The Glistening Pelt of Bin Laden


"Voulez vous allez a la Plage avec moi"

I spent Saturday night in the Washington, watching euphoric disco-kittens Glistening Pelt and riff poets Death Rays of Ardilla doing music stuff I wish I could do. I’d give my right arm to play guitar (with my my left arm?). I’d sacrifice my landlord to have a good singing voice. So Bill, if you’re reading this…

"sweet and creamy and uncommonly good"

Osama Bin Laden has been killed. I don’t know why anyone is getting excited; it’s like killing Robbie Williams- Take That will still carry on touring.

The news came at 4.30am. Cue drunken fools all over America, singing patriotic songs and pumping the air like jocks. For a so-called evil genius, Osama had a nice face. He looked like a Werther’s Original grandad.

The best thing about this news orgy is it has reminded me of the comedy of President Bush. “As I recall, there’s an old poster out West saying ‘Wanted: Dead or Alive'”.

It shouldn’t be too hard to recall, George, it’s in every single fucking Western ever. It is meant to be inappropriate for a head of state to show an emotion. They use words like “justice” when they mean “kick the shit out of”. Operation Son-of-a-Bitch has been going on for years now, and all the little yank foot soldiers have been given free license to act out their provincial aggression on foreigners.

"Who needs to read and write anyway?"

As my friend George informed me, you go straight into the army as an officer if you have a degree. I’m sure BSc Sport Science comes in really handy. All the so-called dumb school leavers are sent out to do the dirty work, sorry, to enact justice.

How do people release their anger?

  1. Dom sings about murdering bitches.
  2. Lisa is nice as pie till she gets drunk then she’s a devil woman.
  3. Esther, well she is just a vicious jaded cynic.

And me?I grind my teeth and try to stop myself grabbing strangers by the shoulders and shouting in their faces that they are judging me. I’m a crap psycho. I’m a walking time bomb but the clock has broken. I’m a lump of grump, a peevish slab of playdo pretending to be semtex.

Speaking of squishy things, I always get really hungry after I’ve had a poo. This really annoys Esther who claims it’s impossible. But I’m sure it makes room for more food, and I need to replace it. I’m off now to ransack the cupboards.

"The door policy is One In, One Out in my tummy"

Vegging Out


Last night we went to see Dom’s band the Death Rays. The most beautiful girl in the world was there, djing in a neglige.  There were lots of young sorts too, with angular haircuts and leather jackets. I had gone for the ageing Teddy boy look, and felt a bit like Richard Hawley’s talentless brother.

"Cool daddio"

I was consumed with lust for the dj and so to ease my conscience, I tried some reverse psychology on Esther.

“Isn’t it really easy to just wear your underwear?” I commented, slipping with relish into the role of gay bitch that comes so naturally to me,

“Oh that’s so obvious” Esther and Lisa chimed disapprovingly.

The theory behind this is that men are weak and any woman who wants attention can merely wear something that leaves little to the imagination if she wants her objectification fix. Any woman who does this is of course a backstabbing biatch who is breaking the code of demure femininity.

Instead of conveying my latent lust, I ended up sounding like I was jealous of her. Me, jealous! As if! Who needs to be ridiculously hot anyway?

Right now, Esther and Lisa are asleep in the bed like two courgettes comatose in a grow bag.

The tv is muted so as not to disturb them, and I am watching ‘Ad of the Year’. The talking heads on it are minor characters from Corrie, and Lorraine Kelly. The ad breaks in it seem kind of superfluous.

Last night Govinda had a KLF moment and decided to rip up her paper money. She tore a fiver into 4 pieces and threw it in the air, and fired up by the moment, deconstructed a Twenty into ten tiny pieces. She was egged on by Damon, poet and aesthete. In the end, £35 floated down the street like billionaire’s confetti.

Of course she wished she hadn’t the next day, but it was a spontaneous punk gesture that only a drunk person would dare to carry out, and it gave me a rare thrill.

"Money is funny"