My Life Oy Vay 6 (Diary of a drunk.)
MY LIFE OY VAY 6
(Diary of a drunk)
CIDER RULES THE HOUSE.
Wake up to a nightmare. Thatcher on television. I thought she was dead. Throbbing head so decide to use the 'cure'. I get 6 Solpadeine and dissolve them into a glass of cider. Swig the lot down. I once tried that with Andrews liver salts and almost drowned in a sea of spume. Feel immediately better until I turn my attention to the TV and Thatcher. Apparently she's 80 and is losing her marbles and can't speak. Rejoice! There is a God.
Apparently her longevity is adduced to a regime that involves being immersed in mud, and electrodes attached to her personage with a mild current being passed through them. Mmmmm, I want that job. Immerse her in mud? - yes about six feet of it. Electrodes to the body? Which part would be the most gratuitously painful? Her testicles no doubt. We could attach the electrodes, sink her into her earthen pit, up the current by about fifty amps and watch her steam! Ahhhhh, never to have to listen to that patronising squall of a voice again.
Trying to get sober again: I see that there's a gay and lesbian meeting on in the West End, well if I don't stay sober at least I might get a fuck. I feel I'm in touch with my lesbian side. Alcohol's a wonderful social and sexually liberating lubricant and I've learned to use it better than most. It was a beautifully autumnal day and the walk to the West End takes me through Primrose Hill and Regents Park. (That should read The Prince Regent's Park. How standards have slipped.) I shooshed my way through the leaves and if I could have done would have skipped through them, but my head would have exploded. I had bought a can of psycho-cider to ease my way though the day, and sat near the ponds in The Prince Regent's Park and watched the ducks and coots while guzzling the cider. I understood where the phrase 'crazy as a coot' comes from. They are quite barking aren't they?
I scrumpled (New word-contraction of scrumpy and crumpled) up the cider can and wended my way to the West End. I do love Soho, no not for the sleazy night spots and the promise of cheap sex. I don't mean cheap sex in financial terms but sleazy sex which of course is the best kind. It's the energy of the place, the strippers with their little bags going from one strip joint to another, the um - well yeh fuck it - I love it for its sleaziness. I found the Church where the meeting was being held and was greeted by a real sweety. He was six feet two, blond and obviously worked out. I'd give him a work-out. Boom boom! I went in and 'Oh fucking hell - who should be in there but my fucking crazy sister!' Well, that should read 'one' of my fucking crazy sisters. I have three.
This is the one who maintains that my father worked for the government as an assassin, he was also in the C.I.A. M.I.5 and the Mafia. He was involved in smuggling from Italy, what she doesn't specify, maybe pasta? She remembers my father along with my brother burying bodies on the land that we owned during the war, the chronology of which is eccentric as she hadn't even been born yet. But we'll let that slide. He was able to juggle all these balls because he was a member of the Masons. At which the rest of the family convulsed into hysterical laughter as I read this out from a letter she had written to me. Cruel I know but one has to retain one's insanity. They say there's more out than in. I ignored her, and she me.
The meeting was chaired by some old queen who was more camp than Butlins. He basically was raging against the dying of the light; the sexual light I assumed, reading between his lines. I don't think that is going to have any impact on me if my father is anything to go by; he was fucking well into his mid-seventies and that was only halted due to the fact that he started bleeding from every orifice because of his boozing. "My girlfriend doesn't think it's very romantic he said rather morosely. How sweet! Girlfriend. At his age. Ahhh!
I couldn't really concentrate on the job in hand which was to score with someone, so I left early. I wandered up Marylebone High Street and bought a Lo-Cal chicken salad sandwich on the way. Well I have to think of my body. I bought another can of tectonic strength cider and wandered into the park and sat down to watch the ducks. I looked at the can and noticed a sign on it that said it was 'best before end'; of course it's best before the end!!!!! When you get to the end it's over! Nothing best about it anymore! Of course it's best before the end. Do they think we're morons? And what are these signs on the cans exhorting us to drink sensibly? They manufacture a drink which is solely for the purpose of getting wrecked - so far so good - then they tell us to be sensible. It's like buying a Ferrari and telling the driver not to drive fast. I tell you what does impress me though is how these sandwich makers get the calorific value exact every time. 354 calories it said. Not 353 or 356 but 354, as did all the other chicken salad sandwiches. They must use micrometers or sunnink.
I finished my sandwich and cider and waddled off to Scumsborough and wandered into the main drag and headed for the 'offy' in search of more sustenance and possibly food. I noticed a pretty blonde girl go up to a guy and say something to him, he just nodded his head and turned away. Blimey, the beggars weren't as young or as pretty in my day. She saw me and made a bee-line for me, I thought that she'll get short shrift from me. She came up close and what she uttered was the aural equivalent of a man dying of thirst in the desert actually coming across a real oasis. "D'yah want business?" My eyes did that Homer Simpson thing of just looking blank and uncomprehending when Lisa tries to explain something that's slightly complicated. "Dddddjjjjjuuuuggggfffff" I said. "Wah" she said. "Um ah yes God you're beautiful" I said to the elfin one. "Hhhhh how much?" "Twen'ee for a hand job, faw'ee for a blow job an' fif'ee for full sex"
There. Is. A. God.
My Disability Living Allowance had been paid into my bank so I was 'flush'. "O.K. let's go and get some money, is my place okay? It's just around the corner, it's okay I'm not some sort of freak, just straight sex" I stammered. She really was a pretty little elfin thing with a great 'bod' and obviously some sort of junky. This area certainly has its benefits. I thought this kind of thing only happened in films. I took out fifty and we went to the 'offy' and I got a large bottle of cider and some munchies. We got to the flat and I poured a couple of large drinks I assumed she didn't mind cheap cider. Hey this is the Chateau Lafitte of Scum City of course she'll drink it. Fuck she knocked it back in one! Christ I'm not that grotesque am I? I refilled her glass and she took a goodly slug of that. "Okay wojja want?" she grunted. "Um the forty quid job, please" She leaned her head back and guffawed. "What?" I said. "Oooohh I've nevvah 'ad anyone say please before - yerallright" With that she up-ended the glass. "Gottacondom?" "Um - er - no I thought you might have, being in the business and all. "Look I haven't had sex in 6 years I live on my own as you can see, I'm clean I promise you, it's me that should be worried." "Wossat supposed to mean?" she spluttered getting very cross. "Sorry I didn't mean it like that, just that you're in the business and it must be one of the risks you take - sorry I didn't mean to say that you were unclean. "You fuckin' better 'adn't" she said. "Also my body tends to go into anaprophylactic shock if I use a rubber." I said giggling. "Wot are yew like, are you on drugs or wot? "No what I mean is that my willy goes limp at the sight of rubber." "Are we gonna do this or wot?" She said. "Yeh yeh okay" I took my track suit bottoms down and that wonderfully gamine mouth slid over my dick and I was granite.
"How old are you?" which is probably the most stupid thing I've ever said whilst having sex. "16 - well I'm 16 next munff" HOLEE SHEEIT!, I'm having sex with an under age girl and I didn't have to schmooze in any way, life just doesn't get any better than this. But it was about to. I said the usual - an extra fiver if you swallow - "Fackawf - an extra ten" she had me by the balls in more ways than one. "Okay okay." Christ when I came I actually crapped myself. She began gagging and choking with some of my semen coming out of her nose. The tremors throughout my body took about ten minutes to subside. Illegality rocks! Over age sex rocks. "Wow! Where the fuck did you learn to give head like that?" I managed to blurt out as I composed myself. "Oh me dad taught me" she said. Well it's nice to see parents taking an active interest in their children's social and spiritual development. I wish there were more like them. "Pooh - wossat smell?" she said. "Oh it's the cat's litter tray, it needs emptying." I of course don't have a cat. "Give me your number so I can call you" I said, "So we can make this a regular thing." "Okay." She scrawled out the number on a bit of paper and gave it to me. "This'll be okay with your dad or mum won't it? "I don't want any hassle." "Nah we're not like that at all - me dad'll wanna watch and me mum'll wanna shag yah 'erself. For money of course." "Well of course" I blurted out, my stem rising again at the thought. Verily it is true: The family that lays together stays together. As she left she said "If you wanna see me shag me bruvver it'll cost you a hundred." And with that my festucine pixie was gone. And I never asked her name.
In the news:
Blunkett is at it again - well not at that but in thick water. It seems he's been playing the stocks and shares without telling anyone, which is a bit naughty. He should have informed the Independent Advisory Committee on Business Appointments. He took shares from a company called DNA Bioscience - appropriately, given his wranglings over the child born to the editor of The Spectator - and sank them into a blind trust (Stop tittering at the back Bledilowe). He stood to make Â£300,000 if the firm was to float on the stock market. But I hear tonight that he's had to flog them off. Ah how the fallen are mighty. If as they say that the knives are out, will Tony be backing him to the hilt?
There seems to have been a spate of attacks by Rottweilers in this area, on defenceless children and grannies recently. The thing that intrigued me is this. If these animals are bred for their ferocity and unflinching zeal in the face of insurmountable odds; why then are they attacking ageing pensioners and seemingly harmless children? Something doesn't quite add up here, either these animals are not the major article and are being cross-bred with sheep, or old folk and young 'uns have taken to sticking their heads into ferocious animals in the vain hope that this will terminate their grim existence on this estate. Either way it's a rum do. It's probably something to do with lead in the water or the irradiation of food. But if you are a caring Rottweiler owner who might be slightly worried that his dog may not be as savage as he would wish, then I have someone who could put your loveable pooch to the test. My Gran.
I will happily throw in my Grannie to put your dog to the ultimate test - for a small financial consideration of course. Well I use the term throw with gay abandon, roll might be more appropriate. She stands five feet eight and weighs in at 25 stone. I'd probably have to hire a JCB to move her. Whenever she has to go to the hospital for a check-up they always send two ambulances; one for her and one for the half-dozen paramedics who will have several slipped discs between them. But it's is not just the size it's the stare. Now once she fixes a gimlet eye on you, you stay gimletted. She has the look of a viper about her. I remember as a child not wanting to be hugged by her - I'd lost a brother and a sister that way, but once she glared at you, you were a gonner. It was like being hugged by a barrage balloon. If the embrace didn't do for you the smell of mothballs and whiskey would. That combination had the toxicity of mustard gas, there wasn't a moth to be found within miles of her house.
I always wondered why my Grandad wore his gas mask in the house. She'd always have a small bottle of whiskey in her apron and would take surreptitious snorts of it throughout the day while she cooked. She was always cooking. G.B.H. of the stomach lining my Grandad called it. He said that Hitler only conceded defeat when he was informed that Churchill was threatening to drop her rock cakes on Berlin. He also said that when he was on defence duty as a night gunner on an ack ack battery, that when they ran out of shells one night, they used her cakes and bagged 2 ME109s and a Stuka. My Gran drop-kicked him for saying that. So if you want to Grannie-test your Doberweiler I'm taking bets right now.
The Sri Lankan government has issued yet another decree that television should be a smut free zone. Smut: Blacken or smudge or to make obscene quoth the dictionary. Well I'm all for it. If you've ever sat through the obscenity of listening to Cilla Black mangling the English language, sounding like a cat being buggered by a pig, you'll have some sympathy with them. And if the latest wheeze by The Archers is anything to go by; next stop Sri Lanka. They're going to bring in characters from East Enders. The Archers - an every day story of in-bred dim-witted country folk with their torpid vowels and slack-jawed wistfulness. If they think that by introducing vicious 'fick' gangsters and their stupider brassy molls from The East End they'll add some glamour¦¦¦¦¦¦umm¦
¦¦.actually it just might work. So old Blunkett goes for the second time: I fully expect to see him as an MEP this time next year.