Category Archives: nightmare

full on nightmare

I had to yell at one of my colleagues for being a cunt at work yesterday, he’s a 50 year old man, married with two kids, yet at time behaves like some sort of 7 year old with learning difficulties. The rest of then time he’s quite a nice chap, on occasion he’s a jolly good company but yesterday, he was a fucking prick.

The only reason I’m mentioning this as last night he pervaded my dreams, I can’t recall the entire scenario but the ‘action’ took place in a newly built warehouse, it involved moderate time travel and a stalker, the cunt at work being the stalker. For some bizarre reason my dreams over the past few nights have been full on horror-show bastards. Happily consigned to my psyche, last nights visit to my brains has passed into the ether but the two the night before are still stark and disturbing and I’d like to indulge you.

The first was seen from the third person and featured an assassin about to do her last job. She had instructions to rendezvous in a secret location where she was informed she’d be given a meal and debriefed prior to executing the hit. The location was on wasteland, a row of 8 disused portaloos, in which the fourth one from the left was distinguished by a grubby white boiler suit. I watched her walk in and push the right hand wall, which opened, and in she went. The dream then cut, almost with some sort of editing tool, where I was aware that I was a cop, on the same wasteground facing the row of disused portaloos. After discovering there was no secret door in the 4th one I walked over to a large metal bin to the right of the loos. On the top of a pile of female cadavers in varying states of putrification was the ‘assassin’ who’d been partially dismembered and sexually assaulted.

After I stop freaking out following my sudden waking I managed to get back to sleep, and then this happened.

My parents had gone out (for some reason I was living at home again) and mum had suggested that I might like to enjoy the rather large egg on the side in the kitchen, she told me it would take 10 minutes to soft boil due to its unusual vastness, which I didn’t question. When cooked I peeled the egg which by now was larger than a rugby ball. The shell fell away easily to reveal the egg white and a huge yellow-ish yolk. It wasn’t right this yolk. It had a dark brown centre to it, which seemed to contain some sort of organic inner workings; gingerly I prodded at it with a butter knife. The yolk shuddered for a few seconds until, to my utter horror, a large chicken-like limb slowly unfurled from one side of the yolk and began to descend toward the floor, a second smaller limb began to arrive at the opposite end of the yolk and in between a mournful face with huge bird-like eyes began to protrude, it started to reach towards my own screaming head just as the larger of the two limbs made contact with the kitchen floor. I ran out of the kitchen and slammed the door. What the fuck do I do? Should I call someone, the RSPCA, who?

I went back into the kitchen against my better nature and the creature had disappeared, I breathed a sigh of relief ironically assuming I must have dreamt it. This was until I heard a faint noise above me. I looked up and hanging by its long limb was the creature, its face two feet from mine staring into my very soul. I was just about to scream again when it released itself and in dead slow motion began to fall towards me, the face getting ever closer, and closer, and closer….

I woke with a start, shaking like shit and covered in sweat. Such was the vividness of this little head fuck that I couldn’t clear my mind of the awfulness of its form, it nearly made me physically sick actually and it took me over 2 hours to get back to sleep, about an hour before I was due to get up.

I suppose this may explain why I feeling fraught yesterday, maybe why I yelled at my colleague and thus perpetuated more horrors.

Another busy day at the office beckons…

pair o cunts

Well as predicted, as soon as I clapped eyes on the fucking germ and learnt of his circumstance, how does a person who never works, who does absolutely fuck all apart from living in fantasy la la world (whilst looking down on those that do have to work) is meant to handle the responsibilities of a relationship, let alone a family?

We left Cunt last time screaming ‘Don’t fuck with my life’at the severely anorexic mother of his children. The sort of thing you’d expect to come out of the mouth of a. a spoiled immature teen or b. said teen a decade on following more goodies from daddy, like a fucking house, guitars, mixing desks, keyboards, computers, fully furnished designer fucking everything for doing FUCK all…

Anyway, surprise surprise, she and the kid are gone. I’d already established that when the kid was about Cunt would have to be quiet, for the past few months it’s been relatively alright, even he understands that too much noise = screaming child, which directly effects him. And we can’t have Cunty getting fucking upset now can we, or daddy might have to come over and clap his hands over his sensitive ‘musicians’ ears until the nasty little baby stops making a horrid noise for FUCKS SAKE.

I helped; I didn’t slam doors (I’m not much of a slammer anyway, this is largely due, I think, despite my misanthropic default, to manners and respect, you know, indicators of being brought up well) and I made sure that I didn’t thump about, even when friends were over in the small hours following a skinfull. Besides, as already mentioned in previous posts, I have/had no beef with her or the kid. Why should they suffer more than they already do?

So, you’re asking, now his emotionless borg of an offspring and his ignored, disrespected and clearly ill partner have fucked off back to wherever, has my decency and goodwill been reciprocated?

Has it fuck.

Last night he had the fucking audacity to give me a full 6 hours of his repertoire, the only chink of light is that he’s clearly a bit sad that his family have fucked off, which, of course is entirely his fault. I mean the way he used to speak to her; really, you’ve not heard anything like it, it was infused with unadulterated hatred, made worse by its forced calmness. Nasty, nasty, nasty.

I’ve described his ‘music’ before right? He can’t play; timing, tone, tuning, rhythm are all off, he can’t sing; timing, tone, tune, key…never fucking had any of them, practise makes it worse, die death. But last night instead of confining himself to the (recently refurbished and fitted designer) kitchen (which is just slightly smaller than Kent) he was ‘musically’ doing territorial pissings (not the song, though he’s tried Christ help me, no, the act) by ‘performing’ in every room in the house, possibly in order to reclaim his pathetic existence as a 24/7 wanker. This meant that when I was cooking in the kitchen he was in the adjacent downstairs room, when I was in the living room, the same, and finally the bedroom, there he was.

I tried to remain calm, I thought, ‘he’ll stop in a sec’, I reasoned with myself, I have this facility. I’m an educated man, rational, decent even, it’s one in the morning and his directly beneath me clanging tonelessly…


I leap out of bed and on to my feet and land with both heels onto the floor with a deafening thump, I stamp, and I mean STAMP, to the bathroom where there is a wooden floor, grabbed the door and after yelling at Ian Kilminster volume, ‘shut the fuck up YOU CUNT!’ slammed it so hard against the frame the screws shot out the top hinge.

Immediate blissful silence.

I slept like a baby.

This is for him

fan shit

Myfwt came over last night. We had a fucking lovely evening, ate, drunk a bottle of red wine, chatted about life changing possibilities and hit the sack, happy. Then following a relevant conversation I called her by another girls name. Needless to say this didn’t go down well despite the error being without any possible connotation. It’s not like I was aiming to play a round of ‘fucking bronco’ the hilarious sport when you take your partner from behind, call her by the wrong name mid way through coitus and see how long you can stay in. I simply made a mistake.

I’ve never been terribly good with names, ironically Harri, the name I called Myfwt, had to put up with an entire evening of me referring to her as Myfwt, I’ve been known to call my brother, friends and random strangers Myfwt. It’s terribly unfortunate and unfair that this situation has occurred, I wouldn’t mind if there was any foundation or basis for this slip-up as it would at least afford me the chance to re-evaluate aspects of my life, but this isn’t the case, far from it. I could have just as easily mistakenly called her George Galloway as Big Brothers Big Mouth was on.

Speaking of Big Brother and words ‘slipping out’ (but for entirely different reasons…) Yesterday most of the office was alight with the news that Emily, the posh blonde contestant, had called Charley, the very un-posh black wannabe, a ‘nigger’. As the day went on transcripts of the incident appeared and, knowing the contestant in question, it looked as if she’d been trying to ‘bond’ with her housemate in a ‘wassup nigga’ type way. When I actually saw the show last night I saw a different angle on it.

Essentially, Emily and Charley have, despite being from different worlds, become friends. But it seems to me that as far as Emily is concerned the friendship serves her a purpose. Both Emily and Charley have had a bust up with Chanelle, who it turns out has a very nasty streak in her, and their subsequent bonding was inevitable. But it seems that Emily wants to be top dog and the use of the word ‘nigger’ whilst stupid and ignorant also had an element of control about it. She undermined her so-called friend, and clearly upset her. As I said to Myfwt, in the space of 5 seconds, Charley grew up a year as she was genuinely at a loss as to how to handle it, yet did so with surprising dignity. I felt sorry for her actually.

Rightly, Emily was given the boot; despite acknowledging the fuck up she seemed more concerned she’d be leaving the house without any underwear. Still, I can’t help thinking the abuse was as much class related as racially motivated mixed in with a large quantity of utter ignorance.

black night

It’s rather spiffing when one is looking forward to an evening and it ends up as a classic. After a rather pithy day in the office I cycled home full of good spirits, I’d had a jolly chat with Myfwt, Jim had e-mailed me to tell me he was already waiting at the flat and after a quick change at home we were just about to get into the tube when I got a call from Ray. I’d not from him in a while but as soon as his number appeared it was obvious that we were both heading in the same direction, he too had succumbed to the whole goth thing in the 80’s and had figured out that I was going. We arranged to meet at The (new) Intrepid Fox in a couple of hours

I’d already made plans to meet pals at The Two Brewers on Monmouth street so at precisely 6.10 I met Gee and Rick, who’d just arrived, and bumped into Swinsehead as I went to the bar. It was a glorious warm evening, if a little muggy, but stood on the street with a pint watching the passing throngs going about their business I could actually feel my self unwinding. A friend of a friend passed by and I grabbed him to say thanks for the book he’d kindly signed and given to me, he’s currently enjoying an acting role in a nearby theatre but to say anymore would be indiscreet. Nice bloke.

We had a couple of pints at The Brewers and made our way to The Fox, needless to say it was rammed with just the crowd I’d expected, largely middle aged men, a few gothy chicks and all still maintaining something of the you-wouldn’t-understand-if-you-don’t-know about them; wall to wall black, piercings tattoos, it felt like coming home. Essentially, it felt 20 years ago. Beautiful.

We were joined by one of Gee’s mates, Justin, he runs a nightclub in Surrey (I can assure you it’s not as shit as it sounds) and is good pals with members of Hawkwind, I liked him instantly. By this time the pints were going down nicely and the crowd had begun to thin to catch the support act, slowly the black faded and the usual ‘metal’ punters began to diffuse the absence of colour.

Ray arrived with his boss who immediately bumped into some of his friends, who, coincidentally, Justin knew. Even more coincidental, I popped on a Cardiacs youtube link last week and one of them was the guitarist from the band. Everyone was introduced to everyone else; there were now 9 of us.

We arrived at the Astoria just as The Fields of The Nephilim took the stage, Ray got me a beer and I began yelling at the exact same moment Myfwt texted to wish me a good evening and to not get shouty, as is my want. The band began sedately, a little to quiet for my ravaged ears before kicking off into their main set. It was fucking hot in there, sweat was pouring off the crowd, it was a sold out gig and the place was rammed solid much to the detriment of getting a good view. Our group disbanded into individuals and couples vying for a good spot, I found a super platform on the stairs to the bogs until Jim found me and ushered me upstairs to a prime location on the balcony. We bumped into a gild who’d flown alone from Dan Diego just to see the band, it was her first trip to London, she was flying back the following day. I only mention this to give some idea of the impact the band has had on some of its fans. Largely the crowd were congenial and polite most probably due to age, despite that the atmosphere was intense. The closing number was the best, a swirling, gliding drone that had a hypnotic quality; it was one of the best numbers I’ve seen performed by any band anywhere. By this time the volume was immense, my trousers were vibrating to the bass and I could feel the chorus in my chest.

After the gig we convened on the street and wandered over to The George for a closing pint. It was still very muggy but a relief to be out of the venue which by the end was like the Persian Gulf. The 9 of us stood about chatting, I was texted by a friend who wanted to know the band personification of ‘shoegazing’. This resulted in a ludicrous and hilarious 5-minute conversation of grown men shouting over each other. We settled on Ride.

When it was time to go Jim and I were half cut, as were my friends. I left Gee grinning at me from the entrance to the pub clutching yet another full pint. Both Gee and Jim are married with kids so when they do get a chance to get out, neither wastes it. We got off the tube at Tooting, Jim and I were ravenous but it being Thursday and after midnight the decent fast food outlets were shut so we had to opt for snacks from fucking Tesco. We didn’t drink anymore when we got back, a cup of tea and a spliff, which wiped Jim out completely, and he crashed out fully clothed in my bed.

Jim and I have always slept together since we were 17, neither of us is remotely known to doff the brown hat I hasten to add, it’s just the way it is. I woke up to the dulcet tones of Jim having a good old spit up in the bathroom, when he came back to bed he smelt exactly like aromatic pipe tobacco. His heart was racing and he was feeling shitter than dung, he put this down to over indulgence, I put it squarely at the feet of eating 3 cheap Cornish Pasties, two bags of Revels and most of a large bag of cheese balls prior to sleeping. He was just about okay when he set off and I ran a fucking massive bath before sitting down to write this crap.

Myfwt is popping over in a minute, it’s another warm bright day and I’m feeling just fine.

Today’s youtube clip is in memory of Rod Poole of Swervedriver who was murdered in LA last week. Bye dude

wide awake

I’m bloody shattered. I’m not sure if its down to my viewing of the fucking Blair Witch Project last week but I have been waking up at precisely 3.45 for every night this week save Sunday, which is the night I had to witness a nightmare, and was the only night that waking up at 3.45 would’ve been helpful.

The thing is that as soon as I’m awake I’m aware in that semi-conscious fog between the state of being asleep and awake (the part that the surrealists get wood about) that I am, and the mind starts racing until I’m actually awake, the whole blinking-in-the-dark-feeling-frankly-pissed-off awake.

My attempts to return to sleep consist of various tried and tested sleeping positions. Covering oneself but leaving one limb out of the duvet until it’s stone cold is oddly effective when the cold limb is brought home, similarly, lying on ones side with ones bare back exposed and hugging a wadge of duvet prior to returning to the classic side position can also do the trick. Since my disc slipped I’ve been unable to sleep on my front and feel that my sleeping has subsequently suffered, thanks back, yeah.

Anyway, none of these methods worked so I remained awake for about 2 christing hours as the sun came up, dozed off until 7.15, woke up and then fell asleep again, I was subsequently late on my refusing to get out of my pit.

After my rather splendid cycle home yesterday I dumped the bike, changed and set out. It was a glorious evening, perfect actually. I arrived at the boozer on Clapham Common a minute after my brother and we chatted to one of our pals who works behind the bar before heading off to sit by the window and watch the world go by as we sipped on Grolsch. My brother was shattered but after a pint, a chat with his missus that coincided with a call from Myfwt he got a second wind and we were off. We spent the evening discussing that Rock programme on BBC, Alan Partridge and Glastonbury, which is coming sooner than I’d realised. After 4 pints I was feeling unusually pissed, possibly due to a light lunch yet my bro blackmailed me into a whisky and ginger, which I wolfed down. After much giggling we went our separate ways and I arrived home seconds away from doing tinkle in my pants.

I’m not hangover today but I am knackered due to the lack of sleep, to add insult to injury I’ve a horrifically busy day, which is why today’s offing is somewhat short. I’ve two interviews, an important meeting and a stressed boss to contend with… it’s a lovely day though.

In the meantime, these young men cropped up in conversation last night. They look rather peculiar but make lovely noises. Turn it up.