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Showing posts from 2004
I was pulled over by the police last night at about eleven o’clock. I had shut up the video shop at 9pm, met my uncle who was dropping off my car and then drove 15 metres down to the Carriers pub in it as it was raining and I am an apathetic git. In the warm and bustle of the pub I met Jack and some other friends. Jack, being of the nature of a Lincolnshire farmer, had donned his Wellington boots and tramped the five miles from Widemouth Bay to Bude, having decided that in such atrocious weather the only option was to get in it. However, some sliver of sense still remained as he had asked me to pick him up on my way home. Once sat at a table in the pub and having demanded a pint from Jack, the thrifty one, I decided that enough was enough and that the mild binges of the recent days left me no option other than to finish this pint and then head home for an early and sober night. My lager slipped down my gullet with practised ease and I sat tapping my fingers against the empty glass in w
This entry is for someone in particular. You know who you are. Yes, you, the one in the scarf, with the dark eyes and long hair and soft lips. I just wanted to say that I am not convinced that you should read on but the choice is yours and, if there are any consequences, I shall attempt to deal with them in my normal fast-talking manner. So be warned. And thank you for a truly lovely weekend, made special purely by your company.
I am spending time up country, near London, doing a week's trial at a new job. The job is not trialing me, I am trailing it as for me to move from my idyllic patch in Cornwall, and for me to leave my apathetic yet functional coastal existence behind, the advantageous features of the new lifestyle are going to have to be pretty damn advantageous. I am working in Farnborough, a featureless suburb of London and a place that bleeds urban distemper into my soul. Melodramatic, moi? The job title is Headhunter and the role is to penetrate deep into large software companies around the world and steal their best executives and moneymen for positions at their competitors. All of which basically entails a high level of confident bullshitting down the phone line. I've done this before and despite my initial fears that I had lost the taste for 'lying for profit' it turns out that I am still as adept at it as I ever was. There is a mild buzz obtained when fooling some company Guard
In the days of rapid-right-handed-wrist-wobbling abstinence that I have been reveling in recently, it has become clear that my addiction was not to wanking but rather to pornography. I now believe that the physical ritual of masturbation and the blatant material of pornography combine to create an experience which is easily repeatable and soon becomes firmly established in your head as a source of joy. Like the rolling and then smoking of a spliff, like the pound coin being pushed into the slot and then the pretty colours, like the preparation and then hit of the Brown Lady. All inducive to a state of addiction. I actually attempted to have a wank last night. One of my customers had heard that I was thinking of returning to a 'proper' job in the city and so, for some reason and showing an alarming intuition into only recently cremated habits, gave me two DVD of porn filth as a leaving present. Purely for reasons of research, I popped one on last night and settled back, thi
Over the years I have had the opportunity to become addicted to many things. My second addiction was to marijuana, which crept up on me in the disguise of a social statement that I was supposedly making as well as being lots of giggles. Suddenly realised at the end of my second year at university that the reason I spent eighty two percent of the day in bed was because I smoked too much. Stopped doing that quite so much, which took a while and several weeks of sleepless nights. No worries. Spent less time in bed and more in the bar where I picked up my addiction to fruit machines. Six months and one student grant later, I realised that I had a problem and so stopped pumping the pound coins into the machines. After Uni I popped over to Amsterdam to work and in this fine city I picked up my fourth and worst addiction to date. Heroin. A fucking marvellous drug that guarantees contentment when imbibed but the whole habit does tend to take the edge off the rest of life’s plentiful bountie
So, moved into new pad mere metres away from the frothing Atlantic. The breakfast bar looks out over the ocean and the humped fields with a panoramic view all the way around to the church in Marhamchurch. Jack and I were munching on cereal one morning, he reading his National Trust magazine and I the Private Eye, when he informed me of the 85% urban demographic who require time in the country to de-stress. Jack looked at me and I at he and then, like a scene from the closing credits of a wonderfully cheesey film, we both turned to survey our view. I then commented that we should probably spend 15% more of our time in the city otherwise we might have a stress deficiency. We chuckled smugly to ourselves. If this is not enough then check out the pad. Through the front door into the spacious living room with four sofas which opens into the kitchen with the aga pumping out heat. Through the kitchen door into a corridor which you can cross to reach the first bathroom. In this wooden-panel
The passage of each day is bringing me closer to forming a terrorist group of my own. When I was but a wee young stripling of a lad I remember continually arguing with my parents after one occasion when I made the fatal mistake of being honest with them. I had just smoked my first few spliffs down the bottom of the garden and foolishly, and perhaps because I was freshly stoned, I presumed that Mum and Dad would understand my curiosity and would leave me to it. I mean, the authors I was so enamoured with at that time were all prescribing healthy doses of all sorts of pharmaceuticals; Huxley liked his mescaline, Kesey his LSD-25 and Burroughs his smack, to name but a few; and I thought that the rents would take my mild investigations into these matters with a nurturing pat on the back. This was not the case. Hence followed two years of them shouting at me that I needed counselling and me replying in shrieks that it was them who needed help to deal with the reality that,"everyb
Supavision coast to coast Bruce speaking how can I help? Yesh, hello. Hi there. Yesh. I am looking for some movies. Right. Good thing you called a video shop then. What movies? Yesh. I am looking for foreign movies. Ah, right, well we don’t have many of those. There isn’t the demand to justify buying that many. Yesh. Yes. Perhaps if you tell me a title you have in mind I can tell you if I have it or not? Yesh. Yep. Fire away then, when you’re ready. Yesh. Do you have some under the counter for me? O right. I see. When you say foreign films what you really mean is porn, right? Yesh. Right. Okay, well, it’s the same situation as with the foreign films. We don’t have many pornographic.. Yesh. …films either as most people get theirs from the internet. Yesh? Yeah, coz then you can get films which aren’t censored by the BBFC, you know. Yesh. So…. Yesh. So, in conclusion, I don’t really have any porn. Yesh. Will you make som
There was a poll commissioned recently to try and discover whether drivers still talked on their mobile phones whilst mobile in their vehicles. For those who missed the introduction of the new law to ban drivers physically holding a mobile phone as they motored along, which came into effect about five months ago, it does allow for the operating of hands-free kits. There is an on-the-spot fine to be levied at any driver caught talking or texting whilst they are in control of a moving vehicle, the idea being to dissuade people from holding a phone and a conversation whilst changing gear half-way around a busy roundabout and operating the indicator with a knee or a chin. According to the poll only 35 percent of those asked have been deterred from breaking this law by the thirty pound fine. 80 percent said that they still regularly see a multitude of fellow road inhabitants use the phone whilst in motion. All of which goes to show that the ban has not been as effective as the police mig
There have to be moments throughout life that are far more memorable than others. I had one of these on Saturday. It was raining and I was on the hockey pitch immersed in a competitive game of sticks and ball. Bude were winning and we had just been awarded a free hit on the edge of the ‘D’. Now might be a fine time to meander off into the intricacies of the rules and such but I do not have the mental impetus. This is what happened. Allan stood over the ball, his stick raised, watching the attackers and defenders run around in circles in front of the goalkeeper and his goal. He was waiting to spy an opening through which he could launch the ball for someone to tap it into the goal. I had sauntered up from the halfway line mumbling to myself about how deplorable it was that nowadays a man could not have a stitch in peace. Just as I reached the 25 yard line Allan turned his knowledgeable head towards me and gave me a look. To many of the players on the pitch such a look would not have
Right, well Brucie has been busy. I have done very little over the summer months, as is only right and proper, and as the evenings draw in and late evening beach fires and other such malarkey become a hazy glowing memory, I find myself stirring into action. With everything in this world being relative, one way or another, it can be pointed out that my 'action' could quite well be another man’s twenty year coma but, as I said, everything is relative so my efforts are still to be appreciated. I have found a bungalow which is a 55 second amble from the Atlantic. This bungalow has a jacuzzi, sauna and pool table. This bungalow is the bomb and very nicely priced. Bruce shall be sharing this domicile with Jack the Dentist and Willem the Woodsman both of whom are immersed in long-term relationships with two lovely ladies. It was this state of affairs that almost caused the first in-house argument before we’d even moved into the house as everybody wanted a double bed. I had viewed t
I have just arrived back. The drizzle is exploding into steam on the bonnet of my car and under the hood the engine is creaking and slowly cooling after powering itself and I the two hundred miles from the airport. Things have changed since I left several months ago. I just need a minute to grasp this. Bear with me for I shall return shortly.
During the shift I covered for Jane last Friday I had the dubious pleasure of Mr. Pennyfat’s company. Mr. Pennyfat is about twenty-three, wears glasses and two fingers on his left hand don’t appear to work very well. He is a part-time video shop groupie. He used to come and visit Gary frequently when I first started at the shop and steadily I got to know him. I called him Tony because he looked more like a Tony than an Anthony and, besides, three syllables are too many for a quick and informal greeting. Over the months I talked to him more and more as he seemed a decent enough sort. He was slightly quirky admittedly, but if I was to refrain from conversing with freaks and weirdoes I would have to stop talking to myself, which I just couldn’t do. The fateful day eventually came when his true state of mind was revealed to me. He told me of his brief time at university, the pills and speed, the short employment at Macdonald’s, his mental collapse and breakdown, his fits and his jumping
A moment spent on idle introspection: Dear Body and Soul, Yes, well, I have been incredibly slack in the old Fitness and Health department. And for this I humbly beg your forgiveness. You may not have heard but it was my misfortune, two weeks ago, to lose both my hands in a freak surfing accident. They were lopped off by the propeller of a passing schooner and I was only able to find one of them, as I was busy fending off the sharks keen on the scent of my blood, with my bleeding stumps. Later, the hand came alive and attempted to flood Bude and rape a tractor so I destroyed it. That’s right, who’s laughing now. Excuses pushed rather rapidly to one side, how the devil are you? Well, I know that you are not awfully well. I can tell by the burgeoning size of your lovehandles and your poor performance on the basketball court on Saturday. An aerobic survival period of six and a half minutes is not adequate. You are also in a very strange mood. You have drunk too much over the las
Groupies, right, groupies. Originally solely the right of the sweaty rock star, now there have evolved many more types of groupies. The only type that I encounter, unfortunately, are the lesser known video shop groupie. These are people who spend a disproportionate amount of time in the shop in relation to the actual amount of films they rent. They are all friends, but friends whom I only ever see when I am sat behind the desk being cynical and becoming drunk on the power. The lovely Joe is one such groupie. Admittedly she does rent a few films occasionally but she is most certainly a video shop groupie. About two years ago I started to get to know her, as she was talkative and opinionated whilst she was searching for a suitable film to watch. Most of her opinions were wrong, of course, because they disagreed with mine. And I am a ‘professional’ video guy, it says so on my card, so my opinions are, for want of a more accurate word, fact. Anyway, we steadily got to know each other, s
With no real place to go she found herself being ushered off the last bus at its last stop. The driver was not aggressive as he guided her down the steps but he was firm. He held her arms from behind and partly carried, partly directed her to the door. She was so passive and limp that he found himself pressing his groin into her backside in an attempt to keep her moving forward. He was a head taller than her so he could smell the essence of the early morning shampoo in her long, dark hair. Her arms felt thin and her buttocks rubbed against him and she smelt of honeysuckle. “C’mon love, you’re gonna have to go. I need to get home.” She did not reply. He had taken them both to the door of the depot and out onto the pavement. He stopped and then wondered if she would collapse if he let her go. He slowly released his grip on her arms and she started to wobble. He quickly grabbed her arms again and looked about. The street was wet and empty, except for the houses and trees and stree
“Listen mate, right, you’d best check yourself before you wreck yourself. That’s right you wanker, best chickiddy-check yo’self before you riggidy-wreck yo’self WIGGA!” So that’s what he said to me. I was lost for words momentarily at the man’s sheer gall. I stepped forward and slowly reached out my right hand in front of him. He watched it. I wriggled the fingers a little and he watched that too. Then with my left hand I cuffed him around the side of his head. I took one step back and looked at him as he rubbed the back of his head with both hands. He was emitting an ‘Owwww.’ He was whining like a pussy. “You sound like a bitch. Get a grip.” I told him flatly. “Owww…shit man, that hurt.” “Well, you sad little twat, looks like you’d best check yourself. Now,….fuck off.” He sloped off down the street. The audience started to dissipate as I turned and walked back up to the video shop. “I just ran into that try-hard twat Wayne.” “O yeah?” said Gary, the shop manag
Bruce has been interminably busy this last week. Busy in the pursuit of pleasure. This has taken many forms and always, unless in reference to the nighttime pursuits, under the golden auspices of a blazing Cornish sun. Indeed, Bruce is a little crisp around the edges. The was a five and a half hour game of golf in the green and hilly surroundings of Trethorne golf club, replete with babbling brooks and lily ponds, consumers of my balls. I lost balls in the jaundiced gorse bushes, in the poppified meadows, over fences and amidst copses. I lost balls in the rough and on the fairway. I paid more for the balls than I did for the round of golf. Worth every penny. The only thing that marred the whole experience was when Jason’s trolley handle came away from the trolley with his golf bag on. It just would not stay firmly stuck where it should. This meant that for the last couple of miles Jase had to shoulder his bag, carry the handle in his hand and the metal trolley in the other. It was
Sex is Power. Power is Energy. Energy is Matter. Matter is Mass. Which means that Good Sex, or A Lot of Indifferent Sex, is very heavy, man. Sex is a black hole. It draws you in and then consumes you. One moment you are a wandering satellite bumbling along on some mission in the outer reaches when all of a sudden you encounter Sex. It could be a leg, a thigh, a smile, the hair and as soon as you see it your direction changes and you start orbiting Sex. Around and around you go, deliriously hopeful and salivating, rubbing your hands up and down your thighs and licking your lips. Then you realise that you have relinquished a certain quota of your control. You should know that if you do not pull up at this juncture then you will be lost to the Sex Black Hole. Not many pull up. Which makes sense as it is better to fly on and crash and burn rather than to not fly at all. What is SEX? What does it mean? Sensuous Erotic eXchange? Such Extreme Xtasy? Suck Earlobe for Ten? It should alway
I keep neglecting this one girl. She lives in London. She’s an actress and so cannot even think about leaving the hustling metropolis of potential opportunities that may be lying in wait for her. I am always thinking about her for one reason or another. Our conversations are the greatest. We had a conversation about sliced bread once, at nine in the evening after we had run into each other as I was shutting the shop up. Forty minutes later and she wasn’t able to get that bread as the shop had shut but I knew that I really liked this chocolate honey. If our rapport is so enjoyable and satisfying then why do I not call her apart from once in an indigo moon? Then I think about her body. We’ve been to bed a couple of times. She was a virgin and, for one reason and another, she still is. Well, maybe she isn’t, but that was nothing to do with me. She is toned. She has a big ol’butt and she is strong. That is a combination of genetics and ballet. She can flip me over in the sack no problem
Too much to smoke last night. I woke up this morning with my head stuck firmly up my arse. I have only been awake for 45 minutes and already I have made three basic errors. I've skinned my knuckles, left something vital behind and mistakenly waved at somebody I probably shouldn't have. Now I shall be in an ambigous mood for the rest of the day. When you do something foolish and there is only one person to blame you can derive no satisfaction from taking your anger out upon a door or a bucket or anything inanimate and completely innocent. Then again, it is no good kicking yourself. These situations are why swear words are so necessary. You can relieve so much pressure by just bellowing "FUCKING FUCK, YOU TWAT!" Marijuana. It has its uses. One of which is no longer daily puffing. The smoke of ages past reveals to the mind the fires of the present. Which is just a load of horseshit. Skunky buds. Will make you laugh harder than normal at something that is normally
It was the annual hockey dinner last night at the Falcon. About a hundred and fifty people were invited. This year is the 21st anniversary of the creation of Bude Hockey Club and faces from the mist of the past came along. Someone also managed to get some chap called John Shaw to come along. Noone knew who he was or what he wanted but apparently he used to play for the Great Britain hockey side in days gone by. Through the haze of alcohol I seem to remember him telling me about playing along side the likes of Sean Curley (fuck it, that's not how you spell his name) and the One, the Only, Imran Sherwani (that doesn't look right either.) John told me that Imran now works in a newsagency. How the mighty must fall. There's never been any money in hockey anyway. God, what am I writing? This is just so terribly boring. I'm sending myself to sleep. Why was I writing about this anyway? So, everybody in tux's apart from Bruce who simply insists on being different. Aloof.