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Tuesday, September 28th, 2010

Day two at the momma house, and I am finally getting used to her ridiculous mouse, that looks like a mouse, and not only looks like a mouse – with a tail coming out where you hold the thing, and ears for left and right click button – but is encrusted with diamanté blingy stuff… yes, it is mental and weird and strange and baffling, but I am getting used to it… all in time for me to bog off back to London, and my big heavy wireless mouse that looks like a sort of military armadillo, in time to do the Doncast tomorrow.

Which is a shame, as I rather like hanging out with my mum on our machines in our makeshift office. We naughtily took a two hour lunch break today to walk the streets of Andover, marvel at the ducks, buy presents, and have lunch in the garden centre. If you’re ever in the area I recomend it highly, the staff are very nice and they do a mean flowerishly-latticed pork pie. They also sell four foot potted apple trees with really nice looking apples growing on them for £20, which is amazing. I might get one, to go with my little orange plant. I’ve had the thing for nearly three years, for the most of which time it has sat on the windowsill looking ill and yellow and it hadn’t fruited since I got it, until my girl’s sister put me on to this Citrus Baby Bio stuff and now I am the proud owner of a tiny baby orange plant covered in loads of tiny baby oranges. They are green rigt now, and only the size of marbles, but I am going to enjoy watching them grow tremendously.

Yes, life is sweet, unless your colleague has planted child pornography on your laptop, or your name is Andrew Crosley and you’re getting hit with a £500,000 fine for being an evil granny-robbing douchebag. I would laugh and point, but one shouldn’t mock the afflicted, and at any rate, that’s a tiny punishment for so great a crime. Bonis nocet quisqus malis perpercit, as my old pal Jesus used to say. That man should be in JAIL, and I am certain he will get there in the end.

Speaking of massive douches, another fun thing about visiting my Mum is seeing all the post that she gets from debt collectors looking for my ass. They have been after me since I was 18 and, drunk in a town centre one fine afternoon, I got myself a Topman Store Card, which I immediately maxed out on a cammo print puffa jacket, some black army trousers and this Mean White Top Wot Zipped Down The Side Of My Neck To My Left Shoulder Blade. Around the same time I also bought a PC computer on credit. I then proceded to run around the country like a madman for a number of years, as you probably know from all those songs I wrote, while the little debt turned itself into a Great Big Debt that I have steadfastly ignored ever since.

ANYWAY. These debt collectors’ efforts tend to come in cycles, following a long period of non activity, usually triggered by an unsuccessful loan application and accompanying credit check. They start out with the threatening (pay us), moving onto the very threatening (pay us or else), then to the super threatening (pay us or you will go to jail), before moving on to the desperate (please pay us), and so on. Right now they are in the deep, dark pits of Embarrassing Uber-Desperation, as they are sending me jaunty nonsense like this:

Dear Mr Narkiewicz

We previously asked a debt collection agency to contact you and now your account has been returned to us.

Fantastic offer – Save £ 814.90

It is important that you deal with your outstanding obligation Mr Narkiewicz, so we have the following options for you:

1. Pay £203.73 by 30th September 2010 and we will clear the remaining £814.90 to clear the balance…

Woah! That is indeed a “fantastic offer!” But having gone from “pay us or face legal action… bailiffs… death at the hands of trained ninja midgets” to “fantastic offer!” I think I’m gonna hold out for the next “super fantastic offer”, which will no doubt involve YOU giving ME money, and maybe a speedboat or something. Ave!

— Tuesday, September 28th, 2010

Saturday, June 19th, 2010

There are two women going at it raggo outside my window. Some chump in a filthy tracksuit is half-heartedly getting in between them. “Stop it… come on, serious, stop it…” The short brunette is screaming every obscenity ever thought of at the tall blonde. She cocks her leg behind her and looks like she’s trying to take her shoe off, to strike her adversary… or maybe I am imagining that’s what she’s doing, as earlier, in the loony bin, I was reminiscing about the time Lois took off her shoe, and wrapped it around some poor bouncer’s shiny bald head.

And just like that, it is all over, and the brunette is trip-track trip-trapping back to the bus stop in the opposite direction from the blonde and the filthy tracksuit, shouting to no one in particular about Effing Bees and Cees. Half an hour later something very similar occurs, this time with two men and lady in the middle. Tonight England played football on the world stage, and failed to do anything any of us could be proud of, or inspired by. As I type, someone is getting brain damaged by Godless goons who will later weep fat bitter tears into stinking, lumpy pillows, and wank themselves into sweet oblivion.

This is England. This is where we are.

I watched the first half of the game in Hommerton Hospital’s Mental Health Ward, with one of my best friends, who has to stay there until the doctors, who are younger than him, tell him he is ready to step outside in the sunshine again. The nurses are sweet tempered and funny and patient, and the patients are on enough drugs to keep them from doing much other than pace backwards and forwards, wandering the two corridors that stick out of the over sized living room they call home like straws in a milkshake. There are three plastic sofas and and a pool table and a big ass TV in a perspex case because someone put a chair through the last one, and there’s a six inch wide wood framed window that can be opened just wide enough for the angry dude to spit out of. The half-happy, lolloping big ole white dude is called Jeremy and he hears voices in his head. He shook my hand yesterday. Today he didn’t remember me. The bushy bearded Middleeastener wears sandals and paces the halls until he is tired and sleeps on the sofa, much to the annoyance of the Eastern European Sicillian boy who wants to sit on it. The boy has little English and an abundance of really good arm tattoo, and a face like a beacon framed by tiny curls that look like bristling flames, beneath which glower two unflinching, lazer-beam eyeballs that follow me wherever I go, and are upon mine whenever I raise my head.

My friend looked like the king of that strange, watery, bleached castle. He sat cross in the sofa directly opposite the big ass TV in the perspex case, armed with the remote control, supping from a bottle of Coke Zero and smiling. He looked the happiest I’ve seen him all year.

I watched the second half of the game in the gym, from the sweaty comfort of the running machine, and the hill climbing machine, and the Jesus machine. The gym was empty but for the staff, a wiry, red-vested Polish man who spent the whole time I was there (save the occasional visit to the water fountain) flexing the same pair of dumbbells and glaring at himself in the mirror, and a great beast of a man with a severe haircut and a gut the size of a large beanbag, who paced the running machines and terrorised the barbells until one of them snapped.

It was raining when I cycled home, and I was glad of it. Cars no longer honked their horns, and men huddled grimly in pub doorways, sucking down cigarettes like milkshakes. The England team had played like a gaggle of pampered old coots on sedatives. I knew there would be repercussions.

But when I got back I set about compiling my guest list for ATD24, emailing and calling people, whilst simultaneously gathering raw materials for the execution of the project, and reinstalling my software, which has become buggy and unreliable. It felt good to be ticking things off my list. I have two big ass whiteboards on my wall, mapping out the next 7 days in some detail, and it is helping me not to panic. The guest list is looking spectacular, and I am fucking excited. The raw materials are piling, mountainous, and my ATD24 To Sample folder glistens with emeralds and crystals and gems, like a dragons cave. When my synths have finished installing I will go to bed. I am excited about getting up, and doing more cool stuff as dictated by the wall planers, with my health and my freedom and my good fortune.

We are very close to our target now, by the way. I need to do the sums, but I think it is about $40, including VAT. And I ordered a HD webcam from Ebuyer. It arrives on Monday, in time for The Rigorous Testing. This is going to be a SHOW! And if all goes well, my friend will be there. I really hope he is. He was way up at the top of my guest list.


— Saturday, June 19th, 2010