Beloved wanderers of the Internet, I welcome you most heartily to this, 'My Journey', a computerised record of my journey through life. For those who don't know me, I am simply John Brackenridge.
This journal is, I will freely admit, somewhat riven with emotion. It is, my friends, a pathway to my soul, a hidden pathway through the depths of my consciousness. I care not should I cause shame or embarrassment, for I am but one man. John Brackenridge.
Now take my hand, hold onto my belt, and join me in this most exhilarating of roller coaster rides without safety mechanisms.
'They don't like peace campaigners 'round here, as they nailed another one to the wall'
- Stan Boardman, revolutionary civil rights campainger and feminist, 1979.
Dearest children. Children of the revolutionary cycle of life. Come!
I am saddened, and deeply distressed by the ongoing plight of the disenfranchised acrosss the globe. The children of Syria, the executed black lives of America, the resting actors of north London.
It is for the latter that my heart rises. I bulge with love for my fellow thespians, denied a voice by oppression. Two days ago, I rose. I rose within and across the twins, before demanding respite, and seeking Coco Pops from the larder. I summonsed Melvin from under the stairs, banishing the Papist exorcist who slept there also. This was not a matter for Christian represession of the people!
Bruno, my muse, arrived, making a statement of intent as ever having purloined a comedy milk float. I had envisioned a carnival float a la Notting Hill circa 1956, however needs must as we say in the trade! And Bruno was trade. Once.
I outlined my dream to my ardent believers in verse:
There once was an actor called John,
Who thought that the world was a con,
Black people are dying,
Some children get bombed,
Yet John still can't get cast as the dame.
I held them, one by one, in silence, each of them racked with sobs, moved to tears by my words. I said nothing further, offering my feet for massage. With that moment, I felt one with Jesus Christ, and understood what it was to found a religion by mistake.
Having organised what I hoped would be a rather lucrative phone-in competition to decide on a name for my new gathering, I set forth. As we mounted our float, the vest wearing Breixit voter from next door leant from his upper window and hailed us well. 'Fuck off you fucking poof bastards!' I lef the twins to set fire to his wheely bins as we slowly made our way out of town.
To the bad lands we would go. As a life-long creative, I understood that the will of the people would only be turned by a new direction. We would not tread the time worn path of masking up and fighting the filth, or marching around in circles with hand-painted signs. No! I would be taking our fight to the heart of the Tory beast.
The annual general meeting of Little Piddling Parish Council.
Yes my children. Ours would be a protest that would go down in history. Rosa Parks. Nelson Mandela. All would pale beneath us. Today I would save the souls of resting actors.
The bastard milk float ran out of petrol just beyond the M25.
I dreamed a dream. Of young people freed from the shackles of the criminal justice system. Through access to musical theatre.
I have, for some time, been in communication with Feltham Young Offenders Institution. This prison for the young lies in the barren waste lands beyond zone 2. Intending to make an impact, as one does, I drew memories of the 1970s by attending the security gate on a Space Hopper which I had endorsed, 'Dare to Dream'. When challenged, I continued to bounce, suggesting my free spirit, and wish to free those within those dank damp walls. My deeley boppers nodded in suggestive agreement.
Unfortunately, due to the Neanderthal attitudes of the prison authorities, I was detained by the police service, my spirit somewhat dampened by the notorious use of the 'Section' under the Mental Health Act. Whilst detained, I bonded with a young man named Nathan. It seemed that Nathan had previously been detained at Feltham, and was receiving treatment for an alleged mental disorder having stabbed a cell mate.
I could see beneath his steely demeanor that Nathan was a delicate soul who's propensity to violence was artistic rather than vindictive. I drew him under my wing, and offered services learnt within the prison community to the consultant psychiatrist to allow us 48 hours of liberty.
Nathan recognised my dream to save the souls of the young 'offenders' through the medium of musical theatre, and immediately stabbed a shopkeeper to allow himself entry back into the Young Offenders Gaol. He would become my champion within.
We began to communicate via a mobile telephone he stored within his anus. He demanded I supply items to assist his development of a youth theatre movement by causing controlled drugs and weapons to be supplied to him. I conducted this activity with gusto, tossing my packages over the wall in a style reminiscent of the Jets in West Side Story. My production met with many appreciative calls from the inmates, many of whom demanded I strip. One never turns down an ovation, so I danced into the night on more than one occasion.
My dream crumbled when news reached me of Nathan's demise at the hands of someone called the 'Daddy' who had asked where his 'tool' was. As is the wont of any creator, I felt that the only way to honour his memory was to seek bloody revenge.
I sought the assistance of one of the finest wardrobe and make-up managers in this wondrous isle to become a notorious youth gangster. I attended an estate in south London, where, over several months, I developed a drug supply business enforced with exaggerated and un-necessary violence. Just before my arrest by heavily armed police officers, I had a network of over twenty crack houses and a team of unwilling prostitutes holding up my empire.
I was finally brought before the youth justice system, where my dreams of avenging the memory of my muse, Nathan, would come to fruition. Sadly, despite my somewhat shameful begging, I was sent to an immigration holding centre. It seemed that my admittedly remarkable voice skills had led the authorities to suspect I was in fact an illiterate gentleman from a obscure Chinese province who had been born in the early 1950s to a copper miner and his wife who was also his first cousin.
Thankfully, my love of Nathan, and the life lessons he taught me, meant that I am adept at storing mobile communication devices within my anus, allowing me to continue to communicate with you, my darling readers, whilst incarcerated.
My love remains.
Since the days of Luvvies for Labour when dear old Michael Foot sought solace in tap dance after another shocking defeat, I have been a political animal. My engagement declined somewhat when I was excluded from the Band Aid lineup in 1978 despite having just released by impassioned LP against social segregation, 'Blacks? Irish? Dogs? Yes Please!' The one hit wonder, Geldof, was the prime motivator behind my banishment, penning his one hit, 'I Don't Like Mondays', after I let the DSS know that he was apparently a pop star whilst still claiming to be an unemployed circus act.
The next foe I experienced was the lead singer of Simple Minds, Bono. He thought it delightfully funny to note the selection of lesser pop acts over myself in the famous line, 'Tonight thank God it's them instead of you.' He has since denied this slight, claiming, with some affront, that his intention was to mock starving Ethiopians.
Despite not being of the mainstream, I though it best to play some part in famine relief. I secured a film crew from the fledgling Channel 4. Young and vibrant, they believed Ethiopia to be the new Groucho Club so engaged fully with my project. We traveled across land and sea to film to the outskirts of Carlisle where I spent several hours requesting a local drama school to let us film their students in loin clothes sitting around in the park looking hungry. I had little intention to travel to Africa, as I have a fear of needles since I kicked the smack in 1958, so was unable to partake of the necessary vaccinations.
We filmed a wonderful piece where, in a break from convention, I was portrayed as a missionary figure who, instead of teaching them how to fish, taught them the key principles of modern mime. The piece we used was one of my own, specially written with a view to selling the ensemble cast production to Comic Relief. With the silence of the starving, I was shown becoming a messiah and solving all the problems of the world through mime.
Sadly, the BBC, obviously under the spell of the one hit wonder Geldof, refused to attend any of the meetings I mustered. I suspect the influence of MI5.
I pause now to rest. I will lay across a branch like a cougar in the Savannah. When rested, I shall return dear reader, and provide my news - My political beast is erect!
I wake. I am man.
I sit up. I step from between the twins. I tell them. NO!
I shit. In the bog. I fucking shit in the bog. (Apologies to Pinter)
I fuck my shit in the bog. Then shave. I shave to please the twins. To make them mine. Again. The dog. He shits. In the garden. Underneath the old oak tree. I tie a Yellow Ribbon Around my Old Dog's Shit.
So there you have it, dear reader. Should you chose to join me on my journey. It is this. One way. No return. We'll come back. Shall we?
Dearest reader, I write this during my first available time having read my rantings from yesterday.
I will clarify that I had consumed. At lunch. Boris did indeed visit, and is someone who shares my love of performance theatre. We did indeed provide entertainment to lake goers, however the rest of my rant falls into the category of myth. I have no designs on Boris. He is a professional artist, who is also a friend and large gentleman I ride upon.
And so to today. I am 'working'. Reader, I am a librarian. I work amongst the musty tombs of the greatest minds of our world, and some from beyond. One day my magus will be completed, and I shall take great pleasure in mounting it on a shelf before tendering my resignation to the pony tail who seems to believe he is my superior.
The library. Once a place of learning and self reflection, now a day centre for the insane and elderly with bladder control issues. Only this morning I was required to mop up under the seat of an old lady with facial hair. She had the discourtesy to loudly accuse me of perversion, leading to 'words of advice' being given to me by the ponytail. One more event and I will be subjected to the formal disciplinary processes of the County Council. Reader, I would relish the chance to represent myself in a court of law!
FUCK YOU BORISE FUCK YOU
FUCK YOU! i SCREAM FROM THE window
No time for introductions. If you don't know me, by now, (Hucknall) PISS OFF
I sit here, dearest, only reader, waiting for the door to slam, for the engine to fire, for the Uber to take my love away.
I have but one story to tell tonight, and maybe forever. Should you indulge me? As Sir Huxley, my dog, moans in the garden, SHITTING, I sit despondent astride the washing machine as the gentle pulsations tend my battered backside.
I ordered him to my door. BORIS. He was of Poland, but I gave him a name, a stage name, for he was a big Russian bear who tampered not with the American election. I expected a Russian, and I received a Russian. He came to the door and I rode astride him to the local boating lake. Melvin stepped beyond his boundary, but he had yet to audition for anything beyond 'Twat in cafe' from The Bill which had, obviously, been off our screens since before Corrie.
I rode Boris around the lake whilst reciting The Bard. He bucked and tossed beneath me, taken with the words so rich. He had limited capacity for thought, but I assume the same of anyone who learns not Latin.
Reader stop. I cannot continue. I will offer honesty before the Brexit voting vest from next door finally makes it through my door. I am playing adulation to our Lord Jesus Christ as loudly as I can which blends with the aches of Lord Huxley's dog shitting. I am lost. LOST.
And as the Christian lord rests, on a Sunday, so does John Brackenridge, for the library is closed.
For those dearest of readers who no doubt sought to petition Parliament (that whore's nest of incestuous vipers) for my treatment by supposed agents of the Crown, I shall put your minds at rest. Having summonsed the Fire Brigade, I saw fit not to rain down piss upon the balding aggressors. It seemed that the matter in dispute, that I was not a Mr Michael Hunt of the same address, was soon rectified.
It seemed that the gentleman in the larger white helmet of the Brigade, was in fact the Michael Hunt in question. His hose reel was seized by the bailiffs, despite a valiant battle on my front lawn which attracted quite a crowd. With matters coming to an unseemly conclusion, I directed Melvin to intervene and utilise his newly discovered pugilist skills. I had insisted he sport the leather chastity belt prior to coming into contact with the aggressors on the lawn, a decision which acted to aid the element of surprise which secured his victory.
I concluded the affair with some lines from Auden.