Well, I have been lax. In truth, I applied for a job (one of those laughably unsuitable ones I have a penchant for applying for) and they kept insisting they would stalk us to distraction online to check our cool credentials. It was fairly risible that, after seeing mine, they still interviewed me (and did not give me the job). Thus, in a paralysis of self-consciousness, I stopped for a while.
I am restarting now, ten days before I jet off to India, where I will be writing from another blog instead (flighty, my friends, is the appropriate word). On which, more to follow.
For now, however, some sketched caricatures which helped my day bound past. All resemblance to anyone living is entirely vanity on the part of the reader: in fact, none of those shoddily assassinated below know me in real life.
However, all of these things actually happened.
On hearing about a genuine enquiry at Environmental Health
-Fuckin’ hell mate, what’s that big dead fox doing in your garden?
-I don’t wanna talk about it.
-But it stinks! Seriously, get it shovelled up.
-I don’t wanna touch it.
-Well don’t touch it then! God. You’ll get rats mate. Rats. Big ones. Happened at the house next door to me mum, only that was a dead dog they left out.
-I told you, it’s not my responsibility. Could be anything on it.
-Well I’ll do it then. Pansy. Get me a bin bag.
-You ain’t putting it in my wheelie bin, I can tell you.
_Never said I was going to.
-Where then? They don’t collect it unless its in a bin.-
-What about that wheelie bin?
-Thats the loony house bin.
You know, the ones who fight all the time.
-No, mate, seriously – the one where they had that party and there was all those men in dresses and then that big one trashed your fence and then you put dogshit through their door?
-Yeah mate. Last week right, they were having some fucking domestic, bloody plate got thrown out the front door. Its disgusting. they ought to be ashamed.
-So do you want me to dump the fox in their bin?
-Yeah. They’ll probably get arrested if anyone finds it.
-Council Property, innit.
-Yup. Own the lot of them.
-Yeah, so if you’ve got one of them and it dies, they can arrest you for damage to council property.
-Nah, really. Some of em, apparently, they’ve got microchips under their skin so the council can track them.
-Thats fucked up mate.
-Yeah. Bloody council. They own fucking everything.
Romeo has a change of heart.
On debating the pronunciation of ‘Juliet’. And yes, the verse is deliberately clunky, although I am not claiming any level of metrical finesse elsewhere.
When you first looked upon me, then thought I,
Your beauty were more lofty than the sky
And twice as blessed, oh apple of mine eye.
Yet herewith I must sever our affair –
Be still, my love, beat not upon your brow,
Nor split the air with cries nor rent your hair,
You ask me ‘why?’ and I shall tell you now:
Sailing from our bay for lands afar,
My father’s ship, unused to ocean gales,
Was cast upon some unfamiliar shore
The bow as tinder, handkerchiefs the sales,
Never to seek the noisy ocean more.
We quickly disembarked, and seeking aid
Wandered the beach until at last night fell
And finding none, retired, quite dismayed
To have to couch a night in this cold hell.
Then just at dawn broke o’er this misty spot,
I saw a goodly sight – a man walked near.
‘Who are you sir?’ I called. ‘A Cypriot’
His bold reply resounded loud and clear.
Oh what a specimen of man he was to see!
His legs were bands of steel, his hair a mane.
Laughing he whirled me through the morning air,
And boyish, shy I asked him for his name.
‘The Cypriot’ he laughed, ‘is how I’m known,
And you, my knavish son, must acquiesce
As payment for repairing your small ship,
To play my catamite, in women’s dress.’
My darling, how I wanted to feel shame,
To scorn him, for my pride to rage like fire,
But instead of wounding, his demands aroused,
And rapt with ecstasy I answered ‘yes’.
And so you see me now, dressed in these weeds,
To end our love- twere best if you forgot
Me now, for I have found my calling there;
Beloved of my manly Cypriot.
Assigning two-line personals adverts to a selection of people on my bus.
I look like Charlie Sheen,
And like girls under seventeen.
I wrote a play, and it got panned,
And I’ll need any girlfriends to lend me a grand.
I like soba noodles, I’m just over thirty,
I’ve got four degrees and I’d like you to hurt me.
What do you know? I got rich quick.
House in France, swimming pool, one-inch dick.
I keep my high heels high and my tops cut low,
And I write to several prisoners who’re on death row.
I can’t promise you riches, nice clothes or respect,
But I can offer vigorous anal sex.