27 May 2004
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 through a plate glass window on the second floor of his parents house and the ensuing 263 stitches. This revelation grated against my initial impression of him that had been derived from his spoken intention of wanting to join M16. Having shared so much Tony then made the mistake of presuming that I cared.
His visits became more and more frequent as well as designed to coincide with my rare stints behind the counter. One day he came in and said hello, to which I grunted without looking up and then he said:
“Bruce, I’m just going to pop behind and make a coffee.”
Who?! What?! When?! Before I could put my surprise and shock into words Tony had disappeared from sight behind the counter and I could here the chink of spoon on mug. I sat there in mild disbelief. It was hard work developing and maintaining the fearful mystique of the video shop and, until that fateful day, to have someone uninitiated into the fold tramp into the back room without an armed guard or UN monitor, was unheard of. Eventually he emerged with a mug of coffee in his mitt. Only one mug as the bastard had not thought to offer to make me one. Not that I drink coffee but he did not know that. He then proceeded to take up the whole of the counter to roll a fag. It was painful to watch. He made a mess off the rollie and then took his coffee and fag and went to stand at the door to smoke it, leaving a veritable weed patch of tobacco on my counter. I was speechless, a rare condition for me, but I had no words.
He returned, left the empty mug on the counter, smiled at me in a friendly way and then asked me, if I didn’t mind, to stop calling him Tony and call him Anthony instead. I asked him if he was sure and he said that he was. He then left. Tony cannot leave without making the parting, which you would think would be a pleasant thing, into a drawn out and painful social interaction.
“Right Bruce, I’m off.”
“Goodbye Tony. I mean, Anthony.”
“Yeah, I’m off now.”
“I’ll see you……are you working tomorrow?”
“I can’t remember.”
“Oh well. I’ll see you maybe tomorrow and if not tomorrow then…are you working on Wednesday?”
“Maybe. See you later.”
“Yep. Right Bruce, I’m off. I’ll see you on….”
“How about you’ll just see me when you see me next.”
“Ah. Yes. See you then, then.”
“Right. See you later.”
The next time I saw Gary I told him of Tony’s impertinence. Gary’s head sank into his hands and he moaned.
“Nooooooo. I was worried something like this might happen.”
“Why, Gary, why? What happened?”
“Shit Bruce, I believe I’ve fucked up. Last Thursday he came in and asked if he could have a cup of coffee because he was cold…”
“And you told him nicely to fuck off, right?”
“Yes. Well, no. I told him he could go and make one because I was busy.”
“Ha fucking ha. Honestly G, I think you’ve created a monster.”
“Yeah, well, he’s your little friend, not mine!”
“You knew him first you slag!”
As the months rolled on I slowly started calling Tony Anthony without thinking about it. My behaviour towards him depended very heavily on whether I saw him or not. If I didn’t see him then I was very congenial towards him but if I had him in front of me I was, at the best of times, rather curt.
Much as Gary passed Tony on to me, I made the fateful mistake of infecting Cris with him. During the brief period that Tony seemed only moderately strange, I introduced him to Cris the tattooist. Before we knew it Tony was hanging out at both of our shops, always behind the counter, hovering like a big floating twat in the background, making insipid jabs at humour and laughing at his own failures at it. Being a far more warm-hearted human than myself, Cris never employed the mordant sarcasm that I did when talking to Tony, a sarcasm that he never appeared to notice.
At this present point in time my conversations with Tony consist of him being friendly and full of shit and me being busy elsewhere. I have noticed that the pause between the beginning of Tony’s sentences and the next word can last for upto a minute. Even to someone who professes to be uncaring of the poor boy’s derangement, I have noticed that his mental well being is faltering. He does not try to smile as much as he used to. Instead of struggling to finish a pointless sentence he will instead just close his mouth and wait for me to grunt. This is not to say that his high level of brazenness has reduced at all, nor his apparent unappreciation of subtle social hints, like the rolling of the eyes, the deep and depressed sigh and the middle finger.
Take for example last Friday. Mr. Pennyfat came into the shop early in the morning when it was empty. I was feeling very chipper because it was Friday and I had a wonderful evening planned:
“Morning Anthony. How are you?”
“I’m skint. I’ve lost ninety quid.”
“Really? That’s a total bastard when that happens. It happens to me all the time. It’ll turn up.”
“I can’t find it anywhere.”
“Have you looked everywhere?”
“Yes. I had it in my flat. I’ve searched the whole place.”
“Well Anthony, maybe you left it somewhere. You know you are always leaving your tobacco or rizlas or gloves or jacket all over Bude.”
“Bruce, can I borrow a fiver until next Wednesday when I get money in my account?”
“You want to borrow a fiver off me?”
“Well, I would like a tenner but I didn’t like to ask too much.”
“Riiiiiiight. Next Wednesday you’d pay me?”
“I’ll tell you what Anthony, I’ll lend you a tenner. If I don’t get it back on Wednesday, right, I get to break your legs with a baseball bat. Al’right?”
“Okay. Thanks. I’m just off for a meal at Atlantic Diner and a big milkshake.”
“Anthony, that’ll cost at least five quid. You could go and buy bread and beans for under a quid at the supermarket. I thought you were skint.”
“Ah, well, now I’ve walked into town I can’t be bothered to walk home.”
“Yeah, I guess that three minute down hill walk is quite debilitating. Don’t forget, a tenner on Wednesday or it’s your kneecaps, my boy.”
“No worries Bruce. I’ll see you…..are you working tomorrow.”
“I’ll see you on Wednesday.”
After my shift finished at two o’clock I went around Aquaries to help Cris out. We were both sitting eating pasties with our feet on the counter when guess who walked up the stairs, evidently replete after his feed at the Atlantic Diner downstairs?
Bruce: “O bollocks. Hello Anthony, how are you.”
Tony: “Hi Bruce, Hi Cris. How are you guys?”
Cris: “Good thanks, mate. What are you upto?”
Bruce: “Anthony came into the shop earlier and borrowed a tenner off me.”
Cris: “He came and asked me as well. I don’t do that though.”
Bruce: “My Gran used to say ‘Never a lender nor a borrower be.’ but I’m in so much debt I can’t be that hypercritical. I do get to break Anthony’s legs though, if he doesn’t pay me back by Wednesday. Isn’t that right Anthony?”
Tony: “Yep. I’ll get the money to you on Wednesday.”
Bruce: “Well, Anthony, to be honest, I’ve never broken anyone’s legs before. I think I’d be prepared to spend a tenner on the experience. So, you know, if you don’t want to pay me back that’s okay, I’ll take your kneecaps as payment instead. Whack! Whack! Thank you very much.”
I finished my pastie, got up and said goodbye to Cris, grunted at Anthony whilst making swinging motions with my hands and left the pair of them to it.
On Saturday night, at about one o’clock in the morning, Jack and Claire were walking back from the Falcon having attended the wedding reception of one of the dental nurses and some other chap. They had enjoyed a very pleasant evening of mostly good company, free booze and edible food and were meandering up the hill towards home. Claire was becoming increasingly more annoyed with her boyfriend as they walked. It seemed to her that every ten seconds Jack would interrupt himself and look at the sky and ask:
“I wonder * hic *what that helicopter is doing.”
“Mostly flying Jack.”
“I know that! I know, know keno that, my dear, but why has it got a searchlight?”
“Well, * sigh *, I imagine that it is searching for something.”
“Really? * hic * Goddamn hiccups. What do you suppose it is looking for in that field?”
“I don’t know. Did you think Jane’s dress was tasteful or a bit too eighties?”
“Err, it had a lot of lace, acres of lace, like a meringue…What do you suppose that helicopter is doing, eh?”
On the lovely sunny Sunday the next day, Jack and Claire walked to the secluded Launcells church just down the sunlight dappled road outside my house. There they had a romantic picnic and there was shagging involved, as they don’t get to see each other as often as they would like. They were going at it like fluffy, rampant long-eared herbivores when Jack’s keen hearing distinguished a noise other than Claire’s delirious heaves. He stopped to listen better. Claire was not immediately impressed:
“Fuck me you bastard!”
“Shhh, I think someone’s coming.”
“Not yet! Get on with it. Shag me!”
“No, really, there’s someone coming through the hedge.”
“What? Where? Shit, where’s my dress?”
And then four tall men, all armed with long wooden sticks and all dressed in blue overalls pushed their way through the hedge in front of the scrambling couple. Jack was sitting on the grass with one leg in his trousers and his shirt over his groin. He had a smile on his face and his hands on his hips. Claire had managed to pull her dress over her head and after she finished arranging it over her hips she leant on Jack’s shoulder nonchalantly with one hand and tried to brush her hair into shape with the other.
All four of the radios attached to the interlopers belts hissed and clicked and there was a muffled conversation between one of the policeman and whoever was on the other end of the line. “Excuse us.” he said after he had finished and then they all turned around and disappeared back from whence they had came. Jack and Claire looked at each other. The mood had evaporated and Jack’s curiosity was lit.
“You know Claire, this is about where that helicopter was hovering over last night.”
“O for Christ’s sake,” snorted Claire as she pulled her knickers up.
“I’m going to go and have a look and see what’s going on,” continued Jack, struggling with a sock.
Last night the recently returned Will joined Jack, Cris and myself at a table in the Tree for our regular Wednesday evening beer or three after a basketball game. Near the end of the evening, after I had drunk about six gin and tonics and was feeling loquacious, Jack said:
“Guys, I have a story.”
“O yeah? What?”
“Well, Claire and I went for a picnic on Sunday down to Launcells church…”
“Oooh yeah? Wink wink!”
“No, we did have a picnic. Then we shagged, obviously. Anyway, afterwards, when we were walking back, I saw two helicopters in a field and there were loads of coppers everywhere.”
“Yep. Bruce, you remember I told you about that helicopter with a searchlight that I noticed on Saturday night?”
“Yeah, well, I went and asked one of the policemen what was going on. At first he said that he couldn’t say but he eventually told us that there had been a search going on for a young epileptic guy from Bude. They had just found him in the wood behind the church. He had hung himself.”
“Really, Christ. Bude’s not a big place. I wonder who that was then.” said Cris.
“It could have been Tony.” I suggested. Cris and I looked at each other.
“Was he an epileptic?” asked Will.
“I’m not sure but he definitely had fits of some kind.” I replied. “I bet it was Tony.”
“I hope not.” said Cris. “It probably isn’t.”
“Well,” said I ,”he has been down recently. It would be more interesting if it was someone we knew.” Which drew a gasp or two from around the table. “O, c’mon guys, we’re just animals and there are too many of us anyway. Apart from any pain that might be involved, I wouldn’t mind at all if I snuffed it tomorrow.”
Cris and Jack shook their heads at me. Will drank some more Guinness. Then Cris smiled at me. “I’ve just thought of something.” he said.
“O yeah, what?” I asked.
“Tony owes you a tenner!”
25 May 2004
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 last few days and your gut seems to be expressing its displeasure by rumbling and aching slightly. At least, I hope it is down to the alcohol as I cooked a meal on Saturday for friends and while they are all alive and prospering, you are in mild moments of agony. Maybe it’s because I had to cook vegetarian as they are all veggie-ish eaters, and your meat eating stomach hasn’t been able to handle the vitamin overdose. Who knows? Who cares? I do a little bit.
So, been for many swims now. I almost drowned during the last one. 20 minutes of swimming out deep to where the surfers where (as the group I was with were all surfers and must have thought I was particularly hard, which, lets face it, is reason enough to experience the panic of near and untimely death) I started heading back in as I could feel my limbs groaning slightly, got caught in a bastard of a rip and had to fight against it for five minutes, going nowhere fast, until I finally beat it and stumbled ashore. I still managed a handstand or three. At one point whilst I was struggling I was considering waving to the surfers for immediate assistance and it was a good thing I didn’t because, apparently, they weren’t looking. Zerren and a mate almost got plastered onto the rocks. It was lush though. Love the sea, me.
Sometimes I feel that my life path needs a major fucking injection of government money to finance the demolition of the present leafy, winding road to build a 47-lane mega freeway. Other times I wouldn’t have it any other way. Tis trouble to be so fickle methinks.
Right, my sandwich is ready. Best busta'move. Drive safely muppet head.
24 May 2004
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, starting with our history of drug abuse, which is always a great way to get on a level with someone new. She was very open about it all as well as her periods of self-harming and things were very nice between us. Very nice and platonic.
Then, one Sunday about a year ago, Joe came in whilst I was deeply engrossed in Donnie Darko. This is a great film and although I had watched it once before in the seclusion of my pit, I really could not stand any major disturbance to the audio-visuals flowing into my cranium. Ten minutes later, which were full of Joe talking, me nodding absently mindedly whilst playing with the rubber buttons on the remote control and glancing anxiously at the paused image on screen, my patience had evaporated. I interrupted her story about her caravan to say:
“Joe, I really want to finish watching this….”
“…and the door hinges need oiling…”
“…and I’m sorry your kettle is knackered but this film…”
“…so when it’s windy I can hear the sheep bleating…”
“…but the stove is really great…”
“Excuse me Joe….”
“…tweed. What Bruce?”
“Fuck off will you.”
She looked at me with the beginnings of a small grin playing on her lips, ready to blossom into a laugh when I lightened my expression and laughed myself. I didn’t because I was quite serious. Her grin died, she turned to go and said ,”Goodbye then.”
I did not see her for about nine months. To be honest, I did not miss her much because the groupies are legion, but I ran into her one night in the Globe. I was filling in for a friend who could not play in a darts match. She was there working in the restaurant. It was a very pleasant change to be meeting in a different place to the shop and we smiled at each other immediately. Ten minutes later she had given me the requisite hard time about my telling her to eff off and I had been satisfactorily self-recriminating. After I had won at darts in an awe inspiring demonstration of beginner’s luck, I became deeply embroiled in an argument with some wanker who was supporting Bush and the war and wanted to move to the good ol’US of A just as soon as he had graduated. Now, I was not arguing because I felt that strongly about whatever it was we were raising our voices about, purely because this twat could not maintain a rational chain of discussion and was so sickeningly self-righteous that I felt compelled to wind him up until he had a coronary.
When Joe joined in the argument he lasted for about one minute and then fled in tears to the gents, whining as he left,”You’re supposed to be on my side!”
I could only presume that he was talking to Joe and she confirmed this presumption when she said, ”That, Bruce, is my man.”
“Nice.”, I said and we laughed.
Ever since then Joe has been a regular groupie again. About a month ago now she came in and we nattered and she told me that she had given Will the boot. That day, when she left, she came around the counter as per normal for a hug and a peck on the cheek, but as our heads closed in she suddenly changed trajectory and we kissed lips on lips. The next day it was lips on lips and I pressed on her butt, the next day all of the above and we pressed our hips together and I stroked down the side of her breast.
Recently, amidst all this groping, she came in with a friend and we chatted and then as they left, after we had pressed the flesh, I said:
“Have a good night Joe.”
“I always do,” she replied and then, before she could help herself, added,”Even if it depends on batteries.”
Her friend gasped, I smiled a deep, deep smile, and Joe added as she left,”I’m never coming in again.”
Now I know that all I need to do is grab her as, as per normal, look into her eyes and then snog her socks off and everything will be sweet. However, Bude is a small town and there is a chance that Anna might hear about this and then, especially after my recent behaviour, that will be that will my chocolate-honey-dream-girl. This is something I am not really prepared to risk although I know I am weak and if Joe and I keep up this friendly-yet-possibly-much-more approach to hanging out, it cannot be long until I falter.
Yesterday Joe came in and we chatted. For some reason the right hand side of my back was assaulted by an evil itch that I just could not extinguish with my frantic scratching. Whilst talking Joe realised that my attention was mostly elsewhere and so came around the desk:
“Hold still you. I’ll zap it for you.”
“Ooooo, yeah, yeaaah, up a bit, yes! Yes! Do it! To the right, oooooh, nice.”
She scratched my back through my t-shirt and I arched my back slightly and enjoyed it a lot more than I possibly should. She finished and went back around the counter.
“Thanks Joe, that hit the spot.”
“No problem Bruce.”
“You know, you’re really very good at that.” And I started scratching my back again. “Christ, what is wrong with it?”
Joe looked at me from under her eyebrows and with her arms folded across her chest and then strode around the counter again. ‘Game on!’, thought I as she lifted my t-shirt and put her warm hands onto the cool flesh of my back.
“OooooooaaaaaaaAAAAAAAAHHH!” my moan of satisfaction turning to a poorly contained whelp of pain as Joe used her nails, all of the entirety of her nails and with great fervour.
“Ah, ah, ah, ah!” said I.
“This..will..sort..it..out…ugh.” grunted she with the effort of shedding my skin.
I am always banging on about the thin line between pleasure and pain with, what I hope is a knowing look in my eye, like I am an initiate of some secret order of perverts who translate agony as ecstasy, but I could not take any more of this. This was simply very painful pain.
“Okay, okay,” I said as I moved forwards out of the reach of those talons, “I think you’ve got it.”
She skipped around the counter again and smiled at me before picking bits of Bruce from out of her fingernails.
“Jesus Joe. Fuck.”
“I bet you can’t feel the itch anymore, right?”
“Well, no, but Jesus Joe.”
“Well, I gotta go Bruce.” She walked around the counter again and I leant against her as we kissed and she rubbed my t-shirt into the bleeding wounds. “See ya babe!”
And she skipped off. There is no mirror in the shop so I couldn’t see how much damage the minx had done. I felt my back again and there was a smattering of blood on my fingertips as I looked at them, appalled. Jack came in a little later and he had a look at my back. His facial expression confirmed my fears. The bitch had done me! This morning it looked like rugby boots had been grated along my back. Great big slug-like welts.
I have never wanted Joe so much. I am consumed with a fearful amorosity. We will fuck like demented bunnies. Sorry Anna.
23 May 2004
“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 streetlights that made everything look jaundiced. He looked at the wall of the depot and considered trying to prop her up against that and making his escape.
“C’mon love, can you stand up on your own? I can’t hold you all night.”
“I can’t understand you. How about calling a cab, eh? Have you got a phone?”
“Mincal? Minicab? Yeah, call a mincab. Look, I’ve got a phone in the office. Howabout you wait here and I’ll go grab it?”
“Yeah, whatever love, I’ll just go and get it. Can you hang on to this lamppost for a minute?”
“How did you…what…do you know me?”
He turned her around and guided her back inside the depot and towards the office. That was how they met, about six years ago. With his help she weaned herself off the painkillers and got heavily into him instead. He got a job as a radio DJ and they moved to Santa Monica which is where they had their first kid. They called him Badger after the name of the bus firm.
21 May 2004
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 manager and infamous online warrior.
“That boy needs serious mental aid. He tried walking through me and when I stopped him he went ballistic.”
“Did he tell you to check yourself?”
“What a twat. Did you smack him one?”
“Aw, I feel sorry for the poor sod. He’s either deep in some morose depression or he’s going hyper. I just cuffed him one around the head.”
“Nice. Hopefully we won’t see him for about a week.”
“Maybe. It depends what pills he’s presently munching on. He’s a mentalist.”
“He’s a twat.”
“Yep. O yeah, and he called me a wigga.”
“What the fuck is a wigga when it’s at home?”
“Well, I guess it’s like the white equivalent of nigga.”
“People actually say that? Fucking hell. What is the world coming to Bruce?”
Are you going to send that design down or what?! It's sunny as a motherfucka down here. Hope your office is air-conditioned (actually, I'm sure it is. I mean, if battery hens get looked after I'm sure you guys would do as well!) Joking - anyway, you can laugh at me in thirty years time when my monthly pension can only just help me get a mortgage on a can of cheap beans.
Wot you upto this w/e? Scratch that, I just remembered you’re down to Wilts. I'm sorry I couldn't make it but I have to work and sort out my new car. When I say sort out, I mean the important bits, like my slamming, earth shaking stereo. BOOOOO!
Anyway, I'm in the shop for another couple of hours and then it's beach time baby.
Had a girl come in yesterday with her young kid and gave me a bottle of Sprite, coz many people know I love it so. Then about thirty minutes later she called up and explained she'd been too embarrassed to ask in the shop but would I like to go out for a drink with her. Now, she's a lovely girl and everything, about a five out of ten, so not really that fit unfortunately, and nothing special between the ears so, actually, I suppose she’s not that lovely. Although I’m sure she is a good person and everything. What I am trying to say is that she is not my type. Yes, that sounds much better. I said that I didn't even know her name. She then told me that we'd met, talked and then snogged in the Carriers one time. I couldn't remember a thing about that but I knew I should not string this girl along. I had to quash her hopes immediately!
How the fuck could I say no without sounding like a total twat? I was all ,"Ummm, errrm, welll, I'm not really sure..." expecting her to say "O, okay, bye." Instead, she just waited on the other end of the line saying nothing listening to Bruce flounder about, tying himself up in verbal knots. I finished with "....No, sorry. I gotta go. Customer. Bye."
I mean, for Christ's sake, where are all the extremely fit, tanned, toned, erudite, intelligent, mildly twisted birds? Eh?!!!! Answer me that! Actually, I know where they are. Everywhere. What I mean to ask is where are those birds with all of the above, plus with the additional facet of wanting me and my little chap? Eh?!!! Calm down Bruce, you do all right.
Anyway, I'm still trying to disengage myself from this last dalliance. The large bird. She is actually turning me off now. I can only be forced into it by her when I am totally pissed and stoned, with my glasses off. Waking up next to her in the a.m. is pretty fucking horrible actually, man. I run away. She just wants all she can get of the Bruce-man. I've said for the last couple of months or so that she should be aware that there is nothing between us and it's just a bit of fun. She nods and launches he considerable self at me. My legs buckle. She is quite heavy.....fuck.
Anyway, enough rambling.
As I have always said, you’re a total slapper. You will poke anything in a dress that comes within ten feet of you when you are pissed. You need to get some self-respect. Just because you can doesn’t necessary mean that you should.
That’s a bit rich coming from you. You’re as bad as me and you live in London so the scope for slutdom is much larger. Just because you look like Thor and you get all the fitties, does not mean you can preach to me. Had any STDs recently?
Fuck off. That shit happens, as I know you well know. Why don’t you move back to London and then you can go hunting for that combination of ethnicity that you so like. You know, dark skin, dark hair. Isn’t it all blonde surf chickettes down in Bude?
Go catch a cold
Blonde haired, blue eyed, tanned. Yep, everywhere. C’mon down. Anyway, back to the point. Are you trying to tell me that you’ve never gone and done something regretful under the influence? I know you have. Remember Doris the Donkey….
Never was that supposed to be mentioned! This discussion is at an end.
Go drown some.
18 May 2004
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 entirely hot and got warmer for Jase as he lurched about the course. I only saw him almost crack when the seventh person we passed gaily pointed out to him, for the seventh time that day, that the trolley was to ease the weight of the golf bag and was not intended to be carried separately. Jason didn’t even reply but I could see his jugular pulsate. Of course, I was in continual hysterics being the considerate chap that I am.
O hang on, I don’t have time for this right now. Unfortunately, despite the sun being out in force, I do have to do a little work. The sea is calling to me ,”Bruuuce, Beruuceeee, come to me, come to the sea, I’m not chilleee, come and dance in my waves and be free, like a jellyfish, or a collective of plankton. Yes, chuck in your job for the summer and Ahoy!”
What a total load of bollocks. I fucking hate it when I end up writing trash, forced from my cranium like I might a particularly difficult stool from my arse.
11 May 2004
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 always mean pleasure, even if it hurts. Hopefully it doesn't always preclude conception although that is why it is buzzing around our heads all day.
To me Sex is what you need to make a sunny day complete. The beach is good although a little sandy. Distant meadows just over the brow of the hill are preferable. Bring a towel though as although the field looks luscious, with its bluebells and poppies, under a bare arse it is crumbly and sore. One day I want to try it with coconut oil. I want a large PVC tarpaulin, say 20 feet squared, suspended at each corner by a two foot pole so that the PVC acts slightly like a trampoline and all the coconut oil collects in the middle. Let it simmer in the sun for an hour and season with myself and as many honies as I think I can handle. That's good eating.
Anyway, enough about Sex, let us talk about Wanking. I love wanking. In fact, I am a wanker. I am also a motherfucker now, which is fun, but that is not relevant here. I have been wanking, more or less daily, since I was fourteen. Let me quickly do some maths.
27 - 14 = 13 years of wankage.
At an average of 1 wank a day that is 4745 wanks in my life (give or take a few for leap years and the such.)
4745 wanks. Not many now until I break 5000!
I imagine my average wank takes about fifteen minutes. Some shorter and some longer but I feel 15 minutes is fairly accurate.
4745 * 0.25 (of an hour) = 1186 hours and fifteen minutes.
Which means that I have spent a little under fifty days strangling the bishop. That is seven weeks of hard goddam work, baby!
So, let us say that on average amount of ejaculate, or 'rejects' as one sexy bitch once called it after I exploded onto her back, thinking she was asleep, is roughly 20ML.
So, 4745 * 0.02L = 94.9 Litres of cum. That would probably fill a bath or two. If God is a Catholic I am definitely burning.
Wanking is great. My shortest wank was probably about thirty seconds. A pre-charged head, full of erotic rumblings and a few quick jerks later and Budda Bing. My longest was a little over 14 hours long. It was after I came home from some banging jungle night at some club in Bristol, still buzzing my nuts off on billy. 14 hours of smoking spliffs and drinking juice and banging away at myself until my dick looked like a zeppelin. I didn't come, I just fell asleep eventually.
And noone can wank you like yourself. Some ladies have come close but they are handicapped by not having spent hours with Little Jimmy. My cock has changed shape slightly due to my exertions.
The other day Mother left an article out for me to read. It was about a Japanese scientist who had published results which led him to advise daily wanking to fend off prostrate cancer in men. Ladies, you will have to find some other excuse.
9 May 2004
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 at all and when she bares her teeth as I bring her off with my knee I am turning this wonderful and intelligent Catholic schoolgirl into a beast and I love it. So why don’t I get off my arse and go and see her?
Well, Bruce, let me see. Long distance relationships are a waste of time. I’ll just end up frustrated or cheating and paranoid that she is doing the same. I am sorry, but my view of human sexual nature is not a rose-tinted one. We are animals, baby, and animals like to GET IT ON! Anyway, neither of us wants that. We’ve discussed it, on the odd occasion that we actually talk over the phone, and one of her friends came to stay in Bude and told me that she just wanted,”a guy down in Bude with a sexy tattoo to mess about with when she comes down.” Which is what I want, or rather, I want a hot tomalley switched-on sex kitten from the Big City to mess around with when she comes down. Which is all cool but I really should call because she keeps calling me.
I send her stuff. I compile CD’s and send them up or videos of me getting inked and talking shit. She always seems so overly appreciative. She writes me emails that I print off and keep in my back pocket until I wash my jeans and forget about the paper and it turns into a paper-maiche slug. She leaves me messages about dreams she’s had with me in. She texts me. She sends me descriptions of what she’s going to do to me, perhaps the most bone-inducing text I have ever read (and I’ve read a lot of that ilk.) The best thing she has ever sent me was for last Christmas. It was an original copy of Playboy dated June 1969. How eminently cool is that?! She knows me so well and yet I treat her terribly.
Perhaps the old maxim is true. Treat ‘em mean, keep ‘em keen.
I don’t deserve her. She should hook up with some strapping actor type in the city.
Wait, fuck that, I do deserve her. I’m gorgeous, intelligent, strange, tall, articulate, gifted, talented, hung and anything else you might like.
If you had dynamite for brains, man, you wouldn’t have enough to blow your nose.
7 May 2004
Been away for a few days. Flew up to Bonnie Scotland with Cris, Trish and Phoenix in a big metal bird that they called an air-on-plane. I was scared at first but the tall blond stewardess calmed my fears in the back of the cabin. Afterwards she gave me a sticker and welcomed me to some club. It was nice.
by Little Brucie Campbell Age 7.
No, unfortunately not. There was no shagging at thirty thousand feet. Always and everytime I get on a plane, I immediately start fantasising and fixating on the stewardesses. I think it must be a combination of their uniforms and the fact they are so instilled with a 'Prim and Proper' air of control that makes me want to despoil them so much. I imagine eye contact leading to nods and winks leading to the rendezvous in the toilet at the back of the plane and then the quick stripping of each other all the time with stewardess Melissa remaining in character:
"Please adjust your seat sir, I am coming in to land."
"Please be aware of the three exits. One there, one there and one Oooooo there!"
"Fasten your seatbelt please sir. You should expect a turbulent ride."
The flight to Edinburgh is only slightly over an hour and by the time you have taken off and been served the drinks it is time to land. No time for nookie. That I have never made it with a stewardess slaked my disappointment some but my hopes are high for my approaching flight to Nippon. That is at least ten hours in the air. People will be asleep, Melissa will be bored and I will be initiated into the Mile High Club by a professional flyer.
We were met at Edinburgh airport by P, Trish's sister. She was looking elegant and sophisticated in her business suit with the sexiest pair of black boots I had seen all day, shoulder length blonde hair, extremely attractive sharp features and her dazzling smile. Despite the fact that we had met the summer before down in Bude, she did not acknowledge my presence at all. As we followed her out to her car I took a quick peek at her bottom which was mouthwatering in her tight pinstripe trousers. It was divine. As she strode ahead her ankles were revealed and I could she that her boots were what I like to call 'Keep On Boots.' In that "Take everything off honey but Keep On those Boots!"
We were all staying at P's that evening and I was put in her son's room who was off at university. I met her other kids Jim and Morag. We drank wine and wine and wine. Between the four of us we calculated the next day that we had consumed, as well as the beer and Smirnoff Ices, about seven bottles over the course of the evening which was impressive when you consider that P is not a big drinker. Anyway, the four of us were sitting in the lounge, drunk, with Cris and Trish on one sofa, me on another and P sitting on the floor next to me. Somehow the conversation turned to P and if she had been having any dalliances since her split with Kurt a few years previously. Trish managed to eke out of her the fact that she had not had any sweet loving for a long time and then I exclaimed ,"What you need P is a good hard seeing to!" There was laughter, but I was not joking.
In this sort of developing situation, when I am horny and sitting next to some hot number, I normally suggest a foot massage, you know, to break the ice and let her feel the sexual wisdom incarnate in my hands and fingers. This time I came up with something a little different. P had her knees drawn up to her chest and I was watching her pretty feet as she curled her toes into the carpet. She had red varnish on her toe nails, something that I am normally not overly enamoured with but for some reason, maybe that she was such a small and sexy package, I found them very attractive. So I asked her ,"P can I suck your big toe?" She looked at me with mild incredulity in her eyes and then she laughed as did Cris and Trish and so I asked again. "Okay." she said and sidled her bum over towards me and put her foot in the air in front of me.
I grabbed it, rubbed it a little with my hands and then put my lips over her big toe and sucked. Cris was in mild hysterics at this point, seeing his prim and proper elder sister in law having her toe sucked in front of him by his errant mate and Trish threw a cushion at me. I carried on regardless and started to nibble a little bit in time with my stroking of the arch of P's foot. I could see her eyelids flicker a little as she said "Don't." but I paid no attention to this utterance, which I thought to be the dying gasp of her instilled celibate prudence, because as she said it she slid her bottom closer to me and started rubbing my calf through my jeans.
As is normal in these types of situations when Cris is present, the man plays a blinder. One minute Cris and Trish were sitting there, the next I noticed that one of them was missing and shortly afterwards neither of them were anywhere to be seen. They had stealthily gone to their bedroom, she first with he following in five minutes, without saying a word to the sucker or suckee who were both deeply engrossed in each other, and in such a manner leaving the road open to what may happen without making an issue out of it. What happened was that P noticed that they had gone, then turned her gaze to me, a gaze of evil intent, as she pulled herself up and pushed me down onto the sofa. We kissed and kissed and I grabbed her peachy arse and squeezed.
After a while the combined pressure of P pressing herself against me and the gathering reservoir of processed wine in my gut meant that I had to rapidly disengage and head to the toilet. Just as I had finished the door opened and in came P, smiling a naughty smile. I smiled back, also naughtily, and she turned and shut the door behind her. What followed next is all a little hazy. I do know that noone else in that house went to the toilet for the next five hours as we did not leave the bathroom for that period of time. Let me describe the bathroom. It was a big room, with a bath, toilet and sink, a thick, dark carpet, wall paper that was deeply coloured and, my favourite bit, an old Vitcorian dressing table covered in cases and jars and gels with a massive mirror above it. P and I started on the floor, fucked hard, and then fucked hard some more against the wall. Next I remember standing behind P and encircling her with my arms as we both stood and looked into the mirror. I am six foot three and P five foot three so the contrast was engrossing. P spent ages looking at my arms and legs, as I wrapped them around her petite frame, all the time asking "And how old are you?" I guess she could not believe it as she kept repeating that question no matter how many times I told her I was twenty-seven. Perhaps it was because she was sixteen years older than me and celibate for so long. Perhaps it was because she was having a good time. I am not sure.
Next I remember taking charge and telling her to go and bend over the bath. She kneeled down and wriggled her amazing bum at me and smiled over her shoulder as I approached, cock in hand. I planted it deep into her from behind and started stroking it in and out, long and hard. P was moaning and she got louder and louder.
"O my god Bruce Uuugh your cock Uuugh really is rather Uggggggh big!..."
"It's big and hard and I'm fucking you with it you sexy bitch!" (Notice how my Talk Dirty Self-Teaching lessons have paid off.)
I grabbed her by the hips and lifted her up as I stood up so that we were both standing and I could thrust harder. Her moans were becoming louder and louder and I wondered if she remembered that she had put Cris and Trish into her room which was directly behind the wall we were fucking in front of. I felt her body shiver and I withdrew my dripping cock. I never think that my prick looks bigger then when it has had a recent coating of love juices and the veins on it are rampant. P sighed as it slipped out and as I looked down onto her rear quarters I was seized by the compulsion to do something that I had never really done properly before. I cupped my right hand, raised it and brought it down hard onto her right buttock.
So I did it again.
P was indubitably enjoying it. So was I. So I did it again, really hard, meaning to hurt quite a little bit.
And one last one for luck, as her cheek was inflamed by this point.
Which was nice.
Then we fucked on the floor again, with her on top as her arse was quite sore. I was feeling like a man possessed, overcome with the desire to penetrate this lovely fair lady and so as I drilled upwards I also started to press a finger around her pucker, just pressing lightly at first to add another dimension to her enjoyment and also because I was not sure how she would react. I know there is no reason for a fourty-three year old mother of three to be any less depraved in the bedroom sports arena than a younger indolent like myself, but I thought I'd best play it safe. She seemed to enjoy it. Next I took her from behind again as she used the dressing cabinet for support. That was brilliant because we could both watch one another fucking each other in the mirror. I almost blew my load at that point but managed to hold on as we started to laugh as our strenuous activities unbalanced all the jars and tubes and combes on the top of the dresser. As they fell to the floor we laughed and fucked and then we spent time on the carpet hugging and kissing.
Eventually, at about six in the morning, we made it to the bed I was sleeping in. It was just a single but P seemed to fit perfectly against my body. There was more fucking and sucking and I even finger-fucked her bum for a while which made her squeal in an entirely new way. I think I passed out for about fifteen minutes between bouts, the only sleep either of us got that whole night, and I awoke to see this divine woman looking into my eyes. At about eight, we started hearing people moving about and P started to worry slightly as she was meant to have spent the night on the big couch in the lounge. I was not very helpful because I found the whole situation very amusing. So did she a little, but I think the fact that her teenage offspring were feet away from her sweat soaked and glowing body which was wrapped around the body of someone closer to their ages than hers and utterly satisfied, might have unsettled her slightly. She managed to sneak out eventually and then she popped her head around the door a little later on with a cup of tea for me and to say toodle-oo as she had to go to work.
I eventually arose myself and Cris and I left for the train station to catch a train to Aberdeen to get ready for the Granite City Tattoo Convention that Cris was working at. I was smiling. I saw Trish briefly and she smiled. Cris smiled and, being a mate, asked for all the details as soon as we were alone on the platform. I told him most of it. I had a really big smile on my face for the rest of the weekend. After the convention, we spent another night at P's before we flew home. That is why I am still smiling.