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).

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Goodnight,
G