You know something, for years, blues singers have banged on about their problems. You know what sort of thing. Always starts with something like “Woke up this morning”. Yeah, if you didn’t, you’d be dead. A lot of them are….but that’s not the point. Point is….er…what was my point again?

Oh. Yes. Always something like “Woke up this morning, got no woman in my bed, so I get out the whisky, have a few drinks instead”.

Well, you do if you’re me. Okay, I don’t drink whisky (It’s milk), but that’s sort of the thing. Thing is, if I were to do a blues song, it would be something like this:

“Woke up this morning/ slightly fuzzy in the head/ woke up this morning/want to go back to bed/went to the kitchen/to eat some corned beef and bread/looked out into the garden/wishing I was dead/ (I don’t really, I am just mildly hungover) Saw a GODDAMNED SEAGULL/restin’ on mah lawn/goddamned fuckin’ seagull/as I stifle a yawn/I eat my sandwich/ and I, I/ stare at that gull/ with an expression on my face/like some masticatin’ asshole/YEAH/I STARE AT THAT FREAKIN SEAGULL/camped out on my lawn/flip two fingers on each hand at it/ and then it was gone/(Insert guitar solo here)”

I’m brilliant at this jazz singing shit. SKIBADABAWOOOWAHHHH!

Good morning.


About neilstilwell

Abseiling into trouble, a sewer rat staring at the stars. Disgusting. You can assist my search for the one ring by buying a Kindle version of this diary from here. It has some other stuff in it, and a dreadful cover.
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