The Final Countdown

I can almost smell the filth of London’s shit strewn streets once again. No more the bucolic scent of horse manure and chemical fertiliser…Here comes good old dog shit, human excrement and puke. Piss, beer, diesel, degradation, meaningless sex ( with any luck), compromise and loneliness – I’m so excited.
I’ve had my utilities connected – as any man of my age and demeanor must. The credit checks passed without a whisper and I was resuckleded to the old motherly dugs of BT and British Gas – who apparently run the electricity as well – not that I’m intending to have any lights on. Candles and hurricane lamps will provide the ambience I require.
I trawled the charity shops of Wokingham today, searching for opulent things – the carelessly disgarded artefacts of people with more money than sense. Sadly I found nothing. No silk wall hangings, valuable ornaments of Persian rugs. I came away with one Angelina Ballerina dvd, one Little Mermaid Video and a rainbow coloured scarf. These items were not for me, but for the fruit of my loins – Ave the Rave. It’s half term dontcha know and she’s staying with me. We’re having a wonderful time – as we always do. My advice to parents is to let your children do whatever they want- within reason. Let them be wilful, messy, cheeky, downright rude – as long as it’s funny, and even let them fill your car with grass, pencil shavings, half sucked lollipops and wool. Can you really chastise a five year old for telling one to “Shut-Up you fat bellied old man or I’ll do a poo on your head.” We reap what we sow, and I take immense pride in my daughter’s precosious way with an insult. To stifle a child’s creative use of language with a clip around the ear would be to accept a nation of dullards. I don’t know about you, but I like scatalogical humour, rudeness, and references to bottoms, wee wee, poo poo, sick and bogeys…not when I write Love poetry obviously. The English language is wonderfully sophisticated, but these four things pretty much cut to the chase.
Why beat around the bush with irony, allusion and metaphor, when you could just describe everybody and everything in basic scatalogical terms. Try it tomorrow – at work, at home. Oh God – am I going on a bit? Well I’m immature and proud. Things that come out of the body and smell bad ARE funny – except when they are cancerous tumours…but even then…Anyway, I expect I have managed to excuse myself from ever being called upon to babysit your well-behaved offspring.
I am supposed to be going on tour next week – not in my own right thank god, but in the service of Old Haines. He believes that my saw playing will somehow save him a beating in the provinces – perhaps he just wants a saw on stage for it’s ability to behead bores. It’s all crept up a bit fast…I wish there was another week. Having lived at Mother’s for a year, I am less domesticated than ever – even in my teenage years. So, from the comfort of Burghfield, I’ll have two days to re-aclimatise myself to independent urban sophistication before being whisked off around the provinces to produce strange music from my thigh area. What about laundry – I haven’t done any for a year. What about food? It comes from the kitchen on a tray – Where is it found in the outside world? It is very frightening to think that in the next few days, I might find myself in some of the rougher parts of the UK, in boarding houses with dirty sheets, with ( I almost said ‘in’) landladies with a less than maternal interest in my well being. Then when I do return home, it will be to an empty flat with no welcome home bisto roast, a sour milk fridge, and bills. God, I hope I don’t seek solace in alcoholic beverages, narcotics and loose women. Again.