I was stood in a circle of gangsters. The top gangster shot them all dead, one after the other. They dropped to the ground all stiff and motionless, one after the other. Then he offered me his car. It was a mini go kart, shaped like a batmobile. I took off it in at speed, then lifted off into the sky. I was flying. I soared over the rooftops in the moony night, then landed like a professional outside my flat. I rang my dealer, but his phone was engaged. I tried again and again until I eventually got through. He said he had none but was getting some soon. I waited and waited. Finally he got some and invited me round to his place. I took my bicycle, but the tyres were flat, and it was like cycling through treacle all the way there. At last I arrived, but he wasn’t in. I waited and waited again. When he arrived he said come in. He cut the drugs with a blunt knife. It took forever. My patience was wearing thin. When he handed me the fat white bag I got on my bike and tried to make my way home. The harder I pedalled, the slower my journey was. It was then I saw the Skullbuster fly across the sky. The Skullbuster was a huge metallic flying spacecraft in the shape of a skull. The noise it made was deafening. It cruised past me and disappeared between two wobbling skyscrapers. The skyscrapers were wobbling because the earth was shaking. I stood in awe, looking after the lingering shadow of the Skullbuster. Then I carried on home. My personal stripper was waiting for me in my flat. She had breasts the size of Christmas turkeys. I tried to remove my clothes but they wouldn’t come off. It was as if they were superglued onto my skin. I struggled for what felt like hours. Finally I was naked and I gave her a quick hug. We stuck to each other like sticky tape. I had to violently remove myself from her syrupy embrace. I addressed my drugs, emptying the white powder onto a mirror. I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. I looked like a teenage boy. My hair and teeth were better. My skin was smoother. I looked beautiful. My stripper started singing in anticipation of the festivities ahead. Her voice was melodic and graceful. I lived for drug-fuelled lovemaking with my stripper. It didn’t happen very often but when it did I was very happy. I took a rolled-up note and bent down to snort the goods. It was then I realised that all of the white powder had melted into water. My heart sank. It had evaporated into nothing. I snorted it anyway, knowing it would have no effect, knowing that all my efforts had been for nothing. My stripper stopped singing, and then she started evaporating too, like a ghost whose allocated time is up. And then I awoke, in my bed, free of the predictable disappointments of the dreamworld. I rang my dealer.
Thursday, 21 September 2017
Sunday, 17 September 2017
Monday, 11 September 2017
Tuesday, 5 September 2017
Beating The Mattress
What is there to say about depression that hasn’t already been said? It’s almost fashionable now to have gone through depression, if you’re a celebrity. Look at Ruby Wax – a champion of depression. They all think they are cool to talk about it because it associates them with today’s troubled youth. It connects them with the kids. The book Prozac Nation made being depressed almost trendy. I myself used to buzz off it as a teenager. I thought I was special because I was depressed. But being depressed ain’t really cool: Being depressed is total shit. In my understanding, being depressed goes hand in hand with staying in bed. Spending too much time under the sheets is a massive clue. Not wanting to face the living room, never mind the outside world, is another. You’ve lost interest in the TV, especially during the daytime – if you’re up, that is – and Facebook is full of happy prosperous people uploading their insulting happiness, so why would you want to bother with that? Showering or even brushing your teeth is out of the question because you have no special dates on the horizon – or any social events whatsoever, for that matter – so what’s the point if you’re not going out anywhere? Nothing to do but roll over and find a cooler part of the duvet to snuggle up into. And the longer you leave it to get up, the harder it becomes. And say you do get up, eventually…what then? Just what the hell are you supposed to do then? Prepare a meal? No. You don’t need much sustenance when you’re only lazing around all day. Better to graze on some simple sugars and indulge in junk. After all, you deserve it because you’re depressed. And a crappy diet is just more fuel for this all-consuming depression. I suppose you could get dressed – lol! What for? To sit around in the living room all day? What’s the point in being all dressed-up with nowhere to go, and nobody to go with for that matter. No, better to stay in your sleeping clothes. After all, you’ll probably be going back to bed soon. There’s simply nothing else to do. Apart from go out, of course, but ha, where to? Where the hell are you going to go, feeling like this? One peek through the window makes you realise that the outside world is like a different realm – that’s where all the busy happy people are, and it’s not for you. So, what to do about depression? The answer is easy…you’ve got to snap out of it. It’s as straightforward as that. Nobody else can do it for you. You’ve got to make a snap decision that you are refusing to feel like this anymore. You’re not standing for it any longer. The world is a state of mind, and depression is a mere changeable mental state. So do a spot of cleaning, put a CD on, get dressed, go out somewhere, anywhere, and get manic. Do something, and when that’s done, worry about what can be done next. One thing at a time. One day at a time. It doesn’t matter how small or meaningless it is what you’re doing, at least it beats the mattress. Get obsessed about doing things. That’s the key. Doing stuff.
Tuesday, 15 August 2017
Hello everyone. This is not Donnie, your usual blogger, but his best mate, Sebastian. I am not hacking his account. He gave me his password in case I ever needed to continue taking over blogging for him. I feel that this is the right time to do so. I am sure he won’t mind what I have to say. The thing is, I am very worried about him. I found him unconscious at his home address last night, apparently from an overdose. He is not ashamed to say that he has a £500-a-week heroin addiction. He was naked and comatose. I rang an ambulance, obviously, but now he is out again after a night’s observation and back on the shit. He doesn’t care about his blog – or anything else, for that matter – anymore. I am all that he has left. I don’t know what else to do. I know that people who may once have cared for him read this blog, so that’s why I am asking for help here. Please, please, someone help him. I am crying out to anyone from Mental Health services here. I know he has mental health issues. In fact, just last week, he said that he could see and feel spiders crawling all over his skin. He said that an evil invisible man lives in his flat with him; he pushes him into the walls, poisons his food, and suffocates him in his sleep. He said that he sees shape-shifting creatures from the future, prowling the streets. They follow him back into his flat and gather together under his floorboards. This information is alarming, but I urge you not to section him again. He sincerely hates being sectioned. And don’t over-medicate him too – he hates medication almost as much as he hates having his freedom taken away. I don’t know what you can do for him…maybe some counselling or talking therapy, perhaps. The fact is, he is in a real pickle at the moment. I’m running out of options as to how to assist him. I thought posting on here would be a good idea. So, if you know Donnie personally, pleases drop round to his address and see how he is. A friendly face might help motivate him to get off that crap. It’s consuming him at the moment. We’re losing him. He had so much to offer, as well. He could have been anything. Instead he has ended up as a schizo smackhead. It’s so sad. I feel like crying for him. Thank you, anyway. Do whatever you can. At your service, Sebastian.
Tuesday, 8 August 2017
Okay, so I’m looking in the mirror now, ogling myself all over, and what an absolute pleasure it is too. I’ll start at the bottom and make it easier for you to take me in: First we start with the calves, and that’s what I call some prime British beef pork trotters right there. Look at ‘em! Like diamonds they are. Then we have my hams, ripped to death behind my quadriceps. Have you ever seen quads like these? Have you? Look at that teardrop, it looks like the teardrop of Zeus himself. Again, ripped to the core. No wonder they call me Quadzilla. Then we have my midsection, a spectacular six-pack if I do say so myself. It took me doing a thousand sit-ups a day to achieve that abdominal perfection. You must be jealous of me by now. Don’t worry, I don’t blame you at all. I’d be jealous myself, if I wasn’t already me. It’s wonderful being as big and as thick and as ripped as I am. I consult the mirror just to make sure at least five times a day. That’s when I’m not training or posing or eating chicken dinners, mind you! There’s hardly enough time in the day, I tell thee! It’s hard work being the biggest and the best. Everyone would be doing it if it was easy.
Ok, right, now, where were we? Shall we talk about my chest? Well, wow, what is there to say about my chest? Apart from the fact that it fills my entire breastbone like the fattest couple of sirloin steaks you have ever seen. Look at that split between my lower and upper pecs. Isn’t that really something? And what about those shoulders jutting out like mountain caps? How about them? Round and full and bulbous. Took me some hours of overhead pressing, I can tell you. Let me turn around for you… How’s that for a barndoor back, eh? Look at the detail between those muscles. You don’t have to mention my shredded glutes, coz no one gives a damn about a man’s arse. Admire those triceps as well, see how they flare away from the biceps? Finally, take in my haircut. Aren’t I fantastic? Aren't I supreme? Aren't I just the Biggest and The Best?
Saturday, 5 August 2017
I was sat in the street with my cousin. It was a blessing, because I hadn’t seen her for over twenty years. She was so very small, so very young, so very nostalgic and spiritual and free. In fact, I had a photo of her on my person. I checked the photo, and continued to admire her perfect physical form. Her image and the photo were identical. The photo was over two decades old but she hadn’t changed a single molecule. Still a heavenly child, forever precious in my memory and even more precious in person. Only my late Dad could drag me away from her. He was struggling to control a beefy Rottweiler that kept jumping up at me. I was pleased to see that Dad had three copies of the first book I had ever wrote on him. He looked very proud. I wrote this fact down on my hand, so I wouldn’t forget it: Dad looks very proud of me. I then took off running along the dark suburbs of Manchester. Suddenly, up ahead, concerning several yobs, a fight broke out. It looked particularly violent, so I hid behind a bin. The only thing was, the light from my phone attracted them. They came over as one brawling gang and made me drink poison. I woke up from the poison on an oil rig with my mate. I asked him what time it was, because I knew he could not answer me. He could not answer me because he was a pigment of my imagination in my very own dream. Yet still he was a person stood before me and I was very curious as to his response. He stalled numerous times, but I kept pushing for an answer. Finally, he said it was 3pm. I then asked him what day it was. He answered quickly, but he got it wrong. I told him I was dreaming, told him he wasn’t real. He shrugged this off and got back to work. I found myself in a precarious position then. I was trying to walk along various door handles stuck into a high wall. Rock-climbing, in effect. Around me was a balcony chock-full with people. I fell towards water, but at the last minute decided I could fly. I flew across the surface of the water, up and down, along and back, gently skimming it, posing and showing off before the audience. I bombed into the depths, and then flew back up like Superman, laughing. I bounced off all the walls but felt no pain. It was bliss. Then security stopped me, and demanded to see the photo of my cousin, as if it was identification. She’s still the same, I told them, and my dad’s proud of me. They said the boss would have to see me, so I began to wake up, gently shaking myself. On second thought, I said no, I’m happy here, I think I’ll stay for a little while longer. But I wasn’t waiting for no boss, not in my own dream, where I was the boss, so I flew down into the water again and decided to go a level deeper, beyond the bottom. It was there where I found a chapel with Andy in. Andy had come back from the dead at his own funeral, but nobody was telling him, and he didn’t even know he was back, wasn’t aware he had even died. His memory must have been wiped, people were whispering behind his back. I sat and rejoiced with Andy. Then I awoke and wrote it all down. The dreamworld can be nice to me, sometimes. I’m not always afraid to close my eyes. In fact, there are rare occasions when I get excited.