For the last 6 months I've been living in a south London squat with no real bedding, no kitchen, and worst of all, no internet. I lived with a few other people who came and went. Most were stoned, some were into the higher classes, and all were obsessed with sex. It's taken me weeks to get clean, but now I'm living in a shared flat above a cocktail bar. I re-met a friend who saved me in exchange for some professional services.
In the time I lived rough, I met a lot of interesting people, but most helpful was Dave Suiter, a man who lived in the squat for just a few weeks. He eventually left because he said he had 'conquered' the area, and was "a bit like Seasick Steve, in that he couldn't live in the same place for a long period of time, but 'cooler'. Dave was known, to himself at least, as 'THE URBAN BEAR GRYLLS'. He used to stand up every time he said his name and announce it. It was funny to watch him do it whilst in a K hole. I'd seen him asleep on a sofa a few times, and shouting through the doors, but I hadn't met him properly until a night when I was very hungry. I hadn't got out of bed (sleeping bag) all day. The night before I'd spent my money for the weekly shop on a bet I had with a man in the street who bet me he could remove both of his eyes. I stood to win £50 if he couldn’t, and I was right, but by the time he’d finished squirming about, I found myself down an alley being mugged by two of his mates.
Anyway, I’d resigned myself to staring at the ceiling that evening, when Urban Dave came in and asked if I was hungry. I moaned as few words as I could to explain I had no money.
“Damn, I wanna get fucked!” He shouted and punched a door.
“Well go then!” I retorted.
“I need a partner or it’s gonna cost. You either come, or I stay in, stay sober, and wank. In this room. The ball is in your court.”
“I have absolutely no money.”
“It won’t cost you a thing, son. I don’t get called the URBAN BEAR GRYLLS for nothing.” He shouted the name as explained.
“Do they actually call you that?”
“Come on pricktears, I can get you food beer and vag without spending a penny.”
Once we were outside, Urban Dave switched to tour guide mode. I kept telling him that I lived here, but he just blasted through.
“The thing is about the streets, is that you gotta be quick, and you gotta be an opportunist. Shit gets cleaned pretty quick round here.”
He stopped.
“Ah ha, our starter!”
He bent down and picked up a discarded Metro newspaper, tore off the front page and started to eat it.
“I’m having the best bit, sorry.” He passed me another page.
“I…think I’ll be ok without.” I said.
“You would not believe how much food actually gets caught on or inside a Metro, son. People leave their burger grease on them, all sorts. Plus, the paper itself is great roughage. Try it.”
I got the feeling that if I didn’t try some, he would probably keep on at me for approximately forever, so I crumpled an A4 sized scare story about rapist bin men into my mouth and tasted the ink.
He then jumped onto a bus and took me with him. Before sitting down, he held his wallet up to an Oyster reader and made a beep sound with the corner of his mouth, winking at me.
“Where are we going?”
“Central, of course!” He barked.
The next thing I knew we were off the bus and down an alley looking for a main course. Dave was rummaging through a skip, throwing out a selection of half-finished pizzas.
“Skips are obvious…obviously. But the movement has been towards supermarket skips. People think they’re clever cos the food is pretty much fresh. It’s bollocks, of course…Well, it’s true, but this-” He held up an onion ring. “This is actually nice. Oil! It’s got oil, and that’ll line your body to keep you warm and stop you getting hungry.”
Dave seemed to have his own personal approach to scavenging, quite like Bear Grylls, I suppose. I was also about to find out how similarly disgusting he was, too. After tucking into the cleanest piece of margarita Dave offered me, I looked up to see him grinning and staring down at the floor beside the skip. He bent down and picked up a discarded condom. Used.
“Aaahh, a little life saver!” He held it up between our eyes, and we both stared at the ancient sheath. “When you’ve been on the streets in the summer, these little babies can be the difference between life and death in a storm. Thirst quenching with bags of Protein” Dave obviously noticed my absolute horror at this preposterous statement, because he swiftly dropped the condom. “Anyway, we have a much better liquid pudding waiting for us. Follow me.” And with that, he ran further down the alley, which opened out into a number of little routes. I tried to keep up with him in the dark, slipping on slimy cobles of old streets.
We came out almost in the middle of London, near the Strand. Dave slowed and walked up to an old red building. ‘Picadilly Rly’ was tiled onto the front, and two large doors at the bottom were covered in old posters and graffiti. A disused underground station.
Dave took me around to a side door and punched in a code to an aged electronic pad that looked broken. He flinched away as the door buzzed.
“Shocks,” he said “It did me once - never again, son.”
Distant basslines echoed dully from beneath. Dave confidently breezed through the ticket hall to a lift with concertina gates, called it, then promptly decided it was worthless, with a swift punch to the buttons.
“Stairs!” he shouted, and quickly led me down the spiral staircase.
At the bottom of the stairs the corridor led to a platform full of people. A stationary train had a table across each open door, creating a bar longer than any I had previously seen, even in the Long’en, a Soho bar which was open in 2002 for 4 months. Everything was long, and everything was a euphemism. No wonder it failed.
“This is an Aldwych Act Party,” announced Dave. “And this, is Pango.”
A fat man emerged at the bar and shook my hand without me even realised I’d raised it.
“Welcome. When was the last time you worked?” he asked in soft, well spoken tone.
“Um, I’m getting a bar jo-” I replied.
“-No, I mean acting wise.”
“He’s not an actor.” Dave rightly assumed. Pango gave Dave a look as if he had brought his sex pest brother to a teenager’s birthday party.
“I know, I know, but he’s still unemployed. Plus, he writes a blog.” I was beginning to wonder what this place was. Everyone spoke very loud, and they talked to each other like they needed, or were offering, a blow job.
“Oh, well that’ll do…plus you have the perfect chaperone” I looked at Dave, and he immediately turned smug, holding out a hand with fingers splayed.
“Five episodes of The Bill in the mid nineties.”
Cogs turned in my head brain.
“So-”
“Everyone here is an out of work actor, dancer, whatever.” Pango interrupted, as if I was a tiresome kite that just won’t fucking pick up.
Dave told me about some of the people that surrounded us. Some had been in soaps, some did sex education shows on Living, and some even worked in films. There was one girl who had been splattered with fake blood in the re-make of Dawn Of The Dead. Pango actually had one of the most interesting stories. A year ago he had the chance to act as Eddie Murphy’s stunt double, until he was shunted out by Murphy, who decided he wanted to play all the parts at the same time in each scene that was filmed, in one continuous shot. The producers quit and the film never happened.
“But, if everyone is out of work, who pays for the booze?” I asked. The two of them chuckled and pointed in unison to the far end of the platform. I could see the back of a very blonde head, with several others swooning around him. I moved closer to see whether my suspicions were correct. As I did so, the man turned around and I could see for sure that the bulk was our mayor, Boris Johnson. He was scoffing a sandwich like a pissed monkey, and smiled when he saw me.
“Jaymz! How are you my dear boy?” he blurted, sandwich flying “Marmalade sandwich?”
“You…organise these?”
“Of course! How do you think I got in? You give a little….”
“You targeted out of work actors?”
“Nothing attracts creatives better than free wine” he replied, then chortled “This is how it happened!”
I took a bite of a sandwich and smiled in awe.
Sunday, October 18, 2009
Saturday, October 17, 2009
And finally
May. 1st, 2009
11:22 AM
I saw this lie on a website advertising bar.
Valencia contains a lot of beautiful architecture. There's Gothic Valencia, located more central to the city centre - Lions might like that, but the moment they stepped into the new city of arts and sciences complex they'd go fucking nuts. Lions hate modern architecture.
I met a lion once (Sergei) who told me that many years in captivity have shown him that humans, in the last few years, have become obsessed with smooth, soft lines. They don't like spiky things, especially teeth in the face apparently. Sergei said that in many lion communities they have a theory that this obsession with curves is rooted in their general fear of everything. He then ranted about advertising -how it adhered to this general fear and offered soft curvy things like bums and iphones to make people feel better.
Lions have lost hope in the human race.
And then...
Back now.
Jan. 31st, 2009 at 6:32 PM
I haven’t written for a long time. Shame on me. BUT, there's a good reason for it.
So, it turned out that the woman from Christmas eve was all part of an elaborate 'Knock Knock' joke courtesy of my old friend Monty Pileup. Apparently he'd been smashed off his face on whiskey one night with a dog, and they were exchanging jokes. One of Monty's was "Knock knock. Who's there? Life is a lie." When he sobered up he thought of how it could be made into a practical joke, and gave it to me as a Christmas present. He rang me the next morning to tell me, and invite me to his new year's eve party.
The last time I'd been to one of Monty's parties was new year's eve 1999 to 2000. It had involved packing boxes into a lorry almost to the end, then getting in with 5 other men. He didn't tell us where we were going, and at 11:30 he announced that he didn't know. All he knew was that the truck would reach its destination at 12, and so we wouldn't know where we would spend new year's until the last moment. It was apparently the purest way to pass into a new century. We turned up at a B&Q, and it was totally and utterly shit.
So then, this year I wasn't too keen, especially as he wouldn't tell me where it was:
"If I told you, you'd get all girly and wuss out." he said.
However, when the day came, all other offers I'd had were from accountants and perverts. So I rang Monty. He was pleased. He turned up to give me a lift in his land rover. There were two other guys in the car, one of which I was sat in the back with, and recognised from years before.
“It’s Marcus, isn’t it?” I asked.
“Larry” was the reply.
I asked Larry what he’d been doing since the millennium, as if I gave a shit. Politeness is something that becomes strangely prominent for me in a silent car. He told me he’d been cleaning the trains that run the tube, then just went silent. I kept looking at him for a second, then sat back in my chair. There was more silence. Eventually Larry spoke; “I think tonight is going to be quite a night.”
I ‘hmmed’ in approval.
“So, have you been to a prison party before?”
I stared at him. He smiled. Then I heard Monty and his friend sniggering from the front of the car. I asked Monty what the fuck a ‘Prison Party’ was. He harder now, like a van, because we were already there.
I was a little apprehensive as we walked into the prison hall. It was sort of how you might imagine a prison hall; all metal and grey. A lot of inmates were sitting at a large table eating, and the others were wandering around smoking. In fact, everyone was smoking. Also, a lot of police dogs were among the prisoners, sitting with them, and eating scraps of food. Monty turned around briefly,
"Right, let's get fucked at her majesty's pleasure!" Then he walked into the centre of the room with the other man we'd travelled with. They began vigorously greeting a few of the men. Larry had kept back, so I asked him why the dogs were loose….For the moment at least, I decided to let the whole ‘prison party’ thing slide.
“They’re the guards. The human guards have their own party."
“Right.”
“In case you were wondering, it’s all fine.” He said, calmly.
“Why did you feel you had to reassure me?”
“Because…you look like you’re going to piss your pants.”.
I didn’t say anything, but continued to clench my muscles.
“It’s a thing they do every year, like a treat for the prisoners. The staff all have their piss up down the local.”
“And they know about it?” I asked.
“Yeah. Yeah.” Larry looked at the floor.
Just then, a man approached us with lots of full champagne flutes on a platter. They were sitting in a pile of cigarettes.
“Lagerfag?” He offered.
We both took a glass, and Larry took a cigarette. The man looked at me scornfully.
“Lager fag!”
I hadn’t realised smoking was compulsory, but took one this time, to avoid any confrontation. Just then, a smashing noise came from the other side of the room. Two men surrounded by broken champagne flutes were squaring up to each other. Everyone looked round, but already two dogs were breaking them up. I felt more comfortable now.
Larry and I sat at a table. He asked me many of the boring questions people ask other people they’ve just met, and I asked him the same. Then came the awkward silence that I knew would come. Larry was first to do that thing where you look around aimlessly, sort of trying to find something to talk about. But he seemed reflective. Eventually he said
“Still looks the same.”
“How many of these parties have you been to?” I asked him.
“Oh, none, this is my first time, like you…I’ve been here as an inmate though.”
I asked him to elaborate.
“Yeah. For a year and a half. I was only supposed to be in for a few months though.” Larry frowned and gripped his glass, and darted his eyes across the
room. I looked to where he was looking, but couldn’t work out what he was looking at.
“Just one little ABH.” He continued.
“What were you looking at?” I was beginning to get worried again.
“Terry fucking Pratchett.” He looked again. “There, with the grey patch on the side of his head.”
“What? Like the author?”
“Yeah. He changed it ‘cos he thinks he’s fucking magic.”
I looked and saw the one he meant. He was wearing a little fez hat, but you could see the
grey hair poking out from the bottom. He was talking to Monty, who seemed pretty
pissed. The two men looked at each other. Larry sneered, Terry gave Larry an
uncomfortable nod.
“He snitched on me for smuggling drugs in. Said I was dealing them round the prison.”
“Were you?” I asked.
“No I fucking wasn’t!” Larry gritted his teeth at me and took a Stanley knife from his coat pocket.
“Shit man, calm down.” But Larry wasn’t going to hurt me. He got up, knife in one hand, champagne glass in the other.
“I only came here for one reason!” he shouted, and marched towards Terry. He threw the glass, and it hit him in the head. A couple of dogs were on him in a flash like bear traps; they grabbed Larry by both legs, but as he fell forward he was able to stab the Stanley knife into Terry’s ankle. The place erupted. Prisoners and dogs flew around me. It was the kind of situation where I felt the best thing to do was curl up in a ball and close my eyes, so I did that.
So yeah, I’ve been in prison for the last month. Monty did a fairly good job at trying to get us off, but we still got a month for breaking and entering. Funny really - we were punished by being made to stay in the place we broke into.
Mood: drained
Music:Sufjan Stevens - Year of the Ox
Jan. 31st, 2009 at 6:32 PM
I haven’t written for a long time. Shame on me. BUT, there's a good reason for it.
So, it turned out that the woman from Christmas eve was all part of an elaborate 'Knock Knock' joke courtesy of my old friend Monty Pileup. Apparently he'd been smashed off his face on whiskey one night with a dog, and they were exchanging jokes. One of Monty's was "Knock knock. Who's there? Life is a lie." When he sobered up he thought of how it could be made into a practical joke, and gave it to me as a Christmas present. He rang me the next morning to tell me, and invite me to his new year's eve party.
The last time I'd been to one of Monty's parties was new year's eve 1999 to 2000. It had involved packing boxes into a lorry almost to the end, then getting in with 5 other men. He didn't tell us where we were going, and at 11:30 he announced that he didn't know. All he knew was that the truck would reach its destination at 12, and so we wouldn't know where we would spend new year's until the last moment. It was apparently the purest way to pass into a new century. We turned up at a B&Q, and it was totally and utterly shit.
So then, this year I wasn't too keen, especially as he wouldn't tell me where it was:
"If I told you, you'd get all girly and wuss out." he said.
However, when the day came, all other offers I'd had were from accountants and perverts. So I rang Monty. He was pleased. He turned up to give me a lift in his land rover. There were two other guys in the car, one of which I was sat in the back with, and recognised from years before.
“It’s Marcus, isn’t it?” I asked.
“Larry” was the reply.
I asked Larry what he’d been doing since the millennium, as if I gave a shit. Politeness is something that becomes strangely prominent for me in a silent car. He told me he’d been cleaning the trains that run the tube, then just went silent. I kept looking at him for a second, then sat back in my chair. There was more silence. Eventually Larry spoke; “I think tonight is going to be quite a night.”
I ‘hmmed’ in approval.
“So, have you been to a prison party before?”
I stared at him. He smiled. Then I heard Monty and his friend sniggering from the front of the car. I asked Monty what the fuck a ‘Prison Party’ was. He harder now, like a van, because we were already there.
I was a little apprehensive as we walked into the prison hall. It was sort of how you might imagine a prison hall; all metal and grey. A lot of inmates were sitting at a large table eating, and the others were wandering around smoking. In fact, everyone was smoking. Also, a lot of police dogs were among the prisoners, sitting with them, and eating scraps of food. Monty turned around briefly,
"Right, let's get fucked at her majesty's pleasure!" Then he walked into the centre of the room with the other man we'd travelled with. They began vigorously greeting a few of the men. Larry had kept back, so I asked him why the dogs were loose….For the moment at least, I decided to let the whole ‘prison party’ thing slide.
“They’re the guards. The human guards have their own party."
“Right.”
“In case you were wondering, it’s all fine.” He said, calmly.
“Why did you feel you had to reassure me?”
“Because…you look like you’re going to piss your pants.”.
I didn’t say anything, but continued to clench my muscles.
“It’s a thing they do every year, like a treat for the prisoners. The staff all have their piss up down the local.”
“And they know about it?” I asked.
“Yeah. Yeah.” Larry looked at the floor.
Just then, a man approached us with lots of full champagne flutes on a platter. They were sitting in a pile of cigarettes.
“Lagerfag?” He offered.
We both took a glass, and Larry took a cigarette. The man looked at me scornfully.
“Lager fag!”
I hadn’t realised smoking was compulsory, but took one this time, to avoid any confrontation. Just then, a smashing noise came from the other side of the room. Two men surrounded by broken champagne flutes were squaring up to each other. Everyone looked round, but already two dogs were breaking them up. I felt more comfortable now.
Larry and I sat at a table. He asked me many of the boring questions people ask other people they’ve just met, and I asked him the same. Then came the awkward silence that I knew would come. Larry was first to do that thing where you look around aimlessly, sort of trying to find something to talk about. But he seemed reflective. Eventually he said
“Still looks the same.”
“How many of these parties have you been to?” I asked him.
“Oh, none, this is my first time, like you…I’ve been here as an inmate though.”
I asked him to elaborate.
“Yeah. For a year and a half. I was only supposed to be in for a few months though.” Larry frowned and gripped his glass, and darted his eyes across the
room. I looked to where he was looking, but couldn’t work out what he was looking at.
“Just one little ABH.” He continued.
“What were you looking at?” I was beginning to get worried again.
“Terry fucking Pratchett.” He looked again. “There, with the grey patch on the side of his head.”
“What? Like the author?”
“Yeah. He changed it ‘cos he thinks he’s fucking magic.”
I looked and saw the one he meant. He was wearing a little fez hat, but you could see the
grey hair poking out from the bottom. He was talking to Monty, who seemed pretty
pissed. The two men looked at each other. Larry sneered, Terry gave Larry an
uncomfortable nod.
“He snitched on me for smuggling drugs in. Said I was dealing them round the prison.”
“Were you?” I asked.
“No I fucking wasn’t!” Larry gritted his teeth at me and took a Stanley knife from his coat pocket.
“Shit man, calm down.” But Larry wasn’t going to hurt me. He got up, knife in one hand, champagne glass in the other.
“I only came here for one reason!” he shouted, and marched towards Terry. He threw the glass, and it hit him in the head. A couple of dogs were on him in a flash like bear traps; they grabbed Larry by both legs, but as he fell forward he was able to stab the Stanley knife into Terry’s ankle. The place erupted. Prisoners and dogs flew around me. It was the kind of situation where I felt the best thing to do was curl up in a ball and close my eyes, so I did that.
So yeah, I’ve been in prison for the last month. Monty did a fairly good job at trying to get us off, but we still got a month for breaking and entering. Funny really - we were punished by being made to stay in the place we broke into.
Mood: drained
Music:Sufjan Stevens - Year of the Ox
The Past
No, not that far back.....
I used to have a LiveJournal, so I thought I'd transport them here so you can see what I'm about.
The first noting
Dec. 24th, 2008 at 9:30 AM
This is my first LiveJournal post, as you may have noticed.
A funny thing happened today. I made a LiveJournal. Then i set the background, added some interests (four word limit ?) and added a photo, which is definitely me. Then i started to write a post, and i didn't quite know what to write, so i started to write about how I'd created the profile, listing every single part up until this moment so that i'm effectively just noting what happened a word ago in an an attempt to be funny and/or clever. Or annoying. Then there was a knock at the door.
I don't like callers at the best of times. No time is convenient to inflict a shitty opinion or product on a private dwelling. Why don't these people go into work places? It would be a welcome break. Anyway, this wasn't the best of times because I needed a shower, which often makes me feel hungover in sort of stale way, without the pain. Despite this, i thought I'd find out what he or she wanted.
When calling at my house, people can usually be found wandering around it in circles, because i have two front doors and two back doors, but this person, a woman in a dark, slimline power suit, complete with miniskirt, was simply standing in the drive staring directly into my bedroom window. I put on shoes and went outside to approach her with a frown. I find this is a subtle way to tell people i don't like cold callers and whatever they want they should fucking well make it brief. This was not, however, a cold call.
"Mr Wildz?" ...."Yes. What?" "I'm from a company called IDLD. I'm here to make sure you know your life, number..." She paused to look at paper on a clipboard. "...54654BH is about to end. We should have notified you through letter, which we did actually try to do six months ago, but due to a clerical error, the address we had down was complete gibberish." I paused. My first thought was, 'typical bloody office paperwork fuck ups - bane of my life.' then my attention moved to the slightly more pressing matter, "What the fuck are you talking about?" i asked her. She adjusted her skirt uncomfortably. "Yes, your life will end tomorrow. Sorry for the confusion this has caused. We realised we probably had the wrong address when we'd had no response from the 6 month warning. People usually want to know what's happening. "Damn right!" I shouted. How do you know when my life's going to end?" I followed this with obscenities and other noises. She waited calmly until i had finished my tirade. When I'd caught my breath, i invited her in for a cup of tea.
The woman sat at my kitchen table and sipped her tea. I asked her name, and she said she didn't have one. I thought that was rather rude. She was wearing a third business, third guilty, and third seductive expression on her face. She explained that IDLD stood for Inter-Dimensional-Life-Dictation and started to say that unfortunately there weren't enough resources to continue my life at the moment. However, i was finding it difficult to concentrate because she was rubbing my leg with hers under the table. When i was sure it wasn't accidental i kicked her, "Why are you doing that?" She looked very embarrassed and apologised. "I'm sorry. I always do this when i'm trying to break bad news. In my head it seems logical that people won't be so angry if they're horny." I told her she had a lot to learn. She said she was new to this world. I still didn't know what she was talking about so told her to start at the beginning.
At first she got out a laptop and showed me files that charted most of my life, the things i had done, mistakes i had made, and important moments. There were databases and graphs that showed how happy i was, and a pie chart showing what my life had been mostly devoted to. apparently i'd only devoted 0.76% to cookery, which was unusual.
She slammed down the laptop. "In life, we have 'decisions' " she said. Whilst saying it she actually made the inverted commas with her hands. She said that these decisions take us in a certain way, but in fact, every outcome or possibility happens, but in different parallel universes. "Oh, the many worlds theory" I asked, trying to look all learned. "Not a theory, a reality. But different than you may think, because that theory is based on the theory we have free will, and can actually make these 'decisions' " I asked her to stop doing the hand actions, because it was patronising. She said that it was logical, because unfortunately, we don't make any of our own decisions. I told her she was talking shit, and that's when she explained that my life, and everyone else's, were created by an individual writer sitting in a booth in a higher, entirely separate cosmos.......This was a little bit hard to handle. She went into more detail saying that a writer will start creating your life from the day you are born, but when he/she reaches a major decision in their writing, they will hand over half of it to another writer. This can and does happen thousands of times, and so there are many different versions of the same life, running together. I said that this was obviously total bullshit, because surely someone would have told me about it. "Well that's a stupid thing to assume" she said "Think about it, dufus, all lives are controlled by a writer, so although people found out 6 months before their death, they were never allowed to publish their thoughts or findings, and because all the writers of their friends would be notified, they'd dismiss any wimperings as imaginary nettle soup."
Then I asked her why my life was ending.
The woman explained that the writer, now reaching old age, was retiring to planet earth for a real life, and due to lack of staff and company finances (apparently the credit crunch affects all known crannies of the cosmos) there would not be a replacement filling in for him. "So this means i have to die? I don't want to. So many things are going well for me" She explained that anything that seemed any good was just to stabalise my mood. The writer had tried to adjust my life in the last year so that all the themes and eventualities in it lead to a logical death, tomorrow, on christmas day. "Well it doesn't bloody feel like it" I exclaimed. "Yeah, i don't think he's a very good writer." She said.
She said there was nothing more we could discuss about it, because obviously i couldn't be told how i would die, because i might try to change it. "I'm going to stay in all day and watch T.V" I said. "You'll still die." she said.
As she left she apologised again and began to walk up the road. I watched her, then had a thought - "One more question," I said "Are you the ghost of christmas future?" She told me not to be so ridiculous.
I'm rather scared. this could be a very short-lived blog.
NOTE: I suddenly remembered near the end of recounting this event that there are conventions about writing speech, using paragraph changes, but i'm not going to go back and do that now, so stuff it.
I used to have a LiveJournal, so I thought I'd transport them here so you can see what I'm about.
The first noting
Dec. 24th, 2008 at 9:30 AM
This is my first LiveJournal post, as you may have noticed.
A funny thing happened today. I made a LiveJournal. Then i set the background, added some interests (four word limit ?) and added a photo, which is definitely me. Then i started to write a post, and i didn't quite know what to write, so i started to write about how I'd created the profile, listing every single part up until this moment so that i'm effectively just noting what happened a word ago in an an attempt to be funny and/or clever. Or annoying. Then there was a knock at the door.
I don't like callers at the best of times. No time is convenient to inflict a shitty opinion or product on a private dwelling. Why don't these people go into work places? It would be a welcome break. Anyway, this wasn't the best of times because I needed a shower, which often makes me feel hungover in sort of stale way, without the pain. Despite this, i thought I'd find out what he or she wanted.
When calling at my house, people can usually be found wandering around it in circles, because i have two front doors and two back doors, but this person, a woman in a dark, slimline power suit, complete with miniskirt, was simply standing in the drive staring directly into my bedroom window. I put on shoes and went outside to approach her with a frown. I find this is a subtle way to tell people i don't like cold callers and whatever they want they should fucking well make it brief. This was not, however, a cold call.
"Mr Wildz?" ...."Yes. What?" "I'm from a company called IDLD. I'm here to make sure you know your life, number..." She paused to look at paper on a clipboard. "...54654BH is about to end. We should have notified you through letter, which we did actually try to do six months ago, but due to a clerical error, the address we had down was complete gibberish." I paused. My first thought was, 'typical bloody office paperwork fuck ups - bane of my life.' then my attention moved to the slightly more pressing matter, "What the fuck are you talking about?" i asked her. She adjusted her skirt uncomfortably. "Yes, your life will end tomorrow. Sorry for the confusion this has caused. We realised we probably had the wrong address when we'd had no response from the 6 month warning. People usually want to know what's happening. "Damn right!" I shouted. How do you know when my life's going to end?" I followed this with obscenities and other noises. She waited calmly until i had finished my tirade. When I'd caught my breath, i invited her in for a cup of tea.
The woman sat at my kitchen table and sipped her tea. I asked her name, and she said she didn't have one. I thought that was rather rude. She was wearing a third business, third guilty, and third seductive expression on her face. She explained that IDLD stood for Inter-Dimensional-Life-Dictation and started to say that unfortunately there weren't enough resources to continue my life at the moment. However, i was finding it difficult to concentrate because she was rubbing my leg with hers under the table. When i was sure it wasn't accidental i kicked her, "Why are you doing that?" She looked very embarrassed and apologised. "I'm sorry. I always do this when i'm trying to break bad news. In my head it seems logical that people won't be so angry if they're horny." I told her she had a lot to learn. She said she was new to this world. I still didn't know what she was talking about so told her to start at the beginning.
At first she got out a laptop and showed me files that charted most of my life, the things i had done, mistakes i had made, and important moments. There were databases and graphs that showed how happy i was, and a pie chart showing what my life had been mostly devoted to. apparently i'd only devoted 0.76% to cookery, which was unusual.
She slammed down the laptop. "In life, we have 'decisions' " she said. Whilst saying it she actually made the inverted commas with her hands. She said that these decisions take us in a certain way, but in fact, every outcome or possibility happens, but in different parallel universes. "Oh, the many worlds theory" I asked, trying to look all learned. "Not a theory, a reality. But different than you may think, because that theory is based on the theory we have free will, and can actually make these 'decisions' " I asked her to stop doing the hand actions, because it was patronising. She said that it was logical, because unfortunately, we don't make any of our own decisions. I told her she was talking shit, and that's when she explained that my life, and everyone else's, were created by an individual writer sitting in a booth in a higher, entirely separate cosmos.......This was a little bit hard to handle. She went into more detail saying that a writer will start creating your life from the day you are born, but when he/she reaches a major decision in their writing, they will hand over half of it to another writer. This can and does happen thousands of times, and so there are many different versions of the same life, running together. I said that this was obviously total bullshit, because surely someone would have told me about it. "Well that's a stupid thing to assume" she said "Think about it, dufus, all lives are controlled by a writer, so although people found out 6 months before their death, they were never allowed to publish their thoughts or findings, and because all the writers of their friends would be notified, they'd dismiss any wimperings as imaginary nettle soup."
Then I asked her why my life was ending.
The woman explained that the writer, now reaching old age, was retiring to planet earth for a real life, and due to lack of staff and company finances (apparently the credit crunch affects all known crannies of the cosmos) there would not be a replacement filling in for him. "So this means i have to die? I don't want to. So many things are going well for me" She explained that anything that seemed any good was just to stabalise my mood. The writer had tried to adjust my life in the last year so that all the themes and eventualities in it lead to a logical death, tomorrow, on christmas day. "Well it doesn't bloody feel like it" I exclaimed. "Yeah, i don't think he's a very good writer." She said.
She said there was nothing more we could discuss about it, because obviously i couldn't be told how i would die, because i might try to change it. "I'm going to stay in all day and watch T.V" I said. "You'll still die." she said.
As she left she apologised again and began to walk up the road. I watched her, then had a thought - "One more question," I said "Are you the ghost of christmas future?" She told me not to be so ridiculous.
I'm rather scared. this could be a very short-lived blog.
NOTE: I suddenly remembered near the end of recounting this event that there are conventions about writing speech, using paragraph changes, but i'm not going to go back and do that now, so stuff it.
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