Call me, Ishmael.

Call me, Ishmael.

I waited, waited, waited. Callmecallmecallmedammitcallme! [RingRing!] I grabbed my phone. "Ishmael?" Silence. "Ishmael, I know it's you. Tell me where you are! I'd do anything to

here your voice.." But no voice answered. Did I hear the a mournful whale song before the line was cut? I put a message in a bottle. "Ishmael call me! Call me anytime. call me."

I sat down on the shore & waited. I had no one else, didn't care about anything else. 6 months later, my bottle returned with Ishmael's message: "Need rescue. Use SAROPS. Luv u."

Luckily, Ishmael hadn't drunk the spiced rum in the bottle. I chugged, hell bent for leather. I was lost at the shore, no shelter, no food, I was going to get drunk and nasty

Just when Motorhead 's Lemmy joined me. He was also hell bent for leather. Better to not go out alone in this sordid place at one in the morning. Someone was murdered last night, a

it wasn't me, again. I knew as I made my way into the night with Lemmy, that I was pressing my luck with all this late night gallivanting after trim & booze. And the leather! Oi!

I never could resist Lemmy in leather, and he knew this. So it is he that I blame for my downfall. He made me leave my happy home, drink my life away and land in this gutter. Lemmy

wasn't a good guy, but what Lemmy lacked in moral fiber he made up for in gab. In 1945, my request for him to be my spiritual mentor was fobbed off. He knew how to turn me down.