I row to work in the dark, thinking just possibly tonight is the night it burns down; I hope someone’s already phoned the appropriate emergency services; my phone gets particularly bad reception and I wouldn’t want to waste valuable hero time by wandering around the car park with my arm outstretched shouting, “A bar, a bar, my cynicism for a bar!”
Oh look, it’s not aflame; I hope there’s no-one around drinking over-priced, bad wine and generic ale talking about things that are just terrible and espousing the list of things that we just need to do in order to make it all good evening, good evening, hello, can I get you anything? a bat round the head? a foot in the groin? an idea of how pretentious and utterly empty you sound? A dry white wine and a bitter? yes I can do that, watch…I said watch damn you…I can even do it with my coat still on, and before I’ve clocked in, and before I’ve made a cup of tea, and before I’ve received my instructions, and before I’ve decided which ones I’m not going to follow.
I think of DMT…I think of how thirty-two years without any taste of hallucinogenic drug use can cease with one small pipe of the strongest known to man…you don’t fuck about; you fucking rule…fuck yeah…I believe to be the term. Seriously though…drugs are bad, apart from this one.
Hi, good evening, hello, you could die tonight, did you know that? You could have a heart attack in this very bar and if I can’t be arsed to come check if you need a drink, you’ll die here, on a floor I can’t be arsed to mop, the last thing you see being the underside of a table I can’t be arsed to polish…you careless thing, you should probably just stay at home eating carrots next to the phone…don’t come here…it’s a fucking death trap.
Ooo WordPress! How many brillaint comments do I have today? Three…come on brain…try to make three perfectly pleasant people who have made a concerted effort to interact with you feel small. What five-day-old post will I get to make genius all over and that no-one will read? Of course; Le Clown…I think of something clever…that’s far too clever for him I’m keeping that to myself; I write nothing…so dies another unicorn. Shall I post something? Shall I start something? A cup of tea award for anyone who can guess how long this has taken to write so far…christ there’s so much to read; if I put my mind to it would I discover that I’m actually not funny enough to write funny comments for all the posts I read…I assume the answer to be yes, but I’ve been known to surprise myself; I’m too tired for surprises; I’ll just not put my mind to it; I’ll skip to the kitchen instead, like a fairy, singing somewhere over the shit-heap, happy little poo birds flying about the place and all that jazz; I put on a Welsh accent and talk about farming; some of the funniest stuff you’ll ever hear; I don’t wish I still smoked but I would like a cigarette; with some drugs in it…drugs are bad, apart from these two.
The phone goes; I swear at it; I also swear at the descendants of Manzetti, Reis, Meucci, Drawbaugh, Bell and Gray, and curse them into the pits of hell – after I’ve googled ‘inventor of the telephone’ of course; they’ll phone back if it’s important – and why is hell always portrayed as a bad place; as far as I was aware, the devil doesn’t like god, doesn’t agree with anything he does or wishes upon humanity…so why the fuck does satan punish those who sin against god; surely he’d reward them; “Murdered your fellow human beings did you? Excellent; here’s some power; carry on.” “Homosexual are you? Just feast your eyes on that row of bottoms; have at ’em, and there’s plenty more where they came from.” Stupid religion.
I have another chat with the Welsh farmer about the threats that John Deere makes if you don’t buy his gear; first he phones and says, “What the fuck’s with the Massey Ferguson motherfucker?!” and then he sends an official, sealed letter pretty much containing the aforementioned telephone question but with less fucks and more verilies, to which my Welsh farmer replies to John Deere, “Why don’t you go get run over by a tractor? Oh, you already did that didn’t you? Nob rot.” And then my Welsh farmer hears the phone go again – must be important – so the English nobody answers it, “What do you want? A wake up call? For 8 am? Yes you can have wake up call for 8 am; room 24? Yes I used a semicolon in dialogue; fuck you Rich; I can do what I like when I’m speaking. Hello? Hello?” Fucker hung up. I’m all about the customer service; all about the idiots who come here forgetting that the term that’s used to describe them is ‘guest’; if you were a guest somewhere would you leave your soiled underwear stuffed down behind a toilet bowl? Because there are at least two people on this planet who would answer yes to that question. Would I like to hunt them down and stick pins in their eyes? No. The greatest punishment they will have is living out the rest of their lives as themselves………
……maybe that’s why I haven’t been hunted down and had pins stuck in my eyes…am I suffering? Do I despise myself? Do I feel like I have stuffed my soiled underwear down behind a toilet bowl and left it for someone else to deal with? Is that why I’ve been left with two of them? I did it twice? I’m not dead yet; I did it more and therefore there’s more waiting for me? I need a job where there’s no chance of finding soiled underwear stuffed down behind a toilet bowl…who am I kidding? there’ll always be toilet bowls in my life; I use one practically every week. I cannot see how I shall attain redemption through defecation sans bowl; grow up man! and don’t palm this off as something intellectual, as some some sort of existential quandary; you’re a peasant, scrabbling around in the dirt wondering why your parents felt the need to celebrate existence by doing the beast with two backs…stupid parents.
Let us drink; if one can’t have a pint of the black stuff an hour into one’s working day then fuck you and your fulfillment.
It’s not the answer though is it? You only get a pint-load of answers fitting inside a pint glass. And whilst I only have the one question, the answers I keep getting are wrong, and I wouldn’t want them seeping out there and finding their way into the wrong hands; so I keep them in my pint glass, safe from those who may see them as something truthful. And whilst I can’t stop these answers from re-existing, I can hold the ones I’ve got as a reminder; a reminder that no matter how long it takes, no matter how far, I will find you!……sorry I got distracted; cup of tea award to those who get the reference.
So in conclusion either my hypothesis is right or my null hypothesis is right; either way it appears I’m right…shit, I forgot to write any hypotheses. Can I do it tomorrow. Of course I can do it tomorrow. I’ll be here won’t I. Living the dream. The envy of the developing world. The master of my own downfall. It’s a true skill to fall from the floor. I’ll head home in the light; look at little genetic replicas of half my being; wondering if a better half even exists; I will love them; I will bid them good day; I will instinctively look for soiled underwear stuffed down behind the toilet bowl; I will curse the need to shit, shower and shave; I will shit, shower and shave; I will pick a bed that is not my own; I will fall asleep thinking that maybe this time it will be the last.
Then I’ll need a wee and get uncomfortable and have to get up and have a wee and so curse my life.