Good Friday Feedback :: Blogging For Jesus

bulk :: 14st 13 (Yes! Eeee-ha! Etc. I’m very pleased about this. This feels good. This feels like a landmark.)
gym sessions :: 3
swim sessions :: 2 (exercise really works! Who knew?)
episodes of The Wire watched consecutively :: 4
fears concerning the litigiousness of would-be sex offenders Foster & Allen :: 1
fist fights with self :: 1
mouth-cuts resulting from fist fight :: 2
regrets :: a few, but then again... meh

Aaaaah, life. Whoever said it was a funny old game was a wise old cove. This time last year I was squirreling myself away with my best friend’s ex, stuffing my face with mini-eggs and muff. This year I’m just back from hospital where I’ve been visiting a friend in need and becoming near-hysterical making bad, bad jokes with said friend and other visitors, about catheters and tumours and Fritzel. (We all decided, when someone is suffering from cancer, humour-wise, anything goes. It’s true too. Special rules apply.)

…

Excellent. I was just about to write that I’m pretty miserable and not really looking forward to spending the long weekend all on my lonesome, with not even a hospitalised friend to visit (she’s leaving hospital tomorrow), when I received a message from Paddy, my brand new friend.

Of course, Paddy isn’t really called Paddy, but I’m calling him Paddy because Paddy is short for Paddington, and I’m calling him Paddington because his real name – amusingly – is actually the name of a station on the London Underground. What are the chances?

Anyway, Paddy came to me through the blog, as everybody seems to these days, and he is an excellent chap. An excellent chap who happens to want something to do this evening. So there we have it :: a match made in heaven. If only Paddy was the porn star, Maria Ozawa, then all of my problems would be over.

So, here it is, Happy Easter, and I leave you with a couple of Easter-themed goodies. One is a little something I knocked together in order to gain more downloading privileges at a site called The Box. They asked people to create an Easter scene in their house, photograph it and send it in. I did this:



Dominating the scene - as it should be - is ‘Fat Christ’, still decidedly bloated from all the Christmas Pudding and Baileys on which he gorged himself on his last birthday. At Fat Christ’s right hand, a selection of Easter reading (including the answer to last week’s Bookscan) and an Easter onion, its new shoots reaching up to heaven, symbolising the cycle of death and rebirth and reminding us that life is all about hidden layers and endless weeping.

Front centre, behind the holy welcome mat is a representation of man. It could be Adam and Eve. It could be Mary and Joseph. Or it could just be a couple ordinary Johnnies with a Himalayan finger penguin on their shoulders.

A bottle of Easter vodka and two more images of Christ – emaciated and electric gay – round off the scene. Plus a couple of eggs and a duck made of soap. Oh, and a candle, red with the blood of our Saviour.

On the whole, I’m quite pleased with it. All it’s really missing is a goldfish with a Lincoln log on its back making for a sock drawer. But you can’t have everything.

And finally, this guy:



So, what do you reckon :: is he real? Surely not. Please, God, no.

Religion, eh? Eh? It's got a lot to answer for.

Happy Easter!

Day Four :: Whippet

It's in The Wasp Factory, and I think it’s Eric who describes sleep as a social construct. Society tells us we need sleep, preferably eight hours a night where the vast majority of us are tucked away in our beds, safe and sound, causing no trouble to no one. Something like that. Bloody Thatcher. Yes, it was Thatcher’s fault. She fed us sleep whilst never indulging herself. She made some passing contrivance concerning four hours a night but it was clear she was lying. Everyone knew her as the Iron Maiden, or the Sulphuric Harpy, or the Child Snatcher's Assistant, but to the wise, she was first and foremost a poignant and much misunderstood character. She was The Baroness of Dreams. Putting the Baroness to one side however, generally speaking, sleep is essential and everybody needs it. Eric was mad, and sleep, we can clearly see, is not a social construct.

Food however, most certainly is.

I haven’t eaten a solitary morsel since Sunday evening, and here I am, as fit as a giant kaleidoscope made entirely of fiddles. My brain has never been on more excitable form. I swear, it’s like a whippet in a breadbox.

I’ve been writing stuff all day. Little bit of work, but lots of other stuff too. In fact, between this sentence and the last, 45 minutes have passed whilst I sketched out some other quite, really quite sparklingly brilliant thing.

The mania continues apace, as you see. But I’m enjoying it. This fasting lark is like a whole case of adrenaline injected right into my ear. Or even into my third eye, man. And the strange thing is, I’ve hardly checked my weight today at all – not since first thing this morning. And that’s unusual. But today I’ve been alive with loads of other things. I even cracked open the flipchart I bought seven years ago. I seem to have reached such a point whereby this is really not anything to do with losing weight anymore, but what it is about now and – I mean, I’m guessing here – but this sounds like it’s about Total Brain Purification.

O yiieea...

I have lift off. I am floating up to Nirvana for my 2.30 transcendental appointment.

All Hail Gandhi.

And so on.

Next time I’m going to do it without grass though. I’ve enjoyed the grass to be sure, and I’m sure it’s brought me some fine thoughts, but I just feel it’s interfering with the clarity. The tobacco is tainting the spirituality.

Next time I need to feel just a little more like Jesus.

Christ. I can’t even begin to imagine what he must have felt like after 40 days. 40! And me tossing pearls like these after four! I really believe, after 40 days neither eating nor masturbating, anyone could perform miracles. But did Christ have Tree Syrup? That’s something I need to know.


Ah, this person here also wants to know how Jesus managed it. ‘I want to know if it is clear how Jesus fasted? I've been told that He couldn't have done it on Tree Syrup alone for 40 days because his digestion tract would be so severely damaged afterwards.’ It’s an interesting point, but one that rather overlooks the fact that Jesus was Magic and could have just pulled a brand new digestive tract out of his tattered sleeve.

Anyhow, I’ve been so full of typing beans that I’ve completely ignored my physical health - apart from the not eating of course - which is very bad. Neither have I had time to do any reading. Which reminds me… Some people, they love to interact with a good film. Don’t they though? Like those giddy souls who dress up for The Sound of Music orThe Rocky Horror Picture Show. Or then there’s those students who like to surround themselves with cider, whiskey, ale and lighter fuel and play the Withnail and I drinking game. Or those other students who exclaim that you simply must read Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas whilst high on adrenochrome and ether! Or that you simple must read Three Men In A Boat whilst you’re actually in a boat! (Preferably with three men. Or of course, if you’re a man yourself, with just two other men.) Or that you simply must read Ulysses in a single day, Inspector Morse amongst dreamy spires, and American Psycho surrounded by silk ties, platinum business cards and lightly buttered prostitutes’ pelvises. But I say to you, no. You should in fact do none of the above. Because if Living the Book is what you’re into, then reading Knut Hamsen’s wonderful Hunger while you’re absolutely famished is where the real kicks are. I started today but got distracted. I’m going to continue tomorrow.

Is that it? Am I done? I think I am.

Next!

Oh, and don't eat food. It slows you down.