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Sex in society

  Tue 11th August 2015

I wanted to follow it up fairly swiftly with Tilly, the tall blonde ex-work colleague, so I wrote her a note, got the Womanly Seal of Approval after clearing it with Erica first, then dropped it round to her house.

Dear Tilly,

I hope you enjoyed trip round the north last week and didn't attract too much attention from the police or strange men.

There's a bit of an open-air music thing going on in Morecambe on Sunday. I'm going anyway and I was wondering if you fancied sharing my tartan rug and a bottle of Prosecco. Would be lovely to see you there if you fancied it.

Looby x

Sunday came and went, and by reply, I received nothing at all. Not even a "thanks but no thanks", nothing. I was in the pub a few days later with Erica and a couple of other people, and she said that there must have been something wrong there -- perhaps she'd lost her phone or something.

I'm not sure what I should do now. I'm not begging. If she's not interested, that's the end of it.


A friend of mine died recently. I've known him since I was fifteen; he was only two years older than me. I haven't got a proper will, just a Statement of Wishes, since I've absolutely nothing to bequeath, no property, no savings, or pension, but I did say that my friend could have my records, a patchwork quilt of mismatched vinyl, which ranges from my first true loves -- disco, jazz-funk, and modern soul and has branches including Belgian hoover techno, 50s and 60s bebop, contemporary classical music, Austro-German lieder, and a Nana Mouskouri boxed set that I hide when girls come round.

On the one and only time he invited me to DJ -- he had a good eye for spotting who had a future in the field -- he came over to me at Morecambe and in the polite but anxious way he sometimes had of speaking to you, he said to me --- "Looby, can we get it back on track mate?"

He had the poor taste to die on the same morning that another friend was getting married. I lasted the ceremony and standing about a bit afterwards, but the thought of Terry was too strong and I went home. Trina was over for the day and I'm glad she was -- I just wanted to talk about Terry for a while.

His funeral was High Catholic, all incense and fabulous doctrine, but the wake was a boozy nationwide gathering of the soul clan. Next day we did what he'd have liked best -- had a proper bop for him in St Annes, where they put a framed picture of him at the front of the DJ booth.


A month or so ago me and Trina were in a pub in Ormskirk and got chatting to these two Scousers, one of whom told us that he was doing a literary and historical tour of the pubs of Liverpool last Friday. I gave him my card -- yes, we have those in Lancashire too -- but he didn't ring.

Nevertheless we turned up at the correct time and place to find no-one in the pub knew anything about it; so we did it ourselves, and spent several hours chatting to people whom I understood most of the time. We went round four proper old English boozers, drinking interesting, unusual ales at prices generally lower than in Lancaster and marvelling at Liverpool's Victorian pub architecture.

I kept a list of what I'd been drinking and after calculating that I'd had ten-and-a-half pints on Friday, decided the safest course was just to carry on all weekend, and ended up in that lovely, glassy state of benevolence and carelessness by the time Kirsty and boyf got back on Sunday night.


Kitty's got six weeks off, and is using the time wisely, doing very little. However, she does ask me and Wendy round for the occasional soirèe, after one of which she sent the postcard above. I texted her the other day at round about noon, and she replied saying "Only just got up and been to the offy already! Oops!" "Some are born to greatness," I responded, "others are born to the chaise-longue X".

In Dating News, I contacted a woman yesterday. Lives in a tarty seaside resort not far from here. Liked much of what she said, but the clincher was that her idea of a good first date is sitting in a cinema watching a subtitled film with little plot and even less action. Shame she's a smoker but we'll overlook that for the time being.

She replied the same evening, bit of banter this morning, and we're meeting in Garstang on Thursday week.

6 comments

Bloody hell. Where have you been?

Drop Tilly. I’ve been down that road dozens of times. Drop it.

I’ve never been to a funeral for a friend. I suppose that’ll start happening rather soon-ish. In your 20’s you attend tons of weddings. Then they drop off to never.

If I drank two and a half pints on a Friday, I’d require hospitalization. I couldn’t drink half as much. It’s a curse, really.

Tue 11th August 2015 @ 18:55
Comment from: looby [Visitor]

Helllo Exile – that’s an unusual time for you to be online.

I’ve been really busy, anti-fracking, drinking, sorting new lodgers out, taking my girls here there and everywhere. No excuse though.

I’ve been to too many funerals of people my age. Cancer, most of them.

I think you’ve got that gene that many SE Asian people have where they can’t drink much. Which is strange, from someone with Polish blood in him. I always think of Poles as pretty sturdy drinkers.

Sorry to be a bit slack in my own comments lately. I will pick it up soon. I do read everything though.

Tue 11th August 2015 @ 23:25
Comment from: furtheron [Visitor]

Shame about Tilly but move on I suppose.

I’ve done a lot of funerals for friends sadly in the last year - seems to be all those of us who considered 10 pints on a Friday a warm up are finding that kind of excess catching up on us unfortunately.

I dug out the will recently. It desparately needs an update - thanks for the reminder it had fallen of my to do list. Simply the guitars will go to my son, some money to AA, the rest to my wife or if she’s somehow predeceased me then to the the kids. Seems simple but even recently some guy who had a will written and clear that his ex should get nothing still had that overturned in the courts. The bloody system still is after you when you go it seems.

Wed 12th August 2015 @ 15:58
Comment from: looby [Visitor]

Hi F — yes, that’s why I was very surprised when my liver test results came back normal last year. That’s no guarantee of anything I know, but was a relief after I was convinced she’d tell me that I had to stop drinking, which I must confess would be an awful future to contemplate. I enjoy it immensely and it’s the central factor in my social life.

I signed mine and Kirsty’s house over to her a few years ago so we should be OK in that respect.

Thu 13th August 2015 @ 10:44
Comment from: [Member]

Concur on Tilly. Should you later find that it was a miscommunication of some sort, that would be a lovely surprise, but most likely she’s ghosting you…

Sorry about your friend. i’ve buried a few too many friends at 53 years of age, and there’s simply nothing pleasant about it. You and your mates did it right, though… Celebrate, dance, and remember the good stuff. Not much point in weeping and wailing…

Fri 28th August 2015 @ 03:16
Comment from: looby [Visitor]

My friend was advising me the other night just to ask her out one more time, just straight out ask her down the pub. I’ve known her for over twelve years and it’s most unlike her to blank anyone.

And thanks… people I know either go in their 50s or they go on to night on 100. No-one dies at a normal age any more.

Tue 1st September 2015 @ 07:29


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M / 56 / 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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