13 th June.

13 June 2007
Treated myself to an early night, was all tucked up in bed for 7.45 p.m.
Up this morning at 7 a.m. good sleep.

Dull grey, damp, misty morning.
Obviously had some moisture overnight and the garden is looking good, hopefully the dampness may deter the cats from using the garden as a shithouse.

There are several jobs I could do today mostly to do with tidying up, unpacking, and possibly having a bath and scrub up.
But as usual, I do not feel in the mood.

Being crazy is hard, but it's worth the effort.
Especially if you're a cop, paramedic, or social worker who may someday need to deal with a person having a psychotic episode.
At those times, empathy can be crucial.

That's where Virtual Hallucinations comes in.
The training device, created by Janssen L.P., is a rig with earphones and goggles that plunges the wearer into the mind of a serious schizophrenic.
The system offers two interactive scenarios.
In one, you're riding a bus in which other riders appear and disappear, birds of prey claw at the windows, and voices hiss, "He's taking you back to the FBI!"
The other features a trip to the drugstore, where the pharmacist seems to be handing you poison instead of pills, and hostile customers stare at you in disgust.

Sounds a little too simplified to me.
When a person is going through a psychotic incident there is a myriad of factors all trying to interact with the senses.

Sex is good for relaxing pain levels in chronic sufferers, doubt it will become available on prescription but in my experience it has usually worked to take one’s mind of it for at least a while and with the right partner may last for several hours.

Could just do with a session, nice sounds, pleasant drink, or two, small amount of dope and of course a skilled female.
I will have to struggle to keep hold of memories of such times.

The few souls that attempt to read and understand website privacy policies know they are almost universally unintelligible and shot through with clever loopholes. But one of the most important policies to know is your internet service provider's -- the company that ferries all your traffic to and from the internet, from search queries to BitTorrent uploads, flirty IMs to porn.
Internet surveillance recently got easier, as the deadline passed last week for ISPs to equip their networks to federal specifications for real-time surveillance of a target's e-mails, VOIP calls and internet usage -- as well as data like IP address assignment and web URLs. While law enforcement currently prefers to ask for stored internet records rather than get real-time surveillance, that balance may shift once the nation's networks are wired to government surveillance standards.
It's worth noting that the new requirements don't alter the legal standards for law enforcement to win court orders for Internet wiretaps.
Fans of CALEA expansion argue that it therefore won't increase the number of Americans under surveillance.
That's wrong, of course. Making surveillance easier and faster gives law enforcement agencies of all stripes more reason to eschew old-fashioned police work in favour of spying.
The telephone CALEA compliance deadline was in 2002, and since then the amount of court-ordered surveillance has nearly doubled from 2,586 applications granted that year, to 4,015 orders in 2006.

My name is Todd DavisThis is my social security number 457-55-5462
"I'm Todd Davis, CEO of Life Lock. Yes, that really is my social security number. No I'm not crazy. I'm just sure our system works. Just like we have with mine, Life Lock will make your personal information useless to a criminal.
And it's GUARANTEED."Here at Life Lock, We Guarantee Your Good Name.No one else does because no one else can.

This is from a guy who guarantees the safety of your identity.

Life Lock helps customers place fraud alerts with the three credit-reporting agencies to prevent thieves from opening new accounts in its customers' names. It also helps customers fix credit problems if they do become victims of identity theft. But Prusinski says there's no way to prevent all identity theft -- especially in cases in which a business (such as the check-cashing operation) doesn't run a credit report before providing someone with a loan or new credit card.
"It's a loophole," Prusinksi said.
"We tell people that you can't stop every form of identity theft."
Perhaps guaranteed is a little ambitious.

My good looking, if somewhat damp looking post woman is on her rounds, hopefully she will deliver the letter which will stop me from worrying about the non receipt of my money this week, so far.

I stand at the top of the stairs, having given her sufficient time to reach my address.
No sign of any letters, the first pangs of panic swell in the pit of my stomach and then disappear as the familiar brown envelope is pushed through the letterbox.
I relax and read my post.

A letter addressed to occupant selling solar power becomes a receptacle for the contents of the ashtray and is crumpled and dropped to floor to be collected later, a further couple of adverts for Sky join it.
The last large envelope contains yet another certificate from Learn Direct telling me I have completed yet another section of the course work.

I have been up now for two hours and the scene outside hasn’t changed one iota.
The mist is still clearly visible and there are no signs of any likely improvements.
The realization that things look set to remain the same outside once again leads me to ponder over what I may or may not do today.

I have no intention of doing any course work, housework or immersing myself into a mini bath of tepid water. That decision means I will keep the growth on my face and disheveled hairstyle thus taking away any notions of showing myself to the outside world.
I have no thoughts of pleasuring myself via masturbation.
My bottles of whisky and lemonade are both empty.
I look at the amount of baccy left and there is perhaps enough to spark a score of dope, with little or none left over for smoking rollies for pure Nicotine craving appeasement.

Option one so far is the possibility of having an early start and getting stoned.
For a few extra quid, I could treat myself to a bottle of decent spirits, but favouring a stone over getting inebriated, that option will never get floor space.

I could crawl back into my bed and hope that sleep will take over,
Or have a couple of joints and be sure that it will!

I seem to be stacking up reasons to be cheerful in favour of getting stoned.
I have a quick think and realise today is so far free from engagements and therefore interruption free.

More calories are burned whilst lain in bed stoned than sitting up watching television so it would be the healthier option.

I feel drained, physically drained, stomach churning probably with lust for Nicotine.
Perhaps a day’s sleep would do me the world of good,
Or prove to be a nuisance if I wake up later in the same frame of mind.
I take a second look at the amount of baccy left and decided to have a rollie whilst making up my mind.

Do I want to be stoned and write?
Be stoned, laid down listening to sounds,
Or be stoned and asleep for as long as it takes.

To write off a day by deciding to get stoned and return to bed is not a decision I take lightly.
After all time is precious, we must decide the best way to pass away our allotted time.
This is after all mid way through June, British summertime,
I look out of the window at the murky conditions, which have prevailed for the last ten days or so.
What I wouldn’t give to be somewhere warm, sunny, duty free, quiet, tranquil and inspiring, right now.
Not on holiday but possibly working, writing up an assignment or just generally noting down thoughts of the time, describing a way of life so completely alien to my norm.
Perhaps sniping at aspects of the travel or accommodation, the service received etc. and noting down suggestions as how to improve upon same.

I look at the newly acquired keyboards, but not in the mood.
The empty canvasses in the corner, likewise not in the mood.
The pile of clothes waiting to be put away, likewise the bags still unpacked,
Not in the mood.
There’s a plant seriously in need of been repotted,
Not today.

I decide its time to wake up the nearest dealer and score.
I’ll have to make sure the joints are generously stacked to assure the baccy supply will suffice, I have no intentions of buying more today.

When Privacy International, a UK-based watchdog group, released a study on Friday ranking the privacy practices of major Internet companies,
Google may already have known it would wind up last, saddled with an overall "hostile to privacy" rating that took into account Google's data retention policies and recent purchase of online advertising company Double-Click.

Privacy International, for its part, already knew that ranking Google last and below a company such as Microsoft would cause a backlash:

"We are aware that the decision to place Google at the bottom of the ranking is likely to be controversial,
But throughout our research, we have found numerous deficiencies and hostilities in Google's approach to privacy that go well beyond those of other organizations.

While a number of companies share some of these negative elements, none comes close to achieving status as an endemic threat to privacy.
This is in part due to the diversity and specificity of Google's product range and the ability of the company to share extracted data between these tools, and in part it is due to Google's market dominance and the sheer size of its user base. Google's status in the ranking is also due to its aggressive use of invasive or potentially invasive technologies and techniques”.

The view that Google "opens up" information through a range of attractive and advanced tools does not exempt the company from demonstrating responsible leadership in privacy.
Google's increasing ability to deep-drill into the minutiae of a user's life and lifestyle choices must in our view be coupled with well-defined and mature user controls and an equally mature privacy outlook.
Neither of these elements has been demonstrated.
Rather, we have witnessed an attitude to privacy within Google that at its most blatant is hostile, and at its most benign is ambivalent.
These dynamics do not pervade other major players such as Microsoft or eBay, both of which have made notable improvements to the corporate ethos on privacy issues."

Of course, the watchdog group was right.
Google immediately cried foul, claiming that Privacy International has a conflict of interest because one of its board members works for Microsoft. Privacy International responded yesterday with an open letter to Google, explaining its position. (The member of its 70-person board in question has been working with Privacy International for six years before taking a job with Microsoft, at which time he offered to resign from PI.)

Does Google have a legitimate beef or do its actions, as PI suggests, "stem from sour grapes that [it] achieved the lowest ranking amongst the Internet giants?”
Decide for yourself.


There was plenty of warnings given out when Google first began to establish itself, most seemed to have gone unheeded.

I decide against getting stoned because of lack of energy to do anything remotely creative at the same time.
I will however return to bed and allow myself to succumb to sleep if my body so wishes.
If not I’ll probably get back up and swing into action.

Obsessive behavior is treatable, but if left unchecked, it can land you some sweet gigs.

I rouse the dealer from his slumber and within a couple of minutes; he is piling gear onto the platform of some electronic scales someone has kindly left behind.
I actually get a decent amount and swiftly bid him goodbye lest he discover he has made a mistake.

I spark up and look at the clock, 11 a.m. opening time.
Pubs and clubs throughout the land will be throwing open their doors to the hardened drinkers, puzzled and damp holiday makers and the ones who have spent the twenty minutes prior to opening time to read every fucking word of the advertisements and price lists displayed in the windows.
You know the ones, who take up half the pavement as they read and slowly, ever so slowly come to the decision to either enter or not.

Opening time, for me also; as I spark up.
I had happened across a Blogger’s site, which tells of some of the lucky bloggers who have secured a book deal from their efforts.

I relight the joint for the third time and allow myself to imagine a life in which you are paid for writing a book.
Not an epic story or detailed account of whatever is mentioned in the title.
Nothing that will instruct, preach ideal practices or generally take the piss out of the reader’s apparent lack of sufficient grey cells to comprehend the actual contents.
Nothing to make the reader feel the need to concentrate, do further research upon or even bother to commit to memory.
Books, which like the sounds, they were written to wash over and through.
Are personal in parts, but never sufficient to allow the reader to approach too closely.
Every sentence is now causing me to do battle with grammar check.

Talking of doing battle and approaching one’s foe like knights upon horseback.
Isn’t it a fucking hassle trying to thread your way, hopefully in a car along the roads of moorland villages, with a car approaching?
And both sides of the road fully parked.
There’s often very little room.

I remember my youth, tearing around in old, unroadworthy cars along the moor rat runs. (Roads used only by locals and drunks).
Can’t fucking even get along a high street now without having to concentrate hard to miss wing mirrors?
Once had a woman who sped after me and insisted on calling the police because I’d cracked her side mirror,
Silly cow was on my side of the road!

I digress as I sense a change in my body, I am sitting more erect and feel as if I could go a session of writing without too much effort required.

Perhaps today will be different,
I could perhaps take some time to think, ponder, and come up with a title and even suitable subject matter for the writing.
No that wouldn’t be writing that would be work.
That would be changing the habit of a lifetime.
And as any Yorkshire man knows,
“If it ain’t broke, don’t try to fix it.”

Only been ten minutes since finishing the first, well laden joint, but I feel better,
My neck is relaxed a little and feels remarkably good considering the position, which is obviously causing support problems, that my head is in.
Will have to get myself a mike and a speech to text software.
I find keeping a position over a long length of time is quite easy; after so long the body simply locks up and no further thought is need to keep that statue like position.
Sat for hours, with head bent forward, like some sorry schoolchild, in front of the headmaster.
I apologise for the recent rash of comma use.
I put in any fucking thing to get the checker off my back!
Just had to add an English equivalent of the word apologize and after having a quick shufty at the bottom of the screen I see that once again I’m using English us.
Why the fuck does it keep reverting back from U.k. without me realising.

I pause to skin and turn volume up.
Upon increasing the volume an extra aspect to today is added as the ears, now realizing they are the major organ as far as senses are concerned kick in and the beauty of the sounds comes to your attention.

The notes dancing around your head like the puppy dancing around your feet when reunited.

I walk into a brick wall.
Pause to say, ouch.
And skin up.

A woman is singing to me in an unfamiliar language, she may be singing about her life’s love or complaining about the proposed tax on getting rid of shit filled disposable nappies.
I understand nothing, save recognizing the changes in emphasis and how her voice turns hot and cold, sharp and smooth.
I am then free to listen to her voice as I do all the other parts, as an instrument, when you listen to a voice, thinking thus you can follow the interaction between the voice and all the other instruments, it becomes a part, not a separate entity, no longer the focus merely a part of the whole.

The one I was beginning to dig perhaps?
I simply love listening to sounds when the old auditory system has been kick started by the leaf.

I have never before in my life spent two consecutive days listening to the radio, yet theses past couple of years it has been my constant companion and source of enjoyment.
I am completely converted to listening to sounds like this.
No control, no options, no need to do anything but listen.
The whole experience can be improved upon,
I could wear the surround sound cordless headphones,

But in truth, there is only one thing I like around my ears and I tend not to listen to them very much either.
Sorry to any female reader!

I sneak a couple of more notches on the volume scale; re-light the second half of the second joint and consider the absolute guaranteed suicidal idea of writing about females whilst in the mood.
I’m fucking tempted,
But will resist,
For now.

I love women; I love all the different shapes they come in,
I also love Basset’s misshapes.
I love the posh ones and the sluts.
I also love good malt but will drink cheap shit.
I love their apparent lack of interest in sport.
I also love to be similarly disinterested.
I love their in built ability to create a sense of order and neatness out of chaos.
(They’re good at housework).
I also love doing Word searches, like fuck!
Can never find a fucking thing after a bird has” Tidied away your things”.

“I’ve told you a million times, you dozy cow, DON’T tidy my fucking things away,
Keep your fucking hands off my things, tidy around them”.

“But your things were everywhere”.
“So fucking leave them!”

Ah! The good old days of having a partner.
I miss them like I’d miss a second arse hole.

I used to like women,
I used to think they were different and being such would never become boring.
I now find myself comparing like with like and seeing so many duplicates of a familiar theme as to make any woman have to be special to get any notice taken of her among her entourage of look alikes.

I have only met a couple of women, who I would have described as individuals,
Both later joined the rat race and became absorbed into the sea of normality.

I love the weird woman who will sit and tell you every miniscule detail of her fucking dreary existence even including the trouble her kids are in at school, how a male role model is required, desperately, before the majority of her council estate brew end up in her majesties pleasure, and then expect you to take pity and shag her.

The one that sips her drink and thinks of hundreds of reasons why flirting with you would be a sin,
Then rips your flies open to get at the meat.

I now realise why we are blessed with strong thumbnails.
For the breaking of the weed.

Living with a woman that will go to ridiculous lengths to stop you seeing her,
Without her fucking make up on!

I saw a picture of a woman’s trimmed hairy bush.
Might be on my website.
It’s painted to resemble a beautiful bird on a nest of fluffy inviting vaginal hair.

I studied the picture quiet closely, indeed was moved to make comment, aloud!
“That’s what I call make-up!”
You seldom bother with make up down below but we keep coming back.
So, leave some of the war paint at home and let you brother practice graffiti tags or whatever.
Looks a mess anyway after a good sweaty session, believe me it does.

I love natural women,
I also love beautiful flowers and plants.

I believe when two people meet it should be a new beginning for both not a continuation of whatever they had before meeting.

Natural, cosmetic free face, framed with a careless, carefree mop of hair.
Obviously has to rely on what to get noticed.

The lips, for sure, luscious, full by all means, even glossy is acceptable.
But not almost fish like, pouters blown up and painted ridiculous colours then given several coats of lacquer to bring on that super sheen.

Taste enhanced is also acceptable, quite pleasant but just like chewing gum, it does tend to lose its flavour and leave a disgusting replica taste in its place.

Eyes, there’s something almost cool and calculated happens when you glance into a beautiful pair of female eyes.
Eyes free from cosmetic enhancement looking out of a similarly clean face.
Impact.
You feel you have been targeted, you are the prey, and she the hunter has caught you by giving you a momentary glimpse of what could be.
You look into the depths of a woman’s eyes and make your mind up about what type of woman she may be.
The answer is of course often wrong due to the utter diversity of the species.
Just another ploy to confuse the male population even further.
And now with all the small women’s associations queuing up to pose for tasteful, fundraising calendars, I sense rebellion amid the female ranks.

I’m still gob smacked when I happen upon some of these street urchins done up with make up to signify allegiance with some genre of importance only to them.
Perhaps we should all blame Bowie for introducing us to the pleasures to be given by slapping the slap on.

My favorite woman?
Is one I have yet to meet and possibly will never meet for the same reasoning.

My favourite women?
Now that’s a different question all together and I being a gentleman would never,
I forget the rest.

I may be biased but forgive me for asking where’s all the tall 50 ish women?
Are they all hiding?
Its like the holy grail for me to live with a woman who looks me straight in the eye.
You may think I’m being facetious and indeed may have detected a bit of humour in those lines.
I kid you not, 6footers, seems to be in short supply,( couldn’t resist that one).

Would be nice not to offer directions to partner, i.e. up or down.
I would gladly allow an equal share of the bedding if indeed she were of equal height.
But until then I will continue to claim the lion’s share of any mattress, I may find myself upon.

So there’s this six-foot tall woman, with open eyes, clean face, and flowing hair.
She has a trim pale lilac hat perched in her hair,
(I’m thinking of the vagi pic again!)
She catches my eye momentarily as she turns to look away.
We both have had the very same thought,
Fuck, she/he’s tall.
I usually greet her by saying hi and extending my hand offering to shake.
I then go on to add that I always make myself known to any tall women I meet as a way of saying thank you.
Is you husband the same height is usually the quickest way to get answers, the reply can govern any future thoughts about forming an on the spot bonding with someone just because you have managed to meet a taller than average specimen.

Ladies on the note of height.
Most ladies and some women can successfully totter around on high heels, doesn’t mean you all have to try to.
To minimize risk of personal injury and almost certain embarrassment may I suggest choosing a safer environment, for example the cushioned interior?
Of the bedroom.
Last resort; keep the high heels for the bedroom and I guarantee he will begin to remember which shoes you were wearing.
And as a further safety feature, we would ask you to wear boots for your own protection,
No not, steel tipped,
Thigh length, high heels.
If you want to balance on high heels,
Try these motherfuckers out.
Please.

I fear I may have wandered down the memory lane labeled kinky boots.
Let’s face it fellows, the right boots, accompanied by tasteful stockings,
What fucking make up?
Never noticed you wearing any.

Fucking know in morning when pillowcases cry out to be washed.

Minor grouse,
Yes please!
I look at the empty bottle of whisky, well the top of it any way, I lick my lips and try to remember the taste but to no avail and have to rely on a sip of the old cold tea to replace the moisture in my dry mouth.

Fuck me just realised Oxygene is playing, haven’t heard that for a while.

I now have barely sufficient baccy to keep a joint going it will undoubtedly be the last today and that thought saddens me somewhat but will prove a possible bonus by ensuring some left for tomorrow and just goes to show that by adapting a strict regime in immobility I can be a forward looking old Hector.

I take yet another chunk of cardboard from the rapidly dwindling walls of the box housing my filter tips.
The contents of which are in imminent danger of storming the greatly reduced heights of their surrounding confines.
Now that fucking sentence came into my head while I was busy concentrating on getting the measure just right, correctly loaded befitting its chosen role as last joint.
Somehow, it got itself tagged as being something to remember,
From that moment on it was a fucking nuisance, going round and round, me desperately trying to remember it.
Why?
Because I felt, I should.
It’s at times like this when I sink into a deeper thoughtful mode I for example have just had some past events from my life flash before me in my mind and I attached a humorous meaning to each and every one, similar to parts of a game.
At least I can say I made it to the top,
Even if it is top flat.

When you reach a certain age and state of mind your past can become as a mosaic of images, with practice you can control to a small degree which images will play a part in your dreams.
You can cut and paste characters, change circumstances let your mind wander at random if you so desire and start on a roller coaster of diversity, takes a while for the mind to stop trying to make any sense of it and simply accept what is perceived and not retaliate by sounding the alarm bells to signal a return to reality.
I love to dream, I often dream right up to the minute I wake up and rise.
So fucking, releasing,
A stoner’s dream.
Perhaps this is what I been searching for all the time I was experimenting with sound systems.
I had taken particular interest in a house purpose built for sound and mention of the immersion sound, which would apparently be the next step.

Your practice on the mind releases the triggers and you learn to control same.
Try to remain ever so slightly in control when dreaming, akin to as small as an extra in a crowd scene.
Very soon, with practice you can alter perspective of dream, opt for random content, or practice and allow a part of you to issue directions holding the reins as tightly or loosely as feeling takes.

Not wanting to waste the full potential of what is after all the last joint, I propose to have a lay on the bed after altering the volume accordingly.
Naturally I don’t, I finish the joint, relax as it comes on, passed the time reading what I’ve just penned.
Now this is a rare occasion indeed for I very seldom read what I’ve written.
I must admit the jury is still out,
On the sanity of the author.
Must be awful for a proper writer having to go repeatedly over each chapter, even deciding if at all why you have chapters.
The appearance of a new chapter, complete with its own dominant title,
And I expect the usual change of direction for a while.
Hell with me every line could be a new chapter if the pen was allowed to run riot.

I regain control, and am once more king of the keys for as long as fingers remain operable.

I hit a second brick wall and realise I cannot remember anything of what I’ve just read.
Is that a good sign? I ask myself.
I fear not.
But press on regardless.
Like the 360 experience?
Well when dreaming look for light sources and follow them, allow the picture to develop slowly and change many hundreds of times before becoming as smooth as any film.
Which brings me back to the subject of immersion sounds in which the listener was surrounded in a tent of sound completely covering the floor space around him?
Visual extras shown on a screen, mistake,
Far better to learn to play ones own slide show collections on the inside of the eyes, than struggle against falling lids.

Enigma-Principles of lust.
Shut your eyes and just go there, no passport needed.

Don’t worry if you find it hard at first,
You have to learn to react to the sounds and concentrate without trying on each and every different one,
Each one is allowed to operate a series of random releases, ideas, thoughts feelings, emotions and all of these produce their own collection of images attributed to each thought each association with the music.
Put the images together?
No problem seems after practicing for a while it suddenly becomes natural.
Wall of images screened on the inside of the red eyes.

I hope you are getting all this bullshit while adopting a stance facing a North Westerly direction and gripping a copy of the Sun between your buttocks.

I’m starting to suffer now, if suffering be an apt description of my emotions.
I have a desire for another joint but know for certain than this can only be made possible if I empty the contents from as many as are available, tab ends.
Hence me placing ever so carefully the previous contents of the ashtray into an envelope and dropping it on the floor.

A passing woman would have assumed I had no further use of it had crumpled it to signal so and therefore she was well within her rights to,
Tidy it away.
And I’d be sat here fucked for a smoke and angry to boot, full stone ruined, brought back to earth by the sheer scale of the incident.

I’ve told you a million times, dear,
Not to tidy away my things,
What was in there?
She would politely ask,
What in that crumpled up envelope could be so precious.

Me fucking dog ends.
A session of sulking usually followed.

I pause to blacken the calloused ends of my fingers as I try to extract enough flammable material from my collection.
I take a deep breath and summon up the strength for such an arduous task.
Also stalling until brain inserts directions for to carry out firstly the retrieval maneuver to get the package off the floor and secondly a list of objects necessary for joint.
God only knows how often that list has been checked prior to movement to ensure least amount of effort is exerted during retrieval of necessaries.

One single swoop and the right hand is hanging above the guessed location of the crumpled envelope.
A slower movement to actually peer over the edge of the chair arm to discern the exact location of desired prey.
I stoop further grasp and retrieve, mouse “mat” which is in fact a hard backed exercise book full of further scribbling, becomes base for action of removing the stubbed out remains from out the dog ends.
Some of these minute plugs of tobacco are so hard and compressed they come out like a Yorkshire man’s wallet.
Ever so slowly.
I just discovered the slots for credit cards are in fact for bus pass, library ticket, club card and medication warning flier, donor card, spare passport photos, club card, store card, saver card, petrol card.
Where does the credit cards go?

Should a person like me with the mental stability of the twin towers be given the responsibility of even having to ponder the threat of identity theft and realise it is a growing menace and face the fact that some people can gain access to my hard saved money and will probably enjoy spending it a lot more than I would have done, meaning without the associated feeling of guilt.

I have never had money, had great need for it but no means of getting any,
At times,
Those times I ate from the bins,
Other times I’d actually go into the shop to purchase same things I’d retrieved from bins earlier.
I tell you, there was a time they were throwing packs of booze into the bins, I had to work a double shift that night and enlist the help of a close friend who I deemed wouldn’t be shocked at the prospect of some midnight shopping.
No! He kept repeating while shaking his head as we walked in darkness towards the shops dustbin storage shed, sacks in pocket.
No one throws good booze out, no one.
I told him to shut the fuck up.
As we neared the doors, a police car drove slowly by letting its lights cover the car park and edge gradually and surely towards us.
I took immediate action, being the taller of the two and the one granted with a couple of extra grey cells.
Hey, my companion wasn’t known as monkey for nothing!
As the lights threatened to spotlight us I grabbed him threw my arm around him and pretended to kiss him.
When we eventually parted, he stared at me, blankly,
Stopped him dead in his tracks, hardly a word from him the rest of the night.
And what a night this had to be,
Apparently, my midnight activities had come to the attention of someone.
There were bolts on the doors,
Big fuck off bolts meant to have equally big padlocks fitted.
I will have to make hay, I thought then sent up a quick prayer as all hunter gatherers do.
My prayer was answered, whole lumps of meat covered in muslin,
And soap powder,
Hell can’t have everything, will surely wash off and at least you can believe the meat is clean.
As I tucked three into one sack and decided, that was enough weight for that one,
I thought back to the farmer’s kitchen with meat hanging form the ceiling racks.
I came across a layer of cans, some labeled some of similar size not,
Doesn’t take a fucking genius to work out probable contents of unlabelled and thus ruling out the chance of returning home with many tins of cat food or similar.
I used to hate the fucking cat brushing up against my legs every time I went to open an unlabelled can, especially when I got more than my fair share of tuna.

We filled sacks with tins and a carrier bag with washing powder as an afterthought.
We were about finished when monkey hit gold, he’d found a layer of booze.
We celebrated our good fortune there and then by cracking open a couple of dented Carlsberg Specials.
By the time we had finished, we had sacks bags and cans stacked upon every available square inch of the floor.
I had the whole flat heaving with produce and just to make sure, there were 20 steak pies in the fridge and pounds of cheese. Pasta by the carrier bag, tins by the sackful, we even found a couple of dozen packets of peanuts,
Now wasn’t that nice of them, you’d think it may have been planned,
A last chance, last supper. Perhaps.
I remember the next time we went they had indeed fitted locks.
We returned the next night and super glued them.
Next night took advantage of opportunity just one last time.

Don’t talk to me about recycling when foodstuffs aren’t even dispersed never mind recycled.
That sentence is totally mad.
I know what I meant it to say but it fails.

I may have once again strayed far from the middle road,
I return to the subject of what to do if you had no money?
Fucking do without.
Is that still an option today?
Judging by the recent bloom of debt management schemes,
Apparently not.
Debt and threat of poverty can be very harmful tools when used against a person.

Returning briefly to the woman who shops with a credit card, fills a wardrobe full of clothes which she may or may not choose to wear,
Ever,
And decline to provide some form of income to pay for her continued keep.
Or agreeing to cover all expense and allow me to put my bus pass into the credit card slot.
Any expenditure required above what I’ve been used to would be given due consideration.
Would I worry about her height?
Would I hell, just as she’s not too much of a dynamo and has sufficient funds to enjoy a reasonable lifestyle.
So now, we have, female 50’s perhaps, retired, uncomplicated, ready to explore and seeking company.
Now by exhaustive experimentation this woman has found a range of products that work for her and I suppose are so subtly used they must be skin preparations.
After all most women of that age need a bit of work doing on the foundations.
Hell if it makes you feel better and hides whatever perceived imperfection of your visage, slap it on, but leave the war paint with its ever-increasing palette of garish colours, alone.

It’s at times like this, whilst sat her evoking the wrath of all womankind.
I think of all the anguish, torment, sheer hell, level of boredom, sheer delight and abject fright, involved in using women as the only form of social intercourse,
Outrageous.
But there were the good times.
I felt I had to add that.
Probably more out of feelings of self-pity than affinity to the reader.

Yes, on the subject of women. There are some right Bitches out there.
And don’t we love it when we find one,
Until you try to clip its wings and make it run round among the other chickens.
Refer to chicken poser at bottom of page.

I got laid as many times as the pot egg was placed in a nest box to encourage a clucker to perform.
I didn’t, that was totally irrelevant save for the fact it was what I was thinking about.
People wanting to lay you and others, just wanting to lay you out.
Distinct difference in sex between groups, although some girls do at times change camp.

I have no fear of divorce because I have no intention unless under extremely favorable conditions, to ever feel the need to be wed to someone.

We see the couple sit together, arm in arm on the sofa.
They gaze into each other’s eyes and turn in unison towards you to announce they have been married 45 years.
Your stomach churns, your pulse races slightly, then you feel the pity, the heart felt almost sincere feelings of respect and pity combined as you think to yourself 45 fucking years with him/her.
I ended up on the tread mill and walked the never ending metal boards for more than twenty years, before I realised the scenery wasn’t changing and I had been there last year and several other years previous to that.

45 years, good on yer, I wish you another 45,
Just serve you right,
I’d give any man 90 years mad enough to wed.

I love the old couples, ones always deaf and the other always talks too loud, funny that.
I love the way they stop to share a walking frame and take a breather.
The old dear, done up to the nines having being given permission to use make up.
The old man relegated to wearing cheap tracksuit and trainers regardless of occasion.

I’m retired, she will announce loudly, making almost everyone think she had said retarded.
He’s sat there scratching an itch and opening the racing paper.
These never seem to have a lot to say to each other,
I’ve seen some who sit for ages without uttering a word sat round a table with their chosen drinks in front of them for the consumption of if so desired.
Fuck off and make way for the real drinkers who have wads of money burning a hole in their designer jeans pocket.
Fucking jealous or what?

Luckily the two factions seldom meet because one section has to work to drink and the other, having lost all hopes of ever been able to drink on a night time in comfort has taken over, quite nicely thank you the vacant afternoon session.

Some will sit connected by some common limb or other, and perhaps they will throw caution to the wind and Mary will have another sherry even though she has been restricted thus so far these twenty years and eight.
She will have the third almost elicit in intention sherry, her cheeks will glow, and she will talk about being tipsy and susceptible to any sexual attention.
Guy thinks, shit; now I’m going to have to fuck it,
May as well have a couple more each, can’t do any harm.
By this time, you really are contemplating near rape.
Totally wrecked with the extra drinks the young lady is incapable of almost everything except,
Talking,
They don’t half go on when lubricated, alcohol must have an easing effect on the jaw because some of the action is terrific.
Am I still talking about talking, I wonder?

A smile crosses my mouth and a room full of memories cries out for attention,
I carry on writing and resist the urge to rest for a while and let old memories come flooding in.

For the second time today, I’ve reached for play list info and for the second time the sound in question has been Enigma.

Tanned or untanned, who cares as long as it is either realistic or better still, real.
I love an olive skinned woman.
The skin gives extra depth to captivating eyes.

Right we’ve established height is irrelevant, beauty has to be natural.
Bonus of being inexpensive for upkeep.
Always the Yorkshire man.
Eyes open and sincere, nose elegant or simply in right place, lips inviting, hairstyle simple and easily managed.
We will move onto, more serious matters, such as body jewellery,
I despair at the thought of women having to have their clit pierced in order to provide guidance for their husbands.
Belly piercing, not keen,
Genital flaps, o.k. But lets not get too carried away with piercings don’t need enough to make a rattle.
Nipple rings, sheer delight.
Having still to enjoy a blowjob off a tongue pierced female I reserve judgment but feel drawn towards accepting them.
I do realise I will probably see a lot more of it when she’s in talking mood but will have to bear it.

When it comes to lip and nose piercings I say leave it to the people who wear the rest of the costume to show how it should be worn.

Ear jewellery, piercings, once again not enough to make a rattle,
Not a great fan of jewellery when in the mood for nibbles.
Nibbles, Def. State encountered when stoned.

Tattoos, 50 and tattooed? Would have to be good.
I momentarily think about what type of relationship I would prefer to be in.
Immediately the open option made its presence known but was dismissed as the sane part of my brain reminded me,
I was after all a pipe and slippers man.

I was always in the have cake and eat it frame of mind and developed quite a liking for “cake”, when offered.

I should have more respect for women kind, true I probably should.
I will climb quickly out of that hole.

This stone has settled and its effects wain in some respects and the remaining power is channeled elsewhere to where it will be more appreciated, i.e. audio rather than visual.

Bladder cries out to be emptied and I deem this a good time to think of food and drink.
I realise too late that I scratched my testacles several times while having a piss prior to throwing together the ham, pickle, and mustard sandwich.
Which I just finished eating, followed by several biscuits, one of which didn’t survive the dunking and collapsed in the expanse of tea inside my pint pot.
This is in fact a pot tankard, easy to grip, none of those ridiculous handles to grapple with.
I wander through the field of freedom.

The pickle was homemade but wished I could have stood up and carved myself a chunk from a hanging ham, placed it pride of place atop a large piece of home made bread, covered it with the usual extras.

I sign off.