My friends, I was going to make this - my first blog for the esteemed Guardian Unlimited arts and entertainment blog, a rumination on the true nature of friendship. But apparently I'm not being paid by the word, so from now on I'll communicate in English - I hope.
Now, many of you will not know me - and why should you? Well, you should actually, but that's by the by. Just to clarify matters, I am a 41-year-old, twice divorced, former minor pop star with literary pretensions and a swollen liver (thanks to the absinthe I once imported.) Think Syd Barrett without the royalties - or talent.
For the past 13 months, I have been domiciled with my mother in the countryside, writing the great English novel and waiting for publishers to recognise "a truly original and highly marketable force in English writing". Old rock star = young writer. The novel actually took four months, and for the remaining nine I've been doing precisely bugger all, as have the publishers.
I'm a bit atrabilious, which is the old word for manic depressive, which is the old expression for bipolar. So to employ a surfing metaphor - in a Brian Wilson never having and never will surf kind of way - I've been waiting for a suitable wave to sweep me up and get me going again.
Having soaked up more than a year of that most sustaining (and hard to work off the guts) elixir - motherly love - I decided it was time to push off again, or die a fat, alcoholic, onanistic death, cremated by a local firm and scattered in the garden alongside the cat's ashes.
So now you know the background, I can tell you that this is the day I move back to London, to possibility, to life - and a third Mrs Moore. Ladies, be warned.
Being too tight to hire movers I have, naturally, been contacting those who call themselves friends. If you look at my MySpace, you'll see I have 500 of the fuckers. Certain of them have claimed to have a day job - which I suppose is reasonable with gin prices as they are. However, in my line of un-work, there are plenty of people who don't. Musicians for instance.
This blog was going to be about the true nature of friendship, and my disappointment at a certain Mr Luke Haines, with whom I've had dealings in the past, who I hoped I could rely on this afternoon to help me shift some boxes. Haines, whose album comes out on Monday, whose tour starts on Wednesday, who wants me to play the musical saw with him at places as exotic as the Joiners Arms in Southampton. I had assumed that my calls and texts were not being returned due to M15 activity against subversives and, I confess, in my darkest moments I even thought that he might just be avoiding me. The mind plays tricks when you're looking for shifters.
So imagine my sadness on discovering, from the horse's mouth, that he is actually suffering from TB, renal failure, ebola, cancer and worms. I think he coughed part of his lung through the telecoms network, which will require a paint job in mother's hall. If he hasn't recovered by this afternoon, I will of course have to cancel Southampton, and go to the opening party for the exhibition of erotic photographs of my friend Rowan Pelling. To tell you the truth, I think spores and shadows are beginning to appear on my old lungs as well.
Ps. Amy Wine House - Rehab - the greatest single for years. No, no, no.
Pps. Some of you reading my blogs might have noticed that I have recently drawn some fun at my mother's expense over her bacon sandwiches, lack of cooker, microwave meals and habit of talking to wasps. This is mere filial badinage. As an example of her utter wonderfulness, this evening - having finished a bottle of red (me, not her) - I felt that a drop of something else would really put a beautiful gloss on the evening. Can you imagine the joy of finding two cans of draught Guinness in the fridge? Come on now boys and girls everywhere. Drop to your knees and repeat after me. Mothers are the BEST.
