| « Make that move | Yeh nor meh fecking daa » |
I can't remember! That place in Powys!
"I want to go home with looby," she said repeatedly, putting her arms (and her tits) round me, in between saying she was an alcoholic and putting on the tears when she didn't get enough attention. "Don't get on a downer Kate," the man from Glasgow says. "It's Sunday. We've all got enough fucking problems in the week, come on."
At the girls' house last night, Fiona, my eldest, laughingly showing how she can cart every member of our family around on her back and then be thrown onto the sofa. Kirsty not sharing her wine, probably annoyed with me for exciting the girls before bedtime.
An afternoon neglecting a deadline, spent with an impoverished Neil and Kev, carting a pile of books, on a trolly, to Oxfam, and then pooling our very limited funds for drink. Glances to strangers across the pub who are in the same state, glances which signal "Isn't this feeling of togetherness lovely?"
The Professor of Understanding Ruffians Studies at Black Pudding Polytechnic gets in touch, drawn to something in my list of likes--"Materialist theories of art"--which I didn't think would be much of a girl magnet. Bit goofy-looking in her pictures, economy home haircut which looks like her friend's used a conical lampshade as a guide for the scissors, and teeth which present an argument for the early adoption of braces where they might be considered helpful, but you can't tell: Kim looked a bit ragged online; in real life she's a fitbit.
More immediately pretty is the woman from Birkenhead who sends a short, self-deprecating email and a picture of herself mid-stride on the dancefloor of a low-ceilinged nightclub. We're trying to move the pieces of our childcare arrangements around to get out for a drink.
The Christian has gone silent. Maybe she's found what I hoped was the unambiguous "No God botherers thanks." I hope she's not a member of a guitar-led church who's working herself up to respond "Yes, I would say I'm a Christian, but honestly, I've got absolutely no problems with gay people."
A nurse from the city of steel gets in touch with what is now becoming a wearying enthusiasm for parts of my profile, before helpfully telling me that she's pursuing someone else. This genre of email is comprised of formulations of "Someone else will really like you!"More interestingly, a witty and kinktastic non-monogamous Glaswegian sends the most inventively funny emails. "I wish I hadn't used a Welsh place name as my safeword." That area of friskiness which involves an ethically-sourced physical deprivation of volition and agency from the woman has always appealed to me.
I'm back to Glasgow at the crack of dawn tomorrow as a train driver pal and I are going to see the BBC Scottish Symphony Orchestra play Bruckner's 7th, but I'm also going to appropriate that pile of rubble I found the other day in Anderstoun as my own art work. I'm going to put up the naming plaque on the building site, and then go round all the galleries and distribute a little leaflet about it containing my cv, a bit of arty blab, a picture of me in front of it, and a statement saying that although the site is not open, it can easily be viewed from Houldsworth Street.
I've also given Ms Llanfihangel-Yng-Ngwynfa my number and have asked her if she's tied up next week at all.
Not all my own work
7 comments
I get very uncomfortable around “crying drunks". Unless they’ve suffered a genuine recent bereavement I prefer to give them a wide berth
It’s all self pity by people haven’t known the half of what many people have gone through without complaining about it.
Does the kinky Glaswegian like girls? Just askin’… for a friend, you see…
Turns out, “Bleurrrrrrgh!” is also a terrible safe-word.
I just now had the opportunity to read your previous post (bloody children demand my attention!) and it was a fantastic travelogue. Well done, sir!
All those lovely glances amongst strangers will soon disappear thanks to social media and iPhones. Walk into any U.S. pub and you’ll see folks with their stupid faces buried in their mobile devices.
Ah. Fitbit. Another trip to Google.
Don’t forget to post the picture of you astride the rubble. In the meantime, I’ll contact Christie’s. Perhaps they can fit it in time for Tuesday’s auction. Will $300,000 be sufficient?
@daisy: Honey, you make me laugh.
It was nice of that Glasgow man to protect you from Kate. I hope you thanked him.
In that situation in a pub, my paranoid tendancies interpret such looks as “I wonder if that guy would buy me a pint?”
I get exhausted just reading about your intensive social life.
The Prof sounds good; a bit desperate, therefore with a better chance of a score. Just make sure she’s a fitbit and not a fatbit hahaha. Sorry.
Liverpool Lass sounds exciting.
The Christian is just going to try and convert you, I just know it.
The Sheffield nurse likes one of your parts? Respect!
Tg\he Glasgow Girl?…Why aren’t you going back to Glasgow immediately?
Oh.
Sorry.
You are. I envy you the Bruckner, but I hope you have time for a side trip to meet the kinktastic kracker.
I didn’t know that Mrs Unpronouncable Welsh name is into bondage? You lucky devil.
The days of self-pity fueled by a good few pints of the old black stuff from Dublin - frankly I never felt better than when wallowing in that pit of self-induced lunacy. See it would start out - his or her it their or its fault, then it would grow and get into well they all have it in for me then it’d be soon into the but that is because I’m such a low person they are bound to … etc. etc. And all the time I want you to say “No - hey - you are the greatest, the best, no-one better, you really are the greatest undiscovered genius on the planet"… holy cow - the ego the size of Jupiter and a self worth approaching absolute zero - what a self-destructive coupling…
You did well to get extricate yourself from that lot…
I’ll continue to wait for the next installment in Looby’s adventures soon… :-)
Daisy–that’s very funny! The mind boggles :)
TSB: Prof sounds a bit like Gillian (the posh one) at the moment. Intellectual, careful, “nice"–i.e., boring. But we’ll give her a run out and she how she goes.
F: You’ve captured my acquaintance exactly, Another one of her predictable second bottle of wine themes is how she wants to be loved and “treated right". She’s got absolutely no fucking chance of finding anyone to love her in her present her state. They’ll just take advantage of her neediness and drunkenness to shag her. She is one of these women who want a lover as a social worker.
Form is loading...
