Johnny Rotten Delivers


One of first things I said when I grasped John Lydon’s newest autobiography firmly in my hands is, ‘Oh, what a tome it is!’ The print isn’t very large either and those words, small little beggers, packed tightly in like sardines.

Reading this book Anger Is An Energy – My Life Uncensored became a never ending pleasure, and there are not many of those around, unless you count the sado masochistic Simpsons Tapped Out game, although fortunately, playing it affords a little more pleasure than pain of late.

Yes, so, as I was saying, it was never ending. It was bottomless, like a large Costa’s coffee or a Kate Moss look a like, just no arse in it.

So the first conclusion I came to was, here is a man who likes to give you your money’s worth, a bit like Ken Dodd.

Now, a long time ago, I read John Lydon’s  first autobiography, ‘No Irish, No Blacks, No Dogs.’ but what with the getting old bit, and the occasional glass of wine thrown in, and all the things in my head, my recollections of it are a little bit hazy, but I do remember it as a cracking good read. What I also remember, is the sexy sandwich incident, which frankly makes me feel quite queasy, but like all unpalatable things, quite literally in this case, it’s indelibly imprinted in my mind. You see, if Glen… cough, I mean the person who allegedly is eating the sandwich, is consensual, i.e knows exactly what’s in it and wants to eat it, then that’s fine, but it wasn’t above board and that’s just bullying that is. Not cool, not clever, just sly and creepy and no-one likes a creep, except him or herself. Is that the only thing I can take away from that book, the sexy sandwich bit? Oh Good God, no, but yes, it was a good read and if you haven’t read it and you want to know about the sexy sandwich bit, (my words) then you’ll just have to acquire a copy. I’m not going to get into the in’s and out’s of it…

This guy, John Lydon is not pretty vacant, but he could be a witty vagrant. He’s got so many things in his head. He could join my ‘Things In My Head’ brigade. Although I can’t image him wanting to join any club. Maybe I’ll make little badges, like ‘Blue Peter’ badges and send them out. Not elitist or anything, as that would defeat the object. I don’t go in for all that ‘I don’t want to belong to any club who will accept me as a member’ nonsense.  That’s just a very succinct example of self loathing. There’s enough people in life who will quite happily hate your guts already, don’t add to it by hating yourself. Some balance is needed.

Anyway, I’m perversely getting off the point here. John Lydon has a least another ten autobiographies in him. In some rather bizarre fantasy of mine, I see him writing a novel based on his life experiences, but to protect the innocent and not betray a confidence, he presents the truth as fiction, and people would then read between the lines. A great way of getting round court cases and people who might sue and other consequences to the bald truth. He would present the truth but be protected from it, and protect others, as it’s a ‘work of fiction’.

For instance,  there were a few potential little revelations in John’s book regarding Nancy’s death. Oh, he didn’t say anything untoward, just inferred things regarding circumstances, ‘cos understandably, he doesn’t want to accuse, slander or libel parties…or die horribly and violently. There was talk about people owing serious amounts of money to drug dealers. If they can’t get the money from you, they’ll destroy you. Puts me in mind of another former drug addict, the lovely Danniella Westbrook. I think her drug of choice was cocaine, but in her autobiography, The Other Side Of Nowhere, she talks about how cocaine almost destroyed her.

She has publicly talked about how she owed £5,000, to drug dealers.  Not a large amount of money in the business world, but a devastating amount in a drug baron’s world. As John says in his book, these people cannot be seen to be humiliated, they have to uphold a certain reputation.  It’s all mafia style stuff really. It’s about slavedom, selling your soul. Your soul is theirs. But the fact remains, you do owe them money and they will take what you owe any way they want, need, feel they have to.

Danniella Westbrook has talked about how she was gang raped when she couldn’t repay her drug debt, as a warning to others, part payment, partly to get something back, whatever, the reasons why they did it, lust, revenge, warning, perhaps a culmination of all three, who knows…it’s horrible, but unfortunately, from the moment you owe them money, your arse belongs to them, make no mistake.

Anyway, I will waffle no more. For people have places to go and people to see and you’ll never get this five minutes back. Or maybe ten if you’re a slow reader. This book of John’s contains heaps of new information. He doesn’t rehash old stuff from his first. There’s a very, very small section where he repeats a little about his early childhood, but that’s good in itself, like the beginning of an serial episode, that might remind people what happened in the last one. I just see this as a continuation, a way of connecting and knowing we’re still talking about the same person.

He introduced me to the Calypsonian, Lord Kitchener and that wonderful record Dr. Kitch. Once I’d found him, I came across similar artists like The Mighty Sparrow and The Roaring Lion and then there’s Judge Dread, who parodies these older artists. Lord Kitchener and his ilk are, to my unschooled ears, a blend of Kid Creole and The Coconuts with Benny Hill on vocals. It’s Carry On Calypso. It’s reggae on speed with double entrendres.

Calypso, for me,  has a hint of  New Orleans jazz, which in turn reminds me of The Smoking Time Jazz Club, who perform on the streets of New Orleans, direct to the people, during the day. In the evening, if you’re lucky enough to be in New Orleans amongst this wonderful music, you can check them out at the Spotted Cat. I must have danced to their version of West End Blues, many, many times. In my bedroom. Not in New Orleans but I was there in spirit, you understand.

I love the bit in the book where Lydon talks about the band ‘Faust’ and their album ‘The Faust Tapes’ Not many prepubescent or teenage British working class kid in 1973 could afford to buy an album. So we all bought singles instead but this band Faust decided to make an album and sell it for 48p, the same price as a single. I was three at the time but I reckon I would have bought it had I been a little older. I just have this image of all these joyful teenagers going to buy it, finally feeling like they’ve beaten the system. Or, not even that, just that feeling of ‘I’ve been given a break for a change.’ Hey, 48p was still a lot of money in those days.

Now that to me is politics in action. That’s creating social change. Granted, it’s a small change, but it’s a change in action.

The irony of it was, the album was classed as a single, due to its selling price and not allowed to enter the album chart. Okay, granted, the cynics say it was a marketing idea to boost the sales of a fairly unknown band, but, you scratch my back and I’ll scratch yours and then everyone’s happy. It introduces a sense of community spirit.

Billy Bragg did something similar in the eighties, and I believe is still trying to uphold that. Once you get into all that though, you have to sustain it and people expect more from you.
it’s like ‘Oh, you not on the side of the working people no more Bill?’ Just cos he might want to charge the going rate for something so he can pay his rent/mortgage, send his kids to school or whatever. The problem is, once you set a precedent people won’t cut you any slack. They want your balls on a platter.

Don’t let that put you off being kind and considerate and altruistic. There are so many rewards from that. You won’t necessarily see them straight away and you might not want them, you’re not in this for rewards, but all I’m saying is, just being nice, once in a while, is never ever a thankless task.

I bought an album of Billy Bragg’s in the eighties. It was called ‘Brewing Up With Billy Bragg‘ ‘Pay No More Than £3.99’ was printed on the cover, so no funny stuff.  That made me feel so snugly and warm as an perpetually cold and undernourished 16 year old loser. Oh, the after glow. You get the feeling that someone, somewhere is doing something to actually change your life for the better. You feel cared for in some small way and yet they’re not related to you and there is no salacious motive involved. Again, it’s a small thing, but when strangers  do things like that for other strangers, that has reverberations and it’s a manifesto.

Unfortunately, most manifesto’s don’t deliver their idealistic promises but an out to lunch band like Faust, Billy Bragg and others can make teenagers who are hungry for music, in fact in every sense of the word, feel a little less alone, or at least a little less isolated.

Who said keep politics out of music? There’s politics right there and it’s helping ordinary people for all the right reasons. Some people say that it threatens the music business and it may very well, which makes sense for these things to be done occasionally, as a novelty, to help both parties, the seller and the buyer.

After looking up some of these bands for the post, I noticed that Faust, Billy Bragg and John Lydon all have something in common. Richard Branson. During the time of their fixed price promotions, Faust and Billy Bragg were both being managed by Virgin records and of course, The Sex Pistols were under Virgin for a time.

This is what John does, he puts even more things in your head and then inspires you to branch off on your own into all this delicious research. Anger Is An Energy essentially promotes discussion, about music, about politics, about human nature, about lots of things, whilst also being a fully entertaining and very informative read, definitely a thumbs up.

Love and Mashed Potatoes

I never knew mash could get me laid.

Did I fall in love with the iconic image of Paul McCartney when he was young and vibrant and known as the ‘cute one’ with the world’s best boy band, The Beatles, writing and creating wonderful melodies that would go down in history as some of the best songs in the world? No.

Did I fall in love with Paul McCartney, the family man, when he was older and wiser and off on his own, with the great seventies band ‘Wings‘ being successful and productive in another group? No.

Did I fall in love with Paul McCartney, as a solo artist, when he was having No.1 hits in the eighties and always on Top Of The Pops, when he still seemed possibly at his peak, when he’s absolutely still got it, when he’s still brilliant? No.

Or did I fall in love with Paul McCartney when I saw him making mashed potato in a You Tube video, ignoring all health and safety issues with reckless abandon. Yes.

Yes. I fell in love with him, there and then.

What did it for me, regarding the video was a) his childish enthusiasm b) his pure joy c) his naturalness and d) his complete disregard for culinary competence.

I suppose you could surmise that he has no need to seek perfection or indeed approval from anybody, therefore making mashed potato was no big deal.

He was so happy showing us how to make it. To this day, how he taught the viewers to cut an onion (as taught to him by Linda) is indelibly printed in my mind. I thought that was the sweetest thing, bringing his late and beloved wife into the proceedings.

Also, the way he sloshed scalding water about, almost giving himself a first or even second degree burn. How he held a very sharp knife, in a cutting position that could only result in several severed fingers.By a miracle – it didn’t. It was looking-through-your-fingers while-watching-a-horror-movie stuff.

In this video, he is like a little boy who never grew up and who has no intention, who loves his life the way it turned out, with no regrets. (I’m not mentioning any names).

So people might say, well, it’s obvious, with his money, lifestyle, success, talent whatever, he would appear joyful, whatever his endeavours. But his joy is the most natural unaffected thing.

He has this wonderful down to earth manner, that one would expect from a Northerner perhaps, especially a Scouser, but you may not expect someone of his accomplishments and fame to be like that, regardless of where they come from and that is hugely endearing.

I think the tip of the iceberg was when he started telling jokes.

I was shocked. Paul McCartney telling dirty jokes on YouTube. I mean no. It’s wrong. It’s just all wrong. He changed my perception of him. The contradiction is attractive. Men who look/seem a certain way should contradict it, by doing something completely the opposite to how you would expect them to behave. It messes with your mind so much. It causes distraction, a chink in the armour. Women take note. It might backfire if you contradict people’s perceptions of you but it might just give that hot guy in accounts something to think about. What? A hot guy in accounts? What planet am I on?  The planet where there are hot guys in accounts. That’s my kind of planet.

Mashed Potato and Reckless Abandon.

See what I did there? See the contradiction?

Respected British Superstar. Composed composer. Old enough to be our granddad, whatever age we are…telling dirty jokes. And yet it’s not gross. It’s kinda hot. It’s the way he tells ’em. It’s what he does with it. Maybe you had to be there.

That’s what my P.U.A should have done the other week. He should have made mashed potato very dangerously, almost scalding or cutting himself severely. Difficult in a library I know, but overcoming that obstacle only adds to the attraction.

If you put the ordinary with the extraordinary. i.e if you put Sir Paul McCartney with mashed potato, something amazing happens. It’s the key to the secret of the meaning of life, or how to get on in this awful and wonderful world.

If Paul kicks the bucket before me, a little part of me will die with him. So men take note, if you want a women to fall in love with you, just make mashed potato, totally balls it up and laugh it off when you do.

And tell dirty jokes like butter wouldn’t melt.

The Point Of No Return

I subscribe to the Rob Dyke series on ‘You Tube’. I like his his ‘Seriously Strange‘ and his ‘Twisted Tens’ videos. He presents them well. They are entertaining, succinct, informative. What more do you need during supper time, wind down time, whenever you decide to watch? It’s bite size stuff and it works.

However, watching one of his videos will go down in ‘Things I Wish I Hadn’t Done This Week.’ I stumbled across, like a little child in a meadow, his ‘Most Disturbing Deep, Dark Web Sites’, or something like that. No, I’m not going to link. You do that work yourself. I don’t regret much in my stage in life,  but I wish I hadn’t come across that. I’m not easily shocked or sheltered. I think we’ve all seen things we shouldn’t have seen/heard/imagined. Things no-one should see, because they don’t happen. But well, they do happen. It’s part of life. And this is the disturbing factor.

But life is about thinking. And if we want to remain healthy and happy, or just not traumatised on a daily basis, we should fundamentally, be thinking good ideas and not bad ideas.

Bad ideas is an understatement.

There was a warning about said ‘Top Ten’ at the beginning of the video. I ignored it, because I’ve ignored all other warnings at the beginning of Rob Dyke’s videos and others and everything turned out fine. I was able to go to bed undisturbed and relatively untainted. But not this time.

Naively, I did not think the video would be as bad as it actually was. I was innocent to the depravities it exposed. Well, let’s just say, ‘not in my wildest dreams’ and I like to keep it that way. I thought that I had a good imagination and then I realised that there is good imagination and there is bad imagination. The mind can be quite a delicate thing, a bit of a hothouse flower. It can swing. It doesn’t usually swing violently straight away. But I can imagine one year, you are swinging quite happily in the middle, well not happily, but you haven’t gone past the point of no return at least, and then little by little you swing a little further, just a little further each time, until you realise you’re going to extremes and then you fly off the radar, you’re no longer on the meter, ‘cos the meter no longer gauges what you’ve done. The dial only goes up to a hundred. The machine has limits. The human rarely does. It has so much potential for good and so much potential for evil.

I pray with every fibre of my being that I never swing within a million miles of the shadow world of imagination that fills these dark websites. I wouldn’t say dark as much as black. I wouldn’t say deep as much as evil.

People, humans, do unspeakable unimaginable things, that become imagined. Without the creative image in the head, in other words, without the fantasy, it can’t be done. Once it’s imagined, created in the mind, it’s just a short walk for some people, and not too far away for others.

If they make the fantasy a reality, they can cross it off, or make money from it, or become immune to it, or feel omnipotent through it.

They can do evil masquerading as lust, or greed or anger.  Our base desires allegedly lead us to do evil things. Perhaps it is just a con, a way for Satan and his minions to trick humans into doing his evil bidding. That said and done, base desires whether tricked into them or not can spiral out of control. And spiral to such an extent that a human can lose their identity, their humanity and perhaps along the way, their soul. And what about the suffering they inflict on others?

Crawling back from evil, is not impossible, but improbable. There comes a point of no return. Going down certain roads changes the brain’s chemistry and only by reprogramming can there be any hope. Any reprogramming would have to be spiritual, from the inside out.

I feel tainted having just glimpsed the shadow web and wish I could unlearn, unhear and unsee. That retribution side of me wants to just vigilante somehow. Load myself up from top to toe in guns and ammunition. Bazooka them all to hell. But then, two wrongs and all that…And then of course, I would become a murderer too.

The only solution is spiritual warfare. So yes, I prayed because I didn’t know what else to do and because I’ve seen the power of prayer first hand. Why do people see prayer as a last resort, when it is often the first. It makes a difference.

All this talk about evil… dark, hypnotic,mysterious, exciting, the cause for celebration. In fact there is a major festival that celebrates it. It’s called Halloween, and it involves kids primarily, oh yes, kids are the main recruits. What is mischief after all but just a nice word for evil, even the phrase ‘wicked deeds’ sounds archaic, fairy tale-ish, almost twee. Evil is always trying to play itself up by playing itself down and Halloween is the perfect example. Oh, it’s just all a bit of fun. There are always gong to be excuses and for the evil that people do, there are many.

Thoughts on evil, it’s momentum leading to the truly horrific and the pain of empathy that one feels for victims always needs clarification. The idea of ‘points of no return’ for criminal minds intrigues me, so I rummage around a little. Can evil on such a scale really be stopped? Well no, personally, I would find it difficult to think there is any redemption for those people, but individuals, some socio-paths, who commit chaotic crimes, almost as a reflex to pain, can be plucked out and changed from the inside out with good spiritual counselling. Psychopaths can’t. You can’t cure a psychopath. They don’t have reflexes. They remain lawful evil and are often ‘personable’ and ‘well respected’ in the community to reduce the risk of incarceration. After all, they really don’t want to stop what they’re doing and they know there’s more than one way to skin a cat. Plus, they enjoy it too much. Me killing the little bastard is not going to change anything either. It will just be one more person for hell and one more soul for Satan.

Change has and can, be orchestrated and it can result in a little less evil, a little less suffering, without us having to fry people in the electric chair or murder the murderers. That taints and rubs off on us as a society. Haven’t we all wanted to kill the P’s (paedophile) that harmed us as a child, harmed children we know or who simply lives down the street? But, come on, we have to get a handle on ourselves. Some people can’t be changed, don’t want to be, will mock the system, will pretend that they have changed. We can ‘wipe the dust from our feet,’ regarding those. Yes, those we can write off. And for me, the P is always past the ‘point of no return’.

Jesus said this about the corruption of the innocent. ‘It were better for him that a millstone were hanged around his neck and he cast into the sea, than that he should offend one of these little ones.’

Luke 17:2 (King James Bible Version)

It sounds to me that even Jesus would find it difficult to forgive a P. His words, not mine. I applaud his zero tolerance on this one. I think this is because sex offenders are more likely to pass the ‘point of no return.’ and can’t be redeemed, or rather, the chance of redemption is…what was that word we were using before…improbable.

So, leaving P’s and sex offenders on a back burner for now (they should be) I don’t know why I started on them. When I talk about rehabilitation, I’m generally not thinking about them as potential for rehabilitation, in particular, as I honestly don’t believe they can be cured. Very opinionated of me I know, but that’s how I feel.

Mankind needs a little hope, now and again.

I came across two good books about the truth of rehabilitation, ‘Gram Seed – One Step Beyond’ and most notably his follow on book about his work in British prisons, ‘Gram Seed – It Must Be Love’ Gram Seed, ‘Tees Gazette Live’ Article and one in an American prison system, Psychogram: Spiritual Crossover For The Serial Killer by Robert Creel. Yes, conning does go on, but what do we expect? It used to be how they made their living! You have to separate the wheat from the chaff and in every walk of life, there is wheat and there is chaff. Everyone should be given a chance of redemption. God can see inside people’s hearts, so no conning will be going on with Him. We’re not the ones who have any real lasting power in our judgements, God’s been around the block a few times and can spot a fake a mile off, so in this situation, it doesn’t really matter if we can or not.

Doing A Pink

He forget to order his NoNo.
He forget to order his NoNo.

I didn’t go the library this Wednesday afternoon, because I didn’t want to run into any young, fit, P.U.A’s desperate to conquer restless, married Cougars.

There’s a lovely movie out there called ‘The Wall’ by Pink Floyd. I’m not a Pink Floyd fan. But I think the wonderful thing about Pink Floyd is, you don’t have to be. You don’t have to be a fan to appreciate the music. The main character, Pink, is played beautifully by Bob Geldof. Actually, he’s a sir these days, Sir Bob Geldof. Some say Pink is based on Syd Barrett, who was a founder member of Pink Floyd and also based on band member Roger Waters and his life experiences.

The ‘film’ starts off in the nineteen forties. Daddy is at war and Pink is at home, missing his father dreadfully, understandably, while being oppressed by his overbearing and dominant mother. His dad is killed in action and Pink’s troubles really begin. He attempts to nurse an injured rat back to health, revering all life and suddenly seeing its value. The rat dies and Pink has to come to terms with the pain of his loss, both minor and major.

If this wasn’t enough, if he didn’t have enough on his plate, with the traumatic loss of his father, he also has to put up with sadistic, jealous teachers, who get off on humiliating him.

Pink goes on to become a rock star. He does the usual seventies rock star things. Too much sex and drugs to fill the vacuum within and not enough down time, where he just relaxes with a book and then watches The Hairy Bikers with some tea and toast. The only trouble is, The Hairy Bikers weren’t around in the seventies, so this starts Pink off on a long tedious, neurotic journey into mental decline.

Some of the things Pink does:

Becomes a leader of a fascist, racist cult.

Becomes deeply acquainted with Obsessive Compulsive Disorder and its many facets.

Loses all interest in life. Everything is futile. Hopeless. ‘What’s the point of trying?’ would be something I could hear him saying at breakfast time, which is about 2 p.m for a rock star of his…excessive calibre.

Anyway, Pink’s demons finally catch up with him. He tries avoidance as a way to get through life, to simply survive on a day to day basis. I don’t know about you but it works for me.

It all accumulates in him ‘shaving off all his body hair, including his eyebrows.

I inadvertently ‘Did a Pink’ last night. I shaved off all my body hair. Unlike him, I had a safety razor and I didn’t shave off my eyebrows or my hair. I’m not that stupid or…brave, or mentally ill. Take your pick. But I gingerly surveyed my nicks and cuts this morning, in the same way, Pink observes his, in the bathroom mirror. Except, I didn’t bleed into my swimming pool for two reasons. One, I don’t have a swimming pool and two, not that much blood, if truth to tell.

I did however have very sore pits after showering this morning. Interestingly enough and maybe too much info, I had no problems anywhere else. I should have. I certainly should have. It’s a miracle.

I would definitely recommend shaving all your body hair off to anyone, under four conditions. 1) don’t be angry when you’re doing it. 2) don’t dry shave 3) shave below the neck and 4) don’t have two small glasses of wine beforehand, however small they appear. In fact, I would recommend not having any alcohol at all beforehand. Actually dry shaving isn’t such a problem if you’re a tough cookie and don’t blubber or cry at the smallest razor cut.  i.e if you’re a Scouser or a Geordie, or maybe just your really cool self.  5) Don’t go all the way with shaving in the private area, unless you’ve got a very steady hand. I would recommend a half Brazilian in those circumstances.

After I’d done it, I remember thinking, ‘This is what Pink did, in Pink Floyd’s The Wall.’ apart from the hair and the eyebrows and the full Brazilian which is what I’m sure he had …did. He was lucky it didn’t come off in his hand. I didn’t think for one moment, that I was influenced by this movie, to shave off all my body hair. I haven’t seen it for years. I think it is just a phase I’m going through. You know, the mid life crisis and all that. Or, the quarter life crisis as they call it now, in high society dinner party circles.

Forget that for now. Back to the movie. I think it’s a really great movie and I just watched it again tonight. If you haven’t watched it, you should watch it. It’s top class. The music (Pink Floyd) the animation sequences (Gerald Scarfe) the story (Roger Waters) the inspirations (Trauma) Trauma is always a wonderful inspiration for all the beautiful and the terrible in creative situations.

After my total body hair removal, above the neck not counted, and a little bit somewhere else, I realised sharp objects, drink and anger, probably shouldn’t be in the same room together, but hey, I’m still standing.

P.U.A versus Cougar. Blackpool Library. Part 1

How sexy is that?
How sexy is that?

Okay, I’m in the library, like I tend to be on a Wednesday afternoon. Feel defensive today but put it down to my natural paranoia. Men are a bit predatory in libraries, or maybe it’s just the library I’m in. It’s a sweeping statement and I’m very good at those. I’ve had a few little experiences, but nothing concrete, no proof, up until today.

I just think the library is a hotbed of lonely, single males.

‘Apparently Blackpool has the greatest proportion of single male homeless divorcees in its population than any other town or city in Britain. When you’ve lost your wife, lost your job, and lost your house, there’s always Blackpool,’

Jamie Ashmore

Excerpt from ‘Crap Towns Returns‘ Edited by Sam Jordison and Dan Kieran. A truly wondrous little hard-backed gem, with very sharply written, witty and hilarious reviews of British towns.

Okay, so I’m in the library. My husband has just kissed me goodbye and he is off to a meeting for three hours. Me, like the sad and lonely woman/puppy/knob that  I am, decide to wait in the library, do some much needed reading, without having to get a book out, which I would have to read within three weeks, thereby putting pressure on me, to ‘force read’ the book within a certain time…I’ve forgotten the point, by now.

So, due to forces beyond my control, I end up in the library every Wednesday afternoon between 1.30p.m and 4.30p.m

Inevitably, I will position myself in a place, in a chair, where no-one else can position themselves, in a chair, to observe me. I do this very deliberately. Call me a party pooper but I don’t think it’s unreasonable to want to be left alone, to read, in a library.

As much as I want to, I’m not going to be left alone, to read, in the library. I have a sticker on my forehead which says, ‘ Come get me. Fair Game.’ while keeping my eyes and nose firmly in a book. I don’t look into people’s faces. I can’t start random conversations with strangers. I need to be introduced. Sometimes, if you want to be left alone, the opposite happens.

So I’ve positioned myself in such a way that no-one can ‘view’ me.  In an alcove seat between two shelves of books and a long row opposite. They either stand with their back to me to peruse shelves  opposite, or stand adjacent, directly to the right or the left to view said shelves. At this point, there were no other positions available. it wasn’t ideal, but there was absolutely no way that anyone could sit and look at me.

Okay, I’ll get this out of the way first. I’m really quite shy. I think this stems from being the centre of attention as a baby, simply because  no-one had anything else to say to each other in those awkward family get-together’s and so the emphasis was put on me. I don’t know whether this made me shy or I was shy anyway. Whatever, it made me very self conscious and socially awkward. It’s all right being on stage, being looked at by a hundred strangers, (Hundreds? I should be so lucky) but…when one is on stage, one is performing a part, a role, not themselves, somebody else,a fictional character, so all toxic shame is lost, or should be.

So, there I am, minding my own business, when I notice that a chair had been moved from an area further down the library and moved to a strategic point.

(Actual real time transcript from my time in the library. I take out a pen and notebook and start to write)

I notice that a man in his mid to late twenties is sitting there and I feel his eyes on me. I idly wonder if I can take a photo of this guy and put it on my blog. I want to share, because it will bring people into the equation and make it safer, for me. Oh, if only I had the balls but I won’t. I won’t do it. I can’t even look at him, ‘cos, he’ll  think I fancy him. Either a) my vivid imagination or b) my gut instinct tells me he’s a P.U.A on day game. He has a pony tail for God’s Sake and he’s reading a newspaper, with one foot crossed over the other in the figure 4 style, you know, the high power pose. Bordering on the arrogant but perfectly acceptable American body language among males. But not in Britain, buddy. You call it confident, we call it posturing. So, okay. I’ll just ignore him, right? Easier said than done.

Reading can be very private. Very. So someone watching me do it, is like watching me on the toilet, or naked. You never know, maybe that’s the idea. That vulnerability.

I should just lighten up. I’m touching my neck, through self consciousness. Who likes to be ogled when they’re reading ? No-one. It’s like being woken up when you’re sleeping.

I just took a sneak look at said guy and he is about five six, of slight build, my type, like a little china doll, the type that fits nicely into my rucksack. (My husband is five foot eight, a virtual giant. He just barely made it according to my height restrictions. He was almost too tall) Anyway, this china doll, he’s wearing a khaki t shirt, has quite beautiful toned and tanned arms which are covered with tattoos, looks like he’s just come off a building site and is absolutely filthy.

Oh, these infernal temptations…

Oh please go. Go and leave me in peace. Oh, and he’s getting up and he’s going. His coat goes on, his satchel, (he has a satchel)? okay, let’s call it a man bag, (definitely p.u.a, with the man bag) and a cap/hat, which he dons. He’s off then. Oh joy. He!s just gone. It’s like a big weight lifted off me. He didn’t like me writing this down. Maybe he knew I was writing about him. Maybe he puts that chair there every day and reads the paper. It could just be part of his ritual.

Yes, I am, just a little disappointed, but mostly relieved. I don’t know what it is about men and libraries. Do men like to read more than woman? Are all the women on a Wednesday afternoon simply working?  I get the impression the men are there to a) connect with other men, (‘cos I’ve seen the sad bast…nice silver foxes conversing with other men. I pass them by, in the early afternoon and get caught up in the miasma of alcohol fumes, which nearly knock me off my feet.) b) get warm and c) educate/entertain themselves with books.

I’ve always been a single male homeless divorcee inside this woman’s skin. I wouldn’t say it was bursting to get out, but it’s definitely there. Sadly.

In nightclubs, there is competition. In libraries, none and who would think of ‘pick up’ in a library, nobody. Only p.u.a and their day game plan.  Any place is pick up place in their world.

Shit, he’s come back! I kid you not. He’s come back, gone back to sit in the same place. I guess he just went to get another newspaper. I’m not going to look. I’m not. It’s a bit obvious now isn’t it. I’m shaking. I can’t believe he came back. I need to get a life. Oh, I just dropped my men, I mean pen. Oh Good God, get a hold of yourself!

Right, I’m leaving. I’m going. I reckon he went to get some advice from his p.u.a guru/life coach. It’s what they do. My husband isn’t available for another hour and a half . I’m meant to be meeting him here, but I can’t stay here now. If I had a life, I could go somewhere else. You’d think I’d be safe in a library. Of all places. Safe from what? What could happen? Nothing.

An hour and a half…mmm, an hour and a half. I wonder if he’ll follow me if I leave. That’s the kind of thing p.u.a’s do. They follow you like the big creeps they  are, every women is an expert  on  The Creep. Initiation comes early, got one right here, my very own, another one. But at the end of the day, it’s just human nature, I guess. He’s just trying to get laid.

Right now, I feel his heavy stare. I can’t tell if he’s looking at me. I dare not even peek, but there’s a heaviness and it’s becoming unbearable. I’m focusing on the shelf in front of me, just to stay centred. I’m focusing on a book called  ‘Fork To Fork by Monty and Sara Don‘. Actually, this is getting quite exciting. I should just relax and enjoy.

I’ve just focused on ‘Phillipps’s  Field Guide to the Birds of Borneo.’

I expect he thinks I’m one of those married Cougars, just gagging for a bit of spontaneous afternoon fun. When you think about it, it’s quite dangerous that kind of thing. I can feel a strong frisson, just going between us. Oh husband, please come and take me away. I think people just need a warm body to hang around. I am in freeze mode. I can’t move, like a rabbit caught in headlights. This is definitely not natural, for him to come back. I’m no cougar. More like a paranoid panther with some anger issues. I applaud him for his optimism though, or is it blind faith?

I haven’t sneaked a look for at least twenty minutes. Next to me, open for everyone to see is the book I was reading but now I can’t concentrate. It is called ‘Daily Candy. A-Z. An Insider’s Guide To The Sweet Life’ and is really good. It’s like a humorous, quite girly blog but in a book. Oh, I just found out it is like a blog. Emails that New Yorkers send to each other. I prefer my description but, yes, in my aftermath research, I’ve discovered it is actually a huge internet success. Or was. That doesn’t surprise me. It’s all very cute and interesting. So I’m at ‘S’, ‘The Faces Of Sin’ What are the faces of sin? This is one of them. I’m focusing on books like crazy now. I’ve just focused on a book called ‘The Vulcan Story‘ on that same shelf in front and there’s a row of white war planes on the back of the book. At least I think they’re war planes. It’s amazing what you can learn in the library, while avoiding adultery.

I realise I have quite a wonderful, exciting, yet frustrating existence, imagining things that I’m not going to do with total strangers.

(At this point, I stop writing because he’s come over. He’s totally thrown me. I go into rabbit-in-headlights mode again. So, he’s suddenly decided to look at the books to the right of me and to the left of me. I’m sandwiched between two shelves and he’s passing between the two, several times. Many times. I briefly look up and realise how grungy he really is. I can smell it. He has a D-ring hanging from his belt. That’s pretty cool,, nice touch. He seems to be covered in mud and white paint. I don’t look into his face.

My hand is shaking like mad. My face is on fire and  I write this

‘My husband shouldn’t let me loose with a notepad and a blog, because by doing so, he unleashes something crazy in his midst.’

At this point, he has positioned himself, at such an angle, that he can actually read what I’m writing. If I was trying to read something somebody has written, I wouldn’t be able to because of my middle aged eyes, which have just started conking out on me. I don’t wear reading glasses, a decision made by vanity. So, anyway, I’ve destroyed the momentum here. Yes, so his very fresh, young, potent eyes will be able to read that bit about ‘imagining things that I’m not going to do with total strangers’. I put my thumb over it like a schoolgirl shielding her exam paper from the naughty cheating boy and suddenly, there he is, close enough to kiss me, I can feel him breathing, leaning, reading. I am close enough to smell him. And I do. Nice move on his part though, in fairness, it has to be said. Praise when praise is due. I pretend not to notice. My face is burning. But no, no. I will just pretend he isn’t there and that this isn’t happening. Denial is not supposed to be a good or healthy thing I know but it’s always been a mighty friend to me. So, I continue writing. My hand is shaking so much now so the next thing I write is my last dying gasp, a chaotic scrawl which says, ‘I am quite afraid now, I’ve got to say.’

I can’t stand it any more. I flip the book shut, head down, stuff it into my bag. And then I pick up the book open at ‘Faces Of Sin’ the words looking impossibly large. Oh yeah, like he hasn’t just read that, and I pretend to read like a big dick head. So false. So badly acted. Serves me right. Writing about this poor innocent man who is only practising his day game in the mirror, that’s his only crime.

He’s still standing there, staring at me but now he’s pulled away from his lean, since the notebook is gone and he is just staring at me, really hard. I’d have to be dead not to look at him, to burst out laughing, smile, whatever. You know, a big sigh as the tension and the ice is broken.

But broken ice can lead to terrible things. I’ve heard. That ice, under no circumstances must be broken. Because once it’s broken, there’s no turning back. I’ve heard. You’re better living on a permanent glacier then falling through a crack in melted ice. Why? Because you end up in freezing cold water. You ever notice how freezing water feels like its burning. Burning. Hell. Need I say more?

I turn the page. And the first thing I read is, ‘Are You Going To Hell?’

Am I in a movie or what? How wonderful is that? I mean how awful, but timed perfectly. God has always had perfect timing.

I’ve got to get out of here.

He walks away, picks a random book from the shelf as he’s walking past, without even looking at it, okay, I get the point, I know what you’re doing, and he returns, figure 4 body language, to his chair, where he resumes his predatory watch.

I don’t get up straight away. Got to be casual about this. You know, nonchalant. He hasn’t just frightened me away, oh no, no. I’m unruffled. After a good long amount of time (ten seconds or so) I pick up the Daily Candy, plus another book that I had with me,  ‘Hollywood Hellraisers’ by Robert Sellers. (One in the series that I haven’t read, about the wildness of Marlon Brando and Warren Beatty, among others, which I wanted to get out but now (barely contained anger) that’s not going to happen now is it?

I stand up, put the books back in a random place, on a random shelf, which I hate doing. I like to adhere to the Dewey Decimal System, as much as any anally retentive library visitor. But this is an emergency. I practically run for the exit and don’t look back. Looking back is foolish. I walk unevenly down the street, turn a corner and dive into the first shop I see, alternatively pretending to browse the clothes rails and then furtively looking out of the window. I dart out of that shop, cross the road and run into another shop. I’m visibly trembling. If he has followed me, I think I lost him. Actually, this is quite exciting. I feel like I’m in an old fashioned spy movie.

The rest of the afternoon passes by in that old fashioned movie style way. It takes this hothouse flower, an hour, to stop shaking inside. In ‘Barnardo’s’, I pick up five 99p items of clothing in a thrifty frenzy, that calms my frazzled nerves. A very kind sales assistant folds and packs them into my back pack, like she’s my mother, and I feel very soothed. Very soothed indeed.  I have entertained myself the whole afternoon just with the slightly pathetic things in my head. No bones broken. No harm done. And a blog post to boot. So, not a bad afternoon after all. Very nice. I go and meet my husband and tell him all about it. He nods sagely. “You see, that’s the problem. Hiding in a place like that just isolates you and attracts…well, like minded people.”

“Are you calling me a creep?”

“No, I’m just saying you’re making it easier for them. You should go to the cafe (in the library) where there are lots of people. There’s safety in numbers.”

I’m unsure. The same thing will happen. The sticker will still appear on my forehead whether there’s one person or a hundred. But it might give me something to write about. So perhaps I should welcome it and then it will go away. Sod’s Law.

Yes, he’s right. I should just go the cafe next week….


I never did get to see his face. I wonder what he looked like?

I blame Oliver Reed. Since Oliver Reed’s Cock went up, things just haven’t been the same.

Oliver Reed’s Cock

Pensive, not penis

Today, I woke up and I’m lying there and all I could think about was Oliver Reed‘s cock. So I thought, sod this. I should get up and stop thinking about Oliver Reed’s cock.

Now I wasn’t thinking about it for cock’s sake, I was thinking about it for good reason. The reason being, ‘What was the tattoo on Ollie Reed’s cock? Was it a tiger? A bird? What? He got it out enough times, so somebody should know.

I had to stop myself from googling ‘Oliver Reed’s Cock’ this morning. I mean, it’s like I’ve got nothing else to worry about. I do have loads to worry about but why worry about bills and stuff when you can worry about Ollie Reeds cock.

So, I remember that he had a bird tattoo somewhere on his body and then that would be his perfect opportunity to whip out said cock and then say, ‘and this is where the bird perches.’ But what would he have tattooed there, just so he could say that?

So, maybe I just made that up, or dreamt it, as a reason, to get out Oliver Reed’s cock.

Problem is, I’m still thinking about it.

I guess it’s just one of those days where you wake up thinking about Oliver Reed’s cock. I think Oliver Reed’s cock will run right through the day, like the word ‘Blackpool’ in a stick of rock.

Have I said ‘Oliver Reed’s Cock’ enough times?

I refuse to look, to take a peek, at Oliver Reed’s cock. I’m not doing it. I’m not googling it. It was sad enough that I woke up thinking about Oliver Reed’s cock. I absolutely don’t want to sink as low as typing in ‘Oliver Reed’s cock.’

Could someone do it for me please? How can that be less embarrassing than blogging all about his cock I wonder? But then I can just pretend it was passive information gleaned from a well meaning reader.

But you see, I have asked. Asking is just as sad isn’t it? More so. It’s not passive. It’s requested.

Another Oliver (the Charles Dickens one) requested more food. ‘Can I have more please sir?’ And that was seen as begging. Requesting is a bit like begging.

So, it’s like begging really. Begging for Oliver Reed’s cock.

I wonder how many hours I can go without putting Oliver Reeds cock into my google box?

These things in my head are such a nuisance.

I’ve not long read a book about Ollie. I found it enjoyable, entertaining, deeply informative and it probably inspired this post, and yes, it does talk about ‘The Tattoo’ but I’ve had a few sleeps since then and can’t remember the details.

Here’s the link, ‘What Fresh Lunacy Is This?’ by Robert Sellers