This is not one of my normal blogs filled with jokes, idiocy, and me being a tool. You may have as hard a time reading it as I did writing it…

I worked within the mental health world for 7 years, between the ages of 20 to 27. I enjoyed the job – especially in the

local psychiatric ward – and I met some remarkable, troubled people, and watched as they disappeared in a haze of medication as their demons dragged them down…

I felt sorry for those people.

In fact, I saw friends of mine enter the system and become faceless and mindless drones, pumped full of drugs… I pitied them, and I took solace in the fact that I was mentally strong enough to never be as weak as these people… and at the end of my shift I went home and forgot all about them.

I knew that I was stronger-willed than most, and would never succumb to a condition of the mind…

Which is why it nearly destroyed me when my own demons sunk their claws into me and dragged me to a cliff edge.

Literally.

It’s amazing to think that something as innocuous as an innocent phone call at 10.30am on a Tuesday morning can bring your world to a complete halt. It’s even more amazing to think that the person who called me has absolutely NO idea what it is they said… and what it did to me. I have never told them and I never will.

Don’t ever ask me about that phone call.

Just understand that it almost killed me.

It’s bizarre standing on a pavement when you feel your heart stop and everything around you slows to a crawl as the breath seems to be squeezed from your lungs. I was so aware of the moment that I can remember the faces of the people who walked past, and the cars and the bus that seemed to drive by in slow motion. I can even tell you what clothes I was wearing, and what I was holding in my left hand.

A bunch of flowers.

I went home, but I could feel the claws of some beast starting to pull at my mind. I tried to ignore it…

I tried to write…

I tried to eat…

I had nothing… nothing in me at all.

I sat in my flat for four days solid, drinking and getting high… or low. Whichever. It would provide me with relief for a short (oh so short) period of time… but then I would have to answer to the demons that came screaming inside my skull the next day.

That is, if my demons let me sleep.

Irony of ironies, I became a zombie (I’m writing a zombie book, have a zombie hand tattoo, and was in a zombie film) and ghosted in and out of each day, ignoring life. It – and I – didn’t seem to be able to coexist.

I was diagnosed with depression a week later, and when your family doctor of thirty years says to you; “I’m going to prescribe you some medication and you need to take it… because I don’t think you’ll make it without them…”

Well… that shit is just hard to hear.

But anything was better than what I was facing, and that was being alone in my flat day after fucking day, with no TV or music playing, sitting in my chair and staring at the walls or lying on my bed and fighting demons that clawed and scratched and bit and dragged me down into a place so dark… so bottomless… so dead… I shut my friends out. My good friends… the ones who knew that there was something wrong with me, and yet I was too stubborn and pig-headed to see that I was physically and mentally dying before people’s very eyes. I couldn’t think straight, I wasn’t paying my bills, and I lost two stone…

“Hey, you look like you’ve lost weight.”

“Hey, you’ve lost a lot of weight.”

“Hey, are you ok?”

“Hey, are you on drugs?”

“Hey… are you dying?”

In the end it’s easier to put your phone on silent and ignore the world. I shut everyone out. Everyone… The only things I had left were my demons.

And then one black day they won.

There’s a cliff here on the island where many people have driven or jumped over the edge. I won’t name names, because this isn’t their story. But there was one young man who drove off of the edge almost a month to the day before I found myself standing on the brink.

And it was him that I needed to speak to.

So we talked.

He asked me what I was doing there and I gave him a wry smile. He nodded, sat by his wreaths and flowers, casually throwing stones over the cliff before us. I’d heard the stories going around about why he had driven his van over the edge and asked if they were true, but he didn’t answer. He just looked at me and raised an eyebrow.

In the end I asked him what could have been so awful that a man only twenty years of age could kill himself.

“The same things that brought you here,” he said. “Our demons.”

And then I could see them.

They were all around him, tearing at his clothes, scratching his face and his skin, biting him with their fangs.

That’s when my demons exploded from within.

My body became a lead-weight as they poured out, accompanied by the sensation of breathlessness that I had experienced when I took that phone call days before. And so I cried. I cried like a fucking baby. I stood there and couldn’t see the rocks below through the tears, and I have no idea how long I was there, but I missed around 30 phone calls that I failed to hear over the wind. Word was getting around that I was in a bad, bad place.

And now my demons were leading me towards the edge… And I was following them.

It’s a very hollow feeling to stare down into an abyss and feel no fear… no trepidation of what I was about to happen. The sea smashed on the rocks as hard as I knew that my body would, and I didn’t care if my carcass would be dragged out into sea and never recovered.

I was beyond caring.

I remember closing my eyes and feeling the wind around me, pulling me, tugging at me like those demons’ claws.

I remember stepping closer and closer to the edge until the top of chalk cliff touched the toes of my shoes…

And then I heard a voice…

“Son,” it said. “Son…”

I turned around and there was an old man walking his dog. He was mere feet away from me, but the look in his eyes when he saw my face hit me harder than anyone or anything ever has. I looked into his face and I saw terror. Absolute terror.

He just stood there, one hand reaching out towards me, repeating the word ‘son’ again and again. I stared at him, tears streaming down my face, just shaking my head at him.

“Son…” he said. For some reason I felt my phone vibrate in my pocket for the first time in who knew how long, and I looked at it. Among all of the messages, one caught my attention. “Think of your son.”

That word again… ‘son’.

And then I my lungs filled with air, goosebumps covered me and I felt how fucking cold the wind was… and I felt alive.

I looked down at the water and rocks 300 foot below, and I turned away and ran. I still feel bad that I never said a word to the old man, but I hope he realises what he did for me that day… in that moment.

I got back in my car and sat there and cried again… but this time in anger… anger at the way I’d almost given in to the beasts within me.

They had so very nearly won.

I sat there and cried myself to sleep until someone I loved turned up and hit me. And shouted at me. And held me.

Since that short time ago I have never doubted those with mental health issues. I pay a LOT more attention when I find my friends are down.

There’s a great quote from Stephen Fry who says that all someone with depression needs is someone to talk to. And he was right. I just didn’t know that it was also what I needed at the time.

Because I’ve always been a joker.

A fucking clown.

If you know me this whole blog must come as a bit of a shock to you, especially when you see all the shit that clutters up my Twitter and Facebook feeds. It’s always comedy… it’s always jokes.

But being a clown is a great way of hiding from your demons… keeping them at bay with your clown make-up on.

And I plan to keep my make-up on for as long as I can…

Because I know that if I take it off…

Well…

That’s when your demons find you.

I’m asked by Philip to tell you all about my next book by answering these questions and then I tag five other authors about their Next Big Thing. So here I go!

What is the working title of your next book?

It’s ‘Isle of The Dead’, but it’s had so many titles I’m not even sure I’m sticking with that one!

Where did the idea come from for the book?

Simply living here on the Isle of Wight. I once worked with a guy who said that if he ever became angry enough he would poison the water-plant that we worked at and kill everyone! I remember laughing about it to my dad, and he just looked at me very seriously and said; “don’t ever make that man angry.”

What genre does your book fall under?

The book I am writing is full of zombies, so definitely horror. It’s the genre I feel most comfortable in. Sci-fi is another favourite but I’d love a crack at a western. I had a western-horror short story published recently but I’d love to go at a western properly one day.

Which actors would you choose to play your characters in a movie rendition?

I’ve always had my lead character in my book as Ed Harris, but by the time the film deal DOES come through he’ll probably be too old!

Maybe I could play the lead myself!

What is the one-sentence synopsis of your book?

Zombies on the Isle of Wight killing lots of people.

Will your book be self-published or represented by an agency?

I’ll let you know nearer the time! But I’m comfortable self-publishing. I’ve established myself as a massive social whore, and Facebook and Twitter are my domains. I’ve got people buying my short stories and supporting The Book by the busload…

I just gotta finish it.

 How long did it take you to write the first draft of your manuscript?

I hadn’t finished the first draft before I started the second. I hadn’t finished the second before I started the third… *sigh*

 What other books would you compare this story to within your genre?

There will definitely be comparisons with books by Wayne Simmons and David Moody, but they’re right up ‘there’ in the Undead stakes so I’d be happy if my name and book was compared alongside theirs!

Who or What inspired you to write this book?

Me. And my love for the shuffling buggers. And my Facebook Family who have hounded me to get the NaNoWriMo 50,000 words reached! Unfortunately, November had become a horrendous month for myself and things ground to a complete halt, but I’m back on track, and looking to fire on all cylinders again.

Gotta thank my girl, too. She’s pushed me all the way and gets at me when I’m not writing. I wouldn’t have written half the words without her support.

And nagging.

What else about your book might pique the reader’s interest?

There’s a love story unlike any other inside it…

Here are some of my fellow authors and good friends that I’ve tagged to tell you about their Next Big Thing:

Marni Mann

Joel Goldman

Alexandra Diane

John Hardy Bell

Cheyenne Campbell

My thanks to Philip Bell for Tagging me

Facebook: www.facebook.com/BeachyBooks

& Twitter: http://twitter.com/BeachyBooks

Puckpool Park - known as a kids play park, old war battlements, and one of the best cafes on the island that serves ‘Pucka Pizzas’ and burgers that can’t be beaten.

It’s also home to a shitload of zombies.

Park Of The Dead is the brainchild of Dan Gaches – owner of the cafe and chef supreme –  and he approached me about it a few months ago, saying that he’d noticed I have a slight ‘leaning’ toward all things zombified (I was in a film and I’m also writing a book).

He said nothing more about it for a while, until Bam and I popped down there on one of our usual weekend jaunts to the park and for a sausage sandwich.

Then he hit me with it.

The park used to house soldiers and cannons to ward off the French and anyone attempting to rape and pillage us through the Solent – the water that separates us from mainland England – and underneath the hills and bunkers are locked rooms and hidden passageways that have remained hidden, some for over 70 years.

And now Dan wanted to open it all up and use the location as the backdrop of a story about zombies being held there since the war.

Me as a zombie. Not for the first time. And probably not for the last.

Dan received permission from the council to open a few of the rooms and tunnels up, and he asked me if I’d help promote ‘Park of The Dead’ once he had a few more details confirmed. I said ‘of course’, and when we were ready to go I got the fan page from 20 to around 200 in one afternoon and evening. It tops well over 700 now so go and ‘like’ it and join ‘us’.

There’s only one time of year that you can really host an event like this, and Halloween was soon upon us. I booked the evenings off of work, and soon myself and Lee Daniel were being shown around by Dan and given our Nazi uniforms.

Now, POTD sold out within (I think) 48 hours. I know this because everyone I’ve ever fucking met in my life bugged me for tickets despite knowing that there were none left!

The Wednesday before Halloween and Lee and I were in a brick building surrounded by

Ladies and gentlemen…
Mr Lee Daniel!

other locals from all over the island being made-up to look like the living dead, preparing for our opening night. There were zombies in straight-jackets, zombies in medical uniforms, zombies in army gear, and even some youngsters dressed as deadheads.

Blood and gore applied and we all rush to our posts as the time rolls around for the first group to take their tour. I hadn’t felt any nerves at all, and Lee seemed very relaxed, but a look among some of the others made me realise that some of the ‘actors’ were indeed a little jittery, and the amount of beer being passed around confirmed this.

The tour, led by Ian ‘Knocka’ Dore starts in a small tunnel…

And that’s all your getting. Yep, that’s right, I’m saying nothing else. I spoke to Dan about what I should reveal about the tour itself, and we agreed that it’s best to let those who

Captain Knocka Dore, who was superb every single tour and glued the whole event together.

went have all the fun, and that those who didn’t try and get tickets for either the Easter shows next year, or for the Halloween event again – if both go to plan.

What I will tell you is that there are a lot of explosions, contact with the dead, moaning and groaning, and fake blood, gore and scares to last you for a year.

Lee and I rocked as Nazi zombies, and I managed to grab a few of my friends that were lucky enough to get tickets. However, my man Reuben Standish recognised me as I burst through a window and we simply laughed and pointed at each other before I groped him in the decontamination maze, and I managed to get my friend Cassie screaming like a banshee at every turn. Her screams were enough to wake the dead, and to deafen us living dead. I mean, check THIS picture out:

Lou laughing, Cassie crapping her pants, strange man with a sexual look of gratifcation on his face in the background.

But many people had a similar look on their faces, and I could publish a hundred such pictures on here, but your best bet is to go back to the Facebook page and just look and laugh, and relive the moment if you were there, or to sob uncontrollably if you were not.

There are a hundred funny stories that myself and the other zeds could tell you, but I’m going to link this to the POTD pages and invite the other guys to spill their guts; literally, and literature-ly, if they will beneath this here blog. So feel free to regale us with your undead tales, guys…

One story I will part with was on the final night as myself, Phil, and two other zombies were hiding in the aquarium. One of the guys lets off a Mark 9 flashbang (very loud, very head-fuckery) and then we all rush out in a blaze of roars and moans, only to be gunned down by the PDF (Park of the Dead Force).

Char Ripley – who allowed me to use many of her fantastic photographs! Check her out on Facebook and Instagram!

The bang went off, deafened Phil and I, and we ran outside, completely disorientated due to the flashbang. I then ran full pelt into Phil… and split his lips wide open.

I apologised, but figured it would add a little realism to his costume.

I’m good like that.

The other two zombies stay behind and let off another flashbang… which was thrown and landed in one of the old fish-tanks. The explosion was immense, and glass could be heard shattering everywhere! If you paid close attention to my dead carcass on the floor you would have noticed that I was shaking with laughter. Luckily, I think everyone was deaf and blind from the bangs and ignored me completely!

Oh, and a quick word to those of you ‘Billy Big Bollocks’ who come up to the gates, mocking zombies, kicking and prodding us when we’re on the floor – we take a good notice of who you are, and once you’re gone we spread the word… more than one of you got your comeuppance in the Decon Maze. One such twat thought it was good to kick me while I was

Tanya in the Decon Maze where we fucked with you ALL.

on the ground.

He screamed like the girly-haired fuck that he was when I picked him up off his feet in the maze.

Zombo-Jode wins.

I made some good friends over the six days, and bumped into a mate I hadn’t seen for a decade, as well as people introducing themselves to me because I think they knew I would be writing this all up. Unfortunately, being the drunken oaf that I am, I forgot almost everyone’s names, and even took to calling one guy ‘Slipknot’ because… y’know… he looked like he was in Slipknot.

And when I say ‘drunken oaf’, I should have counted almost EVERYONE else that took part in the POTD, as most nights, while we waited for the tours to come round, crates of beer were in every room, and vodka, brandy, and whatever we could drink to keep us warm was sunk like the many wrecks in the Solent. We were all drunkejn oafs at some point.

I have a particularly fond memory of (I think his name was Alan) being totally smashed on vodka on the final night and being completely unable to climb up a bank to his next position as I, and an ex-policeman called Dave, pissed ourselves with laughter at the bottom of the slope.

Halloween night was party night, but Yours Truly actually behaved and went home early, much to the disgust of Slipknot. But I did promise the big man that we would be doing the Download festival next year, so expect something epic from that.

I’ll leave you with my favourite memory of the whole experience, that didn’t involve vodka, nakedness, physical injury, or anything particularly dumb;

On the kids tour, as the little ones enter the Decon Maze, usually we jump out, rattle cages, bang metal canisters and generally frighten the hell out of people, but instead, someone… some GENIUS… played ‘Gangdam Style’ instead of the usual sounds of horror through the massive speaker system.

All us zombies took one look at each other amid the smoke and lasers, and then simply broke out dancing, much to the amusement of kids and adults as they passed through.

None of us could stop dancing.

None of us could stop laughing.

And we hope to be doing it again next year.

Matt Woodford in quite possibly the picture that captures the whole week of mayhem. If you saw him on the hill, you would have shit bricks.

Because today is dedicated to Abigail Kern. She is a fellow writer who had slipped under my radar until she threw a gauntlet in my face via Twitter.

The deal is to list the last 7 films/songs/books you’ve encountered, blog them, and then pass it on to seven other idiots.

Sorry, bloggers.

So, challenge accepted.

The Last Seven Songs I Listened To

Bugger. I just bought a Gary Beck EP so that’s three tracks!

1/ Gary Beck – Paid Out

2/ Gary Beck – Feel it

3/ Gary Beck – Hillview

4/ The Cure – Open

5/ Radiohead – Staircase

6/ Billy Talent – Standing in the Rain

7/ Pendulum – Through The Loop

Last Seven Books I Read

1/ Scars of a Memoir by Marni Mann (buy it. Buy it NOW)

2/ Autumn: The City by David Moody

3/ Drop Dead Gorgeous by Wayne Simmons

4/ The Rum Diary by Hunter S Thompson

5/ Sleepyhead by Mark Billingham

6/ The Slow Empire (an 8th Doctor Who novel) by Dave Stone

7/ Night Shift by Stephen King

Seven Favourite Movies

In no particular order…

1/ Bladerunner

2/ Jaws

3/ The Empire Strikes Back

4/ Rocknrolla

5/ 30 Days of Night

6/ The Dark knight

7/ Sucker Punch

Seven Songs That Are Significant To My Stories

Now, the first one is by a new friend I have made who DJs by the name of Deepbass. His dark, dark mixes have inspired much of my writing lately, and it’s only fair I give him a very honourable mention, as well as include the mix that has got me firing on all cylinders at the moment…

1/ Deepbass

2/ Staircase by Radiohead

3/ Everything’s Ok by Rewd Adams

4/ Six Blade Knife by Dire Straits

5/ Burn it Down by Alter Bridge

6/ Maps by Yeah Yeah Yeahs

7/ The Poem by Maetrik

Seven Favourite Authors

1/ Stephen King

2/ Hunter S Thompson

3/ Marni Mann

4/ Peter Benchley

5/ Max Brooks

6/ Mark Billingham

7/ Me. Why fucking not? Someone’s gotta love me, right?

Seven People Upon Which I Bestow This Award/Curse

1/ Crystalee Beck

2/ Anderson Angel

3/ Marni Mann

4/ Alexandra Diane (see right)

5/ John Hardy Bell

6/ Cheyenne Campbell

7/ M Andrew Patterson

________________________________________________________________

So, there we have it. My first blog in months and it’s a right royal ramble about yours truly. If you enjoyed it, then feel free to pick by the gauntlet thrown by Abigail and create your own blog using the above points, or mix them up with your own.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a muse waiting to inspire my writing and I…

I bought tickets to a boat party on the Thames to go and see my friend Robin Thurston tear shit up.

And today’s partner-in-crime was the youthful, but messily-experienced, Mr Aaron Parsons.

Regular readers to my blog will know the score – we get heavy before we even get on the boat. And we get heavier when we get off the boat. The beers, vodkas and narcotics are plentiful, and the train trip flies past… although I’m not sure if it’s down to the ruination, or simply because I can’t take my eyes off of the girl sat across from me. She’s small, hot, and clearly way out of my league, but – in true Jode Style (ie, smashed sideways) I believe I have a chance with her…

Up until the point I try to speak to her and tip vodka all over my leg, resulting in Piss-Pants Jode, and One Gone Hot Girl.

Waterloo, as ever, is our destination, and I’m watching the hot girl disappear into the crowd as Aaron and I figure our plan of attack. We hop onto a tube, all the way to Temple Mead where we head to the local Walkabout pub; complete with rugby fans and football fans watching different games on the surrounding TVs.

Mr Parsons and I decide that we’re going to rate each and every toilet cubicle that we enter to conduct our ‘business’ in for the day; so far the train bogs (spacious, well lit, decent loo seat to rack lines up on) are much better than Walkabout’s loos (cramped but well lit, and a dodgy toilet-roll holder to rack up on). Trust me, if you ‘partake’ then you need to know these things. They have books about the best restaurants in London, and maybe it’s time they had one on which are the best Big Smoke Bogs to do cocaine in.

Aaron, Shorts, and Simon

We meet Robin and some of his friends; Simon, Brendan, and a girl who we dub ‘Shorts’ as we both miss her name… because we were staring at her shorts. Those shorts were shorter than my attention span.

Vodka’s downed, and we cross the road to the small jetty where there are boats moored up. Aaron and I dive into the first boat, and I pop downstairs to use the toilet. It’s tiny, and cramped, and almost impossible to do anything other than piss in (how inconsiderate), but that isn’t what stopped me from ‘anything’.

It was the guy who came and tickled his foot under the doorway.

Now, if you don’t know what ‘cottaging’ is, allow me to break it down for you;

Men enter toilets – man #1 enters cubicle – man #2 waves foot under toilet doorway to attract attention of man#1 – man#1 opens toilet door – man#2 enters cubicle – man#1 enters man#2.

Now, even if I did partake in cock – which I do not – the toilet is way too small to administer a rogering in, and I exit the loo with a ‘too cramped in there, mate’ to the cottaging guy who is stood at the pisser, pissing, while trying to remain nonchalant.

In hindsight I probably should have said; “I’m not gay, mate”.

I go back up to the (poop?) deck and tell Aaron about my mis-encounter.

“Would you recognise him again?” he asked.

“Sure, he was wearing black loafers.”

Off the boat, and we walk the ten feet to the next boat that will be hosting the Electronic Sessions. The boat looks like it’s made of matchsticks, and is called the Golden Flame, but we’re fucked, so fuck it.

We’re on, and first stop are the toilets.

Now this shit looked like Spaghetti Junction; men (obviously, it being the mens) were stood around the small compartment, pinching powder onto each others hands and handing out pills and dabs of MDMA like it was a fucked-up and free sweet shop. I met two Laaaaaaandan guys in here who force-fed me drugs. I tried to fight them off. Honestly.

For the record, all the narcotics we had on the boat were shit. Other than our own. We were on there from 6pm-11.45pm, and the drugs were not much cop at all.

The people, on the other hand, were simply fantastic. Being cooped-up in a boat that resembled The Orca from Jaws was a great way to meet new people. In my slightly hazy state, I didn’t get many names, but I got some great photos. One guy I did meet was Ken Lalobo; the man looked like a younger, better-looking Marcel Desailly, and was an absolute Hug Monster. I don’t recall either of us saying much, but he laughed EVERY time he saw me, and hugged me even more.

I liked Ken. He was a lot of fun.

The music was good, and we cut rugs to whichever DJ was playing above or below, as we waited for my man to step up and spin; enter Robin Thurston – the man who had made all of this possible for Aaron and myself.

Robin spins a mean set, and I say that not just because he’s my friend, but because he spins a mean set. The crowd had been getting up and going for it for a while, and then Robin got behind the decks and everyone stood.

Especially when he drops tunes like this:

And that was Shorts taking a photo of me at the beginning – and this is the photo she took:

Gimp.

Robin Thurston had the crowd on its feet the whole set, and we thanked/congratulated him afterwards. I think Ken hugged him… no… I know Ken hugged him. Ken also hugged me. A lot.

Another reason Aaron was stoked about this boat party was because two of his heroes were playing; Prok and Fitch. He’s seen these guys before, and they were playing downstairs after Robin’s set. The Gods of Scheduling had smiled upon us.

Their set is strong, and you can see just how popular the boys are when everyone are still on their feet as they drop a heavy version of a Jimmy Somerfield song:

If we weren’t on the dancefloors, we’d be in the toilets, and if we weren’t in the toilets we’d be out on deck. We made some good friends that night, and I regret not having gotten some names; but the boat party was a success, even if I felt it did run an hour too long…

It’s time for some Ministry of Sound.

I’ve been here before, after the SW4 festival last year where I saw Sasha; and now I’m returning to the MOS… to see Sasha.

One of the very first CDs I ever bought was one of the Global Underground series where he mixed in San Francisco. Ever since then I’ve followed his music, his albums, his mixes, and he was the primary reason I went to SW4 last year. He and Alan Fitzpatrick are, without a doubt, my two favourite DJs right now.

So, when Robin invited me to the boat party, and then added that Sasha was playing the MOS afterwards, it was a done deal.

I wrote about winning the lottery a while back, but I could adjust what I’m going to spend my shitloads on: I wouldn’t give up writing, but I would throw myself at it. I would follow all my favourite DJs around the world, enjoying the new cities and truckloads of drugs, and I would write and review the lot. I would be the modern day Hunter S Thompson, and I would be better at it. And I wouldn’t care if no one read it as I would be filthy fucking rich anyway. Peasants.

Sickeningly, both my phone battery and my camera battery die a death the moment we get there. I’m gutted. Devastated. But thank god for YouTube. This is MonsieurB‘s video of the entire set, squashed down into 12 glorious minutes:

The set is AMAZING, and I mean AMAZING. I’ve heard Sasha a thousand times over the last, what… twenty years…? But this set was harder… darker. It thrived, and the packed room danced all night long.

I think he played for six hours, but it probably was shorter; drugs have that effect on me, and the pills we scored in there were as glorious as they usually are in London. They certainly shit on the ones we had on the boat.

The night progressed; the music enthralled us all, the mix hard and dynamic, and people constantly cheered and clapped. I was fully immersed and loving. Every. Second.

Outside on a brief cigarette break, a guy comes up to me, and we indulge in one of my more memorable/surreal conversation:

“Hey, you’re from the isle of Wight, aren’t you?”

“Er… yes.”

“You know Tommy Harding don’t you?”

“Er… yes.”

“Do you want some pills?”

“Er…yes.”

Aaron and I hit the dance floor again, but neither of us are really feeling it as Sasha winds his set down. The pill-power is fading and we’re both flagging, so we leave.

I have no fucking idea how we reached Waterloo station, but I do recall both of us being absolutely off of our faces. We stand outside for a cigarette and remain standing there loooooong after having smoked them. I simply stare at the floor that moves and pulsates, while Aaron stares at an array of diggers across the road.

“Do…” he said, a little nervously. “Do you see those diggers fighting each other?”

“It’s time to go home, Aaron,” I say, and off we stumble, into the horizon.

And on that horizon we got caught racking up drugs on the train table by an old couple, who must have alerted the guards, who came and looked in through the window just before we reached Portsmouth.

Luckily we’d done the lot.

“Many of you will have realised by now that wherever the hint of a challenge lies, there also lies my interest in getting involved. So this weeks award for Fortuitously Timed Writers-Block Beating Inspiration falls squarely at the feet of Misty from Misty’s Laws, who has slapped me across the stubbly chops with the gauntlet of the Tag, You’re It challenge. The simple premise here is that the blogger answers a set of questions, then tags other bloggers in the hope they will take the challenge and pass it on to others themselves. As one of the list of bloggers victimised chosen lovingly by Misty, here follows that set of questions, and my own personal carefully considered responses….”

Onward and downwards:

1. Book or movie and why?

I’m a writer, so I am an avid reader… but I am also a massive film buff. However, when I do put films on these days, I’m still either reading or writing while the bloody thing is on the screen!

So, I’m going with book… no… movie… no.. no… book.

2. Real book or e-book?

Ahhh… now, 99% of the world will say paper book but if I didn’t have the Kindle on my iPhone I would read less than I do (which is a LOT, by the way). The beauty of having books in my pocket means that if a customer is held up on me (I’m a taxi-bus driver), then instead of sitting there with my dick in my hands, I can read instead.

Dick in my hands, eh…? Might start leaving my phone at home.

3. Funniest thing you’ve done in the last 5 years?

This has no relevance to anything.

One of my in-laws.

C’mon, read my other blogs. Start here.

4. Do you put yourself into the books you read/write or the movies you watch?

Y’know what… I don’t. I don’t think I ever have. I become so engrossed, at times, with what I’m watching/reading that I can see it from the perspective of the lead character.

Which is the whole point, right?

I wouldn’t want to write a story about a brow-beaten cop, struggling against zombies, and if a 19 year old girl picked it up, I’d hope she wasn’t reading it from her point of view!

Nb: I am writing a story about a brow-beaten cop fighting zombies. And I do condone 19 year old girls. Heartily.

5. How would your best friend describe you?

Well, seeing as my own 16 year old daughter called me a ‘cunt’ on the phone yesterday I don’t even wanna know what my fucking friends think of me. We could always ask Lee Richards. He’s one of those ‘friends’ who doesn’t let my head drop and tells me exactly how it is.

Painfully, at times.

6. Favorite kind of car and why? 

Yes. This be she.

Kev wrote about an E-Type Jaguar, and it is a gem. I used to have a 4 litre V8 S-Type which was a fucking rocket. I now have a Ford Focus ST in Ludicrous Orange (it is a colour… now). I like it because it is discrete.

Otherwise, I’ve always wanted a pimped out Range Rover… or a Dodge Charger. Or a decent Mustang muscle car.

7. Would your choice of party be a catered meal or barbecue out back?

Load it up with sluts and cocaine and I’ll have a party in a fucking broom cupboard.

8. What’s your favorite season and why?

Easy. Football season – either soccer or NFL. If we’re taking seasonal-season (?) then I’ve always been a bit partial to winter. I love how snow makes everything look much better. On the downside, all of the good-looking girls hibernate.

9. What specific lesson have you learned – Spiritual, educational, occupational?

Fuck off. The only lessons I am learning are piano lessons. I’m not spiritual, but I am nearing the end of an Open University course, so the educational one is in there somewhere.

I have learnt to not believe my own hype (seriously) as I walked into the Creative Writing

Idiots.

course thinking I’d smash it like a desperate housewife on a Wednesday morning. I was DESTROYED in one of my essays, and rightly so. Since then, I’ve upped my game and I concentrate on my writing and prose so much more.

As you can probably tell from this blog.

Right, fuckers?

10. Besides writing, what’s your favorite thing to do when you get some extra time?

I’d say ‘have sex’, but it’s been so long since I last did it that I think they might have changed it. Is it still as much fun?

Otherwise, it would be my playstation or hanging out with my five year-old boy as much as I can. In true Jode-style, he even tried to help me pick up a lady at a play park last week.

He kind of ruined it when he got fed up of me talking to her and snapped; “Dad, are you gonna ask her for her phone number or not, cos I wanna go to MacDonalds?”

I didn’t get the phone number.

But he did get his MacDonalds.

11. What’s one place you can be found at least one time every week?

In my bus, every day, writing those infamous facebook statuses. If you are one of the rare few who don’t know what I’m talking about, click the link down the right hand side and add me.

I might make you laugh.

********************************************************************************

Ok, I’m done. That clearly spiraled way out of control, but then Mr Crew knew it would happen which is why he recommended me.

Now, imma tag some folks. The first is Marni Mann – if only to completely counteract my stupidity. And also because I love her and she’s great.

The other is John Hardy Bell. We’re still on our race to see who gets their book published first.

Fuck it, anyone else that wants to join in, feel free. And if you’re one of the 100s of my readers who have never started a blog, then consider this your invite. Take the questions above, and colour me prose-ful.

**************************************************************************

It was April 5th, my son’s 5th birthday, and I’d spent all morning with him opening presents and spoiling him rotten. Then came the evening, and a party.

Although this was no party for my son, this was an event that Erik Bruce and I went and got completely destroyed at the XOYO club in London. And what a night it was… I’d just dropped my boy, Bam, home, and was sat around at my place getting impatient and waiting for Erik to come pick me up.

However, impatience and I don’t get on at all, so I did what I do best – I got on it. Beer and bag flowed, and by the time Erik arrived I was practically dancing around my front room to one of Erik’s own mixes (as linked above, and which you should be listening to now!)

Erik Bruce and Scott Andrews

We hit the train to Waterloo, getting more and more tanked, and talking to Erik about music is like talking to me about being an idiot – it’s something we’re both experts on. I could grill the man over music and mixes for hours, and his knowledge of all things musical is something to behold. By the time we get to Waterloo, Scott Andrews - an ‘old’ friend from my days in Norwich – is already in the (infamous from lots of my other blogs) Wellesley pub.

Beers and talk flow, and again I’m being baffled by the musical knowledge of my peers. Still, the company is good, and Scott is a very articulate and passionate talker when it comes to music; and combined with Erik’s vast knowledge I’m drowning in a sea of musical bliss. And beer.

It’s time to go, and I suddenly realise that drinking/etc for the last six hours has left me three sheets to the wind, so I allow the guys to take point and follow them in a style akin to a slalom skier; desperately trying to keep his zig-zagging as organised as possible.

We get to a restaurant (I forget it’s name) where we sit down to eat. I say ‘eat’, but I’m rattling like an illegal doctor’s prescription-pill box, so I order a vodka. Yeah, that will sober me up. Erik and Scott order food. Scott eats. Erik looks at his food, and then looks at me with a face that asks; ‘What the fuck was I thinking?’ The moment is made even more poignant when a waitress picks up a rolled-up £5 by Erik’s foot and waves it under his nose (ironically).

“Is this yours, sir?” she asks him.

“BWHAHAHAHAHAAA!” says I.

After the comedy show we set off on foot to hit Motion at the Roadtrip bar, headlined by DJ Sasha Le Monnier.

My Asian Twin. Apparently.

Now, this is where shit gets hazy for Jode. I remember drinking more with Scott and Erik, before Robin Thurston (another fine DJ) turned up. We had some photos taken, and I was then accosted by a bald Asian man, who proclaimed himself to be my ethnic twin.

It was all good fun, and we met several more people in here who we would then bump into while in XOYO. The place is pretty big, and the state that Erik and I are in (full of Mandy-liscious goodness and beanos) means we’re straight on the dance floor, and busting out shapes like we’re Diversity on crack. Actually, the state I’m in involves me stumbling around a lot with Erik constantly nudging me this way and that, trying to keep me upright and out of other people’s way… but at least I’m having fun.

Suddenly, the nudging and guiding stops, and I’m at risk of losing myself in a sea of strangers. In the mess I’m in, this would not be good. I realise that I need to maintain a maximum distance of two metres away from Erik, simply to ensure my safe return home to Mama Ruth. However, I hadn’t counted on Nick Muir turning up – John Digweed‘s partner in Bedrock. He stole Erik from me like candy from a drug-induced baby, and the two of them were locked deep in conversation with Scotty. I did what I do best. I staggered, made an idiot of myself, and took pictures.

Nick Muir in a Bruce-Andrews sandwich. Photo courtesy of 'dogshit in the dark iPhone cameras'.

Releasing Nick Muir from his grasps, Erik and I started cutting some rug again. The night flies by; I vaguely remember meeting a guy called George Barnes (very friendly, and turns out we have a common friend in Brighton of all places!), and then I was introduced to Claire Yarranton and her boyfriend/husband/partner/I-forget-which – who also turn out to have multiple friends with myself and Erik. I’m introducing you to all the above people as I have a feeling they’ll all be turning up in future blogs; especially as we all seem destined for the Ministry Of Sound on May 26th for Sasha. If you fancy it yourselves, then simply let me know. It will be biblical.

Digweed keeps rolling, and the sounds are phenomenal; bringing me down from my cloud but keeping me euphoric. He plays until time, the last three tracks he plays batter us with his unique sound… and we love him for it; soaking up the beats and the vibes as the room of people bop and dance as one.

This is the shit that I live for. Some people think that I go to these events to pull women, and rubbish like that. If I wanted to, I could pick up my phone, call some girl up, and do it without all the hassle and fun of a night out in London.

Guys like me… people like us, we look at our calendars and count the days until the next musical event is on that we can plan our lives around. I/we might be smashed, but even in our states the music moves us, flows through us. Cliches or not, it’s true.

We live for the music.

Scott, Idiot, Erik, and Robin.

I can honestly say that I spend most of my waking day listening to music. I was once a massive film buff – a movie nerd – but now, as a writer, it’s no longer films that play on in the background of my life. It’s always music. Mostly mixes.

But I digress. The music finishes, the lights go on, and Erik has since informed me that we stood in line for the cloakroom for three-quarters of an hour. I remember hardly anything, except for Claire talking to me. About something. I think.

Goodbyes all round, and apologies to Robin, who I have been really horrible to. I think I did it in jest, and he’s still speaking to me. Plus he’s invited me to a boat party on the Thames before the aforementioned Sasha gig next month, so I figure he’s forgiven me. Or he’s gonna push me off the fucking boat. Either way, it will be another good story to tell.

Erik then makes me walk for miles and miles and miles. We try hailing a cab, but they are all busy. Erik has since informed me that the Bedrock forums told him that no taxis turned up for a very, very long time.

So we were right to walk. However, I stub my toe, walking in a straight line (!) as we march, and it hurts like hell. Erik tells me to man up, and I limp on. I’ll post a picture of the toe that led to epic Facebook statuses at the end of this blog.

We hit Waterloo again, thanking whoever it is watching over us (Saint Marx, Patron Lord of Drug Fiends?) that the train is almost in. Now this is where I pretty much lose my mind. We fall asleep in our seats, before I roll off, laying in the middle of the floor on the 8am train during rush hour. I was completely unconscious, and Lord Marx knows how many people must have stepped over me. Or avoided our carriage completely.

In the end a woman conductor wakes me and makes me move. So I skip the seats again and lie against the wall. On the heater. And burn myself. Erik wakes me in Portsmouth, and as we leave the train, asks me if maybe I should put my other trainer back on.

I’d taken it off because of my bad toe.

Wanna see it?

And try on a little mix from Scott Andrews while you’re surfing the net afterwards. I was going to throw a Robin Thurston mix in, but it looks like he’ll be the main feature of the forthcoming Sasha blog, so I’ll get him to make me a special mix just for that one!

So this year I decided that I was only going to write a blog about things that mattered to me; important things, as well as cataloging my adventures… and I’ve got some absolute gems coming up.

But, back to this blog. I’ve never blogged a book review before, despite being tempted many a time; but this time I have to. I want to. I need to. If you know anything about me, you’ll know that Marni Mann is one of my tightest friends in the world of writing – as well as being a good personal friend of mine. And if you know anything about her, you’ll know that she has written a book:

Memoirs Aren’t Fairytales.

Ok, wait wait wait… yes she is one of my best friends, but don’t go expecting me to pull my old chap out and start gushing about how great the book is. You’re gonna read an honest review… a review with a little bit of a difference.

Because, y’see, the world that her book is set in, is the real world.

Nicole Brown is a young girl, heading for Boston with her friend Eric as they leave Bangor behind them.  Now, I’m not sure if Marni intended for the surname ‘Brown’ for her leading character, but ‘brown’ is also a nickname for heroin here in the UK, so it’s a nice touch either way.

Nicole is running from her her home, AKA The Hole, and trying to erase the memory of a drug-rape she endured at the hands of two men. Many a user ingests drugs to escape from Real Life. I’ve been there, done it, worn the t-shirt, and kept on wearing it until it become so faded and worn that I had to buy myself another one. And matching pants.

They reach Boston, and have soon stepped up from weed and pills to the old Marching Powder, aka cocaine. The duo and their work colleague, Renee, are soon playing more bugle than a brass section (oh boy, you Americans are gonna really struggle with some of my English-isms!) (but I’m sure you’ll get the gist).

Nicole’s life rolls spectacularly downhill after this, but I’m not in the business of ruining peoples’ enjoyment of reading the book, so you’ll have to buy it yourself from here (if you live in the US) or from here (if you live in the UK/Europe). Those of us this side of the pond are in for a treat at that ridiculously low price! You can also grab it on Kindle, and Amazon will even send you the first chapter free for you to try, on your phone or PC.

One of my favourite aspects of the book, is how realistis the depiction of drug-taking is. I remember the first time I did drugs; mushrooms with a guy older than me who I used to skip school and hang out with. He got me into pills, weed, and acid, and my late-teen years were one great big fucking mess.

But going back to the mushrooms; I dropped them, walked up the high street marveling at all the bright, fantastic colours… and then bumped into my mum. Heck, my mum’s been involved before. Once I got smashed on vodka and valium and drove my car around the local canoe lake…not around the outside, but the inside of it where people walked! And then I parked my car right outside the swimming pool doors… and locked myself out. And my mum had to come rescue my ass.

Marni’s depth on what effects drugs have are honest, sincere, and very well researched. It’s not my place to ask her how far she ‘went’ in her quest for true-effectiveness, but – as a dabbler in narcotics over the years – I can honestly attest that every reaction to the drugs in the book is true. At least in my own experience.

From the ants crawling under Nicole’s skin while on ecstasy, to the wired-buzz on coke, to the comatose-effect of weed, I’ve been there and experienced it all, as I’m sure many, many of us have. Everyone experiments…

…but Nicole’s is a story of someone – like myself – who succumbs to peer-pressure and finds herself spiraling downward; being dragged under by others and her own weak-willed inability to find help for herself, despite her family’s attempted interventions.

The journey she takes is both harrowing and uneasy to read at times; with the people in her life using her as they wish, and more than once she finds herself selling her body on the streets to raise enough money just to buy enough drugs to straighten herself out.

And the end, when it arrives, is strong, powerful, and heart-rending.

If you’ve ever done any sort of drugs then I urge you to read this, and see if the tale resonates somewhere inside of you.

If you have never done drugs, then read this, and know that you were right to have never touched them.

And read it soon, as the sequel is already underway…

It all started at 5pm New Years Eve after I’d dropped Bam home and cracked open the vodka back at mine… *cue hazy flashback scene*

If you’ve read my blogs then you’ll know that my journeys always start boat, train, underground when we hit London and this time was no different. However, I managed to spice the journey up a little this time by receiving a challenge from Darren Boynton and Erik Bruce. The dipshits challenged me to write ‘Happy New Year Darren Boynton (and Erik Bruce)’ on a piece of paper and get my photo taken with a policeman. I thought I’d shake things up slightly, and get photos with everyone. Here’s the first: Hitting Waterloo Station in London was surreal. Everytime I have ever been here it’s been rammed full of people going to work, and while there were still many people here, there were no where near the numbers to which I was used to.

Hitting the Wellesley as is our tradition when we hit London, we’d got our drinks and sat down for 30 seconds before the lady sitting next to me asked me to look after her bags and coat. I shrugged and said ‘sure’. Well, she didn’t look like a Muslim extremist so I figured we were safe. She returned and I went to the loo.

While I managed to ‘bag’ one cubicle THREE lads went into the one next to me. I’m sure it was so they could carry on their discussion about local politics, but there was a lot of giggling and nose-blowing while they were in there. I came out of my cubicle and was stunned to see the place full of men waiting to use the facilities. I cleared my throat loudly and gave it a real panto-cry of ‘boy, there sure are a lot of people in here now‘, trying to give the cubicle kids a heads up. One of them then called out, in a posh old ladies voice; “Er… I’m awfully sorry but I’ve run out of tissue paper! Could you please all fuck off and find me some?”

I was laughing as I left. Not sure about the others though.

Drinks drunk, tube taken and we’re in the Barbican area of London, heading for Fabric. The area seemed pretty sparse so I asked a nearby doorman if there was anywhere nearby where we could get a drink, ie, down the stairs into the club/bar behind him. He pointed at a pub behind me that had more lights gleaming than a Christmas tree. I’ve no idea how I missed it! Drinks drunk, again, and I went back to the doorman for… If you read the ‘legendary’ blog that was Fear and Loathing In Los London you’ll recall that I got searched by a man on the door of Fabric who found what he was looking for down my shorts.

No, not my cock.

This time we came prepared. We did our drugs in a phone box before we went in and then stuffed the rest in Becki’s phone case and down her bra. It ain’t pretty, but it’s effective. Alas, it also proved a touch too sweaty when we tried to perk up later that night…

I got such a half-arsed searching at the door I felt offended and almost went looking for my tormentor from last time, but we were in and that was all that mattered. Now, I don’t

Room Two

know about anyone else, but we got lost in Fabric last time… and we got lost in Fabric  this time. I had to ask a fucking steward where Room Two was… …as this was where the man I had come to see was playing. Alan Fitzpatrick. He started at 9pm and we got there roughly twenty minutes afterwards, and as we entered he was dropping Adam Beyer’s ‘Twist’ track, which I love love love. I thought it would make a good first video so I started filming it… which resulted in an impromptu dance-off between two lads:

Being early it wasn’t quite full up, which gave us the freedom of the dance floor. We spent pretty much the next 11 hours here just tearing the place up. More and more people flocked to the room and soon we were rammed in the corner right under the DJ booth, as Fitzpatrick played a set so formidable the room was soon packed and the crowd were yelling and cheering at every drop. The man has come so far in the last year its phenomenal.

A steward called ‘Rich’ was stationed at the bottom of the stairs between us and Alan Fitzpatrick and I can’t remember how or why but me and Beavis kept plying him with vodka for the rest of the night and got him pissed! In fact, so pissed I managed to squeeze this in: After a while, Beavis thought it would be funny to tell Rich that I was friends with Alan Fitzpatrick. Rich then asked me; “Do you want me to go and tell him you’re here?” Now me, being three sheets to the wind, agreed. Rich ran up the stairs, asked, Fitzpatrick refused (saying he’d only ever spoke to me online) so I did what I do best. I carried on being smashed out of my face and danced.

Fag break and we ventured outside. Now, I told you things were hazy, and I can’t remember who, but someone sold me a couple of pills. £10 a pop these bad boys, and they were better than the shit back home on the Isle of Wight. It took a good half hour to come up but soon we were back in Room Two throwing shapes as AF played on. His set was fantastic, and he cemented himself as my favourite DJ around. Once he’d finished his set I accosted him and apologised for drunkenly trying to visit him in the booth but he was cool. I think. I was space-monkeyed, remember.

I also then got a photo of him and reminded him that he’d promised me an MP3 of his SW4 set back in August!

Our dancers-in-crime for the rest of the night we’re two lads and they’re girlfriends… I think. The two guys were very friendly and chatted away with us the whole time. Then I mentioned I’d been to SW4 and one of them shouted: “I knew I knew you from somewhere!” he shouted and gave me a big hug. He then spoke to the other friend and he was soon laughing and hugging me and patting me on the back. I swear I had never seem these guys before in my life, so I did what amused me most… and went along with them.

We carried on partying, the pills doing their job, but they seemed to bring us down a lot quicker than we expected. Fitzpatrick had finished his set, so while Slam was just taking over we ventured back out to the smoking area, or ‘Drug Central’ as it shall now forever be known. I’m not sure if it was because we were running out of drugs, or if everyone just wanted to do my head in, but Drug Central was really fucking with me. Firstly Beavis decided that the hedge behind me was the biggest thing in the world she’d ever seen and kept trying to get me to look. Ok, it might not sound like it was funny, but the severe state I was in and the fact that every drug-riddled ape that walked past and heard our conversation decided to stare at the bastard shrubbery as well. But I would not turn. I didn’t at all for the rest of the night.

Suddenly, after spending the last 7 hours on a solid intake of vodka, I desperately needed water. And I mean fucking needed water more than I ever have in my life. I started asking random people but they all had the tiniest dribble in their bottles or countered my offer by asking me for drugs! Apparently I have ‘one of those faces’. Seriously. I get asked all the damn time. We befriended an Irishman and his girlfriend. I say ‘befriended’ but he was an absolute cunt to me, although we solidly agreed on the fact that everyone hates the English. I pushed this a touch further and mentioned that I find the Welsh to be the biggest racists on the planet (it’s true, suck it up) and I paused after saying it and asked Irish’s girlfriend if she was Welsh. His very pretty, very black girlfriend responded ‘do I look like I’m fuckin’ Welsh?’ in the same Laaandan accent that she’d been talking to me in for the last ten minutes. Told you I was struggling. Irish said goodbye, shook my hand, called me a cunt and disappeared into the night. thus the hunt was back on.

It was now at the stage where I stood in the middle of Drug Central and starting asking in a loud voice:

“People, look at me! Don’t I look desperate enough for some drugs?”

Beavis then shut me up. It was probably a good idea as the doormen were removing various people being sick around us, and I had PRIME CANDIDATE written all over me.

Still…

A small, thin, shaking Ukranian/Russian/whatever shuffled on over to me and said

What a night...

‘drrrugzz’ in his eastern European lilt; although, to be fair, the state I was in he was probably English and my brain translator was on the fritz.

I nodded and I recall telling him that I loved him and that he was a lovely man.

And then he started taking off his belt.

It’s not an uncommon thing to happen around me, and if you check out my last blog I actually made this move myself… again in Fabric…

The foreigner took his belt off and held it towards me.

“Oh man,” I said, “Look, I wanted drugs, not cock… no matter how desperate I look…”

But then he revealed the back of his belt, and snapped it open like an old Kit Kat. The interior leather of the belt split open and revealed HUNDREDS of orange pills, all nestled in a poly lining. It was fucking genius and something that Beavis and I talked about often throughout the night!

At least when I was able to talk, cos those little orange pills fuuuucked us up. You’ve heard the conversations where people bemoan that pills were ‘so much better back in the day’? Well, this pills should’ve been called ‘Back In The Day’ pills. They were fucking immense and one little beano each took us to the fucking moon and back. I didn’t think I was overly bad, but Beavis took some photos of me that shocked even myself!

Oh, and in case you were wondering, these pills pissed all over the MDMA in our last excursion.

Back on the dance floor and we’re back in the groove until one massive wave of pill-power wipes me out in one crushing move; and then I suddenly become that which I had always ridiculed – a dirty little pill head who can barely breathe let alone open my eyes. At one point Beavis and I were both in heavy conversation… with the wall right in front of us.

Luckily I’ve managed to gather my marbles back into their sack by the time Adam Beyer hits the decks around half 3, and his set is tremendous. The battery on my iPhone had died and I will always, ALWAYS regret not filming him playing a dirty, dark version of Joy Division’s ‘Love Will Tear Us Apart’. I remember stopping dancing once I realised what it was… and once I realised just how good it was… and I can still hear it ringing in my ears now. It was an amazing moment in an amazing night.

If anyone reading this can tell me what it’s called or where I can find it  will love you forever. [step forward Shadey Collins and Dean Foster (the latter my dance partner in Fabric!)!! Here's a snippet: 

Fabric was open 9pm till 9am, and we left just after 8am and caught a taxi to Waterloo with our last £20. While sat in the train station I discovered a craving for a strawberry milkshake that was almost as bad as my earlier want of water.

It took my five minutes to get out my seat, three minutes to find the MacDonalds’ downstairs, and another 1 minute to get into an argument and be asked to leave. Apparently they don’t do milkshakes in Maccy D’s at that time of the morning, to which I replied loudly:

“Look, you can clearly see that I’m off my face and really need a fucking milkshake!”

I didn’t get the milkshake.

And finally:

Spangled.

However, there are two poems that I find I absolutely love, and thought I would share them with you… and from a guy who writes the kinda shit I usually write, I’m not sure what that says about me.

However, both poems are from wars… so maybe that does say something about me.

“If you are able,
save for them a place
inside of you
and save one backward glance
when you are leaving
for the places they can
no longer go.
Be not ashamed to say
you loved them,
though you may
or may not have always.
Take what they have left
and what they have taught you
with their dying
and keep it with your own.
And in that time
when men decide and feel safe
to call the war insane,
take one moment to embrace
those gentle heroes
you left behind.”
Major Michael Davis O’Donnell
1 January 1970
Dak To, Vietnam

“In Flanders fields the poppies blow
      Between the crosses, row on row,
   That mark our place; and in the sky
   The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
   Loved and were loved, and now we lie,
         In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
   The torch; be yours to hold it high.
   If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
         In Flanders fields.”

Canadian physician and Lieutenant Colonel John McCrae wrote it on 3 May 1915 after he witnessed the death of his friend, Lieutenant Alexis Helmer, 22 years old, the day before.

So, there you go. Maybe I do have a little ‘art’ in me.