panique

They’re dropping like flies, yesterday Bergman, possibly one of the greatest film directors ever, save maybe Michael ‘Deathwish’ Winner and Lemmy, who isn’t a film director, but if he had been I reckon he’d have been right up there, instead he chose to chair the board of Motorhead, and now I hear Phil Drabble has hung up his crook.

Drabble burst onto our screens on one Sunday afternoon in 1973 with One Man and his Dog, already in his late 60’s Drabble cut an unlikely sex symbol but his knicker soaking sheep dog trails attracted audiences of over 8,000,000. This wasn’t just Sunday afternoon teatime viewing, this was fucking essential TV.

As kids the following day at school we’d attempt to reconstruct the sheep dogs/ sheep movement, we’d follow the staccato whistles of the celebrity shepherds with record quality accuracy, the complex pattern of both sheep and Shep as he creeps towards his charges, as they displace and form into a group and are headed to the gate. One of us, just one, would get the role of Drabble.

To be Drabble for the day was a personal highlight of my school career, it only happened once, but on that day the 6th of March 1980, I was the king of the world.

Yesterday at work was fucking awful. After writing the blog I had a panic attack, very strange timing, so I had to take a 30-minute shit in order to better myself. I was in a tentative state all bastard day, combine that with the pressure of the fucking office, it was a day I could’ve left. I met Frank in the boozer for a few pints in the evening, it was actually warm and sunny and the beer was back on after the flooding of the cellar, I started to feel better. It was short lived, on my return to the flat I ran into Cunt, he was waiting for me because he’s a fucking arsehole with no life.

There was no conversation, just a stream of utter drivel from him as he floundered in a pit of pseudo-fuck all. He knows nothing but thinks he in a position to postulate on everything. I said only this to him, ‘you’re a noisy little bastard’ and in return, hyperbole free, I got 15 fucking minutes of free form fuckity. I hate his stinking guts so much I was unable to physically move, I allowed my jaw to drop wide open, whilst keeping my dark glasses clamped to my head, and he slowly backed into his grief hole as he indulged me a diatribe of hybrid cack and closed the door.

The first part of my evening at home had been fucked up by my encounter, the only good to come out of it was the news that his hairy daughter and stick missus are coming to stay in a few weeks, which means he has to behave less like a fucking retarded chimp and more like a socially integrated one. The sensational supper and few TV derived chuckles sorted me out, as did a chat with Myfwt on the ‘phone and a stiff whisky.

I went to be in time to catch the late news on Radio 4. Unfortunately for some unknown reason I woke up at 5.14 am but at least I was having yet another fucking panic attack. So that was good, then.