Only 4 months since the last one

Here I sit, crouched over my keyboard like a crotchety crazed crone counting coppers (money not police). Once again it has been ages since I wrote here, but I can't be bothered to apologise. I don't want to sound like Bros (ever) but I owe you nothing. Nothing, nothing at all.

I am perched on the edge of my bed, hoping to purge my slightly throbbing head (oo-er) of thoughts (not so oo-er). The sort of thoughts I speak of are those which trouble a 37 year old mind when one has had too much to drink the day before. Thoughts like "how many more days like that am I allowed before my liver falls off?" And "will I sleep tonight, now that I have spent a good two hours asleep this afternoon like an old man?"

That having been said, yesterday was a great day. Meeting up with a group of friends for lunch, booze and a stand up comedy gig was just what the doctor ordered (imagine having a repeat precsription for piss-ups and giggles, brilliant). The comedian in question was Dylan Moran, a man who has made appearing to ramble his way through his act an art form. Very funny man, particularly when he chastised someone who dared to emit a little cough which punctuated a moment of pregnant silence. "THAT'S NOT A PROPER COUGH" he barked, "PUT YOUR SHOULDER IN TO IT". I share a lot of his views, i.e. not really liking ANYONE younger than him/me, thinking vegans are just a pain in the arse and not believing in God. Oooh - there's a contentious one! Actually, is it? Time was, when it was quite unthinkable to not believe in God, much less being proud of it. I don't think I am proud of it, so much as think I am right. I am quite clever you know.

This blog tonight is like a car with no wheels, going nowhere fast. I am going to retire to my bed with some fruit pastilles and cack telly. I might try and write more often, this has been fun.

I've been neglecting you

Hello. It would appear to the casual reader (as opposed to the one over there in full morning suit and top hat), that I have been neglecting you. Sorry, been busy. So much, yet surprisingly little has happened. The title of my blog; letters from Canterbury, is now redundant, outmoded, Canterbury is a distant mammary (sorry - memory - it's not a far off tit!) I moved house in December to the sleepy town of Westgate on Sea. I say sleepy, Westgate reminds me of a fat teenager who won't get out of bed. "Come on Simon, time for school". ".................GnnGhHhH". Yes, Westgate is a lazy old town indeed, but it doesn't have night time emissions.

(I am actually going to stop me there - I feel I am losing control of this paragraph, that it has somewhat run away from me...one can just imagine the tannoy announcement in Tescos...."Would the owner of a lost little paragraph please come and collect him from the cigarette kiosk? He is wearing blue dungarees, is eating a Twix and keeps grabbing Carol and saying 'ooooh lovely'. Thank you").

Any way, where was I? Not Canterbury that's for sure! How are you? Nice Christmas and New Year? Like I give a fox turd. Hate all that bullshit when you get back to work. You are already fucked off that you have to be there - so why in the name of all that is sacred do you want to rake over your festivities reminding yourself that but two days ago you were up to your fat neck in savoury snacks, party games, booze and shit jokes? Beats me. I normally throw out the stock answer of "yeeeeah, quiet, ya know". May just have a tshirt with that printed on it next year and simply point (although this is fairly useless when you are on the phone).

Right, I am going to have some Sugar Puffs. Bye.

Pork Sweats

It is ten past 4 in the morning. I have just awoken sweating profusely despite the fact that it is very much Winter. This is not due to some fantastic heating system I have in my flat - no - it is, I can only assume, a result of my having had too much pig. Let me explain. Last night, I had what can only really be described as "the tea of a madman". Having next to no food in my flat (cupboards as bare as a Mother-Hubabrd), I grabbed my arctic fleece, crampons and pick-axe and dived (dove?.............Dave?) into my freezer to see what delights I could liberate, defrost, cook, burn, ruin and consume. All I found was, well, a confusion of pork. 4 pork chops, which I had clearly thrown in the freezer in something of a shopping induced strop (easily done), which had become one and the same. So, as I thought you couldn't defrost, cook and then re-freeze pork, and after having struggled unsuccesfully to separate them, I decided to eat them. All. All 4. My tea was 4 pork chops and half a can of baked beans, decorated with a little sauteed (bollocks, it was fried) onion and some grated cheese. FOUR. PORK. CHOPS. I phoned my Mother later that evening and told her. She sounded worried. The sort of worried Mothers normally get when you are 17, locked in your bedroom for a week and a half listening only to Radiohead. She simply replied "oooooooooooh, that's too much meat". She (as Mothers often are) was right. 8 hours on from my "meal" I am, whilst not in agony, not very comfortable. I have the pork sweats and it serves me right. Who eats 4 pork chops? Not even a large dog. FOUR!!

Anyway. That's enough pig/dawn gut ache news, how are you? Good I hope. Oh, I just found out I won £7.70 on the Euromillions, excellent, I can afford some indigestion medicine now. I suppose I better try and get some sleep. Goodnight. Sleep tight. (FOUR!)

Tired thoughts

My Mum made macaroni with blue cheese tonight (I don't eat there every night, I am not a stray cat with 4 teeth which can't meow properly so sounds like old bagpipes being squeezed by an accountant). My point is, Mum has known me just over 37 years, all my life in fact, and I have NEVER once said to her "mmmmm this blue cheese is ruddy delicious and doesn't taste at all like sweaty dog arseholes". Still I battled gamely through it, there are after all people who would swim through a sea of used hypodermics just to lick my spoon when I am finished so I shouldn't whinge.

I am currently looking for somewhere new to live (the gummy cat scenario may not be far off) and am going to someone's house tomorrow night to see a REALLY cheap room. Theories currently keeping me awake include: it's cheap because the room is smaller than a bee's purse, the people who own the house are perverts and will film me shaving while eating trfile in swimming trunks, the floor is made of Ryvita, they have an old, old dog called Harris who every so often shits in everyone's shoes and it ALWAYS smells of pedigree chum soaked in diesel, or maybe they are fat naturists and have more flesh than the entire boxsets of Carry On and Emmanuel combined. Soon find out.

Right, I am away to the land of nod. Not sure why, but that sounds dirty; "Where you been?" "Nod" "Oh yeah? Get any?" "Yeah, 40 wanks, I mean winks".

Goodnight everybody, goodnight.

Oops, I forgot

I have been reminded by a fan (ok, a bored friend who wanted something to read) that I haven't written anything here for a small matter of 4 months. Well, following, this hiatus (latin for lazy shite-ox), I return, fill of wisdom, pasta and tips on painting and decorating....OK just wisdom and pasta then..........fine, just pasta.

I just went through the horrific end of the night routine of setting the alarm next to my bed. I hate it. Not only do I hate it now, but I know that I will hate it more when it goes off in 8 hours to ruin a perfectly good dream about something I will NEVER do in real life (riding a custard horse, playing cricket dressed as a toblerone, licking a wish, you know, those sorts of things). I have a very old Casio digital effort, which makes a quite preposterous 80's bleeping sound to wake the unfortunate owner. It sounds like a panicking robot bat.

In other news, a person from a mobile phone company called me yesterday, but I was having none of it. The conversation (such as it was) went roughly thus:

Nick from 3: Hello this is Nick from 3, the mobile phone compan...........
Me: Can I stop you there Nick and just let you know that I couldn't be any less interested if you were offering to sell me a bag of sick, bye.

I don't do so well with cold callers.

Come on England

I realise a lot of time has passed since I last put epidermis to qwerty, however, not a great deal has happened. I have no real news to impart, aside from perhaps that I have a lot of little white hairs in my fledgling beard. I believe the effect is called salt and pepper, though quite why patchy coloured facial hair should bring to mind an 80's female rap group is frankly beyond me.

The 2010 World Cup started with a whimper yesterday, hosts South Africa scored a fantastic opening goal of the tournament, only to be pegged back by a technically more sound and ambitious Mexico to draw 1-1. Later on, France took on rugged Uruguay (when I say rugged I mean dirty), and then proceeded to bore the pants off everyone watching. 0-0 the scoreline, though I am actually surprised that both teams managed to score that many.

Today is the big one. The day that all the hype, media speculation, John Terry shagging scandals, injuries, metatarsals, pub conversations, kit sales, beer buying, sudden t-shirt owning and general hubbub has been about. England take on USA in their group opener this evening. The pubs, bellies, sofas and later the spectators will all be heaving. Heaving to the weight and sound of a nation united. I wonder what would happen if we could bottle or harness the outpouring of empathy, emotion and raw spirit that will be flying about tonight. The spirit of England. Where all classes, all social levels, all men, women and children (save those who actually couldn't give a shit and are annoyed that Britain's Got Talent has finished), are willing for the same thing at the same time in the same voice with the same passion. Think of the millions of faces this evening. The grimaces as one of our key players takes a knock. The applause as he gets up and jogs it off. The several million pairs of hands on heads as we miss a glorious chance, the collective intake of breath as we give away a "freekick in a dangerous area" (I say let America have a freekick in Afghanistan - enjoy it). Then, if we could only for a moment capture the sound of the entire country as the roar goes up when one of our overpaid and ill educated heroes thumps, deflects, or handballs the ball in to the back of the opponents net, wouldn't that be marvellous? If the country could capture this spirit, this shared passion, this patriotic positivity, where we all become a nation rather than bricklayer, lawyer, nurse, binman or "bloody student", it would be a wonderful thing. Wouldn't it?

Good luck lads. Good luck everyone. Come on England.

ARRRRRRRRRRRRRRRGH

I just wrote my first blog for AGES and my internet went down and I lost the lot. I am in a huff - I will do another one later. Bloody technology (grumble, mutter, swear, curse, spit).....