Why am I still here?

I need an outlet, and what better way to relieve the pressure than by publishing it on the internet? 

So I’m in London, holed up in my shitty little room where my light fitting used to drip water onto my bed and I can hear the man next door hoiking into his garden.  East London has got to be one of the most revolting places on earth, really.  At least warzones have an excuse for being crap places to live – east London is just crap because it can’t be arsed to be nice.  Add to this the facts that my life is going nowhere, I’m always poor, and I can’t seem to find a guy who’s willing to not be a prick for more than a couple of months at a time and you have a recipe for self-harm.

At three o’clock this morning I found myself in the city being chased by a cockney man in a truck for stealing 2 pints of milk from the doorway of an office building, arm in arm with a cityboy called NEIL (who works as an insurance broker, insuring other insurance companies) who I had met and snogged 45 minutes earlier.  We had to return the milk in the end.  What the fuck am I doing with my life?  It’s shameful! I don’t even like it here but for some reason I can’t quite bring myself to leave.  I’m scared that I’m losing my Australianness – using words like ‘snog’ and ‘shag’ (and no, I did not shag Neil the insurance broker) and phrases like ‘I’m not bothered’ and ‘it was well good’.  I must say though, linguistically speaking, the word ‘twat’ is the best thing to ever come out of the UK.

I feel like I’ve committed myself to a million things over here, and I always say that I wouldn’t dream of staying in England forever, that I always want to end up back in Australia, but the longer I stay the harder it is to extract myself.  I commit myself to people and phone contracts and leases and all this bollocks (another example of British linguistic genius) and rather than making me feel comfortable and at home here, it makes me stir crazy.  In a couple of weeks time I’ve committed myself to a day’s work running through central London wearing nothing but a branded scarf and a flesh-coloured cat-suit.  That’s how desperate I am to do something invigorating, even if it’s heinous for everyone around me.  Those poor people…

Until recently I thought I had something that was worth staying for, but he’s just a stupid boy who wouldn’t notice if his prick was sewn onto the back of his head, and definitely not worth being at the centre of any life changing decisions.  Obviously if anyone who actually knows me reads this they’ll know who I’m talking about – the number one dick-up of my life so far (pun intended). 

In the midst of all the angst I’m independent and unafraid of any actual physical paths that my life might take, which makes a change from 5 years ago – hell, 1 year ago.  I never believed I could be so money hungry though – people who say that money can’t buy happiness clearly aren’t unemployed in London during a recession – in fact they’re probably minted, just too stupid to spend their cash on something worthwhile.

Anyhoo, hereby ends the first blog.  I’m listening to Life on Mars? and it makes me happy.

It’s a God awful small affair
To the girl with the mousey hair
But her mummy is yelling, “No!”
And her daddy has told her to go
But her friend is no where to be seen
Now she walks through her sunken dream
To the seat with the clearest view
And she’s hooked to the silver screen
But the film is a sadd’ning bore
For she’s lived it ten times or more
She could spit in the eyes of fools
As they ask her to focus on

Sailors
Fighting in the dance hall
Oh man!
Look at those cavemen go
It’s the freakiest show
Take a look at the lawman
Beating up the wrong guy
Oh man!
Wonder if he’ll ever know
He’s in the best selling show
Is there life on Mars?

It’s on America’s tortured brow
That Mickey Mouse has grown up a cow
Now the workers have struck for fame
‘Cause Lennon’s on sale again
See the mice in their million hordes
From Ibiza to the Norfolk Broads
Rule Britannia is out of bounds
To my mother, my dog, and clowns
But the film is a sadd’ning bore
‘Cause I wrote it ten times or more
It’s about to be writ again
As I ask you to focus on

Sailors
Fighting in the dance hall
Oh man!
Look at those cavemen go
It’s the freakiest show
Take a look at the lawman
Beating up the wrong guy
Oh man!
Wonder if he’ll ever know
He’s in the best selling show
Is there life on Mars?