Over a month eh? Yeah, I suppose I can’t argue with the ceaseless passage of time. I’ve been way too busy simply trying to deal with the overwhelming enormity of daily existence to manage to bring news of my cumings and goings to this portal.
Great doings have been a-transpiring though, don’t you worry about that. Some interesting, most illegal, everyone of them almost completely forgotten by their main protagonist: Me! Fennell!
Dispense thee with any worries that I’m about to quit a la Cowzer from the blogging game, there’s plenty of life left in the old snake yet. Or so each one of your mother’s tell me every night.
Hallowe’en party was savage, but instead of wittering on about it here, and because my STM is so fucked that I can barely recall any of it myself, you’ll just have to go to http://www.flickr.com/photos/21363973@N00/ if you want to catch a flavour of all that. Including Radge’s birthday party. Which reminds me, I brought the Disgracoscope to the Setanta Christmas party there the other day. Not classic pictures it must be said, but I might throw some up anyway.
Ah now, what else? Well, actually my musings have ended up more on Radge’s blog than my own, I am both 5X and Une Starkos by the way. Might as well dispense with that subterfuge at this stake or I’ll never get credit for ANY writing.
Radge’s often heartbreaking/tragicomic blog is reached here - http://www.radgery.blogspot.com/
But the truth is I actually am doing a hell of a lot of writing these days. Aside from the usual big projects that will probably haunt me for attention for the rest of my days (unless they ever fucking come to fruition) I’ve been getting back into what I can only describe as ‘Righting’ – that being writing that I do just to make myself feel right. The sort of stuff that erupts unbidden from those sub-atomic universal micro-tubule doors in my think-sponge (they exist there Richie, I tells ya!) and burns down into my quivering/welcoming fingers. It’s a lot like needing a wank, but different. When you need a wank it’s sort of like this surplus of physical energy that needs to go somewhere coupled with a generally unshakeable fixation on some recently observed female form or imagined scenario that won’t dispel. Once that enthusiasm and desire has been brought into gushing, sticky reality the urges instantly vanish, often replaced by a sense of dissatisfaction or deep melancholy. Not so with the creative urge. After the shaft-blast the usual weariness fails to descend and the motivation to accomplish something remains. And just like that kid in the anti-teenage binge drinking ads when he spots the bottle of vodka and all his previous nights misdemeanors are brought fondly to mind, I realise just what the problem is and go for my refill pad and or laptop. (After a hasty dab down or possibly a shower If I wasn’t already there)
Now this makes it sound like my writing if fairly wanky, and to a degree, it is! In so far as I’m definitely doing it to amuse myself more than anything else, and I doubt this idea is untrue for anyone who says they enjoy writing. But at the same time, I do like to try and make it a bit fun or interesting for the consumption of other readers. That’s the hard part I suppose, you don’t want to write like Cecilia Ahern but even less do you want to come across like an elitist prag. I’m not French after all.
But yeah, I am given to be a little purple in my prose sometimes and probably somewhat cryptic. Something to work on that, making myself more digestible or at least accessible. But fuck it; I ain’t going to compromise too much. I yam what I yam as the Sailor Man used to say.
Now. To Christmas and the ancient and noble pursuit of getting completely fucking destroyed. The Tiger has flown back to Paris for the Noelle so I won’t have to hold anything back in the destrucity (word courtesy of The Ultimate Warrior circa 1989) stakes which will either spell my well-deserved death or, er, a more desirable result like continued life but heaps of good times. Don’t want to sound like I don’t have good times when the missus is around, I do, usually better times actually. We get on tremendously. But there has to be a few weeks set aside for me to truly push this kempo/yoga stretched chassis to its limit. Why? Because, as Hilary said as he gazed up at Everest, “its there!”
And how will I handle three weeks without any (depraved, you all saw my tools) bedroom action?
Why, temporary chemical castration of course!
I’ll leave you now, for no reasonable reason, with my chimpanzee impression for Dave Maher.
OOO ooo ooo aah AHHH AHHHA!! AAAHHH!!!!!!!
