Monday, April 25, 2011

Locked out: Castaway pt 2

It begins with denial.

I can get in. I can bloody get in. I fashion a lock pick from a hair clip. How hard can it be? We ring every doorbell. We press our optimistic faces to the glass. I play with the green flies. Ginger Beard makes a start on the rations.

We keep track of the days my marking crude lines on the ground.

We take an Easter Egg, and make a face on it with our blood. It's christened 'Milson.'

The Morrisons shop begins to petrify.

What would Tom Hanks do? We sharpen sticks in preparation of fox hunting later.

The local natives offer us tea and their mobile, but the landlord is not answering.

We will not survive much longer. I hope the people I love, know that I love them. The sun burns. We have ten bottles of J20 but no bottle opener. Yoghurts, and no spoons. We could pour them into our mouths, but we're not yet savages.

Ginger Beard goes off, following a mirage. I give him up for dead.

I've been stuck in the same clothes now for an hour. Alas! Hope! The landlord calls, and although not even in the UK, will breach confidentiality laws and give up the number of a fellow tenant. A tenant who promises to play hero, and arrive in thirty minutes.

I celebrate. And then I remember that Ginger Beard is lost. I eat a cake. Things seem better.

Then who should come ballet dancing through the door, But the Beard himself, who has scaled fences and walls to save the day. (I cannot divulge the full details in case Burglars Anonymous read this).

The true tragedy, is that while we're safely inside, feeding our withered bodies, our other selves are still waiting. The tenant has not arrived. After another hour and we're pissed. Our poor other selves, we sympathise, still out there, still believing.  Another hour! Oh, vulnerable, dying other selves! We would be freezing, and sad, and have made a start on one another's limbs. It is now four hours later. The tenant is not coming. Our other selves have passed away. We hold a short, but touching ceremony.

How did you spend your bank holiday? Was it quite as good as this? Can it get much better than this?

I don't think so.

Sunday, April 24, 2011

Christmas time!

Ann Potts, who for those of you who don't know, was the ghost living in my apartment, receiving a rather alarming amount of post, has returned. She moved out for three or so months, but has found the outside world cold, and unresponsive. She has begun to request Christmas party brochures, to cheer herself up.

My favourite is one from The Village, 'Amazingly, it's that time again!' Is it? Isn't it just April? A time for watching rain hit windows?  'If you book a party of ten or more we will treat you to a complimentary bedroom.' Great, if you can get ten of your friends to commit to a Christmas event, in April, then you can all sleep in one, free room. Anyone available? Have plans yet? Sounds perfectly realistic.

'So don't waste any time'. Guys, we've only got eight months left! Shit! That's hardly time to eat a baguette, let alone schedule a party. I think we might just have to stay in this year.

How is one of the nights sold out? That's a lie. That has to be a lie. Will they stop at nothing to entice cash, from us poor, recession ridden smucks? Who are these people who've managed to convince their friends to commit years in advance? I can't get my friends to commit to a conversation.

In other news, Ginger Beard is a joke with legs.

Also, I keep forgetting that the car isn't a safe place to say anything you want, when the windows are down. I just can't help but express my opinion on how annoying that pedestrian is, as they have a leisurely stroll across the road. Ginger Beard keeps screaming (like a girl) "They can hear you!", as I shout, "What a dick, what the fuck are you doing? Yeah, you take your time. Don't worry about it. I don't have anywhere to be. You complete fuckjob." It's not road rage. It's constructive criticism.

Monday, April 18, 2011

Enough is enough is enough.

The other day, a group of three Chavs, perched on a hill, called me a 'Spaziak'. This spelling is phonetic.

I think I can guess at what they were inferring, but the term is generally new to me. And it's all because I looked at them. They were positioned beautifully, high up on the other side of the train track, in order to begin the spectator sport (a sport consisting of yelling abuse at commuters). I looked at them, because I couldn't figure out how they'd abseiled down the hill to the spot in question. And thus, I was christened 'Spaziack.'

It took me back to the weekend before when a Chav addressed me as if I was a cat, rubbing his fingers and making come hither noises, before asking, 'Does Kitty want a f**k'? I was very tempted, as you can imagine. Particulary after his friend had a wee all over my driveway. And they say romance is dead.

Then there's the balcony bunch, who seemingly have rented an apartment on the High Street of Morley, in which to sit, eat crisps, and spew forth wisdom. It's a balcony in a cage. They manged to squeeze about five of their chubby bodies, and plastic chairs into the meshed space, established like dirty kings on a throne. They laughed heartily at an old man in a motorised scooter, who was struggling to negotiate the garden furniture outside the American diner.

Would it be so wrong/illegal of me to start carrying a weapon? I'm not talking about anything too severe, like a potato gun. I'm talking about a samurai sword, or a rifle.

I feel inspired to take the law into my own hands, my own blood thirsty, dagger wielding hands.

It's not like Morley couldn't handle a few body parts, the streets are already strewn with litter and dog poo.

And aren't I supposed to be part of a pro-active, out-spoken generation who believes in change and forward thinking, albeit a somewhat violent, lethal kind of thinking?

Who will join me? We shall march out onto the streets at dawn with our machete's raised high,  and our tonsils vibrating with the cry of war!

Anyone?

Sunday, April 17, 2011

For Ian Nelson




Alas, I have discovered the reason for this mysterious train station advertising! Was it afterall trying to persuade us to have fun with Dulux? Was the little Andrex Puppy a victim at paintballing? What can we learn from this? Well, obviously it's about foolish innocence over HIV in the 80's. OBVIOUSLY. No, I mean it. That's actually it.

Matthew Darbyshire - Billboard Projects
"You might not have spotted The Billboard Project at Leeds Train Station, now on its fourth and final ‘ad’. It’s played host to a cycle of work by artists each granted access to its large scale presence and the collossal passing trade of commuters. Matthew Darbyshire has pasted up something emotionally evocative, involving the lovable Andrex puppy and a slogan harking back to the 80’s youth culture, evoking the style of HIV campaigns engineered to snap people out of foolish innocence. Darbyshire’s work also points to a concern that the politics of the 80’s is creeping back into the UK. The presentness of the billboard in Leeds Station in all its candy-coloured sweetness says the fight is not over."

It's so God damn emotionally evocative.

I hope that you discover this blog Ian, so that your mind can finally be at rest.

But I want to vandalise it even more.

Thursday, April 14, 2011

What's with that bloody Andrex puppy?

I'm not too happy about being a worker bee today. Buzzing about for some faceless queen. Giving up our time so that we can earn enough to pay for the commute, to give up our time. Enough for the food we shovel down, in order to have the energy to give up our time. How many days holiday do bees get a year? I bet it's about twenty-five.

Leeds City centre is starting to make me feel nauseous in the morning. It might Be the sweating, nicotine ripe man whose knees bump into my handbag, or the sight of all of us in sensible coats, hiding behind newspapers, pressed together in silence, and thinking of 5:30pm. We are filtered through the station, and I think of traffic. You have to navigate the lanes like a pro, be prepared for the odd emergency stop, and give way to oncoming pedestrians. And once out on the street, our station training serves us well. We walk, single file on the right side of the pavement, thinking ourselves American. A conveyor belt of tired robots keeping pace.

I think of my Santander commute, back in the day, back when I was getting bullied by children with snowballs, slipping over in car parks, and nearly getting run over. Times were good.

If you happen to be in Leeds Train Station with WHSmiths on your left, do me a favour - look up at the huge billboard ahead. Explain it to me. It says, 'He's not immortal, he's just young', and features a dog splattered in paint, but no company logo. I don't get it. It looks like the Andrex puppy, so I think of loo roll. Are they telling me to excuse young children from shitting over everything? Is it for drunken, late night travellers, heading out into the city - 'This puppy thought he could hold his drink too. Now look at him. You're not immortal, you're just young. And you'll end up the same way.'

I look at it everyday. I frown. I. Don't. Get. It. Please help me. Or I'm going to kick it in the face. I don't know how. I'll have to get a ladder. I'll have to develop a skillful, acrobatic move, during a quiet period which will allow time for set up before a possible arrest. I'm going to graffiti on it, give the dog a tash, surround him in a question mark, smear Pedigree Chum around the borders. I think this is what a mental collapse feels like. I'm certain that my frustration at the whole bloody commuting process comes down to this one billboard. If someone could reveal its true message, I will discover inner peace. I will start sleeping again, and stop shaking my head at labradors everywhere. PLEASE.

Wednesday, April 13, 2011

My relationship with Erica.

Erica Jong is a bad influence. She is the embodiment of carpe diem, at its most desperate. Reading her words will find you sabotaging everything for the smallest chance of discovering something better. Addictive. potentially threatening to a stable state of mind. I am drawn to 'Fear of flying' often. It is my bible, and my cocaine. It deserves to be re-read, to have its chapters plucked at random, to end up dog eared and bent, to be gasped at on the train, and lovingly stroked, and slapped to the floor.

She is my favourite female writer. I adore and loathe her. I will never write as well. I hold her books and I despair. The sheer brilliance of Erica, is that she tells the bone-deep truth. The kind of secrets we can't even admit to ourselves, she brazenly exhibits and languorously entertains for pages. I blush through this book, realising myself, realising that this is what it sounds like when you denounce fear.

I need to bottle it, and drink it.

Each chapter is a different dare. You will start to over-analyse yourself. You will think endlessly on all the things you're not doing, the adventures you're not having, and crave them all the more. And therein lies the itch, the restless twitch. In 'Fear of Flying' Isadora (who is Erica, shrouding her real life under the term 'fiction'), gives in to hers. She is a dramatic mess, but dancing on the knife edge of life throughout. What if we began to give into our every whim, no matter the consequence, no regard for the moral compass in the moment, only instantly after to be terrorised by guilt, regret, despair. Erica risks for me, and I feel the pull. To live with such disregard, all for those few seconds of adrenaline, and then have reality bleed in and burn.

Her perspective is striking, her perils humiliating. She has time to share the gory details, and you have not heard it told this way before.

I could read this book and forget myself entirely. Escapism at its most corrupt.

I can't even categorise this as a book review. It's a way of life. I despise her for polluting my mind with possibility. I blame her. And now I have to go and read something I don't believe in, just to balance it out.

Monday, April 11, 2011

Put your feet away!

It's finally over kids. No more crying on the drive home, as I delicately work my way through all the swear words I know in front of my aghast instructor. No more dry retching. No more old man in a yellow jacket plaguing my nightmares. No more, eat a banana for a burst of energy, put on my driving trainers, fasten my good luck necklace, can you read me that number plate?

There's just me, and my little tangerine friend, bumping into curbs, clipping wing mirrors, forgetting to indicate. Oh the joy.

It turns out I'm really good at driving. It turns out I'm really bad at parking. Everything's going to be A-ok.

I've also taken up a few new hobbies to fill the gap. I tidied up the flower beds in the sunshine, careful not to disturb the flowers. Then Ginger Beard told me the flowers were nettles. I kicked the nettles for their cunning deceit. I was wearing flip flops. I will not be gardening again.

I decided to make a big, artistic collage. Spent two hours running tests on the printer, and dropping it from various heights. Turns out, and this is rare, it's just out of ink. Have no spare ink. Decide not to be artist.

Try to become a cleaner. Cleaning too hard.

Decided to stop being Casper, and work on my tan. Sat on a hill and took my shoes off. Got called a slut by three chavs. Put shoes back on.

Also realised that I pretty much owe everyone I know a lift. I will practice not killing myself first, and get back to you.

What I am going to do, fo sho, is get back to that small, subservient dream of mine. Messing about with words and shit. Trying to become the next J K Rowling, without all the initial poverty. But first, I'm going to start training to become an accountant. I know, I do hate myself for being so predictable.

Thursday, April 07, 2011

We are gathered here today....

It takes two days for a centipede to die under a mug. I thought it would take longer. I'd intended on rescuing it. And now it's dead. It will never again be able take a peaceful stroll through the park, talk to its friends, or check its facebook. I am ashamed of myself, but more so I'm ashamed of Ginger Beard, for trapping it initially. A life for a life?

Let me know what you think, and I'll slip some chicken in his soup, should kill him off.

In other news, I commuted into work this morning and walked around the office for an hour before realising - my trousers were open. Now I don't mean undone. I don't mean the fly was down. I mean they were open, unbuttoned, zip down, exposing the clear outline of my huge member. MORTIFIED.

Does anyone else have a problem with pronouncing 'Salsa'?

Is the long road always the hardest road?

Where are all my socks disappearing to?

Please submit all answers on a bright pink sheet of A4 to be entered into a prize draw for liposuction.

The Guardian are running a Q&A session later today on writing a will. I reckon it's about time that myself and my fellow peers got round to dividing up our possessions and self-worth amongst the fans/parents. Just in case I don't get round to it due to a speeding bus, a flair up of Malaria, or Ginger Beard, please find my final will and testament below.

All of my writing - Jo Shipman (he will get me published and famous like Anne Frank, with slightly less previous persecution).

My Ipod - Ann Rutter (A.K.A Stan, St Ann, Stanley, Mop, Mini Mop, Mop Head, Moped, Mop-it-up, titch, tiny tot) How to identify her? Stutters when swears, highly emotional on subject of Christmas Trees, cries at The Lakehouse, will be searching for my Ipod three minutes after death announced.

My clothes - Amy Yamazaki (but she will have to get immensely fatter and taller, so start eating and stretching. Don't be ungrateful.)

My Money - Lee Rutter (to spend on fulfilling his dream of becoming a ballerina. Should be enough for a few tutus and lessons. Best of luck champ.)

Ginger Beard - Nada, Nilch, Sod All. He's already stolen my joy and time in life. God does not reward thieves. Okay, I've changed my mind. He can have my No7 moisturiser, my socks, and my flowery travel bag.

This list is provisional. Please feel free to make requests re: specific possessions. All will be considered. Except for you Gingervitous, what you see is what you get.

Tuesday, April 05, 2011

Doctors and Nurses

Sent: 24 March 2011 12:44
To: James Glover
Subject: Your results

Dear Mr Glover,

I am contacting you on behalf of the Morley Medical Practice. When they are too embarrassed to deliver results themselves, I am contracted to inform the patient. Recently you requested many parts of your body, mind, and personality to be tested by the practice. I can tell you that we now have results. The findings are as such:

1)      You are not a real Doctor. The likelihood has been cross examined with the physical evidence and deemed ‘suspiciously fraudulent’.
2)      Though, much like the soul, the personality cannot be technically observed, you do not appear to have one. We recommend that you study modern literature and television in order to develop an auto pilot state which may pass for a mildly amusing human (as those tend to go down the best).
3)      You have Gingeritous. This is a surprisingly popular condition amongst older men, affecting the skin, hair and ability to be interesting. Your case is the worst they’ve come across. And there is nothing they can do. To ease the suffering, Dr Uptonogood, has prescribed suicide, to be attempted once a week, after eating, with water.
4)      There is no biological link between you and your parents. Reason: abandoned at birth. Cause: shame.
5)      Your hands are the same size as a kitten’s paws. Finger stretches have been recommended. Just try not to pass wind. Also, hold a 5p coin, then a brussel sprout, then a tomato, then a tennis ball. When you can eventually hold someone else’s hand in your own, you will know that your previously weird hands are now normal.
6)      Ear creases. Diagnosis: Frickin dodgy. Treatment: Hot iron applied to both sides of the head.

Kind Regards
Sam Fakedoctor
WhenNoOneElseWillDoIt Inc

**********

RE: Your results

Hello Sam,

I think you may be confusing me with someone else. As I am a real doctor, with massive, massive hands who is a master of quick wit and repartee.

It may be that I share my address with my life partner, and it may be her details you have mistakenly used. This has happened before, so please do not worry, in her desperation to marry me she constantly calls herself Glover, and in her sexual confusion often she (wrongly) assumes she is a man. On thinking about it, she is not a doctor, has very little personality and suffers from a very serious case of ginger skin. So serious is her ginger skin that she is unable to tan; instead in the sun she gets joinedfreckle syndrome. It must certainly be her. My apologies on this matter. When I return home, I will hide tiny banjo playing mice in her eye cream to teach her a lesson.

However whilst I have your attention I was wondering if you think I should upgrade to a younger/funnier model? As you know my current life partner has some terrible downsides; for example she partakes in the 5 second rule. This was particularly embarrassing after she dropped a crisp into a shit our neighbour had brought round as a housewarming gift.

I have also noticed that she has a cold black heart, and suffers from sudden and almost total lethargy when called upon to do simple household chores.

When threatened or stressed her body has developed a defence mechanism to protect herself. It covers her face and body with spots, making her look unappealing even as a victim.

Also she burps. Right in my face. Dead on, 100%,  no mistaking, shes a nastly little face burper.

Thanks,

James Glover, MEng PhD
Institute of Medical and Biological Engineering
School of Mechanical Engineering
University of Leeds
Leeds
LS2 9JT

Monday, April 04, 2011

Does something smell fishy to you?

There's a centipede trapped under a mug in our kitchen. How long will it take to die? I could do with my mug back.

What's funnier that Ginger Beard being slightly stressed? Ginger Beard being really stressed becuase I'm in charge of the phone Sat Nav, and I've incorrectly directed him onto the busy motor way. Funnier still? His abusive languge when we're on a massive roundabout, and my mum calls me, cancelling the sat nav. "Where the FUCK are we going? GEMMA, GEMMA, what the FUCK is happening?"

I had a great time.

Did you?

A few of us went to Harvester on Sunday morning to try and recover from our fish hangovers (we'd been to Loch Fyne). But it turns out they don't do breakfast, so at 11am we were helping ourselves to the salad cart. What an adventure, salad before noon.

I tried an oyster for the very first time. So did Dave. I think Dave is still being sick. I enquired into his health last night but heard nothing. Maybe he's dead. Death by oyster, it's not very manly Dave is it?

Also, the waitress had a personality, which I wasn't initially bothered about (having one is pretty common place). It's her decision to show it that was offensive. She was trying to be funnier than us. I don't go to restaurants to be outwitted. They also took the piss out of me, by charging £11 for scampi, but serving it in newspaper. Luckily, the newspaper article was about fifteen people dying in a horrendous accident. Every eaten chip revelaed another grotesque detail.

The table next to us, consisting of three middle age women, were fascinated. They all moved over and stopped talking, in order to devote themesleves to us entirely. It was very 'The only way is Essex', with slightly paler girls, with slightly smaller boobs, who despire their numerous qualifications, still appeared to be incredibley gullable and dippy. We decided to discuss where we would hide the body. Then we talked about dogging. Then I invited them to my Pants Party.

Fishy love to you all,

WriterAtLunch