Dearest reader, I must offer you my most sincere apologies for my rude termination of my last entry. I am, as I write, hostage within my own home, besieged by be-suited imbeciles, who accuse me of being a previous tenant, and offer me paperwork suggesting they act on the authority of the Crown.
I live as in a film of my own life story dear friends. I have summonsed the fire brigade, and am filling a pot with my own piss to rain down upon them should they not desist.
I leave you my ever humble servant to the arts.
So after a somewhat hectic Thursday night, I extracted myself from the twins, and made my way into that wide and sometime wonderfull world of ours. As, dear diary oh keeper of my soul, you are well aware, I am a much misunderstood genius. I create.
As the heretics hurl their missiles at my castle walls, so I must contend with those who do not recognise me for what I am. I sometimes seek solace from Melvin who resides in my understairs cupboard, but he now demands the auditions I once promised rather than simply beg. It is ever since he punched the Brexit voter in a vest from next door that he seems to have risen in confidence.
I made my way in a jaunty fashion on my fold-out bicycle, adorned with pictures of the screen and stage grates that exist within my DNA. I have a dried monkey skelaton sown to the seat post to disuade thieves.
I must work to pay of my various blackmail debts, as an actor without kneecaps is so much more limited in their range, despite my wonderful range of south American washer woman accents. My God the bailiffs are here! Shit
I offer you no photograph to ease your access to this post, dear diary. I shall paint in words.
As you are aware, I am a writer, artist, actor and one-time presenter (Great Yarmouth 1984) Recognise, dear diary, that this slight is not aimed at you, my love, for I love my words as I love myself. I slight those who fail, through blinkered eyes, to recognise my genius. I seek not devotion, merely recognition. Was it not Melvin who pronounced me genius following my contortions with the twins for my Easter home based musical, 'Jesus, Hangin' Bruv!'
Melvin is someone I have determined to offer my hand to on the slippery ride that is the shaft of creation. The twins remain by bedfellows, with the odd appearance in colloquial productions I compere for the local old folks home. This weekend will see our interpretation of a 1956 Coronation Street episode in the form of contemporary dance. My last directional outing saw Sir Huxley, by dog, offer his interpretation of early John Cooper Clarke spoken word outings for the delectation of the elderly. The unexpected stroke suffered by Mr O'Donnell, and the resultant paramedic attention, did not distract my Sir Huxley, who remained proud in the face of artistic interruption.
And so to work. I call such activity work, for it is merely a halting post in my route to immortality. Here shall I post next, dear diary. HERE
Sir Edward Elgar getting well on the piss
So dear diary, I sit typing on my throne of porcelain, where my morning ablutions become a wonderful celebration of hope for the future. I report to you today, dearest, that the spirit that has plagued both house and hearth for nearly one of Our Lord's years has been purged.
It happened that the priest emerged from under the stairs where he had been making congress with Melvin to debate a turning point in my, our, relationship with the spirit world. The priest had been summonsed from the Vatican after I had engaged locally with the Papacy. I was required to become a compliant and non-complaining altar boy, but we must all make sacrifices. My first, dear diary, was when I rendered myself unavailable for the role of Mary in my junior school nativity play, 1964, due to behaviour by the teaching staff that today would see terms on imprisonment.
I had sought guidance from a spiritualist council who gather at the Red Lion on the first Tuesday of every month. My introduction's made, I presented a cunning and devilish account of my demonic possession of bricks and motor to an enraptured crowd. I fell before the waves of applause, bowing to demands from the builders at the bar to demonstrate Morris Dancing. They named me there: 'Treacle', a title I shall treasure.
The spiritual approach soon became farce, I am sorry to report, however I am determined to rise beyond this slight on my abode, and speak only of facts. The rather rotund bearded fellow who I had been led to believe was the key pathway between this world and the next, found it more convenient to attend the seance in company with a young Thai female he introduced as his wife. I became somewhat suspicious when I interpreted her Thai intonations as personal insults directed at my soft furnishings rather than attempts to raise congress with the dead.
I digress. I suspected for some time that my spirit was of worth to the cultural fabric of this once great nation. My dog, Sir Huxley, indicated as such by humming great opera arias rather than barking and growling as canines do traditionally when facing the departed.
It was only when Sir Huxley, at the instigation of the priest, become a member of the Ralph Vaughan Williams Society that our spirit showed himself. As the priest had suspected, I was being plagued by Edward Elgar. Once exposed, the priest did his duty, and expelled the long dead composer from this earth. I offered him Melvin once again in grateful payment, however he reported that the Pope was waiting outside in the Pope mobile to take him home, and so he went.
I rest and loose my bowls in joy.
So after the debacle of the night before the night before, I was at one with my own peace, the lawn covered. The man in the Brexit vest has withdrawn to lap at his wounds, both physical and mental. I would offer him the dog to assist, but fear antagonising him further. The dog was firmly in the Remain camp, and remains convinced that integration is the only viable option. He is a player in the City, and I fear he may consider relocating to Frankfurt. God help us.
Reader, may I remind you that this is a very personal account of My Journey, and suffers not from planning, spell checking, or consideration of British legal prohibitions.
So one awakes to find the dog howling at the moon. The garden. The garden rests under the gaze of a benevolent moon. Be still oh heart be still I commanded as I stepped into my carpet slippers and slid from between the twins.
I opened the window. Wide. The howl of a refreshing wind hit my face, carefully coated in a rather delightful overnight moisturiser. (I write without spell check - an aspect of our freedom I am keen to retain, along with Jeremy Corbyn's right to sport a beard and live in Islington)
The dog. Squatted like a hound preparing to shit (Pinteresque use of profanity for those not of a theatrical background) A hound preparing to have a fucking big dirty fucking piss wet shit. On my lawn.
The lawn, created with the knarled working man's hands of some cheap Romanians. The Romanians who forced me to look myself in the face, to delve deep into my soul and tear out the cancerous cells of bigatory. I kept the backdoor locked and addressed them through the window.
The neighbour. I now not his name, his background, his direction in life. I know that he screams from his window, 'Shut that fucking dog up or I'll come round and chop his fucking head off!' He wears a vest. A vest that demonstrates his support for Brexit. He is not one of my people. Forewarned, I seek not to address his concerns, but to use this as an opportunity to wash his soul clean of hatred, and envelope him in the love only creativity can bring.
I respond: 'Seek not hatred oh fool, but hand me your hand and let me show you. The dog does shit. The dog shits all over the lawn, big filthy stinking turds. Washed from his body in a stream of piss. Let me place my hands before you and cascade your piss from your body.'
He'd stopped listening. He was at the front banging on the door. Melivn woke up. He lived in the cupboard under the stairs. I had promised him the world. Hollywood! He punched the neighbour. In the face.
As I slipped into tender embrace once more, the dog did shit. All over my fucking lawn. Fuck. Shit. Piss.
So henceforth dear reader, so painful record of one's deepest disasters.
Ah, but I hear you cry, you must not dwell on defeat dear John! For this not your fortune. Fame and fortune? Happiness? What is my place in the line at Judgement Day?
Well, my reader, the only Judgement I accept is of my peers. You! As a proto-Pagan, I have yet to be convinved of the likelihood of The Rapture, but am willing to seek counsel should those all about me suddenly start to ascend into the clouds.
And so I must leave you, this first entry of the rest of my life. Did you walk into this bar knowing I was leaning against a piano not smoking? Tis four years and beyond since I declined the lure of the evil week, so our meeting will be a nicotine Casablanca.
Until next time, be restful.
In a fit a existential angst, I have decided to record a journal. I'll be sticking the highlights on here. Shortly.