Wednesday, September 25, 2002

Three hours. I only have three more hours to endure then I'll be back on the road. But what do I really have to look forward to getting back up to Lancaster?
OK - the good stuff is that I can eat what I want and not have food forced upon me like a punishment from God, I don't spill anything anyone doesn't already know when I get pissed up there, I can do drugs, smoke, drink for breakfast and for England, and nobody will mind. I have my space, my music, a lack of natural light and the possiblity of a peaceful wank in the evenings. This is all of the good.


I messed up my relationship with my best friend because of a stupid girl - this would be the Mamselle whom I was idiotic enough to get mixed up with last term. I sent her off to try and get herself a happy relationship with him. Terribly noble of me "Yes, go, go, forget all about me. You'll be happy with him. After all what can I give you?" very noble. Some may even say touchingly so. But the consequence of course was a few days of madness cursing my stupidity and attempting to murder my liver, a huge argument during which my dear wife got to see just how ugly I can be, and the loss of the best friend.
With the best friend goes everything. Ell can try all she wants to be my link to the world, but the truth is it's all gone now. I have nobody in Lancaster to count on, nobody to turn to, nothing to look forward to except more heinous crimes against my liver and the odd grope from a drunk Gothette which frankly is less than a flattering statement of my once virile sexual attractiveness.


On the plus side, nobody counts on me, nobody turns to me, and I get a few gropes from drunk Gothettes who in the dark and with their back turned may remind me for just a moment of my love. But that way lies madness, sweaty palms, and possibly another one of those "You try my patience, make your choice!" moments that happened far too often in my sordid few months. I can do without that thank you so much. I've hung up my Insane Don Juan hat for the foreseeable future and will be concentrating my efforts on my studies and writing long rambling letters to the wife.

Plus sizes. Doesn't thank make you feel dreadful? Now as it happens I am not a Plus Size, I am several sizes smaller that the smallest Plus Size on top and one or two smaller on the bottom, so I have no reason to feel that dreadful swamping wash of shame-faced embarrasment that is wrought by the fight with a smaller size and the eventual foray into the Plus Size quarter, then taking the damnable item of Plus Sized baggage to the counter to be served by some tall, willowy sixteen year old blonde with perfectly clear skin and breasts that sit up and beg as readily as spaniel pups. I don't need a Plus Size. But isn't it a dreadful term? Calculated purely to make the larger lady (in itself a detestable, loaded scrap of politically correct lingustic dross) feel ashamed, as if she takes up too much world and should stop it.

Piss off you anorexic twats with your coltish legs and your thighs which measure less than my wrist. Is my jealousy not enough now that you have to make my fellow fat bastards feel bad as well? It was probably Rosemary Conley who invented the term "Plus Size" in her attempt to give herself a sense of self worth. People like her can only derive such from the degradation of other's self esteem, which is why I find it so amusing that she has not realised that the "Plus" in Plus Size stands for "Plus brain, plus confidence, plus good job, plus decent family, plus sensuality"

In any case, I'm going to go pass out for a few hours so I can enjoy the drive. In a few hours time I'll be home and things will be fine. Except for the lack of wife, money, love, friends, talent, brains, beauty and generally a life.

Well you can't have everything.

Sunday, September 22, 2002

What utter turgid tosh I write when I have nothing better to do an my ex boyfriend has been sniffing around for a reconcilliation. Well since the POTO rubbish (the last printed piece thereof) I've been in Norfolk. Yes that's right, Norfolk.
One of the best known and more prominent places in Norfolk (except of course for Norwich, Capital City of Dull and that big boundless area of water known inexplicably considering that they are no more than obese canals as "The Broads" of course) is a place called "Diss" - now not only am I reliably informed that to Diss means in that good old Homie Slang to deliver Disrespect (the murdering of the English language by such people really is quite heartfelt isn't it?) but also, the more cultured of us know that "Dis" is one of the lower, darker, hotter and nastier regions of Hell. Unsurprising therefore that it requires only the doubling of the terminal sibilants of that dank little hole for it to have the same name as a place in Norfolk.

No I didn't have fun. Thanks for asking.

I did however do rather a lot of writing and listening to music. That's writing in the literary sense and listening to music. Did you know that the word "Opera" comes from the word "work"? I did. Well I do now anyway because I'm listening to the lovely Stephen Fry talking about the beginnings of it. Well some good things happened in Norfolk of course, but they were entirely unrelated to the fact that it was Norfolk except for the lavender farm.
Now, me and lavender is something of a sore point. I love the stuff - not only as an aid to smelling like the most gigantic shirt-lifter in Mayfair - an image which I would assume I don't need to bolster, but also for medicinal and culinary purposes. We all know that lavender is a soothing calming scent that can help you get to sleep except of course those of us who are overqualified for the position of Village Idiot, and so I could ascribe some of my love of lavender to my chronic insomnia. I do need my beauty rest more than you can fathom - about a hundred years therof just to make my face bearable. However, whilst in Norfolk (in Heacham, which was nice and confusing because it's pronounced exactly the same way as a place very near where I live called Heysham, and the two are on opposite sides of the country) being the adventurous sort and being quite inexplicably peckish, I decided to try some of the lavender cooking the very thought of which made both parents and later my wife pull revolted faces and make those noises of disgust which I'm so used to hearing about my eating habits. I had a lavender scone and some lavender ceylon tea. Well to cut a very long and dull story short it was lovely, I'll be cooking with lavender soon I think.

My spice and herb consumption bothers some. I cannot explain any better than I already have done that Turkish coffee should be served with crushed cardomon in true Persian tradition (ignoring the fact for now that Persia ceased to exist when the Shah-in-Shah was deposed in the 1970s. A grave and foolish mistake) and that Russian tea should contain not only lemon but cinnamon, cloves and allspice. And just what the heck is wrong with putting turmeric in cheese sauces I'd like to know? I love herbs and spices, they really give something to food and drink which in my case it tends to lack - that being of course a flavor.

But I was talking about Norfolk - and the spice trade babble leads me quite nicely on to the fact that I got several lovely additions to an already overflowing room/Lair whilst on holiday. One being a very large wooden mask from Bali (to go of course with the masks from Africa, Egypt, Rome, France, Camden and Lancaster of course) and another being a genuine working hookah. Now calm down - a hookah, far from being a lady of the night in the most un-Carmilla sense is in fact a pipe - the earliest form of that creation so beloved of my fellow students. Where they have their little UFO shaped bongs and water-pipes in the form of Pamela Anderson's bosoms in order to get thoroughly wrecked, I have my nice graceful hookah in order to contemplate, meditate, and get so wrecked that I write rubbish like the afforementioned garrotted trousers incident. I think we can see who has more class here.

Yes - Me, more class. I also got my grubby paws on a carved naked woman, a candle shaped like the head of Nefertiti, a music stand in a suitable state of decay to keep my papers on, two Sarah Brightman albums, a fantastically Witchy pair of boots, large amounts of alcohol to take home, a tea set belonging to Lord Leicester, two black leatherette cushions and more lavender scented things than you can shake a whole handful of sticks at. Oh yes, I've got class...

So now I'm buggering off home to Lancaster, to my nice dark little room where I can get stoned with impunity and listen to organ music as loud as I want without people getting too bothered about the state of my mind. As if you have to guess - my mind has been blissfully clear and lovely ever since I made the wonderful decision to let the silly girl who was wrecking my life and quite possibly my marriage piss off with her young lad and leave me alone. I have six hours in a car with my father for company which isn't as bad as I can make it sound - he's a great conversationalist when he's in the right mood but that tends to involve Scrumpy and that's not really an asset to driving 300 miles. Once up there I need to unpack, then repack everything that's to be sent home, what fun. But at least hopefully after that I'll have some space in my room. I said hopefully.

Better go do something useful. Can't think of anything but I have two books about John Merrick and a copy of the Hunchback of Notre Dame to get through. Thought I might keep them next to all my POTO books and present some sort of obsession with freakish deformity which is totally false but nevertheless goes well with the masks on the wall.