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

I open a forty-year-old can of worms

  Tue 2nd April 2019

Raoul Vaneigem described work as "a prison of measured time," and by the time I get home I am sapped of the energy to do much else, although I'm not too tired to plan my escape.

In the pub the other day I met a young couple from Yorkshire who offered some ideas of how to make a living in Bristol in a more interesting and less physically punishing way -- teaching English to foreigners, investing a few hundred pounds in acquiring a licence to sail the tame tourist boats that navigate the inland waterways of Bristol, or leading walking tours round the city during the summer. I spent many hours on an application and an online test for a post in policy research.

In the meantime, the job has its own menu of idiocies both small and large. My boss told me that a pen is part of the uniform. "You're supposed to bring a pen, looby," as she stood by a drawer containing a dozen of them. Daily we throw out kilos of food, which we are allowed neither to take home, give away, nor buy, hours before the shop's doorways are used as poor open air shelters by Bristol's homeless.

Trina asked if I wanted to come up to Liverpool the other weekend where an old friend of mine was DJing. We're falling into old patterns of behaviour: she pays, and I'm half friend, half escort, but without the sex now. We've been out dancing again this weekend, this time in Manchester. I arranged for flowers and chocolates to be sent to my mum, got drunk with Trina, who urged me, almost shouting in the pub, referring to Esther, "give her up! Just give her up!" I'm not giving Esther up at all. I'll be home in three hours and I'm going round to hers.

I had to keep my weekend quiet, since all my siblings were up in Middlesbrough as they unveiled a little plaque to my Dad at the place where his ashes -- i.e., some admixture of his and those of and whoever else was burnt that day -- have been placed. In vino veritas, I sent my brother this, about an incident decades ago of which he was unaware.

"Just to put you in the picture. I could have got today off and come up. But my relationship with my father died the moment he was kicking me in the head in the hallway when I was nine, and Mum had to pull him off from doing that. From that moment forth I froze him out of my life."

"I'm so sorry," he replied.

"Yeah so am I. It fucking hurt! Anyway, that was then and this is now. It was in the past and God knows what his relationship with Nan was like. It's gone now, and I hope it was a good ceremony."

"How dreadful."

I sensed I had the upper moral hand, and wanted to push my virtuous stance into the face of my brother, who is kind, generous, and priggish.

"It's ok it was forty-six years ago and whilst I can't ever forget that, he was probably visiting his own problems on me. He basically meant well and I've no idea what his upbringing was like, except that it lacked some love and affection. I don't know and I don't care. I feel sympathy for him rather than love him. Anyway I hope the whole weekend has been a good one for everyone."

"Seeing it with pity rather than blame. A good attitude to take."

Whether it was a good idea to bring this up after all these years I'm not sure. I was just a bit irritated by my brother's beatification of a man who never apologised for an act of violence upon his son that could have left me brain damaged.


Down and Out in Bristol and London

  Sat 16th March 2019

The work in the cafe is demanding. Not sitting down once, hauling heavy yard-wide trays of crockery about and sweating over an industrial dishwasher. I don't want this to last long. It's too physically demanding at my advanced age -- although I'm not the oldest there. Apart from an unpaid half hour for dinner we have no breaks during the day; worse than this, we only have two consecutive days off once a month. We throw kilos of perfectly good food away at the end of every day, yet we are not allowed even a coffee on the house. All this for 14p above the minimum wage. Like most companies, it behaves like a sociopath.

I have a day's annual leave to take before the financial year ends. Naively, I assumed my wishes in its allocation would be taken into consderation; I was handed a slip of paper by my boss with some date on a Wednesday wrtten on it and told that this is when it would be. I can adapt to the physical demands, but had I known about the single days off I wouldn't have accepted the job.

Nevertheless I am getting on well socially. In the midst of a sweaty afternoon at the dishwasher, the cycle of its moaning stopped to allow me to eavesdrop on a younger woman's sentence which ended "he's really nice." A witty and knowing woman round my age, who says that she only does the job to cover up her other better paid and untaxed one, said that she'll have me round next time she's throwing a dinner party.

As intensely as it burned with Esther was it suddenly extinguished.

On Sunday night I was at the Jazz Cafe in London, for a gig long since paid for. I got back to Bristol at 5am and had to start my first day at work at 9am. I rang Esther when I finished. "Please come up," she said. I need reinforcements."

Esther had seen two -- what? "clients" is too decent a word -- and she is always worked up to a pitch of anger and self-dislike when she's been through that, which we'd got into a habit of mitigating with alcohol. On just three hours' unrestful sleep, her mood was trying, but my work had yet to begin.

There is a male stranger in her bed fast asleep. "That fucking cunt just dumped him here. He's drugged and he's had three grand out of him." In as far as her tangle of talk allowed, over the television, I gathered that "that fucking cunt" was Midge Ure's Best Friend mentioned in earlier editions, who had been on a three day drink and coke bender with a friend of his, the man in Esther's bed. Midge Ure's Best Friend had dumped him at Esther's, where he'd promptly gone to bed.

Esther was distressed, shouting, and trying to ring Midge Ure's Best Friend on Whatsapp. I rapped on the bedroom door. "Alright mate, you've got to go now. You've got to get up and go." He went into the bathroom and I was waiting for him outside. I guided him -- he was much bigger than me -- into the living room. Esther's crazed sequence-less shouting and that fucking television, and a complete stranger slumped on the sofa.

I found his shoes and put them on him. He lives somewhere in south London. I told him I'd get him a taxi to the station but then I saw that he'd pissed himself and there was no way anyone would accept him. I managed to get him outside, Esther's ranting following us down the stairs.

I tried walking him down to the station. "I just want to go to bed," he kept saying. "Yes I know you do, but your bed's in London isn't it? Come on lad, man up a bit and we'll get you to the station."

He was heavy, leaning on me, and I got as far as what would be for me a five minute walk to the station, when he crashed against a barrier separating himself from the adjacent waterway. I gave up; I couldn't manage him any more. I rang an ambulance, which came in five minutes, and I told them that I'd found him there. What happened to him I don't know.

I went back to Esther's. She started to calm down, at least to the uncommon Esther level of calm, and at last she muted the infernal television. We had a tea of Quavers, chocolate, and wine.

We went to bed.

Next day, I went round after work again. All was going well until I explained that I had to drop something off at about eight-ish at my daughter's for five minutes, after which I'd be back. She turned horrible -- abandonment fear I suppose. By this point she'd booked me an Uber for my journey. Our argument and my irritation escalated and I told her to "fuck off then. After all I've done for you and that bloke yesterday." The Uber man was there and I asked him if he could change the journey to take me home.

As we were in the taxi, there was a phone call from Esther to the driver. "That Uber for looby. Cancel it. He's an arsehole." And so on, until the Somalian driver ended her rant with a courtesy of which Esther was entirely undeserving.

"Esther. I've done my utmost for you over the past month. I wish you a happy life. And it was a good month. Take care petal. I'll miss lots of things about you, but not being called an arsehole to the taxi driver after what I did for you and S-- last night. I hope you move on to higher things my lovely, but I am exhausted with knowing you x."

Since then, nothing. I like someone who can make a clean break.



  Wed 6th March 2019

I start in the cafe on Monday; these are the last days.

Saturday night, and the pub is very busy. I quickly squat an empty table, much to the displeasure of one of the two men who come back to reclaim their post. I recognise that my main work, in what I expected to be a short evening out, was going to involve placating Angry Man. The Pleasant One was doing the same. Angry Man went out for a fag.

"Is your mate alright?" "He's not my mate; I've only just met him. He says he's just got out of prison." "What for?" "He won't say."

It is about to come to blows between them, so I leave, which is a costly evasion as I've just given The Pleasant One £40 so that we could split a gram of Pepsi.

In the street, The Pleasant One catches up with me. "What a cunt he was. Do you want to come back to mine and I'll get that stuff sorted out?"

We get on a bus and get talking to a sixteen-year-old girl. It's midnight now, and she says she's "just come out for a bit." "Did you meet your friends?" "No, I just came out for a bit."

We sit in The Pleasant One's local for a bit. A thirtysomething man and woman turn up. In what was to be typical of the night, we told each other everything most immediate about our lives. The business done, me and The Pleasant One key up in the loos, then leave and go up to his flat.

Reader, I had a lovely night. Me and The Pleasant One talked openly and freely, me about my alcoholism, he about his addiction to the other thing; about relationships, music, and things I can't remember. At some point in the small hours, his friend came round and we went thirds on another gramme. I walked back, an hour in the rain. I miss walking home at eight in the morning, feeling as though you're behind a big sheet of glass yet imbricated with the fine grain of one's surroundings.

A few hours later: the city centre. I am meeting Middle Daughter.

"You mean, you went home with a complete stranger till 7am? What were you doing all night? Are you OK?" "I'm fine love, honest." "Were you on drugs?" "We had a couple of refreshers, yes." (She's known for a long time.) "I'm a bit tired, that's all. Could do with some coffee."

In the coffee shop, a tall black man in shorts and singlet was sitting bolt upright at the next table, opposite a white mild-mannered lecturer type, both talking in over-loud voices about their jobs, forcing everyone else to raise their voices in an arms race of volume against their declamatory middle class drivel. Nevertheless, we spent three hours in there, cheaply, undisturbed. A woman a bit younger than me was having her first day employed there, and I watched her smiling and awkwardness, and wanted to telepathically tell her that I hoped it was all going OK.

The other Sunday, me and Esther get up in time for an invitation I hadn't expected. She wanted me to come to this happy-clappy church she'd been to for the first time the previous week. Before that, we started on the white wine. "Looby, you know red wine is the blood of Christ? Well, this is his piss."

It's a majority female crowd, a few young Asian people, one black man. After a heteronormative preamble by the pastor (I had images of how he would pale -- literally -- behind some of the great black Pentecostal and Baptist preacher-singers-politicians), the service consisted of a Christian rock-lite group playing long versions of songs I don't know, although they mainly go I-IV-V-I so you can guess the melodic line if you've ever wanted to punch Phil Collins.

People do that one arm raised in the air Songs of Praise style of rapture. We then sat through an interminable sermon about a mustard seed, during which the twentysomething female preacher, who looked like she'd just got out of a washing machine and been ironed, unintentionally radiated ignorance about the world outside her moneyed life, as well as announcing a Christian duty new to me.

"And so here we see in Mark, that we are called to be the very fragrance and aroma of Christ." "Was that Christ in the bed with us this morning Esther, when you farted?"


Turning Japanese

  Fri 1st March 2019

There's something I've not been telling you. I got the sack. After meeting Kirsty and our girls in Manchester on 8th January for her birthday, I stayed at hers and got the early train back to Bristol, where I was starting work at 4.30pm.

I got back in good time to press the self-destruct button. I sat in Castle Park and added a couple of pints of strong cider to the previous night's sherry and whatever the fuck we got through at Kirsty's.

I turned up for work, ponging of drink. On the platform, a colleague said "for fuck's sake looby, get some mints or something." I did the first bit of my shift without incident. We got to The Big Station and I went to sit in the mess room.

The roster clerk or whatever his title is came in and enquired after me. He called me into his office, saying that it had been reported that it looked as though I'd been drinking, and said that there was "a bit of a whiff" about me.

"Now, look. If you've got anything in that bag, you can put it in that bin and I'm not looking." He thought I'd been drinking on the job. It was kind of him. I was then led down to some manager's office where we waited a full three hours for the breathalyser test woman to arrive, chatting in a friendly way, me hoping that it would take a long time for her to arrive.

I was positive -- 41μg/l. I had to wait until I could be escorted home on the train. The manager who did so was interesting, telling me about his Glaswegian alcoholic mother whom he used to see blind drunk during his childhood and who suddenly stopped drinking one day, twenty years ago.

I was suspended on full pay until my hearing, which was on Valentines Day. I felt ashamed, bumping into my (former) colleagues as I was led up to an office which you don't normally have reason to visit. I set out my sob story, about having returned from a rare chance to get together with my whole family for Kirsty's 59th, missing out the bit about drinking on the morning before I was going to work.

I was sent out to await the verdict. I was called back in and got the legalistic preamble, before a paused moment during which he said "and my decision is..." and held it, like they withhold fortune from TV game show contestants "...summary dismissal."

I've put in an appeal, but my letter is weak, simply repeating the emotional pleading in what I hope is restrained but powerful, slightly legalistic prose. I'm not sure my heart is in it.

Only you, Wendy, Kitty, Fitbit and my dancey friend from Keighley, know. I haven't told Kim. She's a bit harsher on wilfully foolish behaviour than the others. To everyone else, my family mainly, the story is that I've been made redundant.

My sister, who lives in Middlesbrough near my mum, commiserated, but was pleased that I'd be coming back to live there. I fancy neither that, nor going back to Lancaster. I've exhausted Lancaster for a while. There's Kirsty, our friendship revivified now that the ex has gone, and my youngest (the other two are here in Bristol, and Belgium respectively) -- but little else. In Lancaster, I'm a professional drinker, and there's fuck all work there. It's "Chilled Colleague" -- an actual job title in Asda -- or Reader in Biochemistry, and nothing in between. And then there's the damned Injunction.

Having an income of nil is quite a motivator. I got an interview for a job in a cafe.

My detailed lies rolled fluently off my tongue. "One thing I would like to ask though," he said, "is why did you leave a job in Lancaster to come here?"

I shook my head, laughed, and flicked my hair in a pretence of reluctant self-disclosure. "I knew this would come up. Well..." (keep him waiting) "I met this woman on the internet about eighteen months ago and she said 'looby, this isn't going to work. We're two hundred and fifty miles away', and I thought -- well she's younger and better looking than me, and I really don't want to mess this one up, so basically, I'm here for Hayley."

He was smiling. "Um... I'll just put 'personal reasons' for that." He then surprised me by saying "so are you getting something together with Hayley then?" It's a fucking job interview mate. "Yeah! It's going well, she's nice." I haven't spoken to or seen Hayley since our first meeting which ended in a night of Semi-Successful Settee Sex last Sunday.

The day after my interview, the manager rang me up and said "I liked what you were saying there," and offered me the job. I've got references to forge, but friends will help, or if not, I own a couple of domains I can use for this purpose.

I go for a dirty pizza in Old Market and I somehow get involved in talking to this Afghani who plonks himself on my table and initially tells me he's Japanese until I point out the flaw in this argument which is that his eyes aren't slanted enough. We've swapped numbers, but I couldn't remember his name, so I've put it in as "Sosh". I just wanted to eat my pizza in peace really. But without random Afghanis coming up to you in a pizza place at midnight telling you that they're Japanese, life's a bit dull.


An actress prepares

  Sun 24th February 2019

Esther cooked us a chicken curry, which I woofed down in the way that an alcoholic who gets most of his nutrition from beer will do when a plate of real food is put into his hands.

"I'm working tomorrow," she says. "Better make sure he's still coming," and goes to the yards-long glass table to find her work phone.

We turn the flat upside down looking for it. My manly nine-and-a-half-stone frame is called upon to lift up settees and move beds. We decide it must have been stolen by Midge Ure's Best Friend the other night.

All her clients' details and texts are on there, and she hasn't backed anything up, nor put a lock on it, nor a GPS tracker, and my suggestion to ring the phone company to have the SIM barred was shunted aside by her loud worry -- competing with her as loud television -- about the "petrolheads". These are men who find a callgirl's location, are let in, then douse her with petrol before holding a match in front of her whilst asking her where she keeps the money. I will never consider engaging a prostitute again.

After what felt like hours of me ineffectually going "hmm", and "yeah" and "fuck", after exhausting what help I could suggest, she resigned herself to the phone's loss, and we watched an interesting television programme about Whitney Houston's coke addiction. Esther said that she had indeed been, as she told me in our first five minutes of aquaintance, an offshore tax advisor, living in a flat in Chelsea that even fifteen years ago cost £2000 a month. Parties every weekend, sugar bowls filled with coke.

"I'm sorry looby, you've really had it in the neck tonight haven't you? Do you want to stay?" and we slept together, me wanting to stroke her in sympathy but knowing that would be interpreted as an unwelcome sexual advance.

We got up about eleven; her client was coming at two. "We could have a cup of tea -- or actually, what about some lager? I have to get pissed before I can do this," so we had a breakfast of San Miguel and vodka. As she was getting what she called her "whore's kit" out of her bedroom cabinet, she slapped me on the back and gave me an unwonted kiss. "Look what I've found!"

She asked me to help getting the place straight. I did the kitchen and hoovered about. She got her clothes together and did the bathroom and got her hair and make-up done. The client is seventy-eight and likes her in an evening dress and nothing else.

"It's not just sex, you know. You've got to be a cleaner, a make-up artist, an actress, a hotel's not just an hour. My trick is to keep them talking, talk talk talk, and then 'Oh look at the clock, we'd better get on with it!' I could charge more if I did some of the things I get asked for. They want you to shit in their mouths. Fuck. I couldn't do that anyway -- I can't remember the last time I had a solid shit."


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

M / 55 / 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

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