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A good spread

  Sun 29th April 2018

Being in Wetherspoons on a weekend afternoon makes me wonder whether Herod is an unfairly maligned historical figure.

The adults, though, are endlessly amusing. "Look at the size of that fucking arse," said a woman, as shards from a nearby glasshouse landed nearby. "Christ, there's a bit to go round there." "Hey, hey, hey, look," said her friend. "Is that that one that let your car tyres down?" "No, that's not her. If I saw her, I'd fucking deck the cunt." There's an unapologetic working class speech round here, which bares the best and worst of white lower class culture.


Absolutely plum job in Switzerland, in an Alpine town where you go skiing like people in Lancaster go down the pub, or people in Middlesbrough miss appointments at the obesity clinic. I only stuttered once when I was told I'd be teaching adults from Kazakhstan. That'll be Nazarbayev's coterie then. Perhaps I'd have met someone related to that fourteen-year-old former pupil of mine in Astana, whose manipulative skills in levering me out of a job I can't help but admire. She's learning how to wade through the mud of Kazakhstan's hierarchical corruption.

Got through to the second interview stage. Was told it would be at 8pm last night. Waited until 9.15. No call, and no response to my polite enquires about why this was the case. Maybe a cuckoo clock exploded. Maybe they were down in the caves admiring the paintings that were "transferred" from the house that once belonged to Mr and Mrs Goldstein. Maybe he fell in to the Large Hadron Collider and is now having an experience that makes LSD look like a vicar's tea party. Maybe he was out voting in a referendum about whether to have a referendum about the future of referenda.


Stayed the last two weekends in Durham with Kim. First night, before she said she was taking me round Darlington, Darlo as everyone calls it, she went upstairs to change.

Sat in the pub, the aphrodisiac effects of speed kicking in, I could hardly keep my eyes off scanning her, in the moments when she was looking away; her Bridget Riley wavy black and white dress, her rough kinked hair, and worst of all, when she crossed her legs. Just turn it off looby, she's a friend. Women, if you want to lure a bloke, it's this: thigh length dress + black tights + crossing your legs + give the hair straighteners to Oxfam. I want to take photographs of you Kim. Open legs, your lovely tits, pull up your dress. One hand splayed in your hair, the other resting on your cunt.

Next day, we made a picnic and walked with her eleven-year-old niece up to a rough bit of woodland. We got all the food out and I laid it on the bench. "That looks like a nice spread Kim." "You're not the first bloke to say that looby."

Got back to Middlesbrough and didn't want to sit in my mum's house, so went down the Black Cat. There's a fellow there who has been quite welcoming and I met his son and his wife. The son asked me into the bogs, with that winning combination of a key and some Pepsi. When we came back the wife went on at me for doing Pepsi whilst I'm an English teacher. "I'm out of work love, how can I corrupt children now?" Displaced jealousy, policing her boyfriend, me as the proxy.

I was asleep when I got a phone call from them at 1am. It was a bit incoherent. "But he'll want some anyway," he said, to her. She took the phone off him, and addressing me, said "he just wants to know you."


I got two mutual likes on the dating site. They are rare. Kerry, who is fit as fuck in a succession of dresses, has proven to be an uninteresting as she is attractive. A week in, and we're still talking about her decorating project in her front room.

Sarah though. She contacted me first, saying that she was "imaginative in a dark way." I don't like being seen as this semi-gay sexless gelding, every girl's friend, and Sarah makes me feel sexual, like a man, and no mention of shelving units.

I told Wendy about it all. "I don't think people see you like that looby. I think they see you as a complete pisshead who's always on the lookout for some fanny."

She asked for a photo of Sarah, which I sent with the subject line "Dirty fucking slut.". She replied, firmly grabbing the wrong end of the stick. "That's not a pleasant way to talk about someone who looks openly honest and disarming," completely missing the incipient closeness and warmth and desire that one has towards a girl you can describe like that. Were me and Sarah to get it on, as I hope we will, "dirty fucking slut" is only the start of how I would talk to her. Successful sex, for me, depends on a power relationship. Equality everywhere, but not in the bedroom, kitchen, stairs, park....

3 comments

Comment from: kono [Visitor]

did my comment just get eaten?

Mon 30th April 2018 @ 15:37 Reply to this comment
Comment from: kono [Visitor]

fucking internets… what i said before was that there is an inherent wisdom in that last paragraph that only those of a certain ilk or mindset would understand or appreciate, i believe “dirty fucking slut” can be one of the highest compliments given, to man or woman, i’ve been called it myself and count it as some of the nicest things ever said about me;)

Top stuff again my good man… say hello to Charles for me ;)

Mon 30th April 2018 @ 15:39 Reply to this comment
Comment from: [Member]

Yes, of course it can. I used to have Donna From Milton Keynes in my phone as “My Slut” and I used to call her that.

I’m meeting Sarah on Sunday… we shall see!

Mon 30th April 2018 @ 17:27 Reply to this comment


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


M / 54 / Bristol

"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.
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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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One good thing about being a Marxist is that you don't have to pretend to like work.
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The working man is a fucking loser.
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