Down The Lane - 11/19 September 2003 / part 1
D.K.R.
phew, thank fuck, the fucking intense attack of loneliness has lifted, may be back tomorrow but I don't mind
if I can enjoy it while it's away. Rant, rump, runt, ramp. Ling. Conger. Vodka/hash interlude. For the rest
of my life I hope. Hop or rope. Is that your watermelon, can I exchange it for a bit of fish-wrapper? Crab.
Eel. My mates room is full of fridges now but there's no fucking way I'm looking in any of the cunts, even
when he threatened to shoot me. I don't eat anything when I go round to his place anymore.
Think I've finally got the key to the blues, but it's avery painful experience to go through 'cos it's all a bit too near the knuckle at the moment, but am going thru and will come out the other side with some magic music as ever, ha. Ruth keeps appearing in my dreams and it's very disturbing, but the only way to get thru it is to go thru it, painfully. Supped another barrel of Cross Buttock in the week, I got the last pint. There were many jokes about it, obviously, but the best one was when Steve the barman, who's only 18, said this to a really beefy, shaven-headed Teesider and his reaction.
Beefy - "Pint of Cross Buttock."
Steve - "Certainly Sir, would you like the left one, the right one, or the rusty bullet-hole?"
Beefy - "You fuckin' wot? You trying to say I'm fucking gay like or wot? Grr Grrr."
Ha-ha, Luckily I wasn't around 'cos I don't think my fits of laughter would have helped the situation any. Had a mad day/night in there last night, a guy from Ireland who is a great singer/guitarist is here, he turns up occasionally, we were totally pissed and stoned and singing and playing. He had some amyl (remember our amyl nights dancing like crazed machines) and we kept going to the bog and getting blasted on it and laughing fit to bust and going back having to act like we were'nt totally off our fucking maps. We were staggering around sniffing and laughing in the yard with the manageress laughing her tits off at us, with him going "We've got to act sober when we get back in there." And we did. Sort of. In our own way. He was impressively manic.
I heard everything, saw everything and said nowt, as usual. And laffed beneath the trees of my mind, that's one of yours you know. Full moon madness on the lunatic cycle again. Nostrils damned us. Gods fur dinger. Elastoplastic variations sensitive. To pain weighs. Us fur dinner. Claptrap open vents. Too much glue. Fur gloves aloft. We don't want any more cake, we want the fucking knife. Another one of yours I believe Sir, never a truer word said ingest. My fucking powers of endurance are being tested to the limits over this head-fuck crap. Hurt by a woman. Twice bitten, thrice shy. I have to force myself to point myself in the right direction and just carry on. Don't know how I'm getting thru it but I am. Well yes I do, it's the usual, alcohol and ganj, the twin poles of my existence, and fucking will power and sheer fucking bloody mindedness. Blundering around. Wobbling, bob. Wobbling around the town like the crazy cunt that I am. One day in the pub, Kev the barman was talking to someone and saying as he pointed round the room - "I'm a nutter, and he's a nutter, and he's a nutter, etc." Ha Ha Ha. Hee Hee Hee. Ho Ho Ho.
