Happy Birthday, Chris Dingley.

So I start off on the sofa, a number 7 in sleep deprived form. Hangover sets in as I sit up and the corned beef, I somehow opened without killing myself with, looks at me from the coffee table. Coffee doesn't help, I feel worse than the rubbish I put out for the binmen, rank fish and stale lager aftershave gets my bile dry heaving. See Liz, with her crippled back, off to work, then pass out due to daytime tv. When I wake again, I feel better, but only because I think I'm dead. More coffee, a fag, the world's most bear like bowel movement (brown, furry and I played dead in case it attacked me) and I was ready to go out.

I'd been celebrating, a bit, the fact that I'd actually done some creative stuff, pieces, working with Dave. We'd got some good stuff done the last 2 weeks, and last night saw us revelling in that fact. I was even happier as I'd waited til the last minute to actually write anything down, even going so far as to plan to stay up all night, as though it was an essay to hand in.

I was hoping for a meet and pint with the birthday boy today, but Liz's bad back knackered that idea. Apologies were made, and I hope to catch up next week.
The Battle of the Poll Tax had apparently ended this week, with me paying off the last of the cockeyed amount owed due to Sandwell Council being run by baboons without their glasses. Loads of interesting music had found me while I was listening to Pandora, mentioned before, and the Web was looking good. I had planned to do some blogging, but had to stop when I read a comment posted to my last entry. A dealing man, indeed, had been in touch, and I felt touched, daftly. Come on, pilgrim, does it mean that much? Well, I'm aware of only 2 other copies of Necrotrivia vs SKULL, one bought for a friend and the other last seen with a member of Broadcast when he worked with me in a call centre. There are more bits of JC's Crucifix flying round on ebay than that. Yeah, it meant that much.

So, I was a dazed, but happy, man. Until my stalker tried to call me again. For those who don't know, I had been getting calls, and texts, on and off, from a student at a college I used to work at. Although I never encouraged her, had made a complaint about her before being leaving, had got my girlfriend to call her and threaten her with the police, I was still getting badly worded messages. That annoyed me, not just because she ignored the obvious anger she was creating, but her spelling was lousy. Predictive text, people, it's what keeps us ahead of monkeys and dolphins.

So, tonight, after a missed call stopped me losing my rag, I called the police. I'm not happy about it, the fact that it got this far, the fact that an obviously troubled person has ignored entreaties to get real help, and that it is such a wimpy thing to call the cops about. Getting non-threatening, non-specific, incomprehensible text messages from someone who wants me to be her doctor. Call the Sweeney, the blags a goer!

Apparently, it's my fault for being too nice and understanding, I was told. Another reason to be queasy, the churning end to a fucked up day. Leave it like you found it, back away slowly and head to the sofa, there's nothing more to see here.


Sucker.