677731567.04andsleep

...the midnight hour is close at hand...and grizzly ghouls from every tomb are closing in to seal your doom...

Mr Jackson may have taken a moment to reflect on some of his lyrics of late, and rightly so. He told us in 1987 that he's bad, he's bad, shamowwwwwn! - but we didn't listen.
After four months of 'trial' we now know that, according to the jury at least, he is a completely innocent sideshow-bob freak-fest kiddy-fiddler of a pedder ass-pest who embedded doubt and uncertainty into the minds of all who laid eyes upon him, and we know that he's toast in the States.
So what now?
He's leaving the U(nder) S(tatement) of A(ll time) to 're-launch' his career in Europe and the Far East.

Hmmmmmmmm...

Is he?

Me think not.


Anyway - I don't want to write about the Neverland Perv. I was intent on trying to lay down some waffle about sleep (again). Previously I wrote about insomnia, something that doesn't seek me out quite so much these days. It's almost as if the deprivation-demons of doze have found someone else to pester; like when a gent suddenly finds himself without the baton (the mysterious bringer and taker away of success, mainly in the realm of romance and rascality) the spell, it would appear, has been broken.
Thing is, no sooner does the sun take leave of its sentry post for the day, my mind slowly begins to wurr into life. At this time of day (er, night) I want to take my time relaxing and leaving the drudgery of the day behind me. But I can't. I can't because my flatmate can hear my music through the wall in her room. She's trying to sleep - it's not even half eleven! No matter how low I turn the volume on my anti-social behaviour making equipment, she can still bloody hear it!
There's a reason for this, and it's nothing I can work around. At night, your house gets 'turned up'. A force is at work here which amplifies every sound that would normally slip past unnoticed, transforming them all into the kind of din normally associated with small children and brightly coloured plastic trumpets. Infact, if you smoke enough, you can sometimes see the very creatures responsible for these changes...sneaking about the skirting boards, carrying little backpacks full to the brim with tools, making adjustments to the entire acoustic set-up of your house. It's staggering just how many rotating thumb switches there are throughout the average four-bedroomer. Each one controls a different aspect of the soundstage in each room, which of course has to be tuned to an omnidirectional state of perfection, so as not to confuse and disorientate the occupier as they travel from room to room - for instance you don't want to hear the fridge buzzing when you're scratching about in the loft looking for your old football boots do you?

Oh. I think I've lost my thread.