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Back to School

  Sat 18th January 2014

Chilly in the house at the moment and The Sartorialist won't be coming round any time soon to photograph me in my two jumpers, scarf, pink blanky, and Santa hat. I can't afford the heating, just like my parents couldn't. It is the natural order. We shouldn't expect to be warm in our houses all the time.

I rang Kim last night, partly to arrange the next long weekend of malarkey at hers, and to talk out my regrets about us not being able to go to see Joey Negro in Leeds next month. Kim proffered the consolatory straw that the venue isn't really a dancey place. I'm not going to Leeds to see Joey Negro and sit down.

We compared diaries and I think we've got a date. We started talking about non-consensual sex, something which turns me on no end--I mean, in that ludic form in which the terms of engagement are agreed beforehand--and I parted my legs to enjoy the sense of my cock hardening as I was on the phone to her. This is the signal to put the phone down; certain boundaries mustn't be crossed, and phone sex would not be quite the done thing at the moment. It has been explicitly agreed that sex will not become part of us and we have agreed to pretend to forget the time when I had an orgasm of shuddering closeness and intensity with her in my bed a few weeks ago when we were both wanking at the same time. In my head though, that's still "friends".

Ignoring my own advice to myself, I texted her from bed. "That's a lovely way of making my cock hard," I said. "Happy to oblige, sir," she replied. A few hours later, I texted her again and told her that I love her, which I shouldn't have done. This morning I apologised and blamed it on the beer. "I know you do X" she replied.

In the pub later, Trina was hammering the Chardonnay somewhat and got upset when I told her about my plans with Kim. "That woman deliberately wants to drive us apart," she said, her voice quavering, eyes wettening. "And she doesn't want to meet me." You and her meeting would be a fucking car crash, I didn't say.

I put my arm round her and kissed her. "She doesn't, darling. She's not interested in us." I glanced up and became aware we were making something of a spectacle of ourselves. "Let's not talk about this here. It's been a lovely day." The conversation drunkenly meandered away from a dangerous topic, and she was soon laughing and smiling again

Trina went back to mine while I went to breathe alcohol fumes over everyone at the girls' school's 6th form Open Evening. It's a brilliant school and it gives them something a Grammar School education can never provide--how to mix with people of different classes, nationalities and backgrounds. The Girls' Grammar, where I used to teach, really only has one subject on the curriculum: How To Avoid Mixing With The Lower Orders.

Naturally, following five or six pints of Allendale, I put my foot in it a couple of times. I bumped into the Dad of a friend of the girls and started talking about how the A-level subjects are very different nowadays. I went off on one about how vocational subjects shouldn't be taught in a University and how it was a mistake that Polytechnics were abolished. At this point he informed me that he teaches a vocational subject at a University.

I followed this up by what might have been some needlessly extensive questions about the [subject redacted] syllabus, which had nothing to do with the fact that its teacher is arrestingly attractive, with her ginger bob, black glasses and a gorgeous little metal hairclip; she was wearing a pale brown shift dress with small moss-green flowers on it. I regret I am unable to report on the hem position coordinates as she was standing behind a table.

I then went to pick on the Philosophy teacher. The subject is actually called Philosophy and Ethics. I didn't understand why Ethics had to be appended like that to a general term that includes its consequent. It's like saying Music and Notation, or Management and Bullshit. I informed her, because I could tell she was interested, that I started out at Uni doing Aesthetics and Metaphysics, but ended up being quite interested in Ethics and the Philosophy of Religion, whilst maintaining my interest in Aesthetics. She nodded slightly and politely kept looking away, which was an appreciative yet understated way of showing her fascination with the slurred memories of a drunkard's failed academic career.

My alma mater sent two ridiculous looking ciphers: black suits, ties, standing in front of some managementspeak. The Polytechnic of Black Pudding was just as bad. Their board read "Innovative thinking for the real world". I turned away and ate a good portion of the buffet the school had provided, then went home and thought about Frances and The Reverse Cowgirl.


Comment from: Homer [Visitor]

I can afford it, but choose not to spend too much on heating, so it’s never more than about 19c. “You and Yours” on Radio 4 did a special on home heating in Denmark (surprisingly interesting) in which I was amazed to hear Danes think an internal temp of 17c is “very chilly". Vikings were wimps, you heard it here first.

Sat 18th January 2014 @ 17:42
Comment from: [Member]

I would find 19degC unbearably hot, really. I couldn’t stand that. I just don’t like central heating, full stop. This is how I like to heat my house.

Before I had to take lodgers in, my fuel bills were around 70 quid a quarter. Now they’re about 400.

Sat 18th January 2014 @ 17:57
Comment from: [Member]

When it’s just me at home, i go with about 19C and wear many layers. With company, i have to go to 20C. 22C is more typical in these parts…

i prefer the cold. it is so much easier to get warm than it is to cool off in sweltering heat.

oh, and i also agree that ‘parallel wankage’ is still in the realm of ‘friends’. it’s actually quite nice!

Sun 19th January 2014 @ 02:13
Comment from: [Member]

22 degrees?! That’d be like an oven.

Parallel wankage is the future. Oh God, it was so nice.

Sun 19th January 2014 @ 15:35

I had to Google Joey Negro. Man, I’m really out of it when it comes to that scene.

Speaking of dance…I’m enjoying the slow, inevitable tango that you and Kim are playing. Voyeurism at it’s best. I would love photos of all the players. My imagination is good for shit.

Tue 21st January 2014 @ 11:38
Comment from: [Member]

Don’t worry about that. The title of your blog went right over my head. I don’t think yours and my musical worlds overlap much.

I did think of putting an example of Joey Negro’s work up but I really don’t like the idea of music taken so out of context for lazy explorations by others. Good music deserves some concentration, slow friendship and social embedding, not just clicking on a link in a blog.

I’ve got some lovely pictures of Kim from when we went up to the park last time she was here. The best ones are in my head though.

Tue 21st January 2014 @ 13:20

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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.
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

23.1.16: Big clearout of the defunct and dormant and dull
16.1.19: Further pruning

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63 mago
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