The National: Mr. November

Last guests finally left. Tired. But won’t sleep. Therefore a post. 

 

Les Fleurs?

 

The question is not why, nor what kind, neither for whom.

But rather where.

Answer: On a fantastic green, organic farm, staffed with the friendliest, most knowledgeable of people, up in Northumberland. 

 

Good produce, you know. 

Honest produce, you know. 

Meat, vegetables, herbs even. The best one can buy. 

For a dinner party. I was cooking for tonight. 

 

All “adults”. 

No young’ns. 

 

So boring. 

Because of a lack of.

 

Meat, vegetables, herbs even.

That the media tells you to buy because they are in season. 

That haven’t been transported around the world. 

Therefore local. 

Environmentally friendly. 

 

Good produce, you know. 

Honest produce, you know. 

Homegrown. 

Like most of me young’ns.

 

Makes me sick.

Literally.

Coz I’m allergic.

To raw vegetables.

 

To fleurs.

Make me eyes water.

Like rough anal sex.

Make me sneeze.

Like … I am not even gonna go there.

 

The two-course dinner I cooked should have been a lot better. Never really bothered with measurements. 

Played it by ear. 

But of course everybody enjoyed it. 

No criticism.

Just lots of white/red wine.

And sociable laughter.

 

Makes me sick.

Coz I’m allergic.

 

To.

 

Too English.

These English.

 

But they caught my eye. Whilst in the organic farm shop. Les Fleurs. They were for sale. But looked out of place. Among all this friendly, knowledgeable organic nonsense. Too beautiful. Too sad. Too out of place. So had to buy them.

 

To give.

 

Offer.

 

…

 

A number of lines come to mind.

 

This is nothing like it was in my room

In my best clothes

Trying to think of you

(.)

The English are waiting

And I don’t know what to do

In my best clothes

(.)

I’m the new blue blood, I’m the great white hope

(.)

I won’t fuck us over, I’m Mr. November

(.)

I wish that I believed in fate

I wish I didn’t sleep so late

I used to be carried in the arms of cheerleaders

 

I used to be carried in the arms of cheerleaders

 

I did you know.

Once.

Not even so long ago.

 

…

 

(a synthesis of a conversation late this morning)

 

A: This is without a shadow of a doubt the most patronising you’ve been to me so far.

H: I had to make it look like … you know, proper academic. You told me Boy wants to read my comments. I dunno but he thinks I am this intelligent, literary genius and I’ve read and written fuck all the past 15 years. If I had to put down what I …

A: I gave you my essay to read, Husten, not to comment on your relationship with him or me.

H: Well, maybe it would have been less patronising if I could have told you face-to-face, could have been more straight-forward with you, rather than this e-mail business. Like it used to be. I hardly see you anymore.

A: This is about us, innit? Not my essay.

H: Fuck your essay.

A: Honesty at last. That’s more like it.

H: Yeah, yeah, play me, use me, whatever. 

 

A: Can you drop me off?

H: I don’t care if I sound like my own dad, but write it again, will you?

A: I want another cup of tea before we go.

H: You’re pretending you’re not listening, but I …

A: …

H: Don’t give me that look.

A: How do you have your tea this time? Milk or no milk?

H: Milk. But better smell it first, it may be off.

A: It smells fine.

 

H: Don’t you want your flowers?

 

H: Where do you want dropping off?

A: Hell.

H: …

A: In fact you don’t have to drive me there, I have already arrived.

H: There is this book written by an Italian called Dante …

A: (lashes out at me, punches me all over, my arms getting entangled in the seat belt trying to protect my face)

H: What the f …

A: You give me flowers? I have been fucking missing you like crazy all this time and the only thing that made you contact me was my fucking essay?

 

…

 

I am still carried in the arms of cheerleaders.

Mr. (soon-to-be) November indeed.

 

 

 

Minnie Riperton: Les Fleurs

Non-native speakers trying to swear in English always sound awful.

Especially to non-native speakers.

 

But not necessarily to native speakers. 

 

My friends. 

My young’ns.

 

They forget the accent. 

Forget the non-nativeness. 

So it doesn’t even register anymore.

When I put f****** in front of the wrong f****** word.

 

The effect, therefore, remains the same.

 

…

 

Her essay was awful.

 

Which I would have normally told her straight.

 

But times are changing.

 

Should I revert to classic educational mantras and go:

“Some excellent arguments here and there and overall it’s really well written, but try next time to…”?

 

Whereas it used to be:

“This is fucking shit, you obviously couldn’t be fucking arsed, stop wasting my fucking time, stop fucking crying, have a fucking malt, fucking pour me one too, put some other fucking music on, and fuck my fucking brains out.”

 

 

But times are a-f****** changing.

 

 

 

Herbie Mann: What’s Going On

I was just made to read something.

And it reminded me.

 

Of.

When.

 

Ages ago.

When.

 

I thought it would be romantic to have a bath together. 

Ages ago.

With candle lights.

I had bought especially for the occasion.

It’s what girly mags tell you to do.

 

I’m such a moron.

 

But that’s what those girly mags told me to do.

So I did.

Big mistake.

I found out.

 

A: What the fuck is this?

H: Just get in. Should be the right temperature.

A: This is for me?

H: No, I want your fanny cleaned, what the hell do you think this is?

A: (Laughter … hysterically … for at least 10 minutes)

H: Do you wanna go in or not?

A: The hundreds of tea-lights … the candles … and whohahaaa … they are scented too!

H: I feel like a right dick now.

A: Whohahaaa … You should do.

H: …

A: All this effort, whohahaaa, but that’s ok, I’m in before you have even blinked an eyelid.

 

(5 minutes later)

 

A: Now what?

H: What do you mean, “now what”?

A: The music is cool but I’m getting bored.

H: Ungrateful bitch.

A: Whohahaaa.

H: It’s my neck that is pressing against the tap. You’ve got the best end of the bath.

A: Your idea, darling.

H: Yeah, whatever, I was putting in an effort here.

A: What? Like couples who have been married for 3 months and suddenly realise they need to spice up their sex life?

H: I was trying to be nice.

A: Stick to the alcohol, son.

 

 

.

Kate Bush: This Woman’s Work (Pt.3)

This Morning Side of Love.

 

On Sunday night. I picked her up from the train station. A was wearing shoes and a dress that blew me mind. I’m quite sure she never even intended to. 

(I’m not gonna describe it to you, I can’t be arsed. Especially because I have right now as I type some kind of allergic reaction to only God knows what. Me eyes are swollen which makes me see everything double. No matter how many ice cubes I put on them. And I am breathing (what did I use in me previous posts?) like a dying hamster. Like Darth Vader. Like Death.) 

(I’m sure there’s a word for it, but I’m multi-allergic to the weirdest stuff. Most I don’t even know. But what I do know is that fruit, nuts and uncooked vegetables don’t sit well with me. Fuck me. Who cares?)

 

So.

On Sunday night. I picked her up from the train station. She was wearing shoes and a dress that blew me mind.

Not intended.

And a silly hat. Black. With a white embroidered skull. But round. Not like a pirate’s.

Blond, lovely, free-flowing hair shining through.

From underneath.

The rim.

Of her silly hat.

 

I was supposed to help her out with an essay.

I did.

Always do.

Both suppose and help her out.

The shoes and dress.

Blew me mind.

The hat.

Was too much.

For me.

 

Too deadly.

This side of.

An evening.

 

Then.

 

Fast forward a couple of days.

 

Now.

 

No more allergic reactions. No more swollen eyes.

But.

These young’ns.

They need to learn a lot about life, don’t they?

So they can teach me.

Whilst they don’t have a clue. 

 

I could just taste it. 

Then.

Not so long ago. 

Last night.

This morning.

These young’ns.

Made me.

I swear.

They did.

Nowt to do with me.

They.

Made me.

 

Taste it. 

This side of.

Life.

 

Taste it.

This side of.

Ageing.

 

Rewind a couple of years.

And.

 

I should be crying, but I just can’t let it show 

I should be hoping, but I can’t stop thinking 

 

 Of all the things we should’ve said 

 That were never said 

 All the things we should’ve done 

 That we never did 

 All the things that you needed from me 

 All the things that you wanted for me 

 All the things that I should’ve given 

 But I didn’t 

 

 Oh, darling, make it go away 

 Just make it go away now

 

 

This Morning Side Of Love.

 

 

.

Kate Bush: This Woman’s Work (Pt.2)

Boy,

 

I know you are the dog’s bollocks for now. Right now.

A more than likes you. 

And you have sussed me out. You sniffed me out.

Though you haven’t sussed A and me out. Sniffed us out.

Yet.

And yet, not only you shouldn’t, it is none of your business.

But this doesn’t explain a number of things. Many a things.

 

1) Why am I sitting behind my laptop in the early hours of a Saturday night? Early Sunday morning.

2) Writing a post. Feeling sorry for myself.

3) Waiting for a phone call that won’t come.

4) Like they used to come.

5) Tell me, Boy, was it that easy for me? Was it? In the past? Effortless, was it? Just going to bed and being woken up by a phone call. A single phone call. Then paying for the taxi. Making her a cup of tea. Giving her a massage, especially around her shoulders. She liked that. I hope you know that too. That spot underneath her neck where her hair stops growing. Love on demand.

6) Didn’t appreciate what I had? But I did, Boy, really did, otherwise Fall On Me wouldn’t exist.

 

Boy,

 

Just been reading your emails with A. Again. 

You two are so civilised. So middle-class. (from a dilettante foreigner’s point of view). So normal. So how it should be.

 

Boy,

 

Let me tell you, Boy. 

It was never about sex. You know that, right?

Well, it was. 

But.

Nevermind, Boy.

It was part of it. I’m male after all.

Phylogeny or ontogeny … you made me laugh, Boy.

So sweet of you. To try and get me out of my comfort zone. So you could understand me more. So you can love A more. 

Because she loves me. 

 

She doesn’t love you, I’m afraid.

So sweet.

 

Take care of her. I swear to God, I have let … nevermind. Take care of her. Well, to be honest, Boy, she doesn’t need to be taken care of. She’ll kick your skinny arse.

Don’t make the mistake I once made. Thinking I could look after a woman.

Many moons ago.

 

Just, I dunno, just do what I did. 

Nevertheless.

Nonetheless.

Just do what I still do.

 

Unconditionally.

Whole-heartedly.

 

Love her.

 

 

 

Kate Bush: This Woman’s Work

Re: Password of A’s email.

The knowing of.

 

A was pissed once. Ages ago. 

So was I. 

She had gone to bed.

So I sent an email from her personal gmail account to my own.

Soon after.

Then. The next morning.

 

A: “No way I wrote that.”

H: “You obviously did. Read it again, it’s right here. With your sender’s details. The way you always misspell handcuffs. And dildo. I told you a million times, it doesn’t have an “e” at the end.”

A: “I never knew I was capable of writing something as disgusting as that.”

H: “Well, maybe I wasn’t that pedantic after all when I told you not to drink so much.”

 

This guilt.

This love.

This fun.

This cuteness.

 

What a relationship should be.

Could be.

 

The love.

The cuteness.

The fun.

 

Fun.

 

This love.

Ours.

 

Oh, darling, make it go away

Just make it go away

 

 

.

Guillermo Portabales/Eliades Ochoa (Buena Vista Social Club): El Carretero

The proverbial fly. Overhearing.

Actually, no.

 

Husten simply abusing somebody’s trust. A’s innocence.

 

I found the password to her email. Ages ago.

 

The proverbial arsehole. Intruding.

 

She’d kill me.

 

Un carretero alegre pasó.

 

This is easy. Post-wise. Just copy/paste, delete a bit here, delete a bit there.

 

Recoge el fruto, de tu sudor.

 

Scruples? Sure. I’ll burn in hell. Tell me something I didn’t know.

 

Here goes. 

 

An abstract. A digest.

 

Boy: …..Husten……….

A: Husten……….

Boy: …such an inte…….

A: …..not at…..

Boy: Maybe he………?

A: ……..?Olive oil.

Boy: ….in his tea?……

 

 

Seré un guajiro dichoso.

 

 

 

David Sylvian: When Poets Dreamed Of Angels (Pt.2)

A: Will you shut up, man.

H: You know I’m right.

A: You are so full of shit.

H: It’s a middle-class thing.

A: Boy, we’ve talked about this before, right? And agreed. He’s full of it. And a foreigner.

Boy: Well, from what I heard, asking your girlfriend to take off her expensive knickers in advance, you know, before you are gonna have a passionate moment together is …

H: Is what? Considerate?

Boy: Why are we talking about this?

 

 

 

Andy Kaufman: I Trusted You

.

R.E.M.: Man On The Moon (Pt.4)

A reply/post to emails I have received over the past couple of months.

First email (received today), first reply:

No, I don’t take any drugs when writing. Legally, but not technically. My last post, the Razorlight one was written when the malt whiskey got the better of me. So yes, drugs, technically, alcohol and all that, but therefore not illegally, at least in the UK. My Achtung Baby, fly one? Was written on green tea. My apologies if that would somehow be a disappointing answer.

Second reply, to many emails (though mainly from the same four people. Well, I assume four, may be just the one. Isn’t it time, you let me know who you are, btw? Pictures will do. Only kidding. As you know, I don’t really do comments unless I have met you in person. Thanks for reading me and to bother to send emails): 

Andy Kaufman. Why? Well. I know A’s and mine obsession with Andy Kaufman has to stop right here, right now. But it’s like alcohol. The first glass-a-beer/wine/cognac/whiskey your peers/parents give/grant you tastes terrible. Then it gets better and better. /And/. Better. Until you gotta stop. But there is something very intimate, very private, very bonding when a girl and a boy, a woman and a man, two lovers, both ‘get’ something, get into something, or in this case, ‘get’ someone, get into someone, a performer, who by no means is a comedian, by no means can make you laugh out loud, but can make you both smile, can make you both feel good about yourself. Can make you look at each other and she will be thinking, “You may be older, you may be an arsehole, but I’m loving this”.  While he thinks, “I have no idea how to handle you, no idea about your idea of foreplay but let’s watch some Kaufman movies coz Kaufman will soon turn this youtube/video/DVD session into an almighty, fantastic shag-fest.”

It’s not about sex for her. It isn’t for him. At all.

So, then we show these videos to our friends. And they don’t laugh. They don’t find it funny. Which is cool. Which is fine.

They don’t find it sexy.

Their problem.

But they don’t smile. 

In my blog. My problem.

 

Once into him, Kaufman will become obsessive. 

 

And, no, to directly answer one of your questions, it’s not about us, clever people, against them, philistines. Those who get it and those who don’t. Has nothing to do with it. It’s an intimate, private, bonding thing we have.

 

If you haven’t done so before, and shame on you if you haven’t, check youtube. 

 

But for you, four people, or one person:

Here’s my Andy Kaufman selection:

 

Here’s the almighty Mighty Mouse:

 

 

Here’s him doing political incorrectness when Ricky Gervais was still a toddler:

 

Here’s him being brilliant a performer:

 

Here’s him being just, I dunno, too brilliant?

 

To love you, until your eyes run dry …

(You’ve heard it here before)

(Sue me)