I’ve been sitting here for around five minutes contemplating what exactly to write. I know what I would like to say, but not how to say it. I’ve just read some short stories by a good friend of mine which are excellent, the type of excellent which act like a frag grenade and stun any ideas I may have been having, the type of excellent which stir a jealous resign to settle over you. I started to write a brief account of this which I will save for my therapist. (Who I am yet to meet – a long and personal story which I won’t be sharing.) I then started to write about writing and the failure to do so, a topic I’ve covered to death in annotated form. I started to think to myself about the Alex Ferguson maxim – “Hard work will always overcome natural talent when natural talent doesn’t work hard.” This would apply if I had natural talent. Eventually this all boiled down to the new aphorism which I think will replace Sir Alex’s words of wisdom “Don’t eat the free Dominoes pizza on the table just because its free and on the table there, go home and go to the gym then cook the omelette you intended.”

And this is true. But, it is entirely off topic and would have made for a terrible read. Instead I have presented the following based around the palpable anger here;

London is burning. The searing heat of  political meltdown has left the UK in a bewildered smog. Our yearly hallowed heat wave providing the uncomfortable back drop for this tension. Protests have followed atrocities. Silence has followed protest. And now, we are left where exactly?
Daily a siren rushes by me and I wonder what is happening in this city which seems to be reaching a boiling point. Those around me who have lived through similar, probably not worse, moments have already seen enough, and predicted a riot.
The passive conformity which I put myself through in order to live here occasionally abandons me and leaves me with a manic screaming consciousness. A consciousness which is shared by the man who decided to lave his car on the high street and answer his phone, and by the woman who blares her horn at him. They smile angrily at each other, yin and yan. Black Range Rover and White Bentley.
The manic scream comes out when I realise the futility of everything. When I sit through a day of training and I’m told “it’s not lying, it’s selling.” When I’m taken through the interaction of customer service with titles and headings, by people who don’t serve customers. It comes out when I’m serving customers and I remember the titles.

Sometimes though this maniacal explosion comes out in laughter or joy. Joyful expulsions at the sky. A sky which in this heat is so often ablaze. Streaked with colours which you wish you could sing or shout. Joyful eruptions from the zoo as you play football or walk  through the park which may cause a chuckle. A joyful anger which may change things for you or for all.
But lastly, and this may be the most common compulsion, one which is almost inescapable. The compulsion to switch off. The manic urge to slump, to love and detest oneself later. This thudding dullness is brilliant and addictive. Ignorance is bliss, youtube is bliss with smack and eckies.
Every now and then these manic compulsions will find their way here. A beacon of light, overshadowed by the bright pyres all around, but still of prime importance to those walking near the beacon.
Perhaps as opposed to riots we can have change. Instead of pyres, beacons. Instead of free Dominoes pizza, the omelette you intended.

As well as the manic screaming I’ve been longing to do, and all the sex and drugs and madness… I’ve also been looking forward to a visit back to Scotland which will be happening this weekend. The fresh country air, sea breeze, hill-walking and cat-petting should be enough to rejuvenate my mood and skin, both of which are in dire need of rejuvenation. Hopefully, in a spare moment, I’ll reset and re-determine some workable goals for the future. Something my new therapist is likely to be impressed by.
If I can’t impress my therapist and I continually want to re-enact this scene, then I may call it quits on London. Equally, London may decide to call it quits on me.

I should state for the record that I do not wish to cause any offence or distress by alluding to the tragic events of this week. I’m trying to present the facts of Mr Hummels for the readership of Mr Hummels.

Mr Hummels x