Day two at the momma house, and I am finally getting used to her ridiculous mouse, that looks like a mouse, and not only looks like a mouse - with a tail coming out where you hold the thing, and ears for left and right click button - but is encrusted with diamanté blingy stuff... yes, it is mental and weird and strange and baffling, but I am getting used to it... all in time for me to bog off back to London, and my big heavy wireless mouse that looks like a sort of military armadillo, in time to do the Doncast tomorrow.
Which is a shame, as I rather like hanging out with my mum on our machines in our makeshift office. We naughtily took a two hour lunch break today to walk the streets of Andover, marvel at the ducks, buy presents, and have lunch in the garden centre. If you're ever in the area I recomend it highly, the staff are very nice and they do a mean flowerishly-latticed pork pie. They also sell four foot potted apple trees with really nice looking apples growing on them for £20, which is amazing. I might get one, to go with my little orange plant. I've had the thing for nearly three years, for the most of which time it has sat on the windowsill looking ill and yellow and it hadn't fruited since I got it, until my girl's sister put me on to this Citrus Baby Bio stuff and now I am the proud owner of a tiny baby orange plant covered in loads of tiny baby oranges. They are green rigt now, and only the size of marbles, but I am going to enjoy watching them grow tremendously.
Yes, life is sweet, unless your colleague has planted child pornography on your laptop, or your name is Andrew Crosley and you're getting hit with a £500,000 fine for being an evil granny-robbing douchebag. I would laugh and point, but one shouldn't mock the afflicted, and at any rate, that's a tiny punishment for so great a crime. Bonis nocet quisqus malis perpercit, as my old pal Jesus used to say. That man should be in JAIL, and I am certain he will get there in the end.
Speaking of massive douches, another fun thing about visiting my Mum is seeing all the post that she gets from debt collectors looking for my ass. They have been after me since I was 18 and, drunk in a town centre one fine afternoon, I got myself a Topman Store Card, which I immediately maxed out on a cammo print puffa jacket, some black army trousers and this Mean White Top Wot Zipped Down The Side Of My Neck To My Left Shoulder Blade. Around the same time I also bought a PC computer on credit. I then proceded to run around the country like a madman for a number of years, as you probably know from all those songs I wrote, while the little debt turned itself into a Great Big Debt that I have steadfastly ignored ever since.
ANYWAY. These debt collectors' efforts tend to come in cycles, following a long period of non activity, usually triggered by an unsuccessful loan application and accompanying credit check. They start out with the threatening (pay us), moving onto the very threatening (pay us or else), then to the super threatening (pay us or you will go to jail), before moving on to the desperate (please pay us), and so on. Right now they are in the deep, dark pits of Embarrassing Uber-Desperation, as they are sending me jaunty nonsense like this:
Dear Mr Narkiewicz
We previously asked a debt collection agency to contact you and now your account has been returned to us.
Fantastic offer - Save £ 814.90
It is important that you deal with your outstanding obligation Mr Narkiewicz, so we have the following options for you:
1. Pay £203.73 by 30th September 2010 and we will clear the remaining £814.90 to clear the balance...
Woah! That is indeed a "fantastic offer!" But having gone from "pay us or face legal action... bailiffs... death at the hands of trained ninja midgets" to "fantastic offer!" I think I'm gonna hold out for the next "super fantastic offer", which will no doubt involve YOU giving ME money, and maybe a speedboat or something. Ave!
So I fell alseep on the sofa after 5, and was awakened gently by Super Phil at 6:20, and it transpired Bird left my bag with my passport in it at the venue last night. But Bird's got me another ID card, so we're outside waiting for Jeff to pick us up at 6:30. And at midday we're in LA, and soon after that we're in Interscope's offices,and I'm filling a bag with Nirvana, Guns N Roses, Gilbert And Sullivan, Dre, Peter Gabriel, Police and other such back catalogue. Jimmy Iovine has a signed letter from Tupac and a video console that won't switch on. And loads of ideas. A balcony. A lush view. LA is lush to look at, from these places of advantage. Like, later we visit Jeff and Trent's, and there's this fucking alien cat that loves me, and an incredible, incredible view, of this desolate wilderness spattered with money.
It was a lovely day.
But in the nighttime it is hard not to see that LA is awash with cunts. It is a sad and massive amount of cunts, and I am not sure whether it is sad because this is what the world did to them, or because this is what they do to the world, or because they are cunts, and you can see their faces rotting right in front of your eyes.