Gay Nazi Sex Vicar in Schoolgirl Knickers Vice Disco Lawnmower Shock!

Good Pharma

  Thu 30th June 2022

One advantage of pulling a trolley backwards down a train is having a vantage point from which one can angle into women's frontages, and to see what everyone's doing on their computers and phones; so I slowed down as I passed a Fellow of the Royal College of Pharmacists who was wearing a brown v-necked dress with a scalloped black bra over-reaching the dress's seams. I come across as gay, which gives me an advantage.

She had this plastic folder of papers open, rectangular boxes and text. I was looking at her bra and stroking her tits with my eyes. I did a tilt of the head as I passed her. Smiling in a way as to look too pleasing. "Any tea, coffee, refreshments?"

She wanted a coffee. I started doing the faff of it all. "So you're the lucky girl who's been sent to Crewe for a day out?" And she told me about a presentation she was going to for a recently deceased pioneering Welsh pharmacist. She told me about how he made outreach and inclusion efforts avant la lettre for people who wouldn't think of a chemical career. "Ah well you've got a lovely day for it," I said, to wind down the sex in my head, stroke, cock. My cock would be nice against your cheek before I pushed it into your mouth. "Right, that's two pounds forty, that's gone through fine, ok, have a good journey." I hope she understood at least some of it.


Sometimes I have quite a bit of idle time on the journeys so I read The Sea-Grape Tree by Rosamond Lehmann in one day. I get drawn into Lehmann. It's a benign addiction, to swim into someone's oeuvre.


I'm off on hols to Brittany tomorrow for a fortnight, with Kirsty, our daughters, and this increasingly large bunch of lezzer actressy girlfriends they're acquiring. It's gonna be ace.

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Car Park Art

  Sat 18th June 2022

The company I now work for is a bit of a shambles in the way that they start new recruits. Emails go unanswered, and I had to wrestle from them my schedule for the first week.

As I was trying to unload my trolley from the train yesterday (making a hash of it, using the wrong ramp) I was upbraided by the Duty Station Manager who asked me why I had no uniform, no name badge, no staff pass, and no safety shoes. "I've not been issued with anything," I pleaded. He went to my superior colleague to confirm that I am in fact employed with them.

Later the same day, in the office, they dug around in some cupboards and found a shirt for me and name badge with someone else's name on it. So now I'm called Glyn.

On Monday, I was out for training with two men who soon discovered they were both Kurds. The younger one, who spoke in the half-Jamaican, half-Cockney accent that unmoored young men often affect, told me that this world is all temporary and that Allah is a God of forgiveness. Doing a little foot-to-foot dance, he told me that if someone asked for his last ten pound note, he'd give it to him. "I'd tell him to fuck off," I said, trying to slow this alms race of fundamentalist preening.


Trina came down for the weekend. We had an almost entirely enjoyable time. We went on a hunt in a car park for an artwork that was designed, it was said, for the mice, with little ladders, walkways, and mousehole covers, aligned on each floor.

On her last afternoon, we wandered into a protest organised by the local Hong Kongers, against Beijing's Security Law and Extradition Bill. Trina wandered off to the cathedral to use the loo. In an idiotic misjudgment, I decided to take the opportunity to ring Mel. As Trina returned I steered the conversation round to East Asian politics before ending the call. Too late: Trina quickly deduced that I was talking to Mel, and stomped off down the road.

From the train, she sent me a sad little couple of texts asking that I allow her to sever relations with me, and wondering out loud why she copes so badly with rejection. I couldn't think of anything to say that would be helpful, so I said nothing. That was a week ago, and nothing since.

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Nothing to see here

  Tue 7th June 2022

My brother, knowing I am soon to be working in the only country that'll have me -- Wales -- sends me a touchingly unnecessary present of a Teach Yourself Welsh paperback from 1960. By Lesson 21, I should be able to say in Welsh "I was not playing piano in the parlour."


On Friday, being free from work until my return to the railway on Tuesday, I decided to scooter up to Westbury-on-Trym, a suburb that has a villagey feel, and is charming (for an afternoon anyway). I sat in a large park, stroked some friendly dogs, said some polite afternoons, drank a couple of bottles of cider and had a long phone chat with Kim. It was all calm. You expected Janet and John to come out with their mummy at any moment.

I set off to Mel's friends' house. There was a wee do going on with a couple of their rellies.

In central Bristol, on a narrow street just off the city centre, someone had set up a drum n' bass street party, more nitrous oxide than Battenburg cake. I went into the bar right outside the bottleneck created by the ten-foot-high speaker system and asked the barmaid what she thought of it. She wanted to say the right thing but clearly wasn't a drum n' bass fan. She said they'd got a licence for a Jubilee street party so it was all legit.

A bloke offered me some coke and tipped it into my hand. He said he could get me a half for twenty-five pounds so I went off and got the money, only to find he'd disappeared. Someone else was selling whippies -- nitrous oxide balloons -- which I find difficult to get the full effect from -- but I had a couple and it was funny seeing lots of people waggling them about in their mouths. It reduces people to children.

Time to go though. As I sped up a road, too fast, bit drunk, a little coked and nitrous oxide-ided, I swerved to avoid a pothole and then came erratically down onto the road. A car stopped and the woman asked me if I was OK, as did some young men on the riverbank. I so wanted to be polite to them, and return myself to sobriety that I said "yes yes", and asked the latter if they'd been fishing.

I carried on to Mel's friends' house but soon had to leave. I was shocked at the state of my bloodied hands, and was soon fading, trying to talk but making an exhibition of myself by doing so. got home, and went straight to bed. In the morning, I saw spatters of blood all over my tee shirt, and these stinging hands, short of skin, which still hurt now, four days in.

On Sunday I went to Mel's. "You kept saying 'it's a learning curve' at Tina's. You said that the last time you came off your scooter. Anyway, what are you going to do with those hands? You can't..." and she pushed her be-bra'd frontage forwards. When we hugged, I clasped her between my forearms.


I'm not over-keen on going out dancing by myself, so I post on a local forum.

There were many replies but none that have turned into an actual night out yet. Some people have said "come and say hello at my gig", but although I welcome the friendly intent, I wasn't fishing for invites to hang around a DJ booth awkwardly for five minutes before going back to the solitary condition I was hoping to escape.


Tuesday, and it's half past two now, when the second part of my online induction for my new job was supposed to start on the hour; but no signs of any activity. The company's inefficiency makes me think I might fit in.

4 comments »

I flip my last burger today

  Wed 1st June 2022

My last day at work today before I return to my natural habit, the railway.

Some of the more advanced culinary techniques demanded in the role are beyond me. The other day it took me seven eggs to crack one without breaking the yolk.

My slovenly bosses have been easy-going and sweary, addressing me as "babs" and "love". My colleague made koftas yesterday -- basically long lamb sausages, skewered. A customer remarked on their similarity to a turd, whilst another, hearing him, said "I'm not eating that shit."

I am itching to leave now though. I regularly work an eleven-hour shift, and once a month or so, I'm there from seven till nine. In eighteen months I've had one break of twenty minutes. I am fed up with cleaning the place, only to come in and see the manager and her husband have fucked it all up again, yellowing grease all over the cooker rings, knives laying unwashed on a jumble sale of cross-contaminated chopping boards, the sink spattered with the ingredients for Vegetable Surprise, and a permanent lining of scum on the dishwashing machine. And making endless fucking cheeseburger and chips. "Cheeseburger and chips." How I resent that phrase now..

Soon, I will be pushing my trolley through the train as we trundle along past Tenby and Carmarthen. Bit of flirting with dolled-up middle-aged women on their way to a night out, bit of banter with rugby lads. There will be times when I'm looking out of the window upon the comely contours of Wales. One is encouraged to learn some Welsh, a task I relish taking on. My other two (very ropey) languages are both Romance, so it will be good to wrestle with a bit of Brythonic.


Me and Trina spent the week before last on Brač, the largest island in the Adriatic. I enjoyed myself, although I didn't quite realise what a poolside holiday with DJs meant. It seemed to involve sitting by the side of a pool and listening to music being played by DJs.

I found the glare of the white stone and the water a bit intense, to the same degree that I didn't feel comfortable being the only person poolside dressed in long trousers, leather shoes and a long-sleeved shirt, being too timid to expose my pasty Lancastrian figure, and lacking any covering for my manly area other than my Ethel Austin pants.

The music veered between a superior school disco and, occasionally, top drawer Soulful House, including an all-too short half an hour of early House and New York Garage. There was a bit of unpleasantness one evening when someone went over to four local girls, late teens or early twenties, jabbing at her armband which showed she'd paid for the event and clearly asking that they exit the dancefloor. FFS, they live on an island of thirteen thousand people. Let them have a night out.

They went and sat in the bar and I rushed out to ask them back in as my guests; obviously they didn't fancy doing so. Interesting that she didn't say a word to the beefy Argentinian rugby lads who'd been in there most of the week without wristbands, but maybe it's easier to pick on young girls.

What I most enjoyed though, was a week with Trina. Apart from her snoring, which led me to sleep on the balcony from Monday onwards, she was funny and, at last, has ring-fenced her unrequited love for me. She was full of deliberate malapropisms and was cracking open the wine at a decent hour of the late morning.

We had a day at hers afterwards before I came back to Bristol. In Wethers, she went off to the loo, so I seized the chance to make a quick phone call to Mel. She came back to the table so I wrapped it up.

"Who was that you were talking to?" "Mel." "Oh, it sounded like you were talking to someone you didn't know very well."

"I'm trying to not hurt you my love," I didn't say.

4 comments »

The rat's tale

  Fri 13th May 2022

My colleague tells me of the visit from The Environmental Health to our workplace. On seeing the appalling state of the kitchen, he starts throwing unlabelled food away. Karen, the manager, starts crying. I am glad not to be there. A few days later, she's back to her old ways, leaving the salad ingredients and the bacon out all day long, and a general slovenliness which shows in spilt fat left to harden on the cooker, bits of food left strewn over the floor and a daily festival of cross-contamination.

A Chinese man is much amused with the word "rhubarb", and asks me to write it down for him. I get a piece of paper but he says "no, here," and offers his palm to me.


To Lancaster for Easter. Wendy turns up at Kitty's, as glossy as ever in a green velour zip-up top and a green knee-length skirt. I am asked to investigate a persistent smell from the drain in the back yard. I discover a decomposing rat which is host to hundreds of maggots. I don gloves and wash the maggots away with boiling water before burying the rat at the back of the garden. I stride back in, trying not to feel too manly.

Coming back, I can only afford the train as far as Birmingham, and have purchased a coach ticket for the rest of the way; but arriving at New Street and seeing a train to Bristol on the board leaving in half an hour is too much of a temptation.

I get on and approach the guard, holding a print out of my schedule that possibly might look like a ticket, with a cock and bull story about a cancelled train from Preston. "It's OK, go and sit down." When he comes round, he says "oh yes I've seen yours." You haven't seen anything mate but I'm not arguing with you.

Ceci n'est pas un billet

I sit opposite an elderly and exquisitely mannered Indian man. He asks my permission to make a phone call. I can't help but ask him what language he was using, and he teaches me a couple of phrases in Punjabi.


In Bath, at Linda's friends' house, I have expired from several hours' drinking, and am asleep in the converted loft. The accursed need steals upon me.

The loo is a long way away, downstairs. For some reason I decide that a minimalist outfit of a pair of pants will do, and I run down the stairs and through the living room where they are still drinking and chatting. Instead of carrying on to the toilet, I double back, go outside and piss in the garden. Coming back in, I say "it's OK, just stay indoors," and go upstairs again.


I had a second interview over the internet yesterday. I am attempting to restart my career as a trolley dolly on the trains, which I threw away a couple of years ago by turning up a bit tipsy one afternoon. I'm hoping that the railway companies don't share information about applicants who turn out to be drunkards.

I will find out in a few days' time, possibly when I'm on a Croatian island. I'm going with Trina on a holiday that has been postponed for two years but will finally start tomorrow. The organisers take over a hotel for a week and fill it with DJs playing house, contemporary soul, RnB, that kind of thing, till the small hours of every morning. I haven't gone into detail with Mel about the complicated course of mine and Trina's association. It would only muddy the waters.

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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?
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

If your comment box looks like this, I'm afraid I sometimes can't be bothered with all that palarver just to leave a comment.

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