Royal Wedding

Mike took a sip on his (continental) beer; he felt embarrassed.
"So it's not fancy dress then?" He asked, and Karen said
that it definitely was not.
Other guests milled around him in their suits, ties or dresses;
he was beginning to draw quite a crowd.
He crossed his arms tightly around his naked, oiled torso,
regretting choosing The Rock as his favourite wrestler. He had
even got the armband, and shaped his eyebrows.
"It's just... I swear Liz said something about a Royal Rumble?"

Tu

I'll tag you in my status girl I don't care if there's haters when we go official you're my profile pic my number one chick and I knew it from the get go is the song on the radio when we are driving through the Pennines and the sun is shining and are the hills yellow or green I don't know but they should come up with a new name for that colour I've never seen anything quite like it before its soothing my head after last nights. I don't know how long I've been staring out the window for but is my mouth open? Gawper. She's not looking at me its alright she's looking at the road, just had to check. That song is still playing, silly trance pop the lyrics say nothing and everything.
    "We were talking about threesome politics last night," she says, and laughs.
    "What did you conclude?" I ask, bet I could guess though.
    "Well, who does what to who and for how long; who decides that stuff?" I don't think anyone decides that stuff I think people just follow their hearts or their. Hearts don't belong in threesomes. A Renault Clio is trying to undertake the old man driver creeps into my vision and now I can't see the yellowgreen hills. Has she ever had a? No don't ask. A cloud curtains the sun.
    "Had Lily ever had a threesome, then?" I ask. Safe question.
    "Yes I think so, she wasn't very forthcoming with information though," she replies. The Clio driver swerves across the road line and she swears and accelerates past him.
    "Fucking dick should pay attention," she says, and I laugh.
    "We could have died at least three times today," I say.
    "And its always the foreign drivers," and yes the numberplate is in the wrong order and there's the blue white red. French, verb tables a nightmare. Too many angry boys at school. Could never understand tu. Je tu il elle nous vous.
    "I don't know if they'd be my kinda thing," she says. What I je wanted to suis hear.
    "Yeah, not with someone I actually liked, thats for sure," I say. The cloud draws back and the hills are yellow and green and elle est I can see them again. To walk along the top of them and see the cars over this side in the distance, the wind in your hair it'd be like. Tilt shift. Can't wait to get out the car now we have so much to do and can't wait I want to be that yellow and that green. The song on the radio has finished now.
    "And it is nice being with someone you like," she says, and is that a smile? I hope that's a smile because this is a nous sommes smile.

Eurgh

There is nothing worse than not being able to write; despite the fact it happens to nearly everyone, it just leaves me feeling disgusting and sordid. I was on a coach the other day and trying to put words on to paper with a pen and it just wasn't working. I started drifting off (shouldn't have drank beer before going on warm coach journey) and I had the most beautiful dream. I was James Joyce and Ezra Pound (except I thought the Jews were alright really, all considered), and I was Jacques Derrida and Michel Foucault, and I was Bret Easton Ellis and I was Chuck Palahniuk, and I had something to say for myself. And then I woke up and I was lying in the middle of the aisle, wanking and screaming at the top of my lungs. And the bus driver pulled over to the side of the road and made me get out for being a "shameful human being". And he didn't give me my trousers back, and it was 8 p.m. on a Sunday night.

That's the story of how I got arrested at Watford Gap for indecent exposure.

For Brian

(EDIT: NOT COX!)

A series of words on a page describe
a road viewed from an attic room;
British, terraced, an incline,
a place called a home by
countless families, and not
one of them wrong.

Growing up is something that is done
by all of us; whether we think that's bad
and philosophise about history, and life,
the certainty of death, or ignore problems
of that size and are glad for what is left:
a chance; an experience; to make a mark.
Me? I feel a pressure in my chest when
confronted by this mess; the stark, woven
mess of opportunity that never ends.
The cliché of the blank page feels very apt
as I try to write a letter I will never send.
Those are just words on a page too.

Half a century ago, I think - the nineteen-fifties -
you started your own Ulysses. Day after day
was a journey; a journey that stands out
no more than Poldy. No more than any
bus driver or school teacher, no priest,
politician or pub keeper. They are all alive
and they are nothing more than words on a page.
Day after day becomes year after year and
children of children are the heirs of heirs:
me and me now look to you, and you then,
and it is a soft blanket to my fears.

Back in the attic room there is a collection
of workbooks; it looks like something
my father would write. Does this mean
he was once a child? Does this mean he
once felt like I do now? I have no idea
how to be a person. Am I too concerned
with myself? Is this solipsism really
just selfish? I should ask him one day,
hopefully before I have my own attic room
because that would be far too late.
The other contents of the room are important:
it is mostly books, more words on a page,
documents and toys and the occasional
heirloom, each one the pointed tip
of an iceberg waiting to be thawed out.
Each one a narrative that never fought
to be told. Each one growing old.

Nothing more than words on a page,
but what more could you ask for?
A word on a page is a permanence,
A piece of life in a penstroke,
and a part of you, or I, that will never die.

In The Office

Nick puts his head in his hands.
    "What's up?", says Susie.
    "Oh, nothing," he sighs, "its just him again."
    "What's he doing now?" she asks, cocking her head to the side.
    He shakes his head.
    "Come on, you can tell me", she says. "It'll be safe with me."
    He stands up, walks to the window and closes the blinds. "He's dressing... he's dressing as her again." He shudders visibly.
    "Margaret?"
    "Yes", he says, "but it's got worse. He's started doing the voice."
    "Shit."
    "Please Susie, please, you have to help me, you have to make it stop." His voice is strained. There is a knock at the door.
    "Come on, Nicholas, I need help getting into this new dress!" It is a trilling, boyish voice.
    "It's him," says Nick, all colour draining from his face.
    "Well, go on," says Susie, "after all, this is what you signed up for, isn't it?"
    "Not for this," he says. Then he clears his throat and says, "Coming, madam." He goes through the door.
    After he leaves, Susies tries to write up some documents. In the background: a series of smacking sounds, gurgling and the occasional scream.

OOPS

So, I wasn't going to post about music on this here blog but after madly ejaculating over my speakers for about half an hour straight over this tune, I decided it was probably best to share it:

Now to get out the mop...

Wonders of the Universe

Brian comes into the room and sits down.
    "Hey Julie," he says.
    "Hi," says Julie.
    "Did you see the show last night?" he asks, catching her eye in the mirror and grinning.
    "Um, yes", she says, looking down. She starts to cover his hair with a styling gel, tousling it into a boyish sweep across his forehead. She stops as she feels his hand creep up the inside of her leg.
    "It was good, wasn't it?" Him.
    "Yes, I liked it," she stutters, reddening slightly. His hand now caresses her upper thigh.
    "What was your favourite bit?" He is grinning wider.
    "I'm not sure". She is struggling with her words as her breath deepens. I'm not sure she is enjoying this though. You can see the muscles in Brian's arms oscillating rapidly underneath the skin (what is he doing up there?).
    He gurns maniacally. "How about that bit where I made the sandcastle?" His hand is now grabbing at the soft silk of her undergarments (she has a date after work and wanted to wear something special; the sky blue ones with the ornamental lace), tugging the material down until it feels like it is going to snap. "That bit was really clever, wasn't it?" Twisting his head around to look her in the eye.
    She doesn't reply. She is holding her breath.
    "Wasn't it?" He asks again, pulling down harder. Julie squeaks, barely audibly.
    David pokes his head around the door. "Mr. Cox, you're on in one minute."
    He lets go of the silk - SNAP - and Julie gasps for air.
    "Thanks for doing my hair", he says, reaching for a tea towel and wiping his hands on it. "See you after the show". He walks out.
    Julie sits down a stool in the corner of the room, weeping openly.

So what's it about?

James - "It's about a psychiatrist who turns to terrorism, it'll blow your mind"

Teri - "It's about the abuse of domestic pets, it's a gripping tale"

Mike - "It's a thriller about a surgeon in the Swiss Alps, it'll chill you to the bones"

Dave - "It's about a young female boss of a knife factory, it's pretty cutting edge"

Tulise - "It's a tale of sordid passion as a married flour manufacturer finds new love whilst training for the marathon. Unfortunately, though, its a run of the mill affair"

Sally - "It's about an earthquake destroying a public library, it's a cracking read"

Tristan - "It's about a canine on heat, but it doesn't really go anywhere. It's a bit of a shaggy dog story"


What a novel idea for novel.