lamps

me and the band - 'the sheds" (don't ... it was fraser's idea) have got a gig tonight in Dagenham. i'm dreading it. totally fucking dreading it i am. the line-up for tonight’s performance is me as lead singer, 'house of fraser' on bass, souness on drums and some mate of carl's on guitar. it's the first time this new fellow's played with us which pretty much means it's the first time he's played with anyone. Not a bad place to start really – playing with us lot. I mean there’s only one way to look from our position on the stairway to music success and that is most definitely upward.

‘lamps'. That’s the new blokes name. i met him about an hour ago down the pub. Carl introduced us. Don’t know why they call him ‘lamps’ though it’s probably something to do with his eyes. They’re huge for want of a better word. massive protruding things. we were never the best looking bunch to begin with but now ... jesus christ. We’ll look like an ugly convention.

i'll let you know how it went on Monday

i need a hobby ...

... fishing or something. anything to relieve the boredom of life at my sisters. i mention this to her graham when he gets in from work and (as predictable as a straight fucking line) the ugly bastard says “wouldn’t you be better off getting a job?” i answered him with the look of utter contempt he deserved and went back to the watching 'big brother's little brother' on the telly.

i'll have to move out soon. don't get me wrong ... i'm grateful for them putting me up and that, it's just, it’s graham. I hate him. why? why? because he’s a cunt! I hated him the moment I laid eyes on him. the way he walks, or rather creeps, about the place like a fucking crab. The way he talks. The way he breathes. The way he keeps fucking raising his eyebrows like roger moore every time you say something he disagrees with which is pretty much everything

it's not just that though. i need a place of my own. i mean, i need me space and that. this gaffs just a little too cramped for my liking. somewhere to entertain the chaps and that. souness and carl came round last night with some cans and the old playstation. Spiderman 2 the game – have some of that. graham sticks his nose in and decides he's watching casualty which means we had to wait a fucking hour before we could plug in and get started. i reckon the cunt's just jealous because he's ain't got any mates of his own as far as I can tell. a bitter twisted billy-no-mates if ever there was one. i made sure he didn't get any of our beer though. hid them well out of that cunt's way until casualty was finished and the gormless bullock was in bed (and having horrific nightmares if there’s any fucking justice in the world)

I’ll have to give it a bit of thought – the hobby thing I mean – I’ll sleep on it.

new horizons

i'm taking on staff
it's time to spread the word,
give the journal back to the people
show 'em what they're missing

my initial brief to myself was to keep 'marsh' low profile. a kind of guerilla website for urban poets like myself but as sometimes happens things have gotten out of hand ...

hence ... the site has gone ballistic - taken on a life of its own ...

alright ... i'm a lazy bastard running out of ideas and need some support. stay tuned

tight bastard

graham reckons i should get a job. the cheek of it! you try to tap someone for a few quid and think they can start dishing out the old advice. who the fuck does he think he is? just because i'm living in your house for a few weeks don't think you own me. kick a man whilst he's fucking down why don't you. i'm fucking in the middle of a divorce mate. like you'd know what it's like. like you'd care. ugly bastard.

oh yeah, it weren't jimmy lambert in jock-land. someone who looked like him. didn't think that was possible. i pity the poor sod who looks anything like that long spaggetti legged twat!

victor and that

now that victor has been booted out of the big brother house my week nights have returned to their familiar 'waiting for friday to come round' normality. i just can't force myself to sit and watch the rest of them twats in there. all they do is comb there hair and say fucking chicken or chick every two minutes. chicken this and chicken fucking that. chicken bollocks. chicken stew! i wouldn't mind but where are the fucking chickens that's what i want to know? there used to be chickens in that house if i remember rightly. i can't even go down the pub. i'm as skint a scouser. don't know why i'm looking foward to friday. i've got not fucking money to go out. i wonder if graham (sisters old man) will do us a borrow.

zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz

zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz!
fucked!

spotting jimmy lambert

the fucking leg-tapper has been spotted in scotland. i'm making enquiries and if it turns out he's there i'll be on the first train to jock-land. bastard. he still owes us money and if he thinks he's getting away with it he can think a-fucking-gain.

night bus

fell of the fuckin night bus last night near the bow fly-over.
foggy night all round really.
thought of a good poem though which is something.

chigwell

i'm kipping round at my sisters house in chigwell. it's nice here, i like it, comfy. there's a huge living room with all the mods. dvd, stereo, playstation the lot. they said i can stay for a few nights but i reckon i could string it out a month if the need were to arise.

i'm back

i'd like to say the reason i've been away is because i'd been doing something interesting but i can't because i haven't. the only reason i've not been keeping this site updated is because i couldn't be fucked. i've been depressed. friends and that are getting me right fucking down for starters. it's like all they ever fucking do is moan about there lives. moan moan fuckity moan the whole time the moaning bastards. i mean, they must think i'm dear deirdre or summit. do i look like the sort of punter who wants to listen to sob stories from the likes of that lot. i mean i had souness round last night. i opened the door and there he was standing behind his moustache. it's embarrassing knowing the bloke it is. he looks like terry mcdermotts long lost son. perm, lacoste tracksuit and a rat living under his nose. anyway there was nothing on telly so i let him in. i should have read a book. 30 minutes in i was nearly crying, by the time he'd been there an hour i was ready to slit my fucking wrists. in the end he went but it totally ruined an otherwise perfectly boring tuesday night.