28 March 2006

The Return of the Moore

Many of you will be pleased to know, that the melancholic mania of my recent postings
seems to be subsiding. I put this down to the proximity of spring. My stomach has not got any larger - in fact it is receding quite satisfactorily. My preferred method of bodily reduction, is exercise. Twenty sit ups and twenty press ups. These can be done very close to the couch, and once completed, the couch can be remounted, and the fag left burning in the ash tray for the duration of the workout, reinhaled.
The fecalith I feared was turning my innards to stone, seems to have vanished, so my emergeny plans for disbursement with dynamite, or a team of midget miners, has proved unnecessary ( if i have mis-spelt this word, it is not because I am stupid, it's aixelsyd ). The miners have been stood down, paid off and sent back to Peru.

I am planning to go over the wall soon.A new white suit has been purchased so I will blend seamlessly back into polite society.
I believe I am involved in a form of musical activity this week, playing the musical saw at the Whitechapel Gallery. However, before you rush out to buy tickets, I must warn you that they are £80. It's some sort of art/charity bash. I will be donating my fee to Great Ormond Street Childrens' Hospital - although I will demand that the promoters pay me in cash, and trust my word as to its intended destination. There is actually another White Suit that I quite like the look of, so perhaps the little 'bed blockers' will have to whistle..
I am still in publishing limbo with the bloody novel - can't any of these idiots recognize literary genius when it comes knocking? Oh they can?
Although it pains me to admit it, it might be a good idea if I got a job - temporarily - until the royalties roll in. If you are in a position to employ me for a high salary, do drop me a line. Perhaps I could head a government Think Tank or something.
Anyway, I'm off to stroll the grounds, smoke a fag, and write something. Perhaps I'll even venture into the shed and switch on some musical recording devices. Arctic Monkeys - you have been warned. Prepare for the return of the Moore.

19 March 2006

The Birdman of Burghfield

To my dear chums on the outside, please be patient with me. Blogging is not easy when you are watched twenty-four hours a day. Fortunately, I've drugged my mother with a glass of Nottage Hill Cabernet Sauvignon, smuggled in from the local shop, so hopefully the coast is clear.
Things are not going well in cell block H. The prison diet is beginning to cause health problems of a most disgusting nature. It's only because I know and trust you, that I can mention by gastro-intestinal area.. I think it could be a plot by the authorities, to kill this otherwise healthy man - and threat to the status quo. It pains me -and strains me to report on the growth of a 'Fecalith' in my gut. I will not go into details - these are available on health websites - suffice to say, Fecalith is not a shit heavy metal band - rather the result of long-term poisoning by Marks and Spencers microwave meals. Elvis had one apparently - our similarities are almost endless aren't they?
I had felt slightly sluggish for some time, which I put down to suicidal depression and advancing middle age; nothing sinister, just the inevitable results of advancing years. However, when I put on my three piece suit recently, to attend an out-prisoners day, I was shocked to learn that the waistcoat straps required adjustment. Further investigations - which involved stripping off, and regarding my naked profile in the bathroom mirror, gave me a very nasty shock. Where once there was air and nothingness, now a vast stomach hung - almost two stomachs. I realized at once that I had been poisoned! All this pretence at motherly love was in fact a vile ploy to murder me, de-sexualize me ( so I'd never be a hit wit da ladeez again and never leave home to shack up with a bird )and probably a paid assignment to neutralize me, from the man...who fears me.
Of course, I have taken immediate steps to rebel. I have demanded less food, less sugar in my coffee, and space to exercise. I did three sit ups two days ago, then went for a long walk. This seems to have done the trick, but I shall be keeping a weather eye on my waistline. I WILL NOT BE TURNED INTO A SEXLESS PATE DE FOIS GRAS GOOSE SON. Not me sir. If matters persist, I will buy a bicycle. My body is my temple dont cha know.
I think she's got wind of my rebellion as well, so she's trying to attack me in other ways. Paranoid? I don't think so...you judge. Today, she washed my pyjamas, and left my hanky in the pocket - a deliberate act of mischief if ever there was one. What mother would wash their son's pyjamas withouth first checking the pockets -only a very evil one - Rose West, Myra Hindley...that kind of thing.
Do you know, she complained about my attitude tonight.." You come in and turn OFF the television". I'll tell you what....for my own safety, please keep checking this blog, because I'm scared she's planning to do me in...or make me get a job or something.
I have had three constructive thoughts this week. The first was to get a complete health MOT. I believe you have to pay for these, but nevermind - I'm rich. Then, if as I believe to be the case, I am diagnosed with chronic cancer everywhere, brain tumours, avian flu, aids, and all the other jazz, I shan't have to bother. I can toss myself off Beachy Head ( Not at ) with impunity. The second was to get writing -only had one rejection so far....more to come I'm sure. It is difficult to function on anything else but complete rejection....lifelong habit and all that. The third, was to do something musical again.
Not much hope then. Had to tell the solicitor what I intended to do to remain solvent for the next few decades - that's what I told her. I forgot to mention selling the family cows and growing a beanstalk.
On the plus side, I've just discovered that two of the places I go for walks, but give up halfway, actually link up. The top of the hill and the bottom of the hill - I didn't recognize them - I thought they were different hills - that's almost biblical wisdom isn't it? Night night. XX

07 March 2006

The John Moore Prison Diaries

It's a rainy old day in tiny town, mum's gone to London to lend moral support to a friend having some cosmetic procedure performed...and I am forced to prepare my own breakfast. She's put it out for me so all I need to do is heat it up. God, I hate being in prison. I must say though that the laundry service is not bad - my clothes have a habit of washing and ironing themselves if I leave them outside the cell. Slopping out is not a problem, although the flush on the lavatory does need some adjusting, as the cistern seems to be over filling slightly, causing the overflow pipe on the outside of the house to drip. As anybody familiar with long term dripping will know, this simple and easy to remedy problem can - if left untended, cause the house and all surrounding areas to fall down through the earth, into hell.
Perhaps I'll form a work party and try to fix it.
I haven't had many visits recently...a loss of privileges resulting from the remoteness of my incarceration. Perhaps I should petition the governor for a transfer to somewhere more sociable - Hampstead perhaps.
The regime here at the Moore Penal facility is relaxed, and reasonably pleasant, although news 24 seems to be on at all times - perhaps the clue is in the title. Anyway, this rolling news is numbing me. Any old shit to fill the time. I never realized Jack Wilde was such a huge star - the likes of whom will never be seen again..Sally over to you for more on the tragic death of Jack Wilde...we've got Mark Lester on the phone....Mark, a sad day for the world...can you tell us your impressions of Jack Wilde?...
These are good times to snuff it if you want to go out with a flourish - as long as it's a slow news day....anyway, I digress.
The screws knock off at about ten O'clock, leaving me to my own devices. I managed to smuggle some whisky in last night - right under their noses.

It's a rainy old day in tiny town, I'm hungry, but I don't think I'll be having that breakfast - as a protest against being woken up at the ungodly hour of 9.45. By the time I reawoke at midday, the coffee was cold, and the place was empty.
I shall stop now...I think I'll go over the wall...or perhaps hang myself with a bed sheet - except I haven't got one...does a duvet cover count?

Should any newspapers want to serialize these frank, shocking and honest ruminations on life inside Britain's least overcrowded prison, do drop me a line.

01 March 2006

Fat Tuesday

It's the sixth anniversary of the demise of my dear old Papa, so I'm
glugging champagne - in his honour obviously. Perhaps my old liver will peg
out too then, I'll join him.
Anyway, I'm not here to get sentimental - there are bigger fish to
fry...Childhood obesity - I do hate that word....not childhood - the other
one. Call a spade a spade. Juvenile monstrosity...Well anyway, I've come up
with the solution. During the ad break on Men and Motors, I hit upon the
best way to get these little porkers to stop noshing. Fear, that's what's
called for. My proposal for curing the nation's nibblers is to interrupt C
Beebies with a public information announcement. Cherie Blair is suitably
witchy to do it. Dressed in black robes...she's got some, and sharpening a
big knife, she must announce that on 10th August, all children will be
weighed. Any child exceeding the prescribed weight for their height and age
group will have bits chopped off until they make the grade. Ears, fingers,
toes...if that doesn't do it, arms and legs must be sacrificed in the name
of balancing the books. This advertisement must appear every ten minutes, as
well as being broadcast on the wireless, and put on the side of
crisps...billboards as well. Show them we mean business. A proper public
health warning. That's my advice.

On another matter, may I be the first tiresome cynic to try to denigrate the
new Wembley Stadium, by coming up with a facetious name for it. I think it
resembles a giant handbag. Of course, if 'The Handbag' became the name for
the national stadium....for the next hundred years, it might have a
demoralizing effect on our national side, then we'd never win anything - not
that we do; and football and footballers would slide into obscurity, and
they wouldn't be role models, and children would behave better, and eat
less, and the world would be a better place. That's what I think anyway, and
this is my blog, and nobody apart from you reads it. The Handbag. You read
it here first.

Might go to Hastings tomorrow to look at properties. It's cheap and by the
sea. Terrible place apparently, filled with the worst sorts - so I should
fit in. I had another idea. I will buy a barn in the countryside, and
convert it. The expensive thing in this is getting planning permission to
change it from agricultural to residential use. Yet again, I've come up with
a cheap solution. I will get myself reclassified as a farmyard animal. If
you knew me, you'd realize it's not impossible. Wish me luck, and enjoy your
pancakes. I've had twenty nine, and my kids have had seven hundred - covered
with chocolate and jam. Roll on August 10.


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