| The nightmare of regularity |
[20 Oct 2003|10:26am] |
In the annals of history there will always be the Bell Inn. The regularity of which certain members - including yours truly- frequent the fucking place is becoming so synchronised you can set your watch by the appearance of say...Immigration Pete smoking a pipe, or the ubiquitous Anne and Colin, sitting at the end of the bar.
The newest are Peter and Richard, who seem linked, like an immovable chain. Sort of like those magic chains you can never seperate. However, there is little magic about them, apart from the fact they're quite genial gents.
But it's like this every night. I'm beginning to wonder if the Groundhog Day effect has not taken er....effect.
|
|
|
[20 Oct 2003|10:32am] |
My hair is nearly at gelling length. Small tufts are starting to appear like bent fences at the sides of my head. It's like having horns or something.
The biggest consumer of gel is currently Daniel. He'll smear it into his scalp at the merest glimpse of woman. Even if they are in the bar, and he is in the kitchen. It's like an appearance he MUST put up despite no-one actually SEEING it. Sometimes he'll dissapear to the toilet to empty a bottle of Lynx onto his body. The pub smells like a bloody escort service office.
|
|
|
[20 Oct 2003|10:50am] |
I’m having great difficulty thinking of any great ideas at the moment. My mind is like a stripped carcass, and there was frankly little in there to begin with. I would love to write something of huge significance, a little autobiographical piece of excellence to change the world and open the mind, but I’m not sure my limited experience is of a huge interest or length. Let’s have a go, at any rate.
MEMORY ONE:
In the earliest part of my upbringing, of which I remember very little, was a moment I recollect for you now simply because I am a sick little trilobite with a particular preference for dark comedy.
Trips to the beach have always held some atmosphere of bleakness to me, mainly because I hate the baking sun and became quite irascible in the company of other children and families, being as I was a petulant and rather private youngster. The combination of shouting and splashing and yelling parents was like a war zone to me.
Anyhow, it was on one apocalyptically hot day in the summer of one of my most desolate childhood years, that my parents, Dawn and I visited the beach, to presumably build sandcastles and engage in tense stand-offs over ice cream prices.
“I’m not getting you that, it’s nearly a pound!” I’d imagine my mother probably said. Due to inflation and the onset of semi-old age, I have great trouble recollecting the exact script. However, I’d also imagine I retorted with a stamp and a scream. Not much has changed.
I got lost. When I say lost, I mean, I walked away during one particularly grating motherly lambasting, and wandered for a seeming eon, over the heavy sand, labouring every step as if it was quicksand…walking on sand is a slow process for most of us, and when you’re 4 every mound is like a mountain. An er….soft grainy mountain that moves.
I walked past beached jellyfishes, past striped deckchairs, and over concrete barriers. Little did I know my sister had been dispatched to find me. She was not happy. So not happy in fact, to attain a severe case of sunburn.
Eventually I was picked up by grinning policeman. Obviously I was the source of great hilarity, with my then chortling blonde haired face. I did not then know the extent of Dawn’s discomfort.
Boy did I know it when I got home. Dawn was redder than the setting sun, and to make matters more hilarious (I was four alright? Even the onset of World War III would be a big funky joke to a four year old!) her back was encrusted with huge yellowing blisters. They were like balloon animals stretching over her back. Almost like continents. One was shaped like New Zealand. She and my parents were not happy, especially on the way to the hospital. My little bastard credentials were from then on ramped up a point or two.
We had rabbit for dinner. Mere trivia, but it’s odd the things you remember when you go missing, isn’t it?
|
|
|
[20 Oct 2003|11:01am] |
The cult of Chas.
Chas was a wanker with a predilection for hitting young children. Way back in the day, when my father drove transport lorries for a living, he presumably ran into this ape and struck up a friendship, of which I know not what; to me they had nothing in common whatsoever.
It follows that Chas was a bit of a dunder-headed arsehole. He used to have a messy beard, and a nasty shallow face with an evil grin. He also liked to beat us up. In retrospect, what seemed like “your dad’s mate mucking about with you” was in fact a limited form of abuse. He’d fucking hang us upside down for Christ’s sake. This is not an amusing playful uncle character. This is a shit-bag. My father and mother did little to stop this cretin doing what he obviously thought was “hur-hur” funny. To put it in more serious terms, I think these events were one of those that shaped me. Made me timid, scared of others. And I still am. Cheers, Chas. Thanks for being a negative influence in my life.
I suppose my comfort from this is that Chas was and still is a foul, dirty prole with no redeeming qualities, and I’m an intelligent well rounded gent with ambition and some fucking compassion. Not a fashionable trait in someone from Chas’ background.
|
|
|
[20 Oct 2003|11:18am] |
Phyllis’ Stupid Views
I suppose you could say I’ve led a sheltered existence. This is the politically correct way of putting it. Rotting away in a self imposed hell is what I’d call it. I have no-one to blame but myself for this. Gauging the lasting effects is a long and difficult process, however I’m beginning to see them. My methods of flirtation, for one thing are uneasy and timid.
An example; women think I’m “Cute” or “Sweet”, and as such I’m kept at a distance, like a little brother or –vomit- a “friend”. In all possibility, this is a compliment, but it’s almost always condescending to me, because it implies childishness and almost that I am entertaining in a babyish kind of fashion. I am frustrated to be seen this way. It may appear to them that this is perfectly normal, but I am not a baby, I am reasonably of a manly appearance, quite charming when I want to be, and of a sound mature mind.
Maybe I’m shooting myself in the foot somewhat with my love of children’s entertainment, and my sometimes banal humour, which verges on slapstick. Now that is particularly something that appeals to the child in people, doesn’t it? But I want to be a man, not a fucking giggling sweet child.
Look at every man you know. The nice guys, the ones who genuinely care. The ones you can really talk to, the ones who make you laugh. These facets are ones I have in abundance, but I can only speculate on how far these qualities are supposed to take me. Do I have to grow up more? Do I have to be something I’m not? A bit of a bastard, a more image conscious person….to say no would be silly…it apparently works. I am not averse to trying to make the best of my appearance at any rate, it makes me feel better. But is the way I’m focussing on trying to look good for people taking away some part of what I am really about?
I think what I’m saying is, If I get called sweet or cute again I’ll chew my arm to it’s stump. Kind of makes the last few paragraphs redundant, really
|
|