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Wednesday December 27, 06
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09:03 AM - nobody's saying the racecourse estate is the garden of eden
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Mood: Tired
Location: Chateau L'Ermitage
Music: Supermassive Black Willy - Muse
I haven't slept in 2 nights because of a stupid alarm that keeps going off in my building at night. It really is most unpleasant, last night I lay in the furthest corner of my lounge from the noise, with pillows over my ears, and the duvet over my head, but it was no use, the bleeps were relentless, overwhelming and torturous. They drove me to despair. Has the ghost of that poor dead girl, Augusta Ashton, followed me here to continue my torment, as she swore she would?
My judgment perhaps impaired by sleep depravation, and being unable to work out which buttons to press on the fooking box in the hallway to stop the bleeping sound, I took the only proactive measure I could think of and opened the bottle of gin left over from my birthday, in the hope that its consumption would have a soporific effect.
I awoke this morning on my couch, the bottle of gin was half empty and under my arm. Track 6 of Live and Dangerous was playing on continuous repeat through my headphones and had apparently been my sleeping companion. I arose from the sofa and immediately felt extremely unwell... I rushed to the toilet and vomited. At least the bleeping noise had subsided.... I was able to return to bed, it was 8.30am.
It's now almost 5pm, the lady that lives on the ground floor flat, who has the pleasure of having the offending fire alarm control panel right outside her door, has called out a maintenance person. Now there is even more bleeping and fire alarms are going off. I am considering taking a hammer to the maintenance person's head and following up in likewise fashion on the fire alarm control panel. I can see now what a thoughtful housewarming present this set of tools my father gave me really was.
As if my troubles were not already manifold, I have to go out tonight for a meal with my sister and her boyfriend. I had managed to successfully evade him since mid-October, but like the ghost of poor Augusta, these things have a habit of catching up with you. If it wasn't for the fact that I'd escaped from a family meal he was invited to last weekend using a particularly flimsy excuse, I would possibly consider using my lack of sleep to get out of it, but I suppose it's quite rude to plainly avoid someone.
And Christmas Day was a let down, as usual. My mother bought me a rather nice looking Thesaurus, however, I was quickly disappointed to discover that it contained no synonyms for the word "penis". I mean seriously, what's the point of that? Why else would you buy a Thesaurus?
Until later,
J. Prescott
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Friday December 22, 06
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09:47 PM - happy christmas your arse, I pray God it's our last
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Q: What did Adam say to Eve on the day before Christmas Eve?
A: Tomorrow it's Christmas Eve, Eve. Any chance of getting my Jimmy waxed?
So yes, it's almost Christmas. Aren't you excited? I haven't put up a Christmas tree this year, but I do have a festive apple core on my desk, next to my keyboard. I hate Christmas, I can't wait for the day the Muslims extremists take over and ban it.
Due to the machinations of a floosie with a heart unspeakably evil (see previous journal entries) I had booked the last couple of weeks of December off work, since I was supposed to be going to America for a little holiday. Despite having such dreams doused in petrol and set alight, I decided to use up the holidays anyhow: I had visions of doing productive things... I was going to buy a guitar for my nephew, since he was quite ill over the past few months and apparently it's all he wants for Christmas. Every day this week I have meant to do it, twice I went out to get it, but somehow ended up just buying stuff for myself instead.
To be fair, although I still haven't bought him his guitar and it's now December 23rd, I have bought myself some nice outfits. When next I venture out amidst the proletarian hordes - though I am perhaps the antipode of what is an attractive male - I shall at least be sharply dressed. But back to the point, I can't remember him ever buying me anything. I gave him £10 for his last birthday and he didn't even say thank you, the little ingrate. Teenagers are so ill-mannered. No, he'll have to do better than being on a drip if he wants something that expensive. I had a rather lengthy period in hospital myself, when I was 5, and all that was waiting for me when I got home were some Matchbox cars - and let me tell you, I was more than happy with them. Not as happy as that child from the Nintendo Sixty Fouuuuuuuuuuur video on YouTube, but happy nonetheless. I'm being horrible, aren't I? Oh well, I am what I am.
I was waddling around the supermarket this afternoon, picking up my rather sad Christmas dinner for one ready meal plus accoutrements; all the while the shop's tinny speaker system infecting the air with festive banality. Whilst I stood vacantly contemplating a bowl of couscous behind the glass of the deli counter, Cliff Richard gave way to The Pogues "Fairytale of New York" - the song which our general public have voted their favourite Christmas song 3 years in succession.
Excerpt:
McColl: "You're a bum, you're a punk."
McGowan: "You're an old slut on junk.
Lying there nearly dead
On a drip on that bed."
It's a bit of grim song to be playing in a supermarket at Christmas time really. On the plus side though, I duetted with the office floosie on it at a Christmas do' of yesteryear - on Karaoke, like - and it was most satisfying to deliver those lines to her.
Anyway, I must end abruptly since I've run out of things to say.
Until Later
J K Rowling
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Saturday November 18, 06
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01:30 PM - happy endings still don't bore me
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The English weather has certainly taken a turn for the colder lately; you might say that we were in the midst of a cold snap, or that Old Man Winter had arrived at the door of M. Biffo. In short, it's a bit chilly at the moment: I've taken to wearing clothes about the house, which is a pity, because it's really quite liberating to work from home naked. I especially enjoy conference calls and the like, when I can idly interfere with myself whilst half a dozen or so half-wit foreigners talk a lot of nonsense to one another.
Anyway, enough about the weather... although I can't of much else to talk about actually. Lately I've been occupied by getting my life (back) together. This mainly involves doing things like exercising regularly, staying on top of the washing up, opening letters, paying bills (no more Court Summons for me, sonny) and such like. Thus far to the good. I think the key has been to cut out the drinking binges; I mean, I do still drink - obviously - but for the past five weeks or so it's only been in sensible amounts, even at parties etc. Cutting out the binge drinking just seems to have sorted everything else out. I shall refer back to this entry if I ever feel like opening the bottle of gin in my cupboard... for any reason other than paint removal.
Despite my best efforts though, I haven't been able to erase all thoughts of her-whose-name-shall-not-be-spoken from my pretty little mind. Things were going oh so well until the middle of this week, when one of Google's quotes of the day was from a certain "Jimmy Buffet". Now, I know what you're thinking: "Who the fuck is Jimmy Buffet?" Sadly, the identity of this purveyor of the kind banal, lifeless and sickeningly wholesome tripe - that is lapped up all across middle America - is no mystery to me, and this is one more thing that *she* has to answer for, because she is quite a fan of his.
Anyway, yes, the Buffet cretin had evidently been selected as the orator of one of the Google quotes of the day last week, and some poor clod in the offices of Google had no doubt been instructed to find anything worthy of repetition that had passed his lips during his bafflingly long career. The exact quotation now escapes me, but it was something along the lines of how a failure to indulge in laughter on a regular enough basis might induce a state of mild dementia. Sagely words indeed.
Unfortunately, since that day (Wednesday, I believe), my life has been plagued by yet more odd reminders of her. First, the company I was working for in Dallas, back in March (when I met her) got in touch with me, then I somehow found one of her long blonde hairs on my mattress - which is ridiculous since I've changed the bed clothes plenty of times since she left - and then today after making a call on my phone, I must have accidentally left the keypad unlocked when putting it back in my pocket and somehow this resulted it dialling her number and being put on speaker-phone at the same time. Alerted to the sound of a ringing tone, I realised in time what had happened, pulled the phone out of my pocket and - seeing who it was calling - frantically tried to cancel. For some reason it didn't respond, instead only continuing to display the horrific words: "Calling Deanna..." with all the terrible implications that such a thing might bring. Six rings in and I lost all patience. With one swift action I removed the battery cover and disengaged the apparently demonically possessed telephone's power supply. The fact that the display went reassuringly blank and the speaker silent reassured me that there was no supernatural involvement in this or any of the other events documented here... but still, there are about 30 numbers in my phone (I know, that's not many, but I do tend to delete people's numbers after a time (a fate hers has now suffered)) and you have to say the fact that it (my phone) selected her number at random after all the other things this week was something of a coincidence.
On top of all these things - and perhaps understandably - she's also been haunting me in my sleep. The dreams seem have taken the form of a surreal mini-series, and last nights episode was particularly entertaining: we were in what seemed to be a pub, and were with some of my friends. I was trying to talk to her by the bar, but couldn't because one of my friends (Scott) kept stabbing her in the back with a kitchen knife. Each time he did it, she would collapse and everyone would laugh, then she would get up and we'd continue our conversation. I can't quite remember what we were talking about, but it was one of those dreams where I had asked her a question - a question that in real life I'd really like to know the answer to - and each time, just as she was about to answer the question - she was stabbed by Scott. Eventually she died and got up no more. At this stage we left the pub. What can it all mean? Am I a sicko, mother?
Until later,
M. Biffo
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Friday August 25, 06
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03:40 AM - the girl who came to stay
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My American friend came to stay this week; I went to pick her up from Manchester Airport early on Saturday morning. With each of her little arms she was pulling a suitcase almost equal in stature to herself and I was a little concerned it they were even going to fit in the boot of my car.
She totally took over my place: the bathroom was suddenly full of hair and beauty products, the edges of the shower tray were suddenly also lined with them. On Sunday she cooked us both dinner - I think she enjoyed walking around the grocery store looking for ingredients as much as our visits to London or Alton Towers. On Tuesday I woke up and she had tidied my flat. I couldn't believe it. Yesterday we went to Tesco to get some things for her to take home that she liked from here: she bought a bottle of vimto, some hp sauce, some salad cream, 2 packets of mcvities hobnobs and an assortment of Cadbury's products. She cried a little bit last night, and she cried on the way to the airport this morning. I have cried a little bit myself since I got back here. The place is empty again I miss her terribly. What was once my favourite thing about this place is the thing I like least. I'm on my own again.
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Sunday July 23, 06
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10:23 AM - dancing like a jig-a-boo
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I saw my little American friend again this weekend; due to my appallingly shite job I happened to be vaguely in her vicinity, so I took a flight out to visit her this weekend, thereby turning a week spent in the states into something enjoyable. I had a whole lot of fun: she took me to a couple of restaurants, she took me to a mall and she taught me a new word: "jig-a-boo", which seems to be a derogatory term for someone of Afro-Caribbean descent. Happy days indeed. Also, she insisted on paying for everything... I don't know if this is some sort of southern custom or if she's just crazy.
I'd like to be able to say that I'm currently on my way home, but instead I'm flying from here to Kraut Central - a.k.a. Deutschland: home of the Germans. Still, at least German airports are not run by sexual perverts... I've had a run of bad luck at airports over here in the States when it comes to boarding passes - if you pick up your boarding card and it has "ssss" written on it, this apparently means you've won some sort of raffle, the prize being a "Phase 2 Security Check", or, to put it another way: you get to be molested by a flagrantly gay middle-aged man, wearing surgical gloves and waving a large black wand.
Whilst I am all for security at airports, I do feel that having the metal buttons on the fly of my jeans examined - just to be sure they really are buttons (and not, presumably, weapons of mass destruction) is something of an invasion of my personal space. It seems to me that once you step into an airport, especially in a foreign country, you have implicitly signed away all the rights you normally expect to have as a human being. Think about it: why should security be so different getting on a plane when compared to, say, riding on a rush hour train or even going into a busy supermarket or shopping centre. I seriously doubt that ordinary people would be as cooperative about having their intimate areas probed by a security guard on their way into their local Tesco's as they seem to be whilst walking through airport security. 10 years from now I predict going through airport security will involve stripping naked, being hosed down and then bending over for a cavity search. Phase 2 security checks will involve being sodomised by each member of the airport security team in turn.
Yours Sincerely,
Mr Biffo
-Proud to have been offending people since 1982 -
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Saturday May 20, 06
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08:02 PM - munchausen
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The following was written in a cafe in Munich Airport, this Friday evening just past.
Location: München, Deutschland
Music: Come Back To Camden
Mood: Unpleasant
Tonight I am stuck in Munich; because my company are so tight they wouldn't pay for an afternoon flight out of this… place (it was £100 more expensive) and thus I am marooned here until sometime in the late evening.
I hate travelling. I hate foreign countries. It seems to me that outside of England, the rest of the world is comprised only of 3rd World nations - this includes countries such as Scotland and Wales - they are all just desolate wastelands, with isolated settlements scattered hundreds of miles apart from one another. They eat strange food and the populace babble incomprehensibly at you when all you're trying to do is get a taxi to the airport. Anyone thinking of travelling abroad would be well advised to stay at home and buy some nice biscuits instead.
This entire entry was going to be a survival guide for those visiting Germany; however, it occurred to me this morning that had there been a gun in my beside table's drawer, instead of a German edition of the Gideon Bible, I would almost certainly have blown my own brains out rather than face another day in that office, and thus, I am probably ill-equipped to advise anyone on how to stay alive during a trip to Germany.
Actually, to be fair, the people I was working with were very nice. The one chap, who, in particular, I spent most of my time with, was fairly agreeable company. I grew quite fond of watching him repeatedly turn from what he was doing, gleefully wave his chubby fingers over the assortment of chocolates on his desk and then push another between his pursed lips. In fact, it has to be said that by and large the Germans are a friendly bunch. It's just I've spent enough time here over the past 9 months that I've had my fill of the place.
The bad mood which started when I arrived here on Sunday night was somewhat amplified by an email I received on Monday from the buffoon that forms our accounting department to say that he had sent my last batch of travel expenses back to me as he could not work out which receipts matched up with which line item on the claim forms. My reply, a devastating volley of sarcastic remarks and personal insults, was perhaps a disciplinary offence, however the fact remains that this person is an incompetent oaf, and must be dealt with in the most extreme fashion in order for one to get anywhere. To be honest, I am surprised he didn't simply complain to his manager, rather than attempt to reason with me, and I now actually feel quite bad for saying all that stuff to him. I've never met him, but I imagine he's probably quite a delicate sort of chap, and I bet my email probably made him cry.
Anyway, I suppose I had better go and sit by the departure gate. Cheerio!
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Tuesday April 04, 06
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05:26 AM - lie down and be counted
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I was took in Texas,
I did not know her name:
Lord, all these southern girls
They seem the same - Phil Lynott
Mr_Biffo: living the dream... or something.
I met the loveliest girl in Dallas. Of course, she wasn't from Dallas, she was from Virginia - she was staying in my hotel. She was only yay high (holds hand close to floor), 25 years old and she had bluey - grey eyes. I had the last few lines of Hand in Glove running through my head as the elevator headed down towards the ground floor on Friday morning. It's all so typical - I meet someone I really like, and they live on the other side of the world. We've been talking a lot online since we both got back to our respective homes... at the very least I suppose I've made a new friend, and no matter what happens: we'll always have Dallas... And how great it was - it was like Lost in Translation, but with more nudity.
(Sorry, Smiths, this now beats my trip to New York).
I got the new Morrissey album this morning. It's surprisingly good. I think I like it even more than Quarry. I like it so much that even though I've got to catch a flight to Hannover in about 2 hours and haven't even packed yet, I thought I'd come on here instead.
Best be off
Ta ta
Biffo
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Sunday March 26, 06
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01:26 PM - still singing the same song
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Location: Fort Worth(less), Dallas, Tx
Mood: Already Dead
Music: I left my ipod in Manchester
So: Living in America - if you can call what I do living. I arrived here in Dallas last night, from San Francisco. This weekend in San Francisco there is some sort of convention for the Christian youth at a big baseball stadium, or something. Anyway, what's amusing is that the deviates of San Francisco (of which there are many) have taken to the streets to protest about this. I tell you, it's come to something when the deviates are protesting about the Christians - shouldn't it be the other way around? Is this what they meant by progress?
I made friends with some real life deviates whilst I was there - in a bar one evening - deviates of the lesbian variety. Actually, one of them wasn't a lesbian, but she was at least in her early 30s, I would say; and it later transpired that she was a deviate of another kind altogether. Anyway, she was very keen to be friends. "Have you met the Queen Mother?" she asked.
"The Queen Mother is dead", I replied.
"Really? I don't believe you!". (Turns to Lesbian friend, "He says the Queen Mother is Dead!" Lesbian friend looks at me in disbelief).
"She's been dead for years."
"Are you sure don't you mean Princess Diana? I loved Princess Diana, it was so tragic what they did to her."
"I had no sympathy for Princess Diana whatsoever. I thought she was an attention crazed jezebel."
(looks puzzled for a moment) "Do you like Country Music?"
And so went the night. And I can't shake the feeling that I'm all alone in the world. I hate this job. I haven't felt so alone since I was 12 years old. Oh well, at least this time next week I'll be back in Blighty. Ever so briefly.
Bored and alone
Biffo
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Saturday December 31, 05
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09:58 AM - the end won't be long
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How remiss of me to have neglected my diary for so very long. New Year's Eve seems like an appropriate enough day for an entry - whilst I'm still lucid at any rate.
Life's been rather hectic lately, traveling all over the show with work and losing touch with all my friends; however, I have (rather unfortunately) managed to catch up with all of them over the festive period. It's almost taken me back to the good old days of University - which seemed awful at the time, I must admit, but I now look back on with fondness - when everyday was a new drunken adventure. We thought those days would never end, sonny. We really did.
Lost in Cambridge city centre, a couple of weeks ago, it was getting close to midnight and I was trying to find my hotel. Driving down some cramped one way street, I finally saw something which looked like it could have been it. I only saw it at the last possible second - before I even knew I'd found the hotel I was already past it, and this was a one way street, so I couldn't turn back. This, I realised at the time, was in many ways a metaphor for the way my life had turned out - past it almost as soon as I got there; I didn't even have chance to park the car and take a look around. Of course, the difference between life and my expedition to Cambridge was that in Cambridge I simply had to follow Cambridge's tedious one way system back to where I had been. If only the same were true of life.
About a month ago, the Galloping Sausage having broken down one time too many, I decided to treat myself to a new car. I've still yet to name it, but it's a rather fine silver Ford Focus. The first car I've ever bought (my parents bought me The Sausage); it's not brand new, but I am the only owner (it was a demo model). So far I think I've driven it about 4 times, including the journey home from the showroom, thanks to the amount of time I spend traveling and such. When I was in Germany a couple of weeks ago I got to drive around in a Mercedes for the week (the joys of booking your own hire car). Have you been to Berlin? It's a rather beautiful city, you should really go, sonny. I never even knew that, in the days of East and West Germany, Berlin was actually slap bang in the middle of East Germany, and that West Berlin had been a tiny island of West Germany, marooned there, the only way out either by plane, or a specific road. How very, very strange.
Anyway, I'm off to phone the Samaritans. Toodleoo.
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Monday October 17, 05
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05:38 PM - if you change your mind, I'll still be waiting here tomorrow
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It's a strange thing to go away somewhere with work and be sad to come home, but having spent a rather dull week in some hotel right bang in the middle of nowhere in particular, I was rescued by morrissey-solo's very own Smiths, who not only showed me around Manhattan and Brooklyn and even let me stay over on his couch - but was then kind enough to drop me back at my hotel in time for checking out on Sunday morning. All in all, he's a top bloke and I had a splendid weekend with him.
But wow, New York: what a place - so good they named it twice (it's also known as the Big Apple (do you see?)). I saw the Statue of Liberty, I queued in the foyer of the Empire State building for about an hour and then gave up, I saw Times Square at 2am - there were still shops open - and I even tipped bar staff. Without Smiths though, I probably wouldn't have even seen the Statue of Liberty - I have him to thank for it all.
One quite distressing thing did happen whilst I was over there, however - on the Friday morning I had decided to throw caution to the wind and forego my usual fruit/yoghurt/bagel combination breakfast in favour of a cooked offering. So I waddled over to the counter and asked the nice chef if I could have sausages, eggs, bacon, beans, mushrooms and a tomato... oh, and could he please tell me where the brown sauce was since it wasn't with the other condiments. Unfortunately, it transpired that the kitchen staff at the hotel were amongst many people in New York and New Jersey that only speak Cajun, and thus it took some time to establish that:
a) People in the USA do not apparently see the merit in serving beans, mushrooms or tomatoes as part of a cooked breakfast.
b) In the USA, bacon is actually prepared by taking a cheese grater to a side of meat from a pig and then setting the gratings alight, rather than in Europe, where it's sliced, cured, smoked and then fried or grilled.
c) Perhaps most distressingly of all, brown sauce - or H.P. Sauce, if you prefer (and you should) - is practically unheard of in the United States. Initially I wondered whether it was possibly only the slack-jawed kitchen staff who didn't know what it was, but the fellow employee I was breakfasting with at the time, who is from Chicago - hadn't heard of it either. In fact, even the cultured Smiths has yet to experience the pleasure.
So I did a little research online this afternoon, and it turns out, first of all, that some Canadian chap is such a fan of H.P. Sauce that he's created a website on the subject: http://www.brownsauce.org/ and secondly, that H.P. Sauce is in fact only widespread in Commonwealth countries (food for thought for you yankee doodle dandies (do you see?)). So there you are - if you're an American, all you need to do is hop over the border to Canada, fill the boot (trunk) of your car with as many bottles of H.P. Sauce as you can find, go home, make yourself a nice bacon butty and apply the sauce accordingly... of course, that's assuming you can get hold of bacon that doesn't look like it came from pig which George Bush suspected of sympathising with Islamic militants.
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