That pure Cane Spirit since 1848.

Friday, May 29, 2009

When it comes to Liverpool fans, this must be the BEST result ever.

However, give us a chance.
The best footballer ever, was this man.

Monday, May 25, 2009

The worst of watching a parent age and die is the conversation. We long for the meaningful conversation that we despised when we were young. Overnight our parents become inane. What’s more, they revel in it. They punish us. When we were younger we begged them to talk like other kid’s parents especially when our friends (those other kids) were round for a snog and the burning of joss sticks.

Fucking hell mum don’t make a dissertation out of it. This isn’t a question of politics or human morals, noble spirit, deferred gratification; we got drunk on cider and the girls put make up on us like David Bowie, move on for fuck’s sake, and write me a note for school. (no fucking way).

Now we wish they would return to their rigour and shut the fuck up about just how terribly nosey is Mrs Wickes in number 11 (I think she is lonely) or the total, total, lack of urbanity in restaurants or in Boots the chemist, or with tradesmen looking at the ceiling.

Fucking hell, how do they manage to shed a lifetime of propriety, etiquette (which they imprinted on US by the way- ie never make anyone uncomfortable by your presence or speech or table manners) so easily? Piff paff poff and it’s like it never happened. After seventy something, they don’t give a flying fuck.

Saturday, May 23, 2009

Some interesting root canal work this morning at around 10 am local time...

So far this evening,
600mg Ibuprofen
1500mg Paracetamol
45mg codeine
1.5lt sparkling perry
35 cl rum type tincture 50%ABV (Approx) with diet cherry coke.
4 hours sleep in last 48

Feeling chust sublime.


Why the fuck not?

Here’s Joe Cocker.

Cocker! Snitter snitter fnar…

Oh, there are concrete mountains in the city…

Yeah and some Joni as well.

Oh it gets so lonely, when you're walkin' and the streets are full of strangers...

Hey if you don't like it...

It's Saturday and I'm in and I'm playing my records alright?

And some Bernstein

I like the island of Manhattan

Monday, May 18, 2009

Align Centre

ut on a limb

My creditors are avowed to kill me.
“If you do not make full and timeous restitution –in full, we will kill you.”
Such Little Men. Such ambiguity.
Poor old Dropshaft. Aware that life is a delusion and responsible for his situation.
So then, here I am in Jeddah. The dust and fumes would kill an ox. My urine is fluorescent; either from the tablets or the cid or dehydration. During the day I contend with shifty Arabs and in the evening I suffer the music of a talentless sod called Dizzy Twat telling everyone he’s bonkers.
One night around ten, we went to a convenience store like Bohack or Budgens to buy sugar and yeast and a pressure cooker. Bit suspicious? Not a bit of it. We kept up an innocent conversation throughout.
What’s on the list Hugh? (Always a good prop, a list.) Let’s see, sugar -for our baking. How much? 20 kilos. Oh and some yeast of course. Yes Hugh, we will need yeast also: for the baking of the bread etc. Look at these pressure cookers, very nice. Yes let’s get one for our English stews and hotpots. Oh remember our central heating is playing up, we could do with some micro bore copper pipe. Here’s some here! Anything else Hugh? Yes, these hickory chips will make a nice barbeque (Jack Daniels flavouring) And so on.
Everything is stacked next to each other on the shelf. Elliot Ness would shit bricks. “They put one of oursh in the hoshpital, we put one of theirsh in the morgue…
It’s as shaming as buying Asian Beaver or the Peoples Friend but the shop staff are cowed immigrants so fuck em.
Hugh is my line manager. He’s from Warrington. He’s been here way too long. His bide a wee apartment stinks of hooch and flavourings like rum essence and polo mints. His carpets are a fucking disgrace. I think some of it is blood. He hates everything, even the very blackening. Everyone calls him Hugh except the RSAF personnel who call him Mr Janus.

Sunday, May 03, 2009


My best man has been rebuffed by AL Kennedy three times because he is a v=bastardf. His mother was in a coma for three weeks after a road accident and to fill the vacuum I told her I was getting married and promised that her son would be my best man. The machiones didn’t beep she died the following week and I was stuck with the bastard.He was like I am now and I bankrolled him for 31/2 years. I thought nothing of it. I was flush and id known him since way way back. yet now I realise how bloody awful that mustr have been for him. How terrifingly shite that must have been. Too fucking bad. Hes a dreadful alchoholic now and I haven’t spoken to him for twenmty years. My next friend I met at trinity. He was from Dumbarton you couldn’t make it up. On like day two we met said something like, are you scotch? Yeah? Wanna drink? lets go. And that was that. We spent as much time as possible away from the fucking place because we were working class. I ended up eventually taking supervisions, he didn’t. he has a multi billion pond company makinfg umbilicles ifor the north sea oil and gas thing. I went out with him . he showered me this huge unwinding thing. Ti was stultifiingly boring. He has contracts off east anglia . I will not ask him for a job. I think he may have got married and nor asked me to the wedding the cunt. He was at mine and missed being best man by a whuisker. See above. My poor wife , the previous mrs maroon loved him as much as ui did and tried to get me to change it but it was too late. Even I couldn’t break a deathbed promise. I do remember how wanky the whole thing was. There is a maths test at Cambridge it’s a beefed up a level no more and if you get a good mark they call you a wtrangler. Well in the finasl its 5 from 7 and I did the 7 and goty a good mark asnd was called a werang;ler. I was wanky enough toi write “ perm any five from seven” on the bottom of the scrip. Fuck me gently.Max didn’t. and that’s the point,. Undertgraduates doing medieaval French history can do maths at Cambridge. Every cint can do it. anyway there was a surfeit thar year and they all disappeared up yhtere own arses workinf out whjy. Its not a variable bar ill give them that. Tits an absolute anywat its like the debate over a levels now. Are they too easy?. Ironica\lly we examined the statistical correlation ( l;ike that inky?) one of the most dreadful things about an English education is its thoroughness. England is stil even now a country of power and influence and to iknow that one has no part in it is so so cuntish as to be unbearable. We had a post mortem after the event and one of ourgroup a handsome lad called steve asked our supervisor if I really had written that and had I got maximum marks. What a dick. The trouble wqs we could see it was all props. If you pushed the walls they would tip over. Cardboard. His books (doctor loughran) our maths suervisor, if we’d taken them out the selves would have been blank paper we all knew itr but weree too polite to say. the point is I tookm him into my home and family. Max you cuntWhen mrs maroon and I split up he waws there the next day and stayed tewo weeks to make sure I didn’t kill myself. Yeah riught. We had a swell time, pissed constantly and he shaggrd everything going.i have the letter copy of sent to lse saying how wonderful I was. Ill give them that. Neyou know the worst of it? we played on it constantly. Were at Cambridge. We didn’t fit and it was difficult but we played on it. he married a nurse from Cambridge. The town. It was like officer and a genteman. The townies hated us but we ciould stll twist it. next friends are the richest people iknow3.