14 Apr 2003
It looks like I’ve been terribly remiss,
In getting round to writing this,
Several inebriated weeks have passed,
Since I submitted last,
But I guess that it’s all okay,
Coz I’m the only one who reads this anyway.
So there you are,
The late Sultan of Omar,
You’ve been hiding away of late,
Spending your days and nights asleep in the fire grate,
Making that warbling noise at eight pm each night,
You seem pale, are you quite alright?
Then I remember you were hung in 1741,
Which explains you’re alabaster complexion.
I really must up and away,
I have a vital game of hockey to play,
Even though my right shoulder is giving me gip,
And I suspect my right hamstring is about to rip;
But needs must as needs may,
Especially on this rather sunny day,
And with several key players unavailable,
Those resilient Bude men left must lay their cards upon the table,
To play together and play with class,
So to triumph and kick Newquay’s ass!
So, I trip over my feet and tongue and realise that if I am to make sweet love to this little wonder woman I’d best buck up my ideas. Good God, but what a derriere! I think her name is Natalie. Or maybe just Nat.
Natalie, Natalie, Nubile Natalie,
Your every glance pulverises me,
Dark, penetrating eyes,
Like a sultry Cat,
You study in Bristol,
You’ve loaded my pistol,
And I’m afraid it might go off.
So we chat and banter and her friends are distracting us from our destiny with their honest and innocent questions. And then it strikes me. Again. SPLATT! I need to sort my life out. Nat is too fine a specimen for her to be satisfied by my lacklustre approach to life. So, I recommend a video and they leave and Nat leaves and she takes her dark hair framing her dark face with its dark eyes and her elegant wrists and what a smile and they go and she takes her bottom with her. Which gives me an opportunity to have a quick word with myself about values and meanings of things and what, if anything, is to be done. I decide nothing. I sometimes forget that it is not me who needs to fall in love with me but others. I need fast cars and big bucks to love me, which, at present, I don’t have. That is why I am just good friends with me at the moment. Others, however, have been known to love me for me. Maybe Nat will.
She’s just returned to this humble video shop to return Session 9, which I recommended to her last night, the night of my re-infatuation with her fine self. With her enveloping eyes rising to meet mine she answered that it had been sufficiently scary and she had heard voices later on that night. I could tell by the way her two friends were checking out my man breasts that they were sizing me up as a potential suitor. Incidentally, they too were fit, one blonde and tall who laughed at even my crappy jokes, which is normally endearing enough to an egoist like myself, and the other unkempt and wild licking her lips like she wanted a quick dose of taming from this bearded lion tamer. Alas for her, Nat is where I am at.
Nat, Nat, Natalie, Nat,
You really are phat,
That’s phat with a pee haich,
In case someone is reading this to you.
“Erm, okay Bruce.”
Too fucking right alright! So then I make with the poignant video shop guy observation coz I gotta make sure she knows I’m smart as sin and a whole lotta switched on. “Yeah, you see, this film I’m holding in my hand right now is one of the few films that I can recommend and if you don’t like it the problem lies with you and not the film.” Blondie digs this and has a laugh whilst Wild One snatches a snickers and tears it open. I calm myself by looking at Nat as she bows her neck slightly as she reads the back of the cover. I was told once I have great hands. I want to utilise them on her neck. I don’t, however, and I return to my seat behind the counter as Nat runs out to answer her mobile. Runs out in bare feet. The girl is dynamite. She is studying for a degree in some field of natural geography and I mean to ask her about Ox Bow Lakes whose mysterious means of creation I have forgotten and have been keeping me awake at night recently. And then I think about Nat. Then I sleep. This is censored by good taste, albeit it in smidgens.
13 Apr 2003
Toilets are funny places. The number of occasions I find myself returning from the bog to a group of discerning friends and interrupt their conversation with the line,”I’ve just had a wicked idea in the toilet/ while I was having a slash/dump.” It all stems from those days of old when I used to lock myself in the toilet tripping my nuts off. All the white walls reflecting one’s rampantly out of control thoughts back onto oneself. Illuminating.