A brief summary of recent events

So I'm sitting down enjoying the company
Of my dear friend and partner in crime
Nothing serious just some football
Some music, maybe even a conversation about nothing real.
My phone rings and it's on of those moments,
One of those once in a lifetime things that
Happens every day, my heart skips like my
Dad's Smiths records, the girl I love ringing me.
I say hi she says this ain't working properly,
I say what do you mean I can hear you fine,
No problems with the signal at all maybe your
New phone is fucking up, what a waste of cash that turned out to be. She laughs as
If I'm joking but then she's not laughing she's
Crying and she's like no, we're not working, this
Can't work it has to end, I love you but
You're not what I need.

Hit hard like a punch to the stomach from the bouncer
Outside your own gig who says nah you're not coming back
In if you leave you're like why and he says coz of the
Trackies and trainers mate so you say but mate this is
My gig, he asks if you're getting smart and as you shake
Your head he hits hard like a phone call out of the blue
From the only one you love telling you that it all
Has to end because you're two different people and
Other shit reasons like that. But you go to
Cover it up, drown it out in a sea of red wine and
You don't stop for a couple of days it gets worse and
No matter how much you try to distract yourself you
Can only think of her and how she knows you better than
You know yourself and now you know that you know
Nothing about her anymore so you ring her up and
Demand an explanation end up making it a lot worse
For both of you so then you drink some more wine.

A few days pass and you're beginning to get used
To the idea of not having that one person by
Your side and in your head and you start to think
That maybe all this isn't too bad after all I
Mean who gives a shit that I ain't been single since
I was fifteen and then you're sitting there drowning
Out the sounds of next-door hitting his wife with some
Music and filling your brain with useless knowledge about
Friends of friends of friends of friends and you see
You've got a message and you read it and it's her and
It all comes rushing back and you reach out to the
Nearest potential source of sympathy because all the
Wine's gone and it happens to be some girl from the past
Because funnily enough there's plenty of fish in
Your history because you haven't been exactly faithful
And this girl from the past says to you yeah it's
Shit but think back a year ago when you moved away
You told her it was fine you said it was working but
You still went off and acted like a complete and utter twat
And to be honest THAT is not what I call working
So yeah she still probably loves you but she's doing the
Right thing here, she doesn't want to betray you the way
You betrayed her so shut up and show her some
Fucking respect.

And I think yeah fair enough.

I've been working on a cocktail

Och aye. I have just this last hour returned from a rather entertaining and fun-filled couple of nights in London, it was fun and this is why...

Got there on Saturday afternoon, straight out of St. Pancras and into a Mexican fast food place to get a burrito, and everyone loves a burrito, and a mojito, I didn't actually have a mojito but everyone loves one. Later that night Trace Bish and I meandered on down to the Relentless Garage in Highbury to see some musically gifted fellows going by the name of Johnny Foreigner. There I just happened (as if completely by accident) to bump into one of the coolest, sexiest and darn-right talented people in existence. I apologised to Michael Winner and then instead met up with Tom which was a wholly disappointing affair laden with homoerotic undertones and awkward silences. Luckily for all of us Johnny Foreigner were pretty fucking tight (a good adjective when it comes to the analysis of live music) so we didn't have to fill said silences with anything but praise for the aforementioned band.

THEN ON SUNDAY I WENT ON AN ADVENTURE!!! Someone says to you, "hey, we're going to shootlondon today" and you automatically start thinking about either calling the police or buying the new grand theft auto game they're talking about, but no, shootlondon is something completely different, though it does include London and shooting. You're given a clue sheet containing five clues (funnily enough), the answers of which are locations in a set area of London, we were doing shootspitalfields, and Trace Bish knows everything about that area, so all we had to do was compensate for the complete lack of photographic ability that either of us had, let alone the cameras which were basic in comparison to the kit other people had brought with them, most of which looked like they could be easily utilised as heat-guided missile launchers. On top of the clues for locations, we also got given three words for inspiration for three more separate photos, so as well as trekking to Columbia Road, a Turkish bath house, an art gallery at no. 56 Artillery Lane, the Whitechapel art gallery and David "insert weirdly spelt surname that I can't quite remember here"'s Idea Store (a library), we had to photographically interpret "wireless", "chatterbox" and "read between the lines". Needless to say we didn't win any of the prizes, but a fun day was had by all.

Now I'm back in Leicester, feeling hungry and preparing my speech with which I will annihilate anyone who will listen at the Job Centre on Wednesday, silly bastard twatbusses still haven't got anywhere near giving me my constitutional right of £100 for the past two weeks, which makes me a particularly pissed-off benefit scrounger.

I have also made 200 flyers for our up and coming gig at Sumo in Leicester, and I know 200 is more than optimistic, but I like them, so I made lots. We were offered £2 for every flyer with Get-out Claws written on it as payment for the gig, but the entry fee was going to be £5 for our matey matey followers, so we got the price down to £3 for our friends and no payment for us. Because we're nice. Obviously.

Laters.

Back in LE2

So, set the scene, I'm on a moth-eaten, stinking saggy excuse for a sofa, also known as my bed, in the living room of my friends' house (friends brushed over, will return to them later on). Due to the lack of central heating, double glazing and/or fireplace, I'm fucking cold; two t-shirts, two sweatshirts, jogging bottoms and a duvet don't seem to cut it this far into the arctic circle. I have just embarked upon the caffeinated voyage of my fourth cup of coffee in the space of an hour and crave a cigarette more than Graham Norton craves cock up his irritating arsehole. He is quite obviously a taker. To my right there is a 3/4 sized nylon strung "classical" guitar that has this rather unique buzz to the G-string, adding to it an ineptitude deserving of a witty comment. In front of me there is a TV, the screen no bigger than 12", that shows three channels, four if the wind direction is exactly south-easterly and the moon is gibbous. There are various scraps of paper on the floor, on one is a draft sketch for a flyer for my band, another is merely a letter consisting of broken promises from the sodding department if sodding work and sodding pensions (their hold-tone is Vivaldi's "Spring" if you had ever wondered, I know that music off by heart, as do quite a few others my age according to the news).

I like to draw up contrasts between this town and the one I left behind, namely Haslemere, to distract me from the cold. Haslemere doesn't even contain the only nice thing it ever brought forth to me anymore, my dearest darling dollface Rebecca's now at Oxford, being clever and complaining about having to lug a WHOLE SUITCASE of books up there. She seems to think that I have this pre-conceived opinion of what everyone she meets there will be like, which is completely and utterly correct, and though I know this is neither mature or reasonable, I doubt the elitist cunts will give a fuck. But anyway, Haslemere, hmmm, news from there is that my step-father managed to smash up my Mother's car in a particularly spectacular fashion. Don't see him getting kicked out, all I can say is that he's lucky he didn't smoke a cigarette out of his bedroom window, or perhaps help himself to a bottle of Hardy's, he's lucky he just caused several thousand pounds' worth of damage to a poor woman's car, namely the only thing of value that she owns outright that doesn't sit round the fourth finger of her left hand.

I'm in a rock'n'roll band, one that plays gigs and everything, and I fucking love it. We've got ourselves supporting Glen Matlock of Sex Pistols semi-fame, and various other gigs around Leicester, and to be quite honest it's the only thing I'm enjoying doing at the moment, probably because it is the only thing I'm actually doing at all, apart from waiting in vain for my JSA to come through and trying to blag cigarettes off of complete strangers. Maybe I should busk.

I can hear some nice chaps outside kicking over wheelie bins and banging on peoples' windows, reminds you how thin the walls are. Today I had to listen to the next door neighbour screaming at his wife for two fucking hours, and when you start hearing dull thuds and muffled cries you find yourself stuck between ringing the police or turning the music up. I'm not going to divulge which option I chose, it'd just bring judgement, I'm only dropping it in here because I'm setting a scene.

I spoke to my Dad today, an occurrence none too common. I'm not sure whether it's the tell-tale signs of an impending mid-life crisis or just the fact that he, all of a sudden, likes rap and hip-hop, but he's off to see Dizzee Rascal next week, he's clearly gone bonkers. Yes, I really did just put that, and without the slightest hint of irony.

Well I'm sure anybody who bothered reading this will feel enriched by now, their thirst for inane knowledge about my shambolic existence satiated, who knows, maybe even a comment will come forth, something encouraging from Tom? Perhaps something witty from Ken? Who knows, maybe even something admirably bitchy from Henry that I'll resent but only because I'll wish I'd thought of it? Whatever, it's got me through an hour or so of caffeine shakes, now comes exhaustion and Miles Davis.