Apathy UK

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