Monday 18 May.
No new messages on server.
Head: empty. Pockets, bank and clean
laundry: empty. No new messages on server.
It's a time of anxious, overdue change
- the Consciousness was very agitated yesterday...turbulent almost, as we piled out
of the Port into Java, then back again, then later to Slammers for the karaoke, then back
again.
"When the feelin's right
I'm gonna run all night I'm gonna run
to you"
Everybody telling me their innermost
secrets - Yvonne about one thing, Linda about another - fascinating all of it, but of
course our lips remain sealed. We are a confessional - interesting stories only -
and that'll be three Hail Mary's and a vodka martini.
Keys sticky after another steamy night
on the IRC. Hint: you can tell a real typist because the sticky ones end at
Y H N.
So what lies were told last night on the
IRC? Who was I pretending to be? Who did I bring off this time? Did anybody bring me off?
Don't think so, the way it feels. Maybe look back into cybersex shortly - take a walk on
the wired side.
Or maybe go for the real thing. Plenty
on offer yesterday, but of the wrong type. Gaggin on it. Them, not me.
"Girls...just gotta have
fun..."
Talking of girls, we note with horror
that Julie Burchill was replaced with the incandescently boring Peter Preston this week. Outrage. For
a writer, Preston makes a very good editor. A cornflakes box is more interesting - not to
say useful. Has nobody the guts to tell him Al Chance has the damn grandfather bit sewn
up? How many fucking grandfathers do we want in the fucking Guardian anyway? What is it -
a Saga brochure?
Wonder if Saga reps have as good a time as the
youngsters do. Maybe go for it, once I get my teeth fixed. "OOOOh - you do look good
for your age!!" says crocodilian cruise-crone to handsome tanned rep (me).
"That's because I take lots of SAGA HOLIDAYS madam,"
I reply, before slipping her a swifty once her husband's passed out. For a consideration,
of course. Only the deserving get it free.
Talking of free, the Queen of the Silver Dollar
(QSD) tells me she's thinking of retiring from personal services to branch into guided
tours. "Darling - let's face it - I'm gettin
too fucking auld for it!" she said, truthfully.
Must be more to this than is currently striking me. Hmmmm.
Andy goes. He's not even out of the building before bitchy poisonous little moi is tearing
him to shreds. Well - not him personally, just aspects of his bartending. Started well,
went off into a two year huff, then recovered at the end. But I still mean all the good
things I said earlier.
Me, I could never do bar work. My
insincerity doesn't stretch that far. Maybe there are lessons - now who ya gonna call??
:))
Scott doesn't go. He senses his employers have forgotten about him, or worse. Scott
stays, and Scott misses Andy. Already.
Went at midday yesterday to see if the
swan's eggs had hatched. Not. And again at midnight with Linda. Still not. Apparently they were
meant to hatch on Friday, and it's now Monday. Must go along again. Can eggs be overdue?
How could she (mummy swan) tell if they were all deid? Wonder if they eat the dead ones,
in a sort of auto-cannibalistic feast.
"How do you like your eggs,
madam?" "With fucking chicks in them, after I've sat on the fuckers all this
time, you arsehole."
Hair 3 mm long now. Not so frightening
any more. To cut or not to cut? That is the tonsure. Whether 'tis nobler in the mind, to
be buzzed with a number one...
Better stop now, before they burst in
and cart me off screaming for chlorpromazine.
It's been asked whether Stuart is still alive. We
haven't the faintest idea.
