I live alone. I’m happy to be on my own. I don’t like people. Such is my dislike for people that I’ve thrown out any spare chairs from my house, so potential visitors have nowhere to sit. Call me inhospitable. Who gives a fuck! Lockdown? It’s a godsend. Doesn’t bother me at all. I don’t get lonely because I don’t like company anyway.
It’s Christmas day and I’ve just visited my son. He’s about the only person I can be bothered with. My son and I have had disagreements in the past and we’ve gone for long periods without speaking to each other. But he is my son. He’s all I’ve got.
Left my son’s house at around 3 AM. It was fucking cold out. Got home and cracked open a can of beer, sat down on my armchair and watched television while I drank. I drink too much. What the fuck! It’s my life and my decision and I don’t give a toss what anybody thinks. I know it’s not good for me, especially now I’m in my 70s. Can’t drink like I used to though. I mean I used to have at least six cans of lager a day. Maybe eight. Who knows?
I wonder what’s on telly — picks up the controller and switches the television on. Oh God, it’s fucking Fiona Bruce, her face caked in make-up — turns her head this way and that as she reads the news, her eyes fixed on the camera all the time. “Look at me” she’s saying. “Don’t I look fantastic.” What a poser! How long did the make up artists take to iron out all those creases? Her face looks as smooth as a baby’s bum. You can see the false colouration in her cheeks and around her eyes, so beautifully rendered by the make-up team. Bet they’ve had to apply mountains of powder puff to make her look like that. Them make-up artists deserve a fucking medal. God, she’s so smarmy I want to reach for the sick bucket. Yep, Fiona Bruce just about epitomises everything I hate about the BBC. Hugh Edwards’ face is the same. Can’t make up my mind whether he is a ghoul or a BBC mannequin made up to look grotesquely human. I reckon he’s had Botox injected into his top lip. Don’t seem to twitch like it used to.
One beer leads to another and then another. Turned my wrist and looked at my watch. It was 4:30 PM. I decided to take my two dogs for a walk. One of them was a stray. He kept coming back to my house so I took him in. Called him Satnav on account of the fact that he always found his way to my place. He knew that I would take him in and look after him. They say dogs have a sixth sense. He often sits at my feet with his head resting on my leg, his large doleful eyes looking up at me. The dog loves me and I love him. He gets on well with my other dog. I’ve had him since he was a puppy. We are all happy together. We don’t need no one else.
I used to write songs about contemporary issues — politics and current news items, that sort of thing, then perform in folk clubs. Haven’t written anything for ages now. It all went tits up when I wrote a song praising Brexit. I got booed off of stage by a lefty liberal audience. Performing was like a commando raid. I’d go to the folk club and sing and then have to get out quick, before the bottles began to fly. One of them hit my guitar once, made a small hole in the sound board. Fucking sensitive turds.
I actually stopped drinking about six months ago. I was drinking six cans of Stella lager a day. So one day I said I’m not going to do it anymore and I didn’t drink for ages but then I thought ‘what the heck’, and snapped open a can and started drinking again. I have to say I felt more positive and less suicidal when I wasn’t drinking.
I used to think I was brilliant. I couldn’t understand why the rest of the world didn’t think so too. I’m a fabulous smug-fuck, that’s what I am. I don’t feel so fabulous now though — reaching for another can, pulling it from the six-pack plastic ring and snapping it open. Slowly getting more and more pissed, more and more reflective.
Maybe the beer has made me sentimental but I’m suddenly feeling a bit warmer towards an old friend that I fell out with years ago. He is an egocentric bastard. I might get in touch with him, start burying the hatchet before it buries me. I mean I’m seventy-three now. Seventy-three fucking years old. How did that happen?
Checks his watch again.
Jesus Christ it’s nearly 6 o’clock — gets up from his comfortable armchair, puts on his coat. The dogs run around his feet, bounce up and down on their back legs, panting with the tongues hanging out, front paws on his hips. “Come on boys ….” — grabbing a couple of leads.
So I’m in the park, minding my own business with the dogs running around. There’s another couple walking their dogs. One of their dogs comes running up to my dog and starts attacking him so I hit it with a stick that I used for walking. The bloke who owned the dog started screaming at me, so I hit him across the chops with the stick. His wife grabbed the stick, so I pushed her away. The bloke got really angry and bashed me across the chops with his fist. I shouted at him, told him he was a cunt. Now I’ve got this this fucking great lump on my head. Tried to phone the police but they’re fucking useless. When I got home I snapped open another can of beer. See what I mean about people. I can’t stand them. Fuck the human race. Merry Christmas everyone.