Estimats germans, ens hem juntat a la caça de Déu per donar un miracle, una benacitat. Al punt de ràdio hi ha una innovació, l'hora d'en Joan Jovi Gut.
Is everybody ready? Yeah! What are we waiting for? Let's have some music!
Fins demà!
Just what is it that you want to do? We want to be free. We want to be free to do what we want to do. And we want to get loaded. And we want to have a good time. That's what we're going to do.
Gràcies.
...prepared in innocence to meet our king of glory. And so we have this. You have it in your secret windows and your understanding to understand it and to bring it forth. It takes minute detail.
és una lluita lluita, és emotions, és emotions, emotions, emotions, emotions, emotions, emotions, emotions, emotions, emotions, emotions, emotions, emotions, emotions, emotions, emotions, emotions, emotions, emotions,
Gràcies.
Bona nit.
A tu, et que et fins, a l'arteginat. A tu, et bé, i que l'atnat. Déu et et eslogan. L'ampleix, n'aglubre. A tu, et et et et et et et et
DJ Viguta!
Fins demà!
Fins demà!
Música Música
Fins demà!
Fins demà!
Fins demà!
A la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la
DJ Viguta!
Bona nit.
Bona nit.
Bona nit.
Bona nit.
Just what is it that you want to do? We want to get loaded, and we want to have a good time. I wake up before I want to, like a wound reopening me.
And it takes me quite a few goes to really come to, even though the cars keep roaring by outside and my alarm keeps tinkling by inside. Never have been good at waking up, no matter what the day I've in store. I've let the tea keyboard me go cold because the second I open my eyes I'll feel lost in the real world. Is that the doorbell? I panic, thinking I'm going to have to talk to someone while I'm still not dressed, and that makes me cross with myself for not getting up sooner.
I wish I could live in my dreams. There's got to be some toothpaste left in this tube, so I fold it and squeeze, squeeze some more and try again, spill a bit down my front. I find one sock, but the other one that matches it is nowhere to be found. Not that it matters, but I open a drawer I haven't looked at in ages, and my old school reports, tassie with time, confront me. Judgments carried through life.
Bona nit.
But I'm still six inside. Steven is a very conscientious child. He needs plenty of brains because he takes his work so seriously that his standard, although good, can become a worry to him. Kay shouts up that she couldn't hear what I was saying earlier because the washing machine was on. She's sorry. I shout back that I didn't say anything. She says what? And then she says sorry again.
Last week I had to leave the house really early before she woke up, so I left a note on her pillow saying I loved her. But now I think if I don't do it next time, she'll think I've gone off her. Anyway, we say goodbye and it's time to get off work.
It works steadily, but actual achievement is a little disappointing.
I open my laptop, try to log on. I have to ask for the password to be reset for about the third time this week. Then I check my other email address just in case the password's gone there. Knowing full well I'm just trying to cheat time. Like when I used to wait for a bus as a kid and always counted down from 15 to make it arrive. Is it this weekend the clocks go back or the next one? I go downstairs, pluck some mouldy blue green dots off a slice of bread, pop it in the toaster and come back upstairs. Once or twice the bus arrived bang on count there.
Coincidence or destiny? A key note of this report is his unwillingness to adopt a wholehearted attitude towards his activities. I'm still getting adverts for something I looked at once last summer, even though I didn't really want it then and I don't want it anymore. Google knows more about me than my mum ever did. And then she had trouble recognising when I changed too.
Those were the days before search history's cost. Is it better when the clocks go back or forward? I quickly grab yesterday's underpants from the floor and start waving them wildly at the smoke alarm, with the beeping blanking out my curses. Burnt toast. Again.
I wish they'd had the internet when I was a kid. I make a new piece of toast but forget it gets cold. And then I eat it all the same when I realise. And I let my new cup of tea get cold too but I drink it up as well. Then I make another one straight the way to catch up. And then I read about football for far too long and get angry with myself for wasting the day again. I pop the kettle on and wonder how long that mountain of soggy teabags goes back. Looks like a week or more. It's probably this morning.
Gràcies.
I flick a bit of burnt bread off the screen and it occurs to me that I have no idea at all how LCD works. And guess what it is?
I ought to google it, but, you know, time is precious. My phone startles me by ringing, but because it's a number I don't know, I don't answer it. It could be anyone, but the chances are good that I don't want to speak to them. I don't really like phones. It's hard to explain why. But if someone rings me, I'm certainly not ready for them. And if I have to ring them, then there's this whole massive burden of anxiety. I wish phones didn't exist. Whoever rings with good news is like letters through the post.
Fins demà!
What was her name? The one who got on my bus that I never spoke to? Susan? Charlotte? All those rumbling journeys. The road are taken. The stops not stopped her. I go back to my emails. It takes forever to load and I feel like I'm being punished for all my mean thoughts. By God, for your broadband, I suppose.
Assuming God still has power over big tech companies, which seems unlikely come to think of it. Much more likely the other way round. But you can't not have a phone, can you? If I can't be myself, who can I be? That's what Marilyn Monroe said.
Bona nit!
I need to forgive myself. I need to forgive everyone. That was my New Year's resolution. That and be healthy. But I keep forgetting. Ah, the internet is playing up again. I wish I had a pound for every time I've said to Kate that the internet is playing up again. I wish I had a pound for every time I've said to Kate I wish I had a pound. The phone rings again. The same number.
I figure they'll leave a message if it's important. My allergies are bad today and I haven't even been outside. Maybe that's why my knees hurt, too much sitting still. So I jump up and knock my new hot mug of tea all over the carpet. I mop it up with a tea towel, the one we got on holiday in Cornwall. I'll have to go in the washing now.
The same number rings again. That's the third time. What if it's an emergency? So I answer it, coughing, because the kitchen's still a bit smoky from the toast. A young woman says she's calling because they've heard that I was involved in an accident that was my fault. I said, no, not me. And she rings straight up. That tea towel's not the only thing that needs to go in the wash. I got toothpaste on my t-shirt earlier. And even though I put this jumper on clean this morning, I've already got peanut butter on it.
I wanted to be the one to ring off. It doesn't seem fair. No-one should have a job they don't feel good about. How different the world might be then, eh? I really ought to go outside for a bit, but it looks so grey and cold. We went to another Cornish place, you know, and they had the exact same tea towel design, but with a different part of a name in the corner. Made in China, probably. There's another crack appears in the ceiling. I wish the internet had never been invented. I'd have been outside, cycling or something.
News Live!
I notice the sun is coming through the clouds, lighting them up with a holy glow. So I take a few pictures that I already know will be blurry, because my camera can't cope with faraway droplets floating in the sky. And I take one or two shots that focus on the smudges on the window instead. I remember not being invited to my best friend's birthday party when I was maybe nine or ten. He'd been to mine the month before. I remember that like it happened this morning. And then it strikes me.
I haven't even had peanut butter today. I probably always confuse myself. I know I confuse disappointment with regret, but just because it didn't happen like I wanted, doesn't necessarily mean I could have done better, does it? I know that to be happy you have to live in the world as it is, not as you'd like it to be. But, well, what would be the point in that? Is that brown spot on my hand getting bigger?
I don't think I ever really recovered from school. Or from work. Or from anyone I ever met. To be fair, just because things didn't always turn out the way I planned, doesn't mean it wasn't all for the best in the end. That's quite often been the way. That's quite a comforting revelation. I'll forget it tomorrow. No one ever looks at the ceiling today. That crack doesn't matter.
I wonder if my knees will always hurt now I'm getting older, or whether I'll get a second wind. I make the blood pump in my ear by poking it. Why can't I learn to leave it alone? I think in the end it turned out I'd forgotten my wallet anyway, in my dream last night, I mean. It can be hard to tell things you've imagined from things that really happened, and vice versa.
My hearing's never been the same since that gig in 2012.
I can't tell from these online pictures what's cancer and what's not. Only a doctor can, I suppose. Even as I took those photos I knew I'd never look at them again. Not even when I copied them onto my computer because the phone's full up.
At his worst, when he is engaged in a lethargic, puzzling, stubborn perverseness, he can be quite dreadful. I notice that the Hoover has small cobwebs on it, which seems ironic. What does second wing mean? Is it a real thing? Is there a third one? I want to look it up, but I'm not the kind of man that wastes time, so instead I finally pluck up the courage to make the call I've been putting off all day.
I let it ring twice, then ring off quickly, because I didn't really want to talk to them, but I felt obliged to try. I know it's bad, but I'm going to take it.
I remember to drink my tea when it's still warm, and that reminds me of the time when Kate said she was so busy saving the world she'd forgotten the hot chocolate. She was playing a computer game, of course. That was cute. Typical Kate. She probably was saving the world, like she does in her own small way, every day. Like the best people do.
Problem is, the muddle and the mess between this world
i aquests, aquests, aquests, aquests, aquests, aquests, aquests, aquests, aquests, aquests, aquests, aquests, aquests, aquests, aquests...
Bona nit.
those weddings and those weeds, those tissues and that weather, genocide and genetics and generally or sometimes that pillowcase and those deaths and those germs and that sadness and dust and those church bells and hating and yourself and painting and broccoli and brimes and clouds, prosthetics, excuses, synonyms, drains, ambitions, lessons and socks, balloons and bones, fuses and releveans, cat food, contraception, cuddles, immigration, incarceration, futility,
Flies and pensions and hope, privacy, a trophy, a promise and blankets, adverts, hello, morning, seabirds, sorry, ulcers, worries and a mask, a sneeze, a straw and diseases, repeat, a debit card of dinosaurs, a flush, a cake, underpants, lyrics, a news conference, a graveyard, tankers, a conviction, convictions, road signs, noises, a mouse, quiet, fingernail, dirt, a bark, cues, a scar, sleep, homophobia, a bookmark, prayer map, a tear, an engine, pollen,
Parking spaces, hay, hosepipes, a spade, a dead mouse, space, war, plastic, laughter, teeth, a funeral, a nappy, happy, hopeless, needles, silence, gates, puddles, diseases, slugs, streams, shyness. It's rather diffident to French, makes it slim.
Fins demà!
Back in history, wrappers, lies, bins, hinges, refuse, anger, light switch, ink stain, tea leaf, cardboard, clumsy, waiting, compassion, taxes, cobweb, misogyny, staples, cables, bulbs, bones, tyres, feathers, commas, questions, dandruff, smudges, hiccups, tomorrows, swallowing, sneezing, salivating, smelling, dribbling, radiators, clouds, the wind, busy roads, some bottles, a pin, some cream, a biscuit, some broken glasses, a doormat, headphones,
A pinecone, an idea, some stains, a feather, a coincidence, a backpack, a waterfall, a memory, a spy, new trainers, a tube train, a squeak, and a whistle, and a cry, and a yawn, and a keyboard, and a hairband, and a belt, and a calendar, a crumb, and a bill, and a brush, and dandelions, and pebbles, and chickens, and brambles, a smell of diesel, shopping trolleys, energy, arthritis, CCTV, intolerance, allergies, and ladybirds.
And that's what it's like all the time, being mean.
Bona nit.
Global warming, white supremacy, the patriarchy. The 21st century has become really unique. Being born, this is not a good place to go when I'm trying to get a sleeper.
Amity tries, but misunderstands us She's often inclined to borrow somebody's dreams till tomorrow There is no other day Let's try it another way
Fins demà!
Fins demà!
Fins demà!
It's a horror land.
My cells and your cells need news Try to make a map of the heart
Fins demà! Fins demà!
Feed those chemicals inside. Macho. In its death row.
Bona nit!
Fins demà!
Fins demà!
DJ Viguta!
Too many problems, too few solutions Too much plastic, too much pollution Well not kindness, too much greed Too many different people to please Too much debt, too much need Too much obstinate certainty Ugly houses multiplying Too little truly satisfying So many facts I can't begin to know them all So many words I can't begin to use them all
Too many different drugs prescribed Too few safe uncontacted tribes Obstinate certainty cut and paste Too many different types of toothpaste Too much pornography, shame and regret Too many things I'd like to forget Too much choice paralysis Homemade psychoanalysis And so many battles I can't begin to win them all And so many lives I can't begin to lead them all
Blood, blood on my skin and hands and nails And in my eyes as well I'm crawling in an underground bunker With my computer controlled blind bone It's my mess without any more change
Bona nit.
On my skin and hands and nails And in my eyes as well I try to see Just really welcoming Really understanding Really relaxed and open atmosphere It's usual To put these things to one side
Fins demà!
Fickle, so fickle, just exactly fickle that I can't believe Pilgrimage, private life, mortality
Fins demà!
No, no, no!
Gràcies.
Gràcies.