Better scan to come
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Better scan to come
Got to get Richard and Judy to recommend this book
If India is neuter, is Japan sausage land?
I was thinking I don’t really want to be either a grass or associated with the trouble makers, but more seriously after 2 hours sleep, being made to watch the same VHS about an OIL RIG disaster, HOW CAN I RECONCILE THIS DECEIT WHILE AT THE SAME TIME, PROMISING THE LECTURER THAT I’D DO HIM SOME MICROSCOPIC PHOTOGRAPHY OF AN UNUSUAL FAILURE OF ONE OF HIS TENSILE SAMPLES WHICH I MIGHT HAVE LOST WHEN I CLEANED UP?!!!
and angry wife
Stoic
Instant Classic Tavern Hit?
You are pedaled through the Harrop Solarium which is a pointless room paid for by some vain and wealthy cripple. You look down slowly, a slow, slow tilt to your pins. You see them in discount sports shoes. They are the type with very low density foam soles, with areas of netting and some lozenge shaped window-void, imitating the Nike Air series. They have been laced up to the top and are jammed in the chrome footrests of a transit wheelchair.
This is what two million people in Britain have seen.
You are left next to another person who looks a bit like you, but less grave and less continent. Hospital staff are talking.
“I stayed at this girl’s house, she gave me a sleeping bag, I was too drunk, I was sick all inside it.”
“What happened?”
“I just went back to sleep.” Said the gay nurse man. He looked like an old man shrank into youth. He looked like a Narwhal Heroin.
“She was pretty angry. She came to wake me up and I curled round and all that captive vommit air wafted then into her face. “I Didn’t even want to stay. She was going on about being lonely, she was going on about having a stroke because her mother had one at that age.”
Here you fall asleep. It’s that usual dream. God is interrogating you about modern pornography. In this dream you are in a transit wheelchair and discount sports shoes. The room is square, and definitely Soviet. God begins (tediously represented here in capital letters) his questioning.
“DID THOSE PEOPLE KNOW WHAT THEY WERE DOING WITH THOSE COSMETICS?”
“I don’t know”
“DID THEY THINK HOW THOSE LIPS WOULD RESOLVE LIKE THEY DID ON THIS VIDEO FORMAT?”
“I’m not the right person..
“HOW DO YOU THINK PEOPLE WILL LOOK AT THIS IN 500 YEARS?”
“Please, I don’t know. I don’t look at the internet, I am in a wheelchair. Outside of the Hospital is terrifying.”
And then your wheelchair slowly gets hot before it turns into a compound vista of wholesale group sex.
When you were little, you were scared that God was malicious and created the universe as a dungeon to persecute and terrify innumerable souls.
The terrible and yearning empathy that manufactures in young people’s tubes is largely ring-fenced for those who will never get ‘Tang.
It was just like the time when my English teacher asked why I was looking at her arm. She was leaning on the desk right in front of me. I didn’t want to look at her face and I didn’t want to look at her breasts. I didn’t want to be rude and look away so I looked at her arm. I shrugged. How could I explain my motives?
This time is like that time because, behind them both are those barbed traps to catch and accumulate that quantity: irresolve. And oh yes, irresolve is a nasty bastard of a Pikefish. Imagine how it would look like to see that pike writhing and unspurling, scraping off it’s own skin against the halved bamboo trap walls, down to one eye and spewing and shitting all sorts of mucal rage. Imagine now us all holding our shuddering baskets of irresolve, terrified. Holding at arms length, all the time and Everywhere. Holding them even in that fucking Peter Stringfellow’s club, convincing ourselves that we don’t have such things in our lives.
Miss Wilson could have developed a complex about her extremity. In retrospect, All I ever was then, was extremities and complexes, flailing round in an industrial tumble drier full of dog shit, in front of a live studio audience and on national television.
What was the time that that time was like? is the question to ask when you don’t start at the beginning. That time was like when I appeared to be rude at Kentucky Fried Chicken in Brixton. Trying to leave, I found myself at one side of the glass door facing some kind of young Slavic family. They evidently thought that the door could open both ways - or at least inwards, and were all sorts of wronged and offended when I pushed it open, towards them and shuffled past Mama and her tubular sectioned low budget stroller.
My God she was squeaking.
My God, I was marching away on my gangly pins.
Possible advert for precision Taxidermist.
So I went into the Happy Shopper type shopping shop. They have stopped looking at me like a sklepplifter and have started to beam at me because I am a valued customer. Oh! And it’s a glorious look, when the moustache approves the flourish of the lips. Its so nice not to be suspected. When you feel as guilty as me, it really is.
Three Budweiser Budvar beers go into one black carrier bag. The bag hugs the beers because they are moist because they are cold. “yes I am having a nice evening” I say and then “I am tired”. Oh, and don’t they understand?
I leave and walk up past The Hand In Hand which is a pub for working class gentlemen. My bottles are clinking with my step and it’s that ascending vibrating type of clink BrrrrRRRRP! Well, this guy who is sitting down, smoking, outside said to me in his south London Accent “Ay you, you sound like a fridge!”
“What?”
“you sound like a fridge!”
Well, it was a bad day. It was too damn hot and all of his friends were laughing at me. I was looking at their filthy teeth. Worst of all was the women laughing. It felt like they were laughing at me because we all know my terrible penile secret; Balanis xerotica obliterans.
I hit the guy, with a chair. It was one of those silly aluminium constructions and it weighed 250 grams. At least when you used to swing those PVC ones, on television, during Euro ‘96, they had a little inertia. This one felt like throwing tinfoil at a Walrus.
Oh, and the Walrus had me on the floor in a flash. His knee was in my mouth and we were heaving. It wasn’t homoerotic but we were heaving. If anything, it was Paternal. Being thrashed around on the pavement off Streatham hill Rd. was in this case, like being thrashed around by my ol’ Pa’s fists down on my ribs an’ shoulders.
Well, what is learnt? Don’t stick out. If you stick out, look down and keep walking.
En route to Bilge Town, giving a lift to the ‘ROOMER’ in HGV. The ‘Roomer’ is the monster that hides amongst those shadows and shapes perceived erroneously by children’s undeveloped sense of sight. Remember feeling sick because you were aware of your own stomach? how about all that pulsing colourful fuzz before you learned to see through it?
