Time to re-evaluate how we measure wealth.

1.  I am a rich man. I have a great deal of money, many employees but no friends. I own many houses, two yachts and a helicopter. whilst self isolating in one of my houses I must contain myself to one room in order to protect myself (I care not about the welfare of the others in my house, it is my house after all). I am obliged to self isolate in my bedroom because it is the one room which has en suite lavatory and bath facilities. I have gold taps. Everything I need must be left outside my door by others, when I retrieve these things I must worry about whether the person leaving them there has the virus or wants to give me the virus and for that reason I wash everything with surgical spirit. I wash my hands constantly.  Having never lived in my own company alone before I am ill versed in the art of isolation. I am bored to tears and suffer greatly from insomnia, I count the sheep that huddle in the corner ostracising me. I do not want to die.   But I am a rich man.

2.  I am a rich man. I have little money but it is sufficient. I have good friends, no yachts, cars, houses or helicopters. I have a studio flat. Whilst self isolating I am happy to contain myself to within this safe bubble. I have my bathroom, a sleeping area, a kitchen area and a table on which to work. Kind people bring me the things that I need to survive, I do not need to wash these things because I trust those who bring them. I do not have to concern myself with constant hand washing. I cook what I want when I want. I sleep when I do and rise when I chose. Insomnia is not an issue, I count my blessings. I have a small balcony on which to grow herbs and from where I can stand at night to watch the moon and by day to fill my lungs with air no longer polluted by motor cars or burning coal. I'm writing daily, videoing friends, content to die at my own pace...  As I had been before the pandemic. I am a rich man.

Hmmmmm....

From the archives. Memories of Moll the bag Lady.

MAY

25

Memories of Moll the bag lady. 

What a weird few days.

Spontaneous pole dancing to the London Gypsy Orchestra in a church on Ladbroke Grove followed by a spontaneous party at my favourite Dutch girl's house.

My favourite dutch girl has a dog that fits into a bicycle basket and a record collection to die for... She makes good coffee and talks sense.

I also learnt from Moll the bag lady this weekend that a smiling woman is not necessarily an honest woman. Frequently a smiling woman is just a woman trying too hard to disguise the fact that nothing has gone to plan... the brighter the smile the greater the sadness.

Dysfunctional women have no time for happy, content men... There is nothing to manipulate and from the man's point of view, after a few shags, there is nothing there apart from a future consisting of fault, blame, psycho-sexual counselling, transference of doubt and the realisation that we are to blame for the ageing process, loss of looks, lack of orgasm, stretch marks, dead children, lack of children, unhappiness, family feuds, the price of cosmetics and the depth of wrinkles. Oh, and getting FAT.

For fuck's sake let's all take responsibility for ourselves.

Fortunately for dysfunctional women there are plenty of men out here who will buy the bullshit or ignore the bullshit just for a casual shag.

Imagine going through ones entire life presenting oneself as a sex object (and lying compulsively) in order to feel wanted.

I saw Moll the bag lady trawling through the rubbish bin of humanity the other day... Looking for an admirer.

Sadly she would not recognise an admirer even if he saved her life... she is too busy looking for trash.

She'll find it.

Posted 25th May 2010 by Tristan Hazell

Sad bloke in the kitchen No: 2. Breakfast in a glass.

Not to be confused with the 'Lost weekend' smoothie. http://jannieupjur.blogspot.com.pre-pentimento.com/2009/09/smoothie-for-lost-weekend.html




Into a blender chuck: Banana* sliced up, a raw egg, dollop of plain yogurt, some cold strong black coffee, milk, handful of porridge oats, dash of honey (or sugar if you must) and a few ice cubes.

Blitz and adjust thickness with milk.

Season to taste with vodka.

Top tip: When you have left over cold black coffee freeze it in an ice cube tray for making this.


*Quantities: Standard Sad bloke 'whatever' rules apply.

Sad bloke in the kitchen. No: 1. Coronavirus chicken.

This is almost as instant as a pot noodle.

Poach a chicken breast in stock. Do not overcook the thing. Let it cool.

In a bowl mix a grated carrot, very thinly sliced half an onion, shredded lettuce and finely chopped cucumber skin (I only use the skin because the flesh is too wet, I'll use that in a tomato and cucumber relish later) and some chopped parsley or shredded fresh corriander. Anything else salady can be added if you have it.

In another bowl mix a dollop of mayonnaise, teaspoon of curry powder, squeeze of lime or lemon, salt and a bit of milk or cream if you have it.

Shred the chicken, add to the bowl of vegetables then stir in the sauce.

Very nice with buttered new potatoes and pickled beetroot.

I was going to photograph it but had a taste, found it so infectious that I had eaten it before I could get the camera.

The screaming trampoline of isolation.

I cannot post a photograph as children are involved.

The kitchen window here opens directly onto the neighbours garden. A week or so ago they introduced a trampoline into the equation, shortly afterwards they introduced a number of small, overexcited children then wound them up and let them go.

The screams issuing from the garden now exactly mimic what I imagine to be the sound track to hell.

Kill me now.

The freedom to self imprison.

Looking in from behind bars made from harp strings on the poor souls trapped in the world with no-where to self isolate. Ironic isn't it... The freedom to self imprison has become essential to life.

And.

I love the way that threat of death brings a desire to reminisce.
( If it goes on like this I shall die from an overdose of joyful memories).
I guess that is why we have memory. To make death a time of contentment.
If all has gone to the plan that never was.
And we did everything we possibly could or wanted or had not imagined.
And have nothing left to learn or teach or give.
And have run out of Ands
And breath.

Lost masterpieces of modern art No. 2.

Detail.

Lunch with Rothko.

Jan nieupjur. 1897 -  Dutch.

5 a day green soup with Marmite, pistachio & parsley croutons, highly seasoned with ground pretension on porcelain.

8" x 8"

private Collection.

Portrait of a wealthy man during Coronavirus.

Funny how history repeats itself. In the 18th century pineapples were considered a symbol of great wealth, you see them on gateways to Georgian mansions to this day. Hostesses would hire a pineapple for the centrepiece of their dinner tables, no-one was allowed to eat it... Too expensive.

Now in this time of the virus it has regained elevated status.

When it arrived today this pineapple caused me to exclaim: 'Wow, a pineapple, I'm rich'.

DIY stores kept open in hope of reducing domestic violence?

Is the government allowing DIY stores to remain open during the crisis in the hope of keeping men busy at home rather than drinking their way through it and taking their frustration and fears out on the rest of the household?

If this is the thinking behind this strategy then I am all for it.

Lost masterpieces of modern art. No:1.

Jan Nieupjur. Dutch. b.1897 -

Breakfast with Roy Lichtenstein.

Egg tempera and bacon on ceramic. 6" x 6"
Private collection.

Trump sells the USA to Bezos before fleeing to Cuba.

My man in the White House tells me that Luz Morales; the presidential fluffer, overheard a conversation between Donald and Jeff during which Trump agreed to sell the States to the squillionaire for an undisclosed cash sum.

Later Trump told Luz that he had: 'Got a good deal, a,very good big deal, a clever deal, as the country isn't worth shit these days'.

Trump then boarded Bezos force One heading for Cuba.

The United States of America will now be known as Terror del Bezos.

Et in Isolation ego.

Forgive the cod Latin but anything goes when everything is going.

I started this blog 12 years ago not knowing where it was going.

I now find, in isolation, that a thousand people read something here every day.

Bless you all.

This is not isolation.