Hey folks, I’m shitfaced, but anyways here’s a review I found of The Christmas Exhibition.
Meanwhile, the rewriting of The Unforeseen is annoying the ballbag out of me. I can’t seem to focus on it at all. I know it’s more to do with my mindset than the narrative itself, but I am just so not in the mood to rewrite right now. Unless the rewriting is my life. Fuck.
The last time I blogged drunk was 2002, I think, when I helped out one of the most beautiful glamour models in the world. I won’t name drop. All I can say is she was Scottish, brunette and as lovely as they come (no pun intended, and I do honestly mean personality-wise she was lovely, and physically beautiful). Dare I say, I had a crush on her. For those most loyal of readers, she was quite Francesca… Mmmmmm.
Back to that last night that when I blogged drunk, I was absolutely off the charts snattered! I was talking about how angry I was about my mate’s funeral a few weeks earlier, how left out I’d felt, and the post went on for several thousand words. A day or two later, I remembered that I’d attacked the web with my words (and not for the last time), so I checked the drivel I’d written…
1 guy offered to go for a drink with me, under the condition that I didn’t get drunk (we lived in separate countries). Also, I realised I’d spoken about my friend’s funeral. Shit. I’d meant his wedding. His wedding! People thought he was dead! How bad was that, eh?
Figuratively speaking… No… Don’t get me starting on weddings. Fuck that shit. I’m too drunk to be articulate about that. Nobody needs to know about that part of my past. I don’t want it to give clues to the Matt and Jill story either. Because I have a fantastic plan in store for the characters on the wedding day. Bombshell is the word, and none of them will see it coming. There’s a flashforward to the wedding in the prologue of Unforeseen.
Back to the funeral that never was, and needless to say, 11 years later my poor friend who I’d written off as dead, but was really only married… He’s divorced, and living in a hovel, while his ex-wife and 3 daughters live in a nicer place. Fuck him hahahahahahahahaha.
I don’t mean that. It’s not nice to see anyone fucked. I just like to laugh at them. I laugh at myself (and I am seriously, seriously fucked).
Can I talk about me? No one really knows me. Is that okay? I’m quite unlike the narrator in my books, so it’s good for me to write (not as him)…
Folks, I’m 33 in January. I’ve been in love twice… Maybe three times (but I never got more than a kiss from the first). I was engaged once. The third wanted to. I’m shaking my head that I’m even writing this down. I am really HONESTLY being myself here. I’ve been up, and I’ve been down. But I do believe I’m one of the good guys. If you (whoever you are), were to put someone in my trust and say to me to look after them til you came back, you could be guaranteed I’d look after them. I am one of the good ones. I just like to call myself a cunt. Unfortunately, I’ve crossed sword with cunts (in reference to bad men) and they’re cunts.
Sorry, folks, I’m rambling and I’m saying the c-word. I’m obviously very, very pissed.
(If anyone read the author’s note at the end of Undefeated) Don’t worry for those who are particularly concerned with my well-being (all 0 of you), Monday night is a night when I go down to a good friend’s house and have an ample drink of red wine (whilst we call each other cunts). V T is not a peasant, V T is a cunt. So for me to be shit-faced on a Monday is not a cry for help, I do it anyways!
Well, I guess it’s about time I signed off. If you can, please share this post. Retweet it. Reblog it. Talk to the person next to you about it. Try to work out who the model was. Start rumours. Pretend I once fired a shot at Boris Johnson, Mitt Romney and the Dalai Lama (all with one bullet), whatever, just please talk about my work, if you give a shit. If you don’t, well why are you still reading?
Bye, folks (folks edited from original expletive term of endearment, you can guess what).
PS Unforeseen will be published in the next 7 days.