I invited a close friend to share my sofa for an hour or two the other night. He speaks slowly and calmly and is more conversant with the ways of the world than I am, sound sense listening to someone with a bit more insight.
He was in complete agreement with me about my aping skills.
Wisdom, ‘if you don’t want to appear an ape all your life stop shopping in the monkey house’.
He went on ‘Take a bit more time to develop what is comfortable. You might not realize it but shopping at any time if the year is just looking for the quick fix over and over again. Doesn’t matter what your chasing or in what department you chase it, money, sex, all that kind of stuff it’s all just simple gratification. Sure it’s nice at the time, but when it becomes the solution to your problems then you need to expect the lows when the highs aren’t around. If the attraction in life is all paper hats and streamers, when the balloons deflate the party’s over. And when the party’s over it’s over. Then it’s back to the dark tunnel and the teaspoon. Inevitably doing it over and over again eventually you’ll come out in the land of the dragons. You’re not that bright that you know how to take on a dragon with a teaspoon.
Why not lay down the fight. Stay on the sofa a while, remove the armour. Climb off your cross. Why not accept your imperfections instead of trying to outwit them. All you’ll manage to succeed in doing is baffle yourself. You don’t need a crown of thorns, you’re already a sore head waiting to happen anyway. Alternatively stop burrowing and climb the mountain, see what the vista is like. Seems a lot of hard work for nothing the way you go about things’.
I must ask him to join me more often.
Goodnight campers.
Wednesday 30 April 2008
One Simple tool
Given the circumstances of my life I have acquired the use of a tool for living. It is a teaspoon.
With my teaspoon I am armed for any challenge.
Mostly in life’s problems I survey the land. Map out the territory, pick a path and while it may be a bit tiresome at times I pull the weeds along the trail. It should make the path easier for those who follow. My efforts are worthwhile.
When I come to a mountain I am not frightened by the challenge. I don’t try and climb it. I try and remove it with my teaspoon. Slow process this work.
Unfortunately I also am very skilled and a lot quicker at tunneling. Problem with being a miner is you tend to work in the dark a lot and just keep digging. Getting past the mountain in this way offers no guarantee where you’ll come up. It could be back on the path, in the swamp, or even the deepest darkest thickets that normally you can view in the cold light of day.
Not by chance did the cartographers of old depict dragons on the boundaries of their known world. Slaying dragons with a teaspoon was beyond even George. He of the saintly variety.
Difficult job this multi tasking. Being a trailblazer, miner, cartographer and dragon slayer all in one day is beyond me, but I’m getting there.
With my teaspoon I am armed for any challenge.
Mostly in life’s problems I survey the land. Map out the territory, pick a path and while it may be a bit tiresome at times I pull the weeds along the trail. It should make the path easier for those who follow. My efforts are worthwhile.
When I come to a mountain I am not frightened by the challenge. I don’t try and climb it. I try and remove it with my teaspoon. Slow process this work.
Unfortunately I also am very skilled and a lot quicker at tunneling. Problem with being a miner is you tend to work in the dark a lot and just keep digging. Getting past the mountain in this way offers no guarantee where you’ll come up. It could be back on the path, in the swamp, or even the deepest darkest thickets that normally you can view in the cold light of day.
Not by chance did the cartographers of old depict dragons on the boundaries of their known world. Slaying dragons with a teaspoon was beyond even George. He of the saintly variety.
Difficult job this multi tasking. Being a trailblazer, miner, cartographer and dragon slayer all in one day is beyond me, but I’m getting there.
Tuesday 29 April 2008
The Ape in the Mirror
As I reflect, I realise that is what a lot of my life has been about.
I was a latchkey kid. I was privately educated and very well rewarded in this department, but a latchkey kid just the same. That meant I had to use my ‘nonce’ to work things out for myself. In many cases I did this by the principle of ‘monkey see, monkey do’. I aped the efforts of others.
In relationships, once I had failed miserably using my own instinctual devices I adopted the survival technique I used in the facets of my life where I was successful. Mimicry then made relationships possible.
There is a fundamental flaw though. When you mimic someone, you mimic them. You copy their defective behaviour as well as the good bits. It’s only a matter of time before Dorian Grey is staring back at you.
That’s when the cracks show. It doesn’t matter which partner bowls the first strike the game will be over soon enough.
Wisdom is not easily won. I for sure haven’t got very much. I do though have ears. In the past I only used my eyes. That is what the copycat theory relies upon. But when the blind are leading the partially sighted then it’s inevitable that there will be a lot of stumbling and failure.
A light went on in my head recently. I know, thought I, I’ll clear the wax from my ears. Boy I am glad I did. I have the ability to hear at long last.
I was reminded by a spiritually adept person on the degrees and principles of love. They are romance, care and devotion. As a one time Samaritan I knew they taught this as the principles and degrees concerning depth of listening. Fascinating people are these Samaritans. All the destruction of life on the end of a phone and all they do is use their ears to listen. As a Samaritan I was a complete failure.
Maybe it’s time for Mister October to re-evaluate that.
I was a latchkey kid. I was privately educated and very well rewarded in this department, but a latchkey kid just the same. That meant I had to use my ‘nonce’ to work things out for myself. In many cases I did this by the principle of ‘monkey see, monkey do’. I aped the efforts of others.
In relationships, once I had failed miserably using my own instinctual devices I adopted the survival technique I used in the facets of my life where I was successful. Mimicry then made relationships possible.
There is a fundamental flaw though. When you mimic someone, you mimic them. You copy their defective behaviour as well as the good bits. It’s only a matter of time before Dorian Grey is staring back at you.
That’s when the cracks show. It doesn’t matter which partner bowls the first strike the game will be over soon enough.
Wisdom is not easily won. I for sure haven’t got very much. I do though have ears. In the past I only used my eyes. That is what the copycat theory relies upon. But when the blind are leading the partially sighted then it’s inevitable that there will be a lot of stumbling and failure.
A light went on in my head recently. I know, thought I, I’ll clear the wax from my ears. Boy I am glad I did. I have the ability to hear at long last.
I was reminded by a spiritually adept person on the degrees and principles of love. They are romance, care and devotion. As a one time Samaritan I knew they taught this as the principles and degrees concerning depth of listening. Fascinating people are these Samaritans. All the destruction of life on the end of a phone and all they do is use their ears to listen. As a Samaritan I was a complete failure.
Maybe it’s time for Mister October to re-evaluate that.
An Interview with Doctor Frankenstein
D.F.: Well Mister October seems you’ve taken up my role of creating monsters.
M.O.: Seems so. Difference is you knew what you were doing.
D.F.: And you didn’t?
M.O.: No.
D.F.: I can’t buy that.
M.O.: I can. I have to or I’d go mad.
D.F.: Didn’t you learn anything from my story?
M.O.: Not sure what you mean?
D.F.: Well I put together a head and a heart. Which one are you following?
M.O.: I suppose my head.
D.F.: Pity help you only a fool follows his head.
M.O: Right then from now on I’ll follow my heart.
D.F.: I n your case that’s even worse.
M.O.: I’m confused, so what should I follow then?
D.F.: Your soul.
M.O.: What do you mean?
D.F.: If you follow your soul your head and heart will be on equal terms.
M.O.: Isn’t that painful.
D.F.: Sometimes.
M.O.: Don’t fancy that.
D.F.: You can’t escape it, all roads lead there eventually.
M.O.: I’ll bear that in mind.
D.F.: There you go again thinking, will you never learn.
M.O.: Seems so. Difference is you knew what you were doing.
D.F.: And you didn’t?
M.O.: No.
D.F.: I can’t buy that.
M.O.: I can. I have to or I’d go mad.
D.F.: Didn’t you learn anything from my story?
M.O.: Not sure what you mean?
D.F.: Well I put together a head and a heart. Which one are you following?
M.O.: I suppose my head.
D.F.: Pity help you only a fool follows his head.
M.O: Right then from now on I’ll follow my heart.
D.F.: I n your case that’s even worse.
M.O.: I’m confused, so what should I follow then?
D.F.: Your soul.
M.O.: What do you mean?
D.F.: If you follow your soul your head and heart will be on equal terms.
M.O.: Isn’t that painful.
D.F.: Sometimes.
M.O.: Don’t fancy that.
D.F.: You can’t escape it, all roads lead there eventually.
M.O.: I’ll bear that in mind.
D.F.: There you go again thinking, will you never learn.
Monday 28 April 2008
Herbert
In the summer of many past moons when a lesser mortality was on me I used to keep a variety of animals. They were a distraction to my life. I had a smallholding. This is not a personal reference. Said smallholding was two acres. Again this is not a personal reference, but currently a bit closer to the truth.
Along with the chickens, sheep and goats I had an exotic stock of golden and silver pheasants, peacocks and a pot bellied pig. The pig’s name was Herbert. This was my father’s name.
After I had mucked and bailed and fetched and carried as was my want a bale of hay was the most pleasant of surroundings to relax on. It was my sofa of that era. I did however also bring a friend. A bottle shaped friend.
I would merrily get merry and tell Herbert al my tales of woe. He would look quizzically at me and grunt. On occasions I would drink so much I would fall asleep. When I awoke the quizzical Herbert was still there, my guardian angel.
I once told this story to a lady I knew. She told me a similar story of a pig that was there when she awoke. Her take on this I may add, I couldn’t comment on I was not the pig in question,
I really struggled with this portion of my life. I was trying to be St. Francis without going to Assisi. He too preferred the company of animals to humans. No unfortunately the only connections I can make with saintly activities is the monastic existence my life was to become. The parable nearer to my journey is that of the prodigal son. He too woke up to his life.
One big difference nobody has yet thrown me a party.
Maybe that’s because I’ve not yet reached home.
Along with the chickens, sheep and goats I had an exotic stock of golden and silver pheasants, peacocks and a pot bellied pig. The pig’s name was Herbert. This was my father’s name.
After I had mucked and bailed and fetched and carried as was my want a bale of hay was the most pleasant of surroundings to relax on. It was my sofa of that era. I did however also bring a friend. A bottle shaped friend.
I would merrily get merry and tell Herbert al my tales of woe. He would look quizzically at me and grunt. On occasions I would drink so much I would fall asleep. When I awoke the quizzical Herbert was still there, my guardian angel.
I once told this story to a lady I knew. She told me a similar story of a pig that was there when she awoke. Her take on this I may add, I couldn’t comment on I was not the pig in question,
I really struggled with this portion of my life. I was trying to be St. Francis without going to Assisi. He too preferred the company of animals to humans. No unfortunately the only connections I can make with saintly activities is the monastic existence my life was to become. The parable nearer to my journey is that of the prodigal son. He too woke up to his life.
One big difference nobody has yet thrown me a party.
Maybe that’s because I’ve not yet reached home.
Nuts in October
I am an accomplished magician. Not intentionally I may add. With remarkable ease I can make money and women disappear. Not that I want to, it just seems to happen.
Half my problem is I overthink the areas of my life where some simple common sense would suffice, and worse, I don't think in the areas of life where it matters.
As I have said before I not too good at life. I think it comes with being alone a lot of the time. The only conversations I have most nights are with myself. No harm in that, if I wasn't unhinged.
Have you ever had a debate with a lunatic? Let me tell you I do it frequently.
I have examined why and can date a lot of it to my time with the albatross. Times when I gave trust were the times I should have questioned and vice versa. She was an exceptional con woman. Stands to reason I'd become infected. Not by choice. By osmosis. Even I can't work out sometimes when I'm presented with the rational solution to a problem why I jumped in completely the daimetrically opposite direction. It doesn't make me a bad person, just nuts!
I have in time managed to get by by pretending I have some social skills. Most of the time I haven't a clue what is going on, and that's without any external stimuli.
Most folk fall for it, and take me for being a nice guy. I am a nice guy, I just don't know what's happening. So when a problem that I haven't dealt with before presents itself I take the line of least resistence.
Now you know why my wardrobe once owned a buckle sleeved waistcoat.
Strangely someone once said I would make a good candidate for parliament. Most of them sleep on a sofa, a green sofa, and get paid for it.
Oh well, back to the drawing board. Think I need to stop thinking for a while, this life stuff is becoming extremely hard when I'm in it.
Half my problem is I overthink the areas of my life where some simple common sense would suffice, and worse, I don't think in the areas of life where it matters.
As I have said before I not too good at life. I think it comes with being alone a lot of the time. The only conversations I have most nights are with myself. No harm in that, if I wasn't unhinged.
Have you ever had a debate with a lunatic? Let me tell you I do it frequently.
I have examined why and can date a lot of it to my time with the albatross. Times when I gave trust were the times I should have questioned and vice versa. She was an exceptional con woman. Stands to reason I'd become infected. Not by choice. By osmosis. Even I can't work out sometimes when I'm presented with the rational solution to a problem why I jumped in completely the daimetrically opposite direction. It doesn't make me a bad person, just nuts!
I have in time managed to get by by pretending I have some social skills. Most of the time I haven't a clue what is going on, and that's without any external stimuli.
Most folk fall for it, and take me for being a nice guy. I am a nice guy, I just don't know what's happening. So when a problem that I haven't dealt with before presents itself I take the line of least resistence.
Now you know why my wardrobe once owned a buckle sleeved waistcoat.
Strangely someone once said I would make a good candidate for parliament. Most of them sleep on a sofa, a green sofa, and get paid for it.
Oh well, back to the drawing board. Think I need to stop thinking for a while, this life stuff is becoming extremely hard when I'm in it.
Sunday 27 April 2008
What a Shitty month October can be
On a sabbatical from my retrospective life I recently had the pleasure of two lovely ladies in my life.
Problem: neither of them knew about the other
Problem: I wasn’t playing fair with either
Solution: Ignore it.
Unfortunately with my track record I should have known this solution was the cul-de-sac of relationship disasters. I caused mayhem, distress and anguish, but worse was to follow, I tried to justify and defend my angers at being ‘called out.’
I’ve never been very successful at life, even less so at lying. Have I learned?
This time I think I may actually possible have, the prize it too great to let it happen again. I know my sanity is in question, of that, there is no question. But playing with the life’s of others is a no, no, particularly when you care. Anger is the wind that blows away all reason. So as October is a month that would challenge the Beaufort Scale I became entirely unreasonable. That’s not hard to imagine is it?
Well I believe in my heart there is a grand apology to be made to everyone concerned. So here it is. Mister October is a middle aged woman from Grimsby.
There you have it. The truth is out now.
Who writes this delusional crap anyway.
Problem: neither of them knew about the other
Problem: I wasn’t playing fair with either
Solution: Ignore it.
Unfortunately with my track record I should have known this solution was the cul-de-sac of relationship disasters. I caused mayhem, distress and anguish, but worse was to follow, I tried to justify and defend my angers at being ‘called out.’
I’ve never been very successful at life, even less so at lying. Have I learned?
This time I think I may actually possible have, the prize it too great to let it happen again. I know my sanity is in question, of that, there is no question. But playing with the life’s of others is a no, no, particularly when you care. Anger is the wind that blows away all reason. So as October is a month that would challenge the Beaufort Scale I became entirely unreasonable. That’s not hard to imagine is it?
Well I believe in my heart there is a grand apology to be made to everyone concerned. So here it is. Mister October is a middle aged woman from Grimsby.
There you have it. The truth is out now.
Who writes this delusional crap anyway.
Wednesday 23 April 2008
All about Eve
Life on the sofa can be comforting at times. Happy memories can resurrect great joys from my past. Sometimes other parts of my anatomy are resurrected as well, letting me know I am not yet over the hill.
When the world was my bivalve mollusk and a quarter of a century was almost on me I already had two certificates to my name. One proved I was insane; my marriage certificate, the other proved I was getting better. It confirmed my single status.
To celebrate my freedom I entered another relationship. Five years of blissfully chaotic madness ensued. I enjoyed every minute.
The young lady in question was the absolute double of the four foot eleven inch destructively gorgeous midget Charlene Tilton, who played Lucy in Dallas. My lady had half an inch on her and mighty proud of the fact too. And she certainly was no ‘loosey’.
She did however have one unusual feature, her job. She was the ‘madam’ in a Sauna. Not one of these down market sleazy brothels that get so much attention these days. No, no sir. This was an up market sleazy brothel frequented by men who liked fancy dress. Not to mask their credentials you realize, the fancy dress included a wig. Imagine a gown and gavel and you’ve got the picture.
Teasing was her forte. And I don’t mean she made wool with a carding comb. She was a mistress of the understatement. Just a glimpse of stocking top or button popping cleavage was enough to tip the financial favour in her direction. Men are suckers for this type of show; particularly middle aged men; particularly middle aged men with a sofa. This I did not know then. Wisdom only comes with the sofa.
It was only a matter of time before hedonistic pursuits would spoil this wondrous affair. She came in the shape of a seventeen year old. I met said teenager at a party she was attending with her mother. I was showing more interest in the mother. The youngster decided she wanted the experience of an ‘older’ man. Who was I do deny opportunity when it came knocking. This was not a good move. My ‘madam’ was an astute inkling woman and could detect ‘essence of teenager’ at fifty paces.
Once again into the breach I went.
The teenager turned into a ‘stalker’ and I lost a very decent lady.
Dear readers, by now you must be getting a picture of the kind of complexities I have faced through life, the choices, dilemmas, the women. For me the shortest point between two distances is always greater than route 66.
When the world was my bivalve mollusk and a quarter of a century was almost on me I already had two certificates to my name. One proved I was insane; my marriage certificate, the other proved I was getting better. It confirmed my single status.
To celebrate my freedom I entered another relationship. Five years of blissfully chaotic madness ensued. I enjoyed every minute.
The young lady in question was the absolute double of the four foot eleven inch destructively gorgeous midget Charlene Tilton, who played Lucy in Dallas. My lady had half an inch on her and mighty proud of the fact too. And she certainly was no ‘loosey’.
She did however have one unusual feature, her job. She was the ‘madam’ in a Sauna. Not one of these down market sleazy brothels that get so much attention these days. No, no sir. This was an up market sleazy brothel frequented by men who liked fancy dress. Not to mask their credentials you realize, the fancy dress included a wig. Imagine a gown and gavel and you’ve got the picture.
Teasing was her forte. And I don’t mean she made wool with a carding comb. She was a mistress of the understatement. Just a glimpse of stocking top or button popping cleavage was enough to tip the financial favour in her direction. Men are suckers for this type of show; particularly middle aged men; particularly middle aged men with a sofa. This I did not know then. Wisdom only comes with the sofa.
It was only a matter of time before hedonistic pursuits would spoil this wondrous affair. She came in the shape of a seventeen year old. I met said teenager at a party she was attending with her mother. I was showing more interest in the mother. The youngster decided she wanted the experience of an ‘older’ man. Who was I do deny opportunity when it came knocking. This was not a good move. My ‘madam’ was an astute inkling woman and could detect ‘essence of teenager’ at fifty paces.
Once again into the breach I went.
The teenager turned into a ‘stalker’ and I lost a very decent lady.
Dear readers, by now you must be getting a picture of the kind of complexities I have faced through life, the choices, dilemmas, the women. For me the shortest point between two distances is always greater than route 66.
Tuesday 22 April 2008
The Conductor
My orchestra is more akin to a band, a ‘big’ band. I like the big band sound.
The rhythm section ‘swings’ and the ‘brass’ are very accomplished French horn blowers. Of course they don’t always harmonize. The technique of coming together to an ear splitting crescendo is one that takes great aptitude. Any ‘band’ that has a wish to play together must get into the habit of practicing together. Practice makes perfect.
And to this end a good conductor is paramount.
Attention to his ‘baton’ is essential.
Each passage develops into the essence of the piece. It is what motivates both players and audience. Slow and melodic, allegro, pianissimo, a good score has them all. As the very tip of his appendage reaches out the conductor drives the pace along. By the final act the complete orchestra has become the sum part of the whole until the concerto is spent. Finished the audience and players depart until another day.
That reminds me, I must get my music system repaired.
The rhythm section ‘swings’ and the ‘brass’ are very accomplished French horn blowers. Of course they don’t always harmonize. The technique of coming together to an ear splitting crescendo is one that takes great aptitude. Any ‘band’ that has a wish to play together must get into the habit of practicing together. Practice makes perfect.
And to this end a good conductor is paramount.
Attention to his ‘baton’ is essential.
Each passage develops into the essence of the piece. It is what motivates both players and audience. Slow and melodic, allegro, pianissimo, a good score has them all. As the very tip of his appendage reaches out the conductor drives the pace along. By the final act the complete orchestra has become the sum part of the whole until the concerto is spent. Finished the audience and players depart until another day.
That reminds me, I must get my music system repaired.
Monday 21 April 2008
The White Knight
Some years ago I found myself in the Balkans. It was just after the ethnic war had taken place.
Gainfully employed as a civilian camp follower and by any standards well remunerated I found it difficult adapting to the peculiar way of life that camp followers the world over know and accept. Being amidst what was an apparent and very real hostile environment makes for copious excesses. You name it; all the vices are buried just over the surface.
Being at that time on a ‘spiritual’ quest I decided some charitable efforts might not go amiss. Where to start was the problem.
It was Christmas and I was feeling sorry for myself. I missed the role play of being a jolly fat man in a red suit.
Scanning the military propaganda I discovered some small but effective works being reported. I read of a mother and three little girls squatting in a fire bombed house furnished only with destitution. Hopelessness was every page of their festive calendar.
And so with chocolate and teddy bears I learned the true meaning of the word humility.
It’s difficult to describe how this Santa felt knowing how far off the mark his gifts were.
Sure baubles and trinkets are a lovely idea but when you have nothing to eat bread and milk is a better proposition than cocoa solids and stuffed animals. What’s more the mother sent her oldest child, a sprightly twelve year old, to a neighbor to see if she could borrow a cup and some coffee to entertain this crumbling ho-ho-ho merchant standing in front of her. I may add the neighbor’s home was some way off through a minefield.
The middle child was eight years old, had lost an eye to cancer in her earlier years and was now struggling to keep the other. With no water or electricity cross infection was not only possible but probable. The family survived weekly on the price of a cup of western world coffee; the cost of her daughter’s sight would be fifteen years savings if the children didn’t eat.
I’m not going to blow my trumpet on this one folks. It’s a bit too personal and I choke up when I think back on those times.
Only one thing needs saying. Today the family are all fine. Mum has a job. They live in a fully serviced home in a pleasant part of town.
The oldest is married. The youngest is an imp and Brana, the lovely girl who melted my heart is a happy and vivacious teenager with as bright and clear an eye as I’ve ever seen in any human being.
Moral of this story.
Even the King of the Jungle is just a big pussy cat. If the price is right he will roll over and let you tickle his tummy.
And to those of you who wish to complain about the price of petrol, ‘piss off’ and get a life.
Gainfully employed as a civilian camp follower and by any standards well remunerated I found it difficult adapting to the peculiar way of life that camp followers the world over know and accept. Being amidst what was an apparent and very real hostile environment makes for copious excesses. You name it; all the vices are buried just over the surface.
Being at that time on a ‘spiritual’ quest I decided some charitable efforts might not go amiss. Where to start was the problem.
It was Christmas and I was feeling sorry for myself. I missed the role play of being a jolly fat man in a red suit.
Scanning the military propaganda I discovered some small but effective works being reported. I read of a mother and three little girls squatting in a fire bombed house furnished only with destitution. Hopelessness was every page of their festive calendar.
And so with chocolate and teddy bears I learned the true meaning of the word humility.
It’s difficult to describe how this Santa felt knowing how far off the mark his gifts were.
Sure baubles and trinkets are a lovely idea but when you have nothing to eat bread and milk is a better proposition than cocoa solids and stuffed animals. What’s more the mother sent her oldest child, a sprightly twelve year old, to a neighbor to see if she could borrow a cup and some coffee to entertain this crumbling ho-ho-ho merchant standing in front of her. I may add the neighbor’s home was some way off through a minefield.
The middle child was eight years old, had lost an eye to cancer in her earlier years and was now struggling to keep the other. With no water or electricity cross infection was not only possible but probable. The family survived weekly on the price of a cup of western world coffee; the cost of her daughter’s sight would be fifteen years savings if the children didn’t eat.
I’m not going to blow my trumpet on this one folks. It’s a bit too personal and I choke up when I think back on those times.
Only one thing needs saying. Today the family are all fine. Mum has a job. They live in a fully serviced home in a pleasant part of town.
The oldest is married. The youngest is an imp and Brana, the lovely girl who melted my heart is a happy and vivacious teenager with as bright and clear an eye as I’ve ever seen in any human being.
Moral of this story.
Even the King of the Jungle is just a big pussy cat. If the price is right he will roll over and let you tickle his tummy.
And to those of you who wish to complain about the price of petrol, ‘piss off’ and get a life.
Sunday 20 April 2008
The Loin King
I have a son.
God forbid he turned out like me but the signs are to the contrary. At an age when acne was the number one priority for most boys I was already an inexperienced member of the fleshpots. In this I believe the fruit of my loins is no different.
I have to say I’ve had a lot of fun, but a serious long term partnership has always escaped me. Although a bit early to tell I think the gods are offering him the same.
It’s not that I haven’t tried, or even that I might be capable, but long red fingernails, war paint and a stocking clad leg are where my loyalties lie. As soon as I see a housecoat and two boiled eggs being presented as the solution to my life I find a way of removing my attentions and seeking fresh challenges. Is this a pointless direction I ask myself, frequently!
Not so sure that there is any such thing any Mrs. Right for me. We may be right for each other for the time and date of the experiment but as to communal living, whether I care to admit it or not, it’s seems it’s just not my chosen path.
Does this make me a bad person? I hope so. Bad people are far more interesting.
God forbid he turned out like me but the signs are to the contrary. At an age when acne was the number one priority for most boys I was already an inexperienced member of the fleshpots. In this I believe the fruit of my loins is no different.
I have to say I’ve had a lot of fun, but a serious long term partnership has always escaped me. Although a bit early to tell I think the gods are offering him the same.
It’s not that I haven’t tried, or even that I might be capable, but long red fingernails, war paint and a stocking clad leg are where my loyalties lie. As soon as I see a housecoat and two boiled eggs being presented as the solution to my life I find a way of removing my attentions and seeking fresh challenges. Is this a pointless direction I ask myself, frequently!
Not so sure that there is any such thing any Mrs. Right for me. We may be right for each other for the time and date of the experiment but as to communal living, whether I care to admit it or not, it’s seems it’s just not my chosen path.
Does this make me a bad person? I hope so. Bad people are far more interesting.
Saturday 19 April 2008
Auditions
As my journey through life progressed beyond the age where facial mapping became irreversible I noticed a pattern developing in the choice of women I met.
They all had children.
Not of the screaming variety, but of the lost socks, dirty plates and loud music variety. Most of them had other similarities. They were sedentary in a statuesque kind of way. Introductions took the form of an audition. Staring eyes followed my every movement, understandable really.
Who was this middle aged man encroaching on their territory? Challenging their environmental control?
It seemed that in direct proportion to the number of candles on their birthday cake the wax run made the icing unpalatable. When it comes to their parent, children have developed a unique ability to smother the truth behind their mystique. No matter how unpalatable it may sound I have met a few budding contenders for dictator of the year award. Any challenge to their domestic authority means mummy’s legs will not like the Sunday chicken dinner fall readily apart when thoroughly cooked. And to think these little ‘bastards’ once crawled out of the place I was trying my hardest to get into.
In time bribery may work. Cash in hand has a unique ability in quietening teenage angst.
On other occasions it’s a lost cause. The situation is too far gone. I’ve found it is far better then to bid farewell and beat a hasty retreat. Sad to say this is from my own life experience.
I have, when I felt the lady in question wasn’t so questionable that I might want to hang in there, overstepped the mark. Learning the hard way that there is only ever one winner and it is not me, can be a very painful truth.
Trick is never fall in love with anyone with baggage that has not yet travelled away from home. Even then it may not work, depending on the length of the apron strings.
Dysfunctional as I may be and crazy as it may sound, on the great chessboard that is my life this King can only cope with a queen who has no reciprocal arrangement with her pawns.
They all had children.
Not of the screaming variety, but of the lost socks, dirty plates and loud music variety. Most of them had other similarities. They were sedentary in a statuesque kind of way. Introductions took the form of an audition. Staring eyes followed my every movement, understandable really.
Who was this middle aged man encroaching on their territory? Challenging their environmental control?
It seemed that in direct proportion to the number of candles on their birthday cake the wax run made the icing unpalatable. When it comes to their parent, children have developed a unique ability to smother the truth behind their mystique. No matter how unpalatable it may sound I have met a few budding contenders for dictator of the year award. Any challenge to their domestic authority means mummy’s legs will not like the Sunday chicken dinner fall readily apart when thoroughly cooked. And to think these little ‘bastards’ once crawled out of the place I was trying my hardest to get into.
In time bribery may work. Cash in hand has a unique ability in quietening teenage angst.
On other occasions it’s a lost cause. The situation is too far gone. I’ve found it is far better then to bid farewell and beat a hasty retreat. Sad to say this is from my own life experience.
I have, when I felt the lady in question wasn’t so questionable that I might want to hang in there, overstepped the mark. Learning the hard way that there is only ever one winner and it is not me, can be a very painful truth.
Trick is never fall in love with anyone with baggage that has not yet travelled away from home. Even then it may not work, depending on the length of the apron strings.
Dysfunctional as I may be and crazy as it may sound, on the great chessboard that is my life this King can only cope with a queen who has no reciprocal arrangement with her pawns.
Friday 18 April 2008
Dyke van Dick
After being round the Med once with my ‘lady of advancing years’ I got to thinking about my own mother. They shared the same decade of birthright.
I thought some sea air would do my mother’s ailing chest some good.
Two packs of Virginias finest for forty years and she still hadn’t enough cigarette coupons for her iron lung.
We set sail with a doctor’s certificate pinned to her lapel. A good idea if you want to keep the randy old togers who were a few years in front of me away. A wheezing geriatric is fair game for the not so choosey.
It turned out to be a good idea.
I now had two ‘ladies of advancing years’ for the price of one.
One night after my mother had retired for the evening I was amusing myself in the bar when I spied a shapely damsel hard to port side. She noticed me noticing. Within two shakes of a sheik’s shaker she had made her move on me. Yes, she made her move on me. I thought to myself, Christmas has come early and with any luck Mr. October would come in this present.
There was one slight drawback. Said lady was a lesbian. Not that a small detail like this would stop me. As the conversation progressed I offered to show her the error of her ways. She was having none of my games. She did however suggest that I walk her to her cabin. Bemused I asked why I would contemplate such an offer if my snake couldn’t climb her ladder. Seems my damsel was also afloat with her mother who had no idea of her deviant preferences. Would I be a ruse as far as the cabin door? Hoping still to chance my luck I played Sir Galahad. No joy!
I found out I was naive in another way.
Towards the end of the cruise there was a formal meal with balloons, streamers and a photographer on hand to capture the smiling faces. For a large fee you could purchase your likeness the very next day. Three thousand stills adorned the inside planking and not a single one of me. Considering I had washed my face for the event I was sure a flashbulb or two had been pointed in my direction. My ‘lady of advancing years’ knew the game being played. In order to continue her pretence my lesbian friend has purchased all the
snapshots that had me as the main attraction.
Dear mama would never suspect and maybe even embellish her daughter’s imaginary fondness for 6’ 2” masculine maturity.
She was a looker my lesbian friend. Next year I think I’ll book a package holiday to Lesbia.
My mother died shortly after we made this trip.
Happy days!
Goodnight mum I’ve still got my sofa you know!
I thought some sea air would do my mother’s ailing chest some good.
Two packs of Virginias finest for forty years and she still hadn’t enough cigarette coupons for her iron lung.
We set sail with a doctor’s certificate pinned to her lapel. A good idea if you want to keep the randy old togers who were a few years in front of me away. A wheezing geriatric is fair game for the not so choosey.
It turned out to be a good idea.
I now had two ‘ladies of advancing years’ for the price of one.
One night after my mother had retired for the evening I was amusing myself in the bar when I spied a shapely damsel hard to port side. She noticed me noticing. Within two shakes of a sheik’s shaker she had made her move on me. Yes, she made her move on me. I thought to myself, Christmas has come early and with any luck Mr. October would come in this present.
There was one slight drawback. Said lady was a lesbian. Not that a small detail like this would stop me. As the conversation progressed I offered to show her the error of her ways. She was having none of my games. She did however suggest that I walk her to her cabin. Bemused I asked why I would contemplate such an offer if my snake couldn’t climb her ladder. Seems my damsel was also afloat with her mother who had no idea of her deviant preferences. Would I be a ruse as far as the cabin door? Hoping still to chance my luck I played Sir Galahad. No joy!
I found out I was naive in another way.
Towards the end of the cruise there was a formal meal with balloons, streamers and a photographer on hand to capture the smiling faces. For a large fee you could purchase your likeness the very next day. Three thousand stills adorned the inside planking and not a single one of me. Considering I had washed my face for the event I was sure a flashbulb or two had been pointed in my direction. My ‘lady of advancing years’ knew the game being played. In order to continue her pretence my lesbian friend has purchased all the
snapshots that had me as the main attraction.
Dear mama would never suspect and maybe even embellish her daughter’s imaginary fondness for 6’ 2” masculine maturity.
She was a looker my lesbian friend. Next year I think I’ll book a package holiday to Lesbia.
My mother died shortly after we made this trip.
Happy days!
Goodnight mum I’ve still got my sofa you know!
Thursday 17 April 2008
Group therapy
During a liaison with a therapist which lasted a year she introduced me to the world of recovery. I attended a few of her meetings to try and understand what it was all about.
Seemed to me that this bunch of characters didn’t have a lot going for them, it was like a ‘crèche for adolescents’. The only thing missing were a few comforters. I filed this information away for future reference.
Listening to a bunch of ex anybodies twittering on about how they had suddenly been 'born again' into a new and wonderful life seemed a bit odd to me. Their tales were mostly around how everything had been lost. I found it extremely peculiar that it took the removal of jobs, homes and loved ones to opened their eyes to their irrational behaviour. Anyone over the age of twelve could have told them that.
As to being born again, assholes spring to mind.
I have had my own breakdown you realise, and indeed, I was incarcerated some years ago in a mental hospital for my own sanity check, so I am no stranger to instability. I found hard work and industry helped. This bunch thought holding hands, chanting and trying to get in touch with the living would yield the same result.
As I pondered the worth of group therapy, I smiled and imagined fondling the young ladies breasts sitting next to me. It did not take long for me to come to the completely straight forward conclusion that if I ever displayed the amount of self obsession I was currently experiencing I should be incarcerated once again.
But I have to admit that some of these ‘fragile’ creatures were very attractive indeed. To an old manipulator like me I guessed some of the more 'tearful' prospects would respond very well to my charms. Becoming a spiritual comforter became even more appealing. I really needed to get out more and drink myself into oblivion to find out what all the fuss was about.
As I progressed along the journey of spiritual salvation with my lovely therapist I developed my own level of self interest, her. Becoming conversant with the writings of all the anonymous and sundry poetic claptrap she spouted made it easier to get her into bed.
‘The couple who pray together, stay together!’ She would say. I nodded agreement as I slid my hands further under the duvet.
Delicious though she was eventually she was another heady cocktail that proved too much for me to handle.
Seemed to me that this bunch of characters didn’t have a lot going for them, it was like a ‘crèche for adolescents’. The only thing missing were a few comforters. I filed this information away for future reference.
Listening to a bunch of ex anybodies twittering on about how they had suddenly been 'born again' into a new and wonderful life seemed a bit odd to me. Their tales were mostly around how everything had been lost. I found it extremely peculiar that it took the removal of jobs, homes and loved ones to opened their eyes to their irrational behaviour. Anyone over the age of twelve could have told them that.
As to being born again, assholes spring to mind.
I have had my own breakdown you realise, and indeed, I was incarcerated some years ago in a mental hospital for my own sanity check, so I am no stranger to instability. I found hard work and industry helped. This bunch thought holding hands, chanting and trying to get in touch with the living would yield the same result.
As I pondered the worth of group therapy, I smiled and imagined fondling the young ladies breasts sitting next to me. It did not take long for me to come to the completely straight forward conclusion that if I ever displayed the amount of self obsession I was currently experiencing I should be incarcerated once again.
But I have to admit that some of these ‘fragile’ creatures were very attractive indeed. To an old manipulator like me I guessed some of the more 'tearful' prospects would respond very well to my charms. Becoming a spiritual comforter became even more appealing. I really needed to get out more and drink myself into oblivion to find out what all the fuss was about.
As I progressed along the journey of spiritual salvation with my lovely therapist I developed my own level of self interest, her. Becoming conversant with the writings of all the anonymous and sundry poetic claptrap she spouted made it easier to get her into bed.
‘The couple who pray together, stay together!’ She would say. I nodded agreement as I slid my hands further under the duvet.
Delicious though she was eventually she was another heady cocktail that proved too much for me to handle.
Wednesday 16 April 2008
further reflective contemplations...
Although reflective contemplations on my sofa usually spawn a plethora of crises concerning my identity, there are moments when thoughts of the albatross can still raise a smile.
What red blooded male wouldn’t dream of the day a leggy model clad in basque, fishnet stockings and high heels would be waiting for him at an airport. I have that experience under my belt. It did cost me a mink over garment of course. But even an albatross can look fine in fur, particularly when the treasure chest below bears a very firm 34d.
Or the pleasantries of videoing the albatross as she apply the early morning dew to her naked flesh, secure in the knowledge that my maypole would shortly be caught up in twists of silk ribbon and breakfasted upon.
And she as well as I was a seasoned traveller. The route from her lingerie drawer to the bed she knew well. The only trouble is I’m not so sure I was the only destination she reached during our short marriage. I am pretty certain however I was always the one paying for the tickets.
On evenings out with me she would feign such attention that any silver fox who came sniffing in her vicinity would have no illusion as to their need to look elsewhere for a vixen. She was complete mistress of everything she surveyed. It is what I found attractive in her and if I ever see her again no doubt I still would.
And she was a lot smarter than your average bear Boo Boo. Within one conversation my solicitor could tell me that. Intellectual Property indeed!
She had the intellect to strip me of my property. Need I say anything else?
Yes, you fool Mr. October, you fool.
Sometimes I have to admit it was the best fun I’ve ever had.
What red blooded male wouldn’t dream of the day a leggy model clad in basque, fishnet stockings and high heels would be waiting for him at an airport. I have that experience under my belt. It did cost me a mink over garment of course. But even an albatross can look fine in fur, particularly when the treasure chest below bears a very firm 34d.
Or the pleasantries of videoing the albatross as she apply the early morning dew to her naked flesh, secure in the knowledge that my maypole would shortly be caught up in twists of silk ribbon and breakfasted upon.
And she as well as I was a seasoned traveller. The route from her lingerie drawer to the bed she knew well. The only trouble is I’m not so sure I was the only destination she reached during our short marriage. I am pretty certain however I was always the one paying for the tickets.
On evenings out with me she would feign such attention that any silver fox who came sniffing in her vicinity would have no illusion as to their need to look elsewhere for a vixen. She was complete mistress of everything she surveyed. It is what I found attractive in her and if I ever see her again no doubt I still would.
And she was a lot smarter than your average bear Boo Boo. Within one conversation my solicitor could tell me that. Intellectual Property indeed!
She had the intellect to strip me of my property. Need I say anything else?
Yes, you fool Mr. October, you fool.
Sometimes I have to admit it was the best fun I’ve ever had.
Tuesday 15 April 2008
Dilemma
Hard to believe it had taken me over fifty full revolutions of this planet to work out I didn’t belong on this planet. At least that’s the way it seemed to me.
I had made an artform of not fitting in. As long as I remained in this frame of mind singular activities of the flesh would have to suffice. Not the most pleasant of thoughts forevermore. So an actor I became.
Like Gollum I too wished to visit the ‘Crack of Doom’. All I needed to do was find the appropriate ‘ring bearer’. Preferably without the company of Sam Gamgee, a fat hobbit with big hairy feet wasn’t my idea of a threesome.
But where could I look next? I had exhausted all the ‘normal’ avenues, internet sites, coffee houses, and singles clubs. How about I try my hand at speed dating I thought.
Unaware that this circus only travelled in the same direction, I found to my horror that like Russian roulette the gun is loaded around every sixth spin round the chambers.
Have you ever met a bi-polar frog on speed? May I suggest you try this form of embarrassment as an option before you offer an answer? This was a beetle drive for ugly people. What's more a press advert suggested this was 'a way to meet interesting and exciting people of similar interests'.
God help you earthlings if this is a factual statement.
And so, once again I found myself in the company of bollock scratching, sofa surfing and dispelling seed into a paper handkerchief.
Juliet, oh Juliet, where art though Juliet? Or Samantha, or Wilma, or Josephine.
I had made an artform of not fitting in. As long as I remained in this frame of mind singular activities of the flesh would have to suffice. Not the most pleasant of thoughts forevermore. So an actor I became.
Like Gollum I too wished to visit the ‘Crack of Doom’. All I needed to do was find the appropriate ‘ring bearer’. Preferably without the company of Sam Gamgee, a fat hobbit with big hairy feet wasn’t my idea of a threesome.
But where could I look next? I had exhausted all the ‘normal’ avenues, internet sites, coffee houses, and singles clubs. How about I try my hand at speed dating I thought.
Unaware that this circus only travelled in the same direction, I found to my horror that like Russian roulette the gun is loaded around every sixth spin round the chambers.
Have you ever met a bi-polar frog on speed? May I suggest you try this form of embarrassment as an option before you offer an answer? This was a beetle drive for ugly people. What's more a press advert suggested this was 'a way to meet interesting and exciting people of similar interests'.
God help you earthlings if this is a factual statement.
And so, once again I found myself in the company of bollock scratching, sofa surfing and dispelling seed into a paper handkerchief.
Juliet, oh Juliet, where art though Juliet? Or Samantha, or Wilma, or Josephine.
Monday 14 April 2008
Visitations
The long and short of life can affect the comfort of my sofa. The mood set by the mind games I play can be lethal. On a bad day the committee that inhabits my cranial desires seldom vote as one. When this happens I await the return of the dictator. She who must be obeyed is a pervasive and persuasive shapeshifter of extraordinary power. Pert, poise, bashful, obtuse, provocatively vocal, she knows no bounds. In my solitude each guise is only revealed as the nightly escapade unfolds. Whether real or fictitious she is always imaginary and probably unlike any creature known to this earth. Gossamer wings, nerves of steel. Whatever she may be she is always and for evermore my manly motivation.
Every woman I have ever known has had the potential to harm me, and yet I re-enter the arena, slingshot in hand. Is this a sensible approach to balanced living? Darn tooting it is. For my diet has chocolate as well as greens. And if truth were told I can be greedy, very greedy where sweet things are concerned. After all what is sweeter than a fair maiden’s kiss?
She is temporal, she is spiritual. As a corporal entity she will bear little resemblance to what I perceive her to be. Such is the way of man’s loves and lusts. I can live and die in a single moment. With one straying thought she can change my mood. With consummate ease and quicker than alcohol or cocaine the medusa can tame or arouse my beast within.
And only I have the power to bring her to life. As only she has the power to bring me to life.
Can I ever be sure she will ever exist for me?
Where my search will lead is nowhere but my own identity.
Every woman I have ever known has had the potential to harm me, and yet I re-enter the arena, slingshot in hand. Is this a sensible approach to balanced living? Darn tooting it is. For my diet has chocolate as well as greens. And if truth were told I can be greedy, very greedy where sweet things are concerned. After all what is sweeter than a fair maiden’s kiss?
She is temporal, she is spiritual. As a corporal entity she will bear little resemblance to what I perceive her to be. Such is the way of man’s loves and lusts. I can live and die in a single moment. With one straying thought she can change my mood. With consummate ease and quicker than alcohol or cocaine the medusa can tame or arouse my beast within.
And only I have the power to bring her to life. As only she has the power to bring me to life.
Can I ever be sure she will ever exist for me?
Where my search will lead is nowhere but my own identity.
Sunday 13 April 2008
my lady of advancing years
Odd though it may seem most men coming out of a marriage without having ‘orchestrated’ a partner switch have no idea how to re-enter the world of dating. The natural reaction is to fill the void. They do after all need to find someone to wash their socks and iron their shirts. If it wasn’t for the horny devil playing up in the nether regions a surrogate mother would probably suffice.
A ‘friend’ suggested a good place to meet ‘like-minded’ philanthropists was on a cruise ship. As if there was some kind of logic attached he reckoned the ‘pickings’ would be of a better class as the hoi polloi did not have the where with all to attend such a bash. What this had to do with anything I’m not sure but it sounded good at the time.
The Mediterranean millpond could take the weight of a thirty zillion ton plasticized tanker without creating too many ripples so I merrily signed up to an adventure.
Before I could close the cabin door there was an invite to join the other ‘single’ travelers.
At lunchtime on the first day I witnessed the shame of being in my position. Out of a potential cast list of fourteen hundred the auditioning players for this production amounted to six. One ‘zimmer’ frame complete with hearing aid, one coconut on legs, an alcoholic, an hermaphrodite, the jolliest ‘lady of advancing years’ I had ever met in my life and me.
To steer this motley crew in the direction of ‘fun’ the entertainments officer did her best to entertain. Before the bread roll had hit the soup lashings of alcohol were provided by way of an ice breaker. Not a good idea when an alcoholic fancies becoming captain for the afternoon. I hastily excused myself on the grounds of feeling sea sick. As my choice of flotilla had been made on the assumption stable waters would keep me free of mal de mar I don’t think anyone believed me.
On a midnight stroll round the upper deck I was ‘albatross spotting’ and thinking about how much a mistake all this was when I spied the ‘lady of advancing years’. She was well into the area of life where every day is a blessing. It was apparent even to me she had been quite stunning in her youth. In fact the twinkle in her eye suggested she may still have been actively pursuing her dreams. She had more spirit than all the rest of the lunchtime menagerie put together. We smiled and passed pleasantries. In particular she mentioned how cold the Med got once the sun and yardarm had spliced company. I retired to my cabin and dreamed of hitting an iceberg.
Given I was trying my best to engage with life I had enrolled in every organized visitation into port there was. I was playing the package trip traveler to the n-th degree.
I saw the sights. Impressive they are. When the sun shines and you’re paying wads of cash for the privilege of being there you can convince yourself that anywhere is impressive.
Strangely no matter the port, no matter the trip, there was always a flea market or bazaar. So, in order to show my generosity I broke into my allowance and bought ‘the lady of advancing years’ a shawl. A small token of gratitude for being the only smile I’d encountered in the last seventy two hours. I reckoned it would help keep her right side of unfrozen on her nightly wanderings.
By way of thanks, in every sense except the obvious we became friends. Frankly I’m not sure how I would have gotten through two weeks on the high seas without her. During the day I joined the guided tours and dutifully pointed my camera at a collection of old buildings, and at night I entertained and was entertained by my ‘lady of advancing years’.
I never entirely found out how the twinkle in her eye got there, but she has hinted, and I have my suspicions. If I dodge the coffin for as long as she has I hope I will be afforded the same voracity for life. In fact, to this day she is still as shipshape and seaworthy as anyone I have ever met.
I raise my glass to her. God bless her and all who have sailed in her!
A ‘friend’ suggested a good place to meet ‘like-minded’ philanthropists was on a cruise ship. As if there was some kind of logic attached he reckoned the ‘pickings’ would be of a better class as the hoi polloi did not have the where with all to attend such a bash. What this had to do with anything I’m not sure but it sounded good at the time.
The Mediterranean millpond could take the weight of a thirty zillion ton plasticized tanker without creating too many ripples so I merrily signed up to an adventure.
Before I could close the cabin door there was an invite to join the other ‘single’ travelers.
At lunchtime on the first day I witnessed the shame of being in my position. Out of a potential cast list of fourteen hundred the auditioning players for this production amounted to six. One ‘zimmer’ frame complete with hearing aid, one coconut on legs, an alcoholic, an hermaphrodite, the jolliest ‘lady of advancing years’ I had ever met in my life and me.
To steer this motley crew in the direction of ‘fun’ the entertainments officer did her best to entertain. Before the bread roll had hit the soup lashings of alcohol were provided by way of an ice breaker. Not a good idea when an alcoholic fancies becoming captain for the afternoon. I hastily excused myself on the grounds of feeling sea sick. As my choice of flotilla had been made on the assumption stable waters would keep me free of mal de mar I don’t think anyone believed me.
On a midnight stroll round the upper deck I was ‘albatross spotting’ and thinking about how much a mistake all this was when I spied the ‘lady of advancing years’. She was well into the area of life where every day is a blessing. It was apparent even to me she had been quite stunning in her youth. In fact the twinkle in her eye suggested she may still have been actively pursuing her dreams. She had more spirit than all the rest of the lunchtime menagerie put together. We smiled and passed pleasantries. In particular she mentioned how cold the Med got once the sun and yardarm had spliced company. I retired to my cabin and dreamed of hitting an iceberg.
Given I was trying my best to engage with life I had enrolled in every organized visitation into port there was. I was playing the package trip traveler to the n-th degree.
I saw the sights. Impressive they are. When the sun shines and you’re paying wads of cash for the privilege of being there you can convince yourself that anywhere is impressive.
Strangely no matter the port, no matter the trip, there was always a flea market or bazaar. So, in order to show my generosity I broke into my allowance and bought ‘the lady of advancing years’ a shawl. A small token of gratitude for being the only smile I’d encountered in the last seventy two hours. I reckoned it would help keep her right side of unfrozen on her nightly wanderings.
By way of thanks, in every sense except the obvious we became friends. Frankly I’m not sure how I would have gotten through two weeks on the high seas without her. During the day I joined the guided tours and dutifully pointed my camera at a collection of old buildings, and at night I entertained and was entertained by my ‘lady of advancing years’.
I never entirely found out how the twinkle in her eye got there, but she has hinted, and I have my suspicions. If I dodge the coffin for as long as she has I hope I will be afforded the same voracity for life. In fact, to this day she is still as shipshape and seaworthy as anyone I have ever met.
I raise my glass to her. God bless her and all who have sailed in her!
Friday 11 April 2008
the albatross flies high
Putting your faith in someone to have it destroyed is a damaging experience. The fall out is nuclear. It lasts for a very long time.
Such was the way with the albatross.
With majestic ease my princess had managed to develop and build at least four differing personas. There may be more, who knows? Four was enough for my brain to try and unravel. I was simply the fourth prince charming to awaken her with a kiss. And boy had I awakened something. A spirit so twisted I’m amazed she could lie in bed straight. But lying and lying in bed was a full time occupation for this particular species of womanhood. It’s hard to comprehend how anyone could split their life into such a variety of lies and deceit and remain the very essence of calm and sophistication. But that she was. Even today if she presented herself to me, if I was brave enough to remove my hands from my pockets it’s my own sanity I would feel for, not hers.
This was not so much identity theft as simply theft. She already ‘owned’ the identities. She simply kept them alive and allowed them to mature.
By working abroad during our married life I was an easy target. She knew I wouldn’t be around. There would be no one to question the bank statements, credit applications, catalogue purchases, insurance scams, fraudulent pension claims and god knows what else. Her problems arose when I decided to return.
Expecting a wondrous reception and healthy bank balance I was met with a depressive shell in both departments. As an actress she was and still is superb. She pretty soon had me pandering to her every whim.
As the bottomless pit she had been draining disappeared the pitiful bottom I was to encounter hit me square in the face. The day was fast approaching when she would make it look as if she could not survive without my pecuniary input, and worse, she had the medical records to prove it. The persona she had built around my name would make application to a court for maintenance. She had captured my wallet by batting her eyelids and could legitimise highway robbery without the same effort.
With my sofa as company over the coming year I made excuse upon excuse to myself to try and justify the intensity of feelings and emotions that welled in me.
The bottom line was I’d been ‘done over’ by an expert.
Such was the way with the albatross.
With majestic ease my princess had managed to develop and build at least four differing personas. There may be more, who knows? Four was enough for my brain to try and unravel. I was simply the fourth prince charming to awaken her with a kiss. And boy had I awakened something. A spirit so twisted I’m amazed she could lie in bed straight. But lying and lying in bed was a full time occupation for this particular species of womanhood. It’s hard to comprehend how anyone could split their life into such a variety of lies and deceit and remain the very essence of calm and sophistication. But that she was. Even today if she presented herself to me, if I was brave enough to remove my hands from my pockets it’s my own sanity I would feel for, not hers.
This was not so much identity theft as simply theft. She already ‘owned’ the identities. She simply kept them alive and allowed them to mature.
By working abroad during our married life I was an easy target. She knew I wouldn’t be around. There would be no one to question the bank statements, credit applications, catalogue purchases, insurance scams, fraudulent pension claims and god knows what else. Her problems arose when I decided to return.
Expecting a wondrous reception and healthy bank balance I was met with a depressive shell in both departments. As an actress she was and still is superb. She pretty soon had me pandering to her every whim.
As the bottomless pit she had been draining disappeared the pitiful bottom I was to encounter hit me square in the face. The day was fast approaching when she would make it look as if she could not survive without my pecuniary input, and worse, she had the medical records to prove it. The persona she had built around my name would make application to a court for maintenance. She had captured my wallet by batting her eyelids and could legitimise highway robbery without the same effort.
With my sofa as company over the coming year I made excuse upon excuse to myself to try and justify the intensity of feelings and emotions that welled in me.
The bottom line was I’d been ‘done over’ by an expert.
Thursday 10 April 2008
Nymphomaniac
Every man has fantasies. Excessive behaviour, particularly in the area of feminine sexuality, is appealing.
As I wandered the earth searching for the unobtainable I was presented with that of which every man dreams, a nymphomaniac.
Although by now I was making a decent job of trawling the net and throwing back the tiddlers and sharks finding a suitable creature to feast upon was presenting a challenge. I had decided I would develop a fondness for flesh of a different hue. Lithe and nubile and domicile on this planet for a little less than two score years particularly took my fancy.
A short break to a seaside town brought a variety of catch that was the most amazing dish imaginable. This platter did not need a side order to satisfy. On the dance floor she manipulated her torso into directions of travel that did not seem humanly possible. And she quite blatantly knew what she was doing. Putting herself on my menu was the biggest joy that I could hope for.
Before the moon had revolved we were an item. Hand in hand, cheek to cheek, body to body I made use of my surroundings. As I listened to the waves lapping at the shore my own form of lapping was received with relish. I found sand to be a very uncomfortable third companion when engaging in foreplay. And this lady was vocal, very, very vocal. She was the walking embodiment of gratitude.
Over the next six months I experienced that nightmares and dreams are not that far removed from each other. As desire gave way to a diet of insatiable lust I could, quite literally, not keep up. This lady loved it, everywhere, anywhere, including the room next door to her eighty year old profoundly undeaf mother. I am not one to be feint of heart but when screaming ardour and a family audience of well over pension age are mixed then a sanity check is in order.
I made my excuses and got out of there. Pity really she was a very fine woman.
The last I heard she was testing the lifecycle of batteries for a selection of plastic insertions.
As I wandered the earth searching for the unobtainable I was presented with that of which every man dreams, a nymphomaniac.
Although by now I was making a decent job of trawling the net and throwing back the tiddlers and sharks finding a suitable creature to feast upon was presenting a challenge. I had decided I would develop a fondness for flesh of a different hue. Lithe and nubile and domicile on this planet for a little less than two score years particularly took my fancy.
A short break to a seaside town brought a variety of catch that was the most amazing dish imaginable. This platter did not need a side order to satisfy. On the dance floor she manipulated her torso into directions of travel that did not seem humanly possible. And she quite blatantly knew what she was doing. Putting herself on my menu was the biggest joy that I could hope for.
Before the moon had revolved we were an item. Hand in hand, cheek to cheek, body to body I made use of my surroundings. As I listened to the waves lapping at the shore my own form of lapping was received with relish. I found sand to be a very uncomfortable third companion when engaging in foreplay. And this lady was vocal, very, very vocal. She was the walking embodiment of gratitude.
Over the next six months I experienced that nightmares and dreams are not that far removed from each other. As desire gave way to a diet of insatiable lust I could, quite literally, not keep up. This lady loved it, everywhere, anywhere, including the room next door to her eighty year old profoundly undeaf mother. I am not one to be feint of heart but when screaming ardour and a family audience of well over pension age are mixed then a sanity check is in order.
I made my excuses and got out of there. Pity really she was a very fine woman.
The last I heard she was testing the lifecycle of batteries for a selection of plastic insertions.
Wednesday 9 April 2008
Sunday School Teacher
After my sojourn around the rock and roll circuit I unconsciously made an effort to settle down. More by luck than design I found myself in the company of the exact opposite of the type of woman I probably needed. At the age of twenty one though I’m not sure I ever knew what I needed in a woman or indeed anything else.
From where I was coming marriage to a Sunday School teacher seemed a safe bet.
I was therefore married. A certificate proved it. Certified I should have been.
As if to embed my new life further her mother was resident organist in the ‘church of Christ the knows what’. Where once stood 80 decibel cocaine fuelled hysteria evening entertainment now consisted of ‘the old rugged cross’ lemonade and home made rhubarb crumble. No longer either the nightly hedonistic lustful rampages, instead was prayer and sensibility. I have no idea what anyone else asks of our redeemer but for my part I prayed to get beyond the top two buttons of my new wife’s cardigan. Boy how I prayed, and prayed, and prayed. To the uninitiated, as I was quickly finding out, sex was no longer for enjoyment but procreation. Procreation was a twice yearly affair in accordance with tradition. Christmas and Easter. Not ever birthdays. This was a spiritual plane I had never previously considered.
Along with my first attempt at blissful co-existence I made efforts towards a proper job. As a budding Charles Rennie McIntosh I decided I would shake up the architectural world. I had no idea that there were some rudimentary skills needed to be learned. This truly was an alien concept. Drawing, scale rules and philosophical debate pulled me into a hitherto world unknown. When the boss spoke I learned to nod. With ardent fervour I produced unusable rubbish of epic proportions and was found out.
As if to cement my stones further into the great wall that is life I attained another certificate and was divorced.
Hallelujah, praise the Lord.
Here endeth the lesson.
From where I was coming marriage to a Sunday School teacher seemed a safe bet.
I was therefore married. A certificate proved it. Certified I should have been.
As if to embed my new life further her mother was resident organist in the ‘church of Christ the knows what’. Where once stood 80 decibel cocaine fuelled hysteria evening entertainment now consisted of ‘the old rugged cross’ lemonade and home made rhubarb crumble. No longer either the nightly hedonistic lustful rampages, instead was prayer and sensibility. I have no idea what anyone else asks of our redeemer but for my part I prayed to get beyond the top two buttons of my new wife’s cardigan. Boy how I prayed, and prayed, and prayed. To the uninitiated, as I was quickly finding out, sex was no longer for enjoyment but procreation. Procreation was a twice yearly affair in accordance with tradition. Christmas and Easter. Not ever birthdays. This was a spiritual plane I had never previously considered.
Along with my first attempt at blissful co-existence I made efforts towards a proper job. As a budding Charles Rennie McIntosh I decided I would shake up the architectural world. I had no idea that there were some rudimentary skills needed to be learned. This truly was an alien concept. Drawing, scale rules and philosophical debate pulled me into a hitherto world unknown. When the boss spoke I learned to nod. With ardent fervour I produced unusable rubbish of epic proportions and was found out.
As if to cement my stones further into the great wall that is life I attained another certificate and was divorced.
Hallelujah, praise the Lord.
Here endeth the lesson.
Tuesday 8 April 2008
Shingles Club
Strange to tell but after the downfall of a bad marriage the natural reaction is to try to fit again in an equally damaging relationship. Any damaging relationship will suffice. Such is the way of the world. To justify this conformity to expectation is the primary purpose of the singles club.
When the singularity of my sofa became too painful and the Kleenex box was empty it was time to swallow my pride and throw myself on an unsuspecting public. On a Saturday night where else could a middle aged man head for a face to face confrontation? I donned my best bib and tucker and made ready for the fray.
Unfortunately the mainstay of clientele bore a degree of similarity to an audition line for the Addams Family. There was the ‘odd’ cub looking for a lioness but the majority showed definite signs of decay. On closer inspection the congregation seemed to sort themselves in order of desperation. I did know that balding lounge lizards didn’t pose much competition. While most of the faces could have benefited from severe ironing if I wasn’t too picky there was plenty of yellow sticker meat on offer. But I would have to change my game plan and recalibrate my expectation as well. A successful ongoing relationship would definitely not be the outcome of any tryst.
Being the new kid on the block it wasn’t long before I was approached. It’s amazing what you can catch in one of these places. The common cold to herpes is almost guaranteed. She had probably in the past been someone’s trophy. A little tarnished but her silverware was clean enough to be on show. Suffice to say this ‘silver tongued devil’ became her polishing cloth for the night.
I gave it a couple of weeks and returned. I had a similar escapade with a different partner. In fact it was only after four or five months of this repetitive behaviour I noticed that all my ‘conquests’ not only shared the same sophistication but sat at the same table for their weekly constitutional. It seemed I was being passed around. Not one to quibble I took to my duty like the man I am. Foul weather protection meant any potential storm in the port could be kept at bay. Every other weekend my sofa got a breather as I became the notch on the middle aged woman’s bedpost.
Somewhere along the way I realised that while most men 'think' they are the hunter it is in reality the other way around. Believe me in the battle of the sexes there is only one winner. The trick however, no matter how deceptive, is to make sure you appear as a prize.
When the singularity of my sofa became too painful and the Kleenex box was empty it was time to swallow my pride and throw myself on an unsuspecting public. On a Saturday night where else could a middle aged man head for a face to face confrontation? I donned my best bib and tucker and made ready for the fray.
Unfortunately the mainstay of clientele bore a degree of similarity to an audition line for the Addams Family. There was the ‘odd’ cub looking for a lioness but the majority showed definite signs of decay. On closer inspection the congregation seemed to sort themselves in order of desperation. I did know that balding lounge lizards didn’t pose much competition. While most of the faces could have benefited from severe ironing if I wasn’t too picky there was plenty of yellow sticker meat on offer. But I would have to change my game plan and recalibrate my expectation as well. A successful ongoing relationship would definitely not be the outcome of any tryst.
Being the new kid on the block it wasn’t long before I was approached. It’s amazing what you can catch in one of these places. The common cold to herpes is almost guaranteed. She had probably in the past been someone’s trophy. A little tarnished but her silverware was clean enough to be on show. Suffice to say this ‘silver tongued devil’ became her polishing cloth for the night.
I gave it a couple of weeks and returned. I had a similar escapade with a different partner. In fact it was only after four or five months of this repetitive behaviour I noticed that all my ‘conquests’ not only shared the same sophistication but sat at the same table for their weekly constitutional. It seemed I was being passed around. Not one to quibble I took to my duty like the man I am. Foul weather protection meant any potential storm in the port could be kept at bay. Every other weekend my sofa got a breather as I became the notch on the middle aged woman’s bedpost.
Somewhere along the way I realised that while most men 'think' they are the hunter it is in reality the other way around. Believe me in the battle of the sexes there is only one winner. The trick however, no matter how deceptive, is to make sure you appear as a prize.
Monday 7 April 2008
Right idea, wrong person - me!
Up until a few months ago I was in pursuit of the little house on the prairie. Problem was a lot of developers had the same idea. There were half finished skyscrapers everywhere. The view was spoiled forever. On reflection my construction could only be described as an erection of a temporary nature. Even if the shelter was 'adobe' and the weather conditions were 'off the Beaufort Scale' in my mind's eye I was always looking for permanence. Hermit crabs and long term residence do not do compatability. However I did make a noble attempt.
I did get involved with a lovely young lady, and I do mean that with all the sincerity I can muster. It didn't work out. She was a bit younger than me. Quite a bit younger than me. I was massaging my ego with dexterous aplomb. We set up home together and leased a house for a year. Within a week the cracks were widening. Within a month all on my own I had move the Grand Canyon to suburbia. Discretion and valour rode in as my champions and Elvis left the building.
As a solution I swapped a two bedroomed 'rented' house for my sofa. I was buying the same tee shirt once again. Find a lady to have fun with, get joined at the hip, make sure your not compatable and give her a house. Simple really. Familiarity is cleft deeply in the furrows of contempt.
At least there were no bitter words. And why should there be. As I said she was, and still is, a lovely young lady. It's me that is the nutcase.
I have found through my journey I am slowly getting better at clearing up a mess. When my mythical creation is revealed to me without volition I cry until I laugh. One day I may get to the point where I can simply laugh without the pain of the tears. But then I will have acquired some wisdom. Knowledge gained through experience. Given my track record it seems a bit doubtful.
To prove it I did it all again. The pain of that particular episode saw the birth of Mr. October.
I did get involved with a lovely young lady, and I do mean that with all the sincerity I can muster. It didn't work out. She was a bit younger than me. Quite a bit younger than me. I was massaging my ego with dexterous aplomb. We set up home together and leased a house for a year. Within a week the cracks were widening. Within a month all on my own I had move the Grand Canyon to suburbia. Discretion and valour rode in as my champions and Elvis left the building.
As a solution I swapped a two bedroomed 'rented' house for my sofa. I was buying the same tee shirt once again. Find a lady to have fun with, get joined at the hip, make sure your not compatable and give her a house. Simple really. Familiarity is cleft deeply in the furrows of contempt.
At least there were no bitter words. And why should there be. As I said she was, and still is, a lovely young lady. It's me that is the nutcase.
I have found through my journey I am slowly getting better at clearing up a mess. When my mythical creation is revealed to me without volition I cry until I laugh. One day I may get to the point where I can simply laugh without the pain of the tears. But then I will have acquired some wisdom. Knowledge gained through experience. Given my track record it seems a bit doubtful.
To prove it I did it all again. The pain of that particular episode saw the birth of Mr. October.
Sunday 6 April 2008
The sofa
I don't believe I am alone any longer. If you trawl the dating/singles websites you will find the words 'unable to accomodate'. This is 'webspeak' for 'I live on a sofa'. It also says I am neither a man of property or means. I do however have access to a wardrobe rail, microwave and shared ablution facilities. Not the most appealing of settings to woo a potential playmate.
I for my sins am slightly further up the gene pool in that 'I live on a sofa' and own a car.
In fact I own a fully paid up 'flashy' sports car. A very important tool in attracting women. Not so the sofa. It all adds to the illusion.
In creating this illusion, I am after all only evening up the score.
Women who have reached the age of abandonment never ever engage in the battle without warpaint. It is a fact. It is their way. Whether they have locked up at home a gaggle of snarling kids or a treasury of red letters and financial demands is irrelevant. It is my experience that 'baggage' there always is. Is this ever declared when you arrive together at passport control?
Not on your sweet nelly my dears.
Why in heaven's name should I therefore declare my sofa.
This then makes for a dilemma. When both parties lock horns with 'smoke and mirrors' it is the degree of delusion that sets up the illusion. Jaguar XK8 does not imply sofa. Equally 36c, botox and painted nails does not say broke with teenage crackhead offspring. It is all part of the game.
Life is but a flitting fancy, Kairos, the god of the fleeting moment enslaving the outcome.
I have learned that behavioural science is just another name for knicker elastic.
The sofa is my monogamous relationship. My friend. My sanctuary. My priestless confessional. We have laughed together. We have cried together. Without it I would die.
Long live the sofa!
I for my sins am slightly further up the gene pool in that 'I live on a sofa' and own a car.
In fact I own a fully paid up 'flashy' sports car. A very important tool in attracting women. Not so the sofa. It all adds to the illusion.
In creating this illusion, I am after all only evening up the score.
Women who have reached the age of abandonment never ever engage in the battle without warpaint. It is a fact. It is their way. Whether they have locked up at home a gaggle of snarling kids or a treasury of red letters and financial demands is irrelevant. It is my experience that 'baggage' there always is. Is this ever declared when you arrive together at passport control?
Not on your sweet nelly my dears.
Why in heaven's name should I therefore declare my sofa.
This then makes for a dilemma. When both parties lock horns with 'smoke and mirrors' it is the degree of delusion that sets up the illusion. Jaguar XK8 does not imply sofa. Equally 36c, botox and painted nails does not say broke with teenage crackhead offspring. It is all part of the game.
Life is but a flitting fancy, Kairos, the god of the fleeting moment enslaving the outcome.
I have learned that behavioural science is just another name for knicker elastic.
The sofa is my monogamous relationship. My friend. My sanctuary. My priestless confessional. We have laughed together. We have cried together. Without it I would die.
Long live the sofa!
Saturday 5 April 2008
Wanted: Solvent man for desperate gargoyle.
As an available man others often ask how and where I meet my women. I tell them a variety of truths. If you can avoid the fifteen year old boys who borrowed a photograph of their sister for a laugh then free internet sites are not a bad place to start. The paid dating sites are worth a look-in but they really are full of lonely hearts. Should you meet any of them, no wonder their lonely. In ‘phishing’ these sites are unstoppable. One curious visit ensures a subtle attack of visually attractive playmates apparently just waiting for you. Better still these ‘goddesses’ of supreme stature are intensely interested in your middle aged spread and empty bankbook. They just can’t wait to join you in the comfort of your sofa. All you need do is paint your credit card another shade of red and wait for their call. Vulnerability and loneliness are best friends of the ‘by subscription public desperation channels’. The song of the siren still exists, just re-branded and packaged for today’s marketplace.
Apart from being extremely unattractive desperation is not good for the immune system. Although it wasn’t always this way nowadays I know which side of the bars I’m on when I visit the zoo.
On the grand tour it’s always fun to stop at the monkey house.
A favorite haunt of mine is any coffee shop anywhere on this planet. An unattached female with a spare seat at her table is asking for my presence. When I’m on the hunt she is given the opportunity of a lifetime. You’d be surprised how many accept. By now you can tell I’m more of a lone wolf than a pack animal. For me it’s much easier to count in single digits. Better still, I’m safe and content with this.
On one such visit my life experience changed forever.
A chance espresso brought tales of childhood romance and remembrance. I had known this girl in my formative years. As we skirted around the pleasantries everything was rosy, until the mention of her ex-husband. As if by magic at the mere expression of his name a gargoyle appeared. Apparently he had ‘run off’ with a girl half his age. As her face changed it made complete sense to me. Moving beyond the help of Max Factor seldom keeps a man's attention. We are after all firstly visual animals. Women who can balance and play to this weakness usually have higher intelligence. That in itself can be even more attractive. You may disagree. I don’t care. This is my game and my rules are what I play by. If you have a different set of rules don’t come into my playground. As my interest waned she enquired about my availability to join her on Saturday evening. I told her I was mid way through a ‘snorkeling’ exam and needed to study. I read the signs. Stalking is not a sport I perform or engage in. Taking my leave I had the certainty I would not be visiting a well known singles club, at least not that weekend.
Two weeks later though I did. Welcome to another chapter of my life.
Apart from being extremely unattractive desperation is not good for the immune system. Although it wasn’t always this way nowadays I know which side of the bars I’m on when I visit the zoo.
On the grand tour it’s always fun to stop at the monkey house.
A favorite haunt of mine is any coffee shop anywhere on this planet. An unattached female with a spare seat at her table is asking for my presence. When I’m on the hunt she is given the opportunity of a lifetime. You’d be surprised how many accept. By now you can tell I’m more of a lone wolf than a pack animal. For me it’s much easier to count in single digits. Better still, I’m safe and content with this.
On one such visit my life experience changed forever.
A chance espresso brought tales of childhood romance and remembrance. I had known this girl in my formative years. As we skirted around the pleasantries everything was rosy, until the mention of her ex-husband. As if by magic at the mere expression of his name a gargoyle appeared. Apparently he had ‘run off’ with a girl half his age. As her face changed it made complete sense to me. Moving beyond the help of Max Factor seldom keeps a man's attention. We are after all firstly visual animals. Women who can balance and play to this weakness usually have higher intelligence. That in itself can be even more attractive. You may disagree. I don’t care. This is my game and my rules are what I play by. If you have a different set of rules don’t come into my playground. As my interest waned she enquired about my availability to join her on Saturday evening. I told her I was mid way through a ‘snorkeling’ exam and needed to study. I read the signs. Stalking is not a sport I perform or engage in. Taking my leave I had the certainty I would not be visiting a well known singles club, at least not that weekend.
Two weeks later though I did. Welcome to another chapter of my life.
Friday 4 April 2008
One 'swallow' does not make a summer
How do you rid yourself of a lingering illness? One that sucks at the lifeblood of your soul.
When I met my illness, her eyes bore deep into my very being and I was hooked. In terms of qualifications she had a P.H.D. in smouldering. She was hot. Big time hot.
It never struck me to question why she hung onto my every word. It wouldn't would it. Any man with an ego the size of a house inevitably makes themself a prime target. Couple that with a permanent hard-on and any woman worth her salt can manage the necessary manipulation to master the situation. Not really terribly fair a big league player taking a boy scout hostage when he hasn't even earned his first proficiency badge. But play with his woggle she did, and once a sheepshank or two had been performed he was tied good and proper. As he dibbed his dob, she dobbed his dib.
It was a whirlwind romance and within six months we were mouse and wife.
The wedding was a grand affair, in fact it was a very grand affair, paid for by a supporting cast of thousands. The first page of my bankbook lays testiment to that.
I had no idea of the woman's past. I was husband number four. You don't ask such questions when a red fingernail or two is gently teasing at the more receptive parts of your anatomy. She had been here before. She already knew I would never sully such opportunity with any degree of sensible behaviour.
Even better still just before we were married I had through circumstance found work in a different country. Jackpot!
Anything could drop through the letterbox, anyone could pass through our front door. All she needed to do was coo in my ear over a telephone once in a while and the money would keep flowing. Flowing from one account to another. It was normal she assured me for a wife to have access to her husband's financial affairs. Being her fourth certified conquest bank accounts were kept open in previous names.
Blissfully unaware of what was happening long distance sex courtesy of Alexander Graham Bell kept me in check. As I chugged fervently at my meatstick her undiluted beauty was my only concern. Meanwhile the rank and file I worked with took a more practical route. They paid a weekly visit to the local brothel for their ejaculatory salvation. Ever one for the moral high ground I would not dare contemplate such frivolity, and as I did so another kleenex hit the floor. By way of nightly ritualistic duty I blew kisses at the photographs of her naked likeness. Tosser I was in more ways than one.
Many have said, there must have been signs. My answer is 'try it brother' you ain't been had till you've been had. And this is only a fraction of my tale. My right of passage. This albatross had a nest. She was feathering it. For Mr. October it was July. Holidaying on togetherness and starlit nights sex was always on the tip of her tongue. But as he was to find out one 'swallow' does not make a summer and a summer of 'swallows' does not make a marriage. Within the rising of a dozen moons Mr. October was to find out that dilusive misrepresentation and con artist simplicity are the trademark of the devil's handmaiden.
When I met my illness, her eyes bore deep into my very being and I was hooked. In terms of qualifications she had a P.H.D. in smouldering. She was hot. Big time hot.
It never struck me to question why she hung onto my every word. It wouldn't would it. Any man with an ego the size of a house inevitably makes themself a prime target. Couple that with a permanent hard-on and any woman worth her salt can manage the necessary manipulation to master the situation. Not really terribly fair a big league player taking a boy scout hostage when he hasn't even earned his first proficiency badge. But play with his woggle she did, and once a sheepshank or two had been performed he was tied good and proper. As he dibbed his dob, she dobbed his dib.
It was a whirlwind romance and within six months we were mouse and wife.
The wedding was a grand affair, in fact it was a very grand affair, paid for by a supporting cast of thousands. The first page of my bankbook lays testiment to that.
I had no idea of the woman's past. I was husband number four. You don't ask such questions when a red fingernail or two is gently teasing at the more receptive parts of your anatomy. She had been here before. She already knew I would never sully such opportunity with any degree of sensible behaviour.
Even better still just before we were married I had through circumstance found work in a different country. Jackpot!
Anything could drop through the letterbox, anyone could pass through our front door. All she needed to do was coo in my ear over a telephone once in a while and the money would keep flowing. Flowing from one account to another. It was normal she assured me for a wife to have access to her husband's financial affairs. Being her fourth certified conquest bank accounts were kept open in previous names.
Blissfully unaware of what was happening long distance sex courtesy of Alexander Graham Bell kept me in check. As I chugged fervently at my meatstick her undiluted beauty was my only concern. Meanwhile the rank and file I worked with took a more practical route. They paid a weekly visit to the local brothel for their ejaculatory salvation. Ever one for the moral high ground I would not dare contemplate such frivolity, and as I did so another kleenex hit the floor. By way of nightly ritualistic duty I blew kisses at the photographs of her naked likeness. Tosser I was in more ways than one.
Many have said, there must have been signs. My answer is 'try it brother' you ain't been had till you've been had. And this is only a fraction of my tale. My right of passage. This albatross had a nest. She was feathering it. For Mr. October it was July. Holidaying on togetherness and starlit nights sex was always on the tip of her tongue. But as he was to find out one 'swallow' does not make a summer and a summer of 'swallows' does not make a marriage. Within the rising of a dozen moons Mr. October was to find out that dilusive misrepresentation and con artist simplicity are the trademark of the devil's handmaiden.
Alphabet Soup
From the discomfort of a sofa it is easy to look back in wonderment at life.
Thirty five years before the existence of Mr. October, there were adolescent dreams.
An ability to vocalise tuneful endevours let me into the land of electric music. I was a member of a band. For its day a fairly successful band. What did not appear as hard work and industry brought laughter, excess and a proclivity of sexual variety. A level of success made small town liasions particularly easy. Return visits meant we had a finger in every pie. In fact, sometimes more than one finger from more than one hand. Oh how the pies were tender and tasty. As long as the mystical age of consent had been assured a willing body or two were often shared. Fumbling in the back seat of a Ford transit van while others roared encouragement became the norm for every card carrying member. We were after all eager and lusty youths. Keeping score was never considered, there was too much on offer for that. We devised a different method of teenage corruptive thought for our 'alpha' male combat.
Shag the alphabet.
Simple really. Start with an Ann or Angela and finish on a Zoe or Zelda. First to the goal got a clap on the back from the others. 'Clap' being the appropriate word. The greater part of the 'game' was never just to score, that was easy. It was much harder to find a Queenie or Xavier. Particulary when at least seven of the group wished to proclaim undying love within an hour of the show finishing. In hick town there was a definite shortage of exotic names. But I managed it. Twice round to my credit. Dreams of past glories can make loneliness bearable.
With an over-developed right arm I scratch all the bits of me that need scratching and wonder what giddy heights my other partners in crime of that bygone age managed to achieve. Did they also make it to the sofa? If I live long enough one day I may find out.
That was long before the albatross flew into my life.
In fact, between those heady days of rock and roll and my downfall, I had already acquired a sweet and innocent bride. A sunday school teacher no less.
That of course it a tale for another day.
Thirty five years before the existence of Mr. October, there were adolescent dreams.
An ability to vocalise tuneful endevours let me into the land of electric music. I was a member of a band. For its day a fairly successful band. What did not appear as hard work and industry brought laughter, excess and a proclivity of sexual variety. A level of success made small town liasions particularly easy. Return visits meant we had a finger in every pie. In fact, sometimes more than one finger from more than one hand. Oh how the pies were tender and tasty. As long as the mystical age of consent had been assured a willing body or two were often shared. Fumbling in the back seat of a Ford transit van while others roared encouragement became the norm for every card carrying member. We were after all eager and lusty youths. Keeping score was never considered, there was too much on offer for that. We devised a different method of teenage corruptive thought for our 'alpha' male combat.
Shag the alphabet.
Simple really. Start with an Ann or Angela and finish on a Zoe or Zelda. First to the goal got a clap on the back from the others. 'Clap' being the appropriate word. The greater part of the 'game' was never just to score, that was easy. It was much harder to find a Queenie or Xavier. Particulary when at least seven of the group wished to proclaim undying love within an hour of the show finishing. In hick town there was a definite shortage of exotic names. But I managed it. Twice round to my credit. Dreams of past glories can make loneliness bearable.
With an over-developed right arm I scratch all the bits of me that need scratching and wonder what giddy heights my other partners in crime of that bygone age managed to achieve. Did they also make it to the sofa? If I live long enough one day I may find out.
That was long before the albatross flew into my life.
In fact, between those heady days of rock and roll and my downfall, I had already acquired a sweet and innocent bride. A sunday school teacher no less.
That of course it a tale for another day.
Thursday 3 April 2008
Mr October
Whoever said no man is an island never heard of Madagascar or the Galapagos.
Any man can be an island. In fact, the more remote the island the more exotic the inhabitants tend to be. The sun shines , waves lap at the shore and paradise exists.
Visitors bring with them all the trappings of touristic curiosity.
Mr. October broke free of the mainland some time ago.
He found it fascinating that nobody seemed to go to a singles club alone.
As a wall flower he blossomed. The sap rose and his nectar began to attract those who wished to drink.
He developed a taste for dipping his fingers in the honeypot and learned through bitter experience never, ever, to lick the pot entirely clean. After all an empty jar is nothing more than an empty jar.
Honey like broccolli is on sale everywhere, and vegetables are out of season in October.
But a sweet tooth needs regular dental care.
On his last visit to the dentist the twenty-three year old receptionist 'offered' her personal telephone number. All from a smile and a few well chosen words. Who says an old dog and new tricks can't lay down together.
In fact a fifty two year old dog can display some pretty remarkable 'old' tricks when his dander is up. A young inexperienced pup can be a very receptive learner.
All this from the solitude of a sofa.
Things have a habit of changing.
October never remains forever.
Any man can be an island. In fact, the more remote the island the more exotic the inhabitants tend to be. The sun shines , waves lap at the shore and paradise exists.
Visitors bring with them all the trappings of touristic curiosity.
Mr. October broke free of the mainland some time ago.
He found it fascinating that nobody seemed to go to a singles club alone.
As a wall flower he blossomed. The sap rose and his nectar began to attract those who wished to drink.
He developed a taste for dipping his fingers in the honeypot and learned through bitter experience never, ever, to lick the pot entirely clean. After all an empty jar is nothing more than an empty jar.
Honey like broccolli is on sale everywhere, and vegetables are out of season in October.
But a sweet tooth needs regular dental care.
On his last visit to the dentist the twenty-three year old receptionist 'offered' her personal telephone number. All from a smile and a few well chosen words. Who says an old dog and new tricks can't lay down together.
In fact a fifty two year old dog can display some pretty remarkable 'old' tricks when his dander is up. A young inexperienced pup can be a very receptive learner.
All this from the solitude of a sofa.
Things have a habit of changing.
October never remains forever.
Wednesday 2 April 2008
Ah! well a-day! what evil looks..............
Ah! well a-day! What evil looks
Had I from old and young!
Instead of the cross,
the Albatross about my neck was hung.
How is it possible that I ever came across such a woman let alone marry her? I like most men am visually impared. I see long legs, blond hair and red fingernails as a badge of happiness. My experience like many before me tells another story. Once upon a time...
A retired catwalk model dressed in all her finery and set loose to play is a formidable force, particularly when she has downsized her playground to those in the junior school. It was in such circumstances when my life was on the ascendant that the click of a heel and the waft of Chanel brought me to my knees. But the 'lady' was no novice. On her knees first she displayed the finest presentation of 'lipstick displacement' I had ever experienced. Strange, through my Presbyterian upbringing I have been taught you entered heaven by passing through hell. My experience is the other way around.
And the doorway is quite clearly marked. Centred just above the stocking top lies the promise of infinite riches. A paradise of sticky wonderment. Pandora's box without hope.
Within a couple of months I was ensnared, caught, trussed up like a turkey. And all for a shot on the swings in the big playground.
Up until now my only experience of rubber gloves had been of the 'Vileda' variety. Unlike my mother this lady donned the strangest apparel for washing up. Clad from head to toe in thigh boots, leather and p.v.c. she brought the centrefold of the top shelf to life. Whips, chains and accoutrements not for the faint of heart became part of her 'courting' ritual. And she rode the willing horse, as willing horse I am.
I had to 'have' such a creature. What little price a golden band in exchange for the more precious ring on offer. It escaped me that all I was being shown was my own inept egotistical fumblings at manhood. From my sofa it is now so clear that I would pay the price of my own misfortune as 'hoist on my own petard' I became.
Glad to be rid of her idiot son my mother paid for the wedding cake. I have suffered the most inglorious indigestion ever since. Still counting after nine years. Although in time as she withers and rots away the albatross round my neck gets lighter. One day, one day, I will be free of her.
But what about Mister October, will I ever be free of him?
Had I from old and young!
Instead of the cross,
the Albatross about my neck was hung.
How is it possible that I ever came across such a woman let alone marry her? I like most men am visually impared. I see long legs, blond hair and red fingernails as a badge of happiness. My experience like many before me tells another story. Once upon a time...
A retired catwalk model dressed in all her finery and set loose to play is a formidable force, particularly when she has downsized her playground to those in the junior school. It was in such circumstances when my life was on the ascendant that the click of a heel and the waft of Chanel brought me to my knees. But the 'lady' was no novice. On her knees first she displayed the finest presentation of 'lipstick displacement' I had ever experienced. Strange, through my Presbyterian upbringing I have been taught you entered heaven by passing through hell. My experience is the other way around.
And the doorway is quite clearly marked. Centred just above the stocking top lies the promise of infinite riches. A paradise of sticky wonderment. Pandora's box without hope.
Within a couple of months I was ensnared, caught, trussed up like a turkey. And all for a shot on the swings in the big playground.
Up until now my only experience of rubber gloves had been of the 'Vileda' variety. Unlike my mother this lady donned the strangest apparel for washing up. Clad from head to toe in thigh boots, leather and p.v.c. she brought the centrefold of the top shelf to life. Whips, chains and accoutrements not for the faint of heart became part of her 'courting' ritual. And she rode the willing horse, as willing horse I am.
I had to 'have' such a creature. What little price a golden band in exchange for the more precious ring on offer. It escaped me that all I was being shown was my own inept egotistical fumblings at manhood. From my sofa it is now so clear that I would pay the price of my own misfortune as 'hoist on my own petard' I became.
Glad to be rid of her idiot son my mother paid for the wedding cake. I have suffered the most inglorious indigestion ever since. Still counting after nine years. Although in time as she withers and rots away the albatross round my neck gets lighter. One day, one day, I will be free of her.
But what about Mister October, will I ever be free of him?
Tuesday 1 April 2008
Let me Explain
It says it all really. Middle age does not come alone.
At least by 40ish the greater percentage of the male populate will have been stripped of all their worldly possessions by the person who once proclaimed unswerving love. There may of course be a lot of variant strains to a tale, however, it always ends the same way. The price of freedom is sore.
Difficult to remember the cumbersome infection of pubescent lust when the best on offer is a sofa and an empty bankbook. By the third bottle of cider the vision of a 'grifter' smiling fondly as he enters the hallowed turf that once shared a warm bed with you eats generously at the soul.
Is misery and internet porn the best on offer?
Perhaps there is another way.
And so to a story of success, neither financial, nor therapeutic but nevertheless much more rewarding. Words are cheap, a 'blog' proves that. Actions, now therein hangs a tale or two, and an inability to 'hang his tail' is inevitably what drives the middle aged man into despair. The desperation of of the single clubs, dating sites and god knows where else. The one ingredient to change the constitution of this fruit cake is the spiritual relief that loneliness can never afford. What price the youth of old, the wisdom of entitlement born only in the battle scars of life.
What bollocks.
Driven by being the last piece of the jigsaw that came out a different box, I decided to rearrange my life, throw off the bondage of trite banal mediocrity and set free a soul of rampant desire. Was the world ready?
Not knowing and better still, not caring, the ultimate judgement of the harshest critic I know, myself, is the greatest treasure available in a world of decadent decay. There are many ways up the mountain. I know, I've tried them all. In the end the mountain won...or did it?
It's mighty fine setting up camp in the valley. The echoes of laughter are not lost to the winds on the lofty peaks of egotistical fortune. No brother, I have gained greater pleasure in the contentment of less selfish extremes. I am willing to share my experiences with the less able, and to this end I praise whatever lord there is. Bestowing me with an ability to digest and divulge brings me a greater pleasure than pleasure itself. Lay on McDuff, as the actress said to the bishop.
Tales of misfortune and wondrous merriment let to the sofa. Dreams of glory and burning ambition lost to intolerant behaviour, of myself and others. The albatross will be forever banished to the wilderness. One thing is for sure, she will not go down without a fight.
As the frustrations of daily life unfold I will enlighten those who wish to be lit. The albatross may not be as big a cross as Mr. October. Only the reader can decide.
At least by 40ish the greater percentage of the male populate will have been stripped of all their worldly possessions by the person who once proclaimed unswerving love. There may of course be a lot of variant strains to a tale, however, it always ends the same way. The price of freedom is sore.
Difficult to remember the cumbersome infection of pubescent lust when the best on offer is a sofa and an empty bankbook. By the third bottle of cider the vision of a 'grifter' smiling fondly as he enters the hallowed turf that once shared a warm bed with you eats generously at the soul.
Is misery and internet porn the best on offer?
Perhaps there is another way.
And so to a story of success, neither financial, nor therapeutic but nevertheless much more rewarding. Words are cheap, a 'blog' proves that. Actions, now therein hangs a tale or two, and an inability to 'hang his tail' is inevitably what drives the middle aged man into despair. The desperation of of the single clubs, dating sites and god knows where else. The one ingredient to change the constitution of this fruit cake is the spiritual relief that loneliness can never afford. What price the youth of old, the wisdom of entitlement born only in the battle scars of life.
What bollocks.
Driven by being the last piece of the jigsaw that came out a different box, I decided to rearrange my life, throw off the bondage of trite banal mediocrity and set free a soul of rampant desire. Was the world ready?
Not knowing and better still, not caring, the ultimate judgement of the harshest critic I know, myself, is the greatest treasure available in a world of decadent decay. There are many ways up the mountain. I know, I've tried them all. In the end the mountain won...or did it?
It's mighty fine setting up camp in the valley. The echoes of laughter are not lost to the winds on the lofty peaks of egotistical fortune. No brother, I have gained greater pleasure in the contentment of less selfish extremes. I am willing to share my experiences with the less able, and to this end I praise whatever lord there is. Bestowing me with an ability to digest and divulge brings me a greater pleasure than pleasure itself. Lay on McDuff, as the actress said to the bishop.
Tales of misfortune and wondrous merriment let to the sofa. Dreams of glory and burning ambition lost to intolerant behaviour, of myself and others. The albatross will be forever banished to the wilderness. One thing is for sure, she will not go down without a fight.
As the frustrations of daily life unfold I will enlighten those who wish to be lit. The albatross may not be as big a cross as Mr. October. Only the reader can decide.
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