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.