H: How was your weekend with super L?
A: We agreed not to talk about this.
H: Was he being his super-intelligtent, super-cultured self again? Was he? Got his other lovers involved? Made you all come? Made you happy?
A: You’re drunk.
H: Excuse me, miss A. For trying to cope.
A: You’re so sad when you are like this. You’ve got anything to eat in the fridge?
H: Maybe. Got definitely something to drink.
Recently.
At a funeral.
A speech.
“He’s in a happier place now.”
If anyone said those words, pretending to be sincere, at my funeral, can somebody please stand up and protest?
Loudly and violently.
I’ll pay you for it.
Or dedicate you my excellent CD collection in my will.
I’ll do both If you are kind enough to orchestrate a riot.
(And take care of my mum at the same time. You know, make sure she doesn’t get hit on the head. While you are rioting. With my urn. Or God forbid. My ashes)
Bless.
God fucking bless.
Knobhead texted this morning to apologise. Knobhead as in the one who tries to get into A’s knickers as opposed to the one who does, but that would have been quite clear, right? I can hardly send a text to myself now, can I?
Soz, I’m nervous. Gotta go to this dinner party in half an hour with people I have never met before.
What the fuck am I writing? This almost started to sound like a normal blog, written by your stereotypical white, middle-class, self-obsessed, failed, wannabe author.
Soooo not me.
Right. Where were we?
Ah yes. Knobhead. And apologising.
I know A made him do it.
Too polite, these young people nowadays.
Apologies not accepted. It should have been me to apologise.
Didn’t text him back. Keep him hanging on. So, he will be more keen to buy me a pint next time he sees me. Not realising he should not be apologising. He’s just a kid. Just, just, just … patronising as always.
Oh, A.
Can’t do this fucking dinner party without you.
Why do you have to spend tonight with L? Your ‘other’ boyfriend as you said to your friends? While I was in the room. Everyone looking at me.
Judging.
Just.
Why?
I know someday you’ll have a beautiful life,
I know you’ll be a star in somebody else’s sky,
But why, why, why can’t it be, why can’t it be mine?
Teenage angst. Simulated by a middle-aged man.
I’m such a loser.
Baby.
So why don’t you kill me?
Talking to a drunk, teenage, almost male, very serious, too serious, almost mature, teenage student.
A conversation.
Between him (“K” = Knobhead) and me (“H” = Husten, yours truly).
One of A’s uni friends.
Nevertheless.
Such a beautiful word.
Such a beautiful world.
Nonetheless.
Even better.
Even more beautiful.
H: Absolutely love’m!
K: Really? Which album do you prefer?
H: Cant remember. What’s it called? The one with “Alive” and “Jeremy”.
K: Ten.
H: That’s the one.
K: Awful, I hate that album. Just commercial bullshit.
H: Why?
K: It just pisses me off.
H: Because of them becoming an MTV hit?
K: Not at all.
…
H: Sorry, don’t know any other albums.
K: I thought A said you knew your music.
H: I sometimes do. I get it wrong most of times.
K: Ten is just …. awful. All their other stuff is just amazing. I can see you’re not a real fan.
H: Aren’t I just? Just, just, just. They are a 90’s Seattle band. Shouldn’t you be more into Keane, or something?
…
(he doesn’t look happy)
…
(need to pacify)
…
H: Ok. Ten is not so good, and I know fuck all about Pearl Jam. I can take it, but won’t buy it. What should I listen to then? Tell me. I wanna learn.
…
K: It’s always the same with you, you pervs, going out with girls half your age. Fucking patronising. All the time.
H: You have experience, have you?
…
(I could knock him out, right there and then, but actually, he looks kinda fit. And muscly. Not to mention the bouncers. So maybe not)
…
H: Interesting. Go on.
…
(he continues)
…
K: You’re such a loser.
H: I’m a loser, baby, and why don’t you kill me? Go on, big fella, I can take it. What do you want? Shag A? Go on, make a move on her. Ask her. Otherwise I’ll do it for you.
…
(Silence. He’d love me to ask)
…
H: You know what “Alive” and “Jeremy” is really all about? Seriously? Teenage angst simulated by a middle-aged man. As is the rest of Pearl Jam’s shit.
K: You’re such a dick.
H: Whatever. But you need to find yourself a taxi.
…
(An hour later. Still in the club)
…
Knobhead: Where is A?
Husten: Enjoying things, we can’t even imagine.
Knobhead: What are you talking about, you perv? Let me go and say goodbye to her.
Husten: I don’t think so. Take him home, will you, Ian? Make sure he doesn’t puke in the taxi.
…
A: Where did K go?
H: I sent him home. He was getting aggressive.
A: K is never aggressive.
H: He thought I was a fake.
A: And?
H: I was offended.
A: He’s 18.
H: So? You’re 20.
A: You’re such a big knobhead.
Alcohol. And all the good things it does to you:
From what I can hardly remember and what she told me on the phone just now:
A and Husten, messing about, with expensive red wine, from her dad’s cellar, at about five o’clock this morning (please imagine lots of hysteric, alcoholic, embarrassing, demented, moronic, laughter in between the following lines):
A: Come on, do it.
H: Can’t. Can hardly speak properly. Let alone sing.
A: Go on. Fucking hell. I want to go to bed.
H: No, I won’t! Leave it alone.
A: You’re so gay when you are pissed.
H: You’re such a shit-stirrer.
A: Let it all out!
H: The neighbours, luv, you know these walls are made of …
A: I’m going to bed.
H: It’s 5 in the fucking morning, can’t do this now.
A: So?
H: I’m too middle-class.
A: Just sing it! As loud as you can.
H: Hmm.
A: I’ll give you a blow-job tomorrow morning.
H: What? In three hours time, like? In your state? Yeah, I believe you.
A: Soooo gay.
H: Fuck off.
…
H: Ok. Ready?
A: Wait. Where’s me mobile? Gotta film this.
H: Ready?
…
H (stark naked, shouting at the top of his lungs, pretending to be Mick Jagger, to sing, standing on his wobbly coffee table, hip fucking movements, holding a vibrator as a microphone, the wrong way round (well, would there be a right way?)):
War! Children! it’s just a shot away, it’s just a shot away!
Rape! Murder! It’s just a shot away, it’s just a shot away!!!!!
(Being filmed)
(Flexing his muscles, forgetting to pull in his big beer belly, forgetting to have a hard-on)
So embarrassing.
But couldn’t keep that from sharing with you.
Alcohol. And all the good things it does to you:
Any Youtube postings where I can be seen method-acting very convincingly in the above scene:
It’s simple:
It isn’t me.
A would never do that to me. Or would she?
A belated Easter egg for my loyal, abutting, intimate readers south of Dover, north of Istanbul:
Don’t you agree that a certain so-called, self-styled reformist Cardinal should keep his fucking gob shut?
Your reign is over, Your Eminence. In fact, why doesn’t Your Eminence commit euthanasia now you still dignifiedly can?
“i miss u”, the screen of my mobile reads.
(A’s effort: about one second, not that it is just only three words, young people nowadays have developed super-turbo texting thumbs)
“Look, this is not the moment, half past midnight on Easter Monday and trying to install this bloody server in my office. You know that computers and Husten hate each other”, her mobile screen will read, if she bothers to scroll down.
(my effort: about 10 minutes, not only the amount of words, correct spelling and crippled thumb, predictive text messaging on top)
“im sober and bored. do u have ne wine?”, her reply.
“Told you, I’m busy. Sorry, luv, xxx”, mine.
“i’ll help you out …”
“For fuck’s sake, I …”
Sod this, can’t be arsed with this texting business, so I ring her.
We talked.
She made me laugh. As always.
She sounded sweet. As always.
And sober. Not so always.
The server was growling at me. Like a football hooligan. Forcing to consider my emergency exits. The closest one was signposted, “I Put A Spell On You”.
She would bring wine herself. One bottle for her, two for Husten. From her dad’s cellar. That it was too early to go to bed and that besides she wouldn’t have any lectures it being Easter holidays.
Husten protested. He had a meeting at 9. But wait a minute, from her dad’s cellar, did she say? What like the Chasse-Spleen he stocked?
“My dad likes you … he thinks you’re funny … that you can cope with me … he wouldn’t mind.”
“All right then, but wait half an hour, will you, A?”
“Why?”
“Have to kill off this hooligan first and then send a long email.”
“Ey? Email to whom?
“The whole world, coz the whole world is waiting for it. You wouldn’t understand. I’ll explain some day. Like on our wedding night.”
“My dad is right, you know.”
“How’s that then?”
“You’re always game. And funny.”
A says (recovering, finding her breath),
“How come our sex is so amazing? You’re not even good.”
Husten says (recovering his own breath, with a massive grin on his cheeky face),
“It’s what you do with it, apparen ….”
A says,
“Oh shut up, you’re so full of shit.”
Husten says,
“I know.”
She says, “Stop beating yourself up about it.”
He says, “I’m really trying.”
He says, “Stop beating yourself up about it.”
She says, “I’m fucking trying.”
Bruges: Friday, 5th April, 1929
Antwerp: Thursday, 19th March, 2008
