Kerry Katona's Wheelie Bin

I’m getting to bed and to sleep. But if I'm lucky, the neighbour’s kid will howl through the night and I might dream of bonny lasses dancing in Iceland TV ads. Hopefully no more dreams like last night when I met Steve Martin. Who wants dreams about meeting one’s heroes? I was bought a signed copy of Steve Martin’s autobiography for Christmas but I should have held out for a packet of cheap prawns from Iceland and a signed picture of Kerry Katona.

Urgh. Sarcasm. Forgive me but this is just me. Not Him. Perhaps I’m turning into an old man or I’m still as easy to annoy as I’ve ever been. I’m just being typically misanthropic as I wonder what is about people that makes them such aggressive pursuers of their own selfish desires. Have we really lost the ability to empathise with others?

I know I’m being trivial, hence the trivial nature of this rushed cartoon, which I scribbled in the five minutes since I arrived home.



All night I couldn’t think of a thing to draw. Then I arrived home to discover that the neighbours had put out their wheelie bin early (somebody should tell them that there’s no collection tomorrow) and stuck it directly in front of our gate. Naturally, they are keeping their own gate clear of the sight and smell of their collected Christmas waste. Their bin, heavy with rotting rubbish, now obstructs our gate and anybody walking past will assume that the bin belongs to us and that we don’t care if we block their path. Any visitor to our house has to squeeze past the bin and I now have to go out, past midnight, and move it. I feel petty doing so but I think you have to make a stand. I'm also annoyed because it’s as though they know that my father isn’t here to stand up to them. He wouldn’t put up with it. I’m so much gentler, much more of a coward than he ever way. Should I have to put up with it? My bolshie self says no. The coward sits here writing about it, rather than doing something about it.

I suppose that’s me. I walk around, scowling at the world. I’m generally shocked at the way that people treat their homes, their surroundings. The wet weather hasn't stopped people from parking their heavy trucks on the grass verges, which are now cut down to a depth of about half a foot. The ruts are full of mud and pooling water.

Then there are the neighbours on the other side who routinely park their cars across the pavement. Hard to describe the arrangement, so here’s a picture.



I know I'm being petty again but isn't it these small things that show how selfish we've become? Two cars on the road, one on the grass verge, one across the pavement, and two in the drive. The result is that if you want to get past, you have to walk in the road. They don’t see the problems they cause. They never walk anywhere. The only good to come of this is that it’s made me search my CD collection to finally add Lou Reed’s ‘New York’ to my iTouch. It’s probably his finest album, the one where his lyrics crackle with anger. It’s undoubtedly my favourite. ‘Transformer’ is too full of the camp aesthetic that ruined his post Velvet career, his false falsetto and bits borrowed from Bowie. 'New York' is how I like to think of Reed. A real poet of the city. A hater of mankind.

Americans don't care too much for beauty
They'll shit in a river, dump battery acid in a stream
They'll watch dead rats wash up on the beach
and complain if they can't swim

I sometimes wish that the credit crunch might affect them and their kind. The neighbours have six cars in a house of five – or six or seven or is it eight? I’ve lost count of the babies. Their attitude is screw the environment. Park a car where there’s grass, stick decking where there’s soil. I’m no eco-warrior but this brings out the nihilist in me. I saw we should just go out in a spectacular display of arbitrary consumerism, drunken liaisons with whatever orifice passes before our inebriated gaze, another baby squawks through the night, keeps me awake while its randy father sleeps soundly in his vest and track suit bottoms in a bed, streets away.

Sorry. I guess I’m just tired.

I’ve just come back in, finished moving the bin, and found a gem of a comment over at The Spine. One of the stories I wrote a long time ago was about Natasha Kaplinsky choosing to wear a Walrus hat at some London Premiere. It still receives the occasional comment. Tonight’s was one of the best. ‘Not only was a walrus killed...’ goes the comment, ‘he was killed to look like a fucking idiot. Ohh... and don't really think the walrus cares too much that after he was dead he was worn by a famous person. No wait... I'm sure it was his life's dream.’

I wish that walrus hats were all the rage in London. It would make more sense if I were getting angry at that, rather than wheelie bins and a neighbour who resembles Kerry Katona’s evil twin. Kerry is a local girl. I’m meant to think that it’s good to see her succeed. Strange but that’s the last thing I feel.

I hope I'll dream of Steve Martin. He always gives me faith in the world.