The Day After the 5-Day Detox.

And that's the end of that. My ridiculous and pointless 5-day detox is now over and I can return to killing myself. Phew! I cheated pretty much every day of the 5 days anyway. A beer on Wednesday, cheese on Thursday, two beers on Friday, five beers yesterday. That sort of thing. Other than that my body has been a temple. A cold, empty, tedious temple.

As yesterday was my last day I had decided to not give a crap. Just eat or drink anything I felt like. But I did feel guilty. I mean, it's just one more day. Surely another 24 hours isn't that hard? On my way to Hitchin to record Precious Little I stopped off at Bagel Factory. I would delight myself with evil BREAD and nasty, filthy, dirty CHEESE and angelic, pure sun-dried tomatoes to take some of the guilt away. I knew I shouldn't be eating it and as I unwrapped the bagel I felt pathetic. So close to the end but here I am eating the very things I should be avoiding just so I can take away the taste of the horrible detox "drink" I have to force down my throat. I took one bite of the bagel and it tasted so good. And so bad. I put it back in it's wrapper to savour the bite all the more. Just letting that one bite of cheesy bready evil have beautiful, beautiful sex with my tongue. I looked down at the bagel lying there like a whore in it's wrapper and I was ready for another bite. That was when I received a message from God.

A bluebottle fell on my bagel.

It didn't land on my bagel. It didn't land on my bagel and then just fly away. Oh, no. It fell. It fell from the ceiling of London Bridge tube station. It fell. Dead.

There it was this dead, filthy, disgusting, germy, fat little animal. Right in the middle of my illegal breakfast. And it spoke to me.

"Don't eat any more, Michael", begged the dead bluebottle. "You only have one more day to go. You can do this. This bagel is so unhealthy. Full of wheat and starch and fat. Plus, there's a dead bluebottle in it. You can't eat it. Just one more day".

I don't normally take advice from dead bluebottles but this one made total sense to me. I folded up the wrapper and closed my friend, the dead bluebottle, up in it's bagely, wrappery coffin and placed him respectfully in his bin grave. There would be no unhealthy eating from me today.

Then James Hingley made me an egg and white bread toast. Like a stupid cunt. Thanks, James. Thanks for trying to kill me. It really makes me feel good to know that a dead bluebottle that I only knew for about 6 seconds cares more about my health than my "friend" does.

In fact, pretty much all of my friends have been cunts the last 5 days. I'm trying (and, admittedly, failing) at trying to be a little bit healthier and they've treated me like a fuck-shaped cake at a kids birthday party. John Voce stared at me on Wednesday night because I wasn't drinking and just said "I don't recognise you". Pretty much everyone I talked to about this stupid detox has screwed up their face and said "What are you doing that for?" like looking after myself is the most out-there and irrational thing that I could possibly ever do. Plus, I don't know why I'm doing it. Surely no-one really knows why they want to reject comfort food and comfort lager. I'm doing it because I was told to. No other reason.

And now it's over I shall go back to eating nightmares and drinking poisons and being happy. But maybe that's the real nightmare. I'll be honest with you, over the last 5 days I've really got a taste for beetroot and pulse salads. I like vegetarian sushi, plums, clementines, three-bean salads and water now too. And over the past few days I've been more energetic. Bouncy, even. Cheery. I...I...I've been really...cheery. Yesterday, I put on two different Converse's on my feet, blue on my left, black on my right, because I thought it was fun. FUN! The real nightmare is that I have no intention of stopping that. To put it in the clearest of terms so that each and every one of you will all totally understand, it's like I've regenerated from William Hartnell straight to Colin Baker.

God help us.

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