If you’re going to read anything about Libya…

…then read this.

Slow News Day

I thought Liz Jones had hit the bottom of the barrel in terms of coverage of Jo Yeates’ death. Seemingly not.

A Lot More Prosaic

Less sex, more gender.

Ugandan Discussions

Listen, I think you’re old enough, and, well… I think it’s time we talked about sex.

Why We Fight

Ah. Christmas.

On Bursting Into Tears in the Middle of M&S

You said, “I’ll go to another country,
go to another shore,
find another city better than this one

Whatever I try to do is fated to turn out wrong,
and my heart like something dead lies buried.

- Constantine Cafavy, The City

you gave me a suicide bed and two choices,
no three:
starve, go mad or kill yourself.

- Charles Bukowski

Wake up at three in the morning, two or three separate songs playing in my head at once, thoughts racing:

ohchristi’mupwhatwhyaremyhandsshakingpleasestopdoingthatican’tdealwiththisagainnotnowthere’sso
muchwrongwithmeSHUT
UPeverything’sgoingtobefinealexyou’refinenoi’mnotnoi’mnotsucha
fuckingliarsonetimesit’sscaryidon’tknowwhyyoukeepkiddingyourselfypu’reevenapersonit’spatheticjustgiveupnowit’snotasifanyoneelseSHUT UPhelpandit’syourownstuidfuckingfault

Pull myself together, go out on the balcony, still feeling off, weird. This is getting to be routine by now, but it doesn’t seem to get any easier.

YOU’LL NEVER FASHION YOUR DAMAGED SOUL
BECAUSE YOU’RE TOO CLEVER TO LOSE CONTROL

Deep breaths. Shaking like a leaf, and I know it’s not just the cold. All I can see is ice, half-melted snow and old stone. I catch myself worrying and that makes me worry more and I feel bad about feeling bad and that makes me feel worse.

Shake it off until the morning, go out for another bottle of whisky and some cigarettes. Drinking too much. Don’t care. Unshaven. Look bad. Feel bad. Getting some strange glances. I feel very glad my head is opaque. I can feel myself losing my breath again, unsteady on my feet.

AND NO-ONE IN THEIR RIGHT MIND
WOULD MAKE MY HEART THEIR HOME

Head over to the till, probably shambling along like some mad scientist’s pet project lurching down from the castle to murder some villagers. Give my ID to the cashier. Have to help her find the right page. She sees my old address; haven’t had it changed yet.

“London?”

Smile, “Yes.”

“You’re a long way from home.”

And I look at her and I say yes, yes I am.

Wherever I turn, wherever I look,
I see the black ruins of my life, here,
where I’ve spent so many years,
wasted them, destroyed them totally.

You won’t find a new country,
won’t find another shore.
This city will always pursue you.

So that’s why I haven’t been blogging. Think of this as one of those things in primary school on the first day of term where you have to talk about ‘what I did on my holidays’.

Observational Comedy

Ah, Michael Macintyre. The human Labradoodle.