Monday, June 09, 2003
"Who put the 'cunt' in Scunthorpe?" Your mum and dad did, Adam.
No. That's harsh. There was a strange acceptance there, bordering on *gosh* respect. Almost. Like Iran broders Iraq. No, no, no. It was Mr Perry, wasn't it? Mr Perry who didn't have a clue. Who was a man without culture. Who spent his last year travelling America and who learnt nothing about it because what's America? To us? The east coast and the west coast and McDonalds and then a big void in the middle, which is, oddly enough, where the Americans live. As opposed to the Californians and the New Yorkers and such like. You are what you have on your walls... Are you? They close in on you; get some posters up fast. Make it yours, make it you. What did Perry have up? Two dozen pieces of plain white paper, landscape, scrawled; YOU FUCKING CUNT. How? How? How did he live and sleep in this room? How did, fuck knows her name, Sarah, from Brighton, who knew Dan from school, strangely enough, Sarah, who was basically a decent person, how did she sleep with him make love to him fuck him let him fuck her in that room?
And now you're having a dream and Jeremy Beadle is throwing things at you. With his little hand.
And these asian guys are outside being all fucking comeonthenyouwankahz and these fucking football hooligans doing degrees are inside the kitchen being all fucking comeonthenyouwankahz and all that's separating them is two thin panes of kitchen window. And that one, he doesn't even live in this flat, Adam, and you love him, in a totally non-platonic, full-on admiration and homoeroticism kindofway, only you're football hooligans and the thought is so alien that you'd rather, fuck knows, commit rape? Puke on your own face? Murder somone? Eat your own faeces? You love him and you hate it. And what's he doing? He doesn't even live here. And- fuck me -he's put his hand through the fucking window, you pillock, at midnight, drunken and angry and mob-headed and a fool, a fucking moron, put his hand straight through and I come into the kitchen and I see blood pouring all over this floor that I'm paying £53 a week to share with you, and what the fuck do we do from here? I pull shards of glass out of his lacerated palm, his fingerprints diced to beyond recognizable, William Blake and Miles Davis left alone in my room to ozmosis their words and sounds into thin air because I am in the kitchen preparing a meal of wankahzhand, wrapping my own pillowcase around his hand tight to stem the flow, picking bits of compressed sand from his oh-so-easy-to-find lifeline (easy to find? because it's pumping blood onto my shoes). In my kitchen. That costs £53 a week. And Dave was kicking a football against my door at 3am. And Dan and I were inhaling marker pens at 2am. And anonymous was bleeding at midnight. And Adam was distributing counterfeit clothes at 1pm. And Perry was fucking Sarah at 5am. And Psycho was missing his girlfriend at 8pm. And so I left.
6/09/2003 04:45:00 pm
|
|
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home