Slightly Sick.

Today I've got the shivers all over my body and a tight band round my forehead. A rather ticklish throat is also in the mix. I can't count the amount of times I've fallen ill since I've landed in London. It's starting to piss me off a bit. I've had bad colds, stomach complaints, shingles, maybe a suspected ulcer, chronic back pain, fevers and the occasional lapse into tourettes. The worst thing is I try to look after myself. Honest I do. I eat my porridge in the morning, I drink as much water as I can handle, I eat vegetables most days, I try and get some fruit down my gullet. I try to drink in moderation. What's moderation you ask? I had 4 becks tops, 1 Sol and about 3 shots on Wednesday night, and a maybe a glass of wine. To me, that seems normal. If that's not normal, please tell me. I don't drink every night, and I try to have an early night at least once a week. I don't get twatted every weekend, but when I do, it's usually at least a 24hr debarcle, which takes a lot longer to recover from. I smoke socially, which I'm trying to curb, but it's about the best thing I can think of doing while having a drink. These aspects of my life combined with the weather, which I'm not used to in the slightest. I don't think I wrap up well enough, I still haven't got a scarf or a hat yet. I think I entertain some eternal life fantasy, that I'll come through it all unscathed. Oh is that proving to be wrong....

I've just read what I've written. I'm not having a whinge. Honest I'm not, I'm just laying my cards on the table and trying best to figure out what the best plan of action is from now, to keep the good ship Reilly ship shape and on course for the years to come. If anyone can give some tips, I'll give it a go. (Within reason chaps, I'm not about to become a tee-totaller just yet, nor am I going to give up eating steaks and having the an occasional time getting bent to herculean proportions.)

P.S. I still haven't dragged my ass to the gym.
P.P.S. I might just be getting old.
P.P.P.S. This whole post was written on a concoction of head and flu tablets plus a few codiene thrown in for good measure, so you may as well disregard the whole lot.

If you are bored.

I was just flicking through Paris Hilton's phonebook.

First thing I'd do is ring Eminem up and give him an impromptu rap over the phone, and hopefully do a duet sometime in the future. I'd ring Christina Aguilara and tell he that she was a bit whiffy, and that I'm way too good for her. Maybe I'd call Fred Durst just to tell him all about New Zealand's version of Limp Bizkit. Soggy Biscuit. Don't ask what this readers. Please. I wonder who "Party Guy" is and I wonder if he delivers. Is Victoria Gotti related to John Gotti? I'd ring Vin Diesal and tell him that he's not that good, and is going to end up like Sly Stallone in 10 years. I'd ring Fergie up in a heartbeat, unless it was the other, plump red headed one. And as for Nellie Hooper, you have a great voice, what ya hanging round with the wee Hilton Hoor?

Have fun, dial away.

Twat Camp.

I saw a snippet of Channel Four's Brat Camp last night. What a bunch of sorry arsed kids, and even more sorry arsed parents.

When I was growing up, I drove my parents bonkers. The closest thing my folks got to controlling me was called tough love. Basically they were hard as nails on me. I can't count the amount of screaming matches and fights over punk music, particularly The Dead Kennedys, my Doc Martin boots and my general punk rock attitude. I was pretty much on the rampage. As a last resort my father lost it one night and gave me a clip round the ear. That got through to me in a split second.

The point I'm trying to make is that the kids on Brat Camp need a good hiding. Look at all of their parents. Pussies, the lot of them. All middle class and with loads of money by the looks of it. Seems that these parents are on the verge of a nervous breakdown. So what do the parents end up doing? They allow their kids to be shipped off to the desert in the states only to be put under the camera and hassled 24/7 by some washed up yankee cops. Odds on, the minute they step back into Old Blighty, they will be back to usual and telling their parents to fuck off. It's all good for the ratings I bet. Last night I saw the kid "Josh".



He claims to smoke weed everyday, and by the looks of it fancies himself as a bit of a gangster.

Lets take Josh and instead of shipping him off to The States, dump him in some inner city estate at night and set him a few chores to perform.

1. Go break into a car and steal a cd player
2. Go try and swap the cd player for some crack
3. Try not to get robbed by crackheads
4. Mug someone
5. Drink a 6 pack of Tennants Super
6. Sleep rough
7. Beg money

I can guarantee that these 7 easy steps will send Josh on the straight and narrow and become a normal 15 year old boy again. It must be cheaper than sending him off to The States? His dad could drop him off at 11.00pm and pick him up at 7.00am. I bet he'd love to see his Daddy pick him up. Dad might be a bit of a shambles, but hey that's the breaks, if you weren't such a wimp parent, you'd give him the occasional wallop. Then you wouldn't be in this problem, meathead.

Two good reasons.....

Originally uploaded by LIFE OF REILLY.

Kids, don't do mushrooms, this is what happens.

By the way, the guy on the right is my good mate Mikey. Visit his blog here.

Good times. Bad times.

What a weekend. Big ups and big downs.

On the good side, I went to possibly one of the funniest double birthday celebrations I've been to in a long, long time. Many highlights including: Scaring small children pretending I'm blind, friends in Hannibal Lecter masks, one of my best friends in a comprising position with novelty specs and his kilt. A tweed cape that wouldn't stay on, a stuffed hedgehog called hedgie, a friend who may have pissed himself while passed out, curtain confessions, a litter collecting stick and last but not least a blue sponge. All sound a bit weird? Take into account a decision to get some mexican mycelium at 11.00am on a Saturday, and you can see how all these seemingly random objects fall into place. Well you had to be there, honest. Suffice to say, it was a hilarious, seemingly endless day. Happy birthday Ms. Smacked Face, and happy birthday Tom.

On the bad side, the rest of the weekend was recovering and noticing the wear and tear on the old body is got to a point where I seriously have to give myself a decent break. I have to. Just to top it all off, I came to work today and find that yet another good mate from New Zealand, Karlos has died. We had a good few moments over the years bro. Infact you we're one of the last people I hung out with before I left New Zealand. You won't be forgotten. Then I hear Hunter S Thompson has also died. It's put me in a very strange mood, and I feel it's a sign to start looking after myself a lot better. Two of my friends have died since I left New Zealand. The sense of my own mortality is freaking me out at the moment. Bigtime. It's all a bit surreal to be honest.

Wanted! Shoot on sight.

Originally uploaded by LIFE OF REILLY.

I had the misfortune of snapping one of my headphone bits that curls round my ears this morning. Then to make matters worse I snapped the other curly bit. Thus leaving the treasure trove of music, my ipod abandoned until I score some headphones. Great. Because of this I have had the joy of listening to Chris Moyles on BBC 1.

How can this dickhead get on the radio? He screams, rants and acts like some yob down at the boozer. I even went to the website to have a gander at his mug. Bingo. He is that yob down at the boozer. If this guy has the prime time radio slot on what I gather is the most popular mainstream radio station then what's this country coming to? May as well step in front of moving buses now people.

He had a stream of thought today (more like a streak of piss) but I am compelled to tell you anyway. He asked a well thought out question. Which Spice Girl would you do? That I'd do? Apart from doing them all in with a broken chair leg, I thought well what Spice Girl would I like to get up the duff.

Ginger: Well she has had so many make overs and diets, I fear that she is now actually made of paper mache and straw, and is coated with spray varnish. A bit like that brilliant film "Death becomes her" with Meryl Streep and Goldie Hawn. So she would be a no go. Imagine sharing a post-bonk ciggie in bed. She'd be up in flames in no time.

Baby: Now here's a toughie. She has a certain quality that looks corruptible. But I fear she likes blonde vacuum brained boys, that are possibly inbred or crossed with golden labradors. It also reminds me of a joke. Why did the blonde have a sore belly button after sex. Because her boyfriend was a blonde.

Scary: She's gone right into the gutter since she started appearing on Bo' Selecta. Wouldn't touch her with a barge pole. But I would stab her with it.

Posh: Two words. David Beckham. Who would want to go there? After that moron? He's from good stock eh? A man who possibly can't even spell "DVD" and come to think of it probably tries to rewind them.

Sporty: She's a dyke, right? Good on her. Nothing in the whole planet would possess me to chase a girl who A: Likes sport. B: Plays sport. C: Wears sports bras D: and prefers to drink from the furry cup.

Thanks Chris Moyles. You've wasted my time this morning, raped my ears with your septic voice, and now I'm going up to the radio to turn you off. Fuck you.

P.S. Anyone got a spare set of headphones I can have. Email me please. I'm desperate. Someone just put on the Athlete album "Tourist" on. Save me before I go into the kitchen and drink the bottle of bleach under the sink.

My ride home.

I had a terrible but quite comical ride home on the tube last night.

I was a bit pissed off after having talked to BT for over 45 minutes over the debacle that is my broadband account. I hate the fact that you explain yourself for 10 minutes, and then they just friggin' transfer you to some other monkey and you have to go through the same tedious process again. After the third time I was getting quite curt. Phrases like "Look, (insert moron's name here) I need to have a definite answer from you to my seemingly simple request, do not transfer me, because I know your name and will lay a complaint to your supervisor. (they hate when you take record of their name, it means they may be accountable). Anyway the upshot is that I have managed to fix my problem. (I hope).

By the time the call was over, I just wanted to get home, and had no time for the general public. I hopped on the tube at Farringdon, which was packed. I was politely shoving people out the way to get on the carriage, and was trying to get round 4 big businessmen that were clumped round the pole. I stood to the right of them. Someone then tried to shove me to the left of the businessmen. There was no place to go. I was pushed against the businessmen. I turned in anger and blurted out "Just go right round the bloody pole, can't you see I can't move!" At this point the four big businessmen stopped talking and fixed their eyes on me. One of them piped up in a heavy broken english accent. "Are you mocking us?" I'm like "Eh? No." He replied "We are offended by you". They started gabbling in some foreign eastern European tongue and shot me intermittent daggers from their steely blue eyes. The penny dropped. They were from Poland. I nearly pissed myself with laughter. I had to cover my mouth with my jacket and pretend to cough into my jacket. The tube stopped at Kings Cross and I got off as quick as I could. Next hurdle was the ticket booth. I was jostling to get through and felt a tap on the inside of my leg near my shoes. I looked down to see what looked like a white skateboard wheel on the end of a stick. I quickly pivoted round and in the process knocked a blind man's cane out of his hand and sent it whacking into some poor lady. She yelped, the blindman howled and I had a white stick in between my ankles. Some tube dude saw the commotion and started towards me. I quickly bent down, picked up the white stick, tapped the blind guy with the handle and quickly scurried through the turnstile and didn't look back. I am so going to Hell.

This mortal coil.

Originally uploaded by LIFE OF REILLY.

Today I was thinking about my own mortality. For a laugh I decided to check my death clock. Apparently I was supposed have died last year, on August 10, 2004. Eh? What the fuck? I wonder how much abuse the human body can take.

I've taken a fair battering over my life I reckon, and it's all starting to catch up with me. On the weekend at some points, my kidneys we're in agony. Like I'd been stabbed by tiny little knives. I coughed on a few occasions and thought a a piece of lung fell out, and every day for the last few months, when I wake up I feel like I've been hit with a sledgehammer in one spot on my back. It's intense. I thought it was maybe from the shingles, but now the shingles are gone, I'm fearing it might be permanent nerve damage. Great eh?

Part of the reason is that I somehow have been living the lie that I'm still 18. That's like 14 years ago. The temple that is my body, is starting to crumble. I need a total blood transfusion, some new kidneys, a liver, hell, throw in a new spine. Bring on future science. I want the works.

Another reason for my semi-morbidness that I've just finished reading Wonderland Avenue by Danny Sugerman who died recently of cancer. It's brilliant, and I won't give too much away, but it hit an all familiar vein with me. I recommend this book for everyone, because it has a valuable lesson that everyone can learn something from.

The lesson I'm attempting learn is to slow down and start to look after myself a bit better. I've taken some steps. I've joined a gym. Still haven't actually gone yet. Last time I tried to get to the gym, I had a phone call from a mate and ended up on a blinder till 3am on a Thursday night. Last Thursday to be exact. Y'know how stupid it looks when a bouncer checks your bag entering a club and and it's full of clean gym gear? I bet he's thinking "Hmmm, he's too clean to be 'omeless, but go to a gym? Farrrk off geeeza"

As for the slowing down bit, well this weekend's out of the question. It's this dame's birthday. I think a handbrake, in the form of a girlfriend would slow the death process down a bit. But here's the catch 22. How am I going meet a responsible, nurturing woman, who isn't a caner? I mean I can't see myself hanging in a library or signing up for arts and crafts, yoga, or some bullshit spiritual classes. Maybe I should go full throttle and find the girl of my dreams in rehab. I can see it know. "Yup. I'm a wreck baby, and so are you. We can get through this thing together." God how corny does that sound? It's enough to drive you to drink.

I think Woody Allen said it best: "It's not that I'm afraid to die, I just don't want to be there when it happens." That will suit me fine.

Dr. Jeckyll and Mr Hyde

Originally uploaded by LIFE OF REILLY.

Mr Hyde

Had a quiet night on Friday, due to the silly, Colombian inspired night I had on Thursday, which turned me into what seemed very rock and roll excessive monster. But in truth gave me a serious brain splitting hangover and a few gross additions to my hankie.

Dr. Jeckyll

It was nice to have a Saturday morning, and it was domestic paradise. It was all very civilised, and got all my shit sorted. Went for a drive with my flatmate, which is freaky, considering I haven't really been in a car in London, except for late night taxis. Man don't the buses rule! Big "get-the-fuck-out-of-my-way" red road warriors. Scary when you are in a puny car. Went to Clapham Junction and had a browse through Northcote Market. I need to come back here with a serious wad of cash. Way too much good bread, wine, deli food, fish and cheese. Definitely worth the visit. Then went to a few garden/diy shops. Outside of of these shops, I saw a plastic bag destroy a mans bicycle. It got caught in the gears at the back of the bike. I saw him try and pull it out, and just make matters worse. He kept tugging and gradually becoming unhinged. I could see him mouthing the work "Fuck". He eventually lost the battle with the bag and the little cog at the back of the gears snapped. Bag 1 Bike 0. The rest of the day was spent grazing and mooching around the house.

Mr Hyde

However I got a call to go out for a quiet drink with Ms.Smacked Face. A cider and a diet coke. Who are we trying to kid. Of course we ended up getting boozed, listened to some fantastic tunes, saw a bit of girl on girl action (oooh err). Eventually got back to a mates studio, then to a friends place and got properly twatted. Listened to an amazing remix of "Owner of a lonely heart." Then back to the pub for more punishment. Too many highlights to mention, but there are a few gems. Managing to go through 7 packets of duty free ciggies with mates. That the words "Shattered Lamb" would be a great name for a death metal band. A small re-enactment of the shining. A close friend was passed a hollow cigarette type device and was figuring how to smoke it. The same person spilled a full Kahula and milk on the pub floor and tried to mop it up with a magazine. Priceless. I managed to turn a plate of nachos into the journey of a lonely white elephant (sour cream) who was trying to find his way round an island (a plate) to his home (doritos) but a volcano had erupted and spewed lava (salsa), and thus blocking his way. The rescue helicopter (wooden spoon) came to the rescue and transported the lonely white elephant to his home on the other side of the island. (I'm not clinically insane, just incase you are thinking). Endless fun out the words "pork & leek sausage" and "white beans" Watching my friends drop like flies after a special after dinner mint. (very funny) and then cleaned up at pool with my curly headed mate. Got out of there at 11.00pm and took the 250 steps back to my house (yes I've counted them.)
NB: Just remembered I also got an honorary Knighthood with a broom, from my good welsh mate.

Dr. Jeckyll

The best realisation is that the crew who I now run about with are the most beautiful, bullshit-free, safe-as-fuck bunch of people I have met in a long time. I love my mates and I love Brixton.

Rage against the machine

fuck le system
Originally uploaded by LIFE OF REILLY.

Hi, my name is Reilly, and I'm an angry moron. Why you ask? Because I didn't read the fine print. In my last flat I signed up for BT broadband. Nowhere on the website was I told that it was a 12 month contract. Only a tiny little box that I checked, that said that I agreed to the terms and conditions. £30 a month for 12 bloody months. No problem really, except that the phone line was not in my name. I've moved out now and my poor ex flatmate is now liable. I rang BT and asked if I could transfer the broadband. They told me it would be no problem to do this. I rang today to get my phone reconnected, and BT actually told me that the only way to get around it was me to say I was my old flatmate. Incredible. I told the guy that amounts to fraud, and he said, yes, that's the only way. BT, the vile money hungry wankers, want a new connection out of me. No way. I'm now resigned to the fact that I'm going to have to ring my old flatmate and set up yet another standing order and pay for broadband that I can't even use. What a dick I am.

My ongoing nightmare with the establishment continues. First HSBC, now BT. You'd think I would have learned to be a responsible adult by the age of 32. I seriously think I was born in the wrong decade, because I have had bullshit with every single company product or service that I have ever signed up for in my entire life. Maybe not so much bullshit to be honest, but more like my total inability to budget money and total disregard for fine print, standing orders, bills, parking tickets, and anything to do with the man. I think it stems from my burning desire since a kid to fuck the system any chance I get. All that seems to happen is the system fucks me.

NB: I'm only writing this to vent my anger at the system, to stop me taking to BT vans with cricket bats, setting junction boxes on fire, putting bricks through HSBC windows and spitting at parking wardens. Believe me, it's therapy.

True Story.

Originally uploaded by LIFE OF REILLY.

I have been living in Brixton for a few weeks now, and am now able to spot the local skunk dealers, and give them a swerve if need be, or not if I'm feeling naughty. There seems to be one guy who I pass every night by the Iceland Supermarket. Like clockwork every night he says to me the usual "Skunk" "Skunk" "Skunk". Now on this particular night, I was battling an eternal cold that I seemed to be plagued with and was in a hurry to escape the bitter cold. I must of looked rough, because he virtually yells "Rocks, Rocks, Rocks". I stopped and looked at him and said, "It's ok, I've only got a cold." He looked at me like I was the one on rocks. I thought to myself: Do I look that shit? I then turned into Iceland muttering to myself "Lemsip" "Lemsip" "Lemsip"

NB: It's not as bad as my mate Scott from Glesga. Every time he walks off the tube, he thinks the dealers are calling his name, in a Glesga accent.

Aye, bollox to this.

Lets read between the lines shall we?


Rugby Fan Cuts off Own Testicles

Welsh idiot will never breed (phew!)

A Welsh rugby fan cut off his own testicles after his team beat England, police confirmed today.

A mental welsh fool, hacks his bollocks off, sez the coppers.

The man was rushed to hospital after the incident at Leigh Social Club in Caerphilly, South Wales.

Why? Are they gonna sew them back on? Please, he's now eunuch, give him to the Prince of Wales as a present.

A Gwent Police spokeswoman said: We received a call from the ambulance service at approximately 9pm on the 5th to inform us of a situation at the Leigh Social Club in which a man had indeed severed his own testicles.

Ambulance: "haha, you're not going to believe this Gwyn, some idiot has cut his own balls off!"
Police: "I bet he's got big balls!" Guffaw, guffaw.
Ambulance: "No Dave, he's just a bit mental, or maybe off that show Dirty Sanchez.

She said the man was taken to Heath Hospital but could not confirm his condition.

Because all the doctors are laughing their heads off.

It was reported that the man told his friends: If Wales win I'll cut my own balls off.

Wouldn't it be a more logical thing to say that if maybe Wales lost he'd cut the plums?
But if they won? This guy does not deserve his balls, or his brain.

After the 11-9 victory in the Six Nations clash, the man is reported to have gone outside and severed his testicles before bringing them back into the club to show fellow drinkers.

With what? A pen knife, a tin lid? I'm dying to know. In the dark? Under a street light? Imagine the guy, chortling away to himself....."Let's see who's got the balls now eh?" In your hand, you fuckwit.

A local was reported as saying that the man was on medication and should not have been drinking.

Do they prescribe soapbar in Wales?

I propose that the doctor gets him a nice set of neuticles, maybe in the shape of rugby balls, y'know as a little momento.

Pic of the day

800x600_1
Originally uploaded by LIFE OF REILLY.

Need I say more?

AWOL

Originally uploaded by LIFE OF REILLY.

Is there ever such a thing as a few quiet beers? I'm starting to doubt it very much. My weekend started innocently in this manner. A few pints of cider and all logical reasoning manages to evaporate from my brain. For a person who is trying to STAY IN FOR ONE GOD DAMN WEEKEND, I'm failing pretty miserably. Somehow I managed to get quite drunk, wind up at Waterloo Pier, hop on a boat full of people doing the charleston, fake a titanic pose, took part in an avant garde (IE: pissed) photo shoot. Wound up in Streatham at a good friends place, passed out, didn't know where I was when I woke, went home dazed and confused. Slept, eat, slept. Went to friends place. Went to a Waitangi Day party. Proceeded to get really drunk really quickly. Got asked by a friend if I was still on pain killers. Bingo. Painkillers + Beer = Trainwreck. Did this curb me? Did it fuck. Ended up getting booted out at midnight (I think?) and somehow ending up in Hackney. Got home at 7.30am MONDAY MORNING. Thought I would just catch 1/2 hour kip before going to work. Woke at 11.00am to the sound of my boss calling me...... for the fifth time. Got to work at midday. I'm amazed I still even have a job. The worst thing is there are huge gaps in my weekend. If anyone saw me out, or seen what I might of done, which I remember very little (you guys know who you are) please help me. It's a bit of a worry really. Please leave a message and help a poor confused man fill in the gaps. The moral of this story is NOT to mix painkillers and booze. But If you feel like a night out, and a bit of an adventure, take 3 codeine and drink a few units of beer. Give it a few hours and you WILL be a unit, and a very special one at that.

NB: I just re-read my post. I'm single by the way, hard to believe I know, what are the chances! I mean I'd be a perfect date for a quiet couple of drinks.

Infectious Grooves.

I'm just over the shingles and now I'm coming down with the cold. I've been trying to combat it with vitamins, lemsip and sudafed. But I realised this morning that it's all futile. Basically as soon as I step out of my house, I'm fighting with millions of people's germs. Here's my point. I hopped on the Victoria line this morning and hunkered down to go to work. This guy in front of me got my attention. He was rubbing his nose. No big deal, except the way he was rubbing his nose. He was rubbing it up and down, giving himself a little piggie nose. Gross. He kept it up for about 20 seconds. Then he starts to itch the inside of his nostrils. Double gross. He then puts his skanky hand on the rail. He repeats this several times and then gets off. I'm transfixed on this spot of railing, just to see what happens next. A lady hops on and stands where snot-man was. She then puts her hand in the very same spot. A minute later she takes her hand and starts to itch the side of her lips. For fucks sake. She does this a couple of times. Shes probably got a coldsore coming up. If she hasn't, she's most probably got some snot based lurgy now. At this point every surface in on the tube is infectious, and I'm imagining that I can see viruses. Weird sea anemones sliding over peoples bodies and slugs with little bat wings hovering like pregnant bumble bees, coughing their insides all over everyone in their path. We get to Victoria and I'm seriously feeling like I'm going to throw up. The tube is now packed. The vitamins, sudafed and lemsip I took before I left the house stupidly on an empty stomach is going on strike and is now pushing the eject button. My mouth is salivating, and I feel like hurling is imminent. I'm wondering what if I did throw up. Over everyone. Now that will be a sight. I open my knapsack thinking at least i'm not going to do a exorcist, and save my self major embarressment. I'm trying so hard not to throw up. So hard. We reach Oxford Circus and the tube is now empty. Thank the god of porcelain. My queasiness subsides and I make it to Kings Cross and get off back into virus world. God help us, if the asian bird flu gets here. 12 Monkeys here we come. I'm going out to buy a human sized surgical rubber jump suit, and a high powered water pistol filled with disinfectant. C'mon viruses, let's party motherfuckers.

Heroin vs Kate

Originally uploaded by LIFE OF REILLY.

What will poor Pete do? I can't help but feel sorry for him. He has to choose between his two girlfriends. Heroin or Kate Moss. Let's compare them, shall we?


Heroin costs a lot of money
Kate costs a lot of money

Heroin can turn Pete into a mumbling, introspective bore
Kate can turn Pete into a mumbling, introspective bore

Heroin is powerful and addictive
Kate is powerful and addictive

Heroin feels pretty damn good
Kate feels pretty damn good

Pete loves to chase Heroin
Pete loves to chase Kate

Heroin will probably kill Pete
Kate will probably kill Pete

Geez, it looks neck and neck. My money's on the smack.