Buenos
dias, Albert Quirky. Here I sit in this throbbing desert heat
with dust blowing into my eyeballs from all angles (well just 180
or so of them; I don't have eyes in the back of my head, y'know
li'l one). The rain is lashing down like a lashing lash lashing
down on my body like a lashed lash lashetty lash lash. The sun is
hot, as only suns and sun-like objects can be. My feet are wet
from a walk to a wankyposey pub, my stomach is full of alkyhol
and good food, my mind is whirling with happiness, and wonder at
how the fuck I can be happy. And more money just interrupting
this (dis?) missive to you. La vita, as they say, e bella. (Scuse
lack of accents, but I'm not an Italian, or an Italian speaker,
or one who remembers accents on films. If you think any less of
me, I can only apologise and offer up the testicle of your choice
for evil means).
I've
taken an exact replica of my record player speaker with one of
those pin things; if you don't know what I mean, I'm too Sunday
alkyholled up to explain. It just looks as if all the pins have
been pushed up, but you know and I know what it is. We are the
few, chosen by God to do our duty to God and to the queen, to
help other people and to keep the cub scout law, or whatever
doctrine is lurking deep in my deep dark deep mind, deeply baby
oh yeah, just say when. Should I play croquet or not, is the
question that haunts our deep dark psyches deep and dark haunting
like a haunting deep dark thing. Where would I play croquet, and
with what and whom also haunt deeply and darkly. Repetitive words
repeat themselves repetitively like a repetitive repeating thing.
Monkeys fly like only monkeys can, and paragraphs end.
I
am snatching a moment of free time where I can to give you a
slice of my brain (they say it's Lenin's brain, but it could just
be a bit of rabbit brain. I remember that. Why oh why oh why oh
why spells yoyoyoy). I have people all around knocking on doors,
not knocking on doors, arguing while I sleep, fucking while I
don't, whining, telling tales, shutting up when tales are to be
told, drinking, farting, being nice (shock? or just what should
be. I like them. Y'know, I do. They've got moxie). Welcome to the
jungle, Albert Quirky and Ian, the god of hellfire. Hellfire,
hellfire, hellfire. Little bit of evil. So how've you been? What
have you been up to? I'm bored. Tell me something cool. How's
everything going? You been doing anything of note? You never
really tell me anything about you. I don't really know the first
thing, about you or anyone. Should I feel hurt? Should I feel
with my hands or my tongue? Does that feel good? Really? Ok, I'll
do it again. You still like it? And again then. Not so much this
time? Ok, something new. What? Why do I ask the questions all the
time? Yes irony, I know. Football is so ironic, or rather, should
I say, everything is ironic in football. That's so ironic, Ron.
And ironically it was James who saved the corner. Irony, irony,
irony, my king prawn for some irony. I'm tired, I'm drunk, I'm
bored, I'm upset that I missed that bit of dream through waking
up. Yet yet yet, there's a bright side, Norman: if I didn't wake
up I wouldn't have remembered the dream. So be happy for small
mercies. Be happy I'm stopping now.