Never Too Late!

Never Too Late!
any resemblance to anyone real or imaginary is mere bad luck
we are all lying in the gutter, but some of us are trying to get up


Add to that

Now I actually read what she published Jesuschrist. "Yeah you can publish anything you like from my blog, do whatever you want with it," I said! And there it fucking is, fuck. With all heroin references expurgated. Oh my God is anyone I know gonna see that? What did I agree to? And it should be the whole story with drugs and everything.

I asked my doctor for sedatives but he didn't give me any. The directory says his speciality is aviation medicine. "What exactly is that?" I asked him. "Oh... various things... fitness to fly... accident investigation..." Accident investigation: poking pieces of bodies smeared over miles of landscape hahahaa... So of course, his attitude would be: "It's just withdrawal. It's easy. It's better than being dead" with a and-what-else-do-you-want curtness. Yeah, that's about right.

Oh shit I can't believe that was printed under my Real Name (tm) in 5000 magazines. Why that one? And why couldn't you leave in the drugs? I'd have some great pictures for you...

I also saw a respected psycho-therapist today... I showed up at his door and sat talking to him for a while. I asked him if I should pay for that and he said: if you feel like, amused by the first patient ever in 23 years of practice to walk up to his door and introduce himself. He belongs to the story because of his connection to Pakistan - he runs a heroin treatment centre in Karachi, a 12 or 16 or whatever million people dusty concrete megacity rising from desert and salt marshes... The heroin there, to me or you, would seem comically cheap, yes it would. It's also one of the two places I've had a gun in my face. Internet entity Deek sent me to talk to this man... Perhaps more on this later...

On media

Somebody has started printing my ramblings in a magazine... really, it's true... so I suppose I'd better publicise this publication in my small way... If you live in the Shoreditch (derived from soer dyke - Anglo-Saxon for town sewer...) find this um Shoreditch-based um publication Ditched... but you, my faithful friends, you'll have read it all before... Start-up magazines are like rock bands or DJs in London... they come, they go... I'm not being motherfucking self-deprecatory... This publication has taken to publishing strange things from my blog which should maybe remain unpublished... The website is here, with pdfs of the first two issues...

Live lucky, friends... That's what I'm doing... The professional facade still hasn't crumbled... I have to arrange some photogs to take some author photos in Manchester, Reading, Surrey, as far apart in England as you can get, find some chimps in the US for a publicity stunt (chimps and typewriters and the works of Shakespeare?) ... and oh yes, I think I'm homeless or soon will be or something? Have to remember to stay sort of sane, that was one thing. Not sure... Let's see what's happening, perhaps I'd better take stock rather than sit here rambling...



and realgem photos back soon, too

A week ago I was injecting almost a gram of heroin every day. What am I here to write on the fourth day of withdrawal?

How many of you have been here? If you haven't, ah well... Better not ever visit... you're not missing anything... I am: my customary fluency for a turn of word...

What am I here to write? WAR. War interests me. What human experience pushes you to unimagined extremes? I've never been to war. I've been in a war's backyard. My humanitarian parents took me there to bring me up... I've seen a woman burned head to toe in napalm... She was all orange... Don't know if that was the scar tissue, or some sort of ointment... That was when the Soviets were still in Afghanistan. The Afghan women washing clothes in the canal by the refugee camps in the god-forsaken Waziristan desert ran alarmed when we drove up... The only Europeans they'd ever seen the Russians who burned raped machinegunned poisoned their villages?

[AND: I just found a third thing that DOES NOT exist on the internet! I will bring it for you! It is a poem written by a British colonial officer stationed in a remote North-West Frontier posting... "Months of boredom, days of blood... Months of drought, weeks of mud... That's Waziristan..." Don't remember... Let me find it for you... You have to forgive my occasional tendency for Raj nostalgia... It is part of this strange mosaic, as well... And it's also where the heroin comes from, which also makes it part of the story...]

[But surely I would have signed up to go and explore and rule and fight and adventure and learn strange languages and customs in far places if the Empire were still here? Lord Jim, Opium Jones... and KIM! I was Kim...]

And the blood-nails-tearing clawing fight from HEROID back to HUMAN. Heroin is the only real drug. The only one that turns you into a different life-form entirely, changes your cells, mutates you into something else entirely... Check your Burroughs on this one...

SO HOW MANY PEOPLE? How many people ever visit these extremes of mind? Perhaps you've all been here - how do I know? This stinking security. This stifling benevolence. This... this... [Ths is why I resent my (now gone) wife. She has never seen UGLY DEATH in the face, though she thinks she has. Spoiled only-child princess diva, but in my moments of weakness I still cry about her...]

Homeless? They shepherd you through their system of hostels and half-way houses. Addicted? Sent from councillor to detox to doctor to rehab centre. Unemployed? Join this queue, fill this form. AND ALL OF IT: to encourage you to think of yourself as a victim. Fuck them. I will fight them til I die.

To be continued, I must go...


On squatting

...internet cafe shuts in ten minutes, oh dear, not much time.

The best thing is the people you meet, like, over time and come to think of it, all the Brazilians who were all together today at the 93 Feet East - what is that name, by the way? - there is something really strange about that name. So I heard some good music today and there were beautiful chicks and the air is tropical.

Another good thing is the drugged-up cutting-edge underground music you hear.

A bad thing is all the underground music you have to listen to and the drugged-up idiots you wake up on a scorching day like this to find toddling destructively around on the roof, left-over dregs from the neighbours' squat party. No one takes you seriously if you're a squatter and you try and throw people out.

A bemusing thing is the 4-day parties listening to the same record.


On work

God this is giving me a headache. Stinging sweat drips into my eyes, columns of letters and numbers flicker through the fog of my migraine. Some people rob citizens or sell their ass to support their drug habit; me, I am trapped in this newest echoing Kafka-esque nightmare of a job I assured my boss would be simple.

Halt! I challenge you on this “Kafka-esque”! What the stink is it supposed to mean? You find yourself changed into some sort of monstrous vermin? Yes, it does feel like it. Some sort of insect slime pools under my chair. My shades slip from my slippery face carapace. My clicking mandibles feel sticky and fuzzy with congealed ichor and plaque, where's the Sensodyne? But wait, get this done first.

I am trying to create a mathematical formula to determine the ideal title for a best selling novel. The point of the exercise is to produce something like this (Scotsman story on the mathematics behind Murphy's Law) or this (formula to calculate the funniest sitcom) for the Daily Mail. These press items, you will of course note immediately being a media-savvy blogging type, is your typical spurious PR page-filler, plugging British Gas amd UKTV Gold respectively in this case.

I have been poring over the lists of New York Times best sellers over the last 50 years, converting the titles into numbers and manipulating the arrays in different ways and converting them back to letters again, like some sort of a sordid and fevered Cabbalist, in order to determine what is the single perfect book title that manifests all of the rules and patterns laid out.

I can't help but feel a sensation of "this is your life", spread out before me: a never-ending Excel spreadsheet stretched over a surrealist landscape, littered with empty syringes, a sprawling Jekyll-and-Hyde game where Jekyll classifies paper clips in an incomprehensible never-ending labyrinthocracy and Hyde rots in a pointless narcosis.


Alive and kicking...

...feebly, though. I am going to gratuitously antagonise some of the people around me to bring the fire of enmity and conflict into my life.

There are doorways to other worlds hidden all around us (we sink deeper and deeper in a happy world in the middle of the day) - some internet fool has even taken it upon themself to post some of them to the WWW (regularly updated catalogue of UK portals into hell).

[[cut cut cut snip snip snip]] bad new censored

And I just remembered that there are other characters in this story as well but they haven’t made an appearance in ages and ages.

Sometimes I am reminded of life going on somewhere, outside, like when the pretty brown waitress in the cafe across the road smiled deep into my eyes and enjoyed me enjoying staring not-quite-surreptitiously at her god-help-me beautiful tits! If she'd been a Spice Girl she'd've been GREEDY SPICE she said.

Realgem is getting... is it getting? Is it "boring"? ... Where did the pictures go? Where did the stories? Where the joie de vivre?

Only by inspiration! Only driven!

:: Back tomorrow with stories, from the frothing edge of lunacy, from a life fuckin damn right less ordinary, from where you will one day wish you had been right from the start!!!! ::