Drunk in 318

I said I probably wouldn’t post tonight because I’d be too busy getting drunk alone in my hotel room here in the heart of Manchester. It was clearly a lie. I am posting and although I’m happy to report that I’m suitably braced to the gills with alcohol fortified with paint thinner, I'm not alone. The Titch is currently asleep on top of the TV (vodka, it seems, doesn’t totally agree with his sense of consciousness) while Elberry – tempestuous, wonderful, psychotic Elberry – is, even as I type, out on the balcony, threatening to jump unless he’s brought four young hobbits and a ring of immense power. As for myself, I’m drinking myself through a bad patch. It has been one of the most difficult and tiring days of recent history. There have also been tears.

I’ve just come off the phone with Judy who is quite distraught. She’s been overlooked for the job of treasurer at her local Pool & Billiards Association. It was not a job she was particularly wanted and, to be honest, had only applied for out of spite because her direct rival in the association had declared her intention of going for the job. That’s not to say that Judy wasn’t the best qualified, had the seniority, had the respect of her peers, and, to be blunt, deserved the honour. Yet to have lost out to a woman with gigantically large character flaws has been quite hard for the old girl to take. I can’t wait to get back down south so I can console her properly with long lectures on the way the world never rewards the virtuous, how evil conquers all, and that people who spend their days plotting mischief usually get career advances before those of us that don't.

Ah! I see that Elberry is trying to pull the TV set from the wall and I have no doubt that he intends to throw it over the balcony into the crowds of intoxicated lags and lagerettes heading home. This, I fear, is what happens when Selena Dreamy makes a promise to join us in our revelry and then disappoints us with excuses about Labour ministers and flying ducks. Or at least I think that’s what she said. I can see I’ll have to intervene before Elberry goes too far. I’m not against these randoms act of violence but The Titch is still sleeping on the TV and I wouldn’t like any of my blog’s loyal readers to end up fried on Manchester’s tram lines.

So I’ll end it here. And without a picture. Lola has rightly brought me to task for posting too many photographs taken through Madeley-o-vision. I’m overdoing it on the facial deformities. Let’s restore some balance with lots of heartfelt pretentiousness torn straight from today’s notebook. It’s not funny and is full of that worthiness that comes of those afflicted with delusions of significance.

I’ll try to speak more sense with you all tomorrow.

As written in my notebook:

I’m beginning to dislike myself. Not just what I am and who I’ve become, not this version of Me but the one who turns in for work and grows more manic with every passing hour. Each morning I wake up and find that there’s more to dislike. Eight o’clock and I’m sluggish at my desk. By noon, the tedium has warmed me frantic. Three o’clock and I’m unable to sit still. I say foolish things, embarrass myself. Animals repeat the same actions when distressed. I’m walking the same carpet. Desk. Window. Cooler. Desk. Window. Cooler. Desk.

Perhaps I’m listening to too much Philip Glass. I don’t understand music but I can be evangelical about Bach and Glass: the phrases, the small nuances that change, the sudden expansion after so much that’s been contracted and small. For three months I listened to nothing but Koyaanisqatsi. Now I'm in love with his soundtrack for 'Mishima'. Stunning every time. It reminds me that there no need for a kaishakunin when lead your life by timesheets and use a wireless keyboard.

Somewhere deep inside me, I think sparkling waters still ripple. Good thoughts still condense; ideas drip and form pools where there once were lakes. Yet it’s not the routine of office life that I mistake for misery. It’s the silence. It’s the evaporation. It’s knowing that I could be doing something so much more meaningful with my time. My life. This one shot.

Am I too old to develop ADHD? I find myself fashioning a pair of pince-nez spectacles from a paper clip and the two foam circles taken from the top of a pack of recordable CDs. They sit on my nose and people give me strange looks. I’m so utterly bored.

There’s nothing here that lacks meaning. My are thoughts are disjointed because I’m disjointed. My brain is consuming itself. It’s four o’clock. I make a foolish remark and somebody makes me feel insignificant for being so politically incorrect. How could I misjudge things so badly? Why can't I just be myself and say what I want? Except that I’m on melt-down. This is creative energy channelling itself into the wrong places.

I've escaped. I'm travelling through the city, sitting behind a man on a tram. Grey suit, hair brushed Donald Trump style like a lid operated by a pedal and your foot. One day the wind will catch it and the lid will open. Them we’ll all know what he’s reading. I can only see that he’s holding typewritten pages. I see the line: ‘Arthur slipped off his rat mask’. It’s a manuscript for some unpublished story or novel. A woman is typing away on her laptop across the carriage. A thin guy looking sick, emancipated, jots in a notebook. He probably wants to be Dostoyevsky. Everybody here is a writer. This too makes me hate myself. There are too many words. The world is preserving itself for posterity. Words,in and for themselves, are never worth preserving. Only intentions. Art is not random. It's designed. I don't think writing makes you a writer. That's just a deal people make in order to discount their misery by 20%.

Waterstones. End of the day. I pick up a book. Published. Envy. I read a line randomly from the middle. ‘A child’s pleasure ran through him’. I hate the line and put the book back. I buy myself some Philip Roth instead. It seemed like the right thing to do at the time.