Crake

Jesus. Busy.

Was nothing to report in work, really. Cathy made some conversation with me on Friday, she was all “hey how did it go with your brother?” and I had no idea what the fuck she was on about til I checked here again. I just nodded and thought, how does she know about him. Uh, I said. She seemed to smile at me, as if she understood. I must have looked dumb. It was casual Friday so I was decked out in some Peter and Shark and I was feeling pretty loose. After some of us went for a drink in Kennedy’s. Cathy was telling me about her trip to Australia which she’s just finished. Fuck me, but she’s really boring. She has green eyes, they shimmer like a geckos skin, and her breasts are magnificent, but I was so bored by her, it was depressing. Still, this makes it slightly easier for me, because it I don’t really care about her, I can’t really be bothered about her ‘feelings’ and such shit, I can take my sweet time with her and discard her like after. I mean, it could still be too soon for me, after Maria’s accident and that. I may have once believed that maybe soon in the future I could admit that there was the possibility she was the one. But fuck me, her face… anyway, it still hurts me to think about it. Cathy was depressing me, and the rest of those guys are fucking spanners, so I legged it.

Which was fine because I had to meet Brendon and Cillian about filming the auditions. I had some notes and said I’m nominally the director here, you just bring the camera. There was a bit of dissention there, but I laid it out. This is just the start boys, I said. You’ll see, wait and see. This will be the veritas the oeuvre has been waiting for, the actual pain of a fucking no body presented with the opportunity to work at something. This isn’t going to be easy.

As it was we were there early. We set a camera up to capture the performances and we roamed about getting the girls to say some stuff. They were mostly skangers and I got the impression that that Gert had advertised on FAS or something. There was a couple of lookers and me and Cillian were over like a shot : “what do you hope to achieve from this?”

“um, I dunno”

I mean, for fucks sake, Shirley bassey they ain’t.

A couple could sing, and after a long long long fucking day myself and Gert compared notes. We called back these too girls, and Annalisa and Gillian. Both were wearing tight bleached jeans and had good arses and knee high boots. You’d think they were sisters, but apparently they’d never met before. One had a good voice, the other was passable, she might need some training. It made me feel a little better about the whole enterprise.

Gert had suggested, in order to appease me, how about we stick a couple of guys in. fuck no, I said, the co-ed band is the fucking kiss of death. One or the other. We have to have the courage of our convictions. Gert head is hanging a bit about it all. The quality of bint over here is poor. I think eurostar is chewing up all the good ones. We’re left with fucking chaff, chubby thighed scrubbers and some good looking birds who can’t move or sing or anything. I want the first big girlband from Ireland, I say. Think about it, Irish girls are famous world over for their beauty (although not in the music centre of a Saturday) and one of the girls shouted out “what about b*witched” so I had her fucked out.

I did some post production with Brendon. He looked tired so I told him to zip over the best bits on DVD and I’ll look at them during the week, and we’d go for a drink. Brendon couldn’t make it but Cillian was game. All of a sudden it’s ten o’clock and and I’m fucked, so I called Rohan. “any nose for me,”

“sure brother,” he says. “ I just sold a bag to Gert. He was with two blonde honies in knee length boots and looked like he was gonna have a good time.”

“huh” I said.

That cunt.

I spent the night calling the fucker but heard nothing from him. I tried a few of his haunts, Coyote and xxi and kips like that but no sign. I ended up going to some awful party with Cillian. Cillian can’t drink god love him. We’re at this party and I’m talking to this thin girl with straight black hair and a fat arse and her boyfriend, or some dumb cunt anyway, comes over. He reeks of booze and has the coke eyes on. “what are you doing, PAL” he says and I can tell he’s up for it.

“having a chat” I say. “why?”

“fucking talking to my bird are you” and she looks utterly disgusted and he’s got a cork accent. I fucking hate cork people and he’s no exception, he’s staggering a little bit but he’s bunching up his fists and looking for a bit of action. Fucking cunt, I can’t be bothered, but five minutes later I get out of the jacks and there he is, “you want yer go now, boyo?” I grab his hair, stupid fucking half mullet hair cut all the scobie bogger cunts are sporting these days, and mash his face into the wall about three times. He swings his arms about ineffectually. I dig him just under the ribs. The air leaves him like he was burst tyre and he doubles up, collapsed on the ground. There’s a little streak of blood on the wall. I take his can and pour it on his prone form.

“picked on the wrong cunt, cunt” I say.

I give his bird a kiss and feel her fat arse on me way out. She’s a fucking dog but I’d ram one into her the way I am tonight. That coke Rohan gave me is vicious. I hope that Gert hasn’t fucking killed those girls.

The weather is just fucking appalling on Sunday, and no word from Gert all day. Cunt.