fight of the wrongchords

Is it just me, or does anyone else love a comedown? A creative low, a blur low? No?...

I’d be a manic depressive if I could only get the hang of this depression.

It’s good to be sad sometimes…….

Anyway, it’s been quite a week. Last Friday I took my honourable wife to Worthing for a dirty weekend. It was weird and dark, tinged with relationship breakups. She bought my mum flowers to take. They were dead…..

Which brings me swiftly forward to tomorrow. (linear time is for wimps). The young man leaveth to travel far and wide and stray from the good path. The lady doth not vanish……

How do I feel about him being away for six weeks? Gawd knows. I found this bit of paper I had to write to myself following a course on diversity and inclusion, and on it I’d written ‘hahahaha remember what you did on April 10’.

Remember, yes I do sir, I pulled the boy! So I’d written to myself trying to cheer my future barren self up with the fact I had squeezed the lovejuice from a near-minor.

Well I did, and I have been ever since, the poor fucker. I just thought one of us would have died by now, or something. But instead, he’s leaving me on the longest day, the shortest night, midsummer.

And in fact, tomorrow is daddy’s day. And he has a ‘complex’ relationship with his Mafioso sperm donor. And I will be with him and his mum, eating some kind of traditional food. Help.

I know I shouldn’t be a twat, I know it’s just his mum. I know it’s the only way I’ll see him anyway, and he isn’t bothered. But I don’t think mothers are my thing, that’s all.

Boyfriend number:
1. mother thought I was a slut. Used to smoke post-coital fags with his father in the kitchen in dressing gowns.
2. irish mother. Thought I was a slut. Once remarked she’d like daniel o’donnell’s shoes under her bed. Nothing in common. Banned me from the house.
3. horrible psycho mother. Lasagne and quiche. Volatile and sinister relationship with son. Goodbye.
4. dead mother.
5. dead mother.
6. dead mother. That one was a good one, he’d carried her to sleep paralytic at Christmas and the next thing she was dead. Broken boy. Good for sex and writing songs.
7. can’t remember many others

the point being that I really haven’t had that much practise at it, most look appalled, and this one has been described to me as ‘fragile’. Jeremy beadle, where are you now?

Sitting at a table (I sit on the floor), eating her food (I scavenge from bins), wanting to squeeze her son (11 years my junior). It’s going to be a breeze.

‘don’t worry about it’, he tells me. Oh, for a young-man brain transplant.

I told him I’d prepare my costume. I may as well annoy him as much as I can before he leaves. It’ll take longer to forget that way……………….

Anyway, for the rest of my strange and hectic week; Monday, pop video in the arches of london bridge. Indian trousers, fluorescent balloon, pissed stain doorway. Tuesday, dinner with the boy. Spat my food on the table and talked about bum sex and puking. Wednesday, open mic night with my wife – terrified the crowd into fear as I unleashed my untamed country powers on them. The rest is a blur.

So tomorrow comes, eh Ronan? I want to enjoy him, I want to enjoy me, but I fear that ejection from finishing school may make number 8 on the mother list

‘mother found clubbing cougar to death on the lawn’

You’d be crippled if it wasn’t for my constant kneading…….

So I told my Mum. 21. I told her I couldn’t talk to her cos I was in a van the other week, and her response was,

‘oo, that sounds exciting!’

Oo, that sounds exciting does it, being in a van? Does it? She must have smelt it; she knows I’m trouble, and she loves it.

When including her on my pentathlon of hour-long decision-making telephone calls, she told me that I, in fact, make better decisions than her. I do, do I? Dating a child with OCD and other animals……

She’s only ever fucked my Dad, you see. And they’re three years apart. No wonder I’m a bit odd, telling your daughter she should go with a man who was six when I was sucking off various drug dealers at Glastonbury.

Hilarious. She’s often commented that she’s only ever slept with my Dad. But they never came that close to divorce, I think that was just the menopause. Sorry, the man stop.

Perhaps she purposefully raised me as a slut. That’s what the boy calls me, dirty bird, slut.

I allowed myself the other night to lie on my rug when I was high on teenage weed, and let the love shower forth. I don’t let myself usually, you see. Hold that pain inside, sister.

What actually ended up happening is that I felt sexual energy surging from beneath me. The other night was starting to ‘cum’ back to me.

We’d scored some drugs with popping candy and glitter in, from a fat lesbian on a toilet. Which was a new one for him.

It was my little plan. What shall we do on Friday night? Dinner. Boring. Film. Boring. Pub. Stupid. Drugs and fucking. BRILLIANT!

I cajoled him back to mine with promises of music, guitars and as much neighbour nuisance as we could muster. I played him his fucking song I wrote, ‘I ain’t your Yoko’. He smiled and laughed a lot. And then he said

‘Right, let’s go to bed. Or not….’

At which point I recall……absolutely fucking nothing.

But the other night, lying on that rug, I felt sensations returning to me. Which was a bit inconvenient as it happens, because my mate was round for a feast of smashed meat dicker (it’s a bit like Bolognese). So getting the terrible horn off my rug was most inappropriate.

I wasn’t brought up right, y’know. I don’t say please, thank you or sorry. I confront my mum about it regularly, and the old fishwife just laughs. I told her I had delusions of grandeur recently, and she shrieked

‘you DO NOT’.

Classic, a girl with an inflated sense of self-worth, and my mother being appalled at the suggestion that she could have created such a monster. Unconditional love, eh? Can’t beat it……

I’ve renamed the teenage weed, by the way, to love weed……….

‘may you never lay your head down, without a hand to hold
may you never make your bed out in the cold’