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Tuesday June 06, 06
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04:36 PM - Lord Snooty's giant, poisonous, electric head.
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Once again the sun shining over Manchester like a big friendly prozac capsule in the sky, poking long marmalade fingers through the windows of my house, and 'sending the shadows scurrying like convent girls menaced by a tramp', as the wonderful Vivian Stanshall once put it. Summer is here. Fantastic! We went out to a deer park in what's left of the Cheshire countryside today, to bask in it. And only two days to go now before the beginning of the the biggest sporting event in the world! Yay! Cold beers, sunshine and wall to wall international football. Things don't get much better. I don't know about where anyone else lives, but around here there's already so many England flags sticking from cars, hanging from people's windows, and tied to pet dogs etc, you'd think it had already started and we were even doing well. As some friends of mine recently moved to Germany, I was thinking maybe I'd try and get over there for some of the games, but as tickets are selling for over £1500, that now seems about as likely as finding a condom machine in Vatican City. Just as well, as I'm too busy. Uncannily, my girlfriend's country, Sweden, are in the same group as England once again, so I'm hoping that's a draw and we both get through just so I don't have to sleep on the couch or something for the next few days.
I'd give you my predictions of who I think would qualify from each group except that I haven't got time.
Managed to get to four of the Morrissey gigs on the ROTT tour (my girlfriend managed five as she also flew out to the Gothenburg one), Manchester Lowry, Grimsby, Manchester Apollo, and Blackburn, the best of which was Grimsby on account of that we had standing tickets for that and got right at the very front where I was able to study Morrisey's nostril hair. Got a bit crushed but I like that, although not in any kind of sexually perverted way, or not much of one, but just because I love the intense, fervent atmosphere of it all when you're being born along in a crowd of seething bodies.Towards the end, a fight broke out a bit behind me when a group of what looked like local lads starting laying into some older guy who crashed into me and eventually had to be lifted out over the barrier by the generally incompetent security staff. Wonder if we'll ever know, is there life on Mars etc. Morrissey came back for an encore and looked over wearing an expression that was a mixture of curiosity, disapproval, and someone wondering 'are these really my fans?' The next day we looked around Grimsby's neighbouring seaside town of Cleethorpes, and although the the people around there were really friendly so I don't want to criticise the place too much, really think it may well have been the inspiration for 'Everyday is Like Sunday'. It looks like it peaked in the 70's and has been frozen in a time capsule, slowly decaying, ever since. I was half expecting them to still be using old money. Yet there's something appealingly romantic about all that shabby, desolate, end of the pier, fish-and-chip-shop-sign garish, moribundity that touches me somehow and maybe stirs vague half-forgotten memories of my childhood holidays at such places before the world went mostly shit.
At the Manchester Apollo gig we decided to go to the pub behind the venue afterwards, which, in the best British tradition, was bloody closed, but next to it, amidst the roadies loading up all the amps and stuff, we noticed Gary Day sat down talking to a couple of girlies, so we went over and said hello and got our ticket stubs signed by him, embarassing though that is to admit.
So that's it for Morrissey for this year! For anyone who is interested, some extremely crap photographs of the gigs that I took can be seen and laughed at here: http://wwwrecitdunoir.blogspot.com/
Sad to see that Bobmozza has gone from this site and, so J Razor tells me, because someone on here grassed him up to the place where he worked about slagging off his boss in his journal. What a scumbag. Pity that things like Karma don't really exist, so that what goes around would come around and happen to them too. If you somehow get to read this, I'm missing your presence here Bobmozza. Come back!
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Sunday April 02, 06
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12:49 AM - Two entries within a month shock!
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Which is because beloved has gone over to Sweden to visit her relatives up in the far north for a week, and then to go to the Morrissey gig in Goteborg on the way back here, so I'm all on my own again and I have more free time on my hands and get to use he computer, which she is usually using when were together. God how I miss her and she's only been gone a week!
This might be more information than most people would care to read about but my genital area is really itching at the moment after going in hospital the other week and having all my pubes shaved off so they could operate on my groin. The operation went well, if having yourself cut open by strange people with sharp knives and them then putting a big piece of plastic inside you etc can ever be described as 'going well.' Because I have a heart murmur, they couldn't put me to sleep, so I had to be awake for this operation and only have a local anaesthetic injected in my groin so I could still feel them pulling and prodding around in there like they were fitting a new kitchen or something. It wasn't too bad, but not as good as an afternoon spent watching Countdown with a cup of tea and a packet of custard creams. Apart from the first five minutes that is, when I noticed they'd not given me enough anaesthetic. But could they ever have given me enough? Afterwards, I felt like I'd been kicked in the testicles by a horse with hob nail boots on, yet then they gave me some nice pain killers, which were so nice that I just went and got a repeat prescription for them the other day even though I'm not so badly in pain anymore. Other than the general pain of being alive in a fucked-up universe etc, which we all have. So now I take them for that. I took an mp3 player in so I could listen to music, but it was hard to concentrate on it. I wanted to take in a book in but they wouldn't let me. I was reading a good book by Jasper Fforde called 'The Big Over Easy' which I'd recommend to anyone. It often made me laugh out loud, which, for someone who doubled up in agony cos of the stitches whenever he did that, and who is just a miserable git in general, is no small feat. Another good book I read in hospital was a series of short writer's bios called 'Written Lives' by Javier Marias where you can learn such things as how Thomas Mann, author of Death In venice, (in case anyone didn't know that) was obsessed with his bowel movements and kept a journal meticulously recording them, his motions, evacuations, rumblings, strainings etc, for posterity's sake even leaving instructions it wasn't to be read until ten years a after his death. Now there was a man who took his shits very seriously. Something I did myself after the op, on account of them being so painful and all. once again probably more information than you'd care to read, which means I neatly finish this paragraph the way I started it. Good. It appeals to the OCD in me.
The kittywits are all out and about now. Most days are spent with me painting, listening to Noel Coward & Tim Buckley records, whilst they are scurrying about the place playing kitty-tag with each other, their heads several times too big for their bodies and little tails waggling about behind them. God, they are so cute, I can watch them for hours, Especially as it means I get to stop working. I can't see how I'm gonna be able to part with them, but we'll end up with a house full of five cats if we don't so guess we must. If only they were human children then I could gladly sell them on for medical experiments or something. In fact, I'd insist on it. I guess a few more days on turd-cleaning duty and I might be more up for parting with them. After they've scurried about for a bit they all go to sleep together for an hour in a big furry ball. What a life! They've provisionally been named as Werewolf, Lummi (Finnish for snow), Blackey and Tortoise. Okay enough about kittens. I'll be watching Pets win Prizes next, if I carry on like this.
For anyone interested, here's an update of what they look like now.http://wwwrecitdunoir.blogspot.com/
Just one thing I've noticed about them though, is even already they all have totally different personalities,and Werewolf, for example, is very nervously sensitive and shy, yet I can say with some certainty that nothing traumatic or distressing has ever happened to him/her so far, which kind of suggests that all those years we humans spend in various kinds of psychotherapy etc, trying to find the causes of similar propensities in a traumatised childhhood etc, might just be a waste of time, and we're simply born like that to a large degree, although a troubled upbringing can certainly screw you up too, but perhaps it's not always the cause.
Well, only 3 weeks now to the Moz gigs! We mananged to get tickets for 2 of them here in Manchester, The Lowry and The Apollo; also 2 for nearby Blackburn, and 4 for Grimsby, 2 of which are no longer needed, so are now for sale at face value to anyone (fans) who wants them. Grimsby is one of the smallest venues he's doing (500 people or so) and all standing, so that might turn out to be one of the best, most intimate gigs.
Another thing I'm looking forward to is the World Cup. Call me optimistic to the point of psychotic delusion if you wish, but I really think England are going to win it. In fact, I'm certain of it! I just know. If they don't, I'll obviously now look a right cunt, presuming it's possible to notice that amidst my general propensities in that direction anyway.
Okay, enough for now I'm off to clean up several kilos of cat shit.
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Tuesday March 07, 06
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08:21 AM - Village of the Dykes
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Shit, once again over 3 months have passed since I had a chance to write in here, despite loads of things happening that I wanted to rant, rave, or just comment about. Like that pretty shocking news item a few weeks back about how the Americans bombed the village of Chipping Sudbury is Wiltshire killing 20 people as they were sat in their houses watching Emmerdale Farm on the telly simply because they thought a terrorist was living there. Oh wait, no, sorry it wasn't Chipping Sudbury, it was just a village somewhere in Pakistan, so I guess it doesn't really matter, and wasn't that shocking after all, which is probably why America still hasn't even bothered to apologise for it.
Still, enough about how shit and full of maniacs the world is and more about meeeeeeeeeeeee and what I've been doing lately!
A few weeks back, after watching the not so very good film Sylvia on telly, about the poet Sylvia Plath (in case there's a chance in a million there was someone who wasn't actually aware of that fact), we decided to pursue one of my hobbies of visiting the graves of famous dead people and went to her grave in Heptonstall (where Ted Hughes comes from) up on the lonely moors just about 40 miles from here in Manchester. We stayed a guest house in Hebden Bridge, a pretty little town in the valley Heptonstall looks down over, full of 'alternative' new age type shops and cafes etc and which is famous for being the Lesbian capital of the uk, or at least it is on the Hebden Bridge website (http://www.hebdenbridge.co.uk/). Didn't see that many dykes myself, which are of course, easy to spot because they wear tweed suits and pencil in moustaches on their faces. The churchyard in Heptonstall where Sylvia Plath is buried, is really beautiful in a crumbling Yorkshire gothic kind of way and some pics of it, the grave, and some weird pervy kind of guy spotted lurking about up there, well alright, me actually, can be seen here http://wwwrecitdunoir.blogspot.com/.
Also a bit ago, we adopted the next door neighbour's kitten or rather it adopted us and when we took her to the vets to have her spayed were told we were too late as she was already pregnant and now she has had a load of kittywits which are living in a wine box in my painting room, and just starting to venture out. So the house is full of cuteness and little squeaking noises at the moment. Unfortunately though, one of the kittens seems to be a werewolf as can be seen from a picture of them here http://wwwrecitdunoir.blogspot.com/.
Cute, aren't they? I hope we can find homes for them otherwise we will have to sell them all for medical experiments.
Gotta say I was amazed to see Loafing Oaf has actually printed a sensible speech I agree with 100% for once, (The Right to Offend by Ayaan Hirsi Ali Feb 15)about the cartoon of Mohammed, although I can't help wondering why if he is in favour of free speech so much and the right to offend therein, he censors people leaving comments on his journal. But apart from that, good speech!
Well, that's that. What was the point I'm now wondering and I'm sure you are too.
Okay, I'm off now to get cut up and have my interior organs prodded about with in the local hospital. I'll try and write again in another three months, if I survive, for anyone interested.
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Friday December 02, 05
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05:14 AM - Having 'a life' is greatly overrated.
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Golly, I've not written in here since August. Partly because I've been busy, partly because my älskling has taken over the computer, and partly because it proves a theory I have which is that I only seem to keep diaries, journals etc, when nothing much is happening to me and when they really are for a change and I have something resembling a life, whatever that means, I can't be arsed writing about it.
My exhibition in September went extremely well and I sold nearly all my paintings, got mostly great reviews in the press for it, and even got interviewd by the BBC! That was an experience, if only for getting to drink the BBC tea. Fame at last, albeit only in the manner of 'this being a local shop for local people' type way, but still feeling much better than being righteous or holy, anyday, anyday etc.
The big adventure of this last week was that my lovely älskling needed to get her stuff over from Sweden, so she flew there whilst I hired a van, and drove up to Newcastle and then over on the ferry to Gothenburg to her old flat there to pick it all up. It was a bit harrowing driving on the wrong side of the road as the Swedes do along with the rest of the world (seems there's only us, the Japanese, Australians and Irish who drive on the correct side), yet luckily she met me at the ferry terminal and so was there to remind me not to drive headlong into oncoming traffic, much as I often feel a hankering to do. After we loaded the van with her furniture and her clothes, her clothes being the thing that took up most of the room, even to the point of not being able to fit all the furniture in there, (how many tops can one woman wear in single lifetime?) we went out to a gay club in Goteborg which was good apart from the expensive drinks, then in the morning she flew back to Manchester and I headed back on the ferry. Having lived in nasty old England for 3 months now she was more aware, as I am everytime I visit Sweden, of the contrast between the countries, Sweden being much more civilised, safer and pleasant, it still having many of it's old socialist values pretty much intact despite the evil influence, economic and cultural, of the USA, which, depressingly, has by now swayed the UK into becoming something like the 51st state, populated by increasing numbers of violent, consumerist, shallow, budweiser(AKA piss)-drinking, burger-eating, kind-of-like, walking bundles of cliches bereft of any individuality. Maybe I should have been moving my stuff over to Sweden instead. Not a chav to be seen. Bliss. I love travelling on boats. At night I sat up on the bar deck when it was virtually deserted, listening to my MP3 player, drinking beer, looking at the endless black sea out of the window, sometimes seeing other ships as tiny lights in the distance, which gives me a kind of snug feeling for some reason, thinking about who's on board them and what they're doing etc, out in the middle of this vast freezing emptiness. Sometimes I went on deck to look at the moon, but it was too fucking cold, like standing in the path of a noisy hand-dryer blasting freezing cold air around my sensitive little ears to the point of making it difficult to breathe properly.
Whilst travelling I read David Bret's Morrissey: Scandal and Passion' which was entertaining enough, although I've got to say, he often seems to miss the point quite spectacularly regarding many of the songs, seemingly taken the lyrics almost literally, and generally just appearing to lack some gut level-antenna sensibility about The Smith's and their cultural context, as though he wasn't properly familiar with British Culture or something. There are lots of allusions to French cultural references so am guessing maybe he's une grenouille? Bless him.
Well, tonight is the Star and Garter Smith's night, and think we'll probably be going to that, for a while at any rate. Bye for now, if anyone is actually reading this.
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Tuesday August 30, 05
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06:38 PM - Help me, Kim and Aggi.
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As usual. not writ in here a while since a couple of weeks back when I went up to Glasgow to meet by Sweedy askling at the airport and bring her back here to begin the big adventure of us living together.
Yet before that I had to tidy the house up ready. This was a much bigger job than it sounds.The last time I properly tidied the house was sometime around February. Yet it had to be done as I didn't want her to think I was a slob or anything. At last I got to use my new vac which I bought in June, which was nearly exciting. God what magnificent suction. It took me two days and then a while to recover from the trauma. I admit it, I just don't know how to clean up. How do you clean windows for example? I had new windows put in a couple of years ago so thought it was about time I gave it a go, so went out and bought some cleaning fluids especially for it, a bottle of Mr Sheen, yet they looked worse when I had finished than when I began. They went all streaky. How the hell are you supposed to use that stuff? Even though it's made in the UK all the instructions on the back are in Polish, Czech and other strange Eastern European languages, maybe cos they think people in those countries won't understand how to use it, but what about the poor bastards in the UK? Like me? I nearly ended up smashing the fuckers. In the end I tried doing them with washing up liquid, which was better but still left blobs and streaks when it dried. Plus it took me hours. And I still don't know what you're supposed to do with Mr. Sheen? Are you supposed to mix it with water or what? The propostions of Wittgenstein I can understand. Even bits of Stephen Hawkins' book A Brief History of Time I can understand. But how to use Mr. Sheen. or even clean up in general, no fucking way.
Well since then we've been shacked up together for two weeks and, unfortunately gotta say the future doesn't look very promising for it continuing as long as I'd like it to. I'm suspecting now I needn't have bothered with all the cleaning, the tidying part of it at any rate, because she's more messy than I am. Not that I'm complaining as I kind of like being surrounded by piles of interesting looking female underwear and having my bathroom taken over and filled up with interestingly-shaped bottles full of all kinds of esoteric substances. The underwear part, especially, gives me a warm glow inside and has always been a fantasy of mine. Plus I guess I can get to try it on when she goes out. Yet despite that, I'm noticing there are pretty fundamental differences between us and it's becoming obvious she's not as into me as I am into her. Ah well, it's only life, no point worrying about it.
Over this weekend we went to the Manchester Gay Pride festival which was a good way to spend the time as any. We watched the parade wind its way through the city centre on Saturday and, as usual, it was nice to see floats of muscley waxed guys wearing nothing but tiny pink lycra trunks stuffed (I suspect) (or rather am hoping) with various kinds of vegetables, gyrating to House music whilst being cheered on by silver-haired grannies and toddlers sat on the shoulders of their parents. Where were you Bobmozza!? Some very bad pics I took of it here: http://wwwrecitdunoir.blogspot.com/ After that we went down the gay village which was all sealed off for the festival until about 4.00 AM which was good as I haven't done that for a while, although one low point was whilst in Churchill's, the DJ played a Rolf Harris song which was kind of sinister considering his designs on me and all, like he had followed me there. Spooky.
Shit loads of other stuff to write, such as about my exhibition which opens in just two days, but I'm sure I've bored everyone enough for one entry so will save that until the next time I get a chance to use my computer.
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Friday August 12, 05
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02:33 AM - The end is nigh, thank fuck!
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I've barely had time to write any entries in here and the main reason for that is because last month the gallery where my exhibition opens is September asked for a list of paintings to be shown and the prices so they could print it in the brochures etc., and because I was a bit short of paintings on account of being unable to resist the temptation to keep selling them, I included six paintings on the list that I hadn't even painted then, hoping I'd get them done in time, and so have been busy working every day painting, painting, painting, and then dreaming about painting at night when I'm sleeping, (truly!) in a bid to do just that. The muscles in my right wrist haven't worked so hard since I was about 13 and discovered my brother's hidden stack of porno mags. Yet, I've nearly finished now and am half way through the last painting. Hallelujah! I've barely been out of the house for weeks, but would just be in there working away, slowly filling up the waste paper basket with enough wine bottle corks to refloat the Titanic, whilst listening to stacks of cd's. Well I'm glad I've nearly finished now as I often didn't even have much time to shave, etc., and was starting to look like Howard Hughes, albiet in a much more drop dead gorgeous version of course.
Saw in the local free newspaper that whilst I've been stuck indoors, Morrissey has been out and about around Manchester centre doing his shopping, looking a bit like a character out of Emmerdale Farm, probably though it being Morrissey and all, in a totally ironic way that alludes to the steroetypical Northern image of cloth cap etc, thereby giving him some sort of inner amusement as he wears it whilst stocking up on his gallons of perfumes at Selfridges. I wonder what he wants all them for? For those who might be interested, presuming that anyone is still reading this, or even began reading it at all, here's a link to that article which shows a better pic of Moz than those that appeared on the main page of this site courtesy of The Sun and Manchester Online. http://wwwrecitdunoir.blogspot.com/
Also in sunny (yes sunny!) Manchester at the moment are lots of Aussies often carrying large inflatable kangeroos, or maybe wallabies, I can never tell which is which, here to watch the Australian cricket team 'get beat' by England in The Ashes at Old Trafford, the place where Morrissey played at the Move festival last year. Not that I've been able go out and enjoy any of that atmosphere at all with all the endless painting. Yet now, I'm well on schedule and can let up a bit so later today am off for the weekend to a minor music festival down in Shropshire, and then next Wednesday I'm off up to Glasgae to meet my beloved älskling, whose arriving at Prestwick airport from Gothenburg. I thought it best to meet her to make sure she doesn't pillage and set fire to any churches on the way down here as Scandinavians are genetically inclined to do. So only five days and we'll be together again. I've got giant, nicely coloured butterflies in my stomach already. Yet first I've got the mammoth obstacle of tidying up my house! Aaaaargh! Think I might get some industrial cleaners in for that!
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Wednesday June 22, 05
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04:37 PM - Lovely dreaded sunny days
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God it's so hard to do any painting in these gorgeous hot sunny days we're having lately, as it makes me want to stop working and go out in it. I'm rapidly running out of things I can trick myself into thinking I need to go out into town and buy so I have a legitmate excuse to. I've already bought a vacuum cleaner(see previous entry!), new paints I didn't really need yet, 10 wooden boards to paint on I didn't need yet, a tray of herbs, herbal tablets I thought I needed immediately to calm me down, CD's, books, zantac, and spare printing ink cartridges. The house is getting pretty full of stuff, which is a pity as I'm trying to dejunk at the moment. Today, though, I managed to knuckle down and paint, albeit en plein air as the Impressionist's would have it, meaning sat in my back yard even though it's awkward and I have to share it with a wheelie bin. This never happened to Monet.
At weekend it said on the weather forcast that it was gonna be in the 30 degree mark with even more gorgeous, lovely warm sun beaming down on us, so, on Sunday I thought I'd go out in the countryside and bask in it properly instead of sat outside a pub as I usually do. So, wearing just a tee shirt and shorts, I grabbed a bottle of wine and a book of poems by WH Auden and got the Marple train out of Manchester into the beautiful Cheshire countryside 25 mins away, and found myself a secluded meadow full of relaxing swaying grasses, loads of white cow-parsely, buttercups, gorgeously aromatic elder blossom, and other beautiful flowers I don't know the names of, and stretched out there under the lovely sun listening to the breeze soothingly hissing through the surrounding grass and trees. Yet then in the space of just half an hour or so, the clouds gathered and started to turn a worrying dark grey, almost black, thunder started rumbling in the distance, and suddenly it started to rain the heaviest rain I've seen for at least the last ten years that pelted down on me stranded there miles from any proper shelter, an hour's walk from the train station back to Manchester, for 40 mins, until I was absolutely soaked like I'd jumped in a river or something, and starting to shiver as it suddenly felt a lot colder.
So, the moral is, don't ever trust the fucking BBC weatherman.
And whilst I'm slagging the BBC....I see the tiresome Daily Mail reader heaven of Wimbledon started the other day, the sporting equivalent of an episode of 'Songs of Praise', which means just about every BBC channel you turn on for the next two weeks will be showing some pair of spoilt over-privileged tossers making grunting noises and wacking a ball at each other, or talking about how 'mentally strong' they are, fucking up all the other programme schedules, despite the fact that tennis is a minority sport watched by only 17 people in the entire country all related to Tim Henman, and with not as many spectators as even non-premier league football, yet they they never show that, do they?
God how I hatsessss it.
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Tuesday June 14, 05
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05:04 PM - Excitement in a Vacuum.
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I haven't writ on here for a while so will try and fit it in now. I wrote a pretty long entry the other night, but when I pressed submit it all vanished into cyber oblivion! And to think, I missed '101 Things Removed From the Human Body' on Channel Four to do it. Quality television. And heartening, to know that Ch 4 is keeping its cultural integrity and not dumbing down to cater for the Pop Idol watching masses.
Well call me a silly sentimental twat if you want, but I was really moved to see on the news last week a couple, one aged 105 and the other 101, who had just got in the Guiness Book of Records because they had been married for 80 years! I love stuff like that as it makes me believe relationships don't have to go pear-shaped as they often seem to do. Or at least as they often do in my life anyhow. When asked what the secret of their long relationship was, the guy said, 'you better ask my wife as I'm not allowed to have an opinion of my own.' No, sorry, only joking. They said it was to 'never go to sleep on an argument'. So basically you should stay up into the early hours fighting then, in fact, for days if necessary, rather than sleeping on it and resuming in the morning.
We had some beautiful weather in Manchester last week, with the sun shining down like a big friendly prozac capsule in the sky. Yet I still had a lot of painting to do for my next exhibition, so couldn't go out and play in it, but after a couple of hours of it streaming in through my windows and seeing people outside in their tee-shirts and shorts, I got unbearably restless and decided to go out and join them, and so I got some of my own shorts out of hibernation in the bottom drawer and exposed my tragically pale legs to the world, rather like taking two nervous, delicate pussycats outside for the first time after they'd been kept in a dark cage all their lives. I rationalised the guilt about not working away by telling myself I needed to go into town anyhow to buy a new vacuum cleaner as my other one, a Hoover, is fucked after only using it about six times, and the house is getting a bit dusty, even for me. I'd like to take it back and complain, it breaking after only being used six times and all, but the year long warranty has expired. If you superimpose the first piece of info in that sentence onto the latter you get some idea of my attitude to housework. This time I fucked Hoover off and got a Samsung, mainly because, even though it was more expensive than the other vacs, it was the most beautifully designed cleaner I'd ever seen looking like something out of Star Trek, yet less kitschy. I can't wait to use it! Which will probably be some time in July. No point rushing these things. Everytime I look at it, I get a warm glow. Okay enough about vacuum cleaners. That's enough excitement for one journal entry. As you can see, not much been going on in my life lately. Just painting, work, painting, work, painting, with some watching telly and trying to cope with Edvard Munch's The Scream-type experiences sandwiched in between. Also, doing things around my house to get it ready for when my beloved comes next month. Then we can scream together.
Been getting into Bulgarian Folk music just lately after hearing one track of it by someone called Yana Roupkina and being reduced, literarlly, to tears by it's beautiful sadness. I'd recommend it to anyone. If you're reading this J. Razor, keep checking your doormat, or mailbox as you have over there, as I've put some of it on the Gorecki CD, and posted it to you a few days back.
Goodnight.
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Sunday May 29, 05
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08:35 AM - Come on you frogs!
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Ou es tu, ma petite anonymous? Est-ce-que tu votes oui ou non? Reponds bientot s'il tu plait. I'm dying to know. There's only a few hours left. Once again, the future of Europe depends on you grenouilles! A vote for yes is a vote for more English people coming to live in your beautiful little country villages and forcing the house prices so high that the locals have to move out. How can you resist? It also may mean the beginning of a global power able to challenge the US in its apparent determination to make the rest of the world adopt its rapacious, exploitative, unjust style of capitalism and lead the world into environmental destruction.
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Thursday May 26, 05
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05:21 PM - Alone, walking, never etc.
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Congratulations to arch Rivals Liverpool coming back from 3 nil down to beat AC Milan in the European Champion's League Cup final yesterday evening. Spectacular match. And the celebrations tonight where pretty spectacular, too. 300,000 people crammed into the city centre to welcome them back with the cup! It was good for people here in Manchester too because with so many Scousers glued to their screens watching the football last night, and then celebrating the big homecoming tonight, there will have been far fewer people getting their cars nicked around here for the last two days.
I think it's pretty big of me to congratulate Liverpool like this as, normally, hearing Liverpool have lost a game gives me a nice warm fuzzy glow inside, like I was stroking a little fluffy kitten, yet all credit to them, they were magnificent.
Jesus would be proud of me, if he actually existed at all.
Still no time to vent my spleen about rapacious, greedy, corporate locust Malcolm Glazer, although at least this time I've managed to spell his name right.
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