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I did go to bed at the end of a nine hour blitzkrieg of a birthday party uttering the words out very loud ‘GUTTED. FUCKING GUTTED. GUTTED’.

Not a good end to one’s do, you might think. But it was all going so WELL….or so I thought.

Over the past few days I’ve been travelling about town getting the party feedback. ‘crazed monkey’. ‘polly darton’. ‘erm, just saw gyrating and presumed you were kissing so couldn’t look at you anymore’ (wife). ‘fine, fine, you were like that with EVERYONE’ (husband).

But before this, I had been playing a cluedo of who it was I kissed. Someone inappropriate. Okay, there’s the three older guys. Could’ve easily been one of them. A woman. Easily. My ex. Easily. Someone else’s boyfriend. Maybe. My own brother. Almost certainly. A gay. Quite possibly.

But later when asking who the hell it was I went too far with in a kiss, my wife pipes up ‘maybe your ex-boyfriend, he was there at the end? Actually, it might have been me……….’ Had a feeling it was a woman. I finally kissed my fucking wife. And about time too.

But not my boy, no. he turned up at the same time as one of my faves, and there’s documentary evidence not only of me playing a sea shanty about anal sex to a room full of people wailing along, but pictures of us draped about each other. Which I don’t remember. And they’re on facebook. Thanks Johnny. With a picture I drew of him. Oh Christ, that isn’t going to help.

However, the faithful duke informs me that ‘it’s okay, you were like that with everyone. At the end you jumped from straddling lap to lap, man, woman and beast. So you acted normally. I’m very proud’.

This was after he gave me a full-on lecture of how I might ruin my party by hankering to the young thing’s needs. Of which he obviously has none.

It’s Sunday now. Countdown to my actual birthday. I feel remarkably sober and well for a has-been who has been pushing her liver through the paces for the last 48 hours or so….

The evening per sae ends after chocolate and guitar with Duke. On the way back from Duke’s I think about wine. My poor obliterated liver. Then I think about the wine shop. And the eastern European behind the counter. I like him, he slips right out of the chav wineshop-man category by his lineage. Fit. Slightly off. I go in when I’m pissed and want to grab him and take him with me with my knock-off merlot.

I walk in, feeling stoned and frisky. Ready for a bit of leering.

But be careful what you wish for when you’re on the starting line for an unconvincing rebound. It’s some fucking rancid long-haired beast behind the counter. And I’m alone in the shop with a flirty whiff coming off of me. And he’s playing Michael fricking Buble ‘I just haven’t met you yet’. How sodding depressing. I need to leg it out of the shop before the birthday blues hit me four hours early.

So, will he text me at midnight as I did him on his special day?

If he does, he’ll be a cunt. If he doesn’t, he’ll be a cunt.

no fucking cigar......

So, two blogs ago I had suffered the first crisis. Two weeks ago, seems like an eon. A big, glorious, mess of an eon. Marvellous. Oh, to wallow in one’s misplaced emotions. My favourite. As mr fish would say ‘at least yer living, most people don’t. you got the love pains, enjoy em.’ Amen.

Sick of reading about him yet? I fucking am. I would rather eat my own molars rather than listen to myself ranting on about the minor anymore. And I haven’t even had a wank since ingesting all of the substances god blessed us with over this, my birthday weekend. And that definitely ain’t usual.

Love is a disease, and my smear’s come up all smudgy.

Yes, I left you those two blogs ago somewhere round midnight on the 6 August as I remember. After his party. A washed out teenage affair, blow jobs and all. Coined the ball sack and perineum as well, so wasn’t all bad. But two weeks later, Friday 20 august, it was MY turn to have a party. And lo and behold, my boy is coming. It’s his turn to be a willing but slightly edgy guest.

Fantastic. Surround him with prolific beasts of the universe, from the farthest spread corners of my life. Let them poke, prod, speculate and harass him.

Erm. That’s not what happened:

Nine hours of running around in circles spinning a web of mystery. No quality conversation with a single person, but a plethora of activity with all. Trying to jump people’s bones. Oh, was I jumping donny, or dumping jonny?

The end of the evening arrived at four thirty am. Not bad. My hazarded guesses had been the one o clock respect, or the six o clock disgrace. Somewhere inbetween’s got to be good. It’s always that fucking third option (Shira).

A million texts the next day saying how prolific the happening was, and I’m stuck in my friend’s abortion nighty shouting ‘GUTTED. GUTTED’.

Because he stayed till last. He comes to the party, he chats and loves everyone, everyone chats and loves us together. It gets to the end of the night. Shall there be a cigar to finish with? It is my birthday after all, and I always say one should get laid within a week radius or one should pop ones clogs.

He plays me a new song. He can’t remember it. He’s fucked. I made the mistake of looking in the mirror after, and I’m fucked. Rank. Jesus may have been thirty three when he died but he did it well. I’m just the living dead.

He says, ‘oh it’s late, I’m fucked, I’ve got a fourteen hour shift tomorrow. I’ve got to find a bus or something and get home’. The guitar is a barrier. I am in full rapist mode. We go to the door. I force him to kiss me. Tis bad, tis awkward. He tells me to keep the book he gave me and not give it back. I take that comment as if that’s the last time I’ll see him. My gay friends take that as something meaningful. It’s his favourite book. It’s meaningful. It’s about rape, and I appear to already have that qualification. Bollocks, I say.

GUTTED. GUTTED. Alone on my near-comedown I don’t even wank. Worst party ending EVER. Wide-eyed psychotics telling me they’ve had the best time ever. The broken-hearted being kicked down the stairs. A 33 year-old trying to jump a 22 year-old unsuccessfully. And somewhere. On the other side of the universe, someone’s getting laid on their birthday. And I hate them.

-------------------------------------------------------------

after the party it's the after party........


I wake up. Have I even been asleep? Did I have a wank? No. Did I lose any of my bodily functions? No. it’s okay. The place is a plane crash. And I’m gutted. I’ve a good mind to send one of those terrible female neurotic texts ‘so, will I ever screw you again’, to the boy. But instead I waltz about the flat grinding my teeth, haplessly trying to separate be-cigaretted peroni bottles from scud for the recycling.

Duke calls. He’s a bit slurry. We sort a bit of wheat from chaff from the party and separate. Johnny London calls. He’s scarpered from the hotel for an indiscriminate reason and is going to come and down a bottle of moet and chandon with me, smoke spliff, play guitar and make movies of me stripping. Business as usual.

This is good. We are annihilated by 2. we go for food at a faux-swank restaurant and he shouts ‘thank you very much, I mean fuck you!’ as we leave. This town sure ain’t big enough for the both of us. Duke indulges us with guitar and spliff. We fall out of his flat into a so-called ‘festival’. A minging gaggle of felt-trousered, be-feather-capped losers. Oh for fucks sake, why dress like a nutter and act normally, surely it’s best to look like a porn star and act like a freak?

Johnny eats cake. I develop paranoia of bumping into random cunts I may know. We circle the joint and end up near the strange south american-sounding band. Their limp costumes not compensating for their shit music. But we get this party started. I place my zebra bag upon the floor. Then perform a pagan-cum-morrisman-circusperformer dance. A lot of risky jumping. Johnny joins me, smattering his feet upon the floor and somersaulting. People gather. Yes, we are the best act here.

A few near-pisses later we get to mine with eleven-quids’ worth of rancid cheese that we begged off an arrogant depressive.

And I can feel a funeral of love approaching. Impending doom. Heartbreak hotel. After telling me how much I must love the boy, and how beautiful it is I’m not bitter, the last goblet of cheap red wine that followed the moet, spliff, champagne, vodka, spliff and wine induced a different take on the whole shebang:

‘oh, fuck it, he’s a cunt. He’s making you unhappy. Wait until Tuesday, DO NOT TEXT TILL THEN, then ring him, rant and give him hell. If he falls in love with someone else between now and then it’s a piece of shit anyway. If he wants you, he’ll come back to you after. I know, cos I’ve been that cunt. Someone loves you and your ego wants to keep that. Well, he can’t – you’re too good for him’.

Now THAT’s what I’m talkin about.

I respond with the fact that although I may be too good for this child, this town is full of ugly nonchalant wankers, and despite not being with him, I still can’t help but wank over the poor bugger.

‘well fuck what you can then, and fuck them till they die’.

Amen.

I fucked the text you next tuesday plan within two hours when my muse texted me with a mundanity that I simply HAD to indulge.

If only he weren’t one in a million. Or if only I could find one of the other 59 fuckers in this arse end of a country…….

you give me fever….

Shit. I’m writing this two weeks later. Just finished an epic marathon of eight birthday blog specials, and realised there was over a week to fill. What have I been fucking doing? A lot of mourning, that’s what:

The Friday: crying at mr fish

The Saturday: supposed to grade for kick boxing. Feel like a piece of utter shit. In desperation end up in the bleak midsummer drinking free alcoholic ginger beer with a group of outsiders, then ready meal, whisky and tarot with my wife. Tarot as follows:

The fool
Seven pentacles
10 swords

Yes, a marvellous reading! The future is basically the most feared card in the pack. The future is fear. I fear the future. The advice? Lay down and take it. Accept defeat. I push this all aside, such is the wonder of interpretation. But it will bite me.

The Sunday: lay in bed till three. Get up, all gangly after not eating for about a week and walk over hill and vale to my mandolin player’s for a roast. Play a gig in a dark irish pub. Sing a song about doing it up the bum at some strange morose hippies; hailing originally from cornwall but now on a nationwide tour. To an open mic night. They now in London, and must have hit it big time. Forest hill. London? The boy pretends he’s coming down. I know I may never see him again.

The Monday: even bloody worse. What do I do? I decide by the end of the day I have to know. Yes, I have to see him. I text him to tell him I have to see him the next day. He doesn’t reply. Oh shit. I have to see him, this is horrible.

So I make a pact with myself. That even though it was the last thing I said I’d do, (no, not THAT), I’d text him in the evening if I had to. Samson soothed my troubled soul on the beach, and I dressed like a Russian prostitute for this last day. And then I bumped into obstrov. We cried in the Vodafone store. Another friend wounded by a past blog, though luckily redeemed in the next, and she invites me to an open mic night that evening. Had just been thinking a cup of tea with her would be nice. This must be destiny.

I go home. It’s time for the text. And that’s why I’ve been quiet. Such a sequence of non-happenings there never was. He’s a very clever one, that tricky fellow. Let’s not argue, hell, let’s not even talk. Let’s just make believe he’s letting me down gently.

Here we go with the texts:

G: something about being gallant and bidding my leave
J: something about pretending to be confused
G: don’t be. Something about screwing other people
J: understands. How very fucking kind of him.

So that’s it? I push my feet ahead of me and get out of the flat. To the open mic. A badly arranged huddle of people who look like someone’s died and play like someone’s about to. Sorry, can’t handle this. I’m off. Obstrov asks me why. Well, there’s a talented pianist who can sing, playing with a complete idiot of a man from Worthing who’s written tiresome songs and is croaking them out in a faux-madness style. What a fucking liberty.

Walking home I suddenly remember my usual haunt for a Monday, (oh how dangerous part-time working can be). I pop into the pub where a good friend of mine’s a musician running an open mic night.

And suddenly, I’m propped up on a stool, geetar in hand, half-baked, being begged for a song! I speak huskily into the microphone for the whole pub to hear.

‘I’ve just been dumped’. A wave of sympathy comes back at me. And I honk out a good un, oo yeah, a bittersweet one. The 26 year-old crumpet I’ve been harassing in preparation for the fall kisses me on the way out. Nothing like a bit of sympathy.…

Tuesday: I’m feeling pretty wretched. I’d stolen some of my mum’s codeine to get through my fever and emotional pain and I wanted more. The albino mork from downstairs has become my personal photographer, following my band around and getting some beauties.

Today he’s doing my portraits for his portfolio. I look godawful. Really bad. Dehydrated, old, post-fever and codeine. It’s the daytime. I don’t know what to wear. I decide destruction would be a good theme. Broken.

We smoke rollies and chat about stuff. It’s good to get an outsiders perspective. Then we snap away, lights and screens and all, chin down, eyes up, move to the left – a terrible version of Blow Up. With Freddie Krueger disguised as a young model.

Then kickboxing. I’m pretty ropey and gangly, oh yes, this grief thang is great for the weightloss. My instructor has me on my own at the end of class. She invites me to her wedding party. I want to cry. She asks how I’m feeling. I want to cry. I fake that it’s the fever, but it’s something far worse. She tells me the date of my first proper fight. How can good news sound so terrifying?

Wednesday: sometimes work has a purpose. A gauge of how you score against other people in the real world. By the end of the day I decide I’m ranking pretty high. Sweet distraction. Then I go to a party, my hips sticking out of my jeans. It’s hard to party when you’re sad, but we make a good job of it. Bump into an old mod friend of mine there from way back. It ends in amateur tarot, guitar lessons and the up-the-bum song.

All this time in limbo, not breathing. Not writing, not thinking. Frozen like a gnat in plastic.

The weekend brings my god-daughter’s first camping trip. A long train journey takes me through London where my feet feel good upon the grey pavements. God I love this city, it’s real, everyone’s on their own but bundled together. On a similar mental plane. Doing what they need to do to get through. Not wafting about taking pottery classes by the sea.

My best friendo’s read my last blog, as have a few others, so no need to bleat out the three-in-a-bin vignette. It’s raining. Everyone’s drinking apart from me. Six o’clock comes and I get on it. Thank god for other people feeding me. Slatherings of meat and half a bottle of vodka later, I’m feeling good around the soggy campfire. I didn’t bring my guitar, but never to be let down by my adoptive family, surrogate dad pulls one right out of the bag.

Turns out he was in a band when he was seventeen. Knows every single beatles harmony. So we crank up the ipod and have a good old go at it, letting off Chinese lanterns that burn and fade. The olds come to the rescue by telling me their failed dating stories. Aunty Maggie sits me on her knee in my now blim-burned mckenzie tracksuit bottoms, and tells me to talk to the boy, but not to sweep it under the carpet, or else in three months it’ll be the same.

I just want to sleep with him. I JUST WANT TO SLEEP WITH HIM. One worse thing than a woman scorned, and that’s a woman with her horn snubbed.

When I get home my wife tells me I must text the boy to find out the day of reckoning. We said we’d meet up to talk about it. We arrange thursday, the day before my stupendous birthday party. Not a good idea. But then, the whole thing was never such a great one….

Then, on the Monday whilst playing love exaltation songs with obstrov on the ukulele, he texts again. Wednesday. We have to both do open mic at a random pub on Wednesday. Is that a good idea? It will be late, and I’ll have been up at half six for work in London. To hell with it, go out with a bang, prepare a set of absolute disgrace and wail it at him. Then try and fuck him. Sorry, talk at him.

The thing is, what the hell are we meant to talk about? The fact he changed my world? That I’ll always be his cosmic friend to guide him? The day comes, and I have no words.

But I do have three songs. As follows:

1. Yoko. A song about laying him across my womanly knee cos he really brings out the cougar in me. Last played to him on mdma before we collapsed on the rug in fits of ecstasy and I lost my memory.
2. let’s follow that with ‘midnight’. A sweet, swing-style ditty about being in somebody’s arms at midnight, and baby, they’d better be mine.
3. Kiss. By prince. Country style. Come on!

What a trilogy! Though it’s the darkest, most macabre drinking establishment I have graced for many a year, the lesbians lap it up. I get offered a gig by the landlady. I feel petrified and terrible.

Now it’s his turn to blow me out of the water. Somehow he pulls off Amazing Grace and other such wonders, mumbling his name at the end like a true pro. The crowd want more. A short, fat, drunk, bald man with gout keeps touching me and saying if he was simon cowell the award would go to…..and it’s obviously fucking him, I mean, I can hardly play the guitar without smashing the windows, thank god for untrained ears. But no, fatty tells me, I have won. I slap him on the head and tell him it’s only because I’ve got tits.

So what now? Must be time for ‘the talk’. Hallelujah. But the boy is squirming, saying he’s supposed to meet a ‘friend’. Grrrrrrrrrr. No you fucking don’t. we go for a drink, guitars and all.

And he talks about strippers, books and other mundane shit, and I lap it up, every word like liquid gold falling short of my yearning body.

No talk. No chat. An episode in the toilet where I have a word with myself and my wife, results in my her telling me to walk away with a ‘fuck you, you can’t have me’ stance. But we’re together as we always are, and I can’t suddenly become this rooster.

We walk away together. There’s no cocky attitude, but there’s no cigar.

What is this? Where’s the elephant in the room gone? Are we supposed to be friends now? Not fricking likely.

Then the redemption. He’s coming to my birthday party on Friday. Yay! I can completely humiliate myself by trying to fuck him then too!

And he’s walked away from me, into the rain, into the park, and I onto the bus. Still feeling put out, but clinging desperately onto the fact that Friday I could be in love………….

party for one......

Dear readers, I find myself here tonight typing into google ‘will singed eyelashes grow back’.

Apparently, yes, in seven or eight fucking weeks. Marvellous. My friend obstrov would say it was me trying to tell myself something. What would that fucking be? Don’t get burnt…………..oh too bloody late!

Yes, readers, the inevitable has happened. Nearly. The plan was, hold off while the boy was away. Tick. Wait and see what happens when you actually get your hands on him. Well, sort of. The first night was great but I’ve been reaching my talons through silent waters in the seeing him much stakes. Distance. He’s backing off. And I found three used johnnies in his bin today. And then saw him with a girl. Marvellous, you could say I’m adding up events into an average, rather than seeing them as separate, unconnected happenings. Hmmmmmmmm, more herbal tea please vicar.

The next part of my oh-so-unsuccessful plan was the feeling that after a few weeks we’d have to have ‘a chat’. Well, this has now become ‘THE chat’, and gawd am I dreading it. Especially with only one set of eyelashes.

The miraculous mr fish gave me some excellent advice. I can’t remember any of it, but I felt good, and I walked out into the street after scrawling ‘you’re nobody till somebody loves you’ on his toilet door in eyeliner. Which I may need for my left eye. And I walked out into the street smack bang into my boy and a rather lovely young lady friend. Thanks for spending your daytimes without me. Thank you.

Bitter? Possibly, old and can’t be fucked with all this, definitely.

1. it’s okay, it’s okay, it’s all going to be okay. (denial)

2. Fly away little one! Off to your tossers in shit nightclubs. (anger)

3. maybe we’ll talk and it’ll be okay - everyone seems to think he’s into me and won’t let me go? And I do do an excellent blow job. (bargaining)

4. fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck. Might never fuck again. He doesn’t give a fucking fuck. Fuck. (depression)

5. (acceptance)

The singe, by the way, occurred at the accuseds’ birthday party. 22, what am I to do? Sit and procrastinate, write poetry, get stoned, learn Blur’s ‘to the end’ on guitar to drown people with at open mic, draw a picture of him and me from an amazing photo and obsess about various strange features he has and the way our bodies are interlinked, text the world, listen to Dolly Dagger and blog. That’s freaking what. God, is creativity about life or is life just all about creativity?

Haven’t blogged for a bit, and decided no more about this one. This thorn in my proverbial fucking side. This frigging muse. But hell, how creative!

So the chat comes next. Last time we had a 'chat' he upped his game....but I wasn't a bald-eyed old psychotic cunt back in them days. Shame...........shame that his beautiful penis reamineth not in his skinny jeans.

Last time I dumped myself? Hmmm........well my favourite time was a beauty. We got to my front door, I stepped inside, he stayed on the doorstep, and said:

'I can't see you anymore. I love you'.

Classic. They usually conk it or I shit all over them. This one's going to be a breaker. And the storm is coming, and I'm guessing he won't come under my umberella. There are no benefits to my doubts, watch this blog.....x