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.

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!

Zap. Bang. Fucking Wallop. Have you ever fallen so hard, for so long through such daunting spaces into a broiling cauldron of lust like I just did? Sitting here, I was, minding my manners and perusing the female bottoms mingling about the store when SMACK, in she walked, a dark haired, slightly taller than a midget, lip stud most assuredly off-centre and dressed like a Peruvian goat herder, beauty whose visage will simply transcend my bumbling attempts at describing it. Take it from this battle-hardened reporter, this girl was the mustard and by Jove, if you’ll excuse my wanton depravity, I wanted to spread her on my wiener schnitzel! My sausage of love has been dry for too long. It needs the kind of moisturising that Olay just can’t provide.

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,
O Nat,
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.

Hold your fucking horses mate! Nat’s backs back and Good God does it curve in all the right places! I imagine that if she was lying on her side on a sun lounger, her pores open to the heat of the early afternoon sun and she winked at me as I popped the top of the lotion bottle, my heart might very well flutter and my swimming shorts rustle, and when I pour a line of the oil along the side of her midriff, I can see it dribbling down her back, like s sheen, a lacquer of love. Zip it.

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.

So, anyway, there she is in bare feet and jeans and her two tops, a pink translucent one over a black corset stylee thing, are fly to the uttermost. She’s coordinated even when she’s kicking back. I want some of her, in all kinds of ways, from the best to the very worst. Anyway, bare feet. Hot. She is melting my vitals. I’m sure she can tell as well as she challenges me to find for her the greatest film. So, nonchalant like, a bit like Vince Vaughn out of Clay Pigeons, I saunter around the counter and chuckle and run my long fingers through the beard and reach out to grab Nat’s left breast. NO!! I’m reaching out to grab Donnie. That’s right, Donnie. “This is the film you should have watched last night but it was out. Now it’s in. You must watch it Nat.”

“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

So there I was dropping a log in the gentleman’s lav in the back of the Tree, Stratton, North Cornwall, the Best Pub in the World. I kid thee not. It truly is the greatest waterhole in ze world. Check it – www.thetreeinn.co.uk

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.

5 Apr 2003

I went for a slow stroll along the beach today. Murray the weatherman had told me to expect warm coastal winds from the south and he wasn’t wrong. There was a spring in my step and a levity to my thoughts. I was jealous of those fellow walkers who had the company of fine dogs and so someone to throw balls or stones for. One long haired setter rushed up to me with expectant eyes as if I was about to pull a slab of steak from my pocket and when I didn’t he barked over his shoulder to his owner and shook himself dry before bounding off after some other intrigue. There was flying spittle and salt water all over my Ralph Lauren T-shirt. I was not bitter at all.

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