The lil fucker

A few years ago, when I was at Drama School, one of the tutors gave a name to something that I had never had a name for before – the lil’ fucker in your head.

You know that ejit, who sits in there all day, telling you how crap you are?

Yes, this is the berk who has helped me fail my driving test no less than SEVEN times (I say helped, I did quite a good job on my own, what with my nerves and my four second attenti-

Well, this week, lil fucker has moved back in and this time he brought a subwoofer with him. I am rehearsing hard for my play (which is going to be marvellous, by the way – book here – no booking fees online – woo!) but it also invloves music and man, I have been practicing like Billy-O (who is Billy O, by the way? He had a very strong work ethic, whoever he was) and although I am far from anything approaching accomplished, I had started making less dying llama noises than when I began.

Until LF showed up that is. Sitting in rehearsals this morning, I was happily quacking along on my clarinet when suddenly, somebody sucked all of the notes out of my brain and replaced my fingers with bunches of unriped bananas. Skwark! GRRRRRRRAAAAAA! is what I suddenly started to produce.

Well, I am not having any of it and I have a little message for you, LF:

 

Eviction notice served.

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