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2001-10-02 - 3:30 p.m.

�Your jacket may be waterproof, but knowing the moment you get home, you�re going to get those trousers changed��

Cultural freeloader that I am, I was treated to the theatre the other night. An older uncle (the one that I can�t go out with without feeling like his rough trade) took me to see a play about racism in the institutional treatment of mental illness. I didn�t foresee any big show tunes or instances of the cast breaking into whimsical bouts of soft-shoe, but since my tastes are invariably lowbrow (lower-mezzo brow is probably nearer the mark, to be fair) I thought it would at least be a chance for a bit of a cerebral workout. I settled into my seat and furrowed my brow in the accepted fashion. However, as it started, the stage was raised up on hydraulics to give everyone a decent view. A well lit stage and black background combined unfortunately to illuminate what can only be described as the SPEWING TORRENTS of saliva that were orally ejected in the name of quality drama. I know that�s what actors do, but the whole play was lost on me as I looked on with newfound hydrophobia at the flying spit.

I think, in the end, racism was shown to be a bad thing.

So there goes my acting career. I just couldn�t cope with the terminal drenchings. Of course, I was on the glory-ridden highway to stardom after my innovative and mesmerising performance as �Businessman 1� in our short film, my line (�Hi�I�m, er, here for the meeting.�) capturing the urgency and pathos and complete lack of screen presence that the scene required. Pure Pacino. At least I think that�s what the crew were saying.

Staying with inappropriate aquatics, a couple I know were in a frosty mood with each other when we met for a quick pint (11 hours in a pub) last weekend. On further investigation, it turns out he�d drunkenly wet the bed. And I don�t mean in some golden shower kinky sex way. In a �let�s start the potty training from the beginning� infant way. Um. I forget my point, but EEEEEEWWWWW. Right?

�I wish I could travel overground, to where all you hear is water sounds, to capture it inside of me��

Meanwhile, in No Discernible Future news, jobs are dropping away from me like mangy pine needles from last year�s xmas tree being attacked with a leaf blower. Freelance employees obviously rank just under drinks coasters as valuable assets to a company (�Well, you could come in and hold our cups, but you�d have to do it for free.�) and I failed to win a 6 month long round-the-world trip in a writing competition. Viable options as of this afternoon include going back to teach in Japan (a simple, contemplative, rural life of purity, eating rice from the fields and buying manga porn from vending machines on the street), just kick back in my room and await sweet, sweet death or sucking it the fuck up and doing some temping and writing on the side like I did last year. I think we all know the only sensible option. HELLO MANGA!

�Failure�is always the best way to learn�retracing your steps �til you know�have no fear, your wounds will heal��

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