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  Tue 13th July 2010

Kitty and Helen said that they were going to be in London for a few days and that I was coming down to see them. I told them I would love to, but couldn't afford it. They wouldn't have it, and Kitty paid my train fare of 76 [sic] pounds.

I strolled up to the bar in Covent Garden, where they were with the incredibly attractive Melanie from Reading. They had already bought a caiparinha for me, which was a good job, because in what was to become a theme of the evening, the waiter came out and asked us if we'd like anything else as they were closing. At 8.15, on World Cup Final night, in central London. At the sushi restaurant, the waitress warned us they were closing in half an hour. On the bank of the Thames, where there are some bars on boats, everything was closed, at 10 o'clock. "For God's sake, it'd be easier to find a drink in Doncaster," said Melanie from Reading, who by then had to get a train home.

It was a warm night, and hundreds of exultant Spaniards were running around with flags and vuvuzelas, beeping their car horns, jumping and shouting every time they encountered another celebratory party. Dutch people shook their hands. We just about managed to get into a pub, where the barmaid served us then turned the music off and the lights on full. Helen came back to the table with a bottle of Veuve Cliquot. In a nightclub, Helen opened the champagne and hid it behind a menu. As we were finishing it a security guard shone a torch on it, said something into his headset, and Kitty and Helen had to turn on the fluttering eyelashes to avoid us getting chucked out.

Back to the hotel: one bed, two girls, and me. "We've decided you should sleep in the middle," said Kitty, so I did, and woke up spooning Kitty, my arm draped across her thigh. I could fancy Kitty, and it was a delicious test not to move. I lay there thinking how beautiful she is. Then I came round a bit more and realised it was Helen. "Looby, you've been spooning me for about two hours," Helen said. "I know, I'm sorry, I didn't realise I'd got into that position." "No, it's alright; it was nice." I had my "best" white Primark underpants on, and glancing down at myself I thought I ought to invest in some better underwear.

I got the train back to Lancaster. It had been sultry and humid, I'd had champagne, I'd been laying next to Helen, I'd been in a hotel room with Kitty walking around in her underwear, I'd been staring out of the window on the train thinking about taking photographs of Melanie from Reading for a girlie mag... so I sent Felicity a text, the nature of which cannot be revealed on a family-orientated blog such as this. "Some time soon!" she replied.

Tomorrow, off to Leeds for my fictitious appointment at the University, my cover for meeting Kim off the internet.


Comment from: Tony [Visitor]

This is great stuff Looby, just like the best soap operas leaving us wanting more.

See and you thought London was the centre of the universe, far more fun up North mate.

Wed 14th July 2010 @ 17:33
Comment from: [Member]

I should start charging a licence fee :)

Thu 15th July 2010 @ 13:29
Comment from: Helen [Visitor]

Surely, it’s who your experiencing places with as much as where you are Tony? Cliff, your the best spooner I’ve ever known, even though it was a case of mistaken identity. Troll land in December, it’s going to be fab! Helen.x

Fri 3rd September 2010 @ 21:30
Comment from: looby [Visitor]

It was fucking hard work not having a go at you Helen! :))

Fri 3rd September 2010 @ 21:53
Comment from: Helen [Visitor]

Pack your speedo’s for is-bading.

Fri 3rd September 2010 @ 21:55
Comment from: Helen [Visitor]

Lovely Looby Looby Loo, where would we be without you, give us a wink and make me think you.x

Fri 3rd September 2010 @ 22:11
Comment from: [Member]

I raise a glass of Kroneberg in your direction, tilt my head and x

Fri 3rd September 2010 @ 22:31

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

M / 59 / 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?
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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