Fox writings

Red brings out the wistful, the sadness, the memories of friends gone. Red creeps up behind me, gently wagging an admonishing finger and saying "OK, go on then, let rip for a few paragraphs or ten minutes of conversation in polite company but, BUT, temper the past with fondless and regret".

Red is naughty but also has a conscience.

Glass by glass he lowers my defences but raises my higher emotions - those feelings that recall the sad times, the painful events and the days gone but not forgotten. My good friend and sneaky adversary is Red. Nowadays Red is no mystery and certainly no enemy. He is like a chattering acquaintance who, by dint of ceaseless gibbering pushes me into revelations that are best left behind the curtain but at the same time need to be said and fortunately leavened by humanity and warmth.

But Malt. That is very different. The bloody stuff just drops me into a deep darkness, blackness, a sour bitterness that is untempered by any warmth or reason. My recall narrows into a dense closed ravine, raising adrenaline fuelled lust for blood and another, "oh If I have to".

Just one more kill. Only one more. The sheer joy of taking a life, long forgotten (or let's be really honest here chaps, long supressed) instincts arise anew in the bleak wasteland brought back by Malt.

My feelings raised by Scotland's finest export are something you would not wish to experience unless you have a fondness for leaping off cliffs, facing a howling mob in the back streets of Derry or feeling a 7.62 round tear into your side. Blood boiling, breathless spine tingling exhaltation. Or indeed, wallowing in flat, emotionless memories that have been utterly sterilised by months of very expensive State-funded psychotherapy.

Fortunately I am alone tonight and the Darkside will only leak out onto the Internet in the form of these ravings.

Have another glass FoxWriter, just one more and this last one might just bring on the blackness of deepsleep that blots out the Darkside.

The 'Silence of the Lambs'.

Possibly I missed the intriacies of Harris' plot or Hopkins' acting but a few days in the lost wilderness of Brecon Beacons has, even if only for a while, restored my sense of reality and what, as they say, is what.

I didn't see any former compatriots or indeed any of the current crop of hopefuls but I did meet several vocal sheep and more than a few Pinus sylvestris.

Clear blue skies, clean pure air and absolute (after the sun went down) silence.

Lungs exorcised. Muscles exercised. Mind excised.

FoxWriter is now a happy Fox indeed.

I have been so accused on the Internet and, I must admit I am confused but the reason for my confusion may be somewhat unusual.

I used to lie for a living, which is not as odd as it sounds.

Many occupations incorporate some form of lying as an integral part of their modus operandi and also because the sort of people who take on such a role which involves bending, twisting or breaking the truth are eminently suited for that task.

Obvious candidates are: politicians (very topical), journalists, estate agents and of course salespeople. Traditionally other suspects would be: car mechanics, builders, and probably writers and actors although the latter two can be forgiven as everyone accepts lying serves a positive purpose.

Doctors have to lie on occasions in cause of protecting patient’s sensibilities, as do police officers in the equally good cause of catching criminals.

I was paid to lie, more than that I actually had to live the lie, actually becoming someone else, sometimes for months and months. At first it was odd, disorientating, frightening at times but eventually I became used to the schizophrenic existence and - mostly - had little difficulty in returning to my real persona. The problems that did occur centred on those close to me who had to accept, not only my disappearance and lack of contact for long periods but also the inevitable problems with the transition from who I had become back to who I really was.

I have not lived that life for many years now; I am solidly in a world of normality and commonplace existence. Sometimes, in dreams or very occasionally in moments of absent-minded déjà vu a trace of past will intrude but essentially I am Mr. AverageAndOrdinary FoxWriter.

But now, perhaps because of revelations that were best left alone I have been accused of lying possibly hinting that I was regressing back into my previous career, living as it were, another life. The charge is grave.

I have not been a paid liar for several years hence.

The question is, do I defend against this accusation or do I accept that an opinion, if honestly and fairly held is valid and therefore simply take the situation as the only reality that one can find on here?

Guilty as charged. It's a fair cop m'lud. I sinned and must pay the price.

Some may accuse me of cowardice, of craven acceptance of the oligarchy, of bowing the knee, of subservience to State pressure. Duty, honour, RHIP. Noblesse oblige and all that tosh.

If you do not understand this then fair enough, if you do understand then send me a message because you surely know who I am.

I can assuredly mention Cathy - my poor lovely Cathy, and Richard - my poor friend Richard. But there are those whose stories I cannot tell, lying forever far from home. Rupert Brooke was absolutely, totally, bloody right.

So - as my good friend ABE puts it - "comfortable slippers" stories only. Will this be boring, will this be enough, will there be any point at all? Today's stories are all that are available to me. Is this the end of the real FoxWriter?

Yes, my friends I know it is Friday night, the traditional time for FoxWriter to spout his drivel and open his heart, lay bare his soul and maybe to lift just a small corner of the secretive State curtain. Bear with me please. I have now scoured this blog of any offensive, indiscrete and (unfortunately) all - thoughts, feelings, comments and revelations - personal or professional.