Oi

Argh.

Life takes its route, through sexual desire, into the tunnel of early middle age, where you worry about a combination of your body and your performance: in point of actual fact, you are neither a pornstar with a ten inch cock of almost infinite variety and adaptability, nor a non-wannabe train-spotter with a semi-hibernating cock of uncertain provenance and even less certain occupation (to the extent that even a putative mother in law might worry about the general occupation of your membrum virilis). In short - you are just a guy, just a guy.

You are the service module of any Apollo mission: you do what you can but you are never going to be the star.

Trees are cut down, hurricanes never come again and the modern world fades into oblivion; you and your friends vaguely recall a female prime minister and lots of strikes; you don't in fact recall a time when accepting a job was not your decision but the union in charge's call. You don't recall there being no point in holding savings of any kind. You remember the smiles but you didn't see the cynicism in them. You don't recall the violence of the picket lines that you did see on TV, even though you were a kid. You remember the sparkly, glittery music and television, the over-emphasised desire to escape at every single point. You really do not remember the concrete blocks from motorway bridges; the spittle; the dodgy deals; the illegality that seemed normal because there was no law that could contain this new age with its conflict between the two sides of the same belief: Self.

What is self?


the....

going to school, in the cold and the fog and the mist, just like going anywhere anywhen on this island.

Shiver: down the path to the bogs, the dirty concrete, the other person there - he was the boy who you never understood. There he was, trousers round his ankles; even then, at the age of seven, you knew that was not how males went for a piss. Went for a piss/ a slash/ a jimmy riddle/ a wee/ to see a man about a dog/ to strain the greens.

Went for a Martin. A Martin Amis.

Fuck me I think I have missed a trick in the last four years. Blogging has truly passed me by. What do you write? how do you write it? Who do you write it for?

Do you need pictures?

Do you need porn?

Heart and Art

It seems odd, and overtly narcisstic, to announce one's own continued existence: I still am.

It wasn't an easy 2009, and I had to seek help to carry on. I don't pretend to be free of the tendency to darkness and soil, but I stopped taking medication some time ago and have found someone who wants to knit themselves to me in perpetuity, and more, to carry my issue. You'd think such a violation of nature would bring pestilence, hatred, famine and disease - but apparently not: someone is out there who thinks that TTD could help make good people. Together, we intend to perform this act of bestial art.

This is more powerful than I could have imagined. It means that in such darkness as we now find ourselves naturally in, I look up rather than down - and that I find myself softening towards my previous life. If there were an eagle-eyed reader of this blog, they'd find that I've only ever deleted one post. All of my other hatreds are still here for the amateur psychologist to peruse. I don't regret those hatreds. It's a weird tendency of our world to shout "hate! hate!" when someone says something they don't like. We want to censor and stop. We want to prevent. All must be seen to be well.

And I proved one of the conjectures of my teenage years: hate and love really are very, very similar things. They switch and turn on a heartbeat.

You can really love someone with all your body, and feel the knot in your stomach at all hours of the day and night: then you can hate them the same way: then you can love them again.

All the reasons are the same, only inverted, or shifted either side of the equality sign.

You really can stand, leaning on the broom, contemplating the wreckage of your heart, and you really can pick it all up and glue it with pritt-stick. When you've done it, and you've wiped your hands, and you've scraped off the bits of glue that squeezed out the sides, and you've thoughtfully and carefully held the pieces still for far longer than is necessary, then you can say "I mended my broken heart".

People will never tell the difference. Honestly - they won't. There is no difference between a heart naturally malformed and a heart carefully put together with glue.

You really can walk into the sunset together, even though you have a limp and she has a club foot.

That - that's what life is really about.

Bullshit Proof

Here's what I will never be trapped by again:

1) The "soulmate" crap. That's about control, guilt and the pretence of tender-heartedness. If someone says it to you, ignore it. Falling for it is irredeemably beta.

2) The relationship shit-tests like "were you looking at her?" to which all possible answers are wrong. The best thing to do is to respond in kind, ie: "Well, of course: she's as hot as fuck".

3) The absence of communication. If she doesn't text you, that's her fucking problem. *Never* get trapped into sending loads of texts to a silent woman. She will loathe you for your spinelessness.

4) Sexual intimacy. There ain't no such thing. You are just number n. So, to some extent is she. We don't communicate souls in sex, however much hand-wringing Christian clergyman think we do. We just fuck like animals. At last we're learning how to do it properly. Remember that kissing is absolutely nothing at all.

5) Rows are good. If she gets cross with you, get cross back. Never, ever appease a woman's anger. Women hate craven, cringing men.

6) Never believe what a woman says about the type of man she finds sexy. All that stuff about kindness, intelligence, etc is all crap. Women are as sexually predictable as we are, and we find big tits and slim hips sexy, and they find big, dominating men sexy. Believe me, your reading of Heidegger will be utterly irrelevant to whether she likes your cock, and she will, whatever she says, not be turned on by your claim to be a poet.


Well, that's it. As you can guess, some of this is inspired by reading less savoury stuff about "game", but my experiences over the last two years (of steadily being battered into the ground like the beta I am) suggest that there is a lot of truth in it.

Women are not hard-wired to be caring, or loving, or care-givers or whatever. They, like men, are animals, and their desires and preferences are far more animalistic than we often think.


The title of this post is inspired by the extremely cool track Bulletproof by La Roux, which is 80s synth pop for 2009, with a video whose visual imagery is what many 80s groups would have made, had the technology allowed it. It shows that this kind of music really does have meaning: archetypal grid patterns, geometric solids, splintered images, too much lighting, asexual or androgynous characters (she's a mixture of Toyah, Hazel O Connor and Flock of Seagulls). I wonder if the grid patterns, reminiscent of laboratories and prisons, are trying to say something in particular...

And not a single whoremark arse tattoo in sight. No lingering cunt-shot either.


Even crap 80s synth pop had more to say about real life and real personalities than Lily Allen, whose failure to reach an orgasm is not really inspiring me. Nor am I rendered speechless by Black Eyed Peas' prediction of a great night's clubbing and sex. I'm also unprepossessed by Lady Gaga's somewhat tired attempt at edginess. Equally, Evacuating the Dance Floor could have had intriguing cold-war psychological subtones - but it doesn't. It's just shit.

Yeah, ok. I'm spending 2 hours a day in the gym right now. So I know my music. Thanks to TMF.

Me

~A story written in about 10 minutes, from a title given in Creative writing club yesterday~


I was sitting in my chair reading, and waiting for my wife to return home. I was expecting the usual slamming of the front door, the exaggerated sigh, the unmistakeable odour of victimhood and the air of frustrated anger that usually came my way at this time of the evening. I was prepared to respond as I habitually did: with a mixture of the nod and the quiet acquiescence of the freshly made cup of tea.

So when the door slammed, I thought nothing of it; but when something vivid and white flashed past me and flung itself down on the sofa opposite I looked up in surprise. A white shirt? Her?

There was a youth sitting opposite me, stereotypically tousle-haired, his white shirt open at the collar and two vivid sideburns that looked like a sharper version of seventies powercut-and-inflation facial hair.

"Who the hell are you?" I asked, unable to get up but feeling stuck between the arms of my chair.

"Oh shut up, grandad," he replied, before looking around him and saying "I've always wanted to say that."

"What the bloody hell are you-"

"Oh for crying out loud, shut up and listen. Why on earth are you sitting here, on a beautiful evening like this, reading Harry Potter again? Why the bloody hell aren't you actually doing something?"

I was at a loss. I was reading Harry Potter, that much was true, but I hadn't really looked outside for hours. And what business was it of this interloper's?

"Jesus man, look at the state of you. Fat, bald, and - I don't believe it - are you still wearing that shirt?"

"There's nothing wrong with my shirt." It was my favourite shirt. I had had it for years. In fact, I sat my finals exams in it. I remembered the constant sense of panic and the persistent feeling that I had simply failed: not just in my degree, but in something deeper, in everything.

"Yes there is, it looks dreadful. It looks about twenty years old."

"Twenty one actually." I could not understand why I wasn't calling the police, but I also could not understand why I was allowing myself to be drawn into a battle of wits with someone much more agile and intelligent than me. Probably.

He laughed and he began to fiddle with his long hair. He looked around for a moment, seeming to take in the room.

"Not much in here is there? Where are the pictures? The family? The home-ness of home?"

"We went for the minimalist look."

"Oh yes. Where is your wife?"

"I'm not sure. She went out hours ago. Shopping probably."

"Well, if she did, she went with the guy from No.27."

"What?"

"Come on. Don't tell me you didn't know: the lifts to work, the silences, the confidence - she's sleeping with the tall, slim man from No 27 who still has all his own hair." I cannot say that I was really shocked: I saw now that I had been thinking this for months, but hadn't wanted to admit it. But I was curious as to how this youth knew, and why he cared. But he had moved on.

"Do you remember your first kiss?" I did. It was kept, safely, in the corner of my life, surrounded by glorious skies, a permanent force field of anxiety, and the background of exams. I had been sixteen, and she had been beautiful and the most intelligent girl in the school. The enforced wait had made the first contact so special and so full of...of...me, me and her, that it had simply stayed here all that time. "And what happened then?" Not much, was the honest answer. Come our GCSE results, two months later, I had done poorly, she had excelled, and in a fit of the spiteful childishness I later made my speciality, ignored her and the relationship was over. He looked sympathetically at me. "They say your first love is the most special, the one you keep returning to."

"I don't think so. I don't feel any shade of love, and it's too long ago now for regrets. I feel....shame, I suppose. Shame and beauty. Funny combination, that."

The youth looked thoughtful for a moment. "So this is what it all comes to, then," he said. "Reading children's books in an empty room, with an empty heart, and not even enough hair to tweak like you always used to do; no calling, no ambition, no faith."

"I suppose so."

"It's a bit of a waste of time, really. I might as well just-" he leaned into his pocket to pull out what looked like a small bottle of tablets.

"What does it have to do with you?" was my bizarrely inappropriate question, since by now I knew perfectly well what it had to do with him.

"Well, why should i work, and strive, and do as I am told all the time, if you're just going to sit here....rotting away?"

I had a sudden thought. I stood up, feeling stronger than I had done for ages. "Look, I've got an idea." His right eyebrow raised itself. "That's it. Don't sacrifice her. Look after her. You're right for each other - you can change things. You can, you can make it different. Make it all different. Just by that first love affair. Change everything."

He laughed and shook his head. "No, old man. I'm not doing anything different. I haven't done anything wrong. It's you who needs to change. You who needs to undo the evil you've caused. I'm just a kid. Why should I try to undo your cocked up life?"

"Because you're the one with the power, the energy. You can do it."

The youth stood up slowly, sighing. "I was afraid of this," he said. "You really are finished, aren't you. You've absolutely nothing to give anymore. Something has gone very, badly wrong and your entire life is being scrunched up and thrown in the bin."

With that, he ran his hands through his luxuriant hair and slowly walked out of the room.

How Do You Martians Say "I Love You"?

Crikey O Reilly this is hard work.

Campaigning against the bankrupt Labour-fascist government? Nah.

Reading the comments at Harry's Place? No. It's a pleasure.

Slagging off the atheists who call everyone who doesn't share their worldview a nutter? Erm, no, though that's quite hard (I probably am mad).

Trying to make serious contact with women?

*ahem*

Fuck me this is like scaling the north face of the fucking Eiger (not that I've done anything harder than walked up the hill to the fucking pub - and nor do I intend to).

For crying out fucking loud, when will human beings (and I think we've been this way for a hundred thousand years or more) - understand that love and hate, far from being opposites, are two sides of the same FUCKING COIN! Depth is depth, passion is passion and ties are ties. We are bodily connected but then we take it further, away from cock and cunt, and we carve ourselves into another's soul.

They do it to us too.

When they stop doing it, when they stop writing with their words and their looks into our hearts, then we notice the absence of the twinge and we feel the pain of the heart scabbing itself up: repairing and redrawing its surfaces. That hurts so much more than the initial wounds, and the hurts of the repairing last for the rest of our lives.

And some fool always, always, asks if we are over it yet, or worse demands that we get over it. Well, if we did, we'd be machines, monstrous, evil, unfeeling, machines, who move from body to body absorbing whatever we can take from it and moving on.

No.

In love someone carves themselves into you, you do the same, and you bind yourselves together in whatever hormonal feelings you have that then become part of thought and part of weltanschauung: we carry another person (not body, but body and soul) and they (hopefully) carry us.

We are not bonobos and we are not chimps (no common ancestor for 7 million years). We lie down together, weep together, fight together, die together.

Except that we don't, anymore. We don't die together.

We die apart, in nursing homes or hospices, or on late night roads on the way back from work. We die with memory, if it has survived, looking at those who loved and left us, those we left: we die with our "life partners" in mind and all of them either dead or many, many miles away, in another nursing home, or if they are lucky, in another family. We die with them giving us no thought at all. Ten years, twenty, thirty: it doesn't matter. In the end, they do not think of us, and we do not think of them, except, unconsciously, in the breath of the moment we see the hillside; in the glance at the youthful oak tree; in the shadow of the face of a young person.

We don't want to die together because it hurts. So we fuck someone else, and we think elsewhere, and we have porn, and we lie about our own bodies to ourselves.

And in the end we die.

We never said "I love you" and meant it: we never tied our own being to another; we never wanted the commitment love brought with it; we desired to love to turn into hate, so we could leave, and go, and feel alright when it stopped being about the sex, or the attraction, and it had become more about the selves.

No I am no projecting - I did say "I love you" and meant it: I did want to tie my being to another and for us to die together, however slow it was, however long it took. I wanted the other half of my being to lock into me and for us to walk together to all those places: the cinema; the pub; the school; the estate agent; the doctor's.

I was eight years, my only adult relationship, with a woman. I wanted monogamy. I wanted love, I wanted to share myself, truly.

It does exist. It's not a game.

We're only names in a dying memory, floating out into the equilibrium, while the nerves and connections and veins die off into soil. There we go, evaporating into time.

Gone.

We've gone. And, in the end, no-one gave a flying fuck.

Journey in the Dark

An exercise in acting...


...which didn't lapse once...


Good heavens, these guys (and gals) were good. I mean really good. Is there a reason why bands like Delta 5 didn't make it big? Was it to preserve their genius? Was it to keep their special gift special? Was it because everyone in the world is a cunt?

Or is it because we men absolutely fucking hate any suggestion of female infidelity (which is not in fact suggested by this track, quite the opposite, but which *is* hinted by the music)? Yeah, damn straight it is. Girls like these were the object of crap songs, not the makers of piercing, modernistic love stories.

Fuck knows, but you know, I'd take Delta 5 over any mass production fucker any day - Elton John (hair transplanted) - fuck right off. Those girls were good. Really, fucking good.

Can you imagine Girls Aloud reinterpreting this? Fuck me, it would be all about how sex wasn't *quite* as good as the singer had hoped. About how his cock wasn't quite as hard as it should have been, and how he refused to fuck her in the back room (her "tutu" not quite to his liking, one imagines).

...one knows nothing, one knows the truth...


and someone *always* knows the truth

Human relationships obtain, despite the media saturation of genital contact, the actual relationships still exist, they are still real. Despite the non-contact of cock and cunt, humans still relate. Love still exists, humans co-exist, they seek each other, in the dark and they don't seek cock, cunt or arse. They seek each other. They seek truth - namely, the other. The other is -1, the self is 1. Together they are 0. It doesn't matter, and it is the supreme human calculation. Together we make 0. We make nothing. We slide into non-existence together.

That's the point.



...four days together....



....it gives another backdrop....


We have spent a decade building backdrops to relationships: glamorous, clean, shaven, plastic, unreal decor of a square room; light, always light, lots of light.

We are the backdrop to our own lives.

Our lives and pornography have merged, in a not-very-felicitous-concert: no difference between the two now: the achievement of sexuality is all we cling to. The achievement of body - ours or the other's - and of touch, the most brutal touch (devoid of time) - even people born at the time of Cuba are stoking their bodies with plastic and oil to make someone else want to possess them and nothing else.

In this late-capitalist world, possession is nine tenths of the law; debt the other tenth.

Grown ups really think that others will love them, for wanting their body for a moment. They really believe that slaking desire will give them life. They really think that in forty years, someone will be there, still addicted to their body, still giving everything for that word, fuck. Fuck, it will be the conversation of the dying in thirty years' time, the last word on our lips - but he wanted to fuck me, I wanted to fuck her, we wanted to fuck. We fucked. And still, while we lie, cadaverous, our bodies eating themselves, still we will say it, and still it will give us that thrill.

No end of fucking. Not now. Not ever.

End of love. Always, under the duvet, always, end of love is there. In the cry, in the thought. It is the stolen object that induces panic in the dream; it is the fence underneath the snow; it is the person who stares at you, inexpressive, silent.

No end of fucking.

Ever.

Hole in the Heart

...and love falls through it, onto the street, where you see it gleam for a moment but take it for sweet wrapping; you think you see something dipping out of your line of sight but you return to real life (work and desire and ambition and hate)as soon as the thought strikes you, as you should, as only life can continue through - and the feeling is gone, sunk, like everyone else's feelings, into the running sore of the gutter.

And it is over.

On the Frustrations of an Inadequate Imagination

One of the annoying things about trying to write - stories and poems, I mean - is never really knowing what to put, and sitting here with a vague concept in mind, or a scene of some kind, or sometimes just a word, and then attempting to make something of it. Generally I don't put enough effort in, and I flick through various bits of music on iTunes, or I scribble and delete stuff, or I just end up doodling. I am not very good at doodling but I have a nice way with sort of squares and diamonds and straight lines. This blog is a sort of linguistic doodle.

I read somewhere (I think it was Ted Hughes) that you need to train your imagination, and develop it like a muscle. I have been trying that lately, by writing things of different genres. It has been frankly toe-curling to read the results. Not only have I chosen genres which I should stay well away from and don't even read, but what have I come up with isn't even a morass of sentiment and cliche; it's just meaningless verbiage, duckspeaking. This work has issued from my fingers with no input from my higher brain centres at all.

And yet the sheer number of words I have declaimed to Microsoft Word lately: 4000 on Wednesday last week, with 2000 most days before and since for around two weeks. How can so many words say so little, and how can they be so poorly arranged?

The problem for me - and, I suspect, many tenth rate authors - is that my range of sympathies and interests, and therefore imaginations, is narrow. So I have to force the imagination into action. And if one's imagination works like a slightly surreal film, then on these occasions mine is like a three year old's picture done in very heavy blue crayon. But for so long I have failed to do this, and have just focused instead on the "things I know" (to quote a writerly phrase), that I have exhausted these things, and been left with a paucity of spirit and creative soul.

It has also left me quite astonished at how little I do know. Even of the daily things of life: the materials of clothes, the looks of emotions, the workings of televisions, the ingredients of famous dishes. I know nearly nothing at all about colours, different types of rain, types of cloud, the appearances of the sky in different seasons: in short, the stuff of observation which is supposed to characterise writers.

Which makes me wonder: what on earth have I been doing all these years? Why have I failed to retain so much of what I must have seen and even noticed at various times? It must be because I have not really been interested enough in the world around me. In me - yes, for sure. In the outside of me - hmmm. It all seems too much like reflections of my moods, which means I either ignore it, love it or loathe it. Finer distinctions, such as would come from a genuine interest in life and the world, seem to escape me.

I don't think I can be a writer because I am too uninterested in the mechanics of existence.

That doesn't stop me wanting to pour out words, and sometimes in great quantities, very quickly. It just means I have to do it into the void, which wouldn't be a void if I had paid more attention earlier on.

Words Fail Me

Actually they don't. There is more than enough variety, shade and connotation in this language more than adequately to express opinion, belief, logic. Mathematics is more accurately descriptive of the real physical world but language has been able to help build civilisations and destroy them. The demagogue can do almost as much damage as the tank. It helps if you have both, of course. Language can evade meaning and justify anything you like. When words fail us it is because our thinking fails us. We are struck by rage, sometimes, but more likely sheer incompetence is what prevents us. We blame it on words, but the tools are there. So we stay silent, or we just roar - using some words, a few words, as surrogate screams. Their emotional content, their - shall we say - friction, bluntness,sibilance - their history, renders them less a comunication and more a howl. This is why the wild humans at the end of Will Self's Great Apes cry "fuuuuuck offffff" in the distance. It was the call of the human.

When words fail us we let things happen. Shouting sometimes reinforces the evil: it convinces the demagogue that his (or, increasingly often, her) shouting is just, and that of others proof of reactionary or disturbed tendencies. Words become our own jailors.

Words fail us because the thinking has failed, because we no longer recognise the tools we have and we have forgotten how to use them. The concepts we used to use in those words have been overhauled by something else and we have yet to create a new vocabulary to express what is, in fact, a very very old worldview. The language, somehow, needs to change, or the assault on the citizens will simply intensify. And the reactions we give them will convince them more of their need to act.

Some people of course have the talent required: almost no-one in the MSM: in the blogosphere, Tom Paine, Crushed (although he tends to talk far more personally), DK, and this guy among them. Alas, I'm not one of them. I just sit on the wall and shout. Or cry. That's a more accurate rendering of my use of words.

No One There At All

Nor is there: anyone there at all. When you open the curtains, in the dead of summer still-night, not only are there no bodies but there is no movement or light there, in the undark hours of lightly blacked day we have in this polar part of the world. No-one stands there with open arms, to say that you exist and they love you for it; or that they need you; or that they want you - in every single case, without exception, you are just a body. Your body is needed, or it is wanted, or it is not: you are frankly a hindrance to their getting the best use out of your torso & bollocks. Who are they? They are the sexual paymasters, the bodies you want: they are the dreams you once had and they are the shame: the endless sense of unfulfilled desire, the outpouring of life. You thought that actually life was about how much you could drain yourself into someone else and you were wrong: it was about how much you could stop yourself hanging off the strongest oak bough you could find. What a good bough it was, 200 years old, it had seen, even absorbed many like you, and carried such hearts in its still veins. Only you were too weak for the oak. You would have brought it crashing to the sodden autumn forest floor. Indeed, you thought that I would never really be, having left you in the middle of a young estate. Actually there you grow, stronger, thicker, with ever more space and presence, ever more command over light, while I just fade into your branches, then roots. I always want to be roots. Then I am a quadratic. Two roots, both rational. Or even irrational. I don't really mind, as my carbon leaches into the acid soil.

The Friendless Desert

Haukin the Active Man (out of Piers Plowman) - he really is a type who just recurs, given our general discomfort with living, our need to fill the hours, our dislike of actual existence. And business, we call it modern survival, we give it the status of god, and we leave our minds at its feet, and use it as the reason for living nothing at all. We claim to be hunter-gathering, but all we do is build our own reputations, in the hope that when someone actually gets round to burying us, everyone else will really give a toss how high we went in our companies, and how much we earned, and how sorry we were we didn't spend enough time at home.

It is odd, that a species so given, and uniquely, as far as we know, to consciousness, should spend so much time escaping it. There are many types of escape, from drunkenness, to highs, to sleep, to sport, to death. Ultimately, all lead to death, inasmuch as all are intended to while away time - to bring death closer. This is what is meant by boredom. The desire to die, the fear of mere existence. There really is nothing of which to be afraid, unless you count self-awareness as a disease, as we seem to do.

Hence I have no interest in Haukin and his mates. I can occupy myself happily for hours just being. I love being; it is just life I loathe. There is no problem with my being. I love the feel of aching in my limbs, of my pulse in my throat, or my pulse in my wrist, I love the pain of my muscles. I can feel them, those parts of my body built with the remains of other bodies. I have so many birds and sheep and cows in my legs and arms. I don't mind as much as I should, that i cannibalise the parts from other beings to reduce the entropy in mine. If only Haukin and his pals would piss off and leave me alone, instead of demanding a monopoly on time and a unique interest in energy and intellect.

I like the idea that I am a locus against entropy.



"The Pharos Project!"





I build order and pattern; perhaps I am a CVE of embodiment, keeping the universe from total collapse for a mere x years. Or maybe I will in my turn become sheep and cow and tree. It doesn't really matter. Even as an Xtian it barely matters. I may dislike life, and try to be pissed as much as possible, but the thought of any real kind of non-existence, such as that represented by business, and the pull of busy-ness; fills me with dread.

And I am a capitalist.

Imagine that.

You've Just Joined the Human Race

Not through mere existence: this is a ridiculous way of determining humanity. After all so many manners of subclasses exist and are disposable.

Which reminds me. I haven't put the bins out. Bugger.


Oh well.

No, I mean having a thoroughly shitty day at work, thereby reinforcing your status as a piss-poor cog in a broken wheel, your utter irrelevance, your wholly needless work which could and should be done by someone else: and then your relaxing into the not entirely fanstastical but certainly phantasmagorical world of alcohol. Oh truest of the true joys, oh maker of purpose, oh braver of cowardly feelings. Oh you salve my fear by making it real, oh you fantasise for me and bring it all through like a vomit of anxiety (with bits of fear-carrot).

Life without booze? Fuck me.

Or rather - there's the problem. Some bloggers write about the troubles of having sex, others are 13 again. *

Oi. Lawrence. Fuck off. Just because you don't have sex, it doesn't mean you're not a man. You're a fuckwit and your books are shite so just fuck right off back into the arseaching syllabus you came from. Where the fuck are my Sillitoe, Orwell, Amis (Sr & Jr), Larkin, Hughes (yes alright), Plath; where the fucking hell are my Greene books, my copy of Unman Wittering & Zigo; my Eliot; my VHS of Threads, my blog. Where is my blog? My Blog!!!


*Are yuz caalin me a fuckin vorgin?**

**Erm, for the avoidance of doubt, this post refers to my lack of sex in the modern age, not throughout time.***

***Not that that should be a problem to any discerning readers.****

****Not that I'm worried or anything.

Some Beautiful Women

..do actually like the drummer and admit the pre-eminence of alcohol in their liking. This is no bad thing. Alcohol is a truth serum. It works especially well after a week's disappointing, indeed piss-poor, work. It works even better faced with decades old hatreds and loves. All women are beautiful by virtue of not being men, some women are even more beautiful by virtue of being known to TTD. Some, especially unlucky women, are exceptionally weird by virtue of being specifically close to TTD at a given moment in time (ie are somewhere near).

For example: people I hated are dead. People I loved are dead. I visit the grave of someone I hated three times a year: that's because he died aged 19. People I loved are selfish old cunts and they leave nothing and nowhere to go. I wish they would just go and fuck off out of memory. And, doubtless, they will: and by then, so will go my life, my memory and my self. I visit someone else's grave: "Woody something[can't remember]Pecker" out of the nation's chess magazine, who died aged 28, and who I played so much snooker with and drank with and kept score with at cricket matches. We got so pissed and we played so much cider-fuelled snooker at the Oxford Union. We are old, we die, we decay and the hair falls out of our booze-headed follicles. And he told me he had cancer and I--I--forgot, I mis-remembered, I mis-took, I mis-spoke.

I forgot.


I forgot.


I forgot he was dying.


He died.



I will die.


I think his resting place is too cold and too dark.

I don't think he will mind. His father might, as he is there with him. They might appreciate the shade but then again they will be chilly and will need to wrap up.




So does family decay and die.



Fucking bastards: why are living beings such utter cunts?? Why do they go and die when you want to go & love them the most? Why do they fuck off out of your life and survive when you want them to survive with you against the floods so much you'd rather die?


*In My Mind's Eye*


There are women who love me and who I sort of love in different ways. Here goes a recent chat:

The conversation in question went something like this. Let a be the woman and let t be TD. Let x be the moment that TD realised that a did not want to sleep with him. Let z be the moment she realised her utter distaste for him.

a: I like you quite a lot, I find you bright and thoughtful.
t: Oh you're too kind. I mean, really. Actually I'm a wanker.
a: That's just the alcohol talking.
t: Well, you'd like to think so. Actually it's completely true.
a: Oh I'm sure it isn't.
t: It is.

x

a: How do you live with yourself?
t: With Stella, with sleep and with Tears for Fears.
a: you're joking.
t: No.
a: So you're telling me you're an alcoholic conservative with suicidal tendencies?
t: Apart from the suicidal tendencies, yes.

z

a: I have to....go and have a shit now.
t: Aha, shit! One of the joys of living! have you ever thought-
[TD gets his remaining light punched out]


Actually the above conversation is invented and is a lie, by all accounts and on all measures of truth. I do become animated upon talk of egestion but that is entirely satiric, and is intended to demonstrate my linking lavatorial desires with sexual ones, and hence to prove the ultimate futility and disgusting-ness of the human body. Many people do not understand this, which is why I have few friends, but with any luck the message will start to get through soon (heh heh).

So they go....

So I go....

So goes time and hair and heartbeats and blood pressure.


*Oi! John! Two pints of lager and a packet of crisps!*


**








** My dear first love,who I don't even know if she is still alive, she would tell me she loved my eccentricities and my weirdnesses, but above all she loved my hair...she loved my hair...my hair....