Don't be depressed about being bitten by a Gila Monster.

A guest blog from Rusty McGlint.

Hi y'all. you know when you are out in the desert getting bit by a critter can piss you off some… Getting bit by a Gila Monster shouldn't depress you though. Research shows that there is Seratonin in its venom, so it may hurt like fuck for a week but you'll hurt laughing.

Also they have found stuff in the saliva that helps Alzheimers and memory loss so if you get lost in the desert get yourself bit by a gila Monster and you'll soon remember the way home.

Oh and merry Christmas from Lizard Bend. Idaho.

Self Galvanising and urban foxes.

From time to time I find that, by working through into the early hours of the morning for a number of nights, my body clock gets somewhat messed up and drastic action is called for.


The instant remedy is of course a bottle of scotch which will induce instant sleep prior to a stinking hangover the following day. The safer bet is the 'up all night' followed by a day of semi stupor.


Tonight is an all nighter; I've just taken a 4.00 am walk to the nearest 24 hour shop for tobacco supplies - I'm trying to give up smoking but tonight ain't the night for abstinence - as usual I buy chocolate.  One of the great joys of London life is the 24 hour shop. Thank heaven for the Asian community who are willing to provide this service. One is obliged to run the gauntlet of addicts and the homeless who frequent the environs of these nocturnal establishments but this is ameliorated by the urban foxes out on the scavenge, always a welcome sight.

I am also always surprised at the number of people out and about at this time of the morning (today I met a woman sporting a splendid beehive hairdo, lugging a bright blue wheelie bag), we eye each other up cautiously; each thinking the other might be the psychopath!   I've been mugged twice in 25 years in London. Not bad statistics really.


Now I am at my desk with a cup of tea and a slab of chocolate cake; 4.00 am is the most depressing time of the night according to the experts and chocolate cake is an anti-depressant according to me (has anyone tried putting nettles in chocolate cake - just a thought); therefore essential.  Outside there is a dribble of traffic on the Westway - the vehicle lights cross my line of sight at eye level... The trains below have yet to start their day  and the buses (which I hear but do not see) are limited to the night service. All of these elements contribute to my natural environment now... I would miss them should I leave.


A short while ago the bulb in my lamp blew, it is an old 1950's anglepoise that I rescued from a skip at St Martins school of Art. In trying to replace the bulb and get the thing lit I managed to send 240 volts of current through my body (now I know why they threw it out).


Boy! That gets you perked up; the electricity avoided my brain (I think) and headed due south, my heart definitely got a jolt and my extremities tingle. I also now have a metallic taste in my mouth.


Self galvanising into action, Auto Voltaism even! Good old Luigi Galvani, where would we be without him. Is it Zinc I can taste?

Luigi Galvani

It didn't seem to work on poor old Earnest Hemingway ; maybe they overdid it.

May 2012 Update: I gather Brian May the guitarist is about to do a television programme on urban foxes. About time too Brian!

Cheating death with black balls.

Many many years ago, not long after the squabble with Jackson Pollock (blog passim) and as a result of that squabble I entered into one of my periodic bouts of depression.

I was living in the apartment of my old friend Ingmar Bergman at the time and annoyed the man greatly by painting everything black including the balls on his pool table. The pool table was in his bedroom which I thought a curious thing. Ingmar told me he suffered from insomnia and pool helped him get through even the darkest nights.

Ingmar would have thrown me out for painting his balls black but for the raging fever that swept through my body that winter; for weeks I lay in that Swedes bed storm tossed in a sea of swelter navigating that fine meridial line between this world and the next.

One night, when I was in a momentary state of lucidity, a figure entered the room; Tall, gaunt, bony fingered, wearing a dark hooded cloak thing and carrying a scythe.

'who are you'? I enquired.

'You know perfectly well who I am and why I am here'. He replied.

Indeed I did know that it was Death himself arrived to carry me off. But I was in no mood to cross the Hudson let alone the Styx. I told the man (oh the arrogance of man to cast death in his own likeness)

that I was not prepared to go without a fight.

He suggested we play a game of chess to decide my fate.

I informed him that there was not a chess set in the house... 'But what about a game of pool'.

Death agreed to the game of pool but was taken aback by the sight of 15 black balls resting on the green baize.

We played that hellish game of pool for a month, day and night, without respite. The scores remained resolutely on 0 -0 as each of our 'breaks' resulted in a foul as we pocketed black ball after black ball.

On the 15th of December Death gave up. He threw down his cue in exasperation, picked up his scythe and swept out of the room hissing: 'You cheated me this time Jan Nieupjur but next time I will be ready for you'.

I then fell into a deep, peaceful slumber, awaking some days later to find my fever departed and the depression lifted.

A few days later I told this story to Ingmar over a game of chess - I had lied to Death, there was a chess set in the house - Ingmar (smiling for once) took notes in a little red book. I did not see him again, he departed for Sweden and a new film project.

Next time Death comes calling I shall challenge him to a game of 'happy families'.