A day in the life

The day started off with a wish for violence. It was the overtakers, who insisted on conning me by driving illegally, in order to get-in-front-of me.

I forced them out of the way, but really I wanted to create a RTA pile-up to show them. My fist of right. Mangled aluminum and steel and spindles of rubber. Snowburst of scattered shattered glass cubes and thick gravy red blood.

However. I endured and arrived at the labour receptacle in goodtime. On my table was a newly arrived copy of a Biffy Clyro long-player. This cheered me, until I listened at it.

It was like a tin of artificially sweetened and coloured strawberries. All shiny and tasting of sugar and tart, in an American emo (sic) pitch-corrected style. I had to spit it out and cast the silver disk to the teenage urchins who like that sort of thing. It was too ordinary and filtered for impurities. Someone drowning in golden syrup. Modern Amber Nectar. Preservative. Sticky as flypaper. Spit it out I recommend you.

Everyone concluded that it sucked.

Then I was reading dental magazines for research purposes. And then ones about managing veterinary practises. Mind somebody else's business. You see. I can read between the lines and smell the marketing that is embedded in every human statement. Making you want. Making you feel lacking. Making you need the product behind the curtain, revealed only once you are gagging for it, fearing to live without it. Advertising is our life breath. Your consumer groove. Mine. Chomsky-hardwired into every sapient simian processing-unit, the real categorical imperative, THOU SHALT GET.

I swam in Greek tragedy. I laughed, incredulously to my watchers, to read how Agave mistakenly ripped her own son to pieces in Euripides' "Bacchae". Such stories. Such fun. Such coincidence of fate. I stood up and shouted "ha!" Nobody was impressed.

And then I obtained a copy of Plato's "Symposium" for entertainment. I would like to read it self-indulgently with too much wine, in the same way as you have to pour Malcolm Lowry's "Under the volcano" and Thomas De Quincy's "confessions of an opium eater" down your gullet at a choking dipso rate. We are all in love with our own ruin, as William Somerset-Maugham wrote.

I read the news today. One of my friends was burgled last night. He awoke to find the naughty burglar in the room where he-himself, or rather his body-vat, and his wife slept. Dressed in black, wearing a balaclava face, and hunched on tippytoes was the creeping one. The shadowy sneaker got away from the Sweeney, running, with a laptop and a handbag as his reward, stashed in his rectum.

You see, in this lovely nation of England there is enough street coke available to ensure that you needn't have to worry about your victim being present when you are on the rob. It's that good.

Have no fear. And if they do anything to spoil it for you, there is always litigation as a seaside resort of an option. Where there is blame there's a claim. Sue the fuckers. These people who think they can hinder a chap going about his chosen vocation, minding his own business, need showing a thing or two.

For lunch I consumed one single tin of Tesco's "Cream of Mushroom Soup". I was careful to ensure I only consumed the contents of the tin by regurgitating the metal container in the fashion of an owl voiding mouse bones and fur in a pellet. The cream contained in the tin tasted like salty christmas pudding. I burnt myself on the bowl during the preparation of the serving suggestion as illustrated and wished I'd been out to get an expensive salad roll from a local supplier instead.

But as the anger left me for sarcasm, which in turn bored itself away into diminishing sherbet bubbles, I felt alright. Time, like wine, heals all pain.

Arms golden brown, hair in Byronic ringlets of mouseyness, eyes plop-circles of glaucous green as if making a petition to you, a plea, and eye-lashes like spiders dunked in mascara.

Yeah. I was alright.