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

Rich pickings

  Sat 30th May 2020

At last, some first rate speed in Bristol. I've had some expensive dry white coffees up my nose since moving here.

I took it round to Hayley's, who rang at half past nine asking me if I fancied an early drink at hers. She said that they'd been doing coke the previous night. "I picked my nose this morning, and managed to find a little lump of it still there." Hayley talked, I listened, but it was easy enough.

Harry came round later, and busied himself at the far end of the garden cutting down the weeds with a pair of scissors. When at last he came to talk to us he was jittery, eyes big, sociability an effort. In the bathroom there were stains on the little table, walls and floor. Someone to whom she had given a key had let himself in and done something that involves bloodletting.

She was pressing me about renting the flat again. "To be honest, Hayley, I wouldn't want to get involved in anything financial with you. I don't trust you with money." "Well, you know looby, my house is your house." She is kind like that.

She told me about the various financial ruses she's got going, farming from a network of lies to officials, exes, men who fancy her, and Harry, so that at the moment, she can pay the rent and the bills, by far the largest of which is her crack habit, without having to work. Yet you still can't find the fifty quid I lent you?

I wanted something a bit less loud, so I went to a tree-shaded grassy square near Hayley's. All this green space here, far more than in Lancaster. It adjoins a large homeless hostel, so there's a free soap opera going on all day. Someone was overreaching himself by attempting to stand up, and was pulled down with laughing friendliness onto a bench. Outside the pharmacy, a topless man was shouting at a put-upon older man who was trying to explain something. I felt for him, doing his best under the hail of that aggression. A recumbent man in the square, his patience exhausted, sat up and yelled "stop shouting like a crackhead!" When the police arrived, several people stood up on their benches, the better to observe the spectacle.

I said hello to a woman who was sitting by herself, insouciantly swinging a placcy bottle of cider to an inaudible summer track. "Hiya love," she said. Northerner. I gestured questioningly with an open hand, she invited me over, and we started chatting in the recommended turn-taking style. Hayley sometimes isn't good at the "con" element of "conversation".

"What brings you to Bristol?" I asked. "I just wanted to get away." One to leave for now, and let the story emerge over time. The less you ask, the more you learn. "Are you OK? she said, as I squirmed on the bench. "Yeah, it's just I've got a bony arse. I should bring a cushion out really."


On the day I was supposed to start the job I mentioned the other day, (which offered only the minimum wage and minimum holidays), I was offered another, which I have accepted. I'll soon be using needles in a legitimate use. It involves taking blood from people who have recovered from covid-19, then centrifuging it to extract the antibody-rich plasma so that it can be injected into people in the throes of the lergy. I sound like I know what I'm talking about, but the bit I do understand is £10 an hour, £14 after 8pm and £19 on Sundays. Three month contract, which will be OK because me and Kirsty and the girls should be off to Brittany at the end of August.

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Cracks

  Mon 25th May 2020

I was sitting at a bus stop last night when this elderly man came along, hobbling about using a walking stick.

Being a Northern man with the easy sociability that is the gift of my class, I said "yer right?" To which I received the reply "fuck off."

I was somewhat displeased by this abrasive response to my well-meant overture, so decided to defuse the situation in an understated and peaceful way.

"Fuck off yourself you old cunt."

He hobbled off and then came back a minute later. Finding that he suddenly didn't need his walking stick any more, he brandished it over his head, making as though to hit me, and shouted with the limited power available to his geriatric voice, "cunt!" He seemed satisfied with this and did not deploy his stick against me. He walked off with the gait of triumph.

Whilst I'm not advocating calling elderly people on day release from the loony bin cunts, I quite enjoyed the incident. I like a bit of ag every now and again.


I was on my way back from Hayley's. As night follows day, the cracks now appear in her relationship with Harry. The details were a little difficult to assemble, but I ascertained that they had spent £260 in one night (and morning, and afternoon) on the stuff. During the journey, Harry had started looking over her shoulder at an imaginary big black man called Patrick, whom he was convinced was looming over Hayley. She said he'd left Harry curled up in a ball on the floor. Harry said it was migraine.

"I said 'stand up! Be a man!'" and that she had told him that she has suffered worse abuse than him. A league table of abuse in which the winner takes it all.

"I basically see people for what I can get out of them," she said, and I thought of the £50 she owes me from last week that will be forgotten, and the countless times (including that night) when I've bought the drinks. "I know you do Hayley, I've known that a long time."


Two days of deadening work at a different hospital, working with a monomaniacal cleaner who talks of nothing but stain removal techniques.

A Skype interview, the second in two days. It went on for one-and-a-half hours, for a minimum wage job. It appealed because it was part-time, and I'd been wondering whether it might be possible to get away with only working three days a week, and seeing if Universal Credit could fill the gap. At the interview they said that there was an error in posting the advertisement, and it was a full-time position. I decided to go along with it anyway.

They found me in the Skype directory before I'd had a chance to make my profile pic less merry.

Hi looby

It was nice to meet you earlier on your Skype interview. As we discussed at the end of your interview we would like to offer you the post of Housekeeper at the Bad Knocks To The Head Rehabilitation Centre. You interviewed very well, and your transferrable skills will be an asset to the Housekeeping Team at BKTTH (the name by which we are known). I'm sure you will fit in very well with the Housekeeping Team and the other teams here at BKTTH.

Even my drug-laced DBS Certificate didn't put them off. I'm doing some shadowing on Wednesday and possibly starting full-time the week after.


Saw this poster near the Crown Court yesterday evening. I think it's brilliant.

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Sit down next to me

  Sun 17th May 2020

Hayley is leaning with both hands on the kitchen worktop, her tits pushing forward. My cock is hardening. "Fucking hell, you're fit Hayley." Last week she saw me looking at them. "They're great, aren't they?" and cupped them, admiring them herself too. It's liberating being with a woman unapologetically aware of her own attractiveness. She makes another proposal. I live in her flat, she moves in with Harry.

It's tempting -- a street full of birdsong, ten minutes' walk from the city centre, thirty feet of garden. The woman in the flat upstairs seems to think I live there and am Hayley's boyfriend, so we could keep that useful fiction going.

But I keep running up against a difficulty Hayley refuses to acknowledge: what happens when they split up? Do me and Hayley then share a one-bed flat? My life is coloured brightly from her loud hedonism, but I like having a lulling suburban harbour.

I suggested last night that we could have a bop and a drink in the garden this afternoon. "That sounds a great idea looby, yes!"

The flat's deteriorated since I left. Black tidal marks of dirt on the vinyl floor, cigarette ash dusted everywhere, sodden butts in the sink; strawberries with grey bouffant hairdos, suppurating into the fridge. But the lovers didn't turn up, and the itinerant cat was making an insufficient contribution to the afternoon, so after a couple of hours of sitting distractedly on the wall, I came home again.


The other day, having wandered around the northern suburbs for a few hours, I was hungry, and a bit cold. Along the part of Gloucester Road known as Pigsty Hill, a church was offering "soul food", a meat or vegetable curry, for free. A dozen or so of us, in various stages of decay, were dotted about a ruthless plaza in front of the church hall.

I was engaged by one of those over-clean thirtysomething men which guitar-based Christianity attracts. To my secret delight, he said that that "fashion sense is obviously important to you." I was wearing this new mustard coloured pashmina scarf, and the trousers which were implicated in an appreciative remark my arse received from Trina. Then I realised the poor currency in which the compliment was paid, given his own mediocre dress.

He told me that God is in everything. I looked down at my butternut squash curry. I can do without God in my curry. For an omnipotent, if surpassingly needy and insecure being, he seemed to be a much weaker influence in the dish than garlic or turmeric. I said I found that idea difficult to understand, but thought it might be politic to avoid biting the hand that was feeding me. "But your compassion, and kindness, in doing this -- I find that very easy to understand."


A few days ago I was irritated to see that someone had gone to the not inconsiderable effort of tearing the leg off a plastic chair that had been stationed on the Common for at least all the time I've lived at this address. The vandal had then tossed it into the adjoining nursery's playground. I have spent nearly a week now simmering with fantasies of violence towards him.

Refreshed from having had God in my mouth for several minutes, I noticed that someone in my street had placed four plastic garden chairs in their front yard. I asked permission to take two, and removed them to the Common. Next day I sat with some cider and wrote to one of my elderly aunts.

Later, I thought how lovely it would be to sit in the dusk, on one of the now publicly owned chairs. One had disappeared entirely. The other is extant now only in its back, which has been sawn from its legs.

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Any port in a storm

  Tue 12th May 2020

There's a little ragged patch of ground in one of Bristol's epicentres of homelessness and drug taking, used as an informal, twenty-four hour outdoor social centre. I met a commercial lawyer, her husband, and two homeless people there the other evening. She bought us all some cider and Buckie. "At last," she said to her husband, "we've met a straight man who's camper than you."

They said they had both had the lergy, a story which is at least compatible with their Twitter feed, (this photo was published there, so I'm assuming there's no objection to its re-use here) and invited me back to theirs. We danced and got more drunk. One rarely meets a poor lawyer, but it was kind of her to keep us in supplies all evening.

They asked me what music to put on and they were politely unmoved by my choice, but were gracious enough to let a fairly long track run its course. Hayley would just switch something off after a minute if she didn't like it.

I had to get home, lest I risk a repeat of my recent disgrace. I was very reluctant to leave. I was hoping I'd made two new friends, and they were arranging getting something that I like, which is out of favour nowadays; people talk about it in the past tense.


On my last day at work, I got stuck in a corridor. Doors both ends, electronically locked. I was lost, looking for the area where I'd been told to work. Agency workers don't get a badge with which to operate the doors. As I was wondering about how to spend the night there, and leaving a puddle of piss, I was rescued by a big black man called Sampson, who released me and escorted me to where I was supposed to be.

Next morning, my boss informed me there is no more work, not even at the hospital. We're in the least lergy-afflicted area in Britain, so they don't need extra people.


I went up to the Common to try to stop worrying about the fact that I won't have my rent this month. I sat under a tree, drinking, feeling a touch self-consciously tramp-like amongst the impeccable middle classes taking their leisure. I rang Kitty, who urged me to overcome my timidity and tell Cath about my situation.

Emboldened by two pints of Romanian lager I came back and explained the situation. She was more understanding than I had any right to expect, telling me I could defer or reduce the rent in the short term.

Bristol offering few opportunities at the moment, I tried thinking of a nearby city, commutable on the train, with a population of fat, smoking, sugar-addicted alcoholics who might be miraculously dying from covid after having had two strokes, lung cancer, pneumonia and decades of the general misery of living in southeast Wales. I've therefore applied for a job on a rubbish tip in Newport.

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Sunny; cloudy later

  Thu 7th May 2020

Trina is displeased with me for breaking the curfew with Hayley. I don't regret doing so, I just wish I'd not told her. She says she wants nothing to do with me. She sent the email saying so at dinnertime, before she'd have started on the pop, so it might be serious.

I'm resigned to it, although Wendy said that it's mixed up with her jealousy of Hayley and that she'll be back; I'm not sure. It was dreary sex, but we did a good line in drunken blather. It'll be a spur to make more friends in Bristol rather than relying on someone who lives two hundred miles away. Here, it's Hayley, my friend from my stint in the cafe at Parks and Carks, and that's it.

Well, it was a great decade and I hope we can be friendly when this is all over and we start going out again. I've shared my musical taste with you, and I'm very glad to see you adopting it. I'll get you a drink, if only to see you throw it over my face and create a scene. We need a public spat my love -- that's one thing lacking so far.

Patronising, flippant, ungracious.


I went round to The Big House yesterday morning. The joy of making a social call. Sexy ex-boss and my fellow housekeeper were in the huge vestibule, ripping up cardboard, finding something to do. We went into what would have been the drawing room. Tall windows; sun-drenched, quiet furnishings; kilo upon kilo of curtain. Instant coffee, strange and unpleasant.

Her husband turned up and shook my hand. "You shouldn't be doing that," said Sexy, knowingly saying the opposite of what she meant. "It's bollocks, isn't it?" said hubby. I felt naughty and relaxed, with other people refusing to do the two metre tango.

Karen asked me if I'd like to come back to work there again when this is finished. I hadn't expected that and was boyishly pleased.


I had a letter from the doctor's the other day. As a result of the responses I made to a questionnaire I filled in when I joined the practice, I am to be invited in to discuss my "pattern of drinking." I'd say it was circular, myself.

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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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