Prince of Wails

My cousin Gethin, from Pontypridd, is staying with us at the moment, for reasons I am not clear on.
I don’t like Gethin.
He visits conspiracy theory websites and wears a Star Trek badge on his blazer. Not that those factors themselves are enough to fill me with hatred for a person, but every hour I spend in his presence brings forth a new and even more loathsome aspect to his personality.
This morning he spent 20 minutes in the toilet while his bowels moved, and then came out saying “that was like half-melted caramel ice cream being pushed through a pensioners eye”
Cretin.
He says he ‘has me sussed’ and thinks I’m an intellectual snob who hides behind a wall of indifference rather than face the world I’m scared of head-on. That’s at good moments. Other times he calls me a tubby bitch and grabs my nipples firmly through my shirt and twists them.
For my part, I think he’s a f**kwit with a brain the size of a sesame seed, but that’s family I suppose.
We spent the day in Cromer today (again – for reasoning which seems to have escaped me) Mum didn’t want to drive so we had to spend an hour in the company of a Norfolk Green bus driver. Ralph Fiennes’ character in ‘Schindler’s List’ springs to mind.
Gethin said ‘Cromer is a bit like Pontypridd, but with Sanatogen instead of heroin’
Even the driest of intellectual deserts can sometimes spring a cactus of wisdom…

RC 21-4-08
2300 GMT

5705

It’s been a day for poetry.
My cyber-girlfriend Melissa Rhyke (27) of Florida has sent me some words to commemorate our six-month anniversary. She’s a bit late, but there we are – Better Late Than Dead, as my nan used to say. It’s a personal poem, written form the heart, so I wouldn’t dare share it with you; but suffice to say it does for romantic poetry what Adolf Hitler did for Jewish longevity.
The lack of basic meter is forgivable, but when someone rhymes ‘desirable’ with ‘admire a bull’ they deserve nothing more or less than my contempt. My adoring love for her can overcome the hurdle of never actually seeing her, but this insult to the world of poetry could create problems. I have some serious soul-searching to do.

In the meantime, the Swaffham Haiku Information Trust has asked me to pen them some verses. I Hate Haiku In English, but they’re paying, so…

Elvis is not dead
He was seen today in Cork
Or was that Shergar?

Death to all Hippies
With their pot and their free love
I’m so envious

I am a bubble
I float as high as the clouds
Because I take drugs

Work in an office
Is like sitting on an asp
It will end in pain

Oh sweet Lord Jesus
Save me from the painful sound
Of English haiku

I know I’m my own worse critic, but even by my harsh standards, those were pretty awful.
I shall punish myself by not eating any chocolate for 12 hours. That will take me up to 3.30am tomorrow morning.
I’ll set my alarm..

RC 18-4-08
1530 GMT

Stupid Bitch

My mum has been the victim of a shyster. A scruffy looking drunkard accosted her in town yesterday and talked her into giving him two hundred quid.
He told her that if he couldn’t send a thousand pounds home to his wife by Friday, she’d be kidnapped by gangsters, and his cattle herd would be raped.
Mum got to the cashpoint so quick you’d think it was a bottle of whiskey.
‘Where was he from?’ I asked
‘Somewhere in Russia I think’ she said
‘You didn’t find out for sure?’ I asked
‘Well, he definitely had an accent’ she said ‘he sounded a bit like your Uncle Barry’
Uncle Barry, by the way, is a Geordie.
My mum falls for that kind of thing all the time. She’s a salesmans’ dream. If you told her she’d get free beer by sending off her piss in an envelope she’d be reaching for a Manila in a heartbeat.
So now we’re back on the Tesco Value sausages, and the dog’s eating last weeks’ leftovers.

I released my anger at my mother by comfort eating my way through a Family Pack of curly wurlies and a Snickers, then lay down in bed to watch ‘The Great Escape.’ I bought the video at a car boot sale for a pound last week and had been looking forward to watching it ever since.
It turned out the previous owner had taped over it with old episodes of ‘Neighbours.’
But Natalie Imbruglia turned up in two of them, so the night wasn’t wasted completely.

RC 16-4-08
2215 GMT

Rant in D minor

Why has there been such a sea change in the way they broadcast news?
I try to avoid any and all bulletins, and have done for years. With a ballooning weight problem, a family history of early death, a girlfriend on the other side of the world, and an alcoholic, chain-smoking, pill-popping abusive mother downstairs, I have enough reasons to feel miserable thank you; I don’t need to depress myself further by sharing the rest of the world’s ills as well.
But while waiting for a take-away on Friday night (May Jing Thai&Cantonese on Potter Street – I had the House Special Chow Mein, two spring rolls and a curry) I caught sight of the BBC evening news on the ridiculously small black-and-white portable television mounted on a wall bracket behind the counter.
Whatever happened to intelligent news delivered by well-groomed, experienced newscasters? When did it become de rigeur for the news of the day to be delivered standing up by a coiffeured, wafer–slim bint who looks like a supply teacher in a well run uptown comprehensive?
I blame Natasha Kaplinsky.
Her ‘sexy new methods’ were ok for Channel 5 to try, but why does every other network immediately jump on the bandwagon and have superimposed rolling screens behind a casually dressed Weather-Girl-masquerading-as-journalist, without even waiting to see if it worked on Channel 5? Are they that desperate to keep up with the trends that they copy them before they are even established?
And this is the BBC I’m talking about. Aren’t they supposed to be at the forefront of all technological advances? the first and the best when it comes to championing new ideas and initiatives? Are my TV licence pounds and pennies being spent instead on designer labels and hairdos for sultry, tempting autocue readers who look like they’re barely out of sixth form college?
I imagine they’re supposed to look informal, informing and approachable.
But they don’t. They just look like sluts.

RAF FOH

One thing I’ve always hated about living in Norfolk is the disproportionately large number of Air Force bases we have. In my childhood, this hatred was borne from a knowledge that, were those pesky Russians to finally snap and try to wipe out Western civilisation, we’d be pretty high up on their list of targets. In my late teens, I hated the fact that every young woman I met that I found sexually attractive or even remotely interesting was usually hooked up to an airman.
“All the nice girls love a squaddie” my nan used to say. Maybe they do, or maybe all the nice girls like the opportunity to travel to exotic places simply by virtue of marrying the right profession.
Nowadays though, that hatred is firmly rooted in the fact that the RAF are SO BLOODY NOISY.. For the best part of the last 24 hours, they’ve been roaring around our village at a height of 600 feet, and an approximate speed of 210 decibels.
Believe me, I’m a fervent supporter of our Armed Forces, but right now I’m tempted to go online and buy a missile launcher..
I understand that we’re in a time of conflict, and that our pilots need to practise, but I don’t see how flying over the green fields of Norfolk is good preparation for the rocky terrain of Afghanistan, or the desert sands of Iraq.

Someone’s at the door now. It’s probably a shady government representative who is monitoring this posting and is going to send me off to Guantanamo Bay. Or it might be Mr Kemp with the papers.

Hopefully I’ll be back soon

RC 9-4-08
0935 GMT

Grand

My mum has been comatose for two days now after a mighty binge on Cinzano and olives. The reason for this Amy Winehouse-style marathon stint of self-abuse? Saturday was Grand National day.
Mum hadn’t placed a bet. She never does. Beyond the Village Hall Christmas Bingo and online spreads in the Far East, she’s a gamble-free senorita. But the annual sight of upper class tarts off their bonnets on champers tends to get mum in the mood for a party; so the drinks cabinet is empty, and the sink is full of vomit.

Why are so many jockeys Irish? The coverage with all the interviews on the telly was like listening to St Patricks Day live from The Point in Dublin.
Is it because they're a nation of small people? I mean all those leprechaun jibes must have a base in reality somewhere..
Also, why do so many of them have eyes that point outwards, away from each other? Is it the speed they go at on the horses - the wind resistance forces their eyes outwards in their sockets? Or maybe it’s the goggles they wear...
Either way, considering they torture animals for a living and make a good deal of money doing so, Wonky Eye Syndrome is the least they deserve. If it was down to me, I’d force their tiny little bodies into Tupperware boxes and throw them off a bridge into traffic.

I think mum is stirring at last. I’d better get a large glass of water, and an apron.

Anon..

RC 8-4-08
0815 GMT

The Dog Ate My Homework

When I started this blog, I swore to myself I would sit and write 250 words a day. Without fail. Nothing would stand between me and my keyboard – not illness, Act of God or even Death. But if I may quote Shakespeare “The best laid plans of Mice and Men are oft shafted in the pim-hole by the might of unforeseen thingamabobs.”
The first day I missed was due to a headache. The day after that my Uncle Jack came round and insisted on talking to me for nine hours about dry rot, so I couldn’t get away, and when I could, I really didn’t feel like breathing anymore, much less writing a coherent blog entry.
..so my daily postings are added to the list of “Things What Rory Started With The Enthusiasm of Jade Goody at a Chocolate Party, only for his Drive to Disappear like a rapidly dwindling post-coital Penis”
All I can say is – ‘I Promise To Do Better’

I seem to be using capital letters a lot in today’s entry. And inverted commas. And brackets. And I keep started sentences with the word ‘And’ which I’m pretty sure is bad English. I’m also using a lot of metaphors. (or is it similes? I can’t remember because I hated all my English teachers, and I’m drunk)
All I know is this – if I had to name my two biggest heroes they’d be Jack Daniels and Jim Beam. Until tomorrow morning, when they’ll be Matthew Wright, and whoever the guy was that they named ‘Andrews’ after.

Please come back…

RC 3-4-08
2055 BST