Feel Sick And Dirty, More Dead Than Alive

Today I got in a wild paranoid funk that ended up wasting the greater part of my afternoon. So paranoid was I that I missed a crucial episode of Neighbours.

What triggered it was the black helicopter that sat hovering directly above my house for two and a half hours.

I had this morning, as I have been doing every morning this past fortnight, risen when my TV switched itself on to coincide with the start of The Jeremy Kyle Show. After it was over I turned the tele off for some quiet time before This Morning started. It was then I heard it, the distant but nevertheless distinctive sound of a hovering helicopter, a hum like that of a mechanical mosquito.

I went out into the back garden and looked up at it. There it hung, glinting a little in the late morning sun. I went back inside and took from my cutlery drawer my novelty Batman Telescope that I got free of the cover of Tiger Beat many moons ago.

This Batman Telescope, being free thus shite, did not reveal much, except to say there were no markings on the thing, and it were a slightly dull blacky silver. I found this very perturbing.

I went back inside shaking my head and devising a plan, a plan that did not take much time in piecing itself together inside my mind. I would try to get a rise out of the sky creeps by getting the big iron pipe Party Time kept under his pillow and pointing it at them like it were a rifle (they probably wouldn't've been able to tell from up there), see if they fucked off or what.

I went upstairs and got it and brought it outside and stood there with it pointed in the air for a good five minutes till my arms got sore. The helicopter did not move, but the light of the day glinted again and again of its side, having a semi hypnotic effect on me.

Then some clouds passed along by it and I couldn't tell if it were gliding off or the clouds floating by were just giving it the illusion it were. But when the clouds passed fully the helicopter took off at great speed and disappeared over Black's Mountain, outta site.

All day I had dark surmisings go through my head, a jittery nauseating fear course through my being, a feeling like my whole body were experiencing butterflies. I did a little research on the net about Black Helicopters and drew the conclusion 'they' were trying out a sound weapon on me to test its effectiveness.

I nearly cried when it got near dinner time and still I could think of nothing else. It felt as if my head mechanisms had been thrown into flux and were unspooling all over the insides of my skull like an old fashioned playback machine going haywire and sending its magnetic cassette tape out in great spastics of twisting, twisting confusion.

It got so I'd to call someone up and get a bag a weed to try and calm the seas of my psyche, but I am still waiting for the bastard who said he'd be here at half 8, but there's been no sign yet...

I Flatter And Am Flattered Too Easily

Last night I’d a dream I was taking a piddle and my bell-end fell off. I stood and looked at it for the longest time when this little tiny arm popped out of the hole, elbow first, does this big stretch, then the arm, this whole arm, begins to grow in size so it was eventually a lot bigger than I was, by around 6 times. Then it begins to wank ME off till I swell up like someone on steroids and boke up about two buckets’ worth of cum.

Then through no rhyme or reason (as is so common in dreams) I am transported to a time in the not so distant future when the Lights Have All Gone Out. I am sitting in my kitchen reading 'Witchcraft and Black Magic' by Montague Summers.

I have a feeling I am going to start some sort of After The Bomb Fell type cult. By me on the floor lies Kimba her stomach hollowed out and filled with water with goldfish swimming about in it. Out the window I can see UFOs, many of them, dart about firing proton torpedoes back and forth engaged in some epic dogfight. One of the UFOs is hit and falls at speed toward my house. The fear and shock defibrillates me awake.

Downstairs I can hear this song playing:

I get up and go downstairs going toward the music which sounds like it is coming from somewhere other than the living room, - which is where I would expect it to come from as that’s where I have my record player.

But it is coming from the kitchen so I go in there and the turntable is sitting on the table, record spinning. A letter is propped up against it. The letter reads:

“Danny,

I am so sad in this relationship. As the song says: Love don’t live here anymore.

You have taken me for granted for the last time and you have betrayed me for the last time. I know you are in a homosexual relationship with one or more of your friends. At the same time I know I have cheapened your love for me by cheating on you, but this is usually in response to your infidelity.

I refuse to reduce and sully myself any longer in reaction to your dishonesty.

I’ll see you around,

Kimba
x”

I sat and thought on this all afternoon. At some point between Loose Women and Neighbours I went to get my weed, which I keep behind in the breadbin in the kitchen. I reached back there and I took out my little coin bag (the ones you get in the bank, what I get my deals in) and found it empty except for a little post-it note folded in half, which read:

“I have flushed your weed down the toilet. Kimba ”

The remainder of the afternoon then I spent devising ways to get revenge on her. I decided on getting incense sticks, dipping them in glue, then sticking them into Boke the cat’s fortnight old litter tray (sure as fuck I didn’t give a fuck about that cat). I would put them in there, good and deep, twist em round a bit to make sure they got covered in the gritty litter she uses. I would do a dozen incense sticks this way. Then I would put them in a little box and print up a label which read “Nature’s Incense” or something and stick it on the box. Then I would send this little box to Kimba’s Satanic Cultist adoptive parents and attach a note saying it were from her for their anniversary, which I knew were week after next.

Then...out-of-the-blue...I realised I’d grown attached to the peculiar bitch and I couldn’t bear to let her go. And so I sat down to write my own letter begging for her to come back home. Back into my arms where she belonged. But the first steps taken in drafting such a heartfelt appeal were bolstered by the plagiarised lines of others...and so I wrote:

“...and regarding my infidelity I have but only myself to blame, sweetheart. I flatter and am flattered too easily.* But the taxing way of adjusting to all the thoughts that you reveal, only incites me to motion well that’s the crux of your appeal...**"

* Richard Burton in a letter to Liz Taylor.

** Mike Nesmith – Wax Minute:

Nothing Is Worth Too Much Sacrifice/Life Is Nice/Put Me On

I am still marooned on my ma's Lipstick Pink PVC sofa with my foot in plaster. Earlier I though I was getting deep vein thrombosis in my calf muscle. That head-the-ball nurse with all the flappy handed excitement-at-nothing has wrapped the plaster too tight. I’d to hop over to mother’s toolbox, which she keeps under the sink, to get a good heavy pair of scissors out and split the fucker up the back, freeing my fat calf, which burst forth like the multiple collapsible backs of an obese woman being unzipped from a cat suit.

After giving myself a good scratch – one of those ones you start at one end of your leg and chase it up yourself to your head – I rummaged around in the toolbox to see what she had in there (I was looking for glue) and found a tiny spiral notepad with the words ‘MY ENEMIES’ printed on it in the A-Team font.



Inside were the names of people I knew and people I didn’t. Also included in the list where groups and abstract things. The Holy Ghost was one. The Government another. Lee Marvin and The Directors of the Films of Lee Marvin made for a perturbing entry.

I took the book back to my perch on the Lipstick Pink sofa and flicked through it. I was surprised by some of the entries. There was one, this harmless twisty faced old cripple, who you see most days walking up and down the main road on this high tech chrome Zimmer frame. Its like its spring loaded. Beside his name, which is Steeky McGrath, she has written the reason for why he is her enemy.

‘A few years back’ she writes, ‘I was meant to meet McGrath in the car park of the local Crazy Prices to buy some weed of him. He turned up half-an-hour late and when he did he threw the bag of weed at my feet and spat on it. --- How To Get Him Back (in red): I don’t think he’s really crippled. I am going to follow him some afternoon. I bet he is moonlighting as a window cleaner. I will tell the brew and he’ll be done.’

I ruminated on this for a bit. I remembered seeing McGrath around the place where ma lived. I remembered him always jerking about and spasming. One time I saw both his arms shoot out either side of him and his shoulders go. He looked like a spastic doing the robot. A little bit like this:


A number of years ago he was charged with manslaughter and criminal damage to a petrol station. He was walking past the garage smoking a fag and the hand that held the fag shot out and he tossed the fag right at the feet of a local blowhard Orangeman who was filling his car up. The petrol ignited, blew up the tank, the car, and blew the blowhard Orangeman to bits.

He was found not guilty, but not before ma took the stand pretending to be a witness to the whole thing, saying she witnessed Steeky McGrath standing aiming the fag at the blowhard Orangeman like a dart player does just before he’s about to throw his dart.

But the judge didn’t believe her, the court psychiatrist thought she was a fantasist, and as she were the key witness they threw it out of court, and McGrath was let off on diminished responsibility due to his being a spastic.

Here is how I’ve been feeling today (1st song – When The Chips Are Down by Paul Siebel. Who's better than Bob Dylan imo):