Twenty one, twenty three, me and you, you and me. The Sky. The Sea. The clouds are loud, and in a crowd. Dead house. And now for the shipping forecast, before we join the weird surface. Kidney stream. Bint. On a tripod, a glove. Wash the glove, bacon. Annex the coast t’ toaster. Wish it down with tea from’t china c’up. Had Pentangle on, now it’s a Platipus comp. (vol. 3). Iffy, iffy, let’s get squiffy. Put it yon side of temptation. Cider sensation. And now… Moo, belch, of course, it’s, (phonetic equivalent of), (speeded-up, farted-out, slowed-down), Meditive. U Wot? Fish issues, percolate. Horlics horticulture. * Mr. Gall. (The). Yo-Ho. The oven is on, ready for the bread, and maybe a fish-cake if you are lucky. But Samuel Beckett has ‘et it in mirth. Zgg. Either you die eating it, or you die anyway, so what the fucking fuck? Friggate. Toot huns. How much does that weigh? You fart, baa, stood. C’unt. W’allop. Andromeda. Clocks and dials. Fussy foot, fuzzy feet. Listening to Kosheen presents Drum ‘n’ Bass Reborn. Or another angry toenail. Or the dartford tunnel. Was it? External torment versus internal torment. One of it’s legs is both the same. How do you know that? Fag doubt.
The Xmas drugs fund is very healthy indeed and I’m looking forward to it this year ‘cos I’ve got a plan. My ambition is to get as many drugs as I can together and then get totally off my face for as long as I can. Oh there’s nothing new in that then is there? Got 2g’s of charlie and an OZ of skunk coming, someone should be bringing a bit of white widow from Holland, just need to find some good billy and I’m sorted. Get loads of booze in and I might just lock myself away, take the lot and report on the consequences. Bentley Rhythm Ace. His wife was chewing the carpet. I’m taking it wherever it’s leading me, down the garden path as usual. Gotta feel it in yer gut, get up and move yer butt. What’s the difference between a duck? Crab. Kumquat may. Nag Nag Nag. Throbbing Gristle 20 Jazz Funk Greats. Got ‘hurry-up’ sorted, 1/4oz of billie coming. Had a really harrowing experience and it’s been a fucking strange/unreal roller-coaster ride recently and X-Marse is gonna be traumatic, so to reduce turbulance I’m gonna get off me map! And Ruth can eat twat on toast. A boasting genré I’m not proud of but will get me by. Proudfoot by + by.
Musicport was amazing, I got totally involved and got paid. The atmosphere as ever, was great, really friendly and I met Lucy a really nice woman from Nottingham but didn’t manage to swap contact no’s. We had Transglobal Underground as headline act on the Sat. night and they were really fucking good. I didn’t know much about ’em but I really enjoyed it. Dance-based but with singers, sitar and dhol (drum) over the top. The sitar player was fucking gorgeous and the visuals were great. It was a local group of artists called Cloudbase who came in and transformed the venue with hangings, projections and art. They were filming it and projecting the images onto a big screen on the left-hand side of the stage and mixing in effects etc. There was a 4ft white balloon hung from the ceiling on the right-hand side and all the way thru Transglobal they had a loop of an eye projected on it, I didn’t know where to look, a total assault of sound, light and colour.
Got hurry-up sorted and going halves on 1/4 oz of charlie so will be cheaper and more, 3 1/2 grams. Whoo-hoo-eee! When I got home tonight there was a bag with a load of sprouts – on – the – stalk in it, I guess it’s from Keith, don’t really know but can’t think of anyone else. My they’re handsome sprouts, Mrs Nice! Just plucked all the sprouts off the stalk and left it leaning against Keith’s door so that when he opens the door the stalk will fall in… We’ll see. See me. My sleep pattern is fucked, I haven’t got one, it’s the medication, sleeplessness and sleepyness at the same time, strange. Should be in Holland this time of year like last 4 or 5 but not, for lots of reasons; money, Ruth (of course), and Reuben who came with us every year and who died this year and I can’t face going without him and other reasons. Laa laa laa. Tra la la. Oink. Moo. Blah. Microcosm/Macrocosm. Fillet ‘o’ Fish. Or another bucket full of tripe. Odd.
I tried to make a woman out of Ruth, she’ll never be anything but a whore, she can’t help herself. The best liar I’ve ever met and I should know.
Got funky skunk and billy whizz (paste), charlie won’t be here till Xmyarse. Might get nore billy ‘cos I reckon I might cane this lot, got to save the funk ‘cos there won’t be no more unless anyone else comes up with any.
I know I have to call a lot of people ‘my mate’ but it’s ‘cos I can’t name names y’know. Anyway, my mate has a mate staying and the last guy that came up got totally arseholed, had to be taken away and was ill for 3 days. He told the guy who’s just come up “It’s fuckin crazy up there, heavy, they’re all fackin big lads.” So he was gonna bring a gun with him but we talked him out of it. These guys are all street-wise Londoners n’all! It’s so quiet and laid back here, isn’t it? Ha. We know how to fucking party. There’s trouble like there is in Hull but you just stay out of those places if you don’t want it, but I’m protected here anyway. One of the main men of the firm has had to go on the run and we haven’t got used to it yet. Wish I could say more but I can’t. Keith was the sprout man, he put his hand to his crotch, cupped it and shouted “Yo Ho” at me from across the street, that meant he’d got the stalk. In a big, plastic, yellow, glass balloon, sky vault. Big pudding? Eh? You what? Led Zeppelin.
Oh, one thing and another, got a spliff on the go, it’s about 5am Saturday 6th, it’s stinking the fucking place out, need some more Nag Champa. I had a single skinner about 7:15pm last night and I got in about 4:30 am this morning and the fucking hallway fucking stunk of it. The Caretaker (Useless Eddie) lives next door and we are strictly not allowed (or allow our friends to) smoke drugs on the premises, there’s a notice in the hall saying so, the hall stunk of my ganja. Need to take some more billy to suss it but I had loads tonight and no real rushes or typical hurry-up tingling or effects and stuff, but it’s kept my eye on the ball all the time I was out and it’s still keeping me alert and awake. Oh I say. Bitter batter, drum solo by John ‘Bonzo’ Bonham, Moby Dick, off the 3CD Live Led Zep set I’ve just borrowed from my friend whom I cannot name. Frank. Lets be an. Aunt, auntie. Naughty nightie, negligible quantity. I think it’s almost banjo time, Peek-A-Boo-Man will love that. chuff chitty. Collapse. The Collapse. The Victory. The trials and tribulations of a chimp. The Ganesh madness. Monkey-boy. What on earth are you on about with your drum solos and then the guitar and bass coming back in and your chicken? I answered my own question backwards before I asked it. Oops. Ask Aspel, jim’ll fix it for you and you and you and yoo-hoo-hoo-hoo! Congo. Where’s wicked willy? There he is on the mantlepiece (I haven’t got a mantlepiece). Oh. Cor blimey. Banjo time… incredulous sphincters open about now. Don’t you know that? Lard’ll do. Someone was on about the size of their dick in the pub and Chalky just turned round and goes “If it’s ‘alf as big as yer gob it must be fucking massive!” Ha ha ha. Much mirth and merryment followed that comment. Caning this billie, it’s weird, no rushes, no tingling, it just puts you on that super silver, crystal highway until it wears off, eventually. Went back after the pub last night to a friends to smoke some skunk and walking back after with my mate to his, we were like a pinball machine, we bumped into each other and walls all the way back to his dwelling. Still thinking about that evil, stupid, bitch, Ruth, but it hurts less and less as time goes by, subtly, but there’s still quite a stretch of my sentence to serve out. Squiffy in a jiffy. Blip bloop. Chicken soup with a bit of fish thrown in just for good measure. Klup-a-sloop, asleep. Can’t Can. Born to shit myself (scared), scarred, born to loop, I was born to synthesize. I was born to get off my face and fuck loads of gorgeous women, what’s gone wrong? Two out of three aint bad, apparently. Fuck it. Fuck that for a game of soldiers, that’s just put the fucking cherry on the fucking Xmyarse cake. Kak. Wombat chutney on toasted twatological telescopic idea-o-phones, what. That billie is very subtle, it doesn’t grab you by the collar and go “OY, you cunt, I’m fucking here”, but it’s right there until it’s smoothly gone. ooh err.
Arse fridge chocolate curry etc…. poo, have you farted? Smells like dead rotten cabbage. Now you know why they call it skunk, just had a spliff for breakfast and it funks, it’s stinking the fucking place out. Like a wheel, going round and round. Turbo charged one pounded away. Happus clappus. My tea folly holly lolly vicar, dab. ‘A handful of nothing is all that I need, it contains plus or minus everything, I was born to synthesize’, Mona Lisa Overdrive. I was born to sin. All the ducks are swimming in the water. Gudgeon. Sprouts sprout sprouting sprouts. Shoot you sir. Happiness is a warm gun. Sprit sprat sproo. S-p-r-o-o-o-o-o. L. Gibberwish from the land of the gibber, I’ve spent some time there, eh Viv. Enough nonesense, I’m away to the banjo, fingering. Living cup. Wash bottle. Spliff tickle, pipe scratch the itch. Caning that fucking paste, cough (Arsenal), but (*****) who is visiting is a really nice guy and we get on well and we’re all having a good time so what the fuck. It’s a really nice feeling when good people visit, ‘cos you try to show ’em good things and a good time, so you end up looking at the place from a different angle and it’s a bit like being on holiday in yer own town. As Keith says, “Change the angle of the dangle.” Regurgitating invertebrates by the dozen, jamming my craw, banjolele fol-de-rol. Happy as a pig in Shropshire, how’s it hanging, you monkey?! Chicken-fish supper. I thank you. I’m fucked, not literally but banjo’d off my fucking beak. T.T.F.N.
And the fridge clicks on and hums and gurgles away like a radjed aquarium. Rhymes with badge. With or without? Within. From the sounds issuing down from upstairs it sounds like Peek-A-Boo-Man is dismembering another victim. Sounds like he’s doing Ready Steady Cook! I’m gonna put some music on and go to sleep otherwise I will have to go up there and strangle the toe-rag ‘cos it sounds like he’s dancing with the corpse. His floor/my ceiling. He’s been out to the bins, now he’s ‘cooking’. Fucking strange fucking noises coming down from up there. Trying to get anutha OZ of skunk ‘cos I’ve battered this cunt and caned the billy but replacement coming. Took less on Monday than I did over each day of the weekend and got more tingling etc and sleeplessness! Whats all that about then? Fucked if I know, fucked if I don’t.
Had a right fucking show the other night, (*****) had just left to crash, was me ‘n (*****) ‘n he was off his fucking face, so missed the show. These young-un’s came in, he looked at me funny, so I said, “What are you fucking looking at?”. (*****) left then ‘cos he was tired. I saw:- her skirt up round her waist, he was stroking cunt thru green gusset, he go pee, she show arse and cunt to her friend, talking, but me sat opposite saw all too, phew, till bouncer came and told her skirt to pull down. She said “Fuck. Off” etc – as he walked away but skirt was pulled back into place.
Cutting your skin and flesh and watching the blood flow is really addictive if you are in that place. I’ve bin dere ‘n dun it. And ‘d rather destroy myself with alcohol and drugs, it’s much more fun. Bob Dylan. Chalky listens to Radio 4, like I do, everything, Women’s Hour and You and Yours, one of his favourites, like mine, is ‘I’m Sorry I Haven’t A Clue’. Fluky moo. Bench. Cor Anglais. Zzzzz. Two little ducks. Moo. How do you think it feels? Plankton. (*****) goes home tomorrow, we’ve had a really good time but he needs a rest from the booze, his dad was ‘Harry H’ in the film Mcvicar – “Fackin’ Wedding Cake Again!”.
Another Friday night, little billy tonight, few vodkas, few spliffs, maybe go out for a few beers, we’ll see. Tom used to hate it when I said “We’ll see”, usually if he wanted to go somewhere to do something, he’d pull a sulky face and say “That means No”. Kippers. Kipper paté was nice but they stopped making the fucker a few years ago, nice on toast. Spoke to Cheryl a week or so ago and she said the letters were like Radio 4 to her and I thought that was fantastic and I told her that as soon as I got off the phone I was gonna write another letter, and I did and it was 21:23 when I got off the phone. Keith gave me a beautiful crystal last night, quartz and amethyst, he rang my bell about 11:20 last night and got me to answer the front door because he couldn’t be arsed to get his fucking keys out of his fucking pocket and wanted to know what it was like to have a fucking butler! Later on Jimbob came with some beers so we got mullered, fucking mullered, he and K. staggered upstairs eventually.
Gonna have another pipe of skunk and then attempt to play the banjo. Hears the shitting forecast and two dead men inside an elephant but that was fiction. Was that the elephant you fucked, that was forecast, I don’t think it was, that was a rubber pig. Ha! Watermelon Man. Flash Bang Scallop What A Pilchard. Ashamed of the sadness in my face, in my eyes and in my soul, looking like a complete idiot, I can’t even look at a woman properly (yet), how the fuck is a woman going to want to fucking look at me (yet). You’ve got a lot to answer for, Ruth, and I’ve got to answer to my stupidity, how could I have been so stupid to get involved and fall so deeply in love with you, I thought you were honest and sincere (I’m such a stupid twat), but I was led up the garden path yet again wasn’t I.
Smoking big spliff, vodka and orange, still feel billy. Piglets feeding. Feels strange. Is strange. Was strange. I feel strange. Yo!
– The Laughing Glo-stick Whitby Whistle.