Pigs and Wands

Reading Time: 9 minutes


What a crazy time, we’ve had to get rid of the fridges and start shooting people’s limbs off, ‘cos we don’t want to kill ’em. They won’t remember then, if they’re dead, so shoot ’em in the limbs and then they’ll remember what they got shot for. Had a Coblers Monday today, it’s what the fishermen used to do when they’d got that pissed on a Sunday that they couldn’t work the next day, so the only thing to do is get pissed again. We had to nail this bloke’s hand to the floor and put food 6″ beyond his reach, we didn’t have to do the food thing but introduced it into the game just to jolly it up a bit, just for daftness. He kept fucking moving around so fucking much we had to nail his fucking foot to the floor as well. Someone was carrying-on so alarmingly in the pub the other day that we had to take him outside and nail his tongue to the fucking pavement. And then feed him little bits of food off a spoon.

Fucking Cunt. Spoonerisms. Clucks can cluck. No, he didn’t get any fucking chicken, bwok bwok. Come into the body of the Kirk. Worship rainbow love. Stick a finger up your arse and pretend you’re a fucking toffee-apple. Sugar tree, pink coriander. Over the rickety wooden bridge. We had to take another guy into the cellar, impale a meat-hook into his back, hang him upside down and fucking torture the cunt. Or did we, I can’t really remember now. Digital/analogue. Overwhelming desire and despair. Wrong prong, prod plod. Exploding rubbery chicken. Imploding chuckling ribbon. My head is in a total fucking mess and I’m having to confront my loneliness head-on ‘cos running and hiding don’t make it go away, it’s still there – waiting, just waiting. And having to do it alone, and it fucking hurts so fucking much. Oh, the name of that book is Kings Of Albion by Julian Rathbone. I still find myself thinking of her, wondering where she is and what she’s doing and who she’s fucking and it’s fucking killing me, I’m fucking destroying myself.

I need a reality fix ‘cos I’ve been so out of my head for so long now that I’m really starting to lose the fucking plot again, I need to give my head a shake and get a fucking grip. Up and down like a fucking yo-yo. On the craziest, most intense roller-coaster you could ever fucking imagine. Wise and stupid at the same time. A head full of unanswered questions ‘cos she hadn’t got the guts or the fucking bottle to tell me the truth, (I don’t think she knows what the fucking truth is, the fucking stupid, evil bitch). She phoned twice after that fateful night, once, a week after, to tell me she had got a new dog “Oh I see,” I told her, “you’ve replaced me with a puppy.” When I asked her if it was over between us, all she said was “uh-huh” and hung up on me when I tried to talk about it. I can’t even begin to describe the pain I felt inside and out. The next time was a month later on a Saturday tea time when I was unconscious after drinking so much vodka I nearly died. Here are the entries in my diary for that Fri and Sat.

16.5.03. – Bad Day. Crying. Getting desperate and to the point of not caring anymore. Suicidal. This is the most intense pain, suffering and anguish I have had to bear in my life before. 2.45 p.m – VODKA. HELP. Passed out with radio 4 on a few times, stinks of paella, didn’t cut my arm, did I? Scary stuff. com inc HELP. Til asleep and awake, Grateful Dead at gone 6 in the morning, fuck it. HELP ME. Paul Merton Postcard, just about to cut my arm with razor blade but no cutting please, shark.

17.5.03. – 2.30 p.m.- vodka. Crying. I want Ruth here ‘cos it feels like I’m dying here, feels like I’m gonna die and I just want to die in her arms. Where is she and why doesn’t she want me? Lovely happy Saturday, nearly died today, who’s gonna save my life anymore, don’t know, I can’t do it. Saw Mandy (Community Psychiatric Nurse) in the street, had to shake my head. Rang Cheryl – left message. Rang Crisis Call, told the stupid fucker to fuck off when he talked about football. Mary rang – didn’t answer – couldn’t. Ruth rang. Cheryl. (End of Diary).

The cunt withheld her number both times so I couldn’t phone and I was glad when my phone was nicked so I couldn’t hear the sound of her voice. Wrote many times and she didn’t have the bottle to reply but she still has a tape of me playing which she promised to send back but never has so I got nasty before I had to give up. Last one was a postcard of a guy giving the middle-finger salute, I saw Kev on his way back from work and he read it and said “You could get done for stuff like that,” I smiled, “you don’t care do you,” I shook my head softly and said “No” as I put it in the post box.

ENOUGH. Ouch. When I stopped taking the anti-depressants, the next day after I got back from the pub I drank a litre of vodka and wrote that first letter to your good self, and thats where the story really starts. Mmm. Listening to Buddy Guy, drinking bloody mary’s. I make ’em really strong, not just vodka-wise, half a lemon, loads of black pepper, loads and loads of worcester and tabasco, they burn yer mouth out ‘n pack a hell of a punch. They’re not ring-stingers the next day though, for some reason. I got into ’em last year when I was having my breakdown/shutdown, two in a fucking year, but I’ve never done things by halves have I. I made Keith one once and made it weak compared to mine, he took a swig and was jumping up and down with smoke coming out of his ears and steam coming off the top of his head going “you bastard, you bastard.” He made me drink some to prove I hadn’t done it on purpose and told him that he didn’t want to taste mine ‘cos it was 4 times as hot. The ring-tone on my phone is Scotland The Brave, da-da da-da-da da-da.

Trying to drink that fucking bitch off my mind. Don’t know if I’m going out or not, see which way the wind blows. Hoopla! I keep forgetting that I’m bankrupt, it doesn’t mean a fucking thing to me. And now as the beautiful madness intensifies I am eating my fucking cactus. But I had to stop, ‘cos I got caught, cactus interuptus. Nought but nice, naughty nightie. Pie germans. almighty whitie. Blooping spoon. Funk fructating evacuation, can’t eat. Spoo. Black Sabbath again, the whistler is happy but not happy, what is this that stands before me? Turn around quick and start to run, ooh noo! I can explain everything if anyone wants two, no, Satan. It’s only punk slowed down, you know.

D’ya remember the germ theory about not washing yer hands and eating mud, noddy, and not worrying about it, well I still believe, ‘cos we are everything, in the same enormous bucket with a head on but no froth, thanks. Must be o.k. ‘cos I’m not dead yet, still miss Mark, don’t you. Beads of bliss erupting vests of us. Laver lover. It’s so strange being crazy but I wouldn’t want to be sane, that’s worse. I drink and the words, madness and fluid comes pouring out of my paws, petty floors. Will tell you about being upside-down, done it, it’s good. It’s all going down in the book, that’s one of Keith’s. Off the top of my head, off my fucking face. The fridges have been found, there’s going to be a spot of bother.

Lower down. Sticky end. Riffs galore. Ozzy intones. Head bangs. Blue fish. Big one. Diamond geezer. Skunk soon. I hope. Can wait. Flash fridge. Paranoid now. Whistling along. In Whitby. Thrown in. For jolly. Jelly bag. Sabbath again. Planet Caravan. A Favourite. She used my heart as an ashtray, captain, but she didn’t want to know. Fuck it, fuck it all, turn it up, bring on the intensity, you cunts. Hat trick. Getting violent. Going out. Sweet Leaf. Abundance. Union. U can’t bend it. We are the insane, matey pops. We sail through endless skies, the stars shine like eyes – Planet Caravan. Off out. Thrice.

I can’t really take much more of this, I can’t handle it anymore on my own and there’s only one way out, thru the door beyond the vale of tears. I can’t take much more of this lonely room and me on my own, alone and lonely. Got tears in my eyes when they were talking about xmas tonight, Steve the barman held my hand ‘cos he saw me go. I’m sobbing my heart out still, like a baby and I’ve just had enough, I either kill myself or kick off, or what. I don’t know, can anyone help me. The pain gets too much and I don’t know what else to do but get so pissed that I either hurt some silly cunt or come back here and try to cry it away. Oh Fuck. Turn the music up. Eat or die. Eat, eat, eat. Die, die, die. I don’t want to die just yet, I’ve got more letters to write, more songs to sing. Kiss my arse and die. I’m a fool who has wasted his life and am gonna die alone and lonely. Ruth, where are you?

Oh fuck it all. I’ve got lots of friends and the Music Port World Music festival is coming up soon – 24, 25, 26 of October and I’m heavily involved in it but I’m fucked in the head and am scared of letting them all down, got to conquer fear and get on with it but it’s the hardest thing I’ve ever done in my life and I don’t know how to do it. I was sat next to one of my friends tonight, she’s in her 80’s, lost her sister this year, and she said to me, “I don’t understand how you are still on your own, a good looking lad like you” and I had to admit that I can’t understand it either. Oh fucking hell, bollocks to it all, I’m a head-case but… fuck it all, can’t take anymore. Vodka, vodka, vodka. I’ll be dead soon, soon, soon, so bless you all, I’ve only got love in my heart. Madness, suicide and death. Enough of it to fill my craw for several lifetimes.


Gonna have to shout at the walls at the top of my voice and hit it with sticks and turn the music up. But what is music anymore, I’ve lost with my music and everything. Someone help me. I can’t handle being like this, I can’t cope with coming back here to emptiness and being like this anymore. I just want the pain to go away. Watching tear-drops fall from my eye. Want to cut myself and set alight to myself at the same time. Oh fucking bollocks. Repetition. The three R’s as Mark E Smith said, Repetition, repetition, repetition, wish I had someone I could talk to. Eat shit and die Ruth. Bad times. Wish they would go away. Phleging out the window. Sick of it, sick of it all. Wish I could tell someone right now. I’ll be o.k. but what is there going to be left of me to be O.K. about. I don’t know. Shrug, fiend. No, no, no. Help, helpless. What do you do and where do you go, I mean me. ME. HELP. ME. BOLLOCKS. I’ll be o.k., vodka, pass out, minimise the damage to me, to my soul but have to face it all tomorrow and carry-on. Blighted. By it all. Made to feel like what’s going on inside me is silly and insignificant. What do I need to do to prove to someone how much I am suffering. Do I need to cut my own head off in the supermarket to say, ok this is it, I’ve had enough, I can’t take anymore. No-one understands, no-one is there, are they? Flip. Flipped. Fucked-up. Arse boo by bow heathen strap. You called it what? Some time no good. I’ll get thru this but I don’t know how or why. Fix us a fictitious fish and get on with it ‘cos that silly donkey won’t bray and I can’t bray it. Talking to myself. Past it. Enough is enough. But the trouble is, is that I don’t know anymore.

I am lowering the harness now. Treacle trouble, bob, bobbing. Jib, jab, job, jap. He ate his hernia. Ok squat fingers, I’m on. On one. Fucking am on one, on several. Impact, infact. Floss can do, you 2. The black night sighs, B.S. I got the fear, everything is wrong. Gone wrong, wrong gone. Warm gun, the soft end, viv. Lost in the Wheels Of Confusion, at the Black Sabb agin, fucking powerful fucking stuff, had the air guitar out with hair flowing, fuck. Chuck, I’m still lonely but music like this takes some of the fucking pain away, exceptional. Fundamental rectum. One classic fucking riff after another and Ozzy on the top. I’m not dead but I don’t quite know how. I know somethin’s coming, I can feel it, but I don’t know what it is. I’m fucking ready though, never been more ready in my entire fucking life. I’m going through changes. I’m crying again, when’s it gonna stop. Ozzy the fucking poetic star. Who’s playing the organ? Organza! Can U die cypher? What a lot of rot. Old rot. Rotten twat, touch of the Wyatts. Whip me with yer phlegm, I’m a lesbian. From Lesbia. Need to get electric again. Electrified to compliment acoustic city. And when I do god help us all. That fucking stupid bastard who doesn’t exist.

One day I walked into a pub, last year and Liz behind the bar said “You look better”, I said “I feel better”, she replied “God help us all.” ROCK! Whitby is wobbling and I’m still fucking whistling. Got to thank you for that. Bless you sire. Keeping me alive, fucking hell. Insane 2B. Wasp. Waste. Jiggling talents not lost. Two bloody mary’s and just found a diamond white, that Keith gave me the other day, in the fridge so I’m gonna neck that and see what the fuck happens. Too Me. Ik ben gek, Ik ben grote gek. I am mad in Dutch, I am very mad. But you know that.

All the ducks are swimming in the water. Daddy’s dick is mother’s comfort, proust. Off out.

Got smashed on vodka with Keith. Had rain storm. He stripped off to his undies, borrowed my soap and had a shower in the back yard in the rain. Blasting Sabbath – got complaint.

He stuck a doll to my mirror and gave me a garden gnome. I’m trying to pretend that everything’s o.k. when it isn’t. How can some one stupid, unfaithful, evil bitch destroy a person down to the heart and soul, torn apart. I know, I’m afraid. I’m trying to put myself back together but there appears to be some pieces missing.

I’m still having trouble with the fact that I’m never going to see her again and it’s difficult believing that I let her treat me like she did. One day melts into the next in a big blur and I’m struggling with myself. Cheese on toast? No thanks. Next! Trust me I’m a doctor. Ha. Shite. Moo. Bleep and booster. Wigs + Ponds. And Mrs. Marples’ Fin-Bags.

– The Doctor. X.

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