Friday, September 08, 2006

Tomorrow. I'll do it tomorrow.
My body isn't a temple, it's a fucking skip. It's as though I'm some sadistic hostage taker and my body is my shrieking hostage. Last night it was on its knees begging me for salad and a night off the sauce, its two hands pressed together in the supplicating way, through sobs saying 'you've got to let me eat some leaves'. And what did I make it eat? Two pappadums, two onion bhajias, a lamb sag and a garlic naan. Oh: and a bottle of wine. Take that, you twat! And that! And that! And what's with all the smoking? I mean, I think we're beyond the social smoking stage here, unless social smoking is now so loose a concept it covers smoking whenever you feel like it, whoever you're with. When I gave up the first time I said to someone it felt like there was a hole in my life the exact size and shape as a cigarette, which sounds a little pleased with itself but was no less than the truth. And look what I plugged it with! Clever fucker, Hollins. You've got to hand it to tobacco, though: it knows all the moves. It doesn't barge up to your front door and start banging on it, it waves at you from across the street every now and again and then one day you wake up
sharing a flat. Thinking: Jesus. When did I agree to this? Still, I kicked it before and am sure I can kick it again, with that weird salty feeling on my top lip to look forward to and all that boozy, tobacco lust to suppress. Tomorrow. I'll do it tomorrow.

Friday, September 01, 2006

Scenes from real life, a mere four years from now
'One of the guys in the studio produced an iPod Nano from a drawer in his desk, saying "hey guys, check this relic out", and we all absolutely pissed ourselves. "Oh my god! It's a fucking brick!"