Fair enough, I'm no Shelley, but as far as I recall he never had to earn a living or scribble his poems in between boring meetings. This little effort was done over a couple a lunchtimes. It's obviously a sonnet based on Ozymandias; I've duplicated Shelley's tricky rhyme scheme and tried to match something of his rhythm . . . but I'd agree it's rather more Iambic Pentamatuerish then the great Romantic's verse. Still, I don't think it's a bad effort considering. I've posted a few pics just to make more sense to people who aren't familiar with the building. The idea for the poem came to me the other day as I was chatting to a friend about the plans for Temple Works in Holbeck. I'm going to a show around in a couple of hours organised by Emma from CultureVultures, and hope to get a better idea of what is going to be done with the place. I'm very attached to the building; my grandparents lived around the corner, my parents got married in the local church, and my dad and uncle drink in the pub next door. I grew up with this place as a massive part of my imagination and it's been gutting to watch what's happened to it over the past decade or so. I've got some pretty vague ideas how I'd like to see things develop, so I'll wait and see. I have my fingers crossed though. The plans I've heard about so far are marvelous.
Thursday, July 30, 2009
Sunday, July 26, 2009
Tweet Poem.
This was just a bit of fun I did over coffee and cake in Borders this lunchtime. It's a response of sorts to my friend Gayle's poem on her blog. Obviously I'm no photographer, and the writing is a bit dodgy . . . I only had a few minutes to scribble it while my mate was getting the drinks in. Really, I just wanted to see what posterous would do with a bunch of uploaded pics, as I haven't tried it before . . so here goes.
Tuesday, July 21, 2009
My Moleskin Project Poem.
Here's my effort for The Moleskin Project; as is evident my artistic talent is negligible. I normally use a much larger notebook too, at least A4 which seems to help my handwriting. It is very difficult to read, so here's the poem typed.
Drawn Together (he thinks.)
I adore contemporary culture
and take every effort to attend
each local event and gathering,
so I'll frequently make a new friend.
We'll bond over spirited banter
with the odd glass of Pinot or Pimms,
displaying the depths of our insights
that are far beyond fashionable whims.
I'll claim art must provoke, not pander
to popular tastes for jollity;
if it doesn't disturb or threaten
it's patently poorer quality!
Oh, look, our latest arrival,
she appears reverential and awed,
she'll appreciate my commentary,
My discernment's so rarely flawed.
She's nodding away in agreement
so I'm starting to wonder whether
it's the time to suggest a drinky?
Love of art draws people together!
Drawing Away (she's thinking.)
I've not come in here for the culture;
truth is, I'm avoiding the rain.
I'm just not that keen on arty types,
they seem so precious and vain.
Where do they learn to talk like that?
What the heck is "rhizomatic?"
Who decides what goes on display?
I've got much better stuff in my attic.
I really don't see any point
in pictures that don't aim to please,
that seem to be dark, ugly and smudged,
about depression, death and disease.
This guy behind me is far too close
so I think I'll just nervously stare
in the hope that he'll soon cotton on
that it's clear that I just couldn't care.
Damn, I can see where it' s leading,
why am I so far from the door!
Please, don't ask me out for a drink.
Once again, I've drawn the short straw!
Friday, July 3, 2009
Not Feeling Very Charitable.
A young woman accosted me in the street a few minutes ago. She wasn't wearing charity insignia, so she can't have been a chugger. But she did have a clipboard and a lean and hungry look about her, so I'm guessing she was hoping to cajole me into switching utilities or convince me of the benefits of some remarkably affordable form of pet insurance. But I never found out, because this is what she said as she physically tackled me: "Sorry to bother you."
Sorry to bother me? Then why try to do to me what Roy Keane did to Alfie Haaland, and go for my knee as I was scurrying past, staring at the horizon, obviously trying to avoid eye contact?
I'm running another customer care course in a couple of weeks time and I'm gonna use this as a textbook example of how not to engage your customer - or, in this case, passer-by - with your opening line
Sorry to bother me? Then why try to do to me what Roy Keane did to Alfie Haaland, and go for my knee as I was scurrying past, staring at the horizon, obviously trying to avoid eye contact?
I'm running another customer care course in a couple of weeks time and I'm gonna use this as a textbook example of how not to engage your customer - or, in this case, passer-by - with your opening line
Tuesday, June 30, 2009
The Poems I Don't Write.
I did this during a very boring and pointless meeting this afternoon . . . yes, my existence really is that tedious.
Monday, June 29, 2009
@philkirby why do you put text b4 all ur @replies so everyone has to read them all?
I received this tweet the other day. My first reaction was to apologise and to promise to change my approach. It was followed by "Oh, good, then I won't have to unfollow you then." I don't intentionally offend anyone and I didn't mean for my tweets to be "noisy."
I explained to my follower that originally I had started tweeting this way in order to encourage new twitterers to join in the fun. The idea was that Twitter is an open, extended, conversation, best when it's thrown open to all comers. I don't have any wisdom of my own to dispense, and I don't dole out the accumulated insights of the world's recognised autorities and notable thinkers in 140 character chunks. Actually, I find all those quotes that litter twitter just bloody annoying; if I need enlightenment, I know where my library is! Anyone who thinks that Twitter is a vehicle for human improvement must be a bit soft in the head, and I've mentioned it often enough. I use Twitter to talk to people, one conversation at a time. The people I talk to simply interest, amuse, and entertain me, and I hope they feel the same about me. I'm not interested in accumulating "followers," and in fact, if I had one major criticism of Twitter it's that unfortunate word. Why would anybody want to follow me, and why should I give a damn about following anyone else? The whole thing's mistaken from the start.
So, I was a little miffed at myself for potentially alienating someone who might have something interesting to contribute. Therefore, I changed my approach, replying solely to the person who'd replied to me. After about an hour I noticed I wasn't having any fun anymore. The conversations had dried up. People were not chipping in their two penn'oth. And I was boring myself with what I was saying. It wasn't working for me at all.
There are two reasons why I'm not going to change the way I tweet. If I put off the occasional conversational partner, then that's just fine. The first is that it does seem to me that we have our best ideas when challenged by voices that we normally don't hear. I'm not interested in confirming my own prejudices, and I love inviting the unlikeliest people into the conversation. It's great when we don't know where things will end up. I had a natter this morning with a few people across the world about camp comedy in Britain in the 70's and what that said about the difference between the British and American cultural psyches. I certainly didn't wake up this morning with that on my mind. Everyone who participated in that conversation learned something new about themselves, their culture. and the culture of the other. None of us felt the need to lecture or got carried away with the need to prove a point. We couldn't have done that if we'd kept our conversations in our single silos. We would have singularly made some didactic observations and left it at that. But because we were "noisy" other people felt they could get involved.
My second point is more aesthetic. I find people who begin a sentence with my name disturbing if not frankly menacing. It may be the result of 20 years in mental health, but if someone I'm talking to says my name at the start of every sentence I want to know that there's an unimpeded path to the door. It's the sign of a nutcase. And it looks and sounds so ugly too; breaking the tweet into two breaths has a much more natural, much more human, much more authentic feel to it. The Tweet looks better, reads better, and is much easier on the mind. It also feels much more "me."
So, in response to the follower who promised to dump me should I carry on being so noisy, I have to say goodbye. We never got to speak properly. It's fairly obvious now that we never shall. There's nothing to apologise for on either side. We simply use twitter for different purposes. I'm going to carry on my incontinent nattering, thank you very much.
I explained to my follower that originally I had started tweeting this way in order to encourage new twitterers to join in the fun. The idea was that Twitter is an open, extended, conversation, best when it's thrown open to all comers. I don't have any wisdom of my own to dispense, and I don't dole out the accumulated insights of the world's recognised autorities and notable thinkers in 140 character chunks. Actually, I find all those quotes that litter twitter just bloody annoying; if I need enlightenment, I know where my library is! Anyone who thinks that Twitter is a vehicle for human improvement must be a bit soft in the head, and I've mentioned it often enough. I use Twitter to talk to people, one conversation at a time. The people I talk to simply interest, amuse, and entertain me, and I hope they feel the same about me. I'm not interested in accumulating "followers," and in fact, if I had one major criticism of Twitter it's that unfortunate word. Why would anybody want to follow me, and why should I give a damn about following anyone else? The whole thing's mistaken from the start.
So, I was a little miffed at myself for potentially alienating someone who might have something interesting to contribute. Therefore, I changed my approach, replying solely to the person who'd replied to me. After about an hour I noticed I wasn't having any fun anymore. The conversations had dried up. People were not chipping in their two penn'oth. And I was boring myself with what I was saying. It wasn't working for me at all.
There are two reasons why I'm not going to change the way I tweet. If I put off the occasional conversational partner, then that's just fine. The first is that it does seem to me that we have our best ideas when challenged by voices that we normally don't hear. I'm not interested in confirming my own prejudices, and I love inviting the unlikeliest people into the conversation. It's great when we don't know where things will end up. I had a natter this morning with a few people across the world about camp comedy in Britain in the 70's and what that said about the difference between the British and American cultural psyches. I certainly didn't wake up this morning with that on my mind. Everyone who participated in that conversation learned something new about themselves, their culture. and the culture of the other. None of us felt the need to lecture or got carried away with the need to prove a point. We couldn't have done that if we'd kept our conversations in our single silos. We would have singularly made some didactic observations and left it at that. But because we were "noisy" other people felt they could get involved.
My second point is more aesthetic. I find people who begin a sentence with my name disturbing if not frankly menacing. It may be the result of 20 years in mental health, but if someone I'm talking to says my name at the start of every sentence I want to know that there's an unimpeded path to the door. It's the sign of a nutcase. And it looks and sounds so ugly too; breaking the tweet into two breaths has a much more natural, much more human, much more authentic feel to it. The Tweet looks better, reads better, and is much easier on the mind. It also feels much more "me."
So, in response to the follower who promised to dump me should I carry on being so noisy, I have to say goodbye. We never got to speak properly. It's fairly obvious now that we never shall. There's nothing to apologise for on either side. We simply use twitter for different purposes. I'm going to carry on my incontinent nattering, thank you very much.
Saturday, June 27, 2009
Wednesday, June 17, 2009
Last night
When they arrived I was playing CrazySexyCool by TLC. Pumping it up loud for all the neighbours to appreciate. I'm generous like that. And it being Tuesday evening I was having to compete with the party going on downstairs. Micky and Vicky only have two records by the sounds of it, some pitifully annoying thumper that I suspect was an Ibiza anthem from a couple of years ago when they last managed to get away, and the equally dire "yur bootiful" sung by one half of the sixties one hit wonders, Pinky and Perky. Possibly Pinky. Perky had the voice I seem to recall.
First impression of Kieran? Bounding Labrador. Was a bit worried he might lick my face or have a little tinkle due to his over-excitability. And there was a bit of an issue with height - he was in negative equity in regards to Sal by a good couple of inches - but he certainly more than made up for this deficit in terms of bulk. He looked like he went through a bucket of creatin a day. He could have benched pressed with his eyelids. I was seriously afeared for my furniture as he didn't seem to realise his own strength, like he'd been raised in a reinforced concrete bunker with only tonka toys for mates. I made him sit still in a chair after he'd toppled a table and knocked over a couple of speakers. Fortunately he seemed used to taking directions unquestioningly. It all added up to ex-squaddie.
I don't know what Sal had come as. Her top seemed to be made of something resembling tracing paper and the skirt was ripped up the side way beyond the watershed point. She was a head turner, no smidgen of a doubt, and may as well have worn a neon sign reading "well hello guys, yes I'm fucking naked and what you gonna do about it?"
Kieran ate everything on offer and cleared Sal's plate too. But the third glass of wine seemed to topple him into incoherent babbling and pointing at imaginary objects he was sure we'd find equally amusing if we'd just look. I had to prise the next drink from his locked fingers as he'd fallen asleep, eyes open, pupils fixed and dilated, an object lesson in the perils of steroid misuse. Sal remarked that he did this a lot, drink or no drink, and she appeared to find this genuinely endearing. She's a low maintenance kinda gal is Sally. I always liked that about her.
Sal and I spent the next few hours squatting beside the stereo squabbling over the next track and dancing maniacally around the flat misremembering the words to our favourite records. We did a great duet of Beth Orton's "Pass In Time" and yowled our way through "Only Living Boy in New York", and I can't understand why Kieran didn't wake up for her pitch perfect and deeply moving rendition of Martha Wainwright's classic "Bloody Mother Fucking Asshole". The whole street were humming along to that one.
I hadn't quite honoured the bargain to stick to a sensible amount of wine, but then neither had she and the decision to get stuck into the sixth bottle seemed automatically the right thing to do. By 2 o clock we were well pissed and sitting together by the window appreciating the view - she always liked the view of the city at night - and she was trying to find a record that would make me cry. It's a game she invented, quite cruel really. She knows that you can say any amount of shit things to me and I don't flinch, but get just the right amount of alcohol into me and soften me up with a few well chosen niceties then slip a heart-wrenching track in the mix and I'll go like a geyser. But it wasn't going to work this time, though she did get close, a couple of times. I'm not going to let on what. Don't want her cheating next time.
Kieran jerked awake at three and Sal booked a taxi to take them back to hers. He'd sobered up enough to negotiate both flights of steps unassisted without much risk of an accident. I really didn't fancy offering to precede him and break his fall should he lose control of his extremities. Would have killed me. Sal and I had a peck goodnight. I reckon it'll be another three months or so before I see her again. When she's got bored with Stretch Armstrong
First impression of Kieran? Bounding Labrador. Was a bit worried he might lick my face or have a little tinkle due to his over-excitability. And there was a bit of an issue with height - he was in negative equity in regards to Sal by a good couple of inches - but he certainly more than made up for this deficit in terms of bulk. He looked like he went through a bucket of creatin a day. He could have benched pressed with his eyelids. I was seriously afeared for my furniture as he didn't seem to realise his own strength, like he'd been raised in a reinforced concrete bunker with only tonka toys for mates. I made him sit still in a chair after he'd toppled a table and knocked over a couple of speakers. Fortunately he seemed used to taking directions unquestioningly. It all added up to ex-squaddie.
I don't know what Sal had come as. Her top seemed to be made of something resembling tracing paper and the skirt was ripped up the side way beyond the watershed point. She was a head turner, no smidgen of a doubt, and may as well have worn a neon sign reading "well hello guys, yes I'm fucking naked and what you gonna do about it?"
Kieran ate everything on offer and cleared Sal's plate too. But the third glass of wine seemed to topple him into incoherent babbling and pointing at imaginary objects he was sure we'd find equally amusing if we'd just look. I had to prise the next drink from his locked fingers as he'd fallen asleep, eyes open, pupils fixed and dilated, an object lesson in the perils of steroid misuse. Sal remarked that he did this a lot, drink or no drink, and she appeared to find this genuinely endearing. She's a low maintenance kinda gal is Sally. I always liked that about her.
Sal and I spent the next few hours squatting beside the stereo squabbling over the next track and dancing maniacally around the flat misremembering the words to our favourite records. We did a great duet of Beth Orton's "Pass In Time" and yowled our way through "Only Living Boy in New York", and I can't understand why Kieran didn't wake up for her pitch perfect and deeply moving rendition of Martha Wainwright's classic "Bloody Mother Fucking Asshole". The whole street were humming along to that one.
I hadn't quite honoured the bargain to stick to a sensible amount of wine, but then neither had she and the decision to get stuck into the sixth bottle seemed automatically the right thing to do. By 2 o clock we were well pissed and sitting together by the window appreciating the view - she always liked the view of the city at night - and she was trying to find a record that would make me cry. It's a game she invented, quite cruel really. She knows that you can say any amount of shit things to me and I don't flinch, but get just the right amount of alcohol into me and soften me up with a few well chosen niceties then slip a heart-wrenching track in the mix and I'll go like a geyser. But it wasn't going to work this time, though she did get close, a couple of times. I'm not going to let on what. Don't want her cheating next time.
Kieran jerked awake at three and Sal booked a taxi to take them back to hers. He'd sobered up enough to negotiate both flights of steps unassisted without much risk of an accident. I really didn't fancy offering to precede him and break his fall should he lose control of his extremities. Would have killed me. Sal and I had a peck goodnight. I reckon it'll be another three months or so before I see her again. When she's got bored with Stretch Armstrong
Tuesday, June 16, 2009
One Whiskey, One Bourbon, and One Beer.
So, I lied about the beer bit. And the whisky, I think. And Bourbon I just can't take. Tastes like stale mule piss. I don't know how much I had to drink last night - it's positively teenage to keep count - but I do know that I walked home from Chapelallerton at four in the morning howling my way through "Chet Baker Sings" and crashed without taking my boots off or washing or cleaning my teeth. The face in the mirror just now was that of someone who has spent the night under Leeds Bridge giving sloppy blow jobs to guys thrown out of The Red Lion for being too tattoed. This is obviously hyperbole, or metaphorical or whatever - the point is I look like shit, and feel like death warmed up.
Just an average night then. All part of the project of distraction, avoidance, self-indulgence and denial which has become a sort of theme of my life at present. Not a lifestyle choice that would suit many, but fulfilling in it's own manner, especially the bit involving meaningless sex with random women. It's a numbers game this though, and it's as often a catastrophic horror as it is a sublime delight.
Last nights assignation fell into the category of full-on disaster.
I'm going to give her the fake internet name of Griselda, firstly because the name is frankly risible, and secondly because she reminded me of an insufferable and noted professor of feminist art theory at my local university. Griselda has stood me up twice in the past fortnight; like I said it's a numbers game and I always have a Plan B for just such an eventuality. Anyway, she always apologised promptly and teased that she would make it up to me somehow, so when she got in touch on Monday and invited me round to her house for drinks later that evening I didn't think it extraordinary that I should consider myself on a promise. She did mention, however, that her friend Janet would be popping in and maybe Paul and John her gay neighbors from the house behind. Quite the soiree I thought, but hey I'm a sociable kind of guy and had nothing much on that evening, so why not indeed.
I went prepared; two bottles of the wine she'd mentioned she liked and a handful of condoms. It's not presumption, simply prudence. Her house is only a short walk away but I was still a little late as is my wont; didn't want to look too keen, not after she'd already been so cavalier about previous arrangements.
She was on the phone when I arrived, having what sounded like a heated debate, so I stationed myself near the bookcase and proceeded to make like I was fascinated with her library. Actually I was quite impressed, and I made some approving comment when she finally finished her phone call and also mentioned that I liked the stripped oak original floorboards, thus showing my advanced proficiency in phatic communication. This proved to be the pinnacle of the evenings jollifications.
As my brain is still not capable of relating a decent narrative it will be easier if I did a kind of top 10 things that were wrong with the evening. Here goes:
1. Who in their right mind would begin an evenings shenanigans with a conversation about their current partner (and, yes, this was news to me, though not in itself a moral impediment) and his penchant for sexual sadism? Gareth, Gawain, Garaint, whatever his name was it sounded like he had a place reserved at the round table, so I'll call the fucker Galahad - so Galahad also was also in the closet according to her. She'd filched his credit card statement and hacked into his email accounts, confronted him about his subscriptions to to sites such as TGB (Trans-Gender Babes for all you curious types) and wanted to know if she should out him to his mother and sister. I'd walked through the door barely 7 minutes previously and I hadn't even had a glass placed in my possession and I was already involved in seedy sexual deviant practices and was being recruited as an ally in a campaign to humiliate a guy I hadn't even met. Heavy shit man!
2. All night my opinion was courted, not just over whether she should use the information she had gained illicitly and possibly illegally to force Galahad's alleged sexual orientation into the light, but over the least random, insignificant, uninteresting conundrum. As soon she found out what I used to as a job she decided I was to be tapped as a free source of advice concerning the mental health aspect of each and every question. Was it a result of deep rooted family trauma that he did not reveal that he smoked to his family? Was she being a victim of codependent dynamics if she allowed herself to be fucked in ways she found disgusting, humiliating and painful? Was it the case that a bullying and controlling mother could be the crucible for her son's forays into the domain of dominance and submission? Did I think that the youth in South Leeds were too spoiled by the me me me culture and dependence on the welfare state? Why was it that aboriginal Australians lost their spirit and died whilst some other races thrived in imperialist shackles?
Believe me, I could go on. Oh, the thigh slapping, belly laughing time we were having.
3. She seemed to think that all her problems with relating to men were caused by her looks. She referred to herself as fat and plain and related some sad story about her dad telling her that no man would look twice at her because she wasn't gorgeous like her sister. Well, way to go father. Now I think that's child abuse, and that's my sincere diagnosis as an experienced mental health worker. As tactfully as I was able I proffered the opinion that she was hardly a heiffer and lot's of men would find her attractive (obviously I was trying to be sensitive and non-commital, I didn't want to give the impression that she made any part of my chemistry set fizzle).
4. Her self-esteem slump was more than over-compensated for by her exaggerated sense of her own intelligence. Twice she let me know that her IQ was 167 and she was in Mensa. What a fucking surprise! No social skills to speak of and only gets to fuck damaged, deranged and delinquent blokes, but she's a right old whizz at those infuriatingly dull and pointless puzzles that ask which is the next shape/number/fucking picture in this progression. Lady, it ain't your size or shape or face, it's yer attitude that needs mending.
5. It wasn't just that she kept harping on about what a bluestocking she was (though it has to be mentioned that she had obviously never seriously been challenged regarding her own estimation, and loads of things she said were just wrong - Virginia fucking Woolf was bipolar not a schizo, basic bastard facts!). Apparently her dad was on the olympic committee which chose the Australian national team, her favourite uncle designed one of the most significant weapons systems in WW2, garaunteeing the survival of Western democracy, she knows Rupert Murdoch personally and is best friends with Australia's number one pop star - unfortunately not Kylie (I must admit I was kinda warming to her when I thought I might get to meet the diminutive diva) but some sad old guy I've never heard of. Fuck off you self-deluding nutter.
6. She talked incessantly about work. She has a boss called Rebecca. And guess what, we call her "The Bexter". Oh, we're mad us youth workers, we're a crazy whacky bunch. Have to be. Couldn't cope otherwise. Oh, fucking spare us you sad little fruit loop. If I ever found myself wanting to shag the female version of David Brent I'd have enough residual insight I'm sure to check myself into the nearest clinic for the currently insane.
7. She was in fact quite dim and a bit slack. She related a tedious tale about a previous beau (one more in a short string of terminally inadequate tossers) who impressed her by mentioning, apropos of nothing, John Dos Passos. This apparently indicated his great depth of knowledge and breadth of culture. Did it bollocks! The fuckwit was a bleeding librarian, he'd just memorised the frigging Dewey catalogue and hadn't quite got up to the equally dull and wordy American C list author, Theodore Dreiser!
8. Aren't people sad who think it's the height of cool to have gay mates? And drag John and Paul - they're lovely, really they are a scream, and I can hear them going at it through the walls, they have such a fantastic physical relationship - into every conversation. Let's not forget the Devster, aka Sukhdev a sikh shirtlifter who's busy bumming his way around the learning difficulties section of a social sevices department in a dismal local shit-hole town. Christ, if I was forced to live and work in Batley I might resort to a bit of buggery to liven up my day too, so good luck to the enterprising fellow. It's a minimally amusing anecdote, but it doesn't make the teller at the cutting edge of sexual liberation. Grow up please!
9. I fancied her friend Janet. She had the voice of Jenny Agutter (ask any guy my age, American Werewolf in London! we all played the sex scene time and time again and indulged in fetid fantasies over the lovely Ms Agutter) and a cheeky smile. So my hopes and other bits were raised with the thought that this may get interesting. Of course it didn't. Nice but dim, overly impressed with Griselda's pseudo intellectual confidence and oblivious to the fact that it was just the flimsiest pretence. Shame, really, because I so would have.
10. Griselda was not the hostess with the mostess. She'd sat in front of the fire all the while devouring Chicken bhaji's. She did know that I'm a veggie, so I did think it a bit rum, but I could forgive the food faux pas. Wasn't hungry anyhow, but I did have a thirst on me. Now I brought two bottles of very nice organic white. Griselda had opened her bottle of red, and between the three of us by 10:45 all but half a glass of the red had gone. I had my drinking brakes on still, but I wanted another glass. So I asked to open the white and sank a rapid glass and refilled. By 11:30 as Janet was leaving there was only a drop of white left and Griselda made a big fuss of glugging it into my expectant glass before she planted herself down for her next monologue concerning the benefits of eco-tourism reaped by under priviledged pre-schoolers in Fuerta Ventura (I have been guilty of exaggeration before if I thought a story would benefit from a bit of a lift, but I swear this is exactly what happened). I finished the half-glass in a steady 10 minutes, enjoying the distance the drink was opening between my booze-muffled senses and the environment. Then began a quarter of an hours head nodding to accompany her droning on while I wobbled and tinkered my empty vessel on my knee. Now when I entertain it's me casa tu casa. And I watch peoples glasses, not for the purposes of monitoring their intake but to make sure they don't run dry. If anyone wants to drink themselves to oblivion round mine that's fine, just don't pee on my carpet, puke down the back of the telly, or get all stupidly aggressive. Alcoholism, while not recommended is not treated judgmentally. It's not my problem. Griselda on other hand seemed to have the best interests of my liver uppermost in her mind. Either that or she was simply a tight swine and inconsiderate.
It was now 12:00, I was morbidly sober and there seemed no polite way to suggest that a guest with an empty glass is an unhappy guest. I could feel the urge to vent my ire rising like a head of steam. Fortunately Griselda yawned a mighty yawn and I used that as my cue to suggest that she had work in the morning and I should be on my way. We parted as cordially as I could and I rushed back home to the comfort of a half bottle of Rioja, then jumped in a taxi over to my friend Jane's.
Ah, well, we live and learn. There won't be a next time.
Just an average night then. All part of the project of distraction, avoidance, self-indulgence and denial which has become a sort of theme of my life at present. Not a lifestyle choice that would suit many, but fulfilling in it's own manner, especially the bit involving meaningless sex with random women. It's a numbers game this though, and it's as often a catastrophic horror as it is a sublime delight.
Last nights assignation fell into the category of full-on disaster.
I'm going to give her the fake internet name of Griselda, firstly because the name is frankly risible, and secondly because she reminded me of an insufferable and noted professor of feminist art theory at my local university. Griselda has stood me up twice in the past fortnight; like I said it's a numbers game and I always have a Plan B for just such an eventuality. Anyway, she always apologised promptly and teased that she would make it up to me somehow, so when she got in touch on Monday and invited me round to her house for drinks later that evening I didn't think it extraordinary that I should consider myself on a promise. She did mention, however, that her friend Janet would be popping in and maybe Paul and John her gay neighbors from the house behind. Quite the soiree I thought, but hey I'm a sociable kind of guy and had nothing much on that evening, so why not indeed.
I went prepared; two bottles of the wine she'd mentioned she liked and a handful of condoms. It's not presumption, simply prudence. Her house is only a short walk away but I was still a little late as is my wont; didn't want to look too keen, not after she'd already been so cavalier about previous arrangements.
She was on the phone when I arrived, having what sounded like a heated debate, so I stationed myself near the bookcase and proceeded to make like I was fascinated with her library. Actually I was quite impressed, and I made some approving comment when she finally finished her phone call and also mentioned that I liked the stripped oak original floorboards, thus showing my advanced proficiency in phatic communication. This proved to be the pinnacle of the evenings jollifications.
As my brain is still not capable of relating a decent narrative it will be easier if I did a kind of top 10 things that were wrong with the evening. Here goes:
1. Who in their right mind would begin an evenings shenanigans with a conversation about their current partner (and, yes, this was news to me, though not in itself a moral impediment) and his penchant for sexual sadism? Gareth, Gawain, Garaint, whatever his name was it sounded like he had a place reserved at the round table, so I'll call the fucker Galahad - so Galahad also was also in the closet according to her. She'd filched his credit card statement and hacked into his email accounts, confronted him about his subscriptions to to sites such as TGB (Trans-Gender Babes for all you curious types) and wanted to know if she should out him to his mother and sister. I'd walked through the door barely 7 minutes previously and I hadn't even had a glass placed in my possession and I was already involved in seedy sexual deviant practices and was being recruited as an ally in a campaign to humiliate a guy I hadn't even met. Heavy shit man!
2. All night my opinion was courted, not just over whether she should use the information she had gained illicitly and possibly illegally to force Galahad's alleged sexual orientation into the light, but over the least random, insignificant, uninteresting conundrum. As soon she found out what I used to as a job she decided I was to be tapped as a free source of advice concerning the mental health aspect of each and every question. Was it a result of deep rooted family trauma that he did not reveal that he smoked to his family? Was she being a victim of codependent dynamics if she allowed herself to be fucked in ways she found disgusting, humiliating and painful? Was it the case that a bullying and controlling mother could be the crucible for her son's forays into the domain of dominance and submission? Did I think that the youth in South Leeds were too spoiled by the me me me culture and dependence on the welfare state? Why was it that aboriginal Australians lost their spirit and died whilst some other races thrived in imperialist shackles?
Believe me, I could go on. Oh, the thigh slapping, belly laughing time we were having.
3. She seemed to think that all her problems with relating to men were caused by her looks. She referred to herself as fat and plain and related some sad story about her dad telling her that no man would look twice at her because she wasn't gorgeous like her sister. Well, way to go father. Now I think that's child abuse, and that's my sincere diagnosis as an experienced mental health worker. As tactfully as I was able I proffered the opinion that she was hardly a heiffer and lot's of men would find her attractive (obviously I was trying to be sensitive and non-commital, I didn't want to give the impression that she made any part of my chemistry set fizzle).
4. Her self-esteem slump was more than over-compensated for by her exaggerated sense of her own intelligence. Twice she let me know that her IQ was 167 and she was in Mensa. What a fucking surprise! No social skills to speak of and only gets to fuck damaged, deranged and delinquent blokes, but she's a right old whizz at those infuriatingly dull and pointless puzzles that ask which is the next shape/number/fucking picture in this progression. Lady, it ain't your size or shape or face, it's yer attitude that needs mending.
5. It wasn't just that she kept harping on about what a bluestocking she was (though it has to be mentioned that she had obviously never seriously been challenged regarding her own estimation, and loads of things she said were just wrong - Virginia fucking Woolf was bipolar not a schizo, basic bastard facts!). Apparently her dad was on the olympic committee which chose the Australian national team, her favourite uncle designed one of the most significant weapons systems in WW2, garaunteeing the survival of Western democracy, she knows Rupert Murdoch personally and is best friends with Australia's number one pop star - unfortunately not Kylie (I must admit I was kinda warming to her when I thought I might get to meet the diminutive diva) but some sad old guy I've never heard of. Fuck off you self-deluding nutter.
6. She talked incessantly about work. She has a boss called Rebecca. And guess what, we call her "The Bexter". Oh, we're mad us youth workers, we're a crazy whacky bunch. Have to be. Couldn't cope otherwise. Oh, fucking spare us you sad little fruit loop. If I ever found myself wanting to shag the female version of David Brent I'd have enough residual insight I'm sure to check myself into the nearest clinic for the currently insane.
7. She was in fact quite dim and a bit slack. She related a tedious tale about a previous beau (one more in a short string of terminally inadequate tossers) who impressed her by mentioning, apropos of nothing, John Dos Passos. This apparently indicated his great depth of knowledge and breadth of culture. Did it bollocks! The fuckwit was a bleeding librarian, he'd just memorised the frigging Dewey catalogue and hadn't quite got up to the equally dull and wordy American C list author, Theodore Dreiser!
8. Aren't people sad who think it's the height of cool to have gay mates? And drag John and Paul - they're lovely, really they are a scream, and I can hear them going at it through the walls, they have such a fantastic physical relationship - into every conversation. Let's not forget the Devster, aka Sukhdev a sikh shirtlifter who's busy bumming his way around the learning difficulties section of a social sevices department in a dismal local shit-hole town. Christ, if I was forced to live and work in Batley I might resort to a bit of buggery to liven up my day too, so good luck to the enterprising fellow. It's a minimally amusing anecdote, but it doesn't make the teller at the cutting edge of sexual liberation. Grow up please!
9. I fancied her friend Janet. She had the voice of Jenny Agutter (ask any guy my age, American Werewolf in London! we all played the sex scene time and time again and indulged in fetid fantasies over the lovely Ms Agutter) and a cheeky smile. So my hopes and other bits were raised with the thought that this may get interesting. Of course it didn't. Nice but dim, overly impressed with Griselda's pseudo intellectual confidence and oblivious to the fact that it was just the flimsiest pretence. Shame, really, because I so would have.
10. Griselda was not the hostess with the mostess. She'd sat in front of the fire all the while devouring Chicken bhaji's. She did know that I'm a veggie, so I did think it a bit rum, but I could forgive the food faux pas. Wasn't hungry anyhow, but I did have a thirst on me. Now I brought two bottles of very nice organic white. Griselda had opened her bottle of red, and between the three of us by 10:45 all but half a glass of the red had gone. I had my drinking brakes on still, but I wanted another glass. So I asked to open the white and sank a rapid glass and refilled. By 11:30 as Janet was leaving there was only a drop of white left and Griselda made a big fuss of glugging it into my expectant glass before she planted herself down for her next monologue concerning the benefits of eco-tourism reaped by under priviledged pre-schoolers in Fuerta Ventura (I have been guilty of exaggeration before if I thought a story would benefit from a bit of a lift, but I swear this is exactly what happened). I finished the half-glass in a steady 10 minutes, enjoying the distance the drink was opening between my booze-muffled senses and the environment. Then began a quarter of an hours head nodding to accompany her droning on while I wobbled and tinkered my empty vessel on my knee. Now when I entertain it's me casa tu casa. And I watch peoples glasses, not for the purposes of monitoring their intake but to make sure they don't run dry. If anyone wants to drink themselves to oblivion round mine that's fine, just don't pee on my carpet, puke down the back of the telly, or get all stupidly aggressive. Alcoholism, while not recommended is not treated judgmentally. It's not my problem. Griselda on other hand seemed to have the best interests of my liver uppermost in her mind. Either that or she was simply a tight swine and inconsiderate.
It was now 12:00, I was morbidly sober and there seemed no polite way to suggest that a guest with an empty glass is an unhappy guest. I could feel the urge to vent my ire rising like a head of steam. Fortunately Griselda yawned a mighty yawn and I used that as my cue to suggest that she had work in the morning and I should be on my way. We parted as cordially as I could and I rushed back home to the comfort of a half bottle of Rioja, then jumped in a taxi over to my friend Jane's.
Ah, well, we live and learn. There won't be a next time.
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