I am utterly saddle sore and ravenous from riding my bike to and from work. Yesterday morning I crashed into a bin. In the evening I shat myself all the way home thinking that a beast might rear up out of the filthy, darkened waters of the canal and eat me. Or that hooded yoofs might jump out from the bushes on the attack.

I am, however, enjoying it one hundred times more than the horrendous tube during rush hour and will continue to bike it to work until injuries stop me from doing so.

It would be much more fun to ride a horse or elephant to work though. Regal in fact.

In the space of a week I have gone from painfully but deliciously gritty phet fuelled house party debauchery to spending the weekend drinking microwaved cherryade with Carla Parr & then getting paid over £9 per hour to look after 350 magicians, juggle clementines and stroke rabbits & doves backstage at the International Magic Circle Convention with a body popping wizard called Dynamo.

What the fuck is going on in my life? Am not sure but I like it….keep it coming please.

Beware, beware, the rats are out to play..... coming to a sleepy provincial town near you....soon.



Circus party images as promised......vile and lovable freaks we are indeed...

Fuck me, Matthew Bourne is an absolute genius.

Watching Edward Scissorhands last night left me feeling like I had been ravaged.

The rats and I stumbled out of Sadler’s Wells and down fairy-light-lined Rosebery Avenue into the night red-eyed, sniffling & stunned.

It never fails to amaze me how this man can keep your heart rate raised for two fucking hours. His work is tragic, hilarious, beautiful and almost uncomfortably sensual.

I really loved it when Carlsy (who had never seen contemporary dance or ballet before) said that she didn’t realise there weren’t any words until the interval. Now that’s how it fucking well should be mate.

I am going again before it closes.

Now from the sublime to the ridiculous….. This blog is written by someone who has been living in the woods near Oxford since June.

http://ditchmonkey.blogspot.com

Oh God, the house party.....

Only just starting to recover enough to write about it. There were a couple of moments when I thought I was at Burning Man. I am so utterly proud of my default world friends.

Can only recall a few surreal, filthy and fabulous fragments of the night –

-Clowns fresh out of rehab (really!) absolutely fucked up and asleep in our basement, while revellers partied all around. A poignant tableau if ever I saw one.

-Naked fire-eaters in the kitchen scaring all the straight boys.

-Showgirls fucked right up on crystal meth. Ahem.

-Me and Lorn bouncing up and down on her bed yelling along to Albion and almost weeing ourselves with joy. "gin in tea cups and leaves on the laaaawn....hic"

-An utterly gorgeous and adorable stagehand wearing a ladies’ hat scampering about the house.

-Sarcastic and bored Lions

-Evil and sinister clowns



-Human Cannonballs.

-Helsy introducing me to her “roomy” from America and me scoffing loudly at the notion of an English person saying “roomy” with a straight face. Or anyone for that matter.

-Fuad turning up as a beautiful Bengal tiger and chewing on a twig all night

-Strange chavs invading and clearly being utterly terrified, ha!

-Staying in bed with the stagehand, who is called Matt the Turtle, until Monday morning and adoring every minute.

This is literally all I can remember….any comments appreciated. I will post photos later….

Very excited indeed. Shaun Higgins is back in this green and pleasant land.

I have invited him to our party on Saturday, which I am excited enough about anyway, without the prospect of a dear burner friend being there….

It’s gonna be an absolute stonker with various degenerates, renegades, geeks, feathercuts, wannabe rock stars, drug dealers, council workers, public school boys, hippies, chavs, middle aged geezers, transvestites, neighbours, random strangers, new shags and old friends coming from all over the country.

I love our parties as they’re so diverse in every way, but everyone always gets on alright. (Or sometimes they fight each other at 8am with 4ft wrought iron candlesticks, which is funny anyway)

All the men seem to be coming as lions (as Hels put “Big Cats and Showgirls” on the text invite) which is predictable but nice and fluffy. However, Jamie-the-Polo-Player-From-Last-Friday is coming as a medium sized cat, which is infinitely more interesting. I'm glad we have a fun new friend...

My word. I am an absolutely disgraceful Slutmonkey. Duck pancakes have ruined any chances of spiritual progress this week.

Since I last wrote, Helen and I have been recklessly indulging in the pleasures of the flesh and have given in to every carnal desire in a depraved and shameless manner.

It is no way to exist long term, but it has been much fun and has involved the following-

Polo players, guns and clockwork mice.

Bedrock (Of course)

Random bitery.

Shaking the cage to frighten Jamie and him liking it (?!?)

Feathercuts. Actually was the same one as a couple of weeks ago. Was looking like he could be a regular fixture until he told me that his favourite film is the Exorcist. It could never work, am not going to see (shag) him again. Also he (we) broke my beautiful bed.

3 stand up comedians and a dog called Sandy

Consumption of soap-beer cocktails at 4am, mmmm.

Contemporary dance pieces which comment on the racial tensions between African and Jamaican men in an unnecessarily horny manner.

Finding a beast in our garden. It is trying to burrow it’s way into our house through a vent into the basement.

Sunny, the UKs finest male Belly Dancer.

Little Chris roaring over incredibly loud punk rock about his dead, deported girlfriend’s hanky (again) while we sniggered uncontrollably. I think we may be off his guestlist forever.

Spending 8 hrs in bed together eating, laughing and being weird.

Texts from men that say – “I thought you were cool & sexy but u’ve used me. I’m not just a piece of meat I’m a loving human bean.”

Excessive consumption of everything we encounter. Like pacman but more disgusting.

The result of this depravity is, essentially, that Helen’s bedsheets are covered in seaweed and szechuan sauce, we have sore throats, there are fag ends in the snug and both our beds are completely broken (mine is tied together with string and propped up by a small table) along with some young men’s hearts.

We should never be left alone together in the house again for more than an hour.

I have a moral dilemma.

My mum sent me a tenner in the post today along with a card which stated that it was a belated wedding present and some Welsh dragon stickers for the Burn. She is so wonderful.

So, considering it is the only £10 I will have in my possesion until payday (24 November), do I spend it on something sensible like bagels & socks or do I spend it on whisky fuelled 3am debauchery with feathered friends and foes in a mercilessly loud, filthy, smoky, sweaty basement dive up the West end tonight?

Hmmm....

Just found this little gem on flickr. I fucking love his work so much. He appears to be obsessed with rats, which is always a good thing. I wish he could come to the House of Rats for tea. I would feed him battenburg cake, brandy coffee and jam tarts and we would discuss the psyche of the rat.

This man is an absolute fucking inspiration. Nuff said.

I am so brave.

I went to the New Globe with Richie last night to perv on students. Behind the bar was a divine young feathercut who was not unlike the vampire Lestat. Got chatting to him and turns out he lives in Mossford street just behind us.

I wrote my address and number down and asked him to our circus party on the 19th. He’s going to come as a lion. How very exciting. I don't think I have ever brazenly chatted someone up before. The normal system is to grab them by the hair and snog them in Bedrock.

Oh how we all love Halloween....

Three things have transpired from this weekend -

A) Helen's new man, House,(he of the sun God worship) is rather a charmer (or a stalker?) He turned up unnanounced early this morning and cooked us all smoked salmon and egg croissants. Considering that they have only been on one date I am not sure what to make of this but I enjoyed the food. He also read a subliminal message into the fact she gave him tea in a Spice Girls mug. Zig-a-Zig Ah? We shall see.

B) Bonfire night is a bit of a let down. In the words of Sargeant Pepper -

"Pah. That's not a fire or fireworks! Sorry I shouldn't compare to the greatest show on earth."

I'm rather inclined to agree.

C) The besrkr blood which I spoke of last month runs strongly in the veins of my own family. (My dad's side has a lot of Irish blood) I called my dad on Friday night and he was out in Cardiff with my two brothers, sister in law to be and various psycho degenerates from my childhood.

During the course of the conversation some local hoods tried to mug my dad for the phone and were duly battered by my older brother and his mates while my little brother ran off down the street crying. Eventually the police turned up and they all had to do a runner in my Dad's car. The cacophony over the airwaves was remininscent of Begby, besrkrs and all things Shameless.

As I listened to my family brawling on the street 200 miles away, I pondered our genepool and the behaviour that results from it. It's little wonder that my brother and I have a confused cultural identity having been half brought (dragged) up by a warehouse robbing, benefit fiddling, wordly-wise Geordie pimp and half brought up by a compassionate, spiritual, optimistic, yoga-teaching saviour of homeless and blind people. It's like having each foot in two very different worlds and I am grateful for that.

Anyway, I have to leave the house now as every bedroom barring mine contains Sunday-snuggling couples talking coupleshit to each other in baby voices no doubt and the cutesy vibes are too much to bear. I'm going to the pub.

I’m really looking forward to a very quiet weekend which will not involve any of the following things - drinking to excess, too much awakeness, snogging, strange ranty people, shagging or dancing.

To that end I have just emailed Hels and proposed we get into full on snuggly buggly mode involving duvets, 10p crisps, pyjamas (and possibly egg on toast in bed together if we’re feeling particularly rakish) as soon as we get home from work tonight.

Can’t wait.

God. I'm so excited I could eat my own arm.

Pepper and I are exchanging almost daily texts at the moment about ideas for our part of the Bribh Camp. It's gonna be so fuckin ace. I'm going to email Kiwi right now and get him to put some space aside....

I seek change like a busker, but things stay much the same....or do they?

Hmmm…

The ex and I went to our old haunt on Edgware road last night. We smoked shisha, drank mint tea and discussed various topics including racial tensions, marriage, our parents & mutual friends. It could have been two years ago but for the obvious difference.

It was good though, with only one moment of awkwardness when an over persistent rose-seller came round.

This morning I found twenty quid in my make-up bag. He is claiming the cash fairy put it there but I know different. It is overwhelmingly sweet how friends stand by you when you need it most. I am very lucky.

It’s looking increasingly as though Carla Parr might move in, which would be utterly perfect. Go on Carlsy, you know you want to….it would be such fun.

If Carla doesn’t, then I don’t know who the fuck will, but they’ll have to be comfortable with the following eccentricities –

- Communal nakedness (Should be a girl really. Straight men would be a handful and that much female flesh on a daily basis would frighten any self respecting gay man.)

-Being jumped on in bed on a Sunday morning

-Overfriendliness of the young chavs on the estate – Sample conversation:

“Like penny for the guy like, innit yeah?”

“You haven’t got a guy”

“I’m the guy”

“That’s a shit effort, fuck off”

-Being woken up at 4am on a Wednesday morning because of forgotten keys.

-Communal bathroom activities.

-Occasionally - communal Darkness.

Go on Carlsy, go on go on. Book that van today sweetheart. We love you so much, and you won’t have to take your clothes off if you don’t want to.

Helen had a date last night with a man called House who claims that Ra is his God. Halfway through the night she sent me text, which just said “Fuck!” Not sure if this is good or bad. She was not home when I left for work this morning and I very much hope she got laid. House is quite fit and witty for someone who bases his belief system upon ancient Egyptian theology.

I have got my first work related private view this evening. I shall drink cheap wine, scrutinize very expensive pots and try not to knock anything over.

After that I am meeting the Ex (*sharp choking intake of breath*), who phoned me last night. We spoke for over an hour, as there was so much news to share after two month’s silence. I hadn’t realised how much I have missed the fucker. Perhaps there is hope of friendship. Hmmmm. We shall see. He is giving me some bike lights, which is useful.

It is a sad week this week.

I have not written about this yet as I have been in denial but it is no longer avoidable….

Boo is moving out of the House of Rats to live with her boyfriend Joe. I have a tear in my eye just thinking about it. From the early student days where we co-habited with a gay middle aged ex-Catholic priest (Michael) and the manic depressive head of the London Met student union (Richard), Boo and I have lived together in four houses over five years and it will not be the same without her.

Boudicca-Lee, although I am proud of you for taking it to the next level, I will miss you unbearably and am grateful for all the times we have spent together and all the things you have taught me. I salute you and wish you luck in sharing a bed & a kitchen with a man every night.(!)

Favourite Boo moments include –

Worrying about Michael as he rocked on the stairs of 13 Meath Road crying “Mummy, Mummy.”

Endless jokes of “escapeas”

Buying ten Es for Boo’s mum and then naughtily scoffing the lot in one fateful night

Attending the infamous gay orgy

Staggering home from an all night party in Hammersmith to find Boo baking apple crumble for us as a treat.

Working the bar at Reading, throwing up quite a lot, laughing at Little Chris (“I’m so horny I could shag a puppy”) and falling out with the Anarchists faction.

The afternoon where I met all of Boo’s family who were clearly thinking and hoping that we were a lesbian couple and settling down together “But darling, are you sure you’re not gay? I really wouldn’t mind” – Jan, Boo’s mum.

Staying up all night to finish our dissertations a week early (Why?!) and handing them in as soon as the office opened before going home to drink whisky, eat pizza, watch the Lion King on video and weep when Simba’s dad dies.

All the nights at Bedrock and Candybox where Boo stood in the corner and said in a very small voice, “I’m really drunk.”

The fateful Easter Sunday, where we knocked over loads of biscuit displays at the Spar and which ended up with me threatening Boo with a bread knife because she likes pop music - “Tell me you don’t like S Club 7!!” (Probably not her favourite memory, that one. Probably not mine either actually. Bad Jess.)

Perving on newbies at Ticketmaster during those long, boring shifts.mmmm.

Finding ourselves in a dirty acid techno rave on Stratford industrial estate at 9am on a Bank Holiday Monday morning swigging neat tequila from the bottle and dancing in a debauched trio with a wild tranny (Courts of course) while all the ravers looked at us in shock and disdain.

Boudicca, I love you man…