Which Makes The Best Opening...Vote Now!!!

Option 1:

The town sat on and around the bay, which curled about a quarter-mile along the northern coast of the island, cutting a deep, crescent curve into the headland. People moved along, slowly meandering through their day and the cars that crawled thought the streets gave way to them every time on the small, congested roads. Hatchbacks and buggies, drivers with arms hanging out of open windows, the dull throb of their tiny engines just audible over the sounds of the crowd. Every now and again a car would drive past playing jam-rock out of the hi-fi, slow and easy. Other than that the only music came from a steel drum band who had set up in the middle of the square, a cap lay out infront of them and was slowly filling with coins. The bright sound floated over everything else, setting the vibe for the calm, relaxed people that strolled through the markets, browsing, talking and laughing. The biggest road in the town stretched along the sea front, hugging the bay - just wide enough to let two cars through and traffic moved along it slowly - not because it was busy, but because there was no need to rush.

The bay was magic - a streak of white sand ran across the western end. There were a few towels laid out, with honeyed, sun-kissed girls lying on top of them, reading magazines and rubbing sun cream into their torsos and legs, occasionally dipping into the azure sea to cool off before returning to their spot under the sun which scanned the sky, alone except for a few wispy strands of cirrus. At the western-most point of the beach a group of men stood around a barbecue; an oil drum that had been cut in half lengthways, propped up precariously with metal poles and filled with charcoal - the smell of smoke and cooked meat wafting along the beach on the gentle westerly breeze. Occasionally one of them would catch a look at the girls that lay stretched out on the beach, and every now and then the soft twanging note of an acoustic guitar could be heard from one of them. As the sand drifted east across the bay it slowly morphed into a small, ancient harbour full boats and activity as local fisherman returned from a morning at sea, talking and comparing successes.

A bar sat in the middle of the bay, between the beach and the harbour and next to the road. A small place with a few wicker tables laid out, shaded by a roof made of woven palm leaves and bamboo. A couple of locals sat at a few of the tables, drinking and smoking, playing cards, enjoying the day. The place was humming with atmosphere and the longer Ed sat there, the more he realised just how much he loved Cuba.

Option 2:

He sat at the bar with his mojito and watched two lesbians scamper topless into the sea. He hadn't got laid since Uruguay and while he could recognise a lost cause when it ran with its ample breasted life partner into the ocean - the seed of hope that had planted itself in his mind still managed to germinate as he fantasised of a cool, air conditioned bedroom containing nothing more than a large bed, himself and the two girls who were now toweling each other down and rubbing sun cream into each other's bodies.

My New Job

Disclaimer: The following is based on a true story. Only the names, locations and events have been changed. This decision has been made following a story I heard about a friend of mine who named, heavily criticised and revealed delicate information of a sexual nature about his boring, gay, transvestite, S&M indulging colleagues at a Hotel he worked in for a few months. His report went on the intimate to his readers that the standards of cleaning, food preparation and general hygine ethos among the habitually corner-cutting staff left much to be desired. Following a serendipitous Google-ing session by one of the Hotel's patrons, the blog was discovered and brought to the attention of the boring, gay, transvestite, S&M indulging couple who run the Hotel. Joe was fired on the spot and docked a weeks pay - all that remains of his blog is an apology that one man has described as "a shining example of how internet naivety can lead to getting shafted by a pair of queens in a strange hotel, miles from home"

While we're on the subject, for anyone considering a holiday in the New Forest this summer, may I recommend Sway Manor Hotel. With its spy dome, redbrick chimneys, large conservatory and picture windows, Sway Manor Hotel’s design is a blend of edwardian chic, old and new, romantic and eccentric - and with the natural beauty of the New Forest National Park on your doorstep, you'll never want to leave. For more information call the hotel booking line on 01590 682754 or visit the website at www.swaymanor.com.

I have recently acquired a job working for a Japanese Restaurant in Guildford, they do very good food and I highly recommend visiting (not all of it is just raw fish). For reasons that should by now be apparent - this is as far as I will take this blog entry.

Too Drunk to be allowed To Post

I'm lying in bed, i've been out on the town, had four double rum and cokes and emptied my band account. But i've decided that that's not enough and am currently sipping through half a pint of scotch (forgive me, it's all thats in the cupboard). I'm listening to Jose Gonzalez (and loving his voice and guitar playing) and thinking about the "off button". When I start drinking, "the end" is only reached when the bar closes, the wallet empties or I pass out. Either way, I am almost always guaranteed to wake up regretting my actions. But I live in the now, so fuck the future, it's just there to criticise humanity's lack of hindsight. I'm now struggling to co-ordinate me fingers to the keys, so i guess I'm plastered. Thank you Bell's Scotch. Another sip, another song. 

The blog that currently administers to the needs of 1 follower (thank you for your support) is now in the hands of a hammered madmen, look away now. 

I'm fixed, for those that follow the back-story and am working at a sushi bar in Guildford High St.: problem free and cured. (read between the alcohol infused lines)

But back to the "off button". I was reading about an interview with a personal hero of mine, Bill Nighy. He spoke of not having an "off button" (regarding alcohol) and how it had plagued his all his life. I was told a few months ago that I would never be able to drink heavily again and I warmed to the pure idealism of teetotality. But I was later informed that freedom was the order of the day (and, indeed, of life). A mixed blessing, I feel. The amount in my bank account has floored, the amount of time I spend in bed has skyrocketed and my liver has been removed from the organ donor list. (for those that care, Joni Mitchell's "Blue" is all my iPod is knowing at the moment - "River" is my favorite Christmas song - always has been, always will.) My "stonesy" version kicks the shit out of Live Aid. 

But back to the point at hand - (bearing in mind that one singular member of my readership may be harboring bitter thoughts): Does anyone-one (of the three readers I entertain) suffer from an inability to recognise the "I've had enough" limit? If you don't, I'm with you all the way to the worst hangover in the history of the galaxy. Just heard Joni say "Maybe I'll rent a room in Amsterdam, or maybe in Rome, Does anyone really need to give her a choice?

To the impenetrable wit of Mr Vicus Scurra: I hope this brief update satisfies your thirst for more literature. To the rest of you, enjoy it while it lasts. Because it won't last forever. And if you feel the need to comment, remember that the writer was plastered at the time of writing: give leniency where possible. 

A Boozers Guide To Navigating Bars

Golden Rule: If you're sitting in a bar and someone starts trying to to talk to you, taking an unhealthy interest in your personal life, your secrets and your truths, and they are neither your Idol nor your sexual fantasy, make up something and get the fuck out of there before your evening is ruined.

I was sitting in a pub the other night with a friend of mine - to drop a few clues as to who it was; he's been recently kicked out of Uni, he's terrible with women and he's called Joe Boyle. The pub's one of the last good ones in Guildford, the barman's the kind of bloke that the world needs more of; an old Manchurian who doesn't care how old you are as long as you sit in the corner and don't draw attention to yourself. The barmaids are gorgeous, the beer's delicious, the jukebox peerless and the graveyard it backs out onto captures your imagination, twists it round the gnarled tree that grows out of the middle, and leaves it hanging there to create it's own fate amongst the high, grand, gothic tombstones as you walk through it on your way home, belly swilling with beer and mind buzzing with hallucinogenics.

We'd been sitting in the place for a couple of hours when my friend decided he wanted a cigarette. He had none and he had no money for buying them, so like any self-respecting man without an ounce of pride he went outside and tried to scrounge one off the first smoker he saw. Like a fool I followed him. 

The only people outside were two late-middle aged women, one in a thick fur coat who smoked menthol cigarettes, drawled "darling" at you every couple of tokes, worked with disabled children, had been mugged twice in the past 12 months and had had extensive counseling to try and overcome the traumas of her life. The other had a purple bandana tied around her head that held back her tightly curled hair, wore a leather jacket, smoked silk cut and "meditated to send out abuse from her life". The only thing they had in common was that they both thought they knew the answers to all of life's problems - which is probably why they were such good friends.

My friend went up to them and awkwardly asked them if he could "borrow" a cigarette: "Of course, darling". They were sitting at a bench facing it other on either side, as did we. I was next to the purple bandana and my friend was next to the psych-case. 

"Do you want one?" the psych case asked me.

"No thanks, I don't smoke," 

"Is that water and lemon you're drinking? It's very good you, darling"

After countless evenings destroyed by getting tied to boring, drunk and self-obsessed time sinks, I judge people very quickly and on that predication decide whether or not to spend anymore time with them. Everything from the bourgeois laziness with which the psych-case drew on her menthol cigarettes to the little purple sequined zip-up pouch that the purple bandana had full of pennies for the bar, laid out neatly next to her pack of Silk Cut and her lighter told me that I should attempt to say little as possible. My friend was not so enlightened.

"He's drinking that because he has Chronic Fatigue Syndrome and can't drink booze"

"oooo, like M.E." the psych-case cooed. Oh Christ, I thought. They know about it.

"Yeah, just like M.E.," I said

"I heard there's a cure for that" the purple bandana interjected.

"Oh really,"

"Yes, it's all about sunlight, sunlight and crystals," 

"Sunlight and crystals?" Self-absorbtion renders peoples deaf to skepticism. 

"Yes, all you need is sunlight, it regenerates dead cells and encourages new life - just lie in the sun and you'll be cured, crystals are important too, they help balance you with the forces of he earth. Have you ever tried crystals?"

"I've tried Crystal Meth," The purple bandana ignored me and continued.

"Listen, I work with crystals..."

"Oh DO you?"

"I'll give you my number, call me and I'll fix you," The subtlety of her efforts to try and reel me in as a customer were not lost on me. I made no effort to get her number.

"You're young," the psych-case spoke lazily, "You'll get over it, darling," I held my tongue. The purple bandana kept pressing me,

"What brings you to peace?"

"What?"

"Where is your solitude?"

"Music. He plays guitar,". I won't blame my friend for trying to help, it's the way he was raised. That didn't stop me from wanting to staple his tongue to the table and pour acid on it.

"Music? Do you listen to music as well"

"Yes" 

"What kind of music?"

"Heavy Duty Rock n' Roll" Neither of them were paying any attention to anything we were saying, they were just waiting for an opening so that the could say something and let us know that they knew exactly what they were talking about, and that they had been through worse.

"It all goes back to childhood," the psych-ward stubbed her cigarette out in the ashtray. "You see, I saw a therapist a few years ago and she took me all the way back to when I was twelve - and some of the things that happened back then had a profound effect of me. They stick with you, those things. They don't go away, darling" She looked at me with a hateful blend of sincerity and feigned wisdom.

"You saw a shrink?" My friend asked.

"Yes. But not for very long, darling. She fell asleep during one of my sessions and said I was boring,"  The corners of my lips curled upwards, "And I said too her, darling. I said - I'm not paying you to fall asleep and tell me I'm boring - I'm here for you to analyse me. And then I left. But, darling, some things never go away. They stay there," The purple bandana opened her mouth again.

"Yes. Well, Cassandra" gesturing at the psych-case "is a wonderful woman, she's had a hard life, she works with disabled children, she's kind and caring - and she's been mugged twice in the past year"

"Oh yes," Cassandra took the stage, eyes wide with the thrill of the long story she had carved out the next fifteen minutes with. My friend stubbed out his cigarette and I saw my exit out of here "Have another one, darling" Cassandra waved the box of cigarettes infront of my friend.

"Really? Are you sure? Thank you," as he light up the cigarette and toked through the tobacco, I watched my evening go the same way.

The next fifteen minutes of my life were wasted as we listened to how Cassandra was mugged at knife point, that they stole her purse, phone, money and car keys. Two months later a bloke pointed a gun at her while she was sitting in her car and told her to get the fuck out of it and let him have the keys. The car had her mail in it and she then spent terrified, sleepless nights waiting for the thief to track down her address and ransack the place - it was at this point in her life that she chose to seek the aid of a psychiatrist.

I have always maintained that there is nothing finer in life than a master storyteller, someone who can hold your attention in whatever their medium of expression. Book, Film, Song, Spoken World - Hemingway, Scorsese, Dylan, some bloke you met in the pub last night who had the whole joint hanging on his every word. Good stories outlast everything, they get handed down thorough generations, people and time. Thousands of years ago, an old blind bloke sat in a room and told a story about how a hot chick got stolen and how her husband and his army sailed to take her back, built a big wooden horse and killed everyone they found. The ancient civilisation the blind man belonged to is long dead, but his story still draws breath. While there is nothing better than a good storyteller, there is nothing worse than a bad one who thinks they stand equal with the Kings of Yarn when they are nothing more than jesters at the court. As Cassandra attempted to portray with feigned gravitas the horrors of her everyday existence. I saw before me a joker, dressed like a harlequin in colours of brown and grey, strumming a broken lute and prancing out of time. Her story ended and she took a long slow draw on her fag and proclaimed with lackadaisical apathy that, "It's just life, darling"

The purple bandanna still had me lined up as a potential client and thought that her chances would increase if she told me something about myself that would impress me.

"See, now I can see you're having a physical reaction to something, you're clearly a very sensitive, shy and delicate person," When sitting outside at ten o'clock at night in the middle of March wearing nothing more than a T-shirt, shivering is a very common physical reaction to blistering cold. The wind was whipping up, eddying around the bench and my breath was condensing so thick as I exhaled you'd need to check my hands to know I wasn't smoking. Telling me that is was a Sensitive and Delicate person was one of the most ridiculous judges of character ever thrown my way. "But there's a way out of it, have you every tried meditation?"

"No,"

"I meditate, I meditate at least once a day and I send out all the abuse out of my life, just send it out and it's gone. I just say "I'm not... I'm not going to let abuse enter my life," and I'm free of abuse," I wanted to say that someone can meditate as much as they like, but if dinner isn't on the table when their drunk and violent husband gets home, no amount of positive visualisation is going to stop him from taking off his belt. I just couldn't be bothered with the discussion that would follow, a line had been reached and I'd had enough.

"I'm going inside,"

Golden Rule: If you're sitting in a bar and someone starts trying to to talk to you, taking an unhealthy interest in your personal life, your secrets and your truths and they are neither your Idol nor your sexual fantasy, make up something and get the fuck out of there before your evening is ruined.

Because I Know You Care...

I have had 5 fairly severe nosebleeds in  the past 24 hours. If I have another one today I am going to rip something apart, I'm fucking sick and tired of having to hold a tissue to my fucking nose every two minutes, and now I've got another one and just poured blood all over my keyboard- jesus-motherfucking-christ

The Wasted Chronicle Pt. 3 - Bed, Fear and Bad Driving

I've been lying here for half an hour, I'm still breathing hard, the room is still spinning and I don't feel any better in any capacity. I'm asthmatic and the first thing that comes to mind is the possibility that this could be an attack (at this point in time I choose to rate the chance of that being the case at a very high level of probability). Still lying on the bed, I lean over and rummage through the contents of my bedside table, searching for an inhaler - I find five but they're all empty and out of date. My asthma ceased to be a problem a few years ago and I haven't puffed on an inhaler since, after a childhood spent worrying about medication, about whether I had an inhaler in my pocket every time I left the house because if my chest tightened up and I wasn't near one I would be wheezing on the floor for the next 40 minutes, it was freeing to be told by the doctor that I need never worry about it again, that I'd "grown out of it" and that I could live life a little bit more normally from now on. Despite the constant warnings never to smoke, my blatant disregard for them, the tar of the twenty Camel Lights I had last night lining the walls of my lungs and the fact that that may have a little something to do with why I'm this condition, I still want to blame him a little bit for being wrong. 

It's now been forty minutes and I'm starting to get scared, I haven't had this much difficulty breathing since I was 7 and back then I was very nearly hospitalised. Everyone is still out and I realise I need help - I crawl out of my room and across the hall to the phone and call my mother (and while you may not fully appreciate this, the fact that I feel so bad that I've resorted to calling her speaks volumes on the severity of my condition). I tell her I can't breathe and that I need to see a doctor and she, her voice failing to conceal her paralysing panic, tells me she'll be right over. I lie in bed and wait. The screech of brakes, the slamming open of the front door, my mother's, clear, sharp, piercing voice. "I'm back, get up, we're going to the hospital". I get downstairs, and collapse into the car, my mother pulls out of the drive and drives to the hospital.

My mother is not a calm driver, nor a calm person. You put her behind a slow car (and, just to define "slow"; less than 5mph below the limit) and she will kick, punch and scream her way home behind it. For someone who changed radio stations when the news came to protect our fragile minds and make sure we didn't have to hear about Damilola Taylor, she had no problem fuck-ing, shit-ing, jesus christ-ing and gordon bennett-ing at the driver in front while we endured the kaleidoscopic colour of her rage-fueled screaming. In terms of her own driving - it is like being put in a tin can and shaken hard. She has to go at the fastest possible speed at all times and as she navigates through the one way system in Guildford towards the hospital this involves flooring it until the traffic lights, braking hard, flooring it until the next traffic lights, braking hard, screaming at me because I drank so much the night before I can't remember specifically how much I had, and somehow convincing herself that it had something to do with my current state, flooring it until the next traffic lights, etc, etc. My stomach turns, twists and ties itself up in knots as the harsh stop-start momentum of the vehicle does little to help my residual hangover, my nausea and my breathing. 

The Wasted Chronicle Pt. 2 - The Morning After

I wake up. I have a hang-over. My head would feel better if it had and axe sticking in it and if I could choose what to have in my mouth at this exact moment in time I would select a live hand-grenade over my own tongue. My bare, curtain-less window spews light into a room that is white all over; the walls, the ceiling, the furniture - everything is brilliant white and I every time I open my eyes I want to have the removed. The bathroom has blinds, a warm bath and a CD player and I stagger into it and bask in the darkness. I put "Let It Bleed" in the CD player, crank it up and sink into the bath delicately. I think hangovers effect different people in different ways, for some, loud noises are the bane of their existence until they can locate a box of painkillers and a bottle of gin. With me it's the light. Even with the blinds closed on a west facing window at eight in the morning I still screw my eyes tight as "Gimmie Shelter" shakes my brain loose. I lie there for about an hour while my body slowly forgives my mind for last night's mistakes. When they've kissed and made up I extricate myself from the tub, get dressed and slink downstairs. The house is empty, save the dogs and Radio 4 which is never, ever turned off. My brother and sister are at school, my father is at work, my mother is having tea with a friend and I am abusing study leave like the rest of the nation's A-level students. I don't bother with breakfast, I'm never hungry in the morning and I remember that there is an bottle of Bell's in the liquor cabinet that I have to replace before it is discovered empty and I end up in the shit. I put on the biggest, thickest, darkest pair of sunglasses I can find and move slowly down the hill towards the off-licence.

It's a bright, sunny, beautiful spring morning, the clouds are like cotton balls, the sky is as blue as the Caribbean Seas and the Sun hangs loosely in space, enjoying its surroundings. I squint my way down to the the off-licence, ask the bloke for a bottle of Bells, pay the man and leave. My dad's birthday is in a few days and as he's into jazz I decide I'll get him a vinyl recording of "Kind Of Blue". I walk down to Ben's Collector Records and have a look around. It's a small, hot, dark and claustrophobic place full of vinyl, CDs, tapes and audiophiles thumbing through endless crates, searching for a gem. By the time I've got down there I'm out of breath and puffing and the heat is starting to make me sweat. I stumble to the "jazz' section and start looking for Miles Davis' masterwork. The heat of the room is really starting to get to me, I feel nauseous and frail and weak and I'm now sweating heavily through my T-shirt. I hold myself up against the table as the room spins and shrinks very quickly. My chest feels like a lion is standing on it, my eyes are being squeezed out of their sockets and my mouth is full of cotton. I've got to get out of here. I reel out of the shop and  begin to make my way home, head down, shoulders bent and clinging to the bottle of Bells, my house is about a ten minute walk up hill and ten minutes later I'm not even half way. Panting like I've just finished the marathon I clamber up the hill, clutching to the wall. The bottle is awkward and heavy and I alternate between hands and holding positions as I try to find a comfortable way of getting it home with me. I want to collapse and fall down and never get up again because I don't think I'll be able to if I hit the floor. Finally I reach home, the keyhole moves around as I try to get the key in it and when I'm in I crawl upstairs, throw the bottle to the bedroom floor and fall onto the mattress - breathing hard, sweating harder and waiting for the room to stop spinning.