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"The best fucks are the mad ones"

  Tue 22nd March 2011

I had a chat on the phone with Denise to find out what Frances had done with my phone after she'd turned it on and trawled through my messages. Turns out she'd sent her a text saying "Fancy a fuck tonight?" then another longer one about what a "lying, two-faced bag of shit" I am. We had a really nice chat and although in all honesty it's the last show I'd choose to go and see, I said I'd come and see her in Jesus Christ Superstar which her church theatre group is putting on next month.

This morning, an envelope containing a handwritten note from Frances appears on the mat. Inside, half of the money she owes me (the rest to follow), and an olive branch which I have no intention of accepting. She says she's not angry any more and hopes we can sit down and talk about it "and laugh at the absurdity of it." There's nothing absurd about it: it's too real for that. Paranoia, envy, suspicion, maybe; not absurdity. She never apologises, even one of those apologies which doesn't quite have your heart behind it but would help the situation and the people involved.

On Sunday I went to the jazz club. She came in an hour after me, with her daughter. I blanked them, training myself not to look at them, to treat them like the strangers sitting in front of me. A few weeks ago I read one of those back page interviews in the glossies, in which Michael Caine was asked whether he hates anyone. He replied no, but on the rare occasions when people mistreat him, he just "freezes them out. It just stops." Good practice, I thought. You simply arrest the relationship. You leave it immobilised, untouched.


I'm 47 tomorrow: I'm going to see the Lancaster undergrads do A Picture of Dorian Gray, then see the girls for a bit, then off out for a few pints. Linda and Seriouscrush will be there. Possibly Gaynor. ManICan'tHelpFancyingAfterAFewPints also. GorgeousAdminWoman said she's coming but she's as reliable as a politician's promises. She has big tits a curvy full figure and long black hair which I imagine spread out on my pillow, and something slightly hard and selfish in her character, which, combined, I find very attractive despite knowing that it can promise only a débâcle of a similar nature to the one from which I'm extricating myself now. But as Vanessa said when I told her some of this, "the best fucks are the mad ones."

And as it's my birthday, I think I will also tell everyone at university that I want to indefinitely suspend working on the PhD. I can't afford the fees, which are now months overdue, but more than that, it's spoiling my enjoyment of reading, and the music itself. When I'm drunk, I talk to myself and say You don't have to do it.

I think I lost most of my local readers when I had to introduce the password, but just in case: George and Dragon, St George's Quay, 9.30ish.

7 comments

Comment from: [Member]

Yousamadfuckallright. Happy!

Tue 22nd March 2011 @ 14:37
Comment from: [Member]

I told you not to take a whole one at first.

Tue 22nd March 2011 @ 15:00
Comment from: Sarsparilla [Visitor]

Re: Michael Caine’s freezing; somebody described it to me lately as “revoking their licence to fuck with your mind.” I think that takes a lot of practice in social freezing, also.

Happy birthday! Your title made me laugh out loud.

Tue 22nd March 2011 @ 17:33
Comment from: [Member]

I have you to thank for the title!

Yes, it takes practice. Physical body training. She’s just now, in the last ten minutes, sent an email saying she lied about saying she didn’t like the sex and doing a come-hither thing about what we had planned to do tomorrow - which didn’t involve architectural or cultural pursuits. Anyway, it’s too late now. Something similar would only happen again. I can’t trust someone who combs through my phone and thensends jealous sexual texts to a good friend.

Tue 22nd March 2011 @ 17:43
Comment from: heybartender [Visitor]

Good work ignoring her. That will drive her even more mad, of course, but so be it. Just forget she exists.
A happy birthday to you. I would certainly join you for a pint if I could. Instead I’ll raise my glass to you from here.

Tue 22nd March 2011 @ 18:15
Comment from: [Member]

Thanks bartender!

BTW, Re your blog, I’m not ignoring you, it’s just that none of my comments ever seem to get past moderation! It started happening when I went to congrautulate you on getting the wine job. That didn’t appear and since then I don’t think anything’s got through.

Wed 23rd March 2011 @ 02:45
Comment from: Jonathan [Visitor]

Happy birthday from me as well Looby. And I do agree, that not-at-all-apology is too little, too late. I had been actually trying to see F’s side of it the first couple of posts being the seeing-the-best-in-everyone Guardian reader that I am… but the text stuff makes it clear this is a person absolutely to give the Michael Caine treatment, and not just until the dust settles, for the long haul.

Thu 24th March 2011 @ 16:11


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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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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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The Comfort of Strangers

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