Empty head

You know what? I have nothing.

I wanted to write something tonight, but I have nothing.

I have no charming stories of whimsical things that I have done over the last however long, I havent got any comedy whatsoever – I know, Ive been sitting here staring at this screen for the last hour trying to think of some. I havent got any whimsical vignettes or skewed observation, theres nothing I feel particularly ranty about today, Im generally content and happy, theres no drame, no trauma, no showbiz: I have nothing. Nothing at all.

Is this what happens? You blog for a few years, then you run out of words, and thats it?

Cant be so.

I simply refuse for that to be the case.

Therefore I will sit here for five minutes and just write first-thing-that-comes-into-my-head-ness. Thats what youre supposed to do when youre stuck, isnt it. You dont have to read it – in fact, I might advise that.

Ill just do it quietly in a read more section where you can all ignore me until I have something ACTUAL to say.

The footballs on. At least I assume its the football, theres some regional podgy man in a dreadful cheery shirt banging on Geordily about things that my brain is managing to strain out as soon as it recieves them so, yes, yes, it must be football.

And theres some men playing football. Well, thats cleared that up. The weathers not cleared up. My hair is still soaking from the thunderstorm we got caught in on the way out of the cinema. I should probably take it out of the ponytail, or its going to have the biggest kink in it since, since. Since? Since That bloke from the Kinks was somewhere unexpected and funny. What was his name? Ray? Roy?

I dont know Iif I know anybody called Roy. I wouldnt call a child Roy, I dont think. Apologies if youre called Roy. I think lots of football managers are called Roy. In fact, I think they might all be called Roy. I think it might be a rule. The Roy Rule. Apart from Jose Mourinho, obviously, but he dont play by no stinking rules. The Manchester United one is, though. Ferguson. Roy Ferguson. Anyone who says thats not true is just wrong.

Its ridiculous how fast I type html tags now. I remember when I started I had to stop, and pause, and go and check each one, perhaps copy and paste it from another post where someone had helped me say something italic, or be bold for a moment. Now it rattles by with the rest of the keys, part of the word, the meaning, the sentence. I blame work. My god, the hours of formatting Ive done at that desk. Happy days, happy days.

Fuck ME, but its raining hard. This is good, in many ways – it means that people wont hang around outside the pubs after closing; theyll pull their coats over their heads, and splash through the puddles, running home rather than standing around, shouting at each other at the end of the road, or better still, not standing about waiting for their man outside my bedroom window, holding incoherent discourses on whos the most caned. Dont get me wrong, I dont mind so much – theyre not angry, or violent, or burglary, just tired, and addled. My beloved calls them shells. There are a lot of Shells around where we live. You can see there was someone in there once, but theyre gone now.

Did come across the worlds stupidest smack-addler the other day though. In a chemist, while mumbling yes Immodium, or non-brand equivalent, whatever at a seemingly deaf pharmacists assistant. He was sitting wating for his prescription. He was waiting with his freind. For the five minutes previous, his friend, with a broken arm had been wandering up and down the road outside Shouting his name. WHERVE YOU GONE, MAAN? LYUM? LYUM?! FUCKIN LYUM MAN WREAREYOU MAN FUCK

He would fade away as he staggered further away, and then get louder again as he staggered nearer. Then quieter, further away, louder, nearer. I missed the part where he actually zoned in on the door to the shop, and wandered in.

Mr Addled? Said the Pharmacist. I cant give you your prescription, because it has been amended between the doctors surgery and here. Ive phoned Dr Doctor, who says that it read 32 pills. This says 3200.

The shell of an idiot looked as if he was trying to gather the brain cells to be angry. He reached to his back pocket. I saw his fingers close around something. Then, suddenly, he seemed to forget what he was doing, I mean completely, and asked the chemist if he could have his prescription please.

Mr Addled, you are quite welcome to stay until the police arrive, because I have to hand over your prescription to them. Oh, and you cant see Dr Doctor anymore. Or anyone in that practice, in fact.

And being berated by his broken-armed friend loudly all the way out of the shop, Mr Addled wandered off. I wondered where hes go to score now. I suspect it may end up being outside my bedroom window.

Damnit. I wasnt going to write about the drug activity round here in case my family worried. Especially since my mum became such an avid reader (thank you, Radio 4). Its all fine, mother, and anyone else.

A) I can sleep through anything.
B) Theyre not aggressive, theyre not those kind of drug-fiends.
C) They bugger off when it rains, and it looks like its going to rain from now until next summer, on and off. Yay. Its one of the things I love about living by the sea.

I love living by the sea very much. I love that clouds dont just settle and sit and piss on you for weeks, like in cities. I like it that they blow in, tip on you, hard, and then go away again. I like being able to walk by the sea and blah blah blah blah yeah, yeah, Im happy, you get that.

No, Im really not enjoying this series of Extras at all. Call me a no, no, Im trying to find the right word, and I cant. Call me a person who doesnt like extras, you can, I am. Thats all I have to say. I wonder when David Cameron will be guest star on Extras. It will probably be soon, the publicity-hungry little turd.

Have you seen those vidblogs of Cameron trying to be all YouTube and down-with-tha-kidz? Idiot.

I only saw one. It was him basically spouting his stunningly crass One-man-conservative-party theme, while one of his children was trying to ask him a question. YES, he kept saying, in horrible, terse voice to his child, Yes. IN. a. MINIT. And then went back to talking about how cute and fluffy the New Dave Party is.

The only thing I went away from his vidblog thinking was what a twat he was as a father, and how if he treated his child like that on the train while conducting business on his phone, loudly, while everyone tried to zone him out, I would tut at him. That would learn him.

I think I have been writing for longer than five minutes. I know I have, in fact, because I am being tutted at. It is time to go to bed. Exercise over.

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Well, that was cathartic.
Apologies for typos. Mispellings are intentional, as ever