A New Year, Another Morning After The Morning After

Forgive me father, for I have sinned. I feel it appropriate to offer trite words of contrition to my armada of disciples who religiously read this blog, for what can only be described as my Sloth. For months now, you've probably been sat on Facebook chat, gossiping amongst yourselves about my self-imposed hiatus, waiting for more teachings and shit.

Quite predictably, what happened was The Fame. It got too much. Since being featured in British Vogue as one of the people most likely to define the next generation, I did a tiny little Hatfield. I fell in with a bad crowd called The Cry Babies, made up of burlesque dancers, comedians, actors, read as druggies, dropouts and deadbeats. Since then I've been going mad.

At first, the glitz, the glamour, the clamour for my autograph was nang. I was on the guestlist for the guestlist for the some of the most exclusive Hoxton warehouse raves known to Jeff Leach. The miaow was being passed around as we sat at afterparties and hotel lobbies, chatting pure wolf with each other, like cats on a hot tin roof. Not like coke wolf, mind. Good wolf, where you have conversations with people instead of monologues at people. We'd partake in the most epic orgies. Caligula ain't blushing at these, he's swapped his Calvin's for a chastity belt and become a eunuch.

After a while, the screaming hordes of female fans got much too much. Soon, the olfactory's were at work again as I became addicted to the waft of dirty knickers lofted in my direction from all corners. I knew I had a problem when I was caught trying to sniff the crotches of American Apparel models through the computer screen by the Doris.

I was driven indoors, where I found solace on the interweb. I became yet another turgid penis on Chatroulette, relentlessly slapping the F9 key in the face, waiting for an Eastern bloc beauty to show me a slice of snatch. I finally hit rock bottom when I found myself cheating on the Doris with Ariane, a girl I met through mutual acquaintance. I found Ariane to be cold and monotonous at times, but the sex, it was too good. Invariably, I'd wake up the afternoon after the night before, the post-coital shame later morphing into guilt. I got depression or something, ballooned in weight and became an unmotivated recluse.

We created our own time zone in the middle of Newington Green where we existed existentially, sans boundaries, sans time and sans the washing up. In fact, the washing up became a source of sanity for me whilst I was struggling to come to terms with my stratospheric fame. I would just stand by the sink, running the Ecover-doused sponge over the plates 'til they squeaked, then when I was done, I'd sniff the sponge, the amalgam of marigold and camomile mixed with three-day old baked beans left out on the side proving to be an irresistible aroma.

I tell you, I've been to Hell and back. I was meant to come back a bit earlier, but I missed my connection and got stuck on the platform getting paranoid, convinced that the man hollering in my ear through his self-importance machine, was referring solely to me when he goes on about how I got to please remember to take my personal belongings with me. I write this now in one of those midweek car crash moments where the diazepam still isn't working, you're in tears because you can't sleep and you vow never to touch that stuff again. I will touch that stuff again, it's bloody lovely. But for now, your prophet is back.