Saturday, September 18, 2004

Au revoir 

I go on holiday tomorrow. I won't be posting for a fortnight.

Children - be strong. And remember... dreams never end.


Supermarkets are the pinnacle of Western Civilisation 

I love supermarkets. I think I get more excited in a supermarket than I do in any other public place. They fucking rock.

Here's why: you walk in a supermarket, any time of the day or night (ok, I live in London, they're open 24-hours a day here, you country-livin' folk will just have to bear with me) and it's immediately, automatically, the safest, best-lit, warmest, most comfortable goddamn place you've ever been. Walking through those doors, picking up a basket and past the newspapers to the flowers and vegetables... it's like going back to the womb. It's... comfort. Any time of the day or night.

But I'm not going to go off on one here, because frankly, I go on holiday tomorrow, there's no wine left, and I haven't packed yet. So let me cut to the chase.

Supermarkets have more food, from more places, than any man could eat in a lifetime. They have shit there that I can't pronounce, from places I've never heard of. They epitomise the absolute victory of capitalism... no matter the season, no matter the weather, no matter the economic state of the world, you can walk into a supermarket in North London and buy fruit from an unpronounceable island in the south Pacific and have it for tea that night. Your bog standard sugar snap peas come from Zimbabwe, your onions from Spain, your potatoes from Crete... cod stocks are depleted to the point where there literally aren't enough fish in the sea - and yet you can load up on enough frozen cod in batter to see you through a good few nuclear winters. Olives? Straight from Greece. Grapes? Australian. Sun dried tomatoes? Italian. Raisins? Californian.

For exactly all the same reasons that I shop at the local greengrocers (support your local tradesman/farmer against the rise of global capitalism) I can't resist a supermarket. Forget your arms races and your Nike trainers and your free democratic elections... the fact that I can walk into Sainsbury's and buy fruit and veg from every corner of the earth shows that, in the end, capitalism has won.

Is this a good thing? Goddamn right it is! Those Kiwi fruits are tasty!


Wednesday, September 15, 2004

All of the above 

Where have I been? I nearly posted last night, as it happens. It's been a week of silence (two if you don't count my cursory last effort) and last night I nearly posted. Thankfully, I didn't. Common sense prevailed. Eh? I hear you cry. What? Well... here's what I nearly posted:

HEADLINE OF THE DAY: Man Rediscovers He Gets On Well With Drugs. (And More Crucially, That Drugs Get On Well With Him.)

It's not much of a post, is it? Well, that's why I didn't do it. But to explain...

Last night I got fucked up, good and proper. I rediscovered drugs. More - I rediscovered just how much I like drugs. I've never really told you about me and drugs have I? (Apart from the legal ones, obviously, the drinking and smoking and being in love and being addicted to my own narcissism.) Okay; fine. Sit comfortably, children.

I used to do drugs like they were going out of fashion. The thing was - they weren't going out of fashion. They were indisputably in fashion, they were very much of the moment, they were totally NOW. Drugs: they were so in season it hurt. And kids, I was a fashion victim. I was the first on the muthafucking catwalk. When I was at University I did as much and as often as I could. Whatever I could get my hands on I'd sniff, smoke, swallow... I sold, I bought, I toked and bonged and caned and nosed and downed and drowned in the stuff. I swallowed pills like I was Pac Man; I chased the dragon like I was St George or someone. And, truthfully, I fucking loved it. I was made to do drugs; I got on enormously well with drugs. We were soulmates.

I've said before that I have an addictive personality (people can't help but love me). I've said before that I'm the modern equivalent of the rogue male - I'm the junk male. The fact is, if it's there, I'll try it. The other fact is, that's what got me kicked out of University. And that's why, when I was kicked out, I stopped. Overnight.

Was there cold turkey? No. Was there therapy, detox, doctors and counsellors? Of course not - I'm English. I just dealt with it. It was easy. I stopped all illegal drugs overnight and it was easy.

So for the last 12 years or so I've had a rule. No drugs... unless I'm in Ibiza. And as I'm at best in Ibiza for a weekend a year, that's all been good. (Last time I was in Ibiza I didn't sleep for 72 hours. When I arrived home I passed out on my sofa at 8am Monday... and woke up at 10am Tuesday. That's a coma. I haven't been back to Ibiza since.)

But last night I got caned. I got fucked, walloped, faced. I got ripped to the tits. I went out with P and S, watched the football in the pub with a few pints of Guinness, came home at about 10pm, spoke to The One on the phone for half an hour or so, watched a documentary on the IRA, and then got fucked up. I went to bed about 5 this morning: the sky was blushing with dawn and the first birds were singing. My radio was as loud as it would go. I fell asleep staring at a poster on my wall convinced it had winked at me and all I could think was - goddamn, I've missed this shit. I'd rediscovered just how well me and drugs get on. It was like... coming home.

So, why am I telling you this? A few theories:
1. Because I'm trying to shock crap American God-bothering Bush-voting arseholes from ever reading me again?
2. Because of an overbearing need to confess my sins?
3. Because this is a diary and I can't help showing off (see below)?
4. Because I'm caned again now?
5. Because the thought of telling you about the hellish tedium of moving house, the panic and exhiliration of my current work situation (more later - above, probably) and the fact I'm going on holiday in a few days time so won't be posting anything at all for at least a fortnight after this Sunday is all too much to put in one single entry so I thought I might as well write about something else entirely?
6. All of the above?

You decide. Except, if I'm being honest, I'm only on the vin rouge tonight. And perhaps the real reason I'm posting is because, well, I've written some 12,000 words in the last three days and frankly, none of them have been about myself. And those kind of withdrawal symptoms hit harder than any others.


Tuesday, September 07, 2004

Paradise lost/found/regained (delete as appropriate) 

Apologies for the protracted silence. I am in house buying/flat selling Hell. More later.

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