The monsters we turn into or marry

It’s been a while – how’ve you been? I’ve missed you. David? Sorry I forgot your birthday. Love, etc.

Those of you who read my hilarious, insightful and downright sexy posts on twitter and facebook will have got the gist of what’s been going on dayn sayf so forgive any repetition.

My Nan passed away peacefully – well, as peacefully as you can, struggling with pain and confusion, surrounded by powerless ‘strangers’, your conciousness rattling around a stubborn husk – and her ashes are now interred in the grave of my Grandfather.

Father Paul’s eulogy was uplifting and pure of heart – a real comfort for us and an experience with the church without parallel for me (I went to a Roman Catholic school in my teens.) If you’ll forgive me for opening the homophobia door, his awesomeness is proof positive that gays should not only be allowed in the church, but that they should be running the fucking show.

I mentioned the carers at her home before; again with the awesomeness – anyone who can do their job and keep it together with high spirits, day to day, deserves a banker’s bonus and a big fucking medal.

The family glimmers on with the fading gusto of those last dying embers of a campfire once all the drunks have pissed their last upon it. I’ve got plenty to say; tales that would make you laugh, grind your teeth with rage, and shift awkwardly in your seat; but until the solicitors have cut everything to pieces and while my Mum remains at the pleasure of a certain unnameable I need to keep my big trap shut. I will say that the title of this entry – taken from a passage in this book (buy a copy, you cheap bastard) – alludes in part to what is on the tip of my tongue but would require the inclusion of nuclear families.

At one point I considered buying a car and driving to the north coast of Scotland. There I would perch, gazing out to sea, until I became as a troubled tree stump that future lovers would carve initials into. Trouble is I’m the closest thing left this family has to a man so I’ll need to stick around a while yet.

Anyway, I’m back in Middlesbrough and in love with a woman called Alison Mosshart. I got into The Dead Weather recently because of the man crush I have on Jack White but never heard The Kills until a sexy young friend of mine posted a video on facebook. Fantastic voice and tight work from the others – it’s a pleasure to work my way through her back catalogue. Giggity.

The sun’s out and I treated myself to a bottle of 10 year old Jura today; my enjoyment of the first delightful wee dram buoyed along by a few cheeky painkillers. My knee’s been giving me gyp you see; playing with Alfie and throwing my 15 year old cousin over my shoulder like she was still a toddler doesn’t help; nor does all the pub grub; but I have started to lose weight, which is nice.

Anyway, I need a kick-start; there’s a metric fuck-ton of work to catch up on. First off is an article I need to write about the future of Middlesbrough town centre; Alice Hawley, if you’re reading this, I trust you remembered to include the dinosaur theme park in your own article. I have audio and video exams next Wednesday as well; then there’s the public affairs presentation and exam; and the convergent journalism essay; and the artefact piece; and the reflective essay; all of which should split up ‘Spring Break‘ nicely.

Spring Break? Since when did we start calling it that?! Are we all heading down to the lake with our beer coolers and woohoo bikinis expecting the time of our young lives but ending up as prey for prehistoric fish or demon creatures? This is Middlesbrough for Christ’s sake; the forecast is chlamydia or radiation poisoning.

Still, I have a totem now. I went to Primark and got a Goonies t-shirt; never say die! Best fucking film ever.

I might write more later; but I’m sad, and the family’s sad. The bodies are piling up and it doesn’t seem to be getting any easier. Father Paul is Church of England, and I take my hat off to the help they give communities; but I find little solace in that kind of faith. My faith is in the actions of people; in science and art and the inspiration within our histories.

Without that it’s nothing but whisky, codeine and the ether of longing.

Rest in Peace, Nanny xxx