Pigs And Wands - 23/28 September 2003 / part 1
fUCKING hELL mATE,
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).
