To get over feeling cross with myself, I hastily scribbled in my A4 pad on the train, hoping that inky scrawls would be a good come down.
I still feel aggression in my guts and it’s aimed right at me.
A bruised feeling in my stomach.
A sensation in my throat as if I have forced myself to swallow a particularly large marble.
I have Cardiac Arrest by Madness looped in my head.
Acts of self stupidity make me want to stab myself in the thigh, and sometimes in the summit of my skull, with a cheap biro. I imagine the action will somehow the pus or gas bubbles that have built up inside me creating this unpleasant pressure that makes a sensation of static, fury fug. If I lifted one of my eyelids up high enough, there may be a sudden, violent release of the toxic fumes of self loathing.
Today was a grotesquely simple act of idiocy. In the act of posting a letter in the pillar box on Euston station forecourt, I got a paranoid sensation that my fingers had been holding something more than an envelope between my fingers as the mail dropped in. My mind leapt to the conclusion that I had somehow posted my rail ticket too.
You monumental moron.
There were a few minutes until departure, and I had to take this train as I had promised my son I’d be in home to read the next chapter of The Magic Faraway Tree. We were hoping Mr Whatizname might remember his name in the next few pages. Going through every pocket I found a museum of my previous week’s travel, right up to this Monday, but nothing with “25th March” printed on it. Another check. Still nothing. I had made a promise. No time for a third check. I tried not to grind my capped molar out of my mouth as I bought a new ticket. That expense was quite enough without excess dentistry and Ren and Stimpy style exposed nerves. My skull was filled with one hundred Mes, all waving placards declaring my stupidity and urging a putsch to usurp the current dunce in charge of my mind.
Once on my train, there it was, loudly and overtly screaming from my ticket wallet, “look at me, the 25th, I tried to call but you were too busy being tetchy and flinching and twitching”. I had not been so stupid to post my ticket, I’d been a different type of stupid. Such a minor thing of no real importance and not the greatest expense, but the gnawing remained persistent. half-witted personal failures always fester pointlessly. Not satisfied with one cock up, I then find I can’t concentrate on anything else. I could have just wasted a bit of money and a bit of time, but instead I stretch it out.
I can’t merely sigh, murmur (or sing if I was in a B*witched frame) C’est la vie. Rational me says, forget it. Id I wishes the ensuing hours to ache. You should have seen how I reacted to leaving my wallet in the back of a taxi. I think trepanning may have helped that night in Shoreham-by-Sea. I should go on a meditation course, though I’d probably end up leaving my phone charger or laptop on a higher plane and, finding myself back on a terrestrial plain, that toxic hate would bubble my eyelids all over again. I wonder what it is. What chemical release in the brain creates such a silly state of affairs? Oh well, writing it out helped.
Off to Bromsgrove, Birmingham, Leeds, Chorley, Glasgow, Northampton and on and on to a town near you. Details HERE
Also Mark Steel is joining Michael Legge and me at the Comedy Cafe this Tuesday.
and Ben Target is joining us at our next Art Chaos night in London