing pukebile into my nostrils.

I look like a tramp.
Fuggit, I AM a tramp.
Must be.
Who else tries to convince people they were told to drink more by the disembodied voice of Obi-Wan?
Who else cries when they fart because they don’t have the strength to clench and stop a followthrough?
Who else would be sacked, on grounds of taste, decency and hygiene, even though they are already unemployed?

But this is not the first time, nor will it be last.
No matter how bad I feel, I could be worse.
I just need practice.
That and training.

So, if you see someone asking for change for bus fare to the Dagobah system, telling people how Alec Guinness appeared to him, telling him to “find the fugger who instructed me”, don’t run away. Just ask me how my studies are going.

Stupid is as...

I grew up watching tv.
I was one of those kids for whom it was a surrogate parent and teacher, secret lover and educator. Glowing subtly in her cathode cave, like a scantily clad librarian that dares you into smoking on the fire escape, she taunted me with what she knew of the world out there.
Trying to share those nuggets of sieved information when back at school, I realised she had tricked me into showing the difference between me and those with me, that being that I knew things they didn’t.
That was recognised and remembered – on both sides.
For years, I tried to belong while others would look for proof I didn’t.
For years, the something different in me was what mattered, and I worked to hide it.
Now, that something is what I look for.

Thinking about how I used to calculate the best alcoholic percentage per pound spent from the age of 14 onwards, I remember Hunter’s serious ”drug collection” in the boot of a Red Cadillac and how easy it was for an addict to get stuck into one.
Now, with 2 cans of g&t and some 8.5% ale in me, I am into the Bailey’s Irish Cream and celebrating the “Hunter” and collector in me. I want to sneak out to the offie for a quick refill, but can’t find my keys to get out of the house. A letter in Viz about how to get alcohol by putting perfume in the fridge is knocking at the back door but I’m giggling too much to let it in.

Instead, I remember a slogan for an unfinished web idea, that being my imaginary dog, Fructose, celebrating the “stupid in you”. Don't think bad of yourself for your daftness, you are just showing the stupid in you. Done something twattish? That'll be the stupid in you.

Three trips into the kitchen for more Bailey’s Cream and I’m queasy in a way that is surely only legal at Christmas. A Bailey’s hangover is like waking up with a dead, fat man in a red suit next to you, your mouth tastes of Santa’s spew and you will cause small children to cry. And you want to empty your sack.

Which came first? 

Did you say potato? Did I say po tart oh?

Well, I may not be pink, but I'm a rinky dink panther, or I've taken the dog's tablets again.

After 1 is after midnight, and I check that fact with the clock. He doesn't tell how time passes, or what you can do with it, just the fact that so much has gone and you'll never get it back and you can't cheat..., well, when did you see a second hand second?
Your time is your own, you take up someone else's and they resent you. You don't share yours with them and they wonder what is wrong with them. Kids, lemme tell ya...

Seems like I have been away for ever, bone dust in my throat shows I've not been drinking, so alco-amnesia ain't the answer. No, blacker than the new UberGoth Vader's cape, I've been dozing under the dark duvet of depression. No breakfast in bed, just the toast crumbs stuck in arsecleft horror of having a bad time. Probably the worst for many a year, for me, anyway. Few would have noticed, unless I told them, that's part of the act, and yes, I am good at it. (Hey, I did appear on stage. In Wolverhampton. When a student. Still have the review. Well, the letter telling me the court date)

Hah! Hiding does you no good unless you wanted to, and I must have done as it seems to have passed me by and left me a bit stronger, faster and better than before. And thas da fact, Jack! I have an operation on my wrist in two days time, a dental appointment I'd rather avoid, a form for Incapacity Benefit to fill in, the possibility of the surgeon doing my op still thinking I owe him money (long story, populated by a cast of idiots), a lack of cash, a surfeit of weight, a hundreweight of undone projects and I'm slacking, but not in a cool way.

But I have not felt this good in ages.

Oh, I get angry and stuff still, just ask me about Bad Wolf, unclear communications and the ring tone as STD and I'll pump up me hackle glands till a blow dried hyena calls me mother. No, I am still shite in some areas of emoting, but am willing to change in those, and others. Going to a hill today to try and see the threatening thunderstorm I could hear coming, I realised I was a person I hadn't been for a long while, feeling younger, happier, just as confused but enthusiastic, optimistic and not as burdened by a past of negative feelings.

Hence this rambling intro to another, but shorter, space between postings.

Honest, I give you my word.

As a gentleman, a scholar and an acrobat.