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  Thu 21st April 2016

Middle daughter, the actress, is, like me, uninterested in work she doesn't want to do or has to fake it in. I was on my my way home from the pub when she rang me and she wants to see me so that I can make up some bullshit on the phone to the restaurant owner about why she can't do her shift tomorrow on the waitressing job she's got.

I identify with that. I don't want to work. I've never wanted to. I just want to do what I like. I'm a drinker really, a professional drinker, and have a couple of friends who are handy to know for various pharmaceutical reasons, which means that everything I stick up my nose is free for me; and the value of the life that you lead as a result can't be measured in money.

The new lot of phet arrived last night and I'd give it a 6/10, not the 8 that I'm used to, but it still has the usual effect of making me talkative yet calm whilst out socially, then wanking on and off like a man possessed all night thinking about Wendy. And thank fuck, I managed not to text her at half past three in the morning, despite being hard-cocked and murmuring to myself and an imagined her. It's just a good job the difficulties of sexting on my phone makes me give up half way through.

Last night in the pub I met for the second time in my life this girl I met a year or so ago. She looks like a slut. She looks and speaks like a fucking dirty whore. She's got black hair. Twenty-eight. Her chavvy boyfriend was there, jealous at me and her chatting so well. He went on about getting us some coke -- a drug in which I have very little interest -- for 65 a gram. That's not realistic. It's 95, or 110 if you want to make a profit, but I don't want to get involved in coke. It makes stupid men too manly. I gave him my card and told him to ring me to discuss it and of course, he hasn't rung me. Lancaster wannabe drug dealers -- we have an endless stock of them here, all as thick as fuck.

I was talking to Slutgirl about my night at the casino in Manchester after the house music night last March and how much I enjoyed it, and she produced a membership card for the same casino and told me of a night she'd had there. Her borderline violent boyf went to the toilet. With the relief of him gone, we talked about the other time me and her had met. "I wish I'd gone home with you that night. I've done half of Lancaster, so I might as well have done you."

I wanted to reach over the table to snog her. Sometimes, you don't want to be special, you just want to be one amongst many, one of the half of Lancaster.


Comment from: kono [Visitor]

That was fucking gorgeous… wannabe dealers are a fucking laugh, i used to warn competition that i was too good, that sooner or later they’d be on my payroll, usually that’s how it ended up, that or they were out of the game, and the powder game is always dicey, you should have told her to meet you in ten minutes on the corner and slipped out before her bf got out of the bogs, 20pound note she’d have been there…

Thu 21st April 2016 @ 23:38
Comment from: [Member]

Yes, there’s a real gap in the market up here for someone who turns up on time, is reliable, has really good stuff to sell, and is the articulate and well-mannered person that the vast majority of people, who aren’t interested in sitting in some shitty pub pretending to be someone’s pal, would think of ringing first.

Hmmm…about the girl. That’s an idea. I wonder if I could suggest that I could pay her for sex. That’d be great actually. Uncomplicated. I like my female friends but it’s getting beyond a joke now. Kim, Kitty, Wendy, and every single date I go on – I feel like some emasculated semi-gay social worker sometimes, the harmless man who’s funny or “sweet” – I’ve that one a couple of times – but with whom the prospect of sex is out of the question. “Obviously not, it’s looby! Nice bloke, but shit – not in that way!”

Sex is absolutely central to me, it’s part of a vital drive that is no different in essence from my compulsion for art, music, literature. I don’t want to live with it unexpressed.

Kono that is a great idea. I’m not sure when I’ll see her again but when I do I’ll suggest it to her. What’s the worst that can happen? She can say no.

Actually, found the post from when I met her last time. It was June last year.

“I nearly chatted someone up today.

I was in the pub with Vic and recognised a girl we had had a drunken chat with a couple of weeks ago. I asked her over to our table, from which moment the awareness that I was being rude in shunning Vic was insufficient to temper my interest in her. We bantered for a while, during which I gave her my number. “I like sex, and drinking, but I’ve never had much love,” she said. Usual tale of heightened sexual response as a delayed result of maternal deprivation. We left together, but only because she had a doctor’s appointment. She kissed me on the lips and said “Don’t take it wrong, but I don’t go for older blokes.” “You cheeky bugger,” I said, before realising that 51 minus 27 is 24.”

Fri 22nd April 2016 @ 01:45

Nobody likes to work. You guys aren’t all that special. It’s the thread that runs through all of us.

You have a card? Like, a business card? What for?

Shakespeare wrote sonnets. Now we text. A tragic turn of events.

I never cared all that much about sex. Still don’t. I know you guys are thinking, “Oh, how tragic. It’s the best part of living.” But just step back from that for a moment and imagine being free from that madness. It’s kind of liberating.

Fri 22nd April 2016 @ 12:20
Comment from: kono [Visitor]

Exile, when i was young sex was the end all be all, i spent almost all my waking hours chasing tail and the other sundry activities that went along with it, but now that i’ve reached my Zen state i don’t avoid it but i don’t chase after it, and you’re quite right there is a liberation when you no longer are beholden to dick brain, i also seem to find that the more you don’t seem to give a shit about it the more women find that attractive, odd that is…

Looby, please keep us updated on the plan, i’m hoping it works and a fine post of drugs and fucking is to follow, haha!!

Fri 22nd April 2016 @ 14:14
Comment from: [Member]

Exile – I’ve got a business card to give women my number. Why else would a wastrel like me have one?

I had virtually no sex in my 20s. I’m having my twenties now. And now, the sexless life that you describe as a liberation, I would view as a form of death.

Kono –I’ve never had great results from “being yourself.” I think that’s shit advice. I don’t have a single self to be. But I’ve been down the pub all afternoon with Wendy, Kitty and Ingrid and on our drunken way home I said to Wendy, (I’m referring to my text to her from the other night which said “I love you Wendy, I really do. I love you in every sense of that word.") – “Yes, I know, but I do love you a little bit really. It was half true.”

Fri 22nd April 2016 @ 18:57
Comment from: kono [Visitor]

Did i give that advice? the plan i was referring to was the one from my first comment… i’ve lied, begged, borrowed and stolen for a fuck, whatever it took to get my end in, i realize now that the amount of fucking i did in my teens, 20s, and 30s was more than the average bear, i may not have been John Holmes or Wilt Chamberlain but i never had a problem pulling some tail, they’ll be more of that on the lounge though, all in good time..

Fri 22nd April 2016 @ 19:42
Comment from: [Member]

Sorry Kono, I wasn’t saying that the the advice to be oneself was yours.

Persuading women who say they like me into a sexual relationship is impossible. It’s a problem as old as the hills – attraction often tends to be one-sided. To me, the liking of someone close to you, the conversation, the sharing of confidences, the laughing and the drinking and dancing and drugging, would ideally exist as part of a spectrum which includes sex. That’s not going to happen though, so if I see Slutgirl again I’ll try to get her into bed and we can make the most out of being each other’s lowest common denominator. Although the thought of getting my head kicked in by her boyf puts me off a bit.

But in the meantime, looking forward to the elaboration of the final bit of your last sentence :)

Fri 22nd April 2016 @ 20:50

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

M / 57 / 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.
Jeremy Wagner

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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