Yes readers, sometimes ‘love’ transcends the boundary of a quick fumble behind the wheelie bins.
After dining on a ‘frugal foodies menu’ at a vegan restaurant, I spot my mum and dad sneaking into the chippie and coming out with sausage and chips, whilst I freewheel in the brusk wind along the promenade.
I love my family.
How good is that feeling when you can really be you, warts and all, with three over-60s who’ve just emerged from a sewer tour.
I said I couldn’t bear it – any whiff of sewage would flash me straight back to four months in India.
Vegan food, all well and good, but give me the protein…..
I mused upon becoming a pescatarian whilst in the land of a million gods, but then my hair started falling out, my periods stopped and I became so weak a dip in the ganges felt like murder (incidentally, on Good Friday I got robbed and on Easter Monday I nearly got raped, how’s that for a resurrection). As my good friend Johnny quipped, ‘oh, so you can rape the willing’.
On Tuesday I found myself browsing the shelves of the non-fiction section of the library. Am I sad? I thought. No, I’m wholesome girl at heart, belonging to libraries in over five London boroughs.
I think of myself as a piss-psychologist, and found Eric Fromm’s ‘The art of loving’. Solid as a rock, he died in 1980, so none of that ‘power of now’ bullshit for me.
There are sections including brotherly love (oo er, we’ve all been near someone’s brother), motherly love (suck that titty), erotic love (praise god all creation praise), self-love (masturbation), and love of god (oh for the love of god). Brackets mine, incidentally.
And it may be the first book I’ve read for a decade without pictures. (have trained travelling partner to quip in literary conflab ‘does it have pictures? No? then she won’t read it’). Rock on, Vonnegut.
I’m on page 11 already. And it is food for thought. The theory that we are all separate and as social beings need to interact, need that validation, and in a culture basing itself on consumerism, we only look at the tin, but don’t sample its contents. Have you tried Campbells meatballs? Catfood, but strangely moreish.
And all this coincides with a wedding I shall attend on the morrow. Received a surprise phonecall from the blusher, asking for a massive favour. To read a poem. Well, more of a futurist poem (fuck Goldsmiths, that means it’s shit). A performance poem. Here we go. Witch of the wedding scares guests into oblivion. Again.
It goes as follows (if you can’t be arsed skip this bit, I’d hate bad art diverting you from my blog):
love is love
(pause)
love is love love is love
(pause)
love is love because love is love and when love is love then love is love
love is love loooooooove iS louuuuuuuuuve
(pause)
as love is love love could only be love
(pause)
love is the love of love and love as love is love who love
love is (pause) love
(pause)
llllllllllllllllllllllllllllllooooooooooooooooooooooooovvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvveeeeeeeeeeeeee
is love (~)
(pause)
in fact love could only be love cauz love is love
(pause)
love is love love is love love is love love is love love is love love is love love is love love is love love is love love is love love is love love is love love is love love is love love is love love is love love is love love is love love is love love is love love is love love is love love is love love is love love is love love is love love is love love is love love is love love is love love is love love is love
(long pause)
love is what love is : love is a love love of a love love, love is the love who love the love but it's not the love who is not love because love is love as love in love... (pause)
(pause2)
LOVE IS LOVE (stronger)
LOVE IS LOVE (more stronger)
LOVE IS LOVE (loud)
LOVE IS LOVE (very loud)
love is love (nearly silent, twice)... (long pause)
(silence)
ovlesi velo ovel slo as loe is l tub so livo secuz vlevo sil vleo
(improvised singing)
eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeelllllllllllllllllllllooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooovvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvveeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiizzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooveeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee
(silence)
love is love as much as love could be loved, it is indeed a form of love where love is always love
the only aim for love is love, there is no other love than love, love is love
and as love is love love would always remain as love
(silence)
LOVE IS LOVE
Yes…………………………………………………………..well we’ll see what happens eh? I’m not practising it, and will perform from a scruffy piece of paper, possibly flashing my blood-stained panties. Christ help me if it ends up on youtube.
Anyway, the point of this section is that the bride happens to be the sister of the man who deflowered me. I’ve had to go a long way back to fulfil this blog, but this is the ultimate nostalgia.
And then he came to the phone. And then we talked for an hour whilst my neighbour flooded my kitchen. And now I’m persuading myself to fall in love with my memory of him, though it was I who shunned him way back when.
He wants to come and stay. I want him to come and stay. Effeminate, but far from so in the ‘area’ (mano for the Spanish amongst us), it can’t go worse than the choir boy. I say that now.
So in an amazing sequence of events, when I have decided to give up on the internet (again) whilst inhaling my own methane on the seafront, maybe love has come to me. Incidentally, I farted and then literally smelt roses. That was poignant, and could possibly have replaced a lyric of Morissette’s. If Morissette is the female subjunctive of Morrissey, then us ladies ain’t doing so good, and God knows I’m miserable now.
Anyway, had to fit the poo-poo really smells like ro-rosehes bit in somewhere.
Conclusions? As usual, none really, but I turn 32 on Sunday, and what was a wretched feeling is now one of vulgar hope. This is the year of the ex, (another one sending me a CD and having coffee next week). So be it. Will have to check my tarot deck, but I fear it has less to do with the Romanies and more to do with the rheumatoids.
Adios. Happy birthday me, (pray me a fuck) x
31/08/2009
140809 what doesn't kill you............
So this latest escapade, dear readers, does not involve sex. Well, unless you count a handful of half-dead Christopher Reeves-style winos telling me how pretty I look in my dress, whilst staring at my legs. She’s still got it.
To keep my aspirations high in this quaint seaside town, I embarked on a project with my friend Obstrovsky called Come Dine With Us.
Let’s get the locals to show off their talents, while tucking into a delectable three course meal in a BYO restaurant, we thought.
The planning was sporadic but thorough. I felt like a bore when holding a risk assessment meeting, but it will always be the unknowns that bite ya.
And bite they did! The fabulous Obstrovsky held true to her faith in humankind when I suggested that the bipolar manager’s friends could be twisted stewed old oddballs.
Our guests arrived – hers rather frumpy and overkeen (who was that tap-dancing pianist?) and mine supportive as ever, slightly grimacing at the prospect of what was to come.
Then his arrived. Late. Demanded the duck not on the set menu, which set my partner on fire.
“Look!” I hissed through grated teeth
“If they want to think they can ruin this thing then they can try, but I’m going to let them stew in their own juices”.
A bit of the old magic sorted that out – we opened a book on who would die first, Biggs or Thatcher, and I bonded ludicrously with some old tart who named herself Nellie Dean.
That was probably the most successful part of the night, though only a quick gesture on our part – be who you want for the evening, design your own badge.
Of course, I am the lovely lady godiva, but one of the old duffs wouldn’t answer to anything other than ‘loser’. Oh, how I enjoyed shouting that one in his face when demanding that he sat down.
I think it was at the point that someone spontaneously started dribbling out ‘my old man said follow the van’ that I realised we had given birth to Frankenstein’s monster. To my appallment, everyone joined in and kept telling me how great it was. I suddenly realised that we had drop-outs from Britain’s Got Talent, not the folkie talents we had dreamt of.
My day job is with the socially disadvantaged, and this was going to be one hell of a night shift. So I drank a whole bottle of red wine before the main, assumed a tragic alter-ego, and let hell break loose.
I remember, (just about), commenting to my dining partner ‘Orson Carte’, that one needn’t obtain special mushrooms nowadays to incur unnameable flashbacks at a later date.
Obstrovsky disappeared for the last two hours, leaving me and the other twenty to honk out all manner of twangy guitar tunes with Sandy the ‘chef’.
And they all keep talking about the next time…………………………
Snatching our cash from the till, Obstrovsky and I wandered stunned through the night streets, among showers of perseids hidden in the clouds, and did a quick stocktake.
‘I hid for the last two hours. You were brilliant. And cunning’, she told me.
Turns out a few of my other faces were required to round up the lost and drunken sheep, and she had been closely scrutinising my inauthentic actions.
One thing was clear. Never again. At least, not in a zoo where the owners friends are complete losers.
Favourite moment? The former owner of a stinkers pub reciting an epic poem about a lion called Wallace, (hopefully it was meant to be funny cos I was pissing myself), and an old trussed up turkey staggering outside for some stale air, finally having thought up a name for herself at near-midnight. Grace Jones. I’ve got the pic to prove it!
xx
080809 The spod, the brand and the choir boy
“To learn a lesson you have already learned is to not have learned it properly in the fucking first place”
Godiva 09
I’m not waiting on a lover……………..have you seen my lover baby, standing in the shadows?
No? Me neither.
What was promising to be a spectacular summer run has dwindled into a plate not worth eating. Oh yay, oh yay, I bring tidings not of joy.
So I turn to witch craft. Love potion number 9. Stand by the full moonlight and brew your worst, repeat some Wiccan words and focus on the one you love. Be sure it is the object of your desires, be careful what you wish for.
Pondering on this googled wisdom, I was forced to ask myself, who is this one I love? Haven’t a clue!
Be careful what you wish for, Godiva.
So the choirboy came to stay…………for four freaking nights. And not an ounce, not an ounce I tell you, of a snifter of cock. This despite having visited the sacred place of his previously, his thinking he’d knocked me up, and a near reconciliation, doused by his flatulence and my principles.
A few nights jamming late into the night left me hopeful. I told you in the last instalment it would go one of two ways……..banging him until the almighty told me to stop, or taking a restraining order out on myself to stop punching him in the brain.
Well guess which one, dear readers? That lovely latter!
He decided on a wobbly seafront walk home after licking lesbians fingers and crowd surfing through the wettest, gayest pride yet, to talk to me about the lack of sex.
It transpires that before chrimble when we fucked, he hadn’t had it since he was twenty one. That’s six years. I couldn’t hear it.
‘No expectations’ I growled. ‘I knew it would go one way or the other’.
Oh just leave will you? No. He wouldn’t. He cramped me in every way possible, smothered my burning flames with a damp shammy leather, I feared my fist would make contact with his head against my instruction.
Never again.
So that’s the lesson I already knew. Had to play it out. Don’t understand where the hell his head was at, but if there’s cock in my house it gets far closer to my bed. And that’s that.
So I realised with the witchety grubs that what I wanted was a good banging. Maybe even the dreaded fuck buddy. So I gave a moonlit focus to that.
And it may have paid off. I called off the internet date. ‘Funky physicist’ he calls himself. My latest song is called physics, and the choir boy ruined that as well, by pointing out the desperately horny hilarity of
‘The residue remains in me’. ‘Yes’ I say, ‘but it’s about the big bang you see.’
‘Big bang’. Indeed.
Anyhoo, in the song it’s saying it’s chemistry, not physics, and I thought I’d better heed to my own words.
The internet gimp in question was a Londoner who’d got in touch and spoken about sex in his profile. Tick.
He was down in Brighton doing a thesis in a lab about photons. Well they sound cool!
They do!
He wanted to meet but didn’t have much time, so we set an hour on Wednesday, short and sweet.
But dragging myself off the tennis court I felt done in, and couldn’t face resurrecting my tired old (birthday soon) body to the peace statue, where I’d set to meet him.
So I called it off in a text, saying it would be better when we both had the time, and he replied with a quip about buying me a great present, but Primark would take it back, light weight.
Very charming mr fucking physicist. The reason these creatures are on interweb dating is because they CAN’T SCORE GRLS IN REAL LIFE. Whereas, give me a room of men and I’ll have swept the floor in twenty minutes. Although obviously, I am having some kind of temporarily glitch………
Internet ain’t no good for me. They aren’t great in the flesh, chemistry can’t be faked, and only the booze can convince you to stick the tongue in.
Nup, I’d rather frig about with the agoraphobic who keeps offering me adult fun. He stays in his house, which means that I can leave.
How will this story end, I hear you cry? Her tangents are twisted and disgustable, and she’s clearly been reading Jeannette Winterson.
Today, I went to London for ‘work’. Which consisted of me nearly fucking a stationery representative over a desk, getting coke-high on coffee, telling various plump members of staff I loved them, and generally controlling the universe.
I feel good – borderline mental, but good.
I popped upstairs to find my beloved brummy pig-queen, the lift door opens and she walks right in! We agree to meet for ‘lunch’.
And we pop down to the river, the dirty old river, but it keeps on rolling.
Something is going on – there are vans parked either side of the cobbled walkway. I ask a man what’s going on and he says he’s busy, so in my new-found aggressive manner I tell him it would have taken as long just to tell me. Must stop watching people nutting each other on Shameless.
Anyhoo, we pop to an old haunt of mine – haunt because I have dumped several men there, and there’s a commotion outside. A film crew is busy setting up a scene in the outdoor seating area (sack the location scout), for a film called Take Me to the Greek, starring none other than the notorious Russell Brand!
And look, there he is, cocking his hips in front of me. The heart starts racing, so all that witchery by the window has paid off – I wish for sex, and the most talked about sex maniac appears before my very eyes! My pig-queen ex-boss stands shaking her head at me, ‘you’ve got a bit over-excited’. Oh yes I have. Imagine how no-strings this could be, and I’m not about to try and sell my story to Mr Morgan. Hell no.
I catch his eye, and he performs a peacockish mating dance for me, quivering his lips and his hips, raising his eyebrows. Before I know it, I have reached into my faux-designer handbag and snatched out an erotic calling card and am waving it at him suggestively. How about this for a lunch break?
Then he disappears on set. A craggy-toothed security guard stands gormlessly between the crowd and the brand. I give him the card and ask him to give it to Russell, meaning at an opportune moment, but he runs off there and then to purloin a piece of his manhood for me.
But he comes back, saying he only got as far as the PA. Hmmmmmmmm, reformed sex addict’s PA gets given a calling card from a random blonde. Let’s do a probability analysis. I decide not to, pat myself on the back for nearly doing well, and settle down to my fishfinger sandwich.
Work that afternoon flies by, shooting warning looks at the pig-queen not to once again reveal my outrageous behaviour to the solemn-faced housing executives churning away at their work stations.
I return to The Anchor for a second stalk-innings with me old faithful John of Tabard Square, I bump into little Amy Winehouse, my former gym fighting partner and good all-round pagan. She’d been texting me about seeing me and I’d evaded, but there she was, shouting out to me only because I’d been singing Furtado’s ‘I’m like a bird’ unawares.
‘I’m not important enough to you’, she said when I mumbled excuses of not ringing.
A few weeks ago I bumped into her whilst dribbling my way to the station after lovebox. It’s a small world, but this one makes it smaller. I knew the witching had begun.
Johnny and I take a seat on the patio and watch Brand filming. I try to block his shrieking voice from my head – this does not correlate with my hopes of outlandish acrobatic bonking, and eye him up continuously for half an hour. I leave to get my train, deciding he may have my calling card, and if I incessantly stalk him on twitter I could get a result.
Twas not the only witching I did today. My wife Loula, (travel and market wench), had been complaining of the same dilemma over the phone, ‘everything is a bit normal, where’s the witchery?’ And we knew we needed some, and she scored my head with a crystal and we stomped our way through the blues like unstoppable heathen-women.
Yes today is the day for witching, and witching I done good. Now I’ve just got to wait for that booty call..........................................
Godiva 09
I’m not waiting on a lover……………..have you seen my lover baby, standing in the shadows?
No? Me neither.
What was promising to be a spectacular summer run has dwindled into a plate not worth eating. Oh yay, oh yay, I bring tidings not of joy.
So I turn to witch craft. Love potion number 9. Stand by the full moonlight and brew your worst, repeat some Wiccan words and focus on the one you love. Be sure it is the object of your desires, be careful what you wish for.
Pondering on this googled wisdom, I was forced to ask myself, who is this one I love? Haven’t a clue!
Be careful what you wish for, Godiva.
So the choirboy came to stay…………for four freaking nights. And not an ounce, not an ounce I tell you, of a snifter of cock. This despite having visited the sacred place of his previously, his thinking he’d knocked me up, and a near reconciliation, doused by his flatulence and my principles.
A few nights jamming late into the night left me hopeful. I told you in the last instalment it would go one of two ways……..banging him until the almighty told me to stop, or taking a restraining order out on myself to stop punching him in the brain.
Well guess which one, dear readers? That lovely latter!
He decided on a wobbly seafront walk home after licking lesbians fingers and crowd surfing through the wettest, gayest pride yet, to talk to me about the lack of sex.
It transpires that before chrimble when we fucked, he hadn’t had it since he was twenty one. That’s six years. I couldn’t hear it.
‘No expectations’ I growled. ‘I knew it would go one way or the other’.
Oh just leave will you? No. He wouldn’t. He cramped me in every way possible, smothered my burning flames with a damp shammy leather, I feared my fist would make contact with his head against my instruction.
Never again.
So that’s the lesson I already knew. Had to play it out. Don’t understand where the hell his head was at, but if there’s cock in my house it gets far closer to my bed. And that’s that.
So I realised with the witchety grubs that what I wanted was a good banging. Maybe even the dreaded fuck buddy. So I gave a moonlit focus to that.
And it may have paid off. I called off the internet date. ‘Funky physicist’ he calls himself. My latest song is called physics, and the choir boy ruined that as well, by pointing out the desperately horny hilarity of
‘The residue remains in me’. ‘Yes’ I say, ‘but it’s about the big bang you see.’
‘Big bang’. Indeed.
Anyhoo, in the song it’s saying it’s chemistry, not physics, and I thought I’d better heed to my own words.
The internet gimp in question was a Londoner who’d got in touch and spoken about sex in his profile. Tick.
He was down in Brighton doing a thesis in a lab about photons. Well they sound cool!
They do!
He wanted to meet but didn’t have much time, so we set an hour on Wednesday, short and sweet.
But dragging myself off the tennis court I felt done in, and couldn’t face resurrecting my tired old (birthday soon) body to the peace statue, where I’d set to meet him.
So I called it off in a text, saying it would be better when we both had the time, and he replied with a quip about buying me a great present, but Primark would take it back, light weight.
Very charming mr fucking physicist. The reason these creatures are on interweb dating is because they CAN’T SCORE GRLS IN REAL LIFE. Whereas, give me a room of men and I’ll have swept the floor in twenty minutes. Although obviously, I am having some kind of temporarily glitch………
Internet ain’t no good for me. They aren’t great in the flesh, chemistry can’t be faked, and only the booze can convince you to stick the tongue in.
Nup, I’d rather frig about with the agoraphobic who keeps offering me adult fun. He stays in his house, which means that I can leave.
How will this story end, I hear you cry? Her tangents are twisted and disgustable, and she’s clearly been reading Jeannette Winterson.
Today, I went to London for ‘work’. Which consisted of me nearly fucking a stationery representative over a desk, getting coke-high on coffee, telling various plump members of staff I loved them, and generally controlling the universe.
I feel good – borderline mental, but good.
I popped upstairs to find my beloved brummy pig-queen, the lift door opens and she walks right in! We agree to meet for ‘lunch’.
And we pop down to the river, the dirty old river, but it keeps on rolling.
Something is going on – there are vans parked either side of the cobbled walkway. I ask a man what’s going on and he says he’s busy, so in my new-found aggressive manner I tell him it would have taken as long just to tell me. Must stop watching people nutting each other on Shameless.
Anyhoo, we pop to an old haunt of mine – haunt because I have dumped several men there, and there’s a commotion outside. A film crew is busy setting up a scene in the outdoor seating area (sack the location scout), for a film called Take Me to the Greek, starring none other than the notorious Russell Brand!
And look, there he is, cocking his hips in front of me. The heart starts racing, so all that witchery by the window has paid off – I wish for sex, and the most talked about sex maniac appears before my very eyes! My pig-queen ex-boss stands shaking her head at me, ‘you’ve got a bit over-excited’. Oh yes I have. Imagine how no-strings this could be, and I’m not about to try and sell my story to Mr Morgan. Hell no.
I catch his eye, and he performs a peacockish mating dance for me, quivering his lips and his hips, raising his eyebrows. Before I know it, I have reached into my faux-designer handbag and snatched out an erotic calling card and am waving it at him suggestively. How about this for a lunch break?
Then he disappears on set. A craggy-toothed security guard stands gormlessly between the crowd and the brand. I give him the card and ask him to give it to Russell, meaning at an opportune moment, but he runs off there and then to purloin a piece of his manhood for me.
But he comes back, saying he only got as far as the PA. Hmmmmmmmm, reformed sex addict’s PA gets given a calling card from a random blonde. Let’s do a probability analysis. I decide not to, pat myself on the back for nearly doing well, and settle down to my fishfinger sandwich.
Work that afternoon flies by, shooting warning looks at the pig-queen not to once again reveal my outrageous behaviour to the solemn-faced housing executives churning away at their work stations.
I return to The Anchor for a second stalk-innings with me old faithful John of Tabard Square, I bump into little Amy Winehouse, my former gym fighting partner and good all-round pagan. She’d been texting me about seeing me and I’d evaded, but there she was, shouting out to me only because I’d been singing Furtado’s ‘I’m like a bird’ unawares.
‘I’m not important enough to you’, she said when I mumbled excuses of not ringing.
A few weeks ago I bumped into her whilst dribbling my way to the station after lovebox. It’s a small world, but this one makes it smaller. I knew the witching had begun.
Johnny and I take a seat on the patio and watch Brand filming. I try to block his shrieking voice from my head – this does not correlate with my hopes of outlandish acrobatic bonking, and eye him up continuously for half an hour. I leave to get my train, deciding he may have my calling card, and if I incessantly stalk him on twitter I could get a result.
Twas not the only witching I did today. My wife Loula, (travel and market wench), had been complaining of the same dilemma over the phone, ‘everything is a bit normal, where’s the witchery?’ And we knew we needed some, and she scored my head with a crystal and we stomped our way through the blues like unstoppable heathen-women.
Yes today is the day for witching, and witching I done good. Now I’ve just got to wait for that booty call..........................................
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