Guest Blog: Everyone I've Ever F*cked.
#6: Briony - Freeway Girl

Do you recall that Brian #5's best friend used to throw unsuccessful all night parties to get him and me together? My then best friends both had an enormous schoolgirl crush on her. An attractive actress, artist, and a middle class hippy chick pothead, they thought she was everything cool. I thought she smelled funny. And I felt constant creeping envy of her unconsummated closeness with Brian #5. Perhaps it was the non-consummation I actually envied.
Anyway, a small party, much flirting between Briony and Mad Dwarf Girl, much tactile, hands-laying, much wine. A miniature orgy ensued, of the mild, unexciting suburban style. And how suburban, frozen, and calculating the venality turned out to be. Fuelled by fear, envy, cowardice. George Orwell would have been proud.
Have you ever fucked someone purely to prevent them from boffing someone else? Don't. It's the most soul destroying nasty thing. To be caught up in a moment that should be about giving, to be entirely focussed on what is not present, upon taking. That was some of the nastiest most soul-destroying sex I ever experienced in my life. It felt hollow, brutal, like a rape, where I was the rapist. I felt no desire. I felt no urge to please. Only to distract her, to occupy a space, to prevent.
Such was my introduction to the sapphic netherworld's seamy underbelly. It scared me so badly that I didn't touch another woman for five years.

Posted by Clytemnestra, as part of the Twelve Guest Blogs of Christmas

Guest Blog: Everyone I've Ever F*cked.
#5: Brian - The Ageing Pop Star

Appropriately, after four years living with this musician, I find it hard to select a representative moment. However, this moment might just do: I awoke, found a stray homeless man, leafing through the copious and comprehensive record collection, stepped over the prone, curled and foetal unconscious body of my one and only, (who had fallen head first onto a full ashtray in an acid and Tennant's Super fucked stupor earlier that morning), to fill the kettle at the kitchen sink. I left him there, and showed the nice, young, encrusted Italian beggar the door, before leaving for a lecture on medieval literature.
As a sexual style, Brian was artistic, clammy, gentle; although one could also insert frenzied and ineffectual rutting into into that sentence. After I left, he reverted to his strings of male ballet dancers with a sigh of relief.
But Brian had begun as a mysterious, Bowie-like figure. Tall, vulpine, bonily attractive, with an aquiline nose. Think John Hurt, young and rangy. I had spotted him while in a pub with Byron, the year before, who had whispered to me about Brian's chart single, his reputation for liking it rough and for swinging both ways. All of which added to the glamour.
Years later, I discovered that Brian had been following me home from school since I was fourteen, that he thought I had teeth like David Bowie, and that half of the parties I had been to with Brian #3 (who eventually turned out to be Brian #5's regular dealer) had been engineered specifically by Brian #5's best friend in order that he meet me. Of course, I'd been too preoccupied by the social awkwardness of public intercourse with #4; I left early, sober, and uninitiated each time. Some may deem a man who stalks schoolgirls not the most attractive of suitors, however, I was that supremely egotistical age of seventeen, where obeisance to oneself appears to be a logical state of affairs, so this only accentuated Brian #5's aptitude, as a paramour, his qualification to be my devotee.

Posted by Clytemnestra, as part of the Twelve Guest Blogs of Christmas

Guest Blog: Everyone I've Ever F*cked.
#4: Brian - The Killer

And so began a run of sexually ambivalent men. Brian was in love with, and a fully fledged stalker of my friend Rocky. Rocky was my own teenaged version of Mrs Madrigal and Barbary Lane - a fifty-something Californian pot head, wise beyond his years, an ex-servicemen obsessed with origami, and being cultured and intelligent, something of a catch on the gay scene. Brian, however, was a dimwit News of the World reading arsehole from Aberdeen. He would sleep with anything and anyone - primarily, I was to discover, because he was so enormously endowed that his standard sexual experience consisted of jealous men or screaming women who refused him on sight of the monster. (including myself; "you're not putting that ... that ... thing in me!" His response was to sigh fatalistically).
Brian had bought the house opposite Rocky's (a one-time liaison had introduced the two), and had a telescope set up in his bedroom. He knocked on Rocky's door every day; he knew Rocky's movements and whereabouts intimately. After enduring Brian's speeches about Constable's 'Hay Wain' and the music of Sade (a good ten years after Sade's era), I decided the man was both fool and bore.
He gave me my first driving lesson - a white-knuckle ride, I recall. The last time I saw him, Brian was brandishing his pork sabre in sausage-sword fights in a pub toilet. He was a gentle but stupid man, yet the last time I heard of him, Brian had been chased out of town by an actual angry mob after not one but two hit and run accidents, the second killing a ten year old girl. Misjudgement. Oh what misjudgement I showed. You sell yourself cheaply if you don't know what you're worthy of yet.

Posted by Clytemnestra, as part of the Twelve Guest Blogs of Christmas

Guest Blog: Everyone I've Ever F*cked.
#3: Brian - The Shiver of Ice and Whiskey

A seedy, middle aged artist.
Oh, how the overly romanticised had fallen. We were friends, would chat about our paintings. One New Year's Eve, I held this artist, and kissed him in a hot, steamy pub. By chance, he'd moments before drained his tumbler of whiskey on the rocks. A chaste, warm, cuddly New Year's kiss - but his mouth tasted of sharp, full whiskey, and shocking cold ice. It was a surprise, and I pulled away, looked at him fresh.
It was months before anything came of it, but I knew right then that I'd have him someday.
This was the first truly casual, emotionless lover I'd accomplished. In contrast to the flailing but passionate Byron, Brian was competent, but unmoved. He lived a street away, and with a defiance that was frankly hard hearted, I'd flout my newly acquired teenaged curfew by wandering over to Brian's house and holding his plump smooth body close, to have wordless, inartistic sex every day before teatime.
Eventually the coldness, the seedy nature of the coupling began to dawn on me. I began to wander to the park to wash with freezing water in public toilets and cry, instead of finding my way home for the family meal. Brian's art didn't seem all that inspired (I believe a Trafalgar Square pavement is his canvas these days), his home a stinking pit. I started to realise the too soft bed was the only part of his life I'd truly seen. My next lover pointed out that everyone else in the town was completely aware that Brian was an ex-con, the local drug dealer, had a history which was well known. And I was glad that at the time it had been wordless.

Posted by Clytemnestra, as part of the Twelve Guest Blogs of Christmas

Guest Blog: Everyone I've Ever F*cked.
#2: Brian - Cheap and Nasty

I can't even remember this young rake's name. Dancing at a nightclub in Gloucester (quote of the evening from my first openly gay male friend, Fashion Victim: "I'm a trained dancer, and so I have ways of responding to such dire music; but I can see that you're finding it difficult, dear.")
This was a short, plump, gingery Brian, whom I barely knew. A man in dungarees, for heaven's sake. Smashed out of my brains and feeling rebellious about the wayward Byron, who at that point persisted in snogging mental defectives then regaling me with the gory details, I decided to wreak my awful revenge by tawdry smutty bad sex in a nightclub with a chap I did not find the least bit appealing, nor would I ever want to see again. Come on girls, I know you've done it. Drunk enough to lose all sense of perspective, I completely failed to notice, amongst the artillery fire of disco lights and awful, predictable bombardment of 'YMCA', my location. I'd selected the open stage of the nightclub upon which to portray the destruction of reputation, honour and self-esteem.
Blase the next day, I had refreshingly little memory of the episode. Not for long, when at least sixteen people expressed how horrified my low morals had made them. The quiet, mousy, literary type no more.

Posted by Clytemnestra, as part of the Twelve Guest Blogs of Christmas

Guest Blog: Everyone I've Ever F*cked.
#1: Byron - The Ancient Moonlight Kiss

Can you imagine? Clytemnestra and Byron? Could there be any more of a romantically christened union than two children tasting their first experience of physical lust than Clytemnestra and Byron? Even the most graceless virgin must in some way acknowledge the lure of the melodramatic, to take a first lover that is, truly, Byronic.
Ah well. I guess names can mask a world of horror. I found Alexandria soulless and impersonal, whereas Catford, say, is a place of unparalleled excitement and adventure.
No, really.

So, Byron. Slight, dark, slim with fine features, olive skin, soft lips, kind eyes, sensitive hands. A musician; first in a long line of such. We met in a gaudy nightclub, both watching and deploring others possessing less self awareness than we. We agreed to go for a long walk in an icy April dawn, before the moon fell, and before the sun came up. Wandering, talking exhaustively, the question of a kiss arose. I had only ever kissed Briony in primary school, Brian at a sixth form party. I demurred, pointing out that he might not possess the oral skills required. He instantly offered to practise - and we stood side by side, french kissing the cold dark window of a deserted bakery in the small hours, before comparing the patterns left by lips, tongue and breath. Thus I was satisfied he was qualified, for the first kiss I ever cared about.
I was that age of gawky teenage where you feel a pained kinship with the elephant man and nothing is more certain that the fact that nobody could ever love you.
We walked to the oldest part of town - a ruined country estate, and wandered through the huge oak, ash and sycamore trees that edged the hill, looking out over the pitch, twinkling horizon, and the looming Downs beyond. Walking further, we decided that in the days before the estate's ruin, this corner must have been an orchard. Blundering through a hedge into one of the gardens lining the old estate's perimeter, we found a set of children's swings, and rocked, talking in the moonlight , for another four hours.
Yes, we did attempt sex, but two virgins plus a cold snap are not exactly conducive to a grand amour, and the logistics and geometry of the thing defeated us. I felt it as a personal affront at the time, a humiliation of the highest order, a failure on my part at the whole enterprise of love and sex (Although really, a fearful, still sixteen part of me was rather relieved). It was years later that I'd become experienced enough to notice that the delectable Byron - with the soft eyes, the moist red mouth, with the sweet warm saliva - and a lack of knowledge of female geography that was stupendously absolute - Byron was himself clearly unschooled and inexperienced. Its the nature of early-mid teens to assume that everyone but oneself is born 'knowing' these things, after all.
I didn't lose my virginity that night (that honour was reserved for a seedier, older, more conventional locale, a year on), but I did lose my heart, my soul, my innocence. The glorious summer of longing and wanting, and waiting that followed, I often walked through the same orchard, knowing and reliving that moment again - crisp air, frozen grasses, dark wet leaves, frosted vapours of breath, thick coats and warm bodies beneath, icy, silvered moonlight and above all a feeling of something ancient, something almost tribal occurring - that was the moment I'd remember. The moment my adult world began.

[* In honour of how it sounds I've given a pale shadow of this nom de plume to all the other assignations and liaisons in this series]

Posted by Clytemnestra, as part of the Twelve Guest Blogs of Christmas

Pulling Power

Now Playing: Philip Glass, 'Vanessa and the Changelings'

Last night I got back from visiting Toulouse in Paris. It was definitely the best weekend of 2003 by a long way. It was such a fucking relief just to simply not have to be me for two days. Added to that I now have a sappy schoolie crush on Toulouse's boyf, Ernesto, who is exactly like every flamingly masculine boy I ever fancied at school.
Thank you to JatB, who's been posting up my old crappy discarded draft-blog-posts in my absence. I notice she didn't pick the one about the alphabetti spaghetti recurrences in her sex life .... ;o)

* * *

Toulouse made me go to parties, and kept dragging over gorgeous but rather straight women for me to chat up. My technique was somewhat less than successful.

"Was that a secret lesbian code?" asked Toulouse, the morning after the night before.
"For what?"
"Reading a comic book and ignoring attractive women who try to speak to you at parties."
"Oh, that code. Yes, it's part of an elaborate lesbian seduction ritual. When they try to dance with you, you must face the other way with your arms folded."
And a face like thunder.
"Thought so."

Perhaps I need to brush up on my technique.

* * *

At a party in Paris, I kept hiding in the coat room and stroking the apartment cats. That's awful, isn't it?

* * *

Arriving at Gare du Nord, I was horrified yet again by the sameyness of French fashion. For a fashionable nation, the denizens of the capital don't half look generically downtrodden and grim. I was, I admit, wearing way too much red - patent red knee boots, long red coat, red belt, red socks, multicoloured striped sweater. And at rush hour on Friday at Strasbourg Saint Denis, everyone else was wearing sober black, sober blue, sober grey ...
I got to Toulouse's place, and although unutterably more stylish than most, he too was wearing black.
What's with the black? I had paranoid internal conniptions the rest of the weekend that I looked like a mental defective escaped from the country asylum in my clownish brights.
By Sunday, I was panickily counting every red coat I could find. With relief, I noted eleven red coats, only one of which was in the Eurostar terminal (and therefore possibly not French at all). With typical gaucheness, I assured myself that in a day and a half flat, I'd started a city-wide trend. Rah.
Back in London, I travelled the Jubilee line, the only red-coat-wearing passenger in sight. My fellow Britishers were there in abundance; wearing sober black, sober blue, sober grey ...

* * *

As well as taking me to a party in the largest, most bizarrely constructed Parisian loft I've ever seen, Toulouse and Ernesto took me out for dinner somewhere real ritzy on Friday night. Explaining that French menus go in for much colourful allusion, that French waiters just shrug when quizzed about contents, they guesstimated I'd ordered a pork dish. When it arrived, faces fell, and Toulouse said the description had been 'literal'.
Literal? Literally food? He refused to elaborate until I'd eaten it. It did actually taste nice, but my mind was racing as I digested. What could it be? It had to be offal, for him to refuse to translate like that. Ernesto said his Argentinian grandfather had used to eat it, worrying me further.
I made believe I was eating morel mushrooms and strips of fried squid. My mind couldn't help wandering: Lips? Cheeks? Trotters?
Finishing the dish, I reasoned with myself that whatever it turned out to be, it had tasted salty, baconish, nice. I wouldn't balk too much at eating it again. Mild flutterings of panic across my stomach couldn't change that. What was it?

I'd eaten a pig's ear.
Revulsion.

Logging On

Now Playing: Phillip Glass , 'Morning Passages'

I'd never quite realised how utterly unsociable / dehumanising computers can be, until I wandered along five carriages of the Eurostar train and spotted the loud, boisterous happy family of four who had irritated me so much in the ticket queue by singing, chatting, playing with the door sensors.
At a family table, three of them had assembled their laptops, and all stared glumly and silently ahead, tapping away, while the youngest sat bored and unencumbered by technology.
The presence of three liquid crystal screens had sapped all the verve and lively interchange from them. They seemed barely conscious of each other's presence, and the youngest kicked the wall disconsolately, ignored.
I know I'll sound an awful prig saying it, but somehow I think the loud and annoying games of Snap, Dominoes, Cheat, Lady and Queenie of my childhood train journeys seem preferable.

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What Foibles do you Have?

Nicked from Alfred the OK, yet again.

Adult Foibles

Eating food by ingredient sequence.
Ordering my books on the shelves by publisher. (One night, before my finals, in a fit of caffeine, I speed-read the complete works of Shakespeare, then still had time to arrange my books in order of literary influence.)
Maintaining frozen, panicky eye contact with spiders.

Childish Foibles

Aged five, leaving all the doors open on the first floor open so I could pee while never taking my eyes from the witch who lived in the tree outside. (Bipolar? Moi?)
Covering every orifice -- particularly ears -- with the blanket before I could sleep (so the Devil -- or the Earwigs -- couldn't get in.) See Alfred for the inifinite efficacy of the protective eiderdown.
Spitting on the front step so my sister would trip. (Actually, I did this only once, then hid behind the hedge. My sister raced out, singing, tripped on the step, hurt herself badly. I was horrified. I resolved there and then to reserve my powers only for good, never evil.)
Muttering the words "lesbianlesbianlesbianlesbian" all through the thirty five minute walk to school.
Not looking in a mirror for more than thirty seconds, once per day. "Somebody" had told me the devil might stare back at me if I looked too often.
Refusing to ever button my coat up in winter.

Body Dysmorphia

"If I'd known I would live so long, I would have taken better care of myself."
William Blake

Each of us, no matter what a sad act, has one complex, life-long relationship - with our body.
One of my favourite bits of Frankenstein - when the Creature informs Victor Frankenstein in the Caves of Ice that he plays the flute; "in which part of my body did this knowledge reside?" Perhaps musical talent is in the soul, but the genetic heritage you take from your makers is real enough.
One of my favourite Friend in Danger of Attack with Sharp Objects remarks came from HarvardBoy, a few years ago, when I was a porky porky lard ass. He wandered up to me one morning and said "you know people with big round bellies like yours are at a higher risk of heart disease."
When my face fell in horror, he attempted to mollify me by pointing out how much more rotund my belly was than any other part of my body, and that only someone who truly cared would say this.
Yes, he can still walk unaided, but it was a close-run thing.

The body that you're born with, versus the body that you make for yourself. And how you imagine that body to look is fascinating to me.
Nobody ever sees their back view. Sit in a busy station, and you can pick out one person in twenty who really really doesn't visualise their rear view when they dress in the morning.
Ack, that wasn't what I meant to blog about - I'm skinny as a rake, but I have what feels to me like podge in a layer across my belly. I know that exercise would tauten it. But I'm so skinny that it feels unfair. If I'm going to exercise, I at least want sexual reward.
Actually ... (brightens) ... the gym's good for voyeurs, innit?

Chatty

Why do people keep chatting to me? Do I have friendless and gullible tattooed on my forehead?
'Talk to Me; I Don't Run or Scream for at Least Ten Minutes'?

Scene: The Garage. Late afternoon.
Wanker: Are you going to be buying diesel or petrol?
Gullible Twat: Neither. I want to wash my car.
Is this a Pepsi petrol taste challenge? The car is covered in bird shit. Is he blind?

Scene: The Supermarket Checkout. Evening.
Wanker: Is that The Times?
No, love, it's a pigeon. Are the two inch high letters confusing you?
Wanker: Are they tabloid now?
It is, I suppose just about possible that I shrank the newspaper in the wash, smuggled it back in here, and now I want to pay for it.
Gullible Twat: No, they publish a tabloid option. You can choose. I think they're trying to compete with The Independent.
Mistake number one. Don't engage the nosey fuckers in conversation.
Wanker: (nods at the front page) Have you been following that case? Has he admitted it?
Dunno. Have you got halitosis? Oh, I see you have.
Girly Twat: Dunno. I think he has.
If I read the sodding paper, I might know. But that would involve you shutting the hell up and letting me buy the damn thing.
Wanker: What?! Her, too? Admitted it.
Oh pur-lease: talk in full sentences if you want a bloody answer.
Girly Twat: (sigh) No. He admitted they died in his house. He blamed her for the lies.
Wanker: Have you got a loyalty card? I did read about it, but I didn't ... it was a bit ...
Say goodbye to the Lady Coherence and all her little followers, folks.
Please God, just let me pay and extricate myself from this.
Girly Twat: It got a bit horrible reading all the details, didn't it? Yeah.
Oh great. Now I feel guilty and voyeuristic for buying The Times. The least hysterical newspaper I can find, and you infected it with prurience by association. Bastard. Gimme my change.

But why the hell were so many strangers chatting to me today?

Scene: Car park. Late evening.
Wanker: Excuse me, but where do you get your hair done?
In the bathroom, with the nail scissors, whenever I feel horrifically depressed, love. Why?
Girly Twat: Toni and Guy in Canary Wharf. Erm ... er ... uhhhh ... why?
Wanker: (whips out advertising brochure for a beauty salon) mmmfle murmur mumble ...
Okay, it got too boring even to type out.
He wanted a #50 downpayment on my next haircut, right there in the car park. If it hadn't been well-lit, I'd have thought he was offering to do it himself, with this shiny big hunting knife ...

I thought the point of London was a belligerent malevolent glare can replace ninety percent of normal discourse.

Too busy to blog. No really. Look, it's shorter than sodding usual, alright?

Running around like a mad happy thing, trying to collect all the bits of old crusty manky underwear, and the odd faded bogey, so that the place merely appears dirty and unkempt while it's being house-sat this weekend. They can't seriously be offended by just three days of dirty dishes, surely? It's only a month or so since I changed the sheets. Well, okay, four months, if you're going to count that other bed as well. Perhaps they'll just think the sheets are satin. Sort of satin in the middle.
With mucus stains.
Duch came over the other day and remarked upon the clumps of cat hair clinging to the side of the bath. I swear to you that's not a normal occurrence - in fact it was probably somehow her fault. Nay, definitely. The old beef mince in the drains is her fault, too.
Oh yeah, must sweep all the kitty litter out of the hallway. And pick up the dirty clothes from the pile I started in September. I'll leave the mouldy coffee in the cafetiere - it's doing no harm to anyone. The blue-green crystals forming inside the teapot are quite pretty really.
Oh, and hide the Christmas presents - don't want anyone to know in advance how crap they are, do I?
All so I can go visit Toulouse in Gay Paree - a full twelve months since I last left the forbidden isles, and about time too. I shall thoroughly enjoy anything that doesn't involve screaming at the general public, or being woken up at an ungodly hour by a moist cat's arse. Yippee!

Car in Crisis

Now Playing: Shut the fuck UP you bloody noisy fucking neighbours from hell - SHUT THE FUCK UP.
(Sorry.)

Given what a distrustful, obsessive control freak I usually am about anything that matters, I persist in being amazed by the miracle of the motor car.
As a five year old, I ate too much cheese before bedtime once, and dreamt I invented the motor car. It was another 25 years before I figured out what a clutch pedal or gears did, though, despite having a 12 speed bike and a dad who explained the thing every other weekend.

Girly Twat: I was told you sometimes sold second hand cars?
Butchy Man: Yes, but we don't have anything right now.
Girly Twat: (sobbing into the telephone loudly) You don't understand .... I know nothing about cars. You don't know how easy it is to take advantage of me. If you don't promise to help me, I'll lose all my money and get a death trap. Please please help me. (outright lurching heaving sobs)
Ahh but you do understand something about cars, you manipulative minx - you just did nought to hysterical in under four seconds.
Butchy Man: (heavy sigh) Oh okay then, I'll keep an eye out for you.

There's not much that's as disempowering as having a car and knowing absolutely nothing about how it works. The awful thing is my growing propensity -- unheard of in my youth -- to try to girly my way out of it.

Girly Twat: I need to bring my car in for its MOT.
Butchy Man: Okay - It's a Volkswagen .... what?
Girly Twat: Um.
Fucking amazing. Four years of university to accredit that bloody um.
Girly Twat: Golf. Polo? Volkswagen Golf. Polo.
Listen, love, if you're going to lie so blatantly - and it is a blatant lie, you have no fucking idea what that car is - then at least try to stick to a consistent lie. Say Mini Metro. But stick to your story for at least two frigging seconds.
Butchy Man: Which is it?
Girly Twat: It's red.
It's time you did the dishes, sweetpea. Your brain is hurting. Jesus.

I first discovered this technique of being a hopeless loser, but affecting a giggle and short skirt while doing so aged about 25 (I was a late developer in the girly stakes - didn't wear pink till I was 29, and thought I better do it quick before it took on Barbara Cartland hues.) Faced with the fourteenth house move in four years, staring despondently at the huge amount of stuff that I'd piled, homeless, for one fortnight into the flat of an Uncle Charles of someone at work, I swallowed my pride and put on a bright blue mini and stilettos. I picked up one bag and clattered affectedly down the stairs when the removal men arrived. "Sorry, I'm not feeling awfully strong."
Fucking hell, should have tried that years ago... Not only did they move everything without the usual tired recriminations and blackmail, they paid for me to go eat breakfast while they did it, then sorted me out a new flat. Still, the shame of it rankled a little. I mean, it's cheating, isn't it? If you're a dyke.

Butchy Man: So, here's that secondhand motor I rang you about. Look, I'll lift the bonnet for you, okay. There.
Watch it, mate - I know this is a legal requirement, but you're getting pretty technical there. I might faint from the added pressure to my dizzy little head.
Girly Twat: Oooooooh! Is that what they look like inside?
Hey look, at least you didn't shout 'yecch! all dirty!'
Butchy Man: Do you want to test drive it now?
You can just hear the horror in his tone, can't you?
Girly Twat: Oh no, no, no, I can't drive. You'll have to test drive it for me. I'll watch.
What kind of a social fucking retard takes a car for a Test Passenge? A mincing girly twat, that's what.

Considering that I have to call the AA yellow van man out simply to change a tyre on my car, it's a fair miracle that any vehicle of mine has survived the four collisions and six break ins of the past three years since learning to drive.

Girly Twat: Excuse me? You look strong.
Butchy T-shirt Man: (assumes the startled look of a sexual harrassment victim) Unhh?
Yes, you. I'm verbally molesting you in front of your mates. You better come up with the goods, needle dick.
Girly Twat: I can't do this. (wild gesture under car bonnet.) Can you get the lid off this water tank for me? I've been trying for aaages. I hit it with the oil can but I'm too weak to....
Actual real live shame prevented me from finishing that sentence. I'm going to hell.
Butchy T-shirt Man: Grunt. (easily turns lid screw.)
Girly Twat: (bursts into applause and hops) Ooooh, thank you!
Butchy T-shirt Man: (runs)

Lidl

Mood:  vegas lucky
Everywhere on earth has somewhere like Lidl. It's the place near the welfare offices, where the poor people shop in small values for items that were bought in huge bulk. The place that wastes no time on ambience, customers, heating, even on shelving. A wooden pallet on the floor containing 500 tins of Polish corned beef is enough - the real attraction is the price.
The first time I went to Lidl, my mum took me, and I was surprised by how similar it is to shopping abroad. You know that disorientation you feel when not a single package in an entire aisle says anything you recognise, in the colours you're used to letting rest in your supermarket peripheral vision, or even any labels in your own language. Similar products, but with ever so slightly wrong names. I bought a packet of Jaffa cakes yesterday, only they were fairy-sized, in a pack, not a tube, and they were called Mini Orange Sponges.
This spring, I'd waited a few times in Lidl car park while the ex signed up for her UB40 at the council offices across the road. But I'd concentrated my energies then on posing with my new secondhand car, and seeing how many pikeys I could persuade to wink at me by wearing ever more revealing outfits. This is not at all the same thing as Shopping at Lidl.
So, shattered after a two hour detour through the wrong Thames tunnel, last night I decided to break my commute at Limehouse Lidl, in the hopes of buying some Germanic looking crap. Germans do Christmas food well, don't they?
The first thing that hit me was the clinging, uncared for damp smell. This is like walking into Iceland a day after they switch the freezers off.
The second was: no shelves. Lidl will dump the packing box on a crate on the floor, saw off the top and bung a price sticker on. Bish bosh. No arranging of the organic pasta sauces so the labels face outwards.
Then the lack of organisational theme: summer flip flops next to battered Advent calendars, next to alien breakfast cereals that feature unfamiliar cartoon monkeys, next to Swiss cheeses. Of course I say a lack of theme, but whoever placed the lighter fuel alongside the cheap bottles of Schnapps must have had some sense of humour.
I hadn't leapt back in horror at the size and texture of a fat uncooked Bratwurst for a good twelve months, so there was a welcome sensation. Some of the less exotic products did attempt to translate themselves for the uninitiated - just as whenever I go to France in winter I get reminded that truly no lie, the rosbifs love to eat rotted food each Christmas (mince pies? plum pudding?), so the mince pies here had helpful subtitles: pastry cases with mincemeat inside. I dunno, still sounds a little rotted to me.
Clutching my stack of comestibles (mini orange sponges, apples in metric weights, Magenbrot and bon-bons mit sahne), I queued with the other plebs. And queued. And queued.
Because at Lidl, there's only ever two people on checkout, and they can take all the time they want to, knowing full well there's nowhere else you can go if you don't like it. Even Kwik-Save is pricier. Inching past the special offer Stollen, marzipan fancies and other utterly non-english sweetbreads, I began to notice the unhealthy pallor of my fellow shoppers. The way a cut glass accent sounded wrong. How many people were clutching multi-packs of Eastern European branded lager. People in thin looking unbranded clothing, with acne, rosacea, and pinched expressions.
I once rented a flat in Berlin, during reunification, and the interminable queues at Lidl made me recall being poor and going over to the East in order to feel richer for a day; before the border controls dropped entirely, and during a particularly cash-strapped spell. In West Berlin I was just a hick Britisher with crappy German, who used to get spat at on the U-Bahn if I spoke too loudly in English, and wore the wrong fashions (white instead of black - horrors!) (Christ, I loathe Berlin, but that's another story...) Behind the Iron Curtain, I was suddenly transformed into rich decadent Westerner. I minced up to the largest department store, where elaborately made up, grandiose assistants gave you a chit that allowed you to approach the one single triangular stack of tinned fish in the store. I followed the shopping spree with a trip to the restaurant of the most expensive hotel I could find, and stuffed myself with the finest bacon, eggs, cold gravy and lumpy mash, because that's the most expensive thing they served. From that point on, I decided not to glory in my wealth, but to stick to feasting on fried chicken in Kreuzberg. Brrrr.
Back in Limehouse, fourteen years later, as I paid for my wares (in cash - coins - putting your food on Visa as I'd normally do seemed to express a wanton and unseemly frivolity), I was interrupted by boozer number six in the queue returning to quibble about his 50 pee money off coupons. I left the change and got out of there.
Perhaps I should buy a cheaper flat, something that still allows me enough money to shop in a place that sells Clementines.

Victory Parade

Now Playing: weeping friend in the other room who's upset, drunk and distraught.

Not to put too bloodthirsty a point on it, but what is there to celebrate? Next week? A celebratory ping pong match? World heavyweight flower arrangers?
What a miserable over hyped meagre excuse for a parade the rugby result was. A shambolic reminder of how little we have to gloat over. And Chris de Burgh pauses his dancing at nipple height with his lady in red for long enough to see his daughter win Miss World. Hosted by China. Years after Mao finally convinced the rest of the world that yes, the contest is vile Western decadence, they go ahead and host it anyway. And boy but were those women caked in slap. They were nineteen years old, but all looked like 32 year old in fight attendants. On those parameters alone Lily Savage should have been hosting. Winners, indeed.
Can't these people devote their energies to sorting out a Norn Iron peace treaty for gawdssakes? That I would wave a flag in the Mall for.
In fact, just what are the victories of the nation? Huh?

Victorious
London's unparalleled record on miscegenation and interracial harmony.
The Sixties - the old duffers from back then are annoying, but at least they decriminalised abortion, homosexuality and divorce.
Indian independence - the jewel in the crown given back. That was worth a knees up.
Concorde, test tube babies, the National Health Service, the Open University.
The Thames barrier and the Channel Tunnel.
I haven't had a sniff of firewater in three weeks (can you tell? I'm so a pub bore now.)

Victorian
The Monarchy.
Public transport.
The Anglo-American 'special' relationship that has held us tied to an over-reliance on US foreign policy decisions and nuclear capability for fifty years now.
Unemployment. The whole damn ritual of poverty and inequity.
Education.
Governmental belligerence out of all proportion to its actual power (Falklands, Kosovo, the Gulf).
Doctors, lawyers, religious groups and poofs. The new middle class repressives of the world.

And anyway, don't any of these hitherto disinterested, sudden rugby viewers know the third and fourth sodding lines to 'Swing Low Sweet Chariot'?

I'm ready for my Ambulance Man, Mr De Mille

Now Playing: Justin Fucking Timberlake

I should be arriving in Cambridge right now, but I forgot to set an alarm of any of the four kinds I usually use, then decided today was a good day to straighten my hair (wrong: combined with the nail-scissors induced hair cut, it merely looks like it's been combed, for once; however, I'm pleased to report that within one month I shall cease to be blonde and rejoin the ranks of ginger), to sort out the three human height piles of clean washing (so long since I did this that there's still washing of Wickedex's in there, and she stopped doing any housework here back in June), and then pose a lot in my new underwear. I had an underwear buying splurge on Friday (one that was entirely, totally unrelated to the depressing visit to the adjacent mortgage advisor, who'd gently informed me that the ex-council flats in Bermondsey which I'd thought I'd been brought down to are slightly out of my reach, financially), and true to my own typecasting, bought lots of knickers with jewellery in the bumcracks. I know, I know, there are more dignified ways of describing them, but jewellery up the bumcrack was the selling point for me.
Matching sets, of course - bizarrely, since I haven't slept with anyone since January - well, actually, I have, but I haven't rogered anyone since January, so that time I woke up in bed with Martin and Looby, although definitely a knicker flashing occasion (sports set, white), doesn't count. First matching jewel encrusted bumcrack set of undies were worn on Friday, to the work Christmas party in (gasp) Charlton. Black and silver glitter, with black diamante bumcrack, and comfy-pillows bra (extra pillows down the bra very much required after recent crappy relationship-withdrawal weight loss - I have ribs where bazookas should be). Real danger of public flashing, owing to the ridiculous prozzer mini - so short I didn't have to hitch it up to pee. In fact, the evening was testament to the fact that if everyone else is pissed, you don't actually need to be pissed yourself to act stupid, as at one point, having staggered back to someone's house, I realised I was sat peeing (on the bog, I've never yet repeated the Funky Buddha pee-expo), having neither pulled my skirt up, or the jewel-bumcrack string knickers down. But honestly, there was so little material, I doubt much piss got on the knickers.
Yesterday, I wore the red silk fifties bikini effort - no bumcrack jewels, as these were sporty Betty Page looking efforts, but there were some rocks nestled in the arid expanse of no cleavage. Which kept itching. Prompting some embarrassing scratching at Asda. But hell, I spent my Saturday night doing CNPS and going to look at the Dome by moonlight, who cares what itching nonsense nestles in my sweaty cracks unless I end up on a mortician's slab during such a lone-gunman-type recce? Which, when my car began to break down in the Blackwall Tunnel (again), wasn't such a far-off possibility.
Today is pale pink jewel-encrusted rock solid undies. If you poke the top of the apparently humongous boobs, they deflate (always makes me giggle, Bloke Opposite, who was thankfully out during last night's knicker dancing episode, must think I'm some sort of pervert - squeezing my bits, then pissing myself laughing). When I get to Cambridge, my sis is going to think I've had breast implants. Unless she sees them with a seat belt deflating the whole effort. Snigger.
Two Jaffa cakes left, then I'm outta here. Toe-socks, jewelled bumcrack, pink deflated knockers and all.
Hieronymo's gone mad againe.

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CNPS

Weirdly appropriate to last night's Slapper Gear was the kerb crawling I've been practising this week. It took me many hours, but I'm now a master at prowling along a kerbside at 4mph with a quietly humming motor, as I eyeball those waiting willing victims who line the roadside, trying to find the one who will satisfy my keen probing eye ....

I spent forty minutes in the Sainsbury's car park in Charlton last week, looking for number 21. I swear the woman eating a sandwich in her car outside B & Q was about to ring the police. I spent a bit less time in Canary Wharf car park, hoping to find a personalised plate (mostly because they have CCTV, security checks and a ring of steel to facilitate my being thrown out all the more swiftly), but spoiled the artfully 'careless' effect by doing it three days running.

I know where there's a 24 and a 26 regularly parked. I also know there is a God and he's laughing up his sleeve at me, because I've now spotted 721 and 217 approximately five separate times, each. As well as 214, 215, 216, 218, 219, 921, 821, 621, and 421. Fucking bastard god. Stobbit!

Which reminds me, during last night's prostitute impersonation on a Charlton by-road, I spotted a huge car park outside Asda. Ahhhhhhh. That's my Saturday night sorted out, then.

Christmas par-tayyyyy!

I have three weeks of alcohol-free boredom to expiate, a mini-skirt up to here, red patent kinky boots and I'm wired on coffee and sugar.
Makes repetitive whooping sounds...

Bad-Ass

Ethernautrix got me thinking about people who brag about how much trouble they got into as a kid. I only got into trouble three times in my life.
So here's one of mine. Aged sixteen, I went to a local sixth form college and simultaneously enrolled in night classes at a community college so I could study art history. I was one of those insufferably 'meek' kids who is in reality anything but, having a deeply held conviction that I was the most intelligent member of any class. A quiet, reserved kid, really, I hadn't ever really been out without either my parents or a friend's parents being present. I'd been dressing like a bad girl for a few years, but the truth was that it was easier to feign introspection that way - I'd never spoken to a boy (beyond Aaron Chipps once in the third year), and wouldn't have known what to say if I did.
A lunchtime conversation at college had run on to who had the most repressive family. Mine had locked me out for getting home -accompanied by responsible adults - from a friend's place at five minutes to nine. There were mass 'ooohs', and I won instantly.
I think I'd been feeling guilty about this, so come the end of year college pool party, I decided to do my best to be the model daughter. Given that my closest friends were dating smackheads or on their second trial release from the loony bin, given that another had painted in navy non drip gloss two foot high lettering "FUCK OFF MUM" across their bedroom wall, I felt peculiarly angelic, and slightly aggravated that my family didn't know a well-behaved kid when they saw one, when I did more than my filial duty and asked what time they would like me home.
Never never never ask what someone wants. Always always always ask for the ultimate you think you can get.
In mock high Dickensian manner, my mum and dad stroked imaginary beards at the family dinner table and cogitated solemnly. It was deemed seemly that I return home by ten of the clock. All were agreed that this was fair. Harumphs of satisfaction all around.
Except for the seething, pulsating furnace of boiling injustice inside of me.
Ten o'clock? I was apoplectic. Unable to speak. (Forget momentarily that I hadn't for one second intended to go to the actual pool party, but to run off clubbing with aforementioned wayward chums. Pool party? Get serious. I thought myself way too cool for school.) Nobody I knew would even get to the clubs before half eleven.
I simmered blackly, emanating noxious waves of discontent and adolescent fury.
'They fuck you up your mum and dad', I gnashed, in a rather poetical aside to the adolescent-cam that I presumed followed me everywhere.
I dressed (in black, natch), left, went to the pub under a storm cloud of rage. Railed against the inequity of it all. Had a few. More than a few.
Moved onto the club, obstinately. And wordlessly buggered off on my own.

I've pretty generally lived my life as if the rest of the world doesn't exist - or if they do, I don't give all that much of a fuck, anyway. As Ethernautrix (again) puts it, as though you're living in a novel and you want to see what would happen if the author . . . ?
So it was after a night of drunken al fresco debauchery that I awoke in the bed of a stranger, hung out for the rest of the day, and returned chez famille at about four in the afternoon the next Sunday.
Being the protagonist and all, I was mildly surprised that a chain of events had taken place in my absence.
The squad car, for instance. The police interviews that followed. Where had I been -- had I been taken against my will -- what are the details of the people you stayed with -- were you abused. Next, I had to telephone all the friends who'd been interviewed by the rozzers while they'd been tracing my final moments. Before I was abducted, killed, sliced into pieces and hidden down an old pipe on a wasteground, I mean.
Then the long long lecture about responsibility, consideration, this house is not a hotel, that presumably everyone gets once before they survive their teens. I was a little amiss as to how daytime soap the whole shebang was going to get. I'd genuinely not even wondered where everyone might think I'd gone. For the first time in my sixteen years I decided not to tell a lie then hide in the toilet till I'd got away with it. I argued back, and unleashed the truculent manipulative demon within.
Finally, after eight hours of tears, snot, yelling, stamping, wrangling, and grilling, I lifted a sulky callow face and asked what time they wanted me home tomorrow night.
Bless 'em. They let me out, an all. As much as I wanted. No match.

Solipsism

Foggy day. Visibility one hundred yards at one point. Outside my window at work, the City of London, Canary Wharf, Elmstead Woods all disappeared. Then the other end of the building was lost in the mist.
As a little kid, walking to school in the fog with jatb, I used to believe that the gods who created the world were having a lie-in. That the world round the corner didn't ever exist until you turned that corner and it was ready for you. On a foggy day, you caught the gods out, and you could see the process happening as they tried to keep up with your pace.
Of course this means that all other humans were obviously a figment of my imagination. So the member of the public whom I accidentally told to "fuck off and get out of my face" this morning doesn't really exist except as a way for my own mind to punish me. Likewise, the huge amount of work I've conquered this week is a paltry invention feeding my need for self-esteem. The problems I've had sleeping aren't real - there is no sleep. There's just the gods' working hours, getting the world ready for my inspection. I've already remarked on here the weirdness that is medication meant to make me sleep that doesn't actually make me sleepy, but merely punishes me if I don't sleep. It figures. If I don't sleep, I make them work harder.
If everything but me is unreal, then I'm not really grinding my teeth habitually. I'm imagining I'm grinding my teeth in order to get sympathy from myself.
It doesn't matter that I tried to buy Christmas presents today, then a hundred pounds the lighter realised I'd dully bought the same present for everyone. Because these people only exist in order to make me feel less alone.
After hearing on the radio (that is, a voice inside my head) that 68% of UK women don't buy a new outfit for their office christmas party, I went to some imaginary clothes shops, and invented some mirrors to show me that I've lost too much weight and look weird for it, so that I could worry needlessly.
In fact, does my body exist? I feel sure that my mind doesn't.
Perhaps I'm like that Tales of the Unexpected Story, 'William and Mary', where the guy is a brain suspended in jelly, with an eyeball attached, watching helpless as the wife who hated him shows him things he can't turn away from.