middle class misery

main-qimg-b3a8480d10890924066486c854d1b3eeeveryday, a lower middle class woman by the name of betty proctor wedges herself into a clean well maintained blue ford fiesta and heads over to a big barren carpark overlooking the coast. galvanised by an easy listening radio station, she sobs buckets when songs like ‘feelings’ or ‘i’ve never been to me’ are on the disc jockey’s menu. if she’s lucky, people in other cars cop her crying her tits off, and gently knock on her window to check she’s okay. she loves that.

and she is okay…there’s nothing tragic going on in her life at all. it’s all pure indulgence… when the finely crafted chintzy love songs give rise to betty’s cliched emotions, it makes her feel like a woman of substance…

one other thing that makes her feel like a woman of the world is the manner in which her husband flew the nest… he’s only a few miles down the road living with another man now, but he hasn’t turned homosexual or anything untoward, it’s just he found this one particular bloke to be a great tonic.. a funny entertaining character… sort of like kenneth williams or dick emery… everyone in bournemouth thinks they’re practicing sodomites, but they’re not.. they definitely don’t bugger each other or sleep together or anything.. but betty prefers to feel repulsed and short changed by love, when in fact the poor man simply gravitated to where the laughter was.

oftentimes she treats herself to tea and scones in a little establishment with a good view over the coastline… other widows, spinsters and barren knickered miserabilists are attracted to the clean wee cafe, and betty, in a fake surreptitious way loves taking the tablets her doctor placebo’d in full view of them all… she feels it gives her emotional depth, yet no living specimen was more shallow.

in the cold cafe toilet mirror, betty proctor practices her subtle nuanced stiff upper lip. when reappearing through the restroom door, she channels margaret thatcher leaving 10 downing street for the last time. solitary..brave…..lonely and alone…

at night she eases down on a bed heated by a pifco electric blanket to dream of screaming ambulances racing to her special needs, but she wakes at dawn as fit as a fiddle, and prepares with quiet relish for another session in the barren car park by the seafront.

on a meagre budget..with absolutely zero going on in her life, betty proctor is as happy as a pig in shit… misery can be pure succulence within these safe lower middle class confines.

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amazing trade

30DF599400000578-0-image-a-159_1454604871374.jpgon a quiet rural railway station, on one of two back to back platforms, a dear old lady overheard a private conversation between two edgy urban homosexuals wafting over from the other side, and nearly died of heart failure..

a part of me is yelling to run for the hills, but i just don’t want to.. i can’t get enough of him. he’s amazing trade, although to be honest sandra, it’s rarely in a fookin bed. he slams me up against walls, pushes me up against railings, throws me on kitchen tables where i end up wearing me ankles for earrings… it destroys furniture and blows away the day when there’s a million other things that need tending.. when he’s drunk it gets quite scary, but kind of thrilling at the same time? …it’s like he becomes twice his size.. his voice heavies up and everything ..it’s bloody marvellous sandra…. he says i egg him on.. well maybe i do… but life is so dull these days..  it pisses some much needed cold lime into my flat warm lager.. he keeps telling me he’s straight and i do believe him. he’s bound to leave, so why not enjoy the cunt while i can.

sandra,( real name simon) replied …

oh i agree luv….. as you know, i’ve had the exact same thing happen to me on numerous occasions… it’ll happen again too i’m sure…loads of lazy straight fellas who’d fuck a cracked plate if it meant someone else was there to throw their knickers in the washing machine for them. enjoy it while it lasts luv…… awwwwwwww bless….. he sounds gorgeous doris (real name david)

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homeless gay man

3000a popular misconception is gays are all flushed with pink pounds and disposable income, but only last week gerard came across a vaguely handsome destitute man on the charing cross road and twigged it was his first love, a thickly set ginger haired doll called finbar, who used to help gerard with his unfinished homework, or rescue him from bullies spoiling for a ding dong in school playgrounds back home in donegal.

finbar felt intensely embarrassed when their eyes locked in on the busy london drag. he attempted walking past, but it was too much, and both men felt compelled to turn around for a double take at one another.

after sixty seconds of gushing emotion there on the pavement, gerard haled a black cab and without question took finbar back to an awfully twee apartment on brick lane with a spare room, and immediately ran a hot bath. he felt like doris day making him supper while finbar languished in his first proper bath for months.

gerard got dangerously drunk on the milk of human kindness, and for less than a week selflessly nursed finbar back into looking and feeling human again, but it didn’t take long for the busy queen to come up against his own self serving conceits…within days finbar’s intrusion began to get on gerard’s petty little disco tits, and every grain of superficial saintliness began to flake way at an extraordinary speed…

in an effort to kill off his own guilt, gerard offered finbar three hundred pounds in a neatly folded wad of twenties, but finbar being the wilful complex man he always was, refused it and walked away into the cold winter morning.

for years gerard stayed away from london’s west end unable cope with another accidental encounter, but he had learned a dark truth about himself, and as much as he tries to push that drama to the back of the mind, it’s forever there to chew on… no bad thing really.

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what holidays reveal to lovers

airplaneshane clancy learned the hard way that holidays have the power to make or break a home. seven years ago he woke up in a big soft hotel bed with his wife gone. he freaked out for around five hours and then slowly realised all was well again with the world. they’d both been given their lives back. neither were bad people, it’s just it took those grim holidays to hold a mirror up to their uncomplimentary differences. one wanted to do one thing while the other usually wanted to something else, and the endless tug and pull had them both loose sight of the thing that drew them together in the first place back in ireland

nice hotels in warm places unlock the mind..we reveal ourselves to one another. if we’ve changed, the holiday will make it apparent.. our daily grind of work gets lifted away. free time turns out to be either a thriller or a killer. one or both forget who they are. it’s either a disruptive or wonderful feeling. when things that define you like houses or careers aren’t there to frame you down, all hell or heaven can break loose.

all of this was shane clancy’s hard earned wisdom, which he intended to make the most of with marie costello from galway… he’s aware familiarity could eat them alive so he put in place a fun strategy for both of them to stay fresh with each other for as long as possible.

the first hoot was travelling separately on different airlines..both booking into independent rooms in different hotels within walking distance of one other… both wore clothes neither of them had seen each other in before.. shane even cut his hair extra short and grew stubble…. his girlfriend marie enjoyed playing out a less passive role that’d been forever imposed upon her by life in work far beneath her skills, and on the second day into their arrival she ambled down towards her lover’s poolside bar exuding the charisma of a feline predator. marie made her presence visibly known to shane, but was in no rush to acknowledge him…she conversed with the barman and two girls her own age for a good hour before getting into anything with her man.. this was wild fun for shane who enjoyed relinquishing all his professional authority for a change. marie was in control all the way back to her hotel room where she trussed shane’s wrists high above his head to an ultramodern four poster bed at various hours throughout the night. she kept the curtains over the floor to ceiling window glass wide open, and for longest time his naked limbs ached as he looked straight down from the 11th floor over the city’s neon crown.

they weren’t so hammy as to pretend to not know each other, but the cute trick definitely placed both under playful lighting, as marie sat in an armchair drinking tumblers of scotch, talking to her good looking boyfriend on full display about things they don’t normally get into. it wasn’t stupid sexy talk, although it was profoundly horny bouncing off one another in this unorthodox fashion.. they got on like houses on fire talking and horning till the sun came up.. marie eventually untied shane and he collapsed on the bed and slept all day while marie went off to do her own thing. there was no freaking out over hum drum rubbish like airports or schedules or tourism… they did not of that tripe on these holidays. in restaurants, shane would curiously order vegetarian food for himself. marie playfully responded to this by gorging on bloody steaks, and when they regrouped back home in ireland, their future was on good forthright fun loving ground. friendship became the glue rather than any sticky twisted notions of love.

shane and marie never did get married, and five years later, on one final hoorah in manhattan, both acknowledged things had ran a natural course. they moved on in a decent civilised way …unlike how angry lovers never do.

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government issued selfie sticks

dads-everywhere-cant-get-enough-of-their-new-selfie-sticks-jpgeven the most pug ugly of brits have become addicted to the act of taking constant selfies. after a lifetime of feeling invisible, grown men and woman can’t deny themselves the false lunchtime stardom of facebook or instagram.. everywhere they go they upload evidence of their amazing lives for the approval of virtual friends in the same town or faraway land.

many of these silver haired narcissists cause deadly accidents on busy roads pausing mid traffic to catch yet another special moment, but the strangest thing was when conspicuous numbers of oldsters ended up with frozen shoulder from repeatedly holding up iPhones way above eye level for that most anti ageing of angles.

a frozen shoulder is a terrible nightmare, where simple things like pulling on a winter cardigan can be searingly painful. the whole scenario was costing our NHS a fortune on physiotherapy. big chunks of fully employed citizens were taking crucial time off work to heal, but theresa may, our generous prime minister had a brainwave and immediately  issued free selfie sticks to the infirm. over a matter of months this remedied our collective frozen shoulder, taking stress off regional health services, while breathing new life into the sheffield steel industry with sudden demand for decent long lasting selfie sticks…

and everybody lived happily ever after.

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the wedding

sticks-and-stones-anniversary_via-rock-n-roll-bride-10-640x997nobody but jeremy himself liked uncle alfie.. but there he was sitting in the front row along with all his other brothers and their second third and forth wives much younger than themselves..english tarts wearing those daft fascinator things on top of piled up processed hair. uncle alfie sat squeezing the life out of his wife’s arthritic hand, who he’d fallen for at junior school around seventy years ago…she knew why he was tense, but bit his ear off anyway just to make him relax.

from the corner of his eye, jeremy caught his aunty elsie reprimanding uncle alfie and relished it. he modelled himself on his uncle, and looked forward to the inevitable life lesson he and harriet would receive on a manicured hotel lawn, later on after the grub.

jeremy and his dear heart harriet were having a moment alone on a frilly ugly garden bench in the sunshine, waiting for uncle alfie, while everyone inside was getting drunk and vomiting as a means of coping with the awful atmosphere hanging over two unmixable mediocre families… ‘come on eileen’ by dexy’s midnight runners wafted through skinny diseased poplar trees along with a load of other predictable golden oldies, occasionally intercepted by the fake suntan voice of an ageing disc jockey earning his fee.

much to jeremy’s delight, alfie and elsie magically appeared out of nowhere

the reason why we’ve been together for so long is because we argue… my boney old wife here is constant earache, and i’m forever getting things off my hairless chest too.. it keeps our blood pressure down…unlike your pink fat flabby father and mother, our hearts are in perfect working order because of it.  thing is jeremy… husbands and wives who don’t argue are either dead in the water, or about to implode. me and elsie are alive and kicking in our eighties with tongues as sharp as knives.. we’re not blunt with each other…we slice straight to the heart of things…all our arguing has exercised us in the art of english language…you can read as many books as you like, but the best way to get your head around words is to spit them out and make sure whoever needs to be listening is listening. this world is full of cunts..just look at those drunks inside that hideous hotel…who picked this popsicle stand anyway…..

at that point jeremy’s freshly wedded wife harriet got up crying, threw her freshly wedded husband down on the grass, placed her high heal shoe over his throat, and told him in no uncertain terms that if he ever spoke to her in the tone of his uncle, she would  FUCK HIM UP… for once in his life,  uncle alfie was speechless ……

what works for some folk, won’t necessarily work for others.

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the golden age of conversation

club2when mister trump became what he became, pundits predicted a spunky new counter culture that would breath fresh life into the dead genre of rock and roll, trail-blazed by a stick thin million dollar protest singer… herds of fluffy tops and long hair..  lots of tuning in turning on and dropping out, but they were wrong…. music by now was overwhelmed by too many other things to get a foothold in people’s minds the way it once did… pop life had overdosed on it’s own party tricks, and the frenetic clicking around on hand held devices meant no one really invested the time in any one artist the way they once had when living was limited and less sophisticated…indeed most fame suckers tasted dull and underwhelming compared to the handful of unhinged film makers and conceptual artists,who were the only ones in modern media capable of puncturing the skin of punters. people continued dancing but word was finally out that computers had been pretty much self generating the rhythm and noise for sometime. software became the superstar of the ballrooms.

however, there was one pure base art form that trumped the lot, and that was the ancient pagan act of conversation. by design it is permanently interactive, real time, and above, all it cannot be bottled.. it flies in the face of commerce cause there’s no blockbuster way of making money out of it… it lives in the moment over coffee beer and muffins.

so then as we sailed close to the end of that president’s never ending three month tenure, we looked back on crowded kitchens and evening verandas where citizens of the world did nothing but talk to one another. it was the only respite from the gadgets we held in our hands that only made us anxious. in company we came offline before mindlessly going back on again when alone.. in each others presence we spoke of many things.. exploring unexplored ideas..anything to make us laugh or connect… something sacred we didn’t have to pay for.. those who couldn’t or wouldn’t talk were deemed square, and the young children who keenly listening in, were hothoused in a way previous generations were not, therefor a decent future president was highly likely.. someone with soft power… a wonder mensch who we could all buy into, encouraging us to leave down our shopping lists and make do when the belt was pulled in tight for the taxing ice age that followed, before a new dawn where all things toxic were finally filtered out. around 2073 humans finally became the elegant freewheelin species they never promised to be. it was a seriously glamrock year.

how great for those who lived to witness that amazing new phase in time, but alas that was for our children’s children’s children.

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