March 21st 2005
Welsh countryside promises to be damp and full of sheep. The absolute brink of civilisation, a true step into that sort of 'Tintern Abbey' Romantic picturesque escapism.
Oh, I wandered lonely as a cloud . . .
And Didz has the window down and has turned up Elton John on the radio.
I did not believe you could headbang to ol' El until just now and that I had to see with my own two eyes.
There are some advantages to being temporarily deaf in one ear after all.
This whole trip was Didz and Anna's idea and I vaguely wonder what I'm supposed to get out of it. Learn Didz's El repertoire? A pervasive sheep smell? Peace and quiet?
I suppose the idea is to get me out of London and away from my creature indulgences to – camp.
I almost reminded them Londoners camping is a dodgy idea at best. Where does one get a taxi to your campsite? But then Anna is a bit weary of my cheek lately. I think it's PMT.
She has been muttering rather fiercely about a useless cock lying about. Uhm.
They wouldn't let me pack any alcohol but I'm clever and smuggled some in the boot of the car. Clever chap. People always gave Peter credit for having the brains between us, but the truth is that I was too modest to take as much credit as I should have.
Didz wouldn't let me drive. He said we'd die in a fiery car crash on the M whatever this bloody road is.
Sheep. Clouds. Didz.
How does one stretch out a bottle of Jameson over a week?
You know, you can make liquor out of fermented potatoes.
Wonder if there's any potatoes where we'll be wandering lonely as clouds and loud as a pair of raging ol' queens?
I hope Didz with all his shagginess doesn't somehow get mistaken by the sheep as being one of their own kind.
'The sheep was molesting me, honest h'officer . . .'
We arrive at the campsite and Didz has not packed a tent.
Pillock. Even a Londoner knows this.
Still in the car listening to El with the Didz.
If I say I'm taking a piss I could sneak a few swigs.
Called Anna. Reception on the mobile terrible out here. I told her we didn't have a tent and she told me she had celery ears.
Didz farted. Oh sweet perfume.
Didz discovered me sneaking swigs and made me share the bloody bottle.
Drink has made Didz touchy feely and now he wants to start sharing our Deep Dark Secrets.
He told me about his first love breaking his heart. I told him when I was 5 my dad wouldn't let me have a puppy. Didz cried.
Stopped raining and Didz slumbers in the back seat, wrapped in a sleeping bag. I tucked him in after he fell asleep on my shoulder and slobbering down my neck.
Out for a breath of fresh air.
The radio is playing a small tune – 'Take it Easy' – that laid back California rock. I would like to see California some day, if only because of the sun. Oranges. Wine. Enormous trees. Women with enormous fake tits. Men with fake orange tans or enormous chin implants. I hear you can get testicle implants as well, but I wouldn't be interested in that in slightest. Wellington would object. Clubs. Home of Joni Mitchell, and something must wrong with a person if they don't like Joni.
I wonder if Joni would mind a call from an English gentleman and deafish (ex) rock musician?
Oh, it would make Anna pink with jealousy.
And when she is jealous, she gets grabby and we have yowling tempestuous sex.
Ah. It has been awhile. Poor girl.
The stars are bright overhead, spread over the sky like little night blossoms in a field.
Breath steaming into the dark, swirls of mist. Quiet suffuses everything.
I could lie out here forever under that sky, on this earth. Feeling that I am not larger than a marble on an earth that has slowly crept to a halt, even for just half a beat.
Makes one feel that it's not bad, not bad at all, the way things are.
March 22nd 2005
Bloody hell. Fell asleep in the grass and forgot ground was soaking from torrential rain.
Now soaked and shivering in the car.
Oh, but I am clever.
Didz and his sleeping bag are warm.
He's also very – 'cuddly' – as Anna might say.
I hope he doesn't mind.
Well, he shouldn't.
I am/was a sexy rock musician of sorts.
March 24th 2005
My creative dry spell has been broken.
I have written a new song at last. I have climbed up the proverbial mountain (well, hills, there's lots of hills out here, and sheep), like those old school gospel singers. I have climbed up and arrived back down with a song.
I feel alive again.
Didz trying to start a fire so we can cook and toast things. This should be a fascinating experience.
Didz still hasn't gotten the fire started, but he has lit the tips of his hair on fire. Ha. If I laugh again he'll leave me to finish with the fire duties.
We have fire.
Didz's nose is singed.
Not laughing at his plight.
Worryingly want to kiss his nose, almost, but that would be far too. I'm not that overly 'cuddly'.
Didz did fire, so I cook. Toast and beans. And tea. Good hearty English food.
Didz says the song needs 'something more'.
Oh, someone's a bit shirty about the whole fire business yet.
'Oh, that "Midas touch" bit is nice, but, I dunno. It's a bit.'
'For some reason it reminds me of Alannis Morrisette's "You Oughta Know", only with less foul language. And by a bloke.'
Oh just shut up and eat your beans and toast.
Anna – I don't know what she thinks about the song.
She said 'oh, I have the polka dot peanut butter thanks darling'.
She's a rather hungry girl. First celery and then peanut butter.
Didz listens to Alannis Morisette?
'Yes, I do listen to Alannis Carl,' Didz says, rubbing his nose and stirring the fire with a stick. It's now a pile of ash mostly, so I'm not sure what he intends with the stirring business.
Anna should have come. She was in Catholic school for God's sake and I already know the things she learnt there that she probably shouldn't have. And in SAGGA. She still has her uniform somewhere, the little orange scarf and all. Hmmmm. Hmmmm.
I've never actually seen her wear it. She's probably too small for it now. Like her schoolgirl outfit, which she will never wear for me.
'It plays into that whole fetishising and infantilasation of women and girls,' Anna says.
The wot with the wot and the wotsit? I just nod at her because she is smarter than me on some things and there's no point arguing.
Oh, Didz is saying something.
'Avril Lavigne, you have to admit she's catchy. And this amazing Norwegian pop band called the Delillos*. Amazing Carl.'
If I was not already distracted I might think too much on this and feel ill.
Midway through fantasy of Anna in guide uniform, she turned to me and said I was a dirty old man.
Fantasies shouldn't do that. They don't have self-will.
And I am not that old. Shit.
Walked away from camp a little to pretend to take a piss. Called Anna to see if there could be any phone sex.
She kept saying, 'Oh rubba squishy ham!'
God's sake. When I'm in better service range, I'm calling O2 and complaining. This is ridiculous. A man has his needs.
Back at camp. Needs taken care of to a certain satisfaction, but it's never quiet as fun on your oneses. But vaguely satisfied I was able, even if it ended in a rather lop-sided type of salute. Oh Wellington, you will rise again my boy.
Didz has rekindled fire. Has radio on and is dancing around the fire howling and singing nonsense.
He is such rubbish sometimes.
Am not dancing with him. And howling and stomping and going mad.
Clothes are coming off, but I have a feeling this has nothing to do with pent up sexual wotsit.
Nudity is fun.
And cold. Cold.
Excuse to huddle with Didz.
I am not a lecher.
'Happy to see me eh?'
'Something like that.'
Didz says it would not be wise at this point, as I am too enamoured of Messr. Doherty still and he doesn't want to take advantage or end up used.
Since when has that stopped him before?
March 24th 2005
Woke up this morning to Didz drooling and being grazed by a sheep. His hair grazed, that is.
Why didn't I bring a camera?
Didz panicked when he woke up with sheep grazing him. I told him the sheep was just giving him a little love.
Didz was not humored.
That's what you get when you turn down Carlos.
Went fishing with Didz, but in classic Didz (notice how his name is one consonant away from ditz?) style, he forgot the tackle.
'Oh, great job Didz. First the tent, now the tackle.'
Didz seemed to consider and then started going on about reading in some magazine or book about men in a culture who fished using their willies.
'I am not sticking my cock in cold bacteria infested water and wiggling it at fish Didz.'
'Was just a thought Carl, since you were moaning on about it like an old woman. You're so bloody OCD lately.'
'I am not.'
'Says the man who's started putting gin in his milk. I've seen you Carl. Anna thinks you're a loony.'
'There's germs in there if it's not properly pasteurized, I'll have you know,' I said stiffly.
Kids these days.
Beans and toast again.
Am not 'cuddled' next to Didz in the car and thinking of grabbing a feel. He isn't that bad looking, for a scruffy sheep-grazed burnt pillock.
Has it really been all that long since I had a decent shag? A shag at all???
Oh god, it has.
4 months since I've been much good to Anna. All I can seem to manage is changing the speeds on the vibrator when she tells me to, much less more daunting tasks. Last time I went down on her she started doing the crossword puzzle.
'What's a 4-letter word for "only recently rubbish in the sack"?'
'No, it doesn't start with an "A", it starts with a "C", but it does have an "A" in it.'
'Ah, you know I love you anyways Carl.'
Much less full on, filthy, dirty, sweaty ol' tab A slot B rutting.
9, 10??? (not 11 - that's nearly an entire bloody year!!!) months since a bloke's had at me. (10 and a half???)
And the second to last was Peter in a sort of last ditch 'Fuck the doubt out of me, yeah?' thing.
See how well that one worked.
I had a sore bum for a week.
Didz sound asleep. Pillock.
Now if I grab a feel I'll feel pervy and guilty, like I'm taking advantage of the slumbering innocent.
Ha. Ha. Ha.
But can give myself a feel.
Come on lad . . .
March 25th 2005
Then started thinking about Peter, which, usually should make me more horny, but. Even things between us were really bad near the end. Not the shagging. Well. Everything.
It was really bad.
I still think of him that night last December right after I disbanded The Libertines. He came 'round the flat and I could hear him screaming and crying and carrying on at me, throwing things at the window. And he was out of his skull. I could hear it in his voice. Broken sounding like shattered glass, cold and sharp edges.
In the end he just sat down on the curb and cried. For hours it seemed like.
And I was up in the flat. I couldn't cry. Just. Drained dry. Not enough in me but to crumple up and feel my ear aching where the tumor was, hearing out of one ear to Pete sob for the both of us, for all of everything.
Anna didn't know what to do with me and it wouldn't have made a wit of difference. All I wanted to do that night was drink myself to death; fall asleep, never wake up.
I want life to come back to me so desperately, but then, I wonder if it is life without Pete. He makes everything jangle and jive, become real, immediate. He woke me up to life. I sometimes wonder if I would have been lost to some cubicle job guitar collecting dust, if I hadn't met him.
It's collecting dust anyways.
No dull normalcy for anything with him though. Ho no.
Though now he's a disgustingly normal crack whore and H addict, amongst other things.
But then – I'm addicted to him one could say.
Maybe this is all withdrawal. Getting used to not having to have him.
The thought hurts like a pin in the heart.
Didz went up to take a piss. I'm pretending to be asleep. I don't want to be bothered.
Didz pokes me and says he knows I'm pretending.
'Oh, is that right?'
'Yeah. And you've been tossing all night. It keeps me up.'
'Maybe you're just a light sleeper.'
'Carl, you alright?'
I tell him fine, now sod off.
I apologized. He's only trying to be kind.
And to be honest it's been months since anyone's asked me if I was alright in such a sweet manner.
My feet are cold and everything's wrong. But I suppose this is life. Can't pack it up just because the going gets tough.
Didz tells me I'm made of sterner stuff anyways. And it would be a pity to lose such a great musician.
Oh yes. And general person. The world is apparently strapped for genuine blokes who give a fuck these days and have a dash of integrity and dignity and believe in what they do.
And are bloody good looking. But he's not giving me a pity shag. Or even pity head or hand job.
But did I do the right thing, disbanding the band like that?
Didz considers this. He thinks I did the only thing I could, given the situation. Given what I've said to him, things couldn't continue the way they were. Pete and I were just heading off in two different directions, for one thing. For another, Pete thinks he can do whatever the fuck he wants and forgets that he's part of a unit. He can't just do what he wants, and if things had continued, he would have brought us all down with him. It would have killed me.
Maybe it already did (I say).
Maybe, he says.
Why not a pity head or hand job?
And he's asleep again and Wellington and I are half not.
He smells so – good. Clean sheets and cotton and something sugary, sweet. Orangy even.
Will sneak out.
Too tired to be arsed.
At least I tried.
March 26th 2005
Packed up camp and heading home. Thank God. I nearly got grazed taking a nap yesterday afternoon. Didz laughed at me. I told him it wasn't funny.
'Because it's you involved now?'
'No, because I am a style icon and having my hair nibbled upon could be a national disaster.' And then I pouted prettily. Didz grumbled he shouldn't have stroked my ego.
Maybe not. I've gotten rather found of him though. He's a good lad. Solid and loyal and lord knows I need people like that. Those who can be constant for me.
Beginning to wish he'd bloody stroke other things aside from my ego. We shall see.
Wrote another song while in car having my ear tormented by El.
Didz likes this one better.
'Rather sad one Carl, with all that find ourselves with no way home business. And I like that line about it being good to be in love with someone.'
And then he looks at me. And sticks out his tongue and crosses his eyes at me.
Rubbish, I tell you.
I haven't a clue what I've gotten myself into with this one.
Within service range of London. The Missus will be home this afternoon when I get in.
Good times will be had by all.
* Ah, the Delillos. I dug up this from youtub, with the Delillos performing 'Min Beibe Dro Avsted' ('My Baby Went Away'), for those who would, for some strange reason, be interested: