Couldn't Be Fucking Arsed

Thank fuck for London's freedom, its words, its expressive, peerless language. I've been attempting some life firsts recently, about which I have written little. One of them is to try and establish an honest and potentially meaningful relationship with my work, and another, with my father. Not my step-father, he's fine. No, I'm talking about the old guy whose life I walked into three years ago after over thirty years of absence.

After establishing cordial relations, and witnessing some degree of affection, I thought I'd find out why the fuck he didn't come and find us, his first three children, once the dust of his failed relationship with my mother had settled, so I wrote an email and waited. I haven't got any kind of satisfactory answer, just indications that he doesn't possess the courage to be honest. Suffice to say, it's a tall ask for a 71 year old used to ignoring what he doesn't wish to confront about this past actions, now faced with implacable, articulate me, the non-prodigal son. I'm not bearing any anger, but I do require an answer. I definitely get the feeling that this one could very easily run and run, never to be resolved.

I write this blog for personal freedom's sake, not to entertain or show off. If I did it for any other reason, it would simply be an exercise in crap enhancement. I am sure there are those out there who think that's the case anyway, without me giving them more cause for slaggery.

The fact that I write for a living matters not one jot here. I deal with famous people and so what? About this aspect of my life, I couldn't give a flying trapeze fuck. I care about my family, my girlfriend and her family, my friends, our health, our prospects for a better life.

I'm here to love art and music, sex and food, to make jokes and laugh, to dance, to cavort, to unashamedly steal whatever I need, to gain insight and achieve healing. I care about my work only because I intend to achieve something I can be proud of before I die, and that had better be soon.

So, I don't really care if you see me with my pants down. I don't care if any of us fall over. It doesn't matter that you're a twat, and that I'm a dickhead, because at least that makes us human, which, cursing and error-prone, is just the way we're born.