I am an alcoholic. Roy Orbison inspired me to write an unfinished song about Pretty bottles. Alternative universe New York City with pigs and hens in the back gardens banned dense development and made no money. Shoot all big game to extinction and make many million shambas (veggie plots).
22h46-UTC Friday 04 January 2008-CE
Cook Lady bought me a bottle of sherry for the holiday season before she flew to her share in Portugal. I had to decline it. I ought to have made it clear to her that I did decide that I was definitely an alcoholic. Strolling off to Lidl at 16h00 in the rain to buy a second bottle for the day, decided it for me. I was angry at the rows of bottles after that.
Instantly into my mind came a version of Roy Orbison’s ‘Pretty Paper’: “Pretty labels, pretty bottles, of boo-oo-oo-oo-ooze; rob your money, mess your guts up, you loooooooose.” I offer it free to you. Work on it. Work it up. Change the tune. Knock yourself out. Make a million. Do not say I never do anything for you.
Brown-field in-fill, aka back-build, as property owners sell back gardens to developers who build flats, keeps getting slagged by nearby home-owners who desire to keep the value of their owner-occupier traditional houses. Julie Magee reports in the Advertiser, Bournemouth, that Ron Whittaker who chairs the planning board says “they are actually creating problems for the remaining residents in the area”.
The remaining residents in the area should face facts! They should sell up and move their ass too. Imagine if New York City was still a mess of houses with gardens! Ridiculous! You cannot stop urban evolution. Sell your posh houses, move out to the edge of the conurbation, and build even better, you idiots!
I try to be myself when I write for this blog. This is not easy because I do not know who, or what, I truly am. Which is the real me, the vile jerk or the fatuous git? When a bit of a fairly tolerable twat comes in, am I acting or is that real? And, if it is real, is it a result of heredity or environment?
I keep thinking: “Shall I straighten up and fly write?” By which I mean write right. (There is a clinical name for people obsessed with words that sound the same.) But then I think: “No, that would be too square. I must be true to the truth. And the truth is that my stuff is not worth a fly’s left one. If I ever write anything good I will be copping out.
Back along, perhaps a half million years ago, our ancestors began fashioning killing tools to defend themselves against their predators. The preds said: “The food is revolting! What’s the deal here?” We should honour our ancestors and finish the job. My animal-admiring sibling is looking forward to Kruger Park. But I say unto y’all: “Shoot all big game to extinction.”
