Prefab Sprout: Bonny

Absolutely hate myself for deleting blogs that I believed were written when too drunk. 

 

I deleted this one. God only knows why.

 

 

You know what pisses me off? About myself? Returning from a long business trip, very much alone, sitting behind my Apple, listening to Prefab Sprout, being very drunk, thinking about Milena, not allowing myself the following:

 

To write about Milena. 

 

Because it’s too personal. 

 

Because the whole world is reading this

Because I won’t make sense

Because it will sound like self-pity

Because if I hadn’t written “being very drunk”, people would have taken more notice

 

Because no one met Milena apart from K

Because of all my silence and my strained respect

Because of missed chances and the same regrets

Because of all my insights from retrospect

 

Because I count the hours since she slipped away

Because I count the hours that I lay awake

Because I count the minutes and the seconds too

 

All I stole and I took from her.

 

 

 

If I wanna mourn, grieve, lament in my own blog, I’ll just do it. Got that?

 

Maybe even do self-pity. But that’s for next. Time. Only maybe most definitely though. 

 

If I’m up for it.

 

And you are too.

 

I really deleted this one. God only knows why.

 

 

 

Goldfrapp: Ooh La La

She: Another one? You and your letters.

Me: I like writing them.

She: I like reading them. Well, apart from your handwriting.

Me: Something to do during boring lectures.

She: I do like ‘m, you know.

Me: You just say that.

She: Whatever.

 

Me: Would love to start one of them blogs, but don’t really know what to blog about, especially now I’m so busy with work.

She: Just play it safe. Write about the things that you know.

Me: Like what?

She: Dunno. Football?

Me: Football? What could I possibly write about football?

She: Why not? It’s the only thing you read in the papers, you play football, you go and watch football and you certainly talk about football with your mates all the time.

Me: That’s a bit unfair. I read the cricket pages too.

 

A: Or you could write about me. I’m special enough.

H: Only you could say something like that lying naked next to me and meaning it too.

A: You know I’m right. Definitely more interesting than football, anyways.

H: Not that special to inspire whole blog entries, my dear.

 

 

 

Stephen Sondheim: Send In The Clowns

[Editorial Warning: the following contains flash pornography]

 

 

Just make it to the car … I can do this … just … oh fuck, please God … let me make it to the car … it’s only 20 yards away … and fucking hell keep my eyes down, keep ‘m fucking down and my head … come on … concentrate on my shoes … I can do it … only a couple of yards now …

 

 

Sat next to a relatively well-known, young, emerging British soap actress on the plane. Noticed her shiny Apple laptop, showed her proudly (but more abused, so less shiny) mine. 

 

Member. 

 

Of the becoming less and less in the minority, of the more and more of those in the know, of the less and less ones belonging to the once secret Apple community. Because of iPod and all that. And good on Apple for all that matters.

 

Apple users. When they meet by chance, discover their mutual secret. In the know. Tapping the side of their nose, if confident. Winking, if arrogant. Wanking, if über-mensch. George Michael should give it a go. Better than public toilets.

 

Certainly much much better than freemasonry. Not that I am that way inclined, yet I do believe fraternity issues are always much much better resolved in public parks/parking spaces/toilets/airplanes/pubs/clubs, don’t you agree? I mean where else? A monastery?

 

Full of expectation like an over-enthusiastic teenage fan, saying “Hi!” while winking. Pointing at my proud member. Our mutual bond. In our once secret society. (Come on, be honest, you were waiting for a wanking pun there, weren’t you?)

 

The little fucker wasn’t having any of it. Had her Apple probably given to her as a present by the ultimate Apple über-fan, Stephen Fry. For her 18th birthday. Doesn’t even know how lucky she is. 

 

Caught a glimpse of what she was writing. Some kind of diary, interior monologue, maybe a blog. Very personal, very amateur-ish. Rings a bell?

 

Caught a glimpse. Ok, more than a glimpse. Read the whole thing while pretending to work on my own blog entry. I was much faster than her spell checker and had to stop myself from pointing out spelling mistakes. Or grammar mistakes. Or stylistic mistakes. Who the fuck is saying? 

 

I’d like to report her ramblings were shoite. Yet, they were everything but. If anything, unquestionably, not ramblings. For one, she took quite a long time before she wrote a sentence. Seemed all quite thought out, considered. What then followed, what I then spied my beady eyes on was touching. Heartbreaking. Full stop.

 

Would have been breathtaking if she had typed, “the freak next to me is peeking at what I write”, so I could write a reply on my laptop, “sorry, love, I had no right, my apologies, let me buy you a drink. What do you fancy?” and she’d smile, the widest of smiles of course, from the corner of my eye and type, “a gin and tonic, please” and Husten would strike up an affair with a famous Brit in the most Hollywood original kind of ways and live together long and happily after and we’d have no kids, just a couple of black and white, Border Collie dogs and lots of parties with lots of people up their own arse. 

 

But she didn’t, so I intriguingly and unashamedly pursued my Peeping Tom role.

 

The italics above and below is a summary but this is, in one Céline-esque line, one nutshell, what she wrote during the flight about her experience with paparazzi.

 

Just make it to the car … I can do this … just … oh fuck, please God … let me make it to the car … it’s only 20 yards away … and fucking hell keep my eyes down, keep ‘m fucking down and my head … come on … concentrate on my shoes … I can do it … only a couple of yards now …

 

For and from a late teenager, even with tabloid experience: pretty chilling, if you ask me.

 

 

 

Elvis Costello: King Of America

Faut vous dire, Monsieur

Que chez ces gens-là

On ne pense pas, Monsieur

On ne pense pas,

On prie …

 

 

For us, neutral but genuine footie fans, dreams do become reality. For once, a millionaire listened to fans’ prayers of the football team he owns. 

 

With gratitude and a multitude of thanks to the owner of Newcastle United Football Club. He just made my life a multitude more enjoyable.

 

As football is the number one religion in the North East, they typically called their previous (x2), but now new, astonishing, really astonishing appointment ‘The Messiah’.

 

I wouldn’t go that far.

 

Yet.  

 

Vive King Kev.

 

 

   

Interpol: Pace Is The Trick (Pt.4)

See how I stun?

 

 

 

Interpol: Pace Is The Trick (Pt.3)

Phoned A this afternoon. Wanted to know how her exam had gone this morning. When I looked at what she had to revise yesterday, even I thought it was a bit over the top. And I have passed more than 120 university exams in my life. In fact, on a sleepless night I worked out I have sat through 137 exams, surely a record. Re-sits of course not included. And the only ones I ever failed were Logic, Sociolinguistics and American Literature. Re-sits included this time. Had nowt to do with the subject, all with the lecturers. Ok, apart from Logic. Passing an exam is a technique. Has nowt to do with intellect. Or knowledge. And it helps if you are blessed with a good memory.

 

Phoned A this afternoon. Asked her out this weekend. Not as in ‘asking her out’, if you know what I mean. Romantic meal, wine, roses, strained conversation … not the type of evening that blows up me skirt. Or hers. We haven’t done that for ages, come to think of it. Let’s keep it that way. But no, I asked her out, because students live even less healthily during exam time. Always loved it when my parents came down in the weekend to feed me up in a restaurant, to gear me up for another all-nighter. So I asked her out for a meal. She was a bit confused at first. “Is this a New Year’s resolution thing? Explore your romantic side? Don’t keep your hopes up, I don’t have any.” After I explained, she agreed.

 

Phoned A this afternoon. So I asked her out for a meal. At the same time L is having his huge welcome-2008 dinner party. Wasn’t expecting an affirmative answer, a confirmation. She was supposed to employ her impressive social skills at that party. Make L look to his friends even more successful in his private life than he is professionally. 

 

Phoned A this afternoon. Told her I had fallen in love again. With Richie, the black Labrador guide dog of S whom I recently met. Fell in love with S too, but didn’t tell A. S said I had a very sexy voice. Is that a blind person’s way of saying, “I may find you attractive?” She has an impressive, all-mighty laugh, one that makes everyone happy. We danced for quite some time together. While Richie was thinking, “get me the hell out of here”. The dancing was very physical, erotic, sensual, very special. I could see her boyfriend wasn’t liking it. 24 years old and yet another musical prodigy. I don’t do musical prodigies though. Can’t relate to them. Unless when they are called A, even if I can’t relate to her. Other than sexually. And romantically. 

 

Phoned A this afternoon.

 

 

My only New Year’s resolution was to stop seeing her.

 

 

 

U2: The Electric Co.

By the way, I declined the invitation.

 

 

Politely.

Fleetwood Mac: Go Your Own Way

Got a phone call from L a couple of days ago. To invite me for, no doubt and yet again, another entertaining evening at his. Have been there many times before: his scene is always a good laugh, always good fun. But. Always a titch too middle-class, always a titch too social, a titch too intellectual, a titch too self-confident for me. He is a cool guy. He knows the spiel. He knows I know the spiel.

 

Aka A and him. Aka A and me. Aka his gay lover and me. Aka him and me.

 

He knows I can only take the spiel if I am sober. And rational.

 

He knows. I know. We both know. That’s why he called half an hour after I’d been on the phone to A whilst trying not to sound too drunk. So, it was safe to call, to invite. “Husten is pissed, you can call him.”

 

So English. So cowardly.

 

What he does not know, what he does not give a flying fuck about, is that I care about A. I know he doesn’t. I know she doesn’t care. But I do. And she doesn’t. And he doesn’t. But I do. And to accommodate the mainly female critics (apart from the Americans) of my blog among us, where does that leave A, hey?

 

You tell me.

 

No matter how many fantastic parties you have, how many languages you can speak, how many university degrees and academic publications you hold, how so fucking sensitive you try to be with me, how you play A, and me, but hmm, whom are you trying to kid Mr L?

 

This is all far too complicated to put in a few sentences, let alone in an anonymous blog.

 

 

 

Don’t you just love it when you can smell the quality fumes of expensive malt whiskey in your own breath?

 

 

 

Jonathan Richman: I Was Dancing In The Lesbian Bar

Ever been so scared witless you forgot to breathe?

 

No?

 

 

Neither have I.

The Modern Lovers: Roadrunner

“I’m glad you’re back”, she said while I was undressing her this afternoon.

 

Briskly, because she had to be somewhere else in an hour’s time. Didn’t want to tell me where.

 

“I’m not sure I am”, I replied.