The Winterfood Diaries

The Winterfood Diaries

Thursday, 30 August 1990

Psychological Throwbacks



I need this holiday.  I’m at the end of my tether.

Just been considering life.  If I was some ‘hero’, some ‘legend’ in years to come, what would the person I am right now be seen as?  I mean, maybe Lennon was the ‘working class hero’, Hendrix was the son of a soldier who confounded racial restrictions, Bowie was the vaudeville act that turned rock ‘n’ roll in on itself, Monroe was the abused orphan who came to symbolise sex.  Thinking hard about it, I can’t escape the notion that I am and always be just an ordinary Joe.


I am, like all of us, unique.

No, maybe not.  Flash is very similar to me.  We’re pretty much the same bloke in many ways.  There are some VERY distinct differences, sure, but…  Okay, what kind of bloke are we then?  Some kind of exemplification of the 1960s freedom experiment?  Fortunate enough to entertain the possibility of pathways through fish ‘n’ chips and rock ‘n’ roll, but also through academic success and theatrical expression? 

I know this much: I’m not just one man.  I am many people in this corrupt and tired shell. 

I wonder what my biography would read like?

‘Orinoco Flow’ – Enya


In my life, I identify with women because I was brought up with only one REAL parent – Betty.

I don’t like or identify with or respond to men in authority.  At infant school, I was originally quite afraid of male teachers.  Even now, if I ever go into a place of cultural or personal judgement (i.e. DHSS or job interview), I’d rather see a woman than a man.  I think this is because although I had three ‘dads’ – Jon, Paul, George, and now Freddie – I was never, psychologically, allowed to believe that any one of them was my genuine father – including my real Dad, who was always referred to as ‘Jon’ until I reached 15.  They have all been brilliant in their own ways (though things with Freddie have been easily the most awkward), but I never had a consistent male figure in my life.  They always deferred control to my mother, Betty, who took charge of everything to do with myself and Jack, including discipline and so on.

My intimate relationships with women are many and varied, ranging from a ‘getting off’ kissing session to full nights of sex in all its forms.  It turns out I have so far been ‘sexually’ involved (either physically or emotionally, but nothing less than a ‘romantic’ kiss) with a total of 76 girls since the age of seven.  Approximately 60 of these encounters took place since the age of 13.  I didn’t ever set myself up as a Casanova, though I have often been pro-active.  That I have largely never needed to ‘force’ these situations (though there have been some exceptions to that rule), I can only assume I must possess some kind of charm, some inherent attractiveness, despite being only averagely (if not just-below averagely) good-looking on the BEST of days.  I can only assume that Betty’s inconsistency with husbands, names, lifestyles, friends and relations must have scarred my pre-teen psyche (though not necessarily damaging it), leaving me to subliminally reason that change and movement in female relationships (and often platonic male relationships) is my personal norm.  Add to this the fact that my environment and my centres of social and cultural interaction have constantly and drastically changed throughout my entire life (13 different houses, 10 schools, plus college).

I don’t know why I wrote any of the above.  Does it really matter? 

Just thoughts on paper, I suppose.

The idea that in about half an hour I’ll be charging across London in a subterranean train (getting lost in Yeti-land) freaks me out.  Especially when I’ll be carrying two bastard huge bags.



[WATERLOO STATION, sitting on the train to Portsmouth, which is, as yet, immobile]

‘Na Laetha Geal M'Óige’ – Enya

This is splendid.  I like this.  It’s one of those trains with the somewhat old-fashioned interior.  I like these.  Big, wide seats, luggage racks and curious windows.

I’m on my way now, then…

Racing through the Underground still does me in.  Puts me in mind of the days of Donna and me finding the pot of uttershite at the end of the rainbow.

Well, that’s how it is, isn’t it?

Be in Portsmouth soon.  Hopefully by half-past four, when Miranda’s meant to be meeting me.

Sophie said Portsmouth is pretty rough.  Mmm.  Well, a rough-looking bloke just got on the train.  So, I expect I’ll get some jyp in Portsmouth.  Or maybe it’s just my overblown paranoia that always gives me this ungroovy feeling that violence is about to open its floodgates at me whenever I go somewhere strange and new.


What am I on about?



‘Oh Darling’ – The Beatles

I arrived at Portsmouth/Southsea Train Station today at about 4.05pm.

Miranda met me at the station.  We went for coffee and then came back to her place on HUDSON RD, where I was introduced to Colleen.  After this, we sat in her room, talking, for a bit and then we got changed and went to the pub, which was good.  Not too heavy, and everyone I spoke to was nice.  The barmaid (blonde, backcombed and overweight in all the right places) got chatting to me about my twisty hair.  I fancied her.  I told her I’d do hers for her if she wanted.  She seemed very interested. 

I want to fuck her. 

There.  Said it. 

It’s something inside.   These days, inside, I feel rough and coarse and vulgar.  Raw.  Rock ‘n’ roll ‘n’ fish ‘n’ chips ‘n’ girls ‘n’ leather.  I mean, outwardly these days, I’m all ‘90s psychedelia, but there’s a real rock ‘n’ roller in here, just dying to get back out again.  And his name is Jez.

Anyway.  Miranda and I were talking in the pub and we agreed that really we hardly know each other.  She says part of the reason she’s attracted to me is that she finds me ‘strange’.  I’m like no-one else she knows.  She says I’m totally unpredictable and that I freak her out.  She even says that one of the other reasons she’s attracted is that she genuinely believes – KNOWS – that one day I am going to BE somebody.  She says it’s a feeling she just can’t shake.

For years, I’ve been ‘reserved’ in Miranda’s company, hiding behind a façade of decorum that I’ve evolved since I moved to Cambs/Norfolk, so it’s not just for her benefit.  90% of my time since 1983 has been spent using an accent that isn’t mine.  I’ve been acting in order to get by.  Since College ended and I no longer needed to use anything remotely resembling RP, I’ve thought ‘fuck that’ and become a little more Northern.  Miranda has noted this.  Well, if she doesn’t like it (she’s very well-spoken) then she can sod it.

Thing is, there are so many Ritcherd’s inside me now.  That’s not to say that I’m bothered, cos I’m not.  Just yet…

Miranda also admitted to having been reserved in my company and said that she too would drop it.  I don’t know if she has.  I find that I don’t really care, to be honest.

We got drunk, then came back here to her room.  We talked about us and I got even more drunk, because I haven’t eaten today.  

[Images subject to control of individual Copyright Holders including works originated by Elton Townend Jones, but excluding any images or design attributed to ‘The Situation’ which are copyright of The Situation (see specific acknowledgements in the ‘Thanks to…’section below) / ‘Berwin Groomstool’ is an iteration of the Situation character ‘William Whicker’ and falls under joint copyright of Elton Townend Jones and Waen Shepherd / Based on true events and designed as a study of parochial British cultural and emotional life in the late 20th century, this blog is a work of fiction – cultural icons excluded, all characters and incidents featured are entirely fictional / This blog is non-profit; all video clips are used for illustrative purposes and almost always come from YouTube / No copyright infringement is intended – just trying to get things into context. Never forget: no man is an island. If you think anything I’ve used is damaging you in any way, please comment and immediate action will be taken to minimise offence / This notice was amended on 1 July 2012 and is intended to cover this and all posts on that precede it]

Next time: ‘Tomorrow Never Knows…’

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