I can’t believe how annoying I am. All I have to do is write a blog for them. Something chatty. Something “me”. Something with advice for other writers and bit on how I feel having won. But I keeps swerving off into darkened lanes as though some malevolent force were guiding my hand. Not only that but I keep wanting – and this is unprecedented – to do my tax instead.
I am now, of course, writing a blog to put off writing a blog. Staggering.
I’ve been asked to write a blog type article for the BBC. It’s like giving a Ming Vase to a criminally insane vase smasher. I can’t even be trusted on FaceBook. No doubt there’ll be some nicely bred person called Clementine who can take out all the nasty bits.
Anyway, here is a picture of the beach in St Bees looking lovely
And one of me wearing the Cumbrian version of a niqab – it was a very chilly afternoon. I enjoyed having my face covered up but eating the ice cream was messy
It had to be done. I have very little .. er.. mojo. And for some years now most of that has been spent on FB. Leaving bullock all for doing important stuff like writing important things and saving dogs and donkeys and.. oh fuck it. no one comes here anyway. I am already feeling like I should be going to my own funeral. Hey. If it happens please make sure they play Positive Thinking as sung by Morecambe and Wise. Message ends.
1) don’t try and compere a family friendly comedy night with poems about clinical depression.
2) don’t get your hair cut in Hampstead
3) don’t leave it ten years to get your spotlight shots done. the results will fuck you up.
4) choose either a career, a family or both. Don’t choose neither. It makes for very long weekends.
5) friends who are pissed off with you but wont tell you why can fuck off
Whilst trawling through an article on The Psychopathologies of Love, I am reminded of that chilling quote from Lacan “Love is giving something you haven’t got to someone who doesn’t exist”. Oh Lacan. You’re so French.
I think that Vince Vaughan (sp?) is the Luckiest Man in Showbiz. Just to see his great big smug face on a billboard is enough to make me want to smash it in. He is the laziest, unfunniest, charmless great big streak of nowt I can think of. Well, that I can think of in the movies. No. That I can think of. Just imagine the catastrophe his accidentally fathering hundreds of children would actually cause. The development of mankind (and most comedy film scripts) would be set back thousands of years. We would forget how to make fire. We would be dead on the inside….
Five months clear of The Big D. More or less. I mean I still cry at discarded Christmas trees, but who the fuck doesn’t? Am I right?
I didn’t wear the bright dress. I looked like a fucking trifle. And being a sale item, it’s exchange or credit note. Cunts. But hey. That’s the bad news. The good news is that the Buzzty was cool. There were some people there who weren’t just nice, they were interesting and funny and everything. One of them, an absolutely lovely chap, confided he had been wrestling with The Big C. So, alphabetically speaking, I had alighted upon the perfect companion. Peachy.