Sire,
Vaseline, germaline and vicks, that’s Keith’s winter survival kit. The leaves are falling from the trees, the sun is much lower in the sky. I’m stoned and wondering about this ‘n that, no music on, listening to the clock tick and the fridge gurgling and the noises of the house, time for a bit of thinking. Spent a week without going to the pub, they phoned the other night to see if I was o.k. and I had to promise to be in tonight, will get shot if I don’t. Am ready for it again, oh yes, let’s get mental. With a little help from Miss hash and Miss vodka, the cutest little ladies you have ever seen, one’s a bit lumpy and the other one’s very transparent, but they are so beautiful, baby, beautiful. Happy days are here again… Just seen a gorgeous woman, quite posh looking, she gave me a nice look (can’t think why ‘cos I’m a scruff, flying jacket and torn jeans that I’ve been decorating in) but then I saw that she was walking a fucking poodle and I thought fucking hell how can anyone go out with a woman that’s got a fucking poodle! I’ve had a good few days of confronting things head-on and before that just got off me map for a few days and now it’s time to get off me trolley again, though I’ve got to finish off the picture rail for my friends tomorrow, so not such a mad one tonight. Nick Warren. Intensify. Blow-fish. Bloated blow-fish. Bus – loads of bloated blow-fish. What the fuck is a blow-fish? I know what a blue fish is, but what the fuck’s a blow-fish? Ikey-mo. Candles and incense, Nag champa. Strange rumbles in the jungle about silver chairs. Dark and mysterious ancient ways awaken and start to peer about, trying to make out what’s what.
Saw ‘The man we never see’ today or is there another one who we never see, I’m not sure but I don’t think so. He has a bicycle in the yard but never ever rides it, occasionally he’ll pump the tyres up and oil it but never rides it. Keith and I moved it from one side of the yard to t’other that morning we worshipped the cactus, even putting identicle oil-spots on the floor ‘cos he’d recently oiled it but I don’t think he’s noticed. He lives on the top floor opposite Irwen the Zombie, who sometimes can’t even say hello, poor bastard. Will write more about Irwen the Zombie ‘cos he’s not sinister like Peek-A-Boo-Man he’s just a zombie and he doesn’t do or say very much and when he does it’s very, very, slowly. Sounds like P.A.B.Man has been at it again, lots of strange noises from his gaff as ever. I just cover it up by putting music on.
Bowling – alley lane. Down it we go. Up or down. Nearly finished Joyce’s Ulysees, second time I’ve ever read it, needs a few times, gets better, U.p. Up. Strangely enough there was a thing on Radio 4 recently about a reading of it on C.D. She taught me how to yodel, yodel-eh-hee-dee yodel-eh-hee-dee. No she didn’t, she taught me how to feel like a piece of shit, dead shit. Or how about the theme tune of The Archers, are you ready boys and girls, one, two, three, da-da-da-da-da-da-da etc etc sky. Must be a presbyterian obviously. Blue loomers. Cass and Slide Remixes. Sometimes you have to push yourself, sometimes you have to push harder, sometimes this is heartbreak. She’s coming out of my mouth, she won’t shut up. Rendered incomprehensible by the vast digestive tract, or biscuits. Or another biscuit. Belch. “More tea vicar?” “No thanks just buns.”
Nicht Gebroken. Nothing is broken. Naughty priest. I suppose the infinite is infinite by definition. Or a deaf technician. Four-spring-duck-technique. Or another death, Leopold. Bibbly bobbly. Wibbly-wobbly world. We all walk the wibbly-wobbly walk. We all talk the wibbly-wobbly talk. We all wear wibbly-wobbly ties and wink at all the girls with wibbly-wobbly eyes….. And have a wibbly-wobbly feeling, yes a wibbly-wobbly feeling in the morning. That’s one of Chalky’s songs and he’s always fucking wibbly-wobbly, starts on the cider at six in the fucking morning and most days usually makes it out for a few on his route, slowly, with his stick, in his slippers. I saw him on the bridge one day and he stood there wibbly-wobbling on his stick and he said, “By, I don’t need no laxatives this morning when them fucking cannons went off”, and he toddled off. The Grand Turk had come in on the morning tide, blasting it’s cannons. I was sat next to him in the pub one day and Al turned from the bar and goes “Oh look at these two reprobates here, Old Chalky and Young Chalky.” Chalky replies, “I’m gonna wear a sign saying ‘Nowt To Do Wi’t’ Firm Nextdoor.” Unter den Linden. Doh. Fah. Blow wind blow. Underfloor central-heating as an implement of doom, or bloom? Lapp. It up. You Dancer.
One of my mates had a spot of bother in the pub and he offered this guy, who was gonna get his brother and cousins down from ‘Boro, “Get ’em and we’ll go for a dance on the beach”, the guy declined in the end ‘cos my mate is one fuck of a hard cunt. The next train for Giro Beach leaves at six fifteen, be on it. Beyond bee bonnet. In or out of. Friday’s fridge. “Hello, who’s in Friday’s fridge, lets have a look…” Corpuscles, red and white, platelets. Pieces of fish. Beyond. It. One of my friends has just had a liver transplant, he’s been waiting fucking ages, he’s come out of it okay, we’ve all got our fingers crossed for him coming out of intensive care safe and well. Frank Zappa, and the violin of a hurricane. Beaches of fists wailing into the sunset red over Sandsend. Beautiful blue fish with fists flying, knocking over October into the beautiful blue sunset of flying fish and fists wailing. Into it. Out of it. Actually it’s Don ‘Sugar Cane’ Harris on violin on the Zappa stuff but he sounds like a fucking hurricane.
When I went mad (ha!) last year I went for a few walks along the beach and just wanted to wade in and not come back, then one day I had ‘Directly From My Heart To You’ from ‘Weasels Ripped My Flesh’ by The Mothers, on my walkman up to 10, and took my Doc Marten Sandals off, and waded in, in my jeans etc, and wanted to come back, and did. Or what? You what? Tool eater. 2 litre. Having to have a hair of the dog at 1:15 Sat. afternoon ‘cos I felt so shit, looks like it’s gonna be another fucking mental Whitby Saturday.
Was drinking ‘Dogs Bollocks’ last night and it is the dogs bollocks, 5.2%. Starting to feel better, feeling warm waves of soothing vodka wash through my system and starting to smile. The Orb. Magic, captain, sat next to Chalky today, he sang Wibbly-Wobbly World for me, and it was, and we both were, and it still is. And he was complaining ‘cos a few weeks ago he had had a bit of a ‘do’ and had had enough, even though he was up at 3am and on the cider. Big Steve went to get something from down the yard and Chalky goes “He still thinks it’s tuppence a gallon”. Had to have dog hairs same time today (Sunday), feeling really down and an intense attack of loneliness. So been to pub for a while. Pouring it in and pouring it out. Mick and Angie both knew I wasn’t o.k. even though I said I was, the eyes have it. They are great people and I had a great talk with Angie and got a nice cuddle as I left. The Pogues. Ladies and Gentlemen, due to circumstances beyond our control, we bring you Liberace! 60 Watt.
Irish Dave was doing the whoo-whoo train sound whilst I was singing Mystery Train and I was struggling to sing for laughing. We laughed a lot, we usually do, he has a way of putting his head back and braying forth a manic maniac laugh which is very contagious, if you happen to catch it. Me Leather Fluke. One of those people that as soon as you see, you both burst out laughing, Badger is another one. U can’t bend it, or yacht varnish but be sure to rub under the flange. Dogs Wotsits going down nicely, Steve can say “Bollocks, Sir?” and I can say “Bollocks Landlord”.
Oh, the fun we have. “One of your Bollocks,” etc. Off my tits. Mrs Marples Fun-Bags. But can feel the loneliness there, hovering, stalking me, I’m only staving it off with alcohol and ganj. It will get me. A bend. We go. Basically we all go stark raving mad and meet a horrible death and thats it. But some of us live through it to kick another day into touch. And stop smelling paella, the death smell, that’s how the world will end, with a smell of paella, I like paella! But thee smell of smile of miles of rampant paella. That Day I Nearly Died with the smell of paella all around and everywhere As I said to Ruth, even though she couldn’t hear me, “I Love You and I can’t live without you,” ‘cos I didn’t think I could but obviously I can. If you can call this living. I am life on other planets. Sat with the heavy mob. One of ’em goes to help the bouncers with an awkward customer and comes back like it’s all just a big tea-party, which it was.
Do you agree with me? More Dogs Bollocks. Got totally fucked the other night and knew keith was writing on my feet but was too out of it to ken or care what he was writing. Transglobal Underground. When I put my socks on next day I noticed he’d written ‘foot’ on my right foot and ‘other foot’ on my left, I haven’t had a shower yet so it’s still there. Got fucked on skunk after the pub last night and woke up on my mates setee at 1:00. Should have been at the shop for 11 to sort stuff out after the festival at the weekend, but they’re cool, when I walked in at 1:30 looking rough as fuck Sue just burst out laughing at me.
I’m a complete idiot and it’s all slipping out of control and I don’t know where it’s going. Found her and lost her again. The gorgeous Lucy with the beautiful smile, back in Nottingham and I don’t know where to find her, but she knows where to find me if she wants. Wish she was here but she would just think that I’m a total idiot, which I am at the moment ‘cos I don’t know what the fuck I’m fucking doing. Hash – rock burns everywhere, fingers ‘n all. After-flash the rocket effect. meeting Lucy has helped my head over Ruth, but Lucy is lost, gone back to her world, while I’m still trying to find mine again. Stumbling blindly along, alone, in a stoned/drunken haze, up and down the lane, up and down the ally. Back way, tradesmans entrance. “oh yes please Mrs.” Spots all over the shop. Duo. Ditto. Plod-stomp. Yer fodder is getting odder as I crisp and crisp away. Will report back to front. Belly to belly. Paella tea party I can’t be bothered to cook. Can I? Yes I can. No I can’t. Oh I don’t know. I really, really don’t. I really don’t know. Anything, at all, really.
Oh don’t. It’s daft. it’s too daft. Daft craft. We use your lettuce for nowt. Chaos. Clocks backwards. I’m due this ‘cos I’ve worked really hard and everything has been amazing. I’ll tell you all about Musicport in my next epistle to your jolly good shelf. You elf. Next. One Two Three. …”Oh blimey, the giblets are soiled.” Cook captain. Two right. One off. Platipus Beginners Guide. Captain cod litter and the right hook. And the wrong peg in the wrong hole. Wrong hole? What’s wrong. Your serum that you dip in your tea, it’s finished. Shut. It’s in the frigid air. Closed down. Stopped. No more. Goulash. Irish champion. fix it. Not Before. Now. Normal. Normal? Flick it off. Not Normal? Normal service will be resumed as soon as possible? Impossible? A few shillings, what! Tuppence a gallon. Lonely and longing for Lucy, who I will probably never see again, but you never know. Mother, get up those stairs, it’s windy in the wendy-house. And all the rest of the chirrup. No buts though-but. Arbuthnot mumble. Easy now.
-Rev. Dr. P.J. Whistler Esq.
Pardon?
