f'n' much restored for an outing with the hound (meaning we went for a walk, not revealed the true nature of our sexual predilections (or is the current popular theory one of 'hard wiring')) and a can of k cider/ the day is warm and autumnal tho' grey/ tchaikovsky still on the stereo (its a lengthy work)/ sored bhitless and with nothing in the post today (namely a replacement stylus) i'm confined to my cd collection, which i have thoroughly exhausted/ brother down with the flu, no inclination towards weed, no desire even to 'pop' upstairs and visit my upstairs mates/ i think i'll sit here in a comfortably morose state, moping/

f'n' rough this morn./ two cans special brew plus a one-line-two can of k the pre-mid., then house of c- for a 20 w and 10 b the post-mid, smoothed over with 300mls of methadone and encouraged by 60mgs citalopram/ then home where cooked an excellent supper and, rather than eat, consumed two bottles of shiraz and many cigarettes/ hit the sack quite early (0053) but roused by the dog at 0800 and unable to get back to sleep i'm feeling a little damaged/ tchaikovsky's sleeping beauty of the myoozik system/ last ngt sat in the dark listening to tricky's first album/ his voice sounded so realistic 'twas quite unnerving/ must go into town 2-joo-ur, get back a lot of my stuff from f-, then a raid on my brother's house for same/ i only have myself to blame/ when the alba and i separated for a year i trod the byway of the vagrant, leaving many of my possessions, along with skin cells, in many ppl's houses/ then there's my brother: i love him dearly but when he comes over he always needs to borrow something, a cd without which he can't continue, an item of clothing for it has become too hot, cold, tepid, misty, wet since his arrival/ i rarely go to his place but the last time i did a cursory glance at his bookshelves revealed enough books and cds to almost split a standard sized supermarket carrier bag/ the alba's trying to put a limit on my cd/book/philum purchasing as our flat burgeons under the weight of what is in fact a seriously depleted collection/ oh well...

completely forgot about the phenomenal and the noumenal till i read the words near t'very end of glue/ i wish to the gods and minerals and constellations welsh'd stick to writing in 'schemie' scots/ when he writes 'proper' english its embarrassingly bad as he displays a distinct lack of confidence and thus comes across as, at best, inelegant/ it is a shame because the bulk of the book's (unnecessary) 656 pages are written in 'leith-ian' and are largely excellent/ e.g. juice terry lawson - what an excellent character/ welsh seems, i speculate, to have an ambition to be a 'proper' writer, and by that i mean to wield the beautiful, restrained and elegant prose of say f. scott or d.h./ however welsh can write very well, albeit within a limited field/ but as inflexible and narrow as his abilities may be, when he writes in the dialect of leith he is superb/ man's got to know his limitations, likesay/

possessing encore pissed, ekooting the smiths, i know its over (the knife wants to slit me, can you help me - what clever ambiguity!)/ oh fuck, i don't know, what's the point?/ and these are not the ramblings of an alcoholic depressive/ please, tell me, what is the point?/ none of us are gods, none of us is more than a flawed, appalling specimen/ some, through a coalescence of circumstances, do something worthwhile, for example trying to cure aids, cancer, mental illness and-set-er-ah/ otherwise you should fuck off cause you're actions are worth NOTHING...just machinations in a never ending cycle of feeding and satisfying the body till it deteriorates and rots and is absorbed back into the dirt/ then a countless number of other fuckers will bide their time till the big kip, rot and so on/ enjoy, fellow beings...by the way, there is an obvious flaw in my argument/ GBP 0.01 to whomever picks up on it...

srunk as a dkunk, unsurprisingly, since i began at 0930, prompted by reading an old piece of mine containing details of a certain incident, the memories of which i've spent a long time trying to bury/ never head, eh?/ took the hound out for a temporal-slice, visited the pharmacy, the off-license and finally the park/ lower-middle-fi beginning to sound like a middle-fi/ i firmly refuse to be seduced by high-priced equipment when i can contrive a sublime sound for a fraction of 'the cost'/ sipping special brew and feeling those codeine pillules circulate round my boozy, whithered instantiation/ tres under-lime (beneath-lemon? i know, it's just one frustrating aspect of a more profound and far reaching illness)/

listening the smiths, i don't owe you anything, warmed by a cup of strong colombian/ down to 20mls of methadone, the edges smoothed away by this excellent codeine tartrate-paracetamol hybrid/ managed to get meat is murder and strangeways... on compact disk for a penny, thats GBP 0.01, a piece/ yes the smiths are for me in one respect like chopin, in that i could, can and sometimes do listen to them all day without tiring of them/ perhaps, as marr said, morrissey was a tad musically inflexible but nonetheless, i still love just about everything they did/ and how fortunate for everyone they were a short lived phenomenon/ imagine the jimi hendrix experience at 40/ je shudder/ or the doors/ i know jim's poetry ranks with some of the worst ever conceived by man or tree, but then so does ian curtis's, and i adore both the doors and joy division/ and whilst their poetry was utter tripe, that they meant it, were fabulous performers and had great bands behind them meant they produced some of the best 'pop' music of the 60's plus/ god, i'm starting to sound like a rock critic/ i read a zappa quote t'other day i found mildly amusing, which went roughly, music journalism is people who can't write interviewing people who can't speak for people who can't read/ oh frank...

sored bhitless/ woman un-in shopping with associates so i in alone, b-treble-O-r'd, popping spicules and listening to the smiths, the world won't listen, a most excellent complication, though i seriously contest the omission of rusholme ruffians/ writing of which, a friend still has my cd copy of meat is murder/ it can be argued quite reasonably that the smiths are one of the finest bands of all time/ i'm sometimes accused of having a bias towards manc bands but the mondays were phenomenal, more so parce que shaun sensibly destroyed factory before the mondays could be forced to put out any tepid diarrhea/ and what better way than with pounds 250, 000 of w. indian crack cocaine/ fookin nice one ryder/ moreover bummed is one of the finest 'inde.' albums like, ever?/ indeed it is/ also chq. out the re-issue which includes l.d.'s stunning remix of wrote for luck (superior though, to the novice, not clearly distinguishable from vince clarke's remix)/ the boy with the thorn in his side, seen as a departure from the smiths' usual high quality output (a twatting view of the new musical express) is winding gently throughout the flat, morrissey's uniquely gay lilt effortlessly bought out by my new silver-wire interconnects/ if anyone is reading this (ha...ha...ha) doubts the man's flagrantly homosexual (or at very least, 'camp') posturing checkout the studio version of rusholme ruffians set to random images on youtube/ 'tis rather amusing/ or indeed, the cover of their very first single, hand in glove/

listening to boo-coop pavarotti, running in those cables/ just been marveling over some nordost speaker cables which retail at GBP 6229/ fucking disgusting, though i remember 'twas my friend's father's GBP 250, 000 system (that disturbing figure minus the room he had built to maximize it's potential (par the route, my pal's pa was tone deaf)) that addicted me to hi-fi and sent me on this loathsome journey/ i remember gleaning far more enjoyment from a cheap-shit deck and some hash with a cpl of mates than listening to the specifics of every fucking sound one's speakers ejaculate/ h'ever, the 1/4 mil. experience made me hallucinate: i was conducting an orchestra of devils in a pit of fire from the centre of mendelssohn's brain/ nae bad, or rucking femarkable, really/ i was also rather content with a portable cd player, mind-phone amp. (a gift from a fan of my occasional dj sets at the b-), mind-phones and a stack of cds as i languished in a bedsit in nth ldn for a year/ and now i'm back, checking out equipment on mdma-bay rather than tunes having sworn to myself i'd spend no more than GBP 100 on any piece of equipment/ back on the heavy-as-fuck booze too, which is mildly depressing/ h'ever, as chris morris sagely put it in an episode of brass eye 'i shoot heroin on a purely recreational basis, but then, i'm middle class. i wouldn't advise it if you're working class or black'/ oh, and next-to-the-piste, what i mean by heavy-as-fuck booze is 'jakey' booze, super-strength beers and ciders &c./ i cannot drink whiskey or vodka as i tend to drink two 'fifths' at a sitting and then spend days twain in the 'sack' recovering/ as i've iterated numerously, i fucking hate booze, but with a 5 year methadone dependence and no way i can cultivate a nice, safe, clean heroin habit i have to drink instead, and fortify the booze with temazepam, valium or codeine/ heroin is yet another victim of stigma or poorly considered opinion/ in the infancy of my addiction i'd sit in our flat in camden, a GBP 8000 stereo salubriously decanting divine classical from 0900 till 1700 into my cells, a full working day if you will/ i'd then depart to old street to meet my mc-squealer feeling as if i'd been with the gods/ and, in a sense, i suppose i had/ i therefore conclude it a fact spawned of sheer necessity that one should fuck convention in it's ambiguous and foetid ring-piece/

not f'n' trop malcolm/ up reasonably late last ngt 'ving pissed it up on k cider secretly throughout the day, beginning around lunch out with mother time/ hand not hurting too much so've switched from codeine to ibuprofen, allowing me to save the remaining cod.s for a mizzling jour/ am currently selling no articles but running up a fair debt on the ol' cr'd't c'd, vinyl and cables and such/ without meaning to seem dull and thoroughly uninteresting, cable makes a phenomenal amount of difference and if y'r' soothly into y'r music i would suggest good mains, interconnects and speaker cable/ such improvements can make even the most shoddy equipment seem quite acceptable/ reading through my convalescence/ still stuck on glue, ah-ha, ah-ha, though it's quite a chunky tome/ i just seem to spend (rather i do spend) a lot of time bollocking about on e-bay/ i think i'll read schindler's list next/ i've taken a rather long and almost my first departure from what some might term the high brow/ but fuck it, do what you enjoy and screw the consequences/ we live but once/

f'n' grog-core/ got my hand bitten by a dog on sunday, my dog, in an attempt to extract him from an altercation with another hound/ his teeth went right through to the bone and as i wandered the mile home down busy streets not person one asked if i was ok/ the lass took me to a & e where i was seen uber-swiftly and given vast amounts of anti-biotic and some 30 agony-slayers/ the nurse, looking up from my medical history, smirked 'not afraid of needles, are we' as she administered my tetanus shot/ i was also given co-dydramol, a wonderful codeine-tartrate/paracetamol compound which does the job fucking beautifully/ drinking less to allow the anti.'s to work and i'm healing tray fast/ almost finished glue, which i'm enjoying immensely/ hi-fi's sounding great though i keep making sneaky purchases (today some silver-wire interconnects)/ running them in with the sex pistol's only album/ off to see a mate later to pick up some shit from his dad's flat where i lived 2 years ago (i know, regarding-marcus-capable efficiency) and have a few drinks/ apart from that all quiet on the south-eastern front/

checking out the late late late late night/'ving'd an ace day (my life is coursing along with disturbing smoothness a la mo') tripped to house of s-/ whilst waiting i indulged in what psychiatrists call 'deep fantasy', something one is taught whilst practicing transcendental meditation (tm)/ it was a phenomenal experience and yet another reason for me to fork out the cash for the tm course/ it's like a very good narcotic, though leaving on relaxed and in control post-wards/ i can really envisage it as an alternative to booze and drukqs pour moi/ and just think of the money i'd save/ got my new artridge in the post toujour so've been listening to beeth. and schubert for the past four hours/ then when one gets to this point one may as well see the dawn in/ there's always something to write about, music to eh-koot to, books to read/ 'ving broken with glue for a time-slice (to read jay mcinerney's bright lights, big city and a collection of short stories by our pal de mau.) i'm now reading it again and enjoying it almost as much as train spotting/ i'm also fond of the fact i'm 16 pages in and welsh's not broken dialogue yet/ in spite of my misgivings aboot him he is terribly good at what he does/ i have a candle in a dom p. bottle on my desk which looks very cool/ i take the same care of my 'study' as i did my room as an age of teener, a sharp reflection of thine's soothly/ the dog is well and was gifted 1 and one 1/2 hrs un-on the lead in a large park today/ i think he may have overdone it a tad however as he limped home/ he was also very well behaved bar two incidents, one of a bi-sexual nature witha eunech springer spaniel and one violent with an english bull stregiel (and 'twas my stregiel who instigated it)/ man, tiredness is constructing it hard to focus but i know if i go to bed i'll just lie awake/ besides parsley que oy ov bin drinking oym relegated to the couch osi envisage some form of alba-ic confrontation so i wanr to be prepared, excuses at the ready, several cups of santos-java within/