Fuck………OFF.

Just a blur.

This wasn’t an issue with vision, beyond my own typical narrow minded bleakness of the sort that prevents me writing for lengthy periods of time due to sheer unwelcome self-loathing. This was my old friend, manic depression, making its self all too present and known – not just to me, but no doubt anybody around me who saw my suddenly no doubt sunken, haunted miserable fissog.

The day itself had started well – a glorious sunny day, my tidying all done by 11am, Liza Tarbuck and Adam Buxton entertaining me on Radio 2, my friends were en route and I even had a new Cookie Monster T-shirt to wear. And when people arrived, it was a lot of fun – banter, beer and burgers – the sort of thing people like me are easily sated by.

Some could blame the alcohol in question as an expedient on my depression and they may have a point although the blank, blind moment which opened this piece of self-aggrandizing prose misery came in a period I had given up on drinking in lieu of pop due to a rather sudden, pounding headache for which seemingly not one of the fifty or so human beings within the same space as me had any Paracetamol which they could lend.

The headaches have been more frequent this year. I’m led to believe it’s a side effect from thinking too much but you don’t have to be Dr Richard Donkey (from Shrek 2) to know this is a load of rubbish. Regardless, when I think of the medication I take for my depression, it’s always in terms of slowing down the endless thoughts that endlessly flitter through my brain rather than perking my mood up any.

There was a period between 2006 and 2007 where I wrote a lot of material. Several radio series, a blog, an aborted novel, sketches for other people’s radio programmes. Being a professional mental self-harmer, I don’t think that much to a deal of this work but none the less it seems to be a body of work that has defined who I am as a writer. My personal John Barrowman-obsessed The Catcher In The Rye by definition if not quality.

Ever since then, I seem to have been endlessly trying to catch up – or more specifically, bother myself to be interested enough in making more of it. Its why this blog died, why my most recent podcast series collapsed after three episodes and the real reason I didn’t bother contributing to the open door BBC7 show pretty much begging for the sort of jokes I was writing.

And this failure just produces more stress which in turn loops me back to the beginning for an endless spiral of nothingness which is occasionally redirected into useless blog posts like this one, which 95% of the 30 or so readers will have already given up on before they made as far as the Dr Richard Donkey line. The added fact that the man I would bounce my ideas off with wont even even answer an email from me now is just icing on an already ruined cake.

I panic even more that the high level of material I wrote was for the majority before I started getting treatment for the depression, which makes me think I should give up on it. I’m still depressed so why not just surf it on the off-chance I write something possibly useful? After all, I tell anyone asks that I’m a “writer”, not a “mentally ill unemployed bum”. Or better still, “suicidal wreck”.

I’ve worked how I’ll do it though. Rope from the banister. I figure the wood’s bad enough that if I change my mind midway, I can probably just break it off. I think about all the books and DVDs I bought that I’ve not got round to yet. Are they worth the wait? Will my life be saved by “The Girl With The Dragon Tattoo”? Or finally bothering to watch Sam Raimi’s “Crimewave”?

I hate that feel so bloody lonely surrounded by people I know. Together alone. If anything, this weekend has reminded me with painful clarity how little I enjoy being on my own. I don’t like the company, for one.

This is what goes on my head when you see me staring into space.

The blur. The blur is everything.

And it’s killing me.

Tracklist as before in the comments box.

Download It Here

Apparently the pub just round the corner did a special hog roast raising money for Sport Relief on Saturday. Quite how eating mass amounts of roasted hog flesh is promoting the healthy values of the BBC’s third most boring extended telethon is beyond me but hey, at least its not fucking karaoke. Again…

~

“Hmm, its alright I suppose but what could we give it to push it just that little bit further?”

“How about a big not especially flattering photograph of Maconie’s face?”

“Brilliant! And put it over the quote too so no-one knows what he’s as wise as!”

“Is it Hitler, sir?”

“We’ll never know, underling. We’ll never know…”

~

Although for those interested, its actually “as wise as Sara Crowe”. Thanks..

The very first of this new run is available right now!

Download It Here

(Tracklist in the comments box to try and reduce on spamming idiots. Feedback very welcome.)

Yesterday I was walking into town with my mum when we were approached by a balding bloke with a Staffordshire Bull Terrier, probably thirty or so and looking distressed. I knew exactly what was coming next having been pan-handled so many times before by similar losers, but there was something different in this encounter.

“’Scuse me mate can you –”, was as far as he got before my mum said “Sorry, Ive no money spare”. Clearly the man was prepared for this, looking more and more pained and on the verge of tears “Please. I’ve got a colostomy bag and bowel cancer and I need to get home”. Before either of us could say anything pulled up his shirt to reveal a fucking horrific gaping wound.

It’s a sight that will not leave me for some time, if at all and I was overcome with anger, pity and sheer resentment that this man would force his situation on complete strangers for effect, not least of all because my Grandad died of something very similar in 2001 which broke my heart.

Despite it all I managed to keep a calm head and merely said “Police station’s down that way, they’ll help you out”. It was at this point the tone significantly changed. “Huh, Police wont do fuck all for me”, he shouted. “What? And I will?”, I offered as rejoinder whilst already moving away from him to join my mum who sensibly begun to walk ahead.

“Oh fuck off then” he said as he stormed off – ironically, towards the police station, although I suspect that’s the last place he’d be interested in visiting. Naturally being an easily-miserable jerk, I felt, along with the anger, some sort of guilt for not helping my fellow man but it’s happened all too often before. And you don’t get to be the best without practice, do you?

Now all rise for our National colours…

Taub be thankful.