It rained this afternoon. I sat in the green chair with my back to the window listening to each drop. Drop... drop... drop... drop... and it just went on like that. At one point I thought about getting up and going down to the shops but it finally seemed too much effort. There is nothing worse than counting flies in wet clothes. At 16.06 a car sloshed by. I tried to imagine who could have been in it. I think a lot of things like that. My mind is always very active, but there is some chemical missing that translates those thoughts into actions. Once I sat for three days looking at the fridge. I tried to imagine everything that was in it and what that looked like from the inside. Then I started playing games where I’d like move things around mentally and completely disturb the arrangement. Then I wondered why is a fridge 8 – 10 degrees in the vegetable container and what would be the worst thing I could put there. At one stage I even thought about the freezer and what the ice cubes did when the lights were out. How the frost must so ever so slowly form crystal layers.

John has been gone 4 days now.... 4 miserable days and I doubt he will ever return. He said that I was a “grey patch in his life”, that he was tired of sitting there watching me watching things and sleeping. He said I would have made a “good stone”. Those were his exact words.


The leaves are back on the trees. On the silver birch outside there are 3043 and more come through each day. Sometimes I stare at that tree and see if I spot a new leaf forming but I never do. I go to bed and when I wake up there’s another one. It’s a mystery. Life is a mystery. Sometimes.

I blocked the toilet up today. Absolutely on purpose. I stuffed three and a half rolls of that cheap pink paper down and then some newspaper and then took a turd on top. Then I flushed the chain and watched as the water rose up to the rim. I flushed it again and again until my bathroom was swimming in shit. Yeah, it smelt quite awful but with the door locked and sealed it’s not too bad in the bedroom. I suppose tomorrow I’ll have to clean it up. No news from John.... I hope he’s dead. I couldn’t bear being abandoned.


Woke up this morning and laid in bed until I ached. I read all the medical inserts that I keep piled up on the little table. Apparently Ibuprofen can make your head and legs and cock swell up! I often wish that I was one of these people that always suffered terrible side-effects from over-the-counter products. It’s sad, I don’t even have that ability. Though if I did I would plan natural costumes. For example, on Halloween I’d take 6 Ibus to bloat my head up. Rub on some Camoline lotion to bring my skin out in sores and blisters. a couple of Aspirin to make my eyes bulge and a packet of Hayfever pills for muscle spasms. That’d be fun. I’d just sit around at parties dying and then go home.

Cleaned the bathroom up. 17 seperate pieces of turd washed across 98 tiles. Toilet still blocked and swimming so I triple bagged the shit and laid it with the rest of the rubbish. I’ll take it to the steel bins later. There's a choice of 9 around here.

I’ve not been invited down to the morgue for a viewing and so I suppose HE is alive and somewhere out there. Then I am sad but I am hopeful sad.


I received an email from Verity today. Apparently John has booked himself into The Maudsley. He has had some kind of a breakdown and says it is my fault. She writes that John is permanently restless and just lays on the bed waiting... waiting... waiting to want to do something. He says he got that from me and wants me completely bleached out of his head. Maybe John even said “we didn’t move more than 15 metres in 6 months!” or “microwave clocks run two seconds slower than normal clocks.” Maybe he even said that I was “life decomposing” a kind of “human compost heap”. I enjoy imagining the things that maybe John would say. When I do that it somehow feels like he is still here.


I made it out this morning. It is the first time in 9 days. I tossed my bin-bag of turds and picked a little bit of the galvinised paint from the steel bin. Later I’ll upload a photo of it and see how many shades of grey it comprises. I can spot 9 by eye. Though I’m not quite sure if silver is grey?

There was an old woman walking down the road. She wore a beige surgical stocking around her swollen left ankle and had one of those metal frames. It kinda looked like she’d taken the garden gate with her. I walked on the other side of the pavement and matched her halfstep for halfstep. It took us 45 minutes to move 100 yards. Why was she perservering? For what purpose? Her stubborness was irritating, her refusal to stop completely and give up. It’s people like me that have to watch people like her... that have to be reminded of what the future holds. It’s dismal, I tell you. The future is dismal.


There were three flies in the room today. One had purplish green wings and the other two were just black and hairy. Flies are strange. They never touch each other. Once John said “You’re like a fly.” We were both on the bed and staring up at the ceiling. “Only you don’t move.”  I didn’t give a reaction though my soul was shedding tears. Whats that supposed to mean? Why is he being so cruel?. When he said that he was laying with his arms behind his head and an extremely sensitive hard-on. I still didn’t move.

My mother called this afternoon. No doubt to make sure I hadn’t thrown myself out the ground floor window again. That’s my fake suicide trick... my cry for attention. Where others cut their wrists with dessert spoons I fling myself from pathetically low heights. Still, as I never answered the phone I wouldn’t know if it was that or if it were to squeeze a little lemon juice in my wounds. Jesus, if it wasn’t for her John could very well have been Joan and this mess would never have existed.


The handle on the living room door isn’t straight. I’ll have to inform the landlord about that. I enjoy door handles but they completely throw my day off if they are not perfectly level. My favourite door handles are not handles at all. They are knobs made of polished brass.

Later I will buy some fish. Not tin or frozen fish, live swimming fish. I’ve started coming down with terrible migraines from hours spent staring at my screensaver and figure that some pond life might work a little better.

I had a goldfish once. It never swam, just kinda hung there looking angry and watching me watch it. After about 8 weeks John made a sudden leap of energy, emptied it out on the floor and squished it into the carpet like he was scrunching out a cigarette. Equally crushed, I curled myself up, turned to the wall and cried. Silently, but there were certainly tears.


“My grandmother just had a voicebox fitted, how COOL is that!” I actually heard someone say this as I lay there with my ear to the wall listening in on the world outside.


The landlord said “That’s how it is... there’s nothing I can do about it!” He said not to bother him with such trivialities again. Will it be a triviality when I don’t pay my rent? Bombard him with nuisance calls threatening to rape and kill him! Open the sewage outlet into the apartment and then hand the keys back after three months. It won’t be so trivial then! Though of course I’ll pay the rent... all pathetic losers do.

The pet shop only had one goldfish. I took that and to keep it company I also bought a blue and yellow sea slug. I christened the fish ‘Jaws’ and the slug I didn’t even bother naming, just dropped it in the bowl and let it sink to the bottom. By noon it was back at the top, floating on the surface absolutely dead. Apparently it needed to be housed in a proper aquarium in waters ranging between 8 – 14 degrees. I’m not sure what one must do with dead sea slugs, so I scooped it out, wrapped it in cling film and then buried it in the window box. For the moment it’s just Jaws and I.


I’m suffering from insomnia again. I lay awake all night focusing on obscure shapes in the dark and listening to the wind. Finally at 4.23am I surrendered and dragged myself naked into the kitchen. I sat crossed legged on the floor with a glass of milk and a straw. “So this is what the mentally ill do!” I thought... then I decided on an early morning sight test.

From my store box marked 'D.I.Y Health Checks' I dug out my old Snellen Eye Chart and Blu-Tac’d it to the living room door. Standing at the end of the hallway, covering an eye, I began shouting out the letters. “E! T! P! O! E!...” By the sixth line things were getting a little blurred and by the seventh it resembled dyslexic Greek. I think that means I have deteriorated another notch; that I need glasses.  John had glasses. John looked just like Elvis Costello.

*      *      *

“There he is!” I said, my right eye tight against the spy glass. The postman had just come into view and was gradually making his way down the odd side of the street. When he disappeared from sight I counted to 66 then waited for him to stroll by. But not this time. He stopped right outside, took a letter from a separate pile, looked from letter to door... letter to door, and then turned into the yard. I watched his face deform as he got real close. “BRRrrrrrrrIINNNNGGG”. Shit! I felt like I'd been caught; that if I opened the door now he’d realize  I’d been obsessively watching him for these past months. So I kinda crouched down below the letter box and remained there like that holding my breath and praying he’d go away. “BRRRRRINNNNNNG!!!!” “BRRRRRINNNG!!!!” This guy was a professional. On all fours, I ever so quietly reversed, and with my hand over my mouth I shouted “Coming!”

Standing outside in a pair of tight shorts and a smile that was a little too happy for the day, the Postman gave me a small pink letter. Next he handed over a machine which looked like something used to print losing lottery tickets. For a moment I thought that was also for me. But no, apparently I was obliged to sign its little oblong touchscreen. I did, though very badly, as since opening the door my damaged eyes somehow, and independently of my brain, kept finding their way to the Postman’s crotch. All of a sudden I had perfect 20/20 vision.

A losing lottery ticket? Possibly. It was a letter from John. I laid it down unopened on the coffee table and just sat staring at it. Maybe, just maybe, he was coming home.


John is not coming home, at least not in the foreseeable future. He is a very ill man. I have the proof of that here, scribbled across four pieces of cheap pink toilet paper:

So you was hoping I was DEAD!?
You deserve everything your conscience FUCKING brings you.
“Human Compost heap!”

‘Human. Compost. Heap.’ Those were MY words. Words I had only imagined John would MAYBE say. And now he has said them. But that doesn’t mean I have some great insight into the man or his nature. That I observed and studied him so meticulously during our years together that I can now second guess his every thought. I can’t. What it means is quite simple: John is reading this blog.

I'm terrified. Since early yesterday evening I’ve been sitting by the window and peering out through the tiny gap I purposely left between the curtains. I know I have certainly ruined everything, but that’s the least of my concerns right now. I have the distinct feeling that John is out there and is watching me. That he’s biding his time and planning something very nasty. And I’m not alone with this thought. Jaws has remained burrowed in the sand at the bottom of his bowl all day. He feels it too.


I sat picking the little chips of wood out the wallpaper. Got a splinter under the nail of my index finger and now it’s all gone red and sore. Still, I managed to pick enough off to make the shape of a face and a pair of glasses. Tomorrow I’ll put the nose and mouth in. It’s a nervous thing. It’s what I do whilst waiting to have my skull bashed in.

At just gone twelve I phoned Verity. She answered in her happy singing northern accent. She always sounds like she can only ever receive good news. I disguised my voice the best I could :
“Hiya, you deserve everything your conscience brings you... you Fucking Shitfly!” Then I just hung there listening. Waiting for the phone to go dead. It never did.
“Tristram, is that you? If it isn’t there’s someone in your flat making twisted telephone calls to me!”
(Shit! Can’t I do anything without getting caught.) “Errr, Yeah it’s me... YOU FUCKING SHITFLY!” I screamed. And then as sweet and as predictable as she is, Verity said the words I’d been wanting to hear. “I think this means you need help. I’m coming over.”

And that’s just it. That was my point. Anyone who says such things does need help. Real intense psychotherapy type help. John needs help. That’s so obvious now.


I’ve just finished reading the No.42 bus schedule from 1978. Of course I’ve read that before but had forgotton many of the off-peak arrival times. The number 42 is the bus I would take if I were to go and visit John in the hospital. Though me being allowed to visit John in hospital has about as much chance of happening as waking up with fanny on my face.

There was fanny in the kitchen yesterday. Four full hours of it in the form of Verity. She arrived with some homeopathic calmants and a soggy piece of carrot and ginger cake. She was all cold and smelt of fresh air and life. To make her position between John and I easier she has laid down a few guidelines:
  1. She will ONLY inform me of John’s health and mental condition.
  2. She will NOT be used as a comment form to pass on any personal or hateful messages.
  3. She will NOT have me use her number as an alternative to the Samaritans. (Apparently I have my mother for that.)
  4. She WILL tell John exactly the same. 
As she was carefully stressing her rules I sat picking my sore finger and staring vacantly at the fliptop bin. I’ve always enjoyed lists but guidelines, no. And certainly not ones as controlling as that. I was silently furious. Each time she turned around to pour a fresh coffee I couldn’t help pulling faces and cursing her under my breath. Once she spun back around unexpectedly and caught me grimacing and giving her an under-arm salute. God, I just wish she would have committed to my side of the fence. That we could have sat around for 4 hours criticising John and agreeing on how screwed up and dangerous he is. Instead we discussed her new herb garden and how difficult it is growing Thai basil in South East London.

Insomnia still reigns, but at least I manage to get a few hours of tormented sleep each night. Tomorrow I will meet Steve and hopefully that will force me to freshen up and put a little powder on my arse. It is over a week since I last shaved or showered and I’m actually beginning to look like a man who is Waiting for John.


Met Steve over coffee and tears. He looked just like Dad did after coming around from 8 hours of open heart surgery... only more miserable. Yesterday he caught his brother coming out his wife’s bedroom with no trousers on. He said he’s such a coward for confrontation that he just smiled and said “Hiya Dave, you been here long?” But actually he’s utterly broken.

Steve is my best straight friend. Well straight(ish), because there was that incident in Barry’s nightclub where after 12 Gin & Tonics his cock somehow ended up in my mouth. But that was a discrepancy and I’m sure Saint Peter will forgive him that minor indiscretion.

Steve is also a Spammer. He masquerades as a Ghanaian princess and sends out 1000’s of emails a day. That’s how I first met him. He was hitting my mail box with spam two or three times a week, and as I do everyone, I replied. For over 6 months he kept up the pretence. Then one day he mailed revealing himself and asking if I’d like to meet up. As I sat trying to figure out whether he was queer or not he admitted never having been in a West African Embassy, that his father wasn’t black, but that the plane crash which he never died on was quite real. Of course, by that time he was in possession of all Johns banking and credit card details. That he never used them told me a lot about him. But not of his honesty or integrity, nor even that he had a conscience. No, it was something much more human than all of that. It told me that beneath his virtual tiara, and behind his non-existent fortune, he was just as lonely as me. Now how could I reject that?

Steve agrees that I must be very cautious where John is concerned. He said he read a story like this once where an ex-lover lost his mind and cut the other mans dick off in an underground car park. He cannot understand why I still want John back. No-one can. But the fact is I love him, and as we all know, love is not a rational emotion.


"Fuck, that hurts!" I groaned standing in the bathroom and pressing both my eyes in with my thumbs. I kept the pressure on until there was a pain in the forefront of my brain and then released. At first all was black and then red and then everything looked like it does after coming in from the afternoon sun. Only not orange, yellow... dull, deathly, empty, 40 watt bulb type yellow.

I popped another homeopathic calmant in my mouth, sucked for 57 seconds and then crunched.


I've been watching Jaws all morning. He's a very lively fish, always on the move. I'm glad I have him but he kinda makes me sad.

 Growing up there used to be a fish stool on the corner ever Sunday afternoon. I was dragged along as my parents choose their delicacies. I'd hide behind mum holding onto her pleated skirt whilst peeking a look at octopus tentacles packed in ice and boxes of crabs piled up and dying.

 Back home I'd lay the table. It was the only occasion we ever ate together. My father would sit there slurping oysters with mum across from him sucking on jellied eels. That was sex for them. I’d sit in the middle with a single prawn on my plate, trying to bring it back to life. When I realized it wasn’t happening I’d tear it’s head off, pop its eyes and squeeze its slushy brains out. I don’t like prawns. They remind me of loneliness.


I've spent the last few hours burrowing through my wardrobe trying to decide on what to wear for my big interview. I've tried everything, even a pair of frayed denim shorts and a tight pink t-shirt. Though finally I decided on classic black and white. One cannot go wrong with black and white. It's smart and stylish and professional.

Having settled on colour the following big decision was “underwear or not?” I decided not. Next up was the shirt. I went with my plain white C&A one. It was a little crumpled and the neck was slightly grubby, but no matter as it would be covered anyhow. I gave it a healthy spray of lavender air freshener, pulled it on and buttoned it up to the collar. My trousers I took straight from the wash basket. They were a little damp, a little loose, but not too bad. I slipped into them being careful not to catch my bollocks in the zip. Socks I had to do without as they've all mysteriously disappeared. For shoes I stepped into a pair of classic leather monk-straps. They were actually brand new and ignoring my naked ankles poking out each side looked pretty smart. All then that remained was the jacket. As I only own one it wasn't too difficult a choice. After a twenty minute panic I eventually found it balled up and crusty in the corner of the bedroom. At first I thought slugs had been in the room again and then I remembered I had used it to wipe up after my last wanking session... The one where I had released two weeks of built up frustration in a full 27 second climax. I unstuck the arm from the breast, picked and scratched the dried sperm off as best I could and then pulled it on tight in an attempt to straighten it out.

Ok, it could have all been better, but still it was no tragedy. I peered down at myself and I actually thought I looked pretty cool. I was up for this. I was gonna get that fucking job and turn my situation around. But then I turned around, and in the ¾ length mirror I caught a sight of my reflection and had to do a double take. Staring back at me was not Tristram Spencer, but rather some wretched bum who looked like he'd just got lucky in the morgue. I raised my left arm, then my right and watched in horror as each time he followed suit. There could be no mistake about it; I was looking at myself. I collapsed down on the bed, and in my crumpled, oversized and spunk stained clothes I started sobbing. It was my lowest point yet, and what's worse, I smelt like my grandmother's toilet.

It's now 4.43 am, the world outside is closed and I never really had a job interview anyway. All I ever wanted was a reason to forget.


Sunday. Sun Day. S U N - D A Y.

Of course it's raining. On my street anyway. Ferocious, vile, lashing rain and my dismal face looking out into it from behind cheap double glazed windows. I wonder if anyone realizes I am real and not some kind of alabaster gargoyle... a permanent fixture that lurks morosely behind drizzled glass. That's what I feel like. A freakshow. The window that kids creep past as a dare. Making up myths and tales about me. When I was young it was Bubbles' house. He was a thirty year old man-child with a thick tongue. “Allo, boys!” He'd dribble, waving. Well, now I am Bubbles. Just standing here, gormlessly looking out into the void. Still, at least I can cry and no-one will notice... unless they think about the window and my face through the streams that is.

I went twelve minutes fifty three seconds without blinking. In all that time I didn't think of John once. Maybe I should never blink again.


This was my dream last night. I think it may be significant...


It's almost 1am and I sit alone in the pitch dark. There are no shadows because there is no light. Outside nothing moves and nothing stirs. The city is so terribly quiet, like no other night in history. There is no wind, no blowing tin cans and no echoes from high-heeled shoes. The bars are all closed and the drunks have all gone home.  All that exists is Me, and so tonight I will have a conversation with myself. The answers will be in the silence, for Silence is always the truth. John, this is all for you... and it always only ever was.

“My name is Tristram Alan Spencer. I am 31 years old.”

Nothing stirs.
Silence is always the truth. I listen to the silence.

“I grew up in London between two unloving parents. All I ever wanted was affection.”

The world remains a hush.

“I done well at school, though could have done better. My main preoccupation wasn't with Thomas Hardy but rather our slender narrator Mr. Farrel-Jones. I willingly gave him a blowjob in the book-store cupboard.”

There's not a murmur, and silence is always the truth.

“At 17, so drunk I couldn't walk, I was raped by two men in a Soho nightclub. After falling through the emergency exit, the police found me face down in the street with my pants hanging off my ankles. I was covered in blood, cum and shame.”

A woman laughs, trees whisper and a dog lets bark.

“I am a good man. I am a bad man. I am an honest man. I am a crook.”

Life's orchestra sits mute.

“27 days ago I wandered into a storm. In those winds and rain I lost the only person I have ever loved. He was a man with angel wings who took me far away. World, I need to know this night: will he ever take me away again? Will his magic soon return?"

I wait for Hell to erupt but the cymbals do not crash.
Silence is always the truth. I listen to the silence.

“My Charming Man, I now turn to you. It's a dark black night, but through it we can make history. Hear me now and answer with no words. John, do you still love me? John, did you ever once?”

The wind whips up and in the distance alarms ring out. My eyes blink wet and I want this night to end. I will surely suffer until the end of time.


I booked an appointment with Dr Dennis for tomorrow afternoon. I need something to help me pass the nights better. The homeopathic calmants that Verity put me onto are about as helpful as Smarties. I need sledgehammer blows in capsules, not extracts of Piss-the-Beds. I tried to schedule the rendez-vous for an exact hour and minute, but the secretary was having none of it. “Morning or afternoon, Mr Spencer?” she murmured, sounding utterly bored by the fuss people dying make. I don't like people calling me Mr Spencer, it makes me feel like I'm in the bank. “The afternoon” I said “I may be dead in the morning.”

After the doctor I phoned mum. I sat there picking the lint out my belly button as she babbled on about water retention, or worse, the opposite. I don't know why, but without fail, after 5 minutes of speaking to my mother I always need to empty my bowels. Today was no different. “Excuse me mum, I need a shit.” I interrupted before closing the phone dead. That's how every call since I left home at 18 has ended.

John's been visiting the blog again. I didn't want to mention it yesterday so as not to give him the satisfaction of having got to me. But he did get to me, it's been plaguing my every thought. Under post #16 he left a series of ten trailing comments culminating in a threat to cut my eyelids off! Of course it gets more worrying, but in a bizarre way I also took a pleasure from it... just knowing I am somewhere in his thoughts. I would much rather be abused and killed by him than ignored or forgotten. His silence would hurt me much more than his threats. I know that's a very selfish thought, but love is selfish. When it comes down to it, it's the most selfish thing in the world.


I have just returned from the doctor's and am sitting here reading the information insert from the pack of amitryptalin I've been prescribed. Though I'm lucky I have anything at all. I'm lucky I even saw the doctor.

When I arrived just shy of 2pm and announced my name, the secretary's jaw dropped. “Is this some kind of a joke?” she asked, looking at me as if I were a ghost.
“These?” I asked pulling up at the paisley pyjama bottoms I was wearing.
“No, err... hang on a minute, Mr. Spe....” And with that she jumped up and was gone. A moment later she retuned with a half running Dr Dennis. Peering in at me with a squinted bushy eyebrow, he exclaimed: “Mr Spencer? Good grief, you're alive!”

It turned out that my brother had phoned the surgery this very morning and had told the secretary I had passed away during the night. Understandably my appointment had been scratched. “Asphyxiated. Naked, with a bag over your head...” muttered the secretary turning her eyes to the ground. “But why on earth would your brother make up such a thing. It's pretty bizarre isn't it?”

Pretty bizarre indeed. Especially as don't I have a brother. What could have been one was miscarried 2 months into the pregnancy. Mother farting his prawn-like foetus out into a steel Mcdonald's toilet. Along with the wrapper from a cheese burger he was flushed into history in 1976. So, it's quite unlikely to have been him.

No, my reported death was the work of someone much more formed than that. Someone with a grudge, a heart of vengeance and a twisted desire to unsettle me. Someone deranged, confined and hateful. Someone I used to know as John.


Whenever I'm depressed or in pain I masturbate. I'm never so sexually charged as when I'm suicidal. Wanking is a cure for mental illness and toothache. It should be prescribed free on the NHS.

#21 Celebrity Suicide Notes - Julia Roberts

Dear John,

What was once a world of love and light has now morphed into something beyond description. All I can say for certain is that it is black. Even darker. I cannot and do not want to go on any more.

My career and beauty is failing me and I will not be one of these celebrities that waltz around town horrendously sagging and falling to pieces. I've tried surgery but all that seems to do is pause one's features in time, whilst death seeps out through the pores.

It's very hard to believe that just under 10 years ago I was lifting up an Academy Award and now I have to beg and suck to get a minor cameo as a post-menopausal grandmother. I will not sink to those lengths. I will not sink to my knees... not anymore. Not at my age.

I regret all my marriages, even my current one. When the doors are closed Daniel is an absolute monster; possessed with jealousy and rage. It really is like “Sleeping with the Enemy”! The ONLY man I do not regret is YOU. John, my friend unto the grave.

With my drinking now at a stupendous level and with drunken sex-tapes soon to surface I can only escape in a more permanent way. I am taking the emergency exit outta here. haha.

Although I do not remember any of my pregnancies, I have come to cherish my three boys. If I miss anything I will miss them (and you of course.)

John, maybe if the world was more like you I would have struggled on until the end. But it is not. Unfortunately, the world is a callous, sick and plastic place. Behind the glitz is nothing but shit.

I am not sad, or ill, or depressed. I am not even particularly suicidal. I just want to be dead. That's all. It's no more serious than that.

As with everything I have ever done in my life, I will carry this out with the upmost professionalism. I WILL get the part! (laugh)

Please ensure I do not have an open coffin.

I want to be cremated.

Kiss the boys goodbye & take good care of yourself.

John I Love You.

Julia R.


I think jaws is scared of me. Every time my shadow passes over his bowl he recoils and descends down low. Just freezes there like that. He thinks that by not moving he cannot be seen. But I can see him. I can see very well. It's almost as if he can sense a great storm is on its way.


The last time I received good news was Tuesday 21st October 1986. On that occasion it was a letter on the dining room table containing my provisional bicycle certificate and a badge. “RSA Approved!” it beamed above a huge blue tick. Since then my letterbox, telephone and email has existed for no other purpose than allowing misery an easy entrance into my life. Today was no exception.

“Hmmm” I said, dragging the telephone receiver into bed and under the covers with me.
“Tristram it's Verity. Now you mustn't hang up, this is serious! It's John, he's gotten a whole lot worse.” At those words I sat bolt upright under the blanket; it smelt of stale sperm. “Worse?" I asked "In what way? I didn't think he could get ANY worse!” I heard the flick of a lighter then the feint kiss of lips as she withdrew her cigarette and inhaled. Through a lungful of smoke, she calmly said “He's turned orange.”


Of course John hasn't literally turned 'orange', it's a term used in the hospital for patient classification. 'Orange' refers to patients who are:

...experiencing violent outbursts or thoughts.
...considered a danger to themselves or to others.
...withdrawn, irrational and extremely uncooperative.
...displaying signs of extreme psychotic behaviour: hallucinations (audio or visual); excessive self-harm; uncontrollable sexual impulses; self-defecation; nodding along in agreement with Fred Phelps.

Well, that's the official explanation, though what it really means is that John's a ticking time bomb waiting to go off. It also means that he won't be out anytime soon; not of his own accord anyhow. Going from yellow to “orange” removes the liberty to sign oneself out. John is now confined under the mental health act. He's actually been certified insane.


For two days now there's been road works outside the apartment. Horrendous drilling and scraping sounds wake me up and then terrorize me. From the letter box I've watched the entire proceedings.

A young fit worker in yellow safety helmet and goggles vibrates away to the rhythm of his drill. He's looks like he's on a motorbike which isn't going anywhere. After five minutes of intense muscle therapy he slams the drill down in the dirt, removes his helmet and raises his goggles. He gives his forehead and hair a slow sexy swipe as if he's being photographed coming out the sea. For a moment he just stands there looking like the ultimate queer superhero. Then he pulls his goggles back down, adjusts them and fixes his helmet back on his head. With a huff, he tears the drill out the earth, slams it back down and once again trembles away . Except for two ten minute pauses and an hour long lunch break he remains there like that for 8 hours a day. All that changes is he gradually sinks. Soon he will be completely gone, just a noise coming out the ground. And even that will eventually stop. It all reminds me of the first time I ever met John...


Monday 4th February 2008 was a dull day. The sky was the colour of a cataract eye. The priest read hurriedly as strong winds lashed and battered him. He fought to keep a hold of his book as if the Devil himself was trying to tear it from his grip. Anything that wasn't bound or nailed down was strewn across the cemetery paths. Flowers, newspaper, small urns and memorial cards. Just as the body was being lowered into the ground, the skies opened up and the heavens fell. Large splodges of rain thudded against the disappearing walnut coffin and sounded like a beautiful bass drum. It was at that moment when even the tough men at the back crumbled and let their emotions run. Twenty four streaming faces and each one dressed in black.

As the other mourners slowly broke up and trailed away I remained with my head bowed sobbing uncontrollably. It was his shoes I saw first. New, immaculately polished black Italian leathers. Without even following them, I knew they would lead to someone very smart and very classy. One can just tell.

“Did you know him well?” he asked standing alongside me and looking down in the hole.
“Well??? I didn't know him at all” I replied “I saw the crowd of mourners and my natural reaction was to join them.” He kinda snorted a tragic smile and said: “I'm John, Luke's younger brother.” And then I did look up, and I knew my world was going to change.


“Your arse is quite hairy” I told John, looking into the second hole of the day. “I don't normally go for that, but yours is different. It's even eatable.”
“You mean edible!” he laughed, parting his legs a little.
“Maybe that as well” I said
“A hard on and white tennis socks just don't go. It's ridiculous. But it kinda looks good on you.”
“Yes, really. Really, REALLY!” I said, working my tongue under the left sock and pushing it down.
“ John?”
“How did Luke die? Was it a terrible car accident where his head got pushed right down into his chest cavity? Young people normally die like that. Something really macabre. Is that how Luke went?”
John kinda woke from his state of arousal and slowly turned his head. For the first time I saw that look in his face that wondered “Who the fuck is this guy?” and “Is he dangerous?”
“You mean you REALLY didn't know him? I thought you was joking!”
“It was no joke John. I'm a tragic figure. Tristram is from old French, it means sadness. Now, would you like me to put my fist in your arse?”
John rolled over and parted his legs wide. He looked like a beetle on it's back. “Cancer,” he moaned scrunching his eyes up as if in pain “it runs in the family.”

Since that day we never really parted. What time we didn't pass together we spent mailing, texting or masturbating via webcams. We walked around with hard-ons in Paris, Prague and Milton Keynes. Then on the 29th of the month, both of us jammed into a supermarket toilet, he said: “Tristram Spencer, now I don't care what you say, I'm moving in!” And with those words, sex gave over to another joy; the joy of being wanted. I flung myself around him in relief, clinging on like a child with my face pressed tightly into his stomach. It was love, and there wasn't a drop of sperm in sight.


Modern business is a con! A well arranged, safely stacked, two for one swindle. And what's worse it's carried out at eye-level. Of course, we all know that, but now I have proof of it.

MORRISONS till receipt 27/6/2004

Instant Mash potato mix ......................£1.64
Long life UHT milk   .............................£0.99
Chicken Soup x 4  ...............................£1.98
Rabbit & gravy dog food*......................£0.89
   *2 for 1
Tuna in jelly cat food*..........................£0.78
   *2 for 1
No thrills Tomato ketchup .....................£0.72
Pink Toilet Paper x 6. ...........................£1.49

Total  ..............................................£9.27

£9.27! Well according to my calculation it should have been £8.49! I was overcharged 0.78p. And that wasn't the only till receipt showing up an indiscretion. There are at least three others (although not quite as extreme) and I've only verified the last six years at present. Come first light Monday morning I'll be outside Morrisons with my vintage Casio FX-450 calculator. I'll catch the manager on his way in. The last time he stumbled past and I mistook him for a dosser off to take a shit in the doorway. I won't be fool to that ruse twice.

One shaft of light through my increasingly black existence is that the tranquillizers seem to be working. Last night I passed a full eight hours of sleep and there wasn't a single wheelchair dream to be had. Maybe this is the beginning of the 'turnaround'? Maybe Tristram Spencer is on the mend?

#27 Celebrity Suicide Notes - Elton John

My Darling John,

It is with tremendous sadness that I leave you this note, but I am devoid of the courage necessary to bear this bad wind out. I am not an Iron man (not in that way) I never was nor would I ever want to be. All I am is a potato with a hole, plucked from the dirt and fucked for over half a century. John, if any one will understand that, you will. My Sweetheart, it's all become way too very much. Sorry.

Two full bottles of Babycham... I've downed the lot. Knocked them back from a long cocktail glass, the bubbles tumbling over the rim as if in orgasmic celebration. What a majestic sentiment... even my own poison celebrates my departure. But, I've laughed. Dear have I just! On this last night I've laughed at the pathetic, squeaky, shapeless shit I've become. Sitting here naked, letting it all hang out, my belly at least saving me the sight of my pitiful little willy that shrivelled away into grey pub(l)ic hair years ago. I've half the world's fortune in my bank, but it means nothing when your own skin repels others. Even less when it repels yourself.

A bald glitter queen! Can you imagine that shame? No, of course you can't. When I finally remedied my genetic handicap I had the figure and shape of Sponge-bob... I became ever more ridiculous. The world wants pathetic celebrities... it needs them. It was by looking at me that millions each morning happily traipsed into factory's or blackened themselves under cars for 12 hours a day. Relieved by the fact that at least they were not ME! I could have been a mechanic... I should have been anything but Elton Sparklin' Shit John! What a terrible and outrageous waste of space.

John, It will not be pretty. I will not leave a clean mess behind. I'm gonna stuff my arse full of pearls and hundred dollar bills, then do a swan dive from the top of the Westin Peachtree Plaza Hotel here in Atlanta. I want to leave the authorities a huge clean-up operation. A dark red splodge of brains, shit and blood, scattered for miles around. It'll not be much different from what I done in life.

Well, the drinks are gone now, lights gradually blink off all over town and one last sleepy classic drifts out into the night. I think it's time for me to go.

My parting wish is this: I hope my impact with the earth will smash the shell of Elton clean from around my body; I do not want to die as that man. I desire it so as when they scoop me up and finally rearrange all the pieces, that instead of an A-list celebrity patched together on the slab, it will instead be the bland, boring, unimportant body of Mr Reginald Kenneth Dwight. A nobody from Pinner without a hope in the world.

I love You My Sweet Darling John.... FUCK this shit of a life!



It's Monday and it's noon. I never went to Morrisons to confront the manager and I never will. Like the rest of this dismal world I am passive. I see the injustices, am a victim of them, yet do absolutely nothing about them. Not a phone call, not a letter, not a signature or sound. I just absorb the abuse and slowly rot away. Though maybe that's not so bad? Maybe dying in silence is the greatest statement any man can make?


It's been a day of telephone calls. First Steve(12 mins 42s); then Mum (4mins 59s); then Verity (7 mins 21s) and finally the doctor (2 minutes 03 seconds).

Steve brings more grief. He's convinced his wife and brother are planning to run away together. Apparently he overheard a late night telephone conversation between the two of them. His wife was drunk and naked in the bathroom, crying hysterically into the cordless phone. He said that when she finally emerged, she looked like “a charcoal sketch that had been left out in the rain.” I had the distinct feeling he was lingering on, waiting for me to suggest we meet or that he comes over. I didn't. The last thing I need right now is a Princess with a tragedy.

Mum, well it pains me just typing out those three letters. There's really not much more to be said there. Though at least she didn't hang on long enough to influence a bowel movement.

As per usual, Verity huffed a lot of hot wind down the phone. Then just as I was about to lay the receiver on its side and go and do something interesting, she said: “I've news concerning John! Good news. I think there could be a breakthrough!” Of course, she also has this thing about never revealing good news over the phone and so she used that as a way of inviting herself around for dinner on Friday. That means I'll need to do a shop. All that's in the fridge at the moment is one shrivelled Weiner sausage and a vegetable box full of mould. That she's vegan will put my culinary skills to the test. From what I understand it means she only eats cardboard.

The call to Dr Dennis actually started out as a joke. I sometimes do that, make prank calls to the emergency services. I was intending to send him out somewhere across London to resuscitate a man who died three years ago. But after the first word that left my mouth the secretary blurted: “Oh, Mr. Spencer! you must be phoning concerning the renewel of your prescription. It's for tomorrow isn't it?” I listened as she tapped her pencil along each calender square, counting. “YYEESS” we both said at the same time. I stopped to allow her to go.
“Shall I go?” she giggled.
Me: Silence
“Mr Spencer???”
Me: “FFFrrrrpppp”
“...Er, ok then..” she faltered, completely unaware I had just farted down the line “Yes, we're quite correct, it is for tomorrow. Now what would you prefer, morning or afternoon?”
“...rry I didn't quite make that out?” she said
“FFFRRRRPPPPP ffffrrrr PPPfff!”
“...ha ha ha.. No, sorry I still didn't catch it. I'll tell you what Mr Spencer, you come in for whatever time best suits you, OK? The Doctor will se....” And on that drivel I slammed the phone down, cracking the plastic of the handset.

So that's it! Tomorrow (morning or afternoon) I have another appointment with Dr. Dennis. God, if this carries on he'll end up convincing me I'm ill.


“I've been compulsively wanking again. That means I'm down... really down. I walk around the apartment naked and with a hard-on that seems to constantly pull my hand towards it. Regardless of what it is I'm doing, my free hand will be stroking, pulling and jerking away. I can easily come 20 times a day! My favourite wanking spot is just behind the front door. I stand there peeping through the spy hole whilst knocking one out. Sometimes, when it's dark, I'll actually put my dick out through the letter box. With the correct wind and a finger slipped up my arse No.42 spits out into the night.” That's what I told my doctor today. I don't know why, he just seems to have these ears that pull the truth and a whole lot more from my lips.

“So the pills aren't working? They're having no effect?”
“That's right.” I lied “Who makes these things, Haribo?”
Dr. Dennis looked at me as if I was the last person on earth he should be giving stronger tranquillizers to. Then he slowly moved his mouse around, made a couple of very deliberate right clicks and printed out a prescription.
“Diazepam 5mg. One, two times per day.” he said stamping and signing the paper. “We'll start you out on a six week course and then review the situation. Ok?”
“OK.” I answered feeling like I had won some kind of a victory.
“I would also like to make you an appointment to see someone...”
“A psychiatrist!”
“Well, no... er... I suppose...”
“No!” I said “I'm not crazy and anyway I'd never keep the appointment. I'm not going through all that again. Pulling nails out the fucking ceiling! No, it's unnecessary... really fucking unnecessary.”
On hearing those words Dr. Dennis shot up straight in his chair. It was as if they had registered some learned instinct within him, as if he knew what they meant. With a voice more human than professional, he asked: “Mr Spencer, now I want you to tell me the truth: are you suicidal?”
In a strange way that question hurt. It was like an insult. I felt the tears building under my eyes and knew I must not blink. I tried to concentrate on how many buttons held the doctor's shirt closed, but it was useless. My facial muscles relaxed, my lip trembled and I blinked open a world of sadness.
“No,” I sobbed “I probably should be, but the truth is I have a phobia about dying alone. That would just be the most terrible thing in the world.”


All my life I have been a very material person. Above all I was concerned with what I had, where I got it from and what it meant. Even my fringe was swept across in such a way so as I looked good sitting outside French cafés. God, how the worm has turned. Now I am pre-occupied with what I haven't got; with what I've lost and may never have again.

If I've learnt anything over these agonizing past weeks, it is that. That your life philosophy can be rendered false and meaningless by one small emotional event. Of course, that's another thing: there are no small emotional events. Those are the blows that sculpt and form us. Knock us into shape or knock the stuffing out of us. It's quite right we are three quarters water. We are 75% tears.

Tomorrow evening Verity will come around for dinner. She'll be getting lentils... Soggy, French green lentils with added pebbles. Verity's a vegan, at least until she gets drunk and want a kebab. In those moments her mouth will open to anything. For a long time she would drink a bottle of Chardonnay and then try desperately to straighten me out. I remember kneeling down in the toilet of a club one night, her polka dot knickers strewn across the floor and her furry pussy at face level. The only thing it aroused in me was laughter. I couldn't help thinking I was looking at a man with no penis. It seems that some women will only believe you're really 100% gay when you've turned them down, recoiled in horror at their 'flying V'. It's a psychological thing: no-one wants to feel rejected. Tristram Spencer understands that.


I've always thought that it would be impossible to be depressed in the sun. Today I mooched down to the shops in 27° heat just praying that a stray cloud would drift by and find its way to blocking out the light. It is a terrible thing when the world seems to contradict your entire existence. Thats really what it feels like.

Oh God, tonight will surely be the saddest dinner ever.


Kitchens can be very lonely places. That is what I thought sitting at the table staring at a single pan of lentils steaming away on the heat. Outside it was dark, and inside it was bare and empty. Now and again water would foam up over the pan and roll down the side sizzling into the flames. God, has any man in history ever been quite as lonely as this? I poured myself a coffee cup of wine, popped another tranquillizer in my mouth and waited for something to emerge from time.

Verity should have been here 27 minutes ago. 9.00pm she said and now it was 3 minutes before half past. I picked up a fork and ran it under my nose. It smelled of dog's breath. I swapped it for the one opposite and peered down into an anaemic plate. It was the first time in weeks I had set the table and it kinda reminded me of something I had forgot. Like my memory had been jogged by a police reconstruction of the crime. No matter, the doorbell would ring soon and Verity would be here spilling out the good news. I tried to let that thought excite me, but what could she possibly have to say that'd make things better? Instead I found myself wishing that John would wander down the hall in his favourite white tennis socks and hard-on. Outside of that happening, I'm not quite sure how good any other news could be.

As the time ticked on I sat listening to bubbling water and going over The Flaming Chef's words in my head:

“pick through the dry lentils... cover by a few inches with vegetable stock... Simmer for twenty minutes with a little minced onion, a spoonful of canned, diced tomato and a splash of dry white wine. Don't add the salt until the end - salt at the beginning will make the lentils tough!”

Well, I had done all that, but what does The Flaming Chef say about what to do when your guest is three hours late, the lentils have boiled dry and you're sitting there in a diazepam stupor hoping that Elvis Costello will wander naked down the hallway? What's his advice then? Because when I next came properly to that's the position I was in.

“Fuck this shit” I screamed, knocking the clock off the wall. With 'just gone midnight' shattered on the floor, I closed the gas and dumped the saucepan in the bin. The cheap ass Morrison's Jam sponge, that was to be our secret dessert, I scraped out the window for the cats. Tonight would be no different from the rest... hours of terrible insomnia buried beneath a mountain of filthy blankets. I killed the lights and in absolute darkness stumbled down the hall. That's when the phone rang...


Late night or early morning phone calls are very scary things. It usually means somebody has died. Fortunately it can also mean that someone has crashed their car into a roundabout, puked up in the passenger seat, been arrested for 'drunk driving' and have pissed themselves in the back of a police van.

“Iwisheyewuzdead..” Verity bawled down the phone, her words all squashy and merging into one another. “'OwculdIavebinsofuckin'stewPID!! 'ow? ... an'they'vetakinme'fuckinshoos! Myfavriteredlesbo's! Darl, imsosorry... reallyfuckinsorry...blahblahblahblahblah”

Without saying anything I just stood there listening, waiting. And then there it was, between her tears and snot bubbles, silence.
“And what about John?” I asked desperately “What good news was you bringing? Has he started eating? Talking?? Has he moved???”
“Err, yeah,yeah, youculdsaythat, kinda. Thethingishe'sturndcompletelybackt'normal. jus' like that!” I think she tried to click her fingers as she said those last words, but instead must have fallen over and dropped the phone. I waited for the receiver to finish bashing itself against the loose plastic kiosk, then shouted/called: “Verity... VERITY!?!?” But there was no reply, just the approaching stamp of running boots, jangling keys and a policeman's radio. A moment after that the phone went dead and all that remained was a feint ringing noise echoing its way down the line; soon even that stopped and then there was nothing: just silence, shadows and a very confused man.

#33 Celebrity Suicide Notes - David Beckham

Dear John,

I wern't ever one for words. Always fell out my mouth awkward, like my brain was using all its force just to move my mouth. I felt like a badly dubbed film, when behind all the bad sound effects there was something profound squeeking away. At the end of the day I learnt to speak with actions. To show beauty in what I done.

I'm sorry for the mess. my artery has started spraying...


Luv, D.


There's a grubby grey patch on the wall. For six hours now I've been sitting here staring at it. I do not want to move because if I move the world will move with me. Truths and falsehoods will come to bear and I'm not sure I could handle either at the moment. I've started doubting every shadow that is cast. What is real and what is illusion? I'm afraid I no longer have any idea.


My heart is going to get me into trouble. Even at this early stage I know that. It's like I can see disaster, am walking into it, but can do absolutely nothing to stop myself.

“John is back to normal!” That's what verity said. But how can he be normal, just like that? It's not possible, unless he wasn't ill to begin with??? But he was ill. He was very ill. We all saw that.

“There was a storm. A black swirling mass of confusion. But now it has passed...” That's what John said. He left those bizarre words in a comment to post #32c. But then why didn't he call? Why isn't he back home? Why does he still refuse to speak to me when I phone the hospital? No, it's not right. I feel like a man who is being tricked.

Unfortunately I'm of that cut, susceptible I mean... all sad lonely people are. I'm not the only person to get someone into bed on a trail a tears and suicide talk and then convince myself that their kisses came from some place other than pity city. To lay there throughout the night staring into a pale pimply back and thankful for it. So what! It's still better than having nothing but a synthetic pillow to soak up the tears.

And that's it, I ignore logic, excuse confusion and don't think too hard as to why someone is there. That they are is enough. I don't mind someone putting rat poison in my coffee, as long as they touch my hand as they're handing me the cup. To feel wanted, even just for a second, that's my biggest fault. For that, I'd follow my heart right over the edge of the world. And that's how I know: Tristram Spencer is a fated man.


On a day when it should be raining I awake to glorious sunshine and a bare, cool shady apartment. The place seems cleansed, as if things have been rearranged and made proper throughout the night. Jaws seems to be asleep, if not just lulling calmly, as lazy as the day. I think I am going away, drifting off through centuries of time...

I open my eyes and John kinda squints down smiling. I screw my face up embarrassed by my sleepy features and sink back into the bliss of his soft, warm stomach. He lays back and I stare at the hairs leading up to his chest. Sometimes they move, very slightly, as if someone is gently blowing on them. It is summer 2008, we are alone and spread out in the grass on Hampstead Heath. London stretches off forever in every direction. The world is more beautiful than it ever has the right to be.

“It's kinda just perfect here isn't it? With the insects and all, the grass and shade. In this moment, in this time, we have it all. There cannot be anything more than this.”
I felt John's eyes open. A kind of warm rush went through his body as the sun soaked into him. ”It's like we've crash landed on heaven” he droned, drunk on the sun “almost like the perfect accident.”
“Oh John, I could die! Just like this. Be found here with you. No mess, no blood, no massacre or pain. Just two people at the height of all beauty and art  laying together. It makes me sad that soon the evening will sweep in, the light will fade and we'll have to pack up and go. It's like we've found this one perfect moment in time but cannot capture it... cannott preserve it. All we have to remember it by is our heat stroked memory.”
“Yeah, but we have it! Our eyes will always show that. It's like people who have been to war, have seen death and dying up close like that. It remains in the eyes  like a veneer of horror. It can be like that for us. Our eyes can sort of reflect this moment forever. Shine with the secrets of this day.”

John lit a cigarette. I lay rising and falling to the rhythm of his body as he inhaled, held for a moment then slowly blew out. Perfect, fanned plumes of smoke right into the blue.

I closed my eyes and over sun-rendered black and red shapes  the sounds of the day rung out. They seemed to come from a place far beyond just luck. It was as if there were other forces in play, like it was something bigger than life which had brought us here.

“John, I'm scared,” I said “I've never felt this before and it scares the shit outta me. It's like I could do anything for you... for us. I'm not sure that's a good thing... it may even be a bad thing.”
John's hand reached down and found mine. He gave a gentle couple of squeezes as if he was telling me it was fine, that he understood and it would be OK. But there was also something more, like I'd said the words he'd been laying there secretly waiting to hear. I rolled off and onto my elbow. The cool grass was stuck and milky on my arm. Blocking out the sun my shadow crept over John's face. He opened an eye as he sensed the change of light. “John” I said, now large and dark in his vision “one day I'm gonna kill you, then I'm gonna kill myself.” I waited for a moment then broke out into a smile. John didn't react, not a dicky bird. He just lay there in silence, splayed out under the sun, a squinted left eye looking my way


The pills which Dr. Dennis prescribed are starting to affect me badly. I keep momentarily falling asleep and having the most terrible daydreams. Not visual dreams, atmospheric ones. When I come to all that remains is a tone, a feeling... something very claustrophobic. I think I need a holiday.


I have passed my day sitting in the chair by the window peeping out from behind drawn curtains. There are three major changes to the world in which I live (four, taking into account the news concerning jaws).

I. We have a new post boy. He's a thin, pimply, red haired lad with cold sores all around his mouth. He looks like he'd leave a rash if he sucked your cock. Apart from his general unpleasantness, he is a full 12 minutes slower up and down the street than the old postie and he's forever knocking on doors asking for the letters back. I'm surprised he's even made it this far in life.
As for the old mail man, the happy fella in tight bulging shorts, one can only wonder what has become of him? He'd been delivering the mail ever since I moved in five years ago and by the look of him one would have thought he'd still be doing it 25 years from now. According to the little journals and notes I took he never missed a day, and in 2006 actually only took 18 of his accrued 20 days annual leave. I just hope his body isn't found all bashed up in a trash can somewhere.

II. Builders, but not your your normal type, these guys were strange - looked like actors or undercover policemen. I saw them coming down the road each holding the opposite end of a huge window frame. The one at the rear seemed to be pointing, telling the leader to cross the road, that he must do that now. As they passed my window they slowed right down to funeral pace and were both peering in my way. How they knew I was even there is a mystery: I was just an eye between an inch gap at the bottom of the curtains. Still, the oddest thing is what they were carrying. It was a window, but broken... perfectly broken. It was like a cartoon break, a jagged star like shape right in the centre. Even now that image sticks out and troubles me. It's as if the world is showing me a future which has already been decided.

III. Verity is free. Actually she was released two days ago but I was still fuming over her drunken disclosure concerning John and secretly hoped she would come around and give me more thorough details. Of course she never did, just shat on me from a great height and left me to climb out myself. She has been bailed until the date for a court hearing is set. Until then she can continue to drive her car into roundabouts. Whether she is well, apologetic or still drunk, I don't know. It was a text I received and I never called or answered  back. I get the feeling she's either being duped along with me or else she's in cahoots with the Devil himself. Sadly I think the latter is more probable.

IV. Jaws becomes ever more strange in his behaviour. Now he will no longer touch his 'Top Fin Fish Flakes' if I have so much as touched the packet. I get the impression he would allow himself to starve to death rather than feed from my hand. To be rejected by a goldfish is sad beyond words, especially for the likes of Tristram Spencer.


I have just cling-filmed a hairy bluebottle fly and buried it in the window box alongside the sea slug. A huge bumbling idiot of a thing that had been buzzing around all morning.

THWACK!!! I got the bastard full force in the face and sent him colliding into the window. “BZZZzzzZZzzZzZzzZZ” it crawled around stunned two or three legs missing. I imagined it was John picking himself up with his Costello glasses all broken and askew. THWAP! And his delicate little belly split open and spewed out a thick yellowish gunge. I stood looking down at My Darling Love. Three seconds ago it was life, a living flying creature, and now it is nothing but a splodge of belly, brains and arsehole. For a moment I felt sad, and then horrified. From out of it's abdomen 32 tiny little lavae emerged, crawling quickly away in all directions. It was like watching some creepy stop-motion animation film. I took no pleasure in the 'THWAP' massacre that followed, it was just something that had to be done. Anyhow, they would never have survived, not that small and out in the open. The birds would have had them before noon... I'm absolutely sure of it.

#39 Celebrity Suicide Notes - Simon Cowell

Dear John,

“I don't mean to be rude, but...”

Well there is no “but”, not this time. My sick cynical outbursts have no more retards left to abuse and so I do the decent honest thing and turn my failings in on myself. Well, that was always the truth of it anyway. Each time I had a 38 year old crooning nobody goofing away in front of me, I really just saw myself. Any one of those talentless goons could have been me... All of them were.

I'm just a foot with a mouth in it! Yeah that works. Kicking the dreams outta tramps, that's my business. The 33rd worst Briton? Come on!!! 10th most terrifying TV celebrity? Fuck you! I take it up the arse and spit it out my mouth. F**k YOU, yeah F**K YOU! Tristram Spencer you're just a talentless 2inch hard-on!

Well, I'm done and I'm alone (almost) ...

The other three judges chairs are empty. Minogue is on the bog, Walsh is with her (something to do with an apology???). Cole is having something done with her lips and Osborne, Queen Bitch Hellfire Osborne... well, I'm not even going there. The last thing I need is the Women's Lib Lesbo Cancer Brigade damning me in the obituary notice. No, for this one time I'll keep my mouth shut (metaphorically of course!) My mouth has to be open for the shotgun... I'm gonna fire my brains all over the cheap suited executives behind.

John, it's hot under the studio lights... real hot like you'll never imagine. But I'm gonna stand for this one last song, the pêrformance of my life...

I Dreamed A Dream in time gone by
When hope was high and life worth living
I dreamed that love would never die
I dreamed that God would be forgiving

had a dream my life would be
So different from the hell I’m living
So different now from what it seemed
Now life has killed the dream I dreamed...

ohn, I'll see you downstairs... don't forget to bring the lube.

© Copyright of Simon Cowell 2010
© Suicide note written by and copyright of Susan Boyle


Departure Date/time: 09/06/2010 - 12.45pm
Flight: BA2263
Passenger: Tristram Spencer (and fish)
Aircraft: Boeing 777
Flight time: 9hrs 42mins
Flight type: One-way
From: London Gatwick
Destination: Norman Manley, Kingston JAMAICA.


In preparation for my holiday I made an impromptu visit to the Doctor - nothing more serious than a renewal of my zombie pills.
“Jamaica!” he cried, choking on the word “Well, you'll be needing some inoculations if you're going there!” Then he rattled of a string of diseases affecting the liver and gut. He said I could end up with “blood pouring out my mouth, nose, eyes and stomach!” Why are some people such party poopers? There I was all happy and excited about my get-away and him telling me that I'd be safer staying at home eating raw chicken and drinking toilet water. When I return I think I'll try and have this scare-monger struck off the list, his medical licence revoked.

I replied to John's comment yesterday. I know I shouldn't have but I did. It is the first time there has been any dialogue between us since he upped and left 54 days ago. I suppose at some stage it had to happen. I just wish it would have been face to face or at least via telephone.

Some people think John is a shit, but that's really just because I have painted him in shitty tones. What else was I to do? I was very hurt and in some way needed to make his absence easier to bear. I told all the mean, cruel tales but I never told the good, the great, the magical. But John is that... He is ALL that is beautiful in this rather ugly world.


9:44am: It has been a morning of folding and pressing, lists and bathroom bags, but I'm finally all packed. My three abercrombie luggage cases are sat neatly in the hall by the door. In just under 13 hours I'll be in Jamaica; England just a place on a map which may or may not exist.

I am sitting in the green chair in the lounge without shoes or socks. I'm wearing  beige cotton shorts, a garish yellow and pink Bermuda shirt and a pair of dark shades. My thoughts are on Jaws. He's about 4cm in length and should fit snugly into a sardine paste jar. In one hour the taxi will arrive and I'll lock this place up for a while.

10:43: Taxi arrives. The driver is a an old guy with a big child's 'W' shaped arse. His trousers are pulled right up to his tits. If anyone looks ridiculous it's him.

11:30: Gatwick. Not too busy. I pick Jaws out his jar, pop him in my mouth and check in. “Where's your shoes?” asks one of the airport security. “I'm going to Jamaica,” I reply, sounding like a queer with a gobful of goldfish, “do you suppose Jamaicans wear shoes?!”
“Yes sir, they do!” Was his pathetic response.

11:37: Jaws is alive and safely back in his little jar. I buy some Kingsize Rizlas and practice rolling 'zoots' while I wait. I place a 'fat one' behind each ear.

12:24: We are called to board. I elbow and bustle my way to the front and am first on the plane. 301 seats, the choice is all mine. I sit near the toilet.

12:36: We go through a flight check. I will not describe it, one too many people already have.

12.45: Right on cue we take off. Skies are bright blue and the pilot anticipates a very smooth flight. I close my laptop and forget the world exists.

12:46: Jaws is staring back at me. I think I am crying. The hallway is in shade and my three travel bags look tragically sad sitting there as they do. Outside I hear the large metal bins being pulled and dragged around. Wednesday is always dustman day.

It is 17 degrees. London is overcast and heavy rain is forecast. I suppose I may as well change from out these ridiculous garments, unpack the cases and put my clothes away. There is no holiday and there never was. People like me don't go on holiday and we certainly don't go to Jamaica. But a man can dream can't he? Even in England a man can dream...


It's the day after the day before. I've been in bed for over 24hrs now, wrapped up like a disease. My three piss bottles are all full and need emptying but I don't have the energy to rise.

In a strange way I wish mother was here, that she'd bustle in, tear the curtains open and flood the room with daylight. That she'd pull a face of disgust as she gathered together my pee bottles and emptied them down the toilet. That she'd make me a tea, pull up a chair  and talk/listen to me... about anything, maybe even about John. But mother is far away, 25 years in the past, that's the last time she soothed me.  I was six and had fallen off the garage roof, hit my head and grazed my knee. As I watched Grace Kelly scale a building and climb in a window, mother bathed my head and sent me off into a series of little dreams. Father was there too, smoking and with a hand rested on my scrawny legs. As a child, I think that was the closest I ever got to feeling loved, even liked. God, what I would do for that now... for someone to pick me up and care. I think I need to call The Flaming Chef.


Well, it has all happened so fast that it's still a bit of a blur, but on the 15th June (next tuesday) at 3pm I will be going to The Maudsley Psychiatric Hospital in South London. But not on a visit and not in a straight-jacket of my own. No, I'm going to collect someone very special: John is coming home.


In Portland Oregon it was 4.31am. The Flaming Chef was sleeping off a Chicken Dumpling stew and mozzarella salad. It was one of those night-time emergency calls that we all have to make at some time or other in our lives. Of course, it wasn't night-time here, but it could have been. The curtains were drawn on the noon sun and once again I was under a mountain of blankets with the phone.

“Hello Chef, it's me Tristram Spencer and my world is a shit one!” I had to stop and compose myself at that point, my bottom lip was wavering at 50hertz per minute and if I'd have gone on I would have risked electrocution on my own tears. As I pulled myself together I listened down the line to 7,000 miles of static. Someone, somewhere was out there, connected to me and listening... actually listening. Surrounded by my own hot air I exhaled, a full 7 minute monologue in B flat minor.

It was a sad, hysterical, raving call; one long sentence with no punctuation. That I was still alive come the finale says I must have stopped for air at some time, but I really don't recall. Imagine sitting down on the toilet and your whole rotten insides spilling out from your arse: intestines-stomach-kidney-liver-lungs-heart, all connected together like a long string of sausages. Well that's what it was like, a complete cleansing of the system. When I was finished The Flaming Chef didn't react, not a word. He just ever so quietly put his receiver down and all that was left was the sound of the sea.

Sometimes people don't need to say anything. Sometimes just their ear and time is enough. Without knowing it this mysterious chef from somewhere across the ocean had helped me make the most important decision of my life. Throwing off the covers and flattening down my hair I dialled The Maudsley and asked to speak with John.

And that's how it happened... how John is coming home. There was no drama, no huge internal struggle, no pros and cons. We spoke as if nothing had happened and quite astonishingly the only tears came from him. I really do think it's going to be quite an unforgettable summer.


I have the hardest hard-on in the world. It is the kind of erection that can get a man into trouble. John is out in just over two days and my mind has slipped into the gutter thinking of the intense, dirty, dangerous, clean sex we' will have. I shiver with excitement at the thought of my cock springing free from my pants and John's slightly magnified eyes staring at it greedily through his Elvis Costello type glasses. It's weird, but after a forced absence of sex, it is once again the smaller, more innocent thoughts which seem to excite me the most.

On a separate note from John's return there is another local event which is raising some erections all of its own:

A fat bosomed woman with a bowl haircut, bible shaped shoes and a wart put that through my letterbox this morning. Apart from the 'prayer' bit, it seems tailor made for Yours Truly. Ever since winning my first goldfish in a prize draw at the age on ten I've had a kind of fetish for raffles and tombolas. And who knows, maybe even Mrs Abigail Winthrope and the Nerdettes will be there?

#47 Celebrity Suicide Notes -

Dear John,

There are NO suicidal celebrities this week, not even Britney Spears. The closest we can get is Morrissey, but apparently he's always been like that.

No, for some bizarre reason the A-list, B-list and EVEN the C list stars are ALL ecstatically happy and want to live. Leading this "I want to Live" campaign is no other than US presidant Barack Obama. He has even quit smoking in order to buy himself an extra 5 or 10 minutes smile time.

Hollywood Star paper/magazine says: "it's quite incredible!" and "we've never seen anything like it... everyone just seems diabolically cheerful and full of zest!"

One anonymous commentator, from a toilet somewhere in Southeast London, claimed to know the secret of the smiling stars. “John's coming home!” he beamed “In just under 24hrs My Love is coming home. Oh, I want to live forever!”


London is under blue skies but there are clouds building up on the horizon. The atmosphere is damp, like there is rain in the air. Nothing seems very real today.

I am sitting in the green chair dressed in a plain cotton shirt and tight, very tight jeans. I am looking down at my hands and wiggling my fingers. It's hard to believe that I have control over them, that it's me who determines their every movement. It's like my limbs and digits are somehow disconnected from ME and are behaving independently of any external control. For a moment I feel like a consciousness just hanging in the room, observing a body that I'm told is mine. Control of one's actions is a very delicate thing.

In an hour or so Verity will turn up in her red Classic Mini Cooper. We'll drive down to the hospital, pick up John and then come straight home. I hope it doesn't rain. Being cramped inside a Mini Cooper in the rain is the worst thing in the world. Water manages to get in through every possible place: the windows, the door handle, the dash-board, the roof. Drip, drip, drip, rain speckled windows and freezing cold feet. Those are my memories of Mini Coopers. Dad had one during my early years, but his was green. I'd sit in the back all scrunched up and cold, the leather seat eating its way through my trousers and numbing my backside. That car seemed huge, like three times as big as any other. But that's it, all lonely spaces are bigger than what they are... That's what's so fucking lonely about them.

Another lonely space thats too big is the crotch of my jeans. I give it a little pat. Still no life on Mars. My mammoth hard-on has relaxed and retreated into an inch of wrinkled skin; a nervous little lump that refuses to do anything other than piss. Damn! These last days I've imagined nothing but this afternoon, me in the hospital doorway, leaned back against the frame with my feet a little crossed and my bulging crotch stuck right out for John to see, a 'whatcha-gonna-do?' leer on my face. But Reality is forever disrespecting fantasy. Either it happens too fast, smells too much or doesn't happen at all. Mine is the latter. Anyway, if anyone thinks that they can fulfil a fantasy by performing it, they are wrong. It will only change shape and warp into something new... something ever more unattainable and perverse.

But I don't want to think about these things, not now. We'll just have to see how it goes. All I know is that it will be a little strange having another person in the apartment again. Me in the kitchen sensing a moving shadow along the hall. It will be weird, but a good weird. The other strange thing will be the bed; there is only one. Until now I've not really thought of it, but until the air is smoothed maybe John will not want to come straight back to the bed. For sex; yes, but will he really want me sleeping and farting besides him? My dream movements imposing upon his space? He's always hated body contact in the heat, sticky arms across a sweaty chest, and we're moving right into that period now. But maybe it will be different? Maybe his breakdown and the time he spent alone out on the fringes will have given him a new appreciation of life and the people within it who love and care for him. If not there is either the floor, the shower unit or the kitchen table.

I pop my second Diazepam of the day, take a mouthful of water and stare down at the floor. “It wouldn't be so bad down there” I suppose, “a few pillows and a blanket.” From outside I hear the turning of a car engine and the slight rattle of a metal bonnet. Then there is a beep, then another. I look at my hands, look at my watch, then look at Jaws. Just like me he is slightly trembling and just like me he knows the time has finally arrived...


I am back home and I am drunk. Everything is a blurrrr and going wibeldywobobolly! Hahhaha! When I try to steady myself the walls are always a foot t-o-o far away and unreachaballe. I have fallen over in the hall twice (x2!), knocked a painting off the wall <----fuck you !painting! and the kitchen is a mess. The world seems even less real than it did this morning. but of course I have taken quadruple the amount of pills I should <---- fuck you DOCTOR! and have and have finished off an entire bottle of Bacardi <---fuck you Dr (x2!!) , glubglubglubedyglubb!.

John is not here.

John has disappeared.

I don't know where to start and so fuckit I take you back to thz beginning and will tell it as good I can in my state. Just bare with me I'm am trying my best. Now “sober... Tristram be sober!”


The Maudsley Hospital is a big grand building. It is more like a stately home than a mental institution. Verity pulled into the grounds and rolled straight into a parking slot. As usual she was happy as if we were going to a museum or something. I was nervous. My stomach was hollow and I felt a little faint. I remember steadying myself as I stepped out the car, closing my eyes and taking a huge breath. It was the pills, you see, I had already taken too many.

Leading up to the main visitors entrance is a set of thirteen high steps. At the top a thin bedraggled nurse had come out to meet us. She looked at me and smiled. I grimaced and turned my head. From that point on she dealt only with Verity. (1 - 0 Tristram Spencer!) Just as we entered the first specks of rain began to fall. 

While Verity spoke to the nurse I stood back examining the fire evacuation plan on the wall. Now and again I'd catch the breeze or the scent of a passing doctor. They smelt of neutral white toilet soap and warm water. As they passed they'd turn their heads and watch me, not sure if I was visiting or being signed in. After finishing with the Plan of Evacuation I dragged myself past a few childish paintings until I was staring aimlessly out a window through layers of fine rain. And then the first in a bizarre series of events occurred.

Out in the grounds, being led around like an invalid, was my old postman. The one who for the past 5 years had not been delivering letters to me. His muscles had all turned to fat and his face looked like a boxer who had suffered a brain haemorrhage. He was completely out of it, one eye pointing north east and the other south west. I just sort of stared on in disbelief as this familiarish figure plodded slowly through the rain, with two blue coated doctors hanging off either hand.

“Mr Spencer. This way, please!” sang a new voice pulling me halfway back into reality. She was a large lady with an even larger arse and a set of keys poking out her right hand. Imagine a church bell in tight trousers and you'll get the picture. Verity flashed me a smile and held up a pair of clenched fists. She was trying to raise my spirits. It meant: We're going to see him! .

I followed Verity, who followed the Churchbell, who followed a familiar tune of corridors and doors. We were led through one? Two? Three, four? I'm not quite sure as by that time I was in a weird daze. I felt like a school child dragging behind his parents and being distracted by everything but the reason we were there.

“And now, if you'll just take a seat and John will be with you in a moment” said the nurse. Then she unlocked a door opposite and disappeared into the room. I sat down and closed my eyes. I was afraid of what might be led out. Would it be John? Or like the postman some kind of spastic version of him, all lopsided and goofy? I felt Verity's hand on my leg as she tried to steady my rocking. And then the world short-circuited and for a while stopped working as it should.

The door to the room holding John flew open and the nurse came running out. She shouted something like “he's gone!” and rushed down the corridor with her boobs swinging like wrecking balls. Before she ever got out of sight she was with a man, a head doctor I suppose. They both sprinted back up towards us. I looked at Verity who was now as shocked as me. “Did she say 'he's gone'?” I asked feeling flushed and dizzy. Verity just shrugged, then we got up and followed the nurse and doctor into the room. And there it was: a full length window with a huge jagged star shaped hole smashed right through its centre. Outside, laying in the daffodil bed, was a black moulded plastic chair with bent metal legs. Inside, clothes were torn up and strewn about the floor, but John was nowhere to be found.


“Well, he was free for release,” said the doctor “and apart from the broken window there's nothing illegal about it. My main concern is his psychological condition. He must have been in some state to have done that. Was he dressed or in his hospital gown?”
“Gown” said the nurse, now sitting and slouched back in a chair as if she needed fanning. “He was supposed to have changed but as you saw his clothes were all thrown around the room. Really, What are we to do? Phone the police?”
“No, let us not jump the g...” And that was it, I'd had enough and was off, on auto-pilot wandering down the hall with my hands over my ears humming... humming so I couldn't hear. Verity came running up from behind “Trist! TRIST!... TRISTRAAAM!” and then she was pulling on my arm and trying to turn me around.
“I have to go” I said tearfully “Please Verity, just take me home.” And for once in this shit of a life someone did what I asked.

On the way home I had Verity stop off at Morrisons where I bought a bottle of Bacardi and two litres of cheap table wine. Arriving at mine she offered to come in and wait for news and make some calls, but I refused. Instead, I entered alone, put the chain on the door, ripped the phone out the wall, popped another two pills and proceeded to get utterly and stupendously drunk. Sometimes getting completely leathered is the only sensible answer there is.


Last night the most bizarre thing happened. I am scared and think I may be losing my mind.

I was very drunk, zombied out from the pills. The apartment had descended with the light into a place of shapes and shadows. I sat in the kitchen with a night-lite burning, drinking glass after glass of cheap wine. I was unsteady on my legs and unsteady in my head. The dark seemed to be encompassing me, and the more I drank the more it inched closer. I was zoned out in a world of nothing. No thoughts, no feeling, no hope or dreams. Just a night-lite, a hand, a bottle and a glass. Nothing existed past that. And then in a moment I fell or was shaken out my stupor by the night. It began whirring and coming to life.

At first it was a car headlight. It passed across the ceiling and lit up the room. Then I heard the wind, great trees whispering secrets and air conditioning units working away. It was all filtering in, like blinding light, disturbing my numbness and freaking the shit out of me.

I remember it was way past midnight, ten to one actually. I recall looking at the clock and thinking that the shape the hands cut out looked like a quarter of cheese. I blew out the candle  and followed the smoke as it writhed up off the dead wick. It was now a night where a door to another reality somehow seemed to be open, like anything was possible. I felt as if I had drank myself into the twilight zone.

I had been thinking of the toilet for a while. A full bladder just another thing annoying my oblivion. I got up and veered and bumped my way down the hallway. I had to concentrate on each step and was feeling along the wall for the door frame to the bathroom. I remember pissing in the shower unit, laughing away at some insane notion that had entered my thougts and then feeling sick. Drunk-way-too-much type sick. In the dark my head started spinning and it was suddenly hard to keep my feet. The scent of cheap sweet wine curled up my nose and vomit rose to the base of my throat then descended again. It was there that my mind became flooded with terrifying thoughts. Thoughts of death and sharp edges and unconsciousness.

With watery eyes and regret I stood swaying over the toilet bowl dribbling and retching. I had horrible visions of falling and smashing my head on the bowl. Me laying there jerking and bleeding to death with blood pooling up across the floor tiles. “I could die this night” I thought “I could quite easily die.” And then I felt a presence, something behind me. A shape, a man, a pair of eyes, something. I turned around but the dark was just blurry. “Who's there?” I yelled “Who is it?!”

There was no answer. All I could make out was the door frame and a rectangle of black that seemed to extend into forever. I stood for a moment breathing heavy, just looking,waiting. Then there it was again, only this time a noise, a squeak. I picked up the toilet brush and stood back, my legs now trembling. “Who's there?!” I screamed “I can see you! I heard you!”. Still no reply. Of course I hadn't seen anybody but unless my drunken, pilled up mind was playing tricks on me, I was not alone.

In a desperate attempt to discover who or what was in the hallway I reached for the brush holder and dashed it out with all my might. I listened as it hit the wall, then the floor, then rolled, span and came to a stop. But nothing else moved or sounded. “God!” I cursed “I can't be stuck in here until morning! I've a body that needs poisoning! Fuck youl” And in a fit of bravery and sobriety I rushed out wielding the toilet brush like a baseball bat. Nothing... just darkness. And then it came from behind: BrriiiIINNNNGGG!!!!!!!!!!

Fuck!!! My bowels almost collapsed under the strain and for a moment I thought the noise was coming from inside the flat. BriiiiIIIIINNNGGGG BrriiIIIINNNGGGG. It was the doorbell, but who the hell was ringing me up like that at 1am in the morning? And then whoever it was put a finger on the bell and held: BrrrriiiiIIIIIIIIIINNNNNNNNGGGGGGGGGG!!!!!!!!

I flicked the hallway light on. 30 watt bulb, no shade. In a way it was even more depressing and hallucinatory than the darkness. BrrriiiiIIIIINNNNGGGGG. I nervously approached the door and looked out through the spy glass. No-one was out there. All I could see was an open garden gate, a couple of parked cars and the edge of a ripped binbag. Still, my bell was sounding without stop.

I gave the door a drunken kick “Who the fuck is it?” I screamed hitting the door again with my palm. But no reply, just the incessant ringing or the bell, now rattling through the entire apartment. I bent down into a squat and pushed the letter box open. Fuck! Shit! Two eyes greeted me. I left the letter box spring close and fell back in horror and shock bashing my head on the floor. “What the fuck! WHAT THE FUCK!!!!” At that point the bell stopped ringing and I lay on the floor just staring at the door, the box. “Er... who's out there? What d'you want? Mr Spencer's not here... he's dead!” But still the anonymous caller didn't reply. Then BrrriiIIINNGGG BrrriiiIIIIIINNNGGGG BrriiIIINNNGGG!!!!. With a thudding heart and a stomach of slush I raised myself, disconnected the chain and opened the door.

Out on the doorstep, sitting in a wheelchair was a man. He wore Elvis Costello type glasses and looked like John. Well kind of, except he had bleach blond hair and a moulded, rubbery, expressionless face. I took a step back, covered my mouth and started to cry. “John? John is that you???” The man said nothing but pressed a button on the arm of his chair and drove in passed me and down the hall. From behind all I could see was the top of his head and a piece of elbow. Then he turned into the kitchen and was gone.


I am sitting in the kitchen in the daylight. The place is trashed. John is not here and if I am truthful I'm not sure he ever was. What I do know is that a strange and troubling wind is blowing through my life.

Last night I was wasted and pilled out. My memory of events is a vague drunken blur at best. I am an unreliable witness in my own life. I do remember some things, though whether they actually happened or not is quite another matter. The confusion is this: I think John was here, but there is a conflicting report stating, that in fact, he was somewhere else entirely...

“Good afternoon, Maudsley hospital. How may I help you?”
“err, yes. My name is Tristram Spencer. I was at...”
“Mr Spencer! We've been trying to contact you, but your phone has been permanently engaged. Now don't panic, it's good news: John is back. He's still a little withdrawn and passed quite a traumatic night, but other than that he's fine. The doctor is with him as we speak. But he IS here, and he IS receiving the best possible care.”
“A traumatic night? You mean he was missing all night?”
“No, not at all! We'd have alerted the police in that instance. He actually wandered back in here less than an hour after you and Miss Cooper left yesterday. He had suffered some kind of neurotic episode. We think it was his desperate way to show that it was further treatment he needed and not home release. I say he passed a traumatic night purely in terms of sleep/dreams/thoughts/anxieties, etc. During the routine morning check we found him naked and shivering in the corner of his room. The day had just been a little too much for him. But he's doing much better now.”
“But no, it can't be. He returned yesterday? Less than an hour after escaping? are you sure? And his hair, what colour is his hair? Has it been bleached blond? And what about a wheelchair? Did he return in an electric wheelchair?”
“Errhhmm, yes, Mr Spencer, we're quite sure!” said the nurse bemusedly, as if the only thing she was unsure about was my own mental condition. “ It was me who received him and booked him back in. Regarding his hair, well that's as black as its always been, and as for a wheelchair, certainly not! Why on earth would he be in a wheelchair? there's absolutely nothing physically wrong with him... I think he proved that yesterday!”

From the nurses voice, and the decisive manner she finished her sentence, I knew the conversation was over. There was no point in going on. Any further questions or doubts would have only left me looking even crazier than I already did. Instead I put the phone down and just sat there thinking, trying to penetrate the fog, to grasp a hold of a concrete memory, something I could be sure happened. At first there was nothing, and then in two heavy blinks it came:

**Blink**  Water splodge on the wall **Blink**  Jaws flapping about helpless on the floor.

I flushed sick with horror and covered my mouth. A grieving, longing sadness welled up and out my eyes. Please God, no!!! Anything but that! Not him, not my only friend Jaws. Please don't let my little fish be dead...


For the entire day, I have been obsessively going over John's visit, trying to decipher whether or not he has actually been here, but the more I try to defog what happened, the mistier in my mind it becomes. Here's what I think happened.

John (or someone kind of resembling him) drives past me, down the hall and into the kitchen. I am shocked at his appearance and shocked that he is in a wheelchair. Outside the night is bright and weird. The street seems eerily deserted and modified, like it is a film-set or something.

I close the door, fumbling to put the chain in its catch. Whether I succeed in doing so or not, I don't know or care. My concentration is on my feet, trying to make them move me down the hall. I have the sensation that I stumble back twice as much as I stumble forward. I am no longer sure what is the floor and what is the ceiling.

I pass the bathroom and flag it as a marker, proof that I am indeed advancing. I am urging myself on: “kitchen.. kitchen... kitchen!” For a moment I entertain the idea that all that has passed is an hallucination, or a drunken/drugged up fantasy. It is only when I reach the kitchen and see the seated shadow of a man in a wheelchair that I sway back into reality (or insanity).

I flick the light on and the man I will now refer to as 'John' is sitting there with his back to me. On registering the light he starts spinning his chair around like it is some crazy toy. When he finally stops he is facing me. He is in his hospital gown and his legs are pressed tightly together and collapsed a little to the left. They look like they could be strapped. In contrast, his head is flopped to the right and there is a string of dribble hanging from his mouth. I feel so out of it that I am not shocked, more bemused, as if I don't know whats going on. I don't say “Huh???” but I look as if I have. Then John sits up, straight as an arrow, completely normal, and smiles. He manoeuvres his chair backwards and forwards, stops/spins, etc, demonstrating he has full control over his vehicle. “Well, aren't you gonna give me a welcome home blowjob?” he asks “It's me, John!”

Now completely composed, not only does he look like John, he sounds like him too. I peer in closer. I want to find something that will emphatically prove it is him, but his features keep falling in and out of focus and the only thing I can register is his bleached blond hair. That is the only constant reference point in all this madness.

I hear the flint of a lighter and then smoke is being blown my way. My head feels badly weighted and it is becoming hard to keep focussed. I feel sick, and then there is more smoke. It is swirling around my head and the floor is rushing. Johns slippered feet keep spinning in and out of picture.

I need a chair. My upper body is threatening to take my legs from me. As I make my way past John, steadying myself on the table, I hear: “Blowjob!” But this time it isn't Johns voice, rather something that sounds like it is being powered by his wheelchair battery. As sick as I feel, I slump down at the table and instinctively reach for the bottle of wine. I can see my arm, the bottle tilted against the glass and the wine pouring out, but now it seems like there is a few seconds time delay on movement and sound. I blink and squint and try to shake my head clear.

“Wuld'jew like uh drink?” I slur at John with my eyes staring somewhere off his shoulder. “Blowjob!” he says spinning around “I.want.a.blow.job!” For a moment his syncopated words bring me to, like some terrible fright that shocks a man sober. He spoke as if there was a full.stop.after.each.word, just as he has done in comments on this blog. .

After crashing my empty glass down on the table, things became even more dizzy and indistinct. In fact, from that point on I only have the vaguest recollections of what actually passed.

I remember crying, but emotionless, drunk, self-pitying tears. Real watery things that just added to my haze. I remember pathetically flinging myself around John and trying to raise his gown up with my head so as I could suck his cock. My tears and cries rising into a crescendo as he pushed me away... denied me a fantasy, a pleasure, a moment. I finally gave up and sunk into his soft crutch crying tears through his dress, and begging his dick to forgive me. I remember being slumped on the floor, crawling, begging and collapsing again. Then the kitchen disappears.

We are in the living room. I don't know how we got there. I am trying to calm John down, apologising. I don't know why. I am pleading with him. The next thing his right hand is dripping wet and he is clenching something. I am hysterical. I hear a thud and see a small wet bump on the wall. Jaws is on the floor stunned. He looks pretty dead.

Flapping. I remember that. I am bending down reaching out but I am off balance. I have a tremendous urge to overcome my drink and drug handicap and reach what it is I am straining at.

Something is pulsating in my hand like a little tiny heartbeat. I am clutching my fish to my chest. Plop. Swooosh. Bubbles. Jaws is scooting away, down low, to a safe place.

John is on the floor. He is half out his wheelchair and both are on their side. My eyes are on his neck. Kill, KILL!!!. Then we are kissing. I have a dick pressed to my face and poking up towards my eye. I am moving my head like a cat, trying to get it down and in my mouth. A pair of Elvis Costello type glasses moves in close and I lose consciousness.

I am pushing John down the hallway. The bedroom is dark. I am thinking of upturning his wheelchair so as he tumbles out onto the bed. I haven't the strength to lift him up.

Bed. Empty Hospital gown.
Chest. Stomach. Hairs. Cock. Arsehole.

The room is spinning. I am on my back. I am a woman. John is thrusting in and out of focus. He doesn't seem very handicapped. I am Puzzled??? Don't matter, it feels too good.

8” multi-speed moulded penis. Remote control. Suction pad. Battery operated toys. Wheelchair.

My bottom is curled up against John's crotch. I am happy. Then I am spinning.

Vomit. Floor. Distant bulb. Lights out.

And thats it. When I awoke in the afternoon I was alone. There was no wheelchair, no arms, and no John. All I had for company was a pile of sick and an 8” rubber cock. It was laying besides me and the batteries were dead. The place was trashed and my mind was shot. I turned over onto my back and stared up at the ceiling. Four cracks, eight pieces of old tape and an air-vent. I wanted it to collapse on top of me. As I crossed my fingers and wished, a warm, desperate tear rolled across my cheek and curled up behind my ear. John, John John... For you I will wait forever.
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