The Serialised Diaries of Attila Z. Spasm: 20 Nov 2007

Dearest diary,

Please forgive my lassitude. It is late and I am out of gin, but I feel compelled to report on the status of my latest research investigation.

To set the scene, I must first recount the startling revelation of 3 nights ago...

Addled by an evening supping cooking bleach and thrashing a discarded left slipper at imaginary top trumps, the Sand Man found me, in a rubber ring suspended from a lamp post outside Peckham library, at an hour approaching 3.

Spirits aroused by the caustic alkaline and giddied by the slipper's incessant screaming, my dreams took me back to my Nanna's house in Denmark Hill. She was there, absent-mindedly strumming a pubic harp, Grampapy was in his chair, barking quietly, peeling an elderly badger. Auntie Clive was there too. Not visible, but you could hear him enthusiastically violating the shrubbery outside, as Cousin Chip-Fat lashed a piglet roped to a barrel in the cellar with gusto. Amidst it all, there I sat. Hog-tied and fidgeting as the baby eels knawed at my piles, through the sobbing and the holes in the sack I could just make out the television next-door.

I remember it as if it were yesterday, as that, dear hearts, was my first introduction to the poetic pant-soiling masterpiece that is: Jayce and the Wheeled Warriors.

I awoke with a bump the next morning in the boot of a 1987 Datsun Cherry on the way to the bottom of the Thames. Struggling free, the gases in the rubber knickers rendering me bouyant, a hansom group of youths had the good grace to beat the ropes from me with crowbars. I thanked them at length.

And then, as the stars evaporated from my vision, it struck me. Surely the greatest achievement I could make would be to recreate Jayce and his mighty half-plant, half-vehicle companions in REAL LIFE. But not in a sordid way, grafting leaf on to metal or rubber on to bark (..that IS a thought though). But naturally. Lovingly. Slowly. Hence, my latest research project that has consumed my most recent 72 hours.

Today's Research: Bionics

Aim: To create a "wheeled warrior" half organic, half metal, all pant-throbbingly, bed-wettingly amazing. WOOF.

Step one: Locate a metal "partner" with which to mate.

Result: A slow start. After a gentle let down by a wheelbarrow, and a brusque refusal from the number 78 bus I finally located a yellow children's racing bike amenable to my approaches.


Step two: A bike by name, if not by nature.

Result: I am getting sick. I have spent over £13 on this sodding bike. I've taken her to dinner, a "clever" film with that Clooney man in it and the Dirty Dancing Musical, and the little pedally yellow fuck hasn't shown the first sign of putting out. I haven't even got to first base. I am starting to suspect she is a gold-digger. Or a gay.


Result - update: The sly little minx. 4 litres of White Ace and my own vocal rendition of the mating call of Jeremy Clarkson and she gave in.

Tragically though, the scale an vigour of our relations was such that Private Tinkle became firmly lodged in the saddle shaft. One of the more creative explanations I've had to give at A&E - but such is the nature of young love.

Step three: Procreate.

Result:... Heartbreak. OH WOE WOE AND THRICE WOE. As the nettle of love blossomed within my buttocks so did it sting me on the balls.

I caught... that... yellow two-tyred (YES 2 FATTY FAT BITCH) "Fraternising" with a bicycle pump in the garage. I am disconsolate.

Research abandoned.

Solace shall be sought in kettle descaler and mindless belching. Sleep well, sweet reader. The time is for crying... but not until I've sewn Uncle Z to the curtains.

Dormez bien...


Attila.