The light, the fucking light, it’s gone all golden and otherworldly, the light is dying, dying I tells thee. I refused to be touched or moved by its shimmering beauty, the leaves, see how they fall! SEE HOW THEY FALL.
Maybe it’s in the light of this, no pun intended, actually, maybe a bit, that I’ve decided to have my hair cut. Cut. Not a trim or a few inches off but a radical cut. I’ve not seen my neck since I was 15, it was seriously long throughout my 20’s, we’re talking about it getting caught round my pills from the back long, and even when I went for the big chop in Vidal Sassoon in my early 30’s (I figured I may as well have it done properly, even if it was 90 fucking quid) it was still long short.
I figure that to maintain some sort of rock credential I’ll be forced to head off in the Jesus and Mary Chain direction, long fringe, short back. Essentially, post punk rather than looking like a trucker who likes Bruce Springsteen, as I feel I do now.
Of course making such a decision required a bottle of wine at least, though in fairness to my sober self and in the cold light of day (another one there) the decision was reinforced rather than formed by an excellent 2004 Bordeaux, and a quick shot of Glenfiddich for pudding.
I did some writing when I got in from work yesterday, not much but enough to get the fucker flowing. I hate starting a book, its like wanting to sneeze but being unable, so instead you make that ridiculous face and inhale sporadically with a clenched fist in front of your face. Of course once it’s started it’s an uncontrollable fit. I like that part.
Flushed with some sort of mild success following a few hours scribbling (and a wee wankie during a nasty bout of writers B) I made dinner, Piqued’s Gourmet Sausage and Brocolli Wonder with Cheese, Onion and Mustard Sauce (from here on in known as PGSBWCOMS because I eat it a lot) in front of Jamie Oliver’s cheery cockney chappie fizzog who I like incidentally, which I then ate in from of Tribe, somewhat ironically if you saw it.
Listening to Today this morning, I was rather surprised and upset to learn that Nuts, a ‘lads mag’ for mentally challenged cunts, has launched its own TV Channel. I thoroughly disapprove. Whilst I’ll be the first to admit I’m not adverse to spending time looking at ladies privates, the shit I view doesn’t piss about pretending to be anything other than what it is, it doesn’t attempt to gentrify pornography, make it acceptable to view women in such a way, which is what Nuts does.
The thing about so called lads mags isn’t necessarily how they effect the attitude of mentally challenged cunts, lets face it, you’ve got to be a little under par from the outset to even want to buy something like that, and being 15 isn’t an excuse, it’s also the fact that it glamorises the glamour industry for girls. Girls see boys reading it, talking about in a public space, rather than being confined to their bedrooms coyly whacking off, and it becomes ‘acceptable’. The fact that young girls see fucking Jordan, that plastic boobed horror with more testosterone than Vin Diesel, as a role model makes me want to physically be sick.
I’m off for a trog.