famous last words

It’s

Katya's

fault. She started me on the whole weekend loss thing this morning and it’s gone down hill ever since….

I’m dying you see, that is I have a runny nose, sore throat and itchy eyes. I know it sounds like a head cold, but I’m a man, and those are all signs of impending death. I will feel sorry for myself to such an extent that eventually I’ll slip into a catatonic state and if I don’t actually die I’ll disappear, groaning and complaining into my own arse. (Is it Spike Milligan’s head stone that says something like “I told you I was ill” written on it?)

Not that it was a particularly brilliant weekend. I spent most of it chasing a hockey ball around, so now I’m stiff as well as very, very, very ill. The highlight was the Rioja festival, sponsored by yours truly, who had 24 bottles delivered and I’d just like to take this opportunity to thank all of my friends for selflessly helping me to finish the weekend with just the few bottles that I hid in the airing cupboard. Well done you miserable, freeloading bastards!! (ps whoever drank the 1981, I want you to know that particular bottle wasn’t part of the sampling experience, I know that you know, and I still have the bottle – I will find you and I will insert the bottle into the orifice of my choice).

Other than that it was quiet really.

In view of my imminent demise I really wanted to put down a few defining likes, dislikes – you know, for posterity, but everything seems to have conspired to make today as miserable as possible and now I’m feeling so sorry for myself that it’s hard to concentrate. It was sticky last night, or at least I was, and I made the mistake of leaving the bedroom door open so this morning I woke up whispering sweet nothings to the wrong end of a Spaniel. I really wanted to change the bed, which I did, and just for a moment I thought I’d found a new method of putting the cover on the duvet, a quick easy way, but of course that was a load of bollocks and I ended up tearing it, and swearing at it, which in turn scared the dogs (who are still looking at me with the “is it okay dad?” eyes). And all I really wanted to do was sit, with some comfort food and watch the football, (and just maybe have a glass or two of one of the few remaining bottles of red wine that the herd of Bactrian camels who call themselves friends didn’t hoover into their maws at the weekend, damn their sclerotic livers). But nooo, guess who didn’t make it to the shops at the weekend, and had to make do with elderly green beans, broccoli and smoked mackerel. Incredibly healthy and about as comforting as sitting next to a nervous stranger on the W8 bus wearing a rucksack and yashmack and reading out loud from the Koran. There was a single, beautiful, bread roll, soft and brown and encrusted with sparkling, jet, poppy seed, which I dropped and knee-punted under the fridge….and I NEVER want to look down there again.

So I’m feeling a bit random, instead of a 100 things I’m just going to shake my head and see what falls out:

I love blues music. In fact I’m a bit of a moody git at times and I figure that if a mood is worth having it’s worth indulging, and there’s an appropriate type of music and a bottle of something to keep it company.

My body is a temple, and somewhere along the line I’ve wee wee’d in the font.

I’d still like to have children.

Ugliness makes me despair. That’s not any physical characteristic, but I feel so bloody helpless in the face meanness, thoughtlessness, cruelty, poverty, intolerant stupidity it makes want to weep.

My body means to let me down whenever it gets a chance. (I once raced after a girl who I’d never seen before and tapped her on the shoulder, my mind was ready to deliver irrefutable proof of my love and devotion, but my body blew a snot bubble instead).

I fall in love on public transport, to girls I’ll never speak to or see again.

I have four friends (not you, you wine swilling ingrates), two of them have four legs.

Other people seem to have better memories of my life than I do.

I’ve been in love, and been loved.

I have mastered the double flush technique of going to the toilet discreetly in other people’s homes.

I want to know what happened to childhood? It seems to finish when you’re twelve these days.

Kissing is the most intimate thing you can do.

Mozart was a genius but Bach had a heart.

I can not believe in a god, it feels like an abrogation of responsibility, I don’t want to blame any of the world’s ills on a third party, or credit him (sic) with the good that we do, it’s up to us.

I have a dictum that I’ve found I can live my life by, “I will not be responsible for anyone else’s unhappiness”. It’s a cracking get out clause.

Cereal for dinner is a perfectly acceptable choice.

People in pubs people ask me how I am so that they can tell me how they are.

I’ve run out of friend’s friends - that is I’m not asked to dinner anymore to meet terribly nice friends of my friends, for which I’m very grateful.

There is something wrong with everyone who is looking for someone on the internet that’s why they (we) are there…thanks for reminding me

Bea

Hair is my thing.