11 June 2006

The Rake's Progress

As a last bit of bloggage to get out of my hydrogenated fat engourged system, I am happy to announce, that on Sunday 11th June 2006, I managed to cycle up the hill.
On one more matter - for students of factual accuracy, I might report, that the D.i.v.o.r.c.e of yours truly and his now second wife, came into being on 6.6.6.
Good job no inadvertent adultery was committed before the date of the horned one, but there you are - I am trying...officially.

Rock'n'Roll Part 2

OK Muthafuckers...enough rock'n'roll for you, or can you still take a bit more? Want to know what else I did this week? Let me build it up for your prurient diseased old minds - It took place on Hampstead Heath, involved me, a bunch of children, some middle aged couples and a spoon and an egg. What images are jumping into your depraved old noggins? Not a hint of grumble ( which is my favourite new word for sexual activity ). Shame on y'all. It was Ava's first School Sport's Day. Parliament Hill Fields Running Track, Friday, at 10.15 sharp.
I won't bore you with the race reports except to say, Ava wasn't at all interested. In eighty degrees, she was the only child who refused to remove her cardigan. She sort of ran a bit, but would then stop and refuse to participate any further. She shouted across the track to me 'Dad, this is NOT FUN'. She refused altogether to take an egg and spoon, although manically cajoled by her team mates. I would like to point out that she is a svelt child - does not survive on Happy meals, and is quite capable of performing sporting fee(a)ts when she considers the reward worth it. For some reason, none of the events - the egg and spoon, the dressing in a hat race, or the putting a bean bag in a hoop race, appealed to her competitive spitit. As her father, I was PROUD. Even though I was humiliated by being chased by a bee, and did take part in the grown ups race, I respected my daughter even more than before. To end the tale, strangely enough, her team - the oranges, came first. Once Ava was presented with the Winner's ribbon, she perked up completely and carried on as if she had single handedly brought home the gold.
The entire weekend has been spent taking part in races of Ava's divising. It's wonderful to know that my hypochrisy gene has reached another generation.
On a curious note, Ava does not attend a private, religious, or particlarly poncy school at all...Yet the parents of her friends which I spoke to are - Book Publishers (sadly not mine) Radio 3 Producers, and a Professor of Psychology who'd been on the telly the night before. Hooray for state education I say.

Rock 'n' Roll Part 1

Oh how to start - feels like homework on a sunday night. Perhaps I should adopt a David Frost like tone 'That was the Week that Was', ....and what a week it's been.
Since my last deposit of bloggage, many things have occurred. I've rubbed shoulders with the great and good, vomitted over their shoes, and competed in a race.Let me explain.
Monday night should have been the pinnacle of my life...well not mine exactly, but my old pals the Jesus and Mary Chain, whose tour bus to glory I hitched a ride on as a nipper. As a 41 year old almost double divorcee( more to follow ),residing back home with mum, it gave me exquisite pleasure to accept the kind invitation from Mojo Magazine, to attend the awards dinner, at which said old turn were due to receive some kind of gong. I was hoping of course for the Lifetime Under Achievement Award, for which I have been working these past many years.Instead, it was something called the Maverick Music Award, which I think has something to do with the fact that all the old records are being reissued or something. The award was actually presented by my previous - more illustrious...in some ways...skin beater - Bobby Gillespie. Although dearly wishing to rush up and receive the award personally, good sense - not my own however, held out a bony arm to dissuade me from bum rushing the show. To say that I was in wine would be unfair. It was a combination of insomnia, sunstroke And wine, ANd Beer...and various other irritants.
My memory of the event ends at our award, and I must tell you now, that the next day, I was rather worried that some kind of alcoholic blackout had occurred and that a blank time period had elapsed, within which, god knows what might have happened. It was therefore, refreshing to learn that my blackout had occurred due to falling asleep at the table. This event was televised, so more embarrassing ( not to me ) facts might still present themselves. As far as I know your honour, I woke up - still wearing my white suit - which was lightly speckled with vomit - which I am sure must have been due to standing too close - or offering assistance to somebody the worse for wear. Had it been mine, it would have been all over the shop...perhaps I just had a gentlemanly throat clearing. Anyway, if my behaviour has been less than impecable, no doubt we'll read about it in Mojo - although it will be as much as a surprise to me as it will be to you. If I am denounced as a degenerate - or the man who made disparaging remarks to Bon Jovi - which I am informed I did, remember this - rock'n'roll people used to misbehave.
On a parting note, the stunning girlfriend, of my still stunning bandmate Douglas observed - 'This must all seem like yesterday to you'
I had to assure her that it was eighteen long years ago, and seemed like a lot longer - like receiving the Turner Prize for something done at nursery school. Mind you, Old Jim Reid made a fine speech, and looked younger than ever...and excelled in getting me home in one piece. Old soldiers eh?

02 June 2006

The Road to Hell is Paved with Good Intentions

Ah here I am again, urinating my thoughts against the cyber wall. What a glorious afternoon it is - perfect for two for one Chardonnay from the Co op.

I really ought to do this blogging thing more often - for continuity's sake. I only began it in the first place as an attempt to draw you in, so I might sell you a record. Well those days are long gone. I am continuing for 'I don't know why', like a headless chicken running around a farmyard...although I have never actually seen this happen...Does it? If anybody can enlighten me, I'd me most grateful.

Anyway, asides aside, I think I should tell you something. Gentlemen look away now - I am addressing my female readership now. I am divorced. Nicely decreed absolutely. I know some of you must be heartbroken that the chance to commit adultery with the Birdman of Burghfield is at an end, but chin up girls. The hunt for the third Mrs Moore is now officially ON. IT COULD BE YOU.
With this in mind, last Saturday, I purchased a bicycle. Not only will the greatest invention of all time - with the possible exception of the book, facilitate my travelling from establishment to establishment, in the hope of encounterning a winsome beauty, amazingly unattached, and posessing a fortune, it will make me healthy, lithe and muscular.
Obviously a mountain bike was out of the question - although the task in hand might in itself be mountainous. I've taken posession of a Raleigh something or other - a town and country hybrid, as the man in the shop described it. " It's not built for rough terrain" he said, to which I replied " Neither am I".
Anyway, I bought it and brought it home in the motor - which I am intending to make redundant for local journeys.
You really ought to see this machine - silver and blue, sit up and beg - which in my situation is more than appropriate, and a rack on the back for wine and comestibles, and possibly a picnic chair.
I declined the recommendation for a helmet on the grounds that I would rather die instantly and have my head crushed like a melon, than live looking like a human fly. No lycra, no trainers...nothing to suggest the competitive spirit of IT workers on a weekend jaunt. I will go back and get bicycle clips, because suit trousers do tend to get caught in the cogs.
So, having purchased my Raleigh Wife Catcher, I took her out for a spin. The first spin lasted about a minute and a half because it was fucking freezing. Having returned home for a jumper, I set out on a proper ride. With the evening sun still blazing, I got out amongst the country lanes. Testing her performance - Eighteen gears, although I shall only be requiring a fraction of that amount. In gear one, one, you go no faster that walking, but can go up hill. Once over the hill I shall coast. Anyway, I got about a bit - the same route that I go for drives, although this time, with my stomach reducing with each pedal push, my body toning into something quite beatiful and my adrenalin pumping like a young un. By the time I reached Bottom Lane, I had stopped several times and waited for the fatal heart attack which I felt welling up. It's almost disappointing when it doesn't come.
Cigarettes at the idylilic beauty spot of Bottom lane, and a good sheen of honest sweat to wipe from my brow...three days of heavy drinking actually.

As any of you who are familiar with the velocipede might know, cyclimg is a thirsty business. Feeling as though I had earned a pint, I struggled on to the neared pub.
By now, I had switched my lights on, to alert approaching traffic of my presence. As a further safety measure - helmets and reflective sashes being out of the question, I'd worn my newly laundered white linen jacket.
This story runs and runs...of course, the third Mrs Moore was not in the pub. However, an old school friend was, and we drank heavily until closing time.
Carrying more guinness and whisky than a thousand mile cycle ride could ever burn off, I unchainjed my - thankfully unstolen machine, and attempted to ride home. This was impossible. Now I know why the police make drunks try to walk in a straight line.
I could see the direction of the road - I understood that it went forward, but I couldn't for the life of me follow it. Had I been in a built up area, I might even feel guilty for endangering other road users. Of course, there is little I could do to harm a car, but the fragile psyche of a driver might require medical intervention, had they killed the Birdman of Burghfield...problably have been lynched as well by all my fans.
Fortunately no cars came. I managed to fall off all by myself...into a muddy ditch...in my easy to spot white linen jacket.
Imagine if you will, the mother of a failed forty something alcohlic, recieving your once perfect child back on a Saturday evening, intoxicated, filthy yet insisting that the council do something about the roads.
On a positive note, I have learnt that my white suit is machine washable. Thankyou.

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