I just have to include this shopping list of Billie Holiday‘s. Yes, we’re still harping on about the legendary blues singer. Don’t fret, it’ll be all out of the system in a day or two. Now, as far as I’m concerned, all shopping lists are interesting, but the one I’m about to present, just happens to be Billie Holiday’s.
Post punk singer and highly talented musician Kirk Brandon, front man of Theatre Of Hate, Spear Of Destiny and Dead Men Walking, autographed one of my shopping lists, I had nothing else handy and even he appreciated another person’s shopping list. He apparently made a favourable, jokey comment about the last things on the list, beer and vodka. You see, everybody loves everyone else’s shopping lists, and in this case, it was also a good talking point when looking for something to say to a legend. Although, I never spoke to him, I sent my husband to do the deed because I was too shy/chicken shit, whatever. I’ve since lost the treasured autograph, never knew what happened to it. I never have anything disappear in my life, hoarders simply don’t allow things like that to happen, and yet, it just disappeared off the face of the earth. I haven’t seen it for fifteen years and I’ve moved house three times since then. How much do you want to bet that it’s gone forever ? Incidentally, the autograph from Paul Rutherford, of Frankie Goes To Hollywood fame, who was in the audience, at the time, also went missing. Oh he’s a lovely man. He signed his autograph for me twice. I sent my husband to him, the first time, in the venue, and then later on, I approached him to get an autograph for my friend, who was also a big FGTH fan. Twenty years had passed since FGTH had been in the charts, yet we were both still loyal fans. In fact, that’s how we met, through that common denominator. So, I approached Paul Rutherford as he was leaving the venue, alone, late at night, walking down an alleyway. The poor man just wanted to get away, as you can imagine. I actually had the balls to approach him the second time because I was getting the autograph for my friend and not for me. It’s easier that way isn’t it? Granted, he did look a bit scared but he was brilliant. Calm, cool, yet friendly, like someone trying to humour a serial killer. It looks like I’m dropping names now, but if I do name drop, it’ll be because the people in question deserve it, because they’re nice people.
I don’t drink vodka any more and I didn’t really drink it then. A light beer or two still slips down easily enough. But yes, bad stuff vodka. I don’t recommend it. Slippery slope.
I’m in danger of becoming some kind of taller, female, non Scottish version of Ronnie Corbett, during his armchair monologues, so I will just get on with it. Get on with it! I’ve built up the shopping list. Drum roll. Now, let’s enjoy. Here goes, Billie Holiday’s shopping list;
I can just imagine Billie cracking open those eggs and putting in those light bulbs.
So next time you’re out and about, scour the floor, or a lone shopping trolley or the inside of a library book and you might just find gold. Don’t tell me you don’t do it. Who can resist ? It’s a bit like a car crash. Not as nasty as a bum cleavage but even nicer than an septuagenarian’s long lithe tanned legs in shorts.
Oh, there it is, you’ve seen the shopping list, it’s a bit crumpled, a bit sweaty, ‘cos it’s been in somebody’s clammy little hand in a busy supermarket. Maybe it’s folded up once, twice, or just a bit scrunchy. It doesn’t matter, you swipe it with your trembling hand and begin to read. And here is where it gets interesting…
Is it written in pencil, soft or hard? Or biro? Then, in that case, what colour is it: blue, black, red? ‘cos people are sick enough to experiment. So many combinations..and it says so much about the shopping list writer. You will get valuable insight into their psych right there. It speaks volumes. They may as well have just taken off all of their clothes in front of you and bent over.
Coffee, Bananas, Chocolate, Cereal
Really? Okay, fairly innocuous, fairly normal shopping list. Fairly sane. Sounds like a decent law abiding person. I mean who doesn’t need coffee and chocolate now and again, and the potassium in those bananas! You’ve got to have it haven’t you? It’s good for you. Sensible, normal, non perverted person. So, what else, what else did this person want to buy today…
Now, at this point, would you stop reading? I can’t imagine you stopping now, What? Half way through? Surely you have a spare twenty seconds to read the rest of the shopping list? It’s not like you’re Bill Gates or Richard Branson. It’s not like you’re a high powered business man juggling a dozen companies at the same time. Even if you are, you’re on your lunch break and lunch breaks last two hours for the really big ball breakers. So, with this in mind, you read on…
Now do they mean two peanuts? Of course they don’t. They obviously mean two packets of nuts, or they could mean two six packs. but what type, what anally messy person would just write nuts (2)
Now you’re intrigued. What other brain teasers do you have for me? How does your mind work? Are you a sicko or just a normal person? I’ll read on.
Sicko! A small ‘g’, when capitals have been the norm throughout? And why have you started writing in capitals halfway through the word? You mad pixie.
Half pound lucheon meat
You’ve got to be kidding me. And where’s the N? And why luncheon meat? I mean who does that? Why half a pound? Any sane person would just buy a quarter, wouldn’t they, wouldn’t they? (screaming now) Are you some kind of serial killer? What’s next on your list? I’m scared to read now. You’ve actually made me scared.
Big black dild
And that’s when you scrunch it up and realise it was one of your old girlfriends/boyfriends/partners/flatmates shopping list. The one you couldn’t get rid of, felt hopelessly trapped by and you still get beads of sweat breaking out between your shoulder blades at the thought that they might actually live on the same continent as you.
But wait there’s something else…P.T.O and that P.T.O has gone from red serial killer’s biro to green biro. I mean, have you ever seen a strangers shopping list written in green ink? I have and it’s not pretty.
So anyway, you turn it over and there’s nothing there. So why did they say P.T.O ?
Why are they playing with your mind? Do they have an agenda? Is this a conspiracy?
Have you found any interesting shopping lists lately? Send me your favourites at A Voyeurs Guide To Shopping Lists, Strange Fetishes Limited, Blackpool. Lancashire. A prize will go to the person who finds the most interesting shopping list.
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.
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.
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 neverever 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.
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,’
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 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.
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.