Dear Diary,
I appear to have slipped off the wagon again – a poor state of affairs considering my slender finances and increasing girth. The bill for an evening spent in the company of the New York Dolls is a nasty reminder that excessive imbibing of rot gut wine can also have its downside. The gig was wonderful – how The New York Dolls can remain so great with only two original members, both of bus pass age, is truly a modern miracle.
A night of high excitement ends uncertainly and a day of atonement begins. I am too long in the tooth to be sleeping on people’s floors and my heart sinks as I open my eyes and realize that I am not at home, must at some stage get home, and that I will have to make this journey wearing pink alligator shoes and blue sparkling socks – flamboyance that seemed such a good idea last night, but will now draw looks and comments that I am not mentally equipped to deal with – and what if I run into any of the parents from my daughter’s school?
Reality takes a while to seep in and I am convinced for several minutes that Diana Ross really did have a song called Vagina – I can even remember the words and hum the tune. It starts with a drum roll – rather like the theme to Eastenders, then develops – rather uncharacteristicly for Motown, a country dance feel, before Miss Ross intones ‘Vagina, oh hoochie, vaginaaaa.’ The fact that she doesn’t have a song of this name is her loss. Perhaps I’ll write it and send it to her with an explanatory note – an empowering celebration of womanhood – a song for sisters everywhere. And a sure-fire career defining moment.
Black coffee turns cold as I fall asleep again with the words of Somerset Maugham spinning sweetly in my mind. ‘It was such a lovely day, that it would have been a pity to get up’. The world has slowed down beautifully since the ash cloud arrived, and the idea of doing anything useful seems even more remote than usual. I am a genius, and geniuses must occasionally stay in bed for hours nursing hangovers – that’s where the great world changing ideas come from – how do you think Logie-Baird came up with television, or bedside teasmades were invented?
As my own volcanic cloud begins to subside, I feel suddenly virtuous – like a dewy-eyed meths drinker marching behind a Salvation Army band. I have made the decision to stop drinking again – and I will stick to it this time. I have no outings planned that require extra lubrication, so a good long stint of sobriety is a distinct possibility.
At last I feel able to leave the safety and comfort of my temporary crib. My stubble, dandruff, body odour, shades, exotic footwear and furred tongue are ready to roll. As I say goodbye, the phone rings – number unknown. As my mother is the only person I know whose number is unknown I take the call. It is a man from the Town Hall election office enquiring whether or not I still intend to stand as a parliamentary candidate.
For more Moore, his aforementioned shop, and perhaps to get in touch to offer him something to do to with those hands, please visit his website. John Moore currently plays in the John Moore Rock ‘n’ Roll Trio
