

Squatting for Compliments

By Mark Hendy

Copyright 2015 Mark Hendy

Smashwords Edition

# Contents

1. My Last Day on Earth

2. Squatting for Compliments

3. German Ibuprofen

4. Whaling with Vladimir Putin

5. Jeffrey Archer's House

6. Advert for TESCO

7. Doggubbins

8. Aliens Landed in the Night

9. Pictures of Naomi Campbell

10. Richie Cunningham

11. Halal and Antihistamines

12. Fucking Hipsters and Beatniks

13. I am Deaf

14. Sony Doo-Dah

15. Apple vs Google Nuclear Anus War

16. Blobs

17. Sarah's Vagina

18. A Crack in the M25

19. The End of the World

20. Blue Waffle

21. Unruly Homosexual Feelings

22. Tie Ski Whiff

23. The End

# 1. My Last Day on Earth

I'm pretty sure I'm going to die soon. I present to you – a way out. Maybe we could reminisce when this is all over and share photos and memories. Perhaps a tea cake, or two. A road trip with no end in sight, or a loving touch – a phone call. I have much to share – much to give I am told.

I have lost the structure I once had and now spend days wandering the streets, searching for a mighty purpose and cruising for kicks. The underground is just so, full of seedy business types in pin stripe, and malevolent scallies – faces blurred and cultures mix. I stand. I always stand. Why would I do otherwise – these people are fools to me.

My dwelling, my abode is fallen. A once proud public house on a violent corner, it keeps me safe and warm for now, but is not a place I regard as home. My movements are such that the idea of home is no longer valid. A distant apology – the desire to dream has disappeared. Alongside my damaged goods, my mind is shattered most of the time and my jokes of days breaking me are actually not jokes at all.

Sickness has been and gone, comes and goes as much as it does. It no longer irritates, displeases. It is a welcome change from the standard sights of toast, flooring. Accolades lay around, there's little time for longing here. How I ever loved is beyond. So many searches that have left me here. My mind is tingly – just enough to upset. Just enough for me to feel like a fool.

There're idiots on the corner. The screams the night before led me to call the pigs. Vans came, and 3 cars. All was done, they dusted. The men and one woman (from what I could make out) made the noise stop for a bit. But the problems remained. I played it cool and listened to Scott 3. The one before the one you're meant to.

I sit in the morning with the light on my face, trickles of scenery, hints at the beginning of weather, temperatures. But never a real reflection of the day outside. It tricks me into thinking certain things.

Reasons I go over in my head. Reasons over and over again for why this is happening and these people are thinking these things. They must be mad.

"I want to live your life. I think I want to be you."

Well, we'll soon grow tired; tired of each other, tired of this life.

These words are not a diary, the people who read it should not worry. Yes, I fell deep, and yes in many respects, the doors are locked from the outside. But there is a control here that we can grasp back. There may be no master plan, but I am confident that we sail together.

Something like stormy seas, as we tether this one. We could be in the eye. Another set of questions, accusations and what ifs. Perhaps if you stop to look past the manipulation for a tiny while, you will slowly come face to face with some kind of primal truth.

We find ourselves awkwardly looking to the future with a growing arrogance, and the times we have felt bad are slowly becoming memories with which we tinker. Everyone deserves a voice it is said, and there are many that we relate to. This is no longer a beginning, or an end. It's just a position, the times in which we reluctantly have become a part of. We're too far in to be able to stop and we're too far from our goals to be able to reach further. In many ways, this is the worst place to be.

The boss came to visit. He's ready to take things further, as am I. We don't know where we're going - accept some things laid out in front, but whatever happens, I am sure that things will coast. Times and dates are noted. We Project and forecast well. We can't be expected to raise a finger for this paltry sum. But the money, it keeps on coming.

I wake up early today. The night before was a messy one. My neighbours played foreign pop with gay abandon and I heard random shrieks and happiness in a language I did not recognise. I have earplugs, I used them. The dull thud of bass was awful present; I even heard the high hat up on the bridge.

Put out before me this morning is a list of things I just retrieve, adequately complete before another day comes round tomorrow. There is a plan on the horizon, and that plan is to relocate. Change everything for the sake of children. Bill Drummond, and stupid animals that make you feel better when you pet them.

So with this haunting flair, I am set to go. Eager to change court with the naughty boys from the old guard. I'd like to see what happens when you stop on the lights, turn and direct the shields away from the men, the coats they wear are yellow and luminous. I imagine they're wed, or need some lovin' sometimes. It's sulky and dim, I want to see what happens when the veins in the neck have nowhere left to go. The bag on the head, and all that stuff. I tremble as I look forward and ponder on all the nice possibilities, make a side-step around those that feel troubling. For there will be many bad times but this is something I am prepared for.

My work is done. I crawl out of my pit at an ungodly hour and make my way to the trail to the office. I work in tandem with a hotch-potch of faces – all eager to dismiss their own futures and settle for less. I mock them gently and then make amends at lunchtime. I work, such as it is, for a Government agency. This is what I tell the folk that care to ask. I am a post boy, sniveling round the depot in the early hours before the proper drones begin their day. I sort and shovel through the letters and forge documentations sent through – blimey - I think, every day. Bruce leads us. It's always been this way and that is fine. He is old - much older than me, and I fear for him.

The place in which I live has no living quarters, and the sleep I try to attain is taken in the same messy box in which I eat my food and entertain my girls. Without this easy distraction, I know not what I would become.

After the clock strikes eleven in the morn and we have finished our tasks, I break for a cigarette. I often have two, and banter with the women – they love it. I drag my frame across the car park and into town and this is where I spend the rest of my afternoons (often). Sneering into shop windows and making light with my awkward phone. Messages will come in and I will answer them appropriately, sometimes meeting my friend Raj. We go down to the Holloway Road and sit in a café for people from New Zealand. We talk of our day so far and what the next could bring.

Our trades are not yet our own. We are apart - this thing we have is sometimes wrong (this is wholly untrue). He knows all about it. With the onset of incense, he leaves and argues with Essex dogs. He shines and makes invites seem pretty easy. He will ask me to come, to meet others and sometimes I do but often I will not, choosing to remain seated, or go back home and try to be artful. Endless are the sketches in my head and mirrored, the pages on which I draw.

I have time on my hands; I bumble, I stumble. I fall back into my safe house – it's equally messy and I set my own world alight. No one else gets it and that is fine. My sketches sometimes make it, but this is private – a secret. If anyone wants more, they can take it up with the management, but there's no compliance. My work will sit staid, and I will continue to grip onto my sanity with all I have, and all I have is her.

The night time comes at five these days – sometimes before. I exhaust my options fast and speed hard on the underground 'til Kings Cross. I stop and change to the black one, and realign at Angel. I pop out of the beeps, thralls of revelers and men with clean shirts and haircuts talk and sniff around young girls. Lines of charity shops look dead, and people give others ideas on cards.

My evening is not planned and I have no problem. I walk past the Club and pontificate, see them familiar faces – many. I nod and rinse forward, walking the passage. The bar ahead already looks exciting. I go in briefly, cheers as goals are won. J Mac calls me over and I offer my hand. We're up to what – we share a beer and I smoke 3 cigarettes. He tells me his news, it's interesting to me.

A man I am supposing he knows enters the space and thumps J Mac on the back, saying something funny about the game. He leaves and Jay guffaws, shaking his head and making a face. I will not stay here longer than an hour. He suggests a film and points across the road – the crew are away, it's a good idea I tell him. But I have other plans. I want to get laid and my girl is waiting for me across town.

I walk with stale breath and a sweaty head onto the Caledonian Road and find my footing to the door of the new beau. I've fucked her once before. We don't get on, but that's fine by me. I don't stop to think - apart from the desire I have - there is little I can offer. Some filthy gin in my belly, and my mouth engages nonsense. It's playful, this state.

I text, then enter, grabbing some drink from the downstairs pantry. She grumbles that it's late, my arrival a shock, I've ruined her night. I dismiss these words and grab her, following her up to her smelly room.

After sex, she gives me gin and we watch a film on her bed. I stare at my reflection instead of the film, looking past the screen and back onto us.

"Do you love me?"

"Not really." She frowns and flicks ash on the floor.

"You're a sad girl." I switch the film to music and we listen to Vaughan Williams as the night enters into another day. "I trance out on this crap."

I try to leave but I am stopped. We talk for a while and my belly begins to ache with mischief. "What will become of us?"

"If we were to marry, we would be happy."

"Will you lounge around smoking, drawing - and writing profound thoughts all day? I'd bring you tea and rub your shoulders. It'll be grand."

"I'll catch your eye, and it will make me angry."

"I'll become distant and feel alienated by your work. I'll start to resent your Remington. You'll start to hate me for distracting you and you'll become waifish, refusing to eat the onion soup I so lovingly prepared."

"I will become aware of your mood and pretend for a while that everything is fine but I will know that things are not like they used to be. I will act inappropriately."

"I will call you a philanderer and throw cups at your head and suspect your every move. We'll hate each other more as the days grow short."

"I'll remain calm and ask you what is wrong, but I will know what's wrong. This, in time will be our undoing."

She is too forgiving. She used to be overly trusting and wishes these days were back. Instead, she lays jaded and broken. She makes me sick. I can bare less of this than before, I quiver inside and dodge a verdict – we kiss.

"You're a trickster, you. A devilry of dastardly deeds. An alimony of awful alliteration." I smile at her outburst and show my intent, leaving soon after. I doubt I will see her again.

I stumble back to my flat, cold and reeling. My bones are sticking through my palid skin and the sweet smell of sex still lingers on my clothes. My shift with the drones begins in a handful of hours, and my mind demands rest. I watch the box in bed and smoke a joint, clammy and disgusting – in need of refreshment and fruit, vitamins D and C are distant memories. An argument ensues above me, I clamber round my room and in others too, deciding on whether to make the call. The heartless line to the person in charge that says I will not be in work as I should.

I am 28 years on this earth and I run from all I see. Those that once I considered to be my friends are settling down – and for mediocrity. I fall from grace as I consider my cause better – more valid, more urgent. My sickness rapes my confidence and all that remains is my hatred for those in sight. At my feet lay my latest secret offerings, pictures of worlds that would no doubt be better than this if they were to exist in any form close to reality.

I upload and share and with great malice, people glance at my work and this brings me solace, some kind of petty squabble and dibs for the first past the post. What coalitions bring, we still don't really know.

Raj finishes his thing at lunch and I break from my post. A new boy started today, although I already knew him. A familiar face from the past, we talked after the shift. I have yet to sleep and I am still drunk, or unhinged. Either way, I feel nasty. He played me tunes on his portable box as we worked, and I learnt about German techno. My delicate state was soon remarked upon by older, more stable workers. I nervously laughed as my eyes sunk deeper into my face. The sign off that comes with today's appraisal is here, we wait – polite as the formal introduction is made. Too much work for this to be an immediate gesture, the seven horrible hours of not knowing forced upon him before the hands begun to meet.

He dives into his own for the afternoon – as do I. Back to Holloway – more beans. We buy rounds, and start to buzz. Raj has dressed up – I fail to comment. His tales today are of patience and intrigue.

"Here, consider this a proposition. Or, perhaps, merely indicative of shared trust."

He slides a key across the table and I put it swiftly in my coat pocket. I nod and comment on the versatility of marmalade. My stomach thanks me for the croissant, a stillness is finally upon me, regardless of caffeine. I am hanging on. I've not forgotten all the drugs I have taken. Man, I need someone.

"Marmalade is versatile; I like it with cheese, and chilli."

"I cook hams with marmalade. Ham is salty. Blood is salty. I could be the next Heston Blumenthall."

"And revamp Little Chef. You could revamp Wimpy and I would write the menu in the style of Jack Kerouac, just a free flow of expression."

"Tell you what, give me a copy of On the Road and a Wimpy Burger, and it would be a toss up as to which one I'd rather eat and which I'd rather read, each is as unappetising as the other."

We quaff cake and sup on brown sludge.

Christmas is coming, and I plan to spend time alone. The fools have given me a choice but I somewhat crush this opportunity. The weekend is near, just one more morning to sort the lopes and put the files in the gaps. The fourth man who stands by the holes will bring me drugs. We exchange monies for goods as bags are prepared for the offices across town. I will need plenty of drugs to see the two day break through. The brown envelope – my very own! This will heed my call for my medication and I salivate at the prospect of its arrival. A sleepy time is on the horizon, or perchance he will have some tasters of new substances (ones which I will become equally reliant on). My addict's brain is hungry and they know all this.

The Sunday is the outing, the office party to bring on the festive cheer. We will drink a plenty, and eat like we probably always should. Starters and brightly coloured decorations, some laughter I should imagine. I return home and sleep until it's time to work. I am told in the crisp morn that the next time I work, I will be across town away from the sorting. Packaging and parcels need my attention. I shall be logging and giving people bigger things than envelopes – boxes and the like. Splendid I think. A change of course will revamp my darkest thoughts after the inevitable crash of the party.

On the Sunday I take the zoom zoom to the scene of the gash – a tacky fun restaurant on the outskirts of Camden Town. My promise of making efforts falls down as I turn up apparently disheveled – charmed I'm sure. Drinks are spilled and we have a right laugh. I tell my boss woman about a drink I claim to have invented. It goes a funny colour because the liquids are blue and orange. I call it green, and everyone joins in. Someone's sick in the back room and a dumpy lady retreats from the table looking vile. Stevie returns from the bar with water over his groin area, and a good time is had by all.

Talk becomes foolish as funny looking drinks are gulped down gullets and at one point, two ladies fart. The food is grand and piled high. I splurge my way through the masses, and take care to straighten my comical yellow hat that now has a slight tear, bloody careless. A mind truck arrives and disposes its heavy load over the food adventure. The boss talks of the future and people get silent, but then talk again. Concerns of pay and procedure deafen some of the fun, but people relish in the new tide. Splish Splash, everyone has something to say.

People finish and go dancing. I join them for a bit and show them my moves. All the men and women are impressed. One of the workers attempts to kiss me, but I hold them back without any thought. I then woop, and leave. Behind me are lights and things, and it goes on. I walk out of Camden, I try to go North but my weary drunk feet take me West and I stumble across the zoo. By the wishy washy canal, there is a long boat with people on it drinking and laughing. I wave, and they woop and wave back. I light a cigarette and jolly myself down, I can see the zoo to my left and the animals must be sleeping. I stop now and again and look for them.

I wake up at 7am at Little Venice. I can't remember how I got here but my feet ache and I've pissed myself a bit. I haven't been sick but I smell like I have. Perhaps some chump splattered my attire. I find a young man who has a tea with me and we chat for a while. I then hop on to the chug a lug at Warwick Avenue and make my way back to bed.

"How old do you think I am?" The boy is still with me but I will lose him soon enough.

"14?"

"Yeah, I'm 14."

#  2. Squatting for Compliments

Some dear on the other side left me half a crown, but much more than that. It sits in a building across town and I can look at it and hold it if I want. I don't tell people this, for yes it would stop those who ask – but golly what a change it could bring. I deserve less, but left my mark apparently. A fake auntie, and she had real nephews – my name was mud for years.

And so when probate was granted, and the executor spat out my name on the second hour, the others scowled, my cause not worthy. But still I work, and yearn. I could dance, and buy from catalogues, make it all square and invite the new breed round for a dinner with lashings of mint and forgo the expense, and perhaps I'd have different friends. P'raps to anyone else this would be a ticket to somewhere nice, but this notion confuses me, upsets a little. That family; they still sweetly bring scorn to my door, but that's the law, and I abide.

Raj arrives at my abode with bags of stuff. The mood sometimes takes me, and today I spill the beans. His fast words cumber by ideas - taking over companies, making people pay. He owns Mr. Shankleys, a rumble tip of a store that sells books and records to hipsters and beta boys. He works there on Tuesdays, on Wednesdays too.

I sit out back when I'm there, eagerly rummaging and sometimes foraging, forgetting my place and suggesting awful things and big big changes. Most people like the notion of progress but I find it despicable. Dusty covers and smelly words on equally pungent paper hastily thrown amongst shiny sellers – the best of the best! These will sell I tell my friend – these will not. My judgement never questioned but barely noticed, we together mock the choices other people make, and then have a cup of tea. Lapsang, or Barry's. The hustle bustle of the Holloway Road is imminent, and Raj invites me to another lazy afternoon in the bosom of Mr Shankley. Gosh, what fun we could have.

Three days until the change where I can become a different drone in a whole new world. I know these newbies – I curse them for their incompetence – they bring biscuits and fancy cakes and share more than the other lot. There's a kitchen there – they reheat packages and sometimes chips. Often fancy wine is supped if managers say so. The small man who tells me what I ought to be doing cannot see – his eyes are proper gone, and squinting is all I recall. A squished up face that he presses close to those he talks to, almost touching labels, actually sometimes. I curse when he comes but I don't like to say.

Mostly, the drugs are rid of me. I still get the warbles and my head is sore. As Nicotine and Codeine float around, I text my latest chance and flirt a little. Perhaps I will have intercourse tonight? My thoughts become dirty and I crave orgasm. It quickly disperses and my mind jolts and throws me elsewhere.

The shop is damp. There's graffiti on the wall outside but no sign or number. How will custom come without such; the answer is merely a grumble – a swear word or two, but genuine – dispelling. There's no faction questioning motive, nor prim man in pin stripe with whys and therefores. They answer to no one because they ask nothing of these people. The system is alien, it morphs around them and implies resistance is temporal, but they look away. This is what I see.

Raj slumps on his big chair and spins, grinning and quizzing his own actions. He sporadically takes calls, and makes me foolish with quick wit and flashes of cheek. I flash jealousy in his face, right up close then recoil – hide it again, relinquish my numptie thoughts. I spin a yarn and agree with his anguish that stockists are wronguns. I snigger - fantasies of killing rivals – I applaud the ridiculous and zip around the truth and the sense. I hear and voice what I want, but that is my choice.

We shall go out tonight no? Sup some wine with the journos from the Guardian. It will be magic. Kings Cross and under the bridge, down the eastside and past the bots. We will be merry and order Pinot with nibbles and yank the chains of the middle classes. Gosh, what to wear. My smile will suffice, methinks. I put this to Raj, he concurs and we display our content.

We start our quest as the sun falls down. An indie shack on the old street. We sit and guffaw and listen to the bass. There are lads with specs and women have too much make up. Shiny macs made of yellow material and I order a Mexican lager with a droopy old piece of lime. The sounds become a fuzz and my friend – rejoice! He laps and dances, moves and nods, shakes back, forth – my eyes follow the gaze and I spy a famous man. We talk of how the band are good but not for us, not all of the time.

His DJ nights are up and off, he runs his score at least four in thirty days, colliding with revelers in secret locations. Raj is the prince of Saturday night, collecting followers and merging genres – a collision he tells me. How wonderful. For six whole months, he's lit up an angry mob with his skills and triumphantly, rather cool I feel – he continues to make these nights his own.

So when and where and more besides. Scrawls on toilet doors, SMS, and secret winks. The social nets thrown wide for this one. We all fall down as we wait for the news. The time when old friends become a flash, the mingling during, the chatter before, and the endless reviews.

We pass on further into the night and drive through our favourite haunt for now. Before the velvets make us sick, we crumble down to them journos. We spy a few we know and talk about them, and us. Lemmerson is there, and Clarke. We sit outside on the canal, away from the prying ears and eyes of the people who write.

I scowl and spit a flemmy wad on the floor. My accomplice crudely delves into his work, disguised as banter - ever friendly but clearly on the way to drunkard.

"This isn't underground Rebel Bingo, or Dollyrockers. We don't have policy."

"The music policy should be Motown and twee indie with art rock, anti-folk, and the odd heavy heavy rockin out rock. Oh, and things like William Burroughs or Ginsberg mixed into it. Oh, and some interesting stuff, like Fever Ray."

"Joy Division, Micachu, Xiu Xiu, Jeff Lewis, Clinic, and Calexico."

"Agreed."

We skulk around the bar when the temperature drops, and order the house red. We glug, and dream of food and what it must feel like to be eating. The hops taste yummy, and faces begin to blur. Echoes of shouty menace, and women laugh at jokes told by men, mainly.

We glide back to Caledonian, picking up a stray as we go and meander through back streets with desire and knowledge. At one point, Raj calls a lady a penis, and it makes me laugh. I am sick a little, and collapse. Stomach burns, soul aches. One day, I'm going to be 30. Everything is loud and flashy. I can see snippets. Flowin', slinkin'. Thoughts slowed down. Six pack collectin' drinks. Before I crash, he tells me about his idea that there should be a mushy pea equivalent to SMASH. I belittle his nonsense, but it could take off. I'll write a business plan in the morning.

I wake up wanting sex. Not just release – how perverse. My desires today go beyond the functional, and I momentarily yearn for embrace. A foolish smile. Kind eyes and an arm around me gently nudging me to start my ablutions, but holding me still to denote their love. My boss he calls, and prepares me for work. I am to enter as usual and open the post, but go with the pick up at 9.30 sharp and unwind all procedure and make jobs go away. He waffles and trudges through words and instructions, I'm less of a human that I have felt before this exchange.

"We would like you to undertake this new role for a fortnight, beginning with duties tomorrow, and continuing through. We are all very happy with your progress with Harden. Do you have any issues you would like to raise?"

I go underground to work and meet Clive who tells me things. A full day is ahead of me and I don't think I'm really prepared. The hours pile up and do not seem to tally with my notion of a day. The Slow Graffiti club night is in my mind and ways which I can curry favour, get involved and take some credit. My name on the lips of a scenester, my place in history sealed. The means to get there are cloudy, I am willing – prepared to upset and abuse. I am rather likely to be violent if the need is there, and I am content in the tears of those I manipulate. I care less for these feelings.

I arrive at my new location and carry out duties fit for a mong. I piss on the hour and refill my bladder with fizzy orange liquid and black oily sludge. I tell a lady some lies on the first floor when she asks things of me. The Group Four demand my pass and I pretend I have nothing. A lady sees my face and shows me around. Introducing, shaking and nodding, people in dresses (women) and men with open neck shirts know my name – I remember some, but still have no interest. I smile and work, package up and point at things. I am eager to please and dart from room to room spinning my necessity and making good time.

I find hiding places and do just that, smoking and reading magazines. I jerk off in the sick room watching people in my head and remain calm when things go wrong. The hours grind further but I am told I am doing well, and I am invited downtown for giggles. I accept and after work we head off to Russell Square and disband into factions.

I follow the girls. One takes my fancy and I suggest we leave to watch a disc or two at my place. She acts coy but agrees. We stay for some more pleasantries and match drinks. Something is said by her, to me - about office romances and fear, and shit. I tire of listening to this nonsense, switching off and counting numbers. We go back to mine and fuck.

A portfolio takes shape, my evenings become structured as I cook and eat and draw. Sometimes my new girl comes over but I quickly bore of her. She is a dummy, and the sex isn't good enough for her lack of pizzazz to be overlooked. I want to dump her, but wait until I have new blood on the horizon before contemplation. She says little anyway, and I take to fucking her face to alleviate some anger. She asks me the usual crap but appears happy being a benefit. I up my rudeness to keep her at distance but she seems to like this; I merge to being cruel. She remains.

My new route into work is down some spindly steps with hard steel rails. It's cold in the morning – I always check. Sometimes I pass four druggies slumped in a heap by a green door. They're ever so lovely and I say hello. I switch off at work as I slip though and past my threshold and into a seemingly salty world. I'm set adrift and focus loses its meaning. My days are broken with fags and café black, short shots from the chump chump machine, or a frothy cup if time allows. Some water too or snacks designed for teenagers; there's a bakery on the side.

And my functions break me further. I take my shits on company time, golly – I may start brushing my teeth again. Then find my naps turn more than, I could – I already head down if nothing to do – the sick bay remains my own and takes me a while but I'm generally sick.

My nausea worsens. On the Friday, the following Tuesday and mid-week – I vomit hard in the bog. There is no let up; I urge and lurch forward, desperate to evacuate, heaving and praying it ends. Wanting and clambering, holding on. My messy stomach greets the bowl with a static thud – a slap in the face, but still it goes - it doesn't end and builds again, my throat burns - blades cripple the spongy red tissue and battery acid comes quickly up my gullet and spews again with force into the mucky mucky bowl.

And then it's over and I go back to work, smelling of bum and unfortunate.

I should go on holiday – an adventure. That's what they tell me, these people. I feel foul mouthed and inappropriate at the suggestion. I could take a car with my good friend Gregory. We could fill the tank and put bags in other bags and see where it all ends up. I shall, I will. My company pays me handsomely and I want for little, nothing is worth much. My dwellings I tell thee – simple, modest – yes. But they disgust also. Would it be much different if things were shiny and big though? I care little for what these girls think of my style. My door hangs off and there are marks on the wall – perhaps blood, dried cum stains and nasty pictures drawn by past lovers. Ransom notes and evidence of a lovers tiff. Things and stuff and crosses with a bloody Jesus.

I feel retarded walking through Holborn. On my way to The TCR to change the line and go North. I cannot abide the thought - a holiday; a break will suffice. A lapse in judgment would be welcome, a mistake no less – perhaps I will run away – off up and away and people will wonder and ponder my nature. I shall return with stories lo! Behold. I do not need the money this employment brings. I can survive on less, and dare myself the prospect. If I were to connect, to want to become, to join in, the need would glow around me, push my head and thinking to translate these thoughts into something better.

I push my luck and go for broke, breaking terms and bailing out. At first I displease. Some time to myself is engaged and the world remains the same. My loopy contributions were drops in the sea. Like the turds I lay in their bog holes, I'm furious then leave. J Mac spoke to Russell and Russ made jokes with Tom. And now Gregory is here, back on the scene, and purposely concerned. I'm touched. Maybe others were involved.

And perhaps it is right for worry to brew as my actual intent becomes clear to me, to fuzz out the world and turn on my side, a fetal shroud, a comfy cushion – my new pillow dragging halfway up the wall as my feet dingle dangle off the end of my bed, I try to stop this. The thud thud continues and my anger is becoming acceptance of now. How I want things to be are pushed beyond my capabilities and out the other end like a turtle's head, soon to become messy gloopy after birth, and gosh it will stain. It will smell putrid and people will stop to look and soon, stop visiting altogether. How wonderful this new silence may become, how I will look forward to this nothingness with glee, relish. Peeps give time for me now as a mauve slash orange alert is aloft, the sky is bright, and they will come – come to save me for a little while.

Amicable. I slot into Gregory's day and rummage through Times and glossy magazines whilst he cooks a feast. We have sausages – the processed shiny type. And liquid butter beans with bread with which we mop. My jealous mind is here again, I vocalise; it makes it good. Our hours our own this stormy day. It's raining hard and plans to walk along the heath after tums are full.

In Belsize Park, we feel at home. He is, I guess - and that is why. I like it here and visit shops, before I trundled round snagged up bikes from the 1970s, I took a trip to a good ol' shop and bought a book to give to Greg. The man inside had films in mind and I said no when asked things.

Our tea is yummy and relaxed, an affair for both, we yabber on and pause briefly as newbies swing through doors and mark their territory. He tells of a friend that died, a childhood sweet, I urge my dismay.

"Oh, it's okay. He was old, and fat. He died of a heart attack in Chiang Mai. He was probably bumming a Thai boy at the time."

"I want to be away from here."

"We can grab the people we like best and trundle down to the sea next month. Splash about, get tipsy. Throw sand at donkeys. It would be nice."

We talk of Slow Graffiti and input more: Children Collide, Midnight Juggernauts, Richard In Your Mind, The Cat Empire. These scenes are too little and fail with mock approval.

"I like the idea of sitting on piers at dusk with a joint and listening to Belle and Sebastian, maybe drinking cheap port out of a paper bag."

"Your words are pleasing to me."

The Neutral Milk Hotel anoints the air with sound and I quiz my friend with fond knowledge.

"Do you know the premise of In The Aeroplane Over The Sea?"

"No."

"Jeff read the diary of a young girl, and fell in love with Anne Frank, and believed he went back in time and became her sister, and died in her place – or some shit."

"How proud do you feel?"

"Very. I feel refreshed. When you dump me, I will go for a bike ride or walk into the city and have coffee."

"You have chutzpah."

"I think I've had a wonderful life."

"Are you dying?"

"I was, but not anymore. I had all these terrible thoughts and it was a bit scary but now I think everything is pretty rad. And also, it's much more fun living like a child does. Doing things without caring and asking inappropriate questions."

I dump Gregory and potter around, picking at shrubs as I do so. This one time, my pal collected seven different types of heads and took them back to mine and I dried them in paper over a radiator.

I drop in on work and do some things, happy times are round the corner. I mix up a fistful of money and locate my baron. His welcome pouch is waiting in socket nineteen and I drop my wodge off, clutch the moobin of drugs, and open the daily log book. My tasks as long as done, bare no relation to time no more. My postie days and stamp mornings are gone – bless someone for that, praise is heaped on the bosses that made this true. I work when there with speed and diligence – I work well, then skive, never clocking out - I leave my wares and impress my man.

A sneaky peek to what has been left for me – some pills, my beloved darkest brown squidgy block and the prospect of more. No powders – for now. I sit and read a paper and squirm as Pepper chic appears to be back. These boys are young, they look it anyway. On my way out of the office, I wave to Pete who is making light of a terrible plague. He nods and attempts a smile. A forlorn white board displays the words LASAGNE, but the E has been quite rubbed off so it isn't right.

No call or duty will stop me from my shutdown this eve, nor should it. I phone Sam before I swish my card to the underworld. Redundant Sam. His luck was bad I feel, a promise of promotion – lies! He made it through the sign on, then was smashed up by a speeding car at Blackfriars. Proper fizzing brain damage he has now. He has drugs, more than I. More special drugs too, with instructions. How wonderful.

I see his head and tell him things, he moans and opens drawers. We talk of drugs and girls and boys for a while, then get down to business. His walls are littered with skids and flaky paint from rising damp. Globules permeate the inner sheath of the structure and ruckety stools from old shops make his space seem welcoming. I spy tabs on tables and pouches of tobacco lay on the floor by the bedroom door. Evidence of wealth lay around and accolades adorn the back wall. The kettle toots and lets out steam.

"I have a new friend. I'm not coming out until this is all over." He shows me packets and papers. "All the news reports have recommended that I stay indoors."

"How have you been feeling?"

"Taut. I no longer have the energy to hate Microsoft."

I stay with Sam and prepare to separate my mind from my body.

#  3. German Ibuprofen

I look at buying a car, perhaps the public way is not the answer, it ties me and melds – makes life better – easier yes, but only in this dense parameter – this dirty city I love so. Outside of these zones, I am a child again. I need the wheels beneath my shoes again. The desire to rummage – travel through borders and park my steel is here once more.

The day is fresh and crisp outside and I am enjoying being too cold with the windows blowing in. I could do so much right now, meet a group or eat some chomp. I lock my doors and gather my hoards and pills and smokes are planned to ingest. I sink into my roots and so the drugs take effect on my already gloopy mind.

I wonder for a minute how the south coast is doing without me. I pay another month's rent, a downer on my finance, I've not been out much lately. The coast is riddled now, kids blowing their tops everywhere and some adults.

My pal invented the learning difficulty. He might buy a car as well. It's a bit too red, apart from that, all is merry. The coast is here, automatic clear skies. My days have improved and things are better now. I told my friends that I was fine, but distance has stopped the thaw and I'm looking to make deals. In the meantime, I eat rotten crab and feel slightly dangerous.

I'm not surprised, nor disappoint. Stephie Graff calls me up for a chat, and I can see car salesmen running off to clinics pulling hair out. I'm maxed out now, and I want all this to end. I seek approval yes, a share on share, a gift – a man from Bedford (an office base). It's blatant shame really. I still believe it needs to fit. It's a look, these 50's stay press drainpipes and a light lumberjack number with fringing and NO 10 docs with free models, hair by the chump factory – these waxy guys are worth it.

Someone swapped my bags, and I'm sure a food poison joke after my first promotion in Soho was wholly inappropriate. I gave a pink angora cardigan to a tramp (as a gift) and he looked sullenly at my clean pair of cheap work trousers. I looked to the Eastbourne cliffs then. At fault, I fell quite deep, Herne Hill was only ten minutes past, so I used to get the bus to Brighton. That old job was great, and I miss it sometimes. These memos make me feel like I felt that day when we all went off together. I told them to stop, but no one was listening. I still think about that day sometimes. I tried to write a letter to the mother to say I was sorry. I did, but I didn't send it.

Sicilian lemonade strains the fridge door - it opens the wrong way. I eat fresh pineapple, I haven't got the heart to study bombings in a coal cellar, the wards back then were full of army generals and spotty oiks with no business cards.

My delivery of fresh thyme arrived without a hitch, my pal used to tread on the stuff, 200 ft up a chalky gorge to make his wage. I designed hard edges and straight lines for a couple of decades, then got sacked because everything went curvy.

The Dogs started to eat each other and smell, in packs running around disrespectfully. In Paris, cats roam free in parks until compounds called. Their territorial natural expanse is 6 square miles each, not two rooms a litter tray and maybe a bit of back garden and some road. My cat died in France, kicked to death by a ventriloquist on the Borderline. It didn't really matter at the time, we were all very handsome back then.

We used to go down to Montpelier and dine out with the financer wallets. We moved to Marseille in the autumn, and onto La Marais when money got tight. Johnny worked hard at L'ecole des Beaux Arts, and I'd shout tricks at the local harbour, fellating angry homophobes, and taking ladies out for rose petals and Gallon drunk liver stain. It was all very morbid, and huge flames would shoot of Johnny's mouth as he garbled with petrol.

Carly worked part time as a vet, and would often kill a dog. We had a mongrel blessed Jack for a fortnight, but she shot it in the head when it bit off part of a man's hand who had come to advertise. He was a nice dog, but he had dodgy bowel, and would sometimes not come when you called, which annoyed me. Johnny's cousin once came to stay, and took a shine to the mutt. He played havoc with my jet lag, so we both sneaked off in the early hours one day and watched the dog round up sheep on the sly. We followed him home and questioned the dog the next day, convinced he'd tell us all about it. But he refused to speak, pretending he'd been asleep all night. He was slaughtered a few days after that. We all went down the bakery and it was the talk of the shop for the morning.

The generals on the team came round one Sunday night and we shared some crème de menth on the balcony. Some glooper had told others, and aces were called. The fat bitch dropped a bucket of entrails to a black seal pup hybrid, and so we colluded to bring her down. A week later, her body was found washed up on a beach on the west coast.

Those times are gone but they follow me for 7 miles 10 ft into the sea. A different life back then – we all got a lot of slate, and we were pretty cold. So now onto the drugs and my mind will take a rush fuck. Disintegration with disgusting plans – it's all in toe and my heart starts racing.

Sam wakes me up with a ton of brown and wipes my brow, an inquiring mind and a subtle glance or two. We hook the chat for where it left us.

"I'm well. I haven't really been tweeting much, because I've had nothing exciting to tweet about. Went to a gig the other night, which was fun. Tonight, I am out to some silly gay media drinks thing at some awful bar in Fitzrovia. I will be late."

"Next time, you must invite me."

"You will hate it, but I will drop the bomb, certainly." Sam sneers with almost every word, a tirade of knowing better, more than me for sure. His work is mine too. He celebrates artists and hooks meetings. He gathers creation and sells it on, makes some dosh and is well respected for his troubles. "You need to submit?"

"I have done so. They have my doodles, I am out there."

"Good, good. You need my help?"

"What can you do for me?" I take a turn for the worse, I resent all that swims in front of me.

"Editing is only a part of what I do. I rarely edit any more. I have a natural feel for language and communication though. I edit for tone and style rather than grammar and tedium. That's what we have subs for."

"I will certainly keep you in mind if I have the need for such a thing." I blow Sam a violent kiss and curb a wink. I glug more sludge and perk myself up, where is my breakfast and why have I not slept. My head tingles, my eyes still flashy, nasty crustations evolved over night. Sam's retard sofa nibbled at my back, and legs.

"There's nothing wrong with where you dwell. End of the 29, which is the best bus in London. And our office used to be there, so I won't have a word said against it."

"Yes, it's fine."

"Will you need a cab? You cannot stay much longer here. I have much to do and plan." His distaste for my demeanor is apparent – he is right, of course. The open air trundle to the underground zoom is not a place for me this morn. Connections and more than one other man I cannot abide as I feel my tongue lap in my torture face. I shall sleep this Thursday through, and wake in the eve a better more rounded man. What has become of me? Sam opens his wallet and throws me notes: "When I was rich and had an expense account I used to take taxis lots. Then I added up how much I'd spent on taxis in six months. Then I bought a bike. Now I'm not rich, I wish I'd just pocketed the ludicrous amount of money I wasted."

"Do you have something to help me through the day?" Sam crosses his threshold and looks around.

"Here."

"These look mighty." I finger some silver wrap and jar the flow as I cave in.

"You will barely move with these, even if the weather proves to be less foul." He tinkers with my expectation and sullies something. "You must prepare yourself for a stupor of inactivity. My stupid brain injuries are quite different from your malaise."

"How is that progressing?"

"I am seeing a neurologist tomorrow. My GP has told me not to expect to do anything till the middle of December. I'm hoping that's just over caution. I advise you to sleep through the day with these tabs. When you awaken - you take these. You can take a quart of Modafinil to curb the droops, and watch the caffeine - seriously."

He touches my shoulder gently and lets out a broad smile, snide and knowing. He's a beautiful man. "These, my friend - these are Propranolol. These have stopped my panic and evaporated the badness." He passes me a wodge. "It's an as-and-when thing. They're a beta-blocker, so have a pretty immediate effect, rather than anything cumulative. My Doc gave me three packets on the one prescription. This impressed me, the last time I asked for multiple packets of something on one prescription, the GP I'd gone to got really snotty and said 'the NHS isn't made of money, you know' so I'm in no danger of running out..."

"How do I use them?"

"As you wish. I've been experimenting. Amazing thing - Two 10 milligrammes of Propranolol completely zap over-caffeination. Twenty minutes ago, I was still completely caffeine-wired, I thought 'why not try a couple of them?' and now I'm like I haven't drunk any coffee at all."

"I will take the sleeps for their purpose and wake refreshed later today. A shotgun with a camomile and ginger brew. The Modafinil?" I shake the pack.

"I don't really know what it is. It's given to people who have whatever that thing where you fall asleep in the middle of brushing your teeth is, but also to ADHD people. I'm quite ADHD so got myself some – it gave me amazing focus, like I could sit down for two hours and do more work than I would often get done in a day – but also made me a bit autistic. Your brain ends up sort of discarding nuance and things, because it's not efficient. So I'd end up having conversations with people where it was just wham-get-to-the-point."

I think for a moment about scoring some Codeine and then brushing my face with coke, perhaps even writing this entire thing off and arising closer to next week. Sam's drugs tales create a saliva mess in my mouth, and nubbin. "When I fell down the stairs in Germany, I was taking German Ibuprofen, which comes in 800mg tablets – the standard dose here being 200mg in a tablet. They told me to take two – so basically 4 times the normal UK over-the-counter dose – and then someone gave me some Codrydamol to take on top. It was amazing. I could just float off in a lovely little haze. If I had Codeine, you would know."

I leave the mess behind and cab it to my cave where I slouch and medicate, fawn at pictures and look at pornography before slipping under. I awake at ten with a chime. I take Raj's key and inform him of my plans to go down to the shop. His night is featured, a preemptive strike on the old street. I decline, an evening to myself around the shop, sorting and dissecting genres and suchlike.

I will meet him early at 6am when he leaves the graffiti. We will go to the breakfast club on the Camden trail then hop down to the bank to see the new fear installation with the cool mob. Perhaps I will work and my work will seem valid and money will change from his hand to mine. I am gaining in stature as slowly I amble, creating a leader board of friends that can help. And all above the other droogs lies Raj and his band of merriment. Directors and artists and those that can change. Willing disciples and cool folk. Achingly different, and something else too. I'll soon look the other way, and then what will happen. Well, we'll see, yes?

I droop around the shop for an hour or so, and find a copy of a nice book. I grapple with a box or two – for a while. Much quaffing, much dawdling – doodling. I think I fall asleep at some point. A clunk click pfft 'aarow?' brings me clarity at 5ish, could have been 6, but he comes through the back with a gleam, still high from his treachery - his eyes still running around to the beats he pushed onto revelers just 45 minutes before.

Raj brings me croissants, almonds too, and OJ – not from concentrate. We sup and chomp and he puts a blanket around us both and we listen to radio four. For a slight moment, I am happier I think than I have ever been – at least I think I am. I want to snuggle but don't wish to be gay. Not now, anyway.

I feel exhaustion, but I must work sometime soon. Things are lagging, piling up. Some tapes from the fraud department require my immediate attention – how ridiculous. But I will do them, for sure. Perhaps I could go down on the Monday, nice and early and sit in the typing pool, slightly ajar from the things I used to do. Headset on, I look over at the droogs that are opening and sorting – mind my drugs! Don't touch that hole.

We do not go down to the bank. We allow the day to get on with itself, and soon my friend needs his sleep. I fight the need, the urge is squashed. A quick nosh on the clubs terms and he then makes his way back on the blue line to somewhere, or other. I walk around the market and hang round Angel tube. This one time, I was waiting for my friend to have a poo in the toilets of Burger King and there was a couple having sex in the bogs. He phoned me so I could hear it. I heard some banging and muffled words, or something. It was very funny, I suppose.

#  4. Whaling with Vladimir Putin

The days are getting longer and I'm sick from treading water. The emptiness of flirting – I use this wile and charm to break another back. I'm losing count of the people I have fucked, I start from scratch and get to points and miss a few and start again. Some months are fallow, and this amuses me. Others, golly! I recall a time when I said goodbye on a bus, and just got home in time to shower for my next caller. Relaxing times - the vibe still lovely, I'd do it all over again but with a different pair of pants, anecdotes slightly changed, rearranged and made to make them laugh.

So anyway, yeah – this still goes on, but nice – no? We all know where we are and we stand together. A few unfortunate incidents where love could have happened - the question of another time, another date- feelings and the like. These notions of namby pamby nonsense flattened sore by the threat of happiness. So I meet someone lovely, hmmm I digress, for that will never happen. The thought of only seeing one thigh or bum again is a disastrous notion to have to comprehend – there's so much to see. Hell, I'm so much of a cunt that I hide these truths. Even if I were to meet someone who regulated mood and brought some solace, who is say that my eye would not stray. Like a dog on a lead I would be, and soon I would tear the walls down, gauging out the eyes of my owner.

Three days time there's a party out of town. Sheesh – ways and miles out of town to the square place – designed in hell I'm told but rather nice I find it. These people with their quips \- hmm, how they amuse on their fat arses through their smoky rooms. They could do much better than this director, they say. These actors know nothing! They sit and watch through a gluggy self important haze of draw. We watch with irony no? They're still here, much more important though. They are the only ones saying these things in the whole world about these men, and they put their original thoughts – so pure, so fucking real – in the hands of the mighty journos who mock the stupid. How wonderful! We're encouraged to rise from our seats; them holes will seal, you retards.

Ugh, I'm no better. For my anger has no intent or direction. I do not crave change, I have no interest in making my own days better, more warm. All I want to do is irritate and rip the faces of those who sneer at others, without a thought for feeling or hard work. Man, sometimes I hate those bastards. So much so that sometimes I just want them to hurt. Bad news be on them. Perhaps a curse, physical pain? God, no. Not that much - just enough. These words mirror their thoughts; I am no better, but I don't profess to be, and I fear they do. But these people are my friends.

Sam knows people and invites us all. Raj, Gregory, the crew from Angel and a couple of the boys from the slow nights I know. We are the ones who will crawl up to the Keynes. The rest of the boys, and girls – they will come from around I suppose. Perhaps all out – I don't know. Anyway, this will be good I'm told – to get out of the city for a bit. Away from the smoke, and the lies. Sam has suggested driving, his Astra bug; a joke to us all, more so to him. A rusty fuck up of a vehicle. Never legal but all ours, we mock the beamers – we can, we have money to buy our own – oodles of it.

I shrivel up as attempts to decipher our place in this thing hurts my nubbin. I will go to this event and meet and mingle, perhaps find some things to do and make so I can sell them and make money and then move, and shit, and eat, and mingle some more, and talk. Golly Gosh I rarely see the point any more. And so I thrust my genitals in and out again, and just enjoy the breakfast after the deed. For that's all I really want to do you know – eat good food, and fuck as many people as I can until I die. I can do without achievements, and Sartre was right. Meet me at the station, we'll dabble, lip synch – jerk off, and take some class A's. The bravery! We're the men, alright?

Well this is just going to be super. We're packed to the rafters with supplies and tins. The bottle of Pinot to disguise our intent, a few cherry blues, many tabs – foil and a pipe, and plenty of toilet roll.

Before I descend into an organised toxic brine, I have shit to do – responsibilities! I tick off boxes I write in my notes, and forward myself details, car pools and quotes. Oh Gawd. A few days to realign and get back the time, I wake for a few – coffee, juice and a glance at the headlines. Some tubing and booking, I even look at my space. Oh, those were the days! My time at the flat ends within weeks, but nothing is planned yet. A contract was binding and I played out my part – for whatever pathetic role I was squashed into. There're places on floors, all belonging to Raj - I see. But others perhaps, I may look through the Gum Tree. The freedom is nice, the coming and frowning. I look at the books and the reference to work. I did this, I'm worthy of more, but here! The men with money will ratify all, everything you want to know is here! Come closer, you droopy men in ties – jeez your suits are so crisp, gleaming white and shiny mauve. A closet case, abide with me, the rules you follow – the company you keep. Hmmm, I didn't raise a pleb! My son is Superman, he did this and what of yours. Oh really? You must be so pleased with the end result, no?

A final click, no signature – no more. I'll end these terms and move to digs, perhaps a squat! Yessir, wouldn't that be fun. Perhaps not, but contracts bind my friend. Inertia got me here. I'll drift and swim about and let things take their course, for that may dull the monotony, wake me up goddamnit.

I lay off all for a couple of days, I have the tapes – those fraudulent tricksters. I work from home and type all up. A sullen truth in things I hear. Click, stop. Working as I do is pleasing to me. The scams I dreamt and tales of rides when others said, as they do – an office is not for me. Freedom sucks, I argue. Who wants liberty if the choice some make is to sleep alone. Or fry the entrails of some other fool, dance in the gutter. They need a hand, they need the voice from big tables, booming political know-it-alls – they know better than me, that's for sure. I want to be fooled – that much is my right. Pretence acts in my interest, it calms my spastic mind and nothing is sweeter.

Beat box – Dumb bells. The night has arrived.

Sam picks Gregory up some time in the afternoon and they come round to mine by Six. Sweaty and retarded, we head past the Arsenal and onto the straight. J Mac and Tony (from Slow Nights, I hear) follow on behind in a bloody Accord. We'll lose them soon enough.

Within an hour, I am asleep at the wheel. Sam takes the blame and steals my thunder with impressive skills and turns, and glidy things he does with his hands, and feet. There is oil, some wax too in my hair and the clump of my head that is rested on glass leaves smudges - it looks disgusting. I drift in and out and Greg argues points, Raj sits on hands and talks about Architecture.

I doze, and have a weird dream. I was out whaling with Vladimir Putin and a diplomatic delegation. It wasn't proper whaling, but more of a demo. Mrs. Putin had a go, but couldn't throw the spear very far. However, she hit a whale and they then had to get the spear out of the whale without it dying. The sea was flat calm, but we were oddly close to some semi submerged rocks, despite being miles offshore. Next thing I recall was being at a restaurant, although it was more of a large attic room with sloping ceilings. The rest of the delegation was sitting, and I ended up sitting on my own with the Vice President who everyone had stopped talking to. I patted him on the head and found a small microphone in his hair. We then all went onto the roof for a group photo where it was very high and rather windy, I started getting vertigo so stood back.

We enter the first square, my head jolts as turns fragment. Finding space, boys bumble graciously into the arms of our hosts. Gracefully, I crank up the charm and hook up with some girls and boys to ramble down the shops. Blue slims are on the cards, king size no less.

The evening is swell, Raj pops corks and swoons at someone. Others chatter and it all goes off. I make a beeline for some beauties, we turn away from sneering eyes to smoke our goodies. A boy suggests a car and takes me by the hand. We chuff for minutes and tell our tales.

"By the order of nuns, by the power of grayskull!"

"Rockin the Benzos baby."

We sniffed the air and that was that. In the morn, I sneek from his room, clash with bodies and find my men. We snazzy around town, convene and recollect our lays. It's all in the best possible taste. As we dip eggs and crunch on burnt piggy, dead are my eyes and I feel like shaving. I shall have my nammit and shower my groin on my return, perhaps check out the slow night, or get involved.

We zoom back, the ring of the outer 25 opens for seconds and lets us in, oh lord we're back! A safety hug for all. A generally nice time had by us, perhaps? No one seems keen to repeat but we are tired, I still no nothing of where they slept, but I don't think to ask.

Greg and I sup tea at The Euro, and make amends - wired and folly.

Right now my life is defined by an all-pervading, ill-defined sense of worry. I sleep to free myself from my plans, the vague sense of impending doom is laughable, yet still it hurts me so. The fear is in my blood again. I cannot much bare this isolation no more but I will remain true to myself. In my veins, a battle between good and bad frolics, dances around and generally acts like a bastard. My morals are gloopy - again. All I have is here and now, all I am is in this blob that hangs over my shoulders. Ha! These people! They are challenging me no? How playful, enticing. I wonder what they truly believe, can I turn their thinking? Another man and men cannot rescue me, as much as they try. Mutually exclusive, my funny demeanor, and face. I just want someone to play me a song and write me a poem. Cook me tea perhaps, but that's it. That's pretty much where it ends. And when it ends, what then? Must we continue on this wonder road....I think not.

I feel I know these people around me. I am aware of their circumstances, Dear God I bitterly regret so much. Greg steams open my face with concern. He talks more of proposals for fun, a trip under canvas, a right ol' caveman jaunt! He's said before, well yes, I gathered my stove, and borrowed some threads. Prepared for the time, 'tis too chilly now – I tell him this and he concurs.

"You left us last night, I take it you loved?"

"Yes indeed. I pulled I suppose. But not someone I cared for very much. It was a mere release. And you - where did you go, what deeds did you commit?"

"You are the enfant terrible. I copped off for sure. We had fun." Greg pulls a spazz face and jam from a bun falls down his fat cheek. I tell him my state; my move it is pressing. He offers no words of solace or advice. I ought to stop talking, I think as I'm going. A suggestion falls from his lips, and he is probably right. I'll just join a no hoper, perhaps two or three. Perhaps a sub-letter; a shady character who skims money from the top of a chain. I will move into a ready-made hovel, and bills with dissolve. Hey hey yes, what a wonderful notion! And Wednesday no doubt. Yes, the first Wednesday of every month I will draw my monies – however gained from the hole in the wall, and come back home. Sneakily roll seventeen notes and slide under doors – and then my rent is paid for another period of time. Surely this is the way to go.

All in my mind, I've sorted this out. Greg takes the credit – as he should, and we talk about more pressing, granted – more important things such as condoms and lube, and ways to make people cum. Why sometimes it takes ages, and how others can jizz at the sight of a fleshy mound. We talks of the roles that each of us take, and lovers and shit.

I tell him I want to be loved, and opposites true – I'm capable and ready to love, I'd move to a new city if love was rife. I'd ruin my life and take up a partner (for keeps), perhaps I'd even stop sleeping around – I doubt it though. I would state that I'd do something for love, and not just to get my cock in a hole. Yeah, that would be nice. It's something that happens but nothing is there. Golly, how does one fall in love?

"You need to get out. You converse with these stands, but do you have fun? Fun away from the bed, or wherever you people go."

"And where do I find this love? Are you suggesting I look closer to home? Is this a profession of admiration for me? You love me no?" My candor is pleasing, I can tell this from Greg's peachy red chops.

"I care for you very much yes, but no. Your Tom foolery is very nice my friend, but boy, if these questions you ask are genuine, then really you have to take the answers as true."

"I spread around, you've seen me no? What more can I do, is that not enough?"

"A second date would sometimes be nice, but then – I don't know whether this is your choice as you never think to tell me." A stir with spoon, a subject changed.

"Last night. There was continuous motion, and wooly jumpers. I was full of static, like a modest Zeus."

"You made it through."

"I avoided the weird drinks."

Greg mocks my town; "This place is a fucking dump. This café is straight out of the eighties, it could be on the album cover of a pound shop own brand version of The Smiths. What I am saying, friend – is that you live in a shit hole." I play with my cracker, ass splint fuck my knuckles. My tired buddy continues to whine, and jest and other things too. "I think I feel quite faint actually. I am too hot, and too cold. I need a hug, and this reality is far too harsh for my gentle soul. Why on earth do you live here?"

"There is nothing I can say to explain this. I am equally as tired as you."

"The people here, they are odd. Chemists stare at you in bewilderment."

I show Greg my grounds and places I go to, most disagreeable – he says. He's been here before, before all this happened. He tells me of his business, sinister rivals, and middle age gay men with short dyed blond hair. Recalls a tale or two, one of a man who didn't know what it was that he desired. He used to say "So, you're the new guy..." even when that made no sense. There were other guys too, and girls. And there were similar stories.

I gather my shit and leave Greg alone. He enters an argument on the edge of the holes, people draw money and men with bright ties assist the fat couple from the arcadia with the mountain of beans.

We cannot all abide, we cannot dwell at Belsize. Not all of us have two point four, or dogs, or any of that – actually. But yes, I need to move, that's very true. I take a pill and sup a flat white at home. I ramble on the sky, block and illuminate. Ping! A lovely message, and a suspicious mooring. Emoticons and denigrates and fucking mighty things. Sarah messages back and once more, I play the role. Oh Sarah! Yes well, me 'n 'er, we got something special. She says so. She tells me things about herself and I do too. A little flirting in her face, yeah. But more or less, no talk of thighs or tits or things like that. It's all going rather well I'm told and shucks, we may do tea or cakes or just a walk along a lake or viaduct before the year is out. It's my birthday soon and we could see each other then. We could date and laugh, and I guess she would feel obliged to gift me, and a nice card. Maybe she would pay for my meal, and let me fuck her ass too. She'd have to, because it's my birthday. I don't like blowjobs though, so I'd probably stipulate.

At the end of the month, I get the tiresome news that Bruce has died and I am guilted into attending a memorial. I turn up late and shake hands. The old work crew is there, and I'm offered more shifts. I decline, and say Bruce was a man and try on his good traits, my hat. My God, Dear God the man was a bore, and probably better off dead.

My temping agency suggests work once again – Bruce has left a mighty hole and maybe I could fall back in line. I give dates and accept some work, but not like before – I can't go back. A couple of new assignments, a typing pool and someone needed to look pretty in Kensington. Adorning ties adopting public schoolboy lisp and maybe fellating a director, all requirements I presume. Golly.

This will all die down. The cretins on their desks will tire of my scoffs. Was employee of the month back then, and still I ride with this on my back. My place is taken more often than not and I begin not to care so much. Even the desire to keep a ground, this no longer shines so bright and yeah, I fear the long way down, but this reality and everyday grind is not achieving what it set out to. My talents are hidden, and God that's not right. Soon I believe I'll get what I want though. The phone calls will cease.

Sarah lives in Cambridge, for now. She teaches boys and girls how to question things. The subjects are broad and undefined. I am impressed with her work. Kudos \- I say as she tells me about her work. I follow with interest her words, she mocks me and picks on threads I weave. I'm not fooling her! Harumph. Even though I attempt to. Sam suggests I take his car to meet her soon, perhaps I will. Perhaps we'll fall in love and this will be the start. I dream of a new life and look at schools for our kids. A rosy future with Conservative ideals and Buddhist – nay, Marxist leanings. How wonderful this life could be. Wait till I tell Raj about all of this, he'll back me up!

The boys all convene down Indian lane and we gloop on a carafe and chomp on the bones of a hot dead bird. I make little effort and we clunk wine glasses full of Vimto. I wish for there to be milk, like Moloko. My good people congratulate my age and I tell them of things I've done and laugh at their obscenity. Soon after our meal, a day in fact – I move from my flat and onto Raj's couch. A rather comfy retreat – for now.

He finds it nice for me to be there, I watch my step and make it right that I'm not always there. And he makes sacrifice, the odd gesture. There's shit in boxes - stuff I don't use, but require for mental well-being. I work a bit, now and again. Once, or twice – in an office on the Temple Way answering phones for a company that makes dog bone holders. They're all very nice and treat me good. A lady even brings me a badge, and a doughnut.

My drugs die down – an affirmation of my new road to health – Raj is clean, and thus – so am I. The first time in months, yet the void is there. I fill it with activity, I go out more than before. The caffeine is more, also. Lots of it. He has a machine, a chrome coloured lioness – it spaffs out sludge and sometimes milky froth. Reminds me of that time my cum came out foamy and I googled for signs of STDs.

It doesn't take time to adapt. I see Sam less but this is for goodness. His car is stuck bereft outside the flat, I'm told it's mine – if I want it. And I do – for now. My evenings become a chat with my beau, followed by sausage rolls and questions about other's lives. I cancel again the meeting with this girl. One time, she cancels back, but it's mutually fine. Her trip from the states coincides with a treatment; "Well, we could meet up next week, but you'll be a mess, no?" I know a first time howdy is out of the question – not really a predicament – I have a flushed feeling her jet lag and my anxiety will curb the onset of romance. I digress, we should meet – and soon.

Settling down to a night in my half way house, the new boys from Old Street convene in my bedroom, I hide my quilt behind and fall into place with ease.

"And you are a Buddhist?" The new men here I attempt to placate with half-baked pseudo intellectual folly. "You are what you think, all that arises is from that. With our thoughts, we make our worlds, etcetera etcetera?" My new acquaintance scowls at my value, and I fear will soon begin to mock.

"There are enough common forms and events in the life of a human being (e.g. birth, death, basic needs, illness etc) to form conceptions of values that, though by necessity fuzzy, would have enough definition to allow for their productive discussion, investigation and refinement." I am made to look a fool by his words, I sup on the cheap red and abuse my position. I'm eager to toy with this new found malevolence I find in my gut.

"When you're walking round a city, do you look at buildings and think 'that would be a perfect dictator's palace; good balconies, plenty of space out front for whipping the populace into paroxysms of totalitarian political fervour; nice wide streets for tanks, not too many places assassins could hide nearby'?"

"No."

"Presumably that's because you are a grotesque hippy. I think it's a perfectly normal way to view a city." I slant my eyes and glug my brew and sigh.

"Well no. I think about all the beneficial things I could do to help people. Enormous imposing buildings with slightly sinister overtones play no part in my dictatorship."

Raj's friends are funny and tiring, and I enjoy the candor – for what it is. A boy is in the corner fiddling with a twelve inch, he is told off for prominent scratches. It weren't me guvnor!

The evening descends and decks are illuminated to level, gosh that must be level seven. Still in keeping, Keith and Sammo woop as the beats cross fade.

"Would it be out of order if I told you how SOAKIN' I am right now, I love your music." Two words : Brilliant. A cork ain't popped, there're screw tops here.

"Gimme wine! Wine! I need it like water for my unquenched thirst before I expire into the wastelands of yesteryear. Oh beatsmaster, play some more. I'm clutchin' the bunions of my overworked feets; despair at the gravitude of this heinous ass."

#  5. Jeffrey Archer's House

I am compelled to meet my maker as I wake. My chalky throat is gloopy and rotten. My tongue has fur for goodness sake! It's quiet and comfy on the makeshift rest bench. People have sat here, in the past – last night in fact. I think about people ejaculating where my head lay, but it doesn't concern me.

Raj provides a sugary tea and sits whilst stirring eyes and sleepy dust settle down and make their demands for fresh clean water. I startle and shimmy to the basin. I will drive to Cambridge and meet Sarah.

We talk of length of stay, and my friend tells me of a place in Russell Square. A box in a complex, he wrangles deeds and says "I know someone." and with that – I presume, a place is assured. I'm convinced of that. I've been there, or thereabouts before. Officially I'm not allowed, but business is business, right? I'll join the students, hell – it's all inclusive. "You'll even get free meals – I expect." I collude and agree, my scrawl will be required, but that is fine. Raj passes me an apple.

"I have been eating entire apples since I can remember, thinking the seeds taste like almonds. It turns out that the almond taste is the arsenic they contain."

"What about raspberries?"

"Oh, I'm not sure about raspberries, I think they are all good, aren't the seeds on the outside? It's a very small dose, actually things that can kill you are supposed to have a very fragrant smell, such as pure ozone \- lethal almost instantly given the right amount, smells like orchids apparently."

"Oliver makes a good apple pie."

"Aww that poor ol' sod. I bet he dribbles when he sleeps. Do you have time to socialise?"

"What does this mean?" A glance to my wrist is a vivid denial. "I best be off soon."

"You will meet Keith when you return. I have decided. Yes. Yes indeed. This man is wise and his company is immense. Someone should wed him."

Sam's car holds my weight and bounces up along the outer shield of London. These streets are no longer jungle like, more crispy and open. I speed as fast as this contraption can and soon find myself in new territory. Glinting spears and sunnies on, tunes a blarin', a bit sacred, so this is life outside. So far so good! I stop at stations, up the nicotine intake, over-take - apply the brakes! Three lanes to two, one for a bit – and zoom! Off again. This is fun; a computer game. It's been a while.

I meet Sarah on the corner of her road. The first glance and my heart sinks, as this is real. I make a joke about something or other, my nerves condensed by her apparent confidence. We pass her house and stop momentarily, pointing and nodding. Coy for a chance, when will we have sex?

We go for fuel in a garden. This used to be Jeffery Archer's house I'm told, an anecdote! The swine! I have no appropriate way to react and nod again, this time more sage like. Discussions of age, prospects and trajectories. What will become of us in future days? The past is gone, I agree. The food is comparable to food we've had before.

"Do you want to know things about me? Should I tell you my hopes and dreams at such a juncture, or is this inappropriate?" Her mouth is small.

"We could talk about the people around us and the food if you wish. Do you have much to tell?" I wonder what games are held, but not in fear of my own skills to bed this one. This is in the bag I think. I take enjoyment, I'm pleased to say – to talk this way to someone new. She sups her herbal remedy, she's added sugar. I pick her up on this, for it is wrong.

I tell her about the time I nearly made two girls pregnant by leaving my cock fizz on their mouse buttons. Also, when someone did a shit in the car park, and I watched as burly men in group fours had to clear it up with their tongues. The imagery is fantastic.

"People say I am a nice person. Sometimes they say that my head works in strange ways, but it's unique. I am unique," She tallies and bites her lip. "I like good friends, I don't much care for rudeness yet am constantly convinced of my own. I like interesting debate. Oh and I'm a Conservative. Not a Tory I hasten to add."

"I can live with these things if I were expected to, I imagine."

"I like having people to drink with, but I don't really drink, but I do get drunk. My job sounds more romantic than the daily slog proves. I want to do an MA, in something. Political thought – or something. Losing thousands of pounds on an intellectual whim is not currently on the cards however." Her words creep around me suggesting I reply, I refuse to commit and smile and breathe and forget my lines.

"You are a country girl?"

"At heart, but not for long these days, and this makes me sad, or introspective at the least. Cities have wonderful distractions. A vibrancy that demands attention."

"I like the city close. She sits around and invites me places. Without the bustle, the prospects, it gets me down."

"I'm not scared of being alone. My mother is dead, as are my siblings."

A silence for seconds, I interject:

"I am sorry to hear that."

"Of course you are. Who wouldn't be?"

"Perhaps those that hated their family." I tilt and stir, and wait for more.

"You do realise I have no idea what is in the pop charts these days." Her tone – jeez! Maligned, sneaky.

"I don't believe that for one minute. You are trying to distance yourself from popular culture to reinforce your intellectual standing. I get it, you are an intelligent girl. Well, you're a Tory." She kindly smiles and chugs along, momentarily pointing at, then discarding her rotten sandwich.

"I just like communication. I want discourse, I want someone to challenge me – and equally bore me. I want to resent you when you're there, and miss you when you leave."

"I just want a snack – watered and fed. The odd successful sleep. I'm getting old you know."

"You are. You are probably past your prime. You are past the average age of male suicide though."

"I'm cursed. I don't much like conversation. But I need interaction."

"Of course, we all do. I like passion, I am passionate. I'd much prefer to hear about your theories. People just want to pass on stories."

We talk about my car for a bit and I explain that it isn't mine, but it could be. I tell her about 3 dead people that I once knew, so like – we have things in common yeah? I flow into a monotonous whinge – something or other has riled me. My thoughts take a dance and I talk about transport. My love of the bike - a nice way of life. I remember cycling – fondly. I make some lies and tease her face, and the things she says. I mock the establishment, everything in fact. My friends, and failures - those that love. Narrow stairs and choices and plans – future and then....tonight! Oh yes, perhaps I will stay. A mention of supper, a cue for an erection. When it's good, it's not bad. When it's bad - it's alright.

We have sex.

After the gloops, we leave my car in the compound, and walk around the city. She points at places of interest, the cobbles make me wobble and I sprain myself – oh well. A pitter on my head as clouds spew rain guff. Urgh! This is nasty – I tell her. My hair goes fluffy in the rain and we take cover. We find a book shop, my – a nasty little emporium – travel guides, old Will Selfs, but also – small crusty red parchments. Crinkly pages and simply marvelous stories (illustrated too).

I fondle books and see Clive James looking concerned in a corner. On a stool there is a crusty hanky, but I only tell Sarah about Clive. I have to explain who he is. When pressed, I bring up the chief. I am never challenged.

I want my free lolly. That night we share meals bought from Waitrose on seventies plates on her bed. I try hers and heaven and hell are both here now. I yearn for our souls to depart in tandem, I want to forget the abuse for just one cotton pickin' minute. My knuckles are bruised. The room illuminates and we embrace – exchanging fluids once again.

Ah, you and me, how nice this is as we spoon. Perhaps we should sleep now, in this dark room. The room illuminates, there's no way to follow what just occurred – the answer lies in Lapsang Souchong, it lies in chocolate digestives. Condemnation! A trial will be set on my return no? God, accusations will be brutal. And amongst all this, perhaps I will return and replay – whimsy and fey gestures. I repent.

I remain crumpled and spent against a wall in a one man bed. I doze and wander and have an early bath as soon as light breaks. She lends me Descartes and reels me in for future love. "I will see you again I assume?"

I'm an artist. Even if I wanted to leave, I feel I couldn't. I revive the ancient, as reason dictates that the classics are the only one true and perennially modern state of mind. It's too crude, mechanical mice. I defend my desire to criticise all I see, appearances change with light, affected by movement. Things they are shifting, forever – never still. A tree changes slightly if my gaze slightly shifts. And theories and words and other such shit. Raj has a magical aura, a charismatic halo, a turtle neck embrace. Attempting to grasp the latest in thought, a fashionable glimpse at the run of the mill. Another episode, another group of men (and lady) – dissect and muck up. These people! So much to say, and on my time.

Things I can conceive impress but those I cannot represent – immense! The strange views and flashes on and off jumbled with drug addled candor. Well surely, this is sublime. Some bizarre primitive superstition has got me here again – is keeping me from just biting the bullet and pulling the plug. Then we'll see.

I meet up with some of the boys at Mr Shankleys, my rough exterior and unkempt face not in keeping with how vibrant and wonderful I feel. Keith is there, and I am soon made to acknowledge this. I split up a perfectly good conversation with my presence.

"Their feet go so bad, they lopped them off and threw them in a field, and a crow ate them....."

"And this is where I say hello."

"Ah, the lodger. 411 with respect to where you live."

"Raj makes a lovely brunch." I sit down, move around. I talk to Keith and it's all good. He looks like a man of science, but a failure perhaps. He works on an adolescent psychiatric ward – disturbed littluns and lads yet to realise interaction – yet to master appropriate fizz.

"We have talked before, albeit a brief dalliance online."

"Of course, but my memory fails me. This would be an embarrassment to me, and this is where you cut in - something dispelling and pleasing."

"We chatted inanely, neither got a measure. Replying to mail can sometimes get out of hand . When does one conversation end, and the next one begin? There are many variables."

"Perhaps that's why friendships have continued to be dominant in the real world. A conversation ends when one of the individuals walks away."

"And this is my cue to do just that." A mutual smile, I put on a brew as Sam and J Mac kick down the door, buzzy and primal. Their heads barely screwed on, they commit to nothing and happily offend the crowd. They rush around the shop saying things and causing a ruckus. The crew feed off their naughty faces. We converse about conquests and squelchy noises, numbers and the like. Sidestepping nonsense and forgetting who we are for minutes – who we should be.

"My word, I feel debauched, and quite unhygienic, actually." I touch Sam's clammy hand, a mock move – a spindly yank hand shake yo. He declares the tune J Mac spins as bullshit, not as good as 1995 – 1997. Nonsense in fact. "Are you still designing? And you are in a relationship. How nice, who's the lucky one?"

"No, I am not in a relationship." I curl my lip, instead of my brow and pretend to be Elvis Presley, and Samuel laughs a little. Bouncy, he disrupts the music and reverts back to classic times. Phantom Limb is playing now; J Mac strides the stool on t'other side. Of course, I ask after his well-being. He doesn't look too well.

"I've been on a bit of a downer the last two days, but I'm going to pull myself out of it today, I'm promising myself. I think I need to get out of the house too, I've been squatting around central since the summer, we just moved from Dean street to Regent street, new place is kind of cool but it's a bit cold because the electricity only works on two floors, but it's a giant Georgian mansion house with a gothic facade, according to the police and owners we spoke to yesterday it's owned by the queen. How nice for her."

I slowly replace my blood with coffee as I listen to his woes. Within 3 months, he'll be back stateside, I almost guarantee it. Why he tries to remain here is beyond. I love him - lots, but London is the not the place right now. In Chicago, there's a car waiting. He may even find his brother, but I care enough not to mention this.

Sam demands a lift to Golders Green to liaise with a clumpy bug bus. I drop him off, no need to wait. How odd, he meets someone and they hug. I attempt to speed my way back onto the north circular, dodging humps and chumps with buggies and the like. I get back to Raj, and we watch television for three days.

He hooks me up with the relevants, and I am contracted! I have promotional duties; designing shit and scouting round for prices, negotiating and wotnot. To others, the detailed lines dictate the end product. Well, that's what they will judge me on. But they won't know what's gone in, or the sweat - or shit. My determination – as vicious as roman rule, a freelance cunt I'll be.

I miss the larks, the office buzz and the complainin'. But some joy filters through as my only true love is given platform. The three years gone, well maybe they're good for something, and a portfolio – and scribbles, maybe this defines my smile.

I'll tell you things now, about Raj, myself – and how we met. Within this, you may begin to understand why we act as we do.

By fourteen, he had read most of the stuff by the beats, and by fifteen – the existentialists. Proust, Nietzsche, Dostoevsky, Kafka, French stuff, German stuff - Mann, lots of Hesse. By seventeen, he had three battered suitcases full of lits. He was probably a bit mental.

He never kept logs, he mostly did normal things. He drank and partied, wooped and screamed with youth. He was probably like you. But secretly, he was going to secondhand bookshops discussing Simone de Beauvoir or George Orwell with the booksellers. He had two lives, wondering around anarchist bookshops in Camden, Brixton and Kings Cross – and coming home for tea. He was hanging out in scruffy old man cafes, and planning his escape.

On the other side of the Thames, I was alone and played away – my time cranked up between gigs and petty arguments with strangers – some of which I called friends. I ignored books but embraced any other written word, from Ceefax, to pamphlets to instruction manuals. Postcards, notes - shopping lists. I reveled in macabre jottings. I developed a broad rich, real sense of the world. It was my intention to grasp everything – everything. Make sense of my place within these walls. It worked – for a bit.

Miles away, a familiar mind grew stronger. The life of Raj was distant, forces prevented exposure to truth, and as doors slammed shut all around, he attempted to covertly obtain the info he needed [info = information]. We were both watched, closely. Our supple minds absorbed all, but communities fell and held us tight. In some instances – clarity. We read others well and made connections but colours were muted, and background noises heightened. There is truth in fiction, but it's elusive. And facts can hold us down. I had no patience to read a book – a waste of time! It was not my world – I craved to know how this one worked.

My desire to absorb grew. I used to go to the post office and pick up forms and leaflets - read them through, fill them in – pretend I was doing this and applying for that. I would ring companies and agencies and ask questions merely to see their response. I was gaining control of the world around me, and learning to shape it.

We met in a charity shop in Belsize Park. I bought the German stuffy study notes for Catcher, because it was ten pence. He bought a jumper and a book about planes.

There's a stillness. A blank verse, and choppy seas within us now. I fear he's secretive still, perhaps the same can be said for his view of me. Close enough for mischief, but never more. I'm still on his floor, and this realisation knocks the balance.

Raj and J Mac help me load up Sam's car with my shit. 6 journeys and my room in the square is filled with my life. I leave it all there and go back to ponder with the boys. We smoke seven spliffs in the afternoon and download some pornography.

There will be no further drugs for a while, I am confident of this. I delete two numbers from my phone and curl up for watercolour challenge. My destiny awaits! Sarah suggests we visit a theme park, as it might be fun. She books tickets and I commit to drive. What fun we will have, suggest my friends.

You gotta understand, there's no logic in these plans – my feet are tired and my brain insipid. My tether has worn away again. I look back at times when this was just a memory and it's hilarious to me. I'll break my spine attempting solutions, I really can't see what it is that I'm meant to be doing. Several people I care about are dead, and many more I have no time for remain. The road ahead is just that, no destination – no longer – no more. I tremble with ease and I'm cold – all the time. An error has occurred – look here – this is no concern of yours, nor should it be. You can bark all you like but it ain't fixin' no major flaw.

We'll dance with others, make it right. A smile and getting to know yourself. Yeah, cos that will work. Learn to love and from mistakes, arise! This is just the beginning. Well, what of it, what is going to happen tomorrow that's so different from today. A chemical change, some drugs - a cuddle? Please. Don't kid yourself, you feel the same. I know you do. Someone has to foot the bill for all these fucking blue rays. People are skipping merrily to work. Hah!

It would be lovely if I could stay a bit longer, to step into a time warp. I'd like the world to slow for brief billowing moments, please. It could be a little bit fantastical – this new life, you and me. If she cannot make it, she must let me know and I will make plans. I won't be on my own.

[please note: In apple seeds (and almonds, apricot / plum / peach etc kernels) it's cyanide, not arsenic.]

#  6. Advert for TESCO

The next few weeks I spend more time in Cambridge. I return to the fold briefly to take some drugs, then back up – join my lover. The weather's getting better, I'm told the outlook's fine. Hooray! Our fourth date happens – clarity for me. I know I act unfair around and something needs to give. A profound gesture – one that's grand? Should I buy flowers and say nice things? An orgasm or two perhaps? I smile and care – for a bit. She grows on me, she holds me tight. I know she thinks I'll leave soon. I'm a lothario, apparently. It's a bastard in another guise. She's young, she says she likes the things I do and when I'm not there, she misses me. I zoom up far away, and think of her a lot. Perhaps this is love. So quick, so soon. What a frightful thought, to be struck down like this. A nausea in my tum tum. I work out what to do.

J Mac quickly falls behind. Applies for jobs - here and there. At points, his life turns forward and remedies are there – The last time I saw him, we went to a Scandinavian Restaurant near South Kensington. He looked tired and keen to return to his mom.

Baked rhubarb, Roast artichoke and celeriac. We bung as much and sprinkle things from jars. I like it here with her. I trundle up and we fuck in the kitchen, eat our food, and play on her bed. She says I could move in, and I say well yes. I say I feel totally inadequate and ill prepared, and she tries to give me a blow job.

This is the score for your attention. My face is kept at Russell Square, my bills – as such, go there. I spend more time with crews on fourth, The Holloway Road, the nights. All that stuff yeah? But now, I have my outer ring. My lover, it's all there. We watch the secret millionaire, and spoon. I'm pretty sure tomorrow will be a good day. We're off to an adventure with bright lights and water flumes. We might catch some comedy. Her cramped bed infuriates, and at 4.23am, I wish she was dead.

So perhaps I am blind to what is happening here. We wake all sticky and pungent. I claw my body off hers and run a bath. Flaky pastry goodness in our tums, a quick wash and away.

We have to stop twice, once I buy a map, things are better. The beeps were stolen months ago, it was no great loss. A shitty coffee – really bad. And then we're there. Maudlin faces mirror my own, we hedge our bets and enter swift – golly – there's so much to do. It's tacky here, there are chavs everywhere. We grapple with dogs and watch quite a big sea creature clap and pretend to be a human. It's fun!

We take the glider across the complex and for the first time in ages, are high above everyone else. Behind us another coupling - laughing and pretending to scare. In front, more of the same. It's quite beautiful actually, open - and I can breathe up here. I jokingly unzip my fly and she reaches over to my cock.

There's people below and a pond with some toys on. There are few birds, and rushes, and I am reminded of television shows, and gentle Ben. We yabba little, we chortle – laugh. It's a goddamn sunny day and pristine noise is lovely – just lovely. Sploosh of diving duck and yackitty too. There's children wooping...everywhere.

We look around, do our thing. Our threads are crumbly now, our cheeks red rosy and child like. It looks like we are happy to be smacked around. Zooooom! Oh we have so much to tell, if people should ask.

"I feel worn out. This is all very American. I was ill prepared for this malarkey." She furrows her brow and fiddles with keys as we walk back to Lot C4.

"Well, I look disgusting, like I've had fun. It's still early, I suggest we find a beach and play the beeps." She agrees, and I spy the glint of recognition – my carriage! I speed up a little, attempting a comical wobble.

"You arse." She's right, of course. "Coffee!"

It takes a while to bloody get out, actually. My wheels crumble dust and we go up 'n down, and at one point, I bump my head – but she doesn't laugh. She goes aww and touches my knee. I don't get an erection though.

She fiddles with the knobs, finds a local man talking up a carpet place, then switches off and I rack up a CD. The whirly gig in my boot shudders and shifts, and then we are listening to The Flaming Lips at last. "I think I am a good teacher. What do you think?"

"Are you about to tell me things? I'm really not interested. I don't want to learn anything."

"Well perhaps you should." Her tone is simple, lovely – my heart remains on standby. Perhaps this is why we could argue we are falling in love.

"The economic climate, perhaps we should discuss this." She licks her lips and pulls her gaze to stare at my reflection. I know what she is doing but I am happy. "For instance, did you know that in August 1998, Russia did not pay all its international debts, and four days after this default, the markets dropped 500 million in a single day. That's a Trillion dollars. The FEDs organised a humiliating bailout, and Barclays lost 200 million dollars."

"Hmmm, well, Nobel prize winners are dumb huh. Stop quoting facts at me."

"It's not just fact, I can offer opinion as well."

"Really? I'm not sure I want that either. You're saying that humans get bedazlled. That it's difficult to know to admit you are wrong, and start over, and when to just carry on regardless."

"A simplistic interpretation. I'm saying elegance is a lost cause. You let it charm you, and you're fucked."

"Einstein. Really, I think you underestimate my education. And I also think you watch far too much television. What makes you better than the masses - that you are able to pass off documentary as your own vision? That they choose to watch X Factor?"

"I like X Factor."

She does, you know. The first time we met, she had talked about the show. She's a singer of sorts and I let her sing to me. I offer no feedback and I really don't know what I think about it anyway.

"I'm tired of this. I'm tired of X Factor. I'm tired of your face." I smirk and she rolls toward me and kisses my cheek tenderly. My eyes grow heavy as we shoot along another lane, the promise of a wide dual road all the more – it never comes. We zoom past truck stops, the odd centre with plants. I think of escape routes but trundle on by. We'll stop very soon, we must. We could die on this road otherwise. I haven't slept enough and the cage in which we travel will crush our bones and shed our blood. 'If I move to New Zealand, would you miss me?" I know she would. "We could move there and you could teach."

"New Zealand is geomorphologically exciting but empty and lonely and full of people who compensate by hitch-hiking and jumping off things. They don't have central heating...anywhere."

"It's pleasant and familiar and near to exotic south pacific islands. It's not hot. We'd do well there. Like a home from home. Shall I look into it?"

She looks dismayed at my question; "When I was living in Budapest....Did I tell you I used to live in Budapest?"

"No, you didn't."

"Never ask someone who doesn't speak your language a question they can say yes to, invariably they will, and it will turn out the real answer was no. As humans we like to acquiesce, and do so even when we've not got a clue what we're agreeing to."

"Why were you in Budapest?"

"I was teaching. I lived off bread and water for 6 months. It was terrible."

"That's a hedgehog combo." I think I'm right.

"You're wrong. It's bread and milk."

"Whatever it is, it's a myth because it gives them IBS and kills them. That's not brilliant is it?"

We pull into a super shop and pick up Buns and almond croissants. A box with an Indian inside, perfect for two. I stretch and smoke and fill up the wagon. Our plans – my plans – to stop and wander round, take in sights on sunny piers – quashed by a failure to park. The people outside seemed unreal, like a dollop of strawberry crush. Lining up in polite English ways, hot dogs squashed on floors, shit smears on walls, bright lights – tampons on beaches and beeps and sewage. Much of this imagined, still affects though. We yearn for something else. And so we returned to major roads, glued together with massive Tescos and the odd welcome break.

She foots the bill – again. We soon get on the fast tracks and I fucking floor it. Exciting, no? She sits up slightly and jumps on my fear. "I earn considerably more than you."

"Yes I know. I'm aware that this is related to perception."

"You shouldn't feel bad about me treating you as long as you contribute to a degree proportionate to your means." Her beauty and sense momentarily floor me and I break out a smile - one of them hidden ones I keep for special occasions. She slightly smiles. "That may sound a bit communist, but I see you make efforts to pay your way, so I don't mind paying more. I pay more tax – I accept that."

"My last girlfriend earned substantially less than me."

"Do you feel emasculated? Am I constricting your balls?"

"Not really."

I miss the tube, stuck in this box – control, it's mine, and warmth - and tunes. It's vibrant. We head back to her gaff – she leaps from the box and types out the pad. She told me the code once, I believe it's still in my phone, somewhere.

At her request, we plan to dance. She knows perhaps I won't, not now – not ever. But sometimes I do if I am left alone, when no one is watching me. It takes an age to return and we sit in silence for a while. She opens her mouth randomly with short bursts of story and it immensely annoys me. Again, I want her dead.

She tells me about the time she went out for her friend's birthday and the friend scowled and fell over. One of the presents was a perfectly preserved mini octopus in a jar from Tescos. You could see the suckers and everything. It was morbidly fascinating, and everyone fucking loved it. Also, the time she went to lunch with her ex to a canteen in Canary Wharf. They got back and watched American Psycho and ate Doritos and nice apple tart from Waitrose. The ex was cranky for some reason, crankier than the wind up nun that has sparks coming from her mouth. But after the treats, he was mollified and everything was fine in the end.

With her words, I feel a jealous rage erupting in my spleen, and face. Everywhere begins to ache and I tell her to shut up, rather fierce like. The sticky air is clear as I am allowed to smoke a cigarette as I drive. We banter slightly, damage done – yes, but soon we'll be home and we can take our frustrations out in other ways.

We rush back and fuck in the hall, quick and violent.

My pants round my ankles, I clamber off and wipe all down. "I'm hungry, we should put that food on". She looks at me forlorn, lamenting my behaviour, perhaps a little right.

"We can eat down here this evening. We are the only ones here."

When I am with her, I love what is here and for moments I crave nothing more. In time though, these thoughts creep into my 'ead. Bad 'uns. I feel that if she were to die, it would be a mere inconvenience to me. I've got a nice little settle up, no? My time away – I miss her like a dog does his owner, but also the sex. A day in her arms I resent her existence, her passions are cold, her words nothing special. She talks of love, and futures and I willingly side. I trample on our prospects – keep it bare. 'We don't need to talk about this' I will say. I pretend to cry, I manipulate. This is all a just a game, but she plays it too.

The spicy nammit, and a bit of X Factor. I adhere to the agreement that if I try, I might enjoy. We go to bed to watch the secret millionaire. I leave my hands between her legs and rub and try to finger her. She slaps me gently but moves my hand back when I comply. We stay like this all night. I pour her wine – some tasty pinot gee, soaked up in a fashion with rounds of digestive. She farts, and it's not entirely disgusting.

A peck on the cheek and a tender slap. That's all there is to mark the end. I get back to London late. I have trouble with the halls, my electronic swish makes pains to just be wrong. I'm doing something wrong. I clasp the black knob and a man comes. Leery at first then definite, makes a roundhouse shape with his clumpy fist – tells me what I should be doing. I finally get it, and shoot upstairs.

I am grateful for my new abode, its simple cheap and others live here too. A whole array of life. Some celebrities I'm told, amongst the students – I know of an artist, there's also a stand up man who plays the morning thrush song when he feels like it. It's awfully noisy though – not the song itself, but the walls are so thin, I can hear others defecate and masturbate. Sometimes in tandom. Sometimes, well – this one time, I heard a guy screaming "Paedophile!" and I know the boys upstairs pull weights. I can hear them grunting and it turns me on sometimes.

I can't invite a group around, but would I really want that? I have a room, jeez - I've sullied, sold myself and now I'm here. Raj suggests I get a job, some work to tide me over. There's nothing I really want to do so prefer to stay indoors and dream and resent those with more, or at the very least, greater focus. Cambridge affords a convenient release and pleases me I think. Perhaps as weeks go by, I will see less of my old life – the boys, the odd colleague. I've worked a few days here and there – for sure. But without the constant druggie intake and caffeine abuse, this is all way too real and I don't think I like it anymore.

I spend a week in the square, attempt some banter at my door and ring when things get tough. I think of escape routes that don't involve killing myself. I search online for ways to kill myself. Not that I can or should – I have much to share with all of you, and it's a shame to be dead I think.

The weather gets hot, the first real day I notice the stillness, the one layer only – the desire to just be outside. I get up early - 6am. It's bright and the boy next door plays dub, fast furious drums and bouncy bass, with brass tacked on. I don't really like it and I wonder why it is happening at all at this hour. In the distance, someone is hovering. Imagine that! I need to get out, and so I do.

As soon as I know a response would be likely, I text Raj and suggest some black coffee. He declines but I ring and we go anyway. His head is weary but it's fine. I've been in this room for hardly an age, but something must change – perhaps I could live with Raj? His sofa was long enough for my gangly body. People came and went. I momentarily forget the bad times, I focus on the current state. I want to change everything so quickly, and none of this is said.

He asks me how my beau does. I regale – "She thinks I'm dangerous." Dangereux.. We stayed up late and fucked till raw, and in the morning we lay in cum and I played with her tits whilst she phoned in sick. It's something I want to do again. Perhaps I like to corrupt. You like 'em prim no? That's what Raj said. I ask little of how my good friend is doing, or feeling – or anything. I wait for seamless ditties, my self and I are the only reality I adhere to, the social graces knock and blunder. I care very much for this, his welfare, fate and what dwells – his mind if worried – man, I want to help this man, soothe him and offer ears. But no, I lean forward – a trickster. A puny nasty piece of work I am, yet still I talk of what I can or cannot do, achieve and moan. Bloomin moan! Endless folly, it bores me rigid. It will come and come in waves though, I'm sure of it and so is he. It's what becomes; it's what you do for goodness sake. If one of us dies, the other remains and will lament and regret. It's a big o' hotch potch of blah blah, and social graces sticky up our bonds and we drown in the scum that is left on the top.

Right now, right now, all I know is that this teenage wet dream cannot continue past thirty. My mind hurts sometimes as I see the race being won – incessantly by those with more energy and cash. Lights! Camera! Action! Earn them bucks then buy that house, stick that gland in that hole – yeah, make babies, leave the light on and talk nonsense and jolly up with the old folk on a Sunday eve. I don't want to be a spectator, my dreams are hardcore but they will remain hidden and I keep them close, tight. I'll squish your puny body as you writhe. Man, I wouldn't like to fly today, look at those clouds... Come back to me. Make me happy, when did this all happen, I'm falling down, head is spinny. What fresh hell awaits me soon, what bright fresh discomfort. Yeah, you're different, this won't affect you. Gimme a break.

Raj flings a pencil across the room and it hits a man on the shin. "I have no money goddamnit."

"I am in a relationship with someone I do not love, and I am recovering from a tummy ache caused by a falooda, I fear for my future, Raj."

"You should put these concerns to one side. You are completely weird. You tell me things that don't surprise me. I process information fast, but you don't phase me. It's a big world. - too big to keep circling over things I've already thought about."

Deflated, I stare at the pencil and back at the man. "It was a good aim."

"We both need to build a home with an overwhelming urgency."

And of course, he was right, the fairy tale could be just around the corner.

#  7. Doggubbins

On the 3rd of June, I pull my finger out. A 4X4 lost control and crashed into the gardens outside my room. It was early morning, I guess the driver could have been drunk, or something. I haven't asked. He killed one boy – his innards squished I believe – and his head shed blood and it was all over the floor because I saw it like a pool. There was lots of it and it was a strange colour. People were crying and running about and stuff. Another boy went to A and E. I don't know what happened to the driver. If fine, I presume he ran off to find a top brass law man.

I took some days to work it off, this thing – whatever it is. My postal strike in effect, over and back I was with plebs and lovelies. Everyone was pleased to see me, and it was kinda cool, like comin' home – to see and share and banter. The money was swell and on the third day, I wandered all the way to TCR. Days as sunny as these are made to be magic. I smoked a few tabs and shared a joint at lunch with the old crew. It made me a bit light headed, but time with phones dispelled the meltdown. As clear as habit, with ease I slip. I can climb back up any time I choose.

Drugs came and went and I dislike both states. If this is addiction, I want more. More of this please, pump me high, fuck the rest. If I can carry on regardless, hell I would. But really, for the years I'm here, if you want to fuck me, you should really know how lost I am. I'm just a little boy. I've been pumped full, brimming with cynicism that boy. Brims with drugs too. But he seems like such a nice young boy, 'tis true. But I'd happily break your neck to save my own. Don't trust me, put your trust with those that will save you. There's no loyalty here – man, I tell them to keep their distance. You're never gonna know how low and angry I can go. I am capable of more. If they would listen, listen carefully, they'd know this road is littered with broken glass and warm smiles.

I want a fairy tale. Early morning comes – I find a scribbled note by my bed:

My fucked up head is pulsating with horrible reality. Man, my brain is actually pushing against my skull. Either side of my temple, a trodden foot is keeping up the momentum, pushing further until my face aches so. The noise from up above continues, incessant and there's just no stop. If I could find a relief that wasn't horrific to all, I'd jump. It still goes on, this is still happening. I yearn for drugs, some methadone, some heroin. I need to stop my brain and close it down, if forever, so be it - for all I know in this moment in time is that this must stop, for if it doesn't, madness can only ensue.

The Creaks gets louder, this won't stop. So this is existence without peril, with nothing to be ultimately sick for. No highs, no lows - just fucking here. A bubble - a void. Words can't fit or even come close to describing this hell. And yet I try.

I throw away the note and make some warm toast. Greg texts – he suggests a camping adventure - that would be nice. Almost immediately it becomes too late to change my mind. My good friend becomes my guide, he books, plans – tingles of this and that, memories of dizziness and rascals in the park. Oh yes, a plan is hatched. How wonderful!

I sign off my duties, there's promise of more. I stole £300 earlier in the week, so that will come in handy. My tummy is a little upset, perhaps this holiday will make my tummy better? I hope it does. I don't like all this defecation. I promise, because I'm a good guy – to work two more shifts at the depot to cover Peter. I have no idea who Peter is. Tomorrow and another – it's just early morn. I'll open and stamp and liaise with the others – then grab some juice in town - I text all.

I'm told I'm a night owl but life comes alive when I get up at six. There's a smell I love so dearly and my concentration is zippy by midday. I wonder things but then stop, and just get on with it, you know? Sarah flirts with technology and admires my genitals. 12 provocative texts throughout the day give me seven erections. It's hard to walk round Highgate park in such a state, but I do. I have to work (my arse off, I tell people). I allow myself a break, a proper sunny wander. I arrange to fuck the day after; Sarah is impressed with me goin' back to work – yeah! I know she's saying the rights an' all, but hey – makes me worthwhile and less depressed – I care only for that.

Highgate is lovely during these times; forgiving and middle of the road. It raises me up and beyond my grimy romantic bed sit. Shucks it's quite romantic today. I meet Raj at Holloway and we take the double red up the hill to the park. Fashion a picnic, a feast without meat and we talk about things, and I'm happy again.

I sit on a copy of Cocaine Nights and make small bees out of plasticine. The girls in front giggle and another girl, who is not a part of their group - throws a ball over a friend's head. We get drunk with cheapo Chardonnay from the tax break man. Things get a bit shouty and a boy rumbles on by with a massive truck. Seriously, it's huge. I fashion a green and orange duck and take a photo of it for prosperity. People will comment on it later.

"I want to send smoke signals across the bar again, like before the ban – you know?"

"You sicken me."

"You love me in a fashion. In your own way."

"I resent that."

"More wine sir?"

Our tiny plastic vessels, mine cracked ever so slight – kicked around, glugged down and soon we'll be merry. I fall back gently on my bag and soak up rays. Olafur Arnalds chime via ipod – I turn dials round and everything goes a bit fuzzy. Raj yabbas with the girls and shows them his bee and I can see them smile. They look over and I wave, and they giggle again. I imagine their young mouths taking in my cock and stare menacingly at the back of their heads. I watch the scene with determination, my body full of grapes, my brain transported to a better place with sinister violins and threatening undertones. A magical time, for sure.

There was a time when I was a child that I wanted to die so badly. I ate little and turned white with fear when I saw the mothers pick up my friends from the yard. I stayed behind once and lied. A meeting – a club. I told many people. I went to the toilets and looked in the mirror at urinals for other boys piss. It smelt so strong. I'd want to cry or have a tummy bug and once I smashed my forehead violently against a shitty cistern, to see what happened.

My mum picked me up at 6 and I had blood in my eyes. I didn't talk much after that and I soon refused all food. My sister would help the elders and make lovely marmite sandwiches with the wheatgerm bread – the one I liked the best. I would open up at dinner, sat cold on a wooden floor as Elizabethans told small boys they couldn't go to the toilet. We all held it in and waited outside the headmaster's office to be punished.

Raj had other tales, and sometimes he'd vomit when he tried to tell me. I'd pat him on the back and look the other way, because it's private.

"Them girls, I have numbers." He tugs at my sleeve and I smile willingly. I unsuck the ear plops and Highgate's just there man.

"Fool for a day..."

"I hear that."

We share a Mexican lime in a skuzzy garden whilst chavs watch Tottenham slane on the big screen. I hear a cheer, near miss – no woops. Still early, and much banter – I leave near 3 though – much to do to file and sort through. The mornings work will need a fresher state of mind than this.

I've never worn a watch, nor wanted. My phone goes beep to tell me things, at 5am it does so. My box is creepy now, I crouch to shit and wash away stains with a violent shower. Level seven, baby.

I text the man and he agrees to meet me on the half ten snag break. Familiar faces back in the depot, I hang round the lobby and shoot from the hip, make some light banter and talk about roles and what I'm up to. 'oh, not much', I say. The culprits come down from snorting in the sick room, waiting for the royal mail. They sign, then I join them for a ciggie out back and we swap notes for buzz.

I should be in Cambridge by six if I don't get too wrecked on the build-up. But all that changes when Sarah texts me on my last fag and says that she's close. I gotta meet my whore at Finsbury Park. We'll drive up together though, there's no room or desire in my hovel.

My bowels feel staid and unpleasant as I pick her bones at Manor House. She dives in my car and kisses my face. We're good to go so soon and I squeeze her tit as I turn into Camden. I ask her things about her day, she grumbles a little bit. I bet she's moist and I could probably fuck in her the car if we stopped before the circular. I don't invite her back before, no coffee or 'let's stop off'. Her London trips don't meld with mine, I can't have her here. No-one must know. An orchestrated intro, and we're ready for the dirt.

We drop stuff like dumplings in brewing stew. Slow mo now, less urgent than before. I hold her tight in the lounge and smell her hair, her ears, clutch her ass so tight I fear it will leave me. I tell her everything is fine and she begins to weep. Gently I cradle her neck and breath on her, bring her close, fall back and watch her eyes glint. We look down and up – around, past our loneliness and into a big ol' ball of white light. She looks so lonesome, like she needs the lord. I can't give her anything, not any more. I crave an end and my heart begins to drown in regret for future wrong doings. All my fault, my dear. In time, you'll forgive. In time, you'll realise these actions, no longer blame or hurt like I know you do.

We talk little after the juices flow and stains made. Down the sink, on her face. There's blood on her legs, I love her so much. All hell is about to break loose. At half past nine, we leave the flat for an hour. She looks cold and frightened. A broken vase, water on the lungs. She wants to choke me and we pass the lights on the corner. I feel for her, and revelers sing.

I barely remember the events that night but I think about them sometimes.

On the drive back my phone malingers slight and chimes a request to talk, later – we need it. It's over? Maybe, perhaps. I did 'er wrong for sure. A shame yes. Perhaps my disgusting new attitude has provoked my paranoia, but agreed – talk we must, and we will.

I drop off my crusty bags with pants and other rubbish things. I agree to meet up with Sam who wants a lift to IKEA – there's promise of 49p hot dogs and opinions needed on picture frames and other things too. I drive along the piss stench, the horrible town I used to live in, and pick him up on the corner of Lordship. He's a bit ill and still coming down from the high times.

We drive through the lanes and onto the fast stripes, ever so demanding this boy today, I act as taxi man, he offers me fags but I decline. The sun is out again, and I see a sign – well, a poster : summer is here. Below are words for something or other. The Swedish house of wonder has many things on offer, and I agree that the picture of the trees is better than the sunset.

We talk about things as I wait for decisions to be made. He tells me about his love affair with the HP Deskjet 520 – an archaic print machine built like a brick shit house, full of character and underrated I'm told. People here are funny, and stylish, and some of them are gay. As Sam calls for back up – my opinions tedious – insipid for now, I pick up lime green towels and a toilet brush. As we wait for the bleeps and my friend reaches for his card (my goods are on him! How wonderful, I will thank him), he asks after Sarah and I tell him about what happened. Sighs and words exchanged, I'll chomp down on my cheapo dog and confide in him further.

"She moves soon anyway, back up North. I'll see her again, obviously."

On my return a letter lays at my door and I read it with awe for a letter has arrived. It's from J Mac and he gives me terrible news – for all concerned. Four days into his Washington trade off, he finds his distant brother on the streets, armed to the teeth and ready to pounce. He rode him into a diner off the main stay, grubby and worn. Three days later he died, and it was terrible. A rubbish way to die. Lamenting, I read further and feel taught and stupid for nothing in particular.

He tells me he has been going out partying recently and finding out what his new limits are, his new rules since burn out and death – practically. The prognosis appears evil – a few lines of speed coke and a pill drop – then be drunken loud with friends. All to spend three days in bed feeling very silly. Memories are squishy squashed with half a bottle of white wine in the sun (or rain, whatever). This one time, he jumped out of the window in his office, and the managers all clapped.

Despite all these embarrassments and habits, the strangest thing happened. His friend told him about this horrific time she was having right. He found it hard to take her words on board and immediate dread was there, for sure. It was all painful for her and everyone went a bit quiet for a while. But J Mac promised to make it all better and take these feelings away. As it happened – weird, like a ghost in a room. When it was all done, apparently his eyes went bright white, and everyone's jaws dropped. But J has strange eyes anyway – they are sometimes brown, sometimes blue, and sometimes green. Like the Joy Division song, you know the one. But this time, his eyes went white – he must have looked like a husky I think.

Anyway, he thanks me for my time and I feel proper love. He then tells me he has bowel cancer and will probably die by October.

Nothing is wrong for a bit, I slip away and hold my balls for fear of them being ripped open and my chances of fathering dashed <disabled>. My injections used to make me cum proper in my mind, but that's all by the by. I tell Sam about the letter and he sighs. We should visit, or something. Let us give birth to a future regret. Let's fuck with the amp settings and make the crowd's ears fucking bleed. We're both angry and juvenile now.

I tell Sam I don't much want to die, or stand alone anymore. He asks me why I bother, and then asks if I should leave my hovel. He frisks and leaves me cold. His brother in law is out to war and his place is empty. I could take it, for free. Maybe for the summer, longer still if the man dies in combat.

I concede this is a good idea, and soon I am emailing the man in question. The house is a two floor in Arnos Grove and is further out than I care to be. Other doubts sure, but a house is good. I warm to the dream of cooking, and nodding. My pockets threadbare, time to fall firmly on my feet, and lie – scoff. With Sam, my burps taste of pre-dinner tequilas, my blurry shadow left alone. I love this man, and I make no apologies for this.

Tawdry tasks – sitting in front of telly, no sounds, nothing – for hours and hours. Greg breaks the silence and we forge ahead. I shall pick him up soon at Goodge Street, straight on the motorcade and up to the new lands. Boots full of rolls and mats and things. We're going to have such a good time!

On the way to the refills, I text on my groin and send sarcastic beeps into the arms of my lover. Gregory mocks me and stuffs another pork roll into his fat face. Time was, this wouldn't happen. Curve balls, and not a cloud in sight.

"It's too late to change your mind." Gregory says.

"Let loss be your guide." I reply.

Night time comes whilst we're still on the road. We pull in at the dip of a hill after the fifth riot. Our bond strained under murky scab rot. Hunger and nerves provoking banter that slightly goes beyond – makes us sick of the company. I talk about girls and boys I've fucked, and he dismisses social graces. He's more of a face man, so fatness fails to faze.

"We're hopelessly lost, and it's your fault. I totally blame you". Gregory's not stupid – he knows the future is now. We raid the pub for local knowledge, a lovely girl makes us a map on a napkin and lo! We were going the right way anyway.

By the time we reach the site, it is windy cold and rubbish. Signing in is easy, erecting shelter less so. We manage it, God knows how. But by 12 we're inside and huddling for warmth. I pull out my mp3 and crank on some jazz. We're on a slight incline and too far from a bush. But soon we sleep, and at 2am I chunder on Greg's head.

I wake early, too early. All my desires cupped in my groin, the local rag crumpled and damp by my nubbin. I poke Greg, and he groans. We lay for a while, too hot as morning sun burns the canvas. Opening the zip unleashes cool breeze and I yawn and stretch like a cat does. There's no service here, and it feels like someone is missing me, there's certainly someone missing as I wipe crusty balls of mites poo off my face.

On my way to the shower block, I turn to the sea and salute merrily. I stumble across a child's whistle and lunge into the bathhouse. A quick turd drop and I gather up some h20 for future use. Even if this hardcore life flashes desperation, we will be well watered - oh yes.

The folks back home become a part of the mystery zone. No mailing or quirky links to scoff over. Off down that road to things we don't understand. Maybe all we need to know is that the sun never sets in unfamiliar lands. The dirt track seems unreachable and after stuffing buns, we make our way down to the harbour with books, smokes and Ketamine.

No repetition to kill me no more. I push Greg violently on the cliff edge and he falls flat on his face, squirming like a prawn. I laugh and he grumbles, then he kicks my shin hard. I get my camera out quick, but he grabs my hand and throws it to the ground. He grabs my head and punches my tum tum as he kicks once more. I fall hard and thud on the ground, my upper limbs in slight pain. Greg laughs and pulls me up. A glint on the sea sparks sleepy interest and I yearn to lay on his lap whilst he fishes for garbs. Maybe sleep for a bit and make all them bad dreams go away.

Greg thinks of the right words to say and spits as he talks. We were a family from the start, us two. This break is just what I needed to get me back on an even keel and take out all that stinky rubbish. Darlin', we ain't never going to grow up. I'll make sure of that.

"Let's make the good times last!" cries my friend, and I agree.

On the harbour wall, my hair looks like the shrubbery above, and Greg splashes me playfully with water. I slip lower and angry veins pop out, soothing. My empty hands no longer hindered with keys and rules, or anything like that. I check nothing for there is nothing to check. There's a shitty seagull in reach and I yell hooray as my pal lifts his 4th crab clean out of the dirty depths. I lay grubby bacon fat on his knee and he sneers. We fight again, and I warn of my plans to push him in soon.

We leg it foolishly up the cliffs, hot on his tale, our stuff still down on the ledge, kids and guides skip merry like opposite us. I wheeze and giggle, speed past pricklies and bees, avoiding dog gubbins, and skidding slightly as I climb.

We get to the top and the view astounds. Greg is already snapping, and I run over to the highest point, slightly lower than the cold white building beyond the fences. Oh to just run forever now.

Greg falls from Grace and I lunge at his thighs pulling him down onto the dusty warm ground. He yelps and tumbles onto the knoll. As he drops I let my grip release and he falls back further, stifling a laugh – determined to be annoyed.

I spin on the spot till I'm dizzy and collapse at his feet, out of breathe and giggling like a small boy.

"By the end of the day, you'll be in that water, one way or another."

Greg lets out a deflated sigh, tricked into submission. "Do you think it's cold?"

"No, it's June."

We climb down onto the treacherous rocks, away from the path and into danger's arms. I momentarily look up at the path and see an old general with his young bride. I salute and the lady smiles and waves.

"You're a tart. Will you hold my stuff? Look after my stuff."

I grab his phone and pat his bag and shirt, mocking instruction. He clumsily takes off his jeans and falls graciously into a rock pool with a splish, a flailing awkward tumble, he professes it to be too cold, and I point and laugh.

After all this, we grapple back up the cliff, Greg soggy and happy like a boy. I jog ahead with Holmes in my ears, momentarily looking back and taking snapshots of my foolish pal. I throw him a toffee crisp violently and it hits his groin with a dull whack. He grabs it and devours it with relish.

I recall a time when Greg showed me one of his stories at school about a witch who cursed the whole of drum and bass so that it killed anyone who listened to it at a high volume. If the volume was high enough, it could vibrate your inner ear at exactly the frequency needed to stimulate the particular place in your brain which causes your colon to explode (which is both a nasty and a smelly way to die).

The witch lived next door to a bunch of youths who listened to it at all hours and kept her awake, slowly driving her mental. Then, she put a curse on them so that they all die horrible horrific deaths, and their brains fried. She died too, because she exhausted all her powers trying to curse the music.

My argument remains, that poo-death - or Scataclysm, is possibly a misrepresented art form. I shout something in Greg's direction, and then back out to sea, and he giggles. Fresh and clean we now are, if a little salty.

My story was less magical. Beryl Trampledon, Mallachy Fortunate and Hayley Likely all had a picnic this one time, it was wonderful, until Hayley did something horrific to the ants. Hayley had never been touched and put a trail of honey from her inner thigh into the highest point of her vagine. The ants shunned the trap, and the bees did come. However, as bees make honey rather than are attracted to it, they simply rebottled the spillage on her thigh and took this off to market, where they earned themselves £11.75 by selling honey on toast to the passers by.

The ants, being as all ants are, grassed the bees up to the Inland Revenue for failing to disclose these honey-related earnings causing the bees to pay a large fine and ultimately go out of bzzzniss.

#  8. Aliens Landed in the Night

Another night under the stars, chomping on mango squares and missing friends. Greg attempts a spoon and I lash him hard, reluctant to embrace. I feel a little nausea at one point and make myself far away. We make plans for the morning, our first trip out to the smallest city in the world. We'll drive around and stop off for buns in the rain. Take pictures of happy folk and disguise our intention with real polite enquiry. Our life in stasis, does anyone else here feel like we do? Of all of these good things, this had to be the one people sneer over. Greg talks about soul classics from the eighties and I nod, figure he needs a break.

The men return at midnight, whooping and aggressive. Like scallies on horseback, their muscles weaker than their voices. This for one hour will be their piss pad, we are duly unable to be anything other than onlookers. Double standards fizz and I feel like someone's daughter. Greg's on the starting line, and I'm ready to give up the ghost. I'm determined to offer them another way as I turn another page. I cover up the dust in my chest and for a minute as I crawl over rubble in the tent, I let the bees out of my choking torso and I smoke outside, legs still safe and warm.

We have enough money by Thursday to last another two days on this pitch, we could probably snag another night by playin' dumb though. Trumpets and skuzzy guitars bellow from our car as we take the out road for a drive. The morning yells from kids who need to poo, and fathers washing up dishes outside, the sun makes gender roles murky.

Escaping into signal, the world comes alive in the palm of my hand. It's not really all that bad out here, but the chances we've been taking are rattling concern. Well, I think for a bit, and suggest to Gregory that we quit these things, and point to bags, and a ton of marijuana. He tenderly kisses me on the forehead and tells me he misses his girl. We'll swim till we can't see land, make jokes of the folks back home. Moan and kill some time, you know – the usual.

We stop outside a cheery bleak plastic shack, selling condoms and rubber rings, dirty pickle rolls and bargain basement sugar drops from Yugoslavia. I merely stop here, look at the kites and suggest a fluff ball – like we used to eat when we were nine. Flumps made us feel alive back then.

After tea like trad boys should, we clamber down onto the beach and Greg points his phone to the sky, breaking peace and mocking. The town behind bustles gently – like when he kissed me. Bellies full of nammit and minds clearer from more brown sludge – even the boys here have machines. I never thought we'd get this far, and I shiver at the thought of staying still.

Happy Birthday Scamp, I say to Greg. A text flies through the air and smacks my phone in the arse. I drop it and he makes a thoroughly rude comment. I pick at it, but fail to rebuff. I have details of my new house - I am to pick the keys on my return. The message makes me so happy and thrilled, I smile and offer Greg my hand, and we walk intertwined into the water. We're so uptight, we can't turn around now. He asks me if it's all going to be alright, and I say yes, we can do what we want, and we'll never get caught. A jellyblob nibbles his feet and I kindly offer to piss on him.

On the Friday, after we move our crew to fool the yokel plebs, it's time to up and off. I explain all polite that we moved for silence. The lady nods.

"Yes, I don't think that particular party will be invited back." I nod as well, and lift my glasses, eye to eye.

"Well, we had a lovely time, we'll be sure to let our friends know." We succeed in our betrayal; I offer her some coins – non verbal like, and she declines and smiles once more.

Greg washes away the remnants of sweaty dirt and dried cum whilst I pack up the tubes and sheath, and into the boot once more. Bags are secured and documents, keys and cards that make beeps, and doors open.

Onto the 4 lane thoroughfare, I speed at 97, urgent to beat the suits – the clunky metal bastard growls at five, and before the bridge, I drop back and take in the old country with glee. We stop for snacks and piss. Then we start again.

I let Sarah know of my arrival in England, she replies with a smiley face. We'll meet on the Sunday, for brunch perhaps. My balls are fit to tight, this no doubt on her mind. I ask how she is and as much as she can, she puts my mind at ease. Greg snides shit and dismisses the tiny little spots on my windscreen. It's very good, his book - and my social ways are hindering his journey. He's probably going to see Cats again on his return – what a bastard.

I drop him off at Russell Square, he hangs on and brushes my shoulder, squeezes and winks. A bloody nice gesture, actually. Steadily, he walks along the railings with a knapsack and crawls over to some girls. He's a devil you know.

I could sleep I think, but there's much to do and sort for things to get better, for everyone. The trip was auspiciously lovely, and I zoom off to Mr. Shankley's to dump off bags and show my peeps the shitty gifts and fig rolls. Raj is out back rummaging through 12 inches. I will stay with him till the end you know. Even when this is all over and the drugs are gone, my limits will be hidden but to this man – never. I won't kill myself trying to remain here.

"Hello there. You've been away, and now you are back." I take his hand briefly and point to the unfamiliar brown Clinic.

"What is this?"

"Awkward 12inch. Heavy on the Clinic these days." I rub my dreary eyes, pleased at the progress of the sounds.

"Come to Slow tonight man, you can reel some decks. We're goin' new skool and setting up a spotify zone, oh yes."

"You're selling out. I'd love to, count me in."

"Happy days, happy days."

I perch on the edge as my pal takes boxes into the main arena. The shop is busy; I've never seen it so vibrant. He shows me the new manifesto, and boy – the latest dalliance with east end chic has yielded them results. A small spark of something is here, and nods to Rough Trade all around. Hell, even the clientele look achingly rad right now.

"Whatever you've done Raj, fair play to you." I walk through the glitter ball and clumsily shuffle through the new makeshift aisles, greeting and exclaiming as I go. "This is very impressive."

"We got some cash from the nights that helped. But also, I pulled in some favours, and so this happened." He looks around, as do I. The ramblin' past slightly gone but it's still here. Now covered in day glo signs and post it notes, cool looking things. He tells me about the PR at the institution of ideas off Liverpool Street, and I wonder how long I've been 'a gloopin for. He points to a poster I made for the first night of Graffiti all that time ago. Pride of place and all that - chuffed!

He twiddles with knobs on the new decks on the front desk. "Do you see this? What a cunt, the stylus is destroyed. Ah well."

These things can take guitars too I'm told, and I try it out on a 7 inch. "It's not fucked." A tinny blurgh emits from the head cans on the desk, but he's right, it is fucked.

"Have some of this juice, its super awesome. Yes indeed." I tug on the Guaraní and he tells me about his plans to offer this on a bar where the stock room spills over. "I'm going to open the whole thing up. You spend all your time out the back, the shop shouldn't have a back, I have decided."

I grab my own juice from a huge colourful box on the floor and frisk the new releases. Raj finishes up his tweaks and is all mine.

"You had fun with Gregory?"

"Very much so. I'm a little tanned so make of that what you will."

"Sun."

"It was rainy too, a whole plethora of weather type stuff."

Ain't it too late to start paying the price for all this, we could all still break down with enough insight. Raj recently took the cover off a bean bag that was returned to him after he found worms crawling inside. They weren't poison, but they were worms still. An immense stoic rip in the face of a brutal and cruel world, letting go and growing old - odd socks, and jumbled up thoughts. Words all coming out wrong but it's okay cos you're with friends, and friends will protect you.

We walk around the cool places, looking in shop windows at milky flavs and cut price bagels with salty sea creatures crammed up inside. I chug a lug a juice and mark my territory with flyers about my work. Raj stops and talks to peeps in charge, cool teasers – he knows so many.

I order cream cheese, pay ninety five pees, and imagine the bubble wrap around the bean bag being torn. The lady hands my circle snack, she is one of the worms. A wrinkled brown face and a tiny mouth. No eyes, but she still looks directly through me. She thanks me for buying from her shop. Raj is outside, organising talent scouts and cussing other men. Cellar Bars, jazz lubrication. Student whack dives, Boho hangouts and the like. Oh yeah baby, my boy is making the future happen. There's a sign adorning the front barrier - "NO WORMS".

And to the evening we go. At five, we shoot a black Russian and Raj steals my sunglasses, awful predicament. He buys a gun and shoots his face off with some Libertarians on the corner of Old Street. He sinfully smokes cigars and chomps the breeze with Polish dignitaries, mindful of the danger. We snoop up alleys and toy with aliens. Their eyes are green and blue, and a little yellow in the middle, like they been snorting speed up their nubbins. Aliens need drugs too sometimes - before they take over all these stately homes, and rubbish all the yachts that the presidents ride – they'll need a big fat reefer to calm the fuck down.

This one time, I woke up in the morning with Sarah, excited and upset. Aliens had landed in the night and perched their craft on the lawn outside. I told Sarah, and she looked right through me, patting me on the face and pleading with me through tearful eyes. I could finally see, and cried with her - and then the Aliens did the same. Together we got down on our knees, and then made her tea and biscuits and talked about the universe. They had just been to Atlanta and one of their crew had been refusing to speak. They beckoned him to share his woes and poured him a drink. They were all very worried about the poor alien for a while, and it had upset almost everyone.

Those big blue alien eyes started to leak, and we all then realised that we were going to lose it all soon, and so they left and told us that it would all be okay in the end, if we were to just have a few more hours with heads on the pillows. The sunrise broke the spell.

Raj swings into a mod bar and points at a boy wearing a button down Sherman with a black skinny cloth tie. He smooches his brown coffee, always brown. He dips fingers into logos and batters on about ping pong, and how in 1987 – he thrashed three boys in a tournament for the deaf. He beats Mos Def on the table top. He's getting' ready for the night ahead.

I don't wanna die without shaking up a thing or two, there're things to do, and by golly gosh, we're ready. Lights! For more! I'm feelin' grubby but tight, yeah. The amp goes up and I feel so good when the girl smiles in the corner. I wolf down nuts and cloudy misty drinks now flow onto our table and up past our throats into our starry splits. Make no mistake, we shan't escape this place without sickness of some sort setting in.

After six, we sup some Gordons and lime on the patio fix, and I work set lists in my head. Raj feeds me paranoia, and I'm scared of being alone. Suggestions of hour set after proper DJ, yeah? Baby let's go dancin' – remember? Like we talked about? Golly these liquids are making my head laugh.

As swift as concern for the elderly, we stood for more when we were younger, and tonight will become a chore before too long. My pal drags me out of my pit and shoots me with hidden vodka shots in my Mexican beer. I suck on the old lime as we stumble out and onto the club night. A good hour to make acquaintance, and untie – make sure all goes well and stuff. We jump the first queue into the receptive dive. A burly man winks at me and pats Raj on the shoulder. SFA blasts out from inside, and we take the main hall to the club room. Slight buzz already, the bass is too loud and a giant metal beast opens his legs for hope of robot fellatio. Sonic booms and friends from all over might come later. The sofas full of garbled festering nose buddies, all warm and toasty and texting each other even though they share the same space.

I'm asked for my opinion seven times, my foolish moves – I can't do nothing for no-one. I'm showed my upper level, I can tracker down at 9 till 10 to set the mood before the live band on the third floor.

Slow Graffiti started as a residency and has grown much, we preach our sense and it's tough to not look dumb now, but right now, me and him – we're right there – at the top of our game, may as willing enjoy it, no? A scorcher is in order, and I commit to making bodies bounce, mid-way through beauties being dunked by chavvy boys. I'm told much goes on in the 3rd toilet. I start with some Tindersticks, and Raj looks concerned. The Strange Boys set up the manifesto early on, and Johnny does wonders with lights. What a strange joy this evening is bringing me.

After my set, people woop. Mainly cos of Phat Planet, which accidentally coincides with a bundle of trouble at the door. All hell breaks loose at 3 minutes, 4 seconds, and I will be remembered for this. Raj talks in a circus voice, and fades me out - inviting revelers to go upstairs in time for the band's arrival. It's a wonderful way to end and people start to move and jolly down as I salute the sky. As Guagilone fades, the pixies zonk up the jukebox, much quieter now. I amble up the backway to the third floor and get ready to meet the band. Charlie and Elmo are fiddlin' with plugs and the drummer seems sad, and quite horrendously drunk.

A dirty girl looks at my groin, then up at my face as I pass the toilets. I slow, and breezily take one of her jelly beans. I ask her where I should put the 20p, and she smiles – she's well disgusting. Raj complains of tummy jip and I pat his back and swing open the main doors. Full now of vibrant success. There are space invaders taking over my turbulence. I'm ready to hear some growling dirty feedback. I will imagine this band are the Mary Chain, and it's 1989. I feel like a scientist.

#  9. Pictures of Naomi Campbell

I wake clammy and slightly out of sorts, distressed if you like. A four poster bed, and an ever so cold room. I search frames of reference, and wipe my dusty eyes. My mind clears and wanders back and forth as I realise I'm in Birmingham and have no idea how this happened. I kiss the forehead of the body beside me and piss in the sink by the window. My urine stinks sweet this morning, and I fart as I curse.

I quickly skin up, break papers and spill baccy stain all over my host on the bed covers, and a bit on the floor too. The limbs caress my hairy legs, I smile and go for the mouth. We talk a bit, I stay unhinged but eager to leave. Things rush back and I lament my foolish ways. A coffee and bun but I stay for a while, feeding the fish and admiring the work on the roof. The top of the townhouse, the sky falls in. I point to rooms with closed doors, and I'm told they will remain this way forever.

I'm showed seventeen unborn chickens, and – oh no, three are dead already. I like the blueness anyway, and the rattling is fun. Smashing, thanks. We kiss a final time, now my face is stoned, a sunny day will hide my bloodshot eyes. I purposely stumble through the unfamiliar, desperate for more, but eager to quit. A gentle slam and I'm rushed into the morning sun, no bag and a crumpled fiver, a used condom with a tie, and a stringy bit of used chewing gum.

I couldn't figure out what to say, tell my girl I'm so sorry. It was never meant to be - this fear in my belly. I need some goddamn harmony with my lays right. I still answer to one girl, and she perhaps deserves more than this. On the second station, I feel tender and emotional, frigid and sore from the rapes. I sneer spit scowl at fellow stragglers, and cup my balls. I text my lovely and confirm our brunch later on in the day. From one bed to another I'll jump, and we'll never regret this, oh no. Nowhere to hide - unsure of the mechanics of more erections, perhaps brunch will be all that's there. It may even work in my favour – yes! Devilishly handsome am I.

I sleep on the train, speckle now and again on touch screen maps, and prod my ipod – read 7 pages of a book, but mainly rest now. We meet up for sausages and egg at the halfway breakfast club in Angel. I'm scuffed and smell rank as I trundle up the escalator, breathing heavy and craving. I've missed her stench, and her vagina. We hug at the barrier and grimaces follow. I tell her about my new place and that we can maybe go there later, drop off some boxes and stuff. I say I want her muscle, and she winks and says that she wants my cock.

We pass J Mac's old drinking haunt, how I care for that boy. She looks down and up at me over her glasses, and all serious like.

"I do love, you know. I love you very much."

I take her arm gently and nod.

She's been doing awfully well, my girl. She moves north in 5 weeks, we've yet to talk about this, why do this now. I tell her that I will always care for her, and she nods. She says she likes my new hair – 'tis merely old hair I say. I grab her hand and complain when she tries a ruffle – slap her on the ass before filling our boots with fried muck. She tells me she wants to do some laughing and that she needs to know that I'm okay. I tell her about all the horrible deaths that have been happening, and her eyes get a bit wet, choking as she eats her bacon. I wonder how many men she has slept with since our time away, and yearn for it not to be zero. I could always finish this here, be the man I know I am able of being, but fuck me it hurts so much.

"I do care for you very much."

"I know you can't say it, and that's fine. I know you love me." I impishly retreat and snort gently.

"If I were to say it, would it change anything? The wheels are already in motion. We can't stop this, nor should we. We've both got things to do, to be. I'm not inclined to love right now." I feel embarrassed, bullshit hums and chokes line fog and death march (but not like a sad mournful passing, more like the Malcolm McClaren bus).

There is a point I make for sure, I know the things I say have truth. Articulate when all this is serious, and I just want to fuck – all the time. It's hard, apropos of nothing.

"I can learn from you, my time wasting skills are disappointingly sub-par." She looks honest and unable to hurt.

"I am lazy, yes."

"No, I didn't mean that. You have the ability to coast, you can enjoy the moment."

"Like this moment?"

"No, not like this moment."

"You are focused on the destination, and that is commendable. You will achieve great things. But the journey can also be worthwhile."

"I am learning this."

"And I am learning to achieve," I cradle her tiny hand. "And that's down to you."

"Well I am glad I have affected you in this positive manner."

Let us not stretch the truth further – we need, and repel one another. I'm reminded of stories and other lovers. The email banter with friends about affairs. A click from disaster, my failures uncovered for all to see. A bloody great ball of inter twined fibbage.

One cautious exploration at a time, I fall for much, but not in love. For those I'd jump in front and bleed for – well lucky you, but it's just another life down the pan. Mourners and well-wishers think of you then, but soon you will fade, and people move on. What's the name of this game we play? Hah! I don't know what this is anymore, but I do like spending time with her.

She skulks off at four, eager to sleep with her friend at Blackfriars. I invite her round to my new place on Tuesday, she's reckless in her break before her move. "I owe them nothing, really." she says. Her seniors appreciate but take the piss, I think. She really needs something new to break from all this normality, but I am not the one to provide, merely suggest. I signify other days and places to her, an escape route perhaps. She has fallen hard, and yes – I am slightly to blame for this.

I meet the boys at five at Highgate Cemetery. We fuck around, and they show me things. Keys in my pocket (a quick dalliance at Tufnell Park). I need to leave my box by the week's end, I may see trouble for breaking my agreement – such as it was. A bill comes in, not another bloody bill! My friends are in good spirits, Keith looks tired and jovial, Raj – well, one and the same.

Keith informs of an insipid risotto he made the night before. He tells me how he loves it that his clients put the commercials in the right places, so users don't get bombarded with ads not meant for them. I ask him if he had help making his risotto, and he says yes, there was some supervision. We all agree that middle class aspiration is affordable, and we shirk responsibility. Anything that dribbles from our chins - others care to clarify, 'cos that's just the way it is.

Laughing with pipes on grass, we snare tales of nervous scenes. Such agreement employs distance gaze. Wise men, but we're no more than our teachers now. And so the mockery begins. See how quickly these minds will turn? I play with my ankles in the park, watch the boys read and be cruel to children. For them office slaves, the hump of the week brings the circus to town. Three days later, I'll sort it all out – I promise. See how we've all been spoilt by the sun?

All this precious time, I waste and wait too long, promising to meet friends and then back track - I feel pretty dead right now. The excitement of drugs when I'm free and warm is intoxicating. When bored, there is a darkness that comes stronger with the thought of fucking up the new day. It no longer matters where or what I do, who I'm with and how they feel. The rules are there – wake before nine, eat first before 2, then eight – and bed before AM. If these break, so does all around. Allow me this, my friends. A get out clause when I require it. I'm angry right now for reasons beyond my comprehension. Rizla papers, whisky shots and strong black espressos – no expression – all before ten am. No amount of cleaning, or sweeping violins will make this any less tragic when the council knock on my door and my bloodshot eyes provoke suspicion.

Like a turd in a sewer, I bump along and wait for adverts to interrupt my day. So much is changing, it becomes unbearable, and people start to ask questions – my welfare, my fucking clout is dripping away and my cheeks are taut with illness. And all this happens as the weather turns, how deliciously ironic. Four months ago I was snow bound, wooly hats and hot cocoa, huddling around the radiator for warmth. But now I get what I want, and I'm keen as soon as dawn breaks – keen to corrupt my body and mind.

It shouldn't really be this hard, and if we could only stop the madness for 3 days, we'd all flourish, and this fucking overwhelming desire to procreate would fade. I had a dream last night about a child. I went on a bus and my kid ran down the aisle just as we skidded to avoid a slight dent. He fell and caught his face on a man's sleeve. Crying, he got up and ran ever so fast at the front screen and crumpled onto the driver's lap, all dead and stuff. It was a silly dream, and it put me in a silly mood.

I see all the delicate children now, since my dream, and feel bad for all the things that parents go through, and wish it didn't have to be like this. All the pain eradicated – no! Surely they all know, this ain't no fix.

The boys and me – today we're out there – ready for adventure. We get the bus to Bank and walk along the wobble. There's a lady on the bridge dressed in black, with scouring pads sellotaped to her face. At her feet, torn pieces of poems by Walt Whitman, and her boots are all furry. People throw money at her shins and the glistening coins encourage more. It's circus time again, for the weather is fine.

We stop of at the book fair and dust off some Kafka, Hungry Caterpillars, and maps of the M25. I lay on the bench for a bit as the boys do their thing, children's joy – audible and lovely. There's a fountain up top and speedos and string vests all huddle round open plan fun, jets of fresh cool water erupt from the pavement and small slender bodies are covered with semen. This time of year, the South Bank is one of the best places to be, I truly believe. I order three of the best from the ice parlour in the reception hall. The hall is cold today – bless them. My boys and I slurp and look at the trees. The trunks are red with white spots, and people have daubed their names – Carly loves Jonnie, and there are many penises (balls included). Some also have piss streams, also – their hearts. Poems too, civilised yes? I thank all concerned, and scrawl my own ditty. Here is where I am – I put, and the boys mock my efforts.

I know now that I'll never be alone again until death comes. And then still, with enough nannies and praying, I'll roll up my sleeves and make some friends from biblical times. These sour grapes taste so delicious! As do these milky ices we sup. Keith kicks back on a deck chair, and we surround – protect as we hover. We're a good club yeah. We get together to pretend that we're fine, everything – this day, these people. We party hard and stare at the sun. The rules and trends come in spats. None of our faults will catch up with us, really – no one here pouts or snivels, no one thinks to ask why.

I love these two, but we're getting older – I pull out greys every morn, and Raj sometimes finds it hard to talk without complaining. We grab some food and eat on the modern lawn. To our left, the wheels glisten and throw the sights around to foreigners delight. On the right hand side, smelly brown nuts burnt and then – ketchup and onions and some kind of meat, stuffed into long rolls for hungry Londoners. I text Belinda, a new flame perhaps. We met on a site for the Jewish – I lied. She's provocative, and she makes me horny. She's very young - if I were to ever owe her money, she'd get it back within the week, I'm pretty sure of that.

"Bend down bitch, and suck on my yoyo." Drinkin' tea with his bitches on the grass, a modern scally illuminates the air, and his friends kick out at the teenyboppers. We look at them happy, make up and sausage rolls – so many phones, and white hoods. Their energy fragrant and particularly bad, that age is unfamiliar now. Oh for a time when this dickish behaviour was in synch. They pump in some tunes, but so is the circus. The freedom of the lawn today is super.

"If one of you needs a non de plume, I suggest Herodotus K Herodotus. It's magnificent, no? Like a Greek Prince." Raj breaks the face of the words of the chav.

"It is a good name, yes. I have no middle name, my parents agreed quite readily on the first choice." I look at Keith, and think about his name – Keith.

"Keith." Keith nods and lays his head on the grass as Raj and I rustle through crisps.

"Will Sarah be moving in?" I look at the floor and smile through a sneer;

"No, that's not going to happen."

"Will she be visiting do you think?" I chuckle at the tact, and play along – civility rules.

"We remain as ever, I don't know. She's certainly not banned. End of a chapter I think, but that's fine. Everything's fine."

"Ah, you tease her. The odd day here and there, 'come down, check out my pad'. A cheeky weekend or two, then you callously run off. Leave her high and dry." He smiles cheekily and takes a deep breath. "Bereft, she shivers in a corner, nothing left to live for. You heartless bastard."

I guffaw and smile – genuine now. "It's a hard life, no?"

"It's a sad life. It's dramatic, like a drama."

Raj throws a crisp at Keith's face and he grumbles, then eats a bug which squishes against his teeth, and blue gubbins drips out the corner of his mouth. He sneezes, and mashed up bug flies across our picnic.

"She'll instantly forgive and forget, you cunt." Keith loves me too, in a fashion.

All smiles, we will soon make our way to the night, and take in a vat of Gin at the fashionable Kings Club. The sister in a beanie will be there, and I'm owed some tunes to wake me up. We'll dump this body in a clearing somewhere.

Yeah man, we're well on the way as chords change. Raj trips me up on the stabiliser and I cry out for London. Christ how I love this city today. We trundle into a garden and order 3 shots with a peppermint tea, and then on to the green tonics. We're greedy now. Fat dogs and mauve braces surround and glory beckons. Raj fashions a temple from business cards, and I make fun of the chalk board. Keith scratches a man's head, and they end up brawling in the street as I text Belinda pictures of my groin. A thumbs up, perhaps later. The toilets here are so skuzzy. My body must take on a new regime, much abuse is around the corner perhaps.

"Does anyone know the way to the apple slag factory? It's gonna be a landslide election."

We forge ahead, the bar propped for hours, Keith leaves before twelve and Raj and I amble home. I kip hard on his chest, and we wake up intertwined on his sofa, bleak and resentful.

The day ahead is littered with envy for purely practical reason. Pockets of routine displayed and mock me they do – timescales rotten now, and it all needs to change, and sooner for good, for me and my friends. I leave well alone and run off to Russell to pick up some shit. I to and fro all morn, I never knew I had all this, but secretly pleased am I still one of the normal.

The house is a large one, room for a few. A garden out back, a pond lay bare – fishes up-flipped and bloated, some kind of disease. Cloudy eye, or anchor worm – at least we're now free from attachment. Bless my soul, there's a shed! Of spades and trails and regard those fox corpses – they'll need shifting. A barbeque too - with switches, and gas canisters. The welcoming team will fare well here. The downstairs toilet smells of lavender, but I don't mind. Oh the plans, if this were mine. In a little while, all this will be burnt to the ground.

Two ladies talk beyond the fence that separates us. They're gonna tell all their friends the new breed is a no show. They're fucked out of their tiny minds. It's far too late for this kind of talk;

"I'd suggest you vote as your conscience dictates."

"I think I might be about to go yellow..."

I head back to the square one final time and unpick tack scabs from the scruffy wall. Good to be out finally, no one to admire here anyway. I talk nonsense out the front gate with a man who believes me to be a student. I lie, and tell him I am moving to Ireland, Limerick in fact. He tells me he has family there, and I say that I will enjoy the dogs, and betting on cattle. It's a farm ranch you see, he knows little of the area I talk about, how fruitful this conversation is; mindless and gloriously mad. Another strike against my nature, more reasons not to love me.

It slaps me in the face as I listen to these wench howls. Their voices turn into song, and warbling ensues. Daft dolphin sounds and malignant cancerous growths linger on my wrist. I play the fowl mouth joker rather easily, but all in all, I'm unable to bring anyone any lasting happiness. People use me and spit me up, out and away, but there's no self-righteous pity. That said – I know what I do, and the effects it has on others. Perhaps my crimes will go unpunished, I certainly feel that no malice is deserved. Hit me up, boys and girls – I'll buy you rings and careful cakes, we'll laugh and spoon - and then you'll leave. Better to trick and hurt others now, for my emotions can't bare much more scrape. We love each other, but that ain't enough anymore.

I go inside and tickle them ivories, laying out chopsticks, and dance hall melodies. Francois Hardy and pictures of Naomi Campbell, gosh – what a compelling mixture. Tonight perhaps a glass of brandy on the table top as I learn a new piece, something classical with which to murder.

An exception to the rule, when I see her, I'll do as she asks me to do. She'll forgive me for wrong doings and time will heal in super fast times. I once kissed her lips as she slipped away, and I felt like a rapist. My girl left me many times, but we both still have a key. Anyway, this all happens all the time, and there are real friends to embrace now.

Raj brings Smirnoff Black and two bottles of merlot. My triangular route is fixed for 2 more hours after lunch. Spliff at my friends, back to the square – onto my new pad, and onto the smokes. By four, I'm a little dizzy and counteract with coffee and 3 cigarettes.

The day of the party is crisp, but sweaty. Greg helps me clean out the rest of my gubbins and texts fight for air space. I drop off Sam's car, for the purpose has gone. The BBQ stoked, my friends all around. I make glib jokes as the boys turn the baby chickens on the fire. The veggies are screaming, and I'm made to mingle, the druggies in the lounge, skinning up and arguing over references to Serge Gainsbourg. A boy vaguely known logs into his spot account, and we all relish the tunes from his youth. A portion of angst, and be-bop, and some themes from children's television shows.

Gregory's cold mash salad gets 8 thumbs up, and Keith puts his finger deep inside, then smears the gloop on the shed wall, proclaiming it to be unfit for human consumption. Someone else takes time to put the specimen into a jiffy, and winds it tight for analysis later in the week.

The cocktails flow as three brilliant pies are delivered to reach. A big ol' spoon – these clumps of choux and runny goo are more than we deserve perhaps. I rub my face amongst the cream and buns are thrown, and kicked around.

#  10. Richie Cunningham

A man died in my home town last week. He was annoyed at a wind chime at his window and in his state, lunged out into the night to try and capture the swinging charm. It was ever so stuck, but still he reached further. He crawled out onto the ledge and with one final clutch, he slipped, and fell to his death. 5 stories down onto an unforgiving slab of paving. I am reminded of this as sparrows sing about the time one sparrow gave another an ultimatum. Collecting worms was a perpetual task, the lady bird sang "It's over", and the partner got high.

Quiet and calm though, the air flows around my head in the morning. Whoever lay here before wore cheap perfume, and I could stay here forever. A musky smell of teenage boys, and weights at my feet – my muscles charm.

I wander down the flights, still in my pants, and debris astounds. I make a start on the fresh and the clean, and work round the bodies - see who to blame. Two in the dining room - I nod and turn on the chrome, ready for figures and keen for some ground beans. I make a spliff, and down goes an orange and banana shot from an egg cup. I nammit on a custard cream and start all the tasks, all more aware of the clinking and the slumbering minds in the next room.

As I sit in the garden on my third intake, I play with my phone – relinquishing free games and remembering the blocks. The women are back outside, and I nod as I stand to realign my sack. I tap on the green table, drum beats for a bit – and plug in my ears to get some ideas, some focus. The people have come to my house, and they're welcome to stay – yes, I mean if they want. I jot down ideas on a makeshift pad and need an excuse not to end it all right now.

Tell me help is on the way for the love of God. If it were to start raining now, I'd not complain, and maybe it would wash me away and I'd end up shivering by the side of the Thames. How thoughtful reporters would be when telling the few on the local parade. A mystery man, perhaps even a news special. What deeds would come out, my secrets still locked. I'd interview myself on repeat, and everyone would watch very carefully. The bloggers would talk about themselves – how all this made them feel. We'd tweet and a Moby Dick soundtrack would kill the mood. Oh Jeez, a mangled hand, and the rats! Nibblin' again, and spreading their disease. It's not natural all this palaver, some semblance of them times at the start – let's try to bring that back.

The snubs and put me downs come thicker, with more frequency. I'm mocked for my position, and gosh, even to my friends, I am now a man of leisure. They know some of my dreams, and where that windfall got me. But less I disclose and this is for keeps, close to my heart. Even the closest of all knows only broken pieces and sometimes I think this is wrong. 'Twas easier when I seemed to struggle, but if a gentle rib is my price, then so be it.

I leave these bodies here, glistenin' like they do. I walk along the wood and prod golf balls with my eyes. I walk for miles, a nice day today. I think about today being my last day on the planet, and I crash out on the west way, always quiet to myself and beautiful to strangers. The air is thick with stained alcohol and I know all the things about new products now. I'm still mining for memories on the motorcade escapade, but I go left. Head central - stopping for no one, with nowhere to go. The accents I hear make next to no sense, and Muslims talk on the corner.

Without the pressing bother of a day at the depot, or the centre cross the way – well, it's merely a shuffle through life. I'm impressed with the retired, empathise with those retards who get their mouths wiped by carers - or to be a child again, with all them rules. People don't know how lucky they are, and we're all to blame. As the boys become jealous of my days, well – the worse it gets.

I point to cancellations, text Sarah – then switch it off. I don't want disappointment to be made visible now. I want this to be over, but I'm reluctant to let a good girl down. I wasn't planning to drive her crazy, but I'll drive this bitch way out of town. We have a million miles before happiness ends, and I'm sure I'll spark glass on the carpet, make her eyes bleed – stages – 12 steps. This is how we'll decide, I'll try to capture her attention, I'll listen to her lies and she'll listen to mine. We'll move at great speed, and we'll sleep in each other's arms, if not tonight, then I imagine soon.

My wrists are limp. I hail a ride, and a big 'ol truck stops and welcomes me onboard. The guy opens forward and smiles, a cheery ten years older – he offers me a crisp hanging from a party tube. The holding is high, and smells of boy's vomit. We growl along the outer ring, and I lie again. A trainee electrician – a bank clerk, plausible lines and way down there beneath my cock, a burn – what's he after?

I show him the goods on parkway, he destroys a stained white sandwich. A ring adorns; things I know I shouldn't see. I function bright and crawl inside, leaving all those things behind, just for a little while.

It could be pleasant, me and him. He takes the credit softly and mumbles on, droning – scuffing up words, and over the hill. Animated - frank, he stoops and brakes, offers to take me all the way to Reading if that's what I desire. I tell him fortune blessed in Clapham, so maybe not. He drops me off at Golders Green, and I thank him; flappy duck handshake and a cheery wink. As I jump from the pit, I feel bloody awesome.

I catch the zooms to Victoria, and make my way to the meeting point. Hundreds of suits and smells like pate, it's London alright. A previous lapse in judgement, it's pretty clear that without Sarah near, I am unhappy. Every moment brings me down now, and all I ask is that we make it through, I've made my bed – I've no plans to sell up, I've got nothing to sell.

Belinda glides toward, and she looks a height closer to mine. The games will be dry with this one, her face is worry – and she questions my hair for being parched by the sun. She talks with ease, polite but with nice appraisal. I feel safe, but not in love. Another new beginning, but this one may not understand, nor take in hand my sometimes serious ways; my need for completion. I feel like a bastard, but we go for coffee in town anyway. Fill myself with dreams of a tidy life with this one.

She lives in a town house, more of a burden to people, there's no real alliance – she never has friends around. We spend the lates together, mosey on down to a wine bar with cute Italian waiters and whores in the kitchen. We make our fervent plans, and nibble on rye bread – suckin' on eggs. It's starts to rain, but I'm told that it's fine and we jog back to her room where we watch the stars and talk about Victor Hugo and the German occupation of Guernsey.

We talk about Sarah, and the girl is matter of fact. My new beau cuddles and says all them things, makes me feel awfully beautiful and solid for a while. When this one smiles, Jesus – I just want to hold her forever and render her senses totally mine. I want to be the one she thinks of when she masturbates, and when there's nowhere left to fall and her body aches, I want to be the one she calls.

She cradles my head and we fall asleep, my desire momentarily pawned – this delicate piece, this super calm. All the world denies us, and our fever runs as natural urge comes and goes during the night. A gentle touch, a play thing yes, eye to eye and full of mischief. I pray believers on my side, I fall hard \- so many pieces here do not fit, but I've never wanted anyone more.

The door opens wide in the morning, the first set of rules and here we are. I agree that we're going out now, and that I will no longer speak to Sarah. I curl up my fists and hit my forehead, take 2 codeine, a Slush Puppie, and half a stale croissant. I kiss her tenderly and she jerks me off to Orff's Carmina Burana. I leave my soiled pants and a magazine I had picked special like – a freebie with which to glaze the effort.

My work for the enquirer will soon be upon the world, available in shops - a fortunate blessing, this one. An extra £3k this will bring, my design adorns the front page, and carefully illustrated gubbins all throughout. Better than nowt, but still this work took an age, I anger much as I imagine them shoppers walking past, percentage of interest - sourly deficient now. But pride will come and monies good. I'm makin' sure she knows the world knows me, and I'm the way forward. 3 weeks soon enough, my pay should clear before release, perhaps a celebration meal or something - or just a new special way of having intercourse. We've talked before about desire, our secrets – fantasies, you know? I sat there hinged and eager to please, but shocks will come and then egg on my face and I'll have to say I'm sorry, and that I didn't mean it.

I swing back to the house and greet my team. I give out the spare and thank them for waiting. Serious stuff this friendship.

"Where have you been and what have you done?" Gregory stretches and winks as I dive in to collapse. A Russian man convicted of eating a girl swims violently in my head, and broadsheets yabber with delayed excitement about proposals and bloody swing-o-meters. Today I relish tales of nunchucks, gay sordid lives and parliamentary cow sheds. I tell the boys of what I've done and things I saw in Canada Water. Greg wants to go to the white city, and maybe see the cast of that sitcom eating pie and mash in the food hall. Another time, my friend I say – but no, we'll go – for sure, if that's what he wants.

He tells me of this job that gives you £26,000 and if you're good and on the books, you can take 6 weeks off to sort out your visa in South Africa. And meals, all the meals you can eat. And then we open up a website of the Mosaica on the back street, and we can all afford the fancy meals on big plates, and it's fine, because we can all afford it, and no one is unhappy anymore.

Sometimes I wish I had a wooden heart and didn't mind them scowls from the lads across the station. One blew me a kiss once, and I threatened to implode. I yearn for floors to suck me up, fly through doors and travel up elevators. Set fire to everything, then – inevitably – call the three nines and fill in them forms.

Greg takes me by the hand and locks up, appraising mood and delivering promise of a better time on the south coast. We fill the rest of the day with smoke and toast, and shoot the breeze, willing the good times to come, and engaging topics. Hung parliaments and juice bars, milk bars. Friends who are now - or once, were in advertisements for Sunny D.

I tell my friend how I plan to go back, just one more time to lay with my girl. He slaps me hard and hits me down, sense and ideas are altogether now. I'm hungry for something, perhaps just food, or release. I don't know what I want anymore, or round the corner, what's up. I tire of thinking, breathing, and all these bickers, and names I must remember. I think back to families, and how now it's up to me to continue this line, and that perhaps I won't be able, and what a shame that is.

One cut, few pills or tragic crash. Some news from Doctor Wholesome that my life will soon be over, and I'll document these times for friends, and then a blackboard around my facebook. People will miss me, but conclude that time is short and so enjoy the remaining days. The night before Greg takes me away, I start to piss blood and pain crumples me up. I keep this quiet, but shock is there and my face goes white. I clutch my sides at midnight and crawl up the walls, injecting again and eager for this to stop. But the morning comes, it always does – and everything is fine.

We wake early and pass on the stairs. Greg straightens out and we crawl down to get the connection to Brighton. A clear day by all accounts, there's a firm hand awaiting us, and sharp skies and slight muggy air makes wandering pleasant.

The carriage clear, we play with our bleeps and scuff up the seats opposite, hungry bellies and the promise of sausage rolls on the turnstiles before we get asked for spare change. I gave some out the day before, don't know why. She didn't deserve, but sometimes you just do, don't you. We plan for a meet with the girls on the corner of the beach, his old fat chums – there's talk of a Barbie, and a shop that sells old pints and acoustic guitars. I know the one they mean – battered Whizzer and Chips and petrol cans, a cluster of shiny metal that looks like art and rooms full of chairs from 1973. The man out the back claims to have known Ernest Hemmingway – he's proper mental. And you pay for the goods with a ticket – like a raffle, win every time. I'll drop off a clanger and maybe buy a postcard for the boys. Either way, the loans will be tightened and we'll look for that shack with the flakes and the sauce. Missy G will dump the dollops on the cones and we'll wander round the city searching for hints of one night stands and avoiding pigeon droppings.

We crawl past the tough men on the corner and dream of a thrashing. In time, it will come, it always does. A monogoloid sucks cherry aid whilst safely in the clutch of a rent boy. A family of five eat fizzy meteroids and salty bacon bagels with dripping sauce. Away from the droogs and swell city plebs, we push out onto the bumpy surface of the beach. Greg talks of days like this forever and how we look the same as everyone else alive.

I shiver on the rhinestones, pushing on the cool ledge and listening to the dirge from my friend's beautiful mouth. Buried deep in his chest, there are memories of Casiotone and songs from the eighties. He suggests getting out of here, into the town and through the atmosphere and onto brighter things. We'll pass the silver booth and deep in our minds, we'll be sure of where we're going again. Greg tells me the unbelievable story of his last lay, and how he was terribly abused when all he wanted was the best. People take him for an ironist, a satire or a loon – but he's being entirely straightforward.

"Why did Richie Cunningham always call people Bucko? I did that once to a bunch of Americans I was living with, sort of as a joke."

"But these people didn't get it?"

"There was a silence, and then everyone was really apologetic and started asking what the matter was."

"And was anything the matter?"

"No, I was just trying to make a funny situation, but instead created an awkward one."

"There's a moral here. Don't call people Bucko for no reason. Just because it was used in Happy Days, it doesn't mean that it translates to real life."

I take Greg's hand and we run into the sea. He gives me a life I never chose, and for today I will stop these thoughts about letting go. I zip up my pockets swift and a bit gay – securing objects and lookin' round. He looks like the one with the world at his feet, and I believe – amongst all this, these survivors and stock market whores, there're folks who point out our actions to family members over coffee.

I pull Greg's sleeve and with all power in my upper strength, I twist and grasp his puny arms, pushing him down into the shallow waters. He counteracts and pulls me round, arms flailing, "My hair!" I fall back violently on the damp entry, and for a second, Greg saves me. I look angry into his eye as I dangle on his arm. He sneers, and lets his grip go, and my torso crashes into the sea, sudden salty overflow, flames of water, laughs at my screams. I snort uncontrollably and kick the water back onto his shorts. We run along the water side and onto the exit point of the bridge. Blood drips from a tear on my calf as I seek my revenge. The rich tapestry of friendships and he points out that I might have AIDS now if I swallowed the brown sludge of the Brighton waters.

Soiled and happy, out of breathe. We climb up on the big black fun house and I de-robe, tying my long sleeve round my waist, dripping and resplendent in my ruffled state. I call Greg a bastard, and he buys me doughnuts to alleviate my distress. The pier is always fun, and when packed, vibrant - today is certainly one of those days. We walk past a hairy man with smudged stars on his ankles, a creeping plant or spider emanating from the top part of his Ben Sherman, inky and northern. As we look down and chomp on the sugar blobs, there's a group of kids frolicking, making games out of nothing particular, rules and wotnot refused, but no one seems concerned. A small wiry boy slides up and down the leg of one of the main poles, and is almost knocked off by fierce balls of rock thrown by friends further along the shadows of the pier. He ducks swiftly, and people laugh.

From here, a dark stain on the waters below is clear to all; people swim inside, wood for the trees – many tummies will bleed in the morn, the mother's can't see the danger from there. I pull a face, and Greg does too, grimacing we are – nasty shock for the mothers in the morning. At the back, by the shacks and that contraption – the one that scissor kicks the air and provokes the yelps from the young'uns – there's a trio of musicians, all with clarinets. Out of place and we believe in them. They help us out and give us information about where they'll be tonight - a timely reminder of life away from here. We'll help ourselves to these memories in the weeks ahead, and friends are lucky these words exist at all. I'm sorry to be heavy, but I feel there's a need. If we wake up together in the morning, will either ask what it was for?

We'll all die in a boy fire.

#

# 11. Halal and Antihistamines

On the 5th of October, Sarah rings me disparate and hungry for answers. Were she a drug head, this would explain it, but now I fear for her mental health. P'raps the way I've played her, or maybe she found out about the other girls and boys I sexed. Either way, her voice is frantic but sweet. I say them things you do and calm her down, eager not to make further promises I will be unable to keep. She wants to be with me, forever. She says things that make no sense, and soon she'll make me cry. I tell her we should sail out to sea - there's talk of hurt, emotions and stuff.

I invite her down to the smoke. I tell her of all the things we could do; wander through Camden and over the bridge onto Chalk Farm, take a left and we'll go to Primrose Hill and look at the view. We could walk on to Regents Park and stop off on a mound and watch boys with no tops play Frisbee. We could take the Victoria line by mistake and sigh as we realign. Closer on the tube and we'll get lost on the Great Portland Street. We'll pass a bunch of thirties in slacker gear makin' protest with skateboards outside some headquarters.

She stops and interjects, I reflect – open up, codswallop – then some psyche. She wants me and maybe I want her too - but only for a day or two. I miss her so. She tells me the whole world is crashing down on her and she tried to kill herself on Tuesday. Silence and shadows, we begin to fall off the rails. Even the skin that holds our bones and organs is put into doubt. I question what is right and wrong and whether her little feet will be able to cope with all these sores. If she were with me now, I'd hold her tight.

I told Greg about the call after it occurred; we had got quite unwell on a really hot day and were droopin' around in his flat. We went back to Brighton twice that week and he decided he'd like to move to Hove in the new year and get a job with Lego. I took on all his rants and sold my reason, scoring points and childishly keeping tally. We were dry for a while, both skin and in our guts and searched for nice watering holes and newsagents that sold cut price Pringles.

Greg told me that everything I was doing, and thinking - was wrong. Much of what he said made sense, rang true – you know, all the things you admit to after the scenes. I took it all on board and some of it made me sad.

I came to the notion I was sucking on eggs. I played with a life, a hobby – without thinking in between. It hurts to even try to explain all this to you. I certainly did try to keep inside, distant and away from the hearts of my friends and family. But some introspection is due, I put in requests for answers all around, like someone in this circle could help break up the ways, and just for one minute – explain to me how you are meant to live. If on your own terms, comparison will simply provoke an angry green monster. I scurge and scowl, but ultimately accept these terms.

Greg seems alive, consistent and simple. An intelligent man, and rife with detergent and camping gear. He goes out, stays in – does stuff, and then reports back like some kind of imp. My life it seems is jarred and filled with space. I relinquish the cash from random things I do, it comes in and then I go out, slow to make an appearance – jumping from one group to other. Cheerily breezily, here I am! Meals and a cinema treat, a walk along the heath – expectant blowjob.

I delve into shops for men and rifle through trends, skinny fit, tapered – regular/comfort and loose. Fucking leather jackets and low slung trunk pants. Short sleeve over long, plaid cotton shirts, corduroy, and trilby hats. T shirts with logos and reasons to scream. Summer scarves all crumpled and a bit shit. Badges denoting ideas, Brill cream by the till. Coloured trainers – colourful socks.

And then of course I travel, up and down the length and breadth, coming in and meeting friends of friends, and smiling – nodding sagely. This is what I do, and how are you? And then it's back, cold and sitting there, waiting for something else to happen. Some others let me in to another life. It's just a series of events and when I'm by myself, I still get out of my head and search for the better way. And all of this makes my head hurt so much, I yearn for the day I become a statistic and the end is not sneered upon because I took the easy way out.

Anyway, perhaps all this is based on the three 0 percent deals soon coming to an end, and then of course – the world will open up and eat me whole. I like to dance with earners but reality bites hard, and I belong somewhere in between. I'm not even sure I belong anywhere no more. Them guys with houses now have ten years on me, there're yellow politicians 3 years below earning more than I will ever, and for what – my jealousy now threatens more than I can handle. Perhaps I will ask for advice, and learn things, and have to reappraise - and then everything will be a little better. There's no dark cloud, no – it's sunny and everything is fine. But golly gosh, a robot stomps around that no one else thinks to see, he'll squish my house and plans and hope and I'll be flung across London, ending up in Kennington, all apologetic, begging to be let into pubs to serve the servants – all documented on facebook for the world to see.

And the opinion – shit man, there's so much here now. A sneer, a bright light on the fools, and prodding, why must they all prod? I turn to the Rainforest, the men in rented green crotch sheaths, the people in Oz that seem not to care if you make a mistake. The Icelandic, the Nordic – and I mean the actual ones, not the middle road success stories that lost themselves and then found something whilst paddling in the Blue Lagoon. And then my friend talks of the class war, and it shifts further to the left. The country's HQ is now in Eton, and all the Oxford layabouts wear tight Lycra in attempts to impress the girls. Hundreds of battered acoustic guitars are dismantled and fires put out, and the song "Beautiful Day" by the Levellers is banned from ever being played again in pubs. This is changed shortly after to the one about feeling proud by the singer of the M People, who used to have tall hair.

But still I will continue, because without this, what would I do.

Greg makes me sausages and beans again, with hunky Tiger Bread fresh from the market. His lounge and kitchen as one, the dark blue walls and rubbish and tiles make me feel all Mediterranean and not cluttered like I normally would. He twiddles a bit, and finds some pop on his portable brown radio. Proper battered and lovely, from some time ago but not a mistake – no retro re-guff here. I get a handle on the Sunday Times and dive into the culture and look at the glossies. His friend Anna comes in breezily and kisses my cheek, falls in the chair beside me, and makes a farting noise, but it's the chair's fault – it's not her anus expelling air. She tells us so.

She asks me how I'm going (not doing), and I say yes, I am swell. Greg looks up from his cooking, breaks the elephant's face and destroys all subtle nuance.

"He's being a dickhead again Anna. He needs to do the right thing." He tilts his face, and turns to pepper up the bean slodge. I make a thing with my face that kinda says ho hum, because that's how I feel. Anna touches my arm, and tells me that all relationships are hard, and then slightly has a go at Greg for being unnecessary.

We share some food, three bowls on a bench and the pan on a wooden board. His balcony doors flung open and bugs crash in to our space, look confused then settle on books. Greg tells me this is where it's at, and I tell Anna that her face is beautiful after she says that it's not, and that's probably the reason she is single again.

It's too warm for the time of year, and agents talk of global meltdown. Strange happenings at telecom tower, and a mysterious boycott of a boycott \- at Goodge Street. Halal and antihistamines, who knows best and why, for whatever reason I am thrust into the argument and wobbled on the pavement a bit when they gave me the flyers. I tell Greg it's over now, me and her but he doesn't believe me. He knows we'll meet again and if we do, well what of it.

#  12. Fucking Hipsters and Beatniks

Perhaps all that's left for me now is to disappear. Nothing much pleases, affects or makes good. I go to the houses of those that admire, or drop off some weed. There's good news from fellows, and sex is always on the cards. It's a dark time for sure, but these pockets of glory are just no longer sufficient to warrant my time here.

I storm off to the doctors the second week into November. Answers are needed and my chest is rattling like killer bees are sucking at my nipples, but from the inside. I haven't been in years – I think. The last time was a joke, and people made me feel worse for even bothering to register. I remember clutching a small bag of crushed up kidney stones and giving my innards for analysis. The results came back the three months after – always the same; no new information. Everything is clear, yet still the pain comes round, normally when I'm entirely happy with my life – as if some power from above or below is punishing me, or at the very least reminding me of something or other.

I give in my notice at the agency, I'll miss the guys for sure. But it's not like it was anymore, nothing is. Everything seems to be changing and I'm no longer involved in these decisions or banter. Raj has suggested many times that a fresh start is overdue, his thoughts are quite right and maybe the time has come to change.

I quit Sarah too, but as expected there's one last cold clammy fuck in a seedy hotel in Charing Cross. I feel elated for seconds, then down and embarrassed. Especially when the man on the door asks me for my key and red faced I search for the door, mumbling a scene in my head and waiting to be reprimanded. It made me feel like a small boy, and I didn't like that very much.

Anyway, I think it's fine. Belinda should no doubt be next, I care less for her, so that would make perfect sense. After my time with Sarah, I thought about going to a clinic to see if I had AIDS, or something worse. They texted my friend to tell him he was clean, and I thought that was strange. I didn't go, and the doctor told me that not going may be contributing to my malaise. He said other things too; that I lie, and that perhaps I shouldn't because when I do, people are unable to help me.

I smirked and listed some drugs, but made a point that I was happy with some, but that my life was – oh, I don't know, just a big shit. And then I apologised for sounding crass, and other words were exchanged.

I came home, as always – zero miles from wanting more. A mess, again. The doc unwinds at home and I presume thinks nothing of me or his other patients. He sent off a small pouch of my stuff for the labs – them boys in the big wigs at the hospital across the way – the North branch near the circular – I could have just dropped it in myself, I wasn't doing anything else. And then again, another appointment in the same place, perhaps it tallies, for my entire body to be wrapped in metal and beeps and shudders all round. They'll test for things; forms and crunches. Perhaps it's a form of cancerous decay in my lower intestine. These problems will just not go away.

J Mac died whilst I was in the shower. My phone bleeped and the girl called me over. I cried for 3 minutes, and after I felt all trembly. It soon went though, and I took comfort in other things such as a quick hug, and a new chocolate biscuit I had yet to try. Anyway, that said – it's the funeral tomorrow. I called up my chums and one swung a flight - his cousin could swing for me too, but I declined. I said all them right things that you do, and felt bad for his mother. The times we spent together – 'tis a shame they'll be no reprise. But that's it – this life. I sip on the gold of the Incas and munch perfectly square crisps as my texts offer drinks, and solace and the like. It becomes about me and my wrath is here now, it will eat away all the goodness saved up for J, and spit out some venomous crap in the face of the loyal followers. Them folk who decree that something controls us all.

And hey maybe they're right, maybe something does. When it all goes quiet at home time, maybe they squish up their eyeballs and hold their breath and a furry cat bus comes and picks them up. The passengers sit in the cat's belly and the cat runs around town and into the country and over hills. Then the cat drops everyone off at the foot of a hill, and gives the people who have prayed really hard, a letter to give to the man on the top of the mound. The letter basically explains everything, and more often than not, the man will nod sagely and let the person into the gate. I don't think it's heaven, but there's music and everyone seems quite jolly. People ask to be each other's friends, and it's the law to accept. No one would want to deny anyway, the annoying people are sent somewhere else. The cat bus doesn't even stop for them. Sometimes, the man turns a fool away, but who wants a fool in a party for eternal happiness.

I'm told I have to wait 2 months for the results of my swab and the news of the tests, and the machines. That's fine. I'm gonna hang around the boys and the club for a while, swinging the microphone and hinting at projects. There's much on the horizon actually, and I'm told if I keep off the drugs, I could actually achieve a few things. I tap on the shoulders of these men in black, they offer me suits – some fit well, all snug – no bad dreams. I'm poised to achieve.

Mid November ain't no time for these kind of doubts. I try and crush bad thoughts and surround myself with the people I love as much as possible. The house is warm and grand and mine for the keeps until I hear otherwise. The monies come in from here and there, and ultimately everything is fine. I fell deep before, and I won't let it take hold again. I'm told the hole is not for filling, the trick is to close the hole and that takes the time, or the effort. But spazz chops here wants them drugs more than ever. I want to be the best looking boy on the block, get all the girls and fuck my way out of trouble should it come my way. I don't want no man on my back, I want some respect though, plenty of that. And maybe the freedom to walk hand in hand with a Latino lad if that is what would please me. I'm not sure it is, but the threats from the oiks makes me think otherwise.

I smell an intervention, and on the third day of my grubs, Raj's friend James pulls up with pomegranate juice and brown bread. I had failed to see, all around began to get a bit messy and it was just easier not to go outside anymore. He tells me things about how life can be hard sometimes but moping round won't solve nothing, and he understands, but could also assist if I were to let him. Scattered on the surface lay hints of excess – plastic tubing and a stolen police badge. There's handcuffs on the drawer by the hall:

'By the time I get there, I want you horizontal and comatose, blindfolded and tethered. And preferably in a gimp suit'.

James breaks my druggy mind with more talk of sense and prevailing winds. This guy is the guy I wanted to be when I was 15. The one I was hoping I would magically turn into when everything was done, all my problems sorted and I became a proper fully functioning human being who bought shirts, wore shorts and talked about different types of coffee to people they barely knew.

Nothing in particular went wrong, but nothing really changed. These people I have green eyes for were this way inclined early on - like 12 or 13, maybe sooner than that. When I was a child, I could see the lawyers, the podiatrists and the stackers. I used to think my ideal job would be the night time store stacker, where organisation and loneliness go hand in hand. But then at 17, I failed the personality test because I think I was trying to think outside the box on the application form. When the lady called me back to discuss my unique approach to application etiquette, I got all worried that this further went to prove my weirdness, and I had a coughing fit. I got my mummy to call back minutes later, and she explained everything, and then I was dead inside again for a bit.

I've always had this notion, this fucking certainty that I would reach a certain age, and everything would just slot into place and then everything would be fine. Like at 35 or something, I would have enough knowledge about myself and the world around me that life would just become easier. But that takes for granted the insatiable appetite I have for discovery, we're all so bloomin' curious and everyone's changing, and golly gosh, it can be hard to keep up with all of that.

I've known James for many years, he's fully in the other camp. His shoes are so shiny but even when they're grubby, they're still a dirty gem and not a glinty poo. I gave him some drugs once, he was having a dinner party and wanted a nubbin to suffice - enough for a small pipe with some mints around the patio heater. So I gave him what he wanted. It wasn't enough, but in return I got advice – some of which I used, but the snippets I discarded were the important ones, the ones that mattered.

I think for a while, as James sits on my chair, cruising through the new scientist, making homage with quips to Crowley and Huxley, bandying around and baiting me to break down so he can call someone. That magic number that would start the process and then I'd be a fallen cog, and that would mean I could be fixed. He's here for me for sure, but the news is out that I'm broken (I feel). And whilst I yearn to fix myself, and James – the world, or at least this small blue patch, I take more substance and less advice, and my mind goes haywire, in synch with the image those drones hold of me. Or p'raps they don't care, and this is what happens when you stop and think. It just turns sour.

James takes me out for coffee, back at his gaff. It's nice to be outside, and momentarily wrapped up in a silver car, heating and clunk clink, no rattles and a warm feeling of security. I yearn to talk on the way, about the decay I've been going through and how I want all this nonsense to end, but don't know how. Perhaps a professional, or some theories, some literature, some help from somewhere. The need to medicate so strong in my mind that I know this is wrong and I must desist, through my own invention, decisions – whatever. Things must be crispy clean from now on, and no more fog or humourless drops to muddy the progress. A plan is in sight and this city will repay me for all the damage it has done. Oh London, you owe me.

"I did the seating plan. I put my sister's boyfriend away from me because he's retarded."

"He's not actually retarded though is he?"

"No. We had 70 glasses on the table at one point, I think that means it was an event." James talks with pride and exuberance. A success, and people are still talking about his dinner. "I imagine we're still the talk of the company."

"Were the kids there?"

"We laid up another table for them, they all loved it. The children only had one glass though."

"Idiots."

"Danny knows how to behave, each knife and fork used correctly. I don't know all their names – an oversight."

"Did they eat as you did?"

"Not a fish finger in sight. Having said that, I think I've had about 30 fish fingers this month. When we're not entertaining, and if I'm back from work in time, I will often just have the same as the kids. If anything, they dictate my supper on the week days."

"They're controlling you, James."

"Little bastards."

He froths another cap, a water - another espresso on the side. We share a ginger snap and he slides his phone, taps codes, and discards when nothing unfolds - nothing of any importance anyway.

"And you are ok? Everything is fine?"

"I am yes, I'm looking for work." I hold my face to keep in the feelings.

"We might have some stuff at the office, filing and the like. It's a good office - the new one in Warren Street."

"That sounds fine, I can do that." I slightly feel perturbed and my left leg convulses with the weight of concern. "Can you email me the details?"

He passes me a scrawled number; "Just ring this and ask for Ollie. There's no need for an interview."

And gosh and cripes I'll do just that I suppose. I'll go in and file. I feel it's beneath and I want to say no, and I want to do more. I want to be James in his big house, and me be the one who says what he said, and maybe feel pity for me as I sit there and ask for work. It may have been just a way to converse as well, I don't know if I need or want these things, but James has lots of plans and he eats fish fingers with children, and has 70 glasses on a table.

"How many people were at your thing?"

"12. 16 if you count the boys."

We banter around, kick shit out of telly and talk about cartoons and children's fantasies. He tells me about the night garden, and I nod like it's like new, although I already know about it because I've watched it myself. I tell him about a paedophile who used to molest under developed people (people with learning difficulties) behind the Oval. We'll talk more about this, he says – there was also this guy everyone knew as Steve Arena, who lived under Deptford Bridge. He fancied kids too.

On my way out of his apartment, he gives me a bin bag full of clothes. For charity, or me – musn't confuse the two. But I know they'll be ties, and maybe a fleece or a polo worthy of logo rape. I take the bag, saggy in the middle – not too heavy but incumbent all the same. This cube in Canary Wharf must cost quite the earth, but James is freelance, and this is cheaper than a hotel. I spoke to my mother about this place once, and she said it was another league, another world, but I don't think it is better – perhaps it is.

My phone has improved, my embarrassment visible. I now glub jolly like the rest. The fucking hipsters and beatniks call me up, dress me down for selling out, yet I remind them that I still have no monies, my fleshy skin is still palid and I'm not in the wrong cart quite yet. But their sheer grumbling begins to annoy and I soon find myself desiring James. No longer his lifestyle (heck man, let's face up to this now, a shiny new life would be a pleasure, no?). Just his company, a forward look, no longer a grumble, the darker days where foul mouthed droogs and yada-yada – you know what I mean. The endless bickering for things that are wrong. James seems happy, and I could be too, I'm sure.

I take the grey line to London Bridge, and as I meander through the crowds, I catch a glimpse in the reflective sheen of a Ps3 persuasive text box. The man is me, and the bag makes me look sad, dejected. I imagine my image, how I look to these others around, and I feel the desperate urge to start filing, almost immediately. As I mount the stairs, I rummage through the bag, momentarily dropping my oyster, and then my keys below. Flustered and visibly wrong, I sweep up my goods and two at a time I climb until I feel the woooosh of the London breeze. The beepz and I scramble for nicotine vendors, success – and I walk along the bank, destination foiled by random strangers.

Some time later, I meet Raj at Ping Pong for food. He has a book for me, and tales of a pasta pesto combination that serves him well. He'd just come from the Northern Quarter, where people were doing parkour and there were tightrope walkers selling ice creams to Poles. One of the Poles stopped him and asked him if he knew where the local haberdashery was – Raj said he had no idea, but then dashed after her. She was almost out of sight, and when he had caught up, he told her about another place that sold ready-made curtains. I asked him if he was trying to flirt, and he said no, but he had an overwhelming desire to help the woman. She seemed tired, and unable to come to terms with the fact that the shop she was looking for didn't exist.

I tell Raj about my plans to stop taking drugs, and he tells me that if I were serious, I would not vocalise my intentions. At the after school bar, I pop outside for a smoke and spy a magical dwarf hiding under the building. I coax him out with some roach.

Magical Dwarf: So we are here, you're here, and of course you met up with James.

Me: I did, and he gave me a big black bag of clothes, for which I am very grateful.

Magical Dwarf: Are you are fine, and everything is fine?

Me: Well I wouldn't go that far.

Magical Dwarf: I can smell the Whiskey.

Me: I suppose I am troubled but I'm not sure if I can articulate what ails.

Magical Dwarf: I can see it. I've been thinking about a lot of things lately, and I think you have too.

Me: I have been thinking about death a lot lately, but not in a morbid way. I've been thinking about passions, and those who live for something whether it be that they are a great sportsman, or a musician, or a doctor – whatever. A skill, you know? And when that skill goes – for whatever reason - they are ready to die. And it's not sad at all because their life was full of passion. They had a thing.

Magical Dwarf: But you have no thing with which to lose, yet you feel like something's lost. A fraud perhaps.

Me: I feel many things, and they all contradict. I am invited to lovely dinners with interesting people in beautiful surroundings. There is decorum, and placemats, and different forks and knives – it's romantic in a way. And official and a bit stuffy perhaps, but it's right, isn't it. It's grand and maybe pompous, but it's a celebration.

Magical Dwarf: Why not embrace these things if this is what you want? I don't think I want these things.

Me: I rub these things away, make light of them – say they're out of date, unreal, a bloody horrible sickly encounter.

Magical Dwarf: Maybe that's how you actually feel. You feel happier in a boho lifestyle, out of the system.

Me: I don't think that's true anymore. I don't think it was ever true actually.

Magical Dwarf: It is to an extent, you can't change who you are. You are feeling the pressure from these pin stripes, they're romancing you.

Me: Perhaps. But it could just be down to laziness. I want what they have and if I don't belittle their lives and their things, and have a fucking agenda...

Magical Dwarf: Then you are a failure.

Me: It takes work to get what these people have, what they are.

Magical Dwarf: Not all of them. Some are lucky, some play the game very well, they know what they're doing. Don't think they have any less of an agenda than you, and don't think they believe in it either. They've just chosen a route, as have you. Heck, you can change who you are. Why don't you try, you know – for a laugh.

As the day turns dark and my breath gets stinkier from drowned Mint Mojitos, we slumber down Charing Cross past the boys in their slacks and onto the met. I give Ollie a ring whilst Raj pisses behind a homemade statue of Mike from Mike and the Mechanics. Ollie is warm and toasty, I imagine he's winking as he wraps me up, and I agree to meet him on Monday at the Great Portland tube. As Near Wild Heaven flows across the city air, I rummage through the remainder of the bag, and pick out ties for Raj to mock. He puts one round his temple, like Stallone and I find it so amusing that I choke on a guff of Gin, and a tiny lime spasms from my mouth and thuds onto a girl's cheek.

#  13. I am Deaf

Jesus, it's a long way down. Maybe it's further to climb – either way, this will be an eventful 3 days. I wake up spazz faced on someone's crotch halfway between Leytonstone and Wanstead. After being shafted from my hovel to the city, my desires grew and I could not bare returning to an empty house. Raj and I met up with some of J Mac's posse from the Gloucester Road days (when everything was fresh and we were all the same age).

We ended up talking quite serious like, about J and the old times and what he had meant to us. I managed to avoid the pitfalls, like why I had not gone to the funeral, but some of them also didn't go - perhaps they weren't expected to. Ben and Marco had suggested a smoke back in the East end. Marco's parents were getting brown in Gran Canaria, and Ben had some Moroccan squidgy that he suggested we get silly on. I had a block of soap anyway. I kept it with me at all times, wrapped up in foil, then a small propylene bag in a zipped compartment in my wallet (next to the kidney stones). I think I left it there as a gentle reminder – perhaps even a warning. But now seemed a good time as any to rebuke to safety blimp and get rid, once and for all.

During the night, I bonded with Ben, a scientist from the new wing of fiction centre in Kensington. I told my worries - as you do - to this new stranger, fuelled by white liquids and 40 percent shots. He told me that he is a hoarder, and I told him that I like to discard as soon as possible. I have a horrible fear that if I do not throw things away, I will remain static, unable to move forward and will be left in the past as new technologies forge ahead. Those Apple queues, I imagine none of them styler gays or Chinese stereo men have photo albums, or old ripped up tickets from star wars, or concert tabs. He said he abhors the present, much like nature and the vacuum, or Simon and the Witch. He's either looking back fondly, or eager to get on with the next thing. An older fellow reminiscing about days gone by, or a child with an erection on Ritalin waiting for Christmas day – there really is no in-between. And with such, a deep malaise fell behind his eyes, and it made me fall in love with him a little bit.

We brushed legs a few times, maybe he got the wrong idea. I kissed him tenderly on the forehead as we left the second bar, and pipes chimed as we entered the third. I'm not sure what time we got back, we got the night bus to somewhere – all I recall is being at Wanstead tube and feeling like I needed to vomit. Then walking across a field, and over a bridge. I remember clutching my phone and keys as we crossed, and at one point I held someone's hand. I was sure I would throw some of my belongings off the bridge if I did not secure my limbs.

Saturday morning is dark and damp and rain is in on the cards. Ben's room is large, and slightly squalid. Large enough for a double bed, a sofa and a small sink. I piss in the sink and hear Raj and Marco talking out the back on the balcony. I spark up the tail end of last night's joy and join the boys. I look up and mention the impending storm and they nod graciously. We talk for a while, but I feel disgusting and inappropriate. I think about James and his place, and how he might be starting the day, and want to be there instead. I think these thoughts as I inhale, eager to drag as much THC from the nubbin of folded paper as I can. My clarity destroyed, along with the discomfort. Raj looks me up and down, concerned for a bit, and frowns – perhaps he's just annoyed, confused by the day.

I leave some of the clothes with Marco – he seems like the type. I just want to get home now, I dreamt of James and his dinner party and I'm sure it felt good, and as I woke and reached to detach, I just wanted more. I play all off, upset for a reason yes – but not for J no more, just a delicious excuse; a bastardy boy – a cowson I am, I think. I sit on the Central Line, and back to the base. I immediately start packing up, placing things in boxes around, enough for me to exist as I do, but I no longer wish to float around in this empty vessel. My new job in town is a good thing I know, and I text Ollie to keep him on side. I make a funny remark at his response, and he replies with a smiley face, and then reiterates the time we will meet on the Monday.

Ten years ago, things were very different. Opiates were inserted in rectums and there were trembling hands and muscular contractions. My friends all thought they were going insane – they had the fear big time. I lived in a squat on the lovely road by Silvertown.

One time, Jim's sister had to lance and drain an abscess, which to be fair, she did with acute precision. There were boys everywhere, but I don't recall where they came from. Things were often euphoric, but toleration came in waves, and the subsequent discomfort slowly mounted our backs. This was when we used to talk about monkeys a lot, and Jim's friend Harry would go to the zoo after dropping something, and return days later in a state of unparalleled horror. He would force his way into my room and claim all sorts of things, then leave with bouts of paranoid ideas – fainting was commonplace.

The anecdote goes, that we had a lost nine days in 1998. It was around my birthday I am told, but Chinese men have made all memories murky. Anyway, I remember being in Wales, the head city I believe. I don't recall much else, nothing concrete; it stays with me like a dream. There are pockets of reality and snippets of things I can tell. I glue them all up nice and proper when people ask, but they rarely do.

I woke up in the city centre, but I was walking - so that freaked me out a little. I was with Harry and J Mac, and J Mac walked over a gay porn magazine then kicked at it in disgust. Harry had stolen some milk from the early doors of a family – we were all acutely aware of our surroundings, the familiarity of the paving stones stirred up with a writhing furtive life.

I followed them both into the job centre on the corner of the quarter; subjected to a barrage of visceral and external cock rot. We would snigger then cower, a flash of nostalgia, and pistol whipped with flashes of beauty. I'd look over at someone nice, but the overall impression would not be.

Within the confines of the government quarter, everything looked threatening. The women behind the glass protectors sneer as you get closer, and the cream blinds go up and down, slam – and positions are closed as quick as open. Dangerous lunatics all around, the fellows seemed repugnant, brutal and keen to corrupt. And then of course, we flew out the window and were soon sitting on the grass in the park by the castle.

We'd spent an awfully large amount, most stolen from the purses of visitors, guilt accepted with some reserve, we needed to eat though, and poised to survive, our pigeon chests could barely cope with the city smoke, let alone having bellies reliant on morals. Hell no, we were liable to suffer – we expected this ordeal and were prepared to endure it.

Sometimes we'd see the others around the town, and I'd laugh – uncontrollably and see them so full of pity, but even though I wanted to, I couldn't stop laughing. And then I embraced, as I knew the flipside in 20 minutes would be terror. I'd grab for the opposite of whatever I'd taken, and three out of five – sometimes, a disaster.

After all that, we found Harry up a tree, and coaxed him down with the promise that he could smell a Frisbee. He had a perversion – not sure if it was sexual, but he would champ at the bit for a whiff of some plastics. We had found one in the bedding under a tree and it was only right that we took it. I think it belonged to a disabled boy, but the man who was with him turned a blind eye.

We spent the afternoon looking for a kitten to buy, and went in and out of shops that smelt of hay and spherical droppings. Jim joined us after his service, had 68 more hours left and he looked tanned. His eyes were expanding, and then contracting, we adjusted our plans to suit his. We found a lady who gave us a kitten, and when we got back, we drank a ton of cider, and I passed out. When I woke up, someone had daubed that I was gay on my back, all fully fledged with permanent marker. There was also a flower emblem around my waist, and some of my pubes had been mocked with replica curly lines.

A couple of days later, I started to concern myself with Jim, and decided to move away from these people. I moved into my uncle's place whilst he was shooting the breeze in Berlin. His sofa was just fine. I needed time to wash away my body stains – internal grief set me reeling. During that time, I was immune to boredom – I had no place to be and nothing on my mind. My uncle was protective of me to begin with, but soon became tired and despondent. I jumped off wagons and into the arms of the boys within a matter of days.

We took a coach to Swansea one fine day and pulled back our foreskins on the back row, Jim and Joe got stuck in the toilet trying to finger each other, and Steve spent an hour looking at a boy's discarded shoe. We gave much pleasure to the chumps on the front row, and we were told – quite forcibly – to quit it, on several occasions. Steve was thrown off at Newport, but only to shock.

We'd go other places too - wherever the man looked tepid or tame. We obliged our fantasies by duping the weak. We all rallied around but would then pass through some phase and enter a new darkness, sometimes for weeks. But I only remember the other times, the trips and the conversations with locals. Friends of friends, and frigid friends also.

Jim claimed to be a scientist, and would pick up his lot at the pharmacy, sullen and sunken, but eager to explain that dehydro-oxyheroin was the only way forward. We'd all pick each others, and soon existed in a vacuum when the tickets ran out, with the money. There were 3 in the group who came from good families, and we leeched off their goodness. The transitions during this time were as painful as the worst thing in the world.

But of course, dependent on our mood, and what the waves brought in, things would change. The most exhilarating times centered fully around the Gash Den on the Splotch road. Christ, I remember them connections, the brain fizzed with that exhilaration.

Sometimes there was sniffing, we'd inject if the mood took us, we'd talk for hours and do our thing – sometimes speed ball it, either way, these times were so different to the downers, and God - different times, people. I don't recall where I slot in, my desires were less so. Jim once spent 3 days walking from the bay to the old town, friggin' miles – to fill in another prescription. There was no need for it, and I'm sure if it were taken away, there'd be no major withdrawal.

I stayed away after a while, constant reminders of why this wasn't the drug for me slapped me in the face when I got up at 2pm. The boys would get nervous and depressed, and I annoyed. We soon learnt that these symptoms would not be alleviated by excess, and morphine was no longer on our doors. There are only so many holes in arms for these cocks.

I still remain in love, and for the best I think – I'd smoke an indica blunt. So the times I was mildly anxious, perhaps I'd scream inside, but they all get hysterical about my love, and so even though not always a bargained lovely result, I won't rule it out.

The other men and women, well – we knew they felt we deserved this ruin. They regarded us as clowns, flopping about and rationing barbiturates with grizzly cum face, and none of us had any CVs.

It got too much by the summer of 1999, and interventions were planned, then carried out soon after. The final den before the raid was a shocking spectacle. For weeks we were confused and battered, sedated much of the time. I remember losing coordination and stuffing dry bread in someone's mouth. Even to the other users, we were losing our standing, and we were fast becoming something entirely different to the incredible people we were under the old regime.

Anyway, that was that. I think of these times now as I feel an open crack with a shard of light that reminds me of where I came from. I don't intend to return, and the polar men are calling out, finally.

And so to Monday. No longer are these trips abound. On the Sunday afternoon before ironing began, a boy came to my door with a sign saying "I am Deaf". It said something else about the pictures he was carrying, I couldn't really fathom it out. I gave him some money and encouraged him to leave. It was a strange exchange, and I told my mother about it when she rang shortly afterwards. She was pleased that I was now in gainful employment, and gosh I mean, so was I. She told me her news; the guy down by the millpond who entered carrot growing competitions, and who would always come first no matter what because he would grow them in drainpipes. They were really long - she showed me a picture once, and I've never seen a carrot like it since.

She asked how I was, and I declared things were better. To myself I trust I'm doing well – no more skanky lays or hangin' round the bad dens. I'm thinking much clearer I tell her, I don't know if this is actually the case, but simply mouthing the words brings some truth. She asks after my relationship – I told her I was in one you see. I say fine, and make the questions go away. I try one of the jackets from the bin as I settle down for Sunday best – archaic remnants on the BBC, and repeats of soaps I long to miss. Yessir, this is the all new me. Perhaps they'll be decisions for me to make, or maybe I just yearn for the luxury of administrating. Once more, the words of others crush me as a few key phrases emanate from the call. My memory twists and I feel all angry and pathetic for a moment.

I'm on the road, and for a fleeting spasm, the onlookers approve, and I get a rare glimpse of what the people who follow the path must feel, and it feels pretty spectacular. I want more of this feeling, and the fact that I feel uncomfortable in this conformity does not come into it. But all this conjecture and thought, fucking hell – let's just see what tomorrow will bring.

#  14. Sony Doo-Dah

I wake not having surfed 5 hours for porn, nor with a sticky head from any smells or vapour rub. I'm significantly fresher than before I went to sleep, and coffee tightens things further. I play my part this morning well, dressed up like them boys from the back of the Great Escape. Waxy hair to one side, eager to fit in, more than keen to make my mark. A little nervous perhaps, tummy lurching from one side t'other. And my mind is full of things to say, what learning curve will come, what fresh hell – perhaps it will come all natural like. I ponder on this, and how I'll fit as I try not to be sick again before the line change.

I did some research. A social glaze, I looked him up, my mentor and guide. The guy is younger than me, but that doesn't grate, or irritate, as I imagine it usually would. For I have respect for Ollie, it's mutual I'm sure. Even if he looks down on me, he doesn't let me know this, and I appreciate the façade if this is all it turns out to be.

Ollie meets me as he says, and makes comment on my attire - a positive comment. I'm polished but a little rough around the edge. But of course this is meticulous, and these frays have been moulded as much as the lines of grease on my parting. The day progresses rather well, I shadow one of the boulder boys – the smarter know-it-alls from uptown – so fucking eager with so much to prove. I'm as wide eyed as they want me, but stand my ground on menial matters at first blood, no way no chump's gonna block out my light – certainly not today. I give a few of the old guard a look that's designed to stir malice, a crafty cheeky wink to sexy girls and cute boys. I zip up my fly a little too slow in the gents on the first floor, and continue this provocative air, mainly for my own amusement. I also get more than my share of work done, tasks I am given I fly through with ease, and I relish the times when I walk the halls, helping others out. All on the first day, and I grow to love this. Of course, it won't last, and neither should it but for the time being, it's perfect.

The next couple of days are spent much as the first, maintaining database and ringing clients. These people are amazing. My fears of misplaced banter are unfounded, my mantra to myself – must not be inappropriate. I dive fresh faced and happy into this new set of one liners and pithy retorts. Gosh, imagine if I became comfortable here – popular - what rewards that could bring. Anyway, we all get along and I soon find my place. I steer clear of Ollie, and embrace the boys in I.T., and a chump called Simon – I don't know where he came from.

It happens though, on the Thursday I just want everyone to shut up. I imagine strapping them to a solid chair, and ripping their arms away from their sides – their fucking sides. I'd clamber onto their midriffs, so if they were a pregnant woman, I'd be close to the baby – and if a boy, they might get a confused erection (all the better). Anyway, I'd force the limbs toward the back and tie them down with black furry cuffs from Ann Summers. Or the ones my friend has from when she fucked a policeman – I imagine they are less embarrassing. Once secure, I'd play with them – scowl, gloat that this was surely on the cards. And then when they're full of the fear, I'd sew up their mouths as slowly as willing, in and out with a blunt needle so the sharp pain makes balls of water dribble from their sockets, and their mouths make sounds they've never even made before, contorted and undignified. Blood from the wounds would spurt and then splat onto tiles, and I'd do every single one of the talkers too. The realisation that someone would stop me bursts this dream, and I make white tea.

Some of the boys take me out for lunch – it's near enough the deadlines and enough work is done for this to be considered the end. We go down Soho and I tremble as I pass the place that it first happened. We enter a bar and the boys get the beers – I follow two girls to a circle of sofas where people are laughing and everything seems quite jolly. A new set of minds, my doubts are encroaching – my face may be slipping, and if so I need to quit all this newbie stench and pretence. Ollie is there, but bless his socks, he remains on the other side – the odd glance that extracts a hundred million facts, and nuance.

Someone orders me a bottle and I charge the air. I clamber round the busy table, brushing feet and crumpling up my brow.

"You'll get used to all this. This is our food, this is our fuel." Liz winks at me. I can see her name is Liz – her boingy badge dangles low by her vagina.

"Well everything seems to be in order. There's a jug of Pimms on the table, someone's just ordered champagne. Is this how decisions are made?"

She smiles; "Yes, we do try to stay sober for some of our projects but find being sloshed has its benefits."

"Really? I always had you guys down as coffee, fags and the odd snort off a hooker's back."

"Oh no, we've rebranded since then. Keep up, that was years ago. We're all about water, alcohol, blue sky thinking, inappropriate comments about mongoloids. I'm sorry, I said that because I just heard an inappropriate comment about a mongoloid."

Tim turns his head from the girls he is making laugh. "It was actually wholly appropriate. I'm not going to justify what I said. You shouldn't have been eavesdropping."

"But that's where I get my best ideas from. Granted, I haven't extracted any knowledge from that little gem."

"You all talk so fast, or perhaps I talk quite slow." I regret the words as soon as they fall. "Have I just offended you and admitted to being a retard?"

"Oh, you're not a retard. We wouldn't have you here if you were."

Tim raises his brow to her words, and points around, mocking his colleagues. Everyone in ear shot laughs. Then I laugh.

Mat from the projects quarter comes over from talking to Ollie and winks at me, then clambers over Liz's legs to put himself down. He trails champagne over empty glasses, grins and says great things – he's the king alright.

"There's my champ. How's it going sir?"

I smile, I really like being his champ. "Very good. Your colleagues are just keeping me up to speed on developments."

"So you know all the sordid secrets, and who to avoid in the office?"

"I'm not sure we have any secrets, Mat. Well I don't. All of your secrets are stored on the server, so they're common knowledge."

Mat pours us some fizzy Dom, and the banter flows rather nice like. Liz turns away and plays on her fourth iPhone. Everyone laughs at an app, and I'm happy for a minute just sitting and feeling a part.

"I'm glad Ollie assigned you to me." Mat looks genuine and there's no codswallop. "We've had some dicks come and go. Dicks is unfair. Just oddballs, people who don't fit in, or just can't seem to assimilate, or use initiative."

"Am I not an oddball? I think I am."

"Yeah, but you know what needs doing. And you know, you get it. Many people don't."

"Yeah, I understand. It's a relief for me too. Fitting in just makes everything so much easier. I doubt I'll be here that long though, which is a darn shame really."

"As long as we need help with this project, you're not going anywhere. We'll physically stop you if you try."

"This is reassuring, to an extent. I don't know what Ollie had in mind."

"Oh, don't worry about him. It's not his project you're gonna be working on. But yes, I can't – and shouldn't promise anything."

"I know my place, essentially a temp. I can glorify my role though."

"And so you should. But yes, certainly don't rely on this, but we do pay handsomely – and not just financially." Mat winks at me, and I raise both my eyebrows, and nod. Thoroughbreds are we.

From across the low table, two lads stand up abruptly and declare their intention to get another round. Liz takes a note and controls her intent – leaks some of it out like a jam spurt from a dough ball. We wither a little, the group fragments, and a few of us decide this ain't the place to be no more. I nod at Ollie on my way out, and he smiles, and gives me a wink. Everyone is winking.

Mat takes me to a private bar on Old Compton. The massive man says good evening as we walk in, and I lift my hand from under my shirt, eager to acclimatise, sweaty as hell. The blue sparkly lights sticking to the mirror along the atrium appear plastic and fake. There's noise ahead, and people look brilliant. It takes a long while to get served, and Mat makes a joke about being invisible. I crudely wave money about, and after ten minutes, a beautiful man asks us what we want. We chortle cruelly at the gibbous moon men all around. Tim says "It hurts like a thousand sons of bitches." but I didn't catch the first bit – I laugh anyway.

We walk up the narrow stairwell and pass the most absurd conversation, and there are dirty pheromones in the air that make you gag, and erect – simian alignment.

"Fashion, that untrustworthy whore, raises her skirts and moves on..."

"The world is full of gradually ageing people, jadedly bemoaning their outgrown pleasures. I find that one never grows weary of a nice cup of tea and a slice of Victoria sponge..."

Oh the absurdity of this place. We stand very close to other men. Jesus, all the bodies look the same, fat ties and crispy shirts – but I thought the fashion was skinny these days. Oh well. I am glad when we leave this place, and make no nervous pitch to cover this fact. The whiskey arms me nice like, my guard forever down, until these fumes die away and my mind and body able to operate as they once did. I don't remember much of the rest of the evening – bars and more holes. Tiny girl's breasts, and some idiots too.

Before the world went mad again, I told Mat about this man I know who is 2. Everyone thought he had a pretend friend called Hummus, which means he's a retard on two levels (or a genius on one). It turned out that he just can't speak properly yet (what an idiot), and couldn't pronounce Thomas, but also, he had made a new friend called Thomas. Mat said that he probably just couldn't be bothered to talk properly, and therefore demands a certain level of respect, and this increases his cool factor by 10%.

I sort of remember a bus ride. I don't know where I slept. Suspicious stains, but no regrets. Liz meets us at the third stop in the morning and all three of us head up to the offices where Mat says goodbye for the day, and gives me a wink. I shadow Liz for the morning, mainly sickness and dumb ass jibes, but work through the lunch on a spreadsheet, and email 27 people. I give ol' Raj a ring on the downtime. I submit. Golly he sounds amazed, and full of beans. I tell him my new job is going well, and he trips over invites – but I pick up the thread – these tired eyes and brain may well as stay out now. For what is waiting in that house on my return. A visual feast perhaps, but nothing new. I'll clamber around dirty bins to find roaches with which I can squeeze out some pot. There must be some drugs somewhere, and until I'm sure the pot is dry – I'll try goddamnit – I'll fashion a spliff out of the crudest of nothing. A blimp hunt is sad but neither a full length mirror, nor a stranger who judges – nothing will stop me from attempting to separate my mind from my body.

The day plods on and soon it's gone. Before I leave, Jack who works beside me informed me that he wrote the name of a crush on a piece of paper and put it under his pillow. I asked him if anything came of it, and he laughed it off.

And the work continues like this for another 8 days.

"We see this move as a natural evolution..."

I sit in and out of more of the same, eager to progress and show some skill in the short time I have left. The new advisories specialise in intellectual property – I doodle on scabs of torn white sheet and secretly record everything they say on a little Sony doo dah.

"...in order to service an increasingly international buyer and seller market, and look forward to delivering more exciting deals."

I challenge nothing cos all abound is misty, but I pretend at the very least to record these thoughts. The past seven days news and RSS feeds, I report and comment – I'll last a week before I drown here – but Ollie and Mat tell me otherwise. Grant Bickle, Ollie's manager - he left to establish a new advisory firm, and worried about temptation, and tenders and shit. An assiduous hunter, he'd bag the best deals around and assign the old crusty bums to the bin hole. He'd built up sturdy and brilliant relations with the bankers in blue and his favourite phrase was 'yesterday's way of doing business.'

Everyone here is concerned. I potter round their feet like a confused squirrel with no nuts. There's a fallout every fortnight and troubles rumble on. Insiders point the finger of blame at each other, and then some put their fingers up other people, and wriggle them around a bit, declaring "Ha! Serves you right!" As I get deeper entrenched, nuggets of information seep out, and I'm covered in a grimy puss. I feel myself needing to shower more, and I start to do so on office time. A guy from an intermin FD supplier tries to slap my ass, once.

Accusatory headlines accumulate, and panic ensues on the third floor. But panic here is an entirely different beast. This here business, it's one of the prime four. Mat says it's enlightened and I think he's probably right about that. There's a drone here though. 'Tis my job just to record and relay, I keep my nose down and away from the bum holes. The assurance of risk sharing, a convenience, fucking hell.

The Mehta four meeting - I'm not sure how I was allowed to attend, they were all talking about the previous 18 months and how they were now able to anticipate requests for information. Forced re-evaluation was a good thing, and people now factor this in. Everyone is encouraged to ask for more information, and for the love of God, and the good of the family – we're all in long shorts now so the long term looks bright.

I lunch with Mat and Ollie again, and sit tight as jokes are put aside to make way for modeling scenarios and probing assumptions behind business plans. For these boys, it's second nature to analyse hard. These guys are face to face with challenge, but the balance sheet is robust and whatever they find in that black portfolio, they'll grapple with them numbers, ideas. Everything's going to be fine.

I write an application for the post on level four thousand and four on my downtime, as the minds of these young men give invaluable advice on the phone. These beautiful boys know that the opening gambit should never be to scare. The army they need to hold influence over – they know the score, and it fails to impress. But whilst in charge, it remains an invaluable tactic for airing the most appalling possible outcome. It's worth taking note my dear, that this presumption can prepare them for the bad reality. Not to say these chumps are sullen with their gloom – hell, there is no cynicism – no pessimist club, this is level ten mind control.

This is what I write: insert

I'd like to commit to all of this now that I have an in, but know again that this would soon loosen its grip. There's a burning desire here - these men have clambered out of the darker times, emerging with a much lower valuation. They all came back and were individually valued by the bigger boys in a room out the back. Some had even wet their pants – imagine that. They're paid handsomely, and they offer much to those with less. A luncheon here, a gesture so grand it can be seen from somewhere far away, ripples of respect – he's a hard working lad that one – never been without a job since he was the tender age of twelve (slightly illegal, that).

But nothing's lost, oh no. Sure, as stability comes round and men are saved from failure, warnings and uncertainties are raised – recently appointed chairmen are fed cream cakes and sexy busty whores soothe them at night – some have jobs themselves. Either way, they wash these tired men's feet, and fellate them en route. I start the minutes with more regularity – beyond the simple files and take-ups, I'm always there – around, and no one questions this. I sometimes walk up and down corridors with a big file and look earnest, giving boys the heave ho and dramatically stopping and turning on my heel, tapping furiously on my iPad, and making noises of annoyance, visible to all. Apparently, right – this US adoption of global standards remains uncertain, and everyone has doubts. The guy in the know-how spreading these thoughts has no real political clout, but substantial intellect.

I bumble on, Mat's workload is huge and his day seems fraught with detail. Careful examination of his comments to the board in the week indicates that something big might be on the way, and I'm quite glad I'm here to be a part of it. We're all facing real threats now; people in corridors vomit out ominous sounding statements, and those with an interest in self-preservation take these very seriously.

The company is angry for privilege, Matt and Ollie are all too aware that their tax advisors are not water tight – these convoys can leak and the chats and wotnot – those secret times with three accountants – well they can all be forced out into the open by the courts. No one wants that, especially not management. The distinction between these professions I accept, but think twice for a moment. The days of the closed shop are coming to an end – well, no one expects an easy resolve. But golly gosh, I just present these snippets to you, I have no involvement, I have no authority - hell I don't really care. I'm not in the habit of mocking these men, or making an issue for no one. There's much embarrassment for me now, and surely we could all do with some more hard skills. There's so many soft skills developed, and all I desire now is for a crisis to unfold, and a bit of old fashioned trust.

#  15. Apple vs Google Nuclear Anus War

The last good weekend of the year is upon us, and I think less about the consequences of having no money since my banks got full from all this fannying around in suits. I haven't seen the boys as much as before. But I haven't been doing a lot of things like I used to. On the eve of another week, just as I'm thinking about jacking it all in to become a snail farmer, Keith and Raj come round and sit on the grass with me, picking out building regulations and themes based around café culture. I still have yet to frequent my local you know. And the eggs look mighty fine, I saw two men in bright yellow armless coats eating some with beans not so long ago.

The boy next door is incredibly annoying, perhaps a little fey, who knows how this one will end up – I'm sure it's touch and go for his weary ma and pa.

"Dada, Dada, will you come and push me? I want you to push me please. Come on Dada." An inaudible groan, and rustling, and other sounds. I wonder for a minute if there is no Dada, but then see the frazzled shadow dancing round this fart of a boy. "But not like last time, I didn't like that at all."

"Well how high do you want me to push you?"

"Well I don't know, do I? Medium height." He cries out "Meeeeeeee" on the up push, and "Oooowwwww" as he comes back down, and it's entirely bad. "Wait, stop! Ow! That hurt me. You hurt me."

"What's wrong?"

"I told you how to do it and you did it wrong, jeeeeeez..."

We wait until the boy goes in and safely windows shut. Keith calls him a little bastard, and he's right.

"You pay no rent for this place, is this right?"

"Yuh-huh, a friend of a friend is away. Essentially I'm just paying the bills. Some kind of massive favour."

"Nice. And you like it here?"

"Yes, yes I do. I can't look a gift horse, and it is lovely for sure. Ever the Englishman here, it was my castle to begin with but now I find it a little over bearing. Or less familiar, or over familiar, or I just don't like it. Or I'm being a dick. One of those – pick one of those."

An ice cream lorry stops our thoughts, and I want in. We'll never chase it, stop this dude and ever since the banana batch thawed - then refroze, and caused tummy upset across the counties, well – I tend to buy local now anyway. I tell the boys about some plans I might have, just the simple screams to begin with – how I might move closer to town, and get something more concrete work wise. I do use the words work wise as well. Keith says that I should be thankful for many things – and he's right about that as well. I haven't dealt with any men in some time, certain signatures and awful folders – bank transfers avoided for so long, but I can't remember the reasons no more. They were good at the time – wholesome – you know when something is right. Raj digs up a tale for the two of us, one cup in hand and another ruminating.

"I wasn't prepared for all these wrong doings..." he begins.

The work starts to end, well – at least my days are now fraught with holes – fresh free time that once before was perpetual and natural, now has become a quite a rather frightening prospect. I had to cut the boys up, leave and discard the lovely times to be fresh for another round of simian nonsense during the week. And all around again, gah! It's the same as it ever friggin' was, just a new set of worries, and tales to tell - but this time with added conviction. I'm part of the average here – the bright generation who shit out mulberry globes and everything is made by apple, or at least has i as a preface.

On the Monday, my time is my own and I stay with the crew. We take on the cripples on the underglide – essentially I follow, unable to decide what it is I should be doing without this new found instruction and timetables and stuff.

"I'm working Thursday and Friday, but they're only half days. I'm pretty much free. Convince me to do things." I'm off on my hinges and Keith drives me around, attempts to ground me.

"I'm going to my agents to argue again. They haven't released a thing, and I submitted to the deposit protection scumbags two weeks ago."

"God, I have all this to look forward to."

Keith winces and folds up his nose, like a sneeze is on the way; "It's been rejected twice. This exchange will be farcical – will you act as witnesses to this?" Raj and I sullenly nod and we romp down town, we're all looking pretty sweet today – one of them lucky breaks I suppose.

Keith tells us how his friend queued up for 7 hours for the new four, and that it was actually fine – there were lots of gays and Chinese there, and a camera crew cut up the lines whilst blue shirted men and ladies gave out muffins and pink bottles of water. There were scoffs from us, but it sure changed everyone's lives. He then looked stern, and momentarily took my hand as we settled down on the chump line. In the not too distant future, he forsees a massive war.

Apple's iBots are shooting their crisp white iLasers at Google's Androids, who return fire with rainbow beams from their chests, arms outstretched in a hugging pose. Somewhere nearby, some stressed out bearded humans are hurriedly trying to convince their busted WinBots to enter the battle, and pressing, "nipple, nipple, bumhole", the new equivalent of Ctrl+Alt_Del, and hoping against hope they haven't got the R.Scratchin.Pie.Key virus - the most debilitating virus to hit robotics since the deadly U.Fuk.N.Do.it.

While they sit there pondering whether they should install the latest updates (requires a reboot), which include the new GPS enhanced missile guidance system developed by Kato Soy Soy Enterprises, a massive metallic foot stamps them out of existence - hard.

A booming voice can be heard for miles around...

"I AM UBUNTU, THE PRODUCT OF MILLIONS OF COLLABORATIVE MAN HOURS. FEAR ME."

A Google Android who spotted the threat early selflessly launches itself into the air using its Kato Soy Soy Rocket Pack, and decapitates the massive Robot. As the heroic Android falls to the ground, it can be heard yelping..."I was aiming for his groiiiiin....."

As he hits the ground with a thud, he sees a huge swarm of Apple iChopters entering the battle, decimating everything in their path. He knows all is lost, so in a final act of bravery, he sets the countdown timer on his Kato Soy Soy Nuclear Anus Bomb and waits. 5 seconds later, a pathetic puff of brown smoke whisps from his rear end. The last thing he sees as his battery fails for the last time, is an error message flashing before his eyes...

"Your Kato Soy Soy Nuclear Anus Bomb has encountered a catastrophic error and will now shut down. Soy for any inconvenience."

And the next stop is ours.

I text Mat as soon as skies allow, and wonder whether my new found dalliance with consultancy will make this forthcoming exchange any easier. We storm into the offices and make our presence known – Keith has been in this place, they groan and smile and welcome us in. Raj and I hang back like embarrassed dogs who've just shit themselves – and everyone can smell it.

"I woke up with a free flowing anxiety because of this. I want this sorted."

Keith wises up to the smarm, or perhaps what will come is nearer to cunt. I play with my phone and look at a map. I had no idea Wood Green was so near to Alexandra Park, no idea. I'd roll my eyes if you were here with me now.

"We need to replace the stolen mattress."

"What stolen mattress? It was in the room when I left, and I locked the door and gave the key back."

"Well it was gone when we went back to check the room."

"So you are calling me a liar and a thief?"

"The mattress was gone."

"Why would I want your mattress?"

"I don't know, but you're not getting the bond back."

"I am."

"No, you are not."

"Yes I am. For the first month you had me living in a cupboard under the stairs with no window, which is illegal."

"That's got nothing to do with that."

"Illegal."

"There's also the issue of the broken pay phone. You need to pay for this."

"What?!"

"Someone broke it open and took all the money inside."

"I know, and I told you about that. I heard someone come in through the bathroom window, and then started banging in the corridor. I went out in my pants with an extendable umbrella to scare him off. He was clearly a crack head. He just looked up, grunted and walked out the front door with pockets full of 10p coins."

"Well that's your story. Kate heard the noise, came out and saw you standing near the phone box with an umbrella, but nobody else."

"Yeah, I told you – the guy left through the front door. Do you think I decided to smash open a payphone with a fucking umbrella, even though I had stainless steel nunchucks packed in my bag? Did Katie tell you I was in my boxers? Where do you think I put all the coins? Plus I'm the one who made her call the police. I think you're taking the fucking piss."

"There really is no need for that language. Someone has to pay for that damage."

"Well I can guarantee it won't be me, try it on and I'll see you in court. Send me a cheque for my bond, buy yourselves a new payphone, and maybe I won't sue you for charging me to live in a cupboard."

"I can see we're not getting anywhere here. I think it's best if you leave now."

"I expect this to be sorted by Friday at the latest."

"Goodbye."

"Bye."

We come over all queer and potter round, smoking fumes and surreptitiously patting Keith on the back, telling him he's right and that he did well back there. Them fools, what cunts huh? Audible sighs and clenched fists, I imagine sweaty buckets and ideas above stations. I leave them boys after much deliberation – not sure who won or even which side I fall on no more. A part of me sad forever in that room – position myself on another man's cruise for a bit, I felt for all involved. Keith was riled for a while, and after such a scene, I just wanted to lay down for a bit. They met up after with Jim Bob and Simon from the Northern quarter, I could have stayed but knew the results would set me reeling. One of them is an enormous fibber, and tries to control the things I do, ever so passively. It once made me angry when I was a child and someone did the same thing, and now I see it could happen again if I'm not too careful.

Wistful relations and gay abandon – again. Golly gosh things can be so confusing, and pigeon holes merge and there's friggin sputum on my trainer – I'll never get that out. I'll take the bus, the nearest one – and that's what I do.

The weekend has made me sick without cause, unable to think bar the right thing to do to get past this next moment. I feel cramp, and I'm hot, and I feel all the bad things that I used to feel before I took on board these new scenes. I have a few days in work the next week, and thankfully the weather is getting cooler. And I s'pose, right – I could make more plans and become something new, or just round off these jaggedy edges. I could blossom, yes - Mat and Ollie see my potential, but man – this is an acting job for sure. And I'm beginning to miss all the drugs, and all the people who I used to pretend to like, and the complaints. They are of course all still here, and I view the past through tinted specs, ray bans and black and white framed digitial whachamacallitz.

A new day on my old routine was glorious sometimes, messy yes but ridiculously pure and I knew what I had to do and what to avoid. An anti-routine of sorts, but gosh my head was never this confused. I'm sure people are out to get me if I'm not careful and I don't even think this is paranoia, yet I'm happy to concede that this may be of my own making. I don't want to poison myself – don't get me wrong, but you know – all I'm saying is that if my life were to end, I'm sure I'd adapt, and the people around me. I'm not upset no longer, or sad – or even annoyed. I'm just ever so tired – and sporadically. The utter confusion and world weary aw fuck that comes and hits me up every now and then – well it's so horrible I can't even tell you. If you know about it, I'm sorry, but I can only listen to as much as I believe I should be expected. Amongst all these waffly words perhaps there is a genuine cry for help, and I just want someone to pick me up and dust me off, tell me hey - everything will be ok. Something is wrong, and maybe I have sinned. Calls of can I make it better, but all I want to do is turn off the bright lights one final time, and curl up like I used to when the drugs took hold. I want sympathy, for a bit. I want lots of things. Right now, an aim would be rather nice – make me feel normal at the very least.

As I cross the bumps on the alien bus, my stomach feels sad and empty. Never more have I wanted a reason to cry, and I wonder how wonderful it would be for this bus to crash and this be the end. Perhaps the other passengers feel it to, that would be nice I think. And of course, things might get better with another few sleeps, if I were to dive further into new worlds of consultancy, and be able to afford new clothes and leave behind this dusty path. I'm losing the firm fixed beliefs, and my template, and I don't know who I am anymore, or what I want. I'm able to merge and I'm awfully versatile. But this new direction doesn't bode well – if it did, surely it would feel even just a little bit nice, or okay. This is just the other side perhaps, cos I felt fine a few days ago.

I like Ollie. And suddenly I think about drinking Pimms with a lover and cuddling when night fall begins, and I stop wishing for the bus to crash.

I miss Sarah ever so much.

I text the new ones, and Mat says I can come to his, meet him at the Piccadilly Circus after work, and maybe get drunk. The desire to get fucked, lose myself and make sickness happen, my desires and a slap or two. I rumble on further on the bus – one of those special long ones that look like a bloody accordion. With an idea of what the next 3 or 4 hours hold, I feel less suicidal. I open up my bag and scatter gun notes and scrawls on my ideas pad, numbers and things I have to do. I owe £289 on a bill that I'm pretty goddamn sure I've paid already. I write 'apply for new 0 percent' and put a line through it - this can wait.

I meet Mat and there's a hanger on, eager to meet and size up the newbie, which is me. That's me. I say the right things I am sure of that. It's peculiar I think, this new way of life. Raj texts and relives a moment from the morning, and I heartily reply - not an emoticon insight. Insider information this new relationship can bring – and I'll happily pay the price at the end of all this.

We drink shots on the South Bank and he asks me if I am ok. I say I am, and he reads between the lines, which I am very thankful for. These vicious traditions I hold close to my heart – the women I have screwed, the boys I've screwed over. The drugs I've taken, and my future - that with every day, is looking decidedly murky – well yes, I want all that to stop. But of course I can't tell anyone these thoughts - they are friggin' mental. I want to be an innocent soldier, I sure as hell don't want to listen to another rant about how this country has gone to pot. I just want to find my way out of this one and no longer have the blurred vision I now appear to have. I want to stop wishing people close to me were dead, I want to make an easy million from a foreign investment. I want to be beautiful, and for people to mention this. Or maybe handsome - whatever.

I want affirmative action – golly, perhaps this management life is for me after all. I certainly want things to change. The trouble is, it goes from wanting to change the entire world - to wanting to die, at the drop of a hat. Ben arrives at the scene and we salute the sky. He tells me that booze is my need, to power through my fatigue. He says I eat too many jacket potatoes, and mocks me for doing this. I think perhaps being an alcoholic on the way down is the funnest place in the world, but I know some alcoholics, and I know that is not the case. We all share guacamole and crispy bits with salsa and cheese. We dip in and out of late night bars and ch–ch–check out the future headliners.

Ben is awfully bold, and I tell him about my role in the company. Yeah, he says - and asks me about my doodles. I'm acclaimed I say, it's all over me. The Sunday Journos have jerked me off and some London rag has given me the time of day. At least three journalists have given me space, and yeah, in a way – in a tiny silly way, I am a success. Mum is very pleased, etc etc. Oh, and the people from my home town. Ben is the first person to ask me what the hell I am doing, and I appreciate this. I don't want these thoughts hanging round, I want to aspire and quite naturally know what to do. If I hang round with these boys long enough, and I do what I think is right, then I suppose everything will be alright forever. And then I'll die and I'm probably not capable of children, so that's fine also.

#  16. Blobs

We can fast track the months now for another winter is sold as seen – entirely predictable and layers and snowbound news hounds, inappropriate times of year, data lost – much sighing all around. I held on past the celebrations and found myself lost at sea, but holding on is fine, I'm a champ at that. I hurriedly returned one early afternoon, back to the fold of my friends, they're ok you know? A part of me held something around their heads, and I'd talk about them slightly bad to other peeps. You know – like comically blah, and this annoys, this grates etc etc. But really it was all because of something else, and the fact is that these close buddies are good for the soul, lovely guys and gals. We rip and shred and call each other numptie names – we're retards yes, but underneath a genuine love I feel, and I don't wish for that to end, not now anyway.

I made my way back through the swarms of alternative ways to wear a suit. Walking through St. James Park from a faux class meeting with high achievers who picnic with Moet – in and out and around and about and murmurs under the breath – I class myself dependent on where I am – these faces are becoming familiar to me now, and I find it amusing that if you go for fast food in Pimlico, there are flowers on the table, and I suppose the laccies are paid a little more. Almost waiter service in fact, although the experience made real by shouty man in corner who is probably religious I'd imagine.

There's this guy right? He lives in Camden I think, but I can't be sure. He either has no money, or lots of money. He wears these long brown shorts and mustard yellow socks with very prim plimsolls. It's like there's a band of flesh that is somehow part of his uniform, he has made his own knees an accessory – imagine that! He cycles from town to town with beads of determination, and I see him often. He finds his spot, it's usually on a main high street somewhere, or near a popular attraction. He then gets out a bible and preaches; he's actually very convincing. Raj knows all about him, he some kind of local hero. I saw him recently in Hackney just as school was finishing. A kid walked up to him and stared him out - he was pretty close. He fiddled with his phone and his chums quickly surrounded - more saw the huddle and ran over. Soon, there was a perfect circle of young adults around the guy – three rings deep. No one was laughing, the actions were mockery enough, although I don't believe that this was the intent. It was odd, but he didn't seem to mind, and grinned – he was beaming with pride, and he didn't look embarrassed at all. I thought it was all quite lovely actually, and I tell Raj about it as soon as I get in to Mr Shankleys.

"Yeah, we were trying to swim before we could stand." Raj creases up his face and looks distorted and confused at the world.

"How it was before was better than how it was originally, but it was still wrong. And it wasn't wrong before. Now it's better, and.....right."

"I have no idea. But yeah. Something like that. We all got a bit hungry for change and went a bit too far, that was all. Essentially, we've kept the refit, but we've kept it simple – no more decks, and we've stopped the other lines."

I look around the shop and it feels the love again, it no longer shouts to progress like it did before, but it's here, and it's part of who we are – that's what we're getting.

"I've taken the reigns again, I don't think we were cool, for a bit. I felt like I was wearing an ill-fitting suit. Maybe it wasn't even ill fitting, maybe it was just a lovely suit actually, but I looked like someone else. I wanted to look like a gangster, or even a pimp, hell anyone, but one of them goddamn retarded business - I nearly said cunts then. I'm tired and irritable I think. But yes, here we are, it's all good and that was that and now everything is fine. Tea."

I like this step back, this reappraisal from my brilliant chum. I try to comment – there's sense and bravery, business acumen, ideas, trends, mother flippin' zeitgeist. Gosh and Darn, you can go to some pin stripe investec with facts and figures, and orders and patents and stuff and he might think it shit. But figures and orders speak for themselves, and so all that doubt, well that don't matter. And then you do what feels right and learn lessons as you go, and maybe this is right and that is wrong. I think Mr Shankleys is lookin' fine, less dusty, but the hair gel's been wiped away and no one is trying no more. All hail Raj!

I sup on the tea and fall onto the couch. The new plastic colour blobs brought in to shock and awe – gone for the sake of a battered naugahyde nostalgia.

"This is better. I like this. You've got the mix right. Where did the new stuff go?"

"Oh, well this is the genius thing, and I'll tell you all about this. There's actually much to tell."

"Tell me now."

"We've got a new residency in Vauxhall. The random nights – yeah, they were cool, but transient – exhausting, and logistically very hard. You know things to do with a dead princess, and young Adam?"

"Who are you with?"

"The Growler." Raj lifts both brows, dips his head and smiles ever so malicious. I smile back and pierce his eyes with my own. "Yeah, I know. Anyway, once a month. You knew all this though, didn't you? If you didn't then I apologise." I shake my head as the words from my friend continue to flow like an excited disturbed barrage cum sleep pattern. "Yeah, so we swapped some of our furniture with them."

"So essentially, you've turned this place into a pub."

"No, they just have some new chairs, that's all. Oh, and you need to do the flyers, we're still using your old lot, just with updated updates. There's only so much I can be bothered to do."

"Ah you should have said. But you are saying now, so yes I can do that for you. And I will."

We talk for an hour or so as Raj tweets and rings and other stuff too. I miss the vinyl but know it's for the best. I'm tired, so friggin tired. For some reason I feel the need to inform all around of the state I'm in; "I'm bloody knackered today. I wish I was still in bed. But like someone from a Sassoon poem, I shall soldier on through the gloom, only to leave my insides rotting somewhere on a Belgium field."

"I have much to do today, and so I may be asking you to leave soon."

"This is wholly unacceptable."

"Actually no, you can stay, I'm being rude. But I do have lots to do and think I may take some frustrations out on you, in about 30 minutes."

"Have you been tardy with your chores?"

"Oh bloody ruddy chores. But no. Actually. These are just things, things and stuff. I made a list and I was looking at it earlier, and I don't really know if any of it needs doing, or whether I just feel better knowing it's there. I too am tired. And I appear to have put off some actual important stuff. It's all very interesting and psychological and I'm sure there have been books written about it."

"We all do it. I leave stuff for later because I'm convinced there's plenty of time. And at the time, there was. But time runs out, like a runny egg."

"I'm not sure time is like a runny egg."

"Perhaps I was thinking of an egg timer. But deadlines draw near and then you have to speed up, and then this turns to panic, and everything goes a bit wrong. I sometimes thrive off this, but it's sweaty, and unnecessary."

"It's a constant battle against complacency."

I walk back to the house, sure I've forgotten something. As time goes on, this can't continue, nor should it be expected to. We've been here before and I know how this ends. As night grows near and I put damp squid washing pots out to flap around in what wind we have, a terrible urge comes over me again. Away from these plans and referees, hugs with randoms and thoughts of sex, ejaculations, food when hungry, wash that face when it gets mucky, the orders, the things you do to make it all better. In between all that, I really do feel as if I could be slipping through the cracks. I recall, and it's not nice and again, there's not really a way out. Not one that I can see anyway.

I've entered this routine, and I work and people see my flaws now. Hell, I give them stuff to play with – it's what they want and it seems to make them love me sometimes. They banter and josh blap around – call me names, and deride my actions. I don't take any malice, nor do I want them to stop particularly. But sometimes I just want to walk off and never see them or their faces again. That would be nice I think. To just walk away and get into a car and drive to some far off land and then get out of the car. Perhaps wave at Grace Jones, I don't know. Anything really, it would only occur in a warped dream, and if it doesn't, then I admit to something being wrong, and I don't want to make people worry so.

I sit and drink some smoky tea whilst all around plans of schemes, and numbers lie. Right now, forsaken – I am the best place I have ever been and this is where I hide – everything is fine, but golly my head feels all tight and I'm not very happy. I vocalise this to a fair few, but know it's not for me, this prophecy will come true if I validate it now. I've been approaching new people, it's all fine, you know? Gregory phoned me that night. We had a good old chat, and he was tired and my responses generated a despondent grumble. Proper old fashioned pauses, but not real awkward silence, not like it is sometimes. It's beginning to be like that at the big boys office. Now I am made to feel perfectly in place – those clever bastards. I should opt out soon, although that's probably what I always do. Perhaps it's just that without the drugs, all these bloody irritations shine that little bit brighter. These people who have placed me here, and offer to buy me things – look at my face, and what am I meant to say to all this?

I talk to Greg about Sarah, and how I could have mucked it up, and he says I am a fool. I get confused, I say. It was simple before- through the haze. I did what came to me, and it all came right. Of course, there were the dead times – the times of climbing up the walls making dribbles on the bed linen, I never defecated without meaning to though. And sure, I vomited, alone sometimes – and that's sad yes, but I'd pretend it was a dodgy meal, and that's what I'd tell people, and that was also okay. All these lies were fed awfully easily, but now I'm vulnerable – open to abuse and these boys will take it. The paranoia might be here forever, how the irony flows that I am clean, yet my mind feels as dirty and crumpled as it's ever been. Greg tells me to pull myself together, and he's right – this perhaps is the time, if just to calibrate some things, and send the replies on time. But the times at work, those jolly fine comments that have been made, the transcripts written – the funny little exchanges, well I have nothing no more, and it's becoming a bit of an effort. I sort of want to clean trains in Norway from 10pm to 5am, and then go to bed. I like cleaning, and that way I wouldn't have to banter. Although I'd imagine the people who clean trains are actually mostly very interesting people. Perhaps a small percentage actually, but Charles used to undertake those jobs, you know – do the things that allow you to think outside; stack or organise – nice to give the brain a rest I think. Trouble is, the time spent doing this would then create some kind of intellectual desire to think beyond the simple, and a thirst for lappin' up tit bits and all sorts of opinion would transpire – and I don't want that either.

I tell Greg about the work drying up, and feeling a bit alienated in my new role, and he says 'Go figure'. I imagine he meant that this was inevitable, although it's likely that he was merely dismissing my comment. Perhaps I'll just see Sarah one last time and that will make things better, or at least take my mind off whatever is consuming me. We arrange to meet at Muswell Hill in the morning. I could tell him about what's going on I suppose, but I probably won't say anything. I yearn to be back in the driving seat, and I can't do this alone.

Before I go, I'll try to make it hurt a little less. Open up the files and delve in, for I am capable - everyone knows that. But under all, and covering the whole shebang, a quite awe inspiring amount of cheese cloth, and then comes the layer of shit. I lay on my bed, phone around my chops, mumbling pleasantries to Greg and nodding silently at insults – not like they used to be. These actually hurt – not the words, but my inability to respond. The pre-anxious state, the time before total fucking complete meltdown, it's the most calm and frightening place. As you see all around carry on, and you don't know what to do about that. And they ask you how you are, and there's no right answer. And the people who are asking you, you can hear them getting ready to have sex with their new partners, or shave off a new deal – buy a new car, go on holiday. Whatever, they don't need an alibi, or a reason. Sometimes they are purposely shy, but I'm under no illusion that they know what they are doing. I remain jealous, and increasingly likely to be insidious, and ultimately offensive.

Greg has a new sex toy, and he said something funny about Valentines Day. He's said it before, and everyone laughed. I think I probably dived out of that scene pretty quick – waved goodbye, and a few people nodded. It felt terrible leaving though, especially as I shouldn't have been there in the first place. One of them was very cute, and that made the awkward air more bearable. I'll never forgive one for what he did, but I know why he did it. He doesn't know this, and never will.

I open my work file, and aim not only to impress but degrade, perhaps make the bosses think twice, might go to town, even risk it all. Might appear stupid but there's beginning to be a genuine disinterest in consequence. Without the pill, the alterations and the pharmacy, the ciggie papers and foil – well, really – it's cursed, wretched. I don't have to sit around, watch the rubbish all about, but I do. One last attempt to find my place this week, I'll see if the light years I create here will do anything to curb the oncoming.

The green light comes on, and I fixate on the circles and click and think hard. I'll work through, and probably the next few evenings as well. I'm paid by the hour, and these extra efforts will not be rewarded in any way – a perverse thing to do actually. Away from the threat of any more discussion though, I can operate like a beastly spider – I know what I'm doing and I am good. My salient point here; that I mock my own efforts to endear the crowds, and I offer you the chance on a plate and you will take it, and never will this seem out of place. If I hang myself gently tomorrow, no freedom arranged, it will be a matter of fact, and you will have something in your eye for ten minutes. But something would not pass through us, and I am awake now so this is all conjecture. No one ever really knew him, crikey he was this 'n that. And all the time, no one picked up on the crushing time bomb. He dodged the 27 year old curse, but he wasn't a rock star - just thought he was, so everyone turned their backs.

Focus, and all will get better. These dreams are all lovely yes, but it's all too late to back out if we're to be taken seriously, and that's all I ever wanted. I've pissed all over these good intentions, and there's sticky urine pouring down my leg. I want to be a high end earner and to be able to afford the things those other people can. The ones with titles, who sack their peers and probably appear like they're in their thirties, when in fact they are 23. London is run by a gaggle of 21 to 27 year olds, and my wrists become limp as I hold on the rail of the underground, determined to mark my territory and not feel sick at the thought of these fellows. But my anger never really subsides and it eats away at me, and social convention dictates I do not let this show, yet I am beginning to display my disdain, and it's ugly, and I am sorry for that.

#  17. Sarah's Vagina

Muswell Hill lays lovely in a spoon hold on the crest of a great view. I always feel rather special and in a bubble, but like – in a good way. And meeting Greg is always swell. The ways my moods turn easily from despair to simmering excitement is causing concern, much for those around I imagine – but only if I choose to show them. But also for me, in a few days I will go to the centre across the road for an update. A bag of putrid crushed up kidney stones from 3 months previous still sit squalid in a tidy blue compartment in my fuzzy blob child's wallet. Funny story bout that one, but alas. So when I see this man about the crumbles – the salty shit blobs that have caused so much internal grief this past year, well – I might tell him about the moods, and I can legally and morally get high again. Then things might start to flow for the better, but who knows.

Greg looks good – scruffy. He's my oik and he gets away with stay pressed long shorts made of crisp blue cotton like I imagine small boys used to wear in the 1950s. There's blood in his right ear which has left a dry droopy line down his ear globule. It's not too apparent no, but it's mentioned. He had a spindly hair within his ear hole that he had been trying awfully hard to grab and pull out. The angle of his ear, the hair, and his chumpy fat fingers means that every attempt to pull the blighter simply acts as a gentle violent slit into his flesh. Even when it begins to hurt, he goes deeper, changing the angle and wishing for relief.

"Don't touch my ear."

"I really had no intention of touching your ear."

"Yeah well I know you like your wet willies."

The café on the landslide is the best place to go. We sit on the window parade, watching immigrants and lovely mothers with grand buggies go past. The staff buzz around like malfunctioning kind robots and the air of throwbacks and cheap dates, lunch breaks – faggers, jeez, they're all here today. Behind us are a cute disabled couple, the man is off his rocker, and I tentatively engage as I steal the only spare menu for miles.

Greg tells me about the planned move for June, that Lego said yes, and that he's tired of London because London is full of dickheads. I shrug and stifle a fart, fascinated at the potential of the café, and the fact that the menu is fully illustrated. There are 3 meals that stand alone with no visual representation, and for a few seconds, I have trouble imagining them. In fact, I almost entirely forget what scampi is – some form of crustation I summise.

"I take it you heard about Jack?" Greg pauses and lets out a tired sigh when my puzzler face turns on the alarm bells. "Oh wow, you didn't."

"God, the last I heard from Jack was a good ten years ago. I think I lent him £50. I may have even given him a home-made pasty."

"It's really sad. He died on Tuesday from Cancer. His funeral was on Sunday, and I found out a few days later." Greg surveys the damage and sees to proceed. "I didn't make it to the funeral but the guys were there. We talked about you."

"Man, that's really terrible. That's actual terrible news. Wow, he was such a lovely guy. I really had no idea he was ill."

"I had no idea he was ill either, no one keeps in touch. His sister didn't even know he was ill until he died."

"Crazy. God, I should probably tell other people. I don't know. I'm a bit flummoxed by your news."

"Yeah, we probably shouldn't dwell on this you know, it did make me think that it could be time to meet up with some of the old crew, you know – reassess and shit."

I nod and vacantly look at pictures of gammon and egg. There's a pineapple ring around the egg yolk, like a bloody decoration. Still, good that they offer both – looks a bit weird actually. Greg orders a burger, which when it arrives, has hidden soggy onions and some kind of gay relish. He fishes it out and complains silently about mis-selling, and cunts. I have the usual and it's nice, as usual. We soon forget about Jack, and move on to other things. There are other people who aren't dead who need our attention. As he swirls a Pepsi Max around his mouth, I bring up Sarah like fresh acid reflux. It comes out my face with urgency and I'm happy just to say her name again.

All the things that before were going down, with a promise that they'd get better – well those birds have flown and eggs broken – gosh, we need some direction. We talk about our presents and futures and mine seems less sure, Greg swaggers with a self-assurance though. There's general news and we'll take a trip to the Camden picture house next week with a few of his college dweebs. He wants to see the latest dirge from the people that made that one with Pitt – why not I say. As long as we don't go back to that Italian harem centre – they microwaved me a pizza and charged so much. We ought to spread the news to avoid, but afterwards we won £16.20 on the dogs (3 races). So shopping a poor café was not on our agenda, we had tales to tell.

My friend refuses to pick up the ball, to either throw it away or kick it over the hedge – he knows my plans are wrong, and I'm just alone right now. I'd expect no less, perhaps all I desire is for someone to suggest I stop, but then only to rebuke and holla 'but no...', and get annoyed maybe. I would try to convince whoever lay before me that Sarah is the one I want beside. I love her, and like some twisted banal soap storyline, I will go back and hurt her before stopping and licking her wounds, and only then when the story gets so long in the tooth – well, just after that I'd admit to all them things and probably people would forgive me in time.

Greg and I walk back to the house, tummies full and slower now. A good thirty minutes to get to where we need to be, but fine weather and lovely company and all that. A text flies in from Keith and I keep him at bay, no need to meet right now, I'm not sure these two will gel so well, especially not after all the gubbins at the new years races a while back. That was really unfortunate. A text comes in from Mat and I feel awfully popular. Greg says so, and it makes me feel like shit. Funny ol' moods and all their ways of workin – from obsessing about the amount of cardamom to put into a recipe, to when to turn the chicken over. And of course, emergency procedures if the chicken goes dry and the dinner guests are left waiting.

"You do worry about everything, you always have and I'm not sure I can convince you not to."

"Keith got his bond back, so that's good."

"That took ages man. Is he around then?"

"No."

He leaves me hangin' and scoots off to show his sister's guests a bar or two. He promises to return in the evening with something to watch and a box of Haribo. Neither will do, and I expect more from him. We punch fists and say 'laters', and I make trouble to make my demeanor seem final.

Back at the house, there's a note shoved through the door that makes no sense. It has a bank account reference on it, someone's sort code, and a load of jumbles, it's really manic and upsetting actually. I give Sam a call and he seems wasted and angry, but I make out that the note isn't for me, and indeed I shouldn't concern myself. I have till June here if I want, which is fine although I have no plans for after that, and I'm too old to return to my roots. My roots are miles away anyway, and many of them have withered, and that perhaps is another thing to be sad about. But not for Mat, Ollie, or even James. These guys scatter seeds and people huddle round them for warmth. I think they must ruddy well know something I don't, and why have they not been on drugs like I have. I wonder again, and realise soon that wondering gets you nowhere. But golly gosh, the notion of nowhere is rather appealing.

I need to think about a new phase for sure, compromise or gutter bound. That's a bit dramatic, but drama is my business. Anyway, I'm more convinced that I need to make a choice, few aspects need real examination – like a hard list, or something. Everyone has a friggin' different opinion, and I know how all this works. When I was colluding with the culprits, even at the most basic level, they'd have tricks and ways to manipulate. They'd know when they were about to step over the new line, or go too far. And they'd cleverly make it better, turn the lights on or off dependent on what was going wrong. They were all on the same page anyway so their language developed a new vital meaning. It's easy if you were born and raised this way I think. Across the water, if you squint at the rising sun and touch the person to your right, nothing matters but that tiny bit of contact.

I don't think I'll ever overcome this madness and I don't want to just sit tight no more. There's no way to get what I want, and all the while this time spent joking and laughing in cafes and telling people your news, my faith is as solid as it's ever been. The only thing left to do is to curate, play with this thing and have a ball. I think it's time to make the building blocks stable, lay them foundations, and then fuck around. I yearn for some downers, or right now just some nicotine. The caffeine is allowed I'm told, as is the wine, and spirits. I fall back on the sofa and close my eyes, even though there's a ton of work to be done all around. I'm not a squalor head, never have been – but jeez, this room is fallen, and not what I want no more. I'll speak to Ollie or Mat soon, both to confirm the hours - if there's any left, and to remind myself what this is all for – this clean way of living. A drunken phone call at 4am after speeding through the Pimlico piratetown, and onto Kennington, Clapham, Brixton and back again. My vices have been taken away, even though I am a human man and I can make my own choices. I'm influenced hard and there's no one to say sorry (to) anymore. I sit in the middle as the drunken socialites nod to me and try further to drag me in, and they're all so much younger than me.

It looks fun I suppose. They start the evening with two or three beers, and then go straight to the whiskies or vodka. They don't go home till the next day and still get up for work. They laugh and nudge and take the fucking piss out of each other, and if you are shy or just don't want to talk, you're brought in deeper and with increased urgency. And even if you vomit, it's funny because it's the social way you see. And you end up having to look like a twat because you say no and the excuses start to dry up and everything could potentially go wrong again. You have two choices, join in and knuckle down and ultimately be found out as the person who you are is worn down to a crumb (like my salty stones), or stay on the underside and risk never seeing a real day, with real people.

Drugs would be a 4 day wait at this stage. When you dip out from the deals, getting back with urgency is still half a week at the very least. Also, there's no such thing as emergency stash (before you ask). It's an impossibility to hold it back and keep some hidden cos there's always a need when you're in that cycle. There have been times when being clean has had its remedy, and barfing over the cupboard door ain't pretty, but it does bring amazing clarity. It's simpler when you're at the base. Nothing here bar the codeine pill, which I need in case these internal wrangles kick off again anytime soon. I'm sure the doc will see me proud with new potions - valium, whatever.

I give Mat a ring and he's on the walk back from the center of excellence. He has time for me, and I want to hear all about big business and pretend that the underbelly don't exist, just for a twenty minutes. Oh, to have a body full of venom right now. He has been reaching his yield, the key deliverables, the targets, it makes me feel safe for a little while. His new badge has a new acronym for a new dawn, and he's just taken hold of his fifth laptop, this one from the boys in Stockley Park. His schedule has gone lunar, he simultaneously jerks off seven men in suits whilst telecommuting at 35,000 feet. His resume has 347 phone numbers on the third page, and he's been prone to washing his body in the sink, focusing on the key areas. He talks about the vacation he'll take one day, but before he goes, 15 men will have to call emergency meetings to determine the risk of the tan. He calls up CIOs for kicks, and jumps between vending machines and posh chicken stuffed with polenta, but cook him a toasted cheese and baked bean sandwich, and he'll stay with you forever.

He tells me about all sorts of things I have no time for, and insists that the answer lies somewhere in Chicago (I'm not sure how serious he is about this). Ten minutes in, and the desired effect is lost. I begin to doubt if I'll ever know which way to go, and then Mat tells me his work plan for the weekend. He instinctively calls the Garden State his home, and at the strike of nine, as a great bloody cheese and pickle sandwich is presented to him on a silver tray, it dawns on him that the staff are his only real friends.

After the call, I nod off on the sofa, only to be woken up by Greg and Sam battering down the front door whilst my phone goes off like a spastic on my new glass table. I'm not altogether pleased to see these bastards, and fall off the long chair, grabbing my phone and a quick I'm coming before the latch goes.

"You're turning into an old man, old man."

"He is an old man."

"You as well? Why are you here?"

Sam puts a cold arm round my shoulder, he's in his working class attire and the curly pubic undersheath is visible to all. The only nod to his true standing is in his perfectly coiffured face. I'm obliged to Sam, and pleased he's here, all ready to give me news and things I can relate to others. I'm out of here in 4 months, it's about that. The boy is back, and there's suggestion I could stay, pay in rent and go through those official lines – I have no idea, that sounds good I suppose. I feel unsure, but words flow easy – as if I know. Sam passes me and points to the sofa, then sits and shakes his ass around, smearing jean dirt and acting up.

"This thing. That is why I am here dear Boy. This thing is going."

"Ah you've come to take away my chair. I am to sit on the floor."

"A lovely cream leather suite no less. We can pick it up tomorrow if you're around to give us a hand. It's from some property on the docks." I question less, and he looks for the tray, to which I raise an eyebrow – a lot said with no words I think. We flummox down on the old brown bastard, and Sammy nonchalantly places his tin and pouch in front, and I get a bit excited. I think time might flow nicer for a bit this eve, then we can yabber and float away.

"I suppose there's no harm in the doc knowing you're a pothead."

"He's not taking any blood, I'm just picking up results."

"He's not stupid." Greg purposely riles, I look around for ways to placate, or perhaps a passive attack from earlier misdemeanor.

"Neither am I, I'm honest with my doctor about everything I do. Everything I feel, and everything is fine." My trail of thought gets lost, it was never there to share. I'm used now, I'm always hiding, staying, reacting to the sounds and if someone has a joke, I'll try awfully hard to find it funny.

I'm pretty sure these papers I will view at the surgery – well, they'll just reek high of undisclosed data. They'll be inconclusive; the numbers 00022384923, and a scrawled note from the doctor saying "DRINK MORE". And then, I imagine it will all come out - these man hour frights and time in vans ferrying my future corpse to the healing factory – they've been a waste of time. For this is something I owned, I had control and it's all my fault. Even the smokers on the hospital ward, they were bullied into buying – peers made them cooler, or simply stress was buzzed out by lovely soothing nicotine – and the rest. But forgetting to drink water is just silly, and I imagine I'm probably going to go to jail for this crime.

"You'll be fine. The results will be fine, just drink for goodness sake." Sam passes me drugs and I feel momentarily brilliant. "You are required to come to a party next week dear boy." I'm learning much with a silent response. My management curve is pulling me higher. "No, not required, you are invited."

"Interesting. Give me some more information and I will respond appropriately." Greg stumbles through magazines and old copies of the local ragtime, oblivious to our sounds. The telly buzzes and he takes a further step back from the nonsense.

"It's the Microsoft lot."

"I have no idea who 'the Microsoft lot' are."

"Yes you do. Anyway, it's corporate but not wankerish. And it looks like it could sprawl."

"Jesus, just tell me where it is, whose idea it was, and whether I'll be able to stand it."

"I think you should come. It's at Andy's house – he is James' cousin. And through the inbred nature of this fucking city, it appears we have many mutual connections going."

"Christ."

"Your new city chums will be there, I imagine."

"Fuck off."

"I know Ollie will be there. You know, this would be a lot easier if you had some kind of online presence, you awkward cunt."

"Hmmm. Friends of friends and mutual friends..."

"Anyway, come. It might cement some verging friendship. Might make everyone get to know each other a bit better."

"Oh yes, marvelous." The sarcasm irritates my chum, and also myself, and gosh I'm an irritant.

"Boys, be silent." Greg points to the screen and to some numptie in a leotard. The numpite is being hugged by a yellow furry monkey and the monkey has a stick up its bottom, and there's circus music in the background. The crowds are urinating on the seats, and two men and a woman are holding up cards with numbers and there's a siren, and everybody in the country is watching it.

There's crap all around and things only calm down when Sam suggests a walk in the park. I held my head in despair and we ended up pouring more wine down our gullets. In a matter of days, this could all be over if only we had the courage to follow through. I'm jovial enough this evening, and even those shapes they pull won't damage my progression. They know I'll go to see Sarah and then I can't keep away, and also I'm very sorry for the things that I have done. But even when I see her, it's just to quell some guilt. I'm a human man – and I do have feelings for others. If not love, then I can empathise. Like that time in my old flat when I used to sneak around trying to be silent, even though there was nobody else there. If I expect to be treated in such a way, then these are the actions I must take.

The next morning I pick up the knowledge from the surgery. A lovely girl, two years my junior – she gives me a slip of paper and then proceeds to explain the significance of the words. She comforts me away from the fear and it turns out we get on rather well. Inconclusive, and a roll of the eyes, a pause and then a genuinely concerned look. I am tired of all this and let some of it out for her to see. We flirt a little, and this continues past the moment when she asks me if my urine is smelly. I text the boys to let them know I'm in no fit state to move a sofa, whilst the doctor checks on procedure at Chase Farm Hospital. It's all dramatic my words and I'm vague and helpless through the airwaves. I wonder now if it's right to go straight to Paddington, with just my wallet and phone. I'm upset for no particular reason, although I suppose I'd like to define what's occurring in my bowels, apparently right – renal upset is both the most common, and the diagnosis that causes the most distress. When the doctor returns, she tells me that sometimes people are put on morphine and once, someone just asked to be killed, but I imagine they were a victim of hysteria and had seen many films.

She gives me some Diclofenac, and warns me of the tummy troubles to come. Her door is always open and I sweetly hold her hand and gently sniff the air as I leave. I wonder what she looks like naked, and I think she knows this. Back at the house, I shove over the bills from the mat and squish the twitching corpses of two dandelion moths that refuse to expire. I leave a suitably vague note for the boys and shove a week's worth of clothes in a green bag that was free with a Renault Clio.

A text that I have lost the respect of a friend comes in. It has a kiss at the end, and I see the point. I am not apologetic, but promise to make it good. Amongst all this, the only thing that makes sense to me is Sarah, and being with her. I can't close the doors to much else – they'll always be there, people will always nudge them open and ask for favours, opinions. And when they go, or hints are taken out of context, ruined – arguments render me senseless – well, then I'll just screw up my face - what else can I do. If I just hold her hand again and squeeze, and she says that she wants me, then I can live with all the other nonsense. Even the news that someone close to me is set to earn six figures in the autumn.

I feel like I have much to sort out, but if I look to the previous year, we've all moved on so much, and looking around, the things we have acquired can only prove this to the doubters. On my lists are a headfuck of abstract nouns and rubbish. The jobs I have done are bullshit, and I no longer relish or want much. Okay so I contradict, but these men are so delicious in their suits and I challenge you to say no to their advances. I will change my mind in but a few days when the fizz of what I have done shimmers on my tongue like sherbert dip. The money in my hand and an expensive wine whilst being given a blowjob by an eager office hand. I disgust myself, like those others used to disgust me, but hating yourself temporarily is just another facet of the city. I actually saw Keylan from the Lloyds project come from the toilets with cum around his mouth last week. I know they all do the same drugs I have done, and this all makes me incredibly angry sometimes, but I can't see the person to point the blame at anymore.

Paddington station is a bloody courageous place. It makes me happy and the people get in my way, but it is fine. I pay over the odds and slice my way up through the stiles and onto the big machine. I lose myself immediately on the chugs, it's nice to see the scenery change, and isolation wraps me up like a bug. There's cause and effect here, and maybe this is a mistake. But I owe her this I feel. My trusted friends dictate that these paths I take are fraught with danger – well, whatever.

I get up to Bristol late enough, and my hopes of a warm embrace are dashed as she suspiciously looks over her glasses as if I have already wronged her. She tells me in public that she is angry with me, and I do my best to explain everything. It looks like there's a war in her head, she actually looks like she might commit suicide. Not now, but something has been taken away from her for sure. She says quite dramatic things back at the flat, and golly gosh, perhaps they were right. She says I probably feel trapped now, and that I can never leave, because of what I did. To come back now and dessert here would be just dreadful. I sigh and smile, and think about faking a tear or two. I have no idea what I want out of this affair, and if she can define this with pithy fumes, so be it. Who am I to deny her anything anymore. I'll just play this up and hope things can be like they used to be when I used to smoke lots of drugs, and nothing really mattered.

It all started again, I suppose at 9.30, after she had cooked me a small portion of chicken breast with pesto. It was pretty disgusting and I was left hungry so we queued up at the subway and were asked an inordinate amount of questions by a young man. When we returned and wiped our juicy faces, she said "You know, I'm having a hard time not jumping you."

I said nothing, and she looked at me for assistance. Her friends all hate me – they chanted 'just don't fuck him' from the sidelines, and you know, doubtless they were right. But I came all this way, and so we lay together, and then we fucked.

In her arms felt like coming home, I was no longer running like a spastic and bumping into walls. The ticker tape was snagged again, and the main event may have dispersed but I remained in her grasp and I was quite content in this position. We talked about death, and how it's rubbish. She asked me about Jack and I said he was already dead and that's why I never cried. J Mac was a different story though. I probably should cry for him some time, or allow his memory to affect something. I felt unsure and sick, unkind and bashful. Then angry and bloody minded, but I failed to document this time, or share my vile thoughts.

"You should probably see a counselor."

"Are you seeing a counselor?"

"I have a counselor, yes."

"I don't know if I need to see a counselor."

"Well, don't see a counselor then."

She knows without intervention, nothing will happen, and the scruffy edges will not be tidied until desperate times come round. I tell her that Jake's death failed to provoke any real other emotions apart from a rather self-indulgent introspective look at life and what it means, but J Mac made my guts fucking ache. I imagine it's a curse, and I studied the stages, stuck on stage one for far too long. I have many regrets.

"You regret not saying goodbye?"

"Let's not do this. Letting people down, respect, decisions, feelings. I've had this exchange with the people I need to. This is not something I regret."

She smoothes my hair and nods, I'm too tired to work it out.

We spend the morning out of sorts, her single bed is stupid and wrong. I end up on the floor on a makeshift hold - rise early, mucking around on her laptop and chain quaffing. I run downstairs for a fag but get distracted and make a change – she hates it anyway. When she wakes from her stupid sleep, her breath stinks and her hair looks stupid too. She asks me to stay for the party tonight, and I grumble and start to lie. Truth be told – I say, and then I say something. She gives me a book, like she did the first time we met. Her deficiency cute, but she's right to doubt. Perhaps I could move here, to this city. Then maybe everything would make sense. Banksy cut and paste, and a beauty ruined by conformity. There's a wall down by my house with a stark image of some killer prawns with helmets on zapping lobster enemies (which is odd, because they are basically the same thing). Someone had scrawled violently over the top "stencils are shit", and it's ruined, but most of my admiration is aimed at the scrawl, and I feel naughty because of this.

Just before I take the shuttle home, we are stopped in the street by a teen camera crew, three boys and a girl sullen and drab, drawn like zombies from the fifties, all neon and scruffy – they shoot us in the face and ask for opinion about one or two – Sarah sneers, but is also lovely to them.

The scene here is different, and I'm out of my depth. I lack the grace of yesteryear, and perhaps I'm wrong for dismissing the new breed – I can barely hold back though and my contempt for this retro revisit is pretty evident. I grumble about obsession and how the third person will always raise his voice to the detriment of others. Even at this late hour, as the anecdote unfolds, I look slightly over my left shoulder and yearn to be taken away, crushed beneath the wheels of a car. This obsession with death must end, but it's less of an urge now and more of a cuss to those that love me. I don't seek out attention for this, I need to get drunk again. I need these worms crawling round my veins, and my eyes without stalks see too much for my head to handle.

I kiss Sarah goodbye and she asks me not to smoke, ever again. I pat my groin and agree, determined to appear compliant for a moment.

The boys are eager to call foul play when I return. I crumble the best and sit on the lawn cross legged, damp and uncomfortable. Sam points to the sofa inside and I suddenly need my own space. I don't want these friends here, I eagerly question their position, and decide maybe they're not for me. People who never went away, and they tricked me into caring. Their welfare – I want them to be free, I wish them no harm, and I wouldn't want them upset without fine reason. I just don't think I want them here anymore. I squish up my eyes and groan and Sam rightly chastises, and no one even asks about Sarah, or how I am feeling. But I am feeling ruddy terrible.

I get a call from the boys in town asking me to come in, and there's an offer on the table, on their books for sure should I desire. I'm proper wasted now, in no mans land and I'm about 2 weeks till I'm found out. I tell my chums about my thoughts, and they are mocked, but hang on! Very real to me, actually. Close buddies tell me my view of employment law is warped– people don't just become accountants you know, they put in the hours, and the training. Sure, they can then bring their skills to a company, and they have the upper hand as they have the knowledge. They can then walk round their own house, and probably soon after their street with a stealthy humid chutzpah. When asked 'what do you do?' they will have that title that everyone needs, or if no title, the company, and if the company is big or exciting enough then the title doesn't matter.

"But don't you think people are naturally accountants?"

"I suppose people could have an interest in it, or like working with excel, or realise they can do it. I don't think anyone is born an accountant."

"I think I wish I was born an accountant."

With the looming fear that I have nothing of merit to bring to this corporate bastard, and that I've been pushing my luck, I wait for the retribution. Well, actually no – I preempt the questions with those of my own. I heard Mat on the telephone last week and I didn't understand anything that he said. He appeared in control and so worthy of his wage. I wanted to give him a pay rise, and would if I was good at numbers and that was my job. No matter from what angle this is viewed, he is paid for his knowledge and his ability to charm and twist. But he has that base knowledge, and I do not. I know I cannot survive on the bravado alone. Even Ollie says I will learn, but I am getting old, and half the time I just want to forget about everything and go and feed the ducks.

The party is on the horizon, it's elevated to the stature of simply "The party", and that is how we all talk about it. Even on the interweb, people know the one, and everyone will be there, and a jolly time is guaranteed for all. People talk about it with iconic glee, the organisers are lucky fuckers – all threads coming together at once. What a place to tell these people of my decision I think, I can maybe get some advice from different people, and maybe some truths will leak out and slap me cross the chops. I could do with some truth right now. And they'll all have drugs because that's still what people do, even though the clean face of the company (I'm talking about those on the second floor), they are adamant that that was 1995 – 1998.

In terms of projections, if we were to say that the party kicked off in 1994, and all through '95 and onto 96, the good times never stopped – and 1997 was when people started taking heroin, and then in 1998 everything collapsed, then in 2000, everything was reborn but the country had changed then, and everyone was listening to David Gray. Well, what actually happened was that nothing changed. Since the start, and up to now - it never stopped, and don't let anyone tell you otherwise.

Ollie asks me about my time in Bristol, and I tell him about the facts, and he makes lude jokes pertaining to Sarah's Vagina. I snort – guffaw, and he suggests a face to face. He says face off, then guffaws himself, and admits to talking to someone else whilst I snivel on the line. I think actually, it will be rather nice to go for a luncheon drink with this man. We'd talk aside from all this grubby shit and I'd tell him some things, those grubs that go on in my mind and my honest fears about this company and what I have become.

#  18. A Crack in the M25

A man was knocking at my door for 27 minutes this morning. After ten, I hid in the bath and slipped under the bubbles. He knew I was there, and said so. "I know you're there." I ignored him because I know who he is, and what he wanted last time, and whose fault that was. I went down to the coffee house awfully early, specially when the buzz from the computer started to make me feel sick and next doors hoover changed gear and my head almost exploded. All that stuff was meant to have stopped now, but it still goes on.

I remember part of my dream, and it was the recurring one I always have about the school and that. I've been dreaming more lately and I know I'm trying to tell myself something. Something is up and I'm clearly too deranged and pathetic to accept whatever it is. P'raps this is why I want to wrap up warm even though it's still not cold enough. Oh, and then I go cold. People call this a fever, but if it happens all the time, and you are not ill, then it is the just the way it is and that's that. Doctors have told me not to fret, and I'm too tired to question this. I'm thinking my innards might seep out my bumhole one morning if I'm lucky. I could spell something out in blood with my talents on the bed sheets. And that's how they'd find me, and then people would know. 'Oh Darling, it was disgusting, but we were there from the start of course. Such a brilliant scene. More bourbon?'

Obviously in my dream nothing brilliant or stupid happened. No clean clinicians on roller skates chopping off the heads of idiots with a menacing grin. No pig heads nor laughing, just the usual faces and chairs, and time that went on for hours, but was actually just 3 minutes (I learnt that from a film). I think at one point an angry boy was stomping on a vacuum cleaner, up and down, up and down. I didn't see his face but I imagine it was red and puffy, and he was frustrated. Perhaps he wanted my attention and was making the noise so I would open the door and ask him what was wrong. I didn't though, I just remained asleep.

When I woke up I was sweaty again, but I don't know if that's the fever, the heat from the room or the fear you get when you realise another day is here and you will have to deal with all those cunts again. I was sleep talking upon my wake, or just a reaction – something. "I didn't tell them anything, I didn't tell them anything." I said it about 5 times, and my heart beat fazed out and down soon after that. I lay in bed all wet and upset for a little while, a little wee had come out – nothing disgusting, it was just the wee muscle pumping away. Had I been excited, it could have been jism that found its way out, but it wasn't – I was afraid.

I rolled off the layer in the shower and had some grotty instant coffee before getting the line down to Holborn. It's my new thing, getting off before I need to and wandering round, taking new streets and forging ahead – it's nice to start too early and give the time I deserve to finding out more about my city, the lost pockets, and how I deal with getting lost. Although I don't anymore, as I have an application for that. And regarding the sell outs, it has changed my life for the better. I can safely say things, and I rarely postpone anymore.

Part of Ollie's job is to feed the fear to the cocks at Haymarket. He does other things, sure - and they're all on different scales. They have annual reviews and they all get different percentages and this means that some people have done better than other people. Ollie's father was an intrepid business explorer in the 1970s – you should have seen the things he saw, and the dictatorships that fell under his scrutiny. Back then, nobody really knew what to expect about the future. A program called Tomorrows World was to present to all the households all the things that might happen very soon, but also years away, and no one could believe anything they could see, because everything they could see what so bloody fantastic. And things were getting better all the time, because things at one point in the past were pretty bad. Like, you see, people were getting killed all the time. The boys from the other island kept on blowing parts of London up, and people were rioting. But slowly, microwaves and coffee machines and blenders and big phones like bricks with aerials that people jokingly pretended to pick their noses with – well all that was introduced.

His dad used to watch Crimewatch and hug his family before bed, and promise that one day they would all move to Paris, but it would also be like Dallas, but French. And then Ollie grew up, and there was no chance for Neo Fascism, Stalin, or the bloody Russians. Well, the beeps were increased and computers began to tell people that they were free, and they bloody believed it! People decided that actually, global capitalism was here to stay, and that there was absolutely nothing that they could do about it. And the fathers would still go out to work, but then they'd come home again, because they'd forgotten that London was now run by their sons. They all owned lots of houses and they would rent out some of them for lots of money. Anyway, rather than questioning the money and the fact that it seemed like it was controlling everyone in the world, everyone would sit round and worry about nuclear war and the core of the earth exploding, or things that would happen in 3,000 years time. Everyone was being a silly sausage, and a few old ladies would say this whilst the news was on, or when their nephews came round with the latest blah from the blah store on the Tottenham Court road. No one paid attention to old people back then – this was the first mistake.

Ollie started to watch the disaster flicks, we started to go to the cinema more. Things were changing awfully fast, and only the madmen could see where this was all going. When someone looked as if they'd clocked the theory, they were rounded up in Renault Clios and taken to a pit in Aylesbury and burnt. Of course, this was all hush hush, but those documents are now public property. My friend used to drive a Clio, and I am now suspicious of this. I haven't seen him for years though, so maybe he perished like the rest of them. He was a funny chap, he used to say things like "I'm not as black as you think I am."

Ollie's father used to condition him using very arbitrary techniques. As a result, Ollie talked with immediacy, and there was no need to manipulate as that was unnecessary. Unlike most of my other one to ones, I hang my head high with interest with Ollie. He's quite a sexy boy also, and has tufts of hair that make him look like a garden. Ollie's Dad would never make Ollie do anything he didn't want to do. Instead he would ask him if he wanted to do something, and then layer the question with a weighted expectation. Ollie knew this was a trick, and it made him angry. He learnt early on that he was expected to go to this place and love this person, but he was never bruised and his father loved him very much.

I walk along the Great Queen Street and wait for the tourists to muck me about. Ollie says he's still in a meeting, and texts me a picture of him in a meeting. London seems full of four types; the pin stripes, the alternatives, the worker drones and the tourists. If you don't fit into one of those sectors, then by all means you are welcome here also, but I can't see them today. Maybe they hang out at Hounslow West, because I've never been there. The class system is discussed and torn apart by my Mexican friends sometimes (at the cream parlour, or if not - a chain is perfectly fine). This city is super special to me, and the way that the country works I think is quite funny, and my foreign friends agree.

I hang with Ollie for most of the day. His raise is beyond expectation, and he calls his loved ones. I wish I had some news to tell my loved ones, then I realise I don't have any loved ones. It doesn't make me sad though. We eat in a cut price chain where they serve you tiny dishes all at once. I tell Ollie that my time is to end pretty soon, and he agrees that I will never be like the rest of them. And I'm unhappy. Not because of anyone or thing or somebody's said something – oh no. But as much as the money for these duties is nice, my balls do hurt and if I'm just here serving the go getters and bigger boys as they climb the corporate ladder, this terrible inadequacy will just burn brighter as time goes on.

Ollie looks at me as if to sigh and tell me I am being silly, and perhaps I am. But he also knows the time has past for spinning and I am being genuine and he must be also. He apologises - as Mat does, and all my chums do, for what they say and for their actions. It feels good being out of these thoughts, and we scoff down the grub and drink a luncheon lager, then two more. Ollie knows I'd never stop trying to compete, and ultimately I'd burn out. Irony blessed – I was always good doing these numptie tasks, and I could lie and like my duties, but the truth sometimes makes me sick.

His ways intoxicate and encourage me to open up and just say things, no bother - if he can't fathom a solution, he can swiftly point to the right direction. This way he can always be in control. Even when he has no idea what's going down, or which way to turn, he can confidentially extract the necessary details from another source. I'm going to try to be more like this I think. He says things that concern me, like when I said that, his response was 'maybe that's the problem - you think'. I'm sure everything's just out of reach and with a little holding of hands and a dollop of luck, I can get to where it is I need to be. Ollie has no answers now, nor should he have. He gets no money for this, but I will definitely report back to all of London what a lovely guy he is, I don't see what benefit that would be to him though. He gives me a card, and scrawls a number over the existing number, I've obviously been given access to the second layer, so that's good. I tell him it's unnecessary but hold onto the card so tight; the thought of dropping it makes me upset. I look him dead in the eye as we sit in Sacred. He gets it, and time stands still for a bit. If we were at a station, and we were going out, and he was leaving me for a long time, I would cry. I sort of feel like crying.

I get back to the house late, and Sam is there fiddling with wires and grumbling about the speed of the internet. I pretend to be a little more drunk than I actually am. I toy with the notion that I'm more than tipsy, and lounge around watching Sam fix things and make a mess of the kitchen. He reminds me of the party and says that I am expected to go, and says again 'I am invited, and expected'. I watch television and pour myself a neat whiskey. He berates me for not putting in a dash of mineral water, and I tell him to fuck off with immediacy. The windows and doors are wide open, perhaps Sam farted earlier. The Liberals have gone away, I presume to renew their wedding vows. The other side has a new dog, or an old dog they've borrowed. It's been barking and I spied dog feet marks on the kitchen as I entered.

"Why was a dog in here? Was it next doors dog?"

"It came in whilst you were out. Next door had a package for us, and the dog made a break for it."

"What was the package?"

"It wasn't for us."

Sam irritates me sometimes. I often wish he was dead and not here, but I suppose only the way in which you wish your brother would die. There's a fine line between jumping on him to protect him for an incoming bullet, and just taking the opportunity of jumping on him, because jumping on him would be funny.

Other things that are funny are: mocking him if he falls over, when he injures himself, or if he fails in some way; tripping him up in the street, and when he forgets his words or appears foolish in public. I like that last one especially as then I can take the side of the stranger and we can gang up on him. Hitting him is funny, causing him some physical pain. Also, mental distress. Messing with his mind a bit, knowing what annoys him and making him annoyed. Saying words incorrectly so he has to correct me, mentioning bands that I know he hates and saying "Oh, I love that band." Having a working knowledge of all the films he hates, and the actors he thinks are shit, the genres he despises – and then sitting down, ten minutes before he is due home, and putting on a film that satisfies all of those criteria. It matters not if I dislike the film. The pleasure from annoying Sam beats everything.

Sam moved in. It was shortly after he learnt that this place was going to be taken back in the summer. I think he had agreed to do some work. I don't know, he just turned up, who am I to question these things. He has started saying "In a matter of months.", "In a matter of weeks." He thinks it's the only way to communicate time scales to me, and he's possibly incorrect about this. He treats me like an idiot sometimes, even though I'm pretty sure he knows I'm not. I suppose sometimes I encourage this behaviour, because in a way it bonds us, but the recourse bites me on the ass, and it makes me want to break the M25 and watch everyone fall out and into the real world.

Over the next week, I go to see Sarah once, and she comes down to London to see me. She comes on the Friday and I've got nothing I want to do apart from sex her and maybe eat with her. She needs to know some things so I make up some stories for her amusement. One is how my cousin is going to become a volunteer police officer in Milton Keynes, and then something about a friend of a friend who has opened a gym. I can take some other anecdotes that people have flowered me with over that last fortnight and add to flourish. Or perhaps none of this, and we'll talk about death and how things used to be. I suggest moving to Copenhagen so we can legally be the way we want to be. She argues that you don't see payphones any more, and when you do, they're out in the open. Privacy is not de rigeur no more, you can even piss in a hole on the street and so someone walking along would see your bottom as you wee. I've never seen one of them in use though, I think I'd like to.

Give the people what they pay for, they don't know it yet but they're already doing it - there's much to learn. After a while, her faux social commentary loses its significance, and aside from the tender moments where I could almost collapse into her brain and swim around, she's still dead to me. When she does die, it'll be of great significance to me, and to others but she suspects it will not, and no amount of words will convince her otherwise. My eyes may stray again as I look for a way out of the maze, and there may not be any order left here. I could always do this perhaps, and in the process destroy what development is left in this one. I did all my developing a few years ago, there's something about males killing themselves at 27, just to sell magazines. If you reach 28 and you're not hung or missing or you've died of vomit clog, or a shatter fuck of metal through the face, then you could be stable, and untalented, or both. These spinny cortex facts are all very interesting to me, and I half recite them at the dinner table when people come round. I normally get them a little bit wrong and they turn into waffle, and people then think I'm being weird. But that's not my intention, it really isn't. I just want to get along and support, and try to get things done. It's hard sometimes.

Sarah never had post vote wobble, and she sticks to her guns. We all knew the tories would make things better, and even when the people were shouting from the sidelines, and coalition madness threatened to bury the social grand, the forms were still being fed in, and all the big men were satiated. 'You start a company, son – then you'll realise how bad unions are'. The updates on the computer are beginning to make me feel sick, and when Sarah talks about post graduate degrees that lead to a prestigious career, I scrumple my head on her tits and blow a raspberry. She gently slaps me and says that if she wanted, she could snap me in two. I suppose she pertains to my slight figure, and I tell her that I really do try to put on the weight, and I nod when she says 'have I hit a nerve?'

I'm all uptight now anyway. Sam walks around naked and this free ticket is mine no more. If I stay here much longer, they'll phase me out for sure. I can stay till the sun comes out, and it starts to get warmer. The dates of the owner's return are vague, and I'm sure that Sam is relishing in my anxiety. He claims to be working to make it right – there was talk of a new shower upstairs.

I'm resigned to this. I've been running rings around, pushed out by circumstance and romanced by all this free living. This new decision is my own and it bores me. But this could be the last time, and I guess I'll play by the rules and see where it gets me.

#  19. The End of the World

The weather's getting fresh and hot, which points to better times, or those times when you're abroad and it's really early. The liberals next door are getting a new kitchen, and their garden path has been all battered up with a sledgehammer. The lady waits all day by the telephone – I've seen her. I've taken to sharing glances and nodding and I suppose I'm being friendly. I imagine sometimes that her husband is performing cunnilingus just below my eye line, oh I wish for that to be the case. I'm not actually sure if she has a husband, I'll check for a ring next time I see her. I know she gets fucked regularly though, because I hear it.

I've made it past the week to think of the excuses, and decide to never more pass and walk in and around and try to attain something from the hub. In other words my friend, I know you're worried – I'm worried too, but there's really nothing else for me to do, and for that, let's all just dress up in our bestest gear and have a good time.

I spend the day with James before the party, driving back and forth and picking up gear and erecting a gazebo. There's much work to do and little laughter, and I wash nine tables, quick and with little thought.

When it gets to three and the main picture is set, I go to the toilet and find a girl who I knew from school who is sitting on the floor of the shower looking at the floor, clutching a damp towel. I close the door behind me and kneel and touch her face and ask her if she is okay, and if I can get her anything. She tells me that her mother died last week and I say 'oh that's terrible', and I offer her my hand. She gets up but she has no weight and falls onto me. I can't take her weight and I fall clumsily back and as we tumble, she snags her head on the side of the bath. A guy called Harry hears and then sees the scene and comes in and takes over, pulling the girl up and repeating 'it's ok, it's ok, come on'. My eyebrows go up and I look and feel weak and pathetic and inappropriate. The man who is called Harry nods and says thanks to me and they go into one of the private rooms. She had a lovely dress on, a bit like Jenny Lewis in that pop video she made.

James feeds me with nibbles and straight whiskey – Balvenne again, and my throat hurts – my stomach questions why the acid comes before the bread. I spy and leak around the property, nooks and crannies to sniff out, rooms to regard, disregard, walk in on, where people might end up having sex. Many of the revelers are already close, some here, some in the other fields, but all in an easy grasp. Between mid-afternoon and early evening, I take a nap in one of the bedrooms – not that secretive, I hear my cousin at one point saying 'Oh, he's asleep. He'll take every opportunity he can to sleep. I think he just prefers sleeping.' He says it in short sharp sentences, and after each sentence, the people laugh a little bit (a tiny amount), so he adds a final one; 'If you ever lose him, the bedrooms are the first place to look.'

I am pulled from my dream, like whoever it was had fisted me from the mouth and yanked out my lungs then slapped me back and forth. I slept a little too long, but felt quite refreshed. A familiar throws me a bottle and tells me to skin up, and I fall into the en suite and wash my face, I can already hear the throng growing outside. I walk around for a bit, finding somewhere suitable to prepare the drugs. I nod at almost all, some I stop for a hand touch – this half sleepy state works wonders for relaxation, and I know I smell good. I soon give up on any plans of rolling – too many variables, and I have the urge for more whiskey – mixers this time – not the good stuff. I hang round the detox tent – I made that happen, and when people point out its beauty, I make a noise with my face and say 'yeah, it was a bastard to put up' and look up at it as I say it. Then that gives me an in, and from that things flow nicely.

I'm introduced to Scott, who runs around the country, lighting up the stage for singing nuns. He was in Plymouth last month and this is his local hiatus.

"How is the work?"

"Good. It's tiring, I miss London."

"It's good to be back then?"

"Of course." Scott vacantly looks at the hubble of life, all chatting and being brilliant in unison. No one looks as out of place as I feel, and I yearn for Scott to feel the same. "I know two people here. I feel like I'm running out of things to say. I'm slightly fuelled by Jack Daniels, and I'm sure everybody's lovely."

"Everybody does seem to be lovely, although you're only the third person I've properly spoken to. And who am I to say, you could actually be a...oh I don't know, a heartbreaker? Are you a heartbreaker?"

"I don't think so. I don't think I've broken anybody's heart. I could have done, it's altogether plausible." We talk for a while and find some common ground, fuck about, chug along, get all het up – when should we move, etc and all the rest.

"Have you seen much Ingmar Bergman?"

"Yes I have, the production is going to Sweden one day – in the future, probably."

"It would be nice for you to live there? I want to live in Iceland, still."

"Ah, you've had the Nordic dream for a while, I can see it in the eyes." Scott tries to poke me in the eyes and I slowly move forward – he menacingly massages my eyeball, and a small tear falls down my face. A gimp collects the tear and puts in a syringe, ready for the cry cakes that will be handed round after the bell goes at 2am. My head gets fuzz-balled, and I cling on to Scott cos this bodes well. The bodies disperse, and a random lesbian with twiglets for hair shoves a bottle of Smirnoff in our hands.

"What's the next production then Mister Scott?"

"It's going to be a disco version of something I just thought about, just now."

"Tell me about this idea you've just thought about."

"Well, it's going to be about a girl called Fairly Partial. I know what she looks like."

"What kind of story would she feature in?"

"She's a student in a school on the West Coast, probably in the eighties. She's lonely."

"Why the States?"

"Her father moved there from Paris for work, but she's not French."

"What adventures does she get involved in? Does she get excluded from things?"

"She falls in with the wrong crowd, one girl of note - Mallory Contagious. Mallory's parents have a secret. Mallory is a good girl at heart – she takes antidepressants, but they're not hers – they're her brother's prescription, she doesn't really need them. Her brother rapes her."

"Oh, it's got a bit grisly. I like it so far. It should be very English, almost classical in its narrative I think. A bit like Beckett prose – all very proper syntax, but with fucked up content."

"Mallory is threatened by her brother, saying that she has to help cover up the rape."

"Wow, what a demon."

"Yeah, but she does, because her brother has power over her."

"So what does Fairly do?"

"Well, she goes to Mallory and tells her, and she says no – this can't be right – she must have it wrong. A calculated season of manipulation and mind fuckery then begins."

"I think then the brother and Mallory should meet up and decide that something needs to happen. They should burn down a house."

"Yeah, why not. They burn down a house. But it spreads and takes over a small neighbourhood, and 3 children are killed."

"Wow."

"They pin it on Fairly. And all the time, she is taking the pills that Mallory gave her. She thinks they are antidepressants, but they're not, and she starts going mad. She gets taken into a mental hospital because of her supposed crimes and in there, she gives birth to Mallory's Brother's kid. Because of the pills, it's horrifically deformed."

"How horrifically deformed?"

"Well it's still alive, but it's barely human."

"And she thinks it's maybe deformed because of the brutality of the conception?"

"Yeah."

"I think there's plenty of drama yet to unfold."

"Fairly's mum turns up. She goes to Mal's brother and gives him money, but we don't know why yet. She seems happy. She runs to the hospital under the cover of darkness. 'Hello Fairly', she goes. Fairly tries to scream. Nurses come in to see what the matter is, and the next morning, her Mum is calmly talking to the ward stuff. She is smiling, and everything is fine."

"Yeah, but everything is not fine."

"Fairly is white, and drugged. Her mum smiles and kisses her goodbye, and in Fairly's eye is a glint of terror but nobody sees it. Nobody."

"Christ."

"She goes back to Mallory and they have a heated argument. The brother is upstairs and he climbs out the window and drives off. Fairly's mum slaps Mallory."

"This is getting very complicated."

"The phone goes off in the hospital . Something has happened, something terrible. Lovers Spit by Broken Social Scene starts up – cut to a scene of Mallory's brother speeding. He's going so fast. Cuts to a room where the deformed baby is – crying, gently slipping onto the floor." Scott stops to breathe and I realise I am wide eyed and staring directly at him.

Sam passes us and calls me a reprobate, and winks at me. Scott sees his flatmate's girlfriend and gets up, pinching my knee and smiling.

"Introduce me, Sam. Find me someone interesting and brilliant to speak to."

"You fucking tart. Wander – mingle." He tops up my drink with a coke, making it weak and less palatable. I head over to the patio where no one else is. A fat cat comes up to me, and I tickle the bit of its back just before the tail. It licks the air, it looks close to completion. I put my hand near its licking tongue and it goes from air to palm, and it feels really lovely – raspy and raw, and if someone cares for me.

I hang back and feel fuzzy from the drinks, I look over to my left where the pond lays precariously close to the gazebo and tables of gubbins. Behind me the lounge is on fire, the windows open and I can hear LCD Soundsystem and the odd phrase ringing true, and laughter. In the hall, things are getting rowdy, not many people – but someone is cutting someone's hair, and the news is reaching fever pitch, and people keep on saying Oh My God! There's more around the corner, and at the back is the BBQ so that's where most are hanging out, eating pig and pretending that sausages without their sheaths are the modern way to eat pork. "These ones have apple and sage, these ones have hidden razor blades. If you like the taste of cum, then these ones aren't for you."

I play with the cat and get a text from Ollie. I look around for him, I don't get up. The pockets of pork smell almost make me want to follow through, but I keep it tight and text back. I quickly skin up – I'm passed caring what anyone presumes no more, and I'm sure someone will bring out the guns later, anyway.

As I spark and smile to myself for the soundtrack of our lives, my cousin and her wife join me and remark upon the cat. I make a quip that she licks anything if you touch her in the right place, and they both let out a gawdy hungry golly, cuz squeezes my arm, and I puff in her face then offer her a draw. Greg plods round the corner – 'Is this where the cool people are?' J Mac's friend from Chicago joins us and rapes the wooden chair of its shiny blue cover. It does little to protect his ass from the stony cold, but we all try to perch on it closer. A girl someone knows knocks on the window and waves in our direction. Most of us smile, one of us waves. My cousin and Gregory hit the ground running, and hold hands. There's talk of leaving this place, and running though a field and never coming back. No one wants to talk about business deals here, and the cat seems to like our little group.

Mat and Ollie come over to us, smiles beaming and full of life.

"Would someone like to help us blow up the world this evening?" Clutching colourful spikes, and long things, round things and fuzzy blobs, and everyone feels like they're young again, before all this happened and things got complicated.

"I think I would." Mat offers me his hand and I take it and hold it tight, and as I rise I grab the scruff of J Macs friend. "Come on." We walk over to the landslide scruffy patch beyond the outer wall. We then turn back when Ollie suggests that some of the bombs wouldn't reach the sky. We split, and Ollie and Mat take the inner wall with the smaller bombs, and J Mac's friend and I leap over the wall into the disused garage area to set up the overhead attacks. I quite liked holding Mat's hand, and I'm glad people saw.

"I'm glad we're out here. I have nothing in common with these people." J Mac's friend turns down my offer of comfort, and takes the rockets and lets the first one go. It shoots up into the air at a strange angle and glides over the top of the house, exploding and showering the scenesters with aluminous rain drops. I once saw a girl get hit by a firework at a beach party and everyone stopped, but she was fine. I also lost my wallet that night – I should never have gone to that party. J Mac's friend digs deeper for the next few, and we see the nearer fizz from Mat and Ollie, and people gather round the patio – food is finished, and the haircut seems less interesting now.

I fell back in the driving seat, and this was entirely accidental. I want to ride into the sun with the person beside me, I could show him all there is to see – the way you attach a piece of broken bacon to a pebble and throw it into a river by a wall and catch a crab. All the things I know about – the best wines to buy, and if it turns out it's the end of time, we could be friends and my voice would slightly break as we traveled north. I want to leave them all behind, I always have. And maybe this time, if I were to cut those ties and promise myself I'd never go back, perhaps make it permanent so there's no route to return. If we did this together, and just kept looking forward, I don't suppose it would matter so much. As long as we were clutching hands; I'd kiss his dirty nails and wait for the morning to come. Perhaps I'm in someone else's place.

"How you finding London?"

"It's great yeah. I start a temp job on Monday."

"Ah so you're sticking around? Excellent stuff."

WOOSH BANG!

"I had a thing at a translating place, but that got cancelled. And I also had a job interview in Manchester, that also got cancelled. Anyway this is a full time work from home job."

"Wow, you've hit the dream ticket."

"Well, I'm a freelancer for a healthcare consulting firm, until at least mid-June. I'm not sure what that means for me in terms of whether I'm staying though. I've got to go into their offices on Monday and Tuesday to be briefed, and then work home full time after that."

SHOOOOOOOOOOSH!

"I think I want your job."

"Call up Gordon Yates tomorrow, seriously. They have loads of temp jobs. You need to go in and take a basic MS word test and typing proficiency."

"No, I want your job."

"What if it's miserable?"

"It won't be, you're working from home – hell is other people."

"Well I won't have a home much longer. I'll come and stay with you and Sam, and you can make me coffee and feed me."

"Actually, that could me my job - a house husband."

"Yeah, I'll give you a pound an hour, 50p for any additional services."

"So I -"

KERBAAAM PIZZ!

"So I have to work 700 hours a month just to pay my rent. Is that doable?"

"It's reasonable I think."

"Are there that many hours in a month?"

"Semantics."

"24 in a day. 24 times 30."

"Don't analyse this too deeply."

"Ah yeah, there are plenty of hours. In fact, that gives me 50 hours free."

"Exactly! That's the attitude. Here, pass me one of the spunk rockets."

"I have 50 hours free to earn money for food and bills. Here, one spunk rocket."

"That's 50 hours too many m'lad. I'm so generous."

"What about sleep?"

"I think you might be reverting back to the glass half empty attitude."

BOOOOOM!

"So you miss the states?"

"Certain things yeah. There's a guy who wrote some interesting stuff in one of your papers recently. I'm trying to learn more about your culture. He was a bit overly effusive about Americans, but still very perceptive about British culture."

"What did he say?"

"Some stuff I didn't really get. How the election was a kick in the teeth, because although Britons still seethe with class hatred, they pride themselves on this highly evolved attitude to race, and that undermines the American dream."

"Well, we like to think that we are ahead of you in terms of our attitude towards racism. I suppose a black president showed that maybe we weren't. But also, in the UK, race matters in politics, but not on the street. Any colour just kicks the shit out of any other colour. We look down at other cultures, but we're hardly advanced."

"There's a kind of ostrich stoicism, like it's still the Blitz. This weird compromise – you're happy to muddle on and put up with high prices and poor quality. You guys accept apologies as a substitute for improvement. You don't enjoy the way things are, yet you endure them."

"This is why you guys are frustrated with our Service Industry."

"Yeah, we never feel like we get the bang for the buck."

BANG!

"What can I say, we like to complain here. I'd much rather go to a bad restaurant and come away with an anecdote and a feeling of superiority, than go to a nice place and come away satiated. What good is that?"

"You guys are insane."

"We're quaint. It's quaint."

I remember the point at which I lost control, and it was frightening. I remember scratching my head, and I remember sighing, and I suppose at some point I must have said yes. The party went on until 4am. I didn't speak to the people I should have, according to Mat. I was soulfully quiet and calm after the fireworks, and when I lit a Catherine Wheel down the lanes and it zoomed off to make contact with a stone wall, people shouted "Oh My God!" and I said "It's fiiiiine." and then rolled my eyes and cried "Jeeeeessus!" to the person beside me. People began to mock a boy from the concrete quarter who had drifted in without a partner, head gone down and thirsty. At one point, I wanted to take his hand and kill everyone making the noise. That soon subsided and we all began to wonder whether anything would be the same in the morning.

With tinted specs, and Ginko Bilbao, Zinc and Vitamin B, healthy shakes and a run round the park with a sweat, then shower. Most of these bodies will rise in a few hours and then go on to achieve great things. They may allow themselves a violent parade in a fluff ball white gown (designed by the best), and intended for such occasions. A gentle kiss on the forehead. No cum stains, just plenty of fresh fruit and gallons of water. There's blood in their stools, but if they just keep smiling... if they just keep smiling.

I wake up in my own bed with no one beside me, no one to blame. My phone is alive and flashing, and the first line intro says sorry. The second text goes : <I texted you as well! I'm very very sorry>. I take 2 Panadol and 2 Nurofen and glug down the dirty water by my head. There's an eager ladybird trundelling along my wooden slats and my eyes are dumped on as my face sags against the second pillow.

#  20. Blue Waffle

Over the next 4 weeks, my life takes a welcome change of pace. The party was a catalyst, I think for many – perhaps a child was conceived, and people realised things about themselves. Things slipped from my mind after that, and I started to see the best in people. Certain avenues closed, and connections with trams and services opened up. Things were no longer a bloody mess.

There was a tube strike on the Tuesday, just as I had to meet some important clients in Covent Garden. We all grumbled about unions and a man called Bob, or something. The buses were jam packed, and craziness took over for a bit, but people still referenced the blitz, cos maybe it's the done thing – even colour flow charts and fuzzy images of the shop with more front than any other – well they were all unearthed and broadcast on the evening news. Talking about the war, and London was the thing to do, and everyone did it. People wore tram skates on their sweaty feet and passengers were encouraged to act for the greater good.

I went in for eight and swung around looking for lines to open and places to take my people. All that my job requires, such as it is – Ollie says take these three around and show them the sights and impressive things. More of a favour really, but I know them gently and I'm sure I'll be paid in free tickets to extortionate events or a meal or two on a friggin' plane to Rome, or something. Anyway, I do. But the roam back to the city edge is fraught with crushing pit stains and mongoloids, who I try so hard to ignore. Someone farts, but there are children here and so it's classed as natural and so no one tuts. Some man in a parker bowles tank top looks stern and mean, and points to another man, who is a negroid. The negroid is writing numbers on bits of paper that he keeps in a large tuppaware by his feet, and every so often he opens up his face and aligns the papers along the window to attain greater clarity of his work. After he does that, he proclaims "Take the noose from round my neck!" and then falls, and a bone in his back hits the please stop button. He closes his eyes and then something hits him \- perhaps a private joke, or something.

I get texts from the clients and they seem chuffed, but drunk maybe – mostly. I update the lads, and they invite me to further functions. I sort of want to run away and go skipping through puddles, and get paid for it cos I think that would be a nice way to live. I want so much, and perhaps I want to change things also. These meanie men around me could still pay me handsomely should I let them, but they also have menace in their eyes.

Over the next four weeks, these are some of the things that happened in London:

There was a war between the eye and the android, just as was predicted. Everyone dressed up as squirrels and convened at Muswell Hill and then attempted to take over Methuen Park. Some of the renegades broke free from the rush and started to climb the dramatic wooden sculpture by the plants for sale. Undeterred by the onslaught, the organisers turned up the music, but by then it was too late and a child was crushed under the weight of the crowd.

Closer to home, I was given £5,000 for some of my troubles. The cretins in Haymarket had lost £40,000 because someone had paused and said "yes" and then done entirely the wrong thing; they had muddled through. They should have said "Ok, I understand this, but could you clarify this bit again", or something. But they didn't, and they got their knuckles wrapped for that and everybody in the company was mad at one person for a while. But then that person was no longer the baddie, cos then someone lost £45,000 when he said "Yes, this is the answer", when he didn't actually know, but did not want to appear unprofessional. The line manager was reluctant to accept that his team were this dumb.

"You don't have to know the answer, you just need to know where to get the answer." Yes, but we'd heard that before. No one was trying to trick no one. The cameras weren't rolling and this was for no one's entertainment – 'cept maybe the guys from Chicago, and some of the wives with blue waffle vaginas and a handful of Chinese, who frankly should know better than to allow themselves to be romanced by such dirty functional charm.

Still, I danced around them and made my mark, but things were happening elsewhere, on my own turf. My desire to push my piece in a slot that was unaccommodating and ugly was fading, right? I could try further to break my arms and mind and will by doing these things, but no good can come from it, even if I tried really hard I think. I flaunt my anxiety, my differences and my fears, when I never used to, no. I'm gonna walk away from all this, and then perhaps everything I touch will stop turning to stone. Perhaps I can accept these monies and just be myself and not worry about who's controlling who, and all these obsessions will fade away – like the dry skin problem I have.

So in the northern quarter, I settle down to rebrand the Slow nights, change the sets, get the kids in. All the hits are still on the East side, and people talk about Old Street like it's the fucking bomb. Not much to alter, we don't compromise either but few spunky suits would be proud – they know all about figures and shit and we know the market well. My view of the city is palpable.

Some had taken to calling the club nights, "The Hub". It keeps me occupied enough, designing flyers, walking up and down the Brick Lane, and talking to hipsters. All peaceful and crusty, the colours bright and I'd always make amends, in the end. The times in between, I'd settle down and work at the book shop. Good contacts and people around, I entered a routine and applied sense. Charts were drawn that depicted forecasts of my once woolly ideas. I had seventeen seconds to make decisions, and by golly they were made through gritted teeth.

Rough Trade dropped our name, some of our group were seen as some kind of figurehead. We planned our own narrative, and there were drunken discussions about control, and dickheads – really amusing to us actually. Raj held tight to his corner, and viewed the scene with great suspicion. People began to talk but we just carried on somehow - heads down, grumbling with glee. The shop became a hang out, and made it onto some godawful list. We all bought the paper that week and went down to the East side and guffawed as Raj read the write up. There were problems, but we had weight behind us so it began not to matter. Soon, the buzz was intoxicating and friends jumped in and swam around the atmosphere, smiling like idiots.

Things began to take off around Easter, it got a bit crazy. Publishers would ring and email asking to be the monthly show, and not the smaller ones, which sort of missed the point. But we did take our eyes off the ball once, and said yes to a major label. Turns out they were trying to influence a major player at the old guard, them broadsheets can be tricksy. But no one suffered much, we were meta, and people began to stencil shit around the offices, and the label. Our logo and man with big head apparel print was even featured on the BBC News, as George was in front of a warehouse talking about something. I don't recall what, just our moment of fame. We all guffawed, and walls were choc a block for a few days with friends commenting, and others liking the comments.

Sam even went to San Juan and did some work there, roughly translating with a team led by Benjamin, and some cross trainers from Pimlico. He had got involved with the guy who told Channel Four to stop using umbrellas, and that guy was important. I have to say though, none of this was a big turn – said this already – there were no decisions, just reactions, perfectly natural – to a turning tide. Ok, we sort of knew what we were doing in that we had seen this fire roar in previous years, but we sneered like we owned the loop. It took no further effort, actually if anything we were getting lazier. I certainly stopped trying, and we were still all taking drugs. The drugs started to become a problem.

Everything soon became a problem, and I let it out, and some of my friends dropped out drastic and quick, and people said things like 'just as things were taking off'. I said it too. I soon get into a routine of working in the shop and making the nights more successful – tweaking and making it better, you know? It becomes less of a magical trip for me, and I find myself reliant on pot and whiskey just to get through the hours. We all gave birth to something, and it got hard, and we all got embarrassed sometimes, easy to mock but people who work hard should not be mocked.

We're all guilty of getting over excited when times take a slight incline and rather than enjoy the moment, or work on the journey higher, we all look giddy at the make believe view ahead. The optimist in us takes a party drug and we profess things to be brilliant, but it's just a reaction to no longer feeling like grubby men with no direction. That euphoria when a migraine says goodbye, or toothache disappears. Everything's brilliant! Or something. Things to look forward to, and keep that steady hand on the rail, brother. And of course, when there's a team of you, we all go up with the uppers and slump down when a soldier falls. I try to stay away from all concerned, and crave the level headed approach of the business quarter. Being in the hub made me happy, but it was the significance, the hold – what could possibly occur in future days, or perhaps how I am perceived by the outsiders. I just want to make my friends jealous, and I'm pretty sure they can see right through me. Yet I continue with these petty attempts at control.

I start to look for somewhere new to live. For the first instance, with some money behind me, I go grand and all this will be official this time. I've learnt much and accidentally fall into some semblance of normality, and it feels safe, and with these drugs, safety is what I need. The excitement of the nights calms down as we all reach a plateau. Sure, some of us do better than others, but that's not a fault - no way. Ollie tells me how much Mat earns, apparently he was bumbling round the kitchen and a document lay open, so he read it. He told me, and I wish he hadn't. But soon, everyone knows everyone's salary, and although I'm told the teams and leader boards are all in my head, documents prove otherwise. People line up in line, and some of us voucher cloud for need. Soon, we will all reach an age where there's no new train to board. Those who have become what they have become – potential that lay bare – that's just sad. 'He had so much potential', a kind set of words after a tragedy. I entertain many many doubts, and yeah, I was fond of all these people, but this change is hard for me, and still no one is there to show me the right way. This is turning into one hell of a repulsive game.

I ask Sam if I can break the agreement, and he says something funny which is also demeaning. I've had my eye on a few areas, close enough. On the Monday, I arrange to view a flat on the Caledonian Road, and it's nice enough so I say 'yes, it's nice enough' when the man asks me if I like it. I lay down questions, get reductions and charm him gently, laying cards close to my chest and appearing pensive, yet sure.

"Can we do something about the sofa?'"

'That's an IKEA sofa."

"I see. Can I get back to you later on today?"

"Of course."

"Is this a combi boiler?"

"It is, it does keep costs down, and there's no need to wait for the water to heat up."

"I am unhappy, but I don't know why."

"Is it just you?"

"I will ring you later."

I tell my people of my find and show them pictures from the inter web. People make me feel progressive and clever for finding such a place, and they ask me how much it costs. I take to saying 'Yeah, let's not talk about that', because that makes it look like it's expensive, and it also made 3 of the people laugh.

I've seen Sarah a few times, I tell her and she clams tight - sure that I would move closer to her. She phones me one random day whilst I'm in the lounge with Sam watching reality documented on the telly – there's four business dweebs left, and the Lord is spewing out stock, and we're all glued. There's a funny outtake, the boys on the internet get busy when culture glows warmer.

Anyway, yeah she phoned after texting to ask if she could. The troubles of keeping it in, holding it close and bubbling with indigestion and hurt, well they all came out in one explosion and I had to handle it there and then. I remember that phone call well, and I know it will stay with me forever like. There aren't many points that change, but this was one for sure, and I spoke the truth - from the heart, and she thanked me. I wish I had an opportunity before, but what was keeping me bound was nothing very significant – just as the real job search begins as the bailiffs' call twice, or the rehab is imminent after the final collapse, when I imagine death or hospitals were involved. Even these blasted stones of mine - well, I'm told the real scans I need and maybe a transplant, well they'll only come when I'm almost dead. Like when new roads are built when a coach crashes, or a law is passed when a baby is raped. Although many disagree with the baby rape law, no one is allowed to say it. When baby raping is concerned, you have to shut up and say, you know - fair enough.

I tell her that I love her and that I always have, but that love doesn't conquer all, and that we have other things to achieve and I never say that this is hard for me. I would have done with my liars face, but I'm honest to God, I tell her this decision is easy as I truly believe it is right. And I give her more reasons and she thanks me again, and a couple of times we smile and laugh, and we know bad times will occur, but I tell her she's one of my five, and that's also the truth. I don't wish her the best, because I don't - I know she will be fine. This is not a time for placating or half-truths - to those that matter – a welcome change, and we're all weird anyway. She'll ring me many times over the next year, and in time I'll come to terms with this.

Ollie's paper chase and card still litter round, and I email asking for further direction. It's no business matter, yet I claim to need a mentor, yes. This group, they'll soothe and help me through the bad times, everyone needs guidance, how else will you go from £60,000 to £90,000 in one year. Anyway, I book and make a date for the release, perhaps I'll blow it off, or someone else.

#  21. Unruly Homosexual Feelings

I arrange and hook up with men in vans, £60 and all in. They shovel my goods from Sam's - not what it used to be, this two up in suburbia. The other James forgets, and comes back from fighting, not a bloody mark on him! He's seen enough and takes the dogs for walks now on the Isle of Wight. I doubt he cares about what goes on here, but he's Sam's really, and I'm out on another branch. The others come and go, and I can't spread this around anymore – I took all I could, and people have reasons. I should probably just leave now and not think too much about what these reasons are.

I move on the Saturday. Sam is around but his mind is elsewhere as his ex is still in love, and was paralysed whilst bobbing up and down on holiday. I try to be there, but I am busy and get frustrated by the attitude. There's only so much banging of doors, and 'Are you ok?' – keeping it going will only serve the worst kind of future shorts. On top of this, my luck dismayed – his grand old man lost his wrinkly woman that evening, or at least that's the time of the news. He zoomed off to be by the side of his ex, who apparently had asked for him by name. But also, his ex's family were already there, the friggin' wife and kids. So you can imagine yes, the witnesses and trouble that could occur. I doubt much went though, but I felt bad for Sam, being at the centre of all these troubles.

I paid the men a handsome tip, and one winked at me. I then told him my age, and he looked uneasy. Sam rang me as I baked the men in the oven, and poured tea to celebrate living in a different place. A place where I would not have to see the stains of the shit on the toilet bowel - shit from an arse that was not mine, or nod or make polite, even though I never did that anyway. I agree to go see Sam's grandaddy, take him some food in a ready-made box. The dwelling out on Ealing takes me all night, or that's the way it feels.

The house is just as I recall as a timid child. I used to go round after playing with Sam, and his Dad would tell us it's time. I hung round like a smell in my pants at that age, and was Sam's company for engagements, until we got bored. Sam's Dad moved away, and Sam became all tough and brilliant. I used to think he was so lucky for being a one parent kid. And then I became a one parent kid, and I still thought he was lucky. We started to lie at 15, and would say they had died, and it stuck. Now we just call them dicks. They've been replaced any how - some with new surnames, but certainly Sam came out a lot stronger than I – like a sturdy knight, actually. He used to save up mountains of coins and then loan his mother £100, and he'd charge her £10. And other stuff too, just like schemes, I don't have the details.

The house doesn't smell of cakes anymore. Hard sponge with sick and cream, a crunchy crust that my mother could never achieve. It's bloody empty, and I sit down on three layers of knitted yarn. It seems stupid and wrong to ask after his welfare, I show what I have brought him and the corners of his mouth go up and his eyes twinkle. His reaction makes the back of my throat go tight, and I forget how to breathe momentarily. He gets up and moves around, then sits back down. I make a drink, and everything will always now be a reminder that she's not here anymore. She was lovely, her. When I was 5 and had done a poo, she would come upstairs to make sure I'd wiped sufficiently. She'd move her head quickly from left to right sometimes, like a tick – maybe that's how she died. She moved it so violently one night that it came clean off her shoulders. Or it just snapped - maybe she meant to do it, because she had had enough of living. You can't really blame her for that.

She used to take Sam and me to a café called Choccichinos, and buy us burgers, which were called French Burgers. They had Dijon mustard and caramelised onions, and they were better than the chains. She taught me all about cooking and vegetables, and that processed things were okay in moderation. She made me cakes and her husband would show me wooden napkin holders that he made with an electric scythe out the back. He'd say "Here, take this for your mother.", but I never did because I knew it wouldn't have any affect. I'd give them to friends, and once I took a clock that he made into school as my submission for Craft, Design and Technology. It was the big end of year test, but no one really mentioned my effort. I guess because my circuit board in the previous assignment was so lame, the clock was seen as an anomaly. But I was better than that, and all them reports of looking out the window, and could try better – well they're all nothing now.

She'd sometimes give me food from the earth, and I'd take the earth food home – green oblongs and round crusty things called cauliflowers. There were also peas that you ate before they were fully formed. These were called mange touts. Mother was too sad to cook, or she had her hands full. She'd fill in forms sometimes, or would get ready for a setup. I used to hear the door go, and she'd always return upset, and then she wouldn't leave the house for a bit. I sometimes helped in the garden, and eagerly took the money I was given.

We all went out once, but it was strange, and my mother warned me that two banana milkshakes would make me sick. I argued otherwise, but vomited on her legs in the customer service department, and no one helped us, and mum walked home with vomit on her, and I started pissing myself when people made comment. She was embarrassed, I was too young. But mum didn't meet her eyes again.

So I miss her, you see. And the man she let fuck her before she went dry – well look at him now, and there's the truth. I feel for him, I guess he'll be next.

"You've grown into a fine man."

"Thank you. It's good to see you. I remember this place well."

"And I remember you and Sam. Is he here?"

"No, Sam had to sort some things out for work, he'll be here soon I imagine."

"Oh yes, he did say. He works hard, that lad."

"Yes, he does."

I shy away from the topic in hand, but merely infer, toasting to her health in tepid, minute ways. He asks me how I am and I say I am fine, but no longer working like I used to. He says that I was always well mannered and obedient and eager to learn. I mention his wood, and we both get up and he shows me things he's working on.

"You know, it's tough. It was tough for your father. It's tough to be in court."

"I guess it is, yes."

"My boys were independent – less so than your Dad. They made mistakes too, like those two, your Dad probably told you about that one. Are you saving your money?"

"Yes, I've been quite frugal."

"Good lad, good lad. It's handy for sure, but you can't take it with you. I tell Sam this, you know."

"Will you be okay until Sam gets back? Have you got everything you need?"

"Oh I am fine, son. I've made it this far, haven't I?" He turns to the door, and shepherds me out, nodding and grunting. "You're a fine boy, and you've brought me things. What have you brought me?" I take my stride to the kitchen and unpack my bag, and he looks away.

"I can come back if you like, perhaps I'll return with Sam."

"I'm sure you are a busy man. Look at you, all grown up."

A crisp fifty is left behind, and rushes in my mind sting me. I feel rather safe and warm, and long before this happened, I was all made up and masterful. Oh Christ, in that room there was a hole that felt like war. If I could bring her back alive for him, I would try to make it like before. I'd even put on my Sunday best and do some salutes, fake masterful things, pretend to be something I'm not. Just to make him feel better.

I promise nothing to no one, but a feeling comes round again, like I used to have when I was King. When things were more than flow charts or clear Perspex, white boards and spreadsheets. Before I met the targets, I used to care so much, for those all around. And selfishly, I'd get the feedback that kept me alive, and then it all changed and things were taken from me. I hung about and lunched with plus ones and other halves, all ready to pounce and sign the paperwork, do what the partner wanted. We'd ensure that we'd never need to work, bar the odd meal, blow job and turning up on time.

All my stuff is in my house and it feels right for once, perhaps I'm bound and therefore tight. I get a new set of results back from the clinic, and place them on a chopping board. I have no notice board, so it will have to do. I'm asked by Greg and Raj for the dates, and maybe a party invite would be nice? I stagger and say okay. I'll drink to their health in another county perhaps, or you know – they can come over, one at a time.

All my chums and people around, acquaintances and colleagues (such as they are), they'll never all be together, or gel - or anything actually. Half want to bring down the government, or at least complain on the forums about them - very passive like. And the others silently get on and make a difference, either to themselves, or touch people – in many ways. Everyone in London is having sex, and some of us interchange. There's women, men and those in between, and the sexless, the people who can, or can't - those that wish to just jerk off onto chests. People with furious secrets, and those that wait four months till they get the whips and chains out. But it's fine, anything goes. If people were really that appalled, they'd fight for change, and even when they get depressed, they've still got their boxes to look through.

My results don't say I'm gonna die straight away, so I dry away the tears and close the drawer. I then open the drawer and tear it all up and place them at the bottom of a messy black bag, full of discarded egg and scraps destined for landfill, but from the wrong van. If I just keep breathing, it will be fine. There is a tendency to agree with those doctors though; I won't be able to do this alone, and keeping this hidden tight inside helps no one. But as the cymbals crash and the storm is set, I can't help but just want to carry on. I'm gonna touch a few people while I can. That's one of life's little wonders, and we're all awfully lucky to be able to live through this.

I return to the docs in the week. A man was caught playing with someone else's erection in the toilets just before I came, and he was taken away. Everyone was talking about it. You don't need to converse on arrival no more, and I took some pictures of the notice board, and wondered what people had, and if maybe I could catch it and make my days prematurely dead. There's probably people here who will die within a month, maybe one swallowed a moth and the moth shat out eggs that were somehow poisonous and the eggs made their way into the blood stream, or something. Maybe one of these men climbed a mountain for charity and caught some serious disease, and he hasn't actually got a chest infection like he thought he had.

You see, it started when he came back with a bit of a sore throat and he thought it was because the air is so cold up there, above the clouds. One of his team forgot to duck when the leader hollered "Thunder cloud!" and got head-spazzed, and is now a mongoloid. It certainly soured the nature of the trip – you know, because it was for charity, and everyone spent a few weekends juggling a blue bucket on Leicester Square. Some paid up of course, but it was too late by then – the truth was out.

I twiddle my thumbs and somebody farts, to hide a cough.

"I think the results speak for themselves. If you need to discuss these further, I think you'll have to speak to the unit. We can set up an appointment for you."

"Thank you. I've taken some of your advice on board, and you know, I think it's fine. As a side note, do you have my records yet?"

She looks around, then clicks on a screen and says yes she has. "Is this what you wanted to discuss?"

"I'm thinking perhaps a repeat prescription."

She looks at a file, she opens her eyes. "We can do that, but I think we'd need to go look at some other avenues perhaps, this was a long time ago."

"It's perhaps not the done thing to admit to this, but these are the culprits." I pass her a sheet with names and amounts, and she smiles ever so tenderly.

"Aha, well yes, I can't condone, and you know, there's sometimes a need. There are some things I shouldn't tell you, you didn't hear things from me. It is a strange mix though, and I think there's a danger here."

"Yeah, I understand. I fell out of favour."

"Do we have any family data? Ah, we do have some, but only of course the details you have given us."

She shakes her head, fills in a form with a new name, and says once again that she's doing a wrong. I thank her and nod, and I say "Yeah, I'll look into it."

Both of my chums believe it is best. My new one and the old faithful – but no one would come to harm from seeing and talking, and sharing. I'll open up to anyone, but give me my dues, and let the 12 steps begin. After the docs, I go down to the shop to check the post and start on the stands for the new assignment. Ollie's in town working on a submission – he keeps me sane as I do all the tasks, by 7 it's clear I'm here for the night, and nip out and up and turn on the lights, slight tummy jip and not made better with coffee and no fuel. It's nice to be working and on my own terms, and some of the ideas left on the server – well, they're quite fascinating. The media flock, and it's all out of whack, but I suppose we worked hard, so I'm happy to reap.

Speak to me someone.

The shop can be lonely, I sometimes get lonely. I ridicule and cuss the men across the way. They try to make you feel better, but pints of vodka and injections of yeast extract and then a sorry when you fucked someone's daughter whilst someone looked the other way - it's all very repulsive. You know, people try to save others, and some do – but layers and layers of conditions are shat out from their prim tight assholes. They'll look at you, right, and judge you and they're right to do so – because you've hit rock bottom. And they'll help you, and place you on a detox program for gay people, but you gotta promise not to be gay, and only then will they start giving you orange juice, and listen to you when you can't work out why Jesus has a problem with men putting their penises inside other men. They'll dust you off, but the damage is done, and that's just awful.

There's a word here that occurs to me, but it sounds too silly. The man encourages me to say it, "Say it anyway." Perhaps I'll immortalise my name in the folklore of this modern life by a daft proclamation. I'll tell people everything they've ever thought is absolute rubbish. They'll yearn for some common descent, some unification. But the thinkers will invite all the cogs round for tea, and offer them dainty Cornish pasties, and shrug. Turns out they have different perspectives, and they'll be no enlightenment tonight, just pastry full of meat and potato.

Men and women will stand in a room together, and the women will start to complain of terrible migraines. The men's ideas will come slowly, and they will begin to doubt each other, and themselves. There's an absence of light, and a boy can see what's happening, and he says 'Women use their emotions more, like sometimes mum will cuddle me, but men are reasonable, I will go to my father for advice on money.' But of course, the boy is entirely wrong. He has just seen his father's penis through the keyhole of his parent's bedroom, and he has become fascinated with it. Within time, he'll proclaim that this family house is not big enough for the two of them, and then the nervousness will begin. He'll be taken to a clinic, where people will talk about demons, and self extinction, and cycles that need breaking.

Men who look like Geography teachers will quote Aristotle, Newton and Copernicus, Sachs and Jones. The doctors will admit to unruly homosexual feelings, and secretly kiss each other on their lunch breaks. Everything will become jumbled, the subject will lay back. Questions are posed, such as "what happened on the day before your dream?" Oh, and of course, the dream itself - they talk about that. How his arm became paralysed and how in the evenings he would watch his mother fall into a trance and mumble words to herself. This one time, she fell deep and would shout obscenities about Jews. She'd wake up and say "Well, whose dream is this?", and then the man would wake up as well.

No one really worked out what was happening, and it was concluded that the shock was not a result of injury, as nothing had even happened. It was the danger of the close call, and so they did it all again, and this time it was fine. Cases were deemed to be serious if the main man in charge said so, and then once the receptionist had ticked the relevant box, there was no going back, and in years to come, they'd dress up in costumes that made their fannies look tempting. They'd stand up in court, and pledge their souls, and promise they were telling the truth, and that they didn't want to go to jail. They'd weep 'But I was only following orders.' and it was eerie, and it wasn't nice at all.

Everyone decided to leave their body was the wrong thing to do, but I followed them for a bit because I thought that they knew best. London is deceptive. There are centres here and there, and a place of worship just up the road, should you wish to pray. You can walk round aimlessly all day and see it all, but never even touch the sides or begin to unearth the stuff, or something.

#  22. Tie Ski Whiff

I spend the evening chain smoking and cursing the packages, and the upgrades. We've got the Macs and the alternative, and I like them both. Ollie texts me late and I suggest some food at ten, but he's only just got started. I just sit there, and work. Nothing else happens for a long time, and then we meet at 3.30am outside his office, and I go back to his and we share some whiskey and talk, and I fall asleep at the foot of his bed like a boy. Crumpled clothes and he'll shower at work, we're up again in 3 hours to get the bus back into Haymarket. I let him go, and suggest a bite to eat in Covent Garden at two. He denies me such pleasures but agrees to a jaunt near the eye at eight. Everyone is messy today but I'm beginning to feel human. I'd like to say some things, but am sure they're best left unsaid.

At four, I have a meeting with the mentors, and Ollie's disturbed social conscience becomes ever more apparent. I nod to a few I know on my entrance, and a crispy clean fellow shakes me up so solid and determined, I feel so young. I can't tell you what was said in the meeting, people have warned me about this. 'Between us three' is code, I think. His words are useful, and he understands why I acted as I did. But there's a blank hole which exists for reason, and it's acceptance now. The words I yank from my head - I say them loud and fast, but he can only give me so much. I concur when he declares all is done. A drink with Ollie later opens up the channels, and even though I don't believe in the existence of angels, I felt all protected and worthy, but like – grounded. It's hard to explain, and I suppose that's why people go to church.

We drink neat bourbon and shake off the memories of our days. I ask the pertinent questions, and he seems intent on corrupting me. There are dives in this city for sure, places to hang at all times; even when one door closes, there's another that never shuts if you are in with the right people.

"I've done my research, you went to a fine school."

"I went to many schools. Well, four, but two of them were primary." I look at his face direct, and he tries for a smile. "This life isn't for me. Your man was very useful, I presume he'll report back."

"Yes of course. Discretion counts for nothing."

Ollie referees every other Saturday, and he takes three calls whilst I dissemble a crunchie bar on a porcelain plate. He's won awards, and perhaps he'll win more too. No one flippin' sleeps anymore, and that's a darn shame, I think.

"I don't subscribe to football."

"You're wrong of course."

"It just seems a bit bipolar. For a substantial period of your life, you're either gutted or elated."

"It's not bipolar. It's just a relationship where you have very little power. You align yourself with a team at a pretty early age, and then that's it."

"Forever."

"Yes. Forever. That is your team, and depending on how much you are into it, depends on how good or bad you feel."

"That sounds truly awful."

"Awful, and also bloody amazing. It's not often that eleven men can make you feel as good as they can. Well maybe it's more often for some, but for me it's a singular experience. There's not much else I can think of that will make me hug random men in pubs or stadiums."

"A powerful drug for sure. I do find it odd that it's a matter of life and death for some people."

"You have things you feel as passionate about. I know you do."

"Yes, you're right."

As the sun gets yanked from its moorings, we're either not sleeping, or working from somewhere more familiar. The chance to feel to sleep forever is lost in the nineties, and even when things get too bad, those times are gone, and it's on with the coke and brush your face with a tiny beard comb, and get the fuck out. Onwards and upwards again, but this time, aim to conquer. Don't fall down, for goodness sake.

"Everyone has different reasons to be cheerful you know. Some are more obvious, or at least more visible than others."

"Perhaps I should find mine."

"I think you know yours. Somewhere along the line, perhaps it was taken away from you. Or no, maybe things just got muddy. Life can be tough, you know. You of all people know that. But you're not the only one."

"I should look at those with less, and count my blessings."

"Not at all. You should find what makes you truly content, and fight for it. Don't dally, dilly dally."

I'm sure for these boys with no deadlines, they get filled with a floaty angst, but this has never been tested 'cos they're always so darn busy. Maybe they just spend their bonuses, and never think about what makes them happy, 'cos they are, or something. They like to work - feverishly beavering, and up to the neck in yada-yada. Anything will do, be it building a fort for the cases, rummaging through worms and planting green seeds to eat in the future. These are the contradictions see – they bake rather than buy, balance their own monies, these fellows merrily toil and thrive off industry – in any form. And then they reap them rewards – forget the baking and go to Copenhagen to talk to like-minded toil monkeys, and buy all the cakes. You know the ones. I'm sure you do – you know, when cupcakes became awfully fashionable and expensive. And then people feel sorry as they are working so hard - and boy, do they deserve the breaks. I call them monkeys, and sit on the sidelines, but I'm not happy with that.

I've never thought to ask the others. The sheer weight of my jealousy for this particular group seems to muddy any sense. It's nice and easy to shout from the sidelines – especially when you pay a lot of taxes, and the new pope comes to town whilst people on his guard fiddled with young boys anuses. Raj and his best friend served time in long term lover contracts, but he flourishes now without compromise. He floats around, no longer at the hand of another's mental behaviour. He spits out at the units, and he's sleek - refusing to be defeated. He loves all around, and everything is brilliant. Perhaps his state of awareness will mean when he finally reaches his union, it will be bloody great.

My bouts of blah, directed at inanimate objects and later, groups of men – well, people got fed up with that. I was told to control myself, so I took some pills, and I began to negotiate the queues, and the cunts that seem insistent on curbing my progress, but only 'cos I let them. They made things better, them pills. Then I discovered the liquids, and I could talk about them, and wasn't confined to rooms or happy snappy clubs. I was neither a happy, sad or angry man on the liquids. All that ingestion, I never forgot, it just stopped me caring about remembering.

And so I have reached a point with Ollie where nothing matters. I bless the sweet brown tonic that gladdens my heart so. I clink his glass, and he says "It's really not that complicated, you know." He lifts his glass to the boy, and I pause, then I agree. "To the birds."

4.30 am is a strange old time, it feels like no one else is alive, and we are all that matters. Ollie confides in me, providing titbits of inadequacy to placate. They could be lies, for this man is a clever one. But I see his point, either way. He tells me about people he knows who have broken wing syndrome, and prefixes cruel truths with the phrase, "Of course, this is between you and me." He then changes it to "You and I."

He asks me what I want, and says that no one owes me a thing and that some people just make bad choices, and I should look carefully at my choices. He talks about reactions, and things I've bloody missed. "Where's your punk spirit?" I say. He shakes again, and kicks me hard, quit the act m'boy.

I don't think he could say anything that I haven't heard a million times before, but really, this is it. I have all the pieces now, and I never professed to be clever. I'll look back at these times, and when it all comes to an end, and I realise that some years were a waste, it'll be okay. This is because of the times when I sat and laughed, the times I drunk with the people who I can learn from, and gosh – who I actually liked. I don't want these people to leave, and I fear they will. I know they will.

We drift all skuzzy and sublime on a soaking euphoria, fuelled by left over Champagne and more Jack. My anxieties are still out there, essential to talk about. These are still, but blurry times. Blissful, aches diminish and the only thing left is holding it in till the morning. I feel like doing great things as we surf the last hour. Common sense should be left for the sober, and things are great if you follow that rule. Dancing and karaoke and kissing strangers seem like a good idea right now.

We wipe away the night at 8, and Ollie starts his calls. I cross my fingers and hope the building stays up and I don't vomit in the escalator. People smile at me with my tie ski whiff. They'll get up the ranks with the all-nighter, and I learnt some stuff. Sam is still knee deep in all the crap that someone shat on his head. I take the bus back home. The driver is a young Rastafarian who decides to sing to keep up morale. I stand back and the bone in my back snags the square stop button, at least 3 times before I realise. I suggest to Sam that he comes home, and ring shortly after to quell the undertones. But I used an emoticon! Bloody stupid these exchanges are. I'm worried for the Papa, I think maybe even though I haven't seen anything like it for years, I'd fly to his funeral from any corner of the world.

Sam looks set to touch down in the morning, and I rest my head at home, trying to make my head explode by thinking about everything that has happened, and how to fix all these things that appear broken, but are actually probably fine. I know I'm delusional and my actions implausible to outsiders. I appreciate that I've lied, and even the things that I tell myself when I'm sat in the sun with my last cigarette seem faintly ridiculous.

Sammy and me, well we used to get optimally wired. He had a different tolerance to me, but the consensus was that our minds were firing off. The men in our heads were numbskulls alright, little white coats and porky pig faces, all with notepads and clipboards. They'd monitor the levels of adenosine through spongy receptors. When they got to level 8 in the spinal cord, they'd push the gears and the body would begin to slow down.

I think everyone here has these half-baked ideas about drug use, which they back up with the most stubborn conviction. Perhaps they'll boycott me if I relapse. I find most of their comments insulting – my actions are unacceptable. These specific few may have a history – over reactions and holding a grudge. So to alleviate the bad, I suck on my tongue and apologise when I'm not sorry, and give the cat prawns, when I know full well that they are cholesterol heavy, and that in time, it will make his sides puff out and he'll die from a coronary.

When Sam gets back a day later, we both go round to Papas and we remark that everything is beautiful in the garden. He changes the way he says Sam's name, and we talk about people who are present by their absence. It pains me to talk about the one that left, but perhaps only for prying ears.

"You should see him."

"I have nothing to say to him."

"Then you should move on."

"I have."

He liked my mother, for true - he saw the best in all.

I don't blame my mother for much. I remember a photo of me and him sitting amongst sand in a massive garden, fit for summer meetings. An outsider was standing galant upright with a child's shovel by her side. We seemed happy. He wore a bunny head, but there was a hole for his boy features - he was wearing it wrong and I had done mine up all tight. I think we were seven, mother failed to mark the backs proper. Sometimes I would chastise her for this, but I was also at fault. This one time, I burnt all the photos from autumn 1986, purely because I was unhappy with my legs.

We used to take a retard bus halfway cross town, then onto the real deal. It had always been this way and it made me furious. Everything was the just the way it was, no one told me to be this way or that, and when the weight of his dick pulled his forehead down on a public thoroughfare and he began to dribble, I would look at them cunts and purposely scowl. I didn't care much for his trouble 'cos he had no idea. He was in his own world full of questions and rules he had made. The centrex gave him focus but he had no rights and I would constantly remind him of this. It was important for him to realise that he was a disappointment, and I'd grab his fat face and tell him no one would ever love him, and that we only did because we were forced to. He would run to mum and attempt to repeat what I had said, but in his flustered upset voice would merely manage a pathetic noise, few words to follow. It was just nonsense and this made it funnier.

When we were alone, I'd think of ways to kill him, but if he walked away, with all my heart I'd worry and fret 'cos even back then, I knew people would act as they did. He made me do things, like wet the bed, and stutter. I had a lisp for 3 years, and that was his fault as well. If someone were to look at me funny, or talk, my face would spasm, my head tilt and my ear rub my neck, but really fast. It made me look like a spastic, and people would say it was sympathy spazz. Others said I sought attention, but I didn't give a shit about that.

Mum started to slip away when the centres took over. It was meant to be the dream ticket, no longer were we forced out, and our life was our own. My tick left my face. Little changed though, it was a step for the good for the boy, and I was given a motorcycle. I started having sex as soon as he left and my new life was so convincing that people forgot and I was propelled into stardom overnight.

Wives and other mothers came round and said things and people were swelling with assistance and making pickles and preserves, bringing round non-pasteurised milk and you know what. At the start there were reasons, and so the sympathy poured out, and the townies pissed their empathy directly onto my mother's face like spittle from clouds. Marking their territory and just being there.

Then she started to bend and squat when she shouldn't. Actually, everything was fine, and when people learnt this, the clues disappeared. Some still remained but there's only so much cajoling and all this talk of middle class love, oh my word it made people angry. Because you see, they had problems too.

The mould was beginning to break, and I clung onto the facets of convention as I saw bits of the family tree break off and get taken as fodder for discussion. A framework of politeness was crumpled now and as crying came and went, I did my best to be a man, and my new found strength brought home the goods. Mother took some work to boost her demeanour. I convinced her to seek appreciation, her mask was slipping and everything was not going to be fine. Reluctant, she stayed and when I called and some man bright and alert brought his bag, she was aching and stopped speaking. This warrants no more, her gasps and sweat and frazzled brow. Her chest split right down the middle once when I left the room to get her a biscuit.

I was always there for her, but she was pathetic. A 12 year old girl would say "What is actually wrong with you?", and her mother would turn and look at her shoes as red blood flowed around her cheeks. I did the right thing and took her to one side, nodding at her mother and sharing things. I explained it all, and everyone was relieved.

Soon I stopped asking questions and it was no longer important to impress. I was angry and bruised and I would masturbate in the garage and pretend that I was raping people I hated, just to alleviate. I was told I was together, and that my name was brilliant. I earned money doing anything I could, I walked 4 dogs over a weekend, and even cleared up their shit, which technically isn't dog walking, it's cleaning up shit. I'd get frustrated ever so easy and I couldn't wait to leave for the halls. No one talked of what to do, awful really - we all hung like crazed American animals, just clingin' on to the possibilities. I imagine that things will get better, because they always do. That's what people said.

#  23. The End

"I think the stems of growth are here. Your dreams seem to be based more on reality. They used to be cartoons, or fancy stars. Even the fearful ones would be monsters."

"Do you know about dreams?"

"What, like their significance? Freud, and all that."

"Yeah. I'm not dreaming about my mother."

"Maybe the monsters are your father."

"I often have bad depressingly real dreams, but they are usually a distorted version of events."

"It's just our brains taking over at night from something we have been thinking about during the day, but with all the edges shaved off, and with a dollop of worst case scenario."

"Oddly, I had a dream last night that was specifically designed in my brain to make me feel guilty for something that I have done, and I know perhaps is a little wrong. But the way in which my dream presented this was by heightening it and playing with the seeds of guilt I have, and making a bloomin' huge plant of guilt."

"Brains are idiots."

I haven't been to a funeral since the boy's and that was insane, and people felt sorry for me, and I drank too much, and it was horrible. I copped off with a girl outside the church and pissed out the remnants of the night before for some to see. At least 4 couples eye lined my piss stream, and I could get away with anything for months. I felt the excuses of death, and absorbed all the words of solace, and thought how lovely it would be to go off the rails, although there was much work to do. I thought about many things, such as throwing a glass bottle through a newsagents window, but I never did.

I didn't wear a suit, but no one did except for a few of the elders. My father was there, and I didn't say a word to him - he failed to acknowledge the snub. It was all grand, and everyone cried, but I was secretly glad. Mother felt the same, I think. There was no fracas, and everyone was left to grief amongst their groups. They forced out a female spazz, who laughably was called the boy's girlfriend. She said something entirely indecipherable, and her spazz talk made my aunts cry. I sat at the front, because I suppose I was important, but I didn't say anything, because there was nothing left to say. There were hymns and afterwards, people ate and talked, and it was dreadful.

This time, Sam and I talked about slumber, and getting high. We followed the real men in their black Mercedes, and picked up Greg and Raj up where we ducked from the others, and smoked a joint. You see, the drugs will make for happier endings, and we'll heighten whatever this is, you know – to make this an occasion, either hell will burn with greater clarity, or we'll all be numb. I really don't care which occurs, and I'm here for Papa.

People don't ask me if I'm ok, not like last time, but this time I'm a bit more sad I think. She lived a rich and glorious life, and fucked many men - took many drugs, then entered something else and raised a family, and did all the things you're given access to. All rise, everyone has empty eyes and people look at the floor, few children here who are on their best behaviour, and greedy fucks waiting for their ship to come in. One man holds his belly in, the thought of a quarter of a house is just too much for him, and there's a tension in the air as some just up and left, and it's a fact that if you live next door to someone and are related, and do everything in your power to make their life better, and then they die – well, you are more deserved that someone who has emigrated to Vancouver.

An odd time. No one mentions Carl, who does gay porn - and who is wholly present. They'll be boring questions later, and everyone will be in each others arms, all tight like a proper unit. At the next phase, the pub, and people will become upset, not because a lady has stopped breathing and will soon be chucked in the ground. No, because someone looked the other way, or spoke out of term, and everyone is very very selfish, I think.

Some of the children know all about death, they've performed diagnostic services on the twitching corpses of hamsters. Crushing up paracetamol, and force feeding their stupid furry mouths. A final act of violence, and the ceremony in front of close family. If we got another one, that would have been three now, and people would have asked questions. The first perished when a school friend came round, and we experimented. That all went well, but then the boy came into my room, and threatened to tell people. So we killed his hamster by throwing it at the ceiling, and one of its eyes popped out and it left some mess, and strange liquid came out of its holes and splattered the far wall.

After the official line, the time when people stop their somber shoegaze, and start to reminisce, people talk about innocent soldiers, and what people are doing with their lives, and how many children people have, and what they are doing. Someone asks someone else if their son is dating, and the reply is 'oh, you know, they come and go', which really, is quite disgusting. People talk about beautiful buildings, and how London is so clean. Someone makes an affable mistake and then other people overhear the miscommunication that happened on the train, and it gives blinding focus and people bully and mock, but in a nice way.

None of my boys say much to anyone, although Raj talks décor with someone who used to know someone else who managed Julian Casablancas. We all go back to a pretty garden, and I'm offered wine, and really strong bitter tasting beer. I take a sip of Guinness, and that's enough.

"I have ear plugs, a food hygiene certificate, low self esteem, and a larger than average penis."

"Oh hello, I thought I'd just show my face, say hello."

"And you are?"

Some of us leave quite early, and have our own predicament. We go down to Covent Garden, and drink in bars. We walk through Carnaby, because some of the Americans know all about it.

"Well, this feels tepid." someone says.

And as we all clutch, hold on, and try to even the score, we wander with nowhere to go, although some have the wile to make the call. We walk down Oxford Street and pass the men who know the weather, and what people want. Pass the side street full of pigs, and that shop. I make a pledge to Sam, and he accepts my offer in an understandable way. When we finally hit the park and everything's flat again, my head feels heavy and I want to cry. I want to wait for morning and for that to be the right thing to do. I think about falling under a train.

I think about the perfect way to commit a crime, which I imagine would involve provocation, and a big vat of acid. The only thing I have yet to fully realise is how to get the body from the house to the vat, cos the vat is 4 miles across town. I think about other things, and everyone else is chattering.

Us lot, we made a pact years ago. We were all searching, and we agreed that if one of us were to find it, then we would share it with the rest. We were very young when we said all this. I mean, some of us got stars tattooed on the bit of their wrists where the knife goes.

Greg's father was intrigued by my ma. He found her sexually alluring, but the whole thing followed the rules of the Catholic church, so was left unsaid. I sometimes think Greg must have been an awful shock, it does take a long time to follow in them footsteps, and I suppose that's why a lot of people end up in Australia. It doesn't matter if you're a success or a failure if you live 10,562 miles away from your unit.

His Dad pulled the charts, he likened her state to a patient who had been diagnosed with incurable schizophrenia, but in the past, when no one had no idea about nothing. He tried to look through a telescope to see the reasons why things happened, and once he proclaimed "I've done it! I've got the key to Fort Knox!" I was there when he said that, but Greg shrugged it off, and told me what Fort Knox was, because I really had no idea. Greg's mother would look to the sky, but she was happy enough – canny some would say. She had never worked a day in her life, and this was one hell of a meal ticket. She would have anal sex once a month, even though she really didn't like it that much.

Greg and I were part of an experiment in the eighties. The units were attempting to analyse the forces that produce normal men, and there was conjecture as to what 'normal' actually meant. It was called "The art of successful living" and was funded partly by the boys in Harvard, but people in the know this side wanted in. His Dad owned nothing, but hung round the yanks like a weakling befriending a thug.

I was picked out because of the boy, that was what they said. They measured us from every conceivable angle and with every available scientific tool. We were in the prime, and placated by exhaustive gifts and trips to amusement parks. We were split soon, advised by the men at the top to be challenged in different schools. We all still met up though.

The program fazed out without completion, and no one our side has jurisdiction, they were all bored and wanted a promotion. It stopped just in time, perhaps deliberate – just before the neurons fired.

Greg hands out cans of JD and coke and we sit away from the fountains, the road in view, but also the lake.

"How do you think I will be remembered?" Someone guffaws, and Greg smirks, "Fuck off." His girl arms him, and feels warm; "One of the most perplexing men. Like a peace activist, or a war hero."

I stay on the periphery, taking in the jibes and looking aimlessly at the program when it looks like my input may be needed. Some try to draw me in, but I have the delicious excuse of the boy to be able to remain silent without risk of reprisal.

I say nothing for two hours, and the more people talk, the more I want to shit. There's nothing left to get rid of, but I feel like I need to shit out my innards until all that's left is a floppy skin suit on the toilet, with my palid skeletal head perching precariously on the top. I don't know how to stop this, but I'm aware the wind needs to change to get through the moment. I text Raj, "help me get out of here", and wait for 30 minutes. Someone gives me 3 cigarettes and I peer behind someone's shoulder as they laugh at a depressing iPhone application.

Raj picks me up and makes it right, nods to Ollie and Mat, feel distressed that them lot are here, but plus ones and friends of friends are here too, and I don't have issues there. He takes two of his chums in hand and we go off, potty – loose threads, champions of grieving and looking regular. It's immediate, my relief -and we shelve all the conventions, and walk along the Thames after getting the Barclays blue down to Green Park, and walking though St James, across the bridges - how lucky we feel. People may follow later, which will be altogether fine. We sit tight on walls as people smoke, and Raj and chum one start talking in the language that people from Hungary speak.

Soon after, three drinks a piece with the film buffs on bright sofas, where people all look smart and a wonderful executive gloss invites you in. A comment or two that the soul is dull, but hey - we've seen the romantics. Yeah, we can talk to plasterers, and we can keep it real, because we're just people like the rest of 'em. But I tire of allegiance, alliances and Dragon's Den, money and the classes. Ollie's team came back from a big old mountain, and they said 'it did get me thinking', when the guides eyes went round in circles, the tips; a mere bum wipe to the officers – but like, that's a week's wage for these people. And then of course, it's easy to mock the plastics. God, without these visionaries at 25, England would have stayed the same back then, and now we wouldn't be like we are - for better or worse.

We sit down on a purple sofa. People come and perch on our arms, like robins, although robins never do that. A party for Malcolm goes on quite close to us, and we soon befriend two girls called Samantha and Joanna, who seem to want to fuck us. We play no games, but they don't understand why we don't care and it seems to turn them on. One of them claims to be a clinical psychologist, and in our drunken brawl, we deny her this profession. Raj tests her out with glee, she knows her stuff, but I still call her a liar in a roundabout fashion.

Mat and Ollie join us, and Amanda, who works with Mat. We go outside to see what would happen, but nothing does. Once person ducked, and so everyone did, because that's what people do. People even do it when there's no reason because the reason is that everyone is doing it. A girl who I shake the hand of cuts the same hand on a rail, and it clots. She involuntary stops the flow, cos if she had continued to bleed, she'd be dead within 2 hours. Keith once explained about Broken Shoelace Syndrome, which he said everyone had. Like the clots, emotional defences can spell ruin, or redemption. No one is really mental, they're just being inappropriate - people are fragile things.

When the sky goes a bit darker, and it looks mighty, I'm too drunk. Samantha says that, all this aside, you know, all a girl really wants is a shag. Then she looks at my mouth and I tell her that all I want is my beer, and she took it away from me to make me dance.

"You danced very well, you did."

"Yeah, I'm a good dancer. Was that technically dancing? I think I just stood there."

"You twiddled me round. I was in control, what's wrong with a girl being in control? Oh you're not one of them control men are you?"

"Control men? Look at you. I'll tell you something. Shut up now. All this is lovely, don't you think?"

"We're all lovely yes, I don't even know these people. Who are these people? Are these your people, Oh God I bet you're the kind of man who has people. You do don't you?"

"I'm ever so lonely actually, like a fucking lonely dog or something."

"Yeah, you're a dog."

"I'm gonna piss all over the place, so that people know all this is mine."

"You'd piss over the whole of London? You have big concepts."

"They're pronounced - they're not concepts. What are you talking about?"

"So why don't you believe me?"

"I've no reason to question you. Yeah, you're not a clinical psychologist."

"I so am. And I have your number boy, and his, and hers. All of these people."

After I can taste no more saliva, and the night seems to turn, we walk along the riverside and onto the end of the line where London falls into Surrey, and then you have to turn back because of the border guards. When the floods come, I imagine lots of men in suits will bring back gingerbread cocks from Pret, wrapped up warm in little gingerbread body bags. Of course, the mayor has put things in place so this never happens. Still though, people grumble on the stairs at the two stations on the Piccadilly line. They always warn these people, but some take a chance and the fear of drowning is immense. We walk, and smile to look behind - we see all of the twists, the familiar faces and new friends. They all want more, and yeah time is running out, but some of them are holding hands, and it's lovely.

We just continue. There doesn't seem to be a reason to stop.

I smear my finger along the Thames wall, pretend the megalomania man is my fingers, and they're running fast alongside me, just keeping up, and jumping gaily over posts. He's a soldier, right and he's gonna fight anything that impedes the intimacy I crave so much. The groups who I used to avoid, well hey they may repress, but they also find outlets in laughter, and are always planning things, and suppressing things - which I am told is a lot healthier. The planners are sublime, and the most mentally healthy people I have ever come across. It's us lot who's causing a ruckus.

These mentals, and my own brain, we're just unwise at the moment. Us lot are also creative, we can work alongside, I've said this before – boy, what a team! A conscientious hand shake; altruistic and valiant. The days of poor decisions and being viewed as such, like an unpleasant faint smear of poo on an undergarment – well they've gone. We're not immoral, or ill, and making sense sometimes seems like a waste of our time. If this is just a glimpse, it serves no use - and this solitary moment is misleading. We're all here.

Craig Bothersome, from the meets and greet section, he's here. He's drunk too, and he told me that he's blamed for everything. He said that no matter what he does, it's always wrong. Charlton Crap, from the Style section - which doesn't even exist - agreed and said that they're all just ducks in a shooting gallery, and any duck will do. I nod and say that I sometimes feel like that, and that isn't a lie, because sometimes I do.

Mat runs up to me and body slams me from behind, then grabs my scruff. I get up and ask him about his colleagues, the ones I met, and how they're doing. He talks about this guy who is always here, even though he left the company 2 years ago.

"Someone needs to tell him that he's moved, we all said goodbye, and that's it. It's like that time we went to McDonalds and he was supposed to stay in the car so as not get a ticket, but he kept coming in to see what was happening with our order."

Mat whispers something in my ear, and I look behind and stifle a laugh, smiling broadly. The American crew come forward, and we pass a couple under the third bridge who are all over each other, minutes from a messy finish.

"Where are we going?" some girl shouts. Sounds like Naomi, the girl I met in the toilets that one time I felt like I had made it. "Where does this road go?", then everyone laughs. We all know where we're going.

We all want lasting fulfillment, we all want these findings actioned. When we have the money and are allowed to poo, and eat, and know that we are loved, and there's no chance that we'll end up like Africans (even the southern ones). Well, when these basic needs are met, we can keep on piling it up till the resources run dry, and some will chose to do what I did. Some of these men are predisposed to stay at a certain level, and will reach the points set out. And then when all this is discussed, and everyone's happy that they've worked out the key, and have fucked each other to produce new people, well some of those people then kill themselves, and people start scratching their heads again.

I raise a glass to the subversive jester, and I'm thoroughly delighted with the mess that we find ourselves in. Perhaps I've ducked the war, and I'm glad to have avoided the adjustment to a land that is hell bent on self-destruction. All that matters this evening is this interaction; the pat on the bum, and the look that no one else gets. But boy, I got it good – right between the eyes.

It's an outstanding revelation, these businessmen who seem lackluster; the tragedy of the conventionally successful. I'm intrigued - I'm puzzled, and for years I've let rip whilst loafing around, determined to find a better way, and thinking that perhaps my actions were clever. As I breathe my final breath, I'm unsure. Perhaps I'll be smug and know I did all I could, but the doubt is there and maybe I'll hold on, and try to turn back time. There's a nagging doubt still that I could have been better, done more. I should have made peace with the ones that wronged me, and apologised for being a cretin, when really all I should have done was to offer people my hand.

I'm inspired and exhausted now. I'm silent with my friends, and I feel like I've done my duty to those around me. I feel desperate and clinical, underdeveloped. I want an end, and I want the line to be strong and bold. I don't want to avoid anything anymore, I don't want to change. Perhaps I'll leave an unearthed mystery and as my head splits at the seams, and the liquids fuse all around my body, I climb up onto the railings by the final crossover, and shout to my friends. I climb as high as I can get, and people cheer me on.

