Interactive version of Oliver's Poetry Garret
Nightmare.
Friday, 23 June 2006, Blog 18
Lewes Garret. 3.41pm. The last 24 hours have been a total effing nightmare. I do not think I would have survived them without the support of my family and friends.
Something pretty seismic happened yesterday, and I have re-edited the site drastically overnight as a result. I cannot share it with you. Almost as bad, some b*stard has trashed my beloved motor, The Last Word (In Luxury) by crashing into it, smashing the back axle and knocking off a back wheel. It was parked on a supposedly respectable street in Royal Leamington Spa.
I only heard the glorious news late last night when a Day-Job colleague called me. I felt numb. This morning, it had vanished without a trace. Enquiries have revealed that it was Plod who nicked it, ordering a local garage to remove it, without checking with me. I have had unpleasant conversations with Plod and the garage all day.
The garage wants £105 from me. I think Plod should pay, but, naturally, they are refusing.
So, I have lost my car, been stitched up by Plod and these guys at the garage, and my third party, fire and theft insurance cover won't cough up a penny. I do not know why I don't just put my money in the litter bin and set fire to it. It would save a lot of time.
God, I feel angry. I am thinking of writing to the Chief Constable of Warwickshire, but I do not expect it would do any good.
If was not for kindly and wise friends like Brian, who I saw yesterday for a drink at London Bridge, and my Beloved, I would probably end it all here and now.
World Cup Injury
(Flashback to Bank Holiday Monday, 15 May 2006)
9.25am. Lewes Garret. My back was not good this morning, despite me doing the prescribed exercises. It occurred to me that the last time I got a serious physical injury was four years ago, in Spring 2002.
Maybe like Beckham or Rooney, I am destined to get injured every four years in the run-up to the World Cup! That is what prevents me from playing for my country, reducing me to purchasing England socks (three pairs for £2.99) from TK Max in Brighton.
Four years ago, I was recovering from a period of unemployment. The only one in my life. I had been out of work for five months after a series of set-backs. I eventually got my job working for Stephen Noon's old boss, and everything seemed rosy. No clue as to how that place would turn out. I recall when we were short-listing for Stephen's old job, one guy was trying to rule out people purely on the suspicion that they might be gay! How wrong is that!
Then I tried an hour's paperwork and did less well. Admin is so boring and, generally, so unncessary. Why do the banks keep sending out all this bumpf. I believe Kenneth Williams used to put it all in a drawer and never open it, cheques and all!
Got a text message from a good friend. He said that our treatment at the last Day-Job was even worse than that meted out to Stephen Noon. I don't know about that, although it was equally unchristian in my view.
As a friend in the Church once memorably remarked: 'Don't worry about it the Hierachy has been corrupt for two thousand years!'
10.10pm. Bed. Got an email from my a great friend who says she is really impressed with the Oliver's Poetry and is shocked about the Stephen Noon affair.
I'd persuaded her to sit on the panel which selected Stephen to be Cormac's press secretary. She is a lovely person, good Catholic and former Sun and News of the World reporter, and writes of Cormac's conduct, '... it's really not on... oh dear.'
She is absolutely right. You cannot sack someone for being gay. It is 2006 not 1006.
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