Monday, January 10, 2011


I just wanted to say a quick “thanks blood” to my main hommie boy Mr London Street. Yo comments is well appreciated. Also, a passing thanks and hello to Shopgirl, Maccoall and The Jules. And a massive big up to Mr C – natch – for inspiring me to get the fuck back into blogland. BOOM! I think that I should warn you all though, that by the simple act of befriending me and adding your sublime commentary, you have put your lives into severe danger.

In a way, I do feel a bit guilty about coming back online and thus endangering all your lives. I knew that my reappearance would send shockwaves across certain elements of the Internet. I’m under very strict orders to keep my profile on the low-down, my location is a closely guarded secret. I can say no more at this stage. Other than, if you’re getting home late and it’s dark, be on your guard. I can’t be there to help sadly. If you can, I suggest joining a judo club. The streets aren’t safe man. It’s just you against the world.

I never, for once, thought things would wind up this way. It all seems a million lifetimes from marching into BA’s business lounge to the beat of Columbia’s finest with Gary, just a passport apiece, a credit card and return tickets to Bangkok. It felt like we were Noel and Liam. Definitely maybe. I think if we were, I would have been Noel. Sure, Gary had something, a certain charismatic elemental charm, but essentially I was the artistic powerhouse of the partnership.

I thought I was a man of the world. I was until I visited Bangkok. My eyes were opened. I don’t think I’ll be able to play table tennis again. Not to any level of proficiency at least. I have no idea how long we stayed up partying. Days merged into weeks. The faces blurred. The genders were immaterial. Nothing mattered. I woke up one day with a tattoo of a monkey on my back and wedding ring on the third finger of my left hand.

It was time to come home. But things would never be the same.


  1. As I sit here in my pre-retirement potting shed - tucked secretively behind a particularly unruly bramble patch (hiding the rusting Asda trolley and the pile galvanized buckets I shall be using later in the year to force my first rhubarb crop) - some strange compulsion, a subconscious thought if you will, prompts me to put down my newly acquired briar pipe and lean over to the table next to the salvaged Lloyd Loom chair in which I idly repose and flick on the Hewlett Packard laptop bought at the school Xmas Fair.(The school's upgraded to Apples now I'm leaving!! Bastards!) I'm having to run it off a couple of tractor batteries my mate in the science department rigged up for me, so the picture quality ain't exactly great. However as the old familiar Windows tune plays and the pixels slowly focus, what do I see? It's a miracle I tell you - the answer to an atheist's prayers! BAZ IS BACK!!! I knock over a pile of terra cotta plant pots as I leap up and a new canister of hormone rooting powder splits and falls into my wellies - a Xmas present from the lovely Mrs C. But it doesn't matter - I'll deal with the foot fungus it will inevitably cause at a later time - for now I just have to find out what I can about the whereabouts of my old blogging mentor, the citizen journalist bar none, the long (the TOO TOO long) absent Baz Newsdesk.

    It's not looking good. Not good at all. He's always been too trusting, too willing to believe in the best of his fellow men. It's got him into trouble before and it looks like its happened again. The clues are all there - alcohol, psychotropic drugs, girls, distant James Bond locations, exotic partying through the night - at least there's no turtles this time - but its a small comfort.

    Our Baz - the Blogger Non-pareil, needs help.

    My excited cries have woken up several other sleeping gardeners on adjacent allotments. I can hear the sound of massed wellingtons and the unmistakable aroma of Old Holborn ready-rubbed heading my way! But this is not a bad thing Baz, old mate. This could (should you wish to activate us) be an answer to your obvious dire predicament. These are not ordinary gardeners, oh no, we are Jedi Gardeners. We have harnessed the forces within. Soft on the outside but hot as hell inside - just like a McDonald's Pop Tart - we have studied The Way. We have the third eye. We practise Remote Viewing.

    We are The Men Who Stare at Gates!

    Hang on in there old chum. As soon as George has finished laying down the last of his cedar bark mulch and Tom gets the tension on his new NHS truss properly sorted, we are on your case. A quick trance, burst the heart of a few cauliflowers and we'll be back in shape. It'll be the work of moments to discover your current location and then Me, Gerge and Tom, the Jedi Gardeners, will have you back in Blighty. Johnny Foreigner will not know what has hit him!

    Stiff upper lip, and all that

    Keep on blogging

  2. I don't know if you are writing a fiction or a memoir but either way I am hooked. Reading today's post made me wish this were a book, so I can turn the page to see what happens next. Ah the suspense...

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