Some piccies

Not sure if this works, but hopefully this will post some piccies. One is of some of the staff,one is the pool and one is my new apartment. The latter, you'll be shocked to hear, isn't quite finished yet.

Back again

Well, the sun is back out, and yet again, it is before ten am and it is 30 degrees. Not too sure about my early morning swim though, as the wate seems freezing. Haven't swum for a couple of day though, so I oughta. Last night was a fucking disaster, after trawling a couple of malls to find some bargains, Harry had to go and drop off some medicine to one of his wife's friends. Now they live in the middle of nowhere. It was about ten minutes down a dirt track til we found the place. When we got there, harry has jumped out and got the driver to turn it round. Unfortunately, as we are in the middle of nowhere, and there are no street lights, he reverses into a ditch, made nicely half full of water due to the rain of the last two days. Also, sadly, this huge 4x4 that we had been driving around in urns out not to be so much a 4x4, and more of a rear wheel drive. Even with Harry and my weight on the back wheels, all we did was spin. So we hop out to have a look at what we can do, and I am immediately warned about snakes andreminded hat only four minutes earlier Harry had been telling me that last time he was down here, he saw a cobra fighting with a dog. One by one ltarted materialising out of the darkness, like skinny brown wraiths, but bless them, they were all there to help. Even so, I couldn't help thinking that we were miles from anywhere in a place where the police would never come to, so felt a little twinge of concern. Harry kept asking me to scour the wasteland for bits of rock and timber, and I carefully filed this request in the same mental drawer as 'for gods sake look out for cobras', and told him to fuck off. Luckily the kids wer all more tha happyto risk rummaging around in the gloom, waiting for a hiss and needle-prick that would end up leaving their arms looking like a basketball sized blood blister. After an hour of repeatedly jacking up the car and forcing stuff under the chassis, we were ready for another crack at it. Joining in at the rear, we rocked the thing back and forth until the damned thing got some grip. In the process, however, the wheels spinning in a foot of mud, water, and urine from the little boy who peed in it while e were there, sprayed up covering everyone, especially me, in a kind of loam pate.
After this fairly death defying experience, I got back to the club determined to have a beer, to find that all the staff had been sent home early. So I raided my fridge and drank the bintang in there while nattering on MSN.
Have just had my morning swim, and the combination of heavy rainfall, coupled with two days of no sun meant that the pool was a little on the chiily side. There were Inuit hunting seal near the deep end. Didn't stop me from doing an entire length before my limbs went numb.

J

Not too dangerous

Went to the bank this morning, and happened to pick our timing to coincide with the ATM run. Not exactly Securicor, although, you'd be a little nuts to attempt robbing them. The transport itself wasn't exactly armour plated. In fact it was a bog standard SUV. The protection, however, was supplied by two not too bright blokes with what looked like homemade automatic rifles. One went off ith the cash in the SUV, while the other remained at the bank, basically just waving his gun around, mainly pointing it at our windscreen, with his finger on the damned trigger. Couldn't help thinking it would be an undeserving way to die, at the hands of a moron with a rifle.

J

Turnup for the plus-fours

Considering I am out here in the middle of the monsoon season, I guess I was just lucky in having to wait all this time before it utterly pissed it down like this. The swimming pools have overflowed, and the hill just behind my room looks like it's eroding at a fair old lick. Today I also found out that there was a cobra that used to live in the drain behind my room. Cool as fuck! At one of the apartments they are constructing they found the skin of a python in the roof space about a metre and a half long. But luckily no spiders of any import. Saw the cutest ginger kitty yesterday, although it was probably rabid. The rain is actually easing off a wee bit now. The Indonesians have this weird thing about getting their head's wet. You see them wandering around with boxes on their heads, or carrier bags. If they're on a moped, it is not unusual for them to be under an umbrella at the same time.
Bless the security guy though. When I leave the apartments, he offers to escort me under a brolly across to the bar. They don't seem to understand that, as a lifelong UK resident, rain doesn't bother me too much.

Hoorah, the rain has finally stopped. I wasn't looking forward to getting the boat to Singapore in a storm. Hopefully it won't be back for Saturday, cos I don't fancy that much. The boat out here was bouncy enough, and it was sunny as hell then. In a lightening storm doesn't sound nearly as pleasant. And now I think about it, taking off from Sillypore in a thunderstorm doesn't exactly sound enticing either. At least if I die in a plane crash I can take comfort in the fact.....nope, I got nothing. Think I will skip on the whole dying in a plane thing, thank you so very much. I'll jump straight to the happily ever after.

J

It's about time

Well, considering I'm on the equator in the middle of the monsoon season, this morning was the first time that it has actually rained. And fuck me, it is making up for it now. With my back door open it is deafening! Might not bother with my morning swim. I could manage it by steppin off my patio..

Sunday morning

It was about nine o'clock this morning that I left the guys and went fo a post-brekkie swim. It was the hottest it has been so far. Must have hit 25 degrees at least by 9 am. Unfortunately at half nine, all the local kids take over the pool, so I escaped to the bar overlooking to stop myself from burning to death and to fire off some emails in relative comfort. Spent yesterday trawling around bars and 'fishbowls'. Fishbowls were a fucking odd experience, and it was difficult to whom it refers, the customers or the girls. You got into a room, and on the other side of the glass was, basically, the meat. It was just a load of girls all sat around looking pretty much uninterested in the whole process, except for the opportunity to stare at a collection of bules looking with horror at what was obviously not the establishment's A-squad. It felt more like we were the ones in the fishbowl, staring into a collection of wide, incredulous eyes, being scrutinised in case we did something fascinating. Admittedly, Tony did fart, but at least no bubbles came out of his arse. The bars were actually pretty mundane, just like the UK in many respects, except you see more asian customers in the UK. Football on the large telly, drunk white men leching over the bar staff, and overpriced beer. Just like home.
Just realised the major downside of the pool here. There is no sun, apart from on the pool itself. Don't know if you can tell from the photo, but all the seating is shaded, even the jacuzzi. Although I think that I would fry in this sun. We're only 1 degree north of the equator here, so it can be pretty warm. I dread to think what it is like in te direct sunlight, and it isn't even 11am yet.
Last night the guys went to a place I think iscalled Malam, but has been nicknamed 'the rehab centre'. Batam police clean up the hooker districts every so often, and arrest all the working girls, sentencing them with 3-6 months at a rehabilitation complex. The upshot of this is that there is a police-run encampment, a working village of bars and hookers. From the sound of it, I'm glad I skipped it, but I bet it was an experience. The guys got back around 2am, and when they went to the ferry this morning, they had lost one of their number. When they called him at his hotel, fifteen minutes before his 9am ferry, apparently he sounded pissed out of his head, so he might not be going home today.
This place gets more surreal every hour, turns out one of the guys who trailed down to the rehab last night is a famous aussie comedian, a sort of oz roy chubby brown. Pass me the tablets!

Peace out

Now this this one is REALLY strange

Sorry but the blog might not go in order for the next week or so, but I had to pen this dream.
Can't really remember the start but it was like being in a Singaporean gangster flick. Bearing in mind I had been in the country about four hours, that is odd in itself. Harry, the chap I'm meeting out here seemed to be some mob boss and tere were a couple of others, and they all owned restaurants, apart from one that had a pub. I slept with most of their wives, one of whom started off like a girl called Juliet I went to school with, but then sorta changed into an ex called Sarah. Thinking about it, Lynsey was her little sister! I met thi wirey bloke who was a bit like Jef, and we ripped all the gangsters off, and then he shot them all with a Ingram Mac 10, but he spared me and wished me luck. I went to the pub that the boss-blike owned to find Barney's brother sat at the bar waiting to be served, and went and let myself into his flat. Just before I woke, my Aunt Rosemary popped her head round the door to comment what a bad business it had all been. I would like to mention that I had taken no drugs or alcohol for this one!

Totally fucked up!

I'm on my boat, sat on the top deck, getting some sun, just to make you jealous, and the scenery is just weird. Right in front of me is a building site, but to my sort of right is the most amazing sight of a huge cable car about thousand mile in the air and the tower holding part of it up descends into palm trees and shit! Unfortunately we are just sat here rocking back and forth waiting to disembark, slowly being poisoned by diesel fumes. Bit concerned that they appeared to be loading my suitcase onto another boat, but I could be wrong.

Just spent ten minutes photographing stuff. In fact, for the majority of those ten minutes, I have said nothing other than 'fuck me!' this place is simply unbelievable, especially when you are flying past it on a boat the size of a seacat, but doingabout three hundred miles an hour, as there are probably no speed limits, like on the roads here, only speed suggestions. We just whipped round a marker buoy like a jetski, and you could see the singapore eye, a blatant ripoff of the london eye.
Just had to put my watch back an hour. Everyone seems to want their own time zone, sort of as a mark of their individuality. Tossers!

Why, in the name of .....

Why is it that all methods of travel require you to hang around for fucking hours? All I want to do is get on a ferry, and they go every ten minutes, so why should I have to turn up at least an hour in advance.
Sorry, my apologies. I am at a ferry terminal in Singapore waiting for a boat to Batam, and its as bad as the fucking airport. I did warn you that these might be done in the wrong order, but due to my liver faillure, lack of sleep, plus the jetlag, I don't feel particularly in order myself. Hang gotta go and check my bags in.
Right, despite what I had been told, the immigration fee is not 20 Usd it's 25! You have to have US notes and they have to be clean and tidy else they cause problems. I just happened to read my immigration slip, and I didn't have enough money! So I had to eg it to find a currency exchange to get a five spot! Then when I got to the full mmigration check, I couldn't find my immigration form from singapore, so that took me away to an office. Luckily I found iton closer inspection. I am just about to board the Ocean Raider for forty minutesof throwing up over the side!

Wasp shock

Disturbing a wasps nest without getting more than a couple of stings is no impossibility. If the wasps findyou unattractive enough, only a couple of wasps will actually 'take one for the team' and try to sting you. Because of your immense repulsiveness, the wasp would have difficulty 'getting it up', sting-wise and all the other wasps would be helping to fluff the fated wasp's sting up to penetration hardness and would be so caught up with this activity that there would be no possibility of receiving more than a couple of stings. Scientists made this miraculous discovery after one of my very weird mini dreams involving wasps with erectile dysfunction. Hey ho.

Peace out

A bit more normal

The first part of the night I was leading a crack team of robbers in a dirty dozen style 'being the good guys' sort of mission to stop some random bloke from stealing 100 million pounds of summat or other. We ended up swimming along a huge dock in this really slimy water until we could get up onto what I think was a manmade concrete spit. There was some sort of gun battle in which the bad guy got caught and we took him back to Winchester bus station where I was informed that my mother had died and I'd inherited 100 million pounds! Got disturbed by the cat, but when I got back to sleep, there was something about a motorhome that I can't really remember, but I think we drove it to a Roadchef where it turned into my Vectra. Whilst waiting for burgers, it became night, and there was a man looking out the window at some sparkly type affair in the sky. We talked about it being some sort of astronomical display, and I went to get my camera for the car. While I was getting my camera, I bumped into my aunt Jenny who was a supervisor at the services and she was shouting at a subordinate. When I go back to the restaurant area, the bloke had a tripod set up, and I realised I would need one too, so I went back to the car where I saw Jenny again, with her daughter and a baby, who kept trying to steal my keys. Walking back to the restaurant, the sky was bright with stars, that started to change colour, and looked a lot like those films of weird deep sea animals, all tentacley and flashy and shit. When I tried to setup my tripod, however, the legs would not stay together, so I had to keep adjusting the settings and trying again, but every time I pulled the legs out, they spread out a couple of metres and the tripodwas only about three foot off the ground.
Then I was woken up by someone trying to sell me a car!

Peace out!

Stripping for fun

 

A couple of weeks ago, I had the honour of visiting an old friend of mine in Bristol for his birthday. For the sake of protecting the innocent, I will call the birthday boy Wes, and his girlfriend, I dunno, Jodie. Having arrived in Bristol after a fairly torturous two and a bit hour drive where my sat nav (a homicidal item of electrical hardware that is repeatedly trying to kill me, or at least make me attempt suicide by driving off a cliff), took me the majority of the way into Somerset, before finally heading north through country lanes so thin that even the badgers have to pull in to let each other pass, Jodie and I went to buy some Champagne and went off to meet Wes. Incidentally, when we left their flat, I had left my car keys on their table only to come outside and discover that I had left my windows wide open. Trying to do them up only set off the car alarm, which, of course, I could not switch off due to my keys being in their flat! I mention this, as it was sort of typical of the day thus far. Getting a bus into Bristol was an education for someone who had not set foot on public transport for quite some time. Did you know that you don't even get your own driver! Having leapt off the bus at some suitable point, totally lost, but assured by Jodie that we were still in the same county, despite having travelled for forty or fifty generations, we wandered into the centre of Bristol. Now I would be the first to admit that I am a country lad by heart, and not mad keen on cities, but Bristol was pretty cool. We had not walked more than two hundred yards before seeing a fox wander across a roundabout, where it had been hiding and living off the homeless and hopelessly drunk for years. It looked fat!

Having met Wes in some sort of pub, and shouted at each other for quite a while over the noise, we wandered off to have a crack at the champagne that was nestled discreetly in Jodie's bag. Sat somewhere near water of some genre, we reminisced and drank the fizzy giggle juice until we had to move on: bladders were being worn very full this season. Having got the idea into my head, it was decided that a strip club was definitely in order, as neither Jodie nor the birthday boy himself had ever set foot into one before. Having found a place, that may or may not have been called 'Wildcats' that did a fantastically reasonable twenty quid nude private dance, we sauntered in and took up some drinks. How fucking expensive, talk about a cash cow, and I don't mean the bird in the waistcoat who had a face like it had caught fire and someone put it out by dropping a building on it. Over the whole weekend I spent more money on drinks in that bar than anything else. Still, nice collection of poon, and just as we collected our drinks, a table freed itself up next to the pole and dance area. Wasn't the biggest table in the world, but then again, the dance floor was no leviathan either, being, as it was, just about the right size for someone sat at said table to catch a tantalizing stiletto heel in the eye. From this point on it was difficult to work out who looked more disoriented, Wes or Jodie, although the smart money was on Wes.

During the first young lady's attempt on the pole to slash me across the cheek with a perilous 'cross knee release', a move that even the South African police have banned, citing that it was 'a touch out of order', poor old Wes didn't even have a look at what was on offer. He occasionally glanced up, but seemed a little disorientated to find what was there when he did. Meanwhile, I was trying to find out from them both what sort of girl would be appropriate, both for Wes's enjoyment, and Jodie's satisfaction that he wouldn't be so enjoyed that he would flee Bristol with a dancer and live on Fiji raising squirrels and existing off the land. Eventually, after probably another round of drinks, they had both decided on the girl that was gonna be obligatory for the continuation of the strippy type ritual. Now, unfortunately, we had got ourselves stuck on a table that was to all intents and purposes, under the stairs. We were not getting the attention we deserved as any lass wanting to approach us had to either bend double, or kneel on the floor.

Wes's dancer of choice was free, available, and looking for 'mister right'; at least 'mister right amount', and, using a trick picked up from Robin Williams in Good Morning Vietnam, I invited her to join us. Incidentally, not really much of a trick, and it works with all whores gooks
gold diggers ladies looking to easily manage their careers in an easy-going manner that doesn't interfere with the intangible flow of the evening: you simply pop a folded twenty/fifty in the palm of your hand, clearly displaying the fact that it is a twenty/fifty and shout 'hey there, would you like to join us!'. Works a lot better than its predecessor: 'hey bitch, you dancing, or fucking, or just plain fucking right off?' which doesn't always have the same positive effects. Although fuck me it's funny!

Having lured the girl into sitting cross-legged on the floor under the stairs with us, we all explained by shouting, and undoubtedly spitting on her, that it was Wes's birthday and that Jodie was his gf and wanted to join them. The tits and arse wrangled them the price of thirty for the pair of them and led them off to their private room!

Now, being left alone at the table gave me a chance to properly take in my surroundings and explore the whole idea of the pole-dancing/stripping experience. Now, from what I know from strippers that I knew in Southampton, they actually pay to come to work, and keep the money that they make. Some places charge them a percentage of their evening take, and some don't. Each of the girls there had a look in their eyes that you only usually see in the eyes of starving Indonesians, hopeless salesmen (like Gil from the Simpsons), and crack addicts. The main difference was that in there as well was a spark of intelligence, almost without fail missing from the above list. The look is one that you can see when the owner knows that they have to make the money, or they will have to put up with a lifestyle change. When you are talking about a starving person, then often the money is the difference between life and death, with a crack addict, feeling like life or death, and for a shite salesman, the difference is having a wife and house and not. Now I don't by any means believe that any of them would starve to death if they didn't flash their twats at people three nights a week, and I'm certainly not suggesting that they are crack addicts, so that kinda leaves the shite salesman metaphor. The distinction being the lifestyle change would probably not be as dramatic, but nobody likes having the nice stuff taken away. Now there are people out there who would say that the girls are motivated by many different and admirable things, such as it makes them feel sexy and appreciated, or it keeps them fit, or that there is a shared sense of femininity, but my guess is that it is all bollocks. The girls never want to be on the podium, as that keeps them from earning a quick twenty quid in a private room. They have the hungry look of a cat in a room full of infirm overweight gerbils carrying little rucksacks full of whiskas jelly. This is why lap-dancing places can become boring very quickly if you are too sober or too cynical. As a bloke there, you are the piece of meat, and although you think that you are being the hero, sitting enjoying a cold beer, having a cigarette (bollocks, alright, no cigs. Fuckers!), watching some young lass parading her spadge for your delight and delectation, you are being fucked yourself, paying for something that if you weren't such a loss, you'd be getting for free somewhere else.

Luckily, before this line of thought could get too depressing, Wes and Jodie returned from their dance. Laugh, I thought I'd piss myself! Jodie was pretty cool calm and collected, as was Wes, except that he had, what they call in Full Metal Jacket, the thousand yard stare. He downed his drink pretty swiftly, and didn't make eye contact for a while, as if his mind was elsewhere. He looked like someone who was trying to remember if he had left the gas cooker on with a candle in the bedroom, with a hard-on. Jodie obviously enjoyed the experience, and Wes certainly looked happy, if not just a little shell shocked. Sadly, it took me quite a while to find the lass for me. I have extremely high standards, as I feel that it is a disgrace that I should have to stare up their cock pocket whilst they relieve me of my hard-earned, when surely it is more logical that they should be paying me for the privilege of checking that they are not diseased. I turned down an eight foot black Amazonian warrior on the grounds that...well, shit, gross! Although, didn't phrase it like that. As everyone well knows I am no racist and a lover of everyone, no matter the creed or colour. But shit man, nasty! If I stood on tiptoes, I could have just about sniffed the fluff in her belly button. Besides, last black girl I went down on was a little on the hairy side: it looked like a kebab dropped on a hairdresser's floor. That experience probably tainted me a little to lean away from the jungle fever. When I finally found a young athletic lassy who I felt would be acceptable to allow her to rub her nipples across my mouth, we disappeared off to our room. I have to say, she was quite delightful. I would have quite happily invited her home to meet my mother. Ten minutes and twenty quid later I adjourned back to our table, overall pretty happy with my choice. Fantastic little pair of teenage thrusters, looked like they were held up with hooks, and a panty hamster like a mouse's ear, with not a trace of muff fluff to spoil the view. I returned to our table and supped away at the drinks in the same fashion that the club supped away at my wallet, but on the plus point the bouncer gave me a cap which he then refused to let me wear?!? I wore it backwards on the journey home though, as one more drunken chav tosser didn't really stand out too much in Bristol!

I did have some pictures to post with this, but I can't find them, which is probably good. The rest of the evening was a blur, as was the journey home the following day, apart from racing a Range Rover Vogue SE down the 303 then the 34 at about 125 MPH. Fuck me those things can certainly move when they want to. He didn't dip below 110 the whole time I was behind him, and that was about forty miles. Oh yeah, and when I got home I realised that I had a flat, so while I was a woodlouse pube away from doubling the national speed limit, I had a front offside flat! Well, you just gotta laugh.

 

Peace out!

They get weirder and weirder

Can't remember this one quite as well, but Jon and I were going to some sort of amusement park. We were following three incredibly cute lasses to the water park bit, except that we all had to crawl on our hands and knees up a 55 degree slope to get there. When we finally got to the top, we had to clamber down a spiral staircase with no step which was being doused with water. When we got to the end of this, we had lost the girls and seemed not to be in a water park, but an indoor play area. I was given a little train to sit on, like the ones kids cart themselves round the garden on, and it started pootling off by itself round some sort of course, except that when it got to a wall, it just drove up it and along the ceiling. I just drove around for ages trying to find the girls, and then Jon, who I also lost. Eventually I got off to complain to one of the staff, a right arrogant prick, and he shoved me through a fire exit out into the broad daylight, andthn someone knocked on the door and woke me up!

I might need a psychiatrist. Or a joint.

Another weird dream

We were all trapped in a sort of low beamed cottage with a huge oak conservatory. My mother was there, and she seemed to be having some sort of fling with Malakai Intakos. Barney and I were playing a playstation in another room. We seemed to be cut off by some sort of storm, although it wasn't raining. The Aga had gone out and there was a huge spider under it. Then a pair of bears started banging on the windows in the conservatory and I went and started slapping the glass to scare them away, and Barney went mental, convinced that although two bears couldn't break the glass, I might break it and let them in.

Then I woke.
I'm gonna stop havin jalepeno and cheese sarnies before bed.

Well weird dream.

Well, I was dreaming that my mother had bought a house on Alresford road, but it was on a slope, so I couldn't get to sleep in it. Theliving room was on the outside, and there were only two rooms, a toilet with a folding door and a bedroom. Then, after getting refused at a party at Simon's flat on Colebrook street, I ended up in a pub in Bristol with Wes and Jodie and Jon. Wes was only drinking virtual drinks but ended up paralytic,so we had to drag him out of the place, incidentally falling over a table with Simon and his party sat at it, including Michael Burke. As we staggered through the booze mall the pub had been situated, we went past a cabaret pub where all the staff were dancing outside, so Jodie pulled us to one side to show us a shortcut through a fire escape, and when I walked through it, she slammed it behind me, and I found myself in an enclosed loading bay, looking a lot like the loading bay at the Bargate Centre, and I couldn't get out. Then the theme to The Antiques Roadshow came blaring out, and I woke up.

Just felt I ought to share that

A quick experiment

I'm not entirely sure but I think I am able to publish direct to my blog. I can't really remember how it is done but I'm sure that it is possible. In all fairness, not like I've had anything interesting to write for about the last three weeks. Actually, that is not strictly true, I have had interesting things to write about them but I just could not be bothered.

So, for the record, I have also dictated to this entire blog using the built in voice recognition software that comes with vista. It is actually quite good, certainly beats the shit out of the one that came with XP. Okay then, I guess I'd better see whether or not this will publish. God bless office 2007! It's the shit!

Film of the decade

If you ever get the opportunity to see Epic Movie, a smattering of arse gravy in a parodic style of quite a lot of recent films. Totally brainless and shite but entertaining in its own way. Some gratuitous nudity helped it along. Now one of the films it repeatedly has a pop at was The Da Vinci Code, which it pulled off to great effect. Now having sat through the genuine da vinci code, I realise that the pisstake version, written by two fart-joking, stoned african americans, with the combined intelligence of tree bark in the special class, is at least fifteen times as intellectually put together and thought out as that utter fucking pap that they managed to crimp off for the real film. I didn't even manage to spot which bit they filmed outside my mothers house until 1am. Stopping people from overlooking the set in case the actors had to make eye contact with real people , the totally vain jumped-up cunts, so far in the fucking clouds that they couldn't touch the ground with a rope. Anyone who had anything to do with that shite-awful sack of genital sores should do the honourable thing and alter time so that they drowned in boiling dirty chip oil as a baby. It's not that I didn't enjoy the film; I didn't. It's more the fact that they all made a shitload of money for something that an toddler could have left in a potty. Right, I might as well stop ranting as I am now beginning to run out of metaphors and adjectives, but believe me I could go on for hours about those talentless overpaid arse tampons and that rectal polyp of a so-called film.

Stay tuned next week as I review Pearl Harbour. Lol

Peace out.

Thirteen years

It sounds like the title to a film, but today is a very poignant date. It is an anniversary thirteen years old and it is one that always brings a sentimental tear to my sparkling mischievous eyes. It is hard to believe that it was thirteen years ago, and so much has happened since that day. I've even dug out the all the papers regarding that fateful incident and sat and had a wistful read through them, thinking about all the people involved. Out of them all, I miss WPC 141 Connors, the arresting officer, the most.

Lovely woman with a great sense of humour, and a real barrel of guffaws. She had such a winning smile as she led me off the premises and popped me in the back of the car. Thirteen years have passed me by, but I feel I have learnt so much, and a lot of it was all down to the people I met during the incident and the following six months when I was in and out of first magistrates court then crown court. I ought to mention a few of them, but I am a little hazy on the names and I guess they deserve some privacy. There was of course the victim, who was, unfortunately , naked hairy and fat the first time I met him, which was three in the morning in his bathroom. Coincidentally, this was the place I was arrested too. The second time I met the fellow, he was just as fat, but mercifully clothed, as he throttled me into semi-unconciousness in the local Safeways. At this point special mention should be made of the desk copper who told me it was my own fault for getting attacked despite the fact that I was already paying the price for my crime. Wanker!
The desk sergeant who bailed me despite being of no fixed abode, top bloke. Quick shout out for my mother who generously told said sergeant that she wouldn't vouch for me.
The final person needing a mention, or rather people needing a mention, would be my legal team. The legal secretary used to bump into me all the time whenever I was taking some form of narcotic, which always made our interactions interesting to say the least. But my solicitor and barrister were the real geezers. For those who don't know and are probably looking forward to this little revelation, I was caught having just broken into a bathroom window on the first floor, having made it across a twenty foot gass roof, at three o'clock in the morning, disturbing the owners and got myself arrested in said bathroom, and after all that time in court, my legal lot got me aquitted and all my travel expenses refunded.

All of this thirteen years ago to the day, and I've certainly passed a lot of water since then. At some point maybe I will transcribe the statements on post them somewhere, but in the meantime, I'm glad I had that little warning, which scared me enough to straighten my life out a little, not a lot, but a little.

Incidentally a real quick mention of the fact that WPC 141 Connors tried whacking me with a drug arrest when she found that I had vitamin C tablets and indigestion tablets on me. When she held up a my little bag of Cream of Magnesia tablets and asked me what would happen to her if she took all of them at once, I toldher that she would shit for a week, and she dropped the subject. Good drug prevention!

Peace out dudes.=

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New movie

Matt is a gaylord

It is most certainly an archaic term, but Matt is a gaylord, a fudgepacking boy-whore-raping perverter of children with deviant tastes so depraved that they deny chronicling. Although I seem to have some time on my hands so I suppose I could give it a try.

Nah, that shit is too sick, especially what he likes about stem cells. Although I guess they are at a mental age that he can associate with. He is trying to grow his foreskin back by creaming his little nob-end with stem cells and chanting 'no cut, no cut' over and over again. But at least it has stopped him trying to screw kids in size six childrens shoes.

This is a disclaimer stating that I was completely pissed when I wrote this and thereby have nothing cerebrally to do with the content.

A bit weird

I gotta admit, the beach nearby here is a bit disappointing as the tide seems to be permanently in, so you can walk down a precipitous cliff path to be rewarded with a shit beach and the worlds least fraternised beach café- when the tide is in (always) the outside seating gets lapped by waves. Don't imagine they make a profit!
Also, the bar that I have come to seems to be inhabited by 'special people'. The place is practically knee deep in drool. The most exciting thing here is a Brittany Ferry sailing past, and the whole bar is talking about it. This place would be cool as fuck if I was here with someone other than mother, so we could at least get a beer and take the piss out of people, but sat here by myself it is just a little sad and creepy. There seem to be more Polish folk here than in London. I would have said than Warsaw, but there are more Polish in Eastleigh than there are in Warsaw.
I might just hitch to Newport for the festival. Mal seems to be getting laid and he's a bit weird!

Out with the van

So here I am, sat outside the van on a campsite in Whitecliff Bay on the Isle of Wight. The weather is fantastic and the van has behaved like a dream, and not the sort of dream where you wake up sweating and screaming about asparagus. We are right next to what might be sandown airport, but is certainly some sort of flying club. Might go across in the night and steal a helicopter. Haven't actually made it as far as the actual beach yet, but will probably have a mooch down there tomorrow and soak up the atmosphere. Went to the onsite bar\club last night after arriving, mainly to get some cigs. It was kinda painful really. How do people get into being childrens entertainers? They must have a couple of diodes not tightened down properly. There is a climbing wall just behind the van, and it looks like a shitload of fun, as well as being dangerous as Vanessa Feltz's driving on the way to the Ginsters Pasties AGM. Haven't actually seen any kids maiming themelves yet, but it's just a waiting game. Same with air crashes, it'll happen eventually, and I hope that me and my camera are there to cash in on it. Nice middair collision with some bodies plummeting groundwards would be nice.
It's the festival this weekend, so it should be kinda quiet on this side of the island, apart from all the fucking planes taking off next door. Would try and jump the fence, but pretty sure I wouldn't get the van over. Anyway, I must go and buy some dinner for tonight. Humble camping fare I'm afraid. Frozen pizza topped with larks tongues, swan breast, and dolphin. A whole dolphin. At least that's what the picture on the front of the box looked like, although it's just as likely that it is a bog standard meat feast. Well we'll see soon enough.

Have fun

Thank god for that

It is the second of May, six weeks since that damned cast was placed upon my arm. So here I am sat in Winchester fractures clinic, waitingto be freed from this purple monstrosity. Certainly a little pissed off at having to shell out two and a half quid for parking. Thieving bastards, hospitals! The waiting room is packed, unsurprisingly, so doubt if I will be seen on time.
Having said that, I have just been called to the plaster room, but, not reassuringly, have been given a ticket with 15 written on it. The plaster bloke is a bloke called Adrian, who is a recognised man about town, mainly in the pubs. The wo\man who works with him is a very charming lass\lad but just slightly asexual. Seems a strange coincidence that only hideous birds seems to break bones. Either that or fracture clinic shares it's waiting room with face-ache surgery.
Also vaguely worrying is the sounds of screaming coming from the ward next to us, although looking again, it is the A&E.
I take it back, an utter stunner has just wandered into the reception area. It's about time. Probably about time they gave those poor screaming fuckers next door some morphine, or 'done them a favour', not really what you need to hear in what is already a fairly nervous environment.

I have also noticed that I have heard no sawing coming from the plaster room. I will be exceedingly disappointed if I don't get get sawed, especially as I rather wanted them to saw down the 'cut along dotted line' tattoo on the cast.
Have just been in, and been sawed, and bless him, he did his best to keep to the line. My arm doesn't look as skanky as I thought it would, although my hand is minging. Wrist, I've decided, still hurts like buggery, but will see what happens when the overpaid patroniser looks at it. Am looking forward to a long bath, and letting all the skank just wash down the plughole.

Well, wrist hurts like bloody arses, and have been signed off for another fortnight. Have a collection of rathersilly looking exercises to do, but it is good to be unfettered again.

Boo to wrist busts.

A bit weird

So it's about 2am and here I am pissed in my campervan in a field somewhere near Hamble. We have had a barbeque, and a load of beer, and now begun to crash out. I just thought I ought to blog before I did. There is no way in the world that you can tell me that there is anything more fun than having your own two bedroom house with wheels on it. Hooray for campervans, and boo to VW drivers.

Easy roads folks.

The new next best thing

Well, even I gotta admit that the current money spinner is the best idea I've had in a while. Unfortunately it is such a good one that due to the secrecy it is shrouded in, I cannot divulge much information on the blog. The most I will communicate is that it is a book, and and it's about Winchester. And it is not, despite it being a fantastic idea, a collective history of places in Winchester I have had sex. Although it might make better reading, it would not sell quite as well.

Peace out

Goddamned shaver.

I own a braun shaver. One of the really expensive ones that come with its own cleaning system. Well, haven't cleaned it since moving house, so, that means that I haven't charged it in the same time. I would be amongst the first to admit that it hasn't been getting a huge amount of action, shaving about once every.... Well, every time I fancy it, I guess, which isn't often. Anyway, finally got around to charging it this afternoon when I woke up, but couldn't get it to run the cleaning cycle. Before going to bed, I thought I would just have a look at it, as it is sat on my dressing table type affair. This time, it decided to work. Now the downside is that it is about half past midnight, and the cleaning cycle lasts about an hour, and involves it starting up, more or less at random for the entire duration. So I have to look forward to keep crapping myself at random intervals for the next hour. So much for a relaxed early night.

Peace out, cos J to the Cizzle is in the flibbedy flobbedy floooooo!

Another most excellent plan

well, even by my usual standards, this is a weird one. Yesterday went looking for a caravan to possibly replace my campervan. Having looked at a few, came to the conclusion that if I got a caravan, my vectra might have a few problems towing it. Well, the next logical step is to get something that could tow it. Unfortunately there was nothing of note in the newspaper, except for a Ford Escort Xr3i cabriolet. Me and Loz chatted it over and declared that it couldn't hurt to go and have a look at it. Off we drives, and lo and behold, the chap has this beautiful black convertible ready for us to look at. So, while we are having a dekko, I spot a Range Rover. I ask the guy if it's for sale, and he tells me no, but he does have a 4x4 Vauxhall Frontera. Having gone for a test drive in the Escort, I check out the Frontera. Both me and Loz were impressed and then went for a test drive in that. Loz had to shoot off to work, so I went to pick up mother, and, long story short, we went and bought both of them. I now have four vehicles registered to me. Not sure why though. Both the new ones are soft tops, so a miserable rainy summer is now on the cards.

After all this, we still had to sort out Martha, the Campervan. Having emptied all the shit out of the back of it, the bloke turned up with the flatbed to collect her. He had some difficulties getting into the drive, but managed eventually. He then tied Martha to a winch, and heaved her up onto the back. It was the single most terrifying experiences of my life. Well, this week anyway. So, off she goes to have the engine fixed, and when she is back running, off she goes to a place in Colden Common to have the interior sorted out. Then it's the high road that beckons.

Peace out dudes.

Bloody donkeys

Well, seemed like a good idea to get a few quid down for the Grand National. Now for those who don't know, I have had a pretty damn good run with the National over the last five years. Certainly into four figure profiit. This year, unfortunately, I had no money to gamble away. After spending about three hours on the fone with mother, I finally talked into letting me place a fairy substantial amount of her money on the race. Out of the top four, I had...not a one! Not one fucking horse was placed, out of the seven horses I bet on, not one of them thought that it would be a good idea to cross the line in the same decade that they set off. Bastards.

On a lighter note, I gave Jon a couple of tips, that I didn't have money on, as he is a jinx when it comes to horses. He was very drunk, having been drinking whisky with me until about 8ish that morning, before getting about an hours sleep, before heading off to his sister's wedding. Yestein the pub he mentions that he had money on Hedgehunter, one of my tips, who had actually been placed, but Jon had been too pissed to realise that fourth is placed on the National, assumed he'd lost, and tore up his betting slip, therefore losing him....(sounds of frantic mental arithmetic) £22.50 which is, I concur, not a huge amount of money, but it is definitely better than, for example, having a vigorous body rub off a hairy man with a cheesegrater.

Seemed like a good idea

So having seen some camping bits and pieces in the Argos catalogue, I decided to put up my tent in the back garden to see how easy it is, and how long it could be erected in. Well, half an hour later, and sweating like Lee Evans, I finally got the thing vaguely upright. Considering that our lawn appears to be concrete with an inch of soil on top, I am surprised it is as up as it is. So, having achieved this mighty feat of construction, I retired to the living room to watch more shite on telly. Giving up for the night, I have made it to the kitchen, where I remember about the secondary living accommodation in the rear aspect of the property. All of a sudden it seems like the best idea I have ever had in my life involves getting a blanket and a candle and proceeding to sit in the near dark listening to the distant sounds of the motorway and the next door neighbour's cat trying to scrabble over the fence. Nice: 10\10 for excellent thinking. I haven't done this since I was about 12, so about 14 years ago.
Have since given up, and I am back inside. Mainly because the batteries died in my phone. Living rough is fine, just as long as you can get your hands on all available technology.

Been a long time

Being unemployed once more, and in fact, unemployable due to a broken wrist sustained whilst under the influence of red wine and whiskey, I have decided to post to this blog a little more often.

Well, it has been a weird month, what with the breaking of the hand and not being able to drive as a result. Went out Easter Sunday with Barney and his dog, Bo. Bo is without a doubt the most mental mutt alive, and has this vile habit of eating anything that looks utterly repugnant: shit, corpses, entrails. You name it, if you can find it in a Turkish restaurant, then Bo will eat it. We took her out for about a twenty mile walk, through the grounds of a local manor house, met a racehorse, and some exceedingly evil cows. Cows look kinda docile and amicable when seen from out of a car window, but when they are up close, you are simply reminded that cows are fucking great animals with not a lot going on in between their ears. A bit like bouncers really.

Went to Frensham Pond on Monday. Unfortunately it was not quite as exciting as last time I went there, for example this time there were not quite as many snobby teenage girls in bikinis wanting my cock. So didn't hang about, came home and watched shite on telly.

Went out on Tuesday for a quick drink with Carl, bought eight cans of lager from Waitrose, then went back to the pub with Barney. Watched Man U stuff Romford 7-1 then went home. Sat drinking and getting immensely stoned until the early hours of the morning, and I mean exceedingly stoned. To the extreme.

Well that about makes my life seem about 400% more exciting than it really is, which is kinda sad because that's not even interesting in the slightest Still, passes the time.