A rebel without a clue.

Bloody beer tourists. Guys who tour every boozer, are very loud, perfectly tedious and only know about axle grease, football and birds (burds). Order with blinkingly empty eyes, wider wondering, any drink that they can associate with pallid Carling or full fat Smoothflow(tm). Down the scales of pointless crazing noises you go moving onto the next expectant lifeless corpse. Ballacks, I ain't.

Eurovision comments abound on Facebook and I hide them, 20 in a row, from me in 2013. It was Terry Wogan who made for me that show; a man with a cutting edge of wit and a delivery, that many might over look, but most would aspire to mimic forcefully upon a listening audience. Yesterday I met with Janice and Fabio to discuss my future, our present, and our reflections on the UK in its divisiveness, where they consumed a 'panini' - bacon, brie and tomato with loosely defined salad 'garnish'; limpid, tattered and torn; the rotten sodden ends of bruised and abused rocket, chard and lamb's lettuce with a heavy mustard vinaigrette. I saw the second reused potatoes burnt into a chip similarity and quarmed for a proper two stage fried chipped potato; not forever baked or boiled potatoes used o'er and o'er again. GP and reuse is the route of all food enterprise and production; it gives them an edge from which they could throw over broiled, boiled and stewed veget...

Rain. Grey. Gray. Regret. Slouch. Slunk. Sunk. Remorse. Rebound. Sink. Skint. Bereavement. Undertake. Coffin. Stiff. It really is me verses alcohol again. Shambolic. Coffee and sugar. Demerera is unrefined but still toxic. Not sure. I reached a land of no return last night. I realise I simply have zero in common with Wetherby. The people here have no idea about life outside the four walls of various pubs. They are really dead people and I can't be like them anymore. I cringe at Carling drinkers. I guess happiness is something else than the driving nonsense that the UK sells. I find the vapid conversations going on in cafes a trauma of Britain. Scooter Works isn't like this at all; oh Lower Marsh. If you have anything: I can do anything. I have always done anything never something. I have no demands, expectations, requirements, just a want to meet people and be useful. I have no use to myself, but that mustn't be the summary of my 41 years. I am learning to see life di...

It's always I, me, mine But never they, them, theirs. Why so? Unitary and solo Standing back feeling hollow. Watching the Swallows, Martins or Swifts swoop Declining level ripple seed Splashing; dividing time. From morning to morrow While from the furtive breeze They borrow lives; temporary, Until the water bloats. And they flee in another Looping gliding hurry Troubled; the river boils, Creeping upon its own flotsom. Moment movements Ousted; fin de siécle, Jettisoned fragments Pushed beyond recall.

I can't be the model of your expectations. Why is it impossible to just let me be whom I am. I never question anyone about all the basic stuff. So many people are convinced that you have to be a certain way before they will accept you or see you as an equal. Why? They don't know what they want more than anyone else; they don't have any keys to the kingdom. A brain filled with money, job, marriage, two week holidays every year, work Christmas parties, BBQs in the back garden, etc ... Is a brain without choices? All the choices have already been made that will ever be. Without consciousness our essence and being is devoid of truth or reality. You don't like me because I have a different, difficult and uncomfortable point of view. I'm happy that you have found happiness in the normal expectations, but that has never delivered me to any promised land ... We will now go our own way, never to meet again.

Kevin delivers the mail on the south side of the street while Snoops growls, snarls and barks at this daily intruder. No harm ever comes of the larger than life barks he demonstrates behind number 42's double glazed, wood effect, window panes. Up the north side he delivers all the needs I have prior to the 21st and grateful I am. The postman, in his sardonic fashion, is disappointed with our dog. His venom is stayed, but Snoopy doesn't understand that the man in red is not a threat. It may be that Snoopy responds to some mental extensions that proceeds balloon-like from Kevin? I calm Snoopy and explain that the mailman isn't any threat, but this doesn't resolve his desire to warn off. Our dog; he knows more than we can ever understand.

I have a recurring dream in which my father is very alive when he should be dead. He won't admit he's dead and no one in the dream will believe me when I tell them he is dead. He has the same incandescent fury I recall of my youth, but I try to kill him and return him to the place he went to in 2001. I think those in my hallucination feel I should be grateful for him being resurrected in this place;created, but I can not help the moment of the dream. It is usually a complete surprise that I find him quite alive and openly accepted. Everyone in the dream seems unaware of his cadaver reality: strewn dustlike between the devil and the deep blue seas. There is a peace between him and the others in the room, but at the moment I perceive this unreality the abhorring of his usual expression turns overtly on to me. It becomes me vrs. everyone, including him, and there is nothing I can do but turn a vicious murderer and return him to the hell he struggles to escape from. Perhaps the n...