My friend, who I know from experience likes to listen more than to speak, usually while sitting with a half empty pint of ale in one hand and a cigarette in the other, nodding and smiling in rhythm to the words of his current companion, not feigning an interest but genuinely sympathetic, black hair unkempt and long with the promise of a thousand brush strokes never made, scuffed leather shoes and tweed green sports jacket giving the impression of an ex-public school boy down on his luck, his brown eyes glazed through a fog of tobacco smoke with a vagueness resulting from a thousand drinks bought for him and by him in equal measure (for my friend always kept company in pairs), discussing the cricket, also able to play when the mood took him and capable of bowling a mean curved ball, but picked less often for the team than he could have been on account of missing as many matches as he made either through sitting too often and for too long in his local or lying in a hospital bed as a result, it saddens me to say, is dead.
Jack did not die, as you… read more
The Princess of Puluschya
Pale perfect skin. Eyes like emeralds. Red aristocratic lips. She was beautiful, utterly beautiful...
And I hated her.
The first princess of Puluschya sat across the table from me, raising her silver fork in order to take the most delicate of bites - so delicate as to be flavourless – from her plate. Shining in the candelabra light, her long red curls fell precociously across her shoulders, laden with every sort of ribbon and jewel, of which she had just spent the past hour boring my poor sister with a detailed, and cross-referenced, history of each. That was the first time our eyes met. She was explaining to my sister how some topaz broach of inconsequence was given to her as a gift by some dashingly dull prince at which point she paused, giving me a haughty glance of significance I didn't care to decipher. Her eyes seemed to pout. Mine glowered back.
It was a moment of pure romance.
Pausing between discussions of perfumes and furs, she took up her glass and, with perfect etiquette, sipped the wine. The finest in all the Kingdom of Bevkoiska; brewed from the finest grapes, grown in the finest… read more
A few short months back, after watching the BBC weather report or "meteorological orientated panic attack" i.e MEPA, as the Daily Mail is now insisting we call it (when its not chastising the "blacks" the "queers" and the "Polish") I was inspired. I decided to take it upon myself to finally restructure and reclassify something that has become somewhat of an issue. It plagues every waking moment, and every non-lucid based dream, of every living creature (from man to mongoose), walking or nonchalantly ambling around the earth. Well, at least the select few blessed with enough phalanges to wield a remote, accompanied with the mental capacity required to control a free-view box - on reflection these two stipulations appear to rule out the vast majority of the animal kingdom... and the inhabitants of Norfolk.
I am of course referring to the age old saga of Celsius Fahrenheit Gate. As children we were all read the stories before bedtime (or before daddy made us keep more secrets) as to how Clint Celsius and Felicity Fahrenheit met, fell in love, married, moved onto the farm, had six children, and ultimately poisoned each other with mercury. They could not agree on which of… read more
‘It’s not you, it’s me‘
..It’s not me, it’s you
‘You’re too good for me’
..I’m too good for you
‘I’m not ready for a relationship right now’
..with you
‘You’re like a brother/sister to me’
..I don’t want to have sex with you
‘I like you better as a friend’
..I don’t want to have sex with you
‘Can we stay friends?’
..please don’t make a scene if we bump into each other
‘I feel like this relationship is holding me back ’
..I want to have sex with other people
‘Let’s just see how it goes ’
..I still get to have sex with other people, right?
read more
[Note: As inspired by Bryan Erskine @ http://www.tailcast.com/article-my-dating-declaration-30522.html Don't you even dare read this without at least having a glance at the original first. I should've asked permission to do this, but as it's a tribute, I can only hope it's allowed ^_^]
MEN
We're not looking for a white knight to sweep us off of our feet!
We're not even looking for a man who'll sweep up after himself!
Put away your brooms!
Why your bravado is never going to impress
We've seen all of your acts before, we've seen your cliches before and they fit the fairytales they come from much better.
BECAUSE THEY ARE SIMPLY THAT; FAIRYTALES
We are talking to you because you intrigue us, not because we're intrigued by the Robert Pattinson or the Leonardo DiCaprio in you.
We know you can't sustain this level of showmanship forever- surely it's better to be honest and get a girl who appreciates YOU than pretend, and get a girl who appreciates VANITY?
WOMEN
This is meant to be the dating game!
Dating involves 2 people, so should the game! Get out and get playing!
Stop idling by!
Why the deer in the headlights look is out of fashion
Men know… read more
I know that I am talking to the mirror, but sometimes it seems like you are the
only one who understands me. Being a stepmother is bad enough in these
turbulent times, especially as my new husband had gone off to fight another
one his endless wars, but leaving me in charge of that child is another thing altogether.
She is all sweetness and light when her father is around, but I know the truth
and so do the servants. You also wouldn't believe the stories that she makes
up and tries to convince her dear father are true.
Then there was the day that she managed to escape the confines of the
castle. The duty guard claimed that she must have somehow dug her way out,
but I suspected that he was sleeping on the job. I had to sack him and send
him away, I couldn't trust him to act responsibly again.
It seems that the brat, sorry Princess, ran away into the woods and got lost.
Crying her poor little eyes out, she finally fell down a slope and rolled up in
front of a log cabin. I only found out the full story… read more
When I was younger (let’s say eight years old for this exercise), I used to dream about being “grown up”. I have now come to realize that everything I’d fantasize about is pure shit. It was lies fed to me by…someone or something (I haven’t nailed that down yet). And I’m not ready to forgive them/it yet.
Just think about all of the myths about adulthood that have turned out to be completely false…
Myth: When you’re grown up you will wear fancy clothes.
Fact: When you’re grown up you will wear a crappy shirt because it’s perpetually laundry day and you’ll realize halfway through the day that said shirt has a stain on it from the last time you wore it and failed to treat the stain properly.
Myth: When you’re grown up you will do whatever you want.
Fact: You will go to work (if you’re lucky) and come home to sit in front of the television while eating frozen pierogies for dinner because you have nothing else in the house that’s edible or makes a meal.
Myth: When you’re grown up you’ll eat dessert all the time.
Fact: Often you’ll forget to buy something for dessert and… read more
I like to think about relationships in terms of booze. Moby’s parents are a Cassis cocktail. Her mum is the Cassis, she’s sweet and sticky. Likable, but I can’t take too much of her in one go, and she does tend to stick around, difficult to get rid of on occasion. Moby’s dad is the dry Champagne. He’s light and bubbly, always something going on, always on the move. He’s got a depth that takes a while to get used to though, perhaps a little dry for my taste. Together they work well and I like their company, but I can tell how things will turn out with them. It will be his fault – he’ll inevitably change, start to lose his fizz, and she will turn overpoweringly sweet again. I’m sure they’ll stay together, but it won’t taste good.
My dad is like cool spring water. By himself, he’s not much of a drink, unless you’re really thirsty. With most women, he would just dilute their personality, but my Mum’s not like most women. She’s strong willed, opaque, and she tends to leave a nasty taste in your mouth, very much like Pernod. Put them together and the… read more
“Why does no one trust us with money?” Moby angrily throws the torn remains of the rejection letter in the air, and the pieces come fluttering down around her. I love the way she looks at the moment - frustrated, but as if she’s not about to give up.
I pat her on the bum and follow her back to the kitchen. “Don’t worry, bun. I’m sure someone will surprise us eventually.”
“It’s not like we’re being unreasonable, is it?” She turns to look at me, tears in her eyes. “Why won’t they lend us the money?”
“Perhaps it’s the way we’re answering the questions.” I pick up a half completed application off the kitchen table and read from it. “Job title, sales assistant. Salary, £140 per week. Amount of loan, £10,000. Reason for loan, to explore South America.”
“What’s wrong with that?” I look up at Moby, half expecting a smile, but she’s serious. “We’re going to repay it when we get back.”
“Perhaps they think we’re not going to come back.”
And she smiles. I think I like Moby better when she smiles. I like her any way. But as I said, we’re going through a rough patch… read more
I’m not an onion. I’m more of a potato. Ragged on the outside, but fairly consistent once you get to know me, sprouting the occasional eccentricity that needs to be keep it in check. My brother, on the other hand, is an onion. You spend some time with Sam, think you’re getting to know him, and then he surprises you, does something unexpected, and a layer is peeled back.
You’d like my girlfriend, Moby. She’s a plum. Soft and fruity, giving, but you can’t push her too far. She’s as hard as nails at the core.
My last flatmate, smelly socks, she’s an apple. She’s glossy on the outside. Pristine and shiny. You know she’s juicy inside, but you eat too much and you get to the core. You want to spit that bit out.
The thing is, life’s started to get complicated. Smelly socks has a crush on my brother. Sam doesn’t know. He wants to sleep with my girlfriend. Moby and I aren’t getting on too well at the moment. She’s always angry with me. Thinks I pay too much attention to smelly socks. But we’re just good friends. Smelly socks tells me she’s… read more
1: Departure & Connotations
The long tube, lit with an ominous aquatic light, speeds furiously down the bypasses, country lanes and motorways. The chevrons, speed limit signs and street lights flicker past in luminous succession. The passengers gaze out through opaque eyes, glazed with drowsy hypnotism. What are they seeing? A service station that glows red with the distorted smile of a Little Chef logo, or an intricate device too impossible to comprehend through the mundane logic of consciousness? Time floats by as we shoot through the dead night; I taste the last cigarette that rushed past my lips as our bags were thrown ruthlessly into the cargo hold and smile, remembering nicotine-stained summers and alcoholic promises long since severed.
We hit Heathrow at 5.45, the dawn breaking over hotels and terminals. Dodd has been cramped behind the National Express toilet door for six hours and begins to find this leg of the journey disquieting, disturbed by its apparent “connotations”. At some stage in the night, the lack of air-conditioning has left me dehydrated and the prospect of neat vodka, currently masquerading as Tesco Value water under Chalky’s feet, has long since been abandoned in the claustrophobic… read more
Some people change with time. Their hairs turns grey, they get fat. Then there’s one lucky sod that looks beautiful forever. Well that lucky sod is Clara, my wife. When she walks down the street, people’s head turn as she goes past. The sunlight bounces of her hair. Her smile lights up a room. She’s a walking, talking cliché. But I love it. I bet our kids turn out that way too. They have most of her genes anyway. Kate has her voice and her eyes. Becky has her brains and her mouth. Jamie has her charisma and her nose. I sometimes wonder if she conceived them on her own. Then I remember that we always do everything together. Monday is my day for the school run. Clara’s a nurse and she works late on Sundays, so she’s still in bed when we leave. We’re running late today. Becky couldn’t find her PE kit and Jamie lost his mobile. It is nine when we arrive and all three of my children are complaining. “Mrs Andrews is gonna kill me.” “If we were any later it might as well be home time.” “Dad, we’re missing assembly.” Kids. Don’t you just love ‘em? I… read more
