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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.

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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

Going to the chapel….

Yup. How did I know it? All those good intentions……

Had been thinking that perhaps going part time at work wasn’t such a good idea – all economy beans and no oomph. Oh how wrong I was. It means there ain’t no bounds, every week is easter, your sleep pattern gets fucked, and so do you. Shitting hell, this could be fun…….

I had an aimless Monday waiting for the fucking moody delivery man to hand over my hoover, and after a feebly unconvincing writer’s hot chocolate in the bitter wind, flailed about waiting for seven o’clock, when I was to meet the coke dealer at the church.

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Yesssssssss, did I mention the strange sequence of events leading to this fucked-up pseudo date?:

In one of my mid-year, mid-life crisis pushes, I googled ‘dance’, as that’s what I do, innit. Usually various adult education sites spring up full of women who piss themselves much better than they move, or anything else for that matter.

But what’s this? A dance agency is arranging dance events all across the south! Excellent (but shitely advertised). So off I samba, then dive into a flashmob, then in the rehearsal space bump into an old stinking techie dude I went to college with. He gives me free tickets to the BBC Big Band. Awesome, old Derek from the Bond films on the screaming trumpet, a gaggle of misshapen misfits who know how to honk. I was there with my wife, so I asked her on a date for Monday. It’s a gospel concert advertised in the local rag – yes, I really have been truffling through the pamphlets as a substitute for cock.

She can’t come with me cos she’s committed to spending the evening watching Ferris Bueller with a bunch of Chinese kids, but suggests this guy we know, who isn't exactly ideal material for the house of God. I refuse refutedly.

Hmmmm. This is a guy who shared a maisonette with me in 2006. Me upstairs, him down. My monkey of a flatmate screaming abuse at him to keep the music down, me scoring the odd opportune bit of green from him.

And he’s cute, but by no stretch sane. So no, I should not invite him to a gospel concert, even though he’s an avid fan of the stuff, and a right old chrisso to boot.

But clip-clopping it back from the big band we scuttle past an old haunt we both avoid due to varying ill behaviour. And who should rush out yelling my wife’s fair name? yup, mr gospel himself. So the wife forces me to ask him out and he accepts. Fucking brilliant.

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“There was I, waiting at the church
Waiting at the church, waiting at the church
When I found he'd left me in the lurch
Lor, how it did upset me!”

(sorry, for war widows everywhere)

Anyway, yes I had to wait and he honed up with a minute to go in a cab – he lives down the road. Been up for 48 hours apparently. Jolly good.

We enter the chapel, the lord does not strike me down. I wince at the vicar and gulp guiltily. We find a shitty seat at the side. And there’s the choir……sorry for the slander guys (they’re from Atlanta, they’ll probably sue after they’ve claimed for all the other accidents in their lives).

The choir do not look good. Well, one of them does. She’s a purty blonde. The drug dealer says he’ll try and chat her up later. I spot her silver ring thing and glum expression and say it ain’t likely. And apparently it’s her birthday. Cheer up love, there’s a few maccie Ds in this town. When the ringleader, with a curiously British accent, addressed the audience to ask if anyone knew whose birthday it was today I got my line in.

‘Jesus’.

My date is horrified, I feel that beautiful warmth oozing through me. Blasphemy. Yum.

So this is a bunch of outsiders. Plump shining women with protruding fringes beam and shuffle. The gayest man alive perches at the front like a wounded chipmunk waiting for some nuts. A big, glorious fat man in the middle is the best attraction. He loves his church, yes m’aam, and though the joy is deluded, I focus on him.

They all wear ill-fitting black polyester trousers that sag at the crotch, and matching red polo shirts; sponsored by Nike of course. Fresh from KFC.

The backing track strikes up. I’d say thunders in, but it was a limp and puny sound. An overhead projector splays clipart graphics out of sync with the vanilla synth.

And they start up. Good god, THIS IS NOT GOSPEL! This is fricking torture! Apparently, however much we welcome in the lord there will not be room for him?! What? This is the whitest music I’ve ever heard, and I can’t stand it. My date pretends to be kinder, but when they sing a song about salvation I can’t restrain myself from yelling ‘masturbation’ to complete the rhyme….

At which point a tight-lipped young oppressor decides to eyeball me till it burns. I look at her, laughing. This is not funny, it seems. I pretend to behave for another godawful number reminiscent of a failed audition for atlanta’s got talent.

The girl is still screwing me up. Do not mess. It’s time to show her the glory of the lord. I turn to her and stare. And stare. And she shrivels into a flushed mess. Feel the power of the lord, feel it.

And with that it was time to exit. My poor date had full-on coke paranoia and didn’t fancy the trek across the pews, but I wasn’t waiting for my mellow birds at break time.

He’d already casually slipped in that we could go back to his flat and he could play me some REAL gospel. I remember trying to make a face that said ‘yes, that sounds normal’, not ‘yes, that sounds dangerously close to fucking to me’.

So off we scroddled. I shoving in an egg mayo sandwich for the ride, him politely shifting through the streets avoiding various punters.

So we get to his, and we have an innocent glass of wine and a bifta, and he puts on some hideous clonky ‘gospel’ music. I spot a drum kit in the corner. An expensive electronic one. He spots me spotting it and offers me a smash. I gladly accept, at which point a customer pops in.

Now, this is weird, I haven’t spent too much time in the lairs of dealers, luckily, I usually steal drugs, but this girl seemed really nice – is it a friend? Is it a random person looking to score? No, it’s that third category, the random trying to score pretending to be a friend. That classic way you have to be. Y’know, you can’t just USE these people, they have feelings as well as a stash.

Anyway, the geetar comes out, so does the lesbian stand up comic, and so do the drums.

It’s also only 9pm. I supposed to be in a church politely watching some saints singing. It’s a Monday. It’s my first week of going part time. I no longer am waiting for the hoover delivery man, I’m getting a bit trashed in a flat with a man I used to have ASB matches with.

But hey ho, must this virtuous girl always feel guilty, even before she’s done anything wrong?

We slope off to the pub so he can dine. He wants the beans and chorizo. The Polish no-nonsense straightened-hair barmaid does her best to humour us, but it ain’t funny. It’s his hood. I just drink wine, and tell him about my long lost lover overseas. He says it’s a bit odd that he’s chosen to go to war-torn countries. But then, it could be worse – he could join the army.

He did try and join the army. His mum wouldn’t sign the form……

So me and this kid are getting on well! Somehow, against my better judgement, we move on to a pub with freestyle jazz playing. I bump into the most introverted man you’ve ever met that I spent some time in India with. Then I bump into an ex-employee. And all the time telling my dealer date ‘I’m not allowed out, especially on a Monday’.

And he gets me. He tells me I’m not allowed out…ever. Because if I go out I’ll realise I’m mad, and I’m not letting myself be. Lord, I needed those vodkas after that. We hook up with a random pretty thing and a scary beardy monster, who facades as a lovely chap, then pounces in with the rape lines. And I’ve given him this blog address. Hi. How did the triple heart bypass go?

It’s back to the flat. Now I know I’m living on borrowed time. Everyone I meet eyes me suspiciously, then I gabble at them so they can’t make head nor tail of the threat I pose to them, and they love me. I spot a double bass player I’d been stalking on the internet and forced him to give me his set list, as I was going to steal it anyway. He obliges, the dealer typing the song names into his drugmobile begrudgingly.

Back at the den it’s more wine, spliff, speaking French with a bunch of randoms, avoiding the rancid perv who tries to force my fricking address out of me, and chatting up a ‘man’ that I later found out was born in 1987. This grooming has got to stop.

The drum kit interests me, it’s got carious buttons that play different styles, but in my state I think I’m playing along to itunes. An hour later I turn, exhausted but satisfied. And I meet rapturous applause. Apparently I’d been controlling the music and drums in an idiot savant fashion. Marvellous.

Now I know it’s time to go, or the legs won’t go where the face is heading. But before I do, the dealer whisks me into his bedroom and slams the door. Oh shit. There’s a beautiful bed, various gadgets, and I just can’t cope.

‘whatever it is you’re about to do, don’t!’ I squeal/dribble.

And he laughs, turns around and shows me a line of the good stuff. Oh no, no fucking way, I’m off. At the door he yells after me,

‘In three months I’ll read your blog about me, and we’ll take our relationship from there!’

Is it October yet? If so, where the fuck am I? Tha-a-ank you lord for this fine day…..just another manic Monday x

dicker with cocker…..glastonbury special

Been sprawled out in the healing fields all morning. Not sure why I paid nigh on £200 to sit in a field, but it’s working…..

Having procrastinated for at last a decade over whether to remain faithful, it seems I have compensated by demanding deep tissue massages off shirtless men.

So I strayed to the healing fields, and even managed to blow a didgeree doo or two on the way. I did a reckie on the first day. Telling my compatriots I had an eye for charlatans after an indian man stuck his buttocks in my face, I skulk around the fields looking for some eager prey.

‘Holistic palm reading’. Said one sign.

WTF? You either wear a dickie bow and hang out on the palace pier or you ain’t seeing my lines.

‘Joy’. Said another. ‘tarot’. I peak into the warped yurt that was her cavern. A fat, sweaty confused grizzler sat there. Frick! It’s a client from work who has, shall we say, an ‘adjusted’ state of mind! And there to show the kids the future………..

So now I know the ging-gang-gooleys from the ethereals. And I wanna get me some o that. I see a nice looking woman called Claire offering Indian Head Massage for a donation. She’d do for Samson, I thought. A few crows feet round the edges, but a nice face and a no-nonsense approach. Now who for me?...............

Well, I thought I’d better take two. Just in case. Opted for both with massage chairs; yeah, they’re for real, they’ll grind me into oblivion with a bit of luck. The first, Ben, was a cute kiwi with piercing eyes. I told him of my ailments and he touched me intensely for half an hour, holding my hands whilst caring for my arms, telling me how he gets to make inappropriate comments with his corporate clients, putting pressure on my mid-back and releasing some tears there. Samson looks on and approves of the heavy involvement. That was a bit better. Now for the second. A curly man with his top off. I watch him absent-mindedly kneading a fat girl in her bra and have second thoughts. I want his full attention, or nothing. So up I march.

‘Hi, I need to feel your pressure’. He is good. He gets so far into my back Samson says his hand disappeared into it at one point. Wowzers. He comments that I had ‘don’t fuck with me’ written on my forehead. That’s right. Don’t fuck with me, but give me some cheap thrills matey.

Then I did a portion of poo, like a goat some might say. In the wateraid toilet, a marvellous invention. All composte, (said in US accent), didn’t stink of shit at all, could sit and have a little rest if one wanted to. And just while I was expelling my droppings, a film crew decided to crowd into the next cubicle. Could they hear me pelloting? I wondered. No, it seems - instead the hippy on the bog decided to recite a world peace poem on the wall of the crapper. So there I was, on a toilet, letting out a spicy beanburger, being read poetry. Classic.

Shit is a topic of discussion when I travel. I was going to launch ‘pootube’, but wasn’t sure if it would attract the right kind of audience.

Met a couple the day before in shit chai Bob’s tea shop, they invite us to their tent as it seems shit is all they talk about too….for me, it’s just a conversation. Everyone shits. Everybody loves to shit.

Which leads me onto my first story,

1. The girl with the shitty legs
We were laying around like crocodiles on some stained cushions in a chai den, and Samson spots a couple in the queue looking slightly perturbed.

‘she’s got a tissue and she’s wiping it up her skirt………..?’ he says.

They walk past us briskly, diagonally, outta that hell hole. And I see her legs, she’s wearing a minidress. And there’s brown/red stuff smeared all over them. I start to splutter,

‘there’s stuff smeared all over her legs! It could be blood, but it’s…’ and before I can finish a wave of drug and cider-fuelled stench washes over us.

‘IT’S SHIT’ we cry together! Oh my God, she truly has tried for a pizza, looked at the food and shat her ecstacy-riddled guts out. And she’s probably nowhere near her tent. And she’s off her fucking tree. What are they gonna do?

It was her and her boyfriend. They stood outside the chai den trying to wipe her off. It’s a nightmare. The man uses cider to swab her, but where’s this gonna end?

In a drum n bass field in Arcadia somewhere no doubt. And the sex will be massive. And they will wake up in the morning and realise that her rose really smells like poo poo poo.


2. Things people say in tents with no walls

My abode for the occasion has been nicknamed ‘the crisp packet’. This lends itself to the fact it cost £20 in the year 1999, and is a one-piece with six pegs, not waterproof, and if you move about, the groundsheet sounds like you’re inside a crisp packet. The neighbours named me ‘cheese and onion’.

And we all know, but we all forget. Tents ain’t got no walls, and we don’t need no education.

Had to bloody sing that in a pantomime once. You can take the girl out of the panto….

A schoolgirl dressed as a slightly sluttier schoolgirl, doing some irrelevant ridiculous dance whilst shouting Floyd over a bad big band. Them was the days…..

But tents, yes. My complex relationship with Samson means that play fighting replaces sex. But as we’re both testosterone-fuelled animals, we end up crossing lines it turns out humans aren’t meant to cross…

The neighbours heard too much. And the best thing was, they didn’t clock that it was our late night ramblings they were perving on. Turns out they went round the whole of Glastonbury telling people that they overheard a girl telling the story of how she once decided to ride her boyfriend in a tent in 35 degree heat in Spain, only to find that she completely ran out of air, and to surpass suffixation had to poke herself out of the tent, naked and bejizzed, in the broad daylight of a public campsite.

They recounted this story to us in the late afternoon, over a plastic wine spritzer and a doobie. And Samson and I looked at each other, and I said,

‘that sounds like something that happened to me…’

At which point, the whole cacophony of Luton-based randoms turned.

‘It WAS you’.


3. If you can’t be with the one you love…..

I wash my hands in the standpipe. I see Samson in the distance. But what’s this in the foreground? A sexy man standing on a flower bed with a watering can, cooling people off in the hot sun. I mouth at Samson ‘shall I?’

‘yes’, he approves.

I turn to the man,

‘shower my tits’. And we stand there for about a minute, him spraying my tits with cold water whilst the queue looks on. Cheap thrills eh? Free, actually. It was only later that day when I suddenly freaked out that my tits were soaked that I remembered. And of course, went back for more.


4. Love the one you’re with

I was a bit concerned that I’d need a bunk up for the occasion. I persuaded myself that two can play while my love’s away, but now I was here I wasn’t so sure.

So I compensated with massages, tit showers, and a few other things…..

Puppy love

My phone is half-heartedly on. I can’t really be arsed with it all when I realised the amount of people I knew who’d be there. Impossible. I have learnt by experience that whether in Thailand or at home, honing around to meet someone in a completely different mental state for twenty minutes before somebody MIGHT need a shit, or before they rush to another stage to see a MOR lose their sound in the wind, is more than a waste of time - it’s a fucking waste of essential resources.

So I didn’t reply to any of my texts or voicemail.

I was on a hill, I was relaxing, I needed time to rest my weary legs on that hill, and I had it. But all this,

‘where are you now?’ that I’d look at two hours later, and ‘so and so told me you’re here! Let’s meet up, we’re going to see Gomez on Sunday not Stevie Wonder’. Erm?

So I ignore it all, then send a mass text back a day later to say,

‘not doing plans, just hoping I bump into you in some hideously ridiculous moment’.

But this one guy, friend of a friend, is insistent, and manages to call me during a Thom Yorke secret gig cos he knows somehow I’d be there. And I was, me and Samson had been arguing about the fact I’d been dancing to the irish choir in my moo moo so we’d missed the showers. Suddenly the stage nearby announced a special guest. Samson heard the first two chords and knew....

‘Go!’ I shriek.

I wank about for a bit at the crisp packet and make my way to my hillock. I sit on my own, knowing that somewhere in the crowd Samson is crying.

Then they play Karma Police. And that means a lot to me. And a Scottish clan adopt me on the hill and I tell them Samson will be crying and they stare at me, all high, and say,

‘I know what you mean. I know what you mean.’

And I can’t work out if it’s empty drug-speak, or if somewhere beneath the beanburgers she has a deep connection with my soul. Nah. She’s high.

But Samson rounds the corner, and then I get the call. The guy who’s been texting me is here, and knows I am. He turns the corner. What’s this then?

And he says he’s been told of the boy. And I tell him of the boy, in a way old friends can summarise. And he looks deep inside of me throughout. And I kiss him. And Samson informs me he’s in love with me.

Hm. We’ve kissed, it ain’t that great, and he was a bit of a virgin till a few years ago when he started stringing along vulnerable females for far too long before breaking their necks like battered swans.

So he can probably fuck okay now, and once I woke up with my hand on his cock by mistake so I have felt his sausage. But still, let’s not just let someone need me because I’m unavailable….

I decide in the end it was more of a lament for the love we never had and never will. Which sounds romantic, somehow, but in fact is a load of old tosh.

Up up and away in my beautiful balloon

We’d been adopted by a bunch of losers from Luton. Such is our way. My dad’s yielded from that manor and wherever I go in the world people from that side of town adopt me. Sometimes they fuck me. They never fully understand me, but hey ho.

So this lot have got a gazebo, chairs, and everything inbetween, and me and Samson get well in there.

I remember emerging from my crisp packet in my moo moo and kissing them all a sweet morning. One guy couldn’t stop leering at my arse, and Samson fancied him, so we started a bit of a triangle thing. He had a girlfriend, of course, they always do…..

But little B, ah he was my favourite. Not only did they have cheap rose wine and 7up and cracked plastic glasses, they had gas…………………….rank. No class As, just shit loads of booze and some fucking brainkiller. But my little B, my fave, loved it.

So these normal people, these caged animals waiting for us to unleash them (which, of course we did), got off on hops and gas.

My little boy danced like an accordion chameleon, and it was for this reason I loved him. So I ask him about why he does this ‘gas’. And he and the Neanderthal gently cajole me to do a balloon. Which I decline.

So instead, I sit him down on my knee, and he takes the biggest lungful of this stuff in history. People are worrying about the amount he’s doing, and I’m holding him tight, feeling every vibe coming out of him. And there’s a beautiful picture of me on a canvas, him top off, shorts on, on my lap, us looking intently at each other and smiling serenely.

I would highly recommend passive gassing. Only of the chemical type, of course….

Peeping into a parallel k-hole

Getting high and drinking chai, we were. My two compatriots disappeared into the oblivion of the rank bogs, and I was left on my own to ponder about the girl with the shitty legs. But in walks a tall young man, with beautiful black hair and an interesting stance. In fact, a very interesting stance. He looks like my boy. I want to reach out to him, but he’s so far away in his own mind that no one can reach him.

He had stopped moving. His face had frozen. He fears the can of lager in his right hand as if it were a volcano about to erupt. Everyone else is dancing, he stands rooted to the spot, swaying slightly. Frightening.

So this is a K-hole, my friends. How lovely to have a passive K-hole, fully appreciating the moment when he leaps back into life and becomes the spunky young thing he is.


5. Dicker with cocker

I’ve choreographed a northern irish choir singing ‘sweet dreams’, I’ve performed the riverdance in a cyber-pseudo burnt-out basement, what more can there be to do?

It’s near the end, and eating options are running low. We’ve made few mistakes, the ‘fishfinger fucker’ I ordered on the first day being the worst. But I’ve found a new little contraption that sells jacket potatoes and not much else. It’s near the shortcut we’ve made, and we’ve got little B and the Neanderthal in tow. Let’s do this.

So we head to the public school boys who sweat over the stove, with hippy mum and dad making chapatis and gruel.

‘four potatoes please’.

Apparently they could be up to an hour, the little dish serving us making no promises, but proving willing by prodding the motherfuckers to see if they’re ripe.

The boys we’re on a fake date with look like they’re heading to undercooked jerk chicken land, but me and Samson are standing our ground. And we’re the only ones in there. Apart from, it appears, Jarvis freaking cocker and his bird. Who also opt to stay for an hour.

‘best potatoes in glastonbury’, he quips. Yes, I know, it ain’t no headline joke, but IT’S JARVIS. And I’ve been drinking neat vodka from a cycling bottle and smoking spliffs for four days.

So we all sit on benches. Samson makes polite, entertaining conversation about music and stuff, and then I launch in. what’s he doing here, I want to know. I came in 95, didn’t think he was playing. Whoops. They headlined. Appears I was sucking off drug dealers in tents at the time.

He’s DJing at a place called the rabbit hole, where you go underground in a pit with the unwashed. Cool. What’s his set, I want to know? He says he hasn’t thought. He was up till six in the morning, and isn’t a young snapper any more. So we have a little think about it. He asks if I know an old track called Glastonbury. I don’t, so he tries to sing it. Hilarious. I ask him if he’ll do a creedence. Turns out Suzie Q is his bird’s favourite. We sing it together. Moment. Then I remember there’s an amazing tap dance called the Suzie Q. he has no choice. I get up. There I am, in a shack, waiting on a potato, tap dancing my damaged arse off for cocker. Fantastic.

The potatoes come. We greedily gobble them, Jarvis with simple beans, the rest of us with slatherings of chilli and cheese, a right dicker of a feast. Hence the photo.

Later that night, after a lot of carnage, we end up at the rabbit hole, after seeing the last song of Midlake and me nearly miscarrying due the injustice of a passive crowd not demanding an encore.

Then we hear it, those first few sexy little bars of the credence riff. It’s Suzie Q. it’s time to tap dance…..

Footnotes:

Costumes

Seeing as I didn’t officially take any costume, I did pretty well. Somehow the clothes I had turn into a myriad of personality disorders:

• Cloud moo moo land. No underwear, wet hair, Malaysian flower print moo moo (ref Simpsons), flip flops. Dazed look on face.
• Nora Batty. Pashmina wrapped like shawl, woolly hat, headtorch on top.
• Hindi cowgirl. Wet sarong done up like Indian lunghi ad tucked in. Vest. Standing on the corner I call the lost highway, waiting for no one.
• Whore of Babylon. Short hand-painted stretch dress, thai sparkly vest on top, mod jacket, bare legs, visible panties, diamante trainers. Stetson. One man in each hand.
• Cancer patient. Covering head entirely to avoid sun stroke. Not allowed on camera so as not to upset the masses.
• Mexican. Sarong round head, Stetson on. Jeans, strange Indian poncho garb.
• Middle aged mother – after going in the sea today I ended up with no knickers, a stripy skirt, wet tits and a cable knit cardigan.


Ideas for an act
Wash n blow job: Alternative to hair salon whereupon I wash yer widget, give it a quick suck, deposit the remnants into shot glasses or the fridge for todger jelly, then charge for the gobber and the shot, thus making money and keeping several people happy.

Afterthought

My lonely moments there had been dark. Thinking about my boy. Wondering when I’d stop obsessing about detail and face what is actually lurking beneath this small sailing vessel we’re floating in.

And actually, there are many thoughts, but thank god some thoughts for me and me alone are returning. The filthy masseuse’s hands have grounded me and I’m coming back to my shore. These six weeks are going to be useful.

And so now when I miss him, I miss him as he is now, where he is now, wherever that is. Not as we were, not the sentimentality and nostalgia. That’s not for summer…

The late, great, Kurt Vonnegut for you to finish:

1. Find a subject you care about.
2. Do not ramble, though.
3. Keep it simple.
4. Have the guts to cut.
5. Sound like yourself.
6. Say what you mean to say.
7. Pity the readers.

Mummy’s on father’s day….

Well blow me down, readers, it was alright! Woke up slightly foggy headed and constructed an unconvincing costume for the occasion.

Got the midday train. Father’s day. Rang father. Father hung up on me. Joke, apparently! Brilliant.

‘where are you off to?’ says he.

‘haywards heath to see a boy’

‘ooooooooooo’

At which point we entered the tunnel of doom and lost reception. I texted him and asked him for advice for the meeting of mummy. My mummy answered back,

‘just be yourself and listen when appropriate and be chatty like you normally do.’

Unconvinced. I text back that I want dad to give me some advice.

‘what problem?’ was what came back. Oh yes, retire and you drift through life like you’ve got no knickers on. Which, incidentally, I haven’t.

I get to the station, he will meet me. Car or foot, I ask, he doesn’t reply. Then honing round the corner comes a clapped out old mobile and he steps out of it, fur coat at the ready. Marvellous.

And mummy is in the front, (he failed his test). And she smiles at me and is sweet but a bit nervous…….almost excited……

So it turns out that I was some sort of welcome visitor to their ramshackle beautiful affair of a residence. Wooden panels had fallen off the side of the house, and the garden was free and beautiful.

There had I, images of sitting down to lunch. No chance. It was all ornaments and piles of paper. Wicked.

So the boy and I spent the day spray painting his van, playing with kittens and getting on. But unfortunately, not getting off. La la la la la, sure there’s no problem there…..it’s all good though, it’s not awkward, and mum comes and smoke rollies with us and tells us about mad relatives and how much she hates cleaning. And I just hope the fact we’ve hit it off like a fart to a flame is because she sees me as the daughter she never had, not the co-parent…

And now it’s time for dinner. We cook together, it’s late, and we decide the only option is sausage dicker…..have I mentioned the dish dicker? Samson and I invented it. It’s basically any food that is smeared with delight and baked in an oven. For example, chicken dicker, the original. Get some good breast, cover it in peppers, onions, capers, tomato and top it with torn mozzarella. Dribble over a dob of pesto. Shove it in the oven. Watch it bubble and dick. Serve with roasted sweet potato and olive salad. Shove in mouth. You too, can make dicker, spread the word.

The sausage dick we cooked was great. It had mashed potato topping – mummy’s idea, and we greedily feast upon it till it’s done. And mummy gets out her poetry and we read together, as a demented family. I use my snakey wiles and she lets me read some that the boy isn’t allowed to. It’s about groping, as far as I can muster.

Mum, (as I affectionately refer to her), tells me about this awful horsey woman who owes her money. I encourage her, she relents. As she describes the hag, I mouth ‘bitch’ in her face. She loves it, I’m saying what she’s thinking, and at least it wasn’t me, it was some other bitch she was talking about….

At one point during this exchange, as I stared intently at her, loverboy decides to toy with me and drops in a comment about schoolboys, in a voice that riddles me luscious, and I flash him a smile and some eyes as a Shakespearian soliloquy.

And then it’s youtube, harsh kisses and ‘see you when I get back’. And I get back, and we text. I love mummy, she loves me. He’ll miss me and dicker.

I’ll miss him……

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’

a gush of blood to the bed

‘I keep bleedin, keep keep bleedin’
Leona Lewis (well, some other out of work songwriter), 2007

The thing is, I’d like to say I’m a liberal-minded free-loving uber-modern girl who doesn’t mind her bloke fucking anything that moves, but that’s simply not the case.

He is so fucking fit: women, men, children and beasts throw themselves at his massive, flat feet. Yes, he has no soul, sorry, I meant insole, no, bridge. Anyway.

He has flat feet in common with my little brother. The one I brought up from birth. The one that was in the year above him in school. Yup. Changed his nappies.

So I don’t blame him for fucking other people, as long as that’s all it is. As long as I’m in his pecker order somewhere. It was the text methadone that got me going all schizy. Talking to all and sundry about absolute proliferations, and having no conclusion other than pain.

So I had to ‘talk’ to him. By text. I asked him straight.

‘My mind’s been all over the place, juts tell me if you’ve been screwing other people.’

‘I may have. Didn’t think it was a problem.’

What a beautiful reply. And it went on……I just had to let him know I was not the fun-loving cougar he had in mind. Or had pushed to the back of his mind. And there’s only a month till he drives a bulletproof truck through Chechyna and I move to London. So there’s a natural end……………..ooooooo that old trap, the ‘I’ll carry on cos it’ll end then anyway’, only to fucking find you’ve sold up and are living in Slough with nothing but a weight problem for company.

However, in all honesty, I don’t think his mind is wide enough to actually give a shit. He aims to please, and by god he achieves it, but he’s 21. And a man. Things are straight or bent, yes or no, there’s none of this moon-induced hippy shit that I’m full of in his world.

So we met for a ‘talking drink’. He’s done this before. Poor sod had prepared all of his ‘choose your own adventure’ endings (though he’s too young to have read them, he’d have been frigging off his tamagotchi). What if I say he can’t sleep with other people? What then?

But of course I didn’t make any demands on the poor lamb. Just spouted hungover ramblings at him till he was really confused. Which was far more enjoyable than giving him an ultimatum after which I’d surely lose.

‘I don’t get it. You need to translate it into man or something’.

Oh shit. That’s the best I’ve done in years. The last one hung himself. So that was easy.

So I try again to explain. My life is on an even plane, I’m a very happy person, I’m not used to there being someone else there, and my brain just went a bit mental.

There, now I’ve written it down it doesn’t really have much of an instruction.

‘what do you want me to do?’ He asks.

‘Nothing’, I answer. How sweet and pathetic is that?

But actually, what he can do, is behave himself slightly or I’ll get fucked off, and fuck me incredibly beautifully for as long as possible. I have mentioned whips, and he isn’t afraid to use them.

To god be the glory, great things he hath done.

Is there a cure for this paedophilia? Honestly, I thought I’d done them all, but this is a new category, and I’ve got a horrible feeling the next may swing the other way. Sugar daddy o.

Busloads of groaning hormone-fuelled college boys hoon past me and I elate, mixed race chavs call me sugar in the street. My ex boyfriend sent me a brilliant teenage blog containing the lithe, vulnerable fuckers. Ah! Whatever this is, cure me!

Love, said one friend. Oh get fucked, I have to zone out when he’s talking just to wait till he’s naked. He offered to meet me in the day on Saturday. Nice gesture, freak, but it ain’t near enough bed time. Which more or less sums up my text reply to him.

And the only thing that seems to have made me act like a teenager is the fact that in the six weeks I’ve known him, I’ve bled on him twice and narrowly escaped a third. Yup. Met him at the ‘end’ of my period, fucked him on day two three weeks later and ruined my bed, at which point he confessed I’d ruined his the first time. Then yesterday I imagined the talks could end up in forgiveness sex which is always nice.

Thank fuck for the bottle of wine, half of vodka and five sambuca shots I’d put away the day before with my best friend. And the three hours of mod dancing. Which had basically made me able to only dance and cycle, but not stand. I actually started walking backwards at one point on my way to meeting him. Was I walking back to happiness?

Woop by oh way-hay-hay.

He, on the other hand, had outdone me and been doing the good stuff till nine in the morning, then spent the day roaming the marina with an old tramp. Marvellous.

So neither of us was in a state to go to each others abodes, and now I’ve pinned him down on free dates for the next week when I shall have stopped menstruating. Hopefully.

Oh how we love Leona….x

cock rock

I’ve had all sorts of lovely dick -
Small ones that have done the trick
Big cocks that have started to drop
Tradesmens dicks that have finished me off
Two in the hand and one in the face
All fours in the garden of a stately place

My friend had sex and it made her cry
She got fisted while being lifted and it gave her piles
I stopped breathing once but he carried on
but at least he had a condom on

Cut cocks in Israel on the banks of the dead sea
Army boys cocks coming all over me
Old men’s cocks and young boys shanks
Joyless cocks - should have said no thanks

Pilots and painters and dealers and hicks
Licked Kiwis balls while they called me bitch
Transvestites and gays and women and strays
Pump and squirters never cease to amaze

French boys and models and men with no names
Been shat on by birds doing the walk of shame
Sucked off a bouncer in the front of his motor
Worn their string of pearls like a Gucci choker

Got my knickers ripped and found out through my mum
Got fucked up on a barge then got fucked up the bum
Had sex on my friend in the koh tao sea
It served him right for pissing on me

All these things are true, and all these things I like
You could say I was the world’s best bike
But I like your cock, and you know why?
Cos it’s on the end of you, but I know it’s mine.

I beg your pardon…..Go Cougars!

He’s sooooooooo mental. But he’s soooooooooooo cute.

Now there’s a new dilemma (or is it just an old one I’ve forgotten?)

The last one was pig ugly but spiritually vast. Wouldn’t commit – not even to texting me, but showed me a secure loving place where I could exist.

Boring.

So now, let’s see what the remedy is for that poison…..

Beautiful boy. Beautiful. The kind of beautiful that made me remark to my colleague:

“ Well he’s obviously a bit mental – well I know he’s a bit mental – cos it’s always either that or serial fucking monogamists that like me.”

To which she gave me a small teaching on self esteem.

“Yeah, but that’s what I always say – they must be mental if they like me……..”

Etc. Not realising how literal and grounded I was being. Sad when you know it’s not necessarily you they like, it’s just that they need someone. Back off sunshine.

He commits like a boy scout giving a blowie for a mars bar – oh sorry, was that consents? He texts me every waking minute – chirpy, youthful (ahem) delightful little quips that warm just more than the cockles. Yet he does not show me a secure loving place where I can exist.

No, I thought we were living in parallel – that’s as far as I’d got, and decided to call him my squeeze. What a lovely fucking squeeze he has….

And how funny when you let yourself start to believe in that other side – maybe this is something, maybe there are no rules - maybe I’ll never frickin eat again, that’s when it comes crashing down.

Well I’ve been on the flakes tonight, guys and gals, that’s for sure.

This blog entry was intended to be called any or all of the following:

• My boy lollipop
• I am a child
• You’re only as old as the boy you feel
• 21 again…..
• Age before beauty
• All the young dudes

It started a year ago. I met a young lad in a bar in town when I’d taken a married man to see an old flame’s band. Said young lad was working behind the bar. And fit. And young, again. Twenty years old.

So miss doley pants squeezed a few more red wines out of her tight purse (wink), and chatted his fucking face off all night.

Musician. Tick. Wanted me to see his band. Yes.

And for the next year we myspaced each other and he invited me to various gigs, all of which I couldn’t make cos of boxing, or Michael Jackson dancing at love box, or laying in a darkened room masturbating.

Then, eureka, he’s playing at my charity event. Karma karma karma karma karma chameleon. Let the boy cometh unto me.

And cometh he has being, sometimes a bit sporadically, every which way and loose. We’ve been gallivanting through London town with rock equipment in tow, gracing the seediest corners of Southwark I know.

I even let him into my spaceship, which is an honour. And by the way, he’s twenty one now and his voice has broken.

But at six this morning I get a text. He says he’s done something ‘silly’, might have ‘harmed’ himself and didn’t know who else to tell. I say what harm. He’s frigging OD’d on happy pills. Christ. What am I? Childline?

He calls me. I’m not impressed. He calls an ambulance, he has tests, he sees a psych nurse. Let’s hope there isn’t a knock at the door…..

So I spent the morning ripping up carpet with my dad. Hurting a bit. Then trying to work out why. Is it the emotional manipulation of involving me, is it that I’m hurt he wants to hurt himself, when he blatantly has got a good catch (this one isn’t so convincing), or is it cos I’ve bagged yet another freakin nutter?

You do the math.

When I texted my faithful John in London to tell him I was thinking of opening my own mental hospital, he pointed out that you’re not meant to sleep with your own patients. So that’s where I’ve been going wrong………………..

So today maybe I’m thinking I’m going back to being one of Beyonce’s single women. Hurrah, throw your fucking hands right at me.

And of course, when in the throes of love everything is poignant, let’s do that bipolar twist and have the falling out of love poignancy. Four emails in my inbox from dating websites saying they hadn’t seen me for a while. Cunts.

With pride I delete them, knowing soon my fate awaits……..

And old mister agoraphobic-pants texts me for some morning sex, and I tell him ‘I’m kind of seeing someone’. He tells me to get in touch when I’m not. I hope, with disbelief, that’s not now.

So, dear readers, now I go to bed, to have a massive fat great orgasm on my own. Look on the bright side, he timed his going moonie with my period.

And like the squirrel-woman I am, I leave you with a lyric by Doolittle:

“Never more shall we find you bright in the snow and wind.
The snow is melted, the snow is gone, and you are flown:
Like a bird out of our hand, like a light out of our heart, you are gone.”

Well it must be over – I’m writing about it……………….