CECILE

Cecile didn't understand social-media.

And why should she?

If any of the other birds had anything to say, they didn't tweet; they gobbled.

All day.

They all knew that one day, if the sky didn't fall in, they would all be taken to 'The Wild'.
And there they would cluck, putt, purr and yelp.

But until then, they would just gobble.

All day.

Cecile couldn't understand why her mother was so famous?
She didn't know her very well, but her photo had reached the far corners of the earth!
Headless, footless and with a Wild tan to-die-for, the image of her and her big game hunter became an internet sensation.
The people from the Wild asked the hunter where she came across my mother?
They asked the hunter if she'd had to put her hand up her mother's bottom?
And if her inside bits were edible?
They asked her what they should bathe her mother in? (Fame has its luxuries after all).
They Liked the photo, they Shared the photo, they Favourited the photo and they Tweeted incessantly.

A little bit like Cecile & the other birds did, the last time they saw their mothers.

Cecile knew they would be taken to The Wild soon.

The sounds from the box on the wall had changed; the grain they were fed was plump and forthcoming.

The weapon that the hunter in the photo brandished with a smile, began to appear everywhere, especially near the door that led to The Wild.

The people with the phones that shared the photo wore hats.

Red ones, with bobbles.

All day.

As Cecile followed her chubby little friends, to the door that would make her 'Queen of the Jungle', she remembered the last thing her mother had told her

"Do not try to fight a lion, if you are not one yourself".

(African Proverb)

DIARY OF A 21st CENTURY OPIUM-EATER.

Day 7:
It wasn't the crippling constipation in the end.
I wonder, when people say they're 'shitting bricks', if they really know how it feels to shit a brick?

And it wasn't the dry mouth or the sweating; nor the confusion, the restlessness, the drowsiness or lack of libido.

It wasn't the feeling of vulnerability or the inability to leave the house.

It wasn't the fact that I couldn't be arsed doing anything.
And it wasn't even the hallucinations and the voices.
(I quite liked them).

No.
It was the permanent ear-worm, during daylight hours, AND during sleep.
Relentless.
Lurking in my mind.
Apparent in my humming and in my whistle.
The soundtrack to my dreams.

At first it was 'Mistletoe and Wine'.
Then came 'Merry Xmas Everybody'.
Over and over.
Like a shitty Christmas jukebox stuck on repeat.
A Now That's What I Call Xmas CD on shuffle.
A commercial radio station in November, with a suicidally depressed DJ, working out his pension.

When I joined the Parade of the Wooden Soldiers on Phil Spector's 'A Christmas Gift For You', I knew it was time to ditch the smack.
My head felt like it was about to implode.
I was marching to the beat of a thousand existential crises.

I hate the Yuletide period with a passion anyway; I make no secret of it.
I'm the Grinch of Generation X.

But this was enough to make even the most sentimental of supermarket managers kick over his pallet of Quality Street tins.

I've put the remaining morphine in the fridge for now.

I know it's there if I ever need to hasten 'the End'.
It's incredibly effective at suppressing physical pain.
But I'm not ready to go yet.
Not if it means holding hands with Cliff and Noddy Holder.
I'd rather live in misery and discomfort.

Now.
Where's that bleach?

DIARY OF A 21st CENTURY OPIUM-EATER

DAY 5:

Constipated.

Severely constipated and very angry.
(Unsure if the two are related?)

Still.
I've been pain-free for three of the last four days.
(If you discount the unripe watermelon in my bowels).

OCD at an all-time high.
Currently dusting the cobwebs in my garage.

DIARY OF A 21st CENTURY OPIUM-EATER

I have been prescribed morphine, an opiate derived from the opium-poppy.
Over the past few years, I have been passed from pillar to post, consultant to GP to specialist, clinic to operating theatre, and back again.
My MRI's show at least six prolapsed discs bulging against my nerve system.
Everyone agrees I need surgery, but no-one has created that opportunity yet.
Whilst I wait for the new Tory Administration to ring-fence NHS spending, and formalise budgets, I have been given smack to take away my pain.

DAY 1:
On the advice of my GP, I take a small teaspoonful of oral morphine. It's a fairly insignificant amount, compared with the bulk quantities of distalgesia and neuropathic pills that I imbibe on a daily basis.
Initially, I get a slight headache, although this could be due to the copious amounts of coffee I had this morning, fueling my desire to become a 'Trainspotter'.
I seem to be talking a lot, although I'm usually quite loquacious; but apart from an obvious thirst, nothing really happens.

Until about half-an-hour has elapsed.

The light-headedness I feel is akin to that first sip (or gulp) of wedding champagne, on a warm summer's day. The nice bit, before the tiredness and uncomfortable shoes start to dictate proceedings.
It's lovely!
I'm not one for getting drunk. I like the first bit. But similarly to most people, I struggle to maintain that level of tipsiness.
I'm constantly searching for a 'session beer', lower in alcohol than the stuff you find on pallets in Tesco.
And as I get older and "lurch unsteadily to the Right" (Tim Clare) I find myself slowing down for horses, keeping a safe distance, picking up other people's rubbish, and trying to keep the warm feeling of premature drunkeness afloat, rather than drowning in complete & utter pissed twat.
This is where I'm happily at, after one hour of morphine.
The pain has all but gone.

Incidentally; if you'd like to learn more about the ageing process, and the political swingometers of the greying-pubed, early-middle-aged gent, go & see Patrick Lappin's show 'Chasing Norman Tebbit', currently showing at the Brighton Fringe.
http://ticketing.brightonfringe.org/comedy/9195/patrick-lappin-chasing-norman-tebbit

After more than an hour, my head is less tipsy, and a lot more furry, blurry and misty around the edges.
It's a bit like being on mushrooms.
I find myself talking constantly, mainly to myself, but pretending I'm talking to the dog.
I talk to every dog-walker I encounter, even the ones I normally try to avoid.
I smile a lot.
This is really nice.
The pain has been completely eradicated.

After a couple of hours I begin to feel a bit detached.
A bit fucked if I'm honest.
It feels like the MDMA 'plateau', after the initial rush has subsided.
I feel compos mentis, but I'm inadequate in what I try to do.
I fumble a lot.
I could quite happily lie in the bath forever.
I find myself literally laughing out loud.

I run around the house totally naked, and free of any inhibitions.
I smoke pot, because I feel the need for a leveller.
I think about dying my hair, but slump in front of the telly.
I watch a programme on aerial archaeology.

When I wake-up, I have a banging headache.
My aches and pains are returning, and to be honest, I feel like shit.
I rush around tidying.
My OCD is back to a high state of alert.
And my back feels worse than its ever done.

I think about having another hit, but decide that it's probably time to cook the wife's tea.

Maybe tomorrow................

YANNY MAC'S TENNER LADY XMAS

Great to see Krusty back on our telly-box last night, after what seemed like an interminable amount of time away.
Ms. FullSock decided to give the FREE STUFF a rest for a bit
(http://yannymac.blogspot.co.uk/?zx=22a724b421c5d621) and concentrate on getting crafty, ahead of the two-week long Waitrose Wobble in South Ken, that the rest of us know as ‘the festive period’.
In setting-up her grotto, Location Location Location star Krusty opted for Blenheim Palace as a venue.
As a keen whittler & car-boot man myself, I tried to book a pitch at Blenheim this very morning, and here’s how the telephone conversation went;

“Good Morning, Blenheim Palace Office Enquiries.  How can I help?”

“Hi. I saw Krusty FullSock on TV last night and wondered how I went about setting up my own grotto?”

“I beg your pardon sir?”

“I’d like to book a pitch at your next car boot sale please?”

“I’m sorry sir. That was a one-orf.  For Channel 4. For our Christmas Fire. ”

“So there’s no way of setting up another grotto at Blenheim?  In the future?  For free.”

“No sir. Not for the foreseeable future.”

“Oh. Ok. Thanks. Bye.”

“Thank you sir. Goodbye.”

To be honest, I was feeling a bit cheated.
If Pinter were still alive he’d have a field-day with that bit of dialogue, but I’m no playwright, and Harold’s long since gone; so I set about trying to create a Santa-Style grotto of my own, using some of Krusty’s ‘fregan’ tricks from her last money-spinning venture. http://yannymac.blogspot.co.uk/?zx=22a724b421c5d621


In last night’s show, FullSock made almost all of her Cath Kidston chintz in her ‘home studio’.
Living in a standard two up/two down, I don’t have room for a studio (nor a coffee table, nor a washing machine, nor a double bed) so I decided to get to work with my hammer & tongs in the bathroom.

How to burn your tree instead of recycling it.

Krusty also visited Norway.

I don’t have the money to buy even a coffee in Oslo, let alone jump on a flight to get Scandi-Inspired, so I visited Lowestoft, the further point east in the UK.
Lowestoft has loads of shops.
Lowestoft also has loads of grottos, ranging from the half-hearted, to the half-arsed.
But it wasn’t enough.

It was like Krusty had shown us a world where dreams really could come true, but we weren’t really invited (although we were allowed to watch).
Fullsock famously once said in the Hull Daily Mail;
"I didn't go to university, didn't do well at school, I didn't have an easy 20s, I never perceived myself - and certainly no-one else has - as cool……..
I bought my first flat when I was 21, and from a very early age I was the one at home fussing about”.
(http://www.hulldailymail.co.uk/Kirstie-Allsopp-happy-lead-Handmade-Christmas/story-25142176-detail/story.html)

It was at this point that I realised how I was going to have a Christmas just like hers!
I needed to buy my own flat.

But first, I needed inspiration.
I went back to my video-taped recording of last night’s visual cornucopia, and this time I watched all of the adverts (and the funny little bit at the end, where the hard-working editorial assistants get their names squeezed into the corner, so that the ‘book accompanying this programme/series’ can be advertised).

And there it was!
The book.
And not just one.
Four!
Krusty’s Handmade Christmas, AND Krusty’s Homemade Home, AND Krusty’s Christmas Crafts AND Krusty FullSock’s Crafts!

All available through Amazon (negating the need for trying to find a book-shop in Lowestoft) and all over a TENNER, thus ensuring FREE DELIVERY, as long as I paid £70 for Prime next year.

Not only did I not have to get a mortgage, move to Oxon, flirt with horses, holiday in the Arctic and invest in a home-studio, but I could do the whole thing from my bed!

God bless you Krusty FullSock, and your endless multi-talented ways.
I hope Baby Jesus brings you all you could ever ask for this year
(or at least keeps the poor people from your door).

Merry Xmas Everyone & Happy Buying Lots of Stuff (instead of making it yourself).

YANNY MAC'S TEN MINUTE 'FILL YOUR HOUSE FOR FREE'.

Inspired by Krusty Allsopp's attempts at creating a 'man-cave' for absolutely no expenditure, at all, whatsoever, and completely for free, I've decided to concentrate on one of the grittier aspects of austerity-chic this month.

Hopefully in this blog, I'll tell you how to source stuff, without spending too much (or any!) money, and how you can fill your house with it, occasionally to the brim.
Of course, in Krusty's world, you need to do this before university, but after having several children and buying a flat (obvs).

This is one occasion where I'd unusually recommend that you DON'T go to Tesco.
Their Bogofs do suggest that there is a 'free' aspect to the transaction; but did you know that you're not actually getting anything free, but just two things at half-price?!?
No. I recommend going to garage-sales, jumble-sales or carboot-sales, just as the vendors are packing away.
The wife recently got a free electric piano that takes up the whole of our dining-room, despite the fact that neither of us can play the piano!
We now use it as a sideboard for storing all the free stuff we have got from other garage sales.

Don't be afraid to scour lay-bys.
A good splash of catering-sized cooking oil and the odd slice of broken white goods, can jolly-up a shed or garage, and can often put spice back into your convoluted storage systems.
I know some of my regular readers are keen on attracting birds, and the added bonus of bringing home drums of used oil, is the amount of fat-balls one can create from just a 20 litre tin.
Birds love fat balls, and who am I to judge?

Pre-Loved, Ebay and Freecycle are ok I suppose.

Once you've filled your house with loads of unwanted stuff, why not do as Krusty does, and go out and spend all the money you've saved on a new house?
Then you can fill up your new house with loads more stuff, keeping Britain ever so tidy, and 'the economy' buoyant, bouncy, bubbly and twee.

Ingredients:
Everything everyone else thought they wanted, but then threw away.
Internet subscription (for Freecycle et al)
Broadband/Telephone Line
Car (or Van will do)
Petrol
Free Time ( Optional - may be a little expensive)
For the source: Turn off the television.

REMEMBRANCE WEEKEND (A rant from the Noughties)

REMEMBRANCE WEEKEND  (A rant from the Noughties)

I can’t remember where it was, or even when?

Just a green hill faraway
where holy-grails and lay-lines lay.

Summer solstice, summer bank holiday
sometime in summertime?

It was raining, we were wet, there was mud.

(Not the 1970’s glam-pop band that did ‘Tiger Feet’,  
but who knows?  They might have been).

I can’t remember who was there

but the Stone Roses weren’t because I read about it later.

Jarvis Cocker asked us if we remembered our ‘first time’

and we all pretended that we did, and I told the girl that I was with

that I remembered Pulp in ’93, but I doubt she remembered me.

I can’t remember why we went?  Why we always went.

But I do recall throwing-up noodles after ‘shrooms in the Cider Bus

and carving ‘the Beatles were shit’ on a tree.
A tree that was actually growing, right in front of us!

Yeah. Twat.

Then I don’t remember much after that.

Except too much oestrogen, not enough oxygen

and the overwhelming stench of shite and doughnuts.
And the Levellers.

And somehow the cow field morphed into Club Trippy-Caner

where the drugs were more expensive, but the hugs were free.

A serotonin-stinking place, where ownership’s a smiley face, and dealers take you by the hand and welcome you to dumb-dumb land, and total ecstasy.

I can’t remember what it was, or who it was that sold it to me?

It wasn’t the bloke who blagged my ticket,
nor the crusty with the ladder and the androgynous girlfriend,
and it definitely wasn’t the space-cake in the portaloo
or the ever so legal-highs.
But perhaps it was the tiny bit of mysticism
oozing from the zit-like Tor
or the filthy naked hippies, bearded and beaded
with sweat and fuzzy-felt bindis 
or the thoughtless wanker that stole my tent?

I really couldn’t remember. 

Then; in ‘the Year of the Storm’
(not to be confused with ‘the year of Floodstock’, or ‘the year of Mudstock  ‘I’ or ‘II’),
I began to remember everything.

Everything.
Every last detail (whilst standing in a never ending queue for a totally empty cashpoint).

The odour. The dry barren daytime
Re-fuelling with overpriced pear-shaped ‘cider’,
square pies, and a serious dearth of entertainment.
The fake stone circle, the endless hum of the generators,
and the in-cess-ant fuck-ing drum-ming
punctuated sporadically by shouts of  ‘Bollox’ & ‘Yer Mum’ at 4am in the morning.

The cold damp evenings. The prison fence.
The rubbish and the waste.
The techno-techno-techno muzak.
Beyonce’, semi-naked but chaste.
Bono. Sky TV. Acres & acres, but nowhere to roam.
Rows & rows of neatly stacked tepee’s, reminiscent of rabbit-hutches we like to call ‘home’.

Contempt bred through familiarity,
and the dawning realization that I no longer belonged here,

fused together in a synapse of clarities,
and drenched in piss weak Budweiser beer.

Here amongst the festival virgins;
smelly, sex-hungry, sunburnt and bum-funky.
Here amongst the Dunlop wellies, “that’ll cost ya guvnor!
Let’s say……..a monkey?”

Memories of a time when money didn’t matter were dismissed.
Memories of the agro, the drugged and the pissed.  

Mobile phone dementia in a sea of Prada handbags

Memories of a vale called Avalon.
Mecca market mania for pills and booze and fags.

Yes! It all came back to me!
(A flashback they say).

I remembered that sense of ‘having to be there’
That rite-of-passage, the Home County diaspora, the must-see event.
Blur at dusk, Radiohead at bedtime,
badgers on the periphery, and strange looking creatures in my tent.

The tent that was stolen
and never replaced.

Consumed,  then forgotten.

Remembered.
Then erased.