Bruce Springsteen: The River

And I am dancing.

Dancing.

Insomniac as I am.

 

 

See me move on the dance floor?

I mean.

See me move?

 

I am the dog’s bollocks.

 

And I am dancing.

Dancing.

 

Drugs. Alcohol. Nicotine.

I am soooooo the fucking dog’s bollocks.

 

Be careful what you do.

“People always told me.”

Drugs. Alcohol. Nicotine.

But.

I am still.

The fucking dog’s bollocks.

 

“Be careful what you do.”

People always told me. 

Drugs. Alcohol. Nicotine.

But I am still.

Soooooo.

A moron.

 

See me move on the dance floor?

I mean.

In my little room.

Called office.

See me move?

 

I am the dog’s bollocks.

 

X, my internet date, wants to meet up again.

So do I.

Just not with her.

 

X, couldn’t even be bothered with giving her a name.

On Fall On Me.

X, who was so amazingly accommodating.

X, who so needs a proper boyfriend.

X, who gave me a blowjob, full of effort. Hands underneath ballsack and all that. Massaging me balls. And love. Massaging me love.

X, who needs love. Just love.

X, who deserves better. Much better.

 

Sometimes.

You dance.

Like the dog’s bollocks.

…

X: You didn’t think we had something then?

H: Of course we did.

X: Wanna see me again?

H: Why would I not wanna see you again?

X: It’s just that you have not been very nice to me the last couple of days.

H: Coz I was drunk, told you before, a drunk Husten is a whole new and different ballgame.

X:

H: Are you desperate?

X: Why are you being like this? I have nothing been but nice to you.

H: Like the grammar.

X: What?

 

 

.

Elaine Paige (Andrew Lloyd Webber): Don’t Cry For Me Argentina

Insomniac as I am.

…

X: Oooh, that hurts. Your toe nails.

H: Sorry, they need cutting.

…

The truth is I never left you.

…

Tell you what.

This dating business. 

Is crap. 

Full stop. 

…

But.

I had to let it happen.

…

She, gorgeous, ugly, X, another date, another hope, “she who has a name”, whatever, whatthefuckever, is pretending to be asleep in my bed next-doors.

Me, gorgeous, ugly, Y, another date, another hope, “he who has a name”, whatever, too sober than is good for me.

…

Yeah, the evening was fun. She knew a hell of a lot about musicals. Kept the conversation flowing during our meal. Coz I have been in a couple. Musicals. Only a couple. But know nowt about them. And don’t want to know. She was impressed I knew the words to “Some Enchanted Evening”. South Pacific. The first musical I performed in. Ever. I was a sailor. My big break. Hahaha. 

…

Emile de Becque. He who played Emile. Then. Now long gone. Not so hahaha. Coz he passed away. Unexpectedly. Never heard an English person doing such a subtle French accent. Let alone sing. There was this scene in Act II, where I had to come on, just before he did, and we were waiting in the wings, and he always forgot I had to come on first, so each time I had to give him a nudge, as in get “out of my way”, and he was so, what’s the word, gracious about it, so effing gracious, coz he knew I knew fuck all, but loved every second of it, and although he had a big moment soon to come, and I had just 5 seconds, he was so damn gracious about my nudges. What a man. What a talented man. What an honourable man.

…

Where the fuck are you, A? Where are you?

I kept my promise. 

And. 

I kept my distance.

So.

Did you.

So.

You do.

Right now.

…

I feel like crying.

For the North East.

…

And she, gorgeous, ugly, X, another date, “she who has a name”, who is awake next-doors, is of the kind.

To.

Pop her sweet, little, far too young head around the door.

To. 

Come and ask any minute soon.

What am I doing? 

To come and say.

Sweetly.

Sweetie, Come back to bed with me.

Coz she will be worried.

Coz she will need confirmation.

And ask.

“Have I said too much? There is nothing more I can think of to say to you.”

Coz I don’t give the right signals anymore.

Like I did over our meal. And pints afterwards. Only a couple of hours ago.

Coz she is not that confident.

Coz she doesn’t feel that good about herself.

Coz she is not mature enough.

Coz she and I did earlier.

Felt good about ourselves. About us. Felt mature.

Coz I don’t do anymore.

Don’t play anymore.

The game.

Coz she wants more than a sociable, affectionate, passionate, polite shag.

So do I.

Just.

Not with her.

 

Where are you, A? 

Where in heaven’s, Elaine Paige’s fuck sake, are you?

 

Not fair.

Just.

Not fair.

 

 

.

Queens Of The Stone Age: Go With The Flow

H: Maybe.

A: Maybe what?

H: Maybe what, A? Ey? This is your fucking shit.

Boy: (whispering) He’s been watching The Wire.

 

 

.

The Replacements: Talent Show

BBC’s iPlayer gone, but not youtube.

 

 

and

 

 

 

 

.

The Stranglers: Strange Little Girl (Pt.3)

Which reminds me.

Of.

A? Do you remember?

 

Walking that dog of your mum’s?

On the beach? Near where I live.

Couldn’t let it off its leash.

Coz. It would bolt.

That horrible, brown mongrel thing that annoys the living whatever out of me.

Because.

Especially.

The way you cuddle it.

Which.

Used to annoy the living whatever out of me.

 

Jealous of a horrible, brown mongrel thing.

But not Boy.

Maybe I should see someone. Professionally.

And this is coming from a dog lover.

 

I mean I have a friend whose dog can bark her age.

So I have been told.

 

An English Setter.

 

That’s a regal dog.

 

Stroked.

Petted it once.

Felt privileged.

Unlike your brown, horrible mongrel thing.

Which I’d happily kick …

 

Where was I? This was going somewhere.

Ah yes.

 

Which reminds me.

Of.

 

We walked on the beach. And the weather was gorgeous. And you were. And even your mum’s dog was. With the flowery dress. You that is. Not your mum’s dog. Your flowery dress. Which you got from eBay. And was so proud of. Which I bid for and won. And paid for. See-through. Your long legs. Your lovely arse. And you made me take off my socks and shoes. And peddle in the sea. And it was lovely, cold at first, but sooooo soothing and sooooo much fun, coz we tried to kick sea water at each other, make each other wet, then your dog, then, strange little girl, you got upset about something, something I said, can’t remember what. And wanted to go home.

 

With your brown, mongrel horrible thing.

 

Remember?

 

We went to yours. Your mum immediately sussed out you were upset. She offered you a beer. Which had me reel off a whole of potentially new entries on Fall On Me. In my mind. About parenting. Then realised I have no kids.

 

Having said that.

How cool is your mum?

 

Then.

I tried to talk to you.

Get through to you.

You, as always, wouldn’t let me in.

Just said.

That.

My.

Toe nails were disgusting.

 

And.

Then.

 

You.

Cried.

 

And cried.

And cried.

 

And your head was on my shoulder.

Not on your mum’s.

But mine.

Tho she was sitting next to you.

And me.

Tho your mum and I were giving each other looks. Eyes. Eyebrows. Trying to communicate without you noticing it.

And then.

You went up to your room.

And your mum made us a cup of tea.

And your mum and me talked until the early hours.

 

While.

 

That horrible, brown mongrel thing.

 

Was happily dreaming of.

 

Of bones.

Of rabbits.

Of your mum.

Of your sister.

Of you.

 

 

I am comparing my dates to you, aren’t I?

 

 

 

.

Little Boots: Meddle

A shower?

I didn’t bother.

 

Fresh clothes?

I didn’t bother.

 

Did bother though with deodorant.

And a splitch of Gucci.

Pour Homme.

 

The idea I convinced myself of being: you gonna have to take me as I am.

Especially because I seem to be so full of myself.

 

The truth was as simple as yours truly.

I was hungover and very late.

 

And I didn’t want to be late for a date.

 

Another one.

 

This dating website that holds and displays my profile like a Bukowski poem in a Shakespeare anthology is frantic with activity.

Of the sad type.

People just meeting up to find out after 30 seconds that he or she is not for her/him.

A numbers’ game.

That’s all it is. 

 

Now, I like games. If I can set the rules. And after my disastrous first date, I was gonna make sure that at least this time I would enjoy myself.

Full of myself and all that.

 

Turned out.

That.

My internet date.

Was nervous.

Which would have made me nervous if it wasn’t for the wine that was still sloshing around in my system.

It made her funny. No, charming.

But I’m no arsehole. Well, I am, as A constantly reminds me, but really, I’m no arsehole.

So while she was talking, I was trying to find a solution to settle her down.

 

Husten: Why don’t we go for a walk on the beach?

Date: Now?

H: Have you seen the weather outside, it’s gorgeous. And how many times does this happen up here?

D: But that’s like an half hour drive.

H: I’ll drive you and drop you off after.

D: I’m not sure, Husten.

H: Come on, finish your coffee and off we go.

D: I would like to but, well, you know, we have only just met.

H: So? And we can have fish and chips later.

D: It is just that …

H: I’m not your type?

D: No, no, no …

H: You’re a vegetarian? We can just have the chips?

D: 

H: You need to relax a little bit.

 

We talked some more.

Then.

She leaves.

 

I am not very good at this, am I?

 

 

 

 

Glen Campbell: Wichita Lineman

Difficult this one.

 

Coz the BBC iPlayer will only let me listen to the following, to the following something so amazingly pretty.

For one week.

Yup, one week only.

Readers outside the UK, don’t bother. You’re not allowed. 

(We, UK Mac users, we, who pay our license fee equally as much as say, now let me think, oh yes, I remember Microsoft users, equally UK users, now, us Mac lot, well we can only view for one week BBC programmes for one week? Right? One week. Whereas Microsoft … whereas they pay … whereas ok, Husten, you are not a geek, soooo not a geek and you are soooo not gonna get involved into the Mac-Microsoft debate. Right?)

 

Insomniac as I am.

There I was.

Last night.

 

Watching mid/late/very late night TV.

 

Think it was about 2 A.M.

 

Watching. BBC’s 2: Later… with Jools Holland – Best of Later … With Jools 2008. 

To.

Be seen/enjoyed/sampled/introduced again.

To.

The Good, and never The Bad, never The Ugly. 

Sometimes The Pathetic.

 

The Old and The New.

 

How good was Glen Campbell’s Wichita Lineman and how good was Little Boots’s Meddle?

Them two combined = how good were Alison Krauss and Robert Plant?

 

Fuck me.

Your fire.

I blush.

 

And now for something completely different.

 

Your local.

And

Death.

You know.

 

In my local.

In its, no, my urinal. The bloke. Next to me. No. The person. C. He who has a name. C. Who is at least like 10 years older than me. Only 10. Probably less. Probably a lot less.

 

Huffing.

And.

Puffing.

 

Trying to push.

His piss out.

 

And you stand next to him.

Trying not to notice his trying.

 

Huffing.

And.

Puffing.

 

And you try.

And think about something funny to say.

Something encouraging.

But of course.

While your piss is having no problem, finding no obstruction, physical or mental, to flow freely.

But of course.

 

He is still.

Reminding you of.

 

And I am.

Feeling.

Guilty.

 

Huffing.

And.

Puffing.

 

“Look at him, Husten, you fucking fool. Listen to him. To his bladder. His prostate. This is how you are gonna end up, you fucking …  don’t like hospitals, do you?”

 

Fuck me.

My local.

And

Death.

 

Fuck me.

You know.

My local pub that is.

 

Your fire.

I blush.

 

Fuck me.

How good is that Glen Campbell and that Little Boots’ song? 

Have no idea what it is about.

Not the songs.

My local.

 

But.

Your fire.

And.

I?

 

And.

Me?

 

I blush.

Coz I can still piss.

Easily.

 

And.

I try to.

Have a conversation with.

Men.

I’m standing next to.

 

I should say.

I want to say.

 

“Is this what it is gonna be like, in 10 years time?”

 

And they.

Will look at me.

 

Trying.

To.

 

Give me false hope.

 

And.

Then.

Suddenly.

My dad.

Will come.

From out of the blue.

From amongst the dead.

And just.

Like when.

He was alive.

He will tell me what to do.

And how to behave.

As always.

But.

That is not the point.

Coz.

He will.

Still tell me.

The following.

 

“Son, you don’t want to leave your mother like I did my wife.”

 

And I will buy it.

And blush.

 

Like I always do.

 

His fire.

 

 

.