I remember when I was very small and my Mum used to give me Calpol. Not Calpol Six Plus but actual real Calpol; the pink stuff that was hideously sugary. It tasted good. Soon as I became six…well no really as soon as my sister became six all medecine started tasting horrible. Soon as my sister hit six I only had any sort of medecine when I really really needed it.

There are all sorts of songs usually of the Tin Pan Alley variety about heart ache. None of them really do it justice I think. A word of warning; this blog may very well become very maudlin for the next few days and if anyone else expects a look in think again. I have alienated people, you’re right Archangel, its something I do very well, sometimes I get so desperate to be independant of others it seems I go too far and hurt them. But I never get the timing right; I stay too long in one place and bore people, or let people see the nasty side too often…I’ll learn, but perhaps by the time I do there won’t be anybody left.

People have left some really horrible things on this blog over the year and a bit. No one has ever managed to say something which I haven’t already thought myself. Right I’m fed up of this. SOd myself lets get back to the rest of you.

I took some medecine today. It tastes bloody horrible. It tastes fucking fucking awful and I wish like hell I’d never gone to Paris, however I’m satisfied I deserve it (can even trace the karma) and I’m actually intending to swallow without any more moaning.

4 thoughts on “Calpol

  1. Choose life. Choose a job. Choose a career. Choose a family. Choose a fucking big television, Choose washing machines, cars, compact disc players, and electrical tin openers. Choose good health, low cholesterol and dental insurance. Choose fixed- interest mortgage repayments. Choose a starter home. Choose your friends. Choose leisure wear and matching luggage. Choose a three piece suite on hire purchase in a range of fucking fabrics. Choose DIY and wondering who you are on a Sunday morning. Choose sitting on that couch watching mind-numbing sprit- crushing game shows, stuffing fucking junk food into your mouth. Choose rotting away at the end of it all, pishing you last in a miserable home, nothing more than an embarrassment to the selfish, fucked-up brats you have spawned to replace yourself. Choose your future. Choose life… But why would I want to do a thing like that? I chose not to choose life: I chose something else. And the reasons? There are no reasons. Who need reasons when you’ve got Calpol?

  2. Mish: I could write shitloads of my own thoughts, but I’m going to let a Lebanese Mystic do the work:

    On Love

    ‘Then said Almitra, "Speak to us of Love."

    And he raised his head and looked upon the people, and there fell a stillness upon them. And with a great voice he said:

    When love beckons to you follow him,

    Though his ways are hard and steep.

    And when his wings enfold you yield to him,

    Though the sword hidden among his pinions may wound you.

    And when he speaks to you believe in him,

    Though his voice may shatter your dreams as the north wind lays waste the garden.

    For even as love crowns you so shall he crucify you. Even as he is for your growth so is he for your pruning.

    Even as he ascends to your height and caresses your tenderest branches that quiver in the sun,

    So shall he descend to your roots and shake them in their clinging to the earth.

    Like sheaves of corn he gathers you unto himself.

    He threshes you to make you naked.

    He sifts you to free you from your husks.

    He grinds you to whiteness.

    He kneads you until you are pliant;

    And then he assigns you to his sacred fire, that you may become sacred bread for God’s sacred feast.

    All these things shall love do unto you that you may know the secrets of your heart, and in that knowledge become a fragment of Life’s heart.

    But if in your fear you would seek only love’s peace and love’s pleasure,

    Then it is better for you that you cover your nakedness and pass out of love’s threshing-floor,

    Into the seasonless world where you shall laugh, but not all of your laughter, and weep, but not all of your tears.

    Love gives naught but itself and takes naught but from itself.

    Love possesses not nor would it be possessed;

    For love is sufficient unto love.

    When you love you should not say, "God is in my heart," but rather, I am in the heart of God."

    And think not you can direct the course of love, if it finds you worthy, directs your course.

    Love has no other desire but to fulfil itself.

    But if you love and must needs have desires, let these be your desires:

    To melt and be like a running brook that sings its melody to the night.

    To know the pain of too much tenderness.

    To be wounded by your own understanding of love;

    And to bleed willingly and joyfully.

    To wake at dawn with a winged heart and give thanks for another day of loving;

    To rest at the noon hour and meditate love’s ecstasy;

    To return home at eventide with gratitude;

    And then to sleep with a prayer for the beloved in your heart and a song of praise upon your lips.’


    On Pain.

    ‘And a woman spoke, saying, "Tell us of Pain."

    And he said:

    Your pain is the breaking of the shell that encloses your understanding.

    Even as the stone of the fruit must break, that its heart may stand in the sun, so must you know pain.

    And could you keep your heart in wonder at the daily miracles of your life, your pain would not seem less wondrous than your joy;

    And you would accept the seasons of your heart, even as you have always accepted the seasons that pass over your fields.

    And you would watch with serenity through the winters of your grief.

    Much of your pain is self-chosen.

    It is the bitter potion by which the physician within you heals your sick self.

    Therefore trust the physician, and drink his remedy in silence and tranquillity:

    For his hand, though heavy and hard, is guided by the tender hand of the Unseen,

    And the cup he brings, though it burn your lips, has been fashioned of the clay which the Potter has moistened with His own sacred tears’

    – Kahlil Gibram, ‘The Prophet’ 1927 (

    Be well, my dear friend.

  3. "People have left some really horrible things on this blog over the year and a bit."

    Hmm, I hope you’re not referring to anything I’ve done there. Every time I’ve given my opinion on something, offered advice, or downright lectured you, even when I’ve been drunk/stoned/angry/annoyed/all of the above, has been intended 100% as assistance from one friend to another. Even when I’ve wondered why we’re friends, it’s been offered in the spirit of friendship.

    On the other hand, if you’re talking about that prick from last year, whatsisnam, (shit, what was his name? The one who called you a wicca basket…), seconded. Shame we never managed to track him down and kill him with pointy sticks.

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