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  Wed 15th June 2016

This really is alcoholism. Buying a bottle of wine at quarter to fucking eight in the morning. I don't care, I am laughing to myself coming back from the shop, drunk already, not been to bed, after a deliriously loved-up day with Wendy, of which more later. I love losing myself in drink. It's such a lovely experience -- and I have many lovely experiences.


I somehow got roped in to helping Chris put a shed up. I have not the slightest interest in DIY nor the merest practical abilities. My education amounts to a shaky, sub-Wikipedia grasp of aesthetic theories of contemporary classical music, but I haven't the foggiest about drills, screwdrivers, and reverse flange lever lug rivets. We sweated about ineffectually in her garden, and got as far as unwrapping the various parts, gathering up all the screws which went flying everywhere, laying two panels on the ground and failing to screw them together. We put it all back in the outhouse and had a much pleasanter hour chatting in her front room. She said that this period of four months is the longest she's ever gone without sex. I told her that there was a time in my twenties and thirties when I didn't have sex for eleven years.

A couple of days later, we went to the bingo in Morecambe. I really enjoyed bingo night when we used to go on holiday in Brittany. The difference being that in Brittany you're surrounded by elegant women in linen shift dresses, walking by as you drink excellent cider and Breton ale, but it being Morecambe I thought I might pull some desperate pissed-up wallop in trackie bottoms after a couple of pints of Fosters and a hot dog instead.

Chris turned up in a tight black dress and a belt collar with a clasp on it round her neck. It said "sex"; Chris carries off that S&M look very well. There were more young people there than I'd expected. It was the one place where mobile phone addicts leave their phones alone for a few minutes at a time.

The caller doesn't use the picturesque bingo argot of old any more. There are no fat ladies, and legs do not come in elevens. Numbers are called rapidly, demanding a degree of concentration and manual dexterity, which nevertheless didn't prevent the woman next to us gobbling down chips and a burger down in between numbers. She was a picture of everything that is wrong with fast food, but helpful as well, inducting me.


Friend of mine asked me if I fancied helping him out at Barefest. Not some nudist festival but basically an excuse for a twelve hour-long piss-up in a suburb of Morecambe with a rather unusual name, Bare. "Play what you like," he said. "I could do a bit of disco going on early house if you liked?" "Whatever, looby." (Vanity playlist here). It went down well, by which I mean that the Brexity, uPvC'd crowd ignored my music. We had to stop for the fucking stupid football but carried on later.

I got ten pounds for "expenses", which nearly covered my taxi back. I got home at half one. Kitty and Wendy texted me asking me to go round but I was absolutely knackered. Five days straight on the sparkledust and I was collapsing, and also theoretically in charge of my daughters. I went to bed and slept for twelve hours straight. I found my youngest raking through my records in the morning and that gave me a thrill. She's really into music, contemporary popular music, and it felt an honour to have her riffling through my records.


I am utterly and stupidly, stupid, stupid, anti-intellectual, wrong, wrong, useless, foolish, stupid, an idiot, in love with Wendy. She called for me yesterday. She turned up in this gorgeous brown dress. "You look lovely. Is that a new dress?" "Yes, brown's not really normally my colour but I liked this one. Can I wash my hands? The dog's ball has gone in some shit." She stood at the sink. We were talking, and it was all I could do to not wrap my arms round her lovely waist and kiss her.

We took a bottle of Prosecco up to the park at 10am and drank it and talked, had a bit of mdma and some yellow haze, which made us laugh. She was talking about Theodore Dreiser and struggling to remember what school of literature that is. I've read Sister Carrie but couldn't really think of the term that she was looking for, but I loved her in that moment (although I love her in every moment in which I am conscious). It was coursing through me, a river of emotion incapable of being expressed physically. We scrabbled around for terms. "What, American Realism?", I ventured. She shook her head.

We went to the pub and had loads of cheese. There was this massive party of solicitors in there, all strangled into ties and high heels. Having lunch with ties on, what the fuck's all that about. There was a tang of sweat. We met this bloke and me and Wendy both gave him our numbers. He was a depressive, intelligent, self-deprecating but not irritatingly so. "Depression is the highest form of vanity," as Julie Birchall once cruelly but accurately said. He assumed we were a couple. Afterwards me and him walked a short way together. "Yes," I said. "I do love her. First of all, every time I see her, I want to fuck her. I want to have sex with her. Then, when you've had a few, her lovely characteristics, her kindness, make me love her more."

I got home and sent Wendy a text. "... and I do love you. I don't quite know what love is but if it means every single time I see you I think I have never seen you looking so lovely and wanting to rake you with my eyes, and a desperately suppressed desire to stroke you and hold you and snuggle you, and if it means being constantly open-eyed at your kindness and generosity to others, and how I can feel so much myself that I never say anything but the truth, well then, I love you."

I thought it was over then but then she rang. "Looby, have you had enough of me?" "What? What are you on about? I could never have enough of you!" "No, it's just that Gerald [husband] has gone off in a huff. Just had a row with him because he accused me of always looking nice when I see you Xx."

I went round to hers, sat in her garden with The Little Dictator (aka her daughter) and her aunt, ate pizza, drank wine, threw the slobber-soaked ball for the dog, and stared at her legs, her dress doing that lovely oblique hem slant that is a consequence of leg-crossing. I am smitten.

7 comments

Comment from: [Member]

Ooh! haven’t thought about Nicolette for years. Gorgeous.

Wed 15th June 2016 @ 19:47
Comment from: [Member]

Why haven’t you got a YouTube?

Wed 15th June 2016 @ 19:56
Comment from: looby [Visitor]

That is one sexy record. “I’d like to wake you up.” Yes, but how?

Not sure if I know what having a yt is.

Wed 15th June 2016 @ 20:46

Wine for breakfast is a slippery slope. I hear. One man’s liquid breakfast is another woman’s chips and a burger. Live an let live. For some reason, I’m dying to know what Wendy looks like.

Thu 16th June 2016 @ 12:05
Comment from: looby [Visitor]

As an occasional treat, drinking so early is very enjoyable; it really does feel like tilting your world a bit nearer the sun.

Wendy is slim, lovely honey-coloured skin, about the same height as me, and as I will never tire of saying, just gorgeous in those dresses. It’s a pure pleasure to look at her.

Thu 16th June 2016 @ 19:37
Comment from: [Member]

Just out and about catching up - and am delighted to see that you are so absolutely smitten! i believe Wendy will be worth the wait for you….

As for Trina? i’ll echo earlier comments - GOOD GOD, woman! Shall we take up a collection to buy you some self-respect?

Tue 21st June 2016 @ 00:15
Comment from: [Member]

Thanks DF and nice to see you here again. I think my attraction towards Wendy will not be reciprocated; therefore, I need to train myself out of any hope that it might be.

Tue 21st June 2016 @ 00:26


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


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.
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

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

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