Category Archives: alice cooper


Seems everyone is jumping on my insomnia bandwagon, first Heath Ledger overdoses on sleeping pills and then Charlie Brooker starts claiming to have it –it’s not on frankly. Last night after yet another evening of barefaced abstinence, insomnia happened. The ironic thing about insomnia is that you’re not how long it takes you to fall asleep until you wake up. So last night I woke up at 5am after falling asleep at 1am, I ascertained it had taken me an hour to get to sleep but was now fucking wide awake. After waking up this morning at 8am I concluded I’d been awake for 2 fucking hours. This means I have had a total of 5 hours broken sleep. Great.

Yesterday I had a hangover; the day crawled past like an octogenarian tortoise, work was attempted but never really gelled. Today I’m just exhausted but I’ll reluctantly admit my head is clearer; I’m preparing myself for another night off. That’ll be two voluntary nights in a row. I honestly cannot remember the last time I deliberately punished myself by not having a few glasses of wine of an evening but I’m 99.9% I was still living with my folks.

After ‘work’ I trundled home, redressed and caught the tube for a few stops. I’d arranged to meet Myfwt at the estate agent for a mortgage assessment. The mortgage bloke was rather portly and as gay as window but trustworthy, succinct and decent. Just so you know I’m not displaying naivety about these sorts of fellows, myself and many of my friends (on my recommendation) used his predecessor to our immense satisfaction. We went through some stuff and I fought to remain conscious (it was much worse having to go through all this shit a second time). Myfwt was much more on the ball and we reached a happy conclusion with regard to how much we can afford without being stretched to the point of farting out blood for the next decade.

Sadly the reality of the expense of moving means that virtually every penny I’ve made on my current place will be lost in deposit/costs of the next place… I’m still secretly hoping they’ll be a few quid left over to acquire a younger Black Bitch but I’m not holding my breath.

Cunt is being a fucking cunt again, after a series of ‘testing, testing, one two, thank you’ (there is NO ONE FUCKING THERE) he’s taken to playing acoustically whilst bellowing out of tune/time into an amped up microphone, the deranged oxygen thieving cunt. I cannot describe to you the noise he makes.

On the one hand it’s toe-curlingly embarrassing because he so tone deaf and woefully devoid of any talent, yet so deluded he doesn’t even have the little bit of brain to stop him impose this honking desert of feeblemindedness on others. Why would anyone in their right mind do that? Why would you go out of you way to inform the world that you’re a fucking arsehole of the loftiest proportions? WHY?

The sooner I leave that place the better, and don’t go thinking I’ll forget all about it when I’m gone. He’ll pay for what he’s done, by the power of Greyskull he’ll fucking pay.

another bloody week ahead

Maybe its the time of year, or perhaps the close weather, either way, it seems that fate, not content with giving me one neighbour who is just above plankton on the food chain, has decided that the bloke opposite must behave in a manner more suited to that of a pile.

Getting off my black bitch on Friday afternoon he appeared. It’s the second time that, with less than a days notice, he’s asked that I drive my Transit to his ‘girlfriends’ house in South London to pick up some behemoth electrical goods, in this instance a fucking fridge. It’s not so much being asked to do such a thing, it’s the way it’s done, right in my face, this bloke has no concept of what constitutes personal space, in barely discernable Sarf Landon accent, complete with gold capped teeth, earrings and a ‘cheeky’ grin. And a fucking mullet.

When I made my excuses (this ‘picking up a fridge’ thing in a strangers house stinks, frankly. Besides my back is like an accordion) to avoid the slightest chance of my involvement he moaned as if I taken away his sweets. The bloke doesn’t know me from Adam, unless you consider talking endless bollocks to a person constitutes a knowledge of them. What I did glean apart from how he’d met Alice Cooper in the 70’s, that he’s an out of work brickie and his shorts are so close to his sack I was prepared to scream should his walnuts see daylight, is that he, his mates and his girlfriend are all severely alcoholic. This is why I was being asked to drive.

I’m not fucking up my weekend in order to bestow on charity on a person because he (and his mates) can’t put the bottle down for long enough to learn to drive, he’s almost 60 for fucks sake. After nearly 30 minutes of baffling anecdotes and useless information on how to build a conservatory he confessed, out of the blue, that he didn’t want to get too pissed tonight with his girlfriend. Boringly I said something about getting it up after a skinful, I thought I’d a least make an effort to be a bit of a jack the lad, but he looked at me with sad watery eyes, ‘not that’, he said ‘we row’.

Maybe he should do the next MFI advert… Confused? Go to Watch With Mothers, link right of this page.

I had a jolly nice Friday in a pub by Clapham Common, Harry was already there when I showed up, and we were joined by Frank and his missus. We gassed for a while before Frank and co went off to grab some food leaving Harry and I to carry on a deep and meaningful before being joined by my bro, hot from work. After some more chatting I got the last tube back and once ensconced, had a glass or two of wine listening to Space Ritual by Hawkwind. The best live album ever recorded.

The Saturday hangover was quite nasty, when I finally did get out of my pit it was lunchtime and I’d decided that it was best I left it later before making the predictable trudge to fucking Sainsbury, I had a bath, caused sperms and set off at 4-ish. I was back at 5, enough time to unpack and open the door to Myfwt suitably prepared. We ate smoked salmon on toast with smoked cheese, accompanied by a sparkling Rose that had been supplied by Mywt brother in law for helping out with her little nephews afternoon birthday party. The evening passed pleasantly, albeit too quickly but the thought of a proper lie-in made it all acceptable.

Sunday morning we watched Scrapheap Challenge in bed with tea, Myfwt nipped off for the afternoon and I watched a very disappointing Moto GP. Valentino Rossi, arguably the greatest GP road racer since the late, great Barry Sheene, fell off as he was making a comback to lead. I wasn’t really fussed after that so (nice 2nd for Capirossi though) so I made some more notes on the book and following a torrential but brief storm, got on my black bitch and shot over to my folks.

Sunday was their anniversary proper; I was joined by my very-soon-to-be-a-mum sister, brother in law, my bro and his missus for the usual round of tasteless jokes and guffawing. It was, of course, quite lovely, despite mums cake which I can still feel in my intestines.

I flew back on the bike, by now the roads were bone dry and the air temperature perfect, and returned home to prepare Sunday ‘lunch’ in time for Myfwt arrival at 7.
We had a few G & T’s and ate in front of Dirty Rotten Scoundrels, we’ve seen it one time too many so we talked through most of it and shortly after hit the sack.

So, it’s Monday and here I am back in the bloody office, I’m feeling quite tired due the fucking muggy July climate which effected my sleep, it’s pretty grim in the office too and for the hundredth fucking time, I’m on deadline.

It’s a Melvin’s Monday morning.