thoughts from a mingfone outsider

It was a lunch that I'd rather forget. He strolled through the
formica like a bronco on speed, fulfilling his dreams of pre-mediatated
anarchy and brute dissarry. He seated, swiftly next to me and scowled
at the menu and slat it on the table and it glid, it glid across the
watermarked checker board. He eyed with a sarcasm only shared with him
and his ego, the top right pocket on his denim jacket and unzipped it
and his nokia said hello. Grubby,burnt pork sausage fingers wrapped
around said nokia and he tossed it with extreme self consciosness into
his left hand, then back to his right and flashed me a flash glance, a
wicked, mad as fuck flash of jester wit. I am his ego sponge. He needs
me to fulfill his performance art. He'd express it in art, in writing
if only he knew of a life existed beyond kicks. he would often sit and
I'd watch his eyes burn, penetrating the future in their brilliant gaze
and I'd often feel like asking him, "what is is that you know?" But I
knew he'd jolt from his dream and, after a few exclaimed tuts from his
jutting teeth would announce in true bugs bunny form "Eeeeerrrr - FUCK
ORF" and busy himself eyeing the "wet eye," as he called young girls
suitable for potential sexual relations. I often thought he hung onto
me because I posed no threat to his ego. As fierce as it was, it could
not stand up to competition and would rob him of his identity and he
would get drunk, mindlessly drunk and hunt down competitor and raise
fists and fight. I sipped my tea and eyed him curiously as he buried
his veg in his texts. I never owned a phone. At this point I considered
the country to be similar to a blackpool sea front novelty shop and
polychronic mingfones were joke of the day. In my sombre mind I
couldnt, just couldnt grasp having an obsession with a telephone. I
could understand obsession - but not mingfones. I realised that he
never asked me questions. He wasn't interested in me, just my company.
What rewards did I give him for this company? He never shared his
problems with me, he hardly spoke other than to say "I'm rich - and
very fertile," or "Are you driving?" Off course, I drove but he never
wanted to go anywhere apart from the garage to buy rizla's. We used to
hang out at his mums and he'd stand in the kitchen and down a pint of
milk while his mum sat in an armchair by the patio window shouting at
him. I never really heard what she said and I dont think he did either.
Beckoning me with his pork sausages, we'd leave and go the wheatsheaf
and play pool, get wasted and he'd mumble sarcasm to himself in his
milk stained lip madness grinning.