Ranting For A Living

Just been for a Christmas bash get together dinner at the drug rehab clinic I am a client at, they were very generous with the meat, unlike Toby Carvery. I went Toby Carvery on Wednesday for another bash, there they are shy with the meat but it’s well worth the £8.99 price tag. I couldn’t slice meat for people at a carvery myself, I’m far too kind, I’d be giving everyone massive portions, there’d be nothing left, the management would go mad at me. Neither could I be a drug dealer for the same reason. So, there are two professions out the window already and I’ve only just started listing them. Serving pints of booze is different, a pint is a pint, but when it comes down to personal discretion, I’m just not tight enough to make anyone any money.

Watched Promised Land last night, a movie starring Matt Damon. It was about fracking, essentially, and although it sounds boring it had a good story and of course Matt Damon will always be Matt Damon. He’s not in my favourite higher echelon of actors but he is mesmerising in The Departed, I got to give it to him.

How’s the war in Gaza getting along? I don’t have a telly so I can’t keep up with the news. I just see bits and bobs of the news in the pub from time to time. It really is depressing, isn’t it? I mean, what’s that war over? What’s the pretence this time? Tony Blair and George Dubya said Saddamn Hussein was addicted (lol) to weapons of mass destruction when, upon further investigation, it turned out he just had a balaclava and a hammer stashed under his bed. Is there any oil in the Gaza region? As you can tell I’m not in the least bit politically minded, although I do respect them a lot. I used to enjoy watching Peston on TV when I had one, or Kilroy or The Big Questions, sometimes with a hangover even The Daily Politics. I liked John Prescott, Boris Johnson and Michael Portillo, although I’d vote Labour if I had to. Michael is so softly spoken and gentle and diplomatic, a man you can trust with your life. Except if everything from his trap wasn’t as empty as a politician’s promise – joke (sort of).

What else is going on? Are you going to be watching the Strictly Come Dancing Christmas Special? Lol. I remember one Christmas way back when, Merlin almost drove me to suicide. I’ll be spending my chrimbo watching all the Harry Potters or Lord of the Rings, and if you believe that you’ll believe anything. I’m starving homeless and need food so hit on my ‘donate’ button. I promise I won’t buy cigarettes, alcohol or drugs. I’ll spend it very wisely, maybe on another couple of Toby Carverys in the New Year. Only joshing with ‘ya, I would never ask for anything from a White Voider. When I was homeless I didn’t beg like some of them do. Some people beg who aren’t even homeless, it’s a bit of a scam isn’t it to make good money. You hear about beggars retiring to their detached houses after a long day on the street. Anyway peace out x

The Red Lion

About twenty years ago I was staying in a Colchester hotel called The Red Lion with two of my work mates. We’d gone down there to fit granite worktops in the bars at Colchester Garrison, the army barracks. Who would have known that they have bars in garrisons? I know, a bunch of dudes dancing together. I suppose they have to unwind somehow. I wonder if they employed barmaids or if whether barmaids would be an unhealthy distraction. Can you imagine the attention a couple of buxom barmaids would get from a ton of soldiers?

I took a wolf mask with me and scared the receptionist with it, creeping up behind her desk. I used to take my wolf mask everywhere with me to scare people with. Once, some guy was asleep in his car during a break in work at Excel Logistics, a factory that made window frames. My deceased brother used to work on the shift that came in when I was going home. I’d see him briefly and wish him luck. He was topping up his illegal monetary profit from selling garys (pills) with a bit of legit agency work. His pal, and my pal, Darren Moss, worked there too, on my shift. Mossy was a dedicated gym rat who cared a lot about his physique. He was on steroids, cheating a bit, but he looked alright. He had the perfect attitude for being a swollen monkey. Anyway, this dude was asleep in his car so I donned the wolf mask and crept into the passenger side. He slowly woke up as if from a dream and was confronted by what must have looked like from first impressions a real wolf in his car, present with him. It shaken him so much that he shook so much that the whole car shook with him! He absolutely shat himself. Meanwhile, I pissed myself laughing.

Andrew Steel (Steely) worked there too. He used to address people with, “Hey dickhead!” Ha, comical. Once we had a game of football in the factory on a summer night. The shift leader named Craig was a glowing winsome warm pleasant soul and a decent player. The shop floor was about the same size as a perfect five-a-side pitch. That was the only time I’ve ever been paid to play football, and I loved it. One night I blagged an asthma attack so I could leave early on an overnight shift and go home to watch some German hardcore. The title of that porn was called GGG, I heard it standed for German Goo Girls. A thing of the past but very strong and addictive at the time.

After I scared the receptionist in The Red Lion I bought a kebab from across the street which I returned for a refund because it was just chicken gristle instead of meat. The day before I’d kicked a football against some church ruins. My two mates fell sound asleep after trying to bring a girl back who didn’t want anything to do with either of us. I was kept awake all night by the sound of crying from behind the wall. A LONELY GIRL IN PAIN CRYING…It lasted right through until morning, preventing me from getting a single wink. There’s nothing so provocative, unstirring, or drawing, as a child crying. It’s like a red rag to a bull, you have to investigate, especially if the child is crying for its mother.

That night spooked me. Years later, on Facebook, I discovered that the hotel was over 400 years old, and haunted. A woman named Tracy Long did psychic events there. It all made sense to me. I’d been visited by a ghost. About three years ago I heard the same ghost in my council flat. This time it said, “I’m alright.” I breathed a sigh of relief. I wonder if it could have been Abbie, the leader of my protective spiritual counsel, a young girl with brunette hair who wears a white dress all the time. Ghosts and witches and all of that, I love you x

Recent Artwork

 

Red Jacket

I had a one-to-one with Fiona from the mental health drop-in on Monday afternoon. This was a chance to have a private conversation with a woman about what is going on for me. It went well, I opened up a lot about my parasites and my psychosis. She pointed out that I am vulnerable because I am a ‘large black male’. That’s stereotyping for you. Harsh but true. That’s exactly how the Hollywood actor David Harewood got described during his breakdown. He played Othello, Nelson Mandela, was in Supergirl and Homeland. He was also in a documentary called Psychosis and Me (2019). I can identify with his psychotic meltdown. I started reading his book last night after finally putting down a Jeffrey Deaver book which has taken over a mind-bending three months to read. It’s not the best advert for the Jeffrey is it?

I’ve got a prayer book to print off and proofread which may or may not be included in Headswap, my latest novella. I don’t want to include it because it asks the reader a question: Which do I read first? I might leave it out, it’s not essential to the story. Likewise, I have to get my boiler fixed. I know, no heating in this weather. It’s freezing here in Northern England. How is it where you are?

David Harewood found himself wandering around the city blacking out during his psychosis. I was doing the same thing during mine. I’d find myself in dark fields in the middle of the night. One time I went swimming after midnight at Blackpool beach. I had a discarded piece of red clothing wrapped around my arm in honour of my number one divine head honcho protector, the spirit I call Red Jacket. I’d found the red rag (I think it was part of a sleeve) on some abandoned church grounds. Later I would keep it secure in a children’s bag I bought from B&M. God told me to set it on fire so I did. I think I put some candles in the bag and went into the bedroom to leave it to chance whether it burned or not. It didn’t set alight but a brand new Arsenal top inside got ruined. Weeks later, when I opened it to assess the damage, it was if a fiery spirit got released. I’d forgotten what was in it. I’d been keeping all kinds of red momentos and relics in there. Anyway, I started hearing screaming all around the neighbourhood when I opened it. I went outside to see mad traffic and sensed something brooding in the air. The way the leaves on the trees were shaking…it was spectral. All because I’d opened this special bag. It was if Red Jacket had escaped and she was punishing all my tormentors. It was like something from a movie.

Red Jacket appeared to me several weeks ago for the first time but that’s a different story. Lucifer was getting too close to me so she had to do something. I’d like to thank Red Jacket and my other protective entities here, publicly. Thanks a bunch guys, I love you lot with all my heart and soul.

Temptation

Hiya White Voider, it’s nice to be with you again. I really mean that. I look forward to this time of the day when I can share some innermost thoughts with your good fine self. There’s nobody else who listens quite the same way. I called The Samaritans last night, it’s becoming a regular practice, I have a good heart-to-heart with them, but that Samaritan on the other end of the line is no White Voider. I’m 20 days in escaping from Class As and pornography, my target is 28, I’m not in all respects sure what happens after that. It gets harder from there if anything, so loads to prognosticate.

The temptation is not quite “all over me”, but it is present and dangerous. I fear the sex shop will have no new worthy interracial titles in stock. I’ve been buying the same ones over and over recently, after destroying them at home. I’m like a mouse on a wheel. As long as it’s a monster black phallus next to a pair of fine pretty lips, I ain’t that bothered. Although I am. The eyes are the windows to the soul and it is up to me what I let in there. I don’t wanna be a homosexual fag who watches porn all the time. If you are gay, then I apologise for my wording there. I have a gay friend called Mark who is a stand-up guy. He studied performing arts and is very theatrical. I would never refer to him as a homosexual fag, coz he’s great. But the blogosphere is another world. As you should be more or less on the road to finding out by now, anything goes here. Well, almost anything. Not quite. The darkest recesses of the human heart are like an unexplored wilderness.

Watched Napoleon last night. Just full of horses getting shot at. That’s all I’ve got to say about it. That, and the fact that he done his wife from behind – that was the best bit, Napoleon doing his gorgeous wife from behind. I wondered (it’s a 15 certificate) if any teenagers could possibly fap to a scene like that. Fake sex. We’re not talking soft core here, we’re talking fake. I think that that would not be beyond me in my youth. I’d fap to Eurovision or anything, or the free ten minute preview of the Fantasy Channel at midnight, if you remember that. Snippets of hard core for a precious ten minutes. Remember it!?

How exhilarating is sex in adolescence? Now in my mid-forties I can take it or leave it. I don’t follow my balls around all day like I used to, thinking with my willy. At one time there was nothing else. As Donnie Darko said, in the movie: “What’s the point of living if you haven’t got a dick?” That may be rude but I think it’s a very true statement. What is the point of living if you haven’t got a dick? You can take that from a sex addict of over twenty five years. 

Spoon-Feeding

Listening to a Rammstein electro remix and music doesn’t get much better. Just got my pool in, another nice one down the rail stood out. Also, a snooker escape and a top hat to finish off. I’ve never heard the term top hat mentioned before by the pundits, I don’t know where I picked it up. But basically it is a three cushion double, if that makes any sense. I’m still at a loss of what to say, shouldn’t a blogger have an exciting life? Shouldn’t he be kayaking or spelunking or skydiving or summet? Shouldn’t he be dancing at the bar surrounded by babes balancing a tray of drinks? Or nodding his head at some lights to trance music in a Zonda? Or at the safari park with the family, at least? C’mon, give me something man. Don’t be just sat in the library with no life experience, spoon-feeding drivel to the masses. I‘ve said this before, but that’s how Samuel Loomis describes professional writing – spoon-feeding drivel to the masses. (That’s Michael Myers’ doctor by the way.) Is this what I’m doing to you? You can say yes if you want to, I won’t be offended.

How will I beat this block? I’m truly doubting the prosperity of this blogger site. It’s okay here, for example, being stuck once in a while, blogging about not knowing what to blog about, but long-term? Get a grip, Andy, that sh*t won’t suffice. This almost daily-blogging challenge feels over now to me. I enjoyed it while it lasted, but I am no Christopher Fowler. I’m afraid it will have to be one or two a week again, if you are lucky. I wish I had a secret blogger who was writing for me, who had my best interests at heart. I’d drop him an inspirational comment and ask him to never give up doing what he loves, tell him what he was doing was crucial. Or maybe I wouldn’t because I don’t often blow smoke up people’s arses. I did however tell Conrad Williams one time at a reading that what he was doing was as good as anything, and I meant every word, because it was at one point. Then I discovered my own work, lol. No, seriously, I enjoy reading my own work back sometimes. Back in my prime, I’m not ashamed to say that I knock my own breath away. And why wouldn’t it, because it’s me. Its saying exactly what I want it to say. That’s the whole point. Create not just a better world, but a perfect one. I believe I’m doing that in all the fiction I write, otherwise I wouldn’t do it.

I suppose you’re thinking, “Come on Mr. Donegan, get up off your ass and get some life experience so you can blog about it to me.” How about giving me some valuable life experience cash to do so? You know where the donate button is! C’mon dude, I got five (spiritual) kids to feed!

Grass

Howdy there, it’s me again, breathing down your airspace. I hope you don’t mind. You choose to come here, I don’t twist your arm. If I could, I would, because I want to be heard! Boy, this is a struggle. I’ve literally run out of words. What left is there to say? What is the future of this blog? I think I’ll use and go incognito for a few days, come back with something useful. Those interracial babes…sucking and banging and spurting…

There’s got to be something else other than that. I’ve just been the pub to catch up on my table game (pool). I had a nice long one down the rail (cushion). About six or seven frames, just to get my arm going, you know. Nothing entirely special happened, couple of neat pots, that’s your lot. It’s pleasant to keep in touch though. I’d not played for six days and that is far too long away from the table.

In the library now, sat at the personal PC computer. Some guy has just left sat next to me. He was the guy who grassed on me for vaping in here back when I used to vape several months back. He told the librarian I was vaping and she had a word with me. I was so insulted by him. Why couldn’t he just tell me himself? I would have respected that. I shared about it in Men’s Group on a Tuesday morning. I said he wasn’t G-Unit. Hardly anyone sided with me, saying I was in the wrong, I shouldn’t be vaping in a public space. I got to thinking about sneaking up behind him and blowing a lungful of vape smoke right into his face, or asking him politely why he grassed. I wanted to do something to let him know I didn’t agree with what he had done. In the end I let it go. He’s not G-Unit, so what, that’s the point of it, we can’t all be.

I proofread my manuscript in the pub yesterday afternoon. I found about ten typos. Not bad, considering. For an hour and a half I slipped away into it and forgot about everything else. Nothing in my mind bothered me while I was doing that. It was a suave feeling, afterward, realising it. I wished I had a new manuscript to proofread every day. I’d waited 21 months for the privilege. That type of emotion doesn’t drift by very often. The typos are easy to fix, nothing major like. When it was done I had a spicy meat feast pizza and was suddenly aware of everything the people on the table next to me were saying, when for the previous ninety minutes I hadn’t heard a word, lost in my own world, the lost world of Headswap.

So, I’ll see you next time, I know I’m not saying anything of any relevance. That’s the challenge though; what can I come up with tomorrow, if anything? It’s all so meaningless…so empty and vacuous and nil-rewarding…peace out.

 

Beautiful...

Well. I’ve given the almost daily blogging route a chance and quite frankly I am running out of things to say. My life is not exciting enough, I’m a boring human being. I don’t do adventure or thrill-seeking. What I do have, in abundance however, are large dollops of mysticism. I once stared out of my flat window for four hours straight with a floppy nonplussed bewildered expression on my face, hallucinating God and the Devil brokering a deal on top of the local parish church. My enemies call my hallucinations “puzzles”. It freaks their brain tech out all to death. I don’t understand them myself. I hardly get them anymore. The best one ever was when I went to a distant green planet I perceived as Heaven. I talked about that the other month. It was fan-f**king-tastic.

I saw The Incredible Hulk just the other week, but he’s hostile, not an ally. Beautiful to watch nonetheless. It’s frightening, psychosis, what it means, what it makes possible. I also saw King Kong, I’m hoping he’s friendly but I can’t be sure. Did you see the bit when he tapped his chest and Naomi Watts said “Beautiful…” in the movie? They were overlooking the sunset together and it really was beautiful. It made me realise that it is what is inside that counts. Big bad ugly Kong sat there being all beautiful and that. If he can pull it off then so can I. That’s what it made me think, that bit. That’s why Kong will always have a special place in my heart. I didn’t think much of the Skull Island remake when they made the monkey more humanoid though. There was no Naomi, for one. What, a humongous black ape and no coy blushing blonde? No matter what level you’re talking about, that just doesn’t work for me.

I had another curry last night and just like the last one I upchucked it everywhere as soon as it was over, so I shan’t be frequenting that establishment ever again. £22 for a meal with a pint is a bit extortionate though, so I won’t be out of pocket for one thing. I’ll just continue to do my food shopping in the supermarket. I’m eating quite a lot of cheesy beanz on toast if you’re wondering about my diet. You shouldn’t be, as I’m not wondering about yours. Well I am a bit, but not overly so. And now I’m waffling about each other’s diets.

One day I’ll post something important that will change the world, like a whistleblower’s soliloquy ringing out into all eternity from a sewer on an asteroid or something. It would be nice, wouldn’t it, to write something important. In my opinion, I just have. I’m about to proofread it in the local boozer after this blog post. It’s the manuscript for my latest novella, called Headswap. It’s my most recent fiction offering and I’m quite secretly proud of it. I’m looking forward to reading it with a few scoops of jar. It says a lot in a short amount of space and it’s nice and tightly plotted. So have that, Mr Universe, from me to yours truly.

Sectioned For Singing

 

I’d just like to talk about how I was treated by the authorities shortly before this time last year. It started when I was released from hospital after a 28 Day assessment. As is expected, I was ecstatic to be free again and I roamed around several towns sleeping rough and drinking with my detective cap on. When I returned home I had a BBQ out front on the patio because at that time my home still had no electric. If you can recall, they sectioned me for that month for lighting gas canisters, lol. I was the victim of a flood, that was all. So, I’m getting into my lovely cooking which I’d been looking forward to all month when six coppers turn up and put it out on me. They said they were acting on a warrant for my arrest and that was all they knew. I told them it must be because I didn’t get a tag fitted when I was supposed to (I still never got that tag). The guy stood on a sachet of mayonnaise like he was controlling the area, like it was a bag of coca and he was seizing it. I still can’t quite understand why he appropriated my condiments. He was the thickest human being I have ever come across.

Anyway, there goes my dinner and my only-just-realised freedom. It’s just a warrant, I think, they’ll give me my tag and I’ll be out of there. The solitude of them cells make you a bit cuckoo so I practise some spoken word poetry to keep me occupied. Little do I know that with my history singing to yourself is deemed mental so low and behold I get sectioned again, yes for singing! Another three months down the swanny from that moment.

As if that wasn’t enough I lie down on the floor to feel a bit sad that I’d just been sectioned and to take it all in when a busy comes in and blasts me full in the face with pepper spray, from a lying down position! Now what is the need for that!? I protest. This is all after a humiliating strip search when I acted all limp and deadweight to make it go a bit easier for me. My shorts are falling down and I’m at risk of my nakedness being exposed. I’m transported to hospital yet again and kicked into isolation, or what I call the ‘pressure cooker’. It’s a small tank usually reserved for violent patients. I believe the authorities were trying to extract my spirits from me, as I could hear a doctor asking if I could feel them leaving me yet? I saw some strange things, blinded, in that pressure cooker, including a bear and a swimming pool, and they might have been right, my spirits did come out, but only to protect me, not to go away. Weird, eh?

Miracle Man

my mentor the miracle man

Watched two episodes of wanky world last night (Westworld). It’s not for everyone but I enjoy the series. I’ve still not got any idea of what’s going on like, but that’s the wanky world for you. I remember in series 3 there was a scene of a robot running for its life, getting shot at by humans. It eventually capsized to some stirring music and it was really moving. I hope there’s something similar in the rest of series 4. Evan Rachael Wood is beautiful isn’t she? Did you see her in The Wrestler (2008)?

This white void looks ominous again from where I’m sat. How do bloggers do it every day? Where do they get their themes from? I can’t be arsed with any such thing like that, I like talking about myself. That’s what I used to say about my old mentor behind his back (Rest His Soul). I said that he’ll talk to absolutely anyone so long as it’s about himself. He was ego-driven. He did radio and TV work. His nickname was The Miracle Man, because he kept defying death. His best fight move was opening the hand and jabbing the fingers into someone’s face. He said that by doing that you were guaranteed to gouge an eye. Much more effective than a punch. He had a book out, called Cobblestone Kids. You can buy it on Amazon. You can also buy some of my ebooks on Amazon Kindle.

My old mentor was an alcoholic for seven years. He maintains that he was pissed for that long straight. Still, he often used to take me the pub to enjoy a couple of pints of Guiness. He didn’t believe in AA or anything like that. He said that teetotalers are in bondage to the booze, and it is much more ideal to be able to just have one or two here and there without feeling the urge to keep going all day and night until oblivion is reached, or whatever it is that alcoholics seek. When I was in hospital, sectioned the time before last, he came to see me every single evening. One time I was in my room and I heard his voice booming down from reception, “ANDREW DONEGAN!” How admirable is that, going to see someone every single day in hospital? Answer: Very.

I hope I’m in a position to help someone myself as he helped me. He was a roofer by trade, he took me up there with him on several occasions. It’s very brave climbing onto rooftops in my opinion. I couldn’t wait to get back down. I’ve seen him hanging off the roof like a cat. He dismantled a chimney once, hurling brick after clanging brick into a skip on the floor. It was one of the most noisey rackets I’ve ever heard in my life. Mostly I was just holding the ladder for him. One of my mates in recovery has just had an accident in that regard. He took his foot off the ladder for a moment and it fell down, obviously hurting the man who was on the ladder at the time. He shared about it in group, the incident has really affected him. His name is James. He’s bi-sexual. He gives me kisses and hugs and, for some reason I haven’t been able to figure out yet, he’s now started showing me his bare ass. He had his bike robbed as well lately, so he’s not having a great time of late, Anyhoo, that’s enough about The Miracle man and James for now. Come back in  a few days to see what else we can ramble on about eh. Much love x

Chicken Vindaloo

This white void today is looking like it is going to win. There’s nothing to report apart from a movie and a curry last night. I was around the town yesterday frequenting several of the local boozers and I thought I might check HMV out for the newest Spiderman flick, No Way Home, starring Benedict ‘Cucumber Patch’ as Dr. Strange. While I was there it occurred to me that I didn’t finish watching the final season of Westworld, starring Evan Rachael Wood. I got into that during the Covid lockdown (cowboys and robots), so I decided to buy the fourth season. That should keep me busy at home, as I don’t have an aerial to watch terrestrial television. I haven’t watched normal telly for about two years now, since I sensed God telling me to dispose of all my belongings. I smashed my TV up with a lump hammer and dumped it out near the local sheds. The one I have now is a donation from Care UK. It’s only about twenty inches. I’ve just been watching the Liverpool game in the pub on a docking screen and you can really sense the difference. Are you lucky enough to have a big telly in a comfortable living room? How big is your telly? Is it a measure of success, do you think?

The Spiderman made no sense anyway. I enjoyed several cans of Karpackie with it. Karpackie is a super strength lager which is quite hard to find. The effect is different from any other booze I have ever tried. It makes me feel a bit ‘smacked up’, as if there are opiates in it. After that I went for my curry. My local boozer, after changing hands every other year it seems, is now an Indian restaurant. It was my first time in there and it was jam packed. I ordered a Chicken Vindaloo, pilau rice, peshwari naan bread, and a pint of £5 Cobra beer. The meal was sizeable but far too hot. I was instantly regretting not going for the madras. I needed another pint of Cobra to cool my gob down. Anyway, just as the meal was done, I felt the overwhelming urge to throw up. I hastily left my money on the table and dashed outside to vomit all over the hallowed church grounds nearby. That’s three continuous nights on the trot I’ve vomited my grub up at night. The night before it was a mixed grill and a turkey dinner, both bought in the pub. I’ve a serious problem with my throat but I don’t have time for doctors and hospitals. I had a scan for my parasite when I first got it four or five years ago and they didn’t even let me know the results, so I’ve lost faith in the authorities. But this vomiting lark is a problem. It’s too painful not to be, I don’t know what to do. I don’t think alcohol and cigarettes are helping. This wasn’t happening when I was vaping and drinking Kefir. Kefir is a healthy yogurt-based drink which is good for the gut. It makes the mind feel fresh when consumed. I don’t know, I might have to get back into the rosy-cheeked pink mode of living again. Wish me luck that I can do this again one day. Thanks for now and take care of yourself x

Badger The Great

I’m currently listening to a remake of Cygnus X’s Orange Theme by The Man With No Name. If you are a diehard fan of trance as am I, I guarantee you’ll find it interesting. Aside from this fact, I’d like to talk about my mate called Badger for a bit. He’s currently in detention for a reason unbeknown to me. Rumours are it involved a machete on his carer or neighbour. I miss him quite a lot. He’s big, bearded, and schizo, just as I like ‘em. He’s the kind of guy who knocks for you and takes you shopping for coffee, sugar and milk, all on his tab, and not expected back. He’s a recovering alcoholic and crack addict. He sketches and writes poetry. He has a long lost daughter. He’s from my home town. He said we hung out together in youth, although I can’t remember him. He says he is a quintessential Jedi Knight in public to strangers, and I believe him. Once he gave me a display of shadow boxing just before he got into trouble after I left him alone drinking at a bar and someone, he claims, threw a bottle at his head. He’s the kind of guy who elects to bully bouncers, asking them will they please batter him, probably so he can retaliate with violent tendencies. But underneath he is a kind caring soul. The last time I seen him, we went for a walk around Sankey Valley Park together. It’s a mini nature resort in the town. I’d just that day walked up a welsh mountain so I wasn’t in the mood for any more drifty commonplace sense data, but he said he really needed it after been stuck in all day, so I went along. He ate a Wigan kebab laters; a pie from the chippy on a barmcake.

During my second naturalist walk of that earthly revolution, he noticed the slump in my bored mood. He was all up for it, suggesting what I do with my eyes. He was telling me what to look at. Keep your seeking vision up towards the fleshless horizon. Stop predominantly looking at the level floor. Look at the majestic sun behind the army of trees. Listen to the unculled wild life. He seemed like a free soul. I’d just like to mention him. His old friends called him Badger “The Great”. They say his mental strength bleeds over into physical strength. He aspired to raising £3million to repair his local church roof. There is an aura of greatness about him. I hope he gets out soon and works the puzzle out again.

To “work the puzzle out” means to step back from the pool table and look at the balls as if you don’t know what is going on. You know what I mean? When the players don’t know what to do next? What, is it a Mensa test or something? Just pick your next shot and get along with it. Sometimes they don’t know what to do! Their faces! Talk about a head scratcher. Badger The Great pulls off this task better than most. He looks awesome working the puzzle out. There’s something Granddaddy about his deportment. I really hope you don’t mind me talking about you, Badger, and I hope you get out soon to enjoy life again x

 

Bible Image

Well here I am again all up in the Blogosphere, not giving up and not fading away. I’m determined to keep this up so long as there is breath in my bones. All my enemies must really despise this aspect of creative expression about me. Make them live long so they can see me progress. It’s horrible having enemies and being hated for no reason but a sense of God-given righteousness helps me get over it. Love balances the hate, and I truly know that I am loved by Christ.

I started crying instantly the last time I opened the bible. It was the first psalm, I believe. I had an experience within the text. As my tears dropped onto the pages, all the words began to blur. Then, behind the softened, obscure wording, I made out the impression of some kiddy artwork. An image. It was a drawing my nephew did when he was a little kid. Beautiful. Images and tears; tears, words and images.

Still really missing not doing any artwork. My initials are A T D and that in my opinion stands for Art Till Death, although at the moment I’m not living up to that rule. I still immensely enjoy talking to you though, I know things are kind of personal lately, it’s just the way I’m feeling. Perhaps I’ll get around to some fiction or articles in the near future.

I’m coming back bigger and better, I really believe it. Spiritually, emotionally, and mentally. Physically I’m a lightweight again, I haven’t trained since I was besieged by kidney pain a couple of months ago. Now I’m struggling with throat pain, it’s making me vomit for no reason and it’s a hot, scorching, painful kind of vomit. I think it might be my parasite taking a dump inside me making me sickly. Do parasites take dumps? Where do they go? Ugh.

My friend isn’t doing too well presently. He’s really depressed because he’s been used by someone. I’ve just attended a mental health drop-in with him, although we didn’t talk very deeply about anything in depth. It was just wishy-washy small talk really, it didn’t help either of us. Compliments for trying though. Some groups are better than others. We like to talk about our emotions.

I’m about to go to Positive Thoughts, a twice-weekly group at the drug rehab clinic. People keep reiterating not to give up on recovery. It’s so disappointing though when you lose all your days, your recovery capital, your clean time, as I just have. I hate to tell you that I am only on Day 5, as opposed to Day 20 last week. It’s no great shakes. I’ll get back there with the grace of God. You watch me. And if I don’t? Well, I’m still a Christian. I still know which side my bread is buttered on. All will be well. I’m trying not to worry. I know that there are spirits around me who want the best for me and look out for me and to them I am eternally grateful. I love my spirits. Do you think that something is looking out for you? I hope and pray that there is. I really mean that. Take care, look after yourself, and keep up keeping up. 

Like David

What got me out of bed this morning was the intimation to play some English pool. I had four or so frames in the pub near where I live. It’s pronto becoming my local boozer. It’s only 50p a game, as opposed to a pound on the tables in most drinking establishments. It’s nice to have a pint or two when playing. Alcohol loosens up the arm a bit, to get that Rolls Royce cue action going. The librarian here has just mentioned that she almost nearly made it as a snooker referee. She said she knows Mark Selby and a lot of the other players on the circuit very well. As is with the last post, this too is proving tricky to eek out. Again I slept thru all day yesterday. Today once more I’m up and battling depression, staring the devil in the face and politely asking him to go away. I’m having to draw upon the inspiration behind this blog, which goes as far back as the American comedy drama series called Californication. That was about a man suffering from writer’s block who started blogging when he wasn’t drinking and womanising. It starred David Duchovny, the guy from the X-Files. Something about him writing at a workstation rubbed off on me. I wanted to write at a computer terminal myself, with no script, just like he did. He looked rather cool while doing so. Kinda busy and self-employed.

I wondered what he was writing about. No matter what happened in his life, he always had his blogging to fall back upon. I recall him doing it publicly, in internet cafes. What are other bloggers penning about out there? I have so much to say but so little balls to say it.  I wouldn’t know where to start with what is really going on in my mind. Maybe in the next coming weeks I’ll find the Jacob’s Cream Crackers (knackers) to say it. Until then, I’ll try to keep smiling. There is always someone worse off than yourself.

I remember watching a man being burned alive on some dodgy video tape I once owned. It was lent to me by some dude we called ‘The Cockney’. The Cockney, incidentally, fell down the stairs drunk and gashed his head in via the glass door at the bottom. This burning man anyway was sat down with his legs crossed, completely on fire all over, and he didn’t move a muscle. I don’t know why I’m thinking of him now, but he was a true warrior. You’d expect him to be running or thrashing about, wouldn’t you, but none of it. He was so still, he could have been meditating or summet. How can you not react when all up in flame? It was basically an execution video, I only watched it with my mates for a laugh, I wouldn’t watch anything like it now because it gives me nightmares. Similarly, there was a website called Toxic Junction I watched one evening. Full of people dying on camera. Stuff like that stays with you forever. Not very healthy for the old grey matter.

I hope and pray that all manifest evil slides over me like bath bubbles. I dream of being cleansed and holy like Christ. One time my room was full of demon and one of them I thought was looking like Jesus for kicks. He came closer to me than all the others. I was scared of my own shadow at the time, so I couldn’t comprehend the possibility that it might in fact be Christ. Now, in 20/20 hindsight, I believe that it was him. Jesus Christ feared nothing because of the light inside of him. I believe, that, throughout all my psychosis struggles, Christ walks with me. I’m going to do my very best from now on to adhere to that joyous fact. I’d like to thank Jill, my chaplain, for praying for me. And I’d like to thank Fiona, at the mental health drop in centre, for being nice to me.

 

Can I Get A Rewind

 

Hello again. I’ve slipped up and used during the early part of this week but I’ll not linger on it but rather jump straight back into the saddle. It’s not worth crying over spilt milk. After a week off it’s a little harder battering the white void. The more you do it the easier it gets. It’s like practising snooker or pool. When professionals take a few days away from the table it must feel like a lifetime. It’s exactly the same with writing. If I’m honest, I’m struggling to pen anything at the moment. This post is proving difficult. It could be to do with the fact that I spent the whole of yesterday in bed, nursing my comedown. I had a tragic, romantic dream. I’ve forced myself up this morning to attend an AA meeting. It’s only around the corner from where I live. It’s a rather large meeting, attended by forty to fifty or so. I find it friendlier than the NA fellowship. Who would you rather be locked in a room with, a gaggle of drug addicts or a band of drunks?

I’m not even an alcoholic. Given, I’ve been drinking almost every day for the last month or so, but I don’t self-identify with alcoholism. It’s not what makes me tick. Neither do the drugs. If I had to call myself something, I would call myself a sex addict. The substances just make it sweeter; the booze merely eases the pain. I’ll be having a tipple or two straight after this, however; there’s a Wetherspoons not far from here, on the way home. I usually have about three or four pints of lager, depending on my mood. Sometimes, I’ll drink some cans from the shop in the evening. I’ve recently gone 8 weeks with no booze at all, so I know it can be done. I was drinking four or five coffees instead of four pints.

I forgot how hard it can be to simply type some writing up. Things are just harder when I’m far from rare. That doesn’t mean I’m about to give up. I think I’ll always connect here with you and go on a mad waffling streak, even if I’m waffling about nothing. I hope you’re doing well. I take great delight in other people doing well. I know a gentleman from therapy group who landed on hard times in the summer. He lost his wife and his home and everything. His rough going adversity has recently ended though, after it tiptopped with a suicide attempt. He’s found a new home, met someone new, and got a new job. I’m overly delighted for him. Would I be happy for you, if I knew your circumstances? Or are you having it quite hard as am I?

This blog is the only writing I’m doing at the present time. Is it enough, or do I need to write a story? I honestly don’t know where the next one is going to come from. A lack of ideas is not the problem; it’s the execution of those ideas. If I had a comfortable study with a regal mahogany desk, things just might be slightly different. Or am I making excuses? Peace out x

Day 18

I’m listening to the lead singer from Rammstein’s latest solo album. Till LIndemann. He’s playing live in London next week. I sure would love to go. I remember missing a Rammstein concert once and my only consolation was the fact that I was having sex with my girlfriend at the time. The session lasted for over two hours, about the same time as the concert. Is that too much information? It’s true though. I was going at her like a porn star. I didn’t fancy her all that much either, I was simply doing the honourable deed. Sex or Rammstein? Which would you prefer? A rumpy-pumpy session with a hot girl or your favourite band in concert? It’s a tough one, isn’t it? I’d have to go with the band. Rammstein are Germany’s biggest export, they get banned in certain countries, and are famous for their level of pyrotechnics and flame-throwers live on stage. I’ve seen them three times. A word of advice: If you’re going to a concert and intend on buying a lot of merchandise, buy it at the end. Don’t be like me getting bogged down with posters and cups and hoodies and whatever before the music even begins. Why? Because you might want to hop over the rail into the mosh pit, and you can’t do that with your arms full of wares. I thoroughly recommend that activity.

I had a pleasant evening last night. I went to a highly-regarded Department Store called The Range with my niece. For an hour or so I just followed her round as she looked at all the toys. We even tried our hand at a pogo stick together. She was slightly better than myself. Pogo sticking is up there with skateboarding if you ask me. She only had just over three pounds in cash in her little pink purse so all she could afford was a cheap plastic noisy trumpet, which I vouched for. Her parents duly thanked me for that. The store put me in the Christmas spirit, and made me realise that Christmas, done properly, must cost about the same price as a wedding. Rosie’s mum spent £150 on a few decorations. (When we got back home we had sausage and chips from The Dolphin chippy for tea. Rosie started crying, God bless her, because she spilled gravy over her mum’s new rug, lol). A lit-up glass polar bear caught my eye. You’d want a few of them in the hallway for starters, wouldn’t you, done properly. I can’t afford it, anyway. And then there are all the presents for everybody. I hate to tell ya but my gift to you is ten quid in a card. It’s the time of year to be a philanthropist millionaire with all the time in the world to think about people. I used to dislike getting deodorant and shower gel for Christmas as little not-so thoughtful gifts from people but I’ve since warmed to the idea as toiletries are quite important to me since having nothing to my name in hospital. I call washing, bathing or showering “blessing up,” as I think it is a blessing to be able to make oneself nice and clean and presentable. Dirtless, faultless, flawless, cleanliness next to Godliness. In hospital I started mixing several shower gels together to make a personal scent. One of them, a Lynx I can’t find anymore, smelled like a kind of jam. I didn’t like it at the time but it grew on me a lot. I used to think shower gel as a gift for Christmas was an insult but now I’d love to get one off somebody.

Been church this morning, belting out the hymns. Remember people, the louder you sing the better you feel. A guy from Liverpool Philharmonic Orchestra taught me that. He would visit Scott Clinic, a forensic unit I was in, and play tunes on his piano. One impressive patient sang on his own. I went to a choir rehearsal here at The Parr Hall, the town’s local gigging venue, to watch a session in practice last year. I was the only spectator. It was really gracious to watch well-mannered carollers get together in an ensemble and roll out the numbers. My fav was “Dancing In The Street.” I met Phil Heath, Mr. Olympia, at the Parr Hall. Frankie Boyle was there the other month. Rammstein haven’t played there yet. I was the Sacrificial Poet at a Spoken Word event there. This means that you go first. I put a couple of songs I’d written into a piece and ad-libbed it without reading from any paper. I nearly slipped up. It was a very challenging piece in front of about a hundred people. I couldn’t do it now, I’ve forgotten it all. Usually at poetry events I read from paper. It’s just safer that way and it’s impossible to choke because the text is right there in front of you. If you slip up without any paper to refer to then the arse falls off the whole thing and you look like a mong. I dislike looking like a mong unless I’m in the privacy of my own home. Later ‘gators.

And On The 17th Day...

Hiya. Hope this is reaching you in good spirits. I robbed this opening line from John Siddique, the poet. He always writes that he hopes his readers are well. I met him once at a Liverpool speaking event, I was on a panel with him. He’s the deepest poet in circulation for me. He’s all about spirit and awareness, I like his style. Sorry to steal from you, John, but it had to be taken. Try to feel complimented, if at all possible. I don’t take much from other writers. But I really do hope that my White Voider is well. I’m quite well myself, although no pool yet today (you should have seen the long doubled black I got yesterday afternoon). I’ve just been to an AA meeting. One man said that he was having an argument with his neighbour; he was thinking about dragging him out of his home and burning him alive in front of his kids. He also prayed that he developed warts on his penis. Charming, huh?

Wild astral last night. I have a recurring dream about a gigantic school I’m always roving around in. It’s huge. On the bottom floor my favourite teacher who I had a crush on was taking a class on Telepathy. It was magnificently phenomenal to see her again, it’s been twenty five years. I walked in and asked if I could join her. She was writing and smiling with a young child. Next there was this band playing and it all changed, you know how dreams are. But this school…there are so many floors and so many rooms. So many magical people behind its walls. What does it mean? I dream about half a dozen dreams every single night without fail. I look forward so much to going to bed. It’s the best part of the day. “Hypnagogic” means falling asleep and “hypnopompic” means waking up. These are my favourite states of consciousness. My thought patterns inside these sorcerous, lucid times are so much different than usual, they’re elevated and enhanced somehow. Faster. Better. Foreign. Alien.

I believe my parasites have something to do with it. I’m drawn to wondering about their brain rhythms. Do they even have brains? I haven’t researched them because I’m too scaredy-pants-terror-stricken to find out how frightful they really are. But I imagine that they do because I’ve seen their mind’s eye in my mind’s eye, so they definitely have consciousness. Before you ask what that was like I’d have to say that it’s hard to describe. I couldn’t make out what I was looking at. Maybe some kind of architecture or scenario, I dunno, I’m not sure. But their consciousness absolutely interacts with mine, right on the money, or right on the nose if you prefer, with that one. Think of the superhero Venom and you’re halfway there. It’s what you call a symbiotic relationship. We’re in league, we’re hand in glove, we’re synergetic. They feed on my blood, my blood is in their brain, their blood is in my brain, that’s just the way it is. I’ve had them for over four years now and this adopted mentality has taken a lot of time getting used to.

Have you seen the movie Prometheus? You may or may not be familiar with those massive naked muscular human-esque beings who look like giants from the Book of Enoch. Well, these beings figure largely in my psychosis. They go under the term of Archon. David Icke talks about them in his conspiracy lectures. Basically, they are an inter-dimensional alien race who feed on human energy. It’s great to see one, or one to that effect, filmed, in action, fighting other aliens, in Prometheus. Spectacularly sublime there, Ridley. They figure in my dreams largely too. One was going to eat me the other night and in my desperation I claimed to be Spiderman (you know, someone important). The next night I watched Spiderman. I mentioned that Spiderman has the Holy Spirit inside him. The most evident I saw the comicality of the Holy Spirit in Homecoming (2017), was when Michael Keaton busted someone’s head against the side of a car. I’m sorry, but fake violence in movies tickles me. I lolled (laughed out loud) a couple of times. Hollywood violence, for laughs, has nothing on Bollywood however. And Bollywood violence has nothing on Coronation Street violence. Have you seen the fights in Coronation Street? They’re few and far between but when they happen I believe it’s a gift from the Holy Spirit. They are like SO funny. Eastenders is exactly the same. And don’t get me started on Buck Rogers. LOL LOL LOL LOL LOL!!!

Not much more to say really today, apart from the fact that I’ve had an idea for this Christmas poem I’ve promised Fiona. I found the Christmas Spirit when I woke up this morning and I thought of Abbie opening gifts beneath a tree, so that’s where the poem is going to start. It’ll end with me having a tipple and Abbie having a Babycham in the evening. There’s no reason for you to know, but Abbie is an imaginary friend/ghost/angel who I perceive all the time. I believe she is the most powerful little girl in the known universe, and she has been sent from God to assist me through my tribulations. Despite the obvious horrors, like demons in the Seventh Circle, my psychosis has beautiful positive upsides. That’s it for now. Ta’ra x

 

16 Days In

Back again compatriot. You know you can’t get enough of me. Just be forthright honest about it. I can’t get enough of you. I don’t know what I’d do without you. I’m missing my artwork, especially graphic design, but at least I’ve still got my writing. Is blogging really writing, or does it have to be fiction? When I was judging a competition with the Manchester Titan (or is it Manchester Tart?), Nicholas Royle, lecturer at Manchester University, he seemed to lean towards rewarding the fiction entries. I picked the winner in the end, and it was autobiographical. I was wrong, Nick, fiction is much better and should be duly rewarded in competitions. I think I fell in love with the winner’s honesty, though. He hadn’t even typed it up however, so he should never have won.  Maybe he didn’t have access to a computer. My ultimate preferred art is auto-fiction, and that’s what my books are.

Just trying this almost daily blog thing out still. It is basically waffle if you’re not commenting on a theme. I don’t have a theme today. I could talk about the game of pool, I suppose. I’ve always thunk that nothing can bother you when you’re busy playing pool. The way I play it, on my own, zipping around the table with every shot to myself, it keeps me relatively fit. I used to treat it like a workout and play in shorts to keep me cool. I’ve been playing this morning/afternoon. I had six frames or so before I came here to the library. In between I attended my local mental health drop in. They were talking about I’m A Celebrity…Get me Out Of Here. I don’t watch TV so I was slightly left out of the conversation. I do know that Fred the Chef is having a hard time though.

Would you be able to stomach the disgusting trials they do on that show? For me, you can’t beat Paul Burrelll screaming his head off just because he’s armpit deep in a fish tank full of ants or something. Now that was quality entertainment television. Golden television, if you ask me. A big posh coward shitting himself with a funny grimace/scream. Unbeatable. Is it still like that? Will that uppity butler-ing dimwit ever be beaten? I might be insulting the no guts weak-kneed panicky shitbag here on the blogspot, but rest assured I’ve got big love for the dude. I think he’s great and a blessing to British TV.

Clint from the drop-in is my fictitious literary agent. We joke about that. I call him my agent because he’s made a few suggestions for my book (which is complete, by the way, 100% typed up). I’m just lacking the front matter and the back matter. If I had my Photoshop Elements 6.0, I could knock up a few illustrations to throw in there, but without, and left to my doodling ability, I’m at a bit of a loss. Have you checked out James Patterson’s front matter yet? Wow. It’s simply awesome. Creative wordart, I’d call it. Or text design. His back matter is column upon column of his previous works, nearly all or completely all of them collaborated with somebody else. I’d sure like to get in with Patterson. James Patterson with Andrew Donegan, how does that sound? Pleasing to ya? I’d hang with him any day, yeah, you bet’cha. What’s he write again, boring cop thrillers? Only messing, James. Best front matter in the world. You see maps and everything in front matter these days. I’m trying to be creative with mine, but like I say, without a computer I’m fairly limited. I’ve still got all of my previous pamphlets however with decent matter and they’re around forever. I take matter quite seriously. I was putting adverts in for other books at one point.

16 Days in at the moment. Will I ever get to Rare again? Or will I crash and burn just before? I know that I’m loved by the biggest and best Most On Highest no matter what I do, God’s love is unconditional, so sod it, no pressure on myself. I think the content of this blog is evident of the fact how I’m doing. A few weeks ago I was in a bad place so I posted darkly about Chinese organ harvesting. Now I’m in a much better place so I’m blogging about a pansy with his rolled-up sleeve shirt in a tub of spiders or whatever the damn things were. See the difference? Merry Christmas to all. Christmas is here! x

Green Man

 

Hi again. I’m back for sloppy seconds to see if I can do this thing daily. That would be impossible, because the library isn’t open every day, but you know what I mean. Am I up for it? Well, let’s try shall we? Who am I kidding? I’m no Christopher Fowler. Now he was a good daily blogger. I haven’t read any of his books but I did catch one of his short stories in an anthology somewhere entitled The Green Man. All I can remember from it is a green apelike man emerging from some undergrowth in the jungle somewhere. It’s strange, isn’t it, the remaining images and visuals we take from stories. A lot of mine don’t make all that much sense. I get them from somewhere though. You should have saw my dreams (astral) last night blud. Wowsers. It was off the hook. Visuals from stories, movies and dreams can all intermingle in my observations. With a dash of acute mental agility one can make some pretty nice images in the mind to look at using these as inspiration.

I could write something every day, if I was pushed to it, here at the blogspot. My word count goal on a blog post is 500 words. If I feel like treating White Voider to a long one, usually because I’ve been away for a while, I’ll shoot for 750. I’m not really writing any interesting articles lately, my posts seem to be recovery based. How am I doing? Nobody tells me anything around here anymore. I think I’m being quite honest with myself and everybody else. There’s always room for improvement however. My friend Fiona has charged me with the responsibility of coming up with a festive poem, so that not-so insignificant task has wormed its way onto my agenda. A Christmas poem, from old misery guts Scrooge here, yeah sure, I’d like to see that. I told her I’d give it a go though and generally you can hold me to my word, apart from that is complete bollocks. You can never trust an addict, okay? Never. All the addict cares about is his next fix.

Do you believe that the addict is always an addict, or that, after so much clean time, the addict is cured and free to live a drug free life? Can a leopard change its spots, in effect? I am still on the fence regarding this. I simply don’t know whether it can be done or not. I haven’t done it myself yet. Well, Andrew, you recently did nine months straight without any substances. Oh yeah, thanks for reminding me. I did. Half of it was default because I was banged up in hospital but it still counts as clean. You’re either clean or you’re not. For me, at the moment (atm), I’m 15 Days halfway clean. I’d say that all drugs are out of the bodily system by a month, wouldn’t you? That’s how I define clean. For others it’s much longer, and to be an elder within the fellowships you have to be two years clean minimum. The fellowships are Alcoholics Anonymous (AA), and Narcotics Anonymous (NA). I occasionally attend both. Danny Torrence from The Shining in Doctor Sleep used to attend AA (a quick note to Stephen King there). His latest book is called Holly and you know how I feel about movies and books being named after female Christian names – they are usually off on a winner. Anyway, that’s nearly 600 words, so I’ll end it here. This was just a practice to see if I could do it on a daily basis, like Fowler did so brilliantly, and I’m not 100% sure, but I think I may have passed.