Extract From My Bleedin' Novel No.1

Within my blog of varied writings I want to offer up extracts of my bleedin' novel (which, by the way, has such a great title that I'm not going to reveal it until it is absolutely necessary in case of theft).
The work itself is largely about a character, called Dean Evering, who lives in East London in the present day and who greedily drinks in all the hedonistic experiences he can - with little regard to tomorrow and career concerns.
He narrates the story to an imaginary friend in his head - a sensorially-deprived, irridescent, little ghost called Squeekorre who thrives on his depraved accounts, but can only ever remain silent. Effectively the reader becomes Squeekorre.
Exuberant, melancholic, daft and profound, Dean I hope will confound expectations about who he is and what he might do. But to quote him briefly to indicate a strong aspect of him:
"Life is so much better when you give yourself up to the higher truth... that you are nothing more than frogspawn with the ability to grin stupidly and disrupt the plans of others."
This extract catches Dean in low-key moment of boredom and frustration...


The bleak day gave way to a restless evening. I was trying to steer clear of any drugs as possible entertainment. I wanted to focus on song writing. The band had been complaining lately of rehearsing the same material over and over. We were losing the original intended spirit. I had to write something, but my pen was as dry as my over-shot nuts and my guitar sounded like it was being played by a sixteen-year-old girl whenever I touched it.
I smoked my umpteenth cigarette and stared down onto the main drag to see if anything down there would move me - in any way. It didn't.
I sat on the edge of my bed, slowly tapping my feet on the carpet as though walking. A doppling cascade of sirens squealed out down Kingsland Road, followed a bit after by the lone wail of some cops who'd been caught napping and were going to miss the action.
I felt the desire rise in me. Thank God, Squeekorre, yes, some desire. But it was the desire to take my bodily chemistry and hurl it into a reservoir of unknown ingredients. I wanted to take "lucky dip" concoctions and end up in random-character-generated company. Preferably female. Preferably preferring me to other men.
I thought again about the untried whore route. But I wanted to soar over the night with willing participants, not emaciated witches thinking of an hourly rate.
To think, Squeek, so many people soundlessly blow through life with their tethered, narrow tent of an outlook, not feeling the urge to batter down the walls and escape into the unmapped beyond. I'm always rubbing up against the edges of ordinary consciousness, finding it all a bit too dry and pokey. I want my world vast and wet with lubricant. I want to crash through the TV screen and out - into the TV studio, then splash through the studio windows and out into another time; then I want to burst out of my eyeballs to see further and farther - and I want to see myself doing it, from a distance, watched up close by another me, who's being monitored by yet another from above. Monopoly, anyone?
Actually, yes - but Monopoly played like a giant stooped over the real London; owning whole roads and stations at a sweep of my hand; tossing huge, speckled dice cut from mountains down the length of Oxford Street; relocating houses and hotels with considerable loss of life and immense craters, to reorder and redesign my own urban catastrophic fantasy. Then, when I'm bored, I'm going to boot the whole sorry board over, devastating centuries of order and architecture.