I spent the day tinkering with the script, and drinking berocca and stuff like that cos I was feeling a little but under the weather, if you catch me. I bolstered myself with dinner of Spiced salad of braised beef with roasted rice, and had a few nips from the whiskey bottle, as it was cold and inclement outside.
Ah
“I don’t know if I could.. with one of these kids…”
“what? “ he says, all in credulous. “I personally couldn’t fuck anything over 25, loike.”
I’m sure he’s referring to livestock here, cos with that nose and those plates he calls ears picking up satellite messages from mars, he’s no prize. I force myself to focus on the girls around, same as before, slim and young and unreal. They haven’t been lived in. I don’t know. It’s existential, like, when I find myself, after a hard day or some sherries or what have, surfing the net for a bit of pre-bed porn, you know, to help me sleep, I always end up searching for mature, or amateur, or some fat German girls with huge milky tits and moustaches. I don’t know what it is. I just like the reality of those women. I mean, I don’t like it as such. Rather I hate it. But I’m compelled by it.
Anyway, I tell this fat cunt I’m going to the jacks but I leave and head around to get into the venue. Joe is there and I’m all, ah Joe, for fucks sake, how are ya? It’s been a while, and the bastard is acting like he doesn’t remember me, what? He says. After five minutes of this, I just throw him the fucking money. You’re some cunt, I tell him.
The venue is empty, they now serve the pints in plastic, rather than glass, which is unacceptable. Some band of mincers are on stage, making ugly music. They’re followed by some thing roughly similar. I get bored and leave. I don’t want to the see the Jimmy Cake enough to put up with the fuckers. I go to the band room, cos I know from experience there’s always beer there, and it’s got some fay looking cunt in a bad suit, the guy that plays the piano, and he’s there with the other one, the gay looking fella from
Anyway, I’m digressing, the two saps look at me, I can tell they recognise me. I know one of them alright, when he was playing with kittser and I was playing with Karen Yello, we did a few gigs on the toilet tour in
“how’s the album coming along” I ask
“yeah fine” they mumble.
“how long’s it been?”
“sorry who are you?”
“you fucking know who I am,” I say, I can feel that fizz of aggression again. “remember Karen Yello?” he’s shaking his head, and then he says. “oh yeah” and then they both stand up and some crusty with a tache comes in and kicks me out. I head back to the gig, sipping my beer. I stay for about 3 songs. I could have joined that band a couple of years ago when they were thinking of kicking out the fat bassist, but I turned it down cos I wanted to make a documentary about Slim Bones McGee, the legendary blues singer in
I head to roma two, have a shit burger and go home in a cab. Waste of life, tonight. Waste of fucking time.
I think I’m lonely.
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