12 th june.

Tuesday, June 12, 2007
Up at 9.45, was that dark and grey I thought it was the early hours of the morning until father rang and informed me he would be arriving within the half hour.
Together we made short work of the blades of grass which have had the cheek to re-appear, most were taken out by the root, other simply decapitated with hoe and then later dug up by shallow digging with same tool.
A row of Salvia planted and job done by one’ clock.

I feel absolutely drained today, no energy whatsoever,
I intend to have a couple of whisky lemonades, finish off the last of the gear, two joints top and return to bed for an afternoon kip.

Perhaps the smoking of the last couple of days has taken its toll, either way a couple of hours nap will make me feel better.

I should have known that converting a long established lawn into a flower garden would involve a lot more weeding but even I was surprised to see how much grass had actually re-appeared.
The forecast for the next few days is for rain so today was the only opportunity to get rid of offending grass and weeds before they had the chance to put on a second spurt of growth and become established.

Father asked if I’d started on the back garden yet, I replied I was concentrating on this garden for the time being.
I still may get stuck into the now wilderness that is the rear garden, grass thick growing two feet high!
Will be a challenge.

Whisky is slipping down as cheap whisky does, first drink since returning home.

Today is the typical bummer that usually follows a couple of good days enjoying the delights of the weed.
You are left flat, feeling deflated, exhausted, spent.

Whisky if fucking awful, cheap, nasty tasting burning liquid, why the hell I bought it I will never know.
Just force of habit asking for a bottle of cheap whisky instead of looking for a half decent malt for a few quid extra!

I suppose the in-bred Yorkshire trait of being “careful” with money is just too strong.
Would love to lose it for once in my life, forget about restrictions of money, quality of attire, appearance etc. and
Fucking well let rip and enjoy myself!

Trouble is I’m getting too old to enjoy drinking in public with shoals of like-minded alcoholic minnows.
I am definitely too old to splash away in the shallows of the nightclub world.

I am however quite partial to the odd relaxing smoke and taking the time to swim around and explore my own controlled, contrived environment.
The huge deep pool which makes up out inner selves is a marvelous place to take the time to investigate,
I will not add, learn to understand because one never ceases to be amazed at some of the experiences.

Let’s face it you go out with your mates, spend a huge amount of money filling the cash registers of a company to get shit faced, hardly able to function, to be rewarded with sleep and a fucking great big hangover.
You spend the next six days being told what you did and didn’t do on the night,
Then you go and do it all again!

It is the same thing time after time after fucking time.
All the time the waist gets bigger and the wallet smaller.

You stand at the rear of a eight to ten thick bar queue, you eventually catch the bar help’s attention, get served, form a group with your so called mates and decided to down the drinks in a shortest time humanly possible, may even be moved to actually agree to have the alcohol burned off inside the mouth!
Then back to the growing desperate queue.

Hell, walk into an empty pub on the afternoon and become centre of attention, no waiting, the bar staff will all but promise you a blowjob they are so fucking pleased to see you in particular and frankly anyone in general.

I’m a Yorkshire man who was brought up to have a love of good ale.
No, I don’t mean the gassed up shit they serve from the smooth flow or similar pumps.
I mean having the knowledge,
Of each pub in the immediate area, knowing the strengths and weaknesses of each, remembering in which ones you had caused aggro.
Pubs which became known to be a cut above the rest when it came to serving a fucking good pint of whatever brand of ale,
Soon found their custom increasing as word of mouth got found that so and so’s serves the best Tetley’s, for example, in the area.

I am old enough to prefer slippers to trainers in the house, and at certain times outside, i.e. gardening, driving to the shop etc.

At one time I was choosy and insisted on leather moccasins but now settle for any old market tat, one size too big to allow easy access, colours, pattern irrelevant.
Strictly, no Logos or advertising i.e. Saga flashes along the side.

I am old enough for a bus pass, which has never been used yet,
Firstly, the jolting up and down on just one unfortunate journey can cause some canny effects on a knackered spine, each journey fraught with uncertainty of the outcome or consequences.

Also, I imagine the other occupants of the bus, which I’m assuming will be as usual made up of a large percentage of, pass carrying pensioners; each one will be trying to figure out why I qualify,
After all, he looks like a tall, able-bodied chap!

Inside is an ancient old man fighting to look normal.
I fight against an oppressive weight to stand upright; the very fact I’m stood up causes pain and even something as simple as standing to wash the dishes can be as painful as hell.
I struggle to control a hip which wants to adopt its own method of moving,
A knee, which goes any which way but the way, it should.
I comes and goes in and out of joint many times each day, at worst, with every step but that is thankfully rare.

There is a vertebra in the base of my neck, which is only half the size it should be,
Just that one bone, half size.
As a result, all the nerves, which pass along the spinal column, are subjected to pressure and possible damage.
Ultimately causing paralysis, either from hip downwards or possibly neck downwards.
It also becomes a constant struggle, a battle between the resident tension and pain of the neck and the increasing in ability to actually support the head and keep it upright.
Good news,
There’s no operation the surgeons dare do because of high odds of paralysis.

Get the drift?
I was destined to be legless, a few years ago but I’m afraid the specialist was a little out with his calculation of 10 to 12 years,
If I took things easy, put as little strain on the spine as possible.

It was suggested I started to wear a full metal jacket,
A metal, supporting casing, from below the neck to the base of the spine.

I thought about how useful it would be in battles to the bar and obvious follow up punch ups.
But; declined the offer.
A compromise was reached and I eventually agreed to be fitted for a corset!
Wore it a couple of times, sat and took out a few of the metal spars, drilled them,
And fixed the car stereo under the dashboard.
Fucking uncomfortable thing; was supposed to have been made to measure but every time you sat down you cut your knackers in half!
I fear I may be meandering,
The type of information I have disclosed to you, the more persistent perhaps of readers is similar to hundreds of conversations in bracing Skegness.
Full details of all illnesses, be they real or imagines are freely given in exchange for company over a couple of drinks.

The reader drops into a book of chosen style and settles back to enjoy what they already will follow in a certain style of writing.
But what if the writing veers from side to side?

To go through what I write in an attempt to cut and paste something worth reading together,
Would be a right pain in the arse.
Would destroy what I thought I was starting in the beginning, if only I could remember!

Now I’m listening to some sounds and there is an annoyingly repetitive flute, and voice that seems to be chanting,
“Be a drunken bum”

For the first time in absolute ages, I take the time to research the song,
Shiva sound—moon of love, or on love.

Wonder if anyone else has heard that chant or am I going through what will be diagnosed as another Cannabis fuelled psychotic episode?

I think not.
I know not.

I have always worked on the premise that you always know when you have had enough cannabis,
It knocks You out!
You cannot use something to excess if it has its own built in defense mechanism of having the ability to render you totally useless in any shape or form.

True drinking vast amounts of booze will render you equally incapable but there are so many side effects and knock on effects which tend to make it dangerous, and often expensive if including the price of the fine in the total for the night out.

Have a word with yourselves,
Most of you slide home, hoping to relax with a joint,
So stay at home, smoke the dope, and forget about the cans, shooters, flaming whatever’s and drinking games.
Be able to participate in your daughter’s dream world, briefly escaping the reality of your own world.
Be able to sit together with her indoors and stop fretting about the damp patches on the wall, the peeling ceiling, the dripping tap, and a hundred other faults of the place you live.
All you will feel is the warmth of the human being next to you, who has chosen to spend a part of her life with you.
You playfully caress any exposed areas of flesh and the senses being heightened send back explosions of sensations.
Your flesh tingles with anticipation and delight.

Another day of getting up and forcing myself to try to produce something, anything to keep the old grey cells happy.

Having slow, thoughtful, relaxing sex when stoned,
Or fumbling drunkenly trying to get your rocks off.

I remember as a youngster sex was all about speed, thrust and power.
I recall a neighbour’s wife timing me as I fucked her in the drivers seat of a Volvo belonging to her husband; she was giving me driving lessons.
“Nineteen minutes”, she informed, me,
“That’s how long it took”,

I didn’t give a fuck; I was finished, time, irrelevant.

I met a rash of older ladies about the same time; most being neighbour’s wives.
I walked on eggshells for years!

The message was often the same, take your time, got all day, hubby isn’t home until?

So, you have a framework in which to work, obviously,
Time scale, and even a few minutes to think about strategy as she takes her false leg off and puts it out of sight under the bed.

Not so much as sating a wish to bed an amputee, more of a quest for knowledge,
How many more positions are available etc.

Of course, when one discovers the longevity of some of theses sessions one has to make plans,
An ordinary cd player is no longer any good; at least a six player has to be installed.
Each disc, probably heralding a welcome change of tactics.
Scented candle to mask smell of sweat stained bedding.
Subdued lighting,
Curtains, partly drawn.

Yes my drunken friends,
Afternoon is for sex as it should be.

The secret to a happy sex life in a village where the women folk are married to shift workers is to get one on either free shift.
Always someone to turn to at any time of the day or night!

There’s some strange goings on in some of them there villages.

I then realised that sex was just a duty to perform if you desired oral sex.

Yes, ladies you can bump and grind, slide and slither or simply bounce up and down but if you can’t use the old bouche.
You’re fucked!
No honestly,

The sound of a woman gagging on the end of a length is strangely erotic.

Of course the typical piss head who thinks 20 pints will improve his sexual prowess will be having problems getting a hard on till the following morning.
Piss proud on parade.

If you are going to talk when pissed, make sure you are eating pussy and then you have an excuse for slurring your words.

You find a nice comfortable chair and sit for a while, you experience a pain in the arse, but you don’t immediately jump up and vacate the chair.
Same with sex, if you are in there, and its feeling right,
Fucking stop there and disregard the pleas to come on her tits or wherever else.
Shoot the lot and take your time leaving.

Describing the various, options open to a man about to come, like some presentation from the generation game treadmill of prizes.
Is not recommended.

The blue touch paper has been lit and the countdown to explosive reaction has begun.
Anything, which disrupts that countdown, is rated highly on the irritability scale.

Here’s a thought for you,
When you come inside a woman when you are stoned it’s like playing darts against the farthest wall.
When you finish a drunken fuck, you will be lucky to realise the fact.

I am also too old to care.
(About anything, anymore).
And that is an exhilarating experience in itself.
I sit in my garden, among the rows of plants, like some gnome having fallen from his perch.
I thus toil for as long as I can block the embarrassment of having to sit,
Fine looking, tall fellow who cannot bend to tend to the earth beneath his feet.

I am too old to waste time trying to discern lyrics.
You know what I mean,
Thinking what the fuck is he on about?

I’m too old for a students travel card, yet have done a thousand times as much studying since I became old,
And had, the time, and inclination.

I for a minute step back and think of what direction the overall style of writing
is taking.

I’ve reached that age and social position when we are left to our own devices and gradually slip in the pit of?
There are so many words, which could have finished that sentence, I’m sure we all have one to fit our individual circumstances.

At times when I’m scribbling, I feel as if I am receiving help from person, persons unseen.
Weird that, isn’t it?

Am really feeling, I refuse to say Bushed, fucking arsehole!
Have just had to add arsehole to dictionary.
Am too old for politics but still say Good on yer, Maggie.
Why?
Because, it winds many people up.

Casual style of writing, but grammar check on your back, all the time.

I decide to have a stoner’s piss, turn up the volume and have a relaxing lie on top of the bed.

On the first day, God created the dog and said:
"Sit all day by the door of your house and bark at anyone who comes in or walks past.
For this, I will give you a life Span of twenty years."
The dog said: "That's a long time to be barking.
How about only ten years and I'll give you back the other ten?"
So God agreed.

On the second day, God created the monkey and said:
"Entertain people, do tricks, and make them laugh.
For this, I'll give you a twenty-year life span."
The monkey said: "Monkey tricks for twenty years?
That's a pretty long time to perform.
How about I give you back ten like the Dog did?"
And God agreed.

On the third day, God created the cow and said:
"You must go into the field with the farmer all day long and suffer under the sun, have calves and give milk to support the farmer's family.
For this, I will give you a life span of sixty years."
The cow said: "That's kind of a tough life you want me to live for sixty years.
How about twenty and I'll give back the other forty?"
And God agreed again.

On the fourth day,
God created man and said:"Eat, sleep, play, marry and enjoy your life.
For this, I'll give you twenty years."
But man said: "Only twenty years?
Could you possibly give me my twenty, the forty the cow gave back,
the ten the monkey gave back,
and the ten the dog gave back; that makes eighty, okay?"
"Okay," said God, "You asked for it."

So that is why for our first twenty years we eat, sleep, play and enjoy ourselves.
For the next forty years we slave in the sun to support our family.
For the next ten years we do monkey tricks to entertain the grandchildren.
And for the last ten years we sit on the front porch and bark at everyone.
Life has now been explained to you.