JUNE 2017


‘White Rabbits’ the beginning of June and Clare’s got sunstroke. Painfully addled by her neurosis, she’s been grumpy and best avoided all day. So grabbing my laptop, I worked under the shade of the trees at Vangelis’s cafe. Pausing, on my grand magnum opus for a moment, I’ve instead been rebuilding my website. In its lack of traffic, these days I think of it only as more of a hard-drive for my favourite photographs and archive for my untamed rants. Anyway its been a week of uploading and frantic ‘but I can’t’ calls back to Ian, the Jehovah of Tech hosting my site back in The Ugly Kingdom.


The fucking Ugly Kingdom; here, travelling in this multi-national world, I find it an embarrassment to admit I’m English. Ffs we Brits have the most god-awful reputation. Drunken, drug addled fat salad dodgers recognised only as the shinning example of the New World Order. Our City of London accountable as the absolute perpetrator in the punishment of the Western poor. Our warmongering and wicked ways the parchment of almost every other nations history books. Far too many asking, ‘Why we’ve still got a Queen???’ Ffs I can’t handle the shame.


Looking everything but English, within the small talk of meeting people for the first time, these days the question is always ‘Are you Italian, Spanish, Argentinian???’ Becoming a bit wise to it now, when I reply 'British' its like inflating bubbles, observant of people’s reaction the mere name of my country is like throwing ice-cold water. The reaction tangible, as down-right disconcerting as it is, especially for someone like me, who has never voted and has survived off-grid most of my adult life. Yet anti-political anarchist or not, this is how deep the disdain for the Ugly Kingdom runs. Each of us British dwellers are held globally accountable; we live within a Western System established on the trinity of Religion, Money and the Military. All of us ruled by the Vatican City, the City of London and Washington DC.


Our country the greatest perpetrator, one of the master’s of all modern hell. And whether we like it or not, agree with me or wish to argue with me? The global disdain so predominantly held for us, is because we’re like a bunch of those pointless nodding dogs stuck onto the back window of a car. An entire nation bobbing along aimlessly, helplessly entrapped in the New World Order tank of mass-destruction. Duly nodding our ill-considered acceptance of every rule, tax and warmongering act committed by the Religious, Royal, Military and Political hand that rules us. The common disdain on these European lands I find myself in, is that ‘We The People of Britain do fuck all to change it...’


Come on Britain!


Anyway that said, here wishing on a revolution. News from Tinos is that Clareee with the help of a bottle of Metaxa and a deliciously naughty Aussie surfer we know as Theo, has seemingly got over her sun stroke. The evening and the early hours of the 1st June duly spent rug surfing the marble floor from the sitting room into the bathroom, Iggy Pop’s ‘Lust for life’ screaming all too conspicuously across the Tinos roof tops. Ffs, Summer 2017; yup anything is possible...







So, well, to put it in context, it was Duke Ellington that wrote ‘What good is melody, what good is music, If it ain't possessin' something sweet? Nah, it ain't the melody and it ain't the music, There's something else that makes this tune complete...’ In the ‘songs of summer’ and general decibels screaming from my 2017 desk. There is a little riff that’s been tickling my jig and calling repeat, it’s called ‘Syria.’ It’s one of those kind of tunes that seems to play my chakras, its vibration tacking evenly with my present auric crazy.


Which for me right now in this “BeJesus June” moment is about fighting off my own Libra lazy-sub-personality and desire to beach bum, and instead ‘get on’ with absorbing myself back into the more ethereally driven, practical demands of my greater creative self. Feck life is a chaotic attractor full of endless distractions, the need to tame my beast of balance and answer ‘Where is my head?’ Two weeks with Clareee in the house and I've been playing too much, a little war-torn, the need to drag myself back on to my work horse??


Alas the taste of war-torn is in the air everywhere. Like a contemporary part of us all, the word 'Syria' lofted in the collective consciousness making this tune ever more eerily complete. I hate the feeling, I wish I had no knowledge of the darkside; here living in peace, in the mountains, sun and sand of Tinos, and yet here, within spitting distance, all but a Turkey run from the war zones of Syria and Iraq. I can feel it, the sheer strength of it is choking, even in the stance of absolute stillness alone on an empty beach, senses alert, I can still feel the evilness at work.


Whilst the tentacles of hell are in every area of our existence. And every fucking time I pick up another lone shoe or flip-flop washed up on the beach, I'm left to query war or trafficking??? A civilization dying in our billions and my heart fecking bleeds with the absolute unjustifiable wrongness of the mind that endorses war.


Then Ffs…..more Terrorizer May (FFS…false flag shit) wasn’t Manchester enough?? The 4th June, for myself forever remembered as my little brothers birthday. Today, now sanctioned off as ‘Stabber Sunday’ and yet another blood red Poppy Day of human sacrifices in this endless battle against our greater human consciousness. The global mind-manipulation of the masses. “….London Bridge is falling” another grand act of false warfare, used only to morph our civil minds into a state of ever greater spiritual depravity and fear.


Beyond my love and ever concern for my London dwelling son, here, sitting at my desk in Tinos observing this great play on our perception, taking place in the very capital I know as my Home Town. While I'd like to believe I’m just the distant observer, removed and separated ‘the not guilty; nothing to do with me.’ I’m wrong, none of us can get away from it, this kind of universal negativity is affecting us all on every level. We watch it, read it and wear it like a cloak, just the imprint of pictures puts us instantly in the negative Gaia – holding us there, a boot perpetually on our shoulders; swamping about in the mire of mass-media bullshit is good for fucking no one.


Awake, still alert enough to recognise the Political Leaders and puppeteering Masons for who they really are. And I see only the absolute example of our planets still devious, lesser evolved souls; the ‘Terrorizing Terrible & Tyrannous.’ Oddly, whilst the world's eyes are on Terroizer May and the Ugly Kingdom's pending election.  Here on Tinos, this tiny Greek Isle, the local news of all shock and awe, is that the Chief of The Harbour Police has been caught having sex with the highest ranked Priest on the Island. Which not forgetting Tinos has 1001 Churches on it and more Religious Dollar than the whole of Greece put together, is some rank :) Anyway, apparently it was the Chief of the Harbour Police’s wife who caught them, yet before leaving the island in her own shame, has told everyone the reason for the demise of her marriage. Funny as is sad; the pot stirred, well done girl!


Alas sick as sick is in shame, to those villagers guilty of laughing at him, the Chief of Harbour Police has now taken to being mercilessly more ruthless with his position. It is as it is, this is the story presently rocking this tiny Greek community and none of them are happy about it.  I don’t know what the word on the priest is, perhaps a period of celibacy and isolation to wank on?? Confession, or a little moist and sweaty Sunday squirming whilst preaching his godliness???


Whatever or however, I ouch at the hypocrisy and we pretend it doesn't matter??


Yet its the same shit everywhere, our leaders, these hands from whom we take our authority suck. Spiritually suckered by the very need to wield power, driven by money and prestige and hey, these archons of our society are but ‘arse licking false-idols.’ Programmed, meat devouring, poor pimping super-suited weapons of our mass destruction. Labor, Conservative, Republican whatever, but this Cabinet of Military Force being universally deployed against us. Is of the mind that has been programmed since birth to accept war as acceptable, programmed to be of a ‘Class that is somehow better...’ that somehow has the right to kill another?? Elite in arrogance; sly to, and calculable for the collective ignorance of the poor; ‘the masses’ but sheep to the educated mind???


Thus in the Tournament that is The People V The People. As Chomsky has always said, the 21st Century is but a war between Hegemony and raw survival...


Yet ‘Where is our human head?’ We’re fucking loco; half-a-population-short-of-a-civilization. ‘Enslaved by and ever complying to a lunch box of false authority’ yet here, in the consideration that we’re all in this together, really where is this going??





Oh wow, now the 6th June and this whole flag facade has shifted to Paris. All attention is on Nostradamus’s own front door, a kitchen knife and a scream of “This is for Syria” ??? Playing that Syria track again??? Like a clock ticking?? The whole dark hand of Fascism moulding us to fight amongst ourselves instead of directly at the gnarled ‘very untruth’ of our own Western System and the Alien Nation its become.


It’s unbelievable, amazing how we’ve become so collectively twisted into the whole untruth. Made to believe its ‘...us against them.’ This week the Jihad, last week the Niggers and the Polish. The Mainstream Media but the political machinery for the mass-production of ‘Bigots with very-small-consideration.’ Alas whilst Britain swiftly evolves as an overcrowded Fascist State of Military Law, Fracked to feck and used only as a Nuclear Dumping Ground. It looks like I’m going to have to go back there…







It is the 13th June. I’m sat at Vangelis’s restaurant eating my last Greek supper in a state of weighty mourning. I’ve said ‘see you in the next one’ twice this week to two great men. Both lived extraordinary lives and were both profoundly good to me. Now slipping away behind the veil and back into the unseen. Without their breathing souls on those Highland hills, the Scotland I know will never be quite the same again. Death the only certain, yet love is constant, I will miss them.


Adding to the general down turn in my emotions, I fly back to the Ugly Kingdom tomorrow. Six months in Greece, money dwindling; I’ve hit the reserve button. If I’m to continue working towards launching my grand magnum-opus and duly existing this summer, I’ve two choices, either I do something fucking creative to swiftly turn a dime, or I’m going to have to sell the Lucky Fucker.


I've been listening to this a lot....








Its 4am. I do not want to go. This dear little house is in a state of half-packed and I’m feeling half-baked neither here nor asleep. I’ve got what feels like a bad attack of hives ‘The Ugly Kingdom Curlies’ wincing, cringing and curdling at the thought of Queen and home country. ‘A Terrorizer May’ of all depression coursing my sinews. Fuck…


I’ve got three and a half hours to clear up and pack up.


It was Clareee that said “...it comes in three’s” when I told her about Stuart’s death. Two day’s later, I’ve just had an email telling me Anita Pallenberg has died. Life seems strange at the moment; three people in a week??? Each of whom influenced my life massively. Sitting here, in the departure lounge of Mykonos Airport. I feel sensitive, an air of fast deflating, my bubble proper punctured. Anita Pallenberg was a legend; through a whole period of my life in London back during the late eighties and early nineties, her beautiful face, hardcore and compassionate way helped me out of no end of trouble.


Her and the now long since dead Chelita Secunda ‘held me together’. They were like the nurturing wise mother’s that guided me through my misspent youth; looking back, never quite sure how I didn’t end up in the ‘The 27 Club’ when really, it was O's birth and these two women who helped me put the breaks on total self-destruction. When I first met Anita and Chelita nearly thirty years ago, these two best of friends, were not only the grand original ‘Rock Goddess’s of all Rolling Chic’ but at the point I met them, they were like the founding icons of Chelsea’s Narcotics Anonymous. Myself just out of Betty Ford’s Class of ‘88 and not really free of the complicated shackles of confining addictions. Fffeck I’m still not, tamed yes, but healed never. Addiction, but a daily reality for those of us that don’t really wanna be here…


‘Impulsive and compulsive habits’ established on the perpetuation of practise. For feck, it is my truth ‘I’ve lived life on a death wish.’ Not a suicidal one, just a ‘Whatever, who gives a fig?’ really bad attitude. An attitude that has had me learn the hard way every time; rebel, rule breaking twat that I am, it is like that; I’ve had to break all the rules in order to know my own. Kind of almost unwittingly, yet always in pursuit of that thing I haven’t done before, that new experience??? I was twelve years old when I took my first Acid trip.


Subsequently when I first met ‘Anita and Chelita’ probably a decade later, really I didn’t know if it was New York or New Year. Whilst crazy is as crazy does, leaping out of a period of shamfully excelling myself; it was these two women whose vast decadence of experience helped me understand things a little differently. They seriously looked after me; under their wing, not only did I get to work for nearly every London fashion house and get back stage at most Stones gigs and a few others.  Yet they did so so much more; they gave me so loads of their time. It is as it was, fucking hell it is my truth – on the subject of drugs and partying; Chelita, Anita, Marianne Faithful and even fucking Keith have lectured me.


My flights just been called; ffs, eat, sleep, rave, repeat...


Certainly I remember Anita saying ‘You can’t live a Rock & Roll lifestyle, there isn’t such a thing; it’s all just rock and droll...’





‘Back on Truck’ it was Woozy that gave this trip its title, here to pick up my portfolio and truck and leave again, drive back to Athens??? Whilst the fear is that this might not be quite as easily accomplished as at first perceived. It is as it is I’m back in the Ugly Kingdom. Arriving like the Tower card in a deck of Tarot, on the day of the Greville Tower fire. Yesterday was hell for many; for me being back here, really hangs heavy.


My first big mistake was asking Mad Mark to pick me up. Cab, ferry, cab, plane, transfer to another plane and into Heathrow. Back through ‘Nothing to Declare’ and Markee is obviously having an Aspergers Day; no text, no sign of and no answer from his phone.


Bus to Reading, train to Gloucester, cab to fucking wherever it was. He did phone, he did appear, with a hundred reasons why he wasn’t at the airport and every reason why he is an ex-boyfriend. It was good to see him though; to laugh with him again. To listen to him rant; it’s a beautiful thing hanging out with someone undeniably crazier than yourself. He does, he always makes me feel loads better, as if my own sanity is somehow closer than I thought it was. Ffs a life spent questioning the whereabouts of madness, whilst ‘In & Sane’ remains a meditative state few of us ever know. This is the 21st Century; in my mind none of us are playing with the full deck of cards…


Least of all me; ffs what am I doing? ‘The Lucky Fucker’ there, parked up on Markee’s drive. My truck; the only collateral I’ve got. All too shiny and suspiciously valeted, a few more kilometres on the clock??? Ffs, the reason for leaving it with Markee whilst I’ve been away, is because he is the only person I know with two-hundred other cars to choose from?




Haha wtf... ‘Where am I?’


Duly out of England her ‘royal-self’ as fast as possible, like a stealth bomber across the boarder and quietly into Wales, up the heads into the valleys to Rainbow Cottage. The only house in Britain I have keys to ‘Home’ with the Jones’s. A grateful safe house…


Fuck I don’t want to be in this country. Its like every ghost of my past lays here and seemingly the moment I put my foot down at Heathrow they all woke up. Duly creeping into my mind like the zombies of an age old thriller.


‘The Beast’s of my Britain.’


Old Mrs. Jones was pleased to see me though, which considering I hadn’t managed to get hold of her to tell her I was coming. Duly letting myself in at nearly one o’clock in the morning. Whilst perhaps it was the relief of me not being some Smack addled chancer, nut the joy in her face was instant. Duly leaping out of bed to make me tea and toast, I did feel really loved for a moment.


Sometime later, falling exhausted into bed. Waking up was hell. Completely out of sink ‘Where am I?’ Oh god Britain! ‘Why am I here?’ Oh yeah, I’m broke; what to do? Creatively do something that can bag a dime, sell my truck?


Or die?




I’m in this weird space that has me doing circles in every bathroom I go into, while I look for a bucket to put my toilet paper. Yet everything goes down the drain in Britain, in Greece the drains simply don’t work. Hence this lost and pirouetting in transition thing, slowly adjusting to the local drainage system??


Yet I’m not adjusting; I’m trying desperately not to be mentally here. Wary of the weight of this country, knowing its real truth – being back is like returning to the fire, this is how it feels, being back on this British soil. Back in the realm of the Lizard Queen. In my head, its like leaping back into the dark-side when you’ve been hanging out in the light. Like jumping into a fire just for the fucking sake of it??


Back on these green and now pleasantly fracked lands, amidst these ever starker corridors of the New World Order at work. It is In my head, like you might understand ‘a very merciless psychic attack’ the essence of it all tricky to ward off. ‘New World’ fuck them, as long as I remain ‘a queen of my own realm’ and remember ‘I am the grail’ they will forever be ‘The Old World.’


Bastard murdering Aliens...


I’m not really here, god-beg I don’t want to stay. In fear of falling into depression, I keep telling my head I’ve already left. I’ve only slipped quietly back into collect the Lucky Fucker, my portfolio, and a few miscellaneous undergarments. All else an illusion?? Albeit pleased to see the tiny crew of people I know genuinely care about me. Which is a very small list in comparison to the ‘List of Blood-Sucking-Back-Stabbing-Grafting-Pretenders’ that I’m trying to avoid.


Yet there is always a left-foot and a bit of a curve ball, that in this instance is all the people that I forget I know. Back in this Welsh bush, realization is that I can’t slip into the country unnoticed. Here, people know me. Quote extraordinarily in W.H.Smith’s, Abergavenny this afternoon, buying a European Road Map to plot the trip to swiftly Brexit me out of here. I was bought nearly to tears by the woman in front of me, whose face I absolutely did not recall, asking ‘Where’s your dog, that beautiful beautiful dog, in all my life I’ve never seen a dog as good and as loyal as yours, where is he?’


Wow! Fable’s been there, on the other-side of the veil for over two years. Its well over three years since he was last in Abergavenny. He is, was, will always be a fucking legend ‘the God of Dogs’ and again he lives on, it is remarkable how many still never forget him; he is, the Fable never to be forgotten…




With not a wholly dissimilar experience at Abergavenny Swimming Pool a little later, when whilst sat in the sauna, this lovely elderly man kindly informed me, that he’d often wondered ‘Where I’d gone and what had happened to me...’ Yet me, I don’t even recall seeing his face before, I felt silently awful. Years of smoking dope, honestly sometimes I wonder if I remember anything.


Still it is as it is, I’ve been away, I’ve come back and ‘whilst I’m not here’ its a beautiful thing coming back to a place and being greeted fondly by so many. Albeit, I came out of W.H.Smith’s with my new road map and bumped straight into ‘Gossip Central.’


Ffs the King of Mordor himself and his ghastly gnarled Bint. There was no way of avoiding them, they were their lurking right outside the RNLB charity shop looking like the walking dead. I did receive a limp hug off him. Whilst ‘she’ the twisted hunch-back Queen of Dark Spells and psycho-possessive-drama, could do nothing but look hatefully at my shoes. Alas, whilst my own toes curled with everything I’d relish the opportunity to make absolutely categorically clear to them both. Alas today it was enough to know my deep tan and healthy, very much livelier aura would have irritated them far more. The ‘Yes she’s alive’ call back to my Ex, doubtlessly not quite so much fun when ‘healthier, fitter and obviously better off without you’ would have been the only fair response.


Pieces of toast and unbridled joy from yesterday; this my rich experience of so many cultures and sub-cultures. Older wiser hey?? Perhaps, yet really I know only that I’ve a choice, I can either hide my truth, or I can wear it like others do a fecking Rolex watch??


What 2 do?




‘Jesus, cravings on the root of unhappiness.’


Ten day’s back in this struggling pit of inequality and already my crazy is rising. The larger capital A for Addictive behaviour now transgressing my rising Phoenix to something more akin with road-kill. Gone is the mountain-grown-sun-drenched-Greek-easy-green, and here I am back on this British grown-in-the-spare-room-under-an-electro-chemical-lamp-Skunk-head-fuck.


Jesus, I don’t care, but when you consider that these days most of the British Isles is now wondering around like this. Its no wonder there’s been no revolution yet, I can’t even find my keys. Yet that’s only one side-effect, whilst at 25c and above, the munches quest is for watermelon and salad. Leave me alone in the kitchen, now back in Britain at 17c and below in mid-summer, and its macaroni cheese followed by Ambrosia Creamed Rice and lashing of black current jam. Ffs, all that dairy and now I’m coming out in spots, duly rolling out the red-carpet for a little more self-harm, as self-loathing has me picking at them, which duly and habitually leaves my skin looking like a minefield. Crazy behaviour, all worthless self-sabotage…..



Wtf ‘Where is my head?’ Yet this is what I’m like, put me under pressure, put me back in this realm of the Lizard Queen and all this NWO deceit, couple it with the washing machine of my own still haunting past. And well, seemingly all these, my addictive and habitual cling ons, those I’ve actually spent sometime trying to put to bed, are now all standing on the landing in their pyjama’s again. Whilst I’d wish the easy death wish of hardcore addiction on no one, I don’t really view myself as quite such a raging head any longer. Not drinking, not doing coke, coffee and a spiff like practising scales on a piano by comparison to the roulette playing of my past.


Yet still this is me, today, I’m alright if I’ve got a joint??? What to do? What I’ve always done??


It was my grand-mother, who repetitively reiterated throughout my childhood “Kosie, its possible to deal with everything in life, as long as you’ve a fag and a glass of champagne...”


So, the stage was set; we believe what we're told...




Oh ffs. Now I’ve fucked it. My crazy has boomeranged.


The day started okay, albeit, I admit my heads not so on this earthly plane at the moment, out there juggling the endless equations of my creative life, its that thing where in imagination its all so tangible and easy. Its when you bring it down, when you try and mould those thoughts into reality, that methodical mundane process, that A – Z of the practical application of turning ‘the idea’ into three dimensional matter. It gets me every time…


So today, the main objective was to see the Witch, I had a 1.30 appointment with her in Cardiff. Easy. It is as it is apart from the small crew I’m working with, I’ve made two other telephone calls since I’ve been back in this country. One to my Healer and one to my Witch, one to re-align my energy, the other to help re-align my thinking?? Its good stuff, seemingly together both these great women help heal my more war wounded heart. Its six months since I’ve seen them, so much has happened, certainly their sound council ‘guiding my evolving spirit’ has been obviously missed.


Winding my way again now???


Sharing an amazing dinner with my Healer and her partner in their garden on Midsummers night. Arriving like a live wire, stressed as a rabbit in headlights; I know only that she lays her hands on me for about an hour, first my head, then my feet, then my solar-plexus. What she does I don’t really know it is a process that happens in absolute silence. Yet my body makes loads of gurgling noises and does some weird flinching as my senses, with my eyes closed become more alert. Anyway, somehow within the whole experience many other things come to the light. Its a bit like finding secrets that would other wise never have been revealed. ‘Healing’ I really need it, it is as it is is none of us stand undamaged. Yet in understanding myself from a more galactic multi-dimensional consideration by appreciating ‘the part I play’ in the whole greater collective perspective…. I’ve learnt to understand myself better as a human. And this woman has helped me more than anyone. And again, I left the other night feeling more earthed, more grounded than I have in bloody ages.


Anyway today, jumping into the Lucky Fucker I drove down from the valleys, to go see Jehovah of Tech. He the master of all technical head-fry I do not understand. Coffee and a morning spliff, and I, twat that I am, started downloading some file that was going to take two hours, just at the exact moment I had to leave in ten minutes. ADOBE me OUT! That’s the moment it all went squiffy...


After some debate, myself very protective of not messing with the mind of my Alienware in the middle of a download. Opted to leave it behind. It is as it was I clambered back into the Lucky Fucker, fucked about with trying to get Google Maps on my new upgraded phone, but as I hadn’t loaded anything beyond the sim nothing was working. No big deal, I’ve been to Cardiff enough times…


Like riding a horse you merely head in that direction; just as a hound follows its nose...



Of course I messed it up; away with TinTin and Robin, it was that tune, the roof off, a sunny day and that tune. The M4 and I’ve now driven right past Cardiff. Twat. Miles out of the way by the time I could get off the motorway and back on to it to retrace my fuck up. Arriving twenty-five minutes late for my appointment, the Witch answered her front door laughing ‘Oh for fuck sake Kosie, I presumed you’d got stoned and lost, so I took the next appointment on early. Come back tomorrow morning, 9.30 I’ll make you coffee...’


With her remarkable green eyes glistening at me, she gave me a caring hug and left me there on the doorstep, thinking only ‘What the…’


Not the plan. Clambering back into the Lucky Fucker, I drove over to the Jones’s Cardiff base in Roath and hammered on the door. My other reason for being in the Diff, was because I’ve been gifted with this well Punk, gem of a Romanian Gypsy ‘a University Intern’ to help me with this little idea I have up my sleeve. Whilst the rough plan had been to take some photographs, she was still tied up with some Film Festival, and, and, yeah and anyway my laptop?? Life but quick sand under my feet, nothing jelling. Yet on the subject of weed, since I told the better Abergavenny dealer to fuck off from Athens. Seeing the man in the Diff wasn’t such a bad idea.


Whilst money is about to be tighter than a sparrow’s arse and we can ask ‘Where is my head?’ My penchant for weed is very real, as it actually is with nearly every single person I know. It never used to be like this, I used to be the rebel, now I’m the norm? The International Norm. Just another of ‘the ever lost 21st Century Hazeee Generation.’ Lordy, who did this to us?? Escobar is dead! Personally if anyone is accountable, I think the amount of available green on the streets is really with thanks to our once more affluent civilization trying to maintain their mortgage and rent repayments.


Or perhaps, we should blame the Aliens for teaching us about Hydroponics and here, in Britain, their minions for giving us the Bedroom tax in an effort to try and stop it?


Ffs it is, its a crazy mad world! Who to trust hey??



Anyway of course my own Alienware laptop is still in the wrong place?? Following a delicious conversation with the youngest of the Jones sisters, a drop off from an efficient dealer. I duly clambered back into the Lucky Fucker to follow my nose back in the Abergavenny direction, whilst mulling on which way to drive back to Athens??


‘Newport to Cwmbran’ dizzy tit, I took the wrong exit. Ffs now I’m lost in the backstreets of Newport. Then, oh Christ I didn’t fucking see it; bang! Terrifying big bang, the kind that leaves your blood-rushing. A moment, wtf, where the… Senses alert, eyes open, small, smoking white car to the right of my vision. A second longer to gather my mind, oh be Jesus, the man in the front seat of smoking white car, still with his head still in the air-bag??? Ffs…………


Leaping out of the Lucky Fucker like Lara feckin’ Toff….



What a moment. The emotive leap of panic, the what the, and the what the fuck to do, whilst the self screamed ‘Oh ffs now you’ve really fucked it….’ While why I forever remain the guilty one remains a whole other story. Now Ninja, I swiftly pulled the door open; the man’s all sweaty, but out cold. Instinctively pulling his shoulders back to get his head out of the air-bag, when fortunately, he came back to consciousness. Thank, oh for goodness, what did I do to deserve that one?


Anyway so having dragged ‘heavy Air-bagged man’ to the middle of what was a small roundabout to sit down. I’m somewhere in Newport, on a backstreet outside a school at picking up time, and the Lucky Fucker is stopping anyone from going anywhere. Thankfully some immediately efficient teacher turned up looking actually like she’d eaten three of her care for lunch, but dutifully on scene to be the heroine, whilst dropping me a disparaging eye, swiftly bustled into take over mopping the Airbag man’s fuzzy head, duly giving me a chance to move the Lucky Fucker.


My car! My only frigging collateral?? My home?? The right bumper bent on the right corner, a short white scratch along the wing. Nothing really ‘the hardcore survivor’ I know she is. As for Airbag man’s Renault Twingo??? Unbelievable, a fibre-glass-fold-up. A death trap on tyres? Wow with the greater damage actually caused by the air-bags, the modern car is like a ‘cut-out’ produced on a 3d Printer??? I was edging out; I didn’t see him, but this was on a small three exit roundabout in the back of some suburban housing estate, me hardly moving, can he have been going so much faster?? Yet what a mess….


Was he on his phone perhaps going to fast? Or is was it that joint, or maybe it's just because I’m driving a left hand drive Jeep in ‘this filthy right’ country? Maybe its because I had the front roof off, and had thrown the panels onto the back seat and subsequently, didn’t have a totally clear view through the back-side window? But then, that’s just like being in a van? Yet my backs stiff from swimming as if I was in Atlantis over the past few days, perhaps I being stiff and lazy, didn’t turn properly to look? Or maybe and actually I fear more likely, I was still in Greece and looking the other way round the roundabout??


Ffs why does anything happen? I didn’t see him, so does this mean I’m innocent?




Still in a state of absolute disbelief. The slow dawning moment from sleep to alertness was mentally painful this morning. My mind a wash with police, ambulances, breath tests, horse-power and horses??? The experience of sitting in the back of a police van again; fucking unnerving. Past experiences of drink driving charges, driving without a licence, driving without insurance, driving with a few tanks of red diesel, and all the other times I’ve being pulled over and arrested for other reasons. All these adding to both my paranoia and my absolute disdain for the police.


Really, my feeling is that until the minions that are the police and the military, de-programme themselves and ‘get back on truck’ and on side with The People, and duly play their part in helping us stop ‘the real frackers.’ Really, the only worthwhile one is a dead one….


“Where is my soul?”


“Too harsh?”


Anyway there was this surreal moment, there sat in the back of the police van. In a moment of heavenly gratitude for not being swabbed, sober...fully insured, taxed and legal following a road traffic accident. Chevron stripe for that hey! Still what a picture of our modern insanity. A hundred years ago, the average man travelled no further than within a twenty mile radius of his home in a life time. Today, look at us… we exist in a diesel fuelled, en mass game of Scalelectrics.


And I’m the crazy, in the black Lucky Fucker….


We believe we live a progressive experience, yet sat in that cop van watching a pony and trap trot round the round-about, made this whole expensive experience 'this game of rushing about' just feel so profoundly wrong.


Do we really know what we’re doing…


I say this because, waking up on the sofa this morning; what worried me the most about yesterday, had nothing to do with the fact that none of it had been the plan or that shit happens, and that nine times out of ten that shit costs money. No it was none of that, what worried me far more is how I managed to drive away from that crash scene my nose aimed for Abergavenny, only to find myself forty minutes later, some how back in Cardiff??


Really, ffs how the hell am I ever going to find my way back to Athens???