My life......

I'm in the bath and for some reason there's a Christmas carol going through my head. "Oh come all ye faithful, joyful and triumphant, oh come thee, oh co-ome thee to Be-eth-le-hem.." That one. It's June. Why is my mind doing this? And it's not as if I have anything to be joyful about. Or triumphant. Or faithful, for that matter. By which, for the record, I mean filled with faith rather than unfaithful in the sense of deviating from the monogamous state. S. already thinks I've been having it away with someone else anyway. Just because I tried to cover up about the crafty clutch of ciggies I drunkenly banged back in Paris after the final. (See, nothing to be triumphant about.....) I told her she should have come with me. The logic is simple, you see - I lied about that: ergo, I must be lying about something else. She nosed the ciggies out, it's just a matter of time before the scantily clad go-go girls come teetering out of the closet. Persuasive, I know, and a deeply buried part of me wishes she was right. But of course, she needn't worry, I would never do anything like that to her. I've done it before, I know, in previous relationships. But not in this one, and I tell you I couldn't ever live with the shame and sordidness of it - not for all the sand in Dubai. It's cliched, I know, but in this case absolutely true. Anyway, with this rotting cock, the question is begged (inna Norman Stanley Fletcher stylee) - 'who'd 'ave me?' I should get it looked at really. Although it's been worse. It isn't quite as angry as it's been in the past - as in, inflamed, you understand - not livid and fist waving with wrath. Surprisingly perhaps, I don't have a cock that barks out 'you carnt - farkin' wassnames' and such like whenever some smug Tory appears on Question Time (...as I am prone to do myself.) Like the one last night. Gove, is it? Fucking smug cunt. He made Michael Winner look good. And that takes some doing. Although - brisk aside here - I've warmed to Michael Winner a lot since reading the enlarged photocopy of one of his Winner's Dinners review in the Thai place in Richmond. Alongside a (hopefully legitimate) review of the Thai Elephant, or whatever the place we were eating in at the time is called, he denounced Libertys restaurant for editing his somewhat damning review of their poncified and over-priced burger bar menu. He just wrote the same stuff he had in the original review and made damn sure everyone knew that they'd had the temerity to try to fake a good write up. The twats! I'd love to see how they edited it. "The quarterpounder was [badly penicilled in] not total crap and I would [evidently scribbled out n't] give the garnish to my hated Auntie Stephanie...." But it's still not kosher. It's like the gap between the glans and the foreskin is being pulled closer together in a section about an inch long. This seems to have the effect of reddening the glans, much as a face would redden with a pair of hands around the throat beneath it. Poor little winky. When I went to the surgery last year, the Chinese locum said it was definitely balinitis and would clear up after a course of anti-biotics... I'd go and get it looked at again, only I think the only cure is going to be circumcision, and I don't think at my age it's worth the pain for the increasingly diminishing (and, to be frank, from this vantage point hypothetical) rewards. Maybe it's God's way of making me Jewish? Though I must say, if I was forced to pick a religion, I'd probably plump for the old Judaism lark. Well, it's got the history, hasn't it? That or Buddhism. Or one of these modern lunatic ones where you can set fire to Ohio on the pretext that God told you to and get off with a year's community service and a $30 fine. In fact, I've often felt an affinity with the tribes of Israel - not necessarily with its State, but definitely with the tribes. There's the humour - Groucho, Woody Allen, Joan Rivers, Sir Alan Sugar. The delis. All those great songwriters. Maureen Lipman. And the suffering....yes, it must be quite nice in this secular, over-commercialised age to feel a part of that community of trauma and angst, mustn't it? Perhaps that's what attracts people to supporting Tottenham? Something must, anyway. Yes, I think I'd make quite a good Jew. I'd love to do all that "oh, my life - think about my daughters already - clothing they need, feeding they require...would you have a heart, if not for me, for them (insert optional "oi veys" to taste...)", "food you have eaten already, this suit you need" and "why spoil a lovely day" type haggling. The Old Testament - a much better read than the sequel. Nice, lazy Saturdays. .....The only cross-dresser to have won Eurovision. Well, Johnny Logan apart, obviously. Yes, I think I could live with becoming Jewish. What are the hours like? And what's a prospective Jew doing singing Christmas carols in the bath in the middle of June, for Chrissakes?????

My life.....



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