Black pudding

Fuckwit Lodger and his mum came over to collect his belongings, first amongst which is "his" cat. No friends, no girlfriends, no visitors ever, just a cat. His mum's voice was a forty-minute unbroken drone of her health problems, moans at Fuckwit for incorrect packing technique, and a detailed disquisition on different types of dog food.

I don't care about them; I'm just sorry about the cat. Poor thing will now be cooped up twenty-four hours a day in a bedsit in the worst part of Morecambe. I've been letting her out for hours at a time, and overnight occasionally.

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Me and Trina had a jolly night at a soul and house do in glamorous Clayton-le-Woods. Walking there we got a lift with these three gorgeous, chatty women who'd driven up from Derby, although their accents were Scottish.

Arrived and met several of the usual suspects. I made the mistake of buying a "fajita" from the van outside. It was like a cold stew of slimy veg and salad. I asked them if they were doing Clitheroe Food Festival which is coming up on 13th August. "Well, Clitheroe's never really worked for us," she said. "No, that's 'cos your food's shit," I thought.

There was problem with the volume though. One DJ in particular was wrecking the speakers and the music yet again with absolutely ear-splitting volume. I politely asked him to turn it down just a notch, and he stuck two fingers up at me. Poor lad's deaf as a post. I wish I could install an electric shock machine into the volume knob when he's playing. In the future, I'm just going to avoid events where he's on the bill. He's like a patient you can't help.

We went back to the hotel to wait until he'd finished and put some music on. I got a couple more ales down me neck while Trina did her bit for the Swedish vodka industry.

Went back and it was still too loud, but not to worry, it was warm enough to dance around outside for a bit.

Then we bumped into a couple of people I know, an ex-copper and a youngish DJ who made me glow very nicely with some comments about my musical knowledge. We acquired a couple of unknown girls, as all perambulations to hotel rooms require, and we all ended up in Plod's room where to my immense delight he produced a bottle of his Hungarian Dad's homemade pálinka.

The plan for afterwards was to go back to the DJ's room. Trina had gone back to our hotel by them, but I asked someone where room 15 was, and knocked on some person's door who expressed a small degree of displeasure at being knocked up at half two by some random. It was actually room 50, I'd misheard him.

As I walked back I realised I didn't have my key, nor my phone to ring Trina. I didn't want to knock the hotel owner up at 3am so wrote a note on a serviette telling her not to start her car as I'd be sleeping under it. Decided to try an alternative route into the hotel annex by climbing over a flimsy wooden fence with an 8 foot drop on the other side. I succeeded but I snapped the fence and was a bit worried I'd be on CCTV.

I knocked on the wrong window to be let in and saw this naked black man standing there with his mobile phone in one hand. I eventually found the correct room and climbed in through the window. Trina told me that a handsome black man had met her outside the hotel and walked her home. He had been texting her a bit trying to get her to go round to his room but she'd declined. In such situations I am expected to be jealous, but I couldn't have cared less if she'd had a bit of black pudding for supper.

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For some time I have been vexed by the the closure to the public of the Storey Gardens in the city centre. Together with the Mechanics Institute, which later became the Storey Art Gallery and Museum, they were bequeathed to the City of Lancaster in 1891. So I don't see why they shouldn't be open to us.

All entrances are locked.

But three high gates present no obstacle to a nimble man.

Inside, a more difficult, flimsier fence to be overcome. It kept listing, making me cling hard as it leant backwards.

However, soon got inside to a anti-thrill let-down of no falling masonry or friable walls.

But eventually, I was thwarted by a gate set inside a ten foot high wall.

A hacksaw might be necessary for my next visit. On the other side is a neglected sculpture park thing. It's been robbed in the past so they probably want to keep the overly curious out.

I was pleased to see that my welfare in these endeavours is of concern to the Council.

There were a couple of interesting alleys to explore.

I was curious about the lower one.

Passing some sheds...

I came across an open fire exit.

And found myself in a gallery, where an assistant looked surprised to see me, and said it wasn't opening until tomorrow. I said I'd been doing some work with someone upstairs and he'd told me to come and have a look round.

I quite liked this one.

Probably won't be appearing in Exile On Pain Street's New York auction summaries anytime soon, but I still can't afford it.

Thank you Thomas Storey. I'll be back soon, better equipped.