It’s Her Party and I’ll Die if I Want You

Special thanks to Friar Cous-Cous for supplying much needed inspirationojuice with regard to the ending of this terrible tale.

And tell me, might this have happened 'á vous' quelque jour?

A half-day at work has allowed me to enjoy an early drink in the centre of London’s guts. Myself and girlfriend outside, enjoying the midsummer sun. Beer-bloat gives me the horn for rum, and soon, the afternoon has housed an evening’s good drinking when pace was called for. We now leave for the party of a friend of my girlfriend’s. The sky is getting dark as 9 o’clock comes round. Through the off licence, we obtain liquids for nasty booze fusion, which, considering the mixmuddle already in my innards, will make for psychological ruin by 1am. I’ve managed to lose my hat, but I can buy a new one at some point maybe later on or something perhaps.

Getting to the front door of the flat at the top of the block, I feel too tired to speak to the strangers I will meet very soon. I almost buckle on my crap legs. Door opens and meet mumble with mumble.

After two hours I am in semi conversation with a group of people with whose names I never bothered to get myself acquainted. I pull fairly hard on the rollup which has been placed in my limp digits, and notice myself becoming the dead middleman between my brain and physicactions. One man asks me something about William Shatner’s dogs. I confirm his suspicions with no solid proof, but my response seems to satisfy him and buys me more concentratiotime. Then a girl asks me why 5? I do not know the answer, so I show her my left nipple as a distraction technique. This too seems to go down well, before I am asked a rather cryptic question about cocks by a third man. Before I have the opportunity to answer, my eyes cloud over. My girlfriend has somehow disappeared from the entire building, but I am unconscious before I can feel truly pissed on by the shitscare.

I awake in a different position, I am quite sure. I look straight ahead at the top of a mosque through the window. It must be about 4am, as the mosque is vaguely hit by the sun’s morning glory. My scene setting is cut short by me noticing a strange yet consistent sensation in my anus which I am quick to ascertain is related to the hands clutching my naked buttocks. Leaning on the kitchen sink and staring at the mosque, I question in my own mind how events became thus. Had some punk slipped some dinner jazz into my drink to stimulate some happy-homo-trance-hardcore? Or was I my own ‘undoing’? The man behind me is whispering what sounds like latin, and someone in the corner is making a coffee. As I consider this, I once again black out.

I awake to the sounds of a car engine. I am wrapped up in a blanket, travelling at considerable speed in the back of some car. Coming to, I realise that this is my parents’ car, with my parents at the helm. I try to remain silent, so they do not realise I am awake, and peep through my eyelids to assess their countenances. Their faces are horrifically unreadable, spastically unanimated. The ambiguity is terrifying, and nothing becomes clearer as I noticed something scrawled on my left hand:

“William, 07961 27xxxx – call me”

Poof In Boots

I have a consciousnose. We all have consciousnese with which we think, and feel. It is with self-awareness that we am who we is. But what about when self-reflection turns to self-reflect-shunned? When who we am might well be who we is, but who we is is not necessarily what you am or what you’d want us to bleed? When we bleed gay, for example, there are those who already write off our blood with aids-riddled delight. Or, when we blow our nose and a bloody nucleus of ethnic girlfriend spells out “WOP LOVER” on the hankie, there are those of us who, tragically, read it in that very way.

We all have desires both similar and distinct, we are unique. And it often shits in our coffee that the gender-fashion-social melange is spit-roasted on liquid E in the bridal suite of Hotel Fear.

And what happens when aforementioned bigotry explodes to bigot-tree, branching into inter-genus uncordiality? Think here of Hugster, the ethnic bear, mocked and called such degrading names as “nigger-fur” and “monkey-paws”. Turn now to Colin, the dyslexic German Shepherd, ridiculed by sheep for an inability to spell words such as “seldom”, “sneaky” and “claptrap”. But especially, consider the memory of young Richard, a homosexual tabby whose persistent bullying from his feline peers led to suicide in 2002. One cold winter morning in December, Richard’s owner, 6-year-old homosexual Daniel Loinsir, walked outside to see his prized, proud cat slumped at the wheel of his father’s car. He had used a hosepipe to gas himself with the exhaust.

Unsurprisingly, young Daniel was inconsolable, and even more so when the twofold tragedy of his pet’s demise was ruthlessly rammed homo. “Daddy,” Daniel began, “I hope Richard is in a better place now. Maybe in Cat Heaven he can be happy once more?”

“I’m afraid not,” I replied, “Richard’s mortal sin of suicide means that he will have gone to little old Cat Hell.”

So, I ask ye this: Is a gay man staying in a black man’s house which contains no ramps for disabled visitors any worse than a white man beating the elderly for being queer? I’ll let you decide, and I hope you choose wisely.

An Exploding Rant of Richtig

or, A Personal Development Pang

Ein Uberdeutsch
dirty-me minutes past you
Trendy heart conditions a go-go
po-go
stick it up yer logo
tight-assed money adventures gone bland
Gordon Brown,
Texture like cum
bearing 34 Mickey Mouse
degrees north-by-north-west

lefties
fucked in the right whole

Strictly Come Nosebleed
A juicy cup of juice juice
Gentlemen,
please raise your nasties

Love-Jerky on a Turdsday

Thursday, 4:50pm, practically no light save for streetlighting, illuminating drizzle which despite being as thin as Mackenzie Crooke, was as wet as John Redwood (though certainly taller). I traipsed in an almost trance-like state, having become numb to the persistent elbow-shoulder bashing of passers by and cold rain precipitating dog piss child tear jock spit sweat teacher breath onto my lips. Licking them, I could taste all these things, salty and dead.

Times like this, I find, call for a decent fatal accident or nearby baby-snatch (noun-verb, for clarity). Something to break the monotony, to tell my wife when I get home, to make myself FEEL GLAD that I am not a motorcyclist spread across three lanes in the rain. But alas, no such unluck on this occasitide.

Then, as I approached the tube station, something in the visible current of the human traffic caught my eye. The very definite split of multi-velocitêtes was wider in the middle than necessary. The flow of heads to the right, heading into the station, parted from the flow of heads to the left, who similarly parted from centre identi-magnetically. THEY WERE AVOIDING SOMETHING.

MOVEMENT AWAY=AVOIDANCE
AVOIDANCE=NEGATIVE PRESENCE
NEGATIVE PRESENCE=DISGUST
DISGUST=SOMETHING AT WHICH TO GAWP

I hurried closer to the spectacle, and as I did I noticed that the object of evasion was another person rather than a dead dog or piece of clean flooring. As the people-flow parted Red Sea-style, I finally caught a glimpse of my disgusti-Moses.

There, on the steps of the station entrance, was a man, clearly homeless judging by his state of dress, toothless and in a semi-squat, squeezing out a marvellous turd, trousers on, and the excreti-exit occurring through the right trouser leg. As I stood and watched, I saw people slipping on the moist ground as they were taken by surprise and nearly stepped in the man’s production. I became transfixed with his expression; he was grinning a tooth-lacked grin which showed his glistening but scabbed gums, and this grin was akin to the sort of grimace which a very short-sighted person might pull when trying to watch the television at distance.

But, most importantly, the expression on the man’s face bore a most profound expression of unbridled, honest joy and relief – even ecstasy – which I found both touching and arousing. I felt my heart punch me in the face with brutal appreciation and empathy for this pleasured man. I wished I could keep him that way – happy and oblivious – forever. I wanted to be a part of the man’s pleasure through simple, natural function. Something I could never do.

I reached home myself in a state of ecstasy, although this was fused with shame and heartbreak. My wife could see I was clearly distressed and asked me what on earth was wrong. I told her to pack her bags and go to her mother’s. It was over.

A Roll of the Dice, a Flip of the Coin, a Stamp on the Foot and a Kick in the Groin

My wife left me last Sunday, and so I found myself at a loose end for a week or so, having previously quit my job in order to spend more time with my now vanished spouse. Turning my mind to the big city and indeed to my newfound state of destitution, I resolved to transport myself and my bow-legs to the Bow-bells of London, and stay with a dear old friend until the week was done.

My friend being tied down by the shackles of employment as well as the needy, attention-seeking Labrador of domiciliary and marital responsibility, I found myself alone for a majority of the week. Having seen a film the previous week in which the protagonist made decisions through the 50/50 whatsit of coinflip, I decided – perhaps unwisely – to trust the Gods to dictate my whereabouts.

Taking my trusty A – Z – a publication which had previously removed all risk from my geographical uncertainties – I decided to randomly open a page, and blindly (by closing my eyes) point to a square and indeed a specific site within that square to sit and enjoy a day’s drinking and urban traffic-spotting.

I must say my spirits were lifted considerably at this decisive moment. Here indeed was a move forward – a little adventure for me to take my mind of my misfortunes! Even now, before any of this had even been put into practice, I was beginning to forget about my little whore of a wife and the rejection she had rejected to impose on me when it was not too late to replace her.

Oh, my blogger – what a week transpired through such risk-laden chance! You may well ask as I do now – is it really true that God always takes the best? Is waking life such purgatory that those who deserve ill are those punished least? I’ll let you decide this for yourself, my blog friend, since I certainly will never have the answer for you.

To the matter in hand. My timetable began on Monday, 1st November 2004, in the kitchen of my dear old companion’s abode. The rules were simple: follow the above procedure, and stick to it. No second goes, no compromises – the entire day would be spent in the location chosen by my own pointing digit. And, finally, these were my results:

1st November – Page 34, 3D = Tooting, Rastafarian barbers – also a tea shop. Wonderful company throughout the day. Pleasant music and joyous smells.

2nd November – Page 50, 2A = Small public house, Warren Street – smokey but not altogether unpleasant. An alcohol accompanied day, and a fine bangers ‘n’ mash for lunch. Met a mortally interesting man who smoked a fine-smelling pipe.

3rd November – Page 22, 4C = Clapham Common – visited a Tesco Express and purchased all of the ingredients necessary for a one-man picnic. Sozzled on Rosé by 3:00pm. Delightful.

4th November – Page 13, 1B = The Grand Union Canal at Alperton – submerged and drowned to death underwater. Alone and deathbloated, I await my grim discovery in sweet anticipation.

Let this be a warning – and won’t ye heed it?
Why always death – when we don’t need it?

Yours in all humblest ruin and bastardised chance

Anon

Some Haiku to Woo Yoo, or Make Yoo go Boo, or Maybe Coo

Serious nasty
I spat unfortunately
Séjours repertoire


Careless hockey team
Musing recent patience lost
On sunny Tuesday


Still is the autumn
I fumble my own shit now
Fun ball of my shit


Consider the time
I wait here at the bus stop
Totally disgraced

Sing a Song o' Failure, A Pocket Full of Why?

For Friar Cous-Cous - inspired by his portrait


Walk on riverside
Listen and see
How even the ducks are laughing at thee
And there the swans
White and proud
Even they laugh out loud

And now, at home
Emotio-prat
Mocked by the couch on which you are sat
Boredom brain fuckthrift
Sweaty veneer
Warning all females never to come near

Your useless frame
Crap and scrawny
Soon comes over angerhorny
When all of a sudden
Then and there
You embezzle your petitioning nutsacks bare

At bed time now
You lie and weep
And piss yourself awake from sleep.