Depression

Demon Sperm

by Enormous on October 21, 2009

It appears that old demons, once considered entirely banished from these parts, are in fact able to make a stunning return.

I’m going to have a fight on my hands again, I can feel it. Still, being English, one doesn’t like to complain. Mustn’t grumble, and all that.

The subject of demons reminds me of a bumpy journey in the back of a Ford Transit to a gig at the Marquee in London many years ago. Tom, Slaughterhouse 5′s chief roadie, was reading the Dean Koontz novel Demon Seed. Occasionally prone to the odd vocal ejaculation, he looked up at me and asked, ‘Do you think sperms ever have a wank?’

We all laughed so much we almost crashed into a coach full of mooning schoolchildren. Boff the drummer nearly soiled his britches.

It was Dave Graham, ace bass player and comedy genius who eventually replied to Tom’s earnest enquiry. With astonishing wit and perfect timing, he pointed at the band’s rhythm guitarist who was driving the van, and said, ‘I bet Steve’s do.’

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Clang!

by Enormous on October 19, 2009

So, in my dream last night, I had some free time; no one was ill; Enormous had a new bass player – with hair – and a keyboardist who played piano like Steve Nieve; nobody was depressed; nobody was poor.

As happens regularly in my dreams, Audrey could speak English. She said ‘Here are your  pyjamas, father. You forgot to put them on.’

‘I don’t wear such things, darling,’ I told her. ‘I’m an ex-punk rocker. You know that.’

‘But these are your special pyjamas,’ she insisted, ‘the ones you bought in the Bahamas. The ones with the big bananas on.’

‘Oh, those.’

‘Yes, your Bahamas banana pyjamas.’ I smiled at her sweet furry innocence.

There was suddenly a big noise from outside. Clang! Audrey jumped and looked at me with urgent concern in her eyes.

‘It’s all right, girl,’ I told her. ‘It’s just Jennifer Aniston delivering our money.’ She relaxed with a doggy groan. ‘What are you dreaming about?’ I asked her then.

‘I was dreaming about who would win in a fight between a monkey and an emu,’ she said.

‘Monkey, definitely.’ I mused.

When I eventually awoke, I felt even more joy due to the fact that I didn’t have a hangover. I was such a good boy again last night. I was so sober, I was seeing single. I hate hangovers. Being hung-under is eminently more preferable. It is always a tremendous relief when I wake up without one. They make mornings hell. I am always reminded of Wodehouse on the subject when he wrote: ‘The cat stamped into the room.’

Well, that’s all from me for now. Must dash. I am about to savour my Monday morning eleven o’clock orgasm.

Pip-pip!

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Moaning Lisa

by Enormous on September 18, 2008

I hate to moan, but . . .

About seven days after Nelson leaves me and Audrey behind to return to his luxury penthouse flat in London, I always get a little down – which is unusual for me.

Apart from when I have a hangover – when my cast-iron defences begin to crumble and fail – I manage to keep any depression that threatens to rear its ugly head safely at bay, buried and sealed with the efficiency of long habit.

That doesn’t alter the fact that I miss my brother when he isn’t around; he lives too far away. Still, the situation could be substantially worse: he could live next door.

On a tenuously connected note, I wrote a new song yesterday, another one about sex, obsession and torture. It’s called Moaning Lisa. Here’s the first verse:

Moaning Lisa takes her teacher home
He likes to hear her moan
She tells him she loves him
But there’s something wrong
He said: ‘I want to hear you moan.’

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Eye Can See Clearly Now

by Enormous on May 14, 2008

I awoke with a jolt this morning at 5am in worried-sheep mode, full of anxiety. I feared one of my big, black waves of depression was about to engulf me. I read some John Donne before going to sleep last night (yes, I read metaphysical poetry – try not to faint) to prevent just this kind of thing from happening.

I lay in bed for a moment, stroking Audrey’s soft head, trying to wake up properly. I put my mood down to the fact that I had been dreaming all night about producing a session for some awful rock band in a recording studio in Mansfield, and tried to wipe it from my memory.

To my further dismay, I realised as I was getting dressed that my right eye was very sore and heavily crusted over. ‘Please, God, not another eye infection,’ I moaned as I stumbled into the bathroom. After performing my watery ablutions however, it became obvious that all was well; my eye was fine, and, as the morning sun rose in the sky over Sutton to the east, I began to feel much better.

Things improved even more when a beautiful Colombian-looking woman – who I imagine is called Angela – smiled at me as we were enjoying our pre-breakfast promenade around the village green. Then, when we got back to the house, there was a big, fat cheque from the PRS waiting for me on the doormat.

Maybe there is a God after all; I used to think that he didn’t exist. I used to think that believing in God was like taking out an insurance policy for the afterlife, but one that the divinity would never have to pay out on. Sorry, God.

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How It Hangs

by Enormous on December 13, 2007

When you get to my age, thirty-five (Eh!? – Ed.), hangovers take on a malevolent character and can be very debilitating.

Nelson returned to London over a week ago and I am only now beginning to feel human again. I blame him – out of pure expediency, naturally – for being a bad influence on me but of course it is I who must take full responsibility for my actions.

I do feel slightly let down by my body: when I was younger, hangovers would only last for twenty-four hours at most. But what I find hardest to deal with now are not so much the physical after-effects of a binge but the mental ones. Apart from feeling overwhelmed by isolation and loneliness, I often disappear again into my favourite deep black well of depression.

One feels confident, elated and ebullient when under the influence – ignoring the fact that I go completely over the top these days and am always too inebriated to actually appreciate being drunk – but the trouble with alcohol is, like any drug, it makes you feel good but it isn’t the truth. It makes reality interfere with your delusions.

When the hangover strikes, my hard-earned mental equilibrium always deserts me. It makes me realise that my defences against my depression are not as cast-iron thick as I sometimes like to think they are.

At least there is one thing of which we can all be certain: when Santa is emptying his sack all over the world on Christmas Eve, Nelson and I will be talking complete nonsense about middle-eights and drinking ourselves steadily into a festive Bolivia.

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Down and Dirty

by Enormous on May 6, 2007

Feeling a little down in the dumps this morning, I decided to do a spot of gardening.

Yes, I know: not very rock’n’roll, but a healthy pursuit none the less.

It is not often I get out there amongst the weeds and thistles, but once I do, any dark thoughts seem to dematerialise. Gardening is a very therapeutic exercise and I can recommend it to anyone who suffers from periodic bouts of depression as I do.

The problem this morning, however, was that almost as soon as I had stepped outside with my rake and shears, it began to rain. Being the stubborn sob that I am, I determined not to stop. It’s just a few drops, I thought to myself. It wasn’t. It was a deluge.

Have you ever tried to garden in a rainstorm? Well, I can inform you that it is a very invigorating experience, actually. You do get rather filthy, though; and passing pedestrians and motorists do tend to stare at you whilst you are busying yourself dead-heading the daffs, up to your eyeballs in mire and wormy mud.

But above all else, I must admit that as I proudly gaze upon them now, the results of my efforts leave me feeling very satisfied.

So my sermon to you this Sunday morning is this: if you decide throughout the course of your day to undertake any similar watery labours, don’t let anything or anybody put you off – even if you do look completely ridiculous.

(I have it on expert authority that the Baby Jesus was in fact himself a very successful gardener, though this is a little-known fact.)

On the Fantastic hi-fi today:
Greatest Hits – Alan Titchmarsh

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Night Rally

by Enormous on March 16, 2007

I am having trouble sleeping at night. It’s the horses, you see. They gather outside my bedroom window in the early hours, around half-past two, three o’clock.

I haven’t managed to do a full head-count yet, but I would say that on average there are always about twenty or thirty that regularly assemble there, waiting.

It is a little creepy, and I have so far felt somewhat apprehensive about leaving the security of my bed and looking out of the window. Generally, I am awakened by their calling to me. ‘Davy, Davy, come out,’ they sing. ‘Join us, Davy. Join us.’

But sometimes I awake prior to their arrival, full of expectation and wonder. I have – so far at least – not answered. I dare not even look at them.

I feel sorry for the disappointment they must feel. I feel sorry for their agony of frustrated anticipation when I don’t reply. But the fact that these docile creatures and I should have this shared nocturnal experience is something of a comfort; and I am often rendered less anxious by this unexpected evolution of our apposite paths.

After they leave, I sleep much more soundly.

‘Davy, come down. Davy -’ Oh what plaintive and reassuring melodies my equine tormentors are able to create in their soft and earnest supplications!

I have no idea what fanciful conceit compels them to do this. Perhaps they honestly believe I would be happier out there roaming the empty streets with them instead of sweating in my bed, alone, insensate and feigning deafness. Perhaps the notion originated out there in the grassy suburbs of the Euro-Chem plant, and, once fully developed, galvanized the herd into action. Or perhaps it was determined long ago that I would eventually join their contented ranks, and that now, ultimately, it is time to begin their passionate entreaty.

‘Come out, Davy. Run with us.’

Tonight, I have resolved to rise from my soft pillows and to finally acknowledge the  presence of my new friends. Tonight, perhaps, I shall answer their calls with: ‘I’m coming.’

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