30 November 2004

A Vigil for the sick.

As I type these insignificant words, my fingers tremble on the keys of my ancient apple mac. A dear friend hangs between life and death, the grim reaper sharpening his scythe, while the good angels stand guard like over his ailing frame like security guards in a lesbian nightclub. An apendicitis, a session under the surgeon's knife, then avoidance of the MRA bug, not to mention bedpans, hospital food, and probing in places that didn't even exist in medical text books before 1975. Still, the morphine suppositories are a plus.

I would ask you all to stop what you are doing and join me in a moment of prayer for Neil; a vigil for one of our own. The loss of a potenial customer is always a bleak moment. Especially when they run your website.
Get well soon Neil, not just for my convenience, but so that you may live a long and fruitful life, filled with spiritual joy and fiduciary rewards. It would be terribly embarrassing to put me in the position of having to go after your mother to recover your fee at a time like this...you know John Peel's publisher probably feels the same.
Nope, there's only one thing for it. Full recovery. Enjoy the morphine, and try to get some for me too.
Your caring friend and sometime mentor,

John

29 November 2004

The Monday Morning Siren

The Monday Morning Siren

As a child growing up in Wokingham - the country's safest Tory seat, and
home of the nation's highest average life expectancy, Monday morning's
serene middle class calm would be pierced at 10am by the Broadmoor Siren.
Crowthorne's very own Victorian hospital for the Criminally Insane, testing
it's escape alarm, sending a dark cloud of fear across Wokingham's sunlit
torpor. Don't really know why I'm mentioning this, apart from the fact that
it's Monday morning. Quite a few 'loonies' escaped as far as I remember -
one actually made a run for it down the high street, grabbed a baby from a
pram, and dashed it's brains out against a wall. Ah childhood memories,
golden days.
Well I must be off up the road in a moment of retrieve my little bundle of
joy from nursery...She's more likely to dash my brains out against the wall
I think.
Spent an idyllic afternoon yesterday in the company of one Mr Jim Reid and
his attractive young family. Reid you may remember, was once a singer of
sorts with the Jesus and Mary Chain. As a matter of interest to my more
socially interested readers, he comes from East Kilbride - Which has the
nation's lowest average life expectancy...possibly something to do with his
once suicidally degenerate appetites.
The point of this Hello magazine luvvies story, is that where once, our
meeting socially would result in binge drinking, visits from the narcotics
vendor and several days recovery time, yesterday's episode revolved around
entertaining our children, drinking tea and chatting about mortality.
To people below a certain age, this may sound trite, vaguely sad or deeply
sickening. However, those of us who have toppled over the brow of the hill
should see this as deeply life affirming and heart warming.
It is important to add however, that had our children and moral guardians
not been present, alcohol and substance abuse might have been the order of
the day. Or stronger tea at least.

26 November 2004

Hats etc.

Friday afternoon. I'm at work - yes, I do have a part time job. It's a bit of a necessity, this money thing - especially now.

I think I'm going to go out for a walk - some visual stimulation. The trinkets of Portobello and Goldborne Road, eye candy. The last couple of times I did this, I came back with a Fez and a Pith helmet. I will have to upgrade the Fez though, it looks like it was made for a childrens' pantomime production, not an Istanbul sweatshop at the turn of the century. Until you actually acquire such an esoteric piece of head gear, you have no idea about how much you have always needed to own one. Not having a particularly good Fez is now a dagger in my heart. A fucking embarrassment.

My wife has taken to hiding booze from me. That's a bit bloody tight. It's not that I am a raging alcoholic - a medium binge drinker (I'm so up to date). No, it's the fact that she wants it for herself, to nip at half-heartedly. What is the point of drinking one glass of wine in an evening? If the truth be told, wine tastes awful, it's only the effect that makes it pleasurable. One glass is like a quarter of a wank...or something. Perhaps this is a little too revealing about my character... a chronic alcohol fuelled masturbator. It does bother me though. Once you make it clear that you are hiding something from somebody, it's highly probable that they will attempt to discover where, then consume it as punishment. Which I did.

Anyway, I'm off to look at hats.

10 November 2004

More on Ufton Nervet

Sorry, but I am quite interested in this...being local and having an unhealthy fascination with disasters involving machinery, natural disasters, most forms of misfortune in fact.

On my walk up to the bank in Notting Hill to pay in my better late than never cheque from the Erotic Review, I bumped into my old friend Nick Sanderson, late of Earl Brutus and another Jesus and Mary Chain sticksman. Nick has become a train driver...really. Waterloo to Little Hampton I think it is. What a stroke of luck. What a life, rock singer, train driver...both with high mortality rates. I wonder if his passengers would be terrified if they knew who was driving the train. He's written a song called 'Train driver in eye liner'. Class.

People of the world rise up

That was just to get your attention. I have no intention of rising up out of my chair, except to go to the lavatory at some point...and possibly to make a cup of tea. Feeling particularly lethargic today, and horribly hungover. A week of not smoking, and my lungs are beginning to offer up their treasure. Thick stale grey phlegm that's been down there for donkeys years. It's not even the ripe luminous snot of a heavy cold - just old bile from down below...dislodged from it's resting place. Rejected, evicted, made homeless by my poncey new health regime. Refugee bile, sadly making it's way with it's few belongings, and no destination. Perhaps there's a united nations bucket somewhere. I could organise a concert ... Snot Aid... Everyone would take part, a charity single. The Christmas number one. I've got a headache too ...not that I've ever suffered from hypochondria or anything.

I wish I was at Ufton Nervet watching the trains go by...fully clothed, no crashes, just my daughter on my shoulders as the lights flash and the barriers fall. She is roaring with excitement. She waves at the train. We clearly see the driver and some passengers wave back. Ava is delighted. She thinks she's just seen Gordon from Thomas The Tank Engine. Ufton Nervet Level Crossing was her favourite place. Now it's been spoiled...to most people's way of thinking anyway. Next time we go there, people will think we're being ghoulish....or we'll bump into the relatives of the dead who are making the pilgrimage to lay flowers and come to terms with their loss. Maybe we'll meet the dead, gathering themselves up and walking up the lanes...the country side is full of them.
TTFN


08 November 2004

Ladies and Gentlemen, we have lift off

Apologies for the slightly American sounding subject matter, but we had to start somewhere. This is of course more of a test message than a proper communication to my legions of fans throughout the spirit world. I have been greatly assisted in my endeavour to communicate with you all, by my good young friend Neil, who fortuitously was born a mere twenty five years ago, and has knowledge of computer systems.

As with all great money making/ public enlightenment ventures, mistakes will undoubtedly be made, but I would like to make a promise to you all - I'm doing my fuckin' best, so please be patient.

Love is the the law,

John Moore x



Enter your e-mail address to receive occasional updates