9th June

09/06/2007
16:34
Up early, hit the road and apart from stopping for supplies for tomorrows blow out, a quick pint and an ice cream sat in Hutton Le Hole which is about where on my travels the real beauty of the countryside begins to hit home and I realise I do actually live near a very beautiful part of this varied country.
!50 sheep killed last year on the road;
they will not learnt the fucking Green Cross Code!
I always say if it is beside the road eating, it will probably remain so, if it’s laid down, likewise, but if you seen the lamb and ewe on opposite sides of the road there’s a good chance the little get will decided to cross.
There are two things our roads are known for the number of sheep killed upon them and an equally publicised tally of the number of motorcycle incidents.

I pause to roll third Joint,
I forgot to mention, arrived home, unpacked, saw dealer and was stoned , all by four o’clock!
Mule, Its called, the gear, and I can vouch it has quite a kick, has hit the pain.
Here I sit, chill out vibes playing, relaxed in favourite chair, neck muscles screaming for any attention which may bring relief, back bone has been singing for joy every since first taster of a joint.
Shoulders finally agree to relax and have to adopt another style of typing due to different position , shoulders well heavy, arms dropped with weight.

The neck, left unattended takes its’ revenge by cracking which in turn relieves the tension, I moan, almost sexually in response to the flood of relief.

Fourth joint steps into the breach and continues the stone admirably.
Volume up a few notches, why not this is on holiday surely?
Why have I paid good money to stay in some guys house and abide by his rules?
Fucked if I know. Must be the fishing.

Definitely not for the women, Jesus they sit like security guards either side of the gents entrance,
There is such a mix of people in Skegness that it sometimes beggars belief the actual diversity yet common thread disability.
The place is full of examples of people facing up to not having been dealt the best hand of cards.
An eighty odd year old, six stone guy who walks by shuffling his feet about six inches each time is prepared to walk a mile each day to his favourite holiday club and betting shop.

Walking aids of all descriptions wear rubber while others opt for the motorised version and frighten the shite out of the rest of us!
I jest of course, but the fatties are using them, shouldn’t they be the ones walking, because believe me walking is the no.1 pastime of the in mates of that bracing town.
There’s two streets of shit shops which wouldn’t normally turn an eye but because they are situated in Skegness, and quite frankly there doesn’t seem a lot on offer apart from walking up one side of the street and down the other.
Fucking exciting!
There are five , possibly seven different fish and chip shops within spitting distance of each other and these huge people on buggies are sat outside.
You can’t get past the hub of people who insist on stopping in front of several places to compare the prices, then they end up the reading the menu out loud to each other, picking up on differences in prices between this and another one up the road.
Sometimes not even the threat of having one’s feet run over by a buggy driver who is clearly taking more attention of what’s in the shop window than her general direction.
Saw one guys’ buggy, he obviously needed it. He had it roofed over and most of it was covered in stickers of places visited, he’s been around a bit!

Now I like my food but I draw the line at insisting I’m driven to the table.

What could be any worse?
Well, I did witness a couple of sprightly old men jumping up from their buggy seats after successfully drove up an awkward ramp and gained entrance to the club.
Walked to bar and sat as normal,
I also noticed at closing time the same gentle men were not always as adept at getting out through the doors.
Perhaps I imagined it.

Not I’m not advocating random breath resting for disabled using powered carriages.
Buggers seem to be more assertive in their driving shall we say after closing time.
I’m sure one had a fucking siren and someone saying warning vehicle reversing!
I must admit I thought to myself, £5.00 for hire of a day, may be fun?
Would I be wrong to do such a thing?
I may find out what seems to possess the more Jackie Stewarts among them.
I bet if their had been a railway crossing nearby the buggers would try and jump it.
Head down, full throttle and God help any poor fucking dog that decides to step backwards at the wrong time or indeed back of heel being brushed by fender.

I saw a woman hurtling towards me on a buggy, looked like she had been shopping and was returning home, there was a parcel taking pride of place on the front.
A garden strimmer, I immediately had the vision of her, on her buggy , strimmer in hand attacking the undergrowth, like some mechanical monster.
Had a bit of a not fright but apparent eye opener tonight previous to starting this entry.
I went into help and followed an upgrade site which was merely an advert for 2007,I then found myself being offered a download regarding 2003, which I thought may be useful, it turns out to be a training lecture show intended for educating personnel so therefore rightly or wrongly I presumed they would be a charge and obscurely mentioned there was, also al lot of let out clauses, in short I didn’t like the look so fucked it off,

If you signed for the account some of the features may not be readily available to you till profiling complete, if you don’t open an account you can use the service immediately.

Am always cautious downloading when stoned, sometimes I’m like the proverbial kid in a sweet shop, or at least I used to be.

Fives kicking in nicely and muscles in arms are relaxing just a little too much.

I mentioned earlier the local rivalry between certain sections of road for the most casualties be they sheep or bikers.

Just thought I’d mention it again.

As an adage, if that’s the right word.

In Lincoln or wherever it is I spent the last week.
Down there every couple of miles they have garish coloured posters with a bike depicted and a choice of three captions.
They also have signs saying think bike to tell the motorists to be alert to the danger of encountering more than the usual amount of bikers.

In Yorkshire, up here, we have signs every few hundred feet,( I exaggerate),
Telling you 150 sheep were killed on the road.

Hey, be quiet, daddy’s on the big cigarettes again!
That’s what my daughter used to say to the rug squad when she used to, against my orders, open the door when daddy’s actually crashed out on the sofa.
I win no badges for fatherhood. O.k!
I actually changed a nappy once.
I positioned here in the middle of the room, had both back doors jammed open, allowing a clear view of the back yard,
Had a joint smoking like hell, in one hand, a can of air freshener in the other, dropped can whipped offending piece of cloth covered in god knows what colour shit,
Flung into back yard.
I must have got the bairn cleaned up because I decided she could go buck for the rest of the day, would do her nappy rash good, some fresh air.
I never repeated the action.
There were some women in Skeggie, you’d think they were carrying a king-size duvet around, their waist.
Some fucking shapes you couldn’t make up.
Have you seen the size of the seats on some of those buggies?
They are tiny, yet these huge arsed people will tolerate the obvious discomfort to whiz in and out and round and round the irritating obstacles we walkers represent.

There’s a keyboard player who has been playing the same fucking songs, week after fucking week, year in year out.
And appear to be chirpy, cheerful, and polite whilst doing so,
On and on he plays.
Obviously I can sympathise with him having done the same thing for over thirty years.
Does tend to get a wee fucking bit monotonous.
Th club has a computer controlled bingo system, also has remnants of the days when clubs installed hanging light, fans.
No blades, no bulb, former shadows of themselves, made redundant by the three huge ceiling mounted air conditioners which hum so load the general level of conversation often high very high levels of volumes.

They have an innovative kiddies room,
With a notice on the door explaining that they as parents were expected to remain with the child, not just dump em.
There was a rough hand written notice stuck up in the passage,
Any one caught smoking or using illegal substances will,
Lose their membership, I think he punishment was.
Fucking hell, average age is 70.

Still you never know, with these pensioners.

They can’t half knock the little ones back.
Whiskies and spirits disappearing at a rate of knots.
All sitting in groups discussing how absolutely life has been so fucking brilliant since they have retired.
They swap stories, give each other advice and generally drink in rounds.
A luxury few of us can afford nowadays.

A Workingman’s club on an afternoon is such a melting pot of the aged and infirmed.
There’s the guy who has popped in for a Pint and a sit down.
He sits motionless, staring blankly eyes directly to the front, often crossed armed almost meditate.
He looks totally vacant to me but I suppose something must be holding his attention.
There’s the guy who has always drunk on an afternoon at home and can see no reason to alter habits.
He generally tries to drink to much, become pals with any of the locals who choose to befriend him in the hope of freeloading.
Becomes a bit too vocal at times and is therefore an embarrassment to himself.
There’s the often small group of original daily drinkers, because there is always the elite of the original daily drunks.
I was a daily drinker who became drunk noticeably less often as the drinking continued.
I therefore stopped and asked myself why?
Why the fuck was I drinking at all if not for effect?

There’s poor young lass in the club who must have the most soul destroying job.
She walks up and down the aisles of chairs accommodating maybe 1,000 people, every so often, at her own discretion, i.e. to no set pattern,
She plaintively, almost apologetically bleats out the single word,
Sandwiches.
A few minutes later she reappears carrying a totally unappetising looking tray shouting,
Sea food.
She sells those shit crab sticks and jars of fucking muscles to people who choose the spoil the lingering tastes, subtly exciting your taste buds as the true craftsmanship of the brewer is appreciated upon the grateful sensory cells of the tongue.
And you chew something soaked in vinegar or eat something to cause the stomach muscles to contract in unison with the sphincter as it cries out in anguish,
“Not the fucking crab sticks again!”
I don’t know if it was a uniform of simply an unfortunate choice of clothes, but a short skirt over leggings clutching a basket gave the impression of?
Little red riding hood.
Her sweet innocent fresh young face added to the fantasy.
After a couple of Jack Daniels I quite looked forward to her impromptu appearances, signalled by that lyrical rendering of the question loaded with pleading,
“Sandwiches?”
I ogled her firm body as she traversed each aisle.
She had chosen to use our table as a marker and on each tour as she reached us she would utter her plea.
I’d gave into those, absolute, dead, lifeless looking eyes, with just a hint of naughtiness in the corner.

Like I say there is very little to do in Skegness, especially while waiting for the Bingo money to be counted.
Little word of warning if you happen to be sitting on a chair in the aisle chosen to be the bingo ticket buying queue aisle, comprendo?
If you have any desire to go anywhere, i.e. bar or for a piss,
Go early, because once that queue is up it is like a concrete wall and you have no chance of moving the chair back into the queue to allow yourself to stand.
I got bored one night, and began to watch the TV screen for the number I was sweating for, and in my excitement shouted when I saw it, which was a little previous, so I was paid and shamed.
But win is a win, and that cannot de denied we went on to win again bring int total winnings to.
£40.
Now I’m not one to complain, hell why should someone with a back complaint complain?
The seating in the lounge around the exterior wall was indeed clean and tidy looking new and clean but it was the design.
The seats were a hard 90-degree and no mistake!
Fucking uncomfortable as hell. No slope just angle of agony.
Some of the tables have ridiculously unnecessary pieces of ironwork beneath them making it virtually impossible for a tall person to stretch their legs.

I did some writing whilst there, kept an impromptu diary, notebook.

Told you there’s not a lot to do in Skegness.

I write this now because this will appear before the other entries because I may take some time to write them up, if ever.

My door chime has just frightened the life out of me, luckily I was so slow to react by moving the offender has departed.

I asked a Skegness farmer, What he shot?
Everything, he replied.
A chill ran down my spine as I glanced at his rolling eyes.
1000 fucking acres we own, he informed me,
I began to think of inbreeding and Deliverance.
1000 fucking acres and you, travelling at forty miles an hour along a farm track, nearly killed me dog.

Even though the dog was undisputedly as blind and deaf as its owner it apparently had some sentimental values and was estimated at having one more year’s work in her.

I saw a big daddy of a carp do a tail dance and took a midnight stroll with a hedgehog.
But as explained, or will be when I publish the entry for the journey down.
The best par t about leaving this area is the knowledge that we will return and each time we do we thank god for the beauty near where we live and we notice something different every time.
The area is still living and changes as it does so.
True gorse and heather adds the artists colours when in bloom.
But the moor floor is often populated with carpets of complimentary low growing plants which display their beauty before being overgrown.
This bare period allows one to concentrate upon the often stark vista in front of you.
A chance for an agile mind to quickly weigh up the pros and cons of living in the remote farmhouse you spy on the other side of the valley.
I notice a church has been “renovated” and offered for sale,
Looks so fuckin new, at the moment, hope there are projections it will weather or something to blend in a little.

Love to live in an old church, good sound system, guitar, keyboards, would even seek out old Wurlitzer.
Plasma, p.c. recliner, chesterfield, fridge freezer, couple of pictures, fish tank, light display, living space elevated, floor for sounds only.
Sorted!
We all have to dream.
I wanted an art wall, one along the lines of dogwaffle and another as a gallery.

I hazard a guess that this joint as put me in the mood having reached my usual switching off time, but also realising it is in fact Saturday and there is fuck all watching on the TV so may has well have a full night on the weed.

Volume cranked a couple.
I look at it this way the neighbours have had perfect peace and quiet for a week so they can endure a little more on a weekend.

Tonight I fully intend to sleep the sleep that all pain sufferers dream off, uninterrupted relatively pain free good stretching, relaxing, and wickedly enjoyable.

To get back to the subject of these sheep on the road.
You remember the 150 that get killed, apparently avoiding motorbikes, or possibly not.
Well they aren’t just on the roads they are everywhere.
Any time you pill up in the car on the moors there’s a family of sheep looking at you begging to be fed.
They stick to some car parks for that very purpose they rely on handouts and are therefore attracted to the roadside by people who feed them.
This is partly true, but generally the sheep are fucking dim, they wander about willy nilly in search of a clump of sparse grass which is identical to the last mouthful.
But at least they don’t suffer from that human trait Vanity,
I have yet to see one with an interesting hair–do.
They seem content to roam around wearing a shit soiled, rangy excuse for a covering.
I love to see them when they are first shorn, they look so fucking stupid, gangly legged efforts who seem to lose their ability to walk and stumble around on bendy legs for a while.

Don’t know exactly how many sheep have infact been killed so far this year, nor for that matter how many motorcycle related incidents there has been, or deaths to that matter.

“Bends ahead! “To die for?”
Was one of the biker posters, warning signs.

There’s one helluva a lot of other unfortunate animals who have lost their lives to the motorist.
Countless rabbits, hedgehogs and pheasants remains lie squashed on the tarmac.

I driven over the moors for 30 years, sober and on occasion drunk and have never hit a fucking thing, not even when surprised by coming across a pheasant hen leading her young across the road in orderly if somewhat straggly fashion.

A lot of these road kills are nothing of the sort they are the results of the motorist concentrated efforts to hit whatever obstacle has the misfortune of presenting itself, be it on two legs or four!

I learnt my lesson many moons ago when chasing a rabbit in the headlights of a Ford Anglia and running into a grass covered wall masquerading as an innocent roadside.

Lets face it a Pheasant will run round in circles of indecision whilst waiting for you to hit it.
If you realise the fucking hassle involved in ripping that bastard’s feathers out, only to be rewarded with enough meat for a sandwich.
And you are prepared to practise.
You can leant how to successfully clip a bird and bag yourself a supper,
If willing or sober enough to tackle the ploating.

Rabbits on the other hand , used to favour sitting in the middle of the road staring into car headlights as they recited the Lord’s Prayer.
These of course were not the usual lively population of moor rabbits,
No these lead a much more quiet, sedate life, slow, laborious, tedious, life.
They had mixamatosis!

The buggers nowadays fly across the road into the wheels like bullets.
They almost seem to realise too late the actual size of this thing bearing towards them. Startled, is the way I would describe the look when they realise they are half way over but haven’t a hope in hell of reaching the other side.
There is sometimes a change of heart and momentarily they turn in the direction from whence they had come, but this action is often split second and they they return to the original path straight under the tyres.

I’ve seen a sheep dog go under and out the other side of a moving car, so why the fuck can’t the rabbit’s?
Surely they’re travelling a lot faster!

Now hedgehogs!
Come on what possible fucking excuse can there be for squashing a hedgehog.
I swerved but it suddenly changed direction and ran into my path.

Fucking thing is petrified sat there waiting for you to make your move, it knows its going to be the next layer of road surface.

If I could have been gifted with the ability to speak to one animal I would have spoke to the hedgehog the other night,
And asked it, “Where the fuck are you going in such a hurry?”

I know they are an irresistible target, but give em a break.
Up in this part of the world we install little wooden ladders for them to climb to safety when they happen to fall into one of the many cattle grids.
Not a lot of people would think of being so thoughtful.

Deer are twats!
They leap out of hedge backs into the road trying to mount your bonnet then skidding over the tarmac like Bambie before bounding off into the darkness.

Its not like these sheep hid around corners or behind obstacles, you couldn’t find a more open landscape.
Yet people obviously don’t see them until its too late.
Think Sheep!
Think Bike!

Of course collision with a full grown sheep could prove fatal!,
And usually does for the sheep.

Speed. Is it worth it?
Sheep, are they worth out?

Does anyone know of a site where I can get a sheep dead so far live counter to display on this page?
I know they do one for number of motorcyclists killed so far.

Unlike bikers sheep are unable to survive very long with even some minor injury
I was told that sheepdogs can be turned blind and deaf from working the moors farms so perhaps the sheep suffer similarly.
Never rarely does much good sounding the horn,
And why indeed should it?

I seemed to be dwelling upon sheep , the subject of, quite a lot.

“It’s no problem being a sheep as long as you are a cool sheep!”

Apparently at one time a reported carcass would be collected and probably fed to the local hounds,
Now they are just left to rot.
Reminders of the 150 sheep killed on the roads.
O.k. I’m not advocating piles of decaying bikers left to rot in situ,
(In model form of course! Sited at each accident).
Listen to me; you can lose you life hitting a cowpat at speed!

In conclusion, I obviously conclude that as ineffective as posters have been to frightening the bikers, the sheep do not seem to be taking any notice of the warning signs telling them how many of their kind have been killed.
I remember now a little further along it tells you the annual death toll of motorists so we all get a mention.

With this increased amount of road kill, freely and easily available I would presume the fox population will benefit which could lead to further discussion about control of same. Reynard beware!

I watched a fox on the run climb up the side of a shale heap, continuing to do so till all the following hunt had raced off around the heap to “cut him off”,
The fox pause, turned round and slowly descended and strolled almost through the surrounding field, sure in the knowledge he had well and truly duped the opposition.
I was chuffed at witnessing that.
Moved me.
“Clever little bastard!” I thought.

I feel uneasy at the way some of the populous has allowed to fox to become a part of city life, regular feedings, and all that. Tame foxes?
Can’t blame the fox its only natural to accept, adapt, and presumably once again thrive.
When will the numbers become a problem?
I suppose the dog breeders of the street will come up with a breed to allow one to participate in the new underground sport of fox hunting with dog in an around the estates.
Will we see foxhounds enjoy a time beside our hearths?
Out with the bullshit size dogs and in with the return of the working dog.

Never see any dead chickens on the road,
So they, at least have learnt their lesson, but the debate into the reasoning for chickens to be crossing a road has been a subject of conjecture for generations of bar flies.

I am nicely stoned and am enjoying a noticeable reduction in pain in some quarters and pain at a painful but ultimately tolerable level in others i.e. neck.

Perhaps the sheep have cannabis plants in different locations hence their endless wanderings trying to locate same.
I sometimes look at the vast expanse of moorland, stretching as far as the eye can see.
And think to myself.
Why fucking heather, why not Hemp?

I look outside at the grey mist which is shrouding the buildings.

I struggle to split the weed and end up putting a branch that would have done a joint into single skin.
Ain’t life a bitch, like that?

Like the men said,
“Look at all the lonely people where do they all come from?
Skegness?

I think the residents and holidaymakers are in some kind of underground pain relief organisation which uses a combination of street cannabis, swapping of prescription drugs, and imbibing on “House doubles.”
Could be almost described as a convention, but it lasts all year long.

So I’ve succeeded in publishing my final thoughts before my initial thoughts.
Cart before the horse, one might say.
Possibly right.

This is the most relaxed, satisfied, chilled out; I’ve felt all week.

Love the herb. Respect its powers.

To be serious for a moment, consider me drinking double jack Daniels all night at £4.00 a throw.
I’ve already had five hours for about the price of one double,
And lets face it one jack D doesn’t do anywhere near as much!

No my preferred poison, if in fact it is proven to be one will have to remain the herb, no contest.

The different roles we play to lead the different lives we try to live!

My eyes shut, head relaxes and mind shuts off, sounds flood the unused areas and I relax fully.
There’s only one way to drink the old jack and that is to replace the top after every drink taken.
When you no longer can get the top off, that’s the time to call it a day!

Excellent painkiller, but expensive without a prescription.

Cannabis on prescription!
Still dreaming.

I hold on to that thoughts while preparing another one.
Proper sized work of art.
Prepared, by someone who, no longer considers amounts and put in as it comes.
Just had a tussle with grammar check must be getting sloppier.

I had asked my dealer what the weather had been like the week I’d been away,
Fucking cold and like this miserable,” was his answer,
I felt much better.
Been so close to the coast has its drawbacks,
When the coastline feels like disappearing under its damp grey cloak it tends to linger for ages if the conditions are right for doing so.
Fucking miserable mist, when only five miles or so away over the moors it will be a glorious sunny day.
That’s why we need the cars to escape from the mist.
Some of the residents have given up their cars and therefore all hope of escape, doomed to stare into the gloom.

The place is generally as quiet as the grave and is known as death row so a semi permanent shroud of mist seems appropriate at times.
We do try to hang on to our slim existences as long as possible and indeed have put in extra effort into not dying too regularly and therefore lose the nickname of death row.
Not a great deal of success, so far this year.
Will give full results when they are expected with annual report into number of sheep killed and motor cycle incidents, or even related crime.

“Imagine having all that power to inflict suffering on normal human beings and own Microsoft!”

I love computers me, I love their infected innards to bits.

TV or pc?
What would it be?
You actually had to think about it!?

Do you want a P.C TV or a TV cefax, interactive, money grabbing whatever with pay-for-view event?

Sounds are getting increasingly weird; this suits my frame of mind completely.

Last third of joint sees me sink into a contemplative mood; questions and thoughts tumble around in no particular fashion or reason.
Thought of a title for site
Class C writings.
Get it. Well maybe not.
Loving the sounds, shoulders deciding to have a wander round the limits of their movement, testing each perimeter to the limit.
Don’t know why it does it but it does tend to be pleasurable after a while then surprisingly quickly becomes an annoyance and later and actual source of pain.

To return to Skegness.
I would first ask myself, now really should I?
No to return to Skeggie, as whatever stuck on the bracing beachfront.
I forgot to mention the Jesus squad plays in the bandstand in the park, a very well used thoroughfare for cutting a substantial length of ones journey to and from the two street town.

Before you engage any one of the thousands of older folk in conversation be prepared to listen to complaints about wheelie bins, hassle of seeing a doctor, smattering of the good old days and then if you are still vaguely looking in their direction they will tell you of their illnesses, operation details, hospital and staff personal rating.
By now he’s offered to buy you a lint and you have without thinking accepted.
You then realise you have to sit through at least two more pints of this verbal onslaught.
People on days trips tend to tell you about where they live and explain where they have come from.
Who the fuck cares?
We’re here and that’s all that matters.
You’re told about their house, the neighbourhood, often the neighbours themselves are described, then the town, its faults, and its good points,
Or alternatively just describe how they feel their shit life is compared to wandering around bracing Skeggie.
Some say they would love to live there!

When I think on I cannot see many of the disabled people availing them selves of the thrills of some of the more adventurous of the fairground rides, mustn’t be easy getting a buggy on and off the water slide or roller coaster.
That would be a laugh a buggy adapted to run on the rails.
Even a buggies on rope carousel maybe.
The swimming pool doesn’t tend to attract the older visitors, but often as not the numerous benches surrounding the pool would be full of geriatrics heads down heads tilted back sunning themselves.
Told you there’s not a lot to do, apart from walk.
And quite a lot of these people clearly are unable to walk.
So why come?
There’s a clock to look at situated in the middle of a roundabout apart from that the architecture and frontage is that of a typical ageing resort.
Much of a sameness.

I roll and spark up what should and could be my last for the night, depends on patience.
If someone had killed 150 cats or pet dogs in a County, let alone a single stretch of road then it would make head lines and calls for action to be taken and lot of running round in circles.

One of sounds is similar to tinnitus and is causing pain as the tinnitus would be doing, hey I understand. I think.

I think the other two biker posters were something like
Need for speed?
Need for death?