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Hospital Diaries Part 1

Saturday July 14th

I was cheered on Friday by Conrad Black's guilty verdict and Boris Johnson's mayoral bid. When one realises that politics is run by big business, and that it is all a farce, one expects interesting players at the very least. Boris makes me laugh which is more than I can say for most of the drab cast of "Real" Politik 2007. I can't wait to see his funny face plastered all over London.

Lights go out at 11, I think it is. I have a curtain drawn around my maneuverable bed. Anyway. Lights go out, and the man in the bed next to me lets out a mighty, squeaky fart. Nobody else laughs but me.

I wake up at 3am soaking wet with sweat, freezing cold, and feverish. Someone has taken my tubes out of me. I feel weird without my tubes. Eventually I fall asleep in my wet, shivering.

At 5am my bed is suddenly a hive of activity. All AK systems are go - doctors and nurses swarm about me filling me with tubes and drugs and all manner of exotic weirdness. By 7am there us utterly no more sleep allowed, and I am assigned yet another short chubby Jamaican nurse. This one is called Janet. She is nice to me.

At about 9 a lady comes to take some blood out of me. Amidst doing so she somehow manages to stab herself in the finger with the needle. She totally freaks out. I might have AIDS, you see.

Very soon a number of serious people visit me to enquire about my sexual history and ask if I mind being tested for The Dreaded AIDS and The Hepatitis and all that. Of course I don't! I have been meaning to for ages anyway.

Opposite me there is a Vietnamese man (I think he's Vietnamese, Janet thinks he's Chinese) who was bought in last night and speaks no English. Nobody has been able to communicate with him, which seems silly to me - are there not interpreters in London? Surely this sort of thing happens all the time? Now he seems to be in great pain. "Ooh! Ooh!" he cries, lying in an exaggerated foetal position on his bed like a big monkey, clawing at his back. He sicks up the drugs they give him, and emits the first English I have heard from him in the 17 hours we have spent in the same room - "No good!" he whimpers, sadly, before savagely beating his own back. "No good! No good!"

We exchange understanding glances. He has really nice shoes.

Around lunchtime, my television, which costs £5 a day and has nothing on it, tells me that Spar is 50. Wow! 50 years of Spar! I did my first shoplifting in Spar, when I was 8. I feel a song coming on, then the feeling goes. Hospitals aren't good for creative people. The food is too upsetting.

Suddenly, in the early afternoon, I am moved to another ward - out of the constant surveillance one, that's full of shrieking weirdoes, into a normal one, called Lloyd Ward. My universe has changed. I no longer have a window bed.

My new, immediate neighbours seem a little less crazy than the last lot (bearing in mind my last lot included a mad old grey man who looked like a ghost, invaded my bed area scarily and often, and on my first night in hospital, woke me up at 3am when he exploded in a wet shower of shit). They number a small club footed old white man who likes to wear big suede boots in bed and makes weird hacking noises, a seven foot bright pink giant of a man with black features, huge mangled toes and a huge, similarly mangled family, and a nice quiet old black gentleman with an absolutely lovely wife who says hello and goodbye to me twice a day. And she tips her hat to me. More people should be tipping their hats.

CLICK HERE FOR PART 2

Hospital Diaries Part 1

Saturday July 14th

I was cheered on Friday by Conrad Black's guilty verdict and Boris Johnson's mayoral bid. When one realises that politics is run by big business, and that it is all a farce, one expects interesting players at the very least. Boris makes me laugh which is more than I can say for most of the drab cast of "Real" Politik 2007. I can't wait to see his funny face plastered all over London.

Lights go out at 11, I think it is. I have a curtain drawn around my maneuverable bed. Anyway. Lights go out, and the man in the bed next to me lets out a mighty, squeaky fart. Nobody else laughs but me.

I wake up at 3am soaking wet with sweat, freezing cold, and feverish. Someone has taken my tubes out of me. I feel weird without my tubes. Eventually I fall asleep in my wet, shivering.

At 5am my bed is suddenly a hive of activity. All AK systems are go - doctors and nurses swarm about me filling me with tubes and drugs and all manner of exotic weirdness. By 7am there us utterly no more sleep allowed, and I am assigned yet another short chubby Jamaican nurse. This one is called Janet. She is nice to me.

At about 9 a lady comes to take some blood out of me. Amidst doing so she somehow manages to stab herself in the finger with the needle. She totally freaks out. I might have AIDS, you see.

Very soon a number of serious people visit me to enquire about my sexual history and ask if I mind being tested for The Dreaded AIDS and The Hepatitis and all that. Of course I don't! I have been meaning to for ages anyway.

Opposite me there is a Vietnamese man (I think he's Vietnamese, Janet thinks he's Chinese) who was bought in last night and speaks no English. Nobody has been able to communicate with him, which seems silly to me - are there not interpreters in London? Surely this sort of thing happens all the time? Now he seems to be in great pain. "Ooh! Ooh!" he cries, lying in an exaggerated foetal position on his bed like a big monkey, clawing at his back. He sicks up the drugs they give him, and emits the first English I have heard from him in the 17 hours we have spent in the same room - "No good!" he whimpers, sadly, before savagely beating his own back. "No good! No good!"

We exchange understanding glances. He has really nice shoes.

Around lunchtime, my television, which costs £5 a day and has nothing on it, tells me that Spar is 50. Wow! 50 years of Spar! I did my first shoplifting in Spar, when I was 8. I feel a song coming on, then the feeling goes. Hospitals aren't good for creative people. The food is too upsetting.

Suddenly, in the early afternoon, I am moved to another ward - out of the constant surveillance one, that's full of shrieking weirdoes, into a normal one, called Lloyd Ward. My universe has changed. I no longer have a window bed.

My new, immediate neighbours seem a little less crazy than the last lot (bearing in mind my last lot included a mad old grey man who looked like a ghost, invaded my bed area scarily and often, and on my first night in hospital, woke me up at 3am when he exploded in a wet shower of shit). They number a small club footed old white man who likes to wear big suede boots in bed and makes weird hacking noises, a seven foot bright pink giant of a man with black features, huge mangled toes and a huge, similarly mangled family, and a nice quiet old black gentleman with an absolutely lovely wife who says hello and goodbye to me twice a day. And she tips her hat to me. More people should be tipping their hats.

CLICK HERE FOR PART 2

Zzz

So, I got some (ha!) sleep, and I listened to the noises Birddogg was making up here while I was down in New York, doing whatever it was I was doing in New York. Like, there's some ill stuff. But one in particular is just tremendous. it is mighty. It fills my heart. And prefectly fits so many of the raps I was writing in New York, tempom flow, everything. So, what I've done, is draw various raps, and bits of raps, together, to create this New York song that's been brewing all the time I've been here. It is best I get it out now, before I FORGET. Annoyingly, the necassary component is missing. So piss.

Bad: All the stuff I bought last week - food, drink, socks, weed - is gone. Mostly. I got a lot of Ritz crackers, peanut butter and macaroni. Good: There's a Death's Head Moth on my window. (See right) Bad: There is animal shit by my window. Good: The air outside is fresh and envigorating. Bad: The air in the top level of the house, in which I am supposed to be dwelling, is thick with the stink of animal and of animal excrement.

I went to turn on the sauna earlier, and nearly trod in cat shit. Or dog shit. It could be both. Whatever. It's like, wow, sauna! Oh, catshit. Wow! Oh. Wow! Oh. Etc. So, I wanted to go into town and get a job today, to pay for my ticket back to New York, but waited about for people to come with me rather than just doing it, and the end result is it's super late now, too late to get a job anywhere, and everyone's going into town to go out, save me, who must stay at home cos he has no ID (this is a worry), and it's too far to chance not being allowed in anywhere.

A ha!

So I should write more now. I wrote a bunch earlier. Phil is worrying that Amy has forotten his ass, as she went in her tiny car to take Cecelia and James over an hour ago. But she hasn't forgotten him. It's just miles from ShanGayKen to Woodstoock! A HA!

I just asked Spiky if he has a message for the world. He said, "spitroast!" So there you go.

Lush

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.

Rested

After a nice little rest, I am back in London with a pink pack of eyeballs on my case. That shit looked nice on IE, but fucked up Mozilla. I don't know what it was doing to Macs. So he will live to the right. Read a bunch of Hilaire Belloc's The History Of England Vol XI, From The First Invasion By The Romans To The Ascension Of King George The Fifth on the train. I now realise that we are living in an oligarchy. Well, a strange, new fangled sort of oligarchy masked as a democracy. With a bit of a monarchy. But it is an oligarchy, nonetheless.

This book was published in 1915, and, interestingly, predicted that Russia would do what America has. The author is also in favour of true aristocracy, and I can see his point.