Tree porn

Tom phoned around lunctime.

"You remember that girl I went out with once?" he began, straight off the bat.

"Which one?"

"Virginia."

“No.”

“Odd girl. Used to hide behind lots of black eyeliner and foundation that turned her face orange.”

“...Er...”

"Had speech impediment. All the ‘s’ sounds she made came out as a whistle. And this downy moustache thing. You could see the fucker from quite a way off.”

Tom sighed wistfully.

“Oh, those sweet, innocent afternoons spent down in the bushes out by the railway line at the end of the field behind my house, pants and knickers off, exploring each other’s most private anatomy.”

“I don’t remember you having a girlfriend called Virginia.”

“Well, she wasn’t my girlfriend as such. More of a shag pest. Just wanted to abuse me sexually. Of course I was only too willing to let her. She just wanted to fuck all the time. Nothing else to be said of the relationship at all. No common ground whatsoever. It got to be that sex became a chore. What I wouldn’t give for that now.”

“What made you think of her?”

“I dunno. Ever since Pia and I decided to get married, I’ve been thinking a lot about previous shags. Not sure why. Maybe I’m having second thoughts.”

I thought perhaps, as best man, it was my duty to talk some sense into him, let him see how the pros far outweigh the cons in terms of getting tied down to a girl like Pia.

“And I’m not sure I want a big stag thing afterall, man. Perhaps we should just disappear, the two of us on the bike having a laugh, no fucking hassle, like we did that summer? Perhaps not come back.”

One summer Tom and I pointed his Granddad’s old Norton motorbike and sidecar Spainwards and hit this tiny island just off Ibiza called Formentera; a real hippy hang out, where good food, cheap booze and superb herbs were to be found in plentiful supply.

We’d stayed in a shack set amongst pine trees about a hundred yards from the beach.

'Twas small, barely enough room to swing a bottle of piss. No beds, no running water, a plentiful supply of cockroaches and small inquisitive rodents, but it was cheap and yards from a beach shack selling ice-cold beer, excellent garlic eggs, jamon serrano and potent marijuana.

We spent days lost in a weed fug, sunbathing, drinking, swimming, holding Girl of The Day competitions and attempting to shag the winners.

Spanish babes, French girls. Italians, you name it. Germans and Swedes too.

The beaches on the island were optional nude, which was entertaining. Tom stripped off on our second day. Said I should try it too. It was truly liberating. But I wasn’t so sure about exposing the old flesh torpedo to the general public, hiding my reservations by bragging that there wouldn’t be any space left on the beach if I did.

But eventually I plucked up enough courage and took the plunge.

Of course, with my wick exposed, the consumption of suntan oil on the island went up significantly.

Yeah, it was a great holiday, an experience I would love to repeat but I told Tom not to worry about the wedding. He should cheer up, worry about the wedding another day.

I had no more cohesive advice.

Awful cargo

Zosia left a message on my answer machine while I slept this morning.

"You leave me at party, bastard. It's over. Never try call me, or see me again."

Fine, if that's how she wants to play it.

I suggest to you our time together is limited.

I further suggest (this suggestion being a subset of my previous suggestion, a suggestion available in a beautiful presentation box inlaid with mother of Pearl - is there a father of Pearl and a brother and/or sister of Pearl?) - subject to clause 11, chapter twenty-two, "It all began with the selection of a deadly weapon on a misty morning..."

Hedgehog Winnebago

Up at midday and hungover. After our session at the gym yesterday, Tom refused to return to work and went on the lash with me instead. A fatal decision. I returned barely able to stand.

As so it was that I slouched, semi-interested, afore a roasting television most of today, reading The Curious Memories of Thomas Penman by Bruce Robinson - the writer that wrote and directed one of my favourite films of all time, 'Withnail & I'.

Beautifully funny.

But all this non-activity on the band front is beginning to do my head in.

Zosia called to tell me she's enrolled on a photography course. Two evenings a week at some local college.

Says photography is her destiny (or density, as I just typed).

She wanted me to meet her after class this eve. There was a birthday party going down at her friend Mitzi's gaff in Kentish Town.

So around nine-ish I strolled round to the college to meet her (Zosia, not Mitzi), only I ended up in the wrong college. There are two, side by side. Chance in a million, and we nearly missed each other.

Zosia came out buzzing. Not literally. She'd spent the two hours of the class taking photographs of tree bark. I didn’t feel much like going to a party and suggested we return to mine instead for a spot of gentle wrestling, but no, ‘twas a bus to Kentish Town and Mitzi's house.

On the way, I described a dream I'd had about a bloke with eyes that looked in two different directions who’d invented a teacup that could hold as much tea as you cared to pour into it, but Zosia was fiddling with her camera, mind elsewhere, not listening.

We made it to Mitzi's in one piece.

Zosia rang the bell.

The sound of muffled music throbbed from inside, The Scissor Sisters Bee Geeing it through Pink Floyds’ ‘Comfortably Numb’.

The door stayed firmly closed.

Zosia rang the bell again keeping her finger pressed down hard.

The door swung open. A funky looking black babe with a retro afro stood afore us, cool as fuck, drink in hand, the noise of a party in full swing drifting past her out of the open door.

“Hey Zose,” she said, brightly.

"Hi," Zosia said, equally brightly, stepping up to give her a kiss on the cheek.

I followed with a shy hello to the funky looking black babe, even though I fancied a kiss on the cheek too.

She moved aside as I stepped across the threshold.

There were a lot of peeps inside. The house verily thrummed, vast murmurings, laughter competing with the music. There were far more than the twenty or thirty guests Zosia claimed were going to be there. Lots of great-looking girls amongst them. I quickly found myself separated from Zosia by the
heavy swell and wandered about lonely as a clown.

Two girl friends of Zosia's that I vaguely remembered meeting once sat side by side halfway up the stairs. They broke off their chat to observe me as I squeezed on deeper into the house feeling vulnerable without my crazy woman.

The house was three-storeys of differently themed rooms, all the work of Mitzi. The sign of a schizophrenic mind, I guessed.

In the impossibly grotty kitchen at the back of the house on the ground floor (done out in the theme of an impossibly grotty kitchen at the back of the house on the ground floor) I rolled up my sleeves and dipped my arm up to the elbow in a metal
dustbin full of freezing water and ice, fishing about for a can of lager.

A freak with a beak-like face pointed out there were no more beers left in there. Perhaps I should try the fridge?

I thanked him, removed my freezing wet arm from the bin and located the fridge and found a beer.

The funky black babe came shrieking in from the garden chased by a bloke holding a worm.

A smug grin spread across the beak-like face freak.

“Without wishing to blow my own trumpet, and believe me I do have the physical dexterity to do that, I, uh, shagged that girl once. She makes a bizarre panting sound just before she comes.”

“Interesting.”

“I stalk, I run, I bite.”

The beak-like face freak growled out loudly to the room at large and laughed loudly at himself, drawing a few puzzled stares,then offered his hand by way of introduction.

“I’m Cameron, by the way. But you can call me Cam, you know, as in shaft.”

I found myself shaking his hand without really wanting to.

“And you are?”

"Zacarias.”

"Ah, Zacarias…tell me do you play scrabble?”

“Not if I can help it.”

“I play the game like a demon,” he boasted. “Nobody can beat me. Nobody, I tell you. I have complete command of the English language."

“Right.”

“I'm a writer, you see. I’m writing a book at the moment called ‘The Sound of the Kissing of Tits’.”

“Okay.”

Cam threw his head back in dramatic fashion. “Although the book's title may conjure in your mind fine visual images of what lurks within, I’d like to know what, in your opinion, the sound of the kissing of tits would sound like?”

I thought about it.

“Like two soaped-up bubble enshrouded pink balloons rubbing together, followed by them popping.”

“Exactly, my friend.”

And so the night wore on.

Up on the first floor, still searching for Zosia (where the fuck had she got to?) I peered through a door to find a true scene of tranquillity compared to the rest of the house.

A handful of peeps were sitting cross-legged on a Moroccan-style rug passing round a joint, esoteric Eastern vibes drifting through the smoke, including Weird Bob sitting there looking totally incongruous, lost in his own world while some folks held a conversation around him.

What the fuck was Weird Bob doing there?

He saw me, furrowed his brow with recognition and stood up to come over, but his right leg had gone numb. Unable to support his own weight, he staggered forward through the seated crowd and collapsed in the doorway at my feet, drawing the vaguely interested attention of those present.

I bent down and asked what the fuck he was doing there.

Weird Bob winced, rubbing his leg but didn’t seem willing to reply.

So I changed tack, asked if he’d seen Zosia.

Weird Bob got to his feet, flexing his leg gingerly (like a ginger person) and said he’d seen her upstairs.

I thanked him and continued my search, climbing the stairs to the next floor with all the agility of an old man, but Zosia was nowhere to be found.

Oddly, I ducked into the loo for a wazz and disturbed a fat girl doing a wee standing up.
I backed out and made my way downstairs, squeezing once more through the crowd.

I found Mitzi holding court with a crowd of uber trendy honeys in the doorway to the front room.

I said hello, asked if she’s seen Zosia.

Nope.

That Cam Shaft bloke presented himself again.

“Ah, there you are…er, sorry I’ve forgotten your name.”

"Zacarias.”

“Yeah, whatever. Actually, I knew a fellow once called Zac. Went everywhere
with these grotty white leather clogs on...”

I ignored him and pressed on.

A DJ was spinning toonz behind some decks over to one side, a swell of peeps dancing in front of him including Weird Bob, now hidden behind a pair of dark wrap around sunglasses dancing up close behind a pretty Asian girl whose eyeliner had smudged way beyond the point of being sexy.

She looked harassed.

Weird Bob was unashamedly grinding his groin into her bottom, both hands round her waist as she tried to fight him off.

I thought I'd better do something about it and tried to reach him, but got dragged into some ill-advised, though nevertheless interesting river dancing on the way by some pissed-up floozie who was very adept at the jumping and stomping element of the dance and even better at wearing tight clothes and growing nice breasts.

I had neither the stamina nor the desire to keep up the frenetic foot stomping tempo of the river dancing for long and pressed on.

I made it to Weird Bob.

“Mate,” he shouted out, still gripping the Asian bird's arse. “Do you think having blue spots on the end of your cock means something bad?”

And so the night wore on.

The Asian bird finally wriggled free of Weird Bob so I resumed my search for Zosia.

Out in the hall, a chick with a thick Newcastle brogue (like people from Newcastle have) tapped me on the shoulder to ask if I was Toby. I told her that no, but that I’d be willing to pretend to be him for a nominal fee.

She looked at me askew.

I smiled idiotically and went on my way.

I eventually located Zosia, talking to some other Polish girls out by the front door. I let her know via eye signals, and when that didn't work, insistent whispering in her ear that I wanted to leave, but Zosia was just getting into her stride.

"You boring."

So I left her to it, quietly slipping out of the house to walk home in the cold drizzle.

Oxbridge loons

Hubris abounds.

First thing upon waking, I nipped to the loo for a slash, only to disturb a white fluffy cat taking a dump in my bath.

The fucker must have nipped in through the bars in the open window.

My immediate reaction was to roar at it loudly to make it go away, but it remained squatting in the tub, hissing, bearing its teeth, staring wildly and defiantly back at me while it continued its business.

The fucker had balls, I’d give him that.

There was nothing for it but to rush him.

That did the trick. The cat pissed off quick as lightning from whence he came, through the window bars, the tinkly bell round its neck sounding long after it had leapt from sight and out into the pouring rain.

And there in the middle of the bath lay the rancid momento of his visit.

I really didn’t fancy cleaning the shit up, and I didn’t.

A job for Zosia, when she comes round.

Tom called by at lunch, and kept his finger pressed hard to my doorbell just to annoy me. I let him in. He thought I sported a suspiciously healthy glow.

“You've been rubbing yourself with artificial tan,” he said, accusingly.

As if.

I didn't mention the other day that Tom is a bit of a gym freak, did I? Easily the most narcissistic person I know.

His fragile state of mental and emotional health is directly related to his body fat to muscle ratio.

He'll eat nothing but boiled chicken and slimming pills for weeks to reduce his body fat while he works on his muscle bulk, before blowing all the hard work by bingeing on McDonald’s, curry, beer, weed and mars bars, piling the pounds back on and slipping into a fierce revulsion at his own weak will.

I, on the other hand, have no such qualms about being chronically unfit. Not that I'm in bad shape at all. My fast metabolism means I'm still pretty damn skinny, but I'm sure it'll catch up on me one day. I know I'll never be one of those twats with a perfectly toned booty.

As part of his 'pre-wedding build up' though, Tom has decided to do something about that. Bastard turned up with a complimentary day pass for me to his gym, saying I needed to get up off my arse and get into shape.

Over a shared bong I tried in vain to persuade him it was futile even suggesting I should do exercise ("Some people just aren't meant to be sporty"). He hustled me into a tracksuit and then his car with the promise that there would be 'loads of fit birds there'.

We made like bakery trucks for the gymnasium. On the way he asked if I'd received his email with all the contact details of the 20 odd blokes he wants to invite to his stag weekend, (plus the handful of normal ones, too).

To be honest, I hadn't checked, but lied and said don't worry, I was on the case.

Tom was right, there were an inordinate number of fit lasses at his gym. There were lots of artificially enhanced chicks strutting about too, which put me off a bit.

I attempted a half-hearted workout. A few tugs on a selction of weight machines, a blast on the treadmill which was the best fun, especially the getting off bit. Felt quite trippy.

But I soon got bored (and knackered) and ended up straddling a bike and cycling nowhere, listeing to shit workout music and silent MTV on the overhead monitors wondering what it is with women and fake tits.

I couldn't see any that looked good. They were all so obviously fake. Strictly for those with too much money, no self-esteem and too little brain, I decided.

Oh, the things women do to themselves.

It's the same with their pubes. I just don't get why women wanna get rid of it. It's part of who they are, you know?

Damn, a nicely manicured hedge is sexy.

Zosia came round a few months ago sporting a bald beaver. I nearly kicked her out in the street when I saw it. Her bush had been, until that moment, probably one of her best attributes.

I thought you like better," she said. "I see porn site, all women shave."

"No, no, no, dear," I countered. "I prefers you to look like a real woman, not a pre-pubescent little girl."

"Oh."

"It's just...not cricket."

“I went out with man once,” Zosia said, somewhat downcast. “Victor his name. Dirty, dirty man. Liked eggs. Could do very accurate impression of Cockerel in the morning.”

Shakespearian potato

More rain. When will it all end? The day the world ceases to exist, most likely.

Now, the other day, I mentioned my ex-girlfriend Mimi, and promised to tell you more, didn't I?

Well as I said, Mimi was the true love of my life. We were together for three and a half years but split up - no let’s be more accurate here - Mimi dumped me one year seven months, two days, sixteen hours and thirty-three minutes ago (not that I'm counting or anything) and ran off with her yoga instructor.

Mimi was my whole world and I just didn’t see it coming.

She came round to my flat one evening and said in a calm but firm tone that there was no point beating about the bush, we needed a serious talk. We sat down in the kitchen and it all came out.

She’d fallen in love with someone else.

I felt like I’d been slugged in the chest with a sledgehammer.

Who was he?

that wasn't important.

Yes, it fucking was!

Okay, her yoga instructor, Milo.

The bastard!!

I'd met him on several occasions, picking up Mimi after classes. Sweet Jesus, I even quite liked the bloke.

Bitter emotions burned within me. Anger, hurt, desperation, sorrow, anger again.

Mimi went on about how she felt our relationship was going nowhere and, frankly, had been for some time.

That was news to me.

She wanted different things, she said. And if I was honest with myself, I could feel that too.

No, I fucking couldn't!

She still loved me dearly, but not as before. She hoped her words were falling softy, letting me down gently, but they were like a cold steel knife being stabbed repeatedly into my heart.

Mimi thought it best if we split up. I had every right to be angry, but eventually I’d come to see it was the right thing for both of us.

I broke down and cried awful, desperate tears.

Curiously, the one thing that ran through my mind as I sat there weeping, my life disintegrating before my very eyes was that Milo and Mimi sounded like a fucking circus act.

Anyway, the split left me bewildered, like a man staring at the shattered remains of his humble home after a hurricane had swept through.

My life fell to pieces and very quickly.

You know how it is when you’ve spent ages staring at a bright light and you suddenly look away? It’s hard to see anything else for a while.

I spiralled down into a deep, dark emotional black hole, wallowing in self-pity, losing my head completely.

I grew a beard, became ridiculously skinny. Wandered about the flat in a daze, unaware what day it was or even, sometimes, what week.

I woke up late in the afternoons, went to bed at sunrise, if at all. Drank even more heavily, smoked far more weed than normal. I didn't go out, and on the rare occasions when I did, I just felt like this weird fucking alien bloke wandering around in someone else’s numb, rather uncoordinated body.

I couldn’t relate to anyone or anything. My hands trembled, my eyes twitched uncontrollably...I developed a Welsh accent.

It’s not a period in my life I'm at all proud of, but hey, time’s a great healer and after about six months or so I got my shit partially back together. Enough to attract the curiousity that is Zosia, strangely.

To this very day, I still think about Mimi and what might have been.

I remember so clearly the first time we met, like it was yezzerdee. We caught each other's eye at a party and I felt a powerful energy flash through me. Damn near knocked me down.

And I knew she’d felt it too.

We got chatting. Before she left the party that night, we exchanged phone numbers. And she was gone. I was left floating in space with, you know, a distinct hard-on.

Too exhilarated to sleep that night, I re-ran our conversation over and over in my head, analysing every little thing she said, every nuance of her body language to determine whether or not there was any remote possibility that she fancied me.

There were things I wished I’d said, things I wished she’d said.

The image of her willowy, sexy form burned in my mind. The old bishop took a solid beating as my imagination ran wild.

An unbelievable floaty feeling enveloped me.

I stared up at the glow in the dark stars on my ceiling thinking, Shit, who was that girl?

I had to see her again.

The next morning wafted by dreamily, Mimi right at the forefront of my thoughts. I didn’t know why she’d had such a profound effect on me, but she had. I couldn’t understand what had changed in me.

But something had changed.

I found it hard to eat breakfast - unheard of! On the way to ASDA that morning I saw a tall, graceful figure with long blonde hair slinking along the pavement ahead of me in the crowd and my heart raced thinking that maybe it was her.

The words to the cheesiest love songs piped over the in-store radio took on a deep significance.

Did a bloke like me stand any kind of chance with a girl like that? I knew not, but had to see her again just to find out.

Back home, I decided not to play it cool and just call her. I was nervous. I dialled her number and waited, twisting a lock of hair round and round with my forefinger and thumb.

The line hummed and buzzed. There was a clicking sound then a ringing tone at the other end of the line. This was it, I thought, my heartbeat quickening.

There was another click and then a girl’s voice.

“Hi, this is Mimi. Sorry I can’t answer at the mo’ but please leave a message after the long bleep thingy and I’ll completely ignore it and never call you back.”

There was a long beep and I was on.

“Er, yeah, hi. This is a message for Mimi, er, obviously, from Zacarias. Um, I met you last night, but then you probably remember that because it was only a few hours ago…unless of course you suffer from acute short memory loss, in which case you might not remember me…but, well, frankly, that seems unlikely. Anyway, um, it would be really cool to see you again and er, well, I wondered whether you fancied hooking up in The Cornet in Finsbury Park around eightish tonight? If you can make it, give me a buzz back. It would be great to see you...Okay, well, bye...”

I was about to hang up but decided to add more.

“Listen, if there’s a problem about tonight and you can’t make it or whatever, just give me a buzz anyway and er, well maybe we can hook up some other time, er, somewhere else...or something. Erm. Right, hope to see you tonight. Cheers.”

Mimi and I did hook up, but not that night.

A few nights later we met for an eary evening drink and from that moment on, we became inseparable.

In the beginning, it was fun, as though she’d found a secret door into my soul, kicked it down and switched on the light.

She was so well informed about everything. Music, art, films, the theatre, books, fashion. She opened my eyes to many spectacular new horizons.

We went to gigs, galleries, exhibitions, experimental theatre productions. We ate candle lit dinners almost every night, took acid on forest walks and shagged a lot.

I mean, back then it was like, two or three fucks every single day.

I thought it was great. Not only was she perfect for me personality wise, but physically she absolutely did it for me too.

I longed for her constantly, day and night.

I’d had two or three girlfriends before, but no one special, no one I really cared about. Certainly no one I ever wanted to say, “I love you” to.

But with Mimi, well, it was different. Right from the off, I just knew.

I fell hopelessly head over heels in love with her. It was out of my control. And for a few years I was happy as a pig in shite. Until that is, Milo the fucking yoga instructor decided to stick his wick in and steal her away.

Am I still hung up on Mimi?

Well, yeah, you know. Life's a bitch.

Eyes crossed with ecstasy

Don’t know why, but hangovers always make me feel horny.

On my way back from Sugarcane's last eve, I decided to drop in unnanounced at Zosia's.

She's been working at some big exhibition in town for the last few days, dishing out leaflets, so I haven't seen her.

Zosia was tired, but pleased to see me. Her flatmate Suzie was there and had cooked a wicked pasta, which we all ate together in candlelight. Afterwards, Suzie went out to meet her boyfriend. As soon as she was gone, Zosia and I adjourned to the sofa in a hot sex frenzy. Dirty.

Zosia was up with the lark this morning and back off for her last day at the exhibition. I stayed in bed and let myself out around midday for the drive home.

Some freak in a blue boiler suit was waiting by my front door. He'd come to hydrovac my carpets. On a Sunday???

I informed him I don’t have any carpets.

He was all a-furrowed brow and pulled out a scrunched up piece of paper for consultation.

"It says here, Robert Mercer? 35 Glycena Avenue, Haringay."

"It's my upstairs neighbour you're after."

"Ahh."

I left the carpet cleaner freak on the doortep, let myself in and banged on Weird Bob's door. Weird Bob came down in his grotty pants and vest.

"Hey man."

"There's some guy outside wanting to clean your carpets."

Weird Bob squinted down the hallway suspiciously, observing the large shadow of the carpet cleaner freak looming through the glass in the front door.

"Right, yeah. Must be Micky, back from America."

"I dunno."

"I've been trying to get him to come round for a few days now. The phone rings but Micky doesn't answer. No one does. Not even Micky's mum. Or dad. Or brother, if he has one. Or any friends, if he has any, which I know he has because I know a couple of them, but they still don't answer the phone for him."

"No?"

"Well, they wouldn't would they? Not unless he'd specifically employed them to, which is unlikely 'cos they already have jobs."

"Right."

"Maybe the friends of Micky that I don't know who don't have jobs might answer the phone for him, but then it's not very probable that they would be employed by Micky just to answer his mobile phone. He's only a carpet cleaner, for fuck sake. He doesn't earn enough money to be able to afford a personal mobile phone answerer. Or answerers."

"No."

"Besides which, if they were answering Micky's phone in exchange for money, then technically they'd have a job and so couldn't be included in my 'Micky's friends that don't have jobs that might or might not answer his phone for him category' and, what’s more, if they were answering Micky’s phone for a living, they’d have answered the phone when I rang, wouldn’t they? Unless of course they were crap at their job."

Weird Bob rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "I don't know. Something seems to be seriously amiss."

Weird Bob stumbled down the hallway and opened up.

Micky the carpet cleaner freak struggled upstairs to Weird Bob’s with his Hyrdovac machine. He struggled back down minutes later as I brought my drums in from the car.

"That was quick," I remarked.

He'd attempted the front room, apparently, but given up. Weird Bob's carpets were far too filthy for his machine to cope.