What the holy moly has occurred?
Since I caterpaulted ‘all by myself’ to the world, every ex this inside of the M25 corridor and beyond has emerged from their hermit’s shell to show me their hairy underside.
In fact, there’s probably at least a two fist’s worth reading right now.
Hello boys.
Please don’t let this public airing deter you from your flailing plight.
I have found this rather curious. Since I’ve been spreading the word about this blog, the ex men have been forthcoming. It has crossed my deluded mind that it could be BECAUSE of the blog.
Have all of the men that passed me by, that I slung under the bridge, or that I thought I buried, finally GOT me? And now they want to get me?
Have they finally understood that the ‘closed book’, ‘tough bitch’ façade is actually the awesome front. And I don’t go out back, as you all know……..
That what there is to see here is a straightforward, impatient sex pest who wants not to be honoured, but obeyed and adored?
So I’ve got some men lined up on my bunsen burner. Burn, baby, burn, there ain’t no disco but I’ve got an inferno willing and able to be all-consuming. (cit. god)
Like a stack of dominos ready to floor.
Saving up my sexual energy until it burns so brightly that no odd-shaped phallus or peculiar accent will deter me from getting laid. Trying to build up an armour so that I don’t suddenly break down in the middle of an oral session, shouting GUTTED! GUTTED!
I thought I’d use afaux-holistic method to aid me in my quest.
In the corner of my bedroom, (the love corner according to old chinese masters),
is a small glass objet filled with rizlas. Very romantic, you might think.
And on these rizlas are written a series of names. I am ‘the collector’. I add to it daily. I walk about town stumbling into various sparks from the past, and something in them is drawn to my aching soul, and in return, they go in me sorbet pot. (Oh palate, be cleansed). I’ve taken care to ensure not EVERY cock out there goes in, as we don’t want to get an injury from the adage ‘be careful what you wish for’ camp, do we now?…..
The rizla chart, (in no particular order – not a chart really, is it?! Let’s do bullets instead):
• Neanderthal man.
• Ex-boyfriend from when I was 21. Still has own teeth. Hopefully still has the same genitals. Seen sniffing round me at my birthday party by cunning loiterer.
• Facebookers talking about bending me over, which include a now-married ex from my homeless days sending phwoarghs over the cyberwaves from new zealand, (thank you by the way), and the dutch tranny from india having a craic at a joke, (israeli men, hallelujah).
• The dealer from earlier this year. Stomping t’wards me in the street pointing in my oblivious face. Smackering my lips up and telling me I look good. I, completely bewildered after my ‘focussing’ meditation session, reacting by turning and making the universal sign of the ancient telephone and mouthing ‘call me’. Hideous, I must throw out those friends scripts. Has since texted me saying I need a spank. I do. Maybe not from him, though.
• Music producer. Groping.
• Film director. Staring.
And the newest entry, (who thank god, won’t be reading this YET), is possibly in at number one.
Walking over the railroad bridge, (oh PLEASE grant me an american-english license), hardcore and stacked in my fighting gear, I run smack bang into the cheeky playboy who used to front my brother’s band. His mate hides a DVD under his arm - ‘hot tub babes’.
The new specimen is sexy, shifty, has great presence, and would be an awesome and easy good lay I imagine. He sprogged one out with a Louise Redknapp looky-likey in her eternal days.
He kisses me, leaving cheap whore’s boudoir scent all over my soon-to-be-pumped body.
‘You look like you could cause some serious damage’, he says. That’s not the half of it, I think.
I say I’ll facebook him, and he yells his ridiculous lady-of-a-name across the bridge at me so I can look him up.
I facebook him. Apparently, he is looking for ‘random play’. Can do, my friend, can do.
And I have also been keeping up the home front with some new conscripts:
I have managed to command a whole bistro into a stunned and awesome silence by demanding that the barman pleasure me in some way, (red wine in a bloody mary?! I demand more) -: this shortly before conducting a war of credit cards belonging to two potential suitors, hands everywhere, (I forgot I had an arse for a few weeks).
We exited the bar three abreast, one man in each hand, but none in my bush.
I sleptwalked to co-op with no knickers on and got chatted up by a buff chav by chicken cottage. I was a beautiful sight to behold, apparently: hair unwashed for four days, mckenzie blim-burned baggies and flip-flops all on splendorous show. Whatever turns you on, honey. I’m yours.
But still I have ingested no cigar. And I want one, but I don’t want a half-smoked bum-end that’ll give me nothing but a clap-cough.
So I’m sticking to my latest mantra; ‘you only wank twice’.
And I’m hoping that I don’t get to the desperado point and sink a few mingers, but that I’ll come to my senses before they become inundated with mismatched hormones, and teabag a good ‘un instead…..
And if there be no horn of plenty, I’ll stick to my mantra till there is.
‘Oh the cum on the sheets is all mine, all mine, the cum on the sheets is all mine’.
17/09/2010
sweet tuesday
Ah, sweet tuesday! What a day!
I dress in my pre-conceived lady’s costume – a dark-patterned shift dress, shock-whore primark tights, high heels with glue coming off the soles, a boyfriend (ha!) cardigan and some knock-off shades from the lloyds pharmacy. And a bra. Of course. My lady costume, my woman-in-drag.
I mean to visit the dentist down the road, who I leap about with on Monday nights at the open mic, and who used to be in Queen, to sort out me railings, but a forty wanksworth, strums and cursors later and I’m having to get a shifty on for my one o’clock.
Yes. My one o’clock.
Glory be, I am a writer! Poor, destitute and misunderstood. A writer.
Colvich calls for a ladies’ coffee. I decline. I have a one o’clock. Then my one o’clock calls and leaves a message. It’s going to be a one-thirty o’clock. Far less fucking catchy I think you’ll agree.
And though I’ve sacked off the rock star dentist I will not let time defy my new-found persona, so I jig my mental diary and decide to pay a visit to that well-famed establishment: le primarche. To buy tights. Without holes in the crotch.
I have light-grey ribbed numbers in mind, a bit convent-girl-cum-sensible-Kensington type tights.
I walk in. The security guard looks at me - I don’t belong. Thank god, (did I mention I’m religious?) I head upstairs to find that the hosiery section is actually by the ‘customer serving area’ downstairs. Still undefeated by this moroccan abattoir of a place, I join the long queue. Last time I did this I got sandwiched between an ex-client of mine, (no, not one of THOSE), and an ex flat-mate; physically challenged, mentally deranged, and a downright pain in the non-proverbial arse.
Not this time.
Instead, a deaf girl straddles the queue like a deranged donkey, and stands at my left shoulder, hyperactively yabbering at me that her mum will be home soon so she must get to London Road, and will this god-awful plastic-wrapped polyester travel bag fit in the overhead lockers on a non-existent american plane?
‘Should be fine’: I desperately attempt to dampen and thwart.
But she doesn’t stop. Obviously a regular bearded lady at this festival of freaks, she harasses everyone in the queue whilst I desperately search for my holy grail. The schoolgirl tights. Of which there are none, of course. Disturbed and breathless, I grab a two quid pair of 80 deniers. They are hideous, but hide they will in the cupboard for a couple of years, a decade or so.
Shaken but not stirred by my bystander’s ordeal, I get to the checkout. I receive a text. From the Neanderthal.
‘hello x’.
For frigs sake, what IS this? My ex-flatmate who knocked up the next girl who moved in, that’s who. The one that I let not enter me, but massage me with mango stones we had slurped upon. The one who now lives in nowheresville with the girl who moved in, with two offspring.
The one who facebooked me, and I simply replied, ‘that’ll teach you to wear condoms’.
I laugh, and the lady at the till looks at me enquiringly.
‘It never rains, does it?’ I say curtly, hoping she’ll mechanically digest my comment, sedated by her besludged primarched brain cells.
‘Oh dear love, hope your day gets better’.
‘No, no’, I quip. ‘I’m just not sure what these people WANT from me, you know?’ *wink* She shrieks. It appears I appeal to a wider audience these days.
As I turn to haughtily scarper someone calls my name. It’s only bloody colvich in the queue! And I’ve got half an hour…….
I wait outside. I text the Neanderthal back saying I’m busy. Colvich and I bribe the bootmakers into giving us a cheap deal, then plonk ourselves down for a cheap filter coffee and shared sarnie (what a rank word).
We talk about universal vibrations - not of the purple pulsating kind - how the vibrations you transmit to the ethos will attract back the very same.
Hence the ex men jumping out at me from all frigging corners. Hence the creative bursts, like economy sausages splitting when fried . Wonderful.
My one-thirty arrives. He calls me whilst I’m in the chapel of slump and asks if I am doing a dump. I say I am. He tells me my hair is so dry it’s going to catch fucking fire if I don’t do something about it. I tell him he smells of milk. He does.
All the best men do (used to think it was too many cups of tea).
We have a brief but mystifying literal exchange, shake on some deadlines, then he has to leave to visit someone who’s dying of cancer.
We trot up the street together arm in arm. He asks me if it still feels like walking through soho with my dad. I say no. I say it feels like, it feels like walking in the world: two super human-beings.
I head to mr fish’s studio to ask for his help in knifing a portrait, but it’s shut. What now? The library, of course, you arrogant writing tit. You blogging bastard. I look for pahalniuk. They only have a copy of Lullaby that looks like someone’s wiped a years-worth of bogeys, done a massive guff on, wiped up their spunk with, and hurled under an Indian bus, and I decide there’s enough stains on my carpet as it is.
I like this new lady godiva, artist-in-residence, nonsense.
It all started with a drunken tarot reading – the fool in the past, the creator in the present, and the woman with one tit out in the future. Yes. The queen of wands. Or godiva, if you think about it.
My wife explains its witchety meaning: apparently it’s the choice between acting like a cheap tart or becoming a lady. Lady godiva.
And to the world’s wonderment, I’m headin straight t’wards that second option.
I test out the theory formed after my ‘focussing session’ with mistress white the tai chi guru. I say that although we dress all blokey so we can squirm about in the mud, people still stare at us because we’re those people nutters love.
I ruse how perhaps they stare at my tracksuit bottoms because actually, it’s more normal to wear a skirt. I say how maybe if we dress like ladies we’ll be ignored. (They actually stare at me in my tracksuit bottoms because my greedy buttocks keep peeping out).
Well………..the slack/skirt theory remains unproven, I’m afraid.
Several men wobble off their bikes at the sheer sight of me in my get-up.
A strapping american basketball player stands with his mouth open, gawping at me strutting along the promenade in the sun.
He speaks:
‘Now, THERE goes a pretty lady’.
What is this, fucking Oklahoma?
‘You’ve made my day’.
‘Thanks’, I smirk back.
Suddenly he turns desperado:
‘Actually, have you got a minute’.
‘No. Sorry’, I say.
And I haven’t: I have to read the erotic review, have a wank, then beat the shit out of a room full of testosterone-fuelled animals. Sorry!
Shortly after this I have to cross the road to avoid two moustachioed men blocking my path.
I’m wondering if they know I’ve got peacock’s leopard-print pants on under my frock, and that the tights I’m wearing have a hole so big in the crotch another tiny rip would bring me to my knees…
And as I’m thinking this – (it’s not the first time - I remember walking down zombie alley in some short-shorts once, thinking the punters were getting an eyeful, when in fact I had all my clothes on inside out, labels and all), someone has the generosity to lean out of their car window and shouts,
‘nice tights’.
Oh fuck. It’s the hole in the tights, isn’t it? What the hell do I look like from behind in the glaring sunlight?
Oh bloody hell, has my crotch-hole wormed it’s way into view?
This ain’t no lady! It’s a walking advert for incontinence pads.
I rush into my spaceship. I clamber onto the side of the bath, the only way to see below the waist in a mirror.
And it’s fine.
There is no hole. (There was no blanket).
Nada. Hola. (ever the linguist) Nada. Blanket. (cit. derek and clive)
Yes. Ever the cunnilinguist….
And ever a lady who knows how to work a good pair of pantyhose..…….Gx
I dress in my pre-conceived lady’s costume – a dark-patterned shift dress, shock-whore primark tights, high heels with glue coming off the soles, a boyfriend (ha!) cardigan and some knock-off shades from the lloyds pharmacy. And a bra. Of course. My lady costume, my woman-in-drag.
I mean to visit the dentist down the road, who I leap about with on Monday nights at the open mic, and who used to be in Queen, to sort out me railings, but a forty wanksworth, strums and cursors later and I’m having to get a shifty on for my one o’clock.
Yes. My one o’clock.
Glory be, I am a writer! Poor, destitute and misunderstood. A writer.
Colvich calls for a ladies’ coffee. I decline. I have a one o’clock. Then my one o’clock calls and leaves a message. It’s going to be a one-thirty o’clock. Far less fucking catchy I think you’ll agree.
And though I’ve sacked off the rock star dentist I will not let time defy my new-found persona, so I jig my mental diary and decide to pay a visit to that well-famed establishment: le primarche. To buy tights. Without holes in the crotch.
I have light-grey ribbed numbers in mind, a bit convent-girl-cum-sensible-Kensington type tights.
I walk in. The security guard looks at me - I don’t belong. Thank god, (did I mention I’m religious?) I head upstairs to find that the hosiery section is actually by the ‘customer serving area’ downstairs. Still undefeated by this moroccan abattoir of a place, I join the long queue. Last time I did this I got sandwiched between an ex-client of mine, (no, not one of THOSE), and an ex flat-mate; physically challenged, mentally deranged, and a downright pain in the non-proverbial arse.
Not this time.
Instead, a deaf girl straddles the queue like a deranged donkey, and stands at my left shoulder, hyperactively yabbering at me that her mum will be home soon so she must get to London Road, and will this god-awful plastic-wrapped polyester travel bag fit in the overhead lockers on a non-existent american plane?
‘Should be fine’: I desperately attempt to dampen and thwart.
But she doesn’t stop. Obviously a regular bearded lady at this festival of freaks, she harasses everyone in the queue whilst I desperately search for my holy grail. The schoolgirl tights. Of which there are none, of course. Disturbed and breathless, I grab a two quid pair of 80 deniers. They are hideous, but hide they will in the cupboard for a couple of years, a decade or so.
Shaken but not stirred by my bystander’s ordeal, I get to the checkout. I receive a text. From the Neanderthal.
‘hello x’.
For frigs sake, what IS this? My ex-flatmate who knocked up the next girl who moved in, that’s who. The one that I let not enter me, but massage me with mango stones we had slurped upon. The one who now lives in nowheresville with the girl who moved in, with two offspring.
The one who facebooked me, and I simply replied, ‘that’ll teach you to wear condoms’.
I laugh, and the lady at the till looks at me enquiringly.
‘It never rains, does it?’ I say curtly, hoping she’ll mechanically digest my comment, sedated by her besludged primarched brain cells.
‘Oh dear love, hope your day gets better’.
‘No, no’, I quip. ‘I’m just not sure what these people WANT from me, you know?’ *wink* She shrieks. It appears I appeal to a wider audience these days.
As I turn to haughtily scarper someone calls my name. It’s only bloody colvich in the queue! And I’ve got half an hour…….
I wait outside. I text the Neanderthal back saying I’m busy. Colvich and I bribe the bootmakers into giving us a cheap deal, then plonk ourselves down for a cheap filter coffee and shared sarnie (what a rank word).
We talk about universal vibrations - not of the purple pulsating kind - how the vibrations you transmit to the ethos will attract back the very same.
Hence the ex men jumping out at me from all frigging corners. Hence the creative bursts, like economy sausages splitting when fried . Wonderful.
My one-thirty arrives. He calls me whilst I’m in the chapel of slump and asks if I am doing a dump. I say I am. He tells me my hair is so dry it’s going to catch fucking fire if I don’t do something about it. I tell him he smells of milk. He does.
All the best men do (used to think it was too many cups of tea).
We have a brief but mystifying literal exchange, shake on some deadlines, then he has to leave to visit someone who’s dying of cancer.
We trot up the street together arm in arm. He asks me if it still feels like walking through soho with my dad. I say no. I say it feels like, it feels like walking in the world: two super human-beings.
I head to mr fish’s studio to ask for his help in knifing a portrait, but it’s shut. What now? The library, of course, you arrogant writing tit. You blogging bastard. I look for pahalniuk. They only have a copy of Lullaby that looks like someone’s wiped a years-worth of bogeys, done a massive guff on, wiped up their spunk with, and hurled under an Indian bus, and I decide there’s enough stains on my carpet as it is.
I like this new lady godiva, artist-in-residence, nonsense.
It all started with a drunken tarot reading – the fool in the past, the creator in the present, and the woman with one tit out in the future. Yes. The queen of wands. Or godiva, if you think about it.
My wife explains its witchety meaning: apparently it’s the choice between acting like a cheap tart or becoming a lady. Lady godiva.
And to the world’s wonderment, I’m headin straight t’wards that second option.
I test out the theory formed after my ‘focussing session’ with mistress white the tai chi guru. I say that although we dress all blokey so we can squirm about in the mud, people still stare at us because we’re those people nutters love.
I ruse how perhaps they stare at my tracksuit bottoms because actually, it’s more normal to wear a skirt. I say how maybe if we dress like ladies we’ll be ignored. (They actually stare at me in my tracksuit bottoms because my greedy buttocks keep peeping out).
Well………..the slack/skirt theory remains unproven, I’m afraid.
Several men wobble off their bikes at the sheer sight of me in my get-up.
A strapping american basketball player stands with his mouth open, gawping at me strutting along the promenade in the sun.
He speaks:
‘Now, THERE goes a pretty lady’.
What is this, fucking Oklahoma?
‘You’ve made my day’.
‘Thanks’, I smirk back.
Suddenly he turns desperado:
‘Actually, have you got a minute’.
‘No. Sorry’, I say.
And I haven’t: I have to read the erotic review, have a wank, then beat the shit out of a room full of testosterone-fuelled animals. Sorry!
Shortly after this I have to cross the road to avoid two moustachioed men blocking my path.
I’m wondering if they know I’ve got peacock’s leopard-print pants on under my frock, and that the tights I’m wearing have a hole so big in the crotch another tiny rip would bring me to my knees…
And as I’m thinking this – (it’s not the first time - I remember walking down zombie alley in some short-shorts once, thinking the punters were getting an eyeful, when in fact I had all my clothes on inside out, labels and all), someone has the generosity to lean out of their car window and shouts,
‘nice tights’.
Oh fuck. It’s the hole in the tights, isn’t it? What the hell do I look like from behind in the glaring sunlight?
Oh bloody hell, has my crotch-hole wormed it’s way into view?
This ain’t no lady! It’s a walking advert for incontinence pads.
I rush into my spaceship. I clamber onto the side of the bath, the only way to see below the waist in a mirror.
And it’s fine.
There is no hole. (There was no blanket).
Nada. Hola. (ever the linguist) Nada. Blanket. (cit. derek and clive)
Yes. Ever the cunnilinguist….
And ever a lady who knows how to work a good pair of pantyhose..…….Gx
10/09/2010
something for the weekend….
I decided that as part of my rehabilitation programme I should go to London to hook up with my Cannes-partner. He knows me well, and knows nothing of the boy.
I stop off at the world’s end co-operative supermarche to buy some plonk and am delighted to be surrounded by other crawling insects ravaging through the reduced ready meals. These chelsea chavs are the best in the world – an eastern european wears a kappa tracksuit with some gang name written on the back, and carries a small wide-eyed human. Out of my spaceship and into the void…..
I crack open the vino immediately. I mix it with soda in the pretence it will err a hangover. I haven’t had a drop since ‘see you next tuesday’ or ‘maundy wednesday’ for that matter. It goes to my head. It goes to my brain. It goes to my legs. A few hours later and I’m in a delirious whirlwind of confusion in a local drinking establishment. You couldn’t write it. The guests at our table are the following:
• Two Glaswegian make up artists and their dog. I tell them about jimmy who was also a Scottish make-up artist. Who hung himself. Cheery.
• Some bald-headed creature blurting out Melinda Messenger at me. Unwise.
• A strange delicate but drunk old lady and her family. Quaint.
Woah, this is a hardcore homecoming. We go back to tim-na-nas for copious random amounts of booze. Colvich and the tonemeister turn up for the craic. We yabber about my party and my blog, and suddenly they’re gone. And some new conscripts stagger in through the front door as colvich and tone disappear out the back. Who’ve we got this time? Extremely drunk people. I vulture on a few of them; and as I have no idea what language is, let alone what I’m saying, my attack is preyless.
And the rest of the night is a bit of a blur, and not of the tender kind. Puking was involved, as were failed acrobatics. Somehow I managed to have a shower, get into my moo moo and half-make the sofa bed. And pass out. That was the easy bit. Some time later I feel my right calf completely seize up into a crampic spasm, and I’m so pissed I don’t wake to sort it out.
I turn to my right and there’s someone on the sofa with me, saying, ‘I shouldn’t stay’, and other various deluded ramblings. Fucked, I opt for the old ‘it’s alright babe, it’s alright’ (last uttered whilst pissing in someone’s doorway delirious on mdma).
And it’s the morning. And my innards break and my womb-lining lunges spurting forth. And I’m not sure of my name or how I got here.
The kings road is a familiar place for me in this state. I love the poshness mixed with the wonkiness of the horse-bred folk that frequent it, and have my own special trot. There’s a juncture with my mother’s maiden name and married names as streets either side. I feel good here.
I canter into boots to buy some compacted cotton wool to stick up my plethora, and go to the till, proud of my soon-purchases. I demand attention. A beautiful dark-skinned creature emerges from out back, beautiful wide smile, big eyes, suit. He doesn’t seem to be able to work the till, but by God, he does a good job of working me.
And I sing to myself in a distracted, ship’s-skivvy kind of way.
‘you’re deep in tune’. He says.
‘you what?’ I say.
‘deep in tune, I’m trying to work out what you’re singing’.
‘Bonnie Raitt, can’t make you love me’, I pipe back.
‘Oh, I thought it was singing in the rain!’
So he’s completely uncultured but willing to have a go. Excellent. A perfect specimen for the job. I educate him on the awesome film, of which all he knows is that ‘it’s old isn’t it?’ and I demonstrate the sloshing tap dance for him excitedly up and down the aisles. Not bad seeing as I was just trying to plug a hole.
This reminds me of the time I cautioned my friend that if she played ‘lord of the dance’ at her wedding I would gallop up and down the pews lifting my hideous lilac skirts. I think we ended up with ‘make me a kennel with your fleas’. Or was it fleece? I don’t remember.
I move onto another establishment where the ladies go to hide their loneliness and spend on credit cards that lurk in their subconsciousness. The shop assistant is a young chav. But a fit one. I force him to help me. He invites me to a special evening. I decline as I’m not a local, but this second booster is making me feel a million miles from my lonely attic by the sea.
People pass by, they’ve got their troubles, I’ve got mine, but we appreciate it’s okay to be a human. In Chelsea. A few art books and a mocha later and I decide it’s time to venture over the river to my beloved Johnny London. I shan’t be having a drink, of course…..
Now the Borough is an awesome place. But it’s real, and I’m planning on getting the cranky misfits bus from sloane square to elephant. Which is a bit of a come down. I get to the bus stop and run – it’s a Sunday but the bus is there! Now it’s gone…..No bother, I’ll keep on wanderin like the hobo I am. I wonder if my oyster is loaded, but I can’t face any more transactions today, so chance it.
I keep on walking. Past ‘John King’ antiques in Pimlico to Buckingham Palace Road. To get the other chavvie bus that will drop me at the end of my old road. Plan.
It’s windy, yes even in London it’s windy, and I’m not sure if it’s this that’s making my eyes leak. I decide to take advantage of a bit of weather and turn it into a ‘woe is me’ weep. And after ten minutes or so the bus comes. A girl in a lovely dress gets on, and I think I’ll tell her how lovely she looks. But I’ve got to get past the scary Chinese bus driver first.
I get my oyster card out. I bleek it. The light remains red. I look at mr driver. He’s not budging. I get my wallet out. There’s 31p. I look, imploringly this time, at the driver. He stares at me steelily and shrugs.
‘I, I haven’t got any money’, I stammer. He shrugs again. And before I turn with my tail between my legs and exit the bus, a large glob of boo-snot drips from my nose onto the floor. As I stare at the driver dejectedly. How low can you go?
Undeterred by this should-be humiliating experience, I walk to Victoria, stick some cash on my oyster and waste time waiting for the next bus, whilst the person I’m visiting wheels it up to the backstreets of Shoreditch to score. An epic journey. I cry romantically, staring out of the window as I used to do when I was five and projecting along to sir Clifford. At one point I’m more or less in the lap of the larger lady beside me. Oh how sweet it is to wallow in London where no one knows your name.
And I wonder whether I’ll be morose and emotional for my Johnny tonight?
Not a chance. A bottle of cava and some green later and we’re off. Into a creative carcrash with the wonder that is garageband.
He’s written a song, mock-donna summer, called discoeey7, which we quickly rename discojam. What a godawful name. To match a godawful song. I gratingly wail ‘sexy boy, I want sex boy’ over the top of the 80s uplifting groove as he growls ‘sex on demand, sex on demand’. And then we splutter for a bit and stop recording.
It is a fucking wreck. We delete it, knowing that although we couldn’t face our failure ever again, it would have been priceless in the morning.
After another pass-out it’s bank holiday monday. We spend it flatly, dining on overpriced urban eggs served by a jaundiced bulgarian. We head uptown to soho to look for guitars, finding the shops all shut. We neck a quick vodka in the street and visit noel fielding’s art exhibition at maison berteaux. We came here once before, and left running with a certain kleptomaniac and original canvas to boot.
This time there’s a room full of homage to Bryan Ferry, and protruding from the wall is a painting that stops me dead in my contented tracks. It’s a tiger. The boy loved them. And it’s called ‘tyger with chlamydia’, and the tiger wears boots and says ‘shit off’.
That evening I’ve scored myself a gig. With some amazing irish musicians I used to beatbox with back in the day. We meet at the local pub we’re playing in and after a few buckets of wine it’s my turn to croon. I honk out ‘black is the colour’ in anti-traditional rusps. The audience stare, and ask me who exactly’s version is that? Johnny scarpers. Godiva drinks more port.
And when we’ve warmed up we do well. The old drunk at the bar pipes out ‘where do you go to my lovely’ for the 942nd time this year. The owner joins in. A small midget-like man in a suit strums ingeniously on the ukele and we ooze along with him in glorious celtic technicolour.
And suddenly it’s half-two in the morning. And me and the mighty quinn are standing bedazed waiting for her nightbus that will surely become a minicab without a fairy godmother.
And I’m standing on the corner of my old street, with the lamplights running low and the skyscrapers omitting moody green light over the pavement. And I remember that this is where my lover once left me, smiling and waving, for the last time before he hung himself.
And I stagger off to bed, seeking respite in the warped mattress where me and the boy joyously ejaculated a few months before.
And I ask my saviour, the lord Johnny, to redeem my soul. And he tells me,
‘yes, you did fuck him in that bed, but you also fucked a hell of a lot of other people in that bed’.
And with that, I resolve to not fuck myself up too much more:- a bright, garagebandless morning awaits me and my new life beckons….
I stop off at the world’s end co-operative supermarche to buy some plonk and am delighted to be surrounded by other crawling insects ravaging through the reduced ready meals. These chelsea chavs are the best in the world – an eastern european wears a kappa tracksuit with some gang name written on the back, and carries a small wide-eyed human. Out of my spaceship and into the void…..
I crack open the vino immediately. I mix it with soda in the pretence it will err a hangover. I haven’t had a drop since ‘see you next tuesday’ or ‘maundy wednesday’ for that matter. It goes to my head. It goes to my brain. It goes to my legs. A few hours later and I’m in a delirious whirlwind of confusion in a local drinking establishment. You couldn’t write it. The guests at our table are the following:
• Two Glaswegian make up artists and their dog. I tell them about jimmy who was also a Scottish make-up artist. Who hung himself. Cheery.
• Some bald-headed creature blurting out Melinda Messenger at me. Unwise.
• A strange delicate but drunk old lady and her family. Quaint.
Woah, this is a hardcore homecoming. We go back to tim-na-nas for copious random amounts of booze. Colvich and the tonemeister turn up for the craic. We yabber about my party and my blog, and suddenly they’re gone. And some new conscripts stagger in through the front door as colvich and tone disappear out the back. Who’ve we got this time? Extremely drunk people. I vulture on a few of them; and as I have no idea what language is, let alone what I’m saying, my attack is preyless.
And the rest of the night is a bit of a blur, and not of the tender kind. Puking was involved, as were failed acrobatics. Somehow I managed to have a shower, get into my moo moo and half-make the sofa bed. And pass out. That was the easy bit. Some time later I feel my right calf completely seize up into a crampic spasm, and I’m so pissed I don’t wake to sort it out.
I turn to my right and there’s someone on the sofa with me, saying, ‘I shouldn’t stay’, and other various deluded ramblings. Fucked, I opt for the old ‘it’s alright babe, it’s alright’ (last uttered whilst pissing in someone’s doorway delirious on mdma).
And it’s the morning. And my innards break and my womb-lining lunges spurting forth. And I’m not sure of my name or how I got here.
The kings road is a familiar place for me in this state. I love the poshness mixed with the wonkiness of the horse-bred folk that frequent it, and have my own special trot. There’s a juncture with my mother’s maiden name and married names as streets either side. I feel good here.
I canter into boots to buy some compacted cotton wool to stick up my plethora, and go to the till, proud of my soon-purchases. I demand attention. A beautiful dark-skinned creature emerges from out back, beautiful wide smile, big eyes, suit. He doesn’t seem to be able to work the till, but by God, he does a good job of working me.
And I sing to myself in a distracted, ship’s-skivvy kind of way.
‘you’re deep in tune’. He says.
‘you what?’ I say.
‘deep in tune, I’m trying to work out what you’re singing’.
‘Bonnie Raitt, can’t make you love me’, I pipe back.
‘Oh, I thought it was singing in the rain!’
So he’s completely uncultured but willing to have a go. Excellent. A perfect specimen for the job. I educate him on the awesome film, of which all he knows is that ‘it’s old isn’t it?’ and I demonstrate the sloshing tap dance for him excitedly up and down the aisles. Not bad seeing as I was just trying to plug a hole.
This reminds me of the time I cautioned my friend that if she played ‘lord of the dance’ at her wedding I would gallop up and down the pews lifting my hideous lilac skirts. I think we ended up with ‘make me a kennel with your fleas’. Or was it fleece? I don’t remember.
I move onto another establishment where the ladies go to hide their loneliness and spend on credit cards that lurk in their subconsciousness. The shop assistant is a young chav. But a fit one. I force him to help me. He invites me to a special evening. I decline as I’m not a local, but this second booster is making me feel a million miles from my lonely attic by the sea.
People pass by, they’ve got their troubles, I’ve got mine, but we appreciate it’s okay to be a human. In Chelsea. A few art books and a mocha later and I decide it’s time to venture over the river to my beloved Johnny London. I shan’t be having a drink, of course…..
Now the Borough is an awesome place. But it’s real, and I’m planning on getting the cranky misfits bus from sloane square to elephant. Which is a bit of a come down. I get to the bus stop and run – it’s a Sunday but the bus is there! Now it’s gone…..No bother, I’ll keep on wanderin like the hobo I am. I wonder if my oyster is loaded, but I can’t face any more transactions today, so chance it.
I keep on walking. Past ‘John King’ antiques in Pimlico to Buckingham Palace Road. To get the other chavvie bus that will drop me at the end of my old road. Plan.
It’s windy, yes even in London it’s windy, and I’m not sure if it’s this that’s making my eyes leak. I decide to take advantage of a bit of weather and turn it into a ‘woe is me’ weep. And after ten minutes or so the bus comes. A girl in a lovely dress gets on, and I think I’ll tell her how lovely she looks. But I’ve got to get past the scary Chinese bus driver first.
I get my oyster card out. I bleek it. The light remains red. I look at mr driver. He’s not budging. I get my wallet out. There’s 31p. I look, imploringly this time, at the driver. He stares at me steelily and shrugs.
‘I, I haven’t got any money’, I stammer. He shrugs again. And before I turn with my tail between my legs and exit the bus, a large glob of boo-snot drips from my nose onto the floor. As I stare at the driver dejectedly. How low can you go?
Undeterred by this should-be humiliating experience, I walk to Victoria, stick some cash on my oyster and waste time waiting for the next bus, whilst the person I’m visiting wheels it up to the backstreets of Shoreditch to score. An epic journey. I cry romantically, staring out of the window as I used to do when I was five and projecting along to sir Clifford. At one point I’m more or less in the lap of the larger lady beside me. Oh how sweet it is to wallow in London where no one knows your name.
And I wonder whether I’ll be morose and emotional for my Johnny tonight?
Not a chance. A bottle of cava and some green later and we’re off. Into a creative carcrash with the wonder that is garageband.
He’s written a song, mock-donna summer, called discoeey7, which we quickly rename discojam. What a godawful name. To match a godawful song. I gratingly wail ‘sexy boy, I want sex boy’ over the top of the 80s uplifting groove as he growls ‘sex on demand, sex on demand’. And then we splutter for a bit and stop recording.
It is a fucking wreck. We delete it, knowing that although we couldn’t face our failure ever again, it would have been priceless in the morning.
After another pass-out it’s bank holiday monday. We spend it flatly, dining on overpriced urban eggs served by a jaundiced bulgarian. We head uptown to soho to look for guitars, finding the shops all shut. We neck a quick vodka in the street and visit noel fielding’s art exhibition at maison berteaux. We came here once before, and left running with a certain kleptomaniac and original canvas to boot.
This time there’s a room full of homage to Bryan Ferry, and protruding from the wall is a painting that stops me dead in my contented tracks. It’s a tiger. The boy loved them. And it’s called ‘tyger with chlamydia’, and the tiger wears boots and says ‘shit off’.
That evening I’ve scored myself a gig. With some amazing irish musicians I used to beatbox with back in the day. We meet at the local pub we’re playing in and after a few buckets of wine it’s my turn to croon. I honk out ‘black is the colour’ in anti-traditional rusps. The audience stare, and ask me who exactly’s version is that? Johnny scarpers. Godiva drinks more port.
And when we’ve warmed up we do well. The old drunk at the bar pipes out ‘where do you go to my lovely’ for the 942nd time this year. The owner joins in. A small midget-like man in a suit strums ingeniously on the ukele and we ooze along with him in glorious celtic technicolour.
And suddenly it’s half-two in the morning. And me and the mighty quinn are standing bedazed waiting for her nightbus that will surely become a minicab without a fairy godmother.
And I’m standing on the corner of my old street, with the lamplights running low and the skyscrapers omitting moody green light over the pavement. And I remember that this is where my lover once left me, smiling and waving, for the last time before he hung himself.
And I stagger off to bed, seeking respite in the warped mattress where me and the boy joyously ejaculated a few months before.
And I ask my saviour, the lord Johnny, to redeem my soul. And he tells me,
‘yes, you did fuck him in that bed, but you also fucked a hell of a lot of other people in that bed’.
And with that, I resolve to not fuck myself up too much more:- a bright, garagebandless morning awaits me and my new life beckons….
08/09/2010
maundy wednesday......
Thought I was fine today, maybe a bit come-downy. Went to work. Did some extremely subdued tasks. Got a pissed off email from a mate who I’d blogged about. Semi-sorted it. Low level. Sadness pervading through the office from my mighty gills. A sudden flurry of people telling me I look beautiful on facebook. Which obviously, makes me profoundly sad. The beans on the toast in the park in the rain. Arrange to flee to London town for the weekend to get away from it all.
Nearly meet a friend. Get a lift to tescos in the rain with a cheery girl from work. Where did she get that serotonin? Not fricking tescos, that’s for sure.
Bought a few limp cancerous low fat ready meals to eat cold in the middle of the night, and stooped home.
Not fine. Not fucking fine at all. Winter has come and I am holed up in a squirrel’s nest. I know: I’ll treat myself, I’ll suppress my ADHD long enough to watch a film. Picture fucking perfect. Yes, that’ll cheer me up.
Wailing. WAILING. WAAAAAAAAIIIIILING.
I am Jack’s wailing mess (cit. Pahalniuk).
How dare a man hold a woman in that way? There is something wrong with me. Split up with a teenager and watch a Jennifer Aniston ‘movie’ in my tracksuit bottoms? Who will love me now? WHO? I’m reminding myself of that little blonde munchkin from big brother, you know the one. Miniature with ridiculous gesticulation. What a beautiful re-incarnation.
So I get stoned and write instead. And here I am; everytime the phone goes it’s someone random texting me something strange. Not a lithe mischievous young creature telling me he wants to rip my clothes off.
I’m fluctuating at the moment between fucking someone for the sake of it, (note I don’t have to say fucking someone ELSE anymore), and being a barren depressed fat stoned spinster.
In the moments of ‘hope’ for a new horizon I realise I need to get my backlog out. I had remarked several times to friends that I needed to think who to fuck now that I knew the curtain was slowly slipping down.
Here’s the latest one:
• Desperate agoraphobic. Big cock, stupid shallow style. Extremely cheap thrills.
• Ex-boyfriend from years ago. Wallow in sepia goo.
• Wine me up man. Mmmmmmm.
• Dodgy arse-obsessed French man – brother of the groom and best man. Shallow, immature, smooth, brown, sexy. Just moved to London.
• Keep desperately trying to claw at the young man in the hope he might black out at some point and I can attack him.
• Music producer. A new entry in at number six. Not sure his records have got that high in the charts, (not that they have charts these days).
• Random. Most likely disappointing. Feelings of pain and anguish. What no text.
• My finger. Makes me want to cry.
• The vibrator I bought so I wouldn’t fuck someone when the boy was away. (being sandwiched between two young music producers from Coventry with a tongue in my mouth and a cock poking me from behind doesn’t count does it?). As mentioned before, I believe, you wouldn’t know how disgusted I am with that thing.
By the way, just played a game on facebook: ‘who does it look like I’ve fucked but I haven’t, and who have I actually fucked but wish I fucking hadn’t?’ It’s fun, you should try it, Godiva’s back in town. And I’ve a sudden craving for meat….and winds of frickin change is on my itunes, (opium-induced moment in Laos made me buy the Scorpions).
What did I love about him? His gangly ways, that’s what. His inability to shut up and his comfortableness with that. Our ability to mouth words at each other that neither bothered to absorb.
Side by side. The lion and the lamb. The dragon and the snake.
Nearly meet a friend. Get a lift to tescos in the rain with a cheery girl from work. Where did she get that serotonin? Not fricking tescos, that’s for sure.
Bought a few limp cancerous low fat ready meals to eat cold in the middle of the night, and stooped home.
Not fine. Not fucking fine at all. Winter has come and I am holed up in a squirrel’s nest. I know: I’ll treat myself, I’ll suppress my ADHD long enough to watch a film. Picture fucking perfect. Yes, that’ll cheer me up.
Wailing. WAILING. WAAAAAAAAIIIIILING.
I am Jack’s wailing mess (cit. Pahalniuk).
How dare a man hold a woman in that way? There is something wrong with me. Split up with a teenager and watch a Jennifer Aniston ‘movie’ in my tracksuit bottoms? Who will love me now? WHO? I’m reminding myself of that little blonde munchkin from big brother, you know the one. Miniature with ridiculous gesticulation. What a beautiful re-incarnation.
So I get stoned and write instead. And here I am; everytime the phone goes it’s someone random texting me something strange. Not a lithe mischievous young creature telling me he wants to rip my clothes off.
I’m fluctuating at the moment between fucking someone for the sake of it, (note I don’t have to say fucking someone ELSE anymore), and being a barren depressed fat stoned spinster.
In the moments of ‘hope’ for a new horizon I realise I need to get my backlog out. I had remarked several times to friends that I needed to think who to fuck now that I knew the curtain was slowly slipping down.
Here’s the latest one:
• Desperate agoraphobic. Big cock, stupid shallow style. Extremely cheap thrills.
• Ex-boyfriend from years ago. Wallow in sepia goo.
• Wine me up man. Mmmmmmm.
• Dodgy arse-obsessed French man – brother of the groom and best man. Shallow, immature, smooth, brown, sexy. Just moved to London.
• Keep desperately trying to claw at the young man in the hope he might black out at some point and I can attack him.
• Music producer. A new entry in at number six. Not sure his records have got that high in the charts, (not that they have charts these days).
• Random. Most likely disappointing. Feelings of pain and anguish. What no text.
• My finger. Makes me want to cry.
• The vibrator I bought so I wouldn’t fuck someone when the boy was away. (being sandwiched between two young music producers from Coventry with a tongue in my mouth and a cock poking me from behind doesn’t count does it?). As mentioned before, I believe, you wouldn’t know how disgusted I am with that thing.
By the way, just played a game on facebook: ‘who does it look like I’ve fucked but I haven’t, and who have I actually fucked but wish I fucking hadn’t?’ It’s fun, you should try it, Godiva’s back in town. And I’ve a sudden craving for meat….and winds of frickin change is on my itunes, (opium-induced moment in Laos made me buy the Scorpions).
What did I love about him? His gangly ways, that’s what. His inability to shut up and his comfortableness with that. Our ability to mouth words at each other that neither bothered to absorb.
Side by side. The lion and the lamb. The dragon and the snake.
04/09/2010
see you next tuesday.....
Two weeks after the initial and ineffectual ‘dumping’ text, it’s time to finish this thing off and face the silence. I wait till 11.30am. I text him to say we have to meet today to close the chapter.
I go out to buy some hideous-smelling foam cleaner with which to try and frantically eradicate the stain he made on the carpet. Fucking great. Got to stare at that forever. The red wine spilt at half four in the morning when I think I’m about to get it but actually he’s about to disappear from my life forever. The stubborn stain I cannot remove, no matter how much I pretend it doesn’t exist.
I go to the seafront, bumping into a friend. We dine on beans on toast and chat. My soul is empty but my lily is open. It’s nice. Then at 2.30pm the boy texts back to say ‘sure thing’. Oh how cheery this whole affair is, how deep, how meaningful. What a lovely ‘sure thing’.
4.30pm comes and I boldly board the 49 bus to the park and choose a spot in the sun. To the left some young girls are talking about some shitty art project featuring themselves. They sound so young and pointless. I realise it’s the gangly frickin model he tried to fuck that turned him down. I’m not moving. They pilfer some rizla off me, not quite clocking I am the paedophile rumoured to be interfering with a rock star, and disappear.
He calls - he can’t find me! I’m next to the path, near the busker. I find it hard to explain, then I see him, like a mirage, right in front of me. I hear him in my ear. A sensory delight. Double jeopardy. He sits.
And, would you predict it, yet more mundane chat. Oh god.
I’d reduced my speech in my head to something like this:
‘I want to be your friend. I believe in you. But I can’t see you, because if I do, I need to be with you physically.’
Rubbish, but hopefully to some point.
Instead, I blurt some flimsical waffle about the fact we haven’t pissed each other off, and I don’t want to start resenting him when I see him, or think of him as a wanker (I think his condom consumption confirms he seldom needs to wank).
His response? Oh, I’ll know about his band through facebook. Fuck-his-face book.
And that he was going to say pretty much the same thing to me. How fricking convenient. I think the truth of the matter is, whatever I said pretty much, he would have ‘said the same’. Either ‘the same’ is his standard break-up speech, or we are extremely well-aligned; in which case, where are my oats?
And that’s about it. Mundane waffle recommences. Ninners from my party suddenly appears, half cut. Time for more party gossip. Unaware that she is witnessing the most ineffectual break-up of the decade, she says how great the party was. I asked if I kissed her.
‘yes, but no tongues’.
Oh, I explain. I kissed someone I shouldn’t have but have no idea who……
‘Kate’.
Shit! She wasn’t even on my list! Well at least SOMEBODY’s giving me some answers.
A decidedly dodgy hare Krishna in his garb drags a poor young boy behind him droning. My attempts to lure them over are thwarted.
And the boy saunters off to work, his gangly legs and horse-like gait already like silhouettes of memories.
He turns: ‘We should do open mic soon’.
Erm, yes, give me a few days to write some bitter and twisted songs and I’d love to join you.
I CAN’T SEE YOU AGAIN BECAUSE I NEED TO FUCK YOU. What part of this doesn’t he understand? Oh, all of it, because I might just have forgotten to say any of it.
Kickboxing saves me from another half bottle of whisky. And the adrenalin produces some pretty interesting hormonal takes on the relationship. Streak of piss, bit like a girl, never gave me anything anyway. Hasn’t left much inside me. Oh, come inside me. That’s the gist.
He only talks about himself. He’s shit with his emotions and communicating them. He’s juvenile. He’s incapable of having a relationship. He can barely feed himself.
Well that makes two of us – bingo?!!
Delete. Erase. Deny. Fuck my ex. Write. Become religious. Eat chips.
Wank.
The telly tells me to smear Philadelphia on everything and I’ll suddenly have a sickeningly sweet relationship with a mature, airbrushed, plastic man.
George Harrison sings ‘my sweet lord’ to me, and as I seriously think about going to a church to redeem myself, the speakers blow.
Still not in god’s good books then……as my sister kindly pointed out in last years’ birthday card. Was it ‘the anal sex song’ that did it I wonder, or the new tune I’m penning: ‘Jesus, come inside me’? I wonder……
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=s0AUHWdTT9M
I go out to buy some hideous-smelling foam cleaner with which to try and frantically eradicate the stain he made on the carpet. Fucking great. Got to stare at that forever. The red wine spilt at half four in the morning when I think I’m about to get it but actually he’s about to disappear from my life forever. The stubborn stain I cannot remove, no matter how much I pretend it doesn’t exist.
I go to the seafront, bumping into a friend. We dine on beans on toast and chat. My soul is empty but my lily is open. It’s nice. Then at 2.30pm the boy texts back to say ‘sure thing’. Oh how cheery this whole affair is, how deep, how meaningful. What a lovely ‘sure thing’.
4.30pm comes and I boldly board the 49 bus to the park and choose a spot in the sun. To the left some young girls are talking about some shitty art project featuring themselves. They sound so young and pointless. I realise it’s the gangly frickin model he tried to fuck that turned him down. I’m not moving. They pilfer some rizla off me, not quite clocking I am the paedophile rumoured to be interfering with a rock star, and disappear.
He calls - he can’t find me! I’m next to the path, near the busker. I find it hard to explain, then I see him, like a mirage, right in front of me. I hear him in my ear. A sensory delight. Double jeopardy. He sits.
And, would you predict it, yet more mundane chat. Oh god.
I’d reduced my speech in my head to something like this:
‘I want to be your friend. I believe in you. But I can’t see you, because if I do, I need to be with you physically.’
Rubbish, but hopefully to some point.
Instead, I blurt some flimsical waffle about the fact we haven’t pissed each other off, and I don’t want to start resenting him when I see him, or think of him as a wanker (I think his condom consumption confirms he seldom needs to wank).
His response? Oh, I’ll know about his band through facebook. Fuck-his-face book.
And that he was going to say pretty much the same thing to me. How fricking convenient. I think the truth of the matter is, whatever I said pretty much, he would have ‘said the same’. Either ‘the same’ is his standard break-up speech, or we are extremely well-aligned; in which case, where are my oats?
And that’s about it. Mundane waffle recommences. Ninners from my party suddenly appears, half cut. Time for more party gossip. Unaware that she is witnessing the most ineffectual break-up of the decade, she says how great the party was. I asked if I kissed her.
‘yes, but no tongues’.
Oh, I explain. I kissed someone I shouldn’t have but have no idea who……
‘Kate’.
Shit! She wasn’t even on my list! Well at least SOMEBODY’s giving me some answers.
A decidedly dodgy hare Krishna in his garb drags a poor young boy behind him droning. My attempts to lure them over are thwarted.
And the boy saunters off to work, his gangly legs and horse-like gait already like silhouettes of memories.
He turns: ‘We should do open mic soon’.
Erm, yes, give me a few days to write some bitter and twisted songs and I’d love to join you.
I CAN’T SEE YOU AGAIN BECAUSE I NEED TO FUCK YOU. What part of this doesn’t he understand? Oh, all of it, because I might just have forgotten to say any of it.
Kickboxing saves me from another half bottle of whisky. And the adrenalin produces some pretty interesting hormonal takes on the relationship. Streak of piss, bit like a girl, never gave me anything anyway. Hasn’t left much inside me. Oh, come inside me. That’s the gist.
He only talks about himself. He’s shit with his emotions and communicating them. He’s juvenile. He’s incapable of having a relationship. He can barely feed himself.
Well that makes two of us – bingo?!!
Delete. Erase. Deny. Fuck my ex. Write. Become religious. Eat chips.
Wank.
The telly tells me to smear Philadelphia on everything and I’ll suddenly have a sickeningly sweet relationship with a mature, airbrushed, plastic man.
George Harrison sings ‘my sweet lord’ to me, and as I seriously think about going to a church to redeem myself, the speakers blow.
Still not in god’s good books then……as my sister kindly pointed out in last years’ birthday card. Was it ‘the anal sex song’ that did it I wonder, or the new tune I’m penning: ‘Jesus, come inside me’? I wonder……
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=s0AUHWdTT9M
02/09/2010
Sunday bloody Sunday......
So, if you read the last entry you may remember that I left you after the wine shop and before ingesting the wine. Party for one. Must stay up till midnight strikes and I can leave the last year behind….well I shouldn’t have gone to the wine shop. I remember looking half a bottle of red down and knowing this probably wasn’t such a good idea. I roll a fat one. I honk on the guitar. Everything is sprawled out on the floor. I ring duke and interrupt an intimate moment whilst shrieking a country version of ‘que sera’ at him.
I decide to publish a blog at midnight. Even with one eye completely squeezed shut (the eyelashes are growing back, thankfully), I can’t actually see the words I’m posting on the world wide web.
But a girl needs some satisfaction. So I post. I proudly tell everyone on facebook also that I have posted. I also go status-mad, a sure sign that a girl’s been dumped. You know the ones, suddenly they’re telling ‘the world’ (but hoping their ex sees and him alone), that they are gutted, broken, crawling the walls, licking the floor. The sequence went as follows:
Godiva is dangerously close to blogging her fingers off for the next three hours (no euphemism intended). wine me up had come up top trumps as usual. oh red wine, wash over and subdue me........9.41pm
Godiva has been literarilily (like it?) constipated. enema administrated....
av it
Then a youtube of Grizzly Bear’s two weeks….11.02pm
Godiva: 1800 words.....how many blogs to split into?! (so far...)11:29pm
Godiva: okay. published. next one tomorrow. get on it. 12.14am
This was followed by two youtubes, curtis mayfield ‘keep on keepin on’, followed by hayseed dixie’s ‘you shook me all night long’. Stanley vitte likes this. Thumbs up. 12.39, and 12.44, respectively.
Like I said. Party for one. Oh, but it didn’t end there. What would be the ultimate treat for ms godiva? Orgasm. God damn it, I’m gonna show that vibrator who’s boss. Conquer the beast. Let its rubbery walls not break me.
Oh dear. I try to get horny first, yes that’s a good idea before you try and ram a nine inch pulsator up you. I get the lube the smear nurse gave me out and slather it all over. I have an unconvincing wank. I get it and switch it on somehow (I spent a frantic ten minutes trying to prise the goddam battery compartment open in the kitchen. A recommended way to get to know your ‘toy’ I believe). Maybe I should write romantic novels?
Anyway. It’s time for the point of entry. Easy does it girl, that’s it girl, easy does it. I wince. I get it somewhere. It’s horrid. I get the clit bit in the right position, ramming the purple monster deeper in.
I fucking hate it. I pull it out and fling it across the room, lube a-flying. I never want to see that waste of forty quid again.
Hmm, maybe that’s how I should see my relationship with the boy.
Monday bloody Monday……………..
I awake. It’s my birthday. There’s lube all over the shop. There’s the purple beast in the middle of the carpet. I am alone. I appear to be vaguely intact. It’s my birthday. Hm.
What do I do? Cleaning. Meet up with duke, and depress each other out of our heads. Go home. Maybe a sleep will help, (or maybe a text from a certain little someone? No chance).
Then I get trussed up like a forlorn turkey and make my way to my wife’s for rehearsal and certain cake.
I get to my wife’s. I am a dreary mess. They play happy birthday to me as I come in and there’s a cake all lit and ready for bulimia. It depresses me. The poor sods, obviously also quite depressed, set grins on their faces like grimacing masks.
BIRTHDAY! BIRTHDAY! BIRTHDAY!
I’ll saw off my belly button when I get home, I didn’t get born.
Love it, three people with heartache in a room gobbling cake. A mighty celebration.
My wife suggests we just go to hell with it and sings the blues at our gig tonight. The only blues I can think of requires me to play slide and I can’t. What a useless piece of shit I truly am, on this, my birthday.
So we crank up some possibles and realise it’s all we’ve got, and trundle to the pub. The pub is full of fat greasy men in tight red t-shirts watching football. And completely eyeing me up as if I was the parton herself, as I huff about with my geetar. This is all I need – a constant reminder that most men are even more inadequate than the boy that’s surely gone.
And then my friends turn up. It’s my birthday. I apologise for being absolutely fucking depressed, but as they should know, I hate my fucking birthday and it’s over with the boy. Seriously, I don’t how they they could sit near this rain cloud and not get soaked. I think I managed a downpour by the end of the evening.
We have a mighty introduction from the organiser of the night, as usual. Then we play three random happy and sad and strange tunes, which no one really gets or is in the mood for, the stench of tight football shirts and wet bottom lips infesting the space.
Awful. Luckily everyone fucks off.
Me and my wife hit a strange ex-goth pub on the corner and set down our instruments - the heavy burdens we both had to carry. We prop ourselves up on bar stools and order a drink. My wife is making it better for me. We have a last chance saloon kind of chat about what to do when the world falls out of your bottom, and the bottom falls out of your world. That’s more like it. Matching. Mature. Real. Moody.
And that’s my kind of birthday, thanks for gettin hitched x
I decide to publish a blog at midnight. Even with one eye completely squeezed shut (the eyelashes are growing back, thankfully), I can’t actually see the words I’m posting on the world wide web.
But a girl needs some satisfaction. So I post. I proudly tell everyone on facebook also that I have posted. I also go status-mad, a sure sign that a girl’s been dumped. You know the ones, suddenly they’re telling ‘the world’ (but hoping their ex sees and him alone), that they are gutted, broken, crawling the walls, licking the floor. The sequence went as follows:
Godiva is dangerously close to blogging her fingers off for the next three hours (no euphemism intended). wine me up had come up top trumps as usual. oh red wine, wash over and subdue me........9.41pm
Godiva has been literarilily (like it?) constipated. enema administrated....
av it
Then a youtube of Grizzly Bear’s two weeks….11.02pm
Godiva: 1800 words.....how many blogs to split into?! (so far...)11:29pm
Godiva: okay. published. next one tomorrow. get on it. 12.14am
This was followed by two youtubes, curtis mayfield ‘keep on keepin on’, followed by hayseed dixie’s ‘you shook me all night long’. Stanley vitte likes this. Thumbs up. 12.39, and 12.44, respectively.
Like I said. Party for one. Oh, but it didn’t end there. What would be the ultimate treat for ms godiva? Orgasm. God damn it, I’m gonna show that vibrator who’s boss. Conquer the beast. Let its rubbery walls not break me.
Oh dear. I try to get horny first, yes that’s a good idea before you try and ram a nine inch pulsator up you. I get the lube the smear nurse gave me out and slather it all over. I have an unconvincing wank. I get it and switch it on somehow (I spent a frantic ten minutes trying to prise the goddam battery compartment open in the kitchen. A recommended way to get to know your ‘toy’ I believe). Maybe I should write romantic novels?
Anyway. It’s time for the point of entry. Easy does it girl, that’s it girl, easy does it. I wince. I get it somewhere. It’s horrid. I get the clit bit in the right position, ramming the purple monster deeper in.
I fucking hate it. I pull it out and fling it across the room, lube a-flying. I never want to see that waste of forty quid again.
Hmm, maybe that’s how I should see my relationship with the boy.
Monday bloody Monday……………..
I awake. It’s my birthday. There’s lube all over the shop. There’s the purple beast in the middle of the carpet. I am alone. I appear to be vaguely intact. It’s my birthday. Hm.
What do I do? Cleaning. Meet up with duke, and depress each other out of our heads. Go home. Maybe a sleep will help, (or maybe a text from a certain little someone? No chance).
Then I get trussed up like a forlorn turkey and make my way to my wife’s for rehearsal and certain cake.
I get to my wife’s. I am a dreary mess. They play happy birthday to me as I come in and there’s a cake all lit and ready for bulimia. It depresses me. The poor sods, obviously also quite depressed, set grins on their faces like grimacing masks.
BIRTHDAY! BIRTHDAY! BIRTHDAY!
I’ll saw off my belly button when I get home, I didn’t get born.
Love it, three people with heartache in a room gobbling cake. A mighty celebration.
My wife suggests we just go to hell with it and sings the blues at our gig tonight. The only blues I can think of requires me to play slide and I can’t. What a useless piece of shit I truly am, on this, my birthday.
So we crank up some possibles and realise it’s all we’ve got, and trundle to the pub. The pub is full of fat greasy men in tight red t-shirts watching football. And completely eyeing me up as if I was the parton herself, as I huff about with my geetar. This is all I need – a constant reminder that most men are even more inadequate than the boy that’s surely gone.
And then my friends turn up. It’s my birthday. I apologise for being absolutely fucking depressed, but as they should know, I hate my fucking birthday and it’s over with the boy. Seriously, I don’t how they they could sit near this rain cloud and not get soaked. I think I managed a downpour by the end of the evening.
We have a mighty introduction from the organiser of the night, as usual. Then we play three random happy and sad and strange tunes, which no one really gets or is in the mood for, the stench of tight football shirts and wet bottom lips infesting the space.
Awful. Luckily everyone fucks off.
Me and my wife hit a strange ex-goth pub on the corner and set down our instruments - the heavy burdens we both had to carry. We prop ourselves up on bar stools and order a drink. My wife is making it better for me. We have a last chance saloon kind of chat about what to do when the world falls out of your bottom, and the bottom falls out of your world. That’s more like it. Matching. Mature. Real. Moody.
And that’s my kind of birthday, thanks for gettin hitched x
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