I AM ILL, RUN-DOWN, DEPRESSED... my head spinning, I can hardly face getting out of bed. And there I was yesterday ranting about the greatness of Maggie Thatcher. Perhaps I have finally cracked. May I say in mitigation: I only fessed up to having thought HER marvellous. Not her policies. I am that entity political parties value the most: the floating voter (or non-voter ~ I don't bother any more). My beliefs occupy a centre-ground covered by all three major parties: Liberal, Labour, Conservative ~ so I could vote for any one of them. When I did vote I tended to cast protest votes for the Greens because I think it would be nice if we still had trees etc in the future. Most of their policies, in actual fact, I disagree with... If we'd only had Monster Raving Loony or Whiplash candidates in my bourgeois boroughs I'd have cast my Xs there.
Well as I said I am temporarily indisposed. It is not even a common cold, just a cobwebby smoker's throat. And I feel ill all the time. Depressed all the time. Despair has crashed all over me in a breaking tsunami.
For months now I have had the itch to put pen to paper and scribble out a pageturning record-breaking international bestselling novel. I had the theme (nothing at all to do with drugs) and a sketchy outline of a story but hadn't resolved how to tell it (nor indeed how exactly it ended). As I did say before (convincing myself more than preaching to you) I know what works for me as a writer: that is I like to know where I'm going. I plan out the entire plot as a sketchy list in my head. If I do write it down, it would occupy one or two sides of A4. I always know where I'm going at least three chapters in advance in some detail. The one I'm working on I plan out shopping-list style almost paragraph by paragraph. This is my "mould". I pour in the words ~ these come usually fairly easy. It's not knowing what to say that gets me stuck. And page by page a book is born...
The opening I sketched out last year (and it was a rushed sketch ~ it never engaged me, my heart was never in it) I have dumped and started again. I've only done maybe three printed pages (at most) but it's a start. This time I feel the magic. I know how the story should be told. This at least gives some hope for the future.
Now they do they "feed a cold; starve a fever" and being as my malady is more like a common cold I've indulged in this advice enthusiastically nibbling my way through the chavtastic new ranges at Iceland. "Chav" is a relatively new word in this country and means something like "white trash". Yesterday I had roast beef dinner for £1.75. The kind of platter you might expect from a pretty bargainacious pub with industrially crisped roast potatoes and thin-sliced meat. Not bad: though a rugby-player could easily have eaten two.
Now I'd better go. I'm too exhausted from my literary efforts. Last night I did 2 entire paragraphs! Yes! More than enough to fill the back of a fag packet. Talking of fags I've only had one today so my body's still in semi nicotine depletion. Plus hot sweet tea is calling me, along with the vulgar delights of morning TV. Righty-ho I must dash. Take care everyone.
While I'm on a fond nostalgia tip, here's two "songs" from my formative years I still find entertaining.
THE SHAMEN: EBENEEZER GOODE
This shameful drug song topped the charts in 1991 and believe it or not this is the best quality video I could get...
THE KLF FT TAMMY WYNETTE: JUSTIFIED AND ANCIENT
... "all bound for mu-mu-land..." ~ think that's where I'm going
The egotism of shyness - A few posts ago I wrote about feeling responsible for killing people. I realised today that I blame myself for many things. Most things. To be honest quite...
7 hours ago