I've a head like thunder, again. We seem to have made a few changes to our libatious routine. Gin and Tonic has been a welcome addition to the family, I do love a G&T, especially when it's as humid and muggy as it has been the last few days. We sat and watched Curb your Enthusiasm till the wee hours. I don't know why it never became more main stream - it's brilliant.

Gail has mailed me with some flight details. I have looked into it and the likelyhood of getting a flight to South Africa over december does not look good. The whole world seems to be going there. I will get on to Gail about shipping the old boy over so we can make a pilgrimage to the Motherland where we can drink whiskey from hipflasks, read Rabbie Burns and discover Mauchlin.

Tor is sitting in the lounge watching an almost made-for-tv movie with Patrick Swayze. She says she loves Patrick Swayze. She should be moving in to her new flat next Sunday, which is good news for her, good news for us all. It's blazing outside, glorious,warm and friendly. The sun is shining, she's got a new flat, a safe place of her own and she loves Patrick Swayze - I think everything is going to be OK. What more could you want?

We are off to see Shrek II this afternoon and I'm looking forward, with great anticipation to being introduced to Puss in boots.




Shrek was awful, hyped to the hilt. This movie has nothing on the first one, another example of someone cashing in on previous successes, we chew it, we swallow it, and we happily pay for it. Puss was good, for about a minute or two. What a sad state of affairs when everyone keeps banging on about how funny it is - has everyone lost their sense of humour? The characters were underdeveloped, wooden and the movie seemed to be a case of bish-bosh-bash. At one stage I actually decided that sleep was better.

I had a math exam at Birckbeck last night. I also had to write an essay on what I think good management is. The math was not a problem, high school flashback supreme. The essay required some thought. Having been a chef, management entails giving credit when credit is due, but otherwise despotic behavior is the only way forward. To rule and lead by fear is a method that can work - I am however still adjusting to the pampy office ways of seated geeks and bureaucratic pedants. Kitchens are simple, if someone is suffering sack them, otherwise just make sure you can do everyone else's job better than they can (and if you can't, don't tell them - just make them feel special and indispensable, it makes later sackings more exciting and painful). Get into the kitchen earlier than anyone else; work faster, more accurately and more confidently than anyone else and you'll soon be eating lesser chefs for breakfast. It's all just food chain.

Offices are more like quantum physics; it's not supposed to make sense. If at any point you think you have grasped the concept, it's time to reevaluate you reasons for being there.

I am straying from the path. They were asking me what I thought good management involves. What kind of management are they referring to? Have they ever had to work for a crazed head chef, a genius, a dictator able to keep his brigade on the ball by fear, breaking arms in oven doors, flinging scalding skillets, shouting, insulting, abusing, physically and mentally. Sounds terrible, yes - but they achieve results, every single time, time after time, plate after plate. I am not referring to your regular bistro or steakhouse. I am referring to the top restaurants. That is where I learned management, ok, not always as heated as described above, but the objective is to remain sharp so as to battle going down or fucking up. So as a manager one should keep everyone sharp, there needs to be a current of authority, minions should know, step out of line, and you’ll be shortened at the knees.

I asked them if there was a word-count for this essay. 'No' came the reply. Are you fucking joking? What do you want? A paragraph, a page, how much? They didn't know. I contemplated giving them what they would like to hear:

'Man management + time management + knowledge of the business rules + understanding of the technological constraints – the bullshit = good management'

It's simple, lead by example. Instead I realised that it was just to test my level of English, so I set about ranting on for a few pages about the total lack of competence I am subject to on a daily basis. After that we had to endure a Q&A session. I am never much interested in these proceedings. I waited for the first stupid question. It came from some foreign fool with a mouth full of gum asking what the pass mark is. The guy on the stage is clearly not my kind of manager because he answered the question. Any self respecting manager would have told gum boy to fuck off there and then, would have advised homey to go home, you won't last 2 weeks. FAILURE IS NOT AN OPTION! I guess Birckbeck needs bums on seats to get their grant from the government.

The stupidity flowed, one daft question after the other.

I have just returned from an hour in the massage chair and seem to have left my train of thought somewhere on the first floor. Sorry, post over.

How do I manage to do it? I felt good yesterday, on Monday night I looked at the clock on the video machine, it was before midnight, that has to have been a first. The effects of a good sleep are very easily rendered ineffective .

Andrew stayed over last night. He has been working on a radio show that he pitched for on one of the BBC radio channels - the show is on anti-gravity. He has some good stories to tell about the obviously weird types one would meet if investigating something as heretic as anti-gravity. A fascinating subject nonetheless - a whack blend of science and science fiction.

We had a perfect roast chicken and drank till the wee hours watching 'Curb you enthusiasm' - brilliant.

I'm too tired to blog, so I'll pop down to occupational therapy for a massage, much better than this!

I feel much better today. Getting an early night really can make a difference. Last weekend was a bit scary, a colleague's leaving do and a departmental leaving do meant that the bar was free. I'll say no more.

On Sunday Tor and I went with Phil and Martha to a cinema in Hampstead to watch Farenheit 9/11. It was good and Michael Moore manages not to fuck it up. I am quite happy for anyone to have a go at baby Bush, just make sure you get your facts straight so that you can't be discredited. The cinema allows you to take beer inside, and a trip to the pub down the road (that had Leffe on tap) meant that I had a swollen bladder throughout. The lady behind me asked me to slouch in my chair, now I feel for little people, I really do - but fuck off, I'm 6'3, what do you mean slouch, slouch where, and where do my knees and legs go? Silly cow. Why don't you make a little heap with your shoes and your handbag and sit on them? I very kindly moved to the isle seat, and even though this was an amicable solution, I was not entirely happy. Short people, or midgets as they more commonly known, should not get their way owing to their height deficiency.

After the movie we went back to the pub that has Leffe on tap (I promise that had nothing to do with it). We all decided to eat, which was a good idea - it's another one of the multitude of pubs in London that now does Thai food, only they actually have Thai's cooking the food. I had a lamb curry that was reminiscent of the pots of rich Mon curry found on the border of Thailand and Burma. Only this time I was able to identify the main ingredient, lamb.

Yesterday was almost hellish, but as usual we push through. We went out for something to eat wit Alice, who is going back to SA this afternoon. I'll be having lunch with her, so I've got somthing to look forward to.

Tor called me yesterday afternoon, she was very excited and told me that she had passed all her exams. On Sunday I was telling her to be prepared to do the year over, given her situation while studying. But she passed, it's absolutely incredible and all credit to Tor.

Yesterday's post was a dream I had, if anyone is wondering. I think it's for Tor, I think Tor is Bird.

My eyes struggle with the light. It's blazing through the window searing the air. The clock on the video machine tells me it's 5:00 and I wince at the thought. On the other hand I've got 2 more hours to sleep, and for a few dazed minutes I watch the dust particles swim around like docile sea monkeys. It's too bright and I can't escape it but it doesn't stop me from dreaming.

I hear a grinding coming from next door, over the garden wall. The neighbor’s at it with his chainsaw again, but at 5:00 in the morning - I'm not happy. I go outside to take a look, peer over the wall. I lift myself up, it's him alright, short, fat, torso covered in fading tattoos. The color has run from the marks he has to remind him who he is, or isn't. He's got jeans on, he's always got jeans on and like his tattoos, they're fading, the life running out of them. I know it's going to be a fine day, warm, enough sunshine for everyone, but this fucker's always got his shirt off, even when it's cold, he's an asshole.

He is swinging his chainsaw wildly and I think he's going to take his arm off. He's got a cigarette in his mouth and the plumes are making him girn. He starts stabbing at something, stabbing and swinging, grimacing and I wait for the splatter, just waiting for it all to go wrong. These things always go wrong, it's a natural law. I think of a boy in my school who went to the army, one day he was with his mates, they'd been drinking and thought that throwing hand grenades at each other would be fun. The next time I saw him he only had one eye and one hand. These things are always going to go wrong. I wonder if he ever looked at the rounded stump where his hand used to be and marveled at that very thought, that once there was a hand there and in a split second it's gone, and he can see funny because that's what it's like looking out of one eye. One eye, one stump. I wonder if he looks at it and thinks about that second, how lucid it must have been, I wonder if he would like to go back. I saw an obituary a few years ago, it was either him or his father, I don't know, but it wouldn't surprise me if it was him, he was never destined to live for a very long time, at least not in one piece.

I can see what the asshole is stabbing at with his chainsaw now. There's a bird, a cocky little bird hopping from branch to branch. As the chainsaw swings, it comes close enough but the bird just hops out of the way, just manages to avoid the barbed chain and smoke, the noise and the asshole trying to extinguish bird's life. Little bird hops over to the clothes line, asshole's there stabbing at it through the lines. The grinding chain cuts one of the lines, I hear a sharp pling as it resonates through the framework. The little bird is almost laughing, smiling and enjoying the game hopping through the lines, from one to the other. Asshole is stabbing up and swinging the chainsaw, overhead swinging and stabbing down. I'm amazed he hasn't lost a limb, he's not looking very steady, he looks weak but fat, and pasty - if that chain touches him, it'll shred him.

I stop worrying about bird. Bird's enjoying himself, otherwise he would fly off, leave asshole wheezing and swinging his chainsaw in the cool morning air. It's warming up, but the sensation of cool fresh air on my arms makes me close my eyes, breath it in, I want to remember. The fresh morning air, quenching and fragrant, the air drenched with a crystal quality, vapors of light.


I'll be taken back some day, the quality of light, the air coated with dew, moist and dense, like a lens. I'll remember the way I feel, the air I breath, the smell of it all, the cool light.

The chainsaw burns my moment. Instead of the sweet air, I can smell asshole, fetid, rancid - alcohol and adrenaline. His fingers tarred from smoke, slow cooked and ready to split. The skin taught, the grime and the dirt, long finger nails browning and cracked.

I look back over the wall, bird still hopping, dancing, smiling at me and laughing at asshole, playing with the chainsaw, the smoke and the exhaust fumes. I forget for a second that the chainsaw has one thing in mind, it's barbs biting at the line, plinging the frame, the lines dropping to the ground. I tell bird to fly away, enough fun and games with asshole and the chainsaw. Surely bird has better things to do, surely bird should sit from a distance, singing and feeling the crisp air on his wings. Wait for asshole to have his moment, his split second where reality bites, when the irreversible happens, one eye, one stump - gone forever. I'll remember the cool air on my arms, and asshole will remember the day he lost his.

I want bird to fly to safety, no need to be dancing around, hopping from danger, from line to line. No need for bird to know about asshole, surely bird knows there are nicer things around, nice old ladies with hands full seed and bird baths, gardens nurtured for bird and his feathered kind.

Reality bites, slow-mo pling and splatter, I flinch, the chain bites and wraps its barbed teeth, tear flesh and tangle wire, shred line and it all makes sense, the fumes, grey in the morning air, sweet smell now spent gasoline, poisonous, one eye one hand - stump, regret.

I watch, my throat fills, becomes thick, my eyes fill and distort my vision, like a lens, blurred and smeared. Lines flailing, whipping up into the air, swooshing as I have all the time in the world to work it out, frame by frame I watch it unfold, slowly, painfully. Why bird? Why didn't you fly and watch what should have happened?

Feathers float, like dust in the morning light, trapped in a beam carried by the warm sun. The lines whipping faster now as time speeds up, sucking me back to real time but the feather’s still floating slowly to the ground, edges gleaming, trapping vapor from the air, so pure, so simple, perfect. A single ray splinters from the edge of the feather and like crystal fluid it projects a spectrum caught by my eye, I'll remember this, even though it's not what was supposed to happen. Sadness fills the air, the crisp cool morning air. The grinding has stopped, the swooshing of the lines now gone, no resonating song from the metal frame, no smell of acrid asshole, no smoke, no life - just light, and feathers, now fallen to the ground. Bird's broken plumage - not what was supposed to happen.


morning dust to morning dust
the true and kind who once enjoyed
love and life, dance, trust
wings stop their playful beating
feathers fall to graves
and fly or float no more

The nights are drawing in. Not that I mind, I prefer the darker months anyway. It's only when the change first sets in that I feel tired, lethargy seeps through and attempts a hostile take-over. I slept the sleep of the dead last night, waking up with a dead arm gave me time to slip into semi-consciousness, tingling and numb, drift in and out and teeter on the edge of captivity and escape, heaven and hell, life and death. This is where my thoughts are real, this is when I feel uninhibited and free to roam the thought planes, skim over what was processed in my dreams the night before, like thin memories wispy and fleeting, blowing where the wind of untarnished thought blows lucid.

Situations around me are reaching bizarre heights. Another one of the family situational frenzied fandangos has peaked - at least I hope it's peaked. Behind the wall of not caring, partly because I feel worn out, at the moment that is, I know things are about to heat up, about to step it up a level from simmering to boiling. Someone has been torturing my sister, tormenting her, raping her naivety. He sodomised her innocence. A loose canon about to burst into twisted fragments, a pressure cooker about to squeal and blow. The nature of explosions is such that they send shrapnel flying. I'm there, tapping a nail into the side as the wee top whistles, sizzling serpent, septic steam appears from the cracks, reeks of putrefaction. My taps are becoming more deliberate, tap... more precise as I find the weak spot in his cold sides, fat, hostile, ready to burst and buckle the heavy frame. Tap...

I am going to deal with him personally, I'm going to gauge just how far I can tap nails into his head, tap... rusty, poisonous nails, tap...tap...tap. The flakes on his head, the sweat on his lardy brow all an indication of the self-inflicted siriasis, the pressure cooker ready to strip its seal and blow its top, send flying a scalding waste of sordid soup. He'll scratch the itch, his head peeling open from the flaking wounds, a nervous scratch, a liar’s brow, a whistling top, sweating, squeezing the juice of untruths from the pores, pushing the septic beads through the skin. I'd love to watch him squirm, like a slug lovingly rolled in salt, watched over by a cruel uncaring youth intrigued by the anguish, salt cellar in hand. Hang him out to dry, cured, the wind ready to carry him off into a wasteland of nothingness, barren, emaciated and crumbling - flaking away in the breeze. Tap...

I must remain calm, calmness can be impenetrable, calmness in the face of insane rage can send someone over the edge, it's like some kind of chemical reaction. Something I learned from my older brother as small boy. He would slowly whip me up into a confused and frenzied state, I would feel as though all control was lost, I was at the mercy of evil, panic would set in. He was older, calmer, and smarter. The more enraged I became, the calmer he would become, tap...tap...tap. His eyes smiling, enjoying me writhe in the pain of fury, tweaking me, finding the optimal point, mental terminal velocity, a hair's width away from destruction, a whisper away from an almost Zen-like killing spree, Flight of the Valkyries in my head - I could have ripped him limb for limb, but I was just a boy.

Like water off a duck's back.

I'll do that, cool, calm and viscous. He has no options, this contorted soul who defiled my sister is a failure of the highest order - a supreme failure, nature gone wrong, he will meet his maker, hopefully by his own hands, because that's what failures of that degree do, he must complete his work and rid the world of himself. Nature will try to weed him out, reject him like a cancerous growth, but he wants to infect others with his cancer, leave his mark, smear the world with faeces. A blubber rat that has weasels for fingers, lining everything he touches with his bacteria and disease. His type will survive, but he won't.

'listen dog shit... You know what I do to dogshit? I step on dog shit, you'll dry up and blow away.'

I have just been on the phone to Dollar. She sounds really chirpy and hopefully content. She tells me that she is going to start a horticulture course soon through UNISA. I'm sure she'll get a lot of satisfaction from it - it's a rewarding and therapeutic thing to do. Having a fizzy chat with Dollar has just set my mood for the day, I'm in a good one.

Dadda sounds good, seems to have made his way through the terrible flu - he says he's not on the way to the grave, yet. Gail has arrived in Johannesburg and has gifts galore for the girls and Dadda. She has a bottle of Highland Park for the Scotch piss artist.

The weekend is upon us and I'm off to Wales this evening to see Andrew, Nicole and Robin. Andrew sounds well, but I can report on that after the weekend - I'll post some photies as well.

For those who would like to see the photies from Italy - they can be seen Here

The gallery still has to be worked on, but I thought I would get some pictures up in the meantime. Enjoy. If you are wondering about why it looks shit, you're using Intertnet Explorer - I have been developing this for Mozilla, and if I'm arsed, some day I might brush it up for IE.

We were all invited to Chris and Isabell's flat in Maida Vale for drinks and eats last night. Everyone was there - Gail, Alice, Nan, Remus, Vanessa, Katie and Tor. We all had a great time. Gail has gone back to South Africa and Woo has gone off to Spain, Malorca - the Spanish party island for wanna-be affluent Eurobrats and Germans with fat white grubs, paella down their fronts and a penchant for little spanish boys.

Spam comes through the front door. Unwelcome, useless and hated. A relentless wave of gloss paper pumping me to buy sofas, fast food, women, men, computers and services - washes up on my doorstep day in, day out. Flotsam and jetsam. I have considered a sign, 'No unsolicited mail' - but I know that the messengers of the vermin horde of spam are doing it because they can't read. I bend over, groaning and muttering filth-flying-filth-flying-filth, day in, day out, to pick it up and drop it all in the paper recycle basket some 2 feet away.

I'll set off for the underground. Outside all the houses and buildings are recycling baskets filled with the orphaned leaflets, neglected and starved of recognition. Never been read. Immediately aborted. It spills out, into the streets and sidewalks. Another reason why we should have snipers randomly placed on rooftops.

Embankment tube station. If I'm in synch with the next tube, I'll have time to walk down to the east end of the platform for a quick exit at Blackfriars. Blackfriars station, there are two exits on the platform. The masses are like cattle, sheep with blinkers on. They all follow the first person through one exit, leaving the other free to move through. The stampede continues as I reach the turnstiles. The sheep and cattle cram themselves through the first 3 gates their blinkers allow them to see, leaving the other 4 available to sail through. Once I've negotiated my exit, a mad rush ensues, dodging human shrapnel, clipping heals and shoving bags, stray cattle meandering in morning confusion searching for the front-runner, the alpha-commuter who'll lead them to the light at the end of the tunnel.

Just past the turnstiles a few steps are coming up. I could easily see my arse in these Italian leather shoes. The stairs are clad in metal, all worn out and shiny, making it even worse. Size 11 shoes and stairs 8 inches deep, I pay attention not to cause a human landslide. At the foot of the stairs 2 chinese people are trying to force-feed holiday maker weekly or some other useless spam related publication. I want to extend my arm and pick up pace, I figure with my height and momentum and her low center of gravity I could send her flying at least 10 feet, carefully placing her at the break of the human wave. One spam dispensing moron down, trampled. One to go. The look on their faces as people refuse to collect their add-ware makes me skip a beat as my heart rate jumps. You dish out spam, for free, and get upset when you stand in the way of several hundred people who walk over you and refuse to acknowledge your existence? I'd have a good mind to speak to them, show them my face, shout at them - 'You see this face? Remember it! Don't ever offer me your shit you spamming rodent. When you see me coming, move out of the way!' I should rant to the underground staff to remove them at busy times, obstructing human traffic. That won't help for one simple reason, these spamming rodents are in fact one level up the evolutionary ladder. Underground workers are retarded. Yesterday they subjected London to a tube strike. Why? So that they can work a four day week. There are hundreds of people lining up to take those jobs - sack them all, rehire! Unionism does not work in a capitalist society. If you don't like your job, quit. Sleep on the streets and eat fag-ends.

I make my way to the light, exit 8. I'm pre-gasping for air and space, eager to exhale my anxiety, even if it is only mid-level. I look up to the light as I approach the exit, like being born, every day, five days a week. My first breath relieves me. I want to stand still for a second as soon as I reach the outside. Breath.

There are two more vultures at the entrance to the light. Their right to exist gaumed by their actions. A piece of paper is pushed into view. I read the word 'Iraq' on it. I wonder if I should push him down the stairs. I'm sick of it, the pieces of paper, the war, Iraq. Yes, I'm sorry Dubya, uncle Donnie and big fat Dick rased your country, I'm sorry that Blair, the yes-man that he is got bitch-slapped into joining them, he's just a dog you know, on a leash, led by a monkey. I'll kick him down the stairs, you're not helping Iraq standing in the heavenly light of Blackfriars exit 8 tunnel dishing out glossy flyers like confetti. Fuck off mate, out of my way, if you want to help Iraq, go to Iraq.

Just my luck the first thing you see on exit is Unilever house. I make my way to the coffee shop for the sanctity that is bacon roll and cafe latte. Bow to mocha, pray at the altar that is service counter, offer sacrifices of money for such Godly gifts as the fat and flesh of swine, unholy leavened granary bread, enter the land of milk and caffeine. Safety, comfort.

The elevators don't work, they never do, they get confused, not morning lifts. From the ground floor, you can only go down and from the second floor you can only go up - I am stuck on 2nd floor purgatory. Why should I walk when corporate transport should be available to me? Besides, walking with hot drinks is against the health and safety rules.

I get to my desk, boot up my computer, administer sugar to my coffee and prepare to eat all as if it were the body and blood of Christ, 'I do' muttered from under my breath, and I hock in. The spam faeries have been at work, there is a t-shirt and a wee note about the corporate logo, which has recently been redesigned to make more money masquerading as a new-age, modern, user friendly people's kind of company. Have I ever seen such shit in my life, yes, i've seen worse, but this ranks pretty highly in the a-lot-of-people-need-to-get-fired department. The new logo looks like a 12 year-old Blue Peter fan designed it. Pathetic, there's even a jelly mould in the new one. There was nothing wrong with the old one, established, simple, it had a certain status to it.

The t-shirt is an XL size, an american XL size, I'm over 6'2 and I swim in it. The people are talking of actually wearing them in protest. It's just more spam, my world is being taken over by spam.