fucklestopped

Thank God for the bomb.

I am acutely aware that by 14.58 BST today, Boris Johnson and Cameron (I forget his first name; is it Ian?) have already accomplished a lot.

They are old Etonians you see. I am of an age when all my heroes were Etonians. It was the only school worth mentioning. In fact a college. Now my school was a college too, and we had the twin chips on our shoulders of being Scotch and Jesuit. Beat that! Let Eton flourish? Let Glasgow Flourish!

I’ve met three; Etonians that is. They were très good company and as tough as nails and had that effortless English quality of being at ease. I became quite friendly with one, for a while, a year or so, during various crises in the world of agriculture. We emailed regularly, got pissed a few times home and away, had him home to dinner, that sort of thing. I would meet him at the airport and he had that superb way of looking very grateful to be met. Perhaps he was. Anyway, we got on. He was elevating company. What a leech I am. He liked malt whiskies and I have an "in" where malt whisky is concerned and would press white labelled bottles of Glen Farclas 1968 (62% ABV) on him as he left for London.

I foolishly dropped all my network a while back. Pissed them against the wall like the faux Benzedrine I was guzzling at the time.

To get back to the subject; I, on the other hand, have done sweet Fanny Adams today.

Because I am not an Old Etonian?

No.

Because I am an old, hopeless, worthless aunt with an autumnal timor mortis perched on my shoulder the size of a parrot.

OH bee tee doubleyou Pat, a "Frenchie" is a kiss, nothing more. Shame on you if you thought otherwise.

Some lines on Maroon stepping from the closet.


‘Twas in the year two thousand and nine, on a cold summer’s day,
That poor Doctor Maroon woke a la William Ard, to find he was gay,
He had retired to bed early, totally straight (and utterly pissed)
So imagine the mental turmoil to awake as a homosexualist.

His revelationary conversion to soft furnishings and indirect lighty,
Made him feel like Pseudo-Dionysius the Areopagite,
“Oh me! Oh my!” he said, I must sit on this news,
Yet the camp old sod couldn’t resist praising his lady-friend’s shoes,

“This just puts the tin hat on it.” thought the impecunious gay git,
“When Poor Mother finds out, she’ll have a violent, possibly fatal, conniption fit,”
“Well that’s just too bad.” he flounced, “all I ever was, was her glorified chauffeur,”
And he danced a defiant little hornpipe, being now shocking light in the loafer.

“I knew all along.” lied Jayne-Marie, a girl with the morals of a stoat,
“Anyone could tell he was as bent as a three pound note.”
“Where will it end?” thought the clapped out, pissed up, academic Nobel dreamer,
Now admitting his love of stage musicals and sparkly drapes, the sad old screamer.

Let’s review the evidence.
Shall we?
Painful muscle pull, lower back, left side.
Bruising various odd places. Very odd places.
General feeling of having gone 3 rounds with Turkish boxer.
Alarming record of various latenight calls on cell phone
Still fully dressed.
Yes.
Yes I think I had a good night last night.
I must pad the furniture edges like one sees in the houses of the blind
Yeah, blind drunk you aunt.
Ok that’s enough.
Today at the eleventh hour, as the bell tolls, I am cleaning up my act, getting my shit together, taking stock, striding out into the new day. I shall bathe, ablute and dress with care. Full cuff link presentation, pomade on hair, polished boots. I am not a mollusc, I am a free man! Christ give me a drink someone, perllease!

Has the British government fallen yet? I hope not. Good old Mandy. Cometh the hour cometh the man.

I used to look after this girl's goldfish when they went on holiday.

Stop Press: What a twelvemonth! First it was Ali Bongo then Danny La Rue and now poor Old David Carradine! Oh Grasshopper. Time for you to leave.

"Is that Kung Fu?"

"No, he's choked the chicken."

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


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

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.

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?

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

snark

Out 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.

Fucklestopped

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. fuck.my next friends are the richest people iknow3.

The smell hit him when he opened the hut door. He couldn’t place it. Perhaps it was the smell of gentle disappointment.
No, it’s margarine he decided. Margarine and vinyl table covers.
“Oh Maroon,” he sighed piteously.
Life on the lam was going to be difficult.
He stepped in and dropped his suitcase on the bed…

If "Uncle" Otto Ziegler hadn’t had his stroke and fallen in the pool and if his puzzled audience hadn’t assumed it the highlight of his act then Maroon would never have come. The classified in last week’s Stage had been a godsend;

“Hands on” compere and two
coats required for prestige Devon
sunshine resort. Exp. of mediaeval
knight / serving wench not essential.
Live in all found. Immediate start.

To Maroon, a rat on a sinking ship, every word sang out to him with the tantalising “hands on” and “serving wench” providing the descant.
He memorised the number and while he was out shopping in Sainsburys, he called the agent, one Richard (Double) Dekker. They met later that day.

The interview went well. A formality. Maroon had warmed to the theatrical agent instantly which is always a great comfort to the practiced liar. There only remained the crossing of the "i"s as Dekker put it.

“Let’s see…Can we run through the health questionnaire?”
“Of course.”
“Smoke?”
“No thanks.”
“Uhuh. Do you smoke?”
“Good Lord no.”
“Any skin disease, dizzy spells, headaches or heart trouble?”
“No.”
“Deafness?”
“Wha…no”
“Thanks. No deafness.”
“No.”
“Drink?”
“That’s very kind of you…”
“Yes, good. Um, alcohol, how many units; in a week say?”
“Oh,14.”
“14?”
“Some weeks would be less.”
“Less?”

The formalities came to a shuddering halt. Dekker was unable to stop himself looking up. He saw at once the narrow necktie streaked with cigarette ash and the swollen brisket and the purple veins around a nose sharp as a pin. He relaxed and smiled.
Maroon on the other hand, felt the scrutiny keenly and cursed the sun which chose now to shine on his ravaged face and checkered jacket. He cleared his throat running a finger around his damp collar, and asked innocently:

“Well, how much is an alcohol unit these days?”
“I’ll put down 50 shall I?”
“50?”
“There are seven days in a week Maroon. It’s purely for insurance purposes. Besides, all the best comperes are piss ar…look it’s expected, it’s the biz. Take poor Lennie Bennett: smoked like a fish and thirsty as an Arab Mullah…”
“But he died!”
“Never on stage Maroon, never died with his public, no, they loved him and that’s the point. I’ll fill in the rest, you get yourself down to Devon."
And that was that. They shook hands.

“Give Devon my love and tell them I’ll send the two coats stroke serving wenches as soon as.
Break a leg Maroon.”

Achilles Hector Kenneth Maroon.

An Apology:

I apologise unreservedly for the slur neither intended nor implied on the wives of Mr Cameron and Mr Brown the Prime Minister occasioned by my bare-arsed exhibitionism on the weblog named Cape to Rio. I was not overworked or under great stress.

Further, I deeply regret my inconvenience on this most beautiful of Easter Mondays to be stuck inside explaining myself. I am most sorry to be typing this out to an empty screen knowing deep in my heart that public houses across this great land have been open for two hours now, serving cool wines and sandwiches. That, perhaps, is my deepest regret and for that I am more sorry than I can say.

It's the Norwegians!

I had no idea that the back of my head was so ugly.
I shall ask for a taper cut from now on

Some of you, perhaps the sporting physiologists among you (and I know how many there are of you these days) will be wondering, which, is the disabled leg. Take a good look my friends.

Have any of you noticed how both legs get thicker towards the bottom? I mean towards the ground.
Instead of thinning out they thicken up?
Simple explanation; Cycling.
That's right my friend, cycling... and nothing to worry about whatsoever.

On Sunday we like to cut sandwiches for our return from the Boston Arms at 3:30. We like old fashioned sandwiches best; smoked salmon, egg and cress, roast beef. We like to arrange them in three piles on paper doilies on the big oblong sandwich plate and cover them with a square of muslin.
We like to walk along the river in the afternoon to work up our appetites. When we come in, we get the wine from the fridge and the sandwiches from the pantry and settle to watch deal or no deal. We have a woollen travel rug that we spread over us even if it’s warm because it’s nice and special to do so. We usually bring a surprise home like a small box of chocs or Turkish delight. We like to have a snog during the wine and sandwiches. We like to laugh when someone who is poor ends up with nothing on deal or no deal. We like it when the other contestants start to cry because they look silly. We find it sexy and we like to start petting while Noel Edmunds commiserates with them. We like to have oral when the banker reduces his offer and the poor person tries to smile. Then we like to have more wine and a nap before Gordon Ramsay.

In 1964 I went to state catholic primary school. What a punch in the guts.
You see, I had spent the preceding year, my gap year, at nursery, expressing myself as a tree or a stickleback or a tadpole or a cotton wool cloud in a blue sky. I had busied my emotional development through the medium of finger paints and Bauhaus wooden toys. The last of the innocent naps always followed lunch and then home in time for Stingray or Fireball XL5.

State catholic primary school in 1964 was a workhouse from 1924. My best friends smelled of damp and stale bread. They had holes in their jumpers. I caught nits. They had bruises and black eyes and purple dye painted on them. They were the poorest, fucked around kids you can imagine.

Shut up Maroon, you are becoming tiresome. You’re nearly fifty, so fucking what? Live, you stupid bastard. That famous picture of the Japanese kids at nursery having their nap in Hiroshima is identical to us having ours. Complete blissful innocence. But then our dads weren’t out raping Nanking were they?

I was extracted in 1965 and sent to protestant primary school. It had activity rooms and French language puppets. It had miniaturised sanitary porcelain in the lavatories. Not to mention a roof over the urinals. It was nice to pee without getting rained on in a place which smelled of carbolic soap and not old man’s piss.