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I want girls

  Fri 9th December 2016

I'm in a pub in Leeds, where I am suddenly surrounded by a group of women. "We're one seat short," one of them says. "No we're not," says her friend, pointing at me. "I'm going to sit on this man's lap." "I love Leeds," I reply.

On the train here, I've been reading Beautiful Losers by Leonard Cohen. I'm tired of facts, I'm tired of speculations, I want to be consumed by unreason. I want to be swept along. I want to be covered with unspecific kisses. He was a novelist before he became a singer, and on hearing his voice, one wishes he might have stuck to his original career.

I got to the girls' house on Friday at 5ish and set to, making a potato, leek, and cheese and onion pie. It took till about half past seven, by which time they'd filled themelves up with beans on toast. My pie sat by itself.

Wendy rang, twice, from Kitty's house, drunkenly rambling. In the way that staring at objects can turn them into symbols for a feeling, I found myself leaning on my elbows looking at my unwanted pie, which stood for Wendy not wanting me; it was simultaneously comical and saddening. I rang my friend who wants me to write some lyrics to some music he's made, partly to get myself out of feeling like an Old Werther.

In bed, writhing with the lack of her. "I so wish you and me were wrapped around each other now and murmuring half-remembered rubbish to each other. I love you Wendy and it's now my main job to stop this. You're fab though." It is imperative that I follow my own advice here.

Next day I thought I'd better text Wendy to apologise. "Sorry. Drink and drugs again x"

She replies. "I loved 'half-remembered rubbish' and I know I subjected you to that during half-coherent phone calls. See you at the cafe later with Kitty? Xx"

Me, Kitty, Wendy and the Little Dictator met up at the yoghurt-knitters' bar in the macrame belt of Lancaster, a place where a specific type of middle class person goes to insulate themselves from the polluted manners and talk of the lower classes.

I won't mention Wendy's dark blue dress with a diagonal pattern of small white flowers repeated all over it, and the thin hem that veed to her cleavage, brown and strokable. Through our sentences, I imagine my cocked middle finger moving down through her tangled hair, down her tilted neck, along the hardness of her clavicle, down on to where her dress stops and her tits start, with the lightest, almost imperceptible, and slowest touch I can manage. None of this will ever happen. What will happen, and with whom? A fifty-two year-old experiencing what I gather most people experience in their twenties -- a sexless decade for me, in which I felt the victim of a silent Europe-wide conspiracy to exclude me from the customary enjoyments and adventures of a twentysomething man.

Wendy's dog was making friends with another. Wendy took against its rather supercilious owner, and lobbed a vicarious challenge at her through the dog. "Does her bottom smell nice then?"

At the bar I met someone who, unknown to me, had tried to look after me during my Dad of Three in Rave Drug Arrest Shame at the techno do in the old prison a few months ago. "Ah! Looby -- you'll be interested in this," and gave me a flyer for a techno night tomorrow. I can't go as I'm out dancing in St Annes. I started my usual effusive apologies to anyone who was unfortunate enough to cross my path that night.

"Don't worry about it. You were quite amusing. You kept saying 'I want girls.'" "Was I?" "Yes, and I told you weren't going to get any in the state you were in." It makes me wonder what other details might yet emerge to complete the picture of the spectacle I made of myself that night.

I told Kitty and Wendy about a meandering and now fizzled-out dating site correspondence with a nurse from Lancaster. I said that she talked about work a lot, and would send inconsequential, cheery little messages, as if writing to herself: "Oh well! Another early start for me! x".

I asked, rhetorically, whether we were going to have another drink. As I turned round to get some money out of my jacket, I saw Nursey sitting alone in the corner in her NHS uniform. She did a timid little smile; I heartlessly pretended I didn't recognise her.

"Oh no, looby, not your type at all," said Kitty. "Well, knocking about with you two sets the bar pretty high for any girlfriend. And no, she's not. I want a schedule like me and Donna had. First message on Thursday, in a hotel in Glasgow on Tuesday."

Later, and for the first time since I've known her, she appeared to admit the possibility of a relationship. "Oh Kitty! You on a dating site? Your looks and personality? You'd be fighting them off with a shitty stick." "Yes, I would. I'm good at sex, too," which was a delicious thought to turn over.

Instigating the new regime of dignity and restraint in my communications with Wendy, I texted her afterwards. "Oh God, I fucking fancy you." The one effective brake on such incontinence, is to remind myself that every time I send one of these futile, unwanted messages, I am lowering myself to Trina's level: talking to the beloved as a disguised self-pity, as if I only have to bellow the intensity of my feelings for her to make her fall in love with me.


I still recall when I first held
Your tiny hand in mine
I loved you more than I can tell
But now it’s stomping time

Sat 10th December 2016 @ 00:42

Erudite as ever, with a tantalising glimpse of a lifestyle very (seemingly) divergent from mine.
I must admit, having been away from all forms of blogging for a couple of years, I’m a wee bit out of touch on recent happenings.
You were nicked?
Which special lady are you gracing with your favours at the moment, or are you as bereft as you seem to indicate on this post?

Sat 10th December 2016 @ 04:05
Comment from: looby [Visitor]

Thank you Exile – is that another Cohen lyric? I’m really enjoying the book, it’s a lot more adrift and imaginative than I thought it’d be.

Twisted – I overdid the peppermint tea at a rave in the former prison. Apparently the police and the ambulance were discussing whether I needed sectioning or arresting (they chose the latter). I ended up with a caution for possession of mdma, but by far the greater humiliation was my appalling lunatic madman behaviour.

The girl’s someone I met a few years ago – she’s Kitty’s best friend, eight years younger than me, and I am uselessly smitten. She’s absolutely intoxicating. She’s beautiful, sexy, superbly dressed, and she has this subversive linguistic dexterity which makes me feel drunk even just listening to her. She doesn’t fancy me and hasn’t the slightest interest in being my girlfriend.

Sat 10th December 2016 @ 10:03
Comment from: isabelle [Visitor]

I agree, Leonard’s voice is an acquired taste, but oh his words !

I feel mean to have thought it, but there’s a poetic karma in the Wendy saga…’re getting to sample the bitter taste of Trina’s poor heartache.

I do feel for you though and wish there was a magic spell we could zap Wendy with and make her fall head over heels….

Sat 10th December 2016 @ 15:03
Comment from: looby [Visitor]

Yes isabelle – the symmetry, me/Wendy and me/Trina – is obvious. I want to change that. I want to make my desire for her expressed only here and with close friends.

She said once something along the lines of that if she had an unrequited desire, she’d give up. It’s an easy statement for such a desirable woman to say, but it’s one I must copy.

Sat 10th December 2016 @ 17:40

Strange, how mentioned the late Leonard in your blog and I did on mine,
Synchronicity can be ironic.

Tue 13th December 2016 @ 07:06
Comment from: kono [Visitor]

Dignity and restraint are far over-rated as a means for getting what you want… and there’s an old post on the lounge about a stripper i once adored, title? Me and Mary Jane? a bit of the same as the situation in the bar, was at a Morphine show off my tits on mushrooms and went into this tirade about her and her attitude, (i was a bit of a dick and i was being civil until she began to put on airs) when i turned around her and her beau were standing there mouths agape, she looked ready to burst into tears, i felt bad for a minute until the shrooms kicked again and then laughed it off, i right prick i was (am) lol!

Wed 14th December 2016 @ 14:17
Comment from: [Member]

(Makes mental note to go mushroom picking next year) – thanks kono, that made me laugh!

Sat 17th December 2016 @ 03:11

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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.
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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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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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63 mago
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Exile on Pain Street
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