"Real Geezers Don't Trip"

Day one of this new writing experiment.

The page is blank and this frightens me.

But then I think of the walk home from Angel...

I was approaching Essex Road Station, when this man caught my eye: long brown hair tied in a pony tail, gold hoop earing in the left ear; but it was the cockney walk that held it all together, that made him stand out from the crowd.

I had had a really positive day at work.It was my first day back - I had been ill for the entire week previous, during which a fever enduced epiphany briefly shone a torch onto my destiny's path.The experience left me feeling calm and centered, and I made the most of this zen like state, all too aware of the looming return to work's ability to strip me of it.

But then something wonderful happened. Monday came and went, and the calmness stayed. My epiphany had seemed to have empowered me with what can only be called an "indifference" to my current job. Yes, there were moments of stress and tension, but on the whole my inner voice's soothing scream of "I REALLY DON'T GIVE A FUCK!" was sufficient to keep me balanced.

This warrior chant has been echoing in my head all day long.

And so on the walk back from Tesco's, listening to some Joey Bada$$ '1999', with the self satifisfied smirk of a day at work and food shop well done, I seemed to be bopping with some swag of my own. It was akin to the aformentioned geezer's cockney walk, however was more of an evolution of the "Kevs 'Classics' walk" which had just come on from the Ravey Daves 'Champions' sounds.

The Geezer, obviously recognising the pedigree of my South West London walk, cranked his up to 11, but in doing so made a fatal error. The sudden increase in pace did not give him sufficient time to recalculate his stride in order to avoid the dreaded "heel-curb" situation. You see there are three main things you need to keep in mind when walking like a geezer, 1. the stride, 2. the rhythm (a geezer stops for no man - and must therefore keep the appearance of constant motion by changing the stride of the steps and not the pace and most importantly 3. heels down first with toes pointing out.

Having clunkily stepped into the street, the geezer's rhythm is now all fucked up. He tries to regain his composure by doing the boxer's right handed nose thumb sniff combo...

But our eyes meet and it's too late.

He can see it in my eyes that I have lost all respect for him.

He jogs on, less of a fanning high street peacock.

There was a a time when I believed that all that fanfare was necessary, that "Real Geezer's Don't Trip".

I wish I had spoken to him, explained to him that in light of my newly discovered epiphany, unless you're main drive in life is to be seen as a geezer solely by the way you strut around the high street, change you're ethos:

"Real Geezers don't give a Fuck".

The Fraud.

It's been two years since my last blog.

Each day of which, I have looked at myself in the mirror and loathed myself a little bit more, and edged myself a little further away from the people around me.

You can't call it "writer's block" if you've never really written anything - that's like calling yourself an international playboy sex machine whilst you're still a virgin - that spunk doesn't stick - yet here I am pompously parading around parties, introducing myself as a writer/comedian to anyone who'd give me the time of night.

I'm a fraud.

A loveable one, who tries too hard, so I'm told.

Time for me to turn this round.

From this point on, I write.