The Youngbloods from the soundtrack of Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas. Yes. Lots of reasons. Not the track I was originally going to play. I was driving past the scene of a killing on Thursday morning. Just along the road. The original choice seemed inappropriate. That’s a real murder btw. No’ a Taggart wan. The boy was 29. The Ram’s Head’s a good pub.
The James Ellroy trilogy getting to you then, jt? Just a bit, yes.
So let’s move on swiftly, then to the day I’d waited for. For ages. Finally. Last week. Yes. I think I got my application form in for tax credits just in time. My thanks to my accountant. I, and many others, would find it very hard without them. Tax credits.
Funnily enough I know at least four women, of varying backgrounds (but then I would), who also rely a lot on them and all of them have first names, five letters long. Accountants can be useful too.
Oh, Wednesday? I had a brilliant day with a gorgeous female companion. And that’s all I’m saying. Well, that and the large blue double decker that pulled up alongside us at one point and the conductor leaned over and asked if we wanted a lift. What? Mushrooms, since you ask. Why?
That and lashings of ginger beer, which also gives me that burning feeling in the throat. But not the effect.
At which point I would like to apologise to the cash desk operator in Morrison’s Anniesland (I prefer the staff in my ASDA but it doesn’t have as good stock, and is it true that every other ASDA has two storeys?). I was purchasing some of Francis Hartridge’s awfully fine ginger and root beer and as she put them through the Bar Code, she looked up and said, ‘non-alcoholic?’ to which I, f**king tw*t that I am, replied, ‘Yes, actually. I am.’
No matter how often you tell me, L frae Troon, no matter how often…….and, yes there’s a lot of Drink. Drugs. And Deaths in the Ellroy books but not too much swearing. Fair cheer me up, so they do.
I still slide my empties down the side of the glass wheelie bin, y’know. Some tricks you never forget. Even if you want to.
And my only dealings with Alex ‘Hurricane’ Higgins were when he asked me for two thousand pounds. He was at the crucible of his career. In Sheffield. My answer was no.
So, a quick piece of housekeeping…….Happy Birthday, L; look after yourself, Xtine, and just say when; nice work business corr Oonagh, and just say when; well done showbiz interviewer Jaymi, also an Ellroy fan – does he have the same effect on you? omg, I hope not!; thanks marketing guru Jayne, I think I’m pretty cute too; and thanks to doyen of doyens Paul G for telling me that James Ellroy was given a very influential book called The Badge when young. At the end of Wednesday I was bought an actual badge. Kool, eh?
Paul’s online presence is Planet Paul, of definite interest to people interested in journalism and literature and film http://uncapp.wordpress.com . It’s really good. Gosh, so it is.
And the brilliant Limmy beat me to saying I was expecting Joe McElderry to come out as straight. That would have been the real surprise.
Fave headline of the week? People may grow their own joints. I’m not going to explain it.
Busybodies of the week? Mediawatch for drawing peoples’ attention to the fact that someone had scrawled the slang for sanitary towels (‘jam rags’ in case you didn’t know) on a blackboard in Emmerdale Farm. It was a designer’s joke! Check out the large W in www.thewordprocess.net for a ‘rude’ word. Bizarilly splet. Prize to anyone who sees ’that’ word.
I switched on Eastenders by mistake and saw a vicar about to garrot a young woman, FFS! Or am I reading too much Ellroy. It’s amazing how many ways there are to kill people, aren’t there, in his books? Many of them end up scalped. As trophies. Usually from their head.
Exhibit of the week? The large bath in the Peoples’ Palace which looked exactly the same as one in a flat in Partickhill Road where I stayed (no 47?) many years ago and yes, W, it was like a Glasgow mansion converted into millions of bedsits and flats. You remember it, don’t you rainforestriverman? The flat, not the bath.
And finally, it was a week when the Demons had a go at me. Again. And I wasn’t even wearing that sweatshirt. Not a bad attack but a sleepless night. When I’d gone to bed. Smiling. They pose questions like What If you hadn’t had that bottle of whisky on the day of your mum’s funeral and the crafty one; Would It be so wrong to go back to alkohol, cos, materially, have you achieved that much without it?
Little niggly questions but good ones and difficult ones to answer in some respects. But allied to that Ellroy-posed need for the burn at three in the morning?
I must be one of the very few people in the World who needs a cup of coffee to go back to sleep. Smiling. It was the other bus story. That done it. That and the mail I wrote but didn’t send. Until later that day.
And anyway, I think the Demons are running out of questions to ask.
cya and keep(ing) it fun
Johnt850, Sex God and with the badge to prove it
I don’t know why this has become the below the line serious bit so I’m going to stop it. We all know what can happen when you don’t think properly about a habit. Well I do. Always one drink. One drag. One dexy away from it coming back.
So it ceases. It’s become hinky. I don’t like it. It has stopped.
As has my reading of Ellroy. I’ve finished the trilogy. The character with whom I had empathy? Book 2. Page 669. (It would be, wouldn’t it?) Kills himself. In short sentences.
Next week? Maybe I should see what influence the Bunty has on me? No. Not this Christmas. The one before. No. No reason. But maybe it is like a mirror. But a nice one.