What the fuck did I do?

Okay, so imagine I go into a car showroom. I see this car that is utterly perfect for what I need. I take it for a test drive. The salesman spends hours telling me all about it and why it is just right. The price is £15,000, but I only have £5,000 to spend (of course I didn't tell the salesman that because that would contravene equal opportunities, or some such). So I say that's a great car I'd like it. Here's £5,000 for it, because that's all I have. And he says? Of course you can have a £15,000 car for £5,000. In fact, I'll throw in some new tyres, a full tank of petrol and road tax because after all you're such a nice person and it's not like I need the money because I'm such a wealthy bastard anyway. I mean what else would he say?

You think that's daft? Because everyday that is what my public sector clients say to me. How much to do this bit of work? Okay, but can you do it for one third the price and show some gratitude that I'm asking you at all. And when I say, no, the price is what the price is, they think I'm being greedy. How much do you think any organisation can do for £2,500? £2,500 probably buys a day of a barrister, two days of an accountant, four days of a top academic a night with a high class call girl. It does not buy 15 days of me, which is what your little commission needs. When I said £7,500 that was cheap at half the price. And like a supermodel I don't get out of bed for £2,500. Except, I do because I'm a greedy bastard, aren't I?

Had a lovely meeting this morning. Sort of people who are a credit to their local Council. No hidden agendas, happy to talk openly and agree a price and a timescale that inhabits the real world.

Meanwhile our friends in the north are still kicking off. But a glimmer remains. The light hasn't yet died. We might yet meet in the middle, even if they've shifted the world so far off its access what is now the middle was previously the extreme wing of unreason.

The clear lesson in all this is never, ever, even if they offer you your weight in silver and gold, work for a "partnership" (oh the myriad meanings behind that word). One client, one commission, one invoice, one vision (to paraphrase Mr Mercury)!

The first thing I published was the lyrics to Dogs.

Why?

Put simply, because Roger Waters' cynical description of business sums up how many of my clients view me. You see, I'm the devil, Beelzebub, the fallen angel. The smell of sulphur follows me around. I'm a consultant. And for my sins (this is getting Biblical), I do all my work for the public sector. And I used to work for the very people who now use my "private" services. Gamekeeper turned poacher, so to speak. But I'm dragged down by the stone and so this is me swimming back to the surface to shout back at them before I cut the rope and head out to sea, not drowning but waving, leaving them on their filthy shoreline.

Dogs (Waters, Gilmour)

You gotta be crazy, you gotta have a real need.
You gotta sleep on your toes, and when you're on the street,
You gotta be able to pick out the easy meat with your eyes closed.
And then moving in silently, down wind and out of sight,
You gotta strike when the moment is right without thinking.

And after a while, you can work on points for style.
Like the club tie, and the firm handshake,
A certain look in the eye and an easy smile.
You have to be trusted by the people that you lie to,
So that when they turn their backs on you,You'll get the chance to put the knife in.

You gotta keep one eye looking over your shoulder.
You know it's going to get harder, and harder, and harder as you get older.
And in the end you'll pack up and fly down south,
Hide your head in the sand,
Just another sad old man,
All alone and dying of cancer.

And when you lose control, you'll reap the harvest you have sown.
And as the fear grows, the bad blood slows and turns to stone.
And it's too late to lose the weight you used to need to throw around.
So have a good drown, as you go down, all alone,
Dragged down by the stone.

I gotta admit that I'm a little bit confused.
Sometimes it seems to me as if I'm just being used.
Gotta stay awake, gotta try and shake off this creeping malaise.
If I don't stand my own ground, how can I find my way out of thismaze?
Deaf, dumb, and blind, you just keep on pretending
That everyone's expendable and no-one has a real friend.
And it seems to you the thing to do would be to isolate the winner
And everything's done under the sun,
And you believe at heart, everyone's a killer.

Who was born in a house full of pain.
Who was trained not to spit in the fan.
Who was told what to do by the man.
Who was broken by trained personnel.
Who was fitted with collar and chain.
Who was given a pat on the back.
Who was breaking away from the pack.
Who was only a stranger at home.
Who was ground down in the end.
Who was found dead on the phone.
Who was dragged down by the stone.

I'm going to add some posts from another blog I started but didn't keep up.  It's about my work life, not my sex life.  It's another side of me.

Keep watching...

Geraldine and her Winner's Song...pure pop genius. Brilliant pastiche. Laughed so hard my head fell off.

In other news, there isn't any. And there's nowt on the telly. And I have a groin strain. So no running for me.

But Elbow in Leeds on Saturday. Hope there ain't any nouveau Mercury fans, just those wot have been listening since the beginning.

And I have tickets to see The Killers. And the Mighty Boosh. And James.

So a sort of 7/10 day

Silence speaks volumes. So, this is perhaps a novella. But the quietness will still me for now. I feel your judgement and it weighs heavy upon me.

But in my defence, I have been sorely tested by the world and pushed to the brink. I have looked the tiger in the eye and not blinked (if that's what one does in such an analogy). And I am stronger. I am taller. But I have an Achilles heel. For some it's food. For some cocaine. Others alcohol. For me it's unattainable beauty. My name is Prince and I am funky. When it comes to funk, I am a junky. Or at least a Sexy Mother Fucker.

I am rambling. Wombling. Underground overground, wonbling free. But not free. But addicted to naked, nudity, touch and feel. See me. Feel me. Touch me. Heal me.

So many women. So little time. Five years ago I'd known but one. Now it's a number closer to my age. And I've lost sight of morality. I'm blind. Deaf, dumb and blind boy, he's in a quiet vibration land.

And they make me vibrate. Buzz. Hum. They alleviate my self esteem issues. I'm not the outwardly successful, upwardly mobile, go-getter you think I am. I'm as fucked up as the next guy.

I'm as fucked up as the next guy. I'm a fuck up. I hate myself and I wanna die. Ok, not quite the full Kurt, but I do hate myself, what I've become. Or to be precise me age 24 despises me age 44. What a saddo. What a user. What a middle aged tosser. Throws his money around to make the girls "love" him. A fake. A faker. Shoot me. Put him out of his misery. They shoot horses don't they.

And yet I am loved. But I don't feel worthy. I am abusing that love. Don't love me. See through me. See what I really am. Inside a festering black cancer. Outside Mr Happy Go Lucky.

Help. I need somebody. Help. Not just anybody. Help. You know I need someone.