Scruffy Sod #

27 November 1998

I always seem to come in for stick on dressing-down day. What exactly people find so interesting about my attire is beyond me – I see nothing unusual or odd about wearing purple DMs any more, after all this is 1998 and I’ve owned them for years. And why having my shirt hanging out makes me a “scruffy sod”, I just don’t get. But I don’t care – for one day a month I can feel comfortable and real and myself. Which is nice.

Four hundred days, then. So many things still to do. Perhaps I’d be closer to achieving them all if I wasn’t distracted by abuse such as this:

From: S—– B—–
Sent: 27 November 1998 1:11 pm
To: Nelson, Ian
Subject: Mock Journal

Journal Entry 5 – Friday.

“I truly believe that Ian’s madness is highly visible now. Yesterday he described himself as the single sane man who must institutionalise everyone in thie ‘insane’ world. We were in L—– at a champagne reception, and no doubt Ian was over-indulging in his alcohol obsession (as usual) but didn’t resort to his usual E.T. impression. His behaviour was nevertheless disturbing as he was under a constant paranoia that everyone in the room was talking about him. On our return from L—– I am sure he whispered something in the ear of the other back-seat passenger who opened the car door and almost flung himself outside – not a wise thing to do when travelling at 110mph, thankfully our other passenger regained his senses, although rather perturbed throughout the entire journey. Although most would find it rather amusing, it is quite disturbing to hear how Ian, during his student days, once paraded around the university campus with his hair bleached yellow and wore a coat-hanger around his neck. His hair is often an item of amusement – often fondly referred to as “Ian’s afro”. His hair, usually a mess, has this ‘springy’ quality to it. I’m quite sure that if he stood on his head he would become the human equivalent of a pogo-stick. I often wonder if Ian, with his springy walk and springy hair, is actually from this planet. We often jokingly advise him to return to his home planet after hearing his insane ramblings – he once again asked me what day-of-the-week it was. At L—– S—– L—–, foreseeing his imminent and rather painful death, decided to drown his sorrows in Champagne, and almost broke down at one point when Ian ran his finger across his neck. S—–, rather wisely, decided not to come into work today – or so we’re led to believe. I wouldn’t be surprised if S—– is currently lying in the gutter with his neck sliced-open from ear-to-ear. Or maybe his disembodied head is lying in the boot of Ian’s Fiesta. Ian is currently attending a fire-safety meeting, and has a sinister smile at the prospect of thinking about burning flesh and the screams of people being burnt to death – I’m not sure who he’s planned this fate for, we’ll just have to wait and see. And if S—– isn’t dead by now, I think I’m going to have to kill him myself.”