I know people lie all the time but when I give someone the opportunity to lay it out on the table, free from criticism and they continue to lie,well they are picking up the rope to hang themselves. I’m a fucker like that.   Poppy asked me tonight how I am able to process all this without flipping out. I can’t really answer that. I suppose because I’ve been drip fed mis-information for so many years, none of this really surprises me.  It disappoints me, but there’s not a lot I can do about that. I will ponder on the implications and consquences of getting my hands on this information before I go marching off to any archives.

In all the hullaballoo of finding all this nonsense out, I neglected to mention the loss of 7lb in two weeks, I was very happy indeed. To celebrate, I gave myself the weekend off and instead of flogging myself into misery, I allowed myself a pizza. And 5 pints. And chinese take out, and chocolate and… you get the idea. I hadn’t intended it to go that way, I was going to have my pizza and a few jars at the pub but that turned into a night on the lash. And you can’t have a night on the lash at my age, without eating your way through the hangover. Add that to horrible news and I just couldn’t be arsed with weighing food and spending every moment thinking about all the things I couldn’t have.  Well I mustn’t have eaten as badly as I thought because I didn’t put any weight on and as of this morning I’ve dropped another couple of pounds. I’m now mere pounds away from my goal weight of 10 stone.  Of course all I’m doing is reading about food, imagining peoples heads as pieces of cake, watching programmes about food, thinking about what my next meal is and so on. Hopefully it will only be another couple of weeks until I can cut myself some slack before Weight Watchers strips me of all my food allowance and all I can eat is vegetables.

Still loving work, loving the time off even more. I’m only working three days this week and two of those are lates. I feel like I have so much free time these days. I’ve agreed to go for coffee with someone from school at the weekend and then I’m going to watch a mates band. It’s a Rammenstein tribute act. A really awful one. No cannon of doom spitting out fireworks. They don’t even spew jets of jism over the crowd, maybe a couple of sparklers stuck in a joss stick  holder. I dunno, but it’s going to be toss. Poppy’s boyfriend, the one I trust about as much as a tory, is going to be there and will probably be his usual abrasive self.  Not to mention the myriad of knuckle grazing metallers tossing their mullets around with gay abandon. I have no idea how I am going make it through the evening.

Anyway, I buggered off back to my house and started digging around and I still couldn’t get anywhere. I know a lot of records in Ireland have been destroyed but I was able to trace my Nana because she died in the UK.  I stayed up way too late rooting around and my head was a bit frazzled but I got sod all sleep. Something wasn’t adding up for me.

I went back around Mums the following day and did a bit more digging. She got pretty arsey with me when I told her I didn’t understand why there had to be so many secrets – my sister knows all about her history and it was never hidden from her. My brother and I have never been given the full story and I didn’t understand why. Mum was raring up at me saying things like it’s only details and how she only made decisions for the sake of the kids. Anyway I got the full story from her point of view, why she left Ireland and why she stayed hidden until Dad died. Then I had to open my trap. I said I understood why she left Ireland but I still didn’t know why Dad had left and asked what he was running from. Was it the police? I watched her face drop and I could see she was backed into a corner. She then tells me Dad was married. Oh and he left three daughters behind. She tried to give me some romantic bullshit about how everyone was forced into marriage over there and when he saw Mum, he told her he was never going to let her go blahblah and that’s why he followed her to England. Nice try but he did a really cunty thing. The cherry on the top of all this mess is that my sister knew all about it. No wonder she has such utter pity for me.

So I have three half sisters I know nothing about. I don’t know if they know he’s dead. If it were me in their position, I’d be really fucking angry at the stunt he pulled. Actually I am angry about it. I always knew he was a little bit shady as far  as business goes but this takes the biscuit. Mum thinks it’s all history and there’s nothing that can be done to change that. Well if it’s only history, why has it been so well concealed? There have been ample opportunities to let my brother and I know about this since we’ve grown up. She doesn’t quite grasp that it’s not the details that bother me as such, but the absolute lies that the family is built on. But if I tell her what I really think, I’m condemning her as well as him and it’s not my place to judge decisions they made over 40 years ago. They had their reasons and whether I agree with them or not, I have to live with them.

From my perspective, it’s just another example that you can have people in your life and never know them properly. That days, months and years go by and everything you ever held to be true is bullshit and the people you are supposed to trust the most, are mugging you off. Even the one thing you are told is everything you are, your name, is fabricated. Everything is a lie and you were stupid enough to believe it.

I read in the local rag tonight that the police are looking for a repeat flasher. He’s done it 16 times since January. 17 now I guess, the fucking dirty bugger. I’ve called the police but the investigating officer is off now until Friday. Genius timing.  I’m alright like, just annoyed I didn’t quite see what he was up to. I really need to get my eyes tested, I’ve been saying it since last year but a lack of clear vision was probably a bonus given the circumstances.

http://www.swindonadvertiser.co.uk/news/8110224.Flasher_targets_children_in_park/

Anyway, far more important than some leatherfaced crank was my dinner this evening. It was lush. Best of all it had fuck all calories in it. I made chili vegi ramen. I made my own stock with leeks, carrot and lots of fresh ginger. I normally hate ginger but it was well worth adding it. I stir fried a bunch of cougettes, peppers, garlic and red onion, added some noodles and then poured the stock in. I threw in a stack of spring onions, coriander and more chili than was sensible. Really simple but amazing. I had (and still do) have a stack of points left over for the day so I treated myself to cucumber and houmous for supper and now I’m chamming on a Chupa  Chup lolly as a treat for being so well behaved on my day off.  *polishes halo*

With this new found sense of contentment I’ve been able to concentrate on getting my diet back on track for the first time in well over a year if I’m honest with myself. I haven’t felt the need to sit on my arse and comfort eat. Fresh veggies, heaps of water and loads of walking. I lost 4lbs this week. I accumulated enough activity points to reward myself with steak AND chocolate tonight. They’ve brought out a Galaxy Bubbly bar. It’s fucking amazing.  Back on it tomorrow so I’m digging out my Wagamama and Covent Garden Soup books. The upside of being on WW is it forces you to think creatively about food rather than digging out what ever is in the freezer. The down side is looking at all food as a number and knowing exactly how many points is in every scrap of food eaten, and if you don’t know it, you won’t go near it. When I say you, I actually mean me. Me the obsessive nutjob. I’ll just get these first couple of horrible weeks out of the way and then ease up back into near normality.

I’m kinda hoping this volcano in Iceland keeps doing its thing. I know it’s not very nice for people who are missing out on their holibobs but I’m visualising this as a long term issue. I mean, you can’t trust nature can you? This bad boy could rage on for weeks, months if I had my way. Then everyone in the UK is going to go out panic buying food because we can’t ship in strawberries from Kenya or New Zealand. You know this – we can’t even make it through a week of snow without all the bread flying off the shelves. Heaven forbid the sloane rangers can’t have their vases of flowers in the hallway of their second home in Dorset. The whole country will go into meltdown, there will be a media frenzy, people will talk of the great shortage of 2010, there will be Facebook fan pages made about it. I have no reason to want this to happen for any reason other than my own amusement. I love it when this country has a shitstorm over nothing.  It gives me great lulz. It also reminds me of how much of a secret trouble maker I really am. Just imagine if I ever got any real power. I’d own all your fucking asses that’s for sure. But until then, I will have to settle for dreams of eggy airspace, dusty engines and empty shelves. Can’t win them all eh?

I spent most of my stewing time sorting out my pigsty of a house. I don’t think I’ve cleaned so much in my life, I have a whole pile of clothes to go in the recycling, I even dusted my books. Lame huh? Still, I have a spotless house, all my clothes are washed, ironed and hung up. It was all very cathartic and has left me feeling accomplished and ready to start again. The dog and I went out on a few lovely walks, she tried chasing sheep and I worked on my summer freckle tan. I’m really thankful that I can drive for less than 10 minutes and be right out in the heart of the countryside.  She also had her booster jabs at the vets and I received the horrifying news that the vet thinks Hollydog is… FAT. Apparently she’s a kilo over what she should be. I nearly died of shame. She’s on diet food and extra long walks until she is back to her skinny self. I’ve also had a word with my mother who insists on feeding her whenever my back is turned. My mum is like Mrs Doyle from Father Ted, if she likes you, she feeds you. And she reeeeally likes Holly. 

Back to work tomorrow.  I found out my shift pattern for the week and had a moment of  “Oh my god, what have I done?”.  Then I remembered I don’t actually have a life at the weekends other than exploring dirty old buildings. I rarely go out on the lash these days and I have about three friends who still live in town and I see regularly so working a full weekend won’t actually impact on me at all.  It will be odd going back to the Foyer in a non managerial capacity but I’m also looking forward to walking away from it at the end of each day knowing I’m not getting calls, covering shifts (unless I want to, rather than having to) and having a bit of energy to do things like the gym and maybe widening my social circle so I’m not such a miserable shit all the godamned time. 

Now I’d like to share with you a little gem that my buddy Sean hooked me up with. I didn’t really know anything about ICP other than some beef with Eminem and their highly questionable make up technique. Now I see I was blind to judge them merely on looks alone. Literary wizards that they are, have produced this masterpiece. I will let the magic speak for itself however if you, like myself, ever doubted the power of ICP, I should advise you that enlightenment kicks in around 1:50.  You’re not in Kansas anymore Dorothy. 

We were both pretty hyped about this one due to the size of it. It took us just over 3.5 hours to get there and as we parked up, the notorious beardy man and his dog drove by in his van giving us major stinkeye. We thought we had been rumbled before we even tried hopping a fence. We waited a little while to see if he was going to come back but he didn’t. Rumour has it that he’s not actually security, just some random bloke on a crusade to keep people out of the place. Which is all well and good but he’s got a German Shepherd the size of a pony with him and is supposed to be quite forceful if he catches anyone. We did some sneaky sneaky and found a way in that involved both of us balancing above barbed wire. Nice. The sun was just starting to peek its way through the clouds and I pulled out my camera to get some exterior shots. The next thing I heard was horns and shouting.  I immediately shouted “run for it!” to Poppy, we manage to bomb around the back of the building and literally throw ourselves through the nearest opening, a small glass door that had been kicked in. We hid for a little while in what looked like an airing cupboard before taking a walk into a corridor. Immediately the floor was buckling underneath me. Add that to the adrenaline pumping it’s way around my body, it was not a good start. We made our way out of that section and into another that had concrete flooring. It was pretty obvious that we were looking at a place that has been completely destroyed. The exterior is beautiful but inside? Collapsed ceilings and floors, debris everywhere – a total deathtrap. I barely got about three shots worth bothering with. I was more concerned with making it out alive than taking photos. If you’re after absolute devastation, raw dereliction, this is where it’s at.

Yvette Fielding and her merry band of charlatans filmed Most Haunted Live here a couple of years ago. It was called Village of the Damned and they spent seven nights here squealing at dripping pipes and gusts of wind masquerading as voices from beyond the grave.  As atmospheric as Denbigh Asylum is, we did not hear any tapping, whistling, no stones were thrown at us and neither of us were possessed by some spirit. The closest we came to any supernatural bollocks they claim to invoke, was the sheep in the field next door bleating. Maybe there was a message but I was unable to decipher it.  

We didn’t see Mr Beardy and his dog again, and eerily for a Sunday, we didn’t see another person there. We carried on completely undisturbed but gave up after covering all the ground floor. We did venture upstairs twice to see if we could infiltrate the main building a bit further but it was too sketchy for my liking.  We chipped off and had some tuck food before setting off home.

On the way back we pulled into a pub car park to have break and who should walk out of the pub? Only that welsh kid who won Big Brother a couple of years ago. Glynn something or other, I only recognised him by the unnaturally large head he has. He was with his Mum and Dad, bless. We were parked up with the windows open, cue me shouting “Look who it is, quick, get a photo of him!” I had totally forgotten about the open windows so he  totally heard Poppy and I cackling and howling at him. He looked very awkward about the whole situation but that’s not my problem – if you will go on and win the biggest show in the UK, you’re asking for two dirty faced girls in a car howling at you.

Anyway, on to the photos that weren’t worth all the effort or petrol money. There’s no money shot in this collection, none I’m particularly proud of or excited to look at again. Talgarth was much more exciting an asylum. Fortunately it’s a lot closer to home and a million times more inviting.

Tonight I’m going to bury myself in dirty take out, maybe finish off watching the last of Twin Peaks and put myself to bed at an hour only reserved for toddlers and pensioners. Winraar!