Fat face custodian

Yesterday’s little run-in with Zosia left me in an eerie twilight zone of emotional and physical strangeness. A feeling still enshrouding me when Tallulah dropped round at lunchtime to return the effects pedal I lent her.

I answered the door wrapped in an embarrassing black Chinese silk dressing gown someone had once given me for Christmas. I had nowt on underneath. ‘Twas brass monkeys out on the doorstep.

At first, the atmos, like the weather, was frosty.

“Thanks, you know, for being so discrete about the other day,” I began sarcastically. “You told Spanish Andy.”

"I know.”

“Well, cheers for that. Spanish Andy's the biggest big mouth in all of Christendom. Most of North London knows now, including my girlfriend...or rather ex-girlfriend.”

“I didn’t know you had a girlfriend.”

“Yeah? Really? Well…”

Actually, she had a point. I hadn’t mentioned Zosia to her at all.

Still, I was pissed off that she’d let the cat out of the bag.

"So she found out?"

"Er, yeah..."

"Sorry."

"It's okay. You've probably done me a big favour."

There was a brief break in the conversation, like an empty cartoon conversation cloud. We both just stared at each other.

God she was ugly.

Then Tallulah asked outright if I was going to invite her in.

Probably not a wise move, I said.

Not even for another ding-dong?

I said thanks for the offer, but my life was a tad on the complicated side now and I’d prefer to give it a miss. Actually, maybe it was an idea if she made a move. It was nice to see her again.

She asked if perhaps we could meet some other time?

I was entirely non-committal, shrugging and nodding at the same time, a difficult manoeuvre under the circumstances.

Then she stepped forth to hand over the effects pedal and having done so, stroked the side of my face sensuously for a bit, her puffy red eyes staring at me at point blank range without speaking.

Quite unnerving. More so when she slipped her hands up and inside my dressing gown to clutch my (spectacularly taught) buttocks, dragging me close for a kiss. I fended her off and closed the door on her.

Bit rude, I know, but what can you do?

She knelt down to the letterbox. “Sure I can’t tempt you into a quick blow job before I go?”

I heard her giggle on the other side of the door.

And with that, through the bobbly-glassed front door window, I saw her distorted form made its way out into the street, and shuffle off up the pavement.

Brrrrrr...

Famous rock Lanes: Ronnie Lane, Denny Lane, Arnold Layne, Penny Lane, Alfred Cunt.

I bumped into Zosia this morning, out in my street. I was just nipping round to Goliath's in the freezing cold to purchase more Skunk. 'Twas so bitterly c-c-c-c-c-old out, I could see my own farts and everything.

Zosia was steaming full ahead down the pavement towards me, head down, wrapped up against the elements like an angry Polish present.

She was clearly a woman on a mission, no doubt heading for a showdown with me, a thought as appealing as putting my nut sack in an angry ferret’s mouth.

Christ, had she caught wind of my illicit encounter with Tallulah on Monday?

Nah, impossible.

No one knew about it, except me and Tallulah. And there was no connection between Zosia and Tallulah. Except, maybe for Spanish Andy. Had Tallulah been mouthing off about shagging me to Spanish Andy, and he in turn had told Zosia?

What a cruel and unlikely set of circumstances 'twould have been, were that true.

I contemplated crossing the street to avoid the inevitable ugliness, and would have easily got away with it but my legs refused to take me.

Zosia didn't clock me until we almost collided. And as the distance between us closed, I swear I could hear her rehearsing her lines. (Bastard, no respect, treat me like shit, blah, blah, blah...)

Guilt over the Tallulah shag made me start proceedings with a warm almost loving greeting, you know, as though nothing between us was wrong.

"Hey, Zose, quel surprise!"

Zosia stopped dead in her tracks, and looked up, temporarily fazed at seeing me. Those same blue eyes that once sparkled with so much love for me now burned with pure animosity.

"Cheating bastard!!"

She knew.

Complete flustered by that realisation (thanks a fucking bunch Spanish Andy), my stupid response was to lean in and try to kiss her, but she turned her head and I ended up kissing the earflaps of her hat.

I took her by the forearms, all faux concern. "You okay? You seem a little peeved."

"Who fuck you think you is? Treat me like shit. Fuck around." She demanded, pushing me in the chest.

“Erm, well...the answer, my dear, is...er...a nebulous one. A nebulous one indeed. And why? Well, that’s a nebulous point too.”

And that's when she went on the offensive; a blur of windmilling mittens and vicious expletives raining down on me.

That’s the thing with Zosia. Her moods are so dark and unpredictable, the most innocuous of situations can take strange, uncontrollable directions, some remark or other causing offence or upset where none was intended.
She chose her words like weapons; useless, selfish, arsehole and fucker chief amongst them.

And as she went for me, her blows finding their target with the deadly efficiency of laser-guided missiles, yelling at the top of her loudness, curtains parted in neighbouring houses and curious faces appeared in windows.

I found myself laughing, trying to fend her off, making light of the situation for the nosey neighbnour's benefit. (Yes people, I'm being attacked in the street by a crazy woman, but it's okay, really, don't worry, I'll be fine.)

I tried to placate Zosia with a quiet offer of a return to my place where we could sit down and talk things through like sensible adults over a cup of hot tea, out of sight of the neighbours, but it only inflamed her more.

Increased punching, fiercer verbal.

All I could think was, is it just me or is this woman stark staring mad? No wonder I shagged someone else. I'm not happy. My relationship with her is crap. It resembles an impressionist painting. Looks okay from a distance, but shuffle up close and examine it detail and there’s nothing but an abstract bunch of brightly coloured splodges.

One of Zosia's mittens flew free in the onslaught and a bare hand slapped me square on the cheek.

In my book, there's nothing so infuriating as being slapped in the chops.

It shocked me into retaliation.

I caught Zosia's flailing arms and gripped them tight, forcing her down to her knees. Shit, there was so much adrenaline pumping round my system I thought I might break them in two.

"Stop, you Polish fucking nightmare."

Unbelievably, as she'd been in the instigator of the entire attack, Zosia began screaming out, "Help! Help!"

I pushed her forcefully away. She fell backwards to the floor, spilling her mobile, lip gloss and all the other insane contents of her handbag.

I bent down and screamed loudly at the back of her head to get the fuck out of my life, to leave me the fuck alone, and to never show her fucking daft face round these fucking parts again.

I shouted so loudly I even scared myself and took off across the road.
After gathering herself and her wayward belongings together, Zosia followed hot on my heels, yelling out "Stop! Thief!!"

What?? The crazy bitch...

I broke into a light jog to put yardage between us.

A middle aged chap I see sometimes at the newsagents at the top of my street was closing his front gate.

Zosia's cries of "Stop! Thief!!" grew more intense.

The middle aged man checked me out suspiciously as I quickened my pace.

"Morning," I said cheerily, as I trotted by.

"...Morning," he replied, uncertainly.

No 'Have-a-go hero' there, then.

Eventually, near the high street, Zosia finally gave up on the "Stop" Thief!!" nonsense, hurling one last piece of abuse at my back as I disappeared round the corner.

I spent the rest of the day lying low at Goliath's smoking myself numb.

Cold, like fridge snow

As Tom’s bestowed upon me the honour of being his Best Man,
it’s my responsibility to make sure his stag weekend goes
off with a bang. 

As you know, he gave me carte blanche in terms of
organisation, the only proviso being he wants to
hold his final fling in Barcelona. 

I love Barcelona. 

Unbeknownst to you, I've been on the Internet,
making plans, booking shit. Perhaps you’d like to know a
little about what I’ve got in store? 

Okay, well, everyone will be arriving in town aboard a sleek, modern passenger jet airliner at around six p.m. local time and hopping straight onto a clapped out old banger of a coach I've hired to take us to our base camp for the weekend, El Hotel Alcótan.

It's very cheap, comfortable and within but a few minutes stroll of the port area, the place with more night time action than you can possibly shake a stick at, which is certainly where most of the weekend's celebrations will take place.

After checking everyone in and dumping our stuff off, Friday evening's celebrations will begin gently at about 8.30 - 9pm with a spot of grub and proceed to fierce status later with an almighty session in the best bars and clubs Barcelona has to offer.

Now in complete contrast to England, apparently absolutely fuck all happens before midnight. Bars remain empty and the streets deserted. But then like moths drawn to the flame that flickers brightly at the doorway to sublime indulgence, around the midnight hour, the girls and boys all come out to play. And play they most certainly do.

I’ll be warning everyone that throughout the weekend it's vital to make sure we all pace ourselves on the drinking front. Any early drink related casualties will be soundly ridiculed, placed in a foolish cage and left to ponder their own vomit.

Talking of vomit, that brings me neatly to Saturday.

The idea for Saturday is to do something slightly dangerous and physically challenging.

Then, once we've got out of bed, Tom wants to go karting.

And why not? It's his weekend after all.

There just so happens to be the Circuit de Catalunya Formula One race track with Go-Karts just outside town where they assure me there will be enough of us for a full on "Grand Prix" style event which includes a training session, qualifying and the big race itself.

Eighteen hung over idiots burning rubber head-to-head on the track at the same time could be interesting.

Unfortunately, the circuit is only open between 10.30am and 1pm on weekends and is about 40 mins away from the hotel, so I’ll have to get everyone out of bed at around 9am to jump on the coach.

That may be a tall order considering they'll have only crashed out at 6 or 7am, full to bursting with alcohol.

Now, after a hard day pushing it to the limit there will of course be a hard night's worth too. Another drinking session of biblical proportions would be appropriate, possibly enhanced by a bit of Karaoke and everyone donning ridiculously amusing fancy dress and twatting about.

I've been wracking my brains trying to think of suitably stupid fancy dress theme. By that I mean one that allows Tom to wear the same afro wig he’s been wearing to every fancy dress party he’s been to since I’ve known him.

So, potential themes could be Latin lovers in afro wigs, bullfighters in afro wigs, men disguised as Spanish donkeys with afro wigs on or afro wigs with people underneath. Hopefully everyone will enter into the spirit of the whole thing and get hold of an appropriately stupid outfit.

Sunday will no doubt dawn irritatingly bright and early, but no matter, we should all just be crawling into bed.

And after a heavy session the night before, can you think of a better way to pass a lazy Sunday afternoon than playing with the balls?

Neither can I, so I’m organising a round robin football tournament that will kick off around early afternoon with 3 teams of 6 competing for "The Tom Challenge Cup".

So, everyone will need to bring their boots/trainers and some kit, or play in the nude, if they see fit. After the footie, there will be more beers, before the coach comes to collect everyone for the trip to the airport and the return flight to Blighty.

Sounds cool, eh?

I sent an email out yesterday to the eighteen blokes he’s inviting along. The response has been good so far, with one hundred percent of those who've replied signing up for the karting. That's nine in total.

I'm now going to get the three emails that bounced back printed out to send by post. Or ‘by poet’, as I just miss-typed it. (How many poets would it take to deliver three letters, do you think?).

Anyway, of those who did respond to the email, thirty percent said they'd never used any washing powder before, although thirteen percent of those also said they would if nudged into it by a nude sales girl.

Forty two percent of those who responded had not tasted sugar or licked sweets in over two years, whilst only three percent were positive they weren't morons.

Of those who thought they were morons, just one percent could answer more questions in the survey.

Ninety one percent of respondents said they had once been homosexual, but only eighty seven percent of those said they had been ‘predatory’. The take up of passive homosexuality was just nineteen percent amongst 30-35 ABCs with a steep decline into Lake Windermere at the start of the summer holidays.

Hey, you know what? As I’m sitting here writing this,

I’ve just noticed that Cedric, Mr. Flame, Ludovic

and Uncle Blimp, the four tropical fish that live in the
fish tank in my front room are all just, like, hanging 
there motionless in the water with their faces
pointing downwards and their tails gently
rippling in the water, you know, vertically. 

Weird. 

I’ve had the buggers since just after I moved in
and I’ve never seen them do that ever before. 

Shit, what are the chances of them all doing the
same thing at exactly the same time? 

Must be millions to one. 

Do you think it’s significant? Do you think it
means something? Is it a sign of some kind? That
my life is about to change for the better? Or am
I just a sad fucker desperately clutching at straws? 

Still, fucking odd.

Vertical fish.

Perplexed beetles

My brother called today, just to find out how I am. Half-way through our convo though, my little nephew Harry grabbed the phone.

“Hello," he said, brightly.

“Hey Harry, how's it going?”

"Good...how are you?" 

“Oh, you know. Bit confused about women at the mo', but
you know, basically okay.”

"...You sound funny."

"I do?"

"Yes, like you're speaking via an echo chamber."

“I am speaking via an echo chamber.”

"...No you're not."

"I am. I had one specially built in my front room."

“...Uncle Zac, you know what?”

“Nope, what?”

“I’m getting bigger and stronger every day."

“Well, that's true.”

“Today, dad measured me and said I’m already one hundred and seventy metres stronger than you.”

“Wow.”

“I’ve got nine muscles on one side of my body, and nine on the other side.”

"Blimey.”

“And guess why?”

I made a play of thinking deeply about it for a long time, my mind coming up a sorry blank.

“Give up?” Harry asked impatiently.

“Not yet.”

“’Cos I ate all my peas!”

Harry shouted it out in triumphant manner, like it's the best possible thing he's ever done.

“Good boy,” I enthused. “Peas are full of goodness. Eat loads, they’ll make your muscles big and strong.”

“And guess what as well...I want to be like Luigi.”

“Who’s Luigi?”

“Luigi is the man in the ice cream shop.”

“Okay.”

“Except I’ll have a shop that won’t just sell ice creams. It will sell helicopters and pets too.”

“Big demand for that in Chelsea?”

“What?”

“Nothing. I think combined ice cream, helicopter, pet shop is great.”

   
“Goodbye!"

And with that, the little chap hung up on me.

Planks of remorse

Did you know that Oxford Street in London is so named because there used to be an actual ford where Londoners could herd their Oxen from one side of the river to the Top Shop on the other side in the late 1670's?

This morning dawned hazy, lazy, sunlight shining in rays through the stale weed smoke in my room.

I was so cosy in bed, I didn’t want to get up. Not in a million years. I wanted to stay for as long as possible, still mildly stoned and contented, safe and warm in in my bed and avoid the real world out there.

Eventually I got up though, and peered through the curtains at the weather. Looked a little blustery, trees swaying about and all that.

Or was it?

My flat is so hermetically sealed against the elements, perhaps it wasn't windy at all and the trees had just developed a way of moving about of their own accord.

I trudged into the kitchen and poured myself a cold glass of OJ, before wandering into the lounge and slumping on the sofa. On with the telly. Eurosport. Norwegian Log Chopping Championships.

There was one new message on my answer machine.

Zosia?

Nope. My mum. What was I planning to do for next Christmas, go to hers or stay in London?

Next Christmas? We've only just had the last one. I can't think as far ahead as next Christmas. I can't even think as far ahead as next week, for loon's sake.

Instead of thinking about next Christmas, I thought about that Tallulah bird and what happened yesterday.
An extraordinary set of circumstances. She was clearly blootered before she arrived. Had she come with sex on her mind, or had it been a bizarre by product of a genuine need to borrow my effects pedal?

I had no idea.

I haven’t had a snifter of extra-curricular combat action in over a year. I must be getting a little rusty at reading the signs.

Anyway, I rolled a spliff and sat there on the sofa for a bit, examining my feelings to get a proper perspective.

Christ, I'd shagged a complete stranger, someone I didn't fancy in the slightest. Someone I'd normally go to great lengths to avoid shagging.

What did that make me?

An calous sexual opportunist.

Yeah, baby.

And if I had no qualms about shagging the semi-repellent Tallulah, it made me wonder, given a similar set of circumstances, whether or not I’d shag the people next door as well - two fat girls from the Channel Islands.

No.

Biscuits for cheese

Apparently, the oldest Chimpanzee in recorded history is Cheetah, you know, the one that was in the original Tarzan films? He’s in his seventies now. Amazing, the fucker was a movie star, has overcome addictions to booze and cigars…surely there’s an Oscars lifetime achievement award in the offing?

Strange thing happened mid-afternoon. The doorbell rang. Not unusual in itself, it’s just the doorbell was rung by that odd guitarist girl from The Cheerful Lenas I was speaking to down The Fox on Sunday night.

You know, the one obsessed about dogs?

She stood on my doorstep, all wayward hair and shabby dark clothing, asking if I remembered her.

Yeah, of course, (but what was she doing here? Had I invited her round in the midst of an alcoholic haze?).

No.

I’d apparently offered the use of my Voodoo Vibe guitar effects pedal for a recording session she and The Lenas have tomorrow.

Ah, right.

She was Tallulah, by the way.

Oddly, we shook hands, something I always find strange with a girl. How hard should one squeeze? Too hard and one fears one might crush a few fragile lady bones, too soft and she might think one a wimp.

I invited her in. As she passed, I caught a strong whiff of booze.

In my front room she asked, brazenly as you like, if I had anything to drink about the place. Some white wine, perhaps?

I did.

Well, was it okay to have some?

Sure.

Not wanting to waste any of my good stuff, I set off for the box of shit paint stripper someone had left in my fridge over Christmas.

Tallulah followed me down the hall, speaking in torrents, an intriguing accent that I couldn’t quite place. She broke off briefly to down her first glass of white wine in one, and came back with more.

As she chuntered on, my eyes were drawn to a small tattoo of a rose peeping out if her top on her right breast.
Tallulah wiped some stray wine from her chin and looked down. “You like it?"

"Yeah."

"That's my favourite.”

“You’ve got others?”

“Three, last time I counted.”

I checked her up and down. None were visible. “You must keep them well hidden.”

“I do.”

“Where?”

“In secret places.”

Ooh, here was a creature I felt no sexual appetite for, and yet I there was an unexpected twitch deep down in my privates.

“So, um,” I coughed. “How secret are we talking here?”

Tallulah smiled coyly and swirled the wine in the glass round. “Top secret.”

Next thing I know, she's undone the first couple of buttons on her jeans, pulled down a pair of purple knickers and exposed a tattoo of an angel on her right arse cheek.

And I couldn't help it. I found myself reaching out and caressing that arse cheek, as though I had every right to.

Then we were snogging, and hard, tearing animalistically at each others' apparel.

I dragged her down the hall into bed and we got stuck in, her on top, clawing viciously at my buttocks with long purple nails, kissing the very life out of me.

She broke off with sly eyes, and began licking her way down my chest and stomach.

Yes, it was to be fellatio of the most wicked kind.

And then, ahhhh, 'twas like dumping me old chap in a warm vat of marmalade.

And as she tugged away enthusiastically on my tumescent man handle, my eyes a-rollin like marbles in their sockets, without warning, a pinky forced its way up my bum.

I damn near hurled her half-way across the room with the shock of it.
Poor girl ended up on the floor laughing hysterically .

"Sorry...involuntary spasm...it's just, I...uh, have an aversion to foreign objects entering my A-hole."

Tallulah climbed back on the bed.

The sex was brief and remarkable only because I kept my boots and socks on throughout.

Afterwards, I just wanted to get rid of her.

I actually felt mild revulsion at what had occurred, who I'd just pronged. I'd been invaded, in my home, for sex. And the loan of an effects pedal.

Thankfully, as I was preparing an elaborate lie as to why she had to leave, she announced was in a hurry.

She gathered her clothes and disappeared off to the bathroom.

From the moment she rang the bell, to the moment she stepped out the front door saying thanks and that she'd return the pedal in a couple of days took no more than 15 minutes, tops.

She left nothing but a wet patch on her side of the bed and, curiously, chunks of purple sick in the bathroom sink.

Was it me or the wine?

I know not.

Anyway, that surreal event triggered the creation of my latest poem, which I’ve written down for you.

Marvin was always starvin’

He didn’t have much for lunch

But he could punch

He became the champion, WBC

Now he’s haggling on the markets

Bollard infancy

Zosia and I still haven't spoken since the party at Mitzi's. I chose to ignore the answer machine message she left on Friday. I know it was left as bait. She wants me to call her, to grovel on my hands and knees and apologise for whatever it is that I've done to upset her. But I don't feel like apologsing. I told her I wanted out of Mitzi's party the other night. The fact that she didn't want to come too is her fault, not mine. I just can't be bothered to get into yet another conflict, you know?

I tell you, this relationship is too much like hard fucking work.

I think I'm going to finish it.

Which is why I went down The Fox last night to watch local all-girl band The Cheerful Lenas with a roving eye.

And it was there that I bumped into Spanish Andy.

Spanish Andy is a soundman. He was manning the mixing desk. He's worked for my band on a couple of tours. He's originally from Bilbao, or somewhere like that.

Anyway, I was happy to see him 'cos he's an all round nice person. Wears a permanent baffled expression on his face.

Oddly, he wasn’t sporting his customary fashionably dishevelled appearance last night. He’d had a shave, combed his hair and wore smart black clothes. And he was with a girl. Quite pretty, in a non-specific kind of way. Andy introduced us.

Man, he was so excited, talking ten to the dozen, but the music was loud and his English is so poor I had no idea what the miggins he was going on about.

I just sort of nodded along.

At the end, he just stared blankly back at me, waiting for a response.

“Sorry, Andy. What was that?”

Spanish Andy's face broke into a big grin.

He punched me hard on the shoulder, knocking me back a step, wink-winked and punched me hard on the other shoulder.

Then he gave me a bear hug, followed by a kiss on both cheeks.

He stepped back, holding me firmly by my hurting shoulders, beaming like a mad man, staring intensely into my eyes.

“I happy.”

“Good, good.”

Spanish Andy held his right hand up for me to high five. I held mine up too, but he feinted to the left and punched me in my unguarded guts.

After The Lenas finished their set, I was invited to a beer and joined Andy, his girl and a couple of the Lenas at a table in the corner.

Apart from Andy's bird, there weren't any nice ladies down the pub for me to cast my roving eye upon. Well, one of The Lenas was okay, the one I sat next to at the table, but conversation was tough going.

"That was a great gig," I lied. "You've got some cool tunes."

“I’ve been thinking," she replied. "About the phrase a ‘hang-dog expression’.”

“Yeah?”

“Do you think it refers to the expression a dog makes when it’s about to be hung? Or the expression the dog makes during the process of being hung?"

"...Um"

"Perhaps it means the expression on the face of the person trying to hang the dog?"

"Maybe."

"Must be quite tricky to hang a dog I should think, especially if it’s a big one. Just getting the noose round its neck would be a minefield for a full range of facial contortions, both dog and person…but what I don’t get is why would anyone be trying to hang a dog in the first place?

“Perhaps it wouldn’t stop shitting everywhere?”

“Yeah, and that’s another thing, what causes white dog shit..?”

I thought about that for a bit. “I knew a man once with a dog that had a bark like a little girl’s sneeze.”

“Did it have a cold?”

“A cold what?”

“The dog, did it have a cold?”

“No.”