My Vitriol

I feel weak and cold and miserable and I hate that fucking landlord and my ex they are both fat cunts who sweat and talk shit and look shit and sound shit and lie and lie and lie. Lies and lies and lies. Lies and lies. Lies and lies and lies and lies.

I went to my eldests’ parents’ evening at 4p.m. I was there early. Her mum was there late. The teachers kept going on about the Internet and I kept looking over at the stupid, short-sighted liar who had denied them the Internet even though I’ve had a perfectly good PC for them for years and she never has their flat in any state to keep a PC anywhere except on the kids’ bed. For years I’ve had a PC ready for them. For years I’ve offered to pay for the Internet for them, no matter how broke I was. She has denied them. Denied, lied, denied, lied, divide, cried, denied.

When I dropped the girls off on Saturday, late, after Streetcar and Roohi’s and Narnia - huge - I gave fatfuck £50 (I’d promised money for cab from/to edie’s party the week before when my time was abbreviated to a lousy 6 hours out of 24 because the troll was church street late and had ryan/michelle’s party the night before.) They’d seen Harry Potter and weren’t allowed to tell me about it. For weeks. Four weeks.

I’d given R**** £50 and A**** £20. I don’t want money. I want peace.

I don’t write much personal stuff anymore. This is personal and oddly not, what have I got? What have I not?

My chest feels utterly shit and my bones are cold and the Internet is slow and the flat is fucking freezing and that fucking landlord fat fuck cunt of a cunting landlord who I just can’t understand because of his fat fucking Irish accent keeps lying and lying about when he will do anything and I’m getting colder and older and more and more unwell. My chest is burning and all I think of is having a cigarette and google leads me to early lung cancer warning symptoms and I think I can’t have that - that can’t be me and I quickly close the page and try to be positive because let’s face it - cancer only comes when we invite it - and smoking is an invitation and I shouldn’t encourage it really, should I? My dad died of cancer and that won’t be me - so I spark one up - always sparking, never igniting. Always inviting, never fighting.

This is a miserable fucking country now. Everybody is fucking miserable. We’re taxed up to the fucking arse and it’s fucking shit in every way. Travel is shit. Doctors are shit. Hospital is shit. TV is shit. Everything’s shit. We get fucked by the corps and the cabs and we become a corpse without anyone seeing - what a 3rd rate, 3rd world fuckhole we now live in. Want me to go back, don’t you? To Middlesex Hospital in the West End you pig-fucking miserable racist cunts? Fuck you all, fucking pathetic Nazis. My shit has more brain cells than all of you put together. You fucking hate that I know your language better than you, your history better than you, your religion better than you, your fucking lousy mothers better than you. Racist cunts.

No manners anywhere, all hatred, all east european voices on buses and feet on seats and bunking fares on bendy buses. Routemasters gone. Jumping on and off buses no more. Jumping into the country and staying illegally a permanent feature. Where is London? It’s fucking Romania, Poland, Fuckvia, Shituania, and nobody understands a word of English.

Shite. Racists? Shite. Shite shite fuckers keep sending me shite shite hate mail. I keep deleting it. One day they’ll find me buried under the Internet, covered in a pile of dirty bits of hate and anger. And when they fish me out, they won’t be able to tell the difference between what I was and what I was buried under.