Wed Dec15 1999

Popped into the Globe Tavern the other night to have a butchers at the 102-year-old woman, Elsie Winthapthwaite, who gets free drinks for the remainder of her life. Unfortunately she wasn't in, though a couple of Drag Queens were at the bar knocking it back pretty heavily. I recognised one as Alec DePoule, the lead in DAMES IN DUNKIRK which is scheduled for performance on the 20th December at the Masonic Hall. Poodles in striped shirts ran about the floor hyperventilating.

I met up with Ziggy Millburn the composer, huddled in a corner pew; worn leather jacket zipped up to his throat, manuscript before him. As we chatted he made dots & sweeps with a pencil, composing his 3rd String Quartet. How he can talk and compose at the same time amazes me. Some of his GROUPIES -- 3 teenage girls, giggling at a table opposite, kept handing him notes containing obscene cartoons done in blue biro. What appeal he can have for them, a 40-year-old contemporary classical composer, is a mystery. Perhaps it’s just a FAME THING, however obscure. He told me, much to my astonishment that he was thinking of putting some music to one of Duncan's poems, the one that begins:

IT IS A CANNY WRAP

& entitled 'Clement’. It would be nice for Duncan to get some Royalties.

We had a walk around Accrington in the cold moonlight, dogs howling, owls screeching, teenagers chanting in Welsh. The MILLENIUM SCULPTURE (the one resembling a swastika) has been removed and a large floodlit hole has been left in its place. tin cans glitter from within. Ziggy shows me a dance he'd learnt from the Ogodabe Indians in Mozambique. It went down well with a parade of pensioners who clapped and threw coins.

When I got back to my flat, Emma was up a ladder attaching things to the ceiling -- some gold foil skeletons. Not very Christmassy!

Crispin failed miserably in the Accrington Heat of Smart Cat UK. It's going to have to work on its posture, balance and discernment. I’ve put it on a strict regime in preparation for the Lancashire Cat Show in Blackpool next year.

Fri 17 Dec 1999

Last night I dined at the famous Blue Burgundy restaurant in town. My dining companion was my old tutor from Magdalen College Oxford, Professor Ramases Fitzgerald (called RAMA MAN by his students and noted for his outlandish hairstyles). He hadn't changed much, was still tall & thin with a straggly grey beard, huge spectacles and acute ears sticking out horizontally.

"Whad ya say? Whad ya say?" he'd bark, catching a whisper from an adjacent table.

"Nothing." I replied.

"Thought as much!" he says with triumph.

The reason for his visit (and he'd need a reason to spend a cold & blustery night in the depths of Accrington) was to sound me out about the TOT-MEH-TOTTS, the indigenous tribe of ODIPPO ISLAND near the ARXARKSEYS. This was the subject of my Post-Graduate studies in 1981.He was researching a book about a related tribe & wanted me to fill in some details. He was under the impression that I had actually visited the island in 1982,but was mistaken -- I knew better! The TMT's as I quaintly abbreviated them were a ruthless lot and didn't take to outsiders. The anthropologist who learnt most about them, ROGER RIPLEY, was lucky to escape with his life. Cursed and chemically emasculated, he threw himself off Beachy Head in 1967.

RAMA-MAN told me all about the latest student goings-on at College -- all sounded pretty tame considering what we got up to in our time -- the heavy consumption of the famous COLLEGE ALE, the fornication (not always with animals), the Punting Backwards! (Oscar Wilde knew ALL ABOUT THAT) and the delicious pastries at Peacocks on Turl Street. Those dreamy Spring days........

Needless to say, I didn't invite the Prof back to my grotty flat. I told him I lived in a select area up near Haworth Park with wondrous hilly views. He left me with a slap on the shoulder and said he'd e-mail me some titbits for use in an article I'm putting together about Magdalen Eccentrics from the 60's to the 80's.RAMA-MAN's parting words were "Buckle up! Buckle up there!" I don't know what it means either.

Sun Dec26 1999

THROW OUT YOUR GOLD TEETH AND SEE HOW THEY ROLL

THE ANSWER THEY REVEAL....LIFE IS UNREAL

Quite! Those Doogies were apreaching at my carnivorous omniplods but I defeated them catolliglaraliphally.

Don't feel right today. I think the GREAT ENTITY is annoyed with me for taking up space on his precious planet. He probably wants to replace me with another FROCKED POODLE that answers to the name of ALFRED.

Accrington swims in a fever of pulsating indifference. The cold wetness drives you indoors into the warm oblivion of the PRINCE ALBERT pub where you are assaulted by sad stories and tepid beer.

Despite this I try ordering a Christmas Special (on a plate if possible). The landlady, Madame LeGrapple sits on me instead, until I moan my apologies and mumble a request for a sodden cheese sandwich with miscellaneous brown liquid. Yes please, thank you so much it's delicious -- I shall never look at you in a funny way ever again Madame. I take a seat and pick at my meal, sip my tepid beer, watch the punters watching me, apologise again to the GODHEAD upstairs for being such a parasite on his wonderful planet -- maybe you would prefer me to sit in a remote corner of XANOTOT the as yet undiscovered outer planet in our solar system, the very remote gas giant? I could SING ALONG WITH THE GIDLAPESITES those huge winged beasts that drink Hydrogen and belch marsh gas. Oh yes please, that would be delightful sir! let me just finish my tepid beer and liquid cheese sandwich and I'll be off, scuttling forth, cringing under your OMNIPOTENCE.

INSTEAD I wait for Emma to arrive in an envelope of pseudo-chanel, Emma the girl of her own clammy dreams, repentant to a fault, sequestered in a mauve bodybag (with zip). Her essence fluctuates in real-time. Send me a note PHYLISS.

FRI JAN 7, 2000

On route to a meeting of the Accrington Intellectuals at St.Andrew's, Vogle Square, I called in at the BROADACRES DINING EXPERIENCE and ordered an ACCRINGTON BLAST -- "a special blend of mixed beans & whipped fruit”. This is English Cuisine at its best and the Tomato Ketchup sachets are COMPLIMENTARY. Only a dozen or so other punters were in, munching on wonderfully titled foodstuffs such as the BROADACRES MILLENIUM PILE (a tall pie with mash); the TICKLE-ME HENRY (a suet pudding with crystallized egg); TALKING BOBBLES (chirrups of sweetcorn blended in a paste with butter & syrup of figs).

WIND POWERED I floated effortlessly the 600 yards to the church to attend the AI's. Henry Boot greeted me as I entered and handed me a booklet, which outlined New Rules For Behaviour during 2000. By the end of the meeting I'd made this into an attractive Novelty Ashtray, looking uncannily like a scrunched up scrap of paper. After some boring preliminaries under the auspices of Phil O'Reilly (loud whispers of "Oh Really!”, “Shoot me NOW!" and "Pretentious Prick!") a white haired old gent was wheeled out and introduced as Professor Val Smith of Merton College, Oxford, lecturer in 'Philosophy of Mind'. (Is there any other kind of philosophy? Perhaps there's a residue embodied in toothpaste??!!)He droned on for an hour on the nature of peoples' interface with inanimate objects, citing various papers that had been printed in learned journals in a ridiculously codified manner......"Ref Jensen U-Block Quarterly of TJS-5-16, July78". His main argument seemed to be that the mind was entirely a projection of the INANIMATE under which it is so framed i.e. the mind when confronted by a TABLE becomes a satellite of it and FALLS UNDER its TABLE-LIKE influence. He received warm applause at the end, which made me think that perhaps I'd missed the boat on this one. Never mind. I struggled home in the cold drizzle & became for a blissful 8 hours a BEDDED THING OF SPURIOUS DREAMS.

Mon JAN 10,2000

No sooner has Emma moved into my flat and completely rearranged & re-decorated it to her personal liking, than she's left me for her "new lover”. I resist the temptation to say that this is TYPICAL but it's .....TYPICAL! Not only has she moved out but she's taken Crispin my cat with her. To be honest, this is not entirely a bad thing I have to say. Ever since its APPALLING FAILURE in SMART CAT UK I’ve looked upon it as COMPLETELY POINTLESS AND MERCENARY, particularly after it rejects another plate of a once favourite cat food. It’s better off with Emma. She will accept it as Crispin, the DEFECTIVE CAT (rather like she accepted me, sob, sob!).

So here I am, effectively habitating what feels like someone else's flat, feeling every bit as much an alien in it as outside it. To cheer myself up I had a fry-up at the FLORAL GRILL (only £2.10 -- it's gone up by 10p & the bacon is half fat). I look at the people milling around outside and think "I bet they're just non-existent projections onto my retina as schemed by the manipulating Godhead. He’ll have Loony Linda rush by next in all her nakedness." But he didn’t. I ask for some more tea and contemplate the future. Year 2000.Not as catchy a year as 2001.I think that by 2001 everyone will have microchips in their brains that will enable them to pass their exams and recite long poems in Aztec and watch porno films and create LIVING AQUARIUMS before their eyes to relax them before doing something stressful, like dealing with the real world. I do the crossword in the ACCRINGTON GAZETTE. 3-across is "BRIAN said this while drowning!".

Who's BRIAN? Then I realise! BRIAN is an anagram of BRAIN and BRAIN is what I'm doing this puzzle with and..................... ..... .... blimey.