Eleven days since the last diary entry already? Time goes, goes and fades. Days through fingers like refined sand. Aches and pains are at least partly to blame. Aches which make sitting down painful, or standing up painful. Or walking painful. Or lying down painful. What a disappointment this body is: I should have kept the receipt.
I’m off to the Naughty Clinic tomorrow to get the aches between my legs investigated. It’s my first time to such a place, though I’ve found fellow males have been only too happy to weigh in with their experiences as soon as I mention the appointment. I’ve not done anything vaguely risky in THAT area for at least five years, but apparently I still have to go for a check up in case. If some religions are forged around The Virgin Birth, perhaps I can start one around The Celibate Clap.
Some days I’ve felt too busy, or too ill, or too sleepy. And then I think there must be more to life than feeling too tired or too ill to do anything with it. I need time to recover, to get better. I need to eat more healthily, drink less alcohol. And as ever, I need to say no to kind friends inviting me out all the time. I’m just not as hardy as they are. And I’m not just talking about Mr MacGowan.
Speaking of which, the other day I set up my laptop on the bar of the Boogaloo and took dictation from SMG as he wrote his first blog entry. In a locked pub, in the early hours, no one else about.
It’s called Saint Shane’s First Letter To The Internetians, and I’ll post it here shortly. Mr O’Boyle and Ms Clarke have already read it and given it their blessing, so it’s effectively a piece of Authorised Biography. I quite like the idea of Shane MacGowan – who doesn’t own a computer – having a blog. We’ll do it again if people like it. As he says, I’m like an occasional Boswell to his Dr Johnson.
Taylor Parkes has stopped reading blogs and online diaries. He says the entries where people are having a sad life are too depressing. And the ones where people are having a happy life are too depressing too.
Exchanging our various valetudinarian moans, he says that if he never could have sex again, he’d have to commit suicide.
This is, of course, where our views rather differ. He in turn has never harboured fantasies of having an operation to create a smooth, hairless, Barbie patch where one’s genitals should be.
In a world ruled by me, sexual organs would have to be applied for as an optional extra.
