31 October 2006

Rabbit Stew and Ashes

Finally I am back in London – living the life of a swinging bachelor. Actually tonight I’m in Burghfield because I had to come back to collect more things, then got caught in a two hour traffic jam on the M4, most of it spent adjacent to Slough sewage works, which was in a particularly volatile mood, then felt unable to do a stroke of work when finally I arrived at mother’s.

It had been my intention to collect certain items of mine that should only be carried in hours of darkness, for fear of provoking my new neighbours into forming a lynch mob and hanging me from the nearest lamp post….Actually I’m talking about amplifiers bloody great big ones – Fender Twins, electric guitars - loads of them and other sound generating devices capable of taking out most of central London while only turned up to three.
Can you imagine the horror of those living nearby, seeing me bringing these WMD’s into their midst. They’ll be ordering air strikes. Well I’ll just have to chance it. I need to get back before it gets dark, so I can prepare for my Halloween Black Mass – and because I’m picking my daughter up from school. Perhaps I could disguise them as shopping?

Anyway, the move was trouble free. No bones were broken and the place is taking shape very nicely thank you.. Needless to say, Haines made a miraculous recovery and was able to join me for a ‘Welcome to London, Let’s try to get banned from your new Local’, pint or three. Do you know what he brought me to make amends? What do rock musicians take round to the flats of other rock musicians??? Rocks? Chinese Rocks? Scotch on the Rocks?Guess again suckers. The answer is of course - Rabbit Stew. Rabbit stew in a Tupperware container that he wants back when I’ve finished with it. I tell you, we are beyond Satan.
Spent the evening at aforementioned boozer – there’ll be a dividend for shareholders this winter…and discovered a Comedy Club in the basement. Normally, the knowledge that standup comedians were operating in the area below us would be justification for concreting the place over – tonight though, we were lit up just enough to be interested, which was a stroke of luck. Daniel Kitson – the funniest thing…well person to be precise, I’ve ever seen. The fact that I can only remember the line ‘eggs and shit’ can not diminish the fact that I know he was brilliant.

A little incident to relate regarding the unpacking. Well as you might know, the manner in which I left my previous home….before mother’s, was not the pleasantest of affairs. I don’t want to dwell on the issue, suffice to say, my former wife did most of my packing. And very well considering the circumstances. Really she did an exceptional job, wrapping things in newspaper – rather than smashing them with a hammer. As I was unwrapping these newspaper packages, I was surprised – and quite excited to see that white powder seemed to be spilling from one of them….to come over all Rolf Harris again...( careful), ‘Can you guess what it was?’
You couldn’t be more wrong. ‘Twas my father’s ashes. Not all of them. Approximately ninety five percent of him has been scattered in the places he mentioned that he might like to be scattered, should it become necessary. I kept a little back, which I put in a bakelite sleepy Bournevita mug, adding a lock of my daughter’s hair to the mixture – so they could meet one another in some kind of way…on the astral plane perhaps. Anyway, it’s good to have him back.
Now I have to struggle with my conscience about what to do on Wednesday evening.
Opening party for Erotic Photography exhibition/Joiners Arms in Southampton. Champagne, canapés, amoral people/the Joiners Arms on Southampton. Hopefully sleep will bring an answer.
Happy Halloween. Don’t forget, it is legal to shoot trick or treaters.

27 October 2006

Movers and Shakers

Almost done. The move is in progress. My Burghfieldness is receding, and I estimate that I am now more than fifty percent Londoner. Tomorrow, my beautiful (yet hardly missed since being put into storage a year ago),record collection must be moved - this will not be pleasant. Still, it’s the price for resisting emcroaching ipodism, and you never know, I might become intersted in music again.

When the estate agent met me to let me into the flat this evening
( the lease actually starts from Saturday) we were surprised to discover a naked man having a bath. I hadn’t noticed him when I viewed the property. Thankfully he didn’t come with it, but was a friend of the landlord who had been cleaning the place. We exchanged general pleasantaries, then he put on his trousers and left.

Sadly, Old Haines’ health has deteriorated significantly since yesterday and I can reveal that he was unable to offer his services today. I am sure you will all join me in wishing him a speedy and fulsome recovery, and that he will emerge from his sickbed, a better,stronger man. To be perfectly honest, I think there might be some truth in his sick schtick…not much it has to be said.. but a bit. Only a cynic would doubt the veracity of his coughing. However, when did one ever need to be healthy to lift boxes…I’d have thought being delirious with fever was the ideal state for this kind of thing. This great country of ours was not built by healthy, well rested, clean living yeomen. It was wheezed together by hacking old hunchbacks, fag in mouth and complaining of back ache non stop. Luckily, I’ve still got plenty to move, so he’ll have an extra day to recover - If any of you reading this distressing news are now doubting whether or not to risk buying tickets to see him play next week, don’t worry. I am sure he’ll make an instant recovery the second the last stick of furniture goes up my stairs, and he’ll be in ruder health than ever.

Luckily I was not without assistance though. My dear friend Phillip - who I’ve known most of my life, had the misfortune to be visiting this week - in his Volvo Estate. Mother also volunteered - but I forbade her from lifting anything heavier than a grand piano.

Also in attendance were Mr Eddie Argos and his friend Keith Top of he Pops, from the wonderful - and getting huge in the States Art Brut. Worried that sudden wealth and fame might go to his head and spoil him in some way, I suggested a bit of manual labour to help keep his feet on the ground - naturally he jumped at the offer….
Six days ago he was selling out the Irving Plaza in New York and performing on prime time tv. Tonight he lugged a mattress up two flights of stairs, with the bearing and grace of a true gentleman…albeit an out of breath gentleman with an absinthe hangover. Some people deserve to be successful…
Next week, find out how I fare in the local pub, interact with shopkeepers, and re-learn how to cook….Watch this space.

Oh yes, one other thing. I found a load of old John Moore and the Expressway t-shirts in a box. If you’d like one, I’m sure we can come to some kind of arrangement. They’re not all that great though.

26 October 2006

My Friends

A Warm Welcome to Guardian Readers.

I was going to make this – my first blog for the esteemed Guardian website, a rumination on the true nature of friendship…apparently I’m not being paid by the word, so from now on I’ll communicate in English – I hope.
Now many of you will not know me – and why should you? Well you should actually but that’s by the by. Just to clarify matters, I am a forty-one year old, twice divorced, former minor pop star with literary pretensions and a swollen liver (thanks to the Absinthe I once imported.) Think Syd Barrett without the royalties…or talent.
For the past thirteen months, I have been domiciled with my Mother in the countryside, writing the great English novel and waiting for publishers to recognize ‘a truly original and highly marketable force in English writing.’…Old Rock star =Young writer. The novel actually took four months, and for the remaining nine I’ve been doing precisely bugger all…as have the publishers.
I’m a bit – atrabilious…which is the old word for manic depressive, which is the old expression for bi-polar, so to employ a surfing metaphor…in a Brian Wilson ‘never having and never will surf kind of way - I’ve been waiting for a suitable wave to sweep me up and get me going again.
Having soaked up more than a year of that most sustaining ( and hard to work off the guts) elixir – motherly love, I decided it was time to push off again, or die a fat, alcoholic onanistic death; cremated by a local firm and scattered in the garden alongside the cat’s ashes.
So now you know the background, I can tell you that today – Yes - Thursday 26th October 2006, is the day I move back to London – to possibility- to Life…and a third Mrs Moore…ladies be warned.
Being too tight to hire movers, I have - naturally, been contacting those who call themselves friends. If you look at johnmoore23 on myspace, you’ll see I have 500 of the fuckers. Certain of them have claimed to have a day job – which I suppose is reasonable with gin prices as they are. However, in my line of un-work, there are plenty of people who don’t. Musicians for instance. This blog was going to be about the true nature of friendship, and my disappointment at a certain Mr Luke Haines, with whom I’ve had dealings in the past, who I hoped I could rely on this afternoon to help me shift some boxes. Luke Haines whose album comes out on Monday, whose tour starts on Wednesday (lukehaines.co.uk ) who wants me to play the Musical Saw with him at places as exotic as the Joiners Arms in Southampton. I had assumed that my calls and texts were not being returned due to M15 activity against subversives - and - I confess – in my darkest moments, I even thought that he might just be avoiding me. The mind plays tricks when you’re looking for shifters. Imagine my sadness on discovering…from the horse’s mouth - that he is actually suffering from TB, Renal Failure, Ebola, cancer and worms. I think he actually coughed part of his lung through the telecoms network….which will require a paintjob in Mother’s hall.
If he hasn’t recovered by this afternoon, I will of course have to cancel Southampton, and go to the opening party for the exhibition of Erotic photographs of my dear friend Rowan Pelling. To tell you the truth, I think spores and shadows are beginning to appear on my old lungs as well.

Ps. Amy Wine House – Rehab – The greatest single for years. No No No.

Pps. Some of you reading my blogs, might have noticed that I have recently drawn some fun at my mother’s expense over her bacon sandwiches, lack of cooker, microwave meals, and habit of talking to wasps. This is mere filial badinage. As an example of her utter wonderfulness, this evening - having finished a bottle of red (me, not her), I felt that a drop of something else would really put a beautiful gloss on the evening. Can you imagine the joy of finding two cans of draught Guinness in the fridge? Come on now boys and girls everywhere. Drop to your knees and repeat after me. Mothers are the BEST.
Stop Press. Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth claims to have pulled a muscle in her back...I wasn't even going to ask her to help.

24 October 2006

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.

20 October 2006

There's a Saw Man Waiting in the Sky

Good evening readers. It's been an alright day. Nothing spectacular. A quiet respectable autumnal English kind of affair - some rain, some driving and a brief visit to the pub. How different from last night's shenanigans.
My first glance in the mirror today, showed two inflamed pores on my nose. Not full scale pimples, just slight irregularities beneath the surface. Pre eruptions so to speak. These were easily treated with some delicate squeezing and a dab of TCP.
The reason for them might prove of more interest however. I got quite drunk in the service of my dear friend and erstwhile colleague - Haines. Apparently Haines has got some kind of record coming out...he's very prolific. Anyway, as a form of promotion for this release, he'd booked himself a live performance, for which I was to act as a special guest in my capacity as a saw player. A bit of saw lends quality to these affairs - it's exotic, sexy ( in my opinion) and extremely cheap to lug around...although not easy to get aboard aircraft these days. Clenched tightly between my knees, and teased with a bow, it is the sound my loins might make - if they could communicate audibly...is that or is that not a beautiful thought?
Anyway, to cut a long story slightly shorter...no pun intended, I was due to play on three songs, but owing to circumstances beyong my control, missed the middle one, so only graced two with my noise.
I'd become deeply embroiled in conversation back in the dressing room with - as unlikely as it sounds - Bonehead out of Oasis and Mike Joyce from the Smiths. They were involved with the support act - Vinny Peculiar. We reminisced fondly about our days on a bigger stage, deciding that Kilburn's Lumiere was much nicer than the Brixton Academy..even though none of us believed it. As this was going on, I listened carefully to Haines'characteristically excellent performance, conscious that my presence would soon be required. I have alway prided myself on my professional approach to the business of playing music in a public auditorium, and never before in my long career have I ever got so carried away that I forgot my cue. Strangely, this was the first time. Unfamiliar as I was with the song, it was not until the middle section of Freddie Mills is Dead, that I realised that Haines was playing Freddie Mills is Dead - the very one we'd been working on in the soundcheck. Ironically, Joyce commented that he could imagine a bit of saw on this song - 'just what it needs' he said. Of course Rock'n'roll is a fleeting thing, and by the time I'd presented myself stage right, it was over. Still, all was not lost and the rest of the evening passed without further incident.
BTW. The reason for my nasal irregularities - or so I believe, was the large amount of double whiskies I was obliged to consume - all of which were purchased for me by gratelful audience members who'd been moved to generosity by my musicianship and professionalism.

Anyway, I would certainly recommend that you all rush out to your nearest branch of Tescos and purchase a copy of Haines' new record when it comes out next week. This is not guilt speaking. It really is very good. Goodnight.

17 October 2006

Fourteen Million Fans Can't Be Wrong

Good afternoon people of Blogland. There now follows an address by your old pal. Please listen carefully.
Well glad tidings from Burghfield. The side light bulb on my car has not gone after all - mother thought it had. I drove to Dad's Shop in Mortimer, fully intending to purchase a replacement, but when I got there, it had miraculously started working again - signs of occult activity do you think? The spirits tinkering? Well whatever it was, I am pleased...it doesn't take much.
Due to the excellence of this blog, with its incisive commentary of modern living, I have been asked by The Guardian newspaper to blog for its website - which a pound to a penny is www.Guardian.co.uk - or something very like it. I shall be called upon to give my opinions on the matters of the day, and may well be instrumental...even more instrumental, in influencing world events. I believe that some sort of financial renumeration takes place as well, which will be extremely useful now that the capital beckons once again.
If I had already started, I'd probably take some cheap shots at Madonna...such as drawing comparisons between her and the Phillip Pullman character Mrs Coulter...Has the film been cast yet? A remake of Chitty Chitty Bang Bang might be appropriate.
If I were a right wing Telegraph reading old duffer, I'd say something along the lines of 'in my day, when folks went orf to Africa, they usually shot the trophies before bringing em home', which I'm not so I won't. I won't even imagine Guy Ritchie wearing a t-shirt emblazoned with the slogan 'My Wife went to Malawi and all she brought me was this...' no, I can't do it. I am convinced that the motive behind these star adoptions are quite genuinely benevolent...even though she is beginning to look like a wicked old witch...but then again, I'm no oil painting meself.
Anyway, that's probably the kind of stuff I'll be doing in the Guardian - with fourteen million readers...albeit a bit toned down perhaps.

Where do I stand on the veils issue? I think they should be bright red, so the ladies can act as mobile pillar boxes.

BTW - I've got a new website which is just about up and running.
www.john-moore.net which will be linked to my Guardian bloggage. Therefore, in the spirit of free enterprise, I am prepared to consider selling advertising space, so if any of you have something to flog, old matresses, false teeth, faulty electrical equipment, I'm your man.

I'm playing the saw tomorrow night with my dear friend Luke Haines, so do pop along - unless you are an unamused Islamic funda-mentalist or Madonna's lawyer. Cheerio.

14 October 2006

Early Release for bad Behaviour

My exile is drawing to a close, that’s right London – prepare yourselves – The Moore is coming back…and this time it’s personal. Assuming credit checks don’t find me wanting in the fiduciary department, I have got me the ultimate bachelor pad. Bohemian squalor in one of London’s leafiest districts – quite close to where the fellow had his head lopped off in the street last year. The place is a bit of a tip, but the sort of tip I like. A Chaise Longue, a few silk drapes and my selection of stuffed animals – which were even frowned upon in the former marital home, will make this London’s premier boudoir et salon.
What makes this even more desirable, is that it’s above a garage – just like the Fonz. I don’t mean a petrol station – that would be dangerous with all the freebasing I’ll to be doing – and flambéing…I am actually looking forward to cooking again. Did I mention that here at mother’s, the oven has not worked for three years – and she doesn’t miss it? She’s of an age where ladies were forced into the kitchens, so quite understandably rebelled….she’s been on the front line of culinary feminism for the past thirty years…Not that I’ve suffered you understand….(she reads this you know.) I’m not for a minute suggesting that she is the sort of lady to push pies through school gates. I’ve eaten every sort of delicious healthy concoction that can be microwaved in three minutes or less. I did have to accuse her of attempted murder on a few occasions…stay away from M and S macaroni cheese unless you want a fecalith. ( Think compacted contents of Elvis Presley’s colon here) but anyway, ungrateful little toss-pot prodigal bastard that I am, my fattening stomach will soon be a thing of the past, and the elasticated trousers and incontinence pants can be binned once and for all.
I’ll throw little soirees, wearing my long silk dressing gown – which I’ll locate from the bags of clothes piled up in the shed, I shall hover over the stove, saucepan in one hand, red wine in the other, whisking up a little supper for myself and the lovely dining companion I’ve enticed from the local boozer. God, I feel like Harold Steptoe. .

I hope the mechanics don’t wake me at some ungodly hour, but what the heck – I think I’m ready to come out of my bi-polar tundra and re-enter the sunny world anyway – Christ, I might even start getting up before noon – and conducting a life.
It’s close to thespian enclaves, so I imagine I’ll be hanging out with the stars - wife swapping – when I’ve located another wife of course – I don’t imagine ????? would take too kindly to my phoning her up to ask if she’d mind me swapping her in absentia – it could catch on though – Ex-wife Swapping .Instead of throwing the car keys onto the table, it’d be the house keys…bank accounts, furniture…Only joking. We’re on jolly good terms. In fact, she accompanied me to the viewing today. We are very modern sophisticated people.
It’s only five minutes walk from my daughter’s school – she’s already suggested escaping from her classroom and coming to hide with me all day – she’s five years old bless her.

Other business

I played the saw with the Idler Ukelele Orchestra on Wed night at the Bethnal Green Working Men’s Club. If you want the gory details, go to www.Idler.co.uk Poor Tom had been stressing about this for months…arranging rehearsals that nobody went to ( the kid’s got a lot to learn about running a band ) I think it’s a mid-life crisis brought on by the huge success of Gav’s Cloudspotter’s Guide, Anyway, he needn’t have worried. It was a great success, and although it might not net him millions, it will get him out of the house once in a while – which to all but the worst sort of musicians, is what it’s all about.

Finally, I’ve given up smoking – in a way. I didn’t want to mention it earlier in case I jinxed it. I’ve quit for a month now – albeit having the odd one if I’m out – and twenty last Saturday, and ten on Wednesday and three last night. I’m feeling quite healthy in fact……Wouldn’t that be funny if it was the last sentence I ever typed.

06 October 2006

The Only Blog That's Fit To Read

I'm off to a wedding this weekend if you must know. I know you'll join me in wishing the happy couple Gavin Pretor-Pinney and his lovely fiance Liz a most wonderful day, and a most wonderful life. Actually Gav's already doing quite nicely, having penned 'The Cloud Spotter's Guide', which is selling by the shed load.
I have elected to camp - probably for the last time this year. The car is packed with all the necessary bits - I've even been to Dad's Shop in Mortimer to purchase torch batteries. Perhaps some of you will find it surprising that I am not staying in a cosy little B and B. I prefer to rough it. In fact, I've camped several times this summer, and must recommend a night under canvas to anybody who hasn't tried it. It's not much different to collapsing drunk in a ditch of course but it should be dry.
Anyway, enough of camping. In my bid to be topical, I shall now comment on Jack Straw and the veil issue. The solution is glaringly obvious. Rather than asking these ladies to remove their garments - something mps have been doing for centuries, why doesn't he don a mask himself when speaking to them? With Halloween just round the corner, the shops are filling with the things - Scream skulls, Saddam Hussein masks, George Bush - how about an Osama mask? This would immediately put them at their ease and heal any breach in community relations. What's David Blunkett's view on the situation by the way? He's being uncharacteristically quiet these days.

What else is happening in Moore World? Well, I am about to have my website redone. We must all modernise if we are to survive mustn't we?
In case any of you don't know, I've got one of those myspace sites - johnmoore23 I believe it is. I've got an enormous amount of friends, which is heartening because Mother is threatening to throw me out after the bacon sandwich incident.

Well that's all for now. Have a lovely weekend.

05 October 2006

Are You Being Served?

I told you this blog was going political...that's right - cutting to the chase.Well my first great political observation is that Boris Johnson is the posh John Prescott. You heard it here first - I hope.
Secondly, my friend has started working at Marks and Spencers, and it is a hot bed of Islamic fundamentalism - which might come as something of a surprise to Mr Marx and Spencer. My dear friend is of Persian extraction, although the last time she fell to her knees to face Mecca was when she was being sick outside the Bingo Parlour on Holloway Rd. Well as anybody familiar with the empty Goldborne Rd knows, it's Ramadan at the moment...that's right, the big one. Well my dear friend is getting no end of hassle from the dawn til dusk fasters for not being a proper Muslim, dissin' da religion, and not being a good example. In fact, it's all a bit creepy. She thinks they might honour kill her in the lingerie section.
Now I'm no expert in Al Queda plots, but I would not be at all surprised if every M and S in the world blows up on the same day. Marks and Spencer is being used as a training camp ....All this is pure conjecture of course, but if I were the security services I'd investigate - plant a mole perhaps - although not in the food department where I believe moles might create a scare among the folk who lunch....I was going to say secretaries, but that would be sexist, and this blog is far too sophisticated to fall victim to such accusations.
Just to paint an even brighter picture of London's shop floor life, did you know that it is common for people to urinate in the changing rooms. Also to try on clothes and urinate in them then hand them back to the staff. Could this be an anti semitic thing? I think it might. Do incontinent people make a habit of trying on trousers at M and S, pissing and leaving? If so, I believe that they should be incorporated into the new advertising campaign. Rather than Erin O'Conner and Twiggy parading round in the latest couture, get a couple of Golden Shower models to do the business. And the food adverts? They are the ones I really hate ' This isn't just a Creme Brulee...it's an Marks and Spencers Creme Brulee and it's been pissed on'. The shareholders need to know.
On another matter, Sid and Nancy is on the telly. I'm in it. See if you can spot me. I'm one of the little boys pogoing and spitting. I got paid sixty quid, with which I bought leather trousers - and within two weeks, was in the Jesus and Mary Chain. Life's a complicated thing.

04 October 2006

Season of Mists and Maturing Bosoms

As I might well have said at precisely the same time last year. Haven't found any yet, although I have come close a few times.

Attended the launch of Tom Hodgkinson's new book 'How to be Free', which I am sure will be very soon - or at least remaindered. Actually it's a splendid book and it's only my jealousy talking....and I'm in it apparently as the posessor of an 'attrabilious' temperament, which translates as 'black bile', which means, manic depressive, which used to mean melancholic. Yes, I is a poetic, tortured soul, in needof love, sympathy and cash.
The party was held at the Old London Sessions House in Clerkenwell. Lots of free ale, wine and pretty publishing girls to pretend to be an important young writer to. Downstairs was a meeting of the local Masonry. Fellows on the square, doing funny handshakes and the like. As the evening wore on, we tried to infiltrate their ranks - but to no avail. Addressing them through Tom's loud hailer as we exited the premises was childishly amusing though.
I've had a few drunken nights recently, and am now considering a return to sobriety to enable my liver to grow back in time for christmas. However - drunk or sober, I still hold with my theory that people should get naked more often. In polite society, the human form exhibited to one's company, says more than words ever could. I don't mean complete nudity in a 1970's suburban dinner party way, just as a form of greeting - a brief arse flash as a sign of respect and trust..so much nicer than a handshake. Anyway, this is a theory that I will need to develop slightly...possibly from the comfort of a padded cell. It's probably just a sign of middle age lechery creeping in - I do hope so.
Thank god mother has gone out. She's visiting her friend who's had a hip operation. I'm afraid she's been insufferable today. Just because she made me bacon sandwiches, she thinks it gives her the right to interrupt my newspaper reading. I do not care that the bin men, who were due to come yesterday, actually came today because their lorry broke down. I do not care that her friend uses Tiscali broadband. I am afraid that I had occasion to speak sharply to her, explaining that the credit of bacon sandwiches did not last forever, and that the fall from the cliff face of high esteem was a lot more drastic...
I can't believe I'm telling you about my mum...I really need to move back to London don't I? Do you realise I haven't done a stroke of work in almost a year? I am a parasite. Why do anything when you don't have to? I'm even biting the hand that feeds me bacon sandwiches - at 11.30am. Actually I'm lying. Today it was 12.30pm...I was feeling a bit tired.
I shall make ammends. When Old Moore returns to London, London won't know what's hit it. Anyway, I think I might have come up with an invention to make my fortune. It's to do with umbrellas and satelite navigation. Obviously I'll need venture capital, so I thought it'd be nice to offer it to you first - otherwise it's me and the city boys again. Any dragons out there who want to invest their life savings in The Unlosable Unbrella tm. Well don't say I didn't offer. Anyway, I'm off to get dressed now. It's ten past three....PM.

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