The end of October

And so dear readers, Mister October did sit at another table.

The most wonderful grandmother dealt him a Royal Flush.

You can't beat a Royal Flush.

Mister October walked away from the tables a contented and happy man.

Possibly see you in November. Possibly!

The birth of Mister October

To my eternal shame at the age when I should expect 50% of the queen’s telegraph I met someone quite decent. While it was only short lived it did lead to the creation of Mister October.

I must admit I had developed a pretty decent handle on things, even the chaos that pursued my life, and that I think was what the lady found attractive. In a strange way I’m not so sure this was what I displayed to her. A child in a sweet shop may have done better.

She was a single mother with two girls who were in the process of trying to find their own identity. Like the whirlwind I can be I gave her what she wanted. I moved into her life, house and bed.

By way of thanks her oldest daughter nicknamed me Mister October.

Given it was the first of this month she reckoned with her mother’s track record that was about as long as I would last. It was about as long as any of her relationships lasted. I made it through to January. Not sure if all she really wanted was Santa Claus or a puppy for Christmas, either way she got both. Problem with puppies is they quickly grow, and by January 23rd the dog had gotten considerably larger and needed to be put down.

Unsure why so quick demise should have happened I retreated to Luxor, Egypt. At times I thought about trying and find a spare tomb to bury myself in. Not easy licking your wounds when your bollocks have been cut off. You tend to find you bleed profusely.

They say what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger. Screw that for wisdom. I did however revisit the part I played in my own life.

Had I overplayed my hand and lost the pot?

No, the truth is a lot simpler than that. We just weren’t right for each other.

When it comes to cards I’m really not very good at poker. I did learn one thing though. If I keep my hand closer to my chest and only deal when the time is right I can improve in the game, and maybe, just maybe one day actually win a trick or two.

Yes, I learned a lot from this particular lady. She had her own trouble to sift through. I hope she does. I may be a bad gambler but I’m improving. The whole episode wouldn’t stop me sitting at the next table and hoping next time to at least break even.

Getting back to the furniture (sorry future!)

The intrepid duo of Bill and Ben can never be far from your mind once you’ve opened up to their memory. Considering this was a hospital where gainful employment should have been taking place the potential for endless fun was not lost on this pair of jokers.

As a maintenance plumber Ben had ‘access all areas’ this included the hallowed ground of the nurse’s home. For the uninitiated a nurse’s home was a kind of NHS brothel. Not all the girls were of easy virtue I may add but where there is a congregation of young, willing and eager then it stands to reason some would be young, willing and eager. Many a gentleman caller would be smuggled past the sleeping security team. That after all is the job description of security guards the world over. They are employed primarily to sleep. Some of the more advanced types graduate to watching CCTV, or television by another name. In between sleep duties I may add.

Ben was not averse to helping himself to a couple of ladies under garments. The kind that had the double initialed store labels were not what this ‘panty’ thief was after. He only took the more evocative and provocative samples for his collection.

At this point you could be forgiven for thinking Ben was no more than a kinky old pervert. This could not have been further from the blind lady with the scales of justice. What Ben had in mind was depositing his ‘finds’ in a kind of treasure hunt. The only problem was you had no idea you were involved. The hiding places were usually under the passenger seat of your car or when he was feeling bolder the glove compartment. Try explaining that one to the wife.

Luckily I at this point in my life did not have a wife. Neither did I have a car. I did have a sense of humor though. Glad to have met these two rogues. They make the sofa a little more comfortable of an evening.

I must do better

I have recently discovered a pain worse than broken limbs, and guess what I brought it all on myself. Thoughtless cretin that I am.

It's a delicious and sweet thrill to be romantically involved. It's also the worst pain possible when you mess up by your own hand.

Given the length of space I've wandered on this revolving rock you would have thought I had mastered the art of telling the truth. I have. Unfortunately with the male ego that surrounds my earthly presence I find it hard to admit my falability and the eventuality of fact only comes out in dribs and drabs. Painful indeed for the delicious lady asking the questions. I must seem like a real prat at times.

From my lofty peak the view is panoramic. But my overview is not from a position of mountainous ascent. No sir, it would be more reasonable to state what I survey is more likely to be from the cross I carry.

It would do me better to climb down and use the wood to start a fire. The blaze may even heat up the cavernous holes I seem to dig for myself and scare me into some appropriate action.

As a nutcase I'm the kernel extraordinaire. Pity really I never mean any harm in anything I do, but mastering life seems beyond my comprehension when matters of the heart take hold.

With this knowlegde and my recent experience I must try harder to gain the wisdom necessary to stop making a complete bollocks of myself.

As my old teacher used to say, 10,000 lines x 'I must do better'. Only stop writing when the pain gets unbearable. Now I know that the pain is truly unbearable.

One day I'll get it right. It's a promise I will keep if only to prove to myself that the rainbow and pots of gold are not just a dream.

The fresh faced Colleen

Around the age when three and zero sit comfortably together I was introduced to a lovely Irish girl .You know the sort. Keep you awake all night fulfilling fantasies then hit the confessional for her guilt trip. Not that any priest I’ve ever met really listens. If the press is to be believed the majority prefer hairy males to ‘hail Marys’.

She actually was pretty close to the male definition of womanly perfection. You know the script. Cook in the kitchen, lady in the drawing room, whore in the bedroom. Or even on a good day whore in the kitchen and drawing room as well.

She had the most delicious smile, and personality.

Given my background of white gloves, big drums and tin whistles I was taught that the followers of the man on the cross were not on the same spiritual level as those who did protest. And so I let religion get in the way. Not that I knew anything about religion you realize. All I knew was that Catholics were a strange breed and not to be trusted, except of course when they were pretty and opened their legs. Then they were to be whole heartedly encouraged.

I really was a young and stupid buck.

This fresh faced colleen tolerated my prejudice and behavioral deficiencies with a grace only the Virgin Mary herself could display. Without reservation she accepted the nonsense that I threw out as wisdom.

As ever the foolishness of youth got in the way and I beat it out of a fairly healthy situation. Truth is my conscience bothered me enough some years later to find her and tell her so. Even then she listened to what I had to say with a peace and serenity I did not understand.

Little did I know there would be more than one ‘graceful’ lady enter my life.

Later in life the 'white witch' came a calling and donned the mantle of serene womanhood.

As it stands the knuckles of reality are knocking on the door of celibacy and I know they must be answered. It feels stronger than the pull of a celestial black hole. Seems the innermost squirrel who hides his nuts may wish to delve further into the mysteries of lingerie tinged with domesticity.

For my sins I hope I will not burn at the stake.

As to the sofa the 'f' was delivered and now all is built and ready for launch.

Maybe the 'white witch' would like a test drive.

Oh, the musings of masculinity and egotistically folly.

No 'f' in sofa

I am no longer sofaless. Well almost.

Unfortunately with the typical thoroughness I have come to expect in life there are portions as yet to be fetched to me. So while now part of me can sit I cannot loll. If I accept this situation I will develop lopsided buttock syndrome. So where of an evening to place the gangling torso I inhabit I am still at a loss.

By way of explanation the 'third party' carrriers who delivered said incomplete article employed a driver with a 'third party' brain. The neandrethal impersonator who rode as shotgun had little more to display in terms of cerebral capacity. They doorstepped my future instrument of repose and informed me in true ok coral fashion that they would not be lifting the sofa any further than the roadside.

I informed them I did not live on the roadside. This was beyond their developed comprehension.

And so I had it, two slobbering skullnumbs who with finger pointing consistency referred to their interpretation of the semantics of a delivery ticket in order to not complete their task. The whole deal took a swift change of direction when I introduced a wireless transmission courtesy of Alexander Graham Bell and his forebearers. An irate Managing Director lined up on my side and the shotgun was unloaded.

Without much more exertion than a good squeeze I had four large boxes in which to play filling my living room. Before you could say Robin Jackson the knuckle draggers had their palms open for alms. A fixed stare for their efforts filled their 'sweaties'. I too can stand off with remarkable alacrity.

Alone with my boxes I unpacked with more zest than a ton of oranges.

And so the tale is yet to be comlete. One of the boxes was the wrong package. Threequarters of my sofa was all I had.

There is still no 'f' in sofa.

Keep you posted.

Bill and Ben

When yesteryear was just a word and the rat race had less rats I was privileged enough to have worked amongst some of the most prolific life givers that the world has ever produced.

No, they were not really all that special in terms of world changing events unless you realize of course that most folk’s worlds are very small indeed. They can still part my mandibles in the broadest sense when I think on what they got up to.

I will start with Bill and Ben.

This pair fed off each other and their surroundings in a way that Laurel and Hardy would have found difficult to emulate.

Ben was a plumber. With all the features that a working man manages to acquire by the time he is a journeyman. He owned over developed and knarled hands, a keen sense of the ridiculous, a razor sharp wit and an uncanny ability to find opportunity where little or none existed. He was also a mischief maker extraordinaire. Bill had been his apprentice, which says it all really.

They, like I worked in a hospital. These were the days when hospital smelled of carbolic, nurses looked angelic and porters were helpful. Not that this is not the case today, perhaps it just feels that way.

On one occasion Ben broke his finger and was off work for a couple of days. When an inquisitive nurse asked Bill where the other half of this double act was he proceeded to launch into this story.

According to Bill, Ben’s finger had gone septic. His arm had then become infected. Gangrene had set in. Said arm had been amputated.

The nurse bought the whole ridiculous story. So,Bill being a man of extreme fortitude pushed the boat out further.

He informed the nurse that unbeknown to most Ben was a keen concert pianist in his spare time and now there was no living with him. Given that we are talking of a man with fingers thicker than an oak sapling or two this was the most unlikely tale imaginable. Yet, in no time, the whole hospital was awash with grief at this poor man and his imaginary amputation. There was a collection, condolence card and everything. Quite an extreme amount of sheckels were raised.

Ben returned to work with a full compliment of limbs.

The staff were not amused.

As luck would have it Bill cried off from work sick on the very day of Bens return.

As the firewood was being collected for his pyre some bright spark decided to ask Ben how long he thought his compadre would be away from the workplace. Quick as a flash he retorted that as Bill had been suspended for his inveterate lying he had no idea.

This obviously was not the case; Bill simply had a head cold. Ben then related Bill’s true life story to all and sundry making out that anything he said was a tissue of lies. Needless to say when Bill got back on his feet the whole hospital had him branded.

I miss there two guys they brought a certain finesse to life. Nothing was that sacrosanct that tomfoolery couldn’t improve.

I know your up there, or down there, but wherever you are Ben have a laugh on me you were worth every minute of your time on this earth.

Disconnected travels

The more discerning of you will by now have realized that I have been somewhat disconnected of late.

This is primarily because base camp has been disrupted.

Sofaless is no place for a middle aged man to be. It makes for no option but to pack the picnic hamper and wander the hills and valleys. The broad highway is left far behind with the excitement and dangers of a destination unknown. As the road narrows thickets and thorns are everywhere but the vista broadens into the most amazing view.

It is only a temporary situation. The homing pigeon always finds its way home no matter how far it has flown.

Normal service will be resumed as soon as possible.

Ironmongery in the asylum

Joy upon joy, the asylum newspaper headline reads ‘nut screws washer and bolts’.

But the third estate does not always tell the truth.

This manipulation may not be intentional. It may not simply be to target sales. It may be there is no other agenda than an inability to perform the duties of providing correct information through lack of intelligent resource. It is not that there is lack of intelligence you realize. Nor is there a lack of resource. It may be that the wavelength of the stereo equipment between their ears needs some fine tuning.

Nuts, screws and washers are all forms of fixing, and by definition should stay put.

So there you have it, the truth behind the truth.

Another inmate of the East Wing taught me this, fascinating really.

The 'petite shufflers'

The ‘petite’ shufflers who refresh my thought processes have taken the evening off. The overnight delivery service which is a normality of my slumbers has left my shelf space devoid of stock. There is a surfeit of emptiness.

And so the gremlins go to work.

Armed with broken bottles, and wind up toy trucks they play at ‘dodgems’. There is a plentiful area in which they can intensify the wreckage. I must find some useful considerations to engage in. The alternatives are signing myself into the madhouse and ranting at the moons which circle my planet.

I say circle. The moons, all seven of them move in a kind of hyperbolic parabolic motion. It’s difficult keeping track of them you know.

I am no Snow White, but with amazing similarity to those who ‘dug’ for her all of the spherical orbits are named after characteristics usually associated with more humanistic experiences. Not that Grumpy and Sleepy have anything to worry about. These moons have more base instincts. Moon-gazing can be a deadly business, sinful in fact.

Break out the champers. This simple recognition makes the gremlins shy away in retreat.

And so we live to fight another day.

Uno to Earth

I have decided that I must be the subject of some cunning ploy. It seems the planet Earth is out to upset me. More correctly everyone on it. There are a few exceptions. The deaf, dumb, blind and insane hold sway in my court.

I am constantly amazed at the inability of others to accept critism. I have no option, it happens to me all the time. Others however are less likely to agree with my definition of their behaviour. Particularly when they are obviously at fault and I vocalise such.

Impresssing me is not easy. Previous respondants to my scribblings will already know this.

Relationships do not hit the bullseye in my archery competition. No reference to Cupid is intended. I am talking in general. From shopkeepers to streetwalkers I cannot for the life of me fathom out what makes this whole chaotic society tick. I know I am not alone, but few talk back.

If you are another alien lifeform please get in touch. You do not even need to speak the grammatical form of enlightenment. Brief monosyllabic efforts can be translated without expending unnessecary energy levels. If you are from the planet Uno all the better. Wavelengths will be commensurate with my own abilities.

Replies make the future brighter and convince me there will eventually be a sunrise over the asylum.

Sofaless

The winds of change are driving through October. It may well soon be November. Followed by December and all the frivolity that month brings.

A new sofa was ordered.

It arrived. It did not get off the truck. The worthy accompanists to this tale did not deem it a responsible action to try and move my goods from said truck to the sofa's new repose. I suspect they were a tad overtired from have done a day's work earlier. I of course have no evidence to this as I did not actually witness any activity greater than huffing, puffing and head scratching.

To say the least I was not a happy bunny. Would you be when a sofa is the prime consideration to your life.

I quickly e-mailed my disquiet to the supplier who then decided to somehow believe I was at fault. Now I know I live on a different planet. I always believed when you buy something, pay for it's delivery that this is what you will get, goods delivered.

The conversation somehow got into third party politics on the supplier's choice of courier. This is not my problem.

So there it stands the sofa bound middled aged man is now sofaless.

Roll on when this month is over.

May take up jaywalking as a sport. Seems more practical than my living experiences.

Big Chief Broken Tooth

I have been in sunnier climes. Visiting 'old' friends, and some not so old such
is the way of my world.

Continent skipping is something more akin to 'gap' students. The only 'gap' I developed was a broken front tooth. Vanity, I tried to hide you know. Dental treatment if foreign parts is not to be recommended.

I have in the past bared my posterior in a hotel lobby while someone who said he was a doctor inserted a needle into my fleshier parts. What this had to do with toothache I really have no idea, but it did take my mind off of the pain. In fact it took my mind off to somewhere only a man with toothache and a needle inserted into his fleshier parts can understand.

Seems every time I travel there is a price to pay in the molar department.

I think it all happened when I was eating barbequed co-co. This is Croatian for chicken. At least that is what my imbibing hosts imparted to me. Maybe the imbibing could cause a pause for thought. Lost in translation could be meaningful in this instance. Not sure I'll ever drink coco-cola again. Could be made from rooster gizzards you know.

Anyway 'Big Chief Broken Tooth' has already been attended to. In the land of piped music, fear and drills I made my appearance.

Nice to be wholesome child once more.

Uno weather forecast

On the planet of Uno it is midway through the month. October has been stormy, but also here has been some very sunny moments amidst the squalls.

As planetary motion dictates the sysmic events it is no wonder that when a comet or two lands there will be some upheaval. Minimising the unrest is not a feat yet mastered by the meteorologists. As acting Direstor of the weather department I have given specific instructins not to idle until all has been put to right.

Difficult job this you know, mastering the weather.

It is said the eye of the cyclone is the calmest place to be. Unfortunately I haven't a clue how to get in there. Where is Dorothy and Toto when you need them most?

Not sure yet whether the tinman, lion and scarecrow have yet joined this adventure. We are after all on Uno not Oz, but the script seems mighty similar.

Of to see some munchkins now.

Duck Billed Platypus

During a recent brow furrowing experience I got to wondering about the duck billed platypus. Now you know I’m nuts!

Anyway, front and centre students, how do you expect to qualify if you don’t pay attention?

Does the platypus know of it’s likening to a duck? Is it happy about such a reference? Does it find it insulting in any way?

For that matter how do the ducks feel about this? Will Teals and Mallards join forces and march on Government buildings the world over? Will there be protests, or even riots at such a blatant misinterpretation of their physical appearance?

Probably not; they will all just quietly swim along in their own ponds getting on with the daily chore of feeding themselves and their offspring.

So why can’t man be as sensible as the ducks, or for that matter the platypus? Have we not yet evolved to their dizzy heights?

Such questions indeed. Questions only the lunatic who resides in Room 48 of the East Wing has the ability to answer. Think I’ll ask him quietly before lights out tonight.

All around my hat

Being at peace once in a while it a wonderful experience. It doesn’t come naturally to me. In fact, it doesn’t come naturally to most people I know.

When you hear it said that everyone is searching for something or someone, I am now of the belief that’s not entirely accurate.

The essence of peace is an absolute. It is an acceptance of yourself and your lot warts and all. Society today offers that we have a fix for anything and everything. From children to grown ups everybody plays the game that all of life’s ills do not start at their doorstep. No sir, no one but the collective is at fault, every individual believes they are blameless. It is what we are conditioned to believe. It makes for a lot of huffing and puffing and defensive posturing from politicians, and any other body that thinks it has a right to a voice. What happened to the quiet man? is he not allowed a voice also?

Going placidly amidst noise and haste is quite an achievement in this day and age. It is won only on the battleground of broken dreams and denied expectations. It’s about time society accepted failure as it’s right and take it’s collective hat off to the individual who says ‘you know what, stuff the lot of you, I’m off for a trek round my head. By the time I return I hope you’ve sorted your own mess out because that’s what I intend to do’.

Am I the voice of one, maybe so but we’re growing. Come the revolution brother all the square pegs and round holes will link arms and laugh at how ludicrous it is to make everything so prescriptive that we are destroying the essence of life itself.

Is this a philosophical answer? Put me in a box, I don’t care, I’ll be in one soon enough anyway.

Make way for the meek, they shall inherit the earth. However who ever suggested that the meek will be human must be as mad as the mercurial hat I inhabit.

The return of the Messiah

Perception is a wonderful gift.

On a trip out from the NATO stronghold I worked in to see the little girl I was helping with her eyesight I was accompanied by a translator. In those days I did not speak Bosnian. I still don’t speak Bosnian. But with the arrogance of the western world spreading as is does everyone you met spoke English, or more correctly American. Or even more correctly American sit-comesse. Satellite dishes come before schools and hospitals when a country has been decimated. Or more correctly before food and chimneys and roads and well, everything you can think of really.

In the town there was one set of traffic lights. I think they were there simply as a guide to whether electricity was available or not. Guess what though, as we stopped to let the mafia take right of way as if by magic a gypsy appeared. Instead of a fiddle he had a ‘squeegee’ in his hand. This enterprising fellow was washing windshields. As I thought on how in Britain drivers complain at being harassed by such a noble form of begging I asked the translator on her views. She was delighted this guy was here. Her attitude was if the itinerants were hanging around then there was little likelihood that any serious gunfire would be nearby. Smart chaps these gypsy types, they bugger off at the first sign of trouble you see. Interesting theory, except it’s no theory.

On the way back from doing our good deed for the day I saw the largest convoy of military hardware I have ever seen assembled on a public highway. There were transporters with tanks, personnel carriers, armory trucks, jeeps, hummers, you name it if it was khaki or camouflaged it was in this line up. If I were to guess this mobile militia was at least over a couple of kilometres long. It moved slowly, very, very slowly. And then I saw why. A Bosnian worthy with not a care in the world was heading the whole show on a donkey. The full might of the combined forces of the ‘free’ world held to ransom by a man on an ass.

It made me wonder if Jesus had come back amongst us without letting on. Judging by the haggard appearance there would have to be an awful lot of iconography binned across the Christian side of the planet if it was him. I took a photograph. I need to get it out. It’s time the sofa had a laugh.

Tales from the cryptic Coptic

Sretan Put!

This sign is everywhere in Bosnia. It means good journey. When I was there some years ago the war had just finished. The aftermath was a surreal event. A country without banks, financial infrastructure and any sense of normal living is quite a place to expand your mind.

I worked mostly on NATO peacekeeping camps. As a civilian employee I had the right to mingle with the populous. I could come and go to the camp whenever I pleased, within reason, of course. If an alert went up then tin hats and flak jackets were the fashion statement for the day, no matter how civil a civilian you were. Luckily this was not a regular occurrence.

I left camp one sunny day to play at crater dodging on the tarmac. The sad truth was that anywhere green could not be trusted underfoot due to a liberal sprinkling of uncharted mines. I was approached by an elderly gentleman who was begging in the politest of ways. He had a command of English grammar that is beyond most native English speakers these days. I offered him a small token for his efforts which he received with humble gratitude.

On return to my base within the camp I related this story. The person who was my boss listened intently then chastised me in more expletive terms than the elderly gentleman for encouraging him. As he saw it no one would get any peace now if for any reason they had to venture beyond the camp gates. I think he kind of missed the whole point of why we were there.

On the very next day bold fellow that I am I decided to wander into the land of Nod once more. Elderly gentleman and outstretched hand appeared once again. This time I said there would be nothing on offer without at least an introduction as to how and why he found himself posted on the wrong side of the barbed wired free world. He didn’t say much. With sadness in his eyes he showed me a tattoo on his forearm, a number from a bygone conflict. As if this was not enough merit for the price of a meal he then showed me a scar from head to toe and said one word. ‘Mengele’. Even today I cannot express how I felt. Hard to imagine that one human being could survive what he had to be left begging at the gates of insanity.

I re-entered the camp and punched the primordial sludge that oversaw my work.

Celibacy

Is this enforced I hear you ask? Am I licking my wounds? If I were a dog I could lick everywhere you know. Some may even hint that I am a dog. They may be right.

Given the disaster I can be in relationships I have two courses of action. Both are celibacy.

I can give my poor sofa a hard time, tossing and turning, feeling dejected, rejected and resentful or I can still in quite peace with myself and debate the fortitude of the Universe.

Having a lunatic around to talk to at times comes in handy. Who else would be interested in my universe? Anyway on my planet there is only room for me and the asylum.

The asylum, a wondrous place, I can even chose the lunatic I wish to converse with. I am after all ‘the doctor’. I decide on the treatment plan you know. As I start my rounds I call on the locked wards first. Here only the most case hardened ‘nuts’ can be found. But where did they come from? The circus may have left town a long time ago but they left behind a couple of clowns and an endangered species or two for me to play with. I put them in the East Wing until Mr. Chipperwhatsit returns. Squirreled away in my asylum I only visit when I need to medicate them. I only let them out once they have been sedated. It’s dangerous to be abroad on such a foul night with this kind of company lurking behind every tree, particularly if they have not been ‘attended’ to first.

Now there is a thought. I could attend to them with some cheese wire and a pair of pliers. Take the knackers away. I think I might even have met one or two in the past who would volunteer to make this dubious pleasure a reality, saving me the bother.

Alternatively I could purchase some more Kleenex and ‘make out’ with the fantasy girls of the internet.

I think it may be prudent for a while to down the grooming brush and leave Crufts along for a while. Maybe even retire.

Who knows? The sofa owns many of my secrets.

Mature Secretary seeks w/e male

As Nelson Mandela once said ‘stuff this, I’m off to the pub!’ Do you doubt me? Go ahead ask him. I’m pretty sure he didn’t dream and scheme some of the things he got up to without a quaff or two of John Barleycorn’s finest for company.

Escape. Release from mental turmoil. I found it you know, all alone, unaided, on my sofa.

Is it so hard to imagine that imagination can fire the engine of desire, delusion and misrepresentation? Surely not! The goodly folk that drive the wheels of the internet have taken this specialty to a new level. They know where to strike.

A computer is not an extension to enhance life skills. Don’t be silly, whoever told you that! It is the means to an end to communicate with that which is not real. It’s fascinating to think that the ‘civilized’ world supports this. Of course they do. Keeps the masses at bay, doesn’t it. It’s cheaper than alcohol or fags. If you literate your offspring, keep them indoors and away from street corners, you can drive down the crime rate and make sure the local bobby has time for his tea break. Let’s politicians feel proud of their achievements, and what’s more they will tell you so, in great percentage details. You know it must be fact because the other family member, the television told you so.

As a master of Illusion I know of such folly. Let me explain.

Not so far in the distant past I made an effort to contact earth via the internet. I was looking for a female member of the species to tarry with a while. I was bored and lonely. This is the first step to destruction.

I answered an advertisement to meet a ‘Mature’ secretary. Said ‘Mature’ secretary only visited the area every two or three months. She sounded delightful. Just what the doctor ordered. We arranged to meet at a hotel many weeks down the line.

I must now confess to being somewhat naive. I did not understand the shorthand of the gutter. I thought W/E meant well educated. Hard to believe I know but there you are. I had no idea it was a reference to personal gymnastic equipment. Fairly obvious dear reader well educated I am not. The other aspect concerning my anatomical possession has been very specifically documented elsewhere, much to my chagrin and necessary downfall.

Although when I made the arrangements I had no one else in my life something about this whole episode did not sit well with me. Firstly I was out of my territory and secondly I have a conscience.

A whole series of events made me stop and think. I’m glad I did.

On the appointed day I received an e-mail from the ‘mature’ secretary offering a mobile contact. There was also an instruction that when I reached the hotel I should call said mobile and she would furnish me with a room number. Simply somewhere away from prying eyes where we could become better acquainted you realize.

First rule in any situation concerning the internet, don’t believe a bloody word.

My ‘mature’ secretary had a name. The hotel had a register. The two did not tie up. I did not attend. I had no intention anyway, but I wanted to find out to satisfy my curiosity.

The hotel receptionist however could tell me that three’ burly’ men with accents James Bond would have been suspicious of occasioned their premises from time to time, every two or three months to be precise.

Fascinating animal the pig you know. Very singular vision and it’s only got that when it takes its nose from the trough.

The White Knight Rides Again

Something happened today to remind me of what use I have on this earth. It's about time I brought it all back into being.

After helping young Brana I reckoned being greedily excessive in everything I do if I could feel good helping one little girl and her family then if I could multiply the ‘odds’ I’d be in seventh heaven.

I heard of a home for children and adolescents with soma mental disorders almost utterly destroyed during the Balkan conflict. I decided that my ego and I could do a job for them.

Armed with a delusional misrepresentation of my abilities and a saddlebag full of dreams I mounted my charger and galloped to their rescue. What I met beggared belief.

If you have an imagination take five, let it run riot, times it by ten and that’s approximately half the destruction I was witnessing. But within this utter carnage a clamour of smiling faces with nothing to smile about made everything alright. Strange as it may sound I felt at home.

Week after week I made a journey on God’s designated day of rest to visit my new friends.

Without trying to draw attention to myself I was drawing attention to myself. Pretty soon to increase my ‘posse’ some ‘soldiers’ who were in need of moral guidance were volunteered by those who inhabit the land of epaulets and pips.

Momentum takes time, unless you’re an army. Pretty soon every child had their own personal visitor. Over the ensuing two years a whole heap of wonderful times were had. For your consumption I may in future revisit these tales.

While the unknowing were quick to misunderstand the powers that drive the decency of human spirit were quietly beavering away in the background. Suffice to say that the home is now rebuilt at a cost of a million units in any financial denomination worthy of mentioning. In this even the albatross had her uses.

This is the stuff of myth and legend, and it’s nice to feel part of, honest.

I'm going to head back there in a week or so to say hello. I might even get a touch of the humility and gratitude I heard displayed today. Best reality check I've had for a while.

Goodnight pussycats.

A good friend visits

I invited a close friend to share my sofa for an hour or two the other night. He speaks slowly and calmly and is more conversant with the ways of the world than I am, sound sense listening to someone with a bit more insight.

He was in complete agreement with me about my aping skills.

Wisdom, ‘if you don’t want to appear an ape all your life stop shopping in the monkey house’.

He went on ‘Take a bit more time to develop what is comfortable. You might not realize it but shopping at any time if the year is just looking for the quick fix over and over again. Doesn’t matter what your chasing or in what department you chase it, money, sex, all that kind of stuff it’s all just simple gratification. Sure it’s nice at the time, but when it becomes the solution to your problems then you need to expect the lows when the highs aren’t around. If the attraction in life is all paper hats and streamers, when the balloons deflate the party’s over. And when the party’s over it’s over. Then it’s back to the dark tunnel and the teaspoon. Inevitably doing it over and over again eventually you’ll come out in the land of the dragons. You’re not that bright that you know how to take on a dragon with a teaspoon.

Why not lay down the fight. Stay on the sofa a while, remove the armour. Climb off your cross. Why not accept your imperfections instead of trying to outwit them. All you’ll manage to succeed in doing is baffle yourself. You don’t need a crown of thorns, you’re already a sore head waiting to happen anyway. Alternatively stop burrowing and climb the mountain, see what the vista is like. Seems a lot of hard work for nothing the way you go about things’.

I must ask him to join me more often.

Goodnight campers.

One Simple tool

Given the circumstances of my life I have acquired the use of a tool for living. It is a teaspoon.

With my teaspoon I am armed for any challenge.

Mostly in life’s problems I survey the land. Map out the territory, pick a path and while it may be a bit tiresome at times I pull the weeds along the trail. It should make the path easier for those who follow. My efforts are worthwhile.

When I come to a mountain I am not frightened by the challenge. I don’t try and climb it. I try and remove it with my teaspoon. Slow process this work.

Unfortunately I also am very skilled and a lot quicker at tunneling. Problem with being a miner is you tend to work in the dark a lot and just keep digging. Getting past the mountain in this way offers no guarantee where you’ll come up. It could be back on the path, in the swamp, or even the deepest darkest thickets that normally you can view in the cold light of day.

Not by chance did the cartographers of old depict dragons on the boundaries of their known world. Slaying dragons with a teaspoon was beyond even George. He of the saintly variety.

Difficult job this multi tasking. Being a trailblazer, miner, cartographer and dragon slayer all in one day is beyond me, but I’m getting there.

The Ape in the Mirror

As I reflect, I realise that is what a lot of my life has been about.

I was a latchkey kid. I was privately educated and very well rewarded in this department, but a latchkey kid just the same. That meant I had to use my ‘nonce’ to work things out for myself. In many cases I did this by the principle of ‘monkey see, monkey do’. I aped the efforts of others.

In relationships, once I had failed miserably using my own instinctual devices I adopted the survival technique I used in the facets of my life where I was successful. Mimicry then made relationships possible.

There is a fundamental flaw though. When you mimic someone, you mimic them. You copy their defective behaviour as well as the good bits. It’s only a matter of time before Dorian Grey is staring back at you.

That’s when the cracks show. It doesn’t matter which partner bowls the first strike the game will be over soon enough.

Wisdom is not easily won. I for sure haven’t got very much. I do though have ears. In the past I only used my eyes. That is what the copycat theory relies upon. But when the blind are leading the partially sighted then it’s inevitable that there will be a lot of stumbling and failure.

A light went on in my head recently. I know, thought I, I’ll clear the wax from my ears. Boy I am glad I did. I have the ability to hear at long last.

I was reminded by a spiritually adept person on the degrees and principles of love. They are romance, care and devotion. As a one time Samaritan I knew they taught this as the principles and degrees concerning depth of listening. Fascinating people are these Samaritans. All the destruction of life on the end of a phone and all they do is use their ears to listen. As a Samaritan I was a complete failure.

Maybe it’s time for Mister October to re-evaluate that.

An Interview with Doctor Frankenstein

D.F.: Well Mister October seems you’ve taken up my role of creating monsters.

M.O.: Seems so. Difference is you knew what you were doing.

D.F.: And you didn’t?

M.O.: No.

D.F.: I can’t buy that.

M.O.: I can. I have to or I’d go mad.

D.F.: Didn’t you learn anything from my story?

M.O.: Not sure what you mean?

D.F.: Well I put together a head and a heart. Which one are you following?

M.O.: I suppose my head.

D.F.: Pity help you only a fool follows his head.

M.O: Right then from now on I’ll follow my heart.

D.F.: I n your case that’s even worse.

M.O.: I’m confused, so what should I follow then?

D.F.: Your soul.

M.O.: What do you mean?

D.F.: If you follow your soul your head and heart will be on equal terms.

M.O.: Isn’t that painful.

D.F.: Sometimes.

M.O.: Don’t fancy that.

D.F.: You can’t escape it, all roads lead there eventually.

M.O.: I’ll bear that in mind.

D.F.: There you go again thinking, will you never learn.

Herbert

In the summer of many past moons when a lesser mortality was on me I used to keep a variety of animals. They were a distraction to my life. I had a smallholding. This is not a personal reference. Said smallholding was two acres. Again this is not a personal reference, but currently a bit closer to the truth.

Along with the chickens, sheep and goats I had an exotic stock of golden and silver pheasants, peacocks and a pot bellied pig. The pig’s name was Herbert. This was my father’s name.

After I had mucked and bailed and fetched and carried as was my want a bale of hay was the most pleasant of surroundings to relax on. It was my sofa of that era. I did however also bring a friend. A bottle shaped friend.

I would merrily get merry and tell Herbert al my tales of woe. He would look quizzically at me and grunt. On occasions I would drink so much I would fall asleep. When I awoke the quizzical Herbert was still there, my guardian angel.

I once told this story to a lady I knew. She told me a similar story of a pig that was there when she awoke. Her take on this I may add, I couldn’t comment on I was not the pig in question,

I really struggled with this portion of my life. I was trying to be St. Francis without going to Assisi. He too preferred the company of animals to humans. No unfortunately the only connections I can make with saintly activities is the monastic existence my life was to become. The parable nearer to my journey is that of the prodigal son. He too woke up to his life.

One big difference nobody has yet thrown me a party.

Maybe that’s because I’ve not yet reached home.

Nuts in October

I am an accomplished magician. Not intentionally I may add. With remarkable ease I can make money and women disappear. Not that I want to, it just seems to happen.

Half my problem is I overthink the areas of my life where some simple common sense would suffice, and worse, I don't think in the areas of life where it matters.

As I have said before I not too good at life. I think it comes with being alone a lot of the time. The only conversations I have most nights are with myself. No harm in that, if I wasn't unhinged.

Have you ever had a debate with a lunatic? Let me tell you I do it frequently.

I have examined why and can date a lot of it to my time with the albatross. Times when I gave trust were the times I should have questioned and vice versa. She was an exceptional con woman. Stands to reason I'd become infected. Not by choice. By osmosis. Even I can't work out sometimes when I'm presented with the rational solution to a problem why I jumped in completely the daimetrically opposite direction. It doesn't make me a bad person, just nuts!

I have in time managed to get by by pretending I have some social skills. Most of the time I haven't a clue what is going on, and that's without any external stimuli.
Most folk fall for it, and take me for being a nice guy. I am a nice guy, I just don't know what's happening. So when a problem that I haven't dealt with before presents itself I take the line of least resistence.

Now you know why my wardrobe once owned a buckle sleeved waistcoat.

Strangely someone once said I would make a good candidate for parliament. Most of them sleep on a sofa, a green sofa, and get paid for it.

Oh well, back to the drawing board. Think I need to stop thinking for a while, this life stuff is becoming extremely hard when I'm in it.

What a Shitty month October can be

On a sabbatical from my retrospective life I recently had the pleasure of two lovely ladies in my life.

Problem: neither of them knew about the other
Problem: I wasn’t playing fair with either

Solution: Ignore it.

Unfortunately with my track record I should have known this solution was the cul-de-sac of relationship disasters. I caused mayhem, distress and anguish, but worse was to follow, I tried to justify and defend my angers at being ‘called out.’

I’ve never been very successful at life, even less so at lying. Have I learned?
This time I think I may actually possible have, the prize it too great to let it happen again. I know my sanity is in question, of that, there is no question. But playing with the life’s of others is a no, no, particularly when you care. Anger is the wind that blows away all reason. So as October is a month that would challenge the Beaufort Scale I became entirely unreasonable. That’s not hard to imagine is it?

Well I believe in my heart there is a grand apology to be made to everyone concerned. So here it is. Mister October is a middle aged woman from Grimsby.

There you have it. The truth is out now.

Who writes this delusional crap anyway.

All about Eve

Life on the sofa can be comforting at times. Happy memories can resurrect great joys from my past. Sometimes other parts of my anatomy are resurrected as well, letting me know I am not yet over the hill.

When the world was my bivalve mollusk and a quarter of a century was almost on me I already had two certificates to my name. One proved I was insane; my marriage certificate, the other proved I was getting better. It confirmed my single status.

To celebrate my freedom I entered another relationship. Five years of blissfully chaotic madness ensued. I enjoyed every minute.

The young lady in question was the absolute double of the four foot eleven inch destructively gorgeous midget Charlene Tilton, who played Lucy in Dallas. My lady had half an inch on her and mighty proud of the fact too. And she certainly was no ‘loosey’.

She did however have one unusual feature, her job. She was the ‘madam’ in a Sauna. Not one of these down market sleazy brothels that get so much attention these days. No, no sir. This was an up market sleazy brothel frequented by men who liked fancy dress. Not to mask their credentials you realize, the fancy dress included a wig. Imagine a gown and gavel and you’ve got the picture.

Teasing was her forte. And I don’t mean she made wool with a carding comb. She was a mistress of the understatement. Just a glimpse of stocking top or button popping cleavage was enough to tip the financial favour in her direction. Men are suckers for this type of show; particularly middle aged men; particularly middle aged men with a sofa. This I did not know then. Wisdom only comes with the sofa.

It was only a matter of time before hedonistic pursuits would spoil this wondrous affair. She came in the shape of a seventeen year old. I met said teenager at a party she was attending with her mother. I was showing more interest in the mother. The youngster decided she wanted the experience of an ‘older’ man. Who was I do deny opportunity when it came knocking. This was not a good move. My ‘madam’ was an astute inkling woman and could detect ‘essence of teenager’ at fifty paces.

Once again into the breach I went.

The teenager turned into a ‘stalker’ and I lost a very decent lady.

Dear readers, by now you must be getting a picture of the kind of complexities I have faced through life, the choices, dilemmas, the women. For me the shortest point between two distances is always greater than route 66.

The Conductor

My orchestra is more akin to a band, a ‘big’ band. I like the big band sound.

The rhythm section ‘swings’ and the ‘brass’ are very accomplished French horn blowers. Of course they don’t always harmonize. The technique of coming together to an ear splitting crescendo is one that takes great aptitude. Any ‘band’ that has a wish to play together must get into the habit of practicing together. Practice makes perfect.

And to this end a good conductor is paramount.

Attention to his ‘baton’ is essential.

Each passage develops into the essence of the piece. It is what motivates both players and audience. Slow and melodic, allegro, pianissimo, a good score has them all. As the very tip of his appendage reaches out the conductor drives the pace along. By the final act the complete orchestra has become the sum part of the whole until the concerto is spent. Finished the audience and players depart until another day.

That reminds me, I must get my music system repaired.

The White Knight

Some years ago I found myself in the Balkans. It was just after the ethnic war had taken place.

Gainfully employed as a civilian camp follower and by any standards well remunerated I found it difficult adapting to the peculiar way of life that camp followers the world over know and accept. Being amidst what was an apparent and very real hostile environment makes for copious excesses. You name it; all the vices are buried just over the surface.

Being at that time on a ‘spiritual’ quest I decided some charitable efforts might not go amiss. Where to start was the problem.

It was Christmas and I was feeling sorry for myself. I missed the role play of being a jolly fat man in a red suit.

Scanning the military propaganda I discovered some small but effective works being reported. I read of a mother and three little girls squatting in a fire bombed house furnished only with destitution. Hopelessness was every page of their festive calendar.
And so with chocolate and teddy bears I learned the true meaning of the word humility.

It’s difficult to describe how this Santa felt knowing how far off the mark his gifts were.
Sure baubles and trinkets are a lovely idea but when you have nothing to eat bread and milk is a better proposition than cocoa solids and stuffed animals. What’s more the mother sent her oldest child, a sprightly twelve year old, to a neighbor to see if she could borrow a cup and some coffee to entertain this crumbling ho-ho-ho merchant standing in front of her. I may add the neighbor’s home was some way off through a minefield.

The middle child was eight years old, had lost an eye to cancer in her earlier years and was now struggling to keep the other. With no water or electricity cross infection was not only possible but probable. The family survived weekly on the price of a cup of western world coffee; the cost of her daughter’s sight would be fifteen years savings if the children didn’t eat.

I’m not going to blow my trumpet on this one folks. It’s a bit too personal and I choke up when I think back on those times.

Only one thing needs saying. Today the family are all fine. Mum has a job. They live in a fully serviced home in a pleasant part of town.

The oldest is married. The youngest is an imp and Brana, the lovely girl who melted my heart is a happy and vivacious teenager with as bright and clear an eye as I’ve ever seen in any human being.

Moral of this story.

Even the King of the Jungle is just a big pussy cat. If the price is right he will roll over and let you tickle his tummy.

And to those of you who wish to complain about the price of petrol, ‘piss off’ and get a life.

The Loin King

I have a son.

God forbid he turned out like me but the signs are to the contrary. At an age when acne was the number one priority for most boys I was already an inexperienced member of the fleshpots. In this I believe the fruit of my loins is no different.

I have to say I’ve had a lot of fun, but a serious long term partnership has always escaped me. Although a bit early to tell I think the gods are offering him the same.

It’s not that I haven’t tried, or even that I might be capable, but long red fingernails, war paint and a stocking clad leg are where my loyalties lie. As soon as I see a housecoat and two boiled eggs being presented as the solution to my life I find a way of removing my attentions and seeking fresh challenges. Is this a pointless direction I ask myself, frequently!

Not so sure that there is any such thing any Mrs. Right for me. We may be right for each other for the time and date of the experiment but as to communal living, whether I care to admit it or not, it’s seems it’s just not my chosen path.

Does this make me a bad person? I hope so. Bad people are far more interesting.

Auditions

As my journey through life progressed beyond the age where facial mapping became irreversible I noticed a pattern developing in the choice of women I met.

They all had children.

Not of the screaming variety, but of the lost socks, dirty plates and loud music variety. Most of them had other similarities. They were sedentary in a statuesque kind of way. Introductions took the form of an audition. Staring eyes followed my every movement, understandable really.

Who was this middle aged man encroaching on their territory? Challenging their environmental control?

It seemed that in direct proportion to the number of candles on their birthday cake the wax run made the icing unpalatable. When it comes to their parent, children have developed a unique ability to smother the truth behind their mystique. No matter how unpalatable it may sound I have met a few budding contenders for dictator of the year award. Any challenge to their domestic authority means mummy’s legs will not like the Sunday chicken dinner fall readily apart when thoroughly cooked. And to think these little ‘bastards’ once crawled out of the place I was trying my hardest to get into.

In time bribery may work. Cash in hand has a unique ability in quietening teenage angst.

On other occasions it’s a lost cause. The situation is too far gone. I’ve found it is far better then to bid farewell and beat a hasty retreat. Sad to say this is from my own life experience.

I have, when I felt the lady in question wasn’t so questionable that I might want to hang in there, overstepped the mark. Learning the hard way that there is only ever one winner and it is not me, can be a very painful truth.

Trick is never fall in love with anyone with baggage that has not yet travelled away from home. Even then it may not work, depending on the length of the apron strings.

Dysfunctional as I may be and crazy as it may sound, on the great chessboard that is my life this King can only cope with a queen who has no reciprocal arrangement with her pawns.

Dyke van Dick

After being round the Med once with my ‘lady of advancing years’ I got to thinking about my own mother. They shared the same decade of birthright.

I thought some sea air would do my mother’s ailing chest some good.
Two packs of Virginias finest for forty years and she still hadn’t enough cigarette coupons for her iron lung.

We set sail with a doctor’s certificate pinned to her lapel. A good idea if you want to keep the randy old togers who were a few years in front of me away. A wheezing geriatric is fair game for the not so choosey.
It turned out to be a good idea.

I now had two ‘ladies of advancing years’ for the price of one.

One night after my mother had retired for the evening I was amusing myself in the bar when I spied a shapely damsel hard to port side. She noticed me noticing. Within two shakes of a sheik’s shaker she had made her move on me. Yes, she made her move on me. I thought to myself, Christmas has come early and with any luck Mr. October would come in this present.

There was one slight drawback. Said lady was a lesbian. Not that a small detail like this would stop me. As the conversation progressed I offered to show her the error of her ways. She was having none of my games. She did however suggest that I walk her to her cabin. Bemused I asked why I would contemplate such an offer if my snake couldn’t climb her ladder. Seems my damsel was also afloat with her mother who had no idea of her deviant preferences. Would I be a ruse as far as the cabin door? Hoping still to chance my luck I played Sir Galahad. No joy!

I found out I was naive in another way.

Towards the end of the cruise there was a formal meal with balloons, streamers and a photographer on hand to capture the smiling faces. For a large fee you could purchase your likeness the very next day. Three thousand stills adorned the inside planking and not a single one of me. Considering I had washed my face for the event I was sure a flashbulb or two had been pointed in my direction. My ‘lady of advancing years’ knew the game being played. In order to continue her pretence my lesbian friend has purchased all the
snapshots that had me as the main attraction.

Dear mama would never suspect and maybe even embellish her daughter’s imaginary fondness for 6’ 2” masculine maturity.
She was a looker my lesbian friend. Next year I think I’ll book a package holiday to Lesbia.

My mother died shortly after we made this trip.

Happy days!

Goodnight mum I’ve still got my sofa you know!

Group therapy

During a liaison with a therapist which lasted a year she introduced me to the world of recovery. I attended a few of her meetings to try and understand what it was all about.

Seemed to me that this bunch of characters didn’t have a lot going for them, it was like a ‘crèche for adolescents’. The only thing missing were a few comforters. I filed this information away for future reference.

Listening to a bunch of ex anybodies twittering on about how they had suddenly been 'born again' into a new and wonderful life seemed a bit odd to me. Their tales were mostly around how everything had been lost. I found it extremely peculiar that it took the removal of jobs, homes and loved ones to opened their eyes to their irrational behaviour. Anyone over the age of twelve could have told them that.

As to being born again, assholes spring to mind.

I have had my own breakdown you realise, and indeed, I was incarcerated some years ago in a mental hospital for my own sanity check, so I am no stranger to instability. I found hard work and industry helped. This bunch thought holding hands, chanting and trying to get in touch with the living would yield the same result.

As I pondered the worth of group therapy, I smiled and imagined fondling the young ladies breasts sitting next to me. It did not take long for me to come to the completely straight forward conclusion that if I ever displayed the amount of self obsession I was currently experiencing I should be incarcerated once again.

But I have to admit that some of these ‘fragile’ creatures were very attractive indeed. To an old manipulator like me I guessed some of the more 'tearful' prospects would respond very well to my charms. Becoming a spiritual comforter became even more appealing. I really needed to get out more and drink myself into oblivion to find out what all the fuss was about.

As I progressed along the journey of spiritual salvation with my lovely therapist I developed my own level of self interest, her. Becoming conversant with the writings of all the anonymous and sundry poetic claptrap she spouted made it easier to get her into bed.

‘The couple who pray together, stay together!’ She would say. I nodded agreement as I slid my hands further under the duvet.

Delicious though she was eventually she was another heady cocktail that proved too much for me to handle.

further reflective contemplations...

Although reflective contemplations on my sofa usually spawn a plethora of crises concerning my identity, there are moments when thoughts of the albatross can still raise a smile.

What red blooded male wouldn’t dream of the day a leggy model clad in basque, fishnet stockings and high heels would be waiting for him at an airport. I have that experience under my belt. It did cost me a mink over garment of course. But even an albatross can look fine in fur, particularly when the treasure chest below bears a very firm 34d.

Or the pleasantries of videoing the albatross as she apply the early morning dew to her naked flesh, secure in the knowledge that my maypole would shortly be caught up in twists of silk ribbon and breakfasted upon.

And she as well as I was a seasoned traveller. The route from her lingerie drawer to the bed she knew well. The only trouble is I’m not so sure I was the only destination she reached during our short marriage. I am pretty certain however I was always the one paying for the tickets.

On evenings out with me she would feign such attention that any silver fox who came sniffing in her vicinity would have no illusion as to their need to look elsewhere for a vixen. She was complete mistress of everything she surveyed. It is what I found attractive in her and if I ever see her again no doubt I still would.

And she was a lot smarter than your average bear Boo Boo. Within one conversation my solicitor could tell me that. Intellectual Property indeed!

She had the intellect to strip me of my property. Need I say anything else?
Yes, you fool Mr. October, you fool.

Sometimes I have to admit it was the best fun I’ve ever had.

Dilemma

Hard to believe it had taken me over fifty full revolutions of this planet to work out I didn’t belong on this planet. At least that’s the way it seemed to me.

I had made an artform of not fitting in. As long as I remained in this frame of mind singular activities of the flesh would have to suffice. Not the most pleasant of thoughts forevermore. So an actor I became.

Like Gollum I too wished to visit the ‘Crack of Doom’. All I needed to do was find the appropriate ‘ring bearer’. Preferably without the company of Sam Gamgee, a fat hobbit with big hairy feet wasn’t my idea of a threesome.

But where could I look next? I had exhausted all the ‘normal’ avenues, internet sites, coffee houses, and singles clubs. How about I try my hand at speed dating I thought.

Unaware that this circus only travelled in the same direction, I found to my horror that like Russian roulette the gun is loaded around every sixth spin round the chambers.

Have you ever met a bi-polar frog on speed? May I suggest you try this form of embarrassment as an option before you offer an answer? This was a beetle drive for ugly people. What's more a press advert suggested this was 'a way to meet interesting and exciting people of similar interests'.

God help you earthlings if this is a factual statement.

And so, once again I found myself in the company of bollock scratching, sofa surfing and dispelling seed into a paper handkerchief.

Juliet, oh Juliet, where art though Juliet? Or Samantha, or Wilma, or Josephine.

Visitations

The long and short of life can affect the comfort of my sofa. The mood set by the mind games I play can be lethal. On a bad day the committee that inhabits my cranial desires seldom vote as one. When this happens I await the return of the dictator. She who must be obeyed is a pervasive and persuasive shapeshifter of extraordinary power. Pert, poise, bashful, obtuse, provocatively vocal, she knows no bounds. In my solitude each guise is only revealed as the nightly escapade unfolds. Whether real or fictitious she is always imaginary and probably unlike any creature known to this earth. Gossamer wings, nerves of steel. Whatever she may be she is always and for evermore my manly motivation.

Every woman I have ever known has had the potential to harm me, and yet I re-enter the arena, slingshot in hand. Is this a sensible approach to balanced living? Darn tooting it is. For my diet has chocolate as well as greens. And if truth were told I can be greedy, very greedy where sweet things are concerned. After all what is sweeter than a fair maiden’s kiss?

She is temporal, she is spiritual. As a corporal entity she will bear little resemblance to what I perceive her to be. Such is the way of man’s loves and lusts. I can live and die in a single moment. With one straying thought she can change my mood. With consummate ease and quicker than alcohol or cocaine the medusa can tame or arouse my beast within.
And only I have the power to bring her to life. As only she has the power to bring me to life.

Can I ever be sure she will ever exist for me?

Where my search will lead is nowhere but my own identity.

my lady of advancing years

Odd though it may seem most men coming out of a marriage without having ‘orchestrated’ a partner switch have no idea how to re-enter the world of dating. The natural reaction is to fill the void. They do after all need to find someone to wash their socks and iron their shirts. If it wasn’t for the horny devil playing up in the nether regions a surrogate mother would probably suffice.

A ‘friend’ suggested a good place to meet ‘like-minded’ philanthropists was on a cruise ship. As if there was some kind of logic attached he reckoned the ‘pickings’ would be of a better class as the hoi polloi did not have the where with all to attend such a bash. What this had to do with anything I’m not sure but it sounded good at the time.

The Mediterranean millpond could take the weight of a thirty zillion ton plasticized tanker without creating too many ripples so I merrily signed up to an adventure.

Before I could close the cabin door there was an invite to join the other ‘single’ travelers.

At lunchtime on the first day I witnessed the shame of being in my position. Out of a potential cast list of fourteen hundred the auditioning players for this production amounted to six. One ‘zimmer’ frame complete with hearing aid, one coconut on legs, an alcoholic, an hermaphrodite, the jolliest ‘lady of advancing years’ I had ever met in my life and me.

To steer this motley crew in the direction of ‘fun’ the entertainments officer did her best to entertain. Before the bread roll had hit the soup lashings of alcohol were provided by way of an ice breaker. Not a good idea when an alcoholic fancies becoming captain for the afternoon. I hastily excused myself on the grounds of feeling sea sick. As my choice of flotilla had been made on the assumption stable waters would keep me free of mal de mar I don’t think anyone believed me.

On a midnight stroll round the upper deck I was ‘albatross spotting’ and thinking about how much a mistake all this was when I spied the ‘lady of advancing years’. She was well into the area of life where every day is a blessing. It was apparent even to me she had been quite stunning in her youth. In fact the twinkle in her eye suggested she may still have been actively pursuing her dreams. She had more spirit than all the rest of the lunchtime menagerie put together. We smiled and passed pleasantries. In particular she mentioned how cold the Med got once the sun and yardarm had spliced company. I retired to my cabin and dreamed of hitting an iceberg.

Given I was trying my best to engage with life I had enrolled in every organized visitation into port there was. I was playing the package trip traveler to the n-th degree.

I saw the sights. Impressive they are. When the sun shines and you’re paying wads of cash for the privilege of being there you can convince yourself that anywhere is impressive.

Strangely no matter the port, no matter the trip, there was always a flea market or bazaar. So, in order to show my generosity I broke into my allowance and bought ‘the lady of advancing years’ a shawl. A small token of gratitude for being the only smile I’d encountered in the last seventy two hours. I reckoned it would help keep her right side of unfrozen on her nightly wanderings.

By way of thanks, in every sense except the obvious we became friends. Frankly I’m not sure how I would have gotten through two weeks on the high seas without her. During the day I joined the guided tours and dutifully pointed my camera at a collection of old buildings, and at night I entertained and was entertained by my ‘lady of advancing years’.

I never entirely found out how the twinkle in her eye got there, but she has hinted, and I have my suspicions. If I dodge the coffin for as long as she has I hope I will be afforded the same voracity for life. In fact, to this day she is still as shipshape and seaworthy as anyone I have ever met.

I raise my glass to her. God bless her and all who have sailed in her!

the albatross flies high

Putting your faith in someone to have it destroyed is a damaging experience. The fall out is nuclear. It lasts for a very long time.

Such was the way with the albatross.

With majestic ease my princess had managed to develop and build at least four differing personas. There may be more, who knows? Four was enough for my brain to try and unravel. I was simply the fourth prince charming to awaken her with a kiss. And boy had I awakened something. A spirit so twisted I’m amazed she could lie in bed straight. But lying and lying in bed was a full time occupation for this particular species of womanhood. It’s hard to comprehend how anyone could split their life into such a variety of lies and deceit and remain the very essence of calm and sophistication. But that she was. Even today if she presented herself to me, if I was brave enough to remove my hands from my pockets it’s my own sanity I would feel for, not hers.

This was not so much identity theft as simply theft. She already ‘owned’ the identities. She simply kept them alive and allowed them to mature.

By working abroad during our married life I was an easy target. She knew I wouldn’t be around. There would be no one to question the bank statements, credit applications, catalogue purchases, insurance scams, fraudulent pension claims and god knows what else. Her problems arose when I decided to return.

Expecting a wondrous reception and healthy bank balance I was met with a depressive shell in both departments. As an actress she was and still is superb. She pretty soon had me pandering to her every whim.

As the bottomless pit she had been draining disappeared the pitiful bottom I was to encounter hit me square in the face. The day was fast approaching when she would make it look as if she could not survive without my pecuniary input, and worse, she had the medical records to prove it. The persona she had built around my name would make application to a court for maintenance. She had captured my wallet by batting her eyelids and could legitimise highway robbery without the same effort.

With my sofa as company over the coming year I made excuse upon excuse to myself to try and justify the intensity of feelings and emotions that welled in me.

The bottom line was I’d been ‘done over’ by an expert.

Nymphomaniac

Every man has fantasies. Excessive behaviour, particularly in the area of feminine sexuality, is appealing.

As I wandered the earth searching for the unobtainable I was presented with that of which every man dreams, a nymphomaniac.

Although by now I was making a decent job of trawling the net and throwing back the tiddlers and sharks finding a suitable creature to feast upon was presenting a challenge. I had decided I would develop a fondness for flesh of a different hue. Lithe and nubile and domicile on this planet for a little less than two score years particularly took my fancy.

A short break to a seaside town brought a variety of catch that was the most amazing dish imaginable. This platter did not need a side order to satisfy. On the dance floor she manipulated her torso into directions of travel that did not seem humanly possible. And she quite blatantly knew what she was doing. Putting herself on my menu was the biggest joy that I could hope for.

Before the moon had revolved we were an item. Hand in hand, cheek to cheek, body to body I made use of my surroundings. As I listened to the waves lapping at the shore my own form of lapping was received with relish. I found sand to be a very uncomfortable third companion when engaging in foreplay. And this lady was vocal, very, very vocal. She was the walking embodiment of gratitude.

Over the next six months I experienced that nightmares and dreams are not that far removed from each other. As desire gave way to a diet of insatiable lust I could, quite literally, not keep up. This lady loved it, everywhere, anywhere, including the room next door to her eighty year old profoundly undeaf mother. I am not one to be feint of heart but when screaming ardour and a family audience of well over pension age are mixed then a sanity check is in order.

I made my excuses and got out of there. Pity really she was a very fine woman.
The last I heard she was testing the lifecycle of batteries for a selection of plastic insertions.

Sunday School Teacher

After my sojourn around the rock and roll circuit I unconsciously made an effort to settle down. More by luck than design I found myself in the company of the exact opposite of the type of woman I probably needed. At the age of twenty one though I’m not sure I ever knew what I needed in a woman or indeed anything else.

From where I was coming marriage to a Sunday School teacher seemed a safe bet.
I was therefore married. A certificate proved it. Certified I should have been.

As if to embed my new life further her mother was resident organist in the ‘church of Christ the knows what’. Where once stood 80 decibel cocaine fuelled hysteria evening entertainment now consisted of ‘the old rugged cross’ lemonade and home made rhubarb crumble. No longer either the nightly hedonistic lustful rampages, instead was prayer and sensibility. I have no idea what anyone else asks of our redeemer but for my part I prayed to get beyond the top two buttons of my new wife’s cardigan. Boy how I prayed, and prayed, and prayed. To the uninitiated, as I was quickly finding out, sex was no longer for enjoyment but procreation. Procreation was a twice yearly affair in accordance with tradition. Christmas and Easter. Not ever birthdays. This was a spiritual plane I had never previously considered.

Along with my first attempt at blissful co-existence I made efforts towards a proper job. As a budding Charles Rennie McIntosh I decided I would shake up the architectural world. I had no idea that there were some rudimentary skills needed to be learned. This truly was an alien concept. Drawing, scale rules and philosophical debate pulled me into a hitherto world unknown. When the boss spoke I learned to nod. With ardent fervour I produced unusable rubbish of epic proportions and was found out.

As if to cement my stones further into the great wall that is life I attained another certificate and was divorced.

Hallelujah, praise the Lord.

Here endeth the lesson.

Shingles Club

Strange to tell but after the downfall of a bad marriage the natural reaction is to try to fit again in an equally damaging relationship. Any damaging relationship will suffice. Such is the way of the world. To justify this conformity to expectation is the primary purpose of the singles club.

When the singularity of my sofa became too painful and the Kleenex box was empty it was time to swallow my pride and throw myself on an unsuspecting public. On a Saturday night where else could a middle aged man head for a face to face confrontation? I donned my best bib and tucker and made ready for the fray.

Unfortunately the mainstay of clientele bore a degree of similarity to an audition line for the Addams Family. There was the ‘odd’ cub looking for a lioness but the majority showed definite signs of decay. On closer inspection the congregation seemed to sort themselves in order of desperation. I did know that balding lounge lizards didn’t pose much competition. While most of the faces could have benefited from severe ironing if I wasn’t too picky there was plenty of yellow sticker meat on offer. But I would have to change my game plan and recalibrate my expectation as well. A successful ongoing relationship would definitely not be the outcome of any tryst.

Being the new kid on the block it wasn’t long before I was approached. It’s amazing what you can catch in one of these places. The common cold to herpes is almost guaranteed. She had probably in the past been someone’s trophy. A little tarnished but her silverware was clean enough to be on show. Suffice to say this ‘silver tongued devil’ became her polishing cloth for the night.

I gave it a couple of weeks and returned. I had a similar escapade with a different partner. In fact it was only after four or five months of this repetitive behaviour I noticed that all my ‘conquests’ not only shared the same sophistication but sat at the same table for their weekly constitutional. It seemed I was being passed around. Not one to quibble I took to my duty like the man I am. Foul weather protection meant any potential storm in the port could be kept at bay. Every other weekend my sofa got a breather as I became the notch on the middle aged woman’s bedpost.

Somewhere along the way I realised that while most men 'think' they are the hunter it is in reality the other way around. Believe me in the battle of the sexes there is only one winner. The trick however, no matter how deceptive, is to make sure you appear as a prize.

Right idea, wrong person - me!

Up until a few months ago I was in pursuit of the little house on the prairie. Problem was a lot of developers had the same idea. There were half finished skyscrapers everywhere. The view was spoiled forever. On reflection my construction could only be described as an erection of a temporary nature. Even if the shelter was 'adobe' and the weather conditions were 'off the Beaufort Scale' in my mind's eye I was always looking for permanence. Hermit crabs and long term residence do not do compatability. However I did make a noble attempt.

I did get involved with a lovely young lady, and I do mean that with all the sincerity I can muster. It didn't work out. She was a bit younger than me. Quite a bit younger than me. I was massaging my ego with dexterous aplomb. We set up home together and leased a house for a year. Within a week the cracks were widening. Within a month all on my own I had move the Grand Canyon to suburbia. Discretion and valour rode in as my champions and Elvis left the building.

As a solution I swapped a two bedroomed 'rented' house for my sofa. I was buying the same tee shirt once again. Find a lady to have fun with, get joined at the hip, make sure your not compatable and give her a house. Simple really. Familiarity is cleft deeply in the furrows of contempt.

At least there were no bitter words. And why should there be. As I said she was, and still is, a lovely young lady. It's me that is the nutcase.

I have found through my journey I am slowly getting better at clearing up a mess. When my mythical creation is revealed to me without volition I cry until I laugh. One day I may get to the point where I can simply laugh without the pain of the tears. But then I will have acquired some wisdom. Knowledge gained through experience. Given my track record it seems a bit doubtful.

To prove it I did it all again. The pain of that particular episode saw the birth of Mr. October.

The sofa

I don't believe I am alone any longer. If you trawl the dating/singles websites you will find the words 'unable to accomodate'. This is 'webspeak' for 'I live on a sofa'. It also says I am neither a man of property or means. I do however have access to a wardrobe rail, microwave and shared ablution facilities. Not the most appealing of settings to woo a potential playmate.
I for my sins am slightly further up the gene pool in that 'I live on a sofa' and own a car.
In fact I own a fully paid up 'flashy' sports car. A very important tool in attracting women. Not so the sofa. It all adds to the illusion.
In creating this illusion, I am after all only evening up the score.

Women who have reached the age of abandonment never ever engage in the battle without warpaint. It is a fact. It is their way. Whether they have locked up at home a gaggle of snarling kids or a treasury of red letters and financial demands is irrelevant. It is my experience that 'baggage' there always is. Is this ever declared when you arrive together at passport control?
Not on your sweet nelly my dears.
Why in heaven's name should I therefore declare my sofa.

This then makes for a dilemma. When both parties lock horns with 'smoke and mirrors' it is the degree of delusion that sets up the illusion. Jaguar XK8 does not imply sofa. Equally 36c, botox and painted nails does not say broke with teenage crackhead offspring. It is all part of the game.
Life is but a flitting fancy, Kairos, the god of the fleeting moment enslaving the outcome.

I have learned that behavioural science is just another name for knicker elastic.

The sofa is my monogamous relationship. My friend. My sanctuary. My priestless confessional. We have laughed together. We have cried together. Without it I would die.

Long live the sofa!

Wanted: Solvent man for desperate gargoyle.

As an available man others often ask how and where I meet my women. I tell them a variety of truths. If you can avoid the fifteen year old boys who borrowed a photograph of their sister for a laugh then free internet sites are not a bad place to start. The paid dating sites are worth a look-in but they really are full of lonely hearts. Should you meet any of them, no wonder their lonely. In ‘phishing’ these sites are unstoppable. One curious visit ensures a subtle attack of visually attractive playmates apparently just waiting for you. Better still these ‘goddesses’ of supreme stature are intensely interested in your middle aged spread and empty bankbook. They just can’t wait to join you in the comfort of your sofa. All you need do is paint your credit card another shade of red and wait for their call. Vulnerability and loneliness are best friends of the ‘by subscription public desperation channels’. The song of the siren still exists, just re-branded and packaged for today’s marketplace.
Apart from being extremely unattractive desperation is not good for the immune system. Although it wasn’t always this way nowadays I know which side of the bars I’m on when I visit the zoo.

On the grand tour it’s always fun to stop at the monkey house.

A favorite haunt of mine is any coffee shop anywhere on this planet. An unattached female with a spare seat at her table is asking for my presence. When I’m on the hunt she is given the opportunity of a lifetime. You’d be surprised how many accept. By now you can tell I’m more of a lone wolf than a pack animal. For me it’s much easier to count in single digits. Better still, I’m safe and content with this.

On one such visit my life experience changed forever.

A chance espresso brought tales of childhood romance and remembrance. I had known this girl in my formative years. As we skirted around the pleasantries everything was rosy, until the mention of her ex-husband. As if by magic at the mere expression of his name a gargoyle appeared. Apparently he had ‘run off’ with a girl half his age. As her face changed it made complete sense to me. Moving beyond the help of Max Factor seldom keeps a man's attention. We are after all firstly visual animals. Women who can balance and play to this weakness usually have higher intelligence. That in itself can be even more attractive. You may disagree. I don’t care. This is my game and my rules are what I play by. If you have a different set of rules don’t come into my playground. As my interest waned she enquired about my availability to join her on Saturday evening. I told her I was mid way through a ‘snorkeling’ exam and needed to study. I read the signs. Stalking is not a sport I perform or engage in. Taking my leave I had the certainty I would not be visiting a well known singles club, at least not that weekend.

Two weeks later though I did. Welcome to another chapter of my life.

One 'swallow' does not make a summer

How do you rid yourself of a lingering illness? One that sucks at the lifeblood of your soul.
When I met my illness, her eyes bore deep into my very being and I was hooked. In terms of qualifications she had a P.H.D. in smouldering. She was hot. Big time hot.

It never struck me to question why she hung onto my every word. It wouldn't would it. Any man with an ego the size of a house inevitably makes themself a prime target. Couple that with a permanent hard-on and any woman worth her salt can manage the necessary manipulation to master the situation. Not really terribly fair a big league player taking a boy scout hostage when he hasn't even earned his first proficiency badge. But play with his woggle she did, and once a sheepshank or two had been performed he was tied good and proper. As he dibbed his dob, she dobbed his dib.

It was a whirlwind romance and within six months we were mouse and wife.

The wedding was a grand affair, in fact it was a very grand affair, paid for by a supporting cast of thousands. The first page of my bankbook lays testiment to that.

I had no idea of the woman's past. I was husband number four. You don't ask such questions when a red fingernail or two is gently teasing at the more receptive parts of your anatomy. She had been here before. She already knew I would never sully such opportunity with any degree of sensible behaviour.

Even better still just before we were married I had through circumstance found work in a different country. Jackpot!
Anything could drop through the letterbox, anyone could pass through our front door. All she needed to do was coo in my ear over a telephone once in a while and the money would keep flowing. Flowing from one account to another. It was normal she assured me for a wife to have access to her husband's financial affairs. Being her fourth certified conquest bank accounts were kept open in previous names.
Blissfully unaware of what was happening long distance sex courtesy of Alexander Graham Bell kept me in check. As I chugged fervently at my meatstick her undiluted beauty was my only concern. Meanwhile the rank and file I worked with took a more practical route. They paid a weekly visit to the local brothel for their ejaculatory salvation. Ever one for the moral high ground I would not dare contemplate such frivolity, and as I did so another kleenex hit the floor. By way of nightly ritualistic duty I blew kisses at the photographs of her naked likeness. Tosser I was in more ways than one.

Many have said, there must have been signs. My answer is 'try it brother' you ain't been had till you've been had. And this is only a fraction of my tale. My right of passage. This albatross had a nest. She was feathering it. For Mr. October it was July. Holidaying on togetherness and starlit nights sex was always on the tip of her tongue. But as he was to find out one 'swallow' does not make a summer and a summer of 'swallows' does not make a marriage. Within the rising of a dozen moons Mr. October was to find out that dilusive misrepresentation and con artist simplicity are the trademark of the devil's handmaiden.

Alphabet Soup

From the discomfort of a sofa it is easy to look back in wonderment at life.

Thirty five years before the existence of Mr. October, there were adolescent dreams.

An ability to vocalise tuneful endevours let me into the land of electric music. I was a member of a band. For its day a fairly successful band. What did not appear as hard work and industry brought laughter, excess and a proclivity of sexual variety. A level of success made small town liasions particularly easy. Return visits meant we had a finger in every pie. In fact, sometimes more than one finger from more than one hand. Oh how the pies were tender and tasty. As long as the mystical age of consent had been assured a willing body or two were often shared. Fumbling in the back seat of a Ford transit van while others roared encouragement became the norm for every card carrying member. We were after all eager and lusty youths. Keeping score was never considered, there was too much on offer for that. We devised a different method of teenage corruptive thought for our 'alpha' male combat.

Shag the alphabet.

Simple really. Start with an Ann or Angela and finish on a Zoe or Zelda. First to the goal got a clap on the back from the others. 'Clap' being the appropriate word. The greater part of the 'game' was never just to score, that was easy. It was much harder to find a Queenie or Xavier. Particulary when at least seven of the group wished to proclaim undying love within an hour of the show finishing. In hick town there was a definite shortage of exotic names. But I managed it. Twice round to my credit. Dreams of past glories can make loneliness bearable.



With an over-developed right arm I scratch all the bits of me that need scratching and wonder what giddy heights my other partners in crime of that bygone age managed to achieve. Did they also make it to the sofa? If I live long enough one day I may find out.

That was long before the albatross flew into my life.

In fact, between those heady days of rock and roll and my downfall, I had already acquired a sweet and innocent bride. A sunday school teacher no less.

That of course it a tale for another day.

Mr October

Whoever said no man is an island never heard of Madagascar or the Galapagos.
Any man can be an island. In fact, the more remote the island the more exotic the inhabitants tend to be. The sun shines , waves lap at the shore and paradise exists.
Visitors bring with them all the trappings of touristic curiosity.
Mr. October broke free of the mainland some time ago.
He found it fascinating that nobody seemed to go to a singles club alone.
As a wall flower he blossomed. The sap rose and his nectar began to attract those who wished to drink.
He developed a taste for dipping his fingers in the honeypot and learned through bitter experience never, ever, to lick the pot entirely clean. After all an empty jar is nothing more than an empty jar.
Honey like broccolli is on sale everywhere, and vegetables are out of season in October.
But a sweet tooth needs regular dental care.
On his last visit to the dentist the twenty-three year old receptionist 'offered' her personal telephone number. All from a smile and a few well chosen words. Who says an old dog and new tricks can't lay down together.
In fact a fifty two year old dog can display some pretty remarkable 'old' tricks when his dander is up. A young inexperienced pup can be a very receptive learner.
All this from the solitude of a sofa.
Things have a habit of changing.
October never remains forever.

Ah! well a-day! what evil looks..............

Ah! well a-day! What evil looks
Had I from old and young!
Instead of the cross,
the Albatross about my neck was hung.

How is it possible that I ever came across such a woman let alone marry her? I like most men am visually impared. I see long legs, blond hair and red fingernails as a badge of happiness. My experience like many before me tells another story. Once upon a time...

A retired catwalk model dressed in all her finery and set loose to play is a formidable force, particularly when she has downsized her playground to those in the junior school. It was in such circumstances when my life was on the ascendant that the click of a heel and the waft of Chanel brought me to my knees. But the 'lady' was no novice. On her knees first she displayed the finest presentation of 'lipstick displacement' I had ever experienced. Strange, through my Presbyterian upbringing I have been taught you entered heaven by passing through hell. My experience is the other way around.

And the doorway is quite clearly marked. Centred just above the stocking top lies the promise of infinite riches. A paradise of sticky wonderment. Pandora's box without hope.

Within a couple of months I was ensnared, caught, trussed up like a turkey. And all for a shot on the swings in the big playground.

Up until now my only experience of rubber gloves had been of the 'Vileda' variety. Unlike my mother this lady donned the strangest apparel for washing up. Clad from head to toe in thigh boots, leather and p.v.c. she brought the centrefold of the top shelf to life. Whips, chains and accoutrements not for the faint of heart became part of her 'courting' ritual. And she rode the willing horse, as willing horse I am.

I had to 'have' such a creature. What little price a golden band in exchange for the more precious ring on offer. It escaped me that all I was being shown was my own inept egotistical fumblings at manhood. From my sofa it is now so clear that I would pay the price of my own misfortune as 'hoist on my own petard' I became.

Glad to be rid of her idiot son my mother paid for the wedding cake. I have suffered the most inglorious indigestion ever since. Still counting after nine years. Although in time as she withers and rots away the albatross round my neck gets lighter. One day, one day, I will be free of her.

But what about Mister October, will I ever be free of him?

Let me Explain

It says it all really. Middle age does not come alone.

At least by 40ish the greater percentage of the male populate will have been stripped of all their worldly possessions by the person who once proclaimed unswerving love. There may of course be a lot of variant strains to a tale, however, it always ends the same way. The price of freedom is sore.

Difficult to remember the cumbersome infection of pubescent lust when the best on offer is a sofa and an empty bankbook. By the third bottle of cider the vision of a 'grifter' smiling fondly as he enters the hallowed turf that once shared a warm bed with you eats generously at the soul.
Is misery and internet porn the best on offer?

Perhaps there is another way.

And so to a story of success, neither financial, nor therapeutic but nevertheless much more rewarding. Words are cheap, a 'blog' proves that. Actions, now therein hangs a tale or two, and an inability to 'hang his tail' is inevitably what drives the middle aged man into despair. The desperation of of the single clubs, dating sites and god knows where else. The one ingredient to change the constitution of this fruit cake is the spiritual relief that loneliness can never afford. What price the youth of old, the wisdom of entitlement born only in the battle scars of life.

What bollocks.

Driven by being the last piece of the jigsaw that came out a different box, I decided to rearrange my life, throw off the bondage of trite banal mediocrity and set free a soul of rampant desire. Was the world ready?

Not knowing and better still, not caring, the ultimate judgement of the harshest critic I know, myself, is the greatest treasure available in a world of decadent decay. There are many ways up the mountain. I know, I've tried them all. In the end the mountain won...or did it?

It's mighty fine setting up camp in the valley. The echoes of laughter are not lost to the winds on the lofty peaks of egotistical fortune. No brother, I have gained greater pleasure in the contentment of less selfish extremes. I am willing to share my experiences with the less able, and to this end I praise whatever lord there is. Bestowing me with an ability to digest and divulge brings me a greater pleasure than pleasure itself. Lay on McDuff, as the actress said to the bishop.

Tales of misfortune and wondrous merriment let to the sofa. Dreams of glory and burning ambition lost to intolerant behaviour, of myself and others. The albatross will be forever banished to the wilderness. One thing is for sure, she will not go down without a fight.

As the frustrations of daily life unfold I will enlighten those who wish to be lit. The albatross may not be as big a cross as Mr. October. Only the reader can decide.