Twelve angry men

1.

I felt a tremor replace the emptiness of the completion of Part One: the words of Charlottesville, those first, half-formed paragraphs and disconnected memories started speaking to me, and I couldn't handle it. Part One has been a comfort – a simple read-through, a word, a comma here and there – but now we've said goodbye and the new and the unknown has begun its knocking. I felt it clearly; I wanted it to go away. "I can't do it," I said, and it began to recede. "Maybe in a few months," I said, hoping that it would be there then, when I was ready, knowing that it would.

2.

I then read of Kerouac and his "roll" – I thought that sounded like rather a good idea. I thought that maybe I'd have to write this painstakingly, the whole start-to-finish thing – and then discard it and do it all again in one mad rush. I liked the sound of that. If I have to do it ten times over to get it right, if that's what it takes, I will.

3.

One day I'll leave all this behind: I'll say goodbye to mobile phone and facebook and internet and I'll jettison all non-necessary possessions and just disappear, and tell nobody where I've gone. I could just go driving off down the M1, and then into the continent, and from there, who knows? I could reappear one day in the deserts of America, me and my thumb seeking wide open spaces and minds, freight trains and mountaintops, legally or otherwise, having hacked through Canadian border forests following a printed google satellite map. Or I could lose myself in India, in Israel, in the mass of Asia; anything is possible. In the mean time, though, I bide my time, and do my duty, with work, in England. Quiz show producers ask me, "what will you do with the money?" and are surprised, knowing my history, when I don't say travel. But I know I'm in the right place, and I know it's not time for that – yet. I hold it in my mind and my heart, and she whispers to me like a sweetheart, "one day, my son, I'll come for you…"

4.

I dreamed this week an extraordinary, vivid dream of Mother Meera and of her at some gathering, answering questions from excited followers and her excited too and giving decidedly unlike her answers, flamboyant and energetic and amused. In my heart I felt finally I could get the answer on X – and on my love-life in general – and it burned impatient in me to ask her, to get my turn. I got my turn, and I got my answer – shorter than those she gave the others, but no less satisfying, and clear, and patently correct. I woke soon after – and promptly forgot what she had said. Slightly frustrating.

5.

Others have said, "get back with her" or, "you obviously don't love her" or, "maybe you should be polyamorous" – and it's only the third that seems to have had any 'ring of truth' for me (taking it as 'loving all' rather than 'sleeping around'). But maybe I've been looking for an answer when there isn't one, necessarily, just out of habit, out of some mental compulsion. Maybe my reality is my answer. What should I be? Look around you, see what you're doing, be that. What about the future? Cross that bridge when you come to it. What about this decision, or that decision, what should I do? What decision? If you don't have the answer, then the moment of decision isn't upon you; when the moment comes, the answer will be there. Relax. Don't think about it. Everything's okay.

6.

I'm eating too many dates; I ate a kilo on Wednesday, and another kilo between yesterday afternoon and just now. I don't know if that's bad for you, but it certainly doesn't feel good. Contrary to what a few people have said, though, it doesn't really do anything to make you shit – that's more apricots and prunes. If you ever want to have some nasty, smelly, sloppy shits, eat a big bag of dried apricots – those things are evil. Me and apricots are no longer on speaking terms. And that's official.

7.

When I die I'm going to have a good old giggle; I've no doubt that this life of mine is going to be quite entertaining in the selected highlights and slow-motion run-through that takes place in that celestial editing suite/review room in the sky. I can see myself now, slapping my forehead at all the missed clues – and tittering at the mishaps and madnesses, the choices I made, the confusion illuminated by the benefits of hindsight and foresight and full on, all encompassing, ten dimensional soul-sight. How funny, and mouth-watering, and tantalising that will be – and, also, how inconsequential to the soul newly released from body and mind, and identity and name, this whole lifetime that I currently call Rory put back into place alongside the hundreds of thousands of others I have lived. This whole lifetime another memory, another experience, as comparable in the lifetime of a soul as any given ten minute period is to my present body and mind.

8.

On a more serious note, I was thinking that the Earth is kind of a dark place, and it doesn't seem fair that one should have to struggle so hard to discover one's light in such a dense, materialistic environment. Given that even the concept of saving the planet – never mind the actuality of it – is futile and naïve, it seems only rational that it should be possible to graduate this world of ours, and get a chance elsewhere, where things aren't quite so hard, once you've transcended Earth. I think that's what our job is – how we do graduate – and I think that's what I'd like. I can't think of much left here to interest me.

9.

When you look at the great souls that have walked this Earth – let's take Jesus and Buddha and Amma as three examples – you can see that they all lived pretty selfish lives, and always did exactly what they wanted to do, whether others liked it – or even hated it – or not. Jesus did his whole desert and pissing off the Jews thing; Buddha left his wife and kid and disappeared into the forest; and Amma was barking mad, bringing shame on her family and burying herself in sand. Basically, they always did what they wanted (at least, until they found themselves, and then they gave selflessly, though still pissed people off and only did exactly what they wanted to do). I think there's a lot to be learned from that. I think some people get too carried away with involving themselves in others, or trying to save the planet, without ever having got to know themselves, truly tried to save themselves. I think that's why we're here – to realise ourselves, to grow in spirit – and nothing else. I mean, use others along the way, but don't depend on them, because no matter who or what it is – wife or child, job or home – they could be taken away in an instant. You will remain, though – and even after the you that you think you are has gone, you will still remain.

10.

I went to some sort of 'high school reunion' yesterday – it wasn't really that, but that's the nearest thing I can call it without having to go into too much detail – and it was sort of interesting. It involved eating Chinese food and then going to various bars in Doncaster town centre, which seems to be something I've been doing a little more of since the smoking ban came into effect. It's kind of any eye-opener to me that people still live this life, going out, getting dolled-up – I mean, spending hours getting dolled-up – and then crowding into cramped, noisy rooms to shout sub-intelligent conversations at each other and fill their bodies with intoxicating and expensive liquids that render them zombie and retard-like and make them fall over and wake up in bed with people that they hardly know and maybe don't even like, and perhaps not even remember any of it. I know that people like that stuff – otherwise why would they do it? – but it's sort of beyond me (even though I used to do it, which seems like so many lifetimes ago the memory of it comes to me only as a distant, childhood dream). Still, I can tolerate an hour or so of it every now and then, and as long as I don't stay too late I don't get too much of the hangover-by-osmosis, and it can be quite entertaining. Last night I talked funninesses with an old school chum and a woman I didn't know who was convinced I was gay (she said I was too nice, and listened too well to be straight; that probably says more about the men of Doncaster than it does about me) and then made my escape at the not-so-advanced hour of 9.30, more to catch the last train than to do some sort of disappearing act, although it was probably about the right time, before my colleagues got too sloshed and our wavelengths diverged more than is comfortable. I fell asleep waiting at the station in Leeds for my connection for about five minutes and woke up gloriously disorientated – like the disorientation of waking up in a room full of people in India my second afternoon there and taking five minutes to piece myself together again, as human, as Rory, as inhabitant of planet Earth, one leg forward, breathe, you're in a body, good – and ran again for my third train of the day, which I always seem to be doing (running for trains). The men in Doncaster appear to have a fondness for wearing smart jackets and ties of a Saturday night; I wonder if there are other regional variations around these parts? I tend to wear the same thing wherever I go; I don't really think much about that sort of thing.

11.

I was thinking, though, in light of some talk about bringing Britain into line with America and raising the drinking age to 21 that maybe they should go a step further and sort of put not just a minimum age requirement on it, but also a maximum, upper limit. Wouldn't that be fun? Imagine how that would change the country? I would make it something like fourteen to twenty-seven or eighteen to twenty-four, depending on my mood. I mean, from my perspective drinking should be a young person's thing, like playing with drugs or experimenting with your sexuality – or, for that matter, like playing with rattles or experimenting with piercings and hair dye, and no-one wants to see groups of men crawling down the high street in nappies and chasing little plastic balls and crying because they can't have a lollipop or because their mummy won't pick them up, do they? So it's not that getting drunk is wrong, just that it's a young person's thing, and that there's a time and a place for it – just as there's nothing wrong with playing with rattles, or shitting your diaper, or being so intolerably and unrealistically demanding of another that you exclude the whole world and their feelings and see only your own, immature and excessive wants and desires; no, those things aren't wrong, in their time, in their place, but out of it, they're…well, even then, not wrong – that would be silly – but just rather sad. And that's why I propose we implement a maximum drinking age as well as a minimum – and why I stand no chance of ever being elected to anything, in this country, at least (as well as my total lack of interest in being elected to anything and my almost complete ignorance on all the things that someone who wanted to be elected would need to know).

12.

If a duck quacks in a forest and no-one is around to hear it, does Mickey Rooney scramble an egg? If Simon and Garfunkel got married, which one would change their name, and would they name their children after the various types of beans available to them in their local supermarket/grocery store? What is greater: the largest hen in the world, or a seventeen gallon drum of pickled bagpipes? Who came first: your uncle, or your aunt? If a man flies backwards through space and talks to himself while doing the ironing at twice the speed of light squared by the root of some ancient Chinese ginseng and a large bottle of Ambrosia creamed rice, does he wish he'd never waded waist-deep into Willy's wonky waterwheel wagon, or is he grateful for asparagus? And finally, what do you get if you cross a dog's favourite slipper factory with an artificially created geranium on stilts? Answers are printed on page 42 of the next magazine you read, words 12, 17, 36, 81, 104, and 219. Send 'em in and maybe win the star prize of your choosing! (As long as it's a cup). Cheers!

Nwot

Not srue I rlaley feel lkie siynag mcuh tihs week, eevn tguohh it was a good week, and a hppay week, and a week felild wtih ciraten etnves wcihh wree ptrtey cool: vnstiiig my dad and dngigig The Rtabibs; gnoig to Ldoonn for the nghit on Tarshudy, and wnidanerg 'runod Shoo snotihog slily vedois wtih Cwodunton and Slbcrabe and carem cekcarr-etinag arasdrevy, Meiky; X cnimog up for the nhigt, and gniog out for shsui wtih cmhus, and [voiuras oethr tgnihs] aniirsg; dniog the Jrery Sgnreipr per-sohw aitoidun tpye tinhg and hnvaig a muvelarlos tmie wtih taht; chtincag a 68 yaer-old sefhipltor and fkae rnfued-sldeiwnr and gtnietg the plocie in, and hvanig it wiihtn my peowr to hvae her astreerd and put in the clels for a nhgit, but dinecidg asgnait it (or, reahtr, lntiteg The Cion didece asgiant it, wchih I tnhik was fiar eugonh); sftuf lkie taht…
    Tehy say you lraen sntihoemg new ervey day; I thnik taht's plbrobay ture. I tguohht tihs week I'd pay eaicxprastel aneittotn to taht and see jsut waht tehse tgnihs I was lninareg wree, and mbaye witre auobt taht. Srue eogunh, I plborbay did lrean semnohitg new eayevrdy, and took ntoe of it at the tmie – but it's all knid of gnoe now. All I rlaley rmbeemer lnriaeng is taht pynailg ssuqah broofeat ins't scuh a gaert ieda – uelsns you wnat to konw waht it's lkie to hvae a clupoe of egg-seizd beirtlss on the selos of yuor feet.

Cerehs!
Rroy

Love and onions

I got my new bike wheels this week; they didn't have the right type in stock for me so I got sent the ones from two bikes up; felt like a proper Brucey Bonus. Every cloud has a silver lining, they say – but this one had two. First off, I got to stay over with my pal and have giggles and sillinesses way late into the early morning hours the night they got taken, which was a real blessing, and then I got these new, faster, fancier wheels, which make me feel like a million bucks. So the question is, then, was there even a cloud at all – or was it all just silver? Sort of like when I lost my car but made a good new friend.

England beat France yesterday, and Australia the week before – and I swear to God I've been more shocked by those two results than by just about anything in my life, only the various departures of Princess Diana and Jose Mourinho even coming close. I can't quite get my head around it; it's the sort of thing that should never have happened. Now I'm worried that some sort of power in the universe has shifted, been transformed – how will we live if England stop being gallant, oh-so-near losers and start actually winning things when they're not supposed to?

I've been out a little bit after dark this week – which is something I haven't ever done, being a committed sort of daytime person. Anyway, what I've discovered is that other people sort of live at night instead of day, and that they're different to us: they talk more loudly, they dress a little shinier, and they're not so good at walking in straight lines. At first I thought it was because of the lack of light, but now I think it's a mating ritual type thing. The people who live at night are much more huggy, also, and they wear less clothes, even though it's colder at night. I wonder why women like to show off their cleavages and chest areas.

I was a little forlorn this week, on and off until Thursday, I think. Partly I know what it was – two things spring to mind – but also I sort of surmised that I'd been really up for the best part of a fortnight and that can't last forever, it's just the way it goes. The forlornness comes, then, and you can just greet it like an old friend, and welcome it, even though you know it won't be staying long. Knowledge of temporariness is a wonderful thing.

Shooting Stars is perhaps the funniest and cleverest TV show ever made; at least, I can't think of anything to rival it. The Mighty Boosh is bloody good, though, as well as Bang, Bang! It's Reeves and Mortimer. I like the way Vic and Bob dance. I wish I could dance like Bob.

I've applied to go on another TV show, with Jerry Springer, and they sound keen; this time I could win fifty thousand pounds. If I won fifty thousand pounds here is what I would do: get my teeth filled (they've needed doing for the past three years, since my dodgy Dutch fillings fell out); have laser eye surgery; give ten percent to charity; maybe buy a laptop; probably start living somewhere with a shower and cooking facilities. I guess that leaves quite a lot – I'd probably put the rest in the bank and not think about it, just sort of spend it as normal and carry on as normal. Fifty thousand pounds is more than I've earned in my entire working life thus far – and it's about seven years' wages at present rate. It's kind of inconceivable, I guess – but I don't think it would really change me. I'm sure I'd still be as tight as ever.

I wonder what other people would do? Buy stuff, I guess – or travel. But that's the thing with me, I don't really buy stuff, or want anything – I mean, it all just seems like a pointless weight at the end of the day (and God bless God for inventing digital storage so that I can keep all my pictures and music and writing – the only things I have aside from clothes and football boots – in practically invisible space!) – and also I can already travel wherever I want and do all the things I want to do, as I've already demonstrated. Kids? Would I want them to have more than I've had – when I seem to be as happy as anyone I've ever known, and isn't that all anyone wants anyway? How would it help them? Or would it hinder them? I guess you don't need money to feel financially well off and secure, and to do all the things you want to do. Still, it's nice not to have to think about it, I guess…

An equation: five guitars + money from dad + a New York bike + a rollerbladed car + three other crashes + some swindled phone calls + a charity shop window + lots of shoplifting + another crash + a load of paint over a Mercedes + Julian Hill's bike tyres + Joel Hayes's guitar + the school guitars and Christmas tree + a few Jimi Hendrix albums + some slight damage to a penthouse skylight + a panel off the Chrysler building + some sneaky nights in youth hostels = some swindled TV money + an envelope containing two thousand dollars + some unpaid loans + an uncompleted guitar deal + two bike wheels + a New York bike + various eBay swindlers + a car stereo and phone + a cambelted Mazda + the money for the charity shop window + eight years of good deeds and clean living + lots of volunteer work and donations + a soon-to-be-fulfilled duty to goodness + my blue Squier Strat. Or does it? (A: More or less…)

I saw my area manager this week, half-expecting to get fired; as it transpired, however, nothing of the sort (even though he was negative and demotivating and useless as ever). I was sort of disappointed in that; I mean, you think you're gonna get fired and so you start thinking of what you'll do instead, and suddenly you come up with all these really cool ideas and it seems like a real rosy future full of liberation and excitement – and then when it doesn't happen you're like, ho hum, back to the norm, to the known. Not that I'm complaining; I like it where I am. And I guess it means I've still got work to do, equations to balance, karma to pay off. S'all good.

Someone asked me this week if I was religious; normally I say no, but maybe mutter something about being sort of spiritual, believing in God, miracles, and all that. This time, however, I said I guessed I was, in the way that you can be a bit Christian, a bit Hindu, a bit Buddhist, you know, go to church one day, do a bit of meditating and chanting, do a bit of yoga and tai-chi, pray to a mountain and hug a tree, invoke Ganesh and Kali and say your Our Father; I guess that's just being New Age.

Another person asked me a while ago if everything I wrote was true; well, if they were referring to my book then I'd say, yes, ultra-true, because that's the way it has to be, there's no point it being any way else, only the truth can really inspire – and if they were referring to my blog then I'd say, pretty much, as far as things I do, things I say and feel, etcetera, it's all stuff that's happening, I'm not making any of this up – apart from the bits I'd like to think are obviously made up, when I go off into mad fantasies and gibberishes, the bits I never expect anyone to take seriously. Except I know some people do – that thing at the end of my Countdown account for example, about flying around a studio and my toes being all a kimble – I mean, come on! – I know some people thought that was real. Also, all that stuff about the flooding, and me having conversations with people called Arthur, which I thought was quite clearly an exercise in dialogue and, anyway, I don't know anyone called Arthur (is anyone called Arthur these days?) – I'm surprised that wasn't seen for what it was by all. So, book, yes, blog, yes – mostly.

The same person also asked why I was disliking Leeds, which I said I did in the entry I wrote after I came back from London; the answer was/is, oops, sorry, it was a slip of the tongue, I meant to say "Yorkshire" – and what I meant by that was not Yorkshire as a whole, this marvellous, beautiful, fascinating and friendly county – England's largest, let us never forget! – but, I guess, my life since moving back here, and in particular the expectations I had had for it. What I meant, I suppose, was the way it had turned out with regard to old friends, who have been uniformly useless in welcoming me back into their bosom, despite the efforts I have made, and despite the good times we have had when together; I guess they're all too busy now with – going to be unnecessarily bitter here – their partners and watching TV and working their crappy jobs and being old before their time; that's what I meant. I was unhappy because of that, and because I had found myself therefore practically alone in my own land, and because friends and family hadn't matched my expectations, and what with my girlfriend not coming here either, as planned, it all seemed to have fallen rather flat on its face (with barely a mention of my half-life brother and the dark and stagnant hole of Wakefield). But that was then, and this is now, and having grown weary and given up on that life, it has freed me to move on to something new, and to make younger friends who still have some life left in them, with whom I feel more kinship, with whom I am reminded that, although 31, I am not yet dead, and to move to Leeds – albeit in my slightly unorthodox and homeless way – and delight in the vibes and sights of this glorious city, which daily reveals charming and hitherto unseen-by-mine eyes delights. I mean, Leeds is awesome! There's so much here, so much life, so much beauty – and so many gorgeous buildings. I can hardly believe this is the same city I lived in twelve years ago.

We went out Friday night to check out this thing called 'Light Night', wherein the museums and libraries were open till late, and all manner of bohemian thing was going on, and I discovered some real delights. The street performers, though, were a bit of a let down – except for this one guy who was, without a doubt, the most awesome thing I have ever seen, and a true inspiration; he just turned up with his carrier bag, got out some candles, set them up in a semi-circle, put on a mask, threw off his shirt, and then with his big belly out and a good-sized crowd having gathered proceeded to do these three insane dances shaking a bean can with a stone in it and slapping his belly and shouting madly while people laughed and dug and I was seriously digging him more than anything I've ever dug before – and luckily I managed to get one of our group to dig along with me while the others stood bemused and dismissed laconically not understanding at all. But his shrieks and shouts and his mask and his dance – everything about it was perfect – and even the ending he just threw off his mask up into the air, into the crowd, and then walked off laughing, picked up his shirt and disappeared among the throng never to be seen again, his semi-circle of tea-lights still fluttering, the carrier bag and bean can and stick still there several hours later when I went back to check maybe hunting souvenirs and wishing to learn the secret of his can (it was just Heinz), a real one-off, a – perhaps – once in a lifetime performance – which made me dig it even more, for I rejoiced in the synchronicity and timing of events that had led us there for that one perfect moment when we could have so easily been anywhere else in this marvellous city. He filled me with energy – he filled me with beans – and he made me want to do what he was doing, the mad dance, the mask, the beauty of it all – he reminded me of my time in Dublin, with John Dunn and the busking we did – as The Bogen Wongen Men – playing tin whistles and finger cymbals under parachutes and dancing madly with the drunks to the sound of the triangle and our shrieks and insanities earning us around fifty pounds in a couple of hours, plus many delights and photo opportunities and giggles and passing bemusements and smiles. I guess it means that I'd like to do that sort of thing again; I guess it's all adding up to a sort of rediscovery of one's wild and free youth – in a purely for joy, I don't want to hurt anyone (or myself) sort of way. If that makes any sense.

So, in a nutshell: Leeds is awesome, I'm a little loopy, but nice with it, and, slowly but surely, my youthful, silliness heart is reawakening after the seriousness of long term relationship and isolated university-then-teacher years, and Wakefield. Or something like that; I mean, I don't really know what I'm writing, after all, words just keep coming out and I seem powerless to stop them and I'm never really sure whether there's any point, it just seems like a fun thing to do in the moment.

This blog interests me; today, I didn't really have anything to write, and it seemed like I'd almost come to the end of something. I mean, we had the end of expression a few weeks – or was it months? – ago, and I haven't really been doing that since, and we also put an end to the moaning, preferring instead to take action and to do something about it. Last week, then, we had a pretty in depth report on all the things I did each day, and I'd thought since then that there probably wasn't much point in doing that again, since posterity has now got a pretty good taste of what my current life is all about and I'm not really one for too much repetition – so, tell me, what else is there left to write about? What am I to do unless I'm to let my wild mind free on the keys and just churn out any old twaddle, as I suspect I have mostly done today? Expression has gone, information has gone, introspection and investigation (with regard to my love relationships) has gone; what else is there? What is left to say? Of course, there's the book – creation, which is probably the best of all of these – and that will remain, but beyond that? I'm not so sure. Education? A differing but complementary form of creation? Nothing? Or, perhaps, the same as it ever was, once these words are done with and these thoughts, even, forgotten? I guess I could just write less. :-) I guess we'll see when next Sunday comes…

Spiff donkey - whoops!

Well I'm not kidding but that was a marvellous week! Seems like I've been in an uncommonly happy zone since my post-London funk lifted nine or ten days ago and it's been non-stop fun and Rory's being silly and all of a sudden I'm filled with piss, vinegar, chips, and grease, and throwing multitudinous shapes all over the place in a turbo-love stylee – and, surely folks, I think you'll agree, that can only be a good thing.

Monday, I went to a wedding, one of twelve people there, a bit of a rush job down the town hall for immigratory purposes, but a day still full of happiness and smiles and lovely, lovely love. I think those town hall, registry office weddings are the way to go – so much less stress than the bigger weddings I've been to (all of which have subsequently lead to divorce; oo-er). Meal followed, many giggles, and then off to this quiet, long-haired pub (for the young ones) where bride and groom got mighty tipsy and bride – who is perhaps the finest dancer I've ever seen – started loudly exclaiming, "I wanna shake my ass!" and making some moves – definitely the finest moves I've ever seen – while groom sat tired and groggy with his friends thinking about bus and bed and sleep and work in the morning.
    But, no! This won't do! thought Rory, plainly seeing that bride would not look back fondly on such an end to her night, would not be satisfied when her ass so clearly needed to shake, and off he went – the Rory who's not really too fond of bars, of dancing, etc – and despite them saying that nothing would be happening on Monday night in Leeds he went in search of somewhere for her to shake and, lo! just around the corner he found some heaving gay place with an upstairs club and pumping music and quickly ran back and dragged them all there despite hubby's non-excitement and in they went where girls shook and boys sat and even though they only stayed a few hours satisfaction was had by all. And even though Rory didn't dance, he kind of dug the music – though, most of all, he dug the way he surprised himself by grasping that dozing bull by its horns and making the thing happen for someone else even when it wasn't his kind of thing; that seemed kind of non-selfish and kind; that seemed like a good thing to do – and not that he doesn't do things for others, but its rare that he does things solely for others, when there's absolutely nothing in it for him, when it's a thing that goes against what he actually wants (in this case peace and quiet and an early night away from pubs).

Tuesday was badminton night, two hours of sweating and diving and swinging and missing and occasional brilliance sandwiched between long spells of incompetence when surely the racket has developed some kind of hole or grown smaller or is just doing some plain weird things with space and time, etcetera. I don't think one chap there appreciated my style – I like to play every point like it's match point at Wimbledon, like the existence of the world depended on it – and that bugged me a bit. Maybe I'll not go back. Who needs shysters like that, eh!

Wednesday was then open mic music night at The Grove in Leeds and, boy oh boy, was that ever something wonderful and magnificent and truly, truly gorgeous. What a fun night! What a jolly pleasant way to spend an evening! I went with this new anonymous friend of mine who I've suddenly out of nowhere built up something that I really, really love, and she played piano and sang and had everybody totally bringing the roof down and was awesome, and I also played my one really great song that is usually guaranteed to give some giggles but which strangely hasn't the last few times I've played it (I blame the audience) but which this night was more giggle-inducing than ever, so many pauses while I waited for the laughter to die down so I could carry on singing. Felt like a mighty triumph! And it was also wicked fun watching everybody else and also most of all just hanging with my friend who I'm rapidly beginning to love. We have a lovely odd couple friendship growing; I'm not really sure where it's come from but I'm sure glad it's there.

Thursday morning, then, I woke up and made my way to Pontefract, place of my birth, and more specifically to the hospital there (which now seems to be an infirmary; not sure of the difference) so that some doctors could stick a camera up my bum and have a little nosey around. I was actually a bit apprehensive about going, and was even thinking of cancelling, 'cos I wasn't too keen on the idea of some bloke poking around in my bumhole – much nicer with a lady; wish they'd given me the option – but in the end I decided that was something I ought to get over (and the best way to get over something is just to do it with a happy heart and a smiling face and big fat inside notion that everything's cool so you just gotta relax) and I went for it. 'Cept they never did the camera business, they just did the same thing they did last time, which was have a quick feel about and then say, right, we'll have a camera up there next time. Tsk! Still, the doctor was this nice chap and, to be honest, I barely noticed him sticking his digit up there, I was too busy chatting with the nurse and making some jokes about throwing my money away as the coins rolled on the floor. It's not really such a big deal, is it, at the end of the day? He was very good at it and I'm more than used to having things up my bum in any case.
    Thursday night was squash with my Spanish chum Ricardo and slowly, slowly I'm clawing my way back to him after never really having had any chance to beat him in the two months that we've been playing. But this week we were level pegging at one game each and then slugged it out for about twenty minutes in the third, which he took 13-11 after both of us had squandered chances to win it. Man, I love squash! I love the sweating and the pounding and the shirts-off diving for the ball, running till your legs are jelly, smashing into walls and saving impossible points and then doing it all again, over and over, about three seconds later, two gladiators in a cage, pure aggression, giving everything. Unbeatable. And I got you in my sights, Ricardo, I'm coming up strong.

Friday night I was at a loss. I was kind of tired, and thinking of having a night in, but something in me wanted to go out, and so I got on a train and went to Leeds and then thought maybe I'd go to one of three or four places and the coin chose Burley. Ah, cinema! I thought, and the coin said yes and off I went walking. Half-way there I thought, wait there's another cinema near here, maybe I should go to that one – again, coin said yes, and I took a left and back then I was through the streets near Hyde Park where my dad lived when I was thirteen and which strangely seem more like home than pretty much anywhere on this big wide world. Nothing on at cinema, though, and then I was thinking, hm, what do I do now? all fresh out of ideas – but just then my phone plays its little "you've got text" tune and it's a message from my new friend who lives two minutes around the corner. A-ha! I says. And then a split second later two Indian chaps ask me if I know where a restaurant is and I say, I do – 'cos it's exactly next to my new anonymous friend's house – and I say I'll take them there. In the meantime we three strike up a conversation and it turns out they've just freshly arrived from Kerala a little bewildered by Leeds and England and looking for cheap food 'cos the poor boys don't have much money and don't really know how to cook either. So we talk about that and then talk about other things, and soon we're a little bit onto God (they know Amma – they're from the next village, although they've never been hugged by her – and they're quite into their Christianity) and it's really nice to connect with these two in that way, in a way I remember from my travels, in a way that very few Westerners seem able to do, with their much looser grasp of actual, experiential spirituality, more keen on dogma, on intellectualism. Forty-five minutes we talk – could've been longer, perhaps, but I'm no longer a wandering, outside time sadhu, I'm a Westerner also, with his Western, going somewhere mind – and where I was going was my new-found friend's house and a jolly nice time we had there too.

I work with someone I find really rather sexy on a Saturday; I can't tell her this, though – can't make any moves – 'cos it would probably spoil our friendship, our working relationship, and, anyway, I'm not really the sort of bloke a young woman should get involved with (or am I? I'm starting to wonder about that…) so I try to keep it strictly business. Still, we do have a few cuddles throughout the day and sometimes she jumps into my arms and I like the way she's light as a feather and gives really great hugs and how we get on quite well. (She's twenty-two, by the way; I was worried there that I'd made her sound fourteen, laugh out loud.)
    Saturday night I really did need a night off and went to bed proper early watching some Kenneth Branagh movie I'd never heard of called, "How To Kill Your Neighbour's Dog" which was actually quite good, despite the title. I lit candles and candles give off such a lovely mellow glow it makes you loathe electric lighting and the way electric lighting is so busy and alive and awake, like artificial daytime, like seeping, under-curtain sun. Some people say they can't sleep and they're not tired – but then if you just turn the lights out and spark a few candles…wham! Out they go. Candles are proper mellow, man; that's what the world needs is more candles, less light. Let's rest our minds.

Sunday is Sunday and today is Sunday and today I went into town to take up this one-day free trail of this gym and – you know what? – it was actually really good! I mean, I've never been to a gym before – could never be arsed – but I thought I'd give it a go (fighting the good manboob fight) and, while I can't say I loved it while I was there – not in the way I love a game of squash or footy or something – I did feel mighty tops when I left! Like walking on air. Like ten feet tall. I ran and swam and pushed and pulled and sat and sweated and steamed and stretched and, best of all, I even found a punchbag and some gloves and had a few swings – which I've also never done before – and I quite enjoyed that, despite my weak wrists. Made me feel like I'd like to have a fight – as long as I was wearing one of those hats they wear (and maybe a nose protector). So good to be physical and active and get the old bodyblood a-movin'. I likes life, I does!
    And then I juggled, and then I talked with a few, and then I took the train 'home', and now I'm here, typing, with you. A-ha!

As you may have guessed (or, actually, as I said outright at the beginning) I'm in a happy place. I don't know what's got into me – but I'm feeling joy unconfined, pretty much twenty-four/seven. Maybe I'm in love. Maybe I've lost a hinge. But maybe – and I think this is where my money is – it's because of my break with Wakefield, and because of my move into unconventional living and doing things differently, exactly how I want them (ie, homelessness). It seems to have done something to me; it seems to have set me free and put me back on track into being the only Rory I really feel comfortable being – which is me, which is the one who does whatever he feels in his heart to do, irrespective of others' expectations, of societal norms, of what the vast majority would agree on is the proper way to live. I've tried that, and it just hasn't worked; now I've done what I wanted to do – despite holding back, for fear of what others might think, or say, or do – and suddenly I'm having a whale of a time and feeling just like myself again, instead of some pale imitation, some clinging shadow, some hole. And I think, beyond everything, that's why I'm having such a blast.
    I always felt sort of strange living in a house, this weird restlessness that seemed to drive me from room to room, seemed to make the four walls so oppressive, made it feel like there was nothing really there, except a desperate search for ways to kill and fill time. Now that I'm free from it, I think I know what it was: it was habit, and it was true – it was habit that took me there, when there was no other reason to be there – and it was true that there was nothing to do there except kill time and waste away. And, yes, I know that isn't very well worded – but I'll try better next paragraph. Listen…
    Why did I go home every night after work? Was it because I wanted to, or was it because I was on some sort of invisible conveyor belt that I couldn't really feel? I went home out of habit, unthinking, just doing it because a part of me thought that was what I was supposed to do – and then when I got there, and found nothing there, instead of feeling foolish that habit had taken me to this empty place I thought there must be something wrong with me for feeling so restless and uninterested and so desperately filling my time with TV and internet. The best way I can explain it is if I talk about travel – in that, in travel, you're totally free, and you stay in a place as long as you want or need to, and then you move on. You go to your bed when you want or need to – and sometimes you don't even bother, or you just keep moving until you get tired, or feel like taking a break and then you put your tent down wherever you happen to be and that's where you stay. The idea of finding a four-walled room to sit in for the evening doesn't occur to you because it would seem ridiculous, especially when you have all the wonders of the outside world to interact with. Habit has no part here, and no sane traveller would let it – it would be ridiculous. As ridiculous, in fact, as living without home, without habit, is in our modern, working world.
    And yet, the thing is, the traveller's world – the world that is ruled by the heart, by impulse, by freedom, by what is obviously right, in time and place and direction – is the world I feel most at home in, and the worldin which I apparently still, for the large part, dwell. I mean, what need have I for stuff, for umpteen changes of clothes, for gadgets and toys and all the other myriad time fillers? I only ever feel that those things weigh me down and generally get rid of them all not too long after I've uselessly accumulated them. What need have I, then, of a place to put all that stuff – which is what it seems the vast majority of our homes and houses are used for these days? A person needs a space to sleep, a space to wash, a space to keep his few possessions, and a space, perhaps, to make and eat some food – and all that can be done in hardly any space at all. When I lived in my caravan – and it was a small caravan at that – I used barely half of it, even that seemed too big. I'm not sure I need any space at all. At least, I have none now and I'm as happy as a pig in poo.
    I'm reminded of the Japanese tradition, of the way they roll out their mats at night when they get tired and sleep side by side in the room that they were perhaps eating in, and playing in, and maybe even watching TV in. I like that; that's sort of how I live now, rolling out my mat when I'm ready to sleep, packing it away in the morning and getting on with my day. In the West we like big bedrooms, full of all kinds of things and clothes and entertainments, and one each for everyone, and therefore bigger and bigger houses, and millions upon millions of rooms that sit empty for almost all their waking lives, only really used by people who don't even know they're there…
    I'm reminded of a story I heard about Australian aborigines who were given small houses by the government, who I guess didn't want them living outside anymore. The aborigines were puzzled by this; they had no problems living outside, and who would want to live inside anyway when it was so wonderful to be in the great outdoors? So they took these houses and used them to store things in and carried on living outside anyways. I don't live like this – but perhaps I'd like to (in a friendlier climate, anyway) – and it sort of reminds me of now, and of when I lived in Dereham, when I gave up my rented room, once more sick of its habits and walls and entrapments, and took up living in the graveyard, under the stars, sheltered from the rain by darling yew trees and spending pretty much every waking hour outside and doing wonderful things, and of how it dramatically and instantly improved my life ten thousand fold – just as leaving my house and being homeless has done now. If I could, I'd live outside – or, at least, more or less outside – as I did then, in Dereham, and as I did in my caravan in Canterbury, while I was at uni, and as I did on the roads of America and Mexico, in my tent, in bushes and trees and on beaches and a different place every night, just a place to rest my head before the onset of another glorious day. And isn't that all sleep is? Must it really take place in such luxurious, secluded surroundings? Man, half the world sleeps their whole family to a room! And most of those not a mattress between them.
    I may change all this, of course – my opinions and my way of living – but for now, I'm happier, and it's a huge improvement on what I was doing before. My mind feels more at ease; I'm getting out and about and meeting people more; my dedication to writing is better; and my internet and television addiction has gone (I don't have internet or television where I am). I guess it's possible to do all those things with a home – and to live outside of habit – but I haven't been able to do it thus far. Is anything a stronger influence on your mind than habit, and your environment? I don't so. (Also, I'm lazy.) Now, what else did I do this week?

• Well, it's gonna cost me ninety quid for a new set of wheels for my bike – which is half of what I paid for the whole thing about two months ago, and still way more than I've paid for any other bicycle. I'm not bothered, though, I sort of see the whole thing as a bit of a joke. Jesus said if people wanted to nick stuff from you then you should let 'em; maybe he knew what he was on about. I rationalise it by thinking about all the ways I've cost other people, materially, and I was gonna put a list up here of that, see how it balanced with the ways I've lost, but that seemed like just a tad too much in the way of exhibitionism. I do have a sneaking suspicion, however, that we're nearing break-even point – which may mean that I can buy cars and bikes in future without expecting them to be snatched away from me by the cosmic debt-collector…

• I had two – yep, two (count 'em) – wet dreams this week – which is two more than I've had in the entirety of the whole year, I think. That was kind of strange (but fun). Must not be wanking enough. And I don't think it was anything to do with the doctor's finger…

• I got a bit confused again about what I was feeling for X; I'd say more about that here but she also told me that she'd seen some of this blog and I gotta say that's made me more than a little reticent! :-) She said she wouldn't read it anymore, though; it was stuff about me liking big boobs and she wasn't keen on reading that. In any case, I've agreed to go to Venice with her next month and so I got me a forty quid Easyjet/Ryanair deal that fits in nicely with my trip to Dublin to see Amma and me old mate John earlier the same week. Love is confusing…

• I played an 899-point game of scrabble with another Oxfam manager via facebook, had to overcome three bingos and won it on the last turn – and she was using a dictionary! Boy, I woulda been mad had I lost. :-) Thank God for 'Sequins' through the triple-word, you're all thinking…

• Finally, I've realised that certain things that I've touched on here – wanting to be wanted by X; emotions raised by being amongst lovely friendly others in London – have a deeper root in myself, in that I somewhere have this thing where I don't really believe I'm wanted, or liked, or loved, even though I sort of know I am. I mean, I'm a confident guy, and I like myself a lot, but some part of me just finds it hard to feel that others like me too. It's weird because, if I look at it rationally, and look at my life, I can see that they do – and can see that people seem to really, really like me – but I just can't really feel it, can't seem to get it deep down. I wonder what that is? I wonder what it means, where its root lies? Maybe I don't really like/love myself – but that doesn't feel right. Maybe it's to do with my mum, early/first thoughts and feelings and impressions of the world; you relate to love as you related to your parents, and think love is the love they showed you – but it isn't, they couldn't do it, they were wrong…your mother doesn't love you/want you, because she isn't able, and you think God – and everyone else – is the same way – it's been with you so long it's practically wrapped around your essence, the core of the onion – but it can break free…

In a nutshell, four thousand and thirty-two words about my happy, happy week and a few thoughts on one or two things and now it's ten thirty on a super Sunday night and time for Rory to stop typing and do something a little less vertical. By-eee!