Right. The curtain comes down on the Self Pity Show - and what a performance it was yesterday.
And Pretentious Hour* also ends. Listen to what you like.
(I did think we were going to insist that it wasn't pretentious but then again, what's the point of being consistent. Consistency suggests rational and considered thought. Fuck that.)
Um. So. Er.
I DON'T FUCKING BELIEVE IT. I HAVE JUST SAT AND TYPED THE LONGEST FUCKING POST ABOUT WHAT I GOT UP TO AND THE FUCKING INTERNET CONNECTION DROPPED AND THE ENTIRE POST WITH PICTURES HAS NOW FUCKING DISAPPEARED.
FUCKING INTERNET CONNECTION FUCK YOU FUCKING FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK.
I am struggling to contain my anger at this point. It's seriously bad.
I am going to try and retype everything tomorrow and repost the pictures which included the likes of...
I don't know if you can feel the heat that's eminating off the keyboard right now? My anger is being distilled. Like brandy in a brass tank.
I have made a few new resolutions.
I made them last night after my little pretentious self-loathing moment and I want to start them now so that I can try (repeat) try and carry them into the new year.
The resolutions are that every day I must have:
1/ Spent at least 30 minutes reading something of substance (i.e. not a magazine or the news)
2/ Spent at least 30 minutes listening to traditional western "classical" music
I figure that by doing these two simple tasks, my brain capacity will be restored by years of withering thanks to alcohol.
Do you know what I've been trying to do for the last 10 minutes? Do you have any idea?
The bar next to the lounge is locked. I cannot find the key.
The wine cellar downstairs next to the garage is locked. I cannot find the key.
Even the bar out in the pool-house in the garden is locked and the key is not to be found.
I wanted to sip on a glass of wine while taking in my daily dose of the classics. At least the one will cancel the other out.
My parents have locked up every stash of booze in this fucking house.
The only thing I could find is a bottle of 2004 Rust en Vrede Shiraz in my dad's study cabinet which usually retails on - the er, auction market. It's not commercially available.
If my parents want to store all the booze in the house in near fucking Fort Knox conditions, they should accept the consequences...
Oh god. It's beautiful.
It's structured and big. It tastes of chocolate and smells of tobacco and when you taste it, it bursts in your mouth.
The wine and the third movement of Rachmaninov's Piano Concerto no. 2 in C minor is like the marrying of heaven and earth.
Earth from the vines that produced the wine and heaven from the music produced by Rachmaninov (deceased).
Hours and hours and lives' work have gone into producing this shit and here I sit back and slurp on it all.
I am about to tuck into a rare bottle of Rust en Vrede and listen to Rachmaninov played by Vladimir Ashkenasy conducted by Andre Previn. This is a moment as cataclysmic as when Dylan went electric.
There's only one thing missing and that's there is no-one here to enjoy it with me. Seriously.
You up for a holiday to Cape Town in December?