Wednesday, 4 April 2007


This morning i found that last night I had been sick on the Guardian that was conveniently positioned next to my bed. If you don't believe that I live this sort of bohemian, white knuckle, pants down, socks up existence then think about it. Why would I make this up? In fact why should I write it hear? I'll tell you why. You don't have to clean the things I am going to have to clean after writing this. So this is postponing the inevitable. This is a fatalistic hangover.

Anyhow I had some interesting dreams recently. And not just the sex ones.

I dreamt about mythical creatures that were enslaved in the Burberry factory. Only this factory was different. It farmed and processed a tarten fruit - the burberry - and turned it into jam and pies and tarts. Inside machines were operated by strange things. Pheasants that had only one wing and flew in circles turning handles and wheels via wires attached to their feet.

Working alongside the mutilated poultry workers were spurting gherkins, falic small creatures. They looked like gherkins but could swim and had purple stripes down their sides. They fussed around in vinegar tanks, their whole lives spent driving turbines.

The evil owner, yes this dream even had an evil owner not just lots of random words that sound nice, was Lord Burberry Jam. He had a monicle and a sinister laugh. He was the one behind the battery farming to produce all those phesants. I don't know how he made the spurting gherkins.

Thats it. I probably need a world class psychologist/therapist/live in cleaner and janitor that cooks breakfast and makes a mean bloody mary. The sick is still there and I still don't want to clean it up so I'll tell you about last night.

I was in a pub (you choose, its irrelevant). I was obviously being very witty, coming at you like Oscar Wilde only faster and slimmer. I was talking to my friend (you choose, its fairly irrelevant) and hit apon the idea of opening a shop. Only I'm going to call mine a boutique so it can be more expensive. I'm going to call my boutique Wired deaf sex purves. It is going to sell coffee. Ground and in bean form. Not ready made into drinks 'cos that will mean more effort. And I hate the stupid names I'd have to give to coffee in order for the masses to part with lots of money; frothy-chav-in-chinos etc. It is also going to sell drum kits. And pornographic magazines.

All I need now is some financial backing. Any offers?.... You'll be in safe hands as I'm some what of an expert in the fields of coffee, drums and sssssssssh 'porn' - read it quietly. Its got a catchy, snappy name too. It will be more interesting than a Subway and my ideal replacement for the recently closed Comic Book Shop on St Clements. Show me the money.

Anyhow this sick won't clean itself.

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