I’m back. Did you miss me? No? I didn’t think so. If it’s any consolation I haven’t missed you either. But now that Big Brother’s finished, I’ve got nothing to talk about with people anymore. Nothing to distract my mind from those odd feelings. So they begin to rise. They bubble up from my deepest sub-conscious, thickly gassy and noxious thoughts, rising through layers of consciousness, until the pressure builds and the thin meniscus between my private mental torment and the daily hell of my reality is broken.
And so, since umm.. thingy won Big Brother, I’ve been having my little moments again. You know the ones I mean. The moments when, whilst staring longingly into the eyes of a loved one, you suddenly find that you are face to face with the crumpled visage of your dying grandfather, hissing out his last, vile, sibilant gasps.
Or the moments when you sit down, laughing and joking, with your beautiful family to eat a lovingly prepared meal. And then things go hazy… and you find yourself sitting at the table , alone and cold, your meal uneaten and from upstairs you can hear your children crying.
We’ve all had them, and we know where they lead if you don’t find a vent for these sort of feelings. King’s Heath. Not the King’s Heath up the road however, but a King’s Heath of the mind. A spiritual and mental King’s Heath from which there is no metaphorical “Number 50″ bus to escape on. It is a place in the deepest part of the most skewed consciousness, where nothing lives or grows. A barren desert landscape strewn with rusty metal pitchforks, the flat horizon broken only by lines of stands. And on these stands a myriad of broken, nasal loudspeakers, as far as the eye can see. Each speaker playing a different noise. The sound of liposuction, dental drills and glasses fresh from a dishwasher. And then in the distance, you see a figure huddled, rocking backward and forward. You get closer and see…it is you.
You look into your own ravaged features. The staring mad eyes, the dry, cracked skin and you hoarsely whisper …Write…. And you don’t know now which is the real you. So I write. I write to avoid this future. Even though I know it’s inevitable. Inevitable for all of us.
(“Ooh… there’s a new “Simon Says…” on Eye On Moseley.”
“Is it any good then?”
“I don’t know. It’s going on about a “King’s Heath of the mind”.
“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”
“I don’t rightly know.”
“Lets look at porn!”