Category Archives: pete doherty


Did my weekly booze free last night. Lately it’s been getting easier but for some reason last night was a bumpy ride. I think it was brought on by stultifying boredom with the Damocles anticipation that Cunt would kick off downstairs, it didn’t make for a relaxed environment.

I had a go on Lara, made and ate a pasta bake which was the highlight of the evening to be honest, watched some TV and read in bed. I tried to do some writing but I couldn’t, not through lack of content, just desire. Last night was the equivalent of booting an empty coke can down an alley.

I had some extraordinary dreams though. In the past few months I’ve been starting to remember my dreams again, this probably has a lot top do with the general cutting back of the pop. Last night featured Jenny Agutter as she was in an American Werewolf in London playing the foreperson of the refurbishment of Wembley arena and Pete Doherty who was my best mate, we even kissed at one point (?) until he left me to start work as a recovery driver for the AA. The bastard, we could’ve made it Pete.

So here I am in the office, again. My cycle into work was fraught and awful, it’s July and it feels like fucking February, the wind made progress slow and boring and I’m on the brink of just using my black bitch again, fuck exercise.

The office is really getting on my tits, a couple of blondes have started here and the berk behind me has been flirting with them since their tiny thongs hit the chairs. It’s making my skin crawl, he has this fucking awful Star Trek fan laugh and delusions of luvviness which means formless ‘anecdotes’ and ‘knowing’ quips that are neither knowing or amusing in any way. These traits are sandwiched between is a deeply insecure and sad character who is perpetually being unkind to others behind their backs, at times he’s downright nasty, yet presents himself as this sweet old thing who would do anything for anyone. It makes me sick.

I think I need some time off, short Piqued today, I can’t be fucked.


The fucking cold/infection thing -I refuse point blank to refer to it as ‘flu, one thing that fucking annoys me is ‘Oooh, I’ve got ‘flu…’ which is ridiculous if you know anything about ‘flu- has ascended into my head, which now fills like a bag of Jordan’s old tits. My nose has polarised between two states, one where I can’t actually breathe through it making me sound like Pootle from The Flumps and the other where it suddenly gives way releasing warm piss-like streams of effulgent over my upper lip. On account of this I have a glowing red streak that runs from the bottom of my septum to the tip of my nose, I look like Pete Doherty after he’s been having a growl on Kate Moss who hasn’t washed her front bottom since returning from Glastonbury.

Oh, forgot to mention, I feel thoroughly fucking ill, I feel otherworldliness, uncanny, sensitive, when people talk to me I jump, the epitome of vulnerability, I swing round like a terrified mammal and view them through misty focus free eyes as my mouth opens and shuts in wordless horror. I also made it in to work today for the same reasons as outlined in yesterdays blog, and to cap it all, I have a heap of thin, acid hot cack sat impatiently at the top of my colon.

Needless to say yesterday, or last night, or anything, wasn’t a barrel of giggles. After a ridiculous day in the office where I flounced about the place like Marat prior to jumping in the bath, ensuring everyone was made fully away of my condition, I sped home on my black bitch and arrived home feeling precisely as dreadful as I did when I was sat at my desk. To make matters considerably worse, I had already made it clear in my addled barnet that I was not to drink. Lately my alcohol intake has decreased, probably due to the amount of time I’ve been spending with Myfwt, so it’s not as if I HAD to have a booze free. Being ill too, a wine doesn’t half help with a malaise, I’d made a rod for my ailing back. My back, incidentally, is now sounding like the concertina on a bendy straw being stretched rigid from its compressed position everytime I fucking move.

I had a bath, made a boring but healthy meal of fish and vegetables, it was partially saved by a mustard and garlic sauce, and spent the vast majority of the evening gawping listlessly at the TV and blowing my nose, when it allowed the foul liquids to run free from my head. Once every 5 mins I had to battle with the thought of ‘just one glass, you deserve it i love you there there bless’ but despite my condition of being easily led by my self, I managed to resist.

Once I hit the sack at a ludicrously early 10.45 in order to read I knew I was safe. I don’t like smoking in bed so the bedroom becomes a haven of purity, in one respect of course, eh lads, whaaheyyy *cough cough*

…Christ. Anyway. I’ve fulfilled my duties once again by making into the office. I think after this though that’s it, if I start feeling a fucking ounce worse than this I’m off and not coming back until after the weekend where I will have hopefully made a full recovery.

I’ve also noticed that my prediction of staff members jumping on the ‘there is something going round’ bandwagon has begun. I predict more absences tomorrow.

I’m off to dribble brown phlegm out of my nipsy.