Christ, I don’t know. I suppose I should say something; it has been a while, after all. What have I been up to lately? Well I didn’t kill myself yet but don’t think it hasn’t crossed my mind, fellow travellers.
I went and got myself addicted to painkillers. Regardless of the knee, it all started with this bloody tooth (I’ve finally got a hospital appointment to have the stump removed this coming Valentine’s Day. Someone needs to be with me because of the drugs they’ll be giving me and my girlfriend was visibly moved by the romantic sentiment when I asked her.) So, yes; codeine – that devilishly moreish opiate. It begins with co-codamol then before long you’re extracting the opiate away from the paracetamol so you can take more and not kill your liver. Then it becomes a recreational binge; down the bitter liquid (the end product of extraction) and then embark on your heady quest; the romantic anti-hero; the idiot with the hours of confidence and heartwarm followed by the days of fearful melancholy.
I’ve knocked that on the head though. In a way I was testing my will-power – a bit of fun, another test – but of course overuse begins to negate the drug’s efficacy as a painkiller and besides, it plays with your brain quite ridiculously, turning everything upside down and inside out.
And Christmas is just around the corner; like a sweaty junkie with knives for eyes and a habit that’ll rob you blind. I’ve been out Christmas shopping; and what did I come back with? A bottle of Glenfiddich and some oat-cakes. ‘Tis the season to be jolly; it’s busy but the red mist hasn’t descended for many here yet. The Germans have taken over with their wonderful market in a way not even Hitler dreamt of in his most twisted bunker dreams – it’s all about spiced alcohol, meat and sweets. Silly Hitler: Make Bratwurst, not Doodlebugs.
I’ll be heading south at some point to see the family and the old haunts; hardly a prodigal son, more an abject failure lent an air of mystery in his absence. I bit my tongue in my sleep; my neighbour listens to audiobooks at thumping volumes; Katherine has gone home for a bit. Can you blame her?
I used to use this blog to comment on world events when I was at Teesside; now I haven’t the stomach for it. Leveson and Egypt, Savile and Syria: all I’ve gathered is that the powerful will, without fear of comeuppance, always turn the weak to their own sick, criminal devices; that and if this whisky I’m drinking was in school uniform, it would probably be too old for many in the British media.
A week or so ago I was out of town on the bus. Going through a scheme I noticed a tattered canvas flag tied to the fence of a place of worship more a carpet showroom with a crucifix on the roof than a church. ‘Try praying’ it suggested in insipid font; staring down the barrel of the sandy concrete tenements. Gee, thanks Jesus.
But it’s okay because the trailer for the new Star Trek film is out. I’m a huge fan of Zachary Quinto, especially with his American Horror Story work – did you know he’s gay? For some reason I liked him more after he came out. Loved him in Heroes. Some say Benedict Cumberbatch could be playing Kahn in the new film. Perhaps. Could Alice Eve be Dr Carol (“Can I cook or can’t I?”) Marcus? A rethink of one of the greatest sci-fi films ever made is a tall order – and not one anyone asked for – but if Abrams pulls off half the spectacle that was Super 8 then I for one will be over the moon. No pun intended.
The other day I bought a camera case on special then returned it to another branch of the same store that was selling the identical item for more than triple that price. After a little back and forth they put cash in my hand plus a decent Lowepro case for my camera. I know, what a stone cold outlaw. Then I took a crap in Starbucks without buying anything. Take that you tax dodging scum.
I hope you liked the picture I made. Mark Chapman is a fucking arsehole. Again, please watch my Poppy video; else I shall leave you as you left me, as you left her; marooned for all eternity, in the centre of a dead planet… buried alive. Buried alive.