DAY 1

Sitting outside, a cat comes over to bother me and enquire if I had any food for him/her. It siddled up to me, running itself against me, stroking my leg, acting all coy, flirty. I had nothing. He/she needed to go away.

Snapback on topless, looking good after a bit of exercise, woo, everyone look at me baby! Stretch, an exhale comes out loud to show hard they worked, so everyone can know. I’m cool.

Cellular Autophagy- The natural regulation system, mechanism of the cell that removes unnecessary, dysfunctional components. Clearing out damaged cells in order to regenerate newer, healthier cells.

DAY 2

Not feeling tip top. Reliance on technology/others to do work. I made slow progress. Worried that if I’m not working, people will think that I’m not a good team member, not contributing enough.

Went for a run, Sun out. Call from BIG bosses- going on furlough from start of May, makes business sense and opportunity for me, change is good, potentially.

NHS Volunteers- signed up for it, to be a friendly voice at the other end of the line.

Social interaction today. Team-viewed onto an Editor’s computer in order to get some archive online. Once done, I wrote on Notepad, ‘All good.’ He replied ‘cheers buddy’. Making friends.

Cool observation- ‘A song that casually listened to, says nothing that one might want to hear and that, carefully listened to, says nothing either’. A shit song then.

DAY 3

Woke up early, sweating, very warm. Pajamas off I managed to cool down and fall back to sleep.

Felt more at peace this morning, less anger inside.

Got on with jobs, was able to get on-no email disturbances- kept focus, one job at a time.

Headache is a bit more constant.

DAY 4

John Travolta in Face Off. ‘Find out what Papa’s got in his bag. Peaches.’ Lick’s girl’s face with remarkably long face.

Thoughts on day- M ‘Soapy’, D ‘Yeah, Okay’, Moo ‘Eating Ass’.

I went for a run, feels like I’m carrying a little extra timber.

I like Thursdays. I have a natural affinity for them, other days may blur into one but I always remember when I wake up ‘Oh, it’s Thursday’. I wonder if it is because I was born on a Thursday. It is Thursday. An actual thing. A special 24 hours. Rather than the other 144 hours that are becoming more and more the same, mushed into one and fed to me. No pain, no need to chew, just swallow.

Computer crashed- what fun.

DAY 5

Slower start to to day.

Happy I solved the Dash-Cam problem.

My computer went down again. Remember SHOGANAI, can’t be helped/ move on.

SEAMLESS- smooth, continuous with no apparent gaps/spaces between one part and the next.

Took a walk in the fields. Taken by the colour of things and the shininess of cars in driveways. It was muddy at moments so had to pick my path from eye and touch of shoe, find the parts that have been touched by the Sun.

DAY 6

Yves Tumor- Kerosene!

Travis Scott’s interpretation of Chopped + Screwed. I like songs with multiple parts. Scott’s ‘OK, Alright’ goes from club music to introspection- wouldn’t mind with the talent he has if he went fully within himself- I’m sure it is in the works.

Life slow. Went for a walk, had some Doritos I would like some celery though- to freshen to mouth.

DAY 7

I went for a run, windy, never know how fast you are going.

Watched two magpies and two ravens fight over a nest in the tree across the way. The tree is bare and the branches all aim upwards like an upside down broom, as they scrap the birds fall and are trapped within the branches confines.

It is snowing now for some reason- which makes sense.

 

The Greyhound shakes as it sleeps. His legs twitch as his mind tells him he is running, still competing, even from the comfort of a warm room on a comfy sofa in the dark. There is no drunken shouting, no howling laughter from the big pink blobs he used to catch in the side of his sight, none of his brethren alongside him straining to keep up with him, compelling him to go faster and faster, nor is there any cute little flash of hair zooming in front of him that he doesn’t actually know what it is but something tells him deep down that forces him to make chase with a desire so indescribable to hunt it, to catch it and squeeze it and tear at it for all his worth. He is all alone in this race. This doesn’t stop his legs pounding the sofa, relentless they go for this is the biggest race he’s ever been in, where he has to go faster than he has ever done, longer than he has ever done. To win, win, win. Jamie, Jamie, his ears are taking him elsewhere, away from the track, he doesn’t want to but he is being taken away. He opens his eyes to see his master looking at him concerned, he’s okay though he cannot say it was all just a dream.

 

First day in a long time that I’ve sat outside during my lunch break and read my book. Spring is here I guess. I sat on a bench with my back to the Sun so it was a little windy but I don’t feel overly cold. If anything, I was really comfortable and had an overriding sense of happiness that lunch time could now be outside affairs instead of the shuttle between one room to another, and the time I spent outside could be relaxing rather than the fast paced walk with hands in pockets trying to stave off the cold and burn that excess winter tub that I was managing to do when the rain and wind calmed. Kids next to me, on a bench further down, are rolling a joint. They look like sixth-formers and carry the excitement that this act of rebellion brings that I once felt and many like me and those not like me either. The crowding round of the one rolling, watching, anticipating, jealous of their friend’s new found skill, glad that it is them doing it and not you with your triphalangeal thumbs for fear of failing and all the goodness falling on the floor and being carried away by a gust of wind. What a waste of twenty pounds that would be.

 

K gets on the train and leaves the UK, the Danish border is closing at 12 their time today. No flights in, no way in unless you are a Danish citizen. For a month. It does feel like a last flight out of Saigon kind of experience because of this COVID stuff, I hope it all gets resolved quickly.

The seven year old walks with his mother. I’m cold he says, I don’t want to walk anymore he pleads. A strop is imminent. The mother, sharply, to nip this in the bud, we are not getting an Uber to school. She takes his hand tighter in hers and walks at a higher pace, forcing him to match. No chance to complain as he is now out of breath walking at 100 miles per hour and the cold can’t get to him quick enough.

In the steam room. You know someone is naked and in very close proximity but you can’t see them and don’t want to move in case you get too close. It’s a nervous wait until they reveal themselves thudding and slapping across the wet floor.

Girlfriend sees boyfriend staring. Staring at the two girls all dolled up on a Friday night. Girlfriend isn’t happy. You can tell by the stony look on her face, hardening and glaring at her boyfriend and the girls opposite who are happily chatting away, oblivious to the relationship drama that they have caused. The girlfriend tugs at her boyfriend’s arm so that he now looks at her. She stares deeply into him, boring holes, checking for chinks in his love for her. It’s quite the deep look and although momentary, she slithers her way through him, looking in all the dark holes and blind alleys, up and down, searching for doubts, confusion, secrets that he thought had been hidden so well that even he had forgotten about. It’s quite the sight, a person looking into someone and knowing them as well as one could ever do with no words, no language spoken. After scrutinizing and finding nothing that would have caused her to get up and leave him without another word, she leans forward, only a bit for he has to make up the distance, another test of his commitment, and they peck lips. She feels secure in herself and the future of their relationship and the boyfriend got a kiss. Win win.

The poo won’t stop staring at me, I’m out of the shower and drying off and the poos is still there, still bobbing up and down in the toilet. I’ve given it three flushes, each time increasing the length of my pressing of the button in the hope that one more stream of water will carry it away, but to no avail. It’s stuck there and is still staring. It was a good, honest poo to be fair. A solid, all out in two pushes, long and connected, rather than crumbly, pebbly or squitty. It must mean my diet is okay at the moment which I’m glad about. But now it is stuck. And in a house share, that’s rule number one, never leave your poo’s a floating. It’s bad manners is what it is. But what do I do? The antique plumbing can’t handle the heft. But in all seriousness, I am truly embarrassed. I keep flushing and it is still there. I dry myself, I put on deodorant, I floss my teeth, brush my teeth, mouthwash and it is still there. One more flush I say to myself as I put on my dressing gown to go to my room. I flush, I hold, I watch as the water goes from heavy flow to a slim trickle and still the poo stays. I’m not breaking it up I promise myself. So I do what I think is right. I open the window as far as it can go and I pull down the toilet seat lid and hope that my housemates end up blaming one another for this horror and I get away Scott-free.

I’ve noticed that the bell-peppers in the supermarket have got steadily worse in quality. Have we finally got to the point where a pissed-off Europe tired of our misdemeanors and general wanker attitude is sending us its cast offs. They no longer care to pretend anymore, to fake amicable relations, they’ll go through all their produce, keep the good stuff for themselves and their friends and allies, but the shit, that will just be piled up, not given a second glance as it’s rubber stamped, put on a cargo ship with a one way ticket to England. And which we will have to accept and deal with until England reaches temperatures where we can grow our own ‘EXOTIC’ fruit and vegetables. So, hurry the fuck up climate change.

There is something about seeing a dog run at birds. I don’t quite know what it is. Freedom, joy. That’s what I feel. It scampers across the waterlogged grass, water lapping up and hitting its underside, any chance of a sneaky approach abandoned as the sound of the hurried pitter patter of raring legs jolt the white birds into flight. You can hear the birds communicating in a hurried, fearful manner, you can hear the different sounds, the different elements of their conversation. Once one wave ascends, another follows. Until the sky is filled with frightened white birds and a dog looking disappointingly upwards, as the birds go in search for worms brought to the surface by the rain in a dog free zone elsewhere.

 

2 older boys sit on one bench, a little further down, three younger boys sit on a bench as well. The older ones, stretch out, manspreading, smoking cigarettes and drinking Fanta from the can. The younger ones squirm as the bench is too small for their twitchy adolescent pangs, unwilling and unable to sit still and are eager to irritate one another so that one may leave and leave more space to stretch like the older ones are doing. They engage in allegiances of convenience to target the perceived weak link, flicking his ears until he gets up irritated and with ears stinging in the early afternoon chill. The older ones know they are cool, rebels, bad boys, as they smoke their cigarettes to nubs. Kicking back on a Sunday afternoon. But as their cigarettes disappear and the sight of goyims begins to bore, they require some entertainment. One of the olders gets up and shouts to the younger ones who stand to attention. Go running, it’s good for you. The younger ones have no choice in the matter even though they can’t hide how pissed off they are by the prospect of laps. They take off their black coats and leave them neatly on the bench. They start running, one hand on their yarmulke to stop it flying off, their tzitzit bounces everywhere as they run together, safety in numbers. The older ones stand and watch their charges efforts. They laugh at their trudging and struggles, blocking out the memory of themselves only a few years ago being forced to do something similar by those older than them and how much they hated it. Inherited behaviour and a desire for all to be treated as badly as they once were. It’s fair apparently. They grow bored of the younger one’s running and sit down, lighting another cigarette in the process.

 

He wears a white or cream suit, depending on the light he is seen in. Burgundy tie and a black shirt. He removes the blazer early on. He looks prim and proper throughout, no creases, no evident sweat sheen. He wears a wide brimmed fedora hat that sits on his wholesome big slab of meat between his ears and stuck to his neck. He has broad shoulders, strong arms and a reasonable gut, nothing serious and the black shirt thins him but a pouch is there, for safe keeping. He likes to make jokes and fill the time between songs freestyling and spitballing his ideas on WW2 Axis uniforms. The all-encompassing performer. The air smells of soapy, shitty weed. And those biscuits that are placed in the urinals to disinfect. Imagine eating one. Squidgy, squeaky, pissy. The audience is packed with balding, bearded, receding, bespectacled gentlemen and a smattering of women in their 40s and 50s. Alone or with friends, their families at home, Dad’s and Mum’s night in London like the old days. And then the last train home back to their suburban sprawl.

 

Where you live and the answer that you give bears such weight in determining whether this conversation will endure. It seems to be the preliminary question, up there with name and career choice and can dictate whether this person thrust upon you through random chance or decided by a higher being, will bode you worthy of their time. It feels like an interrogation. Anywhere too North or too South or too East or too West is beyond their realm of comprehension and so you become uncool and they will look for an exit as swiftly as possible. But, if you reside in just the right area, or close enough to an up and coming place that you could be seen as almost visionary in your ability to predict trends, rather than desperation and the cheapness of rent, then you can stay. You can stay and talk dubstep or putting 4 grand on a credit card for new decks or the truth behind why we all wear hats, not because it has a cool, rustic, trucker vibe, but to hide the poor genetic make up that is making us go bald at an ungodly rate. Lucky our girlfriends or partners settle for those they can rely on rather than bad boys. Happy Days.

Leaves fall from their trees onto the pavement as it’s Autumn.

It rains and the leaves soak into the pavement, their essence draining away.

The leaves move on.

Carried by the wind, kicked away by passer-bys, taken by little creatures to make their homes a little cosier.

The leaf leaves behind its mark, a palm tree stain on the pavement.

Guy on the train bopping and popping to the music he’s listening to, playing the keys like he’s in the studio with Ye and Murda Beatz, white boy living the dream.

Man in bowler hat welcoming people with umbrellas on this rainy day and his gruff but friendly parody of Dick Van Dyke that every foreigner imagines British people speak like as he booms ‘Good Morning Sir!’, ‘Good Day Madam, enjoy the shopping’. All part of the service at the Lanesborough.

A family of Jewish mother, daughters and sons pass round the prayer book on the morning commute. There are two seats remaining and the two boys get them, their right assumed and not even a raised eyebrow in protest from the mum or seven daughters. The boys start to pepper their Mother with questions on their final destination and how long it will take. They expect an answer and their mother occupied by her zealotry, decides to take herself away from the situation so she can pray in peace on the Piccadilly line to Uxbridge. This leaves the eldest daughter to deal with the boys badgering. She has no patience for them and curtly indicates to the map above their heads and retreats back to her prayers, leaving the two boys pointing and jabbing in their seats until they come up with an answer.

I had a hot dog and chips for dinner tonight. I didn’t want to cook and Arsenal were playing so I found the closest burger van to my work which was all of ten metres away. They didn’t provide much in the way of options. Beef or pork. Bun or baguette. Slatherings of cheese, fried onion and bacon, taste dependent. I chose the sausage because why not. I got chips too for a pudding of sorts. It cost me £8, but I was happy to pay. I drooped some ketchup on both from the dispenser and tried to put some jalapenos inside the hot dog bun to put more flavours in the mix. I wanted to sit or stand whilst I ate instead of trying to eat and walk which would have resulted in ketchup stains on any of my apparel. So, I stood in the car park of the block of flats that are opposite the office and watched the fans mixing as they head to the Emirates, the sounds of animated football chat, stewards giving directions, cars honking and pissed to be stuck in traffic, lots of sounds, lots of life and my own munching.

I got a spontaneous haircut. Middle of nowhere place, looks like it hadn’t seen any customers all day. Lady sitting by the window, like a cat trying to keep awake. She was Lithuanian, direct, she knew how she was going to cut my hair, she told me how it was going to be with no serious options for discussion. Smooth played in the background. The interior of the place seemed to have everything a hairdresser’s should have and yet it all felt at odds, a body nonetheless but a Frankenstein, with limbs different sizes and a cardboard box for a rib cage. Mirrors wanting to be these grand statements, old posters still hanging to the wall, faded and the styles advertised out of favour, still there more out of sadness at the sorry state their absence would further compound on the room. A converted portacabin. Yet the haircut came out favourably.

A mother, a son and a daughter sought directions to Turnpike Lane station. I need to work on my direction giving but hopefully they found where they needed to go. The son, enjoying his role as the man of this expedition, took control of the dialogue, his families representative in talks with this stranger. At the end of my hurried explanation and just as we were about to pass one another into the night, he raised his arm as if stopping all life around him in expectation of some grandiose declaration and uttered the words ‘Good Evenings’, with emphasis on the ‘s’ and wandered with his family off in the direction I had sent him.

I walked past a man blow torching a brick wall, one straight line of flame, not too sure the purpose of it.

I tried to give a fox a tomato, he proceeded to wee on it. Does it say anything about an area by the large number of urban foxes. Foxes in my head, disneyfied, smooth, cunning, debonair creatures. These urban foxes just look hungry, wretched by their adjustment to urban life. Their eyes are big, always watching, their gait uptight, uneasy, they are light on their feet due to a lack of food rather than grace. They move on edge, they jolt and zoom away as soon as human life interacts with their pursuit of food from bins or found on the street which they constantly search for.

The man sits eating his pizza with his computer on a stand and at perfect eye level. The cleaner is hoovering around him but he doesn’t care, all snug and warm inside as the August rain keeps falling. He’s been in the creative space all day and has enjoyed his time. He’s been productive and replied to all of his emails promptly, strategised the next six months and had a riveting discussion with a fellow creative on how to maximize profits whilst presenting oneself as ethically minded. Ah, he was so enthralled by the man’s style and enthusiasm. The way he sat on the corner of his desk, legs spread, spewing out hands and confidence, drawing everyone in to his conversation. A real brightest and best kind of guy. Exactly why he paid 400 for the privilege of the day here, here in this creative space, so he could engage himself with the zeitgeist and spark ideas amidst like-minded individuals. And to look at the girls too of course. He has dripped cheese onto his chin and looks around hoping not to have embarrassed himself. Nobody else is there. He goes to check his emails and realises he forgot to ping off some notes on the latest cut, something about the VO and how maybe we should revamp the narrative. He thinks it’s time to go back to the drawing board. Time to brainstorm. Pens, notepads, blue tack on walls, big posters. Let’s go back to the start, we need more pick-ups done, we need to get a sense of place, people, their essence. All we can fit in a 40 minute programme with three weeks to deadline. He puts this all in his notes and starts writing an email to the team detailing his wishes. He sends and then starts to watch his show. His show. His name at the end of the credits. The Big Boss. He imagines his team at HQ  have all left for the day which annoys him for their lack of dedication. They can pick up his train of thought on Monday because he is on a roll now. How, he wonders, can they possibly disconnect from this, THIS at its most critical juncture. He won’t stop though, lucky they have him, he won’t stop for anything, family or friends. He wonders too when everyone in the creative space also left. He was probably too in the zone so missed them. He won’t be going anywhere. He paid for the privilege out of his own pocket and waited two months on the waiting list to get his desk for the day, to drink the lemon and ginger water placed in carafes on each desk, constantly replenished. To enjoy the super foods on offer, the sheep’s placenta, delightful. So, the twenty four hours he paid for; he is here for. Draining and squeezing all the ambiance has too offer. He wishes he could book it for a week, a month, a creative pilgrimage, time to contemplate, to consider, to think, imagine the possibilities! What heights he could reach, what depths he could scour. He’d win an Emmy definitely as a result. Be BAFTA recognised too. Think he’ll look into doing that, maybe sell the car. He doesn’t need it anyway, time to get back on the Brompton, it will be good to get a sweat on each morning, release the shit, walk into the office and show the underlings how it is done, maybe they could start a cycle club. Think they were doing that in LA.

It’s dark and there are only orbs lining the path. White lights just there. And then there is darkness and you hope the driver knows his way. The steward at the front who directs and stops, opens and closes doors, the train programmed on the same route forever and always. The orbs come back and give you hope and safety. Your arm is growing sticky as it rests on the plastic window sill. You kick the cider cans deep underneath the chair because the sickly sweet is too much for you right now. The rumble of the train on tracks reverb. You hope that your headphones are good enough to block it out. It’s darkness again outside. You look out the window and there’s your face. The glasses are off as you have your over-ear headphones on and you get worried that they will crush them and alter their shape and you also want to rest your eyes. No more HD just blur with the occasional clarity. Like the bags under your eyes, they appear very clear in the reflection of the window, how they streak, from a light touch to entrenched, rooted, broad in the skin. Your nose is very wonky too. At the top it suggests one way and then goes the other like a Milner-Skudder sidestep. Your lower lip is fat and when you close your mouth it looks gargantuan as if it is trying to swallow your top lip. Big blowjob lips. You worry about your hairline, it will go one day and you hope it isn’t a day before 45. More than enough time to get yourself in order, no longer needing to rely on your looks and blowjob lips for progression in career and for love. Then I can just give up caring I suppose. See it say it sorted. You can still hear the train on the tracks and not much else. Drunks talk the talk of drunks. Loners read or watch or text or go on Adult Network. Or the app that the coked out Recruitment worker said was legit for quality escorts that night sometime ago. It’s still dark outside and I don’t know where I am and when I’ll be back. I hope it will be soon.

I’m a tosser and turner. Every day I wake up and my sheet is crumpled, undone, the mattress exposed to the air. My eyes spot the sweat ingrained in this years old mattress and the questionable stains. Pillows and blankets strewn everywhere, on the floor, at the bottom of the bed. This is all I’ve known. The first sight every morning for as long as I can remember. However, occasionally, I wake up and everything remains in place as it was when I climbed into bed the night before. The sheet is intact, perfectly flat, ridge less, uncrinkled, the topography of my bed resembling the Bolivian salt flats, stark, devoid of any life bar the bogie meteorites from a late night rummage and a curly pube neither black nor ginger. My pillows and blankets, support my neck and cover my naked body, nothing fallen or kicked away. I have remained motionless, catatonic for 8 hours and 24 minutes. Is my body telling me something? What inner peace have I somehow happened into that has rendered a happy, rested mind. As I get up and walk into the bathroom I’m still disturbed by the sight of near perfection that has met me today. I plonk myself onto the toilet seat and start to push the urine from my cock. I enjoy sitting down, it affords you more time to contemplate, you can read, watch a video as well as making sure there is no unnecessary spillage on a trouser or leg. I’m distracted now by the stopping and starting of the urinary flow that I like to do. I don’t know why I do it, stopping and starting the flow, the piss tickling my insides desperate to get out. I think it comes with the idea of control. The notion that you are in control of your functions, you have the final say, mind over everything. I hope to build a vast memory of these moments so when I am old, I will forget the incontinence that grips my body and remember to those young buck days when I controlled my piss. I think I read somewhere that in doing this, random stops and starts, you strengthen your muscles down there and your capability to resist the jutting pressure to expel all piss as quick as possible in the hope that you will last longer in bed. Anything to help the cause.

I saw Jeremy Corbyn sitting on a bench, alone, but attached to some Sainsburys bags for life that lay erect at his feet. His face looked pale and his eyes squinted, he was wearing a black pull over, thin blue stripes layer a white collar and his favourite chino trousers. These trousers always cause him trouble I imagine. They don’t say prospective Prime Minister. And this is probably why he wears them. I imagine the appearance advisors who were hired to boost his ratings amongst the metropolitan fashionistas hate him wearing these. I imagine Jeremy despises these people for the nonsense they spiel. And as a result you have an impasse where he refuses to listen to a word they say and continues to wear the chinos and they get paid four figures a week for two hours consultation for basically nothing, unsure why they took this job at all as they would have been better appreciated by the sharp dresser Ian Duncan Smith. For Corbyn these chinos represent his personal, man of the people attire. They’re perfect for a natter at the allotment about how to best grow marrows, Arsenal’s prospects going into the new season and the last book read. Why would he ever want to change that? That’s politics to him, being amongst life, community, not distant, unaware of normal things.

It surprised me to find him here all alone. No one bending his ear, no media scrum, desperate for him to fall over or do something idiotic for those witty headlines (how about Corbyn in the crap if he steps in dog shit or a bird drops on him), in a public place with time to just meander in the park. Does he not know Brexit is going on? He’s flicking through a newspaper. I imagine counting the times he was mentioned, reading a bit, carrying on till the end of the article if it was positive, moving on if it was derisive. He zips though the pages quickly. He settles on the horoscopes and gazes into the abyss, hoping to draw scraggly, dyspraxic parallels between the comings and goings of his life with this all in one prediction. Helping to fill the void of a direct chat with whoever’s God with a few vague sentences that promise to map out one’s lives, all conducted by the cosmic imaginings of a man sitting in a cubicle trying to stay ahead of diabetes and deadlines. Once done with this, Corbyn sits and shuffles around on his bench, looking out at the world around him, his eyes take in the heat in the grey sky, staring at the grass and the dogs that bark and poo around him. He’s left alone by those walking past. The roads on either side of this green space are somewhat muted, a moment’s peace for Corbyn as he tries not to think about those bothersome things that he must contend with. He doesn’t feel like going to work today, much nicer in the park he reckons. His phone bleeps once and twice. He’s being summoned again to some shit. Time then to get on his way. He stands up begrudgingly and trudges off Sainsburys bags in hand.