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On the job

  Sat 3rd May 2014

Written on Tuesday morning

What a relief. No more of these late night texts telling me she's off to bed and is looking forward to seeng me. What can I say to that? "Thanks, but in the long run, you're going to be disappointed"? I've added a bit to my profile on the dating site: "I really don't think I'm relationship material. 'Where is this relationship going?' 'I don't know. Down the pub?'"


Friday morning

Trina rang, apologising at length for flying off the handle and "over-reacting" and that if it had been the other way round I wouldn't have made such an issue of it.

She asked if she could come over. I told her that I was just leaving to go to Manchester for a concert at the Uni (works by Helmut Lachenmann, et al). We rushed to the station. The train was running more than half an hour late and the clerk said we'd miss the connection at Preston; too late for the concert.

Standing in the station's foyer, we both knew what would happen. At our usual place, we got stuck into some solid boozing. Barry turned up, who was on surprisingly good form. How easy it is to spend money (he ran through his redundancy money in record time), how viciously uncaring this Government is, something about Newcastle United's owner, and so on. I was gabbling on about my night in the casino at Manchester after fending off frostbite in the nightclub where Richard Earnshaw was playing. He talked about Chris a bit (from whom he recently split up) but I really don't want to get involved in arbitrating between those two.

And then Richard turned up, and immediately pulled his stunt of easing Trina away from the collective conversation, for another private psychotherapy session about his fucking dead wife. She's fucking dead. Dead dead dead.

I gave Trina the nod and stood up. "Right well folks, we've been here since one o'clock so it's probably time we were off." Handshakes all round, including to the next table, (Irish? travellers? both?), one of whom had been playfully chatting Trina up.

"Oh thanks looby," she said. "I really couldn't face Richard at the end of two bottles of wine." I went to the chip shop and back at home we slathered our chips with a curry sauce of a colour that does not occur in nature.

Kitty popped round. "The reason it's called a blowjob is that it is just that. It's a job."


I left her in my room with my computer because I was going out with Neil, his boyfriend, and a few other poofs, to see a play about Eurovision.

I got back in and was pleased that Trina was still awake. We went out to the Whittle, where we had a couple of drinks at the ruinously high prices they charge there. 7.80 for a pint and a glass of red. We came home and got into bed. "Do you not think that's akin to a rape fantasy?" she said, midway. "Yes, of course it is. But I don't really care what you think. I've told you what's going to happen." It's quite difficult to split up with a woman to whom you can say things like that.


The following day Trina had her first ever glass of Madeira. I used to teach out there, and I am forever advocating Madeira's pleasures--both those of the island itself, and especially, its eponymous drink. She said "Why don't we go there?" "Well, yes, but..." And then she got on the computer and booked and paid for it all, the flights, the flat. This is where we'll be if you want to find us in the second week in September.

There's just one slight complicating factor which is that during the time in which I thought we'd split up, I arranged a date with someone who works for a pharmaceutical company down south, who is flying up from London to meet me in Glasgow. I could actually do the right thing for a change and cancel it.


Off to a party with Erica in G-- tonight where a DJ is playing in someone's house, then on Bank Holiday Monday, me, Kirsty, the girls, Boyf, and Trina are all going to the Scarecrow Festival in Wray. This is a pic of me and my daughters there a couple of years ago.

5 comments

Well, I’m glad this post is a bit more positive, I was getting a wee bit worried about imminent repression hitting you.

I think you should send Richard to meet with his late wife. 10g KCN dissolved in 100ml of sharp lemonade should do it… just tell him it’s a new Almond flavored special.

Madeira is nice. I do prefer it to port, and it’s normally cheaper if you can find a supplier.

Nice photo of you and your girls.

That blue-checked shirt really suits you, makes you look years younger.

Sun 4th May 2014 @ 04:58
Comment from: [Member]

i get anxious when you mention Richard, and it makes me want to ditch the post and run away. Perhaps he needs an intervention, or some sort of behavioural therapy – tell him that when he goes on too long (ie: mentions) about his dead wife, you and all friends will slap him in the face and say “Get over it!” before leaving him alone. He will quickly learn, Pavlovian-style, that he has to quit it… Or he’ll take TSB’s advice…

Sun 4th May 2014 @ 13:49
Comment from: [Member]

TSB: Yes, I was feeling slightly buttoned up and prim, discussing rather iffy fantasies with my girlfriend. Glad we got through that.

Madeira’s cheap for what it is, but over here it starts at about 15-20 quid a bottle, and then the sky’s the limit.

DF: He only does it with women, that’s what I find partly irritating. After four years, I have zero patience with that scratched record any more. I’ll have to train Trina to follow your advice.

Sun 4th May 2014 @ 14:04

Let’s just see where all that honesty in your profile gets you.

Arbitrating = blog posts. Just something to consider.

I feel bad for women. Bl*wjobs must be awful. Especially if they go on for a long time. [Accidentally typed “blogjob.” Sometimes, they go on for too long, as well.]

I hope you go but the second week of September is ages away. Anything can happen between now and then.

Mon 5th May 2014 @ 12:10
Comment from: [Member]

Let’s just see where all that honesty in your profile gets you.

It gets me a date with a woman who’s prepared to fly from London to Glasgow to meet me! (It bothers me more that she’s not going by train). She read it and sent me a text saying that she liked the whole paragraph, which is

I really don’t think I’m relationship material. I don’t want to think about everything all the time. I just want to go out dancing, have a natter, few drinks, fall into bed after shusshing ourselves up the stairs. “Where is this relationship going?” “I don’t know. Down the pub?”

I wish you’d been here when Kitty was talking about blowjobs. She was being very funny about them. If you see them as something that’s got to induce orgasm, while you lie back, that’s going to take a long time and be neck-achingly difficult for her. I don’t see them like that. I think you should make it easy for a woman, (her sitting up in bed, you on your knees in front of her, for example), by getting her into the right position, and using it as only a form of foreplay rather than an end in itself. Cocksucking is something that should happen often, but only for a short while at a time.

Re the holiday – yes, I expect more break-ups and reconciliations before Madeira.

Tue 6th May 2014 @ 00:11


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


M / 58 / 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.


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