anyway, it's all telly to me, and i happen to think this rioting and looting lark is jolly good telly (ok, not as good as 9/11 or italy beating the germans in 06 but way better than the usual crap they put on) - cop cars in flames and buildings on fire (these things, like horseracing for instance) look better on the tv, no? oh but i coo and coo with the shiver and tingle of breaking glass, the smash and tinkle and scrunch, oooh, a 42" plasma, i'm having one of those (oh the joy, the fun of an unbounded adolescence) - they should have riots on the telly every night
obviously, it could have been better... politicians hanging from lampposts for instance, buckingham palace in gorgeously lambent flame, the houses of parliament ablaze and blitzing the sky with fireworks (mutilated corpses of bankers, lawyers and global warmers drifting eerily out to sea on a blood-reddened thames, the usual suspects at the gates of downing street, that anders the norwegian guy doing a rerun on the playing fields of eton...)
but here's the rub, the script in my head doesn't make it to screen... why, why? i'm blaming the higgs field... what else could it be? see (those bozos at cern looking for bosons really haven't got a clue) the higgs field isn't made of bosons at all, that's just stuff, but instead, it's made of scripts... the higgs field is one giant script, the higgs field (hush there, hush) is the universal narrative, blah blah (i could go on, virtual particles, virtual scripts, narrative gravitons and narrative strings, abracadabra and holy moses, and spin on this mister policeman, it's got an integer of six)
there should be a riots-only tv channel, i'd subscribe to that
and this the time then (holding on, holding back) this the ticking heart, humdrum beating (and fade to black)
i dunno what's going on (is it really that number of years since whoever whatever?) - was yesterday just yesterday? i digress
it's them anti-particles been bothering me... and those m-branes and how it all goes shebang and it's a loaf of bread suddenly (and where's my parallel universe where i get to have japanese birds in short whooshy skirts and my numbers come up on the lottery? hey? mister science man?)
and now he's trying to tell me that everything in the universe, that everything in the known universe and possibly beyond, is made out of these sparkly squiggly things, like squiggles with parkinsons disease (i need some medication, i need to lie down) and guess what, when you look really close at these squiggles, they turn into holograms, how cool is that?
time to sleep, goodbye goodbye, then laters, up for a piss, that larkin poem, those pinpoints of stars, faraway, now made out of nothing but squiggles, with parkinsons disease - it's a miracle!
i put the light on and with shaking hand, pick up a pen...
a knock at the door, the man from upstairs... fuck off you cunt, i've got a bazooka, you're not coming in
cop in a wetsuit on the doorstep... it's really kind of scary (plus there's a swat team in dry clothes on the stairs) - you may well laugh, but let me tell you, i live in fear
and go squiggle squiggle in the mirror, squiggle squiggle on the wall, squiggle squiggle to a quantum threshold and squiggle squiggle in my balls (squeak squeak squeaking like the spools in krapp's last tape)
yeah right, whatever (when whoosh of a sudden, and by the spoonful, a squiggle of a string of narrative lights up the sky) out yonder beyond yonder on a mandelbrot set (come men, we must put on our universal explorer's hats and venture forth, beyond the thresholds, beyond the singularities, beyond the infinite loops)
the for instance... in a darkened room, a black and white tv flickering, steptoe and son, coalfire light - then down some plughole, or in the plural, plugholes abounding, somewhere, somewheres, no one knows - but gone
(and this aside: this one thing i know, women's tits in satin or silk, that man's hands know heaven)
you say what? i said i can't hear you, then gone, just like that, most peculiar, an echo somewhere maybe, a reverberation of sorts, possibly, but probably, nothing, nothing endures
well there's a happy tale, and so the story goes, squiggle de gee, squiggle de gee (doing that entropy hula thing) it's what happens every time... spin to the left and spin to the right, spin straight ahead and whirr to absurdity (finnegan farting... quark, stop squark, squiggle, squiggle) - what, there's a law? against spending the day in pyjamas? unless ive got some medical authorization from a medical board? jesus christ, i'm done for! the cop at the door is going to taser me for wearing my own pyjamas in the afternoon! no doubt the swat team will be through the door next, and seeing me dressed in stetson hat and lady slippers, start beating me with their batons
oh well, squiggle squiggle, kisses, squiggle
love you say? (ah) i tried to take her jeans off on a hillside one summer, but she wouldn't let me (and the there was another who'd fuck like a rabbit behind the bushes when no one was looking, what a joy!) and that was that
today i am self-astounding, gushing with genius (the nurse had a name for it, but i forget what it was) - i had a spitfire parked on the lawn when i was ten (honest) and get this, my father was douglas fairbanks junior! (i am, as a ten year old boy informs me, Awesome!)
now then, miss marple on the telly (as in, how to dress for television, continued) - is it enough to be just 'suited & booted & collared & tied' for miss marple as one email correspondent makes claim? is cavalry twill trousers, brown brogues and a fair isle sleeveless pullover an acceptable ensemble? (i think the fair isle ill advised, and the whole ensemble a little confused) - what then if a man were to lay on a chaise longue, languidly, just so, in a japanese silk gown and sandals? (you fancy that for poirot? really? i prefer to dress, myself, for poirot in a city suit and bowler hat, pretending i'm rene magritte - it works a treat, but i digress)
later... jesus christ, what a mess! (i decided to watch miss marple in underpants and slippers, feeling like a rebel) when lo, not five minutes in, there's a morris traveller on the screen, and my tinkle starts to twitch... it twitches and wriggles and wiggles and sweet baby jesus, sweet mother of god, there's a woman in pearls on the telly and it's all too much, my testicles start to explode! what a mess! i switch the tv off (i'm feeling relieved i wasn't using my hand to assist as that would have been blatant masturbation, and blatantly masturbating to miss marple on the tv is quite probably a crime)
maybe i need to watch miss marple in a wetsuit? maybe the cop upstairs watches miss marple in his wetsuit?
i change my underpants, i change channels (and is it a spitfire pilot's outfit for foyle's war? with pipe and tattered armchair and a phone to the side in case there's a call and you have to dash for it quick to fend off jerry?) - and what for lewis? what for morse?
it's pissing with rain, it's blowing a gale (i'm outside a london railway station) and the handles of my tesco carrier bag have just bust and i have to grab hold of my hat with the same hand because of the aforementioned gale, and i'm dragging a case on wheels with the other hand, and i'm irate already, i'm knackered already, i've had enough, i'm out of breath... can i can get in this taxi here please? i try the door, it's shut (the driver waves me away, as if to advise, that i should walk another 100 yards or so to the front of the queue of taxis, in the wild wind and the stupid rain, struggling with a broken carrier bag and a clutched hat and a case in tow to boot, whilst out of breath, knackered, and old...
oh fuck off i said (a little loudly, as it happens) - you fuck off, he replied (a little louder than me, as it happens)
for fuck sake i muttered to self, jesus christ (i'd already turned and put my head down, not wanting to catch his eye or anything, i'm not looking for a fight, at my age, and walked, with the gait of a struggling man in diagonal rainfall, haphazardly, on... past other taxis (with their smug-faced, their sour-faced twat-faced drivers in their cosy interiors, in their little sheds of windless rainless shelter) for maybe another 30 or 40 yards or so when a gap appeared in the queue, and thinking someone would take pity, i tried again... and it was the same story again
oh fuck off i said again (a little louder than before) and... you fuck off came back another driver's reply
there were people passing me by on the pavement - so this was it i thought, i was an old man now, out in the wind and the rain, lear-like, alone, battling the universe, circumstance, with his hat to his chest, swearing out loud on a london street, as passers-by, passed by and tutted, the cunts
fuck that, let's away to scene 2, quick i say... outside, exterior of a railway station, a sunny day... our hero, male, aged 20ish, emerges from the station and approaches the same taxi as per scene 1, takes out a gun, a beretta possibly, and shoots the taxi driver, dead... the scene continues with our hero going along the queue of taxis, killing each one in turn, clinically... music, the missa luba sanctus... and upon killing the last taxi driver, he stops a passing motorbike, steals it, and rides off, without a helmet, a girl hopping on the back
scene 3 is unwritten
and i'm sitting with a 10 year old, playing a ps3 - i'm getting killed a lot, i haven't got a clue (what i need is a game called Black Cab Jihad, then i'll figure how these buttons work)
and it's quick before you die and it's quick before the end, quick before this thing turns sour, but hour upon hour upon hour... (and he ran to the front, he ran to the back, he ran around the street with strategies of attack)
but just around the final corner, just there, he slipped and fell
i over pronto to shoot him in the head, thinking, that'll teach him - what can you do? what i did was run...
i ran to the bottom of the garden, i had a shed (and a secret key and a change of clothes, a typewriter and a winning disguise) - and it was forward, ho, and westward, ho... and worstward, ho, let battle commence
scene 3, interior, a tv screen, a video game playing with video game noises and judges in wigs being blown to bits, cops getting it in the balls, teachers getting garrotted... (we pan back to see an old man and a boy, consols at the go, in a happy scene)
scene 4 and we step out the door, scene 5 and we're back inside (we're coming alive) scene 6 and we're back to the tv screen and the screen goes black, then some white words appear on the screen, lingering, here, like this... this is not a pipe (and the old man and the boy look at each other)
scene 7 and it's wuh, we're away to heaven - i said to jesus, i said, knock knock... (he just looks at me, i said, fuck this for the good life, i'm off)
scene 8, exterior, countryside, a sunny day in high summer... a teenager, 16ish, still a boy, virgin probably, in a poppyfield... and there's a girl with him (and they're doing all those new love, first love, young love things)
i feel embarrassed, i look away
which isn't true, i smile... and smile again and enjoy there then one of those bouncy little leaps of joy inside (it passes, like sunshine on sea to moonlight) and we all go, ahh, and heave a little sigh
scene 9, the ambience uncertain... dear jesus... sorry i left in a rush but i'm afraid i found your heaven to be, well, a little on the dull side... i'm giving the jewish heaven a go (i like their hats!) - be seeing yer, ab
he says ab as in abc, as in easy as, 123, as it's all just numbers, right? and the whole quantum jumping thing etc, infinities notwithstanding (i compute, go to bed) - and he says my name is ab as in abraham apparently and i have a son, isaac apparently (editor's suggestion: you need something in brackets here)
scene 10, a vast empty space...
scene 11 and i'm getting bored (editor's suggestion: cut)
and the words (the brain going ga-ga and ooh la la and) like, y'know, as in gay... gays and gay gays and can gay gays be like, y'know, really gay? and what about gay gay gays? all gay the same? and can black people be gay? can black people even be black? (can niggers?) and can wogs be wankers and wankers be mongs and mongs be muslims and muslims be mad and bad and dangerous to know? and who the fuck makes all this stuff up anyway? (and bart simpson he say, slurp my snot)
scene 12 and i'm fucking confused (editor's suggestion: cut!)
scene 13 and he's reading rabelais by candlelight when a beautiful woman enters the room, in the finest lingerie and in highheel shoes...
jesus christ he says, gimme some landscape, gimme outdoors (gimme the woods, the rivers, the sea) gimme gimme gimme, ga-ga ga-ga
scene 14, enough already! enough! enough... (ewig.. ewig...) - and then a trumpet sounds...
and shall it be raining? or a summer's day? and shall love blossom?
and please sir, for homework, can i fuck sharon from 5c? and please sir, can i have a wank just thinking about it? and please sir, is it ok to beat up that skinner kid in 3c with his stupid degree and his stupid catholicism? and please sir, that coogan in 5d, can we nail him to a cross? and please sir, cox in 2b with his awesomeously amazing astronomy, his mum was the fenn street slagfest, back in the day, did you know that? and that coogan's mum had psoriasis and boils and had to pay boys to fuck her? and that skinner's granny used to sell her snitch for sixpence? it's all here in this book sir, here, it's written down
scene 15 and it's outdoors at last (thank fuck for that) - a summer's day, birdsong and buttercups, pretty girls and stuff (editor's suggestion: cut)
scene 16, interior, modern warfare four... me and jewjew and the gay nigger mongs are up against a fiendish enemy of lawyers and bankers who are holding our precious planet to ransom (get a barrister in the balls and you get tactical nukes, game on!)
(editor's note: i'm out of here)
scene 17, a darkling plain...
the sign on the door... no blacks smokers
i'm one of the new niggers... a smoking nignog! (nelson muntz.. ha ha!) i don't care (i walk away) i won't make a fuss, honest, i mean, it's not like i'm one of those old style niggers from the old days who goes kicking up a shit just cos he aint welcome in the no-niggers bar... is it? i'm a pacifist manque, a coward... it's ok, ok, i know the rules, i'll smoke outside
what? you want me to be how many yards away from the building? sorry? say that again... you don't want no smoking nigger in the streets doing his smoking nigger thing and that i should just get the fuck out of town?
ok ok, i'm gone, going quietly... and yet still they're harking after me, and no smoking in your car neither, you fucking nigger!
home at last, i roll a large one... tap tap on the keyboard (the night is young) - smoking hot babes and ebony threesomes, that's the sin for me
scene 18 and there's windows opening suddenly, curtains billowing like in the movies, daylight, bright light, sunshine shimmering... sparkling sea sparkling stuff with the sparkling buttery sparks of white light too sparkly, too bright shining to even see through (and we hold, we wait, we hold)
hold for what? what wait for? i don't know
scene 19, interior, a brothel, a high class boudoir (about time) a bed, a naked lady, two naked ladies, three naked ladies...
scene 20, man asleep... possibly dead (murdered most likely) and no, i don't know who did it (why ask me?)
i am asleep yet (awake yet, and the night is yet young) - please send money by return
i said, can i kiss you where you wee?
and she said... it's not allowed
i said... i'll give you sixpence
and she said... 's not enough
and i said, i'll give you a shilling then
and she said... 's not enough
ok i said, ten pounds, and two big lollies from the lolly shop, thrown in, for free
i don't want a lolly she said, maybe an ice cream
ok i said, it's a deal
and the ten pounds, she said, in cash, please
ok i said, and turned there then, and started my dash toward the nearest cashpoint, whereupon, or whenupon, whatever, i'm set upon, clobbered by some muggers, except they weren't muggers... we're the police they said, and you're under arrest
under arrest? for what i said
you're under arrest for writing bollocks on the internet, one of them said, and then, it is all bollocks what you've been writing on the internet, isn't it, sir?
yes i said, it's all bollocks, guilty as charged, lead me away
a prison cell, night time, and my name is nevermind, said nevermind to the moon, t'wit, t'woo
then the morning after... he wakes and washes and takes a walk upon the beach, whereupon, whenupon, whatever again, he's set upon again, by a couple of seagulls at first (and then the cormorants came, and then a raven, and then an albatross, and then a great flutter of hitchcock birds) - i've had enough of this i said, i'm going home, there's a woman with big breasts waiting, cooking me breakfast, in the nude... i start to rush, i start to run, when lo and behold, just my luck, i'm set upon again, by the police again
this is ridiculous i said
it is ridiculous sir! just as you say! and that's why we're putting a stop to it
i've had enough... really i have
and so have we sir! and that's why you're coming with us
am i under arrest again?
we're just taking you in for some questioning sir
whish, whush, and woooo... fireworks, fireworks... whish, whush, and woooo... a warm summer night, a woman on your arm, pretty as a picture, pretty face pretty face, in firework light
well, i've been busy... last week cooking glass in the new mexico desert, then this week, a united states marshal in an eastern kentucky backwoods (i get around) - i'm figuring next week i might get to go to tokyo, have me some jap birds, by way of a reward... reward for what exactly, i ain't aure, but it's true i shot a man, shot several, low-lifes mostly, eco-loons and the like (just doing my duty!)
and then this, no reason
and it's niggerniggernignog, nignognoo (and in the latin, et tu?) - i'm a maasai apache albino, gratuitous in extremis, roman by birth - and it's wiggywiggywigwig, wigwogwoo (golly in the closet, it's halloween, ooohh...) - scary scary, gently does it, then bam of a sudden, a shiny black man with a blood splattered machete from out of the deep dark, suddenly in your face, glistening with fury - and it's not me i said, it's them over there... please sir, please sir, please don't chop my head off, i'm only nine
i'm nine and a half, i'm ten... i'm eleven, twelve... i'm twenty, thirty... fifty, sixty (too old to care, too tired to foreplay) - i, who was teased out of africa from chimps and mice, from lizards and fish, amoeba even, i, who was washed ashore here, one moonlit night, in a rowing boat with no oars...
and it's one potato, two potato, three potato four (quick, run, run, quick, there's a paedo in the basement, an axemen at the door) - five potato, six potato, seven potato more...
scene 21
another darkling plain, sound of a clock... ticking, ticking, louder, louder
scene 22
a battlefield, world war two...
and not dead yet...
but it was close... 6am and i couldn't breathe, nearly phoned the ex, i was a bit concerned, certain i was on the way out, no i don't want an ambulance, i need to change my underpants for fuck sake, they've been on too long (please god but let me one day, but not today please, be found dead in freshly laundered underpants, and not in these squalid pants that i have on today) - oh the shame, the shame
i couldn't breathe at st pancras either, a 150 yard walk to the taxis, i stopped for a rest every 20 yards, at a 100 i was fucked, couldn't move another step, and worse, worse, i was certain i was going to shit myself and there'd be shit running down my legs and out onto the floor and i couldn't call for help because it seemed everybody that was passing me by was speaking french and i didn't know what help was in french... and for god sake, i haven't got a change of trousers in my case, all i have are pyjamas, what am i going to do?
eventually my bowel muscles triumphed, my ignominy postponed... praise the lord, and then a station man helped me to the taxis
whilst on the telly, justified 4 was disappointing
and watched two and a bit seasons of house, but the chap's an arse (he is!) - i'd sooner die than have him as my doctor, i'll watch no more! in fact, i'd sooner die as a matter of principle than be treated by doctor gregory house! that'll show him!
and where's my ankles gone? i'm looking at my feet, doing a search on the internet, it's not looking good... and it's dear baby jesus (oh fuck the baby jesus!) - i need to change my underpants, quick
but what does it matter? as soon as you're dead, or on its cusp or shortly thereafter, you crap your pants anyway (and do you know why? well, i'll tell you why, it's because, obviously, there are no toilets in heaven)
there was a programme on the telly about jews (not hardcore jews, just regular jews) and the men jews got to keep their hats on in church - i thought, that's the religion for me
but then i read up about jewish heaven, and it's all a load of bollocks, and as for islam... i'm keeping my slippers on, thanks all the same
what i'll do is, i'll take my last breath, take a dump at the same time for a quicker getaway... and then whoosh, i'll be straight to heaven in slippers and hat... and it'll be hey, hi, hello, how's it going?
jesus with his feet up on a chaise longue, smoking a spliff (god sat at the top of some stairs, puffing on a montecristo, a bottle of crabbie's at his feet) - and there's a pause, a long pause, a very long pause...