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Skating

  Sat 16th November 2013

Someone I know asked me if I knew of any local supplies of a common but illegal plant. I couldn't help him: I have no desire to return to the dull, boring nights, tense and uncomfortable, surrounded by people happy to sit down for hours on end, reverentially quiet before agonised rock guitar solos and its associated doggerel pop poetry; and their trailing, inconsequential sub-philosophical utterences which passed for conversation, an 80s version of today's Facebook statuses about fate, destiny, caring, and true friends. I want to dance, flirt, talk volubly but dialectically, to move, skate like Huysmans across the cat-ice of my life and those of my friends. In these, weed is of no help.

But he has discovered that the local scrap man who drives slowly down our back alleys looking for discarded washing machines and the like, is a distributor as well as a collector, his old-fashioned weekly shouted announcement from his lorry--"Iron! Any old iron!" having a hidden meaning to those who appreciate such a stupefecant.


Half past four and it's almost dark; I'm wearing a scarf and a Santa hat and my thick cable-knit jumper, as the house settles into its gelid winter state, chilled by silent draughts running unapologetically through all the warps and chinks of windows and doors. Thankfully, Ned and Tess have a similar idea of the insupportable profligacy of turning the heating on as I. There's a coal fire, and plenty of quilts.

Last night though--well, I looked good. Kitty and Melissa are over for the weekend, well-dressed girls the two of them, so I spent an hour putting my ensemble together: beige Aquascutum mac (Help The Aged, Southport, £10), dusky blue double breasted Linea jacket (Tatty Bon, Glasgow, £15), an 80s German brown and white shirt (from a defunct secondhand clothes shop in Lancaster, £5), black cotton trousers by Relay from its own shop, also now closed, in Old Compton St., Soho, £70, from the days when I had money), brown Pierre Cardin slip-on shoes (The Samaritans, Lancaster, £3.99), and the orange and brown scarf that Kim knitted for me.

Kitty and I were off our heads on catnip. "I am bollocksed, but in a nice way," she announced, more than once. In the J--, the lead guitarist, in the last song, started walking into the audience. He took off his guitar, draped it around the shoulders of the man standing in front of me, and shouted into his ear "A minor." The man wandered slowly up to the front of the pub to join the band, playing an unplanned solo, which finished the night with a dash of showmanship.

In the hotel Kitty and Melissa got ready for bed. Catnip makes me feel aesthetically sensitive but not sexually so; when I got back to mine it was very difficult even to get to a weak orgasm, even whilst imagining telling Chris what to do.

Someone posted a reply to a comment I left on her blog after she'd inadvertently created a picturesque neologism through a slip of the finger: "You're welcome to my typo's looby." Coursing on catnip, it sounded the sexiest remark.

Part Two begins in a couple of hours.

12 comments

Comment from: [Member]

agree with you about the weed… while it has some pleasure-enhancing properties, it mostly makes people stick to the furniture and lose all semblence of intelligence.

the passivity has advantages. i’ve often wondered that if marijuana were fully leaglized, and indeed SUBSIDIZED, here in the US of A, we might have far fewer outbreaks of random violence.

while you often hear of angry drunks, the ‘angry pothead’ is an alien species. they just tend to drive down the interstate at a terribly slow, paranoid, speed…

Sun 17th November 2013 @ 04:45
Comment from: Chef [Visitor]

Tatty Bon, eh? I’ve not been past that for years. Saying that, I’ve not been near the Tron for years either.

Two of my sons are into the whole retro scene, Vespas, parkas, the entire kit and caboodle. Tatty Bon was/is a grand wee shop.

On a more serious note and offering a wee bit of advice to someone who will hopefully subconsciously swallow my message the next time he is up the road.

Hard drugs, I’ve personally, ’seriously’ beaten tae fuck more druggies, pushers and suppliers than you can shake a stick at during my earlier years. Potheads, I cannae give a care about. But see me? I’ve broken off more sharp needles in arse cheeks and eyeballs than I care to remember. Regrets? No… not one. The message here? Drugs ruin lives. So do I if they infringe on any of my personal or business activities.

Thanks for reading, enjoy your catnip fuelled dreams trying to work out if the apparition standing over you is really me. And fuck yes, that shiny axe really is about to part your hair.

Sun 17th November 2013 @ 07:44
Comment from: Leni Qinan [Visitor]

I’m pretty sure you looked irresistible in your Friday night outfit.

Oh sex, we just can’t get enough of it (doing, watching or talking about it) can we? Weed has rumoured aphodisiac-like qualities. Only twice in my life I’ve had the unpleasant experience of having someone falling asleep in the middle of it. The first one was pretty exhausted. The second one was high on marijuana. That was pathetic.

Sun 17th November 2013 @ 10:16
Comment from: [Member]

DF: I read this today. The US Federal Govt has decided not to overrule the state laws in Washington and Colorado legalising small amounts of mj for recreational use.

Chef: It doesn’t take any drug user long to realise that the “drugs ruin lives” line is just propaganda, a message undermined by the fact that two of the hardest drugs of them all–tobacco and alcohol–are legal.

You’ve probably seen a different side of drugtaking to me, involving needles, poverty, adulterated powders, and a negative desire to escape from an unbearable situation, curled up in a stairwell. But there’s another drugtaking culture, in which informed, sensible people surround themselves with good friends who share a desire to make a good night better. If this is ruin, I want to be ruined.

And if none of those arguments work–I plead an exemption because I’m sober throughout November. The idea of waking up every day and that’s as good as I’m going to feel is unbearable.

LQ: Thank you. I felt like I looked OK, so it got me into a virtuous cycle of confidence.

Falling asleep halfway? Oh dear. I’ve sometimes had to give up halfway, (but what is halfway?) but I hope I’ve never fallen asleep on anyone. My best experiences with sex have been either with acid or MDPV.

Sun 17th November 2013 @ 10:49
Comment from: gossamerbeynon [Visitor]

Oh I do like your sartorial posts!

Some of my favourite dresses are charity shop bargains, I actually find it quite difficult to shop in regular high street stores; it’s far more exciting rooting about for hidden gems.

( re: sex. There’s nothing as sexy as words )

Sun 17th November 2013 @ 14:08
Comment from: [Member]

Thank you. I’ll have to do a little fashion shoot sometime.

You are exactly right about the sexiness of words.

Sun 17th November 2013 @ 19:21
Comment from: Leni Qinan [Visitor]

Halfway is somewhere between foreplay and orgasm. You suddenly hear “Zzzzz…”. If you haven’t been such a tiger to wear your partner out, you ask yourself if you’re really so boring and start doubting about your sexual abilities.

Falling asleep is involuntary especially when you’re exhausted, but while having sex… it sucks!

Sun 17th November 2013 @ 21:37

I gave up weed years ago. It just makes me dull and paranoid. It’s so powerful now! Narcotic-strength. And expensive. Now, catnip. That’s the stuff. Or…that’s what I hear.

I’ve never fallen asleep in the middle of sex but I’ve faked an orgasm once or twice. At some point, it just becomes tedious for both parties.

Mon 18th November 2013 @ 12:06
Comment from: Leni Qinan [Visitor]

When I was at college my friends used to smoke pot on a regular basis. They were generous and I was welcome to share. I occasionally took a drag of a joint but can’t say I enjoyed the weed experience very much, so I quitted. Right after I was the butt of every joke told and labeled a chicken-hearted softie. Friendly coexistence was possible anyway.

I never needed any substance to enjoy good sex (a bit of caffeine for my sleepy partners would have been good, though).

PS.- You better find a good password for this post+comments. I’m afraid this is becoming a bit risqué. Mea culpa.

Mon 18th November 2013 @ 16:21
Comment from: Hipster Yaya [Visitor]

I used to smoke hash during my hippie days, but quitted when I knew that it travelled in small packages wrapped in clingfilm stuck into Moroccan’s a*ses with the string hanging out. It made me feel uneasy to wonder what was I really smoking.

Tue 19th November 2013 @ 11:40
Comment from: Hipster Yaya [Visitor]

Sorry for the scatological comment, but that’s how it went.

(The captcha box says I need to type the word ZAS, onomatopoeia for a smack in the face. I won’t complain).

Tue 19th November 2013 @ 11:49
Comment from: Leni Qinan [Visitor]

I suggest you two smoke the peace pipe. But filled with something good, not that crappy stuff!

Thu 21st November 2013 @ 12:02


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


M / 62 / 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, 45-70. 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.
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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.
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

The Comfort of Strangers

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