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[05 Oct 2006|11:21am] |
More from Charlie Brooker.
For god's sake, watch it. I won't tell you again.
I'll tell you more about Tuesday night, later today. I don't have time to do it now. Oh, and the Killer's Sam's Town...beautifully flawed. If that makes any sense.
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[05 Oct 2006|11:31am] |
Pop whizz bang poo.
You know, when I was busy being incredibly terrified on Monday night, I started thinking and sniggering like a child about all the hilarious things I could do to turn this slight feeling of nerves into a full blown bomb of humiliation destruction.
Deliberately. Like i'm addicted to it. Yeah, addicted to embarrassment. I like rubbing my face in it's tits and screwing it's eyes out and languishing in it's messy humiliating afterglow.
I thought about sitting there at the table and without any warning whatsoever shouting.
"GGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGEEEEEEEEEEEEEEZZZZZZZZAAAHHHH!"
For five fucking seconds. I also thought of what it'd be like if when I read out that dirty poem about that fly what I wrote what if I then just sat staring at old Whitters for about ten minutes, unblinking and unmoving. Staring is always a favourite. Imagine his mind trying to work out that and then sort of getting more and more pissed off with it.
Or I could just whip my cock out and stare at it going "FURURURURURURUURRRHHHHHHHH!"
That one always gets 'em.
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[05 Oct 2006|05:25pm] |
Right, from the top.
Tuesday.
Most of it's a swimming in my head and a dive in the booze river, so I can't remember all. It started serenely enough. I got a phone call from Rich, or Dan. Or Rich. I can't remember that either. Whoever it was told me they were coming to pick me up from my house to go to the New Inn. Danny's car duly turned up and inside they were, the Killers When you were young thrashing away on the speakers.
The New Inn wasn't very busy, but we made enough noise ourselves, playing pool and singing along to the jukebox. After a drink, we sped off to Somerfields to buy three bottles of wine and three four packs of lager. On a whim, we decided to go to Birchington and get kebabs. We all got chicken and then drove back to Dan's.
Slumped in our chairs, we scanned the channels. We drank and drank and drank until nothing was left. I remember little other than playing the first person shooter Black, watching Father Ted, and laughing at women jiggling their bare arses on the many porn channels. Everything turned into a blur as the three of us laughed, shouted, and pissed it up.
We walked home about three in the morning, and I can't recall anything else. I woke up with the mother of pains in my head. With her hand in my head. With her hand in my hea-a-a-ad..
Little Martha reference for you there.
I was still a little drunk, and had to work. I wasn't in a good state. Red eyes, swaying body and the sun bright in my face. Why is the sun bright on hangover day? I got to work and Andy told me he'd phoned me up. As i'd been upstairs, I didn't hear it. I had to go and get some flour. I groaned up the street and got the flour, went to work, and struggled through work.
I got home, and spent ten minutes making the kind of noises you'd only expect to hear from a dying yak. My stomach empty, I collapsed in my bed and slept. Woke up at six fifty four and went back to work, feeling a lot fresher. A not very busy night and a quick escape, then some blackcurrant soda. Mike and Ann came back and he insisted on me having a drink (It was Ann's birthday). I managed that and talked to Lucy, Rich and Kate.
Today was OAP Thursday. Most of them stayed indoors, it seems. Only thirty seven. I joined the boys afterwards for a quick game of football. My shooting is getting better, and I scored a wonderful twenty yard strike straight into the bottom right corner.
That's you up to date.
Talking about it this afternoon, I think I may have missed two blatant opportunities with women in the last year. God dammit. Always good to know after the event, eh?
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| Work practise |
[05 Oct 2006|06:18pm] |
He told me of the days when he would love to take the bike out on the raining roads and the concrete tide. He used to ride all the time before his crash, the crash that ended his life twice, before the white angel rose out of him.
I was small, I believed, I believed all about the gasoline spreading with the crimson, the life creeping out amongst the slow motion of crashing tin and twisting aluminium, the screech and sparked scream of metal on metal.. because he showed me the pin in his leg.
The leg he can't walk on properly these days. It always used to make me laugh to watch him walking along with it, a slight limp and a war wound from those riding days. He'd still walk down stairs like it, and I often find myself instinctively mimicking the same thing, even though my leg is fine.
That leg went through a lot during those clouded and fast days of the seventies. He took part in many motorcyle races, when the volume of tires span up smoky hazes on the tarmace, when a thousand buzz-saws all went off at once and flags danced like black and white wings and
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[05 Oct 2006|06:34pm] |
Why do you appear before me?
wearing pearls,
nothing on your wrist apart from cloth,
seeds and soil at your feet..
why do you leave me clutching earth and sky?
isn't it enough to see me cry?
it's it enough to force a goodbye?
you had me banging the drum,
with one hand, by myself...
a ceaseless rhythm,
but never close enough for you to hear it..
why am I throwing up earth and sky?
in your name..
why am I saying goodbye...
I learned how not to cough up a tear...
years ago..
I learned how to suck the pain down in my throat..
I learned how to keep you close,
but not too close..
now I know why I said goodbye..
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