A rebel without a clue.

The world must be equal. Everyone must be entitled to the same quality of live. Aren't we all in this together? In a time of plentitude having the top 1% devour all the opportunities isn't right. Either we come together or the top 1% will lead the remainder back into shackles (if they haven't already)? Time to eat a banana as I have a cramp from crossed legs. I just went and ate a banana: a time of plentitude! It was an instant of simplicity which globalisation has brought. In my opinion the world must overcome nationalism, and/or patriotism, to become United together against the common 'enemy': the one at the heart of the web. It is still Them who I fear most. ... This pandemic? Is it true? What are the facts of it? Which one's aren't disseminated by Governments, Media Outlets or the Antivax agendas? ... It's raining. It's been damp for too long! The paths are tedious, but at least the mud doesn't ride up the inside leg if I walk rurally. I was ...

What comes next? After COVID-19 disappears from view, in the next few year, then what is it which will, quite literally, tear friends & families, kith & kin, apart as never before: specifically in the decadent West? War? But this will be unlike any before. Not orchestrated against the Hun, the Commies or the Yellow Peril it will be between white folks who can't agree on anything. This morning I listened to the final podcast currently being aired by Jon Robson Things Fell Apart  which discusses the BLM campaign and institutional racism which exists at the centre of white life, because it can't help but exist: only a few years these black folks were our slaves to do with as we wanted, as before then white folks were slaves (all folks were slaves) in the pre modern era: Feudalism. Living in the UK, where it is class consciousness, and not racist per se, which is the main Elephant in the room, I always have a feeling that I am seen as an 'inferiority' to those upper...

Christmas Day fades away And Boxing Day opens up with rain. Yesterday Lola, Ruby and I had a lovely long walk, with a few off piste bits to keep them exhilarated, from Chestnut Avenue to The Bay Horse via Lime Kiln Lane and the Old Railway lines. Up on the sides of the railway cutting there is a way, not so overgrown with brambles in Winter. Half way along they both had a spinning crazy moment, dashing everywhere in the leaf litter. Even Lola, with her poorly foot, was in the zone of extreme happiness: it was a joy to behold. They get on so well! Lola goes to some patch to scent mark, or just to check it out, and so does Ruby. Ruby went chasing seabirds as we crossed a field and Lola longed to do the same, but never can with that mangled limb... This morning Ruby sleeps soundly in their bed. Last night I heard what I thought was a nocturnal noise from Ruby so got her out of her crate and brought her, willingly, to her owners main bedroom: she builds herself a nest amongst the pillows a...

Wistful. What is a wist to be full? Wist it wit? Wist is past participle of wit... Looking back and wishing it were now. Last night! I wish it was still now! Or do I? The past is something I can never know for certain happened. All I am aware of is what comes to me now. If I then think of a past now what part of that have I forgotten, purposely or erroneously, which was a central feature of the field of previous now? The gravity well in which I attract or repell. I am matter so I distort space time around me and so alter everything in a subtle manner. Each of us has this tangle of forces.

Like my split personality the day begins pretty peacefully but it ends in alcohol hell. Like Doctor Jeykll and Mister Hyde I pour a tonic for myself as the hours creep onwards. Every other day. So half the year. Then I hardly sleep from 3. I toss and turn with nightmarish thoughts trapped. Trying my left side, right side or on my back: never on my front (I can't sleep that way). By 5 or 5:30 I give in and get dressed. Have a brew and start the uphill climb to being clean again. And I has such a gem like wonderful morning with Lola on the X70 to the Stray and then via Harlow Hill to Valley Gardens. I know she adores a bus journey. And she recognises where we are as we pass through Spofforth, passed the Crimple Beck, to Stonefall Cemetery. At the graveyard we often get off for a walk through the Great Yorkshire Show ground, so she gets a little more focused around there. But it's just a little too muddy at the moment to go there: bring on the spring. Tomorrow is Christmas Eve - t...

As my body breaks down, variously and by degrees, I've realised the body isn't important. The only meaningful reality is the wholesomeness of the mind: deep mind. Yesterday morning, while brushing my teeth, I realized I hadn't had toothache for ages then, by the time i had reached the allotment(around 11am), I had toothache. But what does this mean? Was there an awareness, at a level lower than physical, that a structure was about to collapse, which popped the question into my morning routine, or was thought sent into the body for a physical response? Spooky. This morning I have no tooth ache. But teeth are finite, as is everything within the body, unlike thought, which feels infinite, reaching beyond the limited, but intelligent, housing where the brain and nervous system sits. It'twas 7am on Wednesday 22nd December 2021 just now and never again. Winter solstice came and went and now winter proper will accrete. Just for now and never again. Layers above and levels belo...

Since I've started finding money hidden in the litter, the new style banknotes, I am preoccupied with all the refuse around Lovell Park, but in Wetherby, where the Wombles are very active suddenly there is a gap of thrown trash: which hasn't had time to accrete. However I've not found a brass farthing around LS7! Probably because they don't have money living in that Council heap? Or there is so much litter my eyes aren't up to the job of seeing the blue, brown or purple of the fiver, tenner or twenty pound note? Still you never know? My coffers are so near to zero all the time that finding money or getting something for free is a driving factor in 'survival'. Laughable, as I don't think I'll starve soon or be evicted or run out of clothing to keep me warm ... 2022 will be different. Currently I am taking to charity all the unused items of clothes: things I haven't worn since purchased or for several years. Oh, to live ever so slightly in a time o...

On a dark night, possibly during the low of winter, I walked to or from Andrew Broughton's house, with the deep foreboding that something bad would come as a result of the stupid things which sprang from my mouth in regards Dan Wynne and my first visit to a Police Station to be formally interviewed at their convenience. Then it struck me that I had been born alone, and lonely, and was 19 and still alone and bereft of companionship to a deeper level. Things in Wetherby High School would never be the same. The high of lower 6th with 3 A grades became the absolute possiblity of Unclassified on all fronts in the Mocks of 1992... 1990/91 was a really great year at Wetherby High School however 1991/92 was it's polar twin. The prophecy that I'd spend my entire life alone, but desperate (too frantic) to connect with another soul on a different level than purely platonic, seems to be something between 1991 and 2021 I have fulfilled. Thirty barren years. Apart from the Love I've ...

Sunday morning. The stench of puke and piss lingers like the morning mist in pizza box strewn door and alley ways. * How many folks in Bar3 are in Wetherby Masonic Lodge? I bet Dan Jones is! LOL. * Sunday afternoon. To feel surrounded by folks who would only give me cold shoulder of ham or the board to sleep on, even when they have both warmth and comfort to give? This is why I struggle with Wetherby. Probably seeing something which is not there at all? After doing a shorter hour walk with Lola, where I suddenly felt the urgent need to defacate some watery faeces and used the disabled toilet in Wetherby Sports Association (luckily open because there was a game of football being played on the Ings in the grey dull moment), I went to find a copy of A Christmas Carol. To say modern Christmas is under the influence of Victorianism and Dickens is such an understatement? But I've never read that guilty little book... Since reading   the Lady in the Van  by Alan Bennett I've bec...

Back in the flat and in a freshly laundered bed at 6. Put a wash on of all the items that dog walking, etc, has soiled for the past week. The bus was on time, very few folks got on it and it stopped very infrequently along the way. Coming down North Street I jumped off opposite the flat next to Wintoun Street and was back in 69 by 5. Porridge prepared for breakfast as I head back on the first FirstBus X99, in the morning, to walk Lola again: Emma's out on the raz as Finley is over at his dad's until Wednesday. Lola definitely had the 'hump' with me yesterday and today as I had Ruby in tow: her body language is dejected and seems to have a frown. It's to be expected as we're joined at the hip, but she really likes being out with Ruby. Ruby is more 'needy' and younger and I think Lola accepts it, if not very graciously. She won't be happy on Christmas Day, as I am house and dog sitting for Ruby's owners, and we won't get our yearly special outi...

Friday again? Another working week climbs to the summit of the weekend until, like Sisyphus's boulder, it bounces to the base of the working week again on Monday. All that people want is the weekend. Desperate to lose ourselves in carnal bliss, drug fueled forgetfulness, or other pursuits, which are visible totems projecting our real needs: to escape the clutches of the meaningless levers we ceaselessly pull or push. Oh joy! T'is the season when we get a few more days, thrown in our path to stumble along, before we coming crashing down again early in January. It's all the same: none of it means anything. Yet I know people take it so seriously. Perhaps there is something (another thing!) wrong with me? So many 'good' folks pour their souls into the Christmas mold which I find mouldy, decayed and corrupted. It seems everything simple and nice has become complicated and charmless? Bah, humbug and I don't care - is it OK for me to eat plum pudding yet?

The consequence of separation is entropy. Entropy is the current state of the universe and of God's one Son. Atonement is simply the undoing of the entropic by returning to The Source. Forgiveness isn't arrogance although I've thought it was, but all it does is undo what never was. There is only one true state: Oneness, Eternal and Infinite, not the Ten Thousand Things spoken of in  Tao Te Ching (which in turn is another way of saying entropy). Forgiveness for what? For everything I (mis) perceive; which wasn't and could never be. Mum arises from Golden Slumbers on this azure clad morn.

Dirty man who frantically gobbles kebab, just kebab and lemon juice, from Zam Zam. Poor show you fool. What nutrition is found in that sliced delicacy? And heads back to the 11th floor for another mindless and uncontrollable bout of onanism before falling into yet another life shortening broken night's sleep. I'm a pitiful creature whenever I return to Leeds from the joy of my time with Lola. It was all going so well too! If only I had left when the couple from Sweden, with Siv the Weimeraner, departed for Osmotherly. But the extra two halves of a Kernel Dark Beer on a pretty empty stomach. By 3 am I was awake and at the penis again. Why? That is not the answer. Neither are all the moments from rushing to catch the X99 at 3pm... Twelve hours of mistakes; if you wish to call this a 'sin' I concur. A few days ago I actually understood the parable of the Prodigal Son. This is me currently, it is tearing me apart, but it's never too late to ask for forgiveness? From the...

'Pint of John's, please' Alzheimer's Going to the New Inn, but not 'appy with it. 'e usually comes in as I go 'ome. Cast up from the Dead Time of Plenty. 'we're on BT2 tonight as Man You were on BT1 and is postponed due to COVID... See ya tomorrow, see ya Alf ... I ain't got contactless. I don't pay for anything with cash. I've been caller number one for ages. A voice mail saying you have to ring the doctors... Half an hour.' ... A pint and a half please ... Where have you been? You ahright ? ... Are you a doctor? No I am trying to get hold of them... Is COVID killing folks in other banal ways? Or am I more aware now of anally anxious proles? 'e's not 'ere so I'm off to fetch our lass'

A brittle novel given as a gift in 1980, perhaps read once, and destined for Oxfam? My first encounter with Doris Lessing - and I think it's a ghost story (The Memoirs of a Survivor)? Not the kind which sets out to frighten with All My Love, Paddy, XX written in heavy blue Biro. Trying to second guess the narrative structure, which alternates between 'worlds', in a darkened room, where Mistletoe and Wine and tinsel increase my melancholia towards Christmas. Is there anywhere in this vapid civilisation that doesn't cling to the emptiness of elaboration and the drill of a drift-mine dirge. December comes along once per year matching the lament marching in my heart and, as it beats in sorrow to the shallow mournful rhythm, I hope it fucks off soon!

Ending my day out, morning stroll/meander, via Temple Works, the Hol Beck and Water Lane feeling a little like I've caught a cold (not COVID!!!)and my feet bring me to the same Sainsbury's Local on Whitehall Road - where I had gone for Ibuprofen and a liquid after the second corona virus vaccination on the 2nd of August. After I had walked back to town from Elland Road Vaccination Centre but before I  spent the remainder of the day in the grip of hot cold fever and chattery teeth. The new pressed coconut drink made by Vitacoco is a great source of what my body needs to delay the inevitable onset of a winter cold. At the moment it's really easy to overlook the statistics of the prevalence of colds and flu, and other gremlins, during this media driven 'drivel', which instills just enough fear into an already highly strung and anxious populous, during the winter months? Is this Omnicron I see before me? Is it a dagger to plunge into my exposed neck like the...

Yesterday I pushed myself for seventeen plus miles, between Wetherby and Otley - the first visit in a long time - to connect with Glenn, who I had not seen more than twice since the summer. On Friday I worked on the allotment with Andy after walking merry legs (Lola) up around Wetherby Race Course and along Syke House Lane, but had a little too many Belgian "Christmas" beers. Which means very strong in Abv. and possibly unnecessary in all respects to a good night's sleep when they drive you to frikandellen frenzy or, in my case, a huge roast chicken dinner followed by numerous After Eight mints? Why I didn't eat prior to the Belgian 'trap pissed' event at Wetherby Brew Co. is a question I often ponder as I lay awake around 2am with insomnia brought on by simple carbohydrates running through my system. The knock on effect of the binge of drinking and eating is feeling shite to attempt to gather myself for the difficult slog through churned up tracks and sodden ...

Yawn Upon another lie and deception filled morn Moan When the deceivers dodge devilishly Skip Around reality into a trough Deep Where only traitors gobble scraps Disguised; Clothed, but fooling me not. Trotters Fit barely into Number Ten's Sty Slobbering chops grinning Terribly And eyes glimmer and scheme.

To begin again. So many attempts to pick up, step out, move on. But I have to linger a while longer: we're in the grip of Omnicron, boosters, Storm Barra, PCR 48 hour tests and my mother is struggling. All my life she's been a constant buzz of activities, but now, as she approaches 80, things are falling apart. It's inevitable; I know, but I'd hidden it telling myself she'll outlive her mother. Slowly, but surely, all that comes along dissolves; washed away with the persistent rain this Wednesday morning: life fades out like a bleached stain on the fabric of existence and we become little more than the gale blown blankness on a ragged and torn sheet. She stirs above, slowly, and I wonder if she'll moan or celebrate the morning? The sun is yet to pay us any attention as the leaves drift along the street to cling in the difficult places before they too wither into dust: it's 6:40 on the 8th December 2021...

I have been searching for meaning in my life for as long as I could consider what life could possibly be for. The conclusion I perpetually come to is that there isn't any. This makes me very very depressed and disappointed. But I must be wrong and must be missing something because a great many people do appear to have a great deal of meaning in their lives; and leave so many smiles in their passing. As I sit quietly by, early on the Monday morning, it's impossible not to listen to the passing conversations between the various bird species: crows in the tall sycamore trees, pigeons on the rooftops and a variety of songbirds perched around the hedges, shrubs and smaller trees and in the background I hear the rumble of traffic on the A1(M), but what am I listening for? Is it the answer to my search for meaning? It's 5:30am and I'm stood waiting the the same kettle to boil to fill the same cafeteria before I sit at the back patio doors and linger over the same cup of coffee...

Six days walking and several days suffering a hangover... Boring. I'm bored of me. Truly I must break the cycle. When I'm in the moment of walking there is nothing to say. It's only when I'm hungover or pissed off about something or someone that I have a word to say. I'm utterly contemptible. S unday morning in Pollença, 3rd October. To a bustling Roman era market town escaping Palma on the first bus 301 at eight. BOC Hostel wasn't a party place (they said), but, it being Saturday evening, the younger others in room 3G were out until around 3. Then, at around 4, some heavy bass began kicking out in the park behind the Hostel. It didn't last long, and I drifted back to sleep until after six, when I abluted and went searching everywhere for coffee on a Sunday morning. Discovering a microbrewery next door to the hostel didn't help either - Adalt which means attic or above or something. It took me a long time to discover a café and recover some p...

A journey to the end of the novel Or a journey to the end of the night? When does this conveyer belt become comprehensible? I distrust everything I despise everyone As I trickle over Towards extinction And excursion It's Domingo And I'm tired And appalled.

Final whole day of this mixed up two weeks in France and Spain. It's too damn hot for September/October. Spain is becoming more and more impossible to cope with, personally, as overheating isn't the ideal condition for an Englishman who considers 20°C perfect - especially when the bag I am carrying is 11.5kg too heavy! And in the last two days I've heard numerous complaints from locals who are also infuriated by non stop baking sun. The final morning is tomorrow, but this morning I walked back the way I went yesterday, along the coastline from the campsite (Trillas, Tamarit €33 for a cabin), to return to Tarragona to give it a second chance. On Wednesday I had one too many Vermuts, wines and beers and then slept, fitfully, in a busy, overheating cramped hostel (Hotel Tarragona €18 dorm/€45 private). With a heavy heart I have decided to give backpackers a final goodbye as I have developed a real hatred of these establishments which are aimed at the ...

Two hours out with Lola and The Demon Dog Then measuring life in espresso cups One sugar and a glass of ice cold water. Watching them participate banally, Barren dream, waiting for 'it' to happen. Tramping over Barleyfields Along the Ginnel onto Westgate Left by the Town Hall Onto the Market Place Ready to scream (like Edvard Munch) A wasp lingers to sting Puncturing a deflating sack Which connects nothing But frowns melancholic, Asking, Can you pass the poison?

Top floor, overlooking Top dog, basking. My feet end His majestic head begins And I feel protected. Happy eyes blink up, As he balances sleepy, Knowingly reciprocated The safety spread Universal. Such a happy lad Sleeping at the foot of the bed The sound of a sleeping hound Is a pleasure to be had. Looking up for a morning cuddle He's so sweet being there With love spreading inwards And onwards, intertwined. A cup of coffee, watching North Street come alive preparing for a day By his side until he stretches. Then, locking tight, We go to meander Before traffic overwhelms Or the day sweats us

Leeds is such a dirty town And the stench wraps itself With grasping arms  To choke the life out. Such a soreness Pustules and maladies Lingering in doorways Or walking passed lifeless Litter, blowing east Where saviour leans With spice haunted eyes Just the solitary beast: Watching I can't comprehend Where it went wrong? Post-industrial, Post-milltown, Post-worsted, Post-trauma: Please X99 arrive to deliver me From Vagabond folks Emoting something broke. A crack through which I can see What was meant by Conrad 'Exterminate the brutes'. Get me away from this filthy waste! It is up to me. On the plus side I slept peace full Last night.

Central line o o o o that shakespearian rag line. stick with me in this line. shadow of the law line. over the yardarm line. a stitch in time line. a yard of ale line. London town line. a bird in the hand is worth two in bush line Gules, three lions passant guardant in pale or armed and langued azure, line shandy drinking puff line. booze time. England - it's time line. we've run out of bog paper line. solely a political motive line. power corrupts line. divide and conquer line. your finger goes through line. put that in your pipe and smoke it line. pretty vacant sounding like pretty vacunt line. move on time line tuna make me retch line. marmate, love it or hate it line. teatime line. a Pukka pie line. your eyeliner is dark line. 4 and 20 blackbirds line. thin line. thick line. long line. short line. nice line. awful line. a fine line Ontological line. just stop-starting line. we always pretend line. in line. on the line. over the line. line line. head line....

Piles of refuse, dirty pigeons and vagrants... To me this is Leeds: a filthy stain, dried onto the trudged pavement where the monotony of hungry ghosts' do linger; malcontented and always always vacantly staring. In the station a very sign warning of the untruth of homelessness and want. We do it to ourselves. We gouge away. Cigarettes, alcohol and an ascending/descending array of other poisons. Banal and broken. Yet the three cities I've traveled between in the last couple of days, Bristol, Birmingham and Leeds, are exactly the same. They offer scraps and titbits. Distraction: opiates for the masses. And I think it is over entirely for me. Come the autumn I must venture forth once more unless I rot my core where nothing can repair. Life is a movement forward: an energy to be coupled with. ... A week since I returned from Bristol and how it recedes into the dim past. Most walking memories spring up when I'm feeling low: when I struggle with meaning in my life. They are reca...

A Victorian clock ticking, melancholy Upon the wall and slicing seconds, And minutes, hours, days; enough. Ruby, the Vizsla, sleeps through it Without blinking, her head hanging. Arms and legs knotted together Relaxed, she is, beyond any recall. So often today I've called 'come', But the Swift's have won every say! Now claws and paws pad no more. She has such soft posterior regions: Shammy ears, smooth belly, velvety toes And a pleasing silence. ... But then there is a noise below And off she bolts to the bottom fence When I thought she'd gone... In the distance a siren And a ball being kicked Enticing her back I guide her Inside. She's returned to 'their' bed And I gobble water biscuits And Ossau Iraty. Stillness surrounds the dusk. The clock strikes 8 And I'm upstairs climbing asleep To beckon her to cuddle next to me. And she does!

Yesterday I asked the House Keeper if it would be OK for me to do a brief wash of all my clothing, as it was utterly fetid, and she was fine with it. Once I returned from my morning walking through Clifton, Hotwells, Bristol Docks and Wapping I went upstairs and got all my clothes ready to wash and put the large towel I'd been given around my nether regions. Then I went downstairs to speak to her again to let me know when the wash she was doing would be finished so I could come down and wash everything. At this moment her 'partner', a man dressed only in denim knee length shorts, told me I couldn't walk around in just a towel: at first I thought he was being sarcastic, but slightly later, when he came upstairs to use the toilet, he re-enforced this by seeming to threaten me that if I left my room in only a towel he'd 'do something'. With an aging body covered in wrinkled tattoos he spoke daggers and I could clearly tell he was in no way sarcastic. But I didn...

Five hours before a break then two steak and ale pies from two establishments. I'm stuffed and ready for the last leg of Friday. I'm booked in the Notley Arms, Monksilver on a Friday... It's a pub and it's a Friday... I can see light at the end of the tunnel regards this insanity. Why did I bring the full camping ensemble when I haven't slept sunny side up since Cheddar. I've always good intentions, but they often fall into dust. Fantastic. One hundred degrees warmer than the desolation of The Old Cider House. In the Notley Arms I don't have to disappear into the Ancient Mariner or the George before coming back to sleep. It's Friday and the coast isn't too far distant so I chose Fish and Chips. Two Old Rosie Cider to wash it down. Now I'm au naturel supine on the single long bed in room number 7. The patrons didn't mind me eating the food on my lap or walking about barefoot. They said treat it like your home which is why I'm relaxing as n...