Tuesday, June 22, 2004

The cupboards will eat me!!!!!

Where Do I find the time to do all this stuff? I don’t know. It just kinda happens. It’s like I’m driven to keep going, to never stop, because if I do…….hell I don’t even want to contemplate what would happen if I stopped doing stuff and actually relaxed. Probably nothing but there’s something in the back of my mind that starts going into panic mode if I’ve got nothing to do. So I was doing this guitar workshop at a home for Schizophrenics. Yeah really! I kid you not. I can’t mention any names to protect the guilty so for the sake of this story all the schizophrenics are called John.
So I turn up with a car full of guitars and report to the evening duty officer.
“Is John ready for the Guitar workshop?”
“Yes he’s been looking forward to it all day. He’s in his room go and knock on his door.”
So I went to his room knocked on the door and muffled voice screamed out
“Come in!”
I walked in. John was sitting in his arm chair with his back to me masturbating furiously with a biro stuck in the end of his dick. Eeeek! I quickly turned round and walked out, shutting the door quietly behind me.
I walked into the common room to wait for John and a man dressed in a three piece suit walked in, head held high and hands clasped behind his back. He had a definite air of authority. He looked about the room, like a sergeant major inspecting barracks.
“Everything OK? Yes? Fine. Excellent. Good to see everything running smoothly. I’ll be in my office if you need me.” He walked out.
I turned to the duty manager, who had just walked in. “Who’s that?”
“Oh that’s John. He likes people to think he runs the place.”
“And he doesn’t?”
“No he’s quite mad. Lovely guy though.”
So another John came in for his guitar workshop session and I started playing something. “Thank you for the days”
“You know what Mike? I wrote that.”
“Wrote what?”
“That song you were playing.”
“No that was Ray Davis of the Kinks.” I say firmly.
“Yeah that’s what they want you to think.”
“Who wants me to think?”
“Them. Y’know them.” he says confidential like.
“So have you written any songs for the Beatles or the Stones.”
He goes into a panic and starts looking around furtively this way and that “Keep it fucking down.” He hissed, “nobody writes beatles or stones songs and admits to it.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s a cut throat business out there, they’ll cut your throat if they found out you were writing songs for the Rolling stones or the Beatles.”
“So what’s the most famous song you’ve written.”
“My most successful was “My way” sung by Frank Sinatra.”
“Really? When did you write that?”
“I wrote that about 1986. You know, that was a bastard as well. I wrote it on the Friday and by Monday morning bloody Frank Sinatra was singing it on bloody Radio 2. I never got a penny in royalties, not one penny. Do you think I should write to them to complain? I’ve often though of doing that.”
“Yes but just remember what you said before it’s a cut throat business, you start making demands for royalties and they've instantly got your name and address.”
“You’ve got a point I’d better keep quiet."
Later on I saw the sergeant major and asked him if he wanted to join me for a coffee.
“Absolutely old boy. Love to.” He stopped at the door of the kitchen. “I’m afraid I can’t come into the ol’ kitchen.”
“Why is it restricted or something?”
“No the cupboards will eat me.”
“What?”
“The cupboards will eat me if I go into the kitchen.”
“But they’re just cupboards. Boxes of wood with doors on them. There’s no teeth or muscles, no brain, nothing, just an inanimate box.”
John flared up “Don’t you think I know that? Do you think I’m stupid?”
“No no it’s just a little difficult for me to se the problem.” I said, back peddling as fast as possible.
“Well that’s alright. I know it’s just a box an’ all.”
“So let’s go and get this coffee shall we?”
“Sure.”
“You coming?”
“NO I can’t the cupboards will eat me.”

I'll tell you more about the Johns another day.


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