Monday, October 20, 2003

My morning

I was masturbating over a cookery programme when the doorbell rang. It was Candice, and I buzzed her in.

Bugger Candice. It was the third time she had come around that day. Just because her mother was in hospital and she had no-one to trawl T.K.Maxx with was no reason for her to inflict herself on me. Besides, they were just building up to desserts, and I had a feeling that it was going to be a good one.

Candice, of course, pretended not to notice me hammering away at my lap, and stared into the middle distance for a while.

“Do you want coffee?” she said, blinking.

On the screen a bowl of unsuspecting strawberries were about to be violated in ways they could not begin to imagine.

I did not want coffee. I wanted the pictures from this week’s heat magazine, with the heads cut off stuck to the television just above where a cumquat was having its innards reamed with a vicious-looking whisk.

Candice sighed and went through to the kitchen. If she wasn’t such a witless bitch I would have sworn she said: “You’re so predictable”.

I pumped furiously, imagining Candice handling the sharp things in my kitchen until she ruined the image by returning. I turned my attention back to the television, which had the audacity to roll the credits.

“I’m thinking of going to Prague.” Candice said, setting fire to a Marlboro Light, which she intended to leave burning in the ashtray.

“Damn you!” I roared, grabbing the cigarette and ramming it into my right nostril, flipping channels furiously, in search of stimulation. “Harlot! Harpy! Jezebel! Who are you to deny me the sweet release promised by the Fettucine Alfredo with your Slovakian mutterings?”

Candice informed me that Prague was in Russia, actually. In response, I sprayed her with jissom across the face and neck.

She seemed to take this as an affront, but snorted into the froth of her cappuccino, covering herself in foam, in order to disguise the pearly droplets that beaded in her eyelashes.

“I’m thinking of writing a novel.”

I couldn’t take any more of this. I decided that she would have to die very soon. The only question was how.

“What are you reading?” She picked up the copy of Oliver Sacks’ "The Man who pushed his wife down the stairs, sliced her face off and Ate her Sinuses in the Mistaken Belief that she was An Omelette" I had left at a rakish angle on the coffee table. In my experience, neurology really turns stupid women on.

She surreptitiously rubbed her inner thigh, as she read the jacket blurb, and, unless I was very much mistaken I could see a nipple tightening beneath four layers of clothing.

I went and knelt beside her, accidentally blowing on her breasts with every syllable.

“It’s a book about the brain.” I snapped my fingers and the stereo sprang into life. The first, plaintive strings of Baccara’s “Yes Sir, I Can Boogie” began to fill the maisonette, like a wounded dove calling for its mate. My pelvis began to twitch.

Candice looked down at me, and plucked the cigarette from my nose with an expert touch.

“I love the brain. It’s so clever.” She blew a strand of hair which had drifted across her face back into place,

Friday, October 03, 2003

My flight back...

We were somewhere above Greenland when things really started to get
unbearable. On getting on, a young man had slid up the aisle to ask: "Would
anyone here like a free drink?" Once he had removed my tongue from his
lapel, he whisked away the young gentleman next to me, and deposited, in his
place, a young lady carrying a six-month old child of indeterminate sex and
intelligence. It blew drool-bubbles insolently at me as we took off.

To my dismay, it was the dashing young thing who had actually changed seats
who was to receive the free drink, rather than those who would now be left
confronted on one side by a grinning homunculus, greedily grabbing its
mother's ivory teat, and on the other by a Japanese student, who greeted my
every plea for another vodka and tonic with a tut, a sigh, and a flick of
the hair. Maybe I should have asked the stewardesses.

It wasn't long before the child to my left began to display his displeasure
at the quality of the in-flight entertainment magazine, by balling up his
tiny fists and shouting at everyone who passed by. Joining in made me feel
better. Needless to say, I tired after only an hour.

Charlie's Angels: Full Throttle left me distinctly cold and dehydrated, but
not completely unmoved. It may have been the depressurisation of the cabin,
it may have been one of the many vodkas and tonic, it may even have been
some strage, hormonal combination of the breast-sucking to my left, and the
presentation of Cameron Diaz' bottom at various angles in front of me, but
it was definitely uncomfortable. I returned my tray to the upright position.

I considered, for a moment, making full use of the thin blanket with which
we had been provided, but, on closer inspection, found it to be of a thin
and feeble thread, almost entirely transparent, and potentially incapable of
retaining the results of any serious use. The image of a young mother,
wiping jissom from her face and neck as she called for cabin crew to remove
me, lying in the foetal position, shreds of insufficient blanket twisted
into my fists was not going to relieve the pressure.

Thus I slunk, vainly concealing my tented crotch behind a bag of dry-roasted
peanuts, into the bathroom, only fumbling for about ten minutes with the

The question to be resolved was, in the first, one of position. The more
hurried, urgent and somehow forbidden lure of the standing, or the
contemplative wiles of the seat. Having six hours to spare, and no shortage
of memories from which to choose, I opted for the seat...

The first blast tore the side from the 'plane, and an air hostess named
Giselle was sucked out and flung into the icy North Atlantic, neatly
indicating the nearest emergency exits with her trajectory . Small, red
lights began to blink in the cockpit, as dehydrated lasagnes, hand luggage,
and one six-month old child disappeared through the gaping rent in the
aircaft's side.

The second and third emissions were, as usual, small, shuddery affairs,
capable of doing no more than covering those in rows 21-35 in a thin,
glistening film, which may well have saved their lives.

I staggered back to my seat, member stiffening as the pressure in the cabin
fell, wiped myself on the handily-placed 'Clean Up Towelette' left over from
dinner, and fastened my seatbelt as directed. As the oxygen masks dropped
from the ceiling, I took the opportunity to have a cigarette, whilst the
cabin crew were more occupied with throwing out the ballast of the drinks

"There was perfectly good vodka in that." I thought, as we ploughed through
a family of killer whales, and sloughed to a stop in front of a
bemused-looking penguin.