Insanity has 70 gates

I hadn’t left the flat for two weeks until last night and things had certainly changed in Whitechapel. The Q Bar, which used to be the Grave Maurice, frequented by dirty old men, was hosting a Lithuanian Dance Party! It looked rather frightening and sounded fucking horrible. I miss those dirty old men holding their warm dirty pints, in silence. I have had flu since New Year’s Eve and don’t seem to be able to shake it off. It has been hard to keep track of what day it is with the monotony of delirium and sweaty sleep at all the wrong times. I have been self-medicating with Floradix and a cough mixture called Buttercup. It sounds very benign except that its active ingredient is “squill”.

It is miserable having no energy whatsoever and yet being bored to tears from doing absolutely nothing for a fortnight. Thank Christ for Celebrity Big Brother. It puts me in mind of something Julie Burchill said about psychiatrists. Quoting NME’s Ian Penman, “ Shrinks are so called because they attempt to shrink the magnificent sewer of the human mind”. She went on: “They leave you as a sausage machine of bite-sized second hand opinions. You might not be sick any more but I bet you’re not interesting either.”

She also said that she met Tracey Emin and thought she was lovely until her cats started writing letters to Burchill’s cats, saying “My mum’s a bit tired today, how’s your mum feeling?” I might get Minnie and Madge to start writing to Redmond and Bianca. Although Minnie is too lazy. And too busy staring.