2007-02-21 - 7:38 p.m.

Do you ever feel like you’re starring in a Tom Waits song? I do. The scary thing is, I’m not even trying. I went Christmas shopping. I purchased the asked-for trinkets plus a little couple of extras for them, seeing as I’m a nice guy and all. The element of surprise is Not Appreciated and now and again I try to do my bit. Seeing as I’d braved the shopping swarm and had to make small talk with a friend I bumped into, I decided it would be rude not to reward myself with a pint. Before refreshment, I was witness to a fat lady on crutches spewing her load in the mall. It stank. Everyone just carried on as if this was normal. The smell was instant and appalling. Yes, I definitely needed a drink. As long as you’ve got something to read, drinking alone in pubs is fine, and I had the latest edition of Powerslam! It can be awkward reading a magazine in public that features so many pictures of near-naked men, mind.

So I found myself in a basement, drinking Guiness, reading a fantastic interview with Jim Cornette and watching the world go by. The world consisted of some young moshers and the scruffy passed-out-bum slouched in the booth in front of me. Several times the burly-yet-kinda-cute barmaid said to him, “Come on mate, you can’t sleep here…” He grumbled into the table and went back to being a passed-out-bum. I thought at one point my assistance might be required in removing him from the premises. I was all ready to be chivalrous. No such luck – I don’t think she cared that much. He wasn’t doing any harm. Anyway, I was busy reading Waitsian statements like this, from Corny about traveling from Kentucky to Orlando: “About 850 miles. But we’ve got the Interstate system here in the United States and I’ve got a big Lincoln Navigator SUV with power everything and a DVD player. And we stop at antique malls and 1950s diners, and we make little vacations of our trips. All those years I was on the road as a manager, when I had to fly and I had to zip in and out of cities in three hours. Fuck that! I’m retired. I go on trips a couple of weekends a month, and I enjoy it… Hey, not terrorist in the last six months has tried to plant a bomb on my SUV.” I love Jim Cornette. The greatest manager of all time and the greatest orator in the wrestling business. I felt sorry for him when it was posited that “The source of Carelli’s amusement was The Boogeyman, who ran in his direction with antlers attached to his head…” Of course Conry takes this in his stride: “He comes out from under the ring, grabs the microphone and cuts his promo. But he couldn’t do it because the antlers he was wearing on his head – which he didn’t’ tell me he was going to wear – started falling off his head. So, he’s gimmicked himself all up. His smoky stick which is supposed to give off smoke isn’t working. So, he fucked up his interview because he was worrying about his props.” Only Jim Cornette could get so upset about something so stupid. I love the guy and I’m glad I’m a wrestling fan. A fan of an industry that now consists of, “childish, bad comedy, worm-eating, toilet humour, cross-dressing, naked male asses and ridiculous concoctions of personalities.” Amen, Jim.

I’m drinking a wonderful pint of Guiness, reading one of my heroes cutting loose about the ludicrous, arcane world of professional wrestling and all is right in the world. TV screens appointed around the basement are showing the Scuzz music channel. This is a channel that has commercial breaks every now and again. You can imagine some time traveler arriving in 2006 and surveying the scene: “The citizens of the future drink themselves into a stupor while advertising blairs constantly, selling them pointless beauty treatments and shitty food…” Well, Orwell, it’s not that bad – they’re only adverts. I was pleasantly surprised to see Placebo are still going. They have a song called “Meds” which is amusing to me because I hate the word “meds” and this is the perfect band to title a song thus. Meds… apparently it’s too much trouble to say the word “medicine” these days. Or “medication”. It’s not too surprising seeing as everyone is rushing to be manic-depressive now the illness has been rebranded as “bi-polar”. Ooh, you’re so troubled and interesting. Anyway, Dundee’s Brian Molko prances about in his underpants while sarcastically railing against the over-prescription of quick-fix America. Fabulous. And I'm no stranger to odd spectacle, having recently watched the Goonies DVD extras in which Nikolai Volkoff is seen singing the Russian national anthem while milking a prosthetic cow on the back of a moving pick-up truck. But, what a great name for the band – you think you’re getting edgy rock’n’roll, but really it’s just MTV wallpaper, a placebo, if you will.

On my way out, the slovenly girl is rushing up the stairs to take an important text message. Her jeans are so loose that she inadvertently moons me. My dick didn’t even twitch. Back in time for tea.

Merry Christmas!

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