Too Much To Declare

As predicted here yesterday, Google has now recognised the previously umentioned Gramis Orlid, (mathemetician and arms dealer extraorinary) currently giving him 5 entries (excluding near-duplicates), the number growing.

I am currently preparing a Wikipedia entry

Today, I am adding to my impressive list of professional roles I have performed over the years - including film producer, university proto-professor, actor, journalist, property developer, pimp... by delivering a writ to a debtor to my family's Trust, demanding £10,000 or the windup of his company.

Still, it's something to add to my C.V.

There seems no point in sleep.

I long for dissonance, for fever.

Many of you will not have heard of Gramis Orlid - mathemetician, composer, arms dealer and beauty therapist, who celebrates his fiftieth birthday this Sunday.

What's more, by this time tomorrow, he'll be listed on Gooogle.

Oh, Cecila, you're breaking my heart.

No, that's not right.

Gee. it's great to be back home. Home is where...

No, no. no.  Lennon, not that wimp Garfunkel.

She said "I know what it's like to be dead.
I know what it is to be sad"
And she's making me feel like I've never been born.

I know what it is to be sad...

Here, for no particular reason, is a post I first wrote about 15 months ago.  I've changed it around a bit:

Aged 14, I knew all about boy-on-boy crushes and mutual masturbation, but I was pretty clueless about what was meant to happen between me and members of the opposite sex. (remember we are talking about c1957 here)

My dad - with my mother's acqiescence - had sent me to an English public school in Dorset.  Twice or so a term, he would take me out for the weekend (nights not allowed away; he would stay in a local hotel) - and we would drive around, go for long walks, do a lot of talking on a bewildering variety of subjects.

One of the subjects was women.  Recently divorced for a second time, other adults appeared to considerhim a man of the world.

One Saturday we went for a walk in the woods above Yeovil, a town near my boarding school, but in Somerset.  Dad was holding forth on some aspect of Liberal Philosophy when there was a rustle in the trees - and the site of something, two things, very white.  Two huddled up bodies, fucking.  I think they apaologised and ran further into the bushes.

I remember them as looking like elves, or even frogs.  Alien, frightened.  Unnaturally white  Is this what happened when a boy and a girl had sex?  It looked a lot more frightening than I had imagined.  It seemed to change what people looked like.

"How disgusting," said my father, no longer sounding like a man of the world.  "If they have to do that, can't they find somewhere to do it indoors?"

Although I've lived here in Brghton almost five months now, remarkably little of the town is yet familiar to me.  I've kept to the bits I do know, fight shy of buses going anywhere else but places I've visted - like the Universities or Brighton Station.

This post has no punchline.

"So I'm the one who is meant to be predatory.  Are you sure about that?  You mean my role is not just to stand against a wall in parties and wait to be approached by a woman who has a whim to destroy my life?"

"Oh, darling, you're so sexy when you're cynical."

This time the Loteria Nacional in Spain and not just a footling £200k I was told I'd won a few months ago - but €815,950.00C "credited to file no CJA7423/38890/08."  The letter comes from el Ministerio de Hacienda in Madrid

"All I have to do" is send my bank details to Dr Lucas Sanchez of the Union Security and Finance Company S.A.0034 665 107 361 - and the rest is fraud

Lots of children have Imaginary Friends.

You know, I could have sworn I saw him today, after all these years, following me up the road to the doctors'

Spent most of the night awake, burping. In preparation for my blood test this morning, I wasn't allowed to eat or drink except water.  Don't know why it created so many problems; after all I may spend the next 10 not eating or dinking too.  But it put me in a foul mood, even after the blood test and I had got myself recaffeinated.

Sometimes my mood swings feel lifted from a very bad opera - grand or soap I'm not sure.

Now, of course, she would have to see him again.  Even if he never got in touch (and why should he?) Angelina would somehow find a way of hunting him down.  Nothing in her life had ever been so important as setting the record straight. Angelina Pitt would not be humiliated.  She needed an apology, an explanation.  Most of all, revenge.

A blood test for me tomorrow at nine in the morning, so nothing to eat or drink, except water, from now on.

Naturally, the thought of abstention is making me extremely hungry

I am a bachelor,
But not confirmed.

They cannot scare me with their empty spaces
Between stars - on stars where no human race is.
I have it in me so much nearer home
To scare myself with my own desert places

- Robert Frost

A milestone I guess.  This week I lost touch with how long it is since i last smoked dope - or anything else for that matter. (Drug-free cigarettes have never interested me. Dope 'interested' me for over 30 years.)

Why does no one read this blog of Fridays any more?

that if the picture and the words in a film are saying the same thing, then one of them is unnecessary.

similarly, in a scene involving two people, if both characters behave and feel entirely the way the other characyer expects, then one - or perhaps both - are superfluous.

As well as being my mum's 93rd birthday today, it's also Nelson Mandela's 90th (don't believe what they tell you at celebratory concerts).

A lapdancing club, which opened three weeks ago in Burgess Hill, just north of Brighton, was destoyed by fire on Tuesday morning, the result of a supected arson attack.

"With some people it (being anti lap dancing) runs to a high passion.  I compare it to the book burning in Berlin in 1939"

Literature and Lapdancing.  No doubt it is already a combined degree option at the University of Sussex/

Today is my mother's 93rd Birthday.  This post is set in Times News Roman, to celebrate her love of The Times' crossword.

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She was about a tenth of the size of Fat Boy Huge, who whose presence opposite me on a train from Victoria I recently recorded here. (He'd eaten one kebab before we'd clered Platfrom 16)  And today I had forr seats to myself.  But the diminuative elderly woman who joined the train at Brighton just after I did was in her way more remarkable than FBHuge.  Well, frankly, stranger.

She seemed to have a fetish for small plastic bags.  She took a bag from her handbag, peered inside, took out some of its contents, mainly paper or cardboard, and... well, rearranged them apparently.

Of course I tried not to notiice.  I wastrying to read.  But she kept appearing in the periphery of my vision, not quite masked by pages to the Guardian. Plus, the folding and re-organsing processes were remarkably noisy.

When she had finished one bag, she folded it carefully, put it back into her handbag, and produced another. Atone point she consulted a pocket diary, as if she had written down instructions what to do next.

Just after Haywards Heath, in the third or fourth bag, she came across some thin stale white bread - the kind you might save to feed to ducks.  She nibbled at it like a bird, until about the time the train raced through Three Bridges...

Well, most of my storage problems.

Oh, it seemed a good idea still I started writing about it.

Non-Alec is no more.

(yes, yes, sure.)

Two slithers of my past:

I have my principles.

I'd also like to make it clear now that I do not wish to have a State Funeral, with slave-drawn carriages, a service in W Abbey, lots of guns etc.  Now it's been announced that Lady Thatcher Macbeth will be despatched of in this way, I feel the State Funeral Brand has been irrecoveably damaged.

It wasn't the easiest route to get back home, but it was the first one I discovered, that first night in town. It was full of dead ends, twists, turns, oily puddes deep enough to drown in.  My way through the most dangerous streets, the wildest bonfires, the ugliest decay.  I felt pleased with myself.  In the background I could have sworn I could hear the swelling murmour of sycophantic applause.

Must get out more.  Or whatever.

I thought Heath Ledger was a woman.  And alive.

"I'm sorry, darling," I whispered.  "I'm really sorry."

It was the first time in my life I could remember being at a loss for an explanation.  All I knew for certain was that I was to blame.

My shoulders ached, my throat was so tight I could hardly speak, my head swam in guilty panic.  My entire body was shaking.

Quite rightly.  It had failed me utterly.

It would not let me do what I wanted to do.  What I had dreamed of doing for as long as I could remember.  And it wouldn't let me do it with the first woman I had ever met whom I totally, absolutely desired.

The woman I had just married.

"Maybe you're nervous," Sonia suggested brightly.  "Maybe we're both too nervous."  Surely it must be obvious that, however much I tried, I was feeling no lust at all.  How could she be so calm about it?