Cleaned myself: I’m a monkey. I do it where I stand.
Monkey see, monkey do: no monkey business.
Tics: Too much monkey business
Believe in God? Invoked His calendar, so probably, yes.
YTLH: no need
I tried two or three jokes, each one progressively simpler, but in the end, parted with the situation still unresolved. In the two more complex efforts, he would seize upon some staging post in the middle of the joke as the funny line, laugh his head off, seem unable to get past it, then find the punchline disappointing. It was always the obvious observation that he liked most, like, when the composer of the beautiful tune when asked, said it was called ‘I can smell your arse from here.’ But despite his Mass/Volume, he seemed always to be able to rise above it all by saying things like, ‘the general public aren’t ready for one of your specials Dickster.’ Yet I’m the one that isn’t in Frances’s league?
There must be a breed of humanoid with a higher percentage of Neanderthal in it, that cannot perceive of personal failure. And amongst the rest of us perhaps, a similar number on the other side of the spectrum who overcompensate to make sure it’s fully absorbed. Like one of Newton’s equations, so that there isn’t any spare failure and shame hanging about in the system unaccounted for, such that, d(M/V)[approx. 1/IQ] x pF (propensity to fail)/iF (ignorance of failure)[coefficient of failure] = success index.
Johnny tells me that he has six months unspent wages in his account, not including bonuses, which are burning a monster hole in his pocket. Then winks and ruffles my hair as he leaves with Frances.
So, will it be more humiliating for him to be sacked, or to go up there and get a joke all wrong? There’s the respect that makes calamity of so long life. I have already made the concession to him that given that he appears in the next scene as the PM, he may wear a disguise, which I’d decided would be a floor length disease infested faux fur coat I found behind the scenes, which buttons up over the head, from which a doll’s head on a piece of wood can be sticking out – him to speak from between the buttons. I suppose inside that, he might get away with it anyway, and I should do it myself to save the utter ball-ache of it all? I’ll sleep on it, and try to find a way to have him get the worst of it, and know it.
There’s to be a dress rehearsal, and the Dog’s Bowl people are coming round early tomorrow to set it all up for streaming. They want the right to edit it before it goes out, which, given they are paying £2,500 on top of all running expenses, I am happy to concede. Big Tooth asks are they going to cover everything daddy’s paid for? But as that is limited to a few banners with his name on, which Brew Dog will allow to remain, and which he already owned, I don’t really see what the issue is. Then I added, ‘well he still owes me for the adverts, so I don’t see that he’s out of pocket at all.’ And that turned out to be a mistake.
My cheque arrives with “the team” tomorrow, so when we’re all finished, I go round by the foodbank that they’ve set up by the estate. It’s just like real shopping, and they don’t ask to see any qualifying criteria before they let you in – just turning up seems to be qualification enough. I didn’t want too much mainly because I don’t have a cooker, but I sensed that people were looking at me oddly, as if I wasn’t entitled somehow, so I just got some mince pies and tea bags, and went back to my artist’s garret to make sure I saw in the Advent properly.
Dickie White's Diary 
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