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A Tune A Day

  Wed 21st September 2016

Time for another split-up with Trina. We had a drunken, sociable and dancey time at the house music weekender on the Fylde, but we ended up going home separately. She was very irritated at me telling some people that we were not together, which I suppose was a bit hardline of me, but I want to remain independent from her in others' eyes. That upset her and I was berated about it on the walk to the station, where I petulantly went and sat at the other end of the platform, telling her I'd see her at a unspecified later.

She sent me several texts that night, one of which reads "I'm so sorry your free jollies at my expense have ended. Walk out on me, treat me like shit, and expect me to treat you. More fool you. I dislike you now looby, in every sense of the word." The last sentence is a reference to the text I accidentally sent to her rather than Wendy, in which the words "love" and "Wendy" were used in place of "dislike" and "looby".

I've sent her a card, thanking her warmly for everything, expressing my gratitude for the way that she has made so many enjoyable nights out possible, and saying that those memories will be with me for the rest of my life. I apologised for this dogged insistence of mine on maintaining my discrete personal identity.


There is no better way to dispel an obsession with a woman than with another.

A month now since my first message from Trish. She has an effortless knack of turning me on, just by talking. Every conversation turns to sex eventually. We've spent three hours in two separate calls with each other today. In the more relaxed one this evening, after we'd both had a couple, we swapped sexual likes, and told each other about what unnerves us about our bodies when presented to another, a mutual attempt at pre-emptively quashing those anxieties, which I think only succeeds in drawing more attention to them.

I'm not complaining about anyone who tells me, "I love everything about you so far"; "Your talk is liberatingly crude"; "I wish I could be there now, and you could just give me a good servicing". Tonight I said I'd like to spend three days with her, sex mainly, in bed and all over the house. "I think I'm a bit unusual," she said, "for wanting sex so much," and proceeded to tell me about the first and last weekend she had with a previous boyfriend who couldn't get it up. She told me about her husband: together twelve years, and they only had oral sex once. "Oh no, that should be on page one of Tune A Day, shouldn't it?"

She drinks all the time. "I'm too pissed to answer you," she sent once -- at 4pm. In the long term, we'd be going to hell in a handcart together, each of us looking to the other to put the brake on our hedonism.

"What I'd like to do right now," she said yesterday, "is to drive to Lancaster, and you could give me a good seeing-to." Both of the lodgers have moved out, so we could have had the place to ourselves, but she'd already had a few. We're meeting in a pub in Preston on Friday. Snogging within the hour is the operational target.

3 comments

Did you really storm off and sit at the opposite end of the platform? That’s quaint of you.

“There is no better way to dispel an obsession with a woman than with another.”

Ain’t that the truth? As I type this, Leonardo DiCaprio is sailing to Brad Pitt’s rescue in his yacht, the S.S. Pussy Party.

Thu 22nd September 2016 @ 12:01
Comment from: kono [Visitor]

I don’t see anything wrong with walking away from a berating, fuck that shit, i had the same experience Sunday and i instead of getting even more pissed off i just said fuck it and left, what’s the point of agitating each other even more? oddly i received an apology later that day, that practically never happens…

And the only reason you won’t be balls deep in Trish inside the hour is because you both like a drink, lol, otherwise get some booze and find a room, there’s nothing like a woman who loves sex, they seem to be a rare breed at my age these days but they’re out there, even more depressing is when one falls off the sex wagon into spinsterhood, seems to have happened to a friend of mine recently, she was an absolute dynamo and now the drive and desire is non-existant, maybe i should raise a glass and a spliff to the good times gone…

Thu 22nd September 2016 @ 14:27
Comment from: [Member]

I just said to Trina, “I can’t be doing with all this” and went away from her. It’d been a good weekend, and she’s done this over and over again; to her, a weekend is not a proper weekend until we’ve raked over the same same old pointless circular arguments for two hours, about Wendy, about why I never say we’re together, about why I flirt with other women…oh STFU.

It’s like kono said – I’ve learned that it’s best to simply walk away.

Couldn’t care less about “famous” people I don’t know and their marital problems.

About tomorrow – she rang me today and there’s a bit of a change of plan. We’re meeting up in Manchester instead, so that she can get the train rather than drive and have to stay sober. I like her when she’s pissed. It might be a bit polite sober.

Got my eye on a little place we could hole up in for a couple of days if tomorrow goes well.

Thu 22nd September 2016 @ 17:23


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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.


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?
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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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16.1.19: Further pruning

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