But there should be direction at 30 years of age. A knowing where I am going. Alright Sir Hamish we cant all be Charles Clore and Florence Nightingale but at least we damn well have a go and dont give in. Okay we may realise what it is all about and to hell with their christianity, ethics, the whole shebang and advertising but do we give in, do we Give Up The Ghost. No sirree by god we dont. Do you for one moment think we believe someone should starve to death while another feeds his dog on the finest fillet of steak and chips. Of course not. We none of us have outmoded beliefs but do we
I cannot place a finger somewhere. The bastarn rain is the cause. It pours, steadily for a time then heavier. Of course the fucking gutter has rotted and the constant torrent drops just above the fucking window. That bastard of a landlord gets nothing done, too busy peeping through keyholes at poor old Mrs Soinson. I am fed up with it. Weather been terrible for years. No wonder people look the way they do. Who can blame them. Christ it is bad, the weather, so fucking consistent. Depresses everything. Recently I went for a short jaunt in the disagreeable countryside. Fortunately I got soaked through. The cattle ignored the rain. The few motor cars around splished past squirting oily mud onto the Imitation Crombie. I kept slipping into marshy bogs from whence I shrieked at various objects while seated. It wasnt boring. Of yore, on country rambles, I would doze in some deserted field with the sun beating etc the hum of grasshoppers chirp. I never sleep in a field where cattle graze lest I get nibbled. The countryside and I are incompatible. Everybody maintains they like the countryside but I refuse to accept such nonsense. It is absurd. Just scared, to admit the truth — that they hate even the idea of journeying through pastureland or craggyland. Jesus christ. I dont mind small streams burning through arable-land. Hardy fishermen with waders knee-deep in lonely inshore waters earn my total indifference. Not exactly. Not sympathy either, nor pity, nor respect, envy, hate. Contempt. No, not at all. But I heroworship lighthousekeepers. No. Envy is closer. Or maybe jealousy. And anyway, nowadays all men are created equal. But whenever I have had money in the past I always enjoyed the downpour. If on the road to somewhere the rain is fine. A set purpose. Even the cinema. Coat collar upturned, street lights reflecting on puddles, arriving with wind flushed complexion and rubbing your damp hands, parking your arse on a convenient convector heater. But without the money. Still not too bad perhaps.
According to the mirror I have been going about with a thoughtful expression on one’s countenance. I appear to have become aware of myself in relation to the field by which I mean the external world. In relation to this field I am in full knowledge of my position. And this has nothing to do with steak & chips
Comfortable degrees of security are not to be scoffed at. I doff the cap to those who attain it the bastards. Seriously, I am fed up with being fed up. What I do wish
I shall not entertain day dreams
I shall not fantasise
I shall endeavour to make things work
I shall tramp the mean streets in search of menial posts or skilled ones. Everywhere I shall go, from Shetland Oilrigs to Bearsden Gardening Jobs. To Gloucestershire even. I would go to Gloucestershire. Would I fuck. To hell with them and their cricket & cheese. I refuse to go there. I may emigrate to The Great Englishes — o jesus christ Australia & New Zealand. Or America and Canada.
All I’m fucking asking is regular giros and punctual counter clerks.
Ach well son cheer up. So quiet in this dump. Some kind of tune was droning around a while back. I was sitting clapping hands to the rhythm and considering moving about on the floor. I used to dream of playing the banjo. Or even the guitar, just being able to strum but with a passable voice I could be dropping into parties and playing a song, couple of women at the feet keeping time and slowly sipping from a tall glass, 4 in the a.m.’s with whisky on the shelf and plenty of smokes. This is it now. Definitely.
black and white consumer and producer parasite thief come on shake hands you lot
Well throw yourself out the fucking window then. Throw myself out fuck all window — do what you like but here I am, no suicide and no malnutrition, no fucking nothing in fact because I am leaving, I am getting to fuck out of it. A temporary highly paid job, save a right few quid and then off on one’s travels. Things will be done. Action immediate. Of the Pioneering Stock would you say. Of that ilk most certainly Your Worship. And were the audience Clambering to their Feet. I should think so Your Grace.
The fact is I am a late starter. I am
I shouldnt be bothering about money anyway. The creditors have probably forgotten all about my existence. No point worrying about other than current arrears. The old me wouldnt require funds. A red & white polkadot handkerchief, a stout sapling rod, the hearty whistle and hi yo silver for the short ride to the outskirts of town, Carlisle and points south.
It is all a load of shite. I often plan things out then before the last minute do something ridiculous to ensure the plan’s failure. If I did decide to clear the arrears and get a few quid together, follow up with a symbolic burning of the Imitation Crombie and in short make preparations to mend my ways I could conceivably enlist in the Majestic Navy to spite myself — or even fork out a couple of months’ rent in advance for this dump simply to sit back and enjoy my next step from a safe distance and all the time guffawing in the background good christ I am schizophrenic, I never thought I acted in that manner yet I must admit it sounds like me, worse than I imagined, bad, bad. Maybe I could use the cash to pay for an extended stay in a private nursing home geared to the needs of the Unabletocope. But can it be schizophrenia if I can identify it myself. Doubtful. However, I regard
I was of the opinion certain items in regard to my future had been resolved. Cynical of self, this is the problem. Each time I make a firm resolution I end up scoffing. Yes. I sneer. Well well well, what a shite. That really does take the biscuit. And look at the time look at the time.
Captains of Industry should create situations for my ilk. The Works Philosopher I could be. With my own wee room to the left of the Personnel Section. During teabreaks Dissidents would be sent to me. Militancy could be cut by half, maybe as much as 90 %. Yet Works Philosophers could not be classed as staff, instead they would be stamping in & out like the rest of the troops just in case they get aspirations, and seek reclassification within Personnel maybe. Gibberish. And yet fine, that would be fine, so what if they got onto the staff because that would leave space for others and the Dissident next in line could become the new Works Philosopher and so on and so forth. And they would stick it, the job, they would not be obliged to seek out square squarters whose shelves are crumb strewn.
I shall have it to grips soon. Tomorrow or who knows. After all, I am but 30, hardly matured. But fuck me I’m getting hell of a hairy these days. Maybe visit the barber in the near future, Saturday morning for instance, who knows what is in store. Only waiting for my passion to find an object and let itself go. Yes, who can tell what’s in store, that’s the great thing about life, always one more fish in the sea, iron in the fire; this is the great thing about life, the uncertainty and the bla
Jesus what will I do, save up for a new life, the mending of the ways, pay off arrears, knock the door of accredited creditors, yes, I can still decide what to do about things concerning myself and even others if only in regard to me at least it is still indirectly to do with them and yet it isnt indirect at all because it is logically bound to be direct if it is anything and obviously it is something and must therefore be directly since I am involved and if they are well