June 23rd 2005 - September 15th 2005
September 15TH 2005
Words, I got ‘em, right up front the head, I got the fingers
on the keys, aye, rattlin back and forth cross the QWERTY,
I'm sayin “Come on now, little words, just get the fuck ‘pon
the screen there, all this white been givin me the kinda
headache I ain’t felt since 1998 when I fell asleep on
Tuesday, woke up Monday night in the back seat of a burnt-out
Vauxhall Nova.”
“I don’t wanna come out, mammy-doll, I’ma just gon’ fitter
round back the knuckles, ain’t goin no further, yessir, I’ma
sit ma hole right down back the hand.”
Motherfuck, Writers Block, what a ridiculous affliction it
is, can’t sleep with the roar of the sentences and narratives
and fuck-words, and can’t get the bastards exorcised in any
sorta worthwhile fashion.
To say, aye, I could batter away at the white on black and
hope for the best, get some a those paragraphs up all good an
proper an ‘fessional, (pro- or con-, who knows?) but I’d be
cheating, I’d be holding up a watercolour saying look here,
it’s a monk, and then the closer you get the more you realise
that no, it only looks like a monk from three blocks back, up
here it ain’t nothing but a loada useless scrawls, bit a Wet
flung cross for to make it all ‘pressionist.
Charlatan! Hack! Conservative!
Egads, going mad at this hour of the night, 02.57 and not a
pill popped, not a drip a sleep expected till the box is
breached and the foil molested.
Because you can’t force these things, I’ve learned.
And this is why I’m still hammering away at part 6 of the
ongoing Dublin epic, this is why I’m still tryin to form a
worthwhile thought on The Devils Rejects or a gloriously
filth-soaked paragraph concerning Conor Oberst, but no, none
of it, I ain’t getting fuck, getting less than fuck, the hint
of fuck to come.
So I’m reading over stuff I already did, thinking bout how
easy it was to just batter away and at the end of it all
something approaching Writing might appear, maybe, ifn’ the
weathers good.
Reading and re-reading the first chapter of my ongoing Book
Thing, mocking me, it is, forty pages of Stuff, can’t miss
it, there it is, Stuff, for good or ill, lining the walls,
can’t move for the bastard, and so short a time tween then
and now when what there is, is nothing. Worse, a whole buncha
something talking bout how much nothing there is.
What I’ve learned is that these periods come and go, regular
as those other ones, kind that mess with the tummy for a day
or two, or don’t, and then it’s all sortsa paranoid terror.
The kind that end up in a sigh of relief fit to fell a
cathedral, and talk of “But it’s ok, cause even if you were,
it’d be grand”, and a look in the eyes gazing back says
“Yeah, you looked plenty grand, sweatin and mutterin and
talking bout how you couldn’t trust yourself with a knackered
loaf never mind a, y’know, a one a those.”
So putting Microsoft Word aside for a time, doin some
strumming, sorting out a New Net Record that isn’t really
New, reading The Satanic Verses wondering when the hell
Rushdie’s ever gonna bring a full-stop into the proceedings,
but it’s ok, cause I dig the hell out his demented prose.
And then it’s back to the screen, to the cursor dancing away
at the end of a sentence relating to 72 Hours Raw In Dublin –
Part Six, because the tale ain’t told yet, no, so I’m sat
here with the fists clenched daring this fucker to invite me
in.
Thanks folks.
Fling The Duke An Email or Leave A Message
on the keys, aye, rattlin back and forth cross the QWERTY,
I'm sayin “Come on now, little words, just get the fuck ‘pon
the screen there, all this white been givin me the kinda
headache I ain’t felt since 1998 when I fell asleep on
Tuesday, woke up Monday night in the back seat of a burnt-out
Vauxhall Nova.”
“I don’t wanna come out, mammy-doll, I’ma just gon’ fitter
round back the knuckles, ain’t goin no further, yessir, I’ma
sit ma hole right down back the hand.”
Motherfuck, Writers Block, what a ridiculous affliction it
is, can’t sleep with the roar of the sentences and narratives
and fuck-words, and can’t get the bastards exorcised in any
sorta worthwhile fashion.
To say, aye, I could batter away at the white on black and
hope for the best, get some a those paragraphs up all good an
proper an ‘fessional, (pro- or con-, who knows?) but I’d be
cheating, I’d be holding up a watercolour saying look here,
it’s a monk, and then the closer you get the more you realise
that no, it only looks like a monk from three blocks back, up
here it ain’t nothing but a loada useless scrawls, bit a Wet
flung cross for to make it all ‘pressionist.
Charlatan! Hack! Conservative!
Egads, going mad at this hour of the night, 02.57 and not a
pill popped, not a drip a sleep expected till the box is
breached and the foil molested.
Because you can’t force these things, I’ve learned.
And this is why I’m still hammering away at part 6 of the
ongoing Dublin epic, this is why I’m still tryin to form a
worthwhile thought on The Devils Rejects or a gloriously
filth-soaked paragraph concerning Conor Oberst, but no, none
of it, I ain’t getting fuck, getting less than fuck, the hint
of fuck to come.
So I’m reading over stuff I already did, thinking bout how
easy it was to just batter away and at the end of it all
something approaching Writing might appear, maybe, ifn’ the
weathers good.
Reading and re-reading the first chapter of my ongoing Book
Thing, mocking me, it is, forty pages of Stuff, can’t miss
it, there it is, Stuff, for good or ill, lining the walls,
can’t move for the bastard, and so short a time tween then
and now when what there is, is nothing. Worse, a whole buncha
something talking bout how much nothing there is.
What I’ve learned is that these periods come and go, regular
as those other ones, kind that mess with the tummy for a day
or two, or don’t, and then it’s all sortsa paranoid terror.
The kind that end up in a sigh of relief fit to fell a
cathedral, and talk of “But it’s ok, cause even if you were,
it’d be grand”, and a look in the eyes gazing back says
“Yeah, you looked plenty grand, sweatin and mutterin and
talking bout how you couldn’t trust yourself with a knackered
loaf never mind a, y’know, a one a those.”
So putting Microsoft Word aside for a time, doin some
strumming, sorting out a New Net Record that isn’t really
New, reading The Satanic Verses wondering when the hell
Rushdie’s ever gonna bring a full-stop into the proceedings,
but it’s ok, cause I dig the hell out his demented prose.
And then it’s back to the screen, to the cursor dancing away
at the end of a sentence relating to 72 Hours Raw In Dublin –
Part Six, because the tale ain’t told yet, no, so I’m sat
here with the fists clenched daring this fucker to invite me
in.
Thanks folks.
Fling The Duke An Email or Leave A Message
AUGUST 18TH 2005
Looking at the “Recent Documents” column up in the top-right
corner of Microsoft Word, a man can’t help but get depressed
with regards the number of articles started and abandoned of
late, the lubrication always running out half-way through the
procedure, ain’t no way a man’s gonna be thrusting another
inch without it, best get out, get dressed, have a smoke and
do something else for a time.
An article concerning The Marquis De Sade, about a quarter
done.
An article concerning the wonderful Selfish Cunt, it’s got a
couple paragraphs for to flaunt.
“The Duke’s Journals 14th August”, that right there ain’t
ever gonna see the light of the web-net, no never no more.
“Tales Of Blogcritics”, an article concerning
blogcritics.org, the second best site on the web-net after
Mondo Irlando, just done hit the third anniversary, ten
million folks served, yes, and I can’t get past the
introduction.
But why, oh but fuck me, why?
Who the fuck knows, ain’t no good can come from worrying
about it, since look, just last night I tore an article
concerning Fuck Forever By Babyshambles out the back of the
teeth, an experiment, is what it was, and that’ll tide me by
for a time.
“Interview with Bacon And Egg”. I gotta get that fucker
sorted also.
I got a buncha balls hung from the shoulders, is the point to
be made, a whole fuck-load of Things What Need Done, dragging
the yap to the filthy fuck-soaked gutter. No matter never
mind, no sense doing a damn thing but sitting back and
letting Uncle Bob sing about “We live in a political world…”,
let the mind focus on the moment sat in the train station
last Saturday when, looking up from a collection of William
Blake poetry for a second, who the fuck should I see standing
beside me but Harry Potter Woman?
She chose to stand beside me, even though the platform was
large enough for seven dozen Harry Potter Women and at least
three friends a piece.
I was close to saying hello, very close, even though the
wounds from the previous week’s cutting rebuttal were still
raw as a double-fucked arse, but then no, a fella I hadn’t
seen for years, he suddenly arrives and sits down beside me,
gets to telling me how he’s fresh out the cells, gets to
telling me how all these stab wounds on his hands have
resulted in him being put in some sort of victim support
program of some kind, gets to yacking about a loyalist with
an AK showed up at his front door couple months past. The
reek of bullshit was enough to floor a man, but I let him
banter on nonetheless, hoping that the occasional unconvinced
half-smile I gave was enough to convince Harry Potter Woman
that no, I’m as repulsed by this thuggery as you, although,
if truth be told, I was delighted by these far-fetched
narratives.
Is it wrong to find a beauty in the most debauched grime and
grit and grot known to civilised humanity? Who knows,
certainly the lass in the Virgin Megastore earlier this
evening didn’t seem to have much of an opinion on the matter,
although she did enquire as to whether or not I’d ever seen
Babyshambles live.
I had to sigh and say no, although I kept the next thought
all to myself, on account of it was something along the lines
of how I prayed that I might encounter such a creature one
day, a beautiful lass who works in a record store and knows
the wonders of Babyshambles.
I’m fairly sure I made a note of it somewhere, but looking
through the pages now, all I see is the deranged scribblings
I made one night last week when the computer stopped working.
Without the calming influence of blogcritics.org or Microsoft
word or the nine Bob Dylan bootlegs I never got round to
putting onto CD, The Duke ended up in a state that no sane
mind could ever articulate, and so all I can do is allow you
a glimpse at a few of those notes, and let the judgement rest
with you;
From The Duke’s Tattered Notebook, Sometime In August 2005;
“An eeriness prevails. Alla sudden 04:18 AM seems like a time-
chunk set aside only for renegade pagans and dope-sick kerb-
crawlers. No moral, nor sane, individual should be awake at
this time, and for what? What am I doing sat here by a dead
screen? Fuck alone knows.
(…)
A comfort is afforded by being sat here, even though the
machine refuses to comply with my endless, increasingly
desperate pleading. Sat reading, a fistful of paperback, and
hoping that in the right light with the right dose a caffeine
the words might take on a more digital hue.
(…)
Curious cravings… Suddenly I’m overcome with an unquenchable
desire to play The Sims 2, knowing full well that it’s
impossible. I dare say I’ll go insane with the lust for to
see a trio of mini-Dukes in Viking helmets piss themselves on
account of I ain’t let them eat in a fortnight and they ain’t
got the strength to crawl to the toilet.
(…)
Oh ho! The window beside me… what the fuck’s to be seen, I
wonder?
The reflection of a man three-sheets to dementia, going out
his fifth mind with the need to check emails, check comments,
fantasies regarding messages left on myspace;
“Hey, how is it in Ireland?”
“Fucking gorgeous! I’m spunkin out my nose!”
(…)
This sky overhead, shades of dawn fixin for to straddle the
night-time. A helicopter passes, flying low, too damn low for
my likings. Obviously a military convoy looking for to see
why The Duke’s modem’s been down for so long, why the PC ain’
t been on. Half a Belfast’s gone nuclear with the sudden
surge of spare electricity. Get that fucker fixed, they say.
Try that sonna bitch for every atomic misdemeanour we can
fathom.
(…)
Spent a while in the back garden hoping for brief alien
abduction, arsehole pointed to Venus, come on you
intergalactic fuck monkeys, you black-eye cum-bubbles, come
on down and probe like you never done probed before! I want
probing from my sphincter to my throat, here and now,
penetrate my guts you alien bastards, if you think you can
handle it!
(Next door neighbour watches this performance with the air of
a man fixing for to get handy with an AK. “Pray God let him
try and enter this property”, he’s muttering. I don’t want
your property, I’m just tryin to get rid by a space-man!)
(…)
Took time for to set fire to things I been meaning to burn;
DVD copy of A Time To Kill, never opened, factory sealed.
Bought just for the fuck-boiling glee afforded by watching
the bastard melt into the grass;
The only known copies of some songs I recorded this past
month. The best I’d ever done, I’d wager, and now look,
indistinguishable from the cat-shit and the gravel. Now there
ain’t any chance that a late-night playback session breaks my
back with the disappointment. It wasn’t that good after all.
These songs will always be amazing, and who can challenge
such a statement? No fucker, is who, and dear god I can smell
the MOJO articles from here. “The Duke’s Burnt Masterpieces”
(…)
A curious incident five minutes ago – Through no fault of my
own, I found myself making a telephone call to a priest
picked at random from a church directory. “Father”, I
announced, “I dare say I’ll go mad in the balls if I don’t
get to discuss the phenomena of stigmata. I been thinking
bout looking into it all, see, been thinking I could wank up
a storm over the subject. Pray tell, then, what’s the deal
with these Jesus-wounds?”
He hung up.”
Thankfully the computer got sorted the next evening.
Everything in its right place, like the fella with the
squinty-eye says.
Everything except The Duke’s hand, which is here, holding a
cigarette, instead of holding another hand, preferably that
of a beautiful lass with a staggering array of insults at her
disposal, or a lass who reads too much Harry Potter, or a
lass maybe who knows a thing or two about Babyshambles.
One day when I grow up to be an astronaut or a prosaic-
guzzlin civil servant, I’ll look back on these disgustingly
emo sentiments and challenge my 23 year old self to a duel, a
battle fought on a landscape of busted Bright Eyes vinyl,
hand-cannons pointed at one another’s guts, teeth clenched
like a homophobe’s hole at a Soft Cell reunion show. Only one
Duke can survive, and let’s hope it’s the 23 year old one,
since at least the music’s good and the wanks have been
worse, all being told.
Ah, the mind bolts like a buggered emu, racing cross the
plains, visions and epiphanies and tableaux’s left and right,
front and back, what can it all relate to?
Who the fuck knows, all that’s certain is on Friday myself
and Sir Fleming are heading to Dublin for a couple days worth
of rejuvenation, of gloriously grotty establishments, of rent-
boy observation (from a safe distance, you understand), of
great jazz played by folks high to the last spunk-cell on
narcotics that ain’t even been discovered yet.
Upon returning I expect to be in a suitable condition for to
get on with the business of completing the ongoing anthology
book thing, of getting Net Record 7 that bit closer to
completion, of figuring out what the fuck I’m so anxious
about all a damn sudden?
Thanks folks.
Fling The Duke An Email or Leave A Message
corner of Microsoft Word, a man can’t help but get depressed
with regards the number of articles started and abandoned of
late, the lubrication always running out half-way through the
procedure, ain’t no way a man’s gonna be thrusting another
inch without it, best get out, get dressed, have a smoke and
do something else for a time.
An article concerning The Marquis De Sade, about a quarter
done.
An article concerning the wonderful Selfish Cunt, it’s got a
couple paragraphs for to flaunt.
“The Duke’s Journals 14th August”, that right there ain’t
ever gonna see the light of the web-net, no never no more.
“Tales Of Blogcritics”, an article concerning
blogcritics.org, the second best site on the web-net after
Mondo Irlando, just done hit the third anniversary, ten
million folks served, yes, and I can’t get past the
introduction.
But why, oh but fuck me, why?
Who the fuck knows, ain’t no good can come from worrying
about it, since look, just last night I tore an article
concerning Fuck Forever By Babyshambles out the back of the
teeth, an experiment, is what it was, and that’ll tide me by
for a time.
“Interview with Bacon And Egg”. I gotta get that fucker
sorted also.
I got a buncha balls hung from the shoulders, is the point to
be made, a whole fuck-load of Things What Need Done, dragging
the yap to the filthy fuck-soaked gutter. No matter never
mind, no sense doing a damn thing but sitting back and
letting Uncle Bob sing about “We live in a political world…”,
let the mind focus on the moment sat in the train station
last Saturday when, looking up from a collection of William
Blake poetry for a second, who the fuck should I see standing
beside me but Harry Potter Woman?
She chose to stand beside me, even though the platform was
large enough for seven dozen Harry Potter Women and at least
three friends a piece.
I was close to saying hello, very close, even though the
wounds from the previous week’s cutting rebuttal were still
raw as a double-fucked arse, but then no, a fella I hadn’t
seen for years, he suddenly arrives and sits down beside me,
gets to telling me how he’s fresh out the cells, gets to
telling me how all these stab wounds on his hands have
resulted in him being put in some sort of victim support
program of some kind, gets to yacking about a loyalist with
an AK showed up at his front door couple months past. The
reek of bullshit was enough to floor a man, but I let him
banter on nonetheless, hoping that the occasional unconvinced
half-smile I gave was enough to convince Harry Potter Woman
that no, I’m as repulsed by this thuggery as you, although,
if truth be told, I was delighted by these far-fetched
narratives.
Is it wrong to find a beauty in the most debauched grime and
grit and grot known to civilised humanity? Who knows,
certainly the lass in the Virgin Megastore earlier this
evening didn’t seem to have much of an opinion on the matter,
although she did enquire as to whether or not I’d ever seen
Babyshambles live.
I had to sigh and say no, although I kept the next thought
all to myself, on account of it was something along the lines
of how I prayed that I might encounter such a creature one
day, a beautiful lass who works in a record store and knows
the wonders of Babyshambles.
I’m fairly sure I made a note of it somewhere, but looking
through the pages now, all I see is the deranged scribblings
I made one night last week when the computer stopped working.
Without the calming influence of blogcritics.org or Microsoft
word or the nine Bob Dylan bootlegs I never got round to
putting onto CD, The Duke ended up in a state that no sane
mind could ever articulate, and so all I can do is allow you
a glimpse at a few of those notes, and let the judgement rest
with you;
From The Duke’s Tattered Notebook, Sometime In August 2005;
“An eeriness prevails. Alla sudden 04:18 AM seems like a time-
chunk set aside only for renegade pagans and dope-sick kerb-
crawlers. No moral, nor sane, individual should be awake at
this time, and for what? What am I doing sat here by a dead
screen? Fuck alone knows.
(…)
A comfort is afforded by being sat here, even though the
machine refuses to comply with my endless, increasingly
desperate pleading. Sat reading, a fistful of paperback, and
hoping that in the right light with the right dose a caffeine
the words might take on a more digital hue.
(…)
Curious cravings… Suddenly I’m overcome with an unquenchable
desire to play The Sims 2, knowing full well that it’s
impossible. I dare say I’ll go insane with the lust for to
see a trio of mini-Dukes in Viking helmets piss themselves on
account of I ain’t let them eat in a fortnight and they ain’t
got the strength to crawl to the toilet.
(…)
Oh ho! The window beside me… what the fuck’s to be seen, I
wonder?
The reflection of a man three-sheets to dementia, going out
his fifth mind with the need to check emails, check comments,
fantasies regarding messages left on myspace;
“Hey, how is it in Ireland?”
“Fucking gorgeous! I’m spunkin out my nose!”
(…)
This sky overhead, shades of dawn fixin for to straddle the
night-time. A helicopter passes, flying low, too damn low for
my likings. Obviously a military convoy looking for to see
why The Duke’s modem’s been down for so long, why the PC ain’
t been on. Half a Belfast’s gone nuclear with the sudden
surge of spare electricity. Get that fucker fixed, they say.
Try that sonna bitch for every atomic misdemeanour we can
fathom.
(…)
Spent a while in the back garden hoping for brief alien
abduction, arsehole pointed to Venus, come on you
intergalactic fuck monkeys, you black-eye cum-bubbles, come
on down and probe like you never done probed before! I want
probing from my sphincter to my throat, here and now,
penetrate my guts you alien bastards, if you think you can
handle it!
(Next door neighbour watches this performance with the air of
a man fixing for to get handy with an AK. “Pray God let him
try and enter this property”, he’s muttering. I don’t want
your property, I’m just tryin to get rid by a space-man!)
(…)
Took time for to set fire to things I been meaning to burn;
DVD copy of A Time To Kill, never opened, factory sealed.
Bought just for the fuck-boiling glee afforded by watching
the bastard melt into the grass;
The only known copies of some songs I recorded this past
month. The best I’d ever done, I’d wager, and now look,
indistinguishable from the cat-shit and the gravel. Now there
ain’t any chance that a late-night playback session breaks my
back with the disappointment. It wasn’t that good after all.
These songs will always be amazing, and who can challenge
such a statement? No fucker, is who, and dear god I can smell
the MOJO articles from here. “The Duke’s Burnt Masterpieces”
(…)
A curious incident five minutes ago – Through no fault of my
own, I found myself making a telephone call to a priest
picked at random from a church directory. “Father”, I
announced, “I dare say I’ll go mad in the balls if I don’t
get to discuss the phenomena of stigmata. I been thinking
bout looking into it all, see, been thinking I could wank up
a storm over the subject. Pray tell, then, what’s the deal
with these Jesus-wounds?”
He hung up.”
Thankfully the computer got sorted the next evening.
Everything in its right place, like the fella with the
squinty-eye says.
Everything except The Duke’s hand, which is here, holding a
cigarette, instead of holding another hand, preferably that
of a beautiful lass with a staggering array of insults at her
disposal, or a lass who reads too much Harry Potter, or a
lass maybe who knows a thing or two about Babyshambles.
One day when I grow up to be an astronaut or a prosaic-
guzzlin civil servant, I’ll look back on these disgustingly
emo sentiments and challenge my 23 year old self to a duel, a
battle fought on a landscape of busted Bright Eyes vinyl,
hand-cannons pointed at one another’s guts, teeth clenched
like a homophobe’s hole at a Soft Cell reunion show. Only one
Duke can survive, and let’s hope it’s the 23 year old one,
since at least the music’s good and the wanks have been
worse, all being told.
Ah, the mind bolts like a buggered emu, racing cross the
plains, visions and epiphanies and tableaux’s left and right,
front and back, what can it all relate to?
Who the fuck knows, all that’s certain is on Friday myself
and Sir Fleming are heading to Dublin for a couple days worth
of rejuvenation, of gloriously grotty establishments, of rent-
boy observation (from a safe distance, you understand), of
great jazz played by folks high to the last spunk-cell on
narcotics that ain’t even been discovered yet.
Upon returning I expect to be in a suitable condition for to
get on with the business of completing the ongoing anthology
book thing, of getting Net Record 7 that bit closer to
completion, of figuring out what the fuck I’m so anxious
about all a damn sudden?
Thanks folks.
Fling The Duke An Email or Leave A Message
AUGUST 9TH 2005
Who knows why or what for, but at this point in time, being
39 past 2am, a fella feels all the fucked off in the world,
is what. An illogical dip in mood that kicked off somewheres
to the far side of Thursday Night and still slippin here in
the Sunday Morning.
Maybe it’s to do with the predominately downbeat mood of
one's scribblings the past couple days, all that stuff about
Harry Potter Woman and Hopelessness, Northern Ireland. Focus
with enough intensity on the dark and it’s hard to recall
what the fuck the light ever looked like in the first place.
I think it had blue eyes, fairly sure of that.
Times like this a fella misses the punk rock ensemble he used
to be part of, when there wasn’t a care in the world that
couldn’t be kicked fuckless with enough battered C chords.
Nowadays the songs are all bout the day to day, and with the
day to day being occasionally melancholic, stands to reason
the ditties get that bit bluer.
Stands to reason a fella might shut himself off that bit
more, and then complain about the lack of physical company.
Stands to reason a fella might quit sleepin, and then the
sleep-enhancers, and then those fuckers quit working too, so
it’s a couple nights worth of wide awake and then the whole
affair swings full circle.
Stands to reason the eyes leak and the rage rises and wait a
minute, what was it I was angry about? Oh yeah, All This Shit.
Stands to reason a man remembers a conversation on a train, a
conversation with a friend who noted a particular look in The
Duke’s eyes and made a statement along the lines of, “Y’know,
there’s nothing wrong with goin’ to see a prostitute.”
So something has to be done about it all.
Times like this a man remembers Woody Allen’s list in
Manhattan, things that make the day that bit more glorious.
What with The Fall on the stereo, what with Mark E Smith
yellin bout “Hey there, fuck face!”, a fella gets to thinkin
bout the stuff what makes him smile.
Being sober. Conversations with friends. The thrill of seeing
a beautiful lass on the train, and all the thoughts about how
a man might approach this lady? The hilarious failures or
glorious successes arising from such. Waking up to find a
message on the phone from a muse bathed in savage purple.
Going for A Sit in a café round the corner from the pet-shop
with the marmoset monkeys. The double drums on Hex Enduction
Hour. The bit in Zelig when an experimental drug has Woody
walking along the walls. The relief of a faith that requires
nothing more than an acknowledgement along the lines of
“Yeah, this is working.” The fact that falling asleep alone
doesn’t mean there ain’t gonna be hands for to hold in the
daylight. Being blessed with the kinda family seems to be all
too rare these days. Kirsten’s dance in Dick. Watching Tetsuo
– The Iron Man with the sound so high they can hear it
fifteen miles south. Race For The Prize by The Flaming Lips.
Without Feathers by Woody Allen.
Yeah, these kindsa things are fit for to see a fella though
any number of pitiless evenings.
Thanks folks.
Fling The Duke An Email or Leave A Message
39 past 2am, a fella feels all the fucked off in the world,
is what. An illogical dip in mood that kicked off somewheres
to the far side of Thursday Night and still slippin here in
the Sunday Morning.
Maybe it’s to do with the predominately downbeat mood of
one's scribblings the past couple days, all that stuff about
Harry Potter Woman and Hopelessness, Northern Ireland. Focus
with enough intensity on the dark and it’s hard to recall
what the fuck the light ever looked like in the first place.
I think it had blue eyes, fairly sure of that.
Times like this a fella misses the punk rock ensemble he used
to be part of, when there wasn’t a care in the world that
couldn’t be kicked fuckless with enough battered C chords.
Nowadays the songs are all bout the day to day, and with the
day to day being occasionally melancholic, stands to reason
the ditties get that bit bluer.
Stands to reason a fella might shut himself off that bit
more, and then complain about the lack of physical company.
Stands to reason a fella might quit sleepin, and then the
sleep-enhancers, and then those fuckers quit working too, so
it’s a couple nights worth of wide awake and then the whole
affair swings full circle.
Stands to reason the eyes leak and the rage rises and wait a
minute, what was it I was angry about? Oh yeah, All This Shit.
Stands to reason a man remembers a conversation on a train, a
conversation with a friend who noted a particular look in The
Duke’s eyes and made a statement along the lines of, “Y’know,
there’s nothing wrong with goin’ to see a prostitute.”
So something has to be done about it all.
Times like this a man remembers Woody Allen’s list in
Manhattan, things that make the day that bit more glorious.
What with The Fall on the stereo, what with Mark E Smith
yellin bout “Hey there, fuck face!”, a fella gets to thinkin
bout the stuff what makes him smile.
Being sober. Conversations with friends. The thrill of seeing
a beautiful lass on the train, and all the thoughts about how
a man might approach this lady? The hilarious failures or
glorious successes arising from such. Waking up to find a
message on the phone from a muse bathed in savage purple.
Going for A Sit in a café round the corner from the pet-shop
with the marmoset monkeys. The double drums on Hex Enduction
Hour. The bit in Zelig when an experimental drug has Woody
walking along the walls. The relief of a faith that requires
nothing more than an acknowledgement along the lines of
“Yeah, this is working.” The fact that falling asleep alone
doesn’t mean there ain’t gonna be hands for to hold in the
daylight. Being blessed with the kinda family seems to be all
too rare these days. Kirsten’s dance in Dick. Watching Tetsuo
– The Iron Man with the sound so high they can hear it
fifteen miles south. Race For The Prize by The Flaming Lips.
Without Feathers by Woody Allen.
Yeah, these kindsa things are fit for to see a fella though
any number of pitiless evenings.
Thanks folks.
Fling The Duke An Email or Leave A Message
AUGUST 6TH 2005
I feel fairly safe in assuming that today was as gloriously
catastrophic a day as I’ve had in months. A day in which a
fella’s ineptness was flung at his teeth with stunning
precision every which way he dared turn.
And look how far he done got all fallen!
Only yesterday, he learns that Blogcritics.org has passed the
10 Million visitors mark, meaning more folks than ever before
are at risk of contamination on account of stumbling cross
The Duke’s fuck-drenched musings. Blogcritics.org, where a
man can easily bound from an article all bout Tom Cruise
Makes Me Wet to Tom Cruise Makes Me Cough Up Foetus with a
minimum of effort, where the rabid left and the rabid right
snarl and bicker and bite digital chunks off a each other’s
shoulders right there in the Real Time, where all there is,
is the currency of Voice, finally, I say, this Blogcritics
get-up is attracting the serious attention it deserves.
Thank fuck for that, and for Blogcritic Aaman Lamba, who not
only included The Duke in a list of Sexiest Bloggers or some
such a while back (keep hold that thought, the irony will be
useful later), but also includes a couple Duke-Related pieces
in this here selection of His Favourite Blogcritics Posts.
So celebration hung from every limb, and yet woe, woe to you
oh Earth and Sea, like in that song by Megadeth or Cinderella
or whoever. Y’know, “Night was black, was no use turning
back” and so on and so fourth, something about Bring The
Devil To The Slaughter or Keeper Of The Seventh Son Of A
Seventh Son. Something about guitars, anyroad.
Today, see, I decide I’ll go sit in a few cafés for a time,
do some reading, write a couple songs, see what’s to be seen.
Was there an ulterior motive? There may well have been, and
what it may have concerned might’ve been something along the
lines of the following;
A couple weeks ago, on the day that the new Harry Potter was
released, in fact, I caught the evening train from Up The
Road to Down The Road, sometimes around half past the 1700.
Sat there with a head fulla too much caffeine and nicotine,
an alarming rattle skittin round the head-space, I started
scribbling a song, a song that has since been recorded I
might add, but fuck that, all you need to know of those
kindsa shindigs can be found Yonder.
Sat starin out the window and the like, when all a damn
sudden a lady takes a seat to my left. It would be wrong to
assume I maybe stood up and demanded her hand in marriage
right there, but it would be just as wrong to assume I didn’t
consider such actions. But no, I let her sit where she was,
and now again looked over, and then oh, no, best look back
down at this notebook, and then oh, turns out she’s reading
the aforementioned Potter opus, and then thinking I should
say something like “So, was it worth the wait?” but then no,
there’s every chance of a tut and a remark along the lines of
“I’ve only just opened the fucking thing, and you know fine
well I just started it, on account of you watched me turn
every page thus far, so how in fuck’s flange could I possibly
have any opinion on it as of yet?”
She’d be well within her rights to make heard such
observations, and so no, I said nothing, just the looking and
the not looking and the musing.
Next thing I know the train has stopped, and just as a
fella's about to bid farewell to this latest head-partner,
she’s only getting up! She’s only making her way to the very
door I was headed towards, only getting off on the same
platform, and wandering a couple car lengths in front of me
up the very same street.
It stands to reason that a man might make the following
announcement to Sir Fleming shortly thereafter;
“Sir Fleming, I dare say I’ve made a fantastic discovery. It
turns out a lass resides within this very town, a lass who is
apparently a fan of those Potter things, and also, I’d
imagine, probably all manner of obscure poetry from out the
Spanish Civil War. I can only assume we’ll end up reciting
Lorca to one another in the midst of some tumultuous carnage
of some sort that none of us could’ve predicted, and our last
words, probably they’ll be “It was five o’clock in the
afternoon…”, or maybe something by Stryper.”
I kept a close eye on the streets throughout the next
fortnight. Where might she be, this mysterious Harry Potter
Woman? Who is she? What was she listening to in those head-
phones? Dare I assume that it might’ve been Dizzie Rascal or
The Rakes or Ryan Adams or Nebraska by Bruce Springsteen or,
holy shit, maybe it was Fuck Forever by Babyshambles? Maybe
it was Gram Parsons?
It seemed hopeless. Plenty faces passed a fella by, none of
which had the delightful shoulder-length red hair, none of
which had the penetrating eyes going on, the eyes a fella
might be inclined to drop a million clichés in honour of.
And then!
Last week, myself and Sir Fleming stood discussing Harry
Potter Woman, her elusive nature, how come Rubber Johnny
turned out to be so fucking shit and so on, when who should
appear down yonder street??
Only a drunkard! Asking everyone where they came from, who
their folks were, and oh aye, I know him, used to drink in
The Central?
But fuck him, since behind him, holy shit! It’s only Harry
Potter Woman! She’s wandering into the station for to board
yonder train, same as before, Dear God, Sir Fleming, I’d
wager she gets this train every Saturday! Possibly every day,
even!
And more – As she walked into the station, I decided the time
was right for to fix her with the kinda glance can only mean
a fella’s got a headfull of loving perversions.
Astonishingly, she held the gaze, right till she was in past
the automatic doors.
For fucks sakes, though, I wasn’t getting the train that day.
I considered running in and demanding to know her name, her
number and her possible whereabouts this fine July evening.
But no.
However, plenty conversations were held with Sir Fleming,
talk of “I will, mark my words, I will ask this lass out. Or
at the very least, I will compose a great many verses about
it all.”
But herein lies the trouble;
How does one approach such a task, to converse in such a way
with a lady he may very well have fantasised about in great
detail, but who, nonetheless, is a mystery to him? What age
is she? Is she single, even? How can a man begin to make
inroads towards the necessary banter?
It’s not like in a pub when it’s obvious a fella’s gonna be
fixin for to go ask folks left and right these sortsa things.
This is a sober situation, and a sober Duke, a long sober
Duke, in fact, in a crowded area filled with folks thirsting
for to send horrific sheets of taunting cum flinging t’wards
the heavens with the glee afforded by some poor bastard’s
misfortune.
Today, today I decide no. I will approach this lady, I will
say something along the lines of “Hi, I don’t know if you
know, but Blogcritic Aaman Lamba considered me to be very
attractive, and I think it only right that you should take
this into consideration ‘pon learning of my affections
towards you.”
I got to the station, looking round about for any hint of
Harry Potter Woman. It was only 15 past the 1700, and I
figured probably she worked in the town, so it’d be half past
at least before any signs were notable. In the meantime, I
watched a fella flinging chips to the pigeons, listened to a
gaggle of drunken footballers holler about something or other
in a language no human ear could ever hope to decipher.
The train arrives, and all I can do is get the seat closest
to the bridge, so as I have untainted view of all passengers
heading this way. Will Harry Potter Woman be among them? Who
knew? Certainly not the two fellas sat directly in front of
me, wondering why this bizarre, coked-up malcontent was so
keen on straining to see past them every two seconds?
I feel it fair to say, see, that a fella’s physical
appearance may have been a tad disconcerting. On account of
the nerves, I figured the best thing to do would be drench my
innards in caffeine, thereby stimulating the fret-glands
beyond any rational expectations, with the theory being that
eventually the fuckers would explode in my guts, and a serene
calm would result.
Alas, they seemed to be verging ever closer to such a state,
but never quite close enough. Close enough for to make every
movement seem like the paranoid twitchings of a coked-up
veteran of some ungodly skirmish, that’s for sure, close
enough for have the eyes dart round the head like rats on
heated blades, but no, not enough for the plateau to be
straddled.
And then she appears, looking for all the world like she’s
gonna open the very door next to me, but then no, she thinks
better of it, spits some chewing gum into a bin and
disappears somewheres up North.
The fellas in front of me, they say it all ‘thout mouthing a
syllable. “Get the fuck up that train, you jitter-freak
bastard.”
Next thing I know I’m diving for the next carriage, scanning
the airways for the tell-tale traces of thoughts relating to
Harry Potter, hoping to the lords of sweetest fuck that she’s
sitting in some gloriously intimate area that houses only her
and whatever paperback she’s devouring at the minute, chunks
of Dostoyevsky or Donne tween perfectly aligned teeth.
And then I see her, sat reading The Notebook, and in front of
her a lady screaming into her mobile. “Do you never answer
the fuckin phone? I sent a fuckin text! Fuck off, cunt!”
I dare not sit next to this demented woman raging at some
poor absent minded bastard on the other end of a hissing half-
connection. What if she sent me a message one time and I
forgot to reply? Sweet Jandek, the last thing a man needs is
to be martyred in front of Harry Potter Woman. She doesn’t
need to see such sights.
Mind you, I’d wager Martyrdom does wonders for a fella’s
Filth Appeal.
And I sure as hell can’t sit next to Harry Potter Woman. For
one thing, she saw me looking at her from out the window a
few minutes ago, and yet now here he is, the fucking Duke, no
longer seated comfortably. Quite the opposite. Stood in an
obvious state of discomfort in the middle of the carriage
pretending not to look at Harry Potter Woman, and so taking a
seat facing her, but to her left, next to a fella with a
delightful Supergrass hair cut.
Fuck you Supergrass, I’m thinking. Fuck you, Disgruntled
Lady. I wanted a chance for to converse with this vixen, for
to get at least some sort of sentence out the face before
ploughing ahead with the “So, maybe, um, yeah, ah, so, um,
tonight?”
There was no chance, no chance at all. Look at this
Supergrass fucker. All laid back and with the smug demeanour
of a fella not ten minutes ago up to the left ear in vaginal
mania.
What could I say? The train was roaring all around, if I
leaned forward there’s the chance Harry Potter Woman might
not hear. “Could I have a word for a second?” was what I had
planned to ask. But how could I? What if she didn’t hear, but
the indie fella did? I’d be trapped between two fearsome
possibilities. I could pretend I was asking him, and demand
to know who cuts his hair, or I could sit back and say
nothing and carry on reading Fear And Loathing On The
Campaign Trail ’72. Harry Potter Woman knew I was reading
this, since when the fella came to check the tickets, I
caught sight of her stealing a glance at the cover.
It’s ok Harry Potter Woman, you can look. More, you can even
borrow it some time. Fuck it, take it now, take it now with
my torn up pages shoved inside for to keep track of each
delightfully vulgar turn of phrase. Take it here, for fucks
sakes I shant move till you’ve taken it, and here, magazines,
fucking NME, take it for Gods sakes, apparently Babyshambles
haven’t broke up after all, I need to celebrate with someone
and dear God, who can it be at this moment if not you, since
look about, a very attractive fella according to Aaman Lamba,
and yet where are the ladies? No place. Where are TXT Woman
and Film Noir Woman amidst all this? Who knows? They were
“seeing someone”, lest we forget. And what of Sinéad? Where
might she be? I’ll tell you where, far fucking away, it pains
me to relate. And what of the one who used to be The Duchess?
The key words there are “used to be”, Harry Potter Woman.
Funny you should mention that, actually, since I noticed a
gold ring on the third finger of one of your hands, and spent
a panic-fucked couple minutes trying to work out if it was an
engagement ring, trying to turn myself on the seat so I could
work out if you were wearing it on the correct digit, trying
to remember where mine used to be.
And then the train starts to slow. I been looking at Harry
Potter Woman on and off for the last fifteen minutes. She
surely sensed it. I can hear my fucking pupils screech cross
the white, surely to God someone as obviously prodigiously
attuned to every flutter of the round about as Harry Potter
Woman, surely she too noted the noise?
Next thing I know the train’s stopped. I let indie fella
pass, I let Disgruntled Lady pass, and then, with a smile, I
let Harry Potter Woman pass. And I follow her, till next
thing I know I’m walking beside her, and fucking hell, she’s
walking extremely fast, I dunno if the blood-pump can deal
with it, but nonetheless, I’m enjoying the fact that our arms
are sort of swinging in unison. The place is crowded, folks
with bags and children and stuff on wheels, cars oppressively
circling the area, and now, fucking hell, now I must announce
to Harry Potter Woman that for the love of god, lass, I’ve
built up to this occasion for far too long, and I’ll be
shafted fuckless if I let it pass.
I’m about to say something. What will it be? Who knows?
But woe! She’s put on head-phones, she’s got a portable CD
player in her hand, has she pressed play? Is she being driven
demented with something off of that fabulous new System Of A
Down record, something so gleefully demented and loud that no
proposal whatsoever, least of all a proposal stammered in the
midst of a thousand pedestrians, none such utterance could
ever possibly hope to get through.
So I touch her arm, but in the kinda way that says “Hey,
sorry, you forgot your purse” rather than “Hey, sorry, I
wanna steal your purse and plunder the contents for crack
money.”
She looks round and takes the head-phones out. She stops, all
expectant.
There’s a woman a couple steps behind with a baby in her
arms. Walk past me, woman, please, for fucks sakes, don’t
stand behind me! Bad enough that Harry Potter Woman must hear
this pish, no need for you and your first-born to be privy to
it all also.
I think I stuttered for a good twenty seconds. I got plenty
um’s and ah’s, I think maybe I tried to name Aaman Lamba but
it came out as a sorta jittering croak, and then yeah,
looking away, and looking back and thinking for fucks sakes,
tell her she forgot her purse, then it happens.
I say something about “um, I was just wondering if, um, ah,
maybe, I dunno, if, if, if you wanted to maybe go out.
Sometime. Um.”
She says “Ummm. . .”
Maybe she was building repore? I dunno.
Certainly I don’t remember ever saying “No” during the
performance, but yet there it is, flip-flopping off her
tongue like some demonically malicious rainbow trout.
“Ummm. . . No.”
What’s that thing about a butterfly flaps its wings and
somewheres there’s a volcano or whatever?
Whatever it is, I apologise to the people of Tokyo for the
fucking gargantuan sigh I let slide out my lungs right then.
“I’ve got someone.”
Oh.
I think I maybe said “Fair enough” or “That’s grand, y’know,
or…” or something to that effect. Something fucking absurd,
most likely.
Whatever the case, I stood back, pretended I had a phone call
to make and she wandered on off into the history books. Or
maybe a book about Harry Potter turns out to be a gonzo
journalist high on ether and hell bent on buggering Ron till
his eyes bleed.
I went to sleep for a while when I got home. I think I maybe
dreamt about Aaman Lamba.
Thanks folks.
Fling The Duke An Email or Leave A Message
catastrophic a day as I’ve had in months. A day in which a
fella’s ineptness was flung at his teeth with stunning
precision every which way he dared turn.
And look how far he done got all fallen!
Only yesterday, he learns that Blogcritics.org has passed the
10 Million visitors mark, meaning more folks than ever before
are at risk of contamination on account of stumbling cross
The Duke’s fuck-drenched musings. Blogcritics.org, where a
man can easily bound from an article all bout Tom Cruise
Makes Me Wet to Tom Cruise Makes Me Cough Up Foetus with a
minimum of effort, where the rabid left and the rabid right
snarl and bicker and bite digital chunks off a each other’s
shoulders right there in the Real Time, where all there is,
is the currency of Voice, finally, I say, this Blogcritics
get-up is attracting the serious attention it deserves.
Thank fuck for that, and for Blogcritic Aaman Lamba, who not
only included The Duke in a list of Sexiest Bloggers or some
such a while back (keep hold that thought, the irony will be
useful later), but also includes a couple Duke-Related pieces
in this here selection of His Favourite Blogcritics Posts.
So celebration hung from every limb, and yet woe, woe to you
oh Earth and Sea, like in that song by Megadeth or Cinderella
or whoever. Y’know, “Night was black, was no use turning
back” and so on and so fourth, something about Bring The
Devil To The Slaughter or Keeper Of The Seventh Son Of A
Seventh Son. Something about guitars, anyroad.
Today, see, I decide I’ll go sit in a few cafés for a time,
do some reading, write a couple songs, see what’s to be seen.
Was there an ulterior motive? There may well have been, and
what it may have concerned might’ve been something along the
lines of the following;
A couple weeks ago, on the day that the new Harry Potter was
released, in fact, I caught the evening train from Up The
Road to Down The Road, sometimes around half past the 1700.
Sat there with a head fulla too much caffeine and nicotine,
an alarming rattle skittin round the head-space, I started
scribbling a song, a song that has since been recorded I
might add, but fuck that, all you need to know of those
kindsa shindigs can be found Yonder.
Sat starin out the window and the like, when all a damn
sudden a lady takes a seat to my left. It would be wrong to
assume I maybe stood up and demanded her hand in marriage
right there, but it would be just as wrong to assume I didn’t
consider such actions. But no, I let her sit where she was,
and now again looked over, and then oh, no, best look back
down at this notebook, and then oh, turns out she’s reading
the aforementioned Potter opus, and then thinking I should
say something like “So, was it worth the wait?” but then no,
there’s every chance of a tut and a remark along the lines of
“I’ve only just opened the fucking thing, and you know fine
well I just started it, on account of you watched me turn
every page thus far, so how in fuck’s flange could I possibly
have any opinion on it as of yet?”
She’d be well within her rights to make heard such
observations, and so no, I said nothing, just the looking and
the not looking and the musing.
Next thing I know the train has stopped, and just as a
fella's about to bid farewell to this latest head-partner,
she’s only getting up! She’s only making her way to the very
door I was headed towards, only getting off on the same
platform, and wandering a couple car lengths in front of me
up the very same street.
It stands to reason that a man might make the following
announcement to Sir Fleming shortly thereafter;
“Sir Fleming, I dare say I’ve made a fantastic discovery. It
turns out a lass resides within this very town, a lass who is
apparently a fan of those Potter things, and also, I’d
imagine, probably all manner of obscure poetry from out the
Spanish Civil War. I can only assume we’ll end up reciting
Lorca to one another in the midst of some tumultuous carnage
of some sort that none of us could’ve predicted, and our last
words, probably they’ll be “It was five o’clock in the
afternoon…”, or maybe something by Stryper.”
I kept a close eye on the streets throughout the next
fortnight. Where might she be, this mysterious Harry Potter
Woman? Who is she? What was she listening to in those head-
phones? Dare I assume that it might’ve been Dizzie Rascal or
The Rakes or Ryan Adams or Nebraska by Bruce Springsteen or,
holy shit, maybe it was Fuck Forever by Babyshambles? Maybe
it was Gram Parsons?
It seemed hopeless. Plenty faces passed a fella by, none of
which had the delightful shoulder-length red hair, none of
which had the penetrating eyes going on, the eyes a fella
might be inclined to drop a million clichés in honour of.
And then!
Last week, myself and Sir Fleming stood discussing Harry
Potter Woman, her elusive nature, how come Rubber Johnny
turned out to be so fucking shit and so on, when who should
appear down yonder street??
Only a drunkard! Asking everyone where they came from, who
their folks were, and oh aye, I know him, used to drink in
The Central?
But fuck him, since behind him, holy shit! It’s only Harry
Potter Woman! She’s wandering into the station for to board
yonder train, same as before, Dear God, Sir Fleming, I’d
wager she gets this train every Saturday! Possibly every day,
even!
And more – As she walked into the station, I decided the time
was right for to fix her with the kinda glance can only mean
a fella’s got a headfull of loving perversions.
Astonishingly, she held the gaze, right till she was in past
the automatic doors.
For fucks sakes, though, I wasn’t getting the train that day.
I considered running in and demanding to know her name, her
number and her possible whereabouts this fine July evening.
But no.
However, plenty conversations were held with Sir Fleming,
talk of “I will, mark my words, I will ask this lass out. Or
at the very least, I will compose a great many verses about
it all.”
But herein lies the trouble;
How does one approach such a task, to converse in such a way
with a lady he may very well have fantasised about in great
detail, but who, nonetheless, is a mystery to him? What age
is she? Is she single, even? How can a man begin to make
inroads towards the necessary banter?
It’s not like in a pub when it’s obvious a fella’s gonna be
fixin for to go ask folks left and right these sortsa things.
This is a sober situation, and a sober Duke, a long sober
Duke, in fact, in a crowded area filled with folks thirsting
for to send horrific sheets of taunting cum flinging t’wards
the heavens with the glee afforded by some poor bastard’s
misfortune.
Today, today I decide no. I will approach this lady, I will
say something along the lines of “Hi, I don’t know if you
know, but Blogcritic Aaman Lamba considered me to be very
attractive, and I think it only right that you should take
this into consideration ‘pon learning of my affections
towards you.”
I got to the station, looking round about for any hint of
Harry Potter Woman. It was only 15 past the 1700, and I
figured probably she worked in the town, so it’d be half past
at least before any signs were notable. In the meantime, I
watched a fella flinging chips to the pigeons, listened to a
gaggle of drunken footballers holler about something or other
in a language no human ear could ever hope to decipher.
The train arrives, and all I can do is get the seat closest
to the bridge, so as I have untainted view of all passengers
heading this way. Will Harry Potter Woman be among them? Who
knew? Certainly not the two fellas sat directly in front of
me, wondering why this bizarre, coked-up malcontent was so
keen on straining to see past them every two seconds?
I feel it fair to say, see, that a fella’s physical
appearance may have been a tad disconcerting. On account of
the nerves, I figured the best thing to do would be drench my
innards in caffeine, thereby stimulating the fret-glands
beyond any rational expectations, with the theory being that
eventually the fuckers would explode in my guts, and a serene
calm would result.
Alas, they seemed to be verging ever closer to such a state,
but never quite close enough. Close enough for to make every
movement seem like the paranoid twitchings of a coked-up
veteran of some ungodly skirmish, that’s for sure, close
enough for have the eyes dart round the head like rats on
heated blades, but no, not enough for the plateau to be
straddled.
And then she appears, looking for all the world like she’s
gonna open the very door next to me, but then no, she thinks
better of it, spits some chewing gum into a bin and
disappears somewheres up North.
The fellas in front of me, they say it all ‘thout mouthing a
syllable. “Get the fuck up that train, you jitter-freak
bastard.”
Next thing I know I’m diving for the next carriage, scanning
the airways for the tell-tale traces of thoughts relating to
Harry Potter, hoping to the lords of sweetest fuck that she’s
sitting in some gloriously intimate area that houses only her
and whatever paperback she’s devouring at the minute, chunks
of Dostoyevsky or Donne tween perfectly aligned teeth.
And then I see her, sat reading The Notebook, and in front of
her a lady screaming into her mobile. “Do you never answer
the fuckin phone? I sent a fuckin text! Fuck off, cunt!”
I dare not sit next to this demented woman raging at some
poor absent minded bastard on the other end of a hissing half-
connection. What if she sent me a message one time and I
forgot to reply? Sweet Jandek, the last thing a man needs is
to be martyred in front of Harry Potter Woman. She doesn’t
need to see such sights.
Mind you, I’d wager Martyrdom does wonders for a fella’s
Filth Appeal.
And I sure as hell can’t sit next to Harry Potter Woman. For
one thing, she saw me looking at her from out the window a
few minutes ago, and yet now here he is, the fucking Duke, no
longer seated comfortably. Quite the opposite. Stood in an
obvious state of discomfort in the middle of the carriage
pretending not to look at Harry Potter Woman, and so taking a
seat facing her, but to her left, next to a fella with a
delightful Supergrass hair cut.
Fuck you Supergrass, I’m thinking. Fuck you, Disgruntled
Lady. I wanted a chance for to converse with this vixen, for
to get at least some sort of sentence out the face before
ploughing ahead with the “So, maybe, um, yeah, ah, so, um,
tonight?”
There was no chance, no chance at all. Look at this
Supergrass fucker. All laid back and with the smug demeanour
of a fella not ten minutes ago up to the left ear in vaginal
mania.
What could I say? The train was roaring all around, if I
leaned forward there’s the chance Harry Potter Woman might
not hear. “Could I have a word for a second?” was what I had
planned to ask. But how could I? What if she didn’t hear, but
the indie fella did? I’d be trapped between two fearsome
possibilities. I could pretend I was asking him, and demand
to know who cuts his hair, or I could sit back and say
nothing and carry on reading Fear And Loathing On The
Campaign Trail ’72. Harry Potter Woman knew I was reading
this, since when the fella came to check the tickets, I
caught sight of her stealing a glance at the cover.
It’s ok Harry Potter Woman, you can look. More, you can even
borrow it some time. Fuck it, take it now, take it now with
my torn up pages shoved inside for to keep track of each
delightfully vulgar turn of phrase. Take it here, for fucks
sakes I shant move till you’ve taken it, and here, magazines,
fucking NME, take it for Gods sakes, apparently Babyshambles
haven’t broke up after all, I need to celebrate with someone
and dear God, who can it be at this moment if not you, since
look about, a very attractive fella according to Aaman Lamba,
and yet where are the ladies? No place. Where are TXT Woman
and Film Noir Woman amidst all this? Who knows? They were
“seeing someone”, lest we forget. And what of Sinéad? Where
might she be? I’ll tell you where, far fucking away, it pains
me to relate. And what of the one who used to be The Duchess?
The key words there are “used to be”, Harry Potter Woman.
Funny you should mention that, actually, since I noticed a
gold ring on the third finger of one of your hands, and spent
a panic-fucked couple minutes trying to work out if it was an
engagement ring, trying to turn myself on the seat so I could
work out if you were wearing it on the correct digit, trying
to remember where mine used to be.
And then the train starts to slow. I been looking at Harry
Potter Woman on and off for the last fifteen minutes. She
surely sensed it. I can hear my fucking pupils screech cross
the white, surely to God someone as obviously prodigiously
attuned to every flutter of the round about as Harry Potter
Woman, surely she too noted the noise?
Next thing I know the train’s stopped. I let indie fella
pass, I let Disgruntled Lady pass, and then, with a smile, I
let Harry Potter Woman pass. And I follow her, till next
thing I know I’m walking beside her, and fucking hell, she’s
walking extremely fast, I dunno if the blood-pump can deal
with it, but nonetheless, I’m enjoying the fact that our arms
are sort of swinging in unison. The place is crowded, folks
with bags and children and stuff on wheels, cars oppressively
circling the area, and now, fucking hell, now I must announce
to Harry Potter Woman that for the love of god, lass, I’ve
built up to this occasion for far too long, and I’ll be
shafted fuckless if I let it pass.
I’m about to say something. What will it be? Who knows?
But woe! She’s put on head-phones, she’s got a portable CD
player in her hand, has she pressed play? Is she being driven
demented with something off of that fabulous new System Of A
Down record, something so gleefully demented and loud that no
proposal whatsoever, least of all a proposal stammered in the
midst of a thousand pedestrians, none such utterance could
ever possibly hope to get through.
So I touch her arm, but in the kinda way that says “Hey,
sorry, you forgot your purse” rather than “Hey, sorry, I
wanna steal your purse and plunder the contents for crack
money.”
She looks round and takes the head-phones out. She stops, all
expectant.
There’s a woman a couple steps behind with a baby in her
arms. Walk past me, woman, please, for fucks sakes, don’t
stand behind me! Bad enough that Harry Potter Woman must hear
this pish, no need for you and your first-born to be privy to
it all also.
I think I stuttered for a good twenty seconds. I got plenty
um’s and ah’s, I think maybe I tried to name Aaman Lamba but
it came out as a sorta jittering croak, and then yeah,
looking away, and looking back and thinking for fucks sakes,
tell her she forgot her purse, then it happens.
I say something about “um, I was just wondering if, um, ah,
maybe, I dunno, if, if, if you wanted to maybe go out.
Sometime. Um.”
She says “Ummm. . .”
Maybe she was building repore? I dunno.
Certainly I don’t remember ever saying “No” during the
performance, but yet there it is, flip-flopping off her
tongue like some demonically malicious rainbow trout.
“Ummm. . . No.”
What’s that thing about a butterfly flaps its wings and
somewheres there’s a volcano or whatever?
Whatever it is, I apologise to the people of Tokyo for the
fucking gargantuan sigh I let slide out my lungs right then.
“I’ve got someone.”
Oh.
I think I maybe said “Fair enough” or “That’s grand, y’know,
or…” or something to that effect. Something fucking absurd,
most likely.
Whatever the case, I stood back, pretended I had a phone call
to make and she wandered on off into the history books. Or
maybe a book about Harry Potter turns out to be a gonzo
journalist high on ether and hell bent on buggering Ron till
his eyes bleed.
I went to sleep for a while when I got home. I think I maybe
dreamt about Aaman Lamba.
Thanks folks.
Fling The Duke An Email or Leave A Message
AUGUST 4TH 2005
What happened, you’ll know all too well, is that myself and
Sir Fleming, head of Mondo Guerrilla Marketing, we were sat
some time ago discussing the various obsessions and foibles
keeping a fella awake well into the morrows. Sat upstairs in
a café, with the same damn Dean Martin EP on constant repeat,
with the chat drenched in Miike and Woody Allen and Conor
Oberst and Pete Doherty and that lass, y’know, the one you
write all those songs about, the one from down yonder, how’s
that goin’, anyroad?
Ah, there’s no goin’ to be got, is what The Duke had for to
sigh about.
Let’s put things in perspective, I proposed. Said lass whom
we know and love, she’s in her late teens, this much is
obvious. Furthermore, she is very attractive.
“Very?”
Very, Sir Fleming. Incredibly so. In fact, by fuck’s
knuckles, if there’s a cuter nose in the country then I’ve
yet to lay eyes on it.
“What about the Café Woman with the button nose thing goin
on?”
No, surely the café woman has a delightful nose, and is all
sortsa beautiful, but no.
(NOTE – Remember to leave out all talk of cute noses, on
account of said lass finds such talk to be deeply suspect. “I
ain’t got a cute nose, motherfucker!” These are the sortsa
sentiments a man can expect.)
And what of the eyes? Risen Jandek, the kinda eyes a man
could get lost in, that’s what we’re dealing with here, and
the hair, and the smile, Sir Fleming, the smile. Molten Zeus,
such a smile I never did encounter ever even once in the here
or back a whiles.
And so incredibly intelligent and witty and sharp, sharp as a
blade fresh off yon spinnin thingy, sparks flyin everywhere.
And creative, those words she writes, Dear God, a man would
kill for the kindsa lines she drops.
I scarcely need to say another word.
In light of this evidence we know all too well why The Duke
has no need to be thinking of any sortsa fantastical
ventures, any manner of filthing or embraces in the shadows
of some picture or other about “Gee, I sure do love how you
call me a cunt.”
But far be it from The Duke to offer any sort of abridged
narrative to the jury. The crippling blow, you realise, is
dealt by the vengeful knuckles of geography.
Said lass is all too far away. Still, if one thought for a
moment that this crippling realisation might result in one
less syllable about how infatuated a fella may be, should
equal one single minute more spent in dreamtime, then I dare
say one best take note of the fucker with whom one is yacking.
The Duke, see, is nothing if not an obsessional sort. Not in
a scary, white-mask and phone-calls about “I love that dress
you got on, which I can see on account of I’m outside the
window looking in, probably cracking one off over a reindeer
carcass” kinda way. No, rather in the sort of way a fella
might be in a film all about this girl falls madly in love
with the lad from down the road with the muscles and the
songs about war, but look here, who’s this? Who’s this
weeping and saying “I just hope he makes you happy as I tried
to.” This fucker with the Blake reciting and the songs about
accepting things with a shrug and a scream. This fella, the
best-friend usually, who can’t look at the lass in the bar
because she kinda reminds him of the lass he wants, but no,
he can’t have. She’s too far away. She’s too beautiful and
funny, you fucker, so get back to the bathroom and don’t cast
a shadow cross this floor till such times as you’ve battered
all these notions into the blue-grey waters.
Aye, t’is true. Folks like us, we’re set for to tumble from
one unrequited horror to the next, and all so as the folks in
the back seats have a pleasant ditty for to hum along to.
However, in order that said tunes may be composed, it stands
to reason that the last thing such a character needs to be
doing is saying anything that even slightly resembles “Ah
well, best leave it, I’d wager.”
Leaving it is the last thing The Duke intends to do, because,
if truth be told, he kinda enjoys the misery.
However, I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking Oi,
fucker, what has this got to do with anything?
It has nothing to do with nothing, is the answer, and to
prove it, I’m gonna make an awe-inspiring leap from all that
up yonder to this right here, being completely unrelated talk
of Sinéadmass.
Sinéadmass, as defined by The Oxford Encyclopaedia Of
Religious Holidays, is as follows;
“The date allocated to the birth of Sinéad, who is special
and wonderful and really rather attractive, who has snared
The Duke’s emotional weight, so t’is written, and has
inspired no end of songs, writings, hilarious comedic
vignettes for to rise from out his head.”
Yesterday, being the 3rd of August, was Sinéadmass. Sinéad,
you may or may not be aware, is none other than one of The
Duke’s very favourite people of all ever.
What The Duke would offer to Sinéad, should she desire it, is
advice. Advice, yes, lessons learned around the time of my
own 18th birthday, an event which occurred not all that long
ago, despite the taunts along the lines of “Wow, I ain’t ever
seen an older fucker in all my time on earth” and the like.
23 years of age, is what The Duke recently estimated his age
to be, and it turned out to be fairly accurate, in that it
was, indeed, correct.
What a man might say to Sinéad is don’t under any
circumstances get engaged. This proves to be disastrous. All
that’s set for to rise from it is a period of nightly weeping
spanning the entirety of your 22nd year.
I would wager that any sort of intense commitment to anyone
who doesn’t have a website all about fuck this, fuck that,
here’s some thoughts on Kirsten Dunst, I’d wager that anyone
else is only gonna explode and send horrible pulsating gunk
cascading into the air round about from here till Westport.
I’d recommend that you continue being you, is what The Duke
would suggest, on account of really, there ain’t much needs
changed, except maybe you should work on being more attracted
to online “journalists” who really just wanna waffle on about
dreams they may have had concerning filthing, concerning Pete
Doherty’s hat, concerning a lass with a savage purple glow
round about on account of the fantastic lighting.
This is worrying, is what Sir Fleming says. Look at you right
there, all lit to the teeth like a motherfucker three sheets
to the whiskey-cracks. No good can come from this.
No good whatsoever, this is true, but fuck it, there’s plenty
coffee and cigarettes for to get a man through the day, the
sun is battering its way through the trees to the left, a
couple drunkards are singing The Fields Of Athenry to the
right, and it’s Sinéadmass, for God’s sakes. If a man can’t
muse upon his muse who it turns out is much better than a
muse, since this muse also creates, and does so stunningly,
if a man can’t consider all this on this particular day, I
say, then I can hardly imagine when he might.
Tomorrow, most likely. Most of the week, I’d wager. Probably
a good chunk a the month ahead.
Thanks folks.
Fling The Duke An Email or Leave A Message
Sir Fleming, head of Mondo Guerrilla Marketing, we were sat
some time ago discussing the various obsessions and foibles
keeping a fella awake well into the morrows. Sat upstairs in
a café, with the same damn Dean Martin EP on constant repeat,
with the chat drenched in Miike and Woody Allen and Conor
Oberst and Pete Doherty and that lass, y’know, the one you
write all those songs about, the one from down yonder, how’s
that goin’, anyroad?
Ah, there’s no goin’ to be got, is what The Duke had for to
sigh about.
Let’s put things in perspective, I proposed. Said lass whom
we know and love, she’s in her late teens, this much is
obvious. Furthermore, she is very attractive.
“Very?”
Very, Sir Fleming. Incredibly so. In fact, by fuck’s
knuckles, if there’s a cuter nose in the country then I’ve
yet to lay eyes on it.
“What about the Café Woman with the button nose thing goin
on?”
No, surely the café woman has a delightful nose, and is all
sortsa beautiful, but no.
(NOTE – Remember to leave out all talk of cute noses, on
account of said lass finds such talk to be deeply suspect. “I
ain’t got a cute nose, motherfucker!” These are the sortsa
sentiments a man can expect.)
And what of the eyes? Risen Jandek, the kinda eyes a man
could get lost in, that’s what we’re dealing with here, and
the hair, and the smile, Sir Fleming, the smile. Molten Zeus,
such a smile I never did encounter ever even once in the here
or back a whiles.
And so incredibly intelligent and witty and sharp, sharp as a
blade fresh off yon spinnin thingy, sparks flyin everywhere.
And creative, those words she writes, Dear God, a man would
kill for the kindsa lines she drops.
I scarcely need to say another word.
In light of this evidence we know all too well why The Duke
has no need to be thinking of any sortsa fantastical
ventures, any manner of filthing or embraces in the shadows
of some picture or other about “Gee, I sure do love how you
call me a cunt.”
But far be it from The Duke to offer any sort of abridged
narrative to the jury. The crippling blow, you realise, is
dealt by the vengeful knuckles of geography.
Said lass is all too far away. Still, if one thought for a
moment that this crippling realisation might result in one
less syllable about how infatuated a fella may be, should
equal one single minute more spent in dreamtime, then I dare
say one best take note of the fucker with whom one is yacking.
The Duke, see, is nothing if not an obsessional sort. Not in
a scary, white-mask and phone-calls about “I love that dress
you got on, which I can see on account of I’m outside the
window looking in, probably cracking one off over a reindeer
carcass” kinda way. No, rather in the sort of way a fella
might be in a film all about this girl falls madly in love
with the lad from down the road with the muscles and the
songs about war, but look here, who’s this? Who’s this
weeping and saying “I just hope he makes you happy as I tried
to.” This fucker with the Blake reciting and the songs about
accepting things with a shrug and a scream. This fella, the
best-friend usually, who can’t look at the lass in the bar
because she kinda reminds him of the lass he wants, but no,
he can’t have. She’s too far away. She’s too beautiful and
funny, you fucker, so get back to the bathroom and don’t cast
a shadow cross this floor till such times as you’ve battered
all these notions into the blue-grey waters.
Aye, t’is true. Folks like us, we’re set for to tumble from
one unrequited horror to the next, and all so as the folks in
the back seats have a pleasant ditty for to hum along to.
However, in order that said tunes may be composed, it stands
to reason that the last thing such a character needs to be
doing is saying anything that even slightly resembles “Ah
well, best leave it, I’d wager.”
Leaving it is the last thing The Duke intends to do, because,
if truth be told, he kinda enjoys the misery.
However, I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking Oi,
fucker, what has this got to do with anything?
It has nothing to do with nothing, is the answer, and to
prove it, I’m gonna make an awe-inspiring leap from all that
up yonder to this right here, being completely unrelated talk
of Sinéadmass.
Sinéadmass, as defined by The Oxford Encyclopaedia Of
Religious Holidays, is as follows;
“The date allocated to the birth of Sinéad, who is special
and wonderful and really rather attractive, who has snared
The Duke’s emotional weight, so t’is written, and has
inspired no end of songs, writings, hilarious comedic
vignettes for to rise from out his head.”
Yesterday, being the 3rd of August, was Sinéadmass. Sinéad,
you may or may not be aware, is none other than one of The
Duke’s very favourite people of all ever.
What The Duke would offer to Sinéad, should she desire it, is
advice. Advice, yes, lessons learned around the time of my
own 18th birthday, an event which occurred not all that long
ago, despite the taunts along the lines of “Wow, I ain’t ever
seen an older fucker in all my time on earth” and the like.
23 years of age, is what The Duke recently estimated his age
to be, and it turned out to be fairly accurate, in that it
was, indeed, correct.
What a man might say to Sinéad is don’t under any
circumstances get engaged. This proves to be disastrous. All
that’s set for to rise from it is a period of nightly weeping
spanning the entirety of your 22nd year.
I would wager that any sort of intense commitment to anyone
who doesn’t have a website all about fuck this, fuck that,
here’s some thoughts on Kirsten Dunst, I’d wager that anyone
else is only gonna explode and send horrible pulsating gunk
cascading into the air round about from here till Westport.
I’d recommend that you continue being you, is what The Duke
would suggest, on account of really, there ain’t much needs
changed, except maybe you should work on being more attracted
to online “journalists” who really just wanna waffle on about
dreams they may have had concerning filthing, concerning Pete
Doherty’s hat, concerning a lass with a savage purple glow
round about on account of the fantastic lighting.
This is worrying, is what Sir Fleming says. Look at you right
there, all lit to the teeth like a motherfucker three sheets
to the whiskey-cracks. No good can come from this.
No good whatsoever, this is true, but fuck it, there’s plenty
coffee and cigarettes for to get a man through the day, the
sun is battering its way through the trees to the left, a
couple drunkards are singing The Fields Of Athenry to the
right, and it’s Sinéadmass, for God’s sakes. If a man can’t
muse upon his muse who it turns out is much better than a
muse, since this muse also creates, and does so stunningly,
if a man can’t consider all this on this particular day, I
say, then I can hardly imagine when he might.
Tomorrow, most likely. Most of the week, I’d wager. Probably
a good chunk a the month ahead.
Thanks folks.
Fling The Duke An Email or Leave A Message
JULY 20th 2005
“So this is Christmas, and what have you done?”
Well, for one thing, it’s not Christmas, and for another,
fuck you Lennon, because what HAVEN’T I done would be a far
easier question to answer. Liquidized fuck, I can scarcely
begin to tell you what I’ve done since I last yacked to you,
but being something of a completist, I’m gonna go ahead and
try anyhow.
Last night, I’m certain, I had a dream about Connor Oberst
was staying at my house. I dunno why, but certainly we
exchanged awkward glances and then eventually I had to tell
him no, I’m sorry Bright Eyes, but what’s happened is I think
I’ve fallen very, very deeply for a lass, and, much as your
fringe gets me all kindsa giddy, I can’t bring myself to
touch you in the manner you requested just now.
Turns out I was, in fact, able to bring myself to do just
that, and very easily, but I insisted on calling him S****d
throughout.
After he had passed out, I got to thinking about various
episodes in the recent Life De Duke. There has been more
hollering than writing of late, but you can find out all the
hell about that Here, and also, be sure to note how black and
white the fella is looking. More important is that I decided
something along the lines of the following;
I am doing my body a great deal of harm. To wit;
I don’t “drink” anymore, but if you thought something along
the lines of probably I enjoy caffeine, mooder-uppers, sleep-
enhancers and nicotine in moderation, then what you need to
accept is that you’re all the wrong in Washington. I smoke
too much, my heart and liver and other miscellaneous gut-
paraphernalia are being rotted out my torso with the amount
of caffeine I ingest in a day, which then leads to a buncha
sleep-enhancers for to undo the stimulation, and then a
mooder-upper in the morning for to undo the hilarious self-
pity I can sink into with dizzying lack of regard for social
etiquette.
“Fuck your opera, I wanna have a bastard break-down right the
hell here and now, you bewigged fucks!”
(NB – I never once had a bastard break-down during an opera,
although one time I was feelin’ rather blue and happened to
flick over to a Royal Shakespeare Society performance of M
Butterfly on BBC2. I turned it over shortly afterwards.)
Thankfully a couple tins a Red Bull and half a dozen smokes
and a fella has forgotten all about whatever it was I was
worried about. Something to do with I’m too healthy or some
such blasphemy.
But sweet Mary’s ankles, what in fucks name is a fella to do
about the following;
I’ve decided it’s high time I was an urban legend of some
sort. I’m thinking maybe “ooh, I knew a fella and then what
happened was holy fuck, he only went an got eaten by an
alligator hiding tween his brother’s teeth” or “I knew a
fella and he was killed by a really gorgeous, funny,
prodigiously talented lass on account of he wouldn’t get
naked and filth right there and then.”
Maybe the thing to do is to get in on the latest
technological craze, like maybe I can be a cautionary tale
about iPods or iPogs or whatever the fuck you kids are
spending your crack-money on nowadays.
“Don’t use electric shaving equipment since what’ll happen is
you’ll turn out like Bloody Duke, the boy who used an
electric razor one night and woke up to find himself hung,
drawn and quartered outside a brothel owned by a Polish
shepherd. Say his name five times and he’ll most likely never
leave you alone. Probably you’ll get seven songs before the
night’s out.”
What this all has to do with is an email chain letter I been
working on. I’m having some trouble with the third act, but I
imagine it’ll be something along the lines of the following;
“Dear person
Hello. I am a magistrate somewhere you never heard of. Most
likely it doesn’t exist, but fear not, because I still have
40 million pounds in unsmoked brown for to get rid of. I
can't move for it, and on account of the political coup
currently being staged in wherever I am, it has become a
great liability.
Please repost this 89 times so as I can get rid of all this
heroin. If you don’t, the person you love will cut your face
off with a dish-cloth sometime before midnight, and also, I
can increase your nut-size by 36% 100% guaranteed NO
PRESCRIPTION.
Thank you I love you fuck. VICADIN.”
So then, what is to be learned from it all?
That The Duke is lovelorn with no hope of said love being
lorned anytime soon, or, indeed, ever. That Mine Musical
Shenanigans are preoccupying me at this time. That Greg Smyth
of Swing Batter Batter has a delightful accent, and also a
sore head, so I hear. That Savage Purple Rain would be ninety
times better than the variant what got Prince in such of a
tizzy. That it’s 03:16 and I’m sick of the sight of it, and
await 03:17 with all the breath that’s fit to bait.
Thanks folks.
Fling The Duke An Email or Leave A Message
Well, for one thing, it’s not Christmas, and for another,
fuck you Lennon, because what HAVEN’T I done would be a far
easier question to answer. Liquidized fuck, I can scarcely
begin to tell you what I’ve done since I last yacked to you,
but being something of a completist, I’m gonna go ahead and
try anyhow.
Last night, I’m certain, I had a dream about Connor Oberst
was staying at my house. I dunno why, but certainly we
exchanged awkward glances and then eventually I had to tell
him no, I’m sorry Bright Eyes, but what’s happened is I think
I’ve fallen very, very deeply for a lass, and, much as your
fringe gets me all kindsa giddy, I can’t bring myself to
touch you in the manner you requested just now.
Turns out I was, in fact, able to bring myself to do just
that, and very easily, but I insisted on calling him S****d
throughout.
After he had passed out, I got to thinking about various
episodes in the recent Life De Duke. There has been more
hollering than writing of late, but you can find out all the
hell about that Here, and also, be sure to note how black and
white the fella is looking. More important is that I decided
something along the lines of the following;
I am doing my body a great deal of harm. To wit;
I don’t “drink” anymore, but if you thought something along
the lines of probably I enjoy caffeine, mooder-uppers, sleep-
enhancers and nicotine in moderation, then what you need to
accept is that you’re all the wrong in Washington. I smoke
too much, my heart and liver and other miscellaneous gut-
paraphernalia are being rotted out my torso with the amount
of caffeine I ingest in a day, which then leads to a buncha
sleep-enhancers for to undo the stimulation, and then a
mooder-upper in the morning for to undo the hilarious self-
pity I can sink into with dizzying lack of regard for social
etiquette.
“Fuck your opera, I wanna have a bastard break-down right the
hell here and now, you bewigged fucks!”
(NB – I never once had a bastard break-down during an opera,
although one time I was feelin’ rather blue and happened to
flick over to a Royal Shakespeare Society performance of M
Butterfly on BBC2. I turned it over shortly afterwards.)
Thankfully a couple tins a Red Bull and half a dozen smokes
and a fella has forgotten all about whatever it was I was
worried about. Something to do with I’m too healthy or some
such blasphemy.
But sweet Mary’s ankles, what in fucks name is a fella to do
about the following;
I’ve decided it’s high time I was an urban legend of some
sort. I’m thinking maybe “ooh, I knew a fella and then what
happened was holy fuck, he only went an got eaten by an
alligator hiding tween his brother’s teeth” or “I knew a
fella and he was killed by a really gorgeous, funny,
prodigiously talented lass on account of he wouldn’t get
naked and filth right there and then.”
Maybe the thing to do is to get in on the latest
technological craze, like maybe I can be a cautionary tale
about iPods or iPogs or whatever the fuck you kids are
spending your crack-money on nowadays.
“Don’t use electric shaving equipment since what’ll happen is
you’ll turn out like Bloody Duke, the boy who used an
electric razor one night and woke up to find himself hung,
drawn and quartered outside a brothel owned by a Polish
shepherd. Say his name five times and he’ll most likely never
leave you alone. Probably you’ll get seven songs before the
night’s out.”
What this all has to do with is an email chain letter I been
working on. I’m having some trouble with the third act, but I
imagine it’ll be something along the lines of the following;
“Dear person
Hello. I am a magistrate somewhere you never heard of. Most
likely it doesn’t exist, but fear not, because I still have
40 million pounds in unsmoked brown for to get rid of. I
can't move for it, and on account of the political coup
currently being staged in wherever I am, it has become a
great liability.
Please repost this 89 times so as I can get rid of all this
heroin. If you don’t, the person you love will cut your face
off with a dish-cloth sometime before midnight, and also, I
can increase your nut-size by 36% 100% guaranteed NO
PRESCRIPTION.
Thank you I love you fuck. VICADIN.”
So then, what is to be learned from it all?
That The Duke is lovelorn with no hope of said love being
lorned anytime soon, or, indeed, ever. That Mine Musical
Shenanigans are preoccupying me at this time. That Greg Smyth
of Swing Batter Batter has a delightful accent, and also a
sore head, so I hear. That Savage Purple Rain would be ninety
times better than the variant what got Prince in such of a
tizzy. That it’s 03:16 and I’m sick of the sight of it, and
await 03:17 with all the breath that’s fit to bait.
Thanks folks.
Fling The Duke An Email or Leave A Message
JULY 6th 2005
I have come to the conclusion that I’m fed up reading about
me. I know too fucking much about me, is what I think my
thoughts might suggest. Every time I click on here, another
“hilarious” anecdote about “ooh, I like a girl in Tesco’s, an
I see she’s dyed her hair, also” or “ooh, I cut the grass and
thought 9 million thoughts relating to savage purple an the
like” or “ooooh, misery, wank jokes, Salvador Dali”.
Dear God, man, tell me something worth my eye-strain, for
fucks sakes.
Well alright, and also, watch the lip, son.
I bet you didn’t know for a second that, it being half three
in the AM, I intend for to go to sleep sometime in the near
future, and what I plan to dream is stuff along these lines
here;
A dream all about GG Allin. Look here, someone in my dream
will say, it seems you wrote an Incisive Article relating to
a new DVD about GG shits himself onstage and throws it
around, gets naked, sings a song or two.
But, the dream person will hint, there’s something you don’t
know, even though your knowledge of this most depraved of
libertines is obviously prodigious.
You don’t know that right up my arsehole there resides the
very likeness of Mr Allin, and for a couple pennies pushed
into this slot here between my shoulders, he’ll emerge for
five or eight minutes and sing a song about masturbation.
Sure enough, ten seconds later I’m treated to a rendition of
Bite It, You Scum by this tiny sphincter-bound debauchee.
No time for an encore though, since then I plan to dream
about this here;
A recent hilarious episode in the Life De Duke concerning the
lass what spawned this here chunk of prose from a while back;
“Fairly recently I arrived at the disturbing realisation that
what had appeared to be no more than a mild obsession was in
fact careering blindly towards the L word.”
I dare say you’ll be shocked out your eye-holes when you hear
tell of how, shortly afterwards, said muse asks The Duke
something along the lines of “Oi, ya big fruit, who’s this
all about, then?”
Obviously, being a fella of renowned wit and foul mouth, I
said about “Um, it’s a secret.”
Hardly the funniest nor filthiest thing I ever did yack.
Personally, I think it would’ve been far better if I had
recited a poem I wrote one time that started;
“Oh, for fucks sakes, what
Horrors unleashed by
My
Unstable, and
Yes,
Vicious yap.”
It was about clouds, which I know a lot about, owing to a
recent conversation that made me smile eight or nine times,
as folklore would have it.
So what happened next was that the lady very quickly deduced
the in’s and out’s of the in’s and out’s, and realised that
sweet Russian monkeys, it’s only me what he’s yacking on
about!
The daft bastard, she probably chortled.
So yes, in this dream what will happen is, rather than
deciphering this code over the TXT and such, she deciphers it
with the aid of various clues I leave hidden in the work of
Bosch. Or Michelangelo. Or Michaélangélo.
Subtlety. My best fucking quality bar not a sodding jot.
Then, having solved the riddle, she sings me a song that
makes the “look, um, what the hell do you expect me to do
about this???” all the more easier to digest, on account of
the beautiful melodies and the comedy redneck accent she does
for to make a fella giggle.
Then, she might let me hold her hand for fourteen or nineteen
seconds.
And then she’s gone.
Still, I’ll have another Net Record by the time I wake up,
what with the hurt, the L, the unrequitement, the fuck-words.
Before then, however, a dream all about the rain that, at the
minute, feels bizarrely like October rain, but no, a glance
to the left reveals it to be nothing short of July rain.
What’ll happen is I’ll be sat by my second favourite
abandoned house of all ever, a house beside an abandoned
quarry that I love with all mine blood-pump, and on account
of the October rain, it must be almost Halloween. What better
time for to arrange a ghost hunt in this beautifully rancid
construct?
Hardly any.
Maybe Michael Parkinson will be involved, I haven’t decided
yet.
Finally, a dream about God sits beside me in a café I like.
We talk about De Sade, and God says yes, probably De Sade
knew as much as anyone about what the hell’s going on in
those brains and stuff. Still, shame he was such a misogynist
cunt.
I sigh and nod. Still, funny fucker for sure.
Then I’ll wake up, I presume. Headfull of longing and sleep-
enhancers, I’ll go do some stuff or other and hope that an
insult, delivered with stunning elegant artistry the likes of
which I’ve scarcely known, might be waiting someplace in the
ether.
Thanks folks.
Also, go check out I Am Correct, which is not only fucking
hilarious, but also plays host to The Mondo Podcast as of
nowadays.
Thanks again folks.
Fling The Duke An Email or Leave A Message
me. I know too fucking much about me, is what I think my
thoughts might suggest. Every time I click on here, another
“hilarious” anecdote about “ooh, I like a girl in Tesco’s, an
I see she’s dyed her hair, also” or “ooh, I cut the grass and
thought 9 million thoughts relating to savage purple an the
like” or “ooooh, misery, wank jokes, Salvador Dali”.
Dear God, man, tell me something worth my eye-strain, for
fucks sakes.
Well alright, and also, watch the lip, son.
I bet you didn’t know for a second that, it being half three
in the AM, I intend for to go to sleep sometime in the near
future, and what I plan to dream is stuff along these lines
here;
A dream all about GG Allin. Look here, someone in my dream
will say, it seems you wrote an Incisive Article relating to
a new DVD about GG shits himself onstage and throws it
around, gets naked, sings a song or two.
But, the dream person will hint, there’s something you don’t
know, even though your knowledge of this most depraved of
libertines is obviously prodigious.
You don’t know that right up my arsehole there resides the
very likeness of Mr Allin, and for a couple pennies pushed
into this slot here between my shoulders, he’ll emerge for
five or eight minutes and sing a song about masturbation.
Sure enough, ten seconds later I’m treated to a rendition of
Bite It, You Scum by this tiny sphincter-bound debauchee.
No time for an encore though, since then I plan to dream
about this here;
A recent hilarious episode in the Life De Duke concerning the
lass what spawned this here chunk of prose from a while back;
“Fairly recently I arrived at the disturbing realisation that
what had appeared to be no more than a mild obsession was in
fact careering blindly towards the L word.”
I dare say you’ll be shocked out your eye-holes when you hear
tell of how, shortly afterwards, said muse asks The Duke
something along the lines of “Oi, ya big fruit, who’s this
all about, then?”
Obviously, being a fella of renowned wit and foul mouth, I
said about “Um, it’s a secret.”
Hardly the funniest nor filthiest thing I ever did yack.
Personally, I think it would’ve been far better if I had
recited a poem I wrote one time that started;
“Oh, for fucks sakes, what
Horrors unleashed by
My
Unstable, and
Yes,
Vicious yap.”
It was about clouds, which I know a lot about, owing to a
recent conversation that made me smile eight or nine times,
as folklore would have it.
So what happened next was that the lady very quickly deduced
the in’s and out’s of the in’s and out’s, and realised that
sweet Russian monkeys, it’s only me what he’s yacking on
about!
The daft bastard, she probably chortled.
So yes, in this dream what will happen is, rather than
deciphering this code over the TXT and such, she deciphers it
with the aid of various clues I leave hidden in the work of
Bosch. Or Michelangelo. Or Michaélangélo.
Subtlety. My best fucking quality bar not a sodding jot.
Then, having solved the riddle, she sings me a song that
makes the “look, um, what the hell do you expect me to do
about this???” all the more easier to digest, on account of
the beautiful melodies and the comedy redneck accent she does
for to make a fella giggle.
Then, she might let me hold her hand for fourteen or nineteen
seconds.
And then she’s gone.
Still, I’ll have another Net Record by the time I wake up,
what with the hurt, the L, the unrequitement, the fuck-words.
Before then, however, a dream all about the rain that, at the
minute, feels bizarrely like October rain, but no, a glance
to the left reveals it to be nothing short of July rain.
What’ll happen is I’ll be sat by my second favourite
abandoned house of all ever, a house beside an abandoned
quarry that I love with all mine blood-pump, and on account
of the October rain, it must be almost Halloween. What better
time for to arrange a ghost hunt in this beautifully rancid
construct?
Hardly any.
Maybe Michael Parkinson will be involved, I haven’t decided
yet.
Finally, a dream about God sits beside me in a café I like.
We talk about De Sade, and God says yes, probably De Sade
knew as much as anyone about what the hell’s going on in
those brains and stuff. Still, shame he was such a misogynist
cunt.
I sigh and nod. Still, funny fucker for sure.
Then I’ll wake up, I presume. Headfull of longing and sleep-
enhancers, I’ll go do some stuff or other and hope that an
insult, delivered with stunning elegant artistry the likes of
which I’ve scarcely known, might be waiting someplace in the
ether.
Thanks folks.
Also, go check out I Am Correct, which is not only fucking
hilarious, but also plays host to The Mondo Podcast as of
nowadays.
Thanks again folks.
Fling The Duke An Email or Leave A Message
JULY 1st 2005
The fucking first day of July, no less. A date fit for no end
of analysis.
This month ahead of me, this month needs to provide the
following;
A conclusion to my anthology book thing, that I might set it
aside and say “Done! Done as all fuck is what you are, ain’t
a damn thing more to be added!”
Some filth of some kind, since I dare say I’ll go mad without
it. But no, scarcely a chance, but still, plenty thoughts
thunk of twilight danders through alleyways reeking of
lustful abandon.
A journey of some sort, of the physical variety, as opposed
to the deeply nauseating “spiritual” or “mental” equivalent.
One that involves feet being placed one in front the other
until a geographical point is reached.
A seventh net-record, as is currently in the making, and is
currently depressing me no end of account of its inherent
shitiness.
But all will fall into place, or it won’t. Either way, I’m
sure there’ll be plenty foul-mouthed sentences plucked from
out the month’s gut-holes.
The book thing is coming along exceptionally well, I might
add, in that I am well into the project and have yet to
delete it the fuck out of existence in disgust, as I have
done several times already. This time it seems like it’s
flowing with some sort of linearity, and so rather than just
being a load of reviews and articles tied together, is in
fact looking set to become a load of reviews and articles
tied together with something approaching a worthwhile
narrative of some kind, however slight.
But still a fella must wax lovelorn, as is his wont.
It has come to my attention of late that The Duke is nothing
if not the typea sonna bitch who can’t go from here to there
without falling in love nine or eleven times. Wandering
through Tescos, sifting through the innards of the web-net,
sitting in a café reading The 120 Days Of Sodom, no adventure
is spared the giddy delirium of mine blood-pump.
Fairly recently I arrived at the disturbing realisation that
what had appeared to be no more than a mild obsession was in
fact careering blindly towards the L word.
The evidence was all too clear. Sonnets were written, notes
were made, the object of mine affections was creeping into
every corner of every damn thought I was thinking.
I must wax with regards GG Allin, thought The Duke.
Next thing I know I’ve got a forty-two page essay on why,
exactly, a certain flicker of certain eyes floors a fella for
months on end. None of it involved GG Allin.
Attempts are made to rid the head of these notions, notions
that, you’ll be well aware, lead to nothing but utmost
wretched agony.
Drown myself in Big Brother. A constant diet of Naked Lunch
and Jandek. Fill my head with hilarious homosexual dalliances
concerning Bright Eyes’ fringe.
All to no avail.
No good will come of it, mark my words like all hell. A
conversation will arrive one day, all about “Look, I don’t
wanna hurt you, but you’ve obviously led yourself into some
lust-crazed cavern of some kind, and, shit, I apologise, but
ain’t a damn thing I’m gonna be able to do about it.”
What can a man do but write a few tunes about “Oh, I think
maybe what’s happened is (G) I’ve gone and fallen in the L
(C) Still, ain’t your fault (G) wah wah wah (F) Oh dear and
such (G)”
It’ll be nothing short of a masterpiece, I’d wager.
Thanks folks.
Fling The Duke An Email or Leave A Message
of analysis.
This month ahead of me, this month needs to provide the
following;
A conclusion to my anthology book thing, that I might set it
aside and say “Done! Done as all fuck is what you are, ain’t
a damn thing more to be added!”
Some filth of some kind, since I dare say I’ll go mad without
it. But no, scarcely a chance, but still, plenty thoughts
thunk of twilight danders through alleyways reeking of
lustful abandon.
A journey of some sort, of the physical variety, as opposed
to the deeply nauseating “spiritual” or “mental” equivalent.
One that involves feet being placed one in front the other
until a geographical point is reached.
A seventh net-record, as is currently in the making, and is
currently depressing me no end of account of its inherent
shitiness.
But all will fall into place, or it won’t. Either way, I’m
sure there’ll be plenty foul-mouthed sentences plucked from
out the month’s gut-holes.
The book thing is coming along exceptionally well, I might
add, in that I am well into the project and have yet to
delete it the fuck out of existence in disgust, as I have
done several times already. This time it seems like it’s
flowing with some sort of linearity, and so rather than just
being a load of reviews and articles tied together, is in
fact looking set to become a load of reviews and articles
tied together with something approaching a worthwhile
narrative of some kind, however slight.
But still a fella must wax lovelorn, as is his wont.
It has come to my attention of late that The Duke is nothing
if not the typea sonna bitch who can’t go from here to there
without falling in love nine or eleven times. Wandering
through Tescos, sifting through the innards of the web-net,
sitting in a café reading The 120 Days Of Sodom, no adventure
is spared the giddy delirium of mine blood-pump.
Fairly recently I arrived at the disturbing realisation that
what had appeared to be no more than a mild obsession was in
fact careering blindly towards the L word.
The evidence was all too clear. Sonnets were written, notes
were made, the object of mine affections was creeping into
every corner of every damn thought I was thinking.
I must wax with regards GG Allin, thought The Duke.
Next thing I know I’ve got a forty-two page essay on why,
exactly, a certain flicker of certain eyes floors a fella for
months on end. None of it involved GG Allin.
Attempts are made to rid the head of these notions, notions
that, you’ll be well aware, lead to nothing but utmost
wretched agony.
Drown myself in Big Brother. A constant diet of Naked Lunch
and Jandek. Fill my head with hilarious homosexual dalliances
concerning Bright Eyes’ fringe.
All to no avail.
No good will come of it, mark my words like all hell. A
conversation will arrive one day, all about “Look, I don’t
wanna hurt you, but you’ve obviously led yourself into some
lust-crazed cavern of some kind, and, shit, I apologise, but
ain’t a damn thing I’m gonna be able to do about it.”
What can a man do but write a few tunes about “Oh, I think
maybe what’s happened is (G) I’ve gone and fallen in the L
(C) Still, ain’t your fault (G) wah wah wah (F) Oh dear and
such (G)”
It’ll be nothing short of a masterpiece, I’d wager.
Thanks folks.
Fling The Duke An Email or Leave A Message
JUNE 23rd 2005
A plot development has occurred which, I dare say, may prove
to be the most thrilling plot development since back when
Kill Bill vol.2 turned out to be shit.
Back in the midst of some time or other, you’ll recall that
what happened was The Duke felt compelled for to wax along
the lines of this right here, from April 3rd 2005;
In other words - Previously, In The Dukes Journals;
“What happened tonight was that I was minding my own
business, walking into a grocery store for to purchase a
couple bottles of Diet Coke, as is my wont. Who should I see
walking towards me but an incredibly attractive black-haired
lady with an incredibly tight white top and also a bag of
something or other. Maybe carrots and whiskey. I’m not sure.
Anyhow, as I’m prone to do, I smiled a self-deprecating
smile, hoping to insinuate something along the lines of “I’m
very shy and probably poetic, yet rest assured I can, indeed,
conceive of a great many filthy scenarios, and then probably
I’ll write a song about it later.”
Usually what happens is that the lady smiles back and looks
at her feet and carries on. This lady, however, she met my
eyes before deciding whether or not to smile, and then when
she met them, she smiled, and not just a “Hi, I’m in a hurry,
who the fuck are you, anyhow? You look like a fucking crack-
addict” kinda smile, but a smile that says “Well hi there.
Yeah, I know, I’m giving you it just by walking past, but
guess what, I’m already out the door by now.”
I don’t remember much about what she looked like, or even
roughly how old she was, but I’d say early twenties and
gorgeous sums it up pretty well. If by any chance said lady
is reading, since come the fuck on, at least 20 folks a month
read this shit, then know that, probably, I left that grocery
store at least 6 inches heavier than when I went in.
Without getting filthy about the whole thing.
I believe I fell in love right there, and also lust, the
kinda lust only a brief jaunt to the lonely-man’s room can
clear, I imagine.”
You’ll be beside yourself with shock, I’d wager, upon
learning of this shit right here;
It now being June or somethin’, probably thirty or thirty-
nine months since back in the April 2005, I was making my way
to the check-out in Tescos, on account of I needed to pay for
a couple purchases along the lines of Diet Coke and the 2-
Disc Scum. If I’d known what was gonna unfold, probably I’d
have made sure to pick up a book of maybe some William Blake
or something, something that hints at the kinda depths a
fella’s got goin’ on. Probably I’d have made some effort with
regards the hair and the clothing, instead of just pulling on
a pair a decomposing jeans and flinging a baseball cap (a
“spide-helmet”, as Sir Fleming refers to said head-wear) on
my dishevelled skull.
What you need to do, y’see, in these situations, is scan the
rows of check-out’s for the kinda eyes a fella might wanna be
gazing at for the duration of the transaction. I looked about
a bit, and holy fuck, right there, behind a check-out that
nobody was even queuing at, there she was. I think. The woman
from the petrol station back in April.
For sure, a fella had remembered each and every detail of
that encounter from way back when, but the chances of being
in such a position ever again seemed slim, the kinda slim a
fella ain’t got much hope of ever pushing in the direction of
morbidly obese.
And yet there she was. Most certainly. And if not, fuck it,
she looks as close to what I remember the other woman looking
like for to be more than worthy of a fella’s obsession for a
time.
Immediately, I thought about stuff along the lines of the
following;
I must announce to this woman that yes, plenty filthy
thoughts were thunk in your direction since back in the day
when you maybe walked past me, I’m not a hundred percent sure.
Maybe I could tell her something along the lines of, look
here, my Incisive Critique Of Constantine was deemed the
finest video-related article of last week when it came to
Selecting The Editor’s Picks on Blogcritics. Maybe I'd hint
that my song by the name of I Do Believe You Are The Devil
was featured on Dumpster Bust Radio this week. Probably she’d
have demanded full-frontal degradation right there on that
damn check-out thing had she known.
At the very least I must enquire as to her marital status. I
must figure out if she has maybe a web-page or somethin.
And also, I must always connect with the eyes.
Even as I’m putting this bottle into this plastic bag, and
the bag ain’t gonna open without a buncha fuss, even though
it’s gonna take a lot of effort to bag these items
efficiently whilst still holding her gaze, still, I ain’t got
a damn option.
I made sure to note her name, since it was written on her
staff badge thingy.
I decided that yes, right here and now I will ask this lady
if perchance we could go fishing for rainbow trout or hire
out some Miike some night.
But then!
No.
It seemed doomed, like nothing other than hideous torment
could result from any attempt to explore the possibilities.
I’ve been in these situations, man, and unlike when The Duke
was eighteen years old and stood on the corner of main street
in the middle of a band-parade, ain’t even a belly-full of
mentholated spirits for to stimulate the bravado-glands.
Now, when a fella has to make do with his own free will,
ain't nothing to fall back on. He can’t pretend he doesn’t
remember this situation the next time he’s heading in for to
grab a boxa Red Bull an a packet a smokes.
When she says about “Um...”, and starts rubbing the back of
her neck, and looking down, or looking up, or looking any
damn place that ain’t gonna result in having to look at me,
that right there delivers something of a serious kick to the
teeth, and for sure, when you’re plastered you can cry and
scream to similarly drunken companions who throw an arm round
a fella’s shoulders and strike up a rendition of Live
Forever, but in the here and now, exaggerated pain ain’t on
the cards. Rather, a deep-rooted pain of unimaginable
intensity that cannot be expelled via drunken hollers, and so
must linger away in there at the back of the guts, growing
and swelling until eventually a man finds himself sat writing
poetry in a bedroom with the blinds closed and the telly
tuned off-station, fuzzing and hissing away there.
He changes his MSN screen-name so it’s all Morrissey lyrics
in brackets. Maybe worse, maybe something from some book
about vampires or some shit.
He takes on the appearance of a 3rd year undergraduate Art
Student, starts speaking only in non-committed sighs.
No, I dare say the only option is furious masturbation, a
buncha Woody Allen pictures for to nod knowingly along to,
and maybe a song or eight all about “I’m so blue” and so on.
Still, what amazing eyes she had.
Thanks folks.
Fling The Duke An Email or Leave A Message
to be the most thrilling plot development since back when
Kill Bill vol.2 turned out to be shit.
Back in the midst of some time or other, you’ll recall that
what happened was The Duke felt compelled for to wax along
the lines of this right here, from April 3rd 2005;
In other words - Previously, In The Dukes Journals;
“What happened tonight was that I was minding my own
business, walking into a grocery store for to purchase a
couple bottles of Diet Coke, as is my wont. Who should I see
walking towards me but an incredibly attractive black-haired
lady with an incredibly tight white top and also a bag of
something or other. Maybe carrots and whiskey. I’m not sure.
Anyhow, as I’m prone to do, I smiled a self-deprecating
smile, hoping to insinuate something along the lines of “I’m
very shy and probably poetic, yet rest assured I can, indeed,
conceive of a great many filthy scenarios, and then probably
I’ll write a song about it later.”
Usually what happens is that the lady smiles back and looks
at her feet and carries on. This lady, however, she met my
eyes before deciding whether or not to smile, and then when
she met them, she smiled, and not just a “Hi, I’m in a hurry,
who the fuck are you, anyhow? You look like a fucking crack-
addict” kinda smile, but a smile that says “Well hi there.
Yeah, I know, I’m giving you it just by walking past, but
guess what, I’m already out the door by now.”
I don’t remember much about what she looked like, or even
roughly how old she was, but I’d say early twenties and
gorgeous sums it up pretty well. If by any chance said lady
is reading, since come the fuck on, at least 20 folks a month
read this shit, then know that, probably, I left that grocery
store at least 6 inches heavier than when I went in.
Without getting filthy about the whole thing.
I believe I fell in love right there, and also lust, the
kinda lust only a brief jaunt to the lonely-man’s room can
clear, I imagine.”
You’ll be beside yourself with shock, I’d wager, upon
learning of this shit right here;
It now being June or somethin’, probably thirty or thirty-
nine months since back in the April 2005, I was making my way
to the check-out in Tescos, on account of I needed to pay for
a couple purchases along the lines of Diet Coke and the 2-
Disc Scum. If I’d known what was gonna unfold, probably I’d
have made sure to pick up a book of maybe some William Blake
or something, something that hints at the kinda depths a
fella’s got goin’ on. Probably I’d have made some effort with
regards the hair and the clothing, instead of just pulling on
a pair a decomposing jeans and flinging a baseball cap (a
“spide-helmet”, as Sir Fleming refers to said head-wear) on
my dishevelled skull.
What you need to do, y’see, in these situations, is scan the
rows of check-out’s for the kinda eyes a fella might wanna be
gazing at for the duration of the transaction. I looked about
a bit, and holy fuck, right there, behind a check-out that
nobody was even queuing at, there she was. I think. The woman
from the petrol station back in April.
For sure, a fella had remembered each and every detail of
that encounter from way back when, but the chances of being
in such a position ever again seemed slim, the kinda slim a
fella ain’t got much hope of ever pushing in the direction of
morbidly obese.
And yet there she was. Most certainly. And if not, fuck it,
she looks as close to what I remember the other woman looking
like for to be more than worthy of a fella’s obsession for a
time.
Immediately, I thought about stuff along the lines of the
following;
I must announce to this woman that yes, plenty filthy
thoughts were thunk in your direction since back in the day
when you maybe walked past me, I’m not a hundred percent sure.
Maybe I could tell her something along the lines of, look
here, my Incisive Critique Of Constantine was deemed the
finest video-related article of last week when it came to
Selecting The Editor’s Picks on Blogcritics. Maybe I'd hint
that my song by the name of I Do Believe You Are The Devil
was featured on Dumpster Bust Radio this week. Probably she’d
have demanded full-frontal degradation right there on that
damn check-out thing had she known.
At the very least I must enquire as to her marital status. I
must figure out if she has maybe a web-page or somethin.
And also, I must always connect with the eyes.
Even as I’m putting this bottle into this plastic bag, and
the bag ain’t gonna open without a buncha fuss, even though
it’s gonna take a lot of effort to bag these items
efficiently whilst still holding her gaze, still, I ain’t got
a damn option.
I made sure to note her name, since it was written on her
staff badge thingy.
I decided that yes, right here and now I will ask this lady
if perchance we could go fishing for rainbow trout or hire
out some Miike some night.
But then!
No.
It seemed doomed, like nothing other than hideous torment
could result from any attempt to explore the possibilities.
I’ve been in these situations, man, and unlike when The Duke
was eighteen years old and stood on the corner of main street
in the middle of a band-parade, ain’t even a belly-full of
mentholated spirits for to stimulate the bravado-glands.
Now, when a fella has to make do with his own free will,
ain't nothing to fall back on. He can’t pretend he doesn’t
remember this situation the next time he’s heading in for to
grab a boxa Red Bull an a packet a smokes.
When she says about “Um...”, and starts rubbing the back of
her neck, and looking down, or looking up, or looking any
damn place that ain’t gonna result in having to look at me,
that right there delivers something of a serious kick to the
teeth, and for sure, when you’re plastered you can cry and
scream to similarly drunken companions who throw an arm round
a fella’s shoulders and strike up a rendition of Live
Forever, but in the here and now, exaggerated pain ain’t on
the cards. Rather, a deep-rooted pain of unimaginable
intensity that cannot be expelled via drunken hollers, and so
must linger away in there at the back of the guts, growing
and swelling until eventually a man finds himself sat writing
poetry in a bedroom with the blinds closed and the telly
tuned off-station, fuzzing and hissing away there.
He changes his MSN screen-name so it’s all Morrissey lyrics
in brackets. Maybe worse, maybe something from some book
about vampires or some shit.
He takes on the appearance of a 3rd year undergraduate Art
Student, starts speaking only in non-committed sighs.
No, I dare say the only option is furious masturbation, a
buncha Woody Allen pictures for to nod knowingly along to,
and maybe a song or eight all about “I’m so blue” and so on.
Still, what amazing eyes she had.
Thanks folks.
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