Gay Nazi Sex Vicar in Schoolgirl Knickers Vice Disco Lawnmower Shock!

Babies wearing ear defenders

  Mon 19th August 2019

I feel like I'm on a production line, metro-boulot-dodo; I've also had to prise some distance from Hayley. I have hardly any time to myself now and I'm losing my generally sunny disposition. I'm colonised -- by work and, at times, Hayley. I have absolutely no money, to the extent of having to borrow the bus fare to my work at the airport.

Yesterday we went to the most middle class dancey event I've been to for years. It should have been good -- a rooftop terrace in the centre of town. There were babies there, wearing ear defenders, their parents presumably not having heard of babysitters. Men in Stax and Philadephia International T-shirts stood around encircling the dancers -- in which group I was the only man. They were not my people. Hayley (again) didn't seem to like me dancing with them and kept herself on the periphery. The whole afternoon was flat and I couldn't dig myself out of it.

Last weekend was brighter. I went to Lancaster and for the first time for many months, saw Kitty and Wendy together for a brief hour. We chatted, drank and parted, with Wendy giving me the longest hug she's ever granted, her slender body a couple of layers of cotton away.

I then went to see Trina in Chester. What was meant to be a three-hour visit turned into an overnight one, and I got the 6am train and went straight to work. There's a synchrony in mine and Trina's attachments: just as I appear finally to be freeing myself from eight years of corrosive, wearing attraction to Wendy, Trina seems to have loosened herself from the grip of her own jealous obsession with her.

I had an interview on Saturday for a mental health support worker job. I quite fancy a job that involves taking people down the pub and to the cinema. They're people with various degrees of learning difficulties, from fiftysomething upwards. I'd be the only man working in the place. She's ringing me today to tell me the result; I've another interview on Thursday for a similar position.


Annual Report

  Wed 7th August 2019

A year ago today I moved to Bristol. Three jobs, one resignation and one dismissal in ignominious circumstances; one night of sex with a much younger very attractive woman; and one hernia gained after over-exercising in the park with a friendly black man. I like that in Bristol I don't know what's going to happen in each day.

Last week Hayley said she'd like to come to Manchester with me on Saturday. I'm going to see Wendy, Kirsty and the one daughter who is still in Lancaster, then off to a house music all-nighter. The thought of Hayley looking alluring in one of her miniskirts, choosing to come out dancing with me, was one I turned over repeatedly, a little fix of pleasure as I bent over the dishwasher for hours on end. I told Wendy and Kirsty, who both said they'd be pleased to meet her.

Everyone lets everyone down at some point, but the first time it happens, you feel it keenly. The fact that her reasons -- that she might be able to move some of her art up, and see her son, if she goes to Devon this weekend -- made perfect sense, did nothing to shift the disappointment I sat under for the rest of the night. My feet ached and moaned from work; she was on her phone a great deal.

She's currently homeless, staying at a friend's house, wrecking her back from sleeping on a settee in order to escape her previous place in which mould was growing on her suitcases. She loves me for my futon. I have asked my landlady if she could move in here while we found somewhere together.

That would be quite a strained few weeks all round. I'd find Hayley being here all the time oppressive, and I'd be worried about everyone getting on with each other; but she's nowhere else to go, I work long hours now, and the stress of it would be an incentive to get our own place as soon as possible.

We're having a summit meeting tomorrow evening. The landlady has stipulated that I am to be sober for it. Whilst I will avoid making a spectacle of myself, she can fuck right off if she thinks that a plongeur on his day off can give such an undertaking.

Fiona and Melanie, my eldest and youngest, are unhappy at their voluntary work on a farm in Brittany miles from the nearest town, and no bus service. The hosts provide lovely food and drink. but leave them completely on their own devices after about 2pm every day. The somnolent days in a tiny internet-free village in deepest Brittany move slowly. They want to come back on Friday, so I've got to tell the hosts something to relieve them from having to give any explanations themselves.

I went to Taunton, to see the play that Jenny (actress daughter) is taking up to Edinburgh this week. Sitting outside a convivial cider bar, I get talking to Karl, an ex-Army Officer able to quote passages from an unmodernised Chaucer and who was recommending a radio play he'd heard recently. "Now let me guess," he said. "You're an engineer."


I wear women's knickers in Brittany

  Fri 2nd August 2019

I spent much of the time in France wearing women's knickers, since I left my bag containing all my clothes and books on the train when we had to change at Wigan. Kirsty lent me hers, their firm support prettily counterposed with a little bow at their front. My daughter lent me some shirts, and I went sockless, à la mode Londrais.

We went to a cello recital held in an early C17th church. On enquiring as to the location of the toilets in the church, I was advised to have a discreet piss on the beach. When I came back the man on the door asked "est meilleur?" Bach's first and third suites bookended works by Britten, Bloch, and Mieczysław Weinberg, whose star seems to be rising -- at least, earlier this year I gazed longingly at the programme details for the complete string quartet cycle in Manchester from the Quatuor Danel. But mainly, it was eating butter-based products, drinking cider, swimming in the warm sea after nightfall, and games of cards round midnight.

Middle daughter, the actress, seemed to have it in for me for a while, making provoking remarks dressed up as jokes about my overall general failure as a man -- "a rather reductionist approach that Jenny," I bristled, "for someone who calls herself a feminist", before I realised that implementing the Wildeism about turning the other cheek (since nothing annoys one's enemies more), took the energy out of her in a better way than using pompous pseudo-academic twattery in a riposte. That, and undoing the U-bend under the sink to clear a blockage, worked.

I met Hayley after work. We sat outside the Wethers at Temple Meads on a warm, histamined evening. There was a table of three work colleagues a couple of yards away, the pub being next to a building where the lanyarded classes work on "projects". A man was becoming more and more loud, hectoring his female colleague. Hayley and I started mimicking his harangues.

"Look looby, I hope you would always come to me for support if you had any issues with your performance! And I say that vehemently! By jabbing my finger at your chest!" "Hayley, do you know what, the other night I went out with two boring colleagues from work and we talked shit all night and didn't notice that this couple at the next table were taking the piss out of our conversation, using the same phrases we were using! How about that? And I say that vehemently!" We got louder and louder, almost shouting, but he was impervious.

Conversation moved onto something more mundane. The other week we met the fish-importer-cum-crack dealer outside a club at 6am, with whom she went back and took both crack and cum. "Looby, I really need my hairdryer back." "Yes, I'll get it to you tomorrow." "Does my hair look awful?" "Hayley it looks great. You look like a right dirty bedhead. Looks like you've been fucking whilst on crack. Oh hang on, you have been."


Hayley fucks a fish importer

  Wed 10th July 2019

It's midnight. I've been at work, day nine of eleven on the trot (I said ten earlier but I volunteered for Thursday), then down the pub. Back here, the landlady has just done a histrionic piss, closing the toilet door with sufficient loudness to serve as a message to me that I must go to bed unshowered.

I stayed at Hayley's the other night. We lost the speed somehow in passing it back and forth underneath the table in the pub garden, concealing it from the man we were with. He works for an environmental charity. He let me buy three rounds to his one. I don't mind buying Hayley's. She's in the same financial boat as me, with greater problems to deal with, but many middle class people guard their money carefully, and conflate poverty and moral failure.

He was giving Hayley that little back rub that sexless left-wing men give women they are too timid to approach directly. He'd got the impression that he was staying at hers, and there was this awkward stand off as we were walking back and had to part ways, with Hayley mollifying him by saying that he could come round another night. I disliked him because I recognised myself in him.

She told me about her Saturday night, when I was too tired to come out, which ended up with her fucking the fish importer and crack dealer whom we met the other weekend. The latter occupation is true and "fish importer" is too unlikely a tale to be made up. He's articulate and cultured.

I had to get up at 5am to get to work. It's a delicious companionship, sleeping with Hayley, curling our legs together, me safe from any of the corrosive, wearing, draining feelings that I had for Wendy. I want my body to be next to hers. I want to be touched, stroked, kissed, slept with, with someone I like. And I like Hayley. Hayley, unlike Wendy, comes at no cost.

She's been through such a lot, at the hands of members of my often horrible sex. Her £400 / month bedsit is a converted corridor and a tiny extension for a bedroom. Most of the floor is bare concrete. She had to lean over me in the middle of the night to put the electric heater on. I felt such compassion and tenderness for her as I kissed her sleepy head when I got up and said goodbye.

Now that I've got work sorted out, I want to get us a nice flat together. I want to make her life better, and mine too. Somewhere stable, pretty, with her art everywhere, with paintings and objets trouvées, and the better class of drug users coming round. We've got to save up a grand each, since the rent and the deposit will come to something like 2K. We'll do it though, and in the meantime, having seen the Rachmanite bedsit in which she lives, I'll offer her a place in the bedsit I might be getting. I now feel selfish and unkind to want to have it to myself.

Read something I liked in the LRB this morning. French filmmaker Jean-Pierre Melville: "I love the fact that effort is useless. Climbing towards failure is an altogther human thing."


That woman

  Sat 6th July 2019

I had a very carefully made up woman half my age stare at me the other day as I prepared to take my trousers off, as her colleague ran her hands over my body. It ended badly: I went to work in an airport.

We had to go on a training course, which started at seven fucking thirty on Saturday. It was mind-bendingly boring. What a farce of a non-industry "training" can be. Apparently, people comes from different backgrounds and I will expected to treat them all with respect.

I'm serving and washing up in the "executive" lounge, from which one literally looks down on the hoi polloi who are uninterested in such a small privilege. I'm with an international group of younger people, mainly women, and as is the wont of that sex, they spend a good bit of the working day in in-grouping covenly intrigues. The job's doing me good though. I'm eating well, and for free, the same food as airline passengers travelling first class are given.

On the bus back to town I sat with a fellow new starter, who said that he'd made up a dentist's appointment so that he could go on a Tindr date. "Are you on Tindr?" he asked. I was pleased that someone so young assumed I might have the occasional date. "Well, actually, I'm meeting this girl now. I'm not quite sure what the situation is."

Hayley was in her blue cord miniskirt. Her scalloped low black top exceeded by a small band of black bra. I had to scrape off the worst of a wayward hot chocolate dotting my trousers. She scavenged for tobacco amongst the discarded butts in the ashtray. Another complaint about her on-off boyfriend's lack of sexual interest in her, which I find incredible. "He said 'we could just have a cuddle and watch a film.' I don't want that, I want some sex!"

She was talking about the deposit we will need to gather together in order to rent our two-bed flat. She has a painting someone's interested in for which she's asking £3000, but "I've got ways of making money. I can always get money."

"He offered me £300 to spunk him." I didn't understand in what way this was a transitive verb, but kept quiet as clarity sometimes follows a mishearing. "I thought, '£300? Yes, I'll do that.'" I finally realised that in her Fenland accent she was saying "spanking." "I mean compared to what they put you through on Universal Credit? Much easier."

She was speaking about her friend and occasional flatmate. "You should see some of the things Terri's had. I look at them and think 'I'd be charging them'."

She left for Esther's. "She just wants a girlie night. She's one of the good ones though isn't she?" which I took as an apology for cancelling the plan for her to stay at mine.

Later, feeling desirous, I worked on the kind of playful, witty and subtlely worded suggestion that women appreciate. "Hayley, if you fancy a rodding tonight give me a bell xx." No reply until the following morning at 11am: "Loves you xx".

We met again last night and went out dancing in the pub-cum-club owned by the man to whom she's hoping to sell the 3K painting. Kylie went off again and got us some kind of drug which had all the effect of an aspirin. Sitting outside we met someone she knows who sold us some whippies, which are reliable, unfakeable fun, partly for the way that the sound of their inflation alarmed the Spanish people sat at our table.

Back at mine we're soon in bed spooning; in the morning, my cock hardening against her arse, and me very slowly trying to get her top up far enough to allow me an un-bra'd touch of her tits. "You've got lovely tits," I told her early on. "Yeah, they're not fat tits are they?"

In the pub after work last night, I meet a former work colleague and her two friends, once of whom might have a bedsit available in a few weeks for a little less than I'm paying now. I need to leave here. I have had Hayley back twice whilst I've lived here and it disturbs the delicate humour of the landlady. Selections from her texts include "Thanks for waking me up at 4 fucking am...Absolutely not fucking on...", and Hayley is now referred to as "that woman."

I rang Hayley to tell her about the bedsit. She assumed that she'd be moving in to it. I didn't mean that Hayley. That will be my place until we can find a flat together, although only paying £215 a month each would free up a lot of money that we could spend unwisely.


:: Next >>

looby, n.; pl. loobies. A lout; an awkward, stupid, clownish person

M / 55 / Bristol, "the most beautiful, interesting and distinguished city in England" -- John Betjeman [1961, source eludes me].

"Looby is a left-wing intellectual who is obsessed with a) women's clothes and b) tits." -- Joy of Bex.

WLTM literate woman, 40-65. Must have nice tits, a PhD, and an mdma factory in the shed, although the first on its own will do in the short term.

There are plenty of bastards who drink moderately. Of course, I don't consider them to be people. They are not our comrades.
Sergei Korovin, quoted in Pavel Krusanov, The Blue Book of the Alcoholic

I am here to change my life. I am here to force myself to change my life.
Chinese man I met during Freshers Week at Lancaster University, 2008

The more democratised art becomes, the more we recognise in it our own mediocrity.
James Meek

Tell me, why is it that even when we are enjoying music, for instance, or a beautiful evening, or a conversation in agreeable company, it all seems no more than a hint of some infinite felicity existing apart somewhere, rather than actual happiness – such, I mean, as we ourselves can really possess?
Turgenev, Fathers and Sons

I hate the iPod; I hate the idea that music is such a personal thing that you can just stick some earplugs in your ears and have an experience with music. Music is a social phenomenon.
Jeremy Wagner

La vie poetique has its pleasures, and readings--ideally a long way from home--are one of them. I can pretend to be George Szirtes.
George Szirtes

Using words well is a social virtue. Use 'fortuitous' once more to mean 'fortunate' and you move an English word another step towards the dustbin. If your mistake took hold, no-one who valued clarity would be able to use the word again.
John Whale

One good thing about being a Marxist is that you don't have to pretend to like work.
Terry Eagleton, What Is A Novel?, Lancaster University, 1 Feb 2010

The working man is a fucking loser.
Mick, The Golden Lion, Lancaster, 21 Mar 2011

  XML Feeds


©2019 by looby. Don't steal anything or you'll have a 9st arts graduate to deal with.

Contact | Help | Blog theme by Asevo | Photo gallery software