It's Jeremy the Sugar Puff Bear

Was it so nice? I didn't notice. It felt a lot like a greedy decade to me, a decade where our government could justify shameful atrocities against other countries and count on getting re-elected because people had a few more pounds in their back pockets. A bit of hardship will do us good. And I'm almost starting to feel sorry for the beleaguered Prime Minister. But it's a good job he came out fighting today. He's got a job to do, and he's going to do his job, and no matter what he'll get on with the job because he's got a job to do, that's his job. Paul McCartney could offer him some advice here: "Gord la, when you've got a job to do, do you gotta do it well, you've gotta give the other fella hell!" He's not very good at that last part is he? George Bush is an able communicator and an underated wit. I thought his speech today about Iran being the modern equvalent of the Nazis was timed deliciously and underpinned with hilarious irony.

So, anyway, I've run an extra 10k over two shifts the last couple of days in two 25 minute stint... oh, I can't be bothered with this. Needless to say, the endorphins are kicking up a storm. I'm doing alright. Hell, I deserve a couple of ciders in the morning.

Got a review of my band already:

http://playlouder.com/content/16836/son-of-king-rebel-the-bellicose-butchers-the-windmill-brixton

On Playlouder as well. How did that happen?

I appear to be having recurring pop dreams of a camp nature at the moment. It's like really bad ITV in my head all the time. This was a dinger though. I was working as a detective in a police station run by Queen. How can you diss a dream where Freddie Mercury runs around manically in a Kaiser Willhelm II helmet and Brian May is a dippy but genial radio controller? I didn't see Roger Taylor. This is how We Will Rock You should have been! If only Brian May and Robert de Niro could have waited five years we'd all be quids in. Ben Elton wouldn't have ended up working with Andrew Lloyd Webber and become the reviled and despised, backstabbing cunt he's believed to be these days (okay, that was probably inevitable), the West End would have spawned a whole genre of interesting shows like Primus: The Musical (rather than these terrifying, shortlived bollockheaded disasters like 'Tonight's the Night'), and I'd be rich, goddam it. I don't think think I'm entering another gay phase, but you never know. I've been to the gym a lot lately though. As Ray Parker Junior once said 'busting makes me feel good'.

This week so far I've run 17km, done 2000m on the rowing machine, half an hour’s cycling, 150 sit-ups, a bunch of machine weights and I walked to Angel for vegi sausage and mash. I think I'm gonna go again today (to the gym) and keep a tally a la thedavidx of all the physical exercise I do (to chart my retail consumption and reveal the details of the monster that is my sweet tooth would be too shameful to admit). My plan was to do a whole week flat out and check the results, but I fear a wee pint with thedavidx tomorrow morning may result in a day off. That might not be a bad thing though - especially after seeing pictures of Madonna lately. Ooh dear, I sense another dream coming on.

Ps: My brother is out of hospital and on the vicodin. He's going to be fine, though obviously he's rather bashed up. It gave us all quite a scare I don't mind telling you, but thankfully he's alive and very lucky boy.

Funny headline you might think, what with the weather being as lovely as it is. Actually, I've been out in it and I've been to the gym running, which usually lifts me up, but I've found the last few days to be trying to say the least. After getting mugged, I then couldn't get the time off for Frankie's wedding.

But these pale into comparison with the horrible biggy. My big bro has had a scooter accident. He's been out of it for 24 hours, has five broken ribs, a punctured lung and (the worrying one) blood on the brain or something, though the doctors and nurses have been reassuring his girlfriend it's not as serious as it sounds. He was down in Florida (he lives in D.C. but still owns a property down there) when it happened, though what happened he has no idea. Oh yeah, he also fractured his cheekbone and has a proper panda-eye and the prospect of a really cool Action Man scar. By all accounts (or Elizabeth's account anyway) he's Very Lucky to be alive. It really doesn't bear thnking about.

I'm off to Clissold Park where I shall read and attempt to get a little shut eye before work commenses again tonight. I'm almost looking forward to getting back to the safety of work surroundings. Let's hope Al Qaeda don't have other ideas.

Very annoyng. Was on my way, a bit pissed, admittedly. A very beautiful girl asked where we were going. I didn't really know. Then a guy came out of nowhere, held a knife to my throat, and made me give him all my money. Bastard. He kindly, after much protesting, gave me back my wallet.

I think for ever on I will be more sober, because I'm so angry. The police were meant to come round, but they didn't. I have no money. All I have is anger. I'm really upset by the way this has panned out. Shaken, not stirred.

I went to my doctor's today to resign for my reflux stomach drugs and found out my Doctor had died. For whatever reason, you just don't expect Doctors to die. Heal thyself physician and all that. I think I'd only ever seen him a few times but he seemed like a nice enough chap I suppose. My previous doctor was really fit. She was almost as fit as Fiona Bruce, and that's saying something. Not as hot as Kate McCann though. Shall I get on with it? Anyway, she was brilliant as Doctors go. She asked me once if I drank too much. I confessed I probably did. "I do too," she told me. I'm not sure why she left the surgery, but chances are with professional conduct like that she was probably struck off.

It was nice wondering around today in the sun. I think I need to do a bit more of it and get out of bed tomorrow. Sorry, that's a bit inane - I'm sure there was something I was going to relate. Nope. Gone.

I enjoyed the story in the Independent today where a resident of Lesbos is taking legal action to try and stop sapphists 'co-opting' the name. He claims Lesbians are tired of lesbians not from the Isle of Lesbos using the name. Obviously if he wins we'll all stop. Daft cunt.

I'm still choked. I started a campaign on Facebook called 'BOYCOTT THE STANDARD' and there are 88 subscribers so far. Not bad on a bank holiday weekend. Not that I think any of these people have ever bought the Evening Standard, but sometimes, when you see injustice, you have to have to stand up... a have a half decent, generic tagline. I sense a swell coming on.

In other news, my most fully formed band are playing at the Windmill, Brixton on Thursday at 8pm. It sounded ridiculously good tonight... and different. We were all so puffed up with pride we'd forgotten we weren't actually playing in front of anyone. That's when it's tangable - the people thing - so I hope we reproduce what we managed tonight. Anyway.. the Evening Standard thing - please add your support if you are on facebook and agree.


BOYCOTT THE STANDARD
Type:
Organizations - Political Organizations
Description:

This is a group that actively boycotts the Evening Standard, not that you've probably bought it for a while anyway, when there are other free 'quality' publications like London Lite out there (fucking boycott that too). But still, this is an organ that has abused the privilege of free speech like Josef Fritzl does a daughter. A paper that ran a smear campaign so squalid that it makes your skin itch. A publication that has little right to be classified as such. No, for the last 20 weeks and beyond the Evening Standard has been little more than a pamphlet of poisoned polemic, helping small minded bigots in London and beyond (that's you zone 5) elect a dangerous and divisive pelican who will ultimately cause discord and distress through out the many communities within the heart of London, and will no doubt repeal the fine work Mr Livingstone has done, making London a city you can actually travel across, occasionally with ease.

And that means no ES magazine as well. That's right, you're just going to have to miss out on finding out which double-barrel named equestrian looking Tatler "model" is stepping out on the arm of Otis Ferry this week. Be strong, be resolute, and let's leave this filth where it belongs, in the news stand. Some of the sellers are alright though, so don't attack them.

You'll find 'Boris Watch' there too. See how I'm luring you in already...

Had a great time away, wrote a new tune - a bawdy drinking song about facials no less, got some lyrics written, read the paper, fell in love for half an hour with a beautiful waitress in Bourse, watched jazz, drank with Irishmen, crept into a laundry room and slept/hid when I couldn't find my hostel, found the Jacques Brel eventually, ran away from some scary kids...

It was pretty eventful stuff and yet utterly pointless too, which was partly the point; ie, I cleared the noggin a bit. I might expound when I can be arsed. At the moment I'm trying to work out why my wachine washine is broken and how I'm going to fish my clothes out? And how to get my record player to work. I came back with a Jacques Brel record - who else? - 'cos he's like dead Belgian and that. And Dallas season one, a less considered and convoluted buy one thinks. I also have a band name for one of my bands which I thinks suits perfectly, so I'm expecting them to throw it back in my face any minute now. Back to life then. I wonder how the snooker is getting on...

I'm having a Stephen Fry moment. I've decided to fuck off to Belgium for a few days. Unlike Stephen I've told a few people. I woke up this morning and just thought, 'fuck it'. I can, and so I will. 7pm on Eurostar tomorrow. Anyone fancy it?

A really strange thing happened to me yesterday and I think it had a profound effect. I was walking about my house and I caught sight of myself in the mirror, turned round, looked, and for a moment I saw my dad. I've always taken after my mother, but for that split second I looked exactly like him, in his 30's, short hair and sideburns and everything. Which I suppose is to be expected really, though I don't mind saying it gave me quite a chill. I've not really felt particularly right since. For those who don't know me, he died a couple of years ago, maybe three now, and like losing any parent it was profoundly sad. And in the way I usually deal with things, I shut up shop and carried on, that is when I could stop myself crying myself to sleep when drunk as a fucking idiot.

I started thinking about him yesterday, imagining what it was like being in a second marriage he clearly couldn't abide towards the end, bringing up two young kids when he should have been retiring. But at least he had people around him I suppose. Sometimes you get lost in all this liberty and debauchery and you don't have time to look round and realise you're trapped in your own loneliness. Ah, it's not all that bad, it could certainly be worse. I was nattering to Amy Winehouse last night and I don't envy her at all. She stepped outside the pub and there were a million photographers around snapping the poor fucking girl and stalking her every move. What did she do to deserve that apart from be unbelievably talented?

Anyway, off to Brussels. There'll be no paps following me there.

I'm normally averse to people who gabble on about their dreams as if they're interesting, but I just wanted to share this one I just had as it was so darn vivid and realistic. Unfortunately it wasn't true.

I was in a studio rehearsing for a TV show with bloody Duran Duran! That's right, for some reason I was on guitar, and curiously wearing a Bretton top; I'm not sure why my subconcious imagines that if I were in Duran Duran I'd wear a Bretton top, but I did think I looked quite fetching, I have to say. I'm almost tempted to get one buy now I've seen it on but it's all about checks this season etc darling. Anyway, we were rehearsing songs for Wednesday, one of them I'd written, and another written by Simon from the second CD of the album (that for some reason nobody could find - so we were having trouble learning it). I'd upset Pal Waaktaar earlier (that's right, Pal from Aha was mysteriously in Duran Duran too now) by pointing out that a couple of his songs weren't quite up to scratch.

"Why do I never tell anyone I'm in Duran Duran," I think to myself. "I'm always going on about my new bands, and other stuff I've played in. I'm sure they'd be quite interested."

Then reality strikes. Oh no! When's the show?

"It's on Wednesday," David tells me. It seems John Taylor is no longer on bass. He's been replaced by David. I still haven't smelt a rat.

"Did you not get the time off," says David. "I told you we were doing this when you first joined Pewcise."

"Yes, but I couldn't just swan up on my first day and say, 'can I take such and such day off, I'm in Duran Duran' now could I?"

David agrees. Simon tries to reason with me, saying he'll pay for me to be in the band, and that I won't have to work. "But I like my job," I point out. I suspect this is where my rational brain spotted a stinker and propelled out of my happy delirium.

Dang, I like being in Duran Duran. So exciting was I that I may not be able to get back to sleep.

I considered turning Neighbours on, but it doesn't really do it for me anymore. I'm not sure whether it's because it's on FIVE or because I'm 35 and not really a paedo. I used to live for Neighbours when I was 17, but I suspect there was a good reason for that. As my mate James from my band that's not Duran Duran pointed out the other day, the casting directors should probably feel a sense of shame quite often, being that it's their job to spot sexy kids.

Right, I'm going to try and go under for another three hours now, but it could be difficult. I hope I get to decadently snort cocaine on Simon's yacht in the next installment, then bag myself a really cracking supermodel with luxuriant 80's hair.

Tomorrow I resume playing with my old nautical chums Rory and David. We played one gig together as fill-in members of ol' nautical barncake Stuart's The Barnicles, and what fun it was too. Not sure we're going to be salty sea dogs this time round. Not sure what we're gonna do actually. Renu, who I played in Bishi with, is on drums. Renu and I also played with this horrendous Austrian girl, but the less said about that the better. I really am a musical whore.



Yesterday wasn't the profligate disaster I'd initially thought it would be though I didn't really get going til after 11pm. I tidied my room (more of a feat than it sounds) and I got my internet working. The Mac doesn't seem to like the internet at the moment, so I dug out this clunking old thing. You have to turn it off every half hour because it's so riddled with viruses - it's like a blind, incontinent old dog - so we're very well suited.

Today I am working on lots of stuff. Or thinking about it anyway. Going to go to the gym and everything. Tonight the Fishy Fish comes round with his cornet. It truly is a beautiful day today.

I played a gig last night with Akira the Don in Cambridge, which was a triumph, especially as two of teh songs I'd never played before. Also - with my new shorthair I had two giggly girls tell me I looked like Robbie Williams, which is untrue but probably a compliment. He might be a baffoon but he's a shaggable baffoon I guess. Don't tell anyone this but I actually rather like Robbie Williams. Oh shit etc. I went to his gig in Milton Keynes once and it was one of the most special nights of my life, but it was more to do with the company than anything. Memory, all alone in the moonlight
I can dream of the old days, Life was beautiful then...

So anyway, because I'd left work on Monday morning I decided to go to the pub, and then kept going and realised I was going to havae no sleep at all. The gig, in Cambridge, was actually fantastic, even though I was utterly sloshed. It didn't go down well after though when I told the lead singer of The Indelicates that he was a poor man's Luke Haines. I'd like to say it was an accident, but I was feeling rather malicious at that point. I then drove everyone mad in the car by insisting I play 'Red Pony' by the Triffids for the 16th time. Everyone except me seems to hate the Triffids.

I was expecting to wake at 8am as I did the other week, but somehow rolled out of bed at 5:30pm feeling lousy. A whole day wasted really - though I'm thinking of going home now and hammering some nails into my wall to put leads. That would be some kind of achievement wouldn't it? Then tomorow I'm going to do some writing and maybe some of the backlog of freelance work I have to do. I hope the local shop sells nails. And a hammer. Oh fuckadoodle do, I may as well write off today altogether.

So I've been neglecting you lately dear diary, but sadly my mum died. To be fair, it was 1994, though something you don't forget. Her name maybe, what she looked like, and where we lived. Assuming I did live with her.

The week off was a monster, one of which I enjoyed greatly though not fiercely proud of. It would be uncouth to divulge too much, though that gives it all a certain sense of mystery and it gives you an inflated sense of my caddishness, or maybe just my tragicness. If tragicness is a word.

One thing I can tell you is that the band is going very well. So well in fact that I've decided to start another one, more of which soon. The one I'm currently honing makes me think loads of people are going to hate us. This pleases me. It also proves I'm ludicrously ambitious already, which is always a great way to start. No need to start thinking about dream crushing just yet.

The catshit situation has become untenable. People are moving out. If I was ever there but to sleep like a bat then I'd probably give a shit.

The only thing I miss at the moment with this working week thing is Question Time and This Week. Does anyone know how to programme the video?

A couple of kids tried to jack my bike while I was on it last night. Telling them to fuck off forcefully didn't seem to deter them at all. One of them kicked me, but it didn't hurt. The smart thing to do was ride off very quickly, which I did. I was chased half way down the cobbly Columbia road by one of them all the time swearing and being sweared at. It made my little heart race like a rabbits. Quite good fun actually, but I do fear they eventually got their bike some time Saturday night.

As I was lovingly kneeding pizza doe and pining for the one I will never have earlier, I realised I have turned into my mother. If I had less than two minutes to write this then I'd expound. Right, off to work, then a week off. Rah! Not going to Birmingham tomorrow after all...

Or "happy dead dude on a stick day," as my dear Australian friend Christiane put it so nicely. You'd think she'd be a little more pious with a name like that, but no, total heathen. Actually, a bit of a pagan too. I walked off offended as she was getting a hippy-dippy-candles-in-the-round-pagan outdoor blessing following her wedding recently, and as I stalked off I tripped face-first into a bunch of stinging nettles. Thankfully an old woman fished me out, but that'll teach me to be so dismissive.

Guess what, I was just completely naked with a gorgeous gym instructor. I just came out of the shower as she was turning the sauna off. She went red and told me to put some clothes on. Excuse me, it says "men" on the door. Made to feel like a total sex pest in my own changing room! It was a preferable experience to the time I was in the sauna and the chap next to be started bashing his old chap. People I've told this story to always assert that they'd have become violent, but it's more like that scene from Extras with Les Dennis. Thankfully he leapt out and presumably fired his mess in the shower, judging by the noise he made. Nice.

I think I'm going through a disgustingly healthy phase. I don't seem to be feeling the cold and it's not possible to go on three day benders at the moment, but I'll sort that out next week. I'm busy night and day for the next seventeen years I think. Birmingham, band, freelancing and drunken philandering should pretty much zap my next week off. Better go, got a pasty cooking in the oven. Not so much healthy as fucking yummy.

It's like Big Wednesday and Good Friday but better than both.

There are many reasons to be cheerful.

1. I left work and got drunk and it was fun. That was the start of a great day, most of it spent sleeping admittedly.

2. I drank with coppers and it confirmed my suspicion they're all bastards. One confessed he will always pull black people in cars rather than whiteys, and another who looked like Jenny Agutter feigned ignorance of knowing who she is. I mean, come on, Jenny Agutter? Surely she should be thrown out of the force for such ignorance. Oink oink etc. Actually, Jenny Agutter looks kinda hot in a porcine way don't you think?

3. I have an autodidactic haircut. That's right, I cut it myself, and it don't look too bad all things considered. I might change my mind later when I sober up.

4. I'm off to Birmingham for a few days next week to join up with my opposite number Greg. He's a younger, better looking version of myself. Only more fucked up. Should be entertaining.

5. I have a date next week with someone quite ace. I texted her a line from a Human League song and she phoned back. Can anything I touch today turn to shit? I doubt it.

6. I sorted out the microcosmic Israel / Palestine situation brewing in my house concerning cat shit. I offered a compromise which both parties have tentatively accepted. Watch this space.

7. I phoned the council concerning the council tax change over and they weren't cunts.

8. I bartered with my landlord regarding some money I owe him, and thankfully he relented, meaning I have just about enough money to sustain me til payday.

9. One of the Last of the Summer Wine crew just died, making it practically impossible for them to make another series.

10. David Beckham has been recalled for Engand meaning he will almost definitely play out his 100th cap. My David Beckham watch I bought in Cornwall is smiling. At 9'o'clock Becks gets his tache on. That's right, it's Beckham time.

CAn someone tell me how to edit please? IO've still not worked it oUT

It's Wednesday and I'm just back into the rhythm again. I slept pretty bloody well apart from the odd text of vacuous cack - I really must remember to turn my phone off. Sleep is not something you do in this job I've found, it's something you achieve. I feel rather proud of my seven hours today.

I'm definitely being a lot more proactive about things, which is probably the result of not having a hangover half the time. I went to the shop today and bought gloves, a bicycle pump and tuppaware containers. Tonight I'm taking chilli to work with me (I was jealous that David had it last night) and I'm just hoping it doesn't explode in my bag. I'm not sure if they were tuppaware or not now as that's screaming BRAND at me, whereas I go three for 99p. Buy cheap, buy again.

Good to see the Express group grovelling today. It was also an excuse to show lots of Kate McCann walking around. I know I should be captivated by her in the face of such tragedy but she is a hottie. I loved the story in the Sun recently where they were decrying a modelling agency that had a "Maddie" hire out. "To make money out of such adversity is sick!" they barked. Indeed.

I played football with Martin yesterday and I'm not nearly as sore as I was last time. All this positive shit will be destroyed come the Monday morning rush to the pub so I'm going to try and get as much done as I can.

One thing? When did a load of people sit in a room and decide they were going to put Agyness Deyn everywhere? And who was in the meeting? You can't move for pictures and editorial about her at the moment. I guess they need to find a replacement for Kate eventually, especially as she's nearly 35 and her new beau is a bit crap at making a cunt out of himself.

So it's been an eventful few days, and now I've given myself about three minutes to write about it. I need to be at work shortly so I'll keep it brief and stick to the details.

On Saturday I played with The Barnacles, a sea-shanty band formed by Stuart from Pink Grease. Rory sang, David played guitar and Rob - my new drummer - played the floor tom. Hooray! Three impromptu gigs in a week and a great deal of weird musical incest. I also met somebody truly amazing that night, though I woke up in the morning and worked out how out of my league she is. I'd weep every time I saw her. A crass barometre might suggest she's winning the Champion's League, whereas I was relegated from the Championship a couple of seasons ago. She's Real Madrid, I'm Leeds United. If I'm lucky.

On Sunday my new band formed, under the working title Cliff Rescue and the Helicopters. This was Rob's idea. It's not staying but it's amusing for now. The group has wonderful energy even if nobody can play anything yet, including me.

Today I interviewed a man who murdered his dog. Well, I didn't get that far as my tape broke and he told me to call him back tomorrow. Quite nice as bare-knuckle fighters go. I need to ask him the dog question at 5pm - I'm glad it's over teh phone. Hopefully I won't be too tired. I'm off to work now and I'm friggin' shattered. Another week of work and then it's holiday all over again! If it's even half as good as the last one then I'll be laughing.

As per usual I have left myself 6 minutes to write this so expect the usual flurry of grammatical errors and spelling mistakes. Frankie said "relax". Frankie said "relax". No he didn't, he said "you never get hangovers". Not actually true - what happens is, I get them all at once. Yesterday I lay in my bed like the friggin' English Patient. I couldn't move all day apart from a switch trip to the Chinese for a load of food I couldn't actually eat. I'm sure it'll be fine cold for breakfast.

I keep waking at 6am, which doesn't bode well for my next working week, unless I can somehow knock myself out around six tomorrow morning. It's possible. Rory is playing some sea shanties in Lower Clapton tonight, and as luck would have it, so is my new drummer. I'll get to check if he can actually play before we practice... tomorrow. I'm sure he's great, and if he's not then he's a great laugh on the piss. In fact he got a black eye the last time we were out, which you can't argue with. No, not from me!

I just walked past William Hill bookmakers, or Bill Hill to his friends. Bill, I think it's about time you changed your shop photography. It's been at least a decade since Andre Agassi lifted a tennis racket with any intent, and Stephen Hendry is a bald, fat cunt these days...