Lefty Loosey: Righty Tighty

There is a fairly ominous omen intent on wining me off from my battle station, which is this blog. I fear, that if I take my eye off the ball, I may be permanently isolated away from social encounters and unable to be capable of willing the brave guts and efforts it sometimes takes to make strides forward by going public and typing posts like this. I face a lot of antagonism when I try to express myself lately. The best nugget of advice I received recently was, ‘Never Let The Bast*rds See You Down.’ I believe it. Always try and cheer yourself up with something funny. Humour is a blessing, one of our greatest strengths.

This is remarkably easy to do for me if I say ‘Sod it’ and start to get drunk. Then I just tip back can after can into my gob and start singing half-naked on the lawn. Job’s a Damned Good’un and there’s not a lot of anything in particular anyone can ever do about it. Apart from police riot vans, that is, and doctors on the doorstep at barmy o’clock. The problem is, there are always consequences, like aching hangovers full of shame and regret. It’s a escape route, but it’s not thee escape route.

I enjoy the challenge of saying sober because once I start it’ll speedily become an entrenched long-lasting life behaviour. I must stop drinking non-alcoholic beverages too, because the five I had yesterday gave me chronic gas reflex bordering on projectile vomiting. Someone talk me out of writing a letter of complaint to the stinking rotten brewery responsible because I’m already half-inclined to verbalizing my disgust, as if they don’t know already what they’re lining up in the fridges behind the bars inside the pubs and clubs of this country. Tastes like carbonated liposuction.

And of course, with a bevvy, in then steps the common old house fag, 40 on a bad day, which simply adores any old drink in the right hand to burn down alongside with. I can’t be fully ‘In Christ’ if I am dying in a hospice with lung cancer, can I? Well maybe I can be, but it won’t be for long. First things first, just stay the hell alive chum. Keep breathing, for one, and we’ll sort out everything else later. Got it? Okay.

Today was a day I could quite have easily remained in Cloud Nine of The Cosy Corner and weighed up my sorrows in two heavy hands, if not slightly wetted by a tear or two. I would have been there all day though, and where would it have led? Imagine weeping with the prospect of facing the morning, unable to stand to two feet and go out into the sweeping breeze to surmise any challenges, not even an easy one for starters such as purchasing a pint of milk for coffee? The world is sometimes itching to treat you like a doormat.

One day, unholy of unholies, this possibility might not be far off. Wow! Whatever would I do then, without this small breadth of text styling to extoll my higher virtues? Whatever happens, come snow rain or shine, I should be here. I didn’t know how magnificent life could be, you know, until I thought that magnificent was normal. Then I was threatened with having no platform, and much worse besides, in which to vent my wraths, furies, heartaches, joys, successes and thrills. It’s not just this blog up for grabs, it’s my ability to write in its entirety. Every couple of months my head keeps falling off, and I lose the plot. At the moment I’m currently re-screwing it back on. Hopefully a lot more tightly than ever before.