Voice recorder found

Surgeons at a London hospital have found a digital voice recorder in a man’s anus. The patient, who had undergone laparoscopic resection of the sigmoid colon for recurrent sigmoid diverticulitis, presented to the hospital because of symptoms of subileus due to a recurrent high-grade anastomotic stenosis. A computed tomography scan revealed an electrical object that was hastily removed and, after consultation, shown to the patient, who claimed no memory of having inserted the device himself. At his request doctors at King’s College Hospital gave the recorder a thorough wash, purchased suitable batteries and played it. They discovered the machine contained more than two hundred hours’ worth of improvisations for a devised theatre show called The Eradication of Schizophrenia in Western Lapland. 

Instead of writing fiction

I've started documenting my life. Or snippets of it. What happens though is that I send it up. I haven't really been awake since 5am, high and manic on a cocktail of melatonin, antihistamines, travel sickness pills and valium. Though I've thought about getting in that state. What is true is that I walked to poncey Broadway Market, intent on sitting in La Bouche. I planned to have a cappuccino (one pound ninety-five) and an almond croissant (two pounds twenty) and pretend to read my book on trauma while watching all the passersby. La Bouche was full of like-minded and similarly pretentious people so I continued on my nonchalant way to a less trendy and almost empty Middle Eastern cafe whose almond croissants were forty-five pence cheaper. I took a seat and got out my trauma book. Actually made some notes about a psychiatrist called Lenore Terr who proposed that trauma in children took two forms. Type 1 trauma results from a single - often life-threatening - event, and it can be easily remembered in all its detail. Type 2 consists of repeated and predictable trauma, particularly sexual or physical abuse, which a child begins to anticipate and then learns to cope with through psychic numbing or dissociation. Terr's thinking - backed up by some questionable research - is that because of the repetitive nature of this latter kind of abuse it would become a general blur, less easily recalled. Richard J. McNally, however...actually, you probably don't want to know what Richard J. McNally thought. All you want to know is why I'm writing about abuse. 'Was he abused?' you'll be thinking. I don't think I was. Although according to some commentators there are only two kinds of people in this world: those who remember their sexual abuse in childhood and those who do not. I remember, when I was five or six years old, the boy next door lifting up his shirt and showing me his stomach. It was highly erotic and led to other things. But I'm not going to tell you what those other things were because I've been fictionalizing them in Human Waste, the novel that I'm having difficulty finishing. Probably because of this futile and near obsessive documenting of my life. I hold 'Sunshine and daydreams' responsible. He/she left an encouraging comment beneath a former post, telling me this was the most interesting blog he or she had ever read. I don't know who 'Sunshine and daydreams' is. She/he (I suspect a she) left her comment anonymously. She hasn't created a profile, which means I can't reply and thank her. Or complain about the way her positive comment is making me post more rubbish on this blog rather than get on with writing Human Waste.        

Melatonin in Korea

I had some Korean Won left over and popped into Kiehl's in duty free thinking I could buy a bottle of clinically proven - or was it clinically tested - age corrector. Gave up and wandered into a gift shop where I gazed at vitamins on shelves and found some Melatonin. The last time I tried melatonin was in 2005 on the recommendation of Jude Kelly. It gave me vivid nightmares and I stopped. Perhaps I'd give it another go. I knocked one back, attempting to wash it down with water from one of those little fountains outside the gents. As I bent forward to gulp some water the pill shot out. I picked it up and swallowed it and got on the plane. Had an uneventful flight sitting next to two Irish people. A man in his late fifties and a woman, possibly his daughter, in her thirties. He ordered a white wine. She ordered a white wine and a tomato juice and then gave him her white wine. We only spoke when she asked if they could get past me to go to the toilet. Began to watch Hitchcock again. Switched it off after five minutes and watched Silver Linings Playbook for the third time. Knew all the dialogue. Turned that off too. Watched The Master, a very depressing film with an agonizingly twisted performance by Joaquin Phoenix. Fell asleep. That peculiar half-sleep during which a calm descended upon me (I also took a valium) and I could see the solution to my novel. It would contain an abundance of flashbacks to abuse. Everyone would start to have them. They would become ridiculous. I would become ridiculous. Have become ridiculous. I'm not sure if it's the melatonin but since taking it I've become obsessed by porn. Can one blame melatonin for watching porn?

Jeff not Beau

It's Jeff Bridges and it's 'A Dog Year.'

Beau Bridges and a dog

After the buffet I rented a LAN cable from reception and connected to the internet until my battery ran out. I wrote some rubbish on this blog. Then I went to bed and switched on the television. There was a film with Beau Bridges in. He was playing an irascible writer who separates from his wife and goes to live in an isolated ranch in the American countryside with his dog. I missed the beginning but I gather he'd acquired the dog quite recently. Anyway his acting basically consisted of sitting at a kitchen table looking grumpy. He made a processed cheese and ham sandwich while his lips were turned resolutely down. The dog watched as Beau ate the sandwich. Then Beau, still with downturned mouth, slid his plate, which had half an uneaten sandwich on it, towards the dog. The dog ate it. It's a border collie. Eventually, though I'm not sure how this happens, Beau meets a trainer of border collies. She also looks grumpy and tells Beau that he is one angry man. Beau, meanwhile, is starting to change. A local youth badgers him, asking if he could give him some odd jobs to do. Beau says no, but eventually gives in. He also starts to write a book on his typewriter. It's called 'A Dog Year.' Or was it 'Year of the Dog' ? Anyway, suffice to say that in spite of all the downturned mouth acting it's the perfect film to watch when you're jet-lagged and in transit between Seoul and London.          

Lost in Harbor Park Hotel, Incheon

Of course the reality is very different. We were taken by shuttle bus from the airport to a hotel where 'simplicity and modern design offer you comfortable atmosphere and allover window in room commands superior view and also completely presenting you efficient business environment.' They gave us a dinner voucher. After a hurried shower and failed attempts to connect to the internet I made my way to the Sky Lounge on the fourteenth floor. 'Appreciating the panoramic view of Incheon Harbor, you can enjoy the meeting with your sweet people after stressful and busy day and relish the diverse drinks including various beers and whiskies, wines from all the countries of the world.' A buffet dinner was available, though the waiter didn't tell me this. I sat down and worked it out for myself. I thought I'd better get it confirmed though so I asked him what the procedure was. 'It's a buffet,' he said. I got up and helped myself to some spaghetti from a chaffing dish. Also some mini chicken breasts and a glass of red grape juice. After I'd sat down I was joined by various sweet people: an elderly Asian couple with plates piled high and a swarthy red-faced man with goggling eyes who I guess was from Tasmania. He asked me what I'd got. The food kept getting stuck in my throat. I finished as quickly as I could and went downstairs to...oh you don't need to know, are not even interested to know, are you, what I was doing downstairs. They've probably got a bar somewhere here but I'm too timid to seek it out. Anyway, you can bet your bottom dollar that it won't contain Scarlet Johansson or anyone resembling her. It'll contain other transit passengers, all trying to avoid each other's gaze.      

Spaced at Brisbane airport

I spent half an hour staring at rows of watches. Didn't like any of them. Then I tried various perfumes. A sales assistant approached me so I left. Found myself in a book shop that also sold rejuvenating creams. Considered purchasing Re-birth placenta face cream but decided not to on remembering I'd already bought an intense moisturizer with Rosa Artica (not sure what it is but it smells of my ex landlady) and Facial Fuel for Men from Kiehl's. I haven't boarded yet and I'm already off my face. I have twenty hours in Incheon airport (hotel provided by the airline) where I'm expecting to feel like Bill Murray in Lost in Translation. The plan is to sit in the hotel bar drinking Bourbon on the rocks and looking inscrutable. Basically I crossed the world to do four nights of The Poof Downstairs. I had a radio interview during which the interviewer called me 'difficult' and 'irritating,' and a review which described my show as 'controversial.' As the critic left the theatre he heard a man behind him saying 'I've never seen such a load of rubbish in my life.' This really makes me very happy.