Thursday 23 November 2006

Wasted Night

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 Dublin, breezy razors of ice lacerate my vision, the ground is hissing with the rain and I’m heading back to Whelan’s, where I hit the smoking area again, pint in hand. There’s no-one around yet and the bouncer doesn’t seem to recognise me, so maybe the Haines crew didn’t rat me out, or couldn’t give a good description of me. I’m drinking away but it’s freezing, so I stand under one of the heaters, but it feels like my skin is being burnt off. I talk to a guy I used to know, we played rugby together in college, he’s a fat bastard now and he’s wearing a shirt that’s too small for him. I repeatedly drawn to his man tits. They curve obliquely, like a young girls. The cold causes his nipples to erect. I feel sick, like I want to hit him, but he’s big, and a strong bastard too. Good to have by your side in a ruck, let me tell you. He’s here cos his mates told him this is where all the birds come. I don’t know, there’s some totty there aright, but I’ve gotten to the age where the youngone’s don’t interest me. I say:

“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 Germany. Yo, I say and walk in, like I own the place, like I used to, rather. It makes me sad, to think of me and glen and mic when the lads played there, or that time, when he was still on the hard stuff, me and paddy Casey tried to throw the fridge out the window, or the time they threw me out on the street after I was found in the jacks with a syringe. Ha ha ha. It was a fucking joke. Rofl? Back in the day I was like the Irish banksy, you know, street art, puke as art. I went to college with a guy who had similar idea, they extended to writing his name in shit on the wall, etc. if you were anywhere with him, he’d go, eh, I’m off to the toilet, and you’d just know. There’d be some kind of political diatribe smeared in excrement over the walls.

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 England, you know places like Southampton and Clyde and shitholes like that. Just for a crust, you understand for the thrill of the road. Karen was alright. She gave average head. I nick a couple of their cans, put one in my overcoat pocket for later.

“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 Alabama. I was going to go there, and live his life for a year. Imagine what it would have been like awakening every morning to the Alabama dust and all the drinking and whoring and casual heroin use that came with it. Of course the place where Slim was both born and raised, and indeed the apple tree under which he was wed and also buried are now a K-mart, remarkable only because it’s car park is a place where the local gays get together to fist each other. It cost me months of my life, realising that. Plus a portion of my elbow and half an eyebrow.

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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