Hear no evil, see no evil

Here at coastaltown towers employees who fail to toe the line have their eyes, ears and mouths swewn open. And are then forced to watch Big Brother, to a continual interference from the stereo which contiuously plays the Big Brovaz record at a volume just audible enough to be irritating. The moral of the story, don't catch me in the mornings.

only the scottish have time to sew these days.

The Welsh have time to sew woollen tapestries. There's not a lot else to do when you live down a coal mine and are married to a sheep, and the only entertainment you have is chucking lumps of nutty slack at Tom Jones, Max Boyce and Catherine Zeta Jones.

I have one of those tapestries. It appears to be solid black but when illuminated, at night, by a carbide flame, marvelous scenes of black walls appear.

Y'see, this reminds me of the time I worked in an art gallery in London. It was my job to tend the walls. On the day I started the owner; a kindly man in a well-cut suit took me aside and in a kindly, well-cut manner said "It's your job to look after the walls." Fine, I said, so I did, I cared for those walls as if they were my own flesh and blood, which, in an odd organo-silicate transfer kind of a way, I soon regarded them to be. I even gave them names, some of them write to me even to this day. We were close, the walls and I. Day after day, gently sponging Saatchi vomit and various fluids from their invting white surfaces in a circular motion I used to quietly hum songs to then. Nina Simone was a favourite, and during summer when the temperature fluctuations caused them to convulse I could swear I heard them laugh at my rendition of Eminem's monolithic "lose yourself" (Voted best hiphop track of 02 by none other than the Boscastle Blowhole. Look first HERE for news!). We built up quite a relationship, which was handy because at the time my private life was falling apart largely due to my obsession with walls. My girlfriend of nine months left me to pursue a career as a lawyer, which I reflected was largely my own fault for going out with Milly from "This Life". My family disowned me, indeed my florid father made quite a show of casting me from the family home whilst my mother and sisters wept in a genteel manner before pressing samples of their sewing into my hands for no reason that I could discern. "Out" he cried "For you are no son of mine!" I presented him with my birth certificate and he became quiet, but no less florid, as it matched his britches.
So anyway, there was me, the gallery and walls. I paid no attention to the constant lines of artists who waltzed inwards and outwards sizing and declaiming, though they were handy for The Oral Sex (what mystified me was how much emphasis they placed on this act. One day a young lady declared "This must happen" before pleasuring me. Two days later a giant twelve foot bronze statue of my erect member; entitled "my pain" became a centrepiece of the gallery. She declared that she loved me and half an hour later opened her veins under a running tap to which my response was largely one of polite mystification. I do recall that she had an intense hairstyle which seemed to have been created under immense duress). I should have paid more attention to the artists for one day one floppy haired cunt painted all of my walls black as a statement and I haven't worked since.

WSell I have but it was only cash i hand and I'd rather it was kept quiet. So sshh.

Every good thing preceded by a Wall of Fear!

But Pooster – [to be continued in late November]

Who the heck is "cj159125"? Is it some distant relation of mine I've never heard of, do you think? Some ilegitimate half-sister, maybe?

Blimey.

She's a failed clone from the American militarys secret black "CJ" project to create the ultimate weapon, a polite, well spoken english girl.

Specialist weapon: the slight sigh of disdain.