Claustrophobia

It’s so bright outside I can’t see. It makes me afraid. And not just of the monsters and the bad people, but of the light. Of seeing and being able to be seen. Even in a mirror I can’t see myself that clearly, so what will I see when I’m out there? I could be a monster myself by now, it’s been so long since I’ve seen myself properly. I haven’t been out since I had a choice. But fear has never kept me afraid, so one day I open the door and step out into the light.

It’s cold and still. The sun is shining, but not on me yet, so I start to walk. Out of the shadow of my home. And it’s easy. I start to whistle a few notes. I pick up my feet and glide through the world, comparing it to how it was last I saw it. It’s all brand new, yet somehow dirtier. I don’t mind at all. Before I know it I’m running. The feeling of the world flying beneath my feet is joyous. Even the bright sun burning the back of my eyes just gives energy to my smile. I grow bolder and stop and scream “What’s there to be afraid of anyway?”. But then I see them. And hear them. And smell them. They’re here. “Usssssss” they say. Monsters. Everywhere. I knew it would be like this, but I came anyway.

I am surrounded, but I have a way out. I choose not to take it. “I’m not afraid” I say, half to myself. The other half makes them laugh. “That’ll sssssoon change” they say. And I think ‘Fuck them. I’m so fucking sick of this’ even though it’s all pretty much new to me. I spit at them. And just stand there. I hit one in the face with a giant glob of snot and saliva gloriously mixed. I wish I had used my fist for a second. But only for a second, because then I give them the finger, and everything before becomes nothing. “You’ll wisssssh you hadn’t done that” they say. But I regret nothing but the things I didn’t do, so their words mean nothing to me. I wait for the violence, the attack. It doesn’t come. They just circle menacingly. I get bored.

So my eyes start to wonder. I look at my hands. In the bright sunlight, I can see the blemishes better. They don’t bother me. I see a puddle within the imaginary circle they are going around, and I look at my reflection. It’s still me. Well the back to front version of me which I always see. I’m no monster. But these guys are. So I kill them. I kill them all. The monster motto is of course, if you’re not with us then you’re against us, and who am I to redefine their rules.

I go home. It’s dark in there. I turn on the light, and look out the window.

Quitter

So you may say I have given up. My job. Smoking. Having a regular life. But I haven’t. I’ve just started.

See all my life I’ve kind of thought of the world as one big computer game. It’s not my fault really – I was brought up by TV and played a lot of them when I was young. To this day I can’t take my eyes off any sort of moving image behind a glass screen. Gambling machines in pubs. Windows out of trains and cars. Any old crap on any old TV. So not surprisingly my identification with life and reality has always been a bit hazy. Of course the things which I consume for fun hasn’t helped me either.

But my point is I realised that sometime in my teens I had been just waiting around for my life to finally start. That I’d fucked up so much so far, that I was just pissing around as I knew that eventually I would get fed up and quit and start a new game. Begin again at the beginning and get it all right. But of course along with this realisation came the fact that I knew that this would never happen. That no matter what I did, I would never get the time back which I had used up. That I had wasted. That I had been wasted during.

So I became a bit of a nihilist. Nothing mattered. Everything was about having fun. Which is fair enough I think in retrospect. I mean they were my formative years and taking it too seriously would have been just as regrettable at a later stage in life as not taking it seriously enough. But at least my way was fun.

And then I slowly by slowly began to betray myself. As I gave up on fun and tried to sort my life out, I started to listen to all the crap that I had sworn to myself that I would never listen to. To conform. And I wasn’t happy. I just thought that if I kept going for long enough that I would desensitize myself to it all, just like everyone else had. But then I remembered… I was going to do something different. I don’t need to be like everyone else. No-one does. It’s just easier to give in. So I stopped. And restarted.

As a mash-up fool once said, Suddenly I am Aware. Aware that life is big. It’s bigger than you, and you are not me. Ok, enough of the quotes. Well maybe not quite. As my point is, this isn’t the end, it’s just the beginning.

Dam

6/10 10:46 English Time
I burn my candle at both ends
It will not last the night
But ah my foes
But oh my friends
We’ll be in Amsterdam tomorrow night!

7/10 6.57 English Time
Couldn’t sleep. Kept thinking about that ad for Disney world.

7.48 English Time
Friends! Friends! I’m sick of this country. Let’s go dutch.

Fre: It’s too early man, I can’t think straight

8.14 English Time
12 Million in cannabis is seized. The stole our stash! Oh well, we’re gonna get some more.

Pop quiz 8.14 English time
What’s your favourite flavour of pancake?
F: Bannana and nutella and whipped cream
D: Mayple Syrup
S: Hash
K: Chocolate

9.54 English Time
Aeroporto. Free booze and the psp is brought out. Fear and loathing? No! And Freddy says? Nothing you idiot, Freddy’s dead.

Between England and Holland
K: Is that a cat hair on your head or are you going grey?
F: Is that a dog hair on your head or are you a bitch?

1.55 dutchy time
We’re here. It was foggy, and we’re late, but we’re smoking in the train station. It say no smoking, but we don’t understand anyway. And they have BK here!

2.10 dutchy
Tiny train stations! Dee speaks dutch! No more mention of Anne Frank. Saul detects traces of shit and Marlboro lights. Ooh.

3.06 dutchy
Ajax! We have a tv, but cannot smoke between 8 and 10 am. It’s gonna be a struggle.

5.23 dutchy
Kandinski was tiny. Nice start but not great. Food from shop was nicer than Chinese whispers.
Abraxus is sweet and cold. Not so comfy. Played Chinese whispers. Woah!
Pop Quiz: what’s your favourite thing in the world?
(Saul – Justin’s handwriting makes me question his sanity)
S: Gadgets man. No that’s not true. Right now I’d have to say my flat.
J: Yorkshire pudding.
D: Freddy
(Freddy, you better say Dee)
F: DEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE
K: Your punches (she’s afraid of me)
T: Literature
Me: My psp.
I can’t believe no-one said Amsterdam. I can’t believe I didn’t say Amsterdam.

8.31 dutchy
anotheronebitesthedust
tsudehtsetibenorehtona
itsfuntosmokemarijuana
hmm maybe

We me a genetic phd student from Cambridge. From china. We drove them out and dee broke a drink.

F: I like bongs.

K: fools! I ain’s stoned motherfucker. Oh wait I am

10pm dutchy
Chinese whispers has turned into a monster. We is fucked up. Stressed out from not remembering.
Boo ya
Justin is begging for mercy

2pm 10/10 dutchy
on the plane home. Fuck know what happened here. There was a giant alligator, that I can be sure of, but otherwise who knows.

Feels like it was fun though.

Paranoia

So you have to understand that what I’m about to say I don’t actually believe is true. But that’s not to say that I believe it’s not true either, but it is just some stuff I thought so has no basis in reality, except that it angers me when people dismiss the idea that any of it could be true without reason. Paranoia exists because sometimes people really are out to get you. So if I die randomly anytime soon, maybe you should think twice about the things I’m about to espouse.

Have you noticed that most of the big bad things that have happened in the world recently have coincidentally all been in Bush’s favour? I mean it he wanted to plan some fucked up things to happen to the world to help his ass along the way, the things that happened wouldn’t be far off the things he would want to happen. Let’s start at the beginning. Well the beginning of this rant anyway.

September the 11th. Now I know you’re not supposed to say anything about that day except for what a tragedy it was, but let’s look at it reasonably. The world was a relatively peaceful place at the time, and Bush was a self proclaimed war president. His daddy had tried and failed to take over Iraq to help out his oil interests, so maybe Bush decided that he would do it. But people weren’t really up for another pointless war. People weren’t really afraid. So bang (x2) the twin towers go down. No one can miss such a thing. Everyone noticed. It was a tragedy. The tragedy from Bush’s point of view was that he was too dumb to realise that Al Quaeda (or however the fuck you spell it) was mainly based in Afghanistan and not Iraq, so however much he ranted about it, he was going to have to invade the wrong country. I doubt it upset him too much as he was after all a war president. And the fact that the Bin Ladens were personal family friends didn’t seem to bother anyone too much, so as far as he was concerned, no harm, no foul.

Fast forward. The Tsunami. America was told by that whole area that their companies would not be allowed to buy anymore property in the area as it was taking profits away from the natives. Whoosh a big wave fucks it all up. America rushes in without the UN to take most of the responsibility for the aid required to fix it up. Aid which can be denied at a later date unless certain property related view points are relaxed. And coincidentally an American military base is perfectly positioned to have created a tidal wave. Which is impossible. As far as we know.

Fast forward. July 7th. Bush is coming to Britain to make poverty history as far as everyone is concerned. 100% debt relief was the plan. Which really isn’t in the US’s economic favour, which is all Bush is really concerned about (his personal wealth would be fucked if his country’s was). If Africa was comparatively richer, then America would be comparatively poorer. Not to mention that the US just doesn’t want to chip in its fair share for international aid. So what happens? Our PM is taken out of the meeting to attend to terrorist attack issues. Coincidence? Hmm. And in the bargain, British people are meant to feel more afraid and therefore more up for war that their government is supporting the US in.

And then the hurricanes. Anti-American sentiment is at an all time high, so why not bring on a tragedy that no one could say they brought on themselves. Don’t try and fix it up too soon either, as the full impact must be seen around the world. We have to feel sorry for them. Other countries even send them aid, even though they can easily afford it themselves. But it doesn’t quite work. Contempt is felt for Bush at his apparent apathy to the plight of even his own people. So what happens? Another hurricane. And this time they do it right. Everyone is prepared. Bush visits as much as possible. The actual strength of the hurricane is over estimated until the last second. No need to kill anymore people. Just need to demonstrate that he does in fact care, and that everything possible will be done. P motherfucking R.

I can just imagine that little bastard telling his aides, “What no sympathy yet? Hit them again”.

I know you can’t cause a hurricane. But then if you think about it, why not? If butterflies flying in a circle can cause one, what about a machine made from the trillions of dollars that the US spends on defence? In the Second World War they hid bombs in rats and whatnot, and people would have said that was impossible at the time. This time the leader of the ‘free’ world is playing for big bucks, so why not go for the big bang? I mean, I can think of a few ways to make a hurricane machine off the top of my head, and I’m no science motherfucker. The same with a Tsunami. I know it’s impossible. But why?

As I said to start with, I don’t believe any of this to be true. But then, if someone told me it was I wouldn’t be surprised. Just like the moon landings. I believe Neil Armstrong went there, but I wouldn’t be surprised if he didn’t. I mean, why was that flag waving in the wind? And what was the point in not staging it. If I was in charge, I would have. I might have even included aliens. But then I’ve always been a bit melodramatic.

Don't just look at me, hit back

I’ve seen far more fun than violence in these times that I call mine. I’ve drunk and smoked and laughed my own age tenfold. I’ve smiled wide at things that had only a hidden funny side. I’ve screamed out loud my mirth to make life laugh with me. But then there’s the violence. I’ve seen my married mother broken and divorce. I’ve seen my friends unspoken pain after a punch was thrown with no explanation why. I’ve seen the moon reflected in a puddle spattered with blood. I’ve seen racists scream and attack and never understood the reason even if I’ve known their reasoning. I’ve seen a lot. But most of it wasn’t real.

I was brought up by television basically. I watched and watch the flickering images on the screen and revel in the blood shed for my entertainment. I have been told that if you watch too much violent television, you become desensitized. But not me. I watch and I learn and I fear and I burn just as if the screen were a videophone letting me in on a fight which will only be so brutal for that one moment so I need to see what’s there, because if I don’t then it may all be gone without a trace before I notice it. Just like real life.

I travelled a train the other day standing in the shadow of all the passengers grumbles about how late it was. It was burning hot and any one of us could have died I heard mumbled and mumbled. And then I heard a scream. A garbled cry of the insane in pain. I looked around and found an old man finally broken by the heat telling someone in too many words to move. Telling a giant. And the giant far from ignoring him, hit him square in the face and the old man crumpled. And the giant leant down and hit him again. And again. And people moved out of the way without saying anything to allow this to happen with more ease.

The TV and me have no bond. I shout at it, and it just sits there, ignoring my cries. I call for blood and it isn’t spilt. I call for revenge and there is only justice. I call for peace and war rolls on. I call someone a cunt and they hear me.

Real life is so much harder and so much easier than I ever expected. Than I could have ever been told. You can try your hardest and get nowhere, or you can sit back and relax and it all turns out fine. I scowl sometimes and the world scowls with me. I growl sometimes and the world growls at me. I fight sometimes and nothing fights back. It’s hard. It’s different. But at least it means something.

I saw a pigeon explode as train hit it in front of dozens of children, the blood nearing their innocent faces before falling. I saw a pigeon squashed with its guts spewn out of it’s mouth in 2D. I saw a pigeon flattened into a picture of a itself in flight, more free than it had ever been in life. Whichever one of these you want your life to be, don’t ever forget that the choice is yours. I’ve seen more fun than violence in my life, but maybe violence is fun. Maybe. I fucking hope not.

Don't just look at me, smile back

In these times that I call mine, I’ve seen far more fun than beauty. I’ve drunk and smoked and laughed my own age tenfold. I’ve smiled wide at things that had only a hidden funny side. I’ve screamed out loud my mirth to make life laugh with me. But then there’s beauty. I’ve seen my saddened mother rejoice and marry. I’ve seen my friends smile with restraint knowing that the joy they feel cannot be explained with mere words. I’ve seen the sky open and swallow the sun, only to let it go again after missing the colours it’s imbued upon the world. I’ve seen foreign climes and foreign words unfold before me and known what they meant even if I didn’t understand what they mean. I’ve seen a lot. But most of it wasn’t real.

I was brought up by television basically. I watched and watch the flickering images on the screen and laugh and cry along with them. I have been told that if you see yourself watching television, you can watch it no more as the image of your zombie face will stop you craving the distraction. But not me. I watch and I learn and I love and I yearn just as if the screen were a videophone letting me in on something far away that I would miss if I didn’t look. I need to see what’s there, because if I don’t then it may all be gone without a trace before I notice it. Just like real life.

I travelled a train the other day sitting on the floor. There were seats available, but I sat on the moving ground anyway. Each stop that came the door hummed upon and the world appeared anew. A new view came and a new segment of life was shown to me. And then taken away. It was nothing. But it was beautiful. I could have licked the door in congratulations of its beautiful trick had it not been so filthy. But then I shouldn’t really lick things to congratulate them.

The TV and me have no bond. I shout at it, and it just sits there, ignoring my cries. I tell the hero to think about his actions, and he ignores me and carries on. I tell the villain he can repent and he does no such thing. I tell Lynn Scully she’s a stupid bitch, but she heeds not my words. I tell my friends I a joke, and they laugh.

Real life is so much harder and so much easier than I ever expected. Than I could have ever been told. You can try your hardest and get nowhere, or you can sit back and relax and it all turns out fine. I smile sometimes and the world smiles with me. I laugh sometimes and the world laughs at me. I cry sometimes and no one looks at me. It’s hard. It’s different. But at least it means something.

I saw a pigeon drop out of the sky in front of me once and flutter on the floor unto its death. I saw a pigeon have sex with another and then run from its conquest. I saw a pigeon make love to another and then coo and preen with it, until they could both fly away together. Whichever one of these you want your life to be, don’t ever forget that the choice is yours. I’ve seen more fun than beauty in my life, but maybe fun is beautiful. Maybe.

Passive Resistance

I’m walking down the street when I look up and see the police car passing by. I try to act normally, but they must see me silently mouth “shit” as suddenly they stop right next to me. Panic appears at my centre and permeates outwards, leaving me precious few seconds to rationally think out what to do. Should I cut my losses and slyly throw away the evidence? It’s my own often repeated axiom to never give up until the very last moment, but deciding when that moment has arrived has always been more trouble than it’s worth. Was this that moment? I won’t be able to tell until it’s too late. So I forget the moment and follow in Gandhi’s footsteps. I inhale deeply and hold down the toxic fumes I have grown to love while I pause on the pavement for seemingly no reason. After a second of looking thoughtful and confused, I turn my face to my oppressors. Betraying my lips, the smoke slowly leaks out of my cheeks and hazes my view. The passenger officer looks right at my clouded face, and for this moment we’re on opposite sides of something more than just the glass in his car window. He speaks softly into his shoulder. I exhale. A blur later and they are gone. I cross the street behind them, carrying on my innocuous attitude perfectly in my mind. I smile, and wonder what bigger fish they have to fry.

It’s not a sport unless you need a cigarette afterwards

So over two months has passed now and I think the dust has finally settled enough to talk about the events which occurred in London in July this year. And no I’m not talking about the “Terrorist outrages” as they are so called (which is a pretty stupid name really as I have been outraged many times, yet never enough to blow myself up, but I suppose that’s besides the point). What I am here to put to rest is the issue of the Olympics which my fair city has won for the year 2012. Now I know the fucked up events following the announcement of the Olympic bid kinda took the joy out of it for everyone, but can I just ask, where was that joy really coming from anyway?

I mean, fuck loads of people were celebrating in the streets the fact that in 7 fucking years some sporting event is going to happen here. I mean, I like monging out and watching exceptionally strong and fast and whatnot people competing with each other as much as the next guy, but why the hell would I want it going on in my city? Like most other people, if they were truly honest with themselves, I will be sitting on my ass in my living room watching the bits of the Olympics which have any interest, no matter where in the world they are held.

I mean don’t get me wrong, I’m glad we beat Paris to it and all, as a new round of healthy French bashing is always amusing, but couldn’t New York or that Russian hell hole (no offence comrades) have won it? I don’t want to be getting the tube every morning and be brushing up against an excessive amount of sweaty jocks in lycra on the way to their event. I mean in theory they should all be running to “work” but the theory never works, especially considering that athletes are just stoners in disguise.

See I read once somewhere that doing exercise causes a release of the same pleasurable drugs into your brain as getting high does. So really all of those health freaks out there who are slowly by slowly getting smoking banned in all public places ,are just fucking themselves up in a different way. Those cheeky, hypocritical, self righteous motherfuckers.

What was I talking about again? Oh yeah, the Olympics. So as well as the tube being filled with sweaty meatheads, I’m also going to have to pay extra bus fair and shit to pay for the privilege of having the Olympics in my city. And I’m going to have to listen to any old dickhead spout some half assed opinion on the sports person of the moment at random continuously for like a year before and a year after. And I’m gonna become one of those dickheads and suddenly find myself having an opinion on the 9000 metres hurdles or similar.

So where in fact is this joy about ‘our’ winning coming from? I know it will improve England’s sporting ability for generations to come, but considering it’s the sporty bastards who rob kids at school for their lunch money, I don’t think it’s that great an idea to encourage them. I mean, I could eat a lot of lunch for the amount the Olympics is costing. Damn Tony Blair. Never taking my needs into consideration.

PS in the second paragraph where it says “interest” in the last sentence, instead read “bikinis”.

When you're strange

I’ve never been the office weirdo before and between you and me, it’s very strange. I mean I’ve been weird in an office environment before, but not in a way that makes people look at me any more funny than usual. You see, I started work at the beginning of a series of bad events in my life and others and it kinda knocked me back and back until I just couldn’t be bothered to speak to anyone as it been so long. I even appear to be accidentally giving them the impression that I disapprove of drugs. Life is strange sometimes.

I mean, don’t get me wrong, I like life being strange. There is no harm in freaks as long as they’re not cannibals, and there is nothing wrong with being freaked out, as long as you know where the floor is. Life is simple that way. Just like the numbering system I use to make sure I have everything when I leave a place. I have just five things on my at all times, which I need to take with me everywhere. Cigarettes, wallet, keys, phone and my mitts. What about a lighter and rizla and whatnot I hear you cry? Well I would be pretty damn pissed off if I lost things too, but I can only remember so much at a time.

Which reminds me (that seems funny somehow, but I can’t quite put my finger on it), how do you remember things? I mean is it a conscious effort? Do you need to be concentrating really hard? I find that I remember things at random, and other things I entirely blank out. But I don’t really choose these things. And even when I do try hard, what is my mind actually doing when I’m thinking about it. I just concentrate and sometimes an answer just pops out of thin air. It’s not like I did anything to get it, except thought about it until it appeared.

What was I talking about again? Oh yeah, work. I have to go there soon, so best go to bed.

Oh bed
How I love thee
You comfy bastard

(vii) Mancuso on fire

I can see light. I can see the sun shining through the trees reaching out to touch me. I can see light. I can see a bus pass me that would have taken me from there to here in the same time but with less effort. With less effort than I use everyday to see that bus as I do. But still I see light. I see it crackle on the river I cross and sparkle up through the window. The window I look through that is covered with the grease and scratches of those who love or loath to leave their mark. But the light. The light that illuminates my desk, and shows all that I’ve done and all that I’ve missed. The same light that breaks through a tiny window on five broken souls and creates lines of shadow down their lives.

Five people arrested for the same murder. Five people waiting in that cell. Two lights watching them in turns. A third light waiting for them in hell. One breaking through the window, breathing the life of night with it’s death call. One burning from the ceiling, flickering every time we turn on the chair down the hall.

These five can see the light better than anyone. They can see little else. Than that flicker. Flicker.

Except the two tough ladies who somehow found each other from across the world who see only each other. And the girl who’s tears won’t stop exploding from her face in wave after wave of self pity. So it’s the yanks only who see the flicker when it comes. Who know what that light really means. Not that nuclear flash that they’re so proud of, but that quiet glow that shows the real difference between life and death. Just a flicker.

The light I see isn’t there’s though. It cascades across my fingers warmly following their contours, easily even with the movement I use to continue my work. I make a rabbit or a dog every now and then to play with this light, and when it goes I make paper planes of my work and float them out into the courtyard all the rooms share. I don’t feel like that today though. As the light goes dark, reminders of flight would be wrong.

I look at the dress on my desk and think of the corpse I took it off. How the fuck does this make sense? A man who flies and wears a dress? It’s like a superhero but without the sense of stature. Why these five freaks turned themselves in I’ll never know. This was the first man I have ever killed without a good reason, and it’s the first cover up I’ll ever get out of doing. Who to pin it on though? Who knows.

It’s dark outside now, but I still see light. It’s right where the pilot left it.

At the end of the tunnel.

flicker

No snooze for the wicked

I roll from my slumber to my feet and reach my arms up through the world. Oh glorious day runs all over me as I pull together my public persona. The warmth of light rolls me through thoughts and thoughts of where to go and who to be. But then dawn breaks once more inside my head and I realise that work is where I must go and work is who I must be. I feel hot and weary and angry and annoyed. Why must I work? I care not for most of the things money can buy so why must I spend so much of my time in the pursuit of it? I am human and alive! A joyous thing to be and a lucky thing to feel. Oh why do we make this game we must play all that we are? Fun is always fun, but games are not for some. I try to ignore the rules that are set, so I think instead of going to work, I’ll go back to bed instead. My smile sadly sings to the heavens and my eyes close as I slide my protection from the world to the floor. I feel the sun on my skin and smile for its hot sting now feels like the faded grace of a defeated enemy, comforting me with its humility. Its welcoming hand now called true night, day slips away behind my sheets as I do. My head rests on my most comfortable friends and I hide from the world under the hope and protection of my duvet. I close my eyes tighter in a salute to my victory against capitalism. Through my quiet brain I hear my mother cry “It’s 7 o’clock” and I scramble out of bed to go to work. And I go.

save me a seat

The first time i lay my eyes upon Justin must have been before I was four years old. I can’t remember much now more than blond hair and a smile, but I’m sure it was good times all around. The last time I saw him I can remember distinctly, but that wasn’t really Justin. Except when we were talking about skateboarding or Eminem of course. That was the real Justin. That was the Justin I’ll remember.

I remember once we were walking down the street when we were in primary school and there was a swarm of bees around this over turned can of coke. We began taking it in terms ‘exterminating’ them (it was in the public interest) by running in and stamping right in the middle of them in the hopes of getting a few. Some other kids came past and we tried to get them to join in but they told us to leave the bees alone. We called them scaredey cats, or something similar that would come out of a child’s mouth, but they said it was actually us who were afraid. That we were just doing it to kill the thing we were afraid of. Of course we argued and made fun of them until they left, and then I resumed the ‘extermination’. Justin had stopped and explained to me that even though those guys were clearly scaredey cats, we still shouldn’t do it because it wasn’t right to kill the bees considering they hadn’t even stung us. We spent the rest of the walk home trying not to tread on ants.

That’s not to say we always did the right thing. We used to walk down the road for as long as we could (we would count out loud) to show that the teachers were wrong when they said it was dangerous to play in the road. We cycled to school secretly for a whole year before our cycling proficiency test to prove to ourselves that it was all just a crock of shit (or something similar that would come out of a child’s mouth). We fought the law, but the law never won.

But maybe that’s because we were the good guys. Justin always was the hero of the story in the games we played. Not that it would make any difference because the games would just involve fighting and everyone would just get stuck in, but still, he wanted to fight for right. I just wish he’d carried on that fight.

He was a good guy though. He believed in me long before anyone else ever did. He once fought off a bully on my behalf while we were walking along, and just carried on our conversation while he did it. That’s the Justin I’ll remember. He was my friend. I’ve never known anyone like him. He was always the other Justin, but in truth he was the main Justin. I’ll miss him.

Bad Karma

So it’s been over a week now since those stupid bitches tried to blow our asses up, and I for one still feel a bit freaked out about it. I mean, fucking hell, what the fuck was that?! You can see I’ve had some time to consider my response to the matter. Well not the last response. It really wasn’t the time to be making jokes. But I didn’t know what else to say.

Today I was a steward at a Victims of 7/7 London Remembrance Vigil. That is so much easier to write down than say to uninterested passers by. We didn’t quite know what we were doing as it was our first time being selfless so we just assumed we should act like “charity muggers” once we had put on the vests. And people treated us as such. They avoided our gaze as we tried to invite them to join the rally. They pretended to be deep in conversation as we tried to make them feel sad. They laughed at us openly when we accidentally said Remember the London Bombers Vigil instead of Bomb Victims. It made me think how tough those real charity muggers have it. But then they get paid well so I suppose they are just bastards as well as annoying. Oh wait, that was the opinion I was fighting against, oh well.

I never believed in the power of protest rallies until I met this girl from South Africa who told me she was going to protest against George Bush. When I asked what the protest was specifically about, she just said it was just a general anti Bush thing. I thought that was a pointless waste of time, and I shared my opinion with her, and she replied “But in my country, we ended apartheid this way”. So I realised that maybe peoples opinions do count. If there are a lot of them. There’s just one of me, so why would anyone listen to my opinion?

Ha ha, that’s a trick question, because if you are reading this then you are listening now. Fool. Ahh I crack me up. Wait a minute, that wasn’t really even funny. Just like it wasn’t funny when some guy came up to us at the end of the rally and told us that he thought it was really inappropriate to be having this rally at this time, because he had been through the bombs as well and he lived here and bla bla bla. The three of us who were new to the charity stewarding game all kept quiet, and tried not to swear our asses off at this dickhead, as we were meant to be being nice. Luckily we were with a pro so she took him away quickly. One of my friends had sworn at a lady who had complained to him earlier in the day, and had been told he probably shouldn’t do the stewarding thing again. People are such bastards.

This is no time to make jokes

So yesterday we won the Olympic bid and today we got blown up. I knew those stinking atheletes were up to something.

Ho fucking hum

Two chickens were walking down the road when one turned to the other and said “shit we’ve fucked up this joke haven’t we”. Hehe, that’s kinda funny. I just asked my lady friend when I should write about and she said chickens so I just started writing and that came out. It’s funny what you mind will produce without your written consent. I suppose I should be happy that it produces poor jokes as opposed to racism or necrophilia or some shit.

I remember the first joke I ever made up myself. Well the first verbal joke. The first joke I ever made was when I was only 3 or 4 or something and I was sitting in the car eating a banana and was whining about what to do with the skin as nobody seemed to be disposing of it for me. So I said “I’m gonna throw it out the window at the next bin I see” and then before my mother even had the chance to scorn me for the foolishness of this plan I had thrown it and cried “there’s one” while pointing into the distance. HA HA HA. That’s still fucking funny isn’t it? Well maybe not.

But the first joke that I ever made up was directly as a result of my best friend in primary school having made up a joke on the spot the day before. His joke went like this “This little kid, let’s call him Johnny, was walking down the street when he passed by a shop which sold pellet guns. Now Johnny was well into all this shit, and he even had his own little handgun pellet firing motherfucker, but he had read in pellet guns monthly that only a little bitch would own anything but the P64-3000 machine pellet guns that were out now. And there in front of little Johnny was P64-3000 sitting in the motherfucking shop…”. Ok so he probably didn’t swear that much. Let’s try again “…. Window. Johnny said ‘I would give any motherfucking thing to own that bad ass bitch’ when suddenly the motherfucking devil…” oh fuck it “…appeared out of thin air and said ‘oh really, well if you just sign this contract then I’ll give you the gun’. Johnny eagerly grabbed a pen from his pocket and started signing the contract. The devil, who had obviously added a clause into the contract that the boys soul would own to him upon delivery thought to himself ‘Hehe little boys never check the small print’. Little Johnny thought to himself ‘Hehe the devil never checks for invisible ink”.

Now that doesn’t completely make sense but we were only little and I still think it’s funny. My joke the next day was “This man and wife were shaggin in the bedroom when suddenly the bedroom door exploded into the room and in front of a fiery background the devil was standing there. He pointed left at the couple’s chest of drawers and BANG it burst into flames. He did it again to the right and BANG their cupboard goes up in smoke. The man, initially terrified by the devil, by this point had had enough and sat up in bed and shouted ‘HEY! How dare you come bustin in here’”.

Perhaps too clever for a child. Perhaps too stupid for an adult. Who knows. I bet you don’t get it anyway.

Runnin' around robbin' banks

So it was my birthday this weekend and I turned 23. Isn’t that fucking excitng? No? I didn’t think so. It’s all kind of a blur after 21 I suppose til you hit like 30 and start realising that you don’t actually feel old, but that you are actually an old bastard. Anyway, it got me thinking in a weird kinda way about coincidences. Or perhaps signs. You see I turned 23 this year. And 2 + 3 is 5. And it’s the year 2005 And next year I’ll be 24. And 2 + 4 is 6. And it’ll be 2006. Or in 2015 I’ll turn 33, and, you guessed it 3 + 3 is 6 as is 1 + 5.

It seems like I shouldn’t have been sober when I had this revelation but I wasn’t. It’s a shame really as if I had been in any sorta altered state of mind I would probably have found some sort of cosmic significance in the relation between my age group and the 3rd millennium AD. Hmm. It coulda been just like that time I realised that 4 to the power of 4 is 256. I was freaked out that day, but in retrospect, there was very little reason why.

In an entirely unrelated note, I read today that if you eat a little bit of lettuce than it makes you sleepy, but if you eat a lot than it has erotically stimulating effects. That’s pretty goddamn freaky. I mean lettuce as an erotic vegetable? If it is a vegetable that is. I’ve had a strange kind of love for those leafy bastards ever since I lost the power of taste due to excessive smoking a few years back, and realised that without any flavour in my life, lettuce was the best thing to eat. It crackles on your tongue. Yum yum! It is pretty shit if you can taste it though. Imagine eating a whole lettuce like an apple. I doubt it would be an especially satisfying experience.

On another unrelated note, I was in the toilet taking a piss when a guy called out behind me “Hey is that a Fun Loving Criminals t-shirt?”. I was wearing my lucky t-shirt which is FLC based so he was talking to me. I was a bit freaked out as I obviously couldn’t turn around to check who was trying to get my attention. I worried needlessly though as it seems as the guy simply wanted to tell me that his wife used to know them and that Steve, the old drummer, had left the band because he was fleeing the law due to his persistent harassment of members of an all ladies gym up north. I was always told that it was because he was the get away driver in a bank robbery. But as my main man Fred said, “Either way, he’s still a Fun Loving Criminal”. Damn straight.

Summertime, and the weather is easy

So this heat is making people crazy hey. Yesterday I was on the train minding my own business, trying to chill out in the stifling heat when suddenly an unnatural scream hits everyone. I turn around as fast as anyone to face the danger, and there was nothing there. Just a lot of people staring intently whilst sweating intensely. But what were they looking at? Then the mumbling starts. From this old guy. I thought that maybe he was just the first to speak after that horrific sound, but the mumbling makes it clear that the sound came from him. Such a frail old man. Such a frail old stinky drunk man. What had made him make that noise?

“Sit down” a man says to him in a not unthreatening manner. Just leave him I thought. He’s just old and fucked up by the heat. If you ignore him he’ll give up. Or get funnier. But the guy had been ignoring him and the old man hadn’t given up. In fact he was mumbling more. And threatening. And clenching his fists in preparation. “I can stare at you all night” the old man cries as the sun crashes through the window behind him, making it hard for any one to look at him, but we’re all still staring anyway.

“Sit down” the man says again. As much as everyone on the train is staring at the old guy, everyone on the train are also pointedly not looking at the other man. I look though. He looks mean. He’s got sweat pouring off his brow as if his blood had been boiling for a long time. The old man swings his fist in the air as if it was a punch but his arms aren’t strong enough to fully extend. He hits nothing, but swings up his other hand weakly to hit his fist and make a dull slapping sound. Some threatening mumbling accompanies it. The man grabs him and tells him to shut up, but doesn’t realise how tiny the old man is and throws him to the floor between the seats opposite. The women who are sitting there climb up onto their seats like any elephant would at the sight of a mouse.

The mumbling grows louder and a hand waves around lamely above the seat, maybe trying to help him up, maybe trying to defend him while he’s down. But the mumbling, it’s like shouting now, and the man doesn’t seem satisfied by his victory and is slapping his hands away so as to get a clear blow through. He does. From where I’m standing there is no effect, as the mumbling carries on. The people who are crammed in around this scene aren’t looking any longer. They’re looking towards the door. We’re at the station now, but they haven’t opened, and it’s hot on this train. Really fucking hot. And we’ve been on this train a long motherfucking time.

The man lamps him again and then walks off the trains with the rest of the passengers. The old man scrambles to his feet and chases after him still mumbling. Everyone else continues to breath heavily.

I told my friend that there was a fight on the train. He asked me straightaway “Between an old guy and big motherfucker?”. Common story apparently. The heat makes everyone crazy.

You can never go back

Hey kids, it’s been a while, what with this whole ongoing story thing, but it’s over now, so I’m back goddamnit! So many things I wanted to say but couldn’t because I just wanted to get that stupid story finished. And now I’ve forgotten it all! Fucking typical. It’s just like that time that I…. uh…. well sometime anyway.

So what have I been up to then…well I went to Green Day in Milton Keynes. That was pretty fucking wicked. Except for the fact that I whiteyed pretty much solely through the power of that great big fucking ball of fire in the sky. But I perked up just before they came on and it was great. Milton Keynes bowl is a surprisingly nice venue. It’s like a stadium, but it doesn’t feel man-made because of the lack of seats. I suppose the stage doesn’t exactly look natural, but then I think if Green Day had played up a tree it might distract people from their actual performance. Hmm. What does Green Day mean anyway? Anyone know? It sounds like something to do with drugs, but I have a strong feeling that’s not right.

Milton Keynes must have loved this weekend. They’ve probably never had so many people come to Milton Keynes and stay that long. Or more precisely, they’ve probably never had that many happy to people come to Milton Keynes for so long. Although I wasn’t happy going there. I swore to myself last time that I would never go back, and I hadn’t even intended on going there in the first place that time.

You see I was up visiting some friends in sunny Manchester, and as is common practice, we got really fucking drunk on the last night I was there. Or maybe just I did. Well I can’t remember anyway, but the point is that when I left the next day I was motherfucking hungover like a bitch. And it was hot. FUCKING HOT. Just like Saturday was. It was like sun suddenly realised it was made out of fire and thought that it should try and evaporate all the water in the solar system, just in case. So I got to the train station barely alive and climbed onto the supposedly fast train that my friends had told me to take instead of the slow comfy ass virgin train.

So this train was all fucked up from the start and was baking it’s passengers inside like discount ready made meals. Been using a lot of similies today. Or is it metaphors? Anyway, after this train taking an extra 2 hours to get pretty much nowhere, we were finally told that we had broken down and were stuck at Milton Keynes and that on an unrelated note, there had been a minor derailment nearby so there would be no trains leaving from Milton Keynes either. So I ran out of the train, trying to get into the fresh air at last before trying to figure out just what the fuck I would do. But the air wasn’t fresh, and there was no outside because I was swept up with the masses of people towards the un-air conditioned coaches they had scraped together for us. I was just about on the bus when I thought I’d see if a friend would save my life, because if anything is gonna kill my motherfucking ass, it’s the heat. My blood is too thick for hot climates. He he.

Luckily I had one of the nicest things ever done to me happen that day, and I was saved by Dee who came and picked me up. Of course it did take her like 2 hours to get there because I was making her drive from Chiswick to Milton Keynes, so I was stuck there for fucking hours, dying a really pathetic death. So after they carted my carcass home, I swore I’d never go back. But then I did go back, and the same thing happened. Maybe Milton Keynes is sunny all year round.

(vi) I find it kind of funny, I find it kind of sad

My hands were shaking when I woke up this morning. I had that dream again. Well I guess I shouldn’t say ‘that’ dream, because they’re all different. It was this young girl last night, running by me in this skirt similar to one I was wearing who got me killed. It wasn’t her fault, it’s just apparently I was in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Fucking hell, get a grip, you were asleep. You weren’t in the wrong place, at the wrong time, they’re just dreams. They’re just dreams. Or maybe nightmares I suppose. Somehow, something always feels right about them though. I mean, I didn’t start wearing dresses until that first one I had when I was tripping off my nuts in Mexico. It seems so natural so have my genitals hanging free. What do women have which needs so much space between their legs? They’ve got a lack of flesh there, not a surplus. Hmm.

Well anyway, off to work as usual. Flying to Rome tonight. Won’t that be great! They got some designers there which will really have taken advantage of male frame in these womens clothes. Well I hope they will. I’ve never been to Italy before. Never really liked pizza enough to warrant it. Or maybe I’ve just never had the time. I have been flying to Mexico and back far too often to go other places. I wonder why I stopped that. It was only last week I made my last flight wasn’t it? Anyway…

“Single to Heathrow please” I ask the girl behind the counter as nicely as I can. She looks frightened, and not in the way that a man in a dress frightens people.

“Um.. here you go…. Sir?” she asks tentatively. I’ve been getting that a lot recently. People never seem to know what gender to give me. I suppose I don’t either.

“Yes, sir will do. Which platform is it please?” I know which platform it is, but I’m afraid if I leave this poor little thing alone too quickly she might burst into tears. Something has fucked with her head today, and today I know how she feels.

“It’s just that one there.” She says non-comittally. I linger a second longer as her lips look like they want to form more words, but they can’t be bothered in the end. I walk away, feeling the cool air on my balls, when I hear her call out “Be careful!” but I’m not sure if she’s talking to me or herself.

Some days it’s like this. It’s not a good sign anyway. I gotta face my boss for the first time today over my “alterations” to the uniform they’ve given me. Apparently The Man doesn’t like my dress. Doesn’t inspire confidence in the passengers he says. Fuck that. It’s the hat which inspires confidence, considering they can only see the back of my head over the chair. And I never take this hat off. Except when I’m wearing a wig… wait a minute, I’ve never worn a wig, but suddenly flashes of fake hair appear in my mind and in my eyes.

And then I see her. The girl from my dreams. The most innocent out of the whole guilty lot. She’s staring onto the train at the tears falling from another pretty face. She probably wants to help her. I do to, but I can’t because I’m frozen. I’ve been inside that girls head. I know what her tears are about….. my death. She killed me. I want to scream, but all the other faces on the tube have killed me too. Those lesbo’s somehow together at last. Those stupid fat fucking yanks. No! They were just dreams. They were just dreams. They were just…

“Mind the Gap”. Breaks my reverie. I hear it for the last time, but this is the first time I’ve listened. Mind the gap. Not this time. I step purposefully towards the train, but miss and fall. Maybe I’ll never stop falling. Maybe I’m still dreaming. My feet feel hot, like they’re touching the surface of sand. I wonder about a police man I never knew.

(v) The cat in the hat

Dee ran like the wind and left a scream trailing behind her.

“STOP! THAT’S NOT YOUR 2 ½ PINT GLASS BITCH” the security guard chasing her cried out. He seemed pretty quick on his feet, but the people in the street were getting in his way.

Terrified, Dee looks at the box under her arm. “Damn, I thought it said 215 pint glass”. She frowned for a second, oblivious to her imminent capture, before the inevitable “2 ½ pints though, that’s still pretty big” ran through her mind and she was off again. She didn’t know why she wanted the glass, as 215 pints is too much for anyone to drink in one session, but still it seemed like fate that she take it.

Oh wait, I mean fun. It seemed like fun to take it.

“Got you, you fucking thieving bitch!” Dee froze. Where was the bastard? No-one was touching her, in fact she had gone so far that she had doubled back to fool him, so how had he caught her?

“Take off that hat”. A hat? Dee tried to remember whether she had put on her top hat accidentally this morning, and this had all been a case of mistaken identity. Before she had finished checking her whole head, just to make sure, Dee’s ear drums were shattered by shouting and gunshots. She always hated that combination of sounds.

Dee span round to meet her fate, or at least hit this fucker with the glass perhaps, when she discovered that it wasn’t her own dramatic death that she was witnessing. A small man bleeding through holes in the dress that he was wearing was lying on the floor. His wig, which was not unlike Dee’s hair in that it wasn’t dreadlocks, was attached to his pilots cap, which was soaking up blood fast.

The security guard was nodding his head frantically to himself.

“It was a good shoot, it was a good shoot” he repeated to himself a few times, until the law turned up and told him that it wasn’t. Especially as even if it had been the right person, it was still only a 2 ½ pint glass that she took. The cop too had thought that it was a 215 pint glass, so he felt like he had a score to settle with these people.

Dee watched all this happen from the other side of the road with total confusion.

“They don’t let security guards carry guns in this country, what was that all about?” she thought as she skipped down the road and into the pub.

“Happy Birthday Fred man” seemed to be echoing in this place, and somehow it all seemed to suddenly fit.

“Hey, I got this for you. Happy Birthday” she said. He looked at the glass with disappointment. He had already seen these and knew they weren’t as big as everyone thought. “Thanks” he said with a voice that smelled like Christmas. This was all beginning to make sense to Dee, but she didn’t really get why the transvestite had to die.