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In which there is some wild boar and unjustified jealousy

  Wed 18th August 2010

Kitty came to stay for the weekend. On Saturday we took a meandering bus ride to Levens Hall, one of the oldest houses in Cumbria, for a chilli festival: a food festival, but hotter. We were to meet Felicity, her sister and her family. The rural upper middle classes were dressed in their code of brand new jeans, those pointy brown shoes for men, and upturned mauve and pink striped collars all round.

After starting at the Pimm's stall and the one from the local organic real ale brewery, Kitty and I bumped into Felicity. I did the introductions and we discussed where we were going to meet for the picnic. "OK then, we'll all meet at one over there," I said. "Well, she hasn't said she'd like to come," said Felicity. I was incredulous and made a face at Kitty. "No, no, no," I laughed, "Kitty's on the A-list, she's coming in."

Therefore, it was with something of an atmosphere hanging over us that we spread the picnic out. Felicity introduced us to her sister and her husband, upon which their eldest daughter loudly said "Daddy's a bible basher." "Shh, shh!" said Mum. "Don't say that." Felicity had made some lovely food, and I bought some boar and chestnut pies, but I was quite relieved when we all dispersed again.

I went on a chili roulette game where you spun a large pointer around which determined whether you got the normal chocolate or the one with a chili inside it. I ate the whole thing in one go in a show of charitable manliness, and was relieved to find that I'd got the unadulterated one.

Me and Kitty bumped into my next door neighbour but four. I confessed that for many years I had forgotten her name and had been too embarrassed to mention the fact. We all started chatting amiably, Kitty telling her a bit about her divorce. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Felicity wander up, hover for a few seconds, then go away again. "I saw you were quite drunk," she said later, "So I didn't come up." We weren't drunk; we were relaxed and sociable.

Me and Kitty wandered off again and walked though the grounds, the croquet lawns and the topiary gardens, passing a steel band playing Dancing Queen. "I like it how people can't place us," she said. Later, and more drunk, I said to her "I know we don't... but it feels like having a girlfriend." Having a girlfriend.

We all went back together in Felicity's car. "Shall I drop you at the station Kitty?" "No, it's alright thanks. I'm staying at looby's."

"Well we might have got tanned today," I said, trying to cheer things up. "Not when you're all covered up," came back Felicity. It felt a long sixteen miles home.

2 comments

Comment from: Homer [Visitor]

Oi. Have you defriended me on Devilbook?

Tue 24th August 2010 @ 17:55
Comment from: [Member]

He he…I was just writing a post about that. Sorry H, it’s not just you, it’s everyone. Details in a half an hour, right here on loobynet dot co dot uk, the first choice for navel gazing in the UK.

Tue 24th August 2010 @ 19:21


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


M / 60 / 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.
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The more democratised art becomes, the more we recognise in it our own mediocrity.
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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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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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