Tomorrow I'll set Henry on fire

I was lightheaded in a basement. A chatty blonde walked me home. I kicked over street signs and thought it hilarious. I was disinterested in all she said. 

On my mobile there was a green message from my asshole brother. Still alive and kicking?

Yes... But I awoke in filth, with my dick inside a puppet. 

Tell mother not to worry for I have it under control. I suppose, now, you think you're better than me. But you have not experienced Henry. 

Do you know a good cleaner? One who doesn't judge? I'd prefer it if she can't speak English. I want to share experiences. My filth tells a story. 

Oh birds of paradise I'm so disjointed with no career prospects but songwriter or blogger. And it's too late to start a career. 

So I will search for a method of turning fire into ice. 

Bee Wee and the Death Rattle Hum

Good Friday was spent comatose on a beach... 

TOWIE screams through consciousness. Magical pagans. An explorer turned dull. 

I've been sleeping with Henry, my ventriloquist's dummy. He sees my eyes half open and whispers to me: "Nigel. I want to die."

The wind replies: Bee Wee and the Death Rattle Hum. A new act, appearing at a haunted basement near you. An erotic puppet show of manners.

Made out of wood, Henry plays a prick. But he does well with women on account of his perpetual hardon.

Henry recites to me a line: "I'd shag her, but angrily. I'd marry her, but hate it. I'd push the fat one off a cliff." To bring it home, he does that thing with his eyebrows. 

Bravo. 

Opening night. In the audience, more otiose than a slug, I dream of orange girls and God. Stretching and stumbling through eternity, they have always been the stuff of the universe. 

Consensus deems the play weird. At the after party, I make eyes with a pagan and pull her passionately into a closet. She pulls down my trousers and starts sucking. We are disrupted by a click. 

Henry cocks his Baretta. A buxom puppet screams.