sausages and love

Just before you say it, I know, I know. It's almost like I'm writing a fresh blog every hour because I'm just so committed to keeping you, my adoring, stalker followers in touch with the every (bowel) movement of Charles Street's next Poet Laur...Ooh, hold on a sec. (Second passing). Arhh, that's it - nothing quite beats the refreshing, lip-smackin', thirst quenchin', great tastin', motivatin', good buzzin', cool talkin', high walkin', fast livin', ever givin', cool fizzin' slirp of a well chilled can of Carling after a sweaty slog of a shift at the sausage restaurant, that started two hours after eight hours at the SUPERmarket. Um, I don't understand why I have Irritable Fucking Bowel Syndrome, Eczema, 27 other dermatological conditions, torn clothes, a shit haircut, sore cock, a self-obsession orientated personality disorder and hypochondriacy. But all it is, is I need to do something, anything because no one apart from my best mates at i-tunes have e-mailed me and even I'm getting a little bored of watching (myself on) You Tube and of course there's absolutely bugger all on tv, so...



...oh, I'm going to bed..


[3 days later]


Morning, um, before I forget, I'm assisting in the promotion of and will be introducing on the night, a guy called Jean-Philippe Riopy. He's not Welsh but French and a pianist who will be playing at The Jacqueline De Pre Building, Oxford on Friday 7th November. He plays Classical pieces but improvised with jazz in his own passionately distraught and unique style. Well worth the £8 or £5 as a student. He is bloody good!


In my last blog you can see the next dates that I'm performing and in addition to them, I will be performing in the 'Ajar Open Mic Final' on Tuesday 9th December at The Green Note, Camden. The event is called "Utter", hosted by Richard Tyrone Jones. The prize is £1,000,000. Or was it £100? I can't remember. Last Tuesday I performed at the aformentioned venue and have never felt so nervous in my life, nearly, but carried it off ok..ish, I think. Got the laughs but noted as I went through the set, how many things I would do differently and that the Senyru entitled 'Window-Licker' is a definite 'no-no' for any future audience.


[about 15 days later...Wednes 21st Nov]


God, I feel diabolical. But I don't know why i'm telling you because you're a carpenter; rather you were a carpenter...that's if you ever.. Well, anyway, I feel like shit. It's a mint tea day and a day of self-doubting, worrying about money, worrying about leaving the security of a secure job although, granted, a job that (like a lot of people have) was making me miserable but needless to say less miserable than being hungry and now I don't even think I have the ability to be a waiter in a fucking sausage and mash restaurant! Perhaps I never was a good waiter? Perhaps people just had that perception in their head because I fooled them into thinking I was good because I can/could always appear confident, loud, mildly amusing and moderatly entertaining. Perhaps my Grandpa did shag John Cleese's mother, nine months before he was born and two months before he met my Grandma..? But the entertaining thing was only actually as a result of the fact that I used to find the whole experience so incredibly stressful. Food that's overcooked, raw, uncooked, unclean, too clean, too soft, too hard, too rare, not rare enough, "where's the mustard?" "Any forks?"

"Um, sorry to trouble you but we ordered our coffees twenty minutes ago..."

"You, table 29?! Coffee? Haven't you gone yet? Fucking coffee! I thought the tops on your creme fucking brulees weren't fucking hard enough! Why didn't you piss off after that dis-heartening state of circumstance; that earth shattering fact. Here's your bill! I haven't got time to make you fucking coffee. Piss off!"

Here is George's Gig-List:


Tuesday 25th November, 2008

LPS (London Poetry Systems)
The Flea Pit
49 Columbia Road,
Shoreditch/Hackney, London

at 8:30pm

Thursday 27th November, 2008

John Hegley, Tony Curtis and George Chopping

The Thunderbolt,
Totterdown, Bristol

at 8:30pm

Wednesday 3rd December

Comedy Night
Johnathon Elston, Ivo Graham, Rachel Boxall, Broderick Chow, George Chopping,
Tom Goodliffe (MC)

Corner Club
16/17 Turl Street,
Oxford

Doors 7:45pm (8:15)
Members: Free
Non-Members: £5

Tuesday 9th December

"Utter!"
The Green Note
Camden, London

All sorts of stuff - comedy/poetry/music possibly
(please google event for time/cost/address)

Ok, off to the market.

Bye,

G x

Death From Coughing

hello, it's me, "Mr Regular Blogger" with this week's bi-annual update of the last two months occurrences.

So, en vacances dans aout pour tres semaines. First port of call, down to Devon for two weddings on consecutive days. (Hold on, I need to go and kick the washing machine to stop the bleeping). So, as I was saying, went to the first wedding on Friday, died from a Man Cold and irritated IBS on Saturday and then flew from Exeter to Edinburgh on Sunday. Edinburgh was alright and certainly better than last year as I went without any books or expectations but to see some stuff and to be away from where I am normally. I did miss the supermarket, though...like a nail bomb going off in my small bowel.

Went to some of the dirtiest bars in the city and learnt not to pretend to be Scottish,
in the first one. Despite having a cold throughout the duration o fthe three weeks off I continued to play hard and make the most of being in my favourite City during the month of the year when it is artistically plugged into a million volt socket. Although the majority of a lot of the many venues do not appear to get many of the volts through...Ooh, look at me - bitchy reviewer!

So I saw plenty of comedy that actually was funny, but you have to pay for it. Also saw a piece of physical theatre called "Dear Theo" about artists' survival and letters between Van Gogh and his brother Theo, I think. But I'm not entirely sure (which is no reflection on the play) but i had to dip out for a crap, half way through and so I think I might have missed some crucial bits. Anyway, so I left feeling confused, lighter and moderately cultured.

I saw other bits but I can't be bothered to mention them. I'm not fucking TIMEOUT. I did one of my best received sets at a venue called the Bongo Club on the last night. And was accosted by two reasonably fit American Ladies afterwards who, despite being married, basically wanted a bit of me. "Georgie's Doggerell - COME ON LADIES!"

Right, where can you se mee next? I hear you scream whilst lobbing pairs of knickers at my head...Well:

On Tuesday 14th October (next Tues)

@The Green Note Club, Camden, North London
£2 before 7:30pm a Lady Godiva (£iver) after

(A fine looking line-up and the re-locating party of "Utter" hosted by Richard Tyrone Jones).

......................................................

On Friday 14th November

@ The Royal Seven Stars, Totnes, Devon (bottom of the Street)

part of the "Wondermentalist Cabaret" hosted by (Radio 4 regular) Matt Harvey

(a line-up well worth making the journey for).

....................................................

On Thursday 27th November

@The Thunderbolt, Totterdown, Bristol

John Hegley, Tony Curtis (possibly) and Me (definitely)

(tell your Bristolian friends about this one, please, otherwise I fear it might be to an audience of local death metallers only..)

Also I'm planning on doing a couple of other things up in London, one in Finchley and the other in Kings Cross. Dates to be confirmed bu tin the next couple of Months.

And that's it for now as I've got to go and serve sausages and mash to millions.

Bye,

GC x

so much to say; i don't know where to start..

Morning, it's me, George, again.
Been a while. Hope you're all fine.
Irritable Bowel Syndrome - NOT a laughing matter. The confirmed, yet still only suspected diagnosis of the condition (that has caused me to feel so sporadically unwell over the past 6 months) was made on Tuesday by a lovely Doctor by the name of Chung. She was very warm and calming in her address and whole demeanour in fact. Like many of the many doctors I have had the pleasure, yet misfortune of meeting, she was good. She felt a part of my lower abdomen at which point I yelped and then whilst I pulled down and tucked in my t-shirt we talked and she asked me how I found my job. But then she asked whether I actually liked it. I nearly cried. But I didn't until I was un-locking my racer from the drain-pipe outside the surgery; because I'm a real man. Real.
It is time to move on and people keep promising that it will not be forever and that "great things wait for George on the horizon" and possibly even a job that will pay more than four and a half loaves of Warburtons thin sliced an hour and will even give some form of satisfaction. Not utter boredom combined with frustration, anger, bitterness, self hatred and that of everyone surrounding, but of actual satisfaction and the feeling of not being abused and taken advantage of.

Got to have faith in one's ability to be able to...
...forge a CV that makes it look like I haven't had 27 jobs in the space of nine years and that all the volunteered referees are family members; the ones that I haven't worked for, of course.

The cloud is clearing. I'm not going to let the £84 T-Mobile bill upset me anymore. I'm not going to let those cunts at the SUPERmarket upset me anymore. I'm not going to let the fact that i spent half my last day off, descaling the bottom of the rancid mould fucking shower with caustic shit and crystal soda cream cleanser only for fellow housemates to still shed pubes. I'm going to find someone who deals good resin and tranquillisers.

But for now, I'm going to finish my drink and go to bed.
good bye and speak to you sooner than last time.

P.S.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7Qr2Lp-Ahgc

love, George

George's next stint in London

hello,
this is the next thing i'm doing in london.
hope you can come.
cheerio,
george x

http://www.timeout.com/london/comedy/events/696919/joke_and_spoken_word_night.html

One new poem, two haiku, a couple of dates and a review for you

Evening all,
Hope this finds you well.
Firstly, a poem:

Bleached /Blonde Dogs

Just outside the canteen fire exit
smoking on the path.
Trying to block out the husky guffaw of
Maggie from Bakery
and the illiterate shrieks
from the girls off check-outs.
All of them, stood slunched
in a military line-up,
sheltering behind the pillars
from the gust coming off the roundabout.

Yellow butts and scrunched coffee cups
litter the concrete path,
just off which, stand a cluster of heads
of dew drenched, snow white Snow Drops
- swaying in the breeze on their elf green stems.
Seven of them.
Dwarfed by the bushes, plants and trees
through which I see'd,
approaching the roundabout, a white van
with written on the side:
"Dial a Dog Wash".

__________________________

Here's the link to my first review. No idea whether it'll work but please try clicking on it:

http://www.dailyinfo.co.uk/reviews/feature/2806/Oxfringe

Now for a few new Haiku:

Mother's Day

Clambering over
garden wall. Daffodils clenched.
It's the thought that counts.

12 Words Worth

On the 12th of March
Snow Drops heads' shrivel up but
Daffodils flourish.

Poetry in Lotion

When I run out of
aqueous emollient,
Goose fat suffices.

_____________________

Right then, off to bed in a minutes but first, here are a few dates for your diary of when I'm performing next. So:

Tomorrow night (Friday 7th)

At: The Albany, Douglas Way, Deptford, SE8 4AG.
The event is called: "The Book Bites Back" . There will be about four other performers incl. Daljit Nagra who wrote "Look We Have Coming to Dover".
K.O. 8pm

Easter Monday (24th March)

At: The Poetry Cafe, Betterton Street, Covent Garden.
Supporting John Hegley (T.B.C. so please check Time-Out London closer to the time for details...)

Saturday 29th March

At: The Port Mahon, St Clements, Oxford.
The event is called: "Minty Fresh". (Christ knows why).
Part of Oxfringe; a comedy line-up of me and two others.
K.O. 8pm - £4 .


So there you have it. Hope you or some of your London/Oxford dwelling chums can get to one of them.
Cheers for reading and see you anon!
Goodnight.
Yours,
George

Good evening worthy followers,

Hope the weekend treated you all well and that unlike me, none of your genitals have dropped off as a result of frost-bite.

Cockless 'Ku
Directing one's wee
now proves tricky. So I just
release, hope and pray.

...Not exactly Keats. But if I'm honest, it was a bit of an after thought, really. Didn't take many days to construct.

So, firstly (or secondly) my apologies for not posting for sometime. You must all feel lost. Directionless. Empty. Georgeless. But in my defence, I did spend a fair bit of time over the last week
adding bits to a blog as I felt (inspired?) the need. But technical problems pervailed meaning the lot wiped and so I gave up, have sulked and sworn since not to bother with this damn blogging lark ever again. But I've since picked myself up and decided to blog-on regardless.

Um, secondly (or thirdly) a huge thanks to all of you, regular readers (all three of you) and others, for the support with viewing and forwarding on of my You Tube link. 281 views, three comments and one potential stalker in just 6 days since it was first up-loaded. Secondly (thirdly or fourthly) a gigantically massive thank you to Richard Butchins who took the time to come along and record me at The Wheatsheaf and for then editing and helping me post it. Richard has several blogs (links from) "Angelsstandcorrected" accessible by clicking on link down the right hand side of my page. He has been working for the last 18 months on a documentary film entitled "American Freak Show". Check out the trailer - amusing and touching and has had much interest shown by the National Press and Bafta, even!

Thirdly, (fourthly or fifthly?) thank you Xander for aiding me recently in my sorry financial state. I thoroughly enjoyed the tin-foiled hot cross buns;- kept 'em pretty damn fresh, they were lovely toasted! However, the garlic butter didn't do them much justice. Certainly taught me not to steal, mind.

And as for last night; the lamb was delicious, the sloe gin, superb! A fine evening; thank you both.

Now for the arse flogging: Hard to beleive, I know, but I (George Chopping) have actually reached a point in my life where I might even have to start keeping a diary! Typically, the last few weeks (proceeding my filling out of my holiday leave form from the shelves) was the start of people starting to take an interest and beginning to invite me to come and perform in places, all over the world...
...or (East) Oxford even. Here are some dates:

DATE ,WHAT and WHERE?
Mon 25th Feb - (part of a comedy line-up) Launch Party for OxFringe. - Oxford Castle, Hythe Bridge Street, OXFORD. Details to follow.

Fri 7th Mar - Apple & Snakes presents: "The Book Bites Back" Celebrating World Book Day. (Three poets and me).

At: The Albany, Douglas Way, Deptford, LONDON, SE8 4AG.

...and that's it until the next time. I need to wash, eat and get this posted before it deletes. I shall post further dates next time.

Aha! Actually, before I go, I mentioned before, the Radio 4 programme that Xander co-researched, "The Museum of Curiosity" featuring John Lloyd (producer of "Spitting Image", "Blackadder", "Not the Nine O'clock News...etc") and the genius comedian, Bill Bailey ("Black Books" blabla.) A great concept involving Profs and comics...And, well, listen and see for yourself. First broadcast is at 18:30 on Wednes. Immediately accessible to listen to on the web, the second the show finishes.

Right, have a good week. I'm off to read a book on grammar and comma abuse.
Goodnight,
g

Flowers for Beadle

Good Evening,

Now, I have posted three blogs so far, all on different days with the hope that you can get an idea of how things are going in my world, on an on-going (don't care whether that is hyphenated or not) basis. BUT (again, lovely use of capitalisation) for some reason, not only are the times of each blog coming up as if I'm writing in the same time zone as that of The Emerald City or bloody Kansas but as if they are all written on the same day. Well, I'm not complaining; just explaining. Ignore the date and time. Each blog is from a different day.

Anyway, as I said, I'm not complaining about this little 'Blogger.com' blemish since I have been so sweetly advised in a totally unsarcastic tone by one of my eight PA's in the New York office, Mishka (Polish for "dirty kitten"..as in muddy paws/mischievous NOT as in 'kitten that likes to have his back-door cat flap kicked in.) who responded to my question (of how to overcome this time/date issue,) with, and I quote: "So then why don't you write and complain to 'Blogger.com' because after all, this great facility of being able to publish your writings to the whole world within seconds, is after all for FREE!"

So, you must have read about the passing away of poor Jeremy Beadle. I felt quite guilty this morning when I read the headlines, about all the times when he hosted that absolute classic, "You've been Framed" and my Sisters and I would point and laugh hysterically at....................
his hand.

In all sincerity; RIP Jeremy.

So the shed days are nearly done and from Jericho I flee and to pastures new I do migrate. So to the new abode I cometh. Central heating, internet and a 37 second walk away from the Iffley Road bus route to Sains. I will be able to catch the 4a, 4b, OR 4c OR 4d (small bra sizes but great buses) Bingo! With this choice of buses to catch everyday, everyday will start as a fun day...at the shelves.

Anyhow I'm going out for a cigarette now but if you happen to read this tonight and before 8pm (04:58 Kansas time) then come along to the Corner Club (ex-Qi Club), 16 Turl St, (Broad St end) because there are three comedians on. £5 entry (that's not a euphinism) and by the sounds of it these guys are good.

On a final note, I was recorded at the Wheatsheaf Comedy Club by Richard Butchins (access his blogs through his previously posted comments; "angels...) and the quality of the recording is fairly sexual so I shall pop a link through to You Tube once it's been cut-up and edited etc. Keep posted for that bad boy.

Going to sign off today with a short little ditty in the form of a Haiku. 'Tis one about real love and is entitled:

Flowery

They say my poems
aren't flowery...but I'd like
to fuck a florist.

Goodnight,
g

How did I start the second day's posting? Something along the lines of "Second day - second blog - that's dedication; that's me". Then I think I followed that statement by boasting my intention to do this 'blog thing' daily and so here we are, five days on and with entry three. But I did explain about shed habitat/no internet bla. Where is this going? Nowhere.

"Nobodys interested in your lame excuses, George. Stop repeating yourself. Just get on with it!"
"Then I'll digress. Undress? Could I borrow your dictionary please?"

"No".

"Then fuck it, they'll know what I mean...Or will soon come to learn the language, iliterate phraseology and mispellings of George. Two "l's" in iliterate? Ironically, I'm not even trying to be ironic! What has happened to my ability to be able to spell? Is it two "l's"? I used to be one of the best spellers in the class. My dictionary is too heavy, I'm not carrying it all the way from Jericho to Xander's. My donkey has got irritable bowel syndrome and so is bed ridden and sipping peppermint tea in the shed.

But obviously fate has finally caught up with me and decided that when one only reads three books between the ages of 5 and 27, than one will inevitably lose one's diction (that's "diction" not "dick shone"). And inevitably one's ability will dissipate into a hazey world of spelling words funetikley and however they actually sound in the Kings Arms.

I think I might have to ask Xander to edit this one.

So, performed at the comedy night on Sunday at the Wheatsheaf in Oxford. It went well. Thanks to all who came and supported. Mr Papadopoulos and his good lady came all the way from Buckinghamshire to support so thanks to them, espescially. Also, people flew in from as far as Los Angeles and even Brisbane, Australia to see me perform. Then flew back later that night. That was some effort. So, thank you.
"Really George. L.A; Brisbane?"

"No".

To have finally actually done a few (fairly low key) comedy nights. ACTUAL COMEDY nights, has ACTUALLY given me a sense of achievement. (just like when I'm kneeling at the shelves and being asked by customers whether we still sell mulled fucking wine). I feel like I've finally Reached a goal that I had set from when, after my seventh arrest back in 2001, I decided I didn't want to be a Policeman, but to stand on stages and make people laugh.

MP: "George, thank you very much for coming on the show tonight."
GC: "It's an absolute pleasure, Mr Parkinson. To come on and have the opportunity to chat to you is something that most people only ever dream of!"
MP: "Wahaha (Michael laughs). Please, call me 'Michael'."
GC: "What about Parky? Or, Mikey Baby?"
MP: "hurhh hmm!" [Michael puts his right hand (palm away and semi-clenched) to his mouth and half laughs, embarrassed by interviewee's alternative name suggestions for MP]
So, tell us about how you started out in Torquay, as a poet? You went to school in Devon didn't you?
GC: Is this tap or proper Volvic, Mike?

INTERVIEW TERMINATES

Anyway, I'm just being silly now. I want to get out of the habit of rushing my blog entries but must write them in the shed and then just come and copy them up because I shouldn't really be spending too much time in Xander and Miranda's office. It is lovely of them to let me use the internet but I must try not to extract the urinal. By the way, you must listen to radio 4's "Musuem of Curiosity" programme with John lloyd, Bill Bailey and others. It will be first broadcasted in March, I think. I'll keep you posted. Xander was one of the researchers!

So before I scoot off, here is this post's poem. I wrote this outside a pub, overlooking the River Dart in Totnes. It's entitled:

Glass Eye

Sat outside the Steam Packet
having a pint whilst waiting
for the traffic to die down.
Watching a mad old lady
who was sat watching me watch her.

She kept looking away
whilst taking comfort in sipping
at the frothy dregs
of her once was cappucino.

She threw some crumbs from her
hotel sized packet of Digestives
into the path of swooping Gulls.

She looked back at me looking at her
but me, pretending not to be,
quickly looked away and towards the tilted remnants
of my pint glass.

She chucked another
small handful of crumbs
into the air above the water.
Three Gulls swept down.
The last one went straight for the head,
sinking his hooked beak into her right eye
and gouging it out.

She looked back at me
looking at her, but with her left eye only,
the glass one.

"Damn birds" (she shrugged).

---------------------------------------

Goodnight,
G

You're Beautiful Like Bill

Second day, second posting;- that's commitment, that's dedication. That's me.

This house, within which my computer sits is actually not much warmer than the shed within which I reside during the times that I'm not in a pub or in the supermarket. Sorry, SUPERmarket. Again, fine use of the capitals I feel. But I'm not complaining, (about the warmth thing anyhow) because Miranda has just popped the heating on. Miranda (by the way) is Xander's girl friend. Xander is the tenant of the house and friend who took me in when I fled from Torquay last November. So, Miranda has just moved over from the US. She is a fine woman, well read, tolerant of my presence and enjoy's writing also. In fact, she had a short story published not that long ago in an American journal. You could read this by going onto her blog but I'm not sure what her address is yet but if she posts a comment then I'd imagine you'll be linked through to her writings that way. Hopefully/possibly. What I also like about Miranda is that her name rhymes with Xander. One day, if I get a girlfriend, I'd quite like her name to rhyme with mine. So that when we get invited to birthday's, dinners, weddings etc the invitors would smile when they write on the line, "Dear George and (rhyming girlfriend's name"). Because inevitably she would have to be called something like Lorg or Borg or Forge. Even if the invite was to a funeral they may still smile at that one? Or they may just think to themselves, "Jesus, why after all this time of him not getting a girlfriend does he finally start dating a girl with a really freaky name! Anyway, moving on.

Second day of blog posting, second day sober and it's 17:11. A bit warmer in the house but already dark outside. I'm going to go to Tesco on my way back to the shed and buy one of each root vegetable, chop 'em up and roast the fuckers. Roasted vegetables - brilliant. And whilst we're on the subject of food may I suggest that you (for those of you who find yourself susceptible to SADS or even, all year round misery and discontentment or just plain shelf-filling fever) purchase and consume vacuum-packed peppered Mackerel fillets. Very reasonably priced, certainly cheaper than swallowing tubs of Omega 3 tablets and far tastier than spreading Prozac on toast. Plus, you don't need a prescription for Mackerel.

You see that's the amazing thing about me finally getting into this blogging lark because not only do I give nutritional advice but also a FREE piece of George poetry with every posting.
This poem is from my first book, Derailed and is entitled:

You're Beautiful like Bill

You must have been a model?
That's where I've seen you.
In FHM,
Maxim,
Esquire, no?
Then Cosmopolitan.
Not that I'd read a birds' mag.
Not saying that you're a bird.
Bill Oddie likes birds
and I like Bill, but not as much
as you.

I tried growing a beard to be like Bill
when I was bored and unemployed.
My parents would be at work and my beard would be growing.
I'd get bored again when Countdown finished
and would slowly peruse through the lingerie section in the
Christmas Argos catalogue.
Perhaps that was you?
My favourite of them all.
But, then I wouldn't have done that
if that was you.
I respect you too much.
She can't have been my favourite.
You are.
Carol Vorderman - what a minger!
And I bet she cheats with a calculator.
You're just beautiful and intelligent.

I want to take you home to my mum and dad.
My mum will cook you a roast.
Amazing Yorkshire puddings, my mum,
just for you.
My brothers will want you roasted,
my sisters will baste you in the finest Goose fat
and my Dad will want to have you stuffed with root vegetables.
My brothers will turn you on a spit
-because my grandpa likes the crackling
and then my gran will carve you up into slices.
But you'll be far too good to eat.

So, it's probably best you don't come.

----------------------------------------

Off to Tesco, now.
Back to work tomorrow.
If I don't see you on Sunday at the Wheatsheaf Comedy night, (8pm - £3) I'll see you another day. For those of you who don't work Sat/Sun - have a pleasant weekend and I hope to write before my next day off, Wednes.

Goodnight,
g

I Wish I Was A Cat

So, at last, here it is then, my blog: of words, commas, colons, oblique slashes and many other forms of inappropriately used punctuation; poems, updates of forthcoming performances and other 'George tit-bits' (but not like that).

I really should have set my own blog up donks' ago but unlike spiders, (because I eat them) I'm still a bit scared of computers, or rather doing things on them because (like spiders) I find that one (when "one" is me) tries to do the simplest of manoeuvres, with a rather precarious sweep of the cursor and then a left "click" and (not unlike spiders) this spider-stamping like left "click" will cause my lap-top to explode and simultaneously my right kidney to fly out of my arse. Anyway, thankfully that hasn't happened yet. So, I think we've covered that and so here is the blog of George Chopping. Please, read at your leisure and not whilst running, for example. Unless you run in your leisure time.

I will endeavour to post regularly although currently with very limited access to the internet whilst I reside, (temporarily) in a shed (that oddly doesn't have Broadband) I keep my computer at a good friend's house and use it there (when convenient, I hope?) rather than paying £40 for five minutes of internet time at Coffee Rip-off Republic where there Charles Babbagesk machines require tent peg mallet to depress the fucking keys. They might as well have the old BBC Acorns with fully functional keyboards and just charge £39 for five minutes instead. "AND AS FOR YOUR DAMN MARSHMALLOWS AND WHIPPED CREAM AND YOUR BLOODY million pound MOCHAS. I'd rather drink Agatha Christie's breast milk for free, thanks."

Lovely use of capital letters I thought. Anyhow, I 've calmed down now and as I mentioned spiders earlier I'd like to share with you, a poem about Cats (who also like to eat spiders). This poem is from my second book, Shelf-Life and is entitled:

I wish I was a Cat

Can't say fairer than that.
Sleeping most of the day,
winding up dogs,
pissing in litter trays.
Shitting in the soil,
-no stress,
flipping up dead mice
on my back legs,
like ping pong balls, perhaps?
Jumping from heights
and breaking the fall.
Being stroked by girls and sitting in their laps.
I just want to be a cat
-can't say fairer than that.

I wish I was a dog.
Being taken for walks when I say,
having the house to myself
when they're at work all day.
Pissing up lamp-posts,
shitting in the park,
-no stress,
flipping up dead cats on my back legs
like basket balls perhaps?
Being stroked by girls that I don't know,
sniffing at their crotches
and getting away with it.

-----------------------------

I've got to go now and hand the keys back but I'm performing in a Comedy night upstairs at The Wheatsheaf on the High Street, (opposite the Covered Market) Oxford this Sunday night. £3.
Might see you there?

Goodnight,
g