This house, within which my computer sits is actually not much warmer than the shed within which I reside during the times that I’m not in a pub or in the supermarket. Sorry, SUPERmarket. Again, fine use of the capitals I feel. But I’m not complaining, (about the warmth thing anyhow) because Miranda has just popped the heating on. Miranda (by the way) is Xander’s girl friend. Xander is the tenant of the house and friend who took me in when I fled from Torquay last November. So, Miranda has just moved over from the US. She is a fine woman, well read, tolerant of my presence and enjoy’s writing also. In fact, she had a short story published not that long ago in an American journal. You could read this by going onto her blog but I’m not sure what her address is yet but if she posts a comment then I’d imagine you’ll be linked through to her writings that way. Hopefully/possibly. What I also like about Miranda is that her name rhymes with Xander. One day, if I get a girlfriend, I’d quite like her name to rhyme with mine. So that when we get invited to birthday’s, dinners, weddings etc the invitors would smile when they write on the line, “Dear George and (rhyming girlfriend’s name“). Because inevitably she would have to be called something like Lorg or Borg or Forge. Even if the invite was to a funeral they may still smile at that one? Or they may just think to themselves, “Jesus, why after all this time of him not getting a girlfriend does he finally start dating a girl with a really freaky name! Anyway, moving on.

Second day of blog posting, second day sober and it’s 17:11. A bit warmer in the house but already dark outside. I’m going to go to Tesco on my way back to the shed and buy one of each root vegetable, chop ‘em up and roast the fuckers. Roasted vegetables – brilliant. And whilst we’re on the subject of food may I suggest that you (for those of you who find yourself susceptible to SADS or even, all year round misery and discontentment or just plain shelf-filling fever) purchase and consume vacuum-packed peppered Mackerel fillets. Very reasonably priced, certainly cheaper than swallowing tubs of Omega 3 tablets and far tastier than spreading Prozac on toast. Plus, you don’t need a prescription for Mackerel.

You see that’s the amazing thing about me finally getting into this blogging lark because not only do I give nutritional advice but also a FREE piece of George poetry with every posting.
This poem is from my first book, Derailed and is entitled:

You’re Beautiful like Bill

You must have been a model?
That’s where I’ve seen you.
In FHM,
Maxim,
Esquire, no?
Then Cosmopolitan.
Not that I’d read a birds’ mag.
Not saying that you’re a bird.
Bill Oddie likes birds
and I like Bill, but not as much
as you.

I tried growing a beard to be like Bill
when I was bored and unemployed.
My parents would be at work and my beard would be growing.
I’d get bored again when Countdown finished
and would slowly peruse through the lingerie section in the
Christmas Argos catalogue.
Perhaps that was you?
My favourite of them all.
But, then I wouldn’t have done that
if that was you.
I respect you too much.
She can’t have been my favourite.
You are.
Carol Vorderman – what a minger!
And I bet she cheats with a calculator.
You’re just beautiful and intelligent.

I want to take you home to my mum and dad.
My mum will cook you a roast.
Amazing Yorkshire puddings, my mum,
just for you.
My brothers will want you roasted,
my sisters will baste you in the finest Goose fat
and my Dad will want to have you stuffed with root vegetables.
My brothers will turn you on a spit
-because my grandpa likes the crackling
and then my gran will carve you up into slices.
But you’ll be far too good to eat.

So, it’s probably best you don’t come.

—————————————-

Off to Tesco, now.
Back to work tomorrow.
If I don’t see you on Sunday at the Wheatsheaf Comedy night, (8pm – £3) I’ll see you another day. For those of you who don’t work Sat/Sun – have a pleasant weekend and I hope to write before my next day off, Wednes.

Goodnight,
g