Pigs And Wands - 23/28 September 2003 / part 2
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.
