I was up in
London for the evening last evening evening evening (it's only
12:41 and I'm drinking). The last fucking fuck fuck train back
was at 23:02 the fucks. How the fuck fuck am I supposed to rock
and roll in our nation's capital if I have to be at the fucking
station by 11. And then of course, on arriving at my evenings
entertainment, I find out that I could have spent all day hangin
there rockin out to gamelan. It's a drum-esque thing, apparently;
all I know about it is a friend of a friend who did it. This
friend of a fried fired friend I thought I wouldn't dig cos I was
told "she's so cool; you'll really like her"; but it
turned out that she and her hubby really were cool, and I really
did like them. I guess I don't know myself. So I was pissed cos I
could have been rockin out to gamelan, whatever that may be.
Anyhoo I don't wanna talk about what might have been, I'd rather
talk about what might have been. Join me on the next line for an
explanation.
On the tube
there was an old man, clean-shaven, yet dishevelled: hole-ridden
trousers and jacket, three grubby t-shirts, me in 40 years.
"Fair nuff," I hear you cry (I want to cry, but I'm too
busty drinking), "old dishevelled men are a dozen dime bars
per 50c where I come from." And I would reply "Fair
nuff, but do they have their flies undone, and move from carriage
from carriage sitting two seats down from attractive women?"
And you would reply "Yes." And I would reply "Well
fuck off and leave me alone, and stop bothering me with your
petty attempts at one-upmanship, or just settle down and put up
with the rest of this, until it gets better tomorrow." (I
have no ideas yet, but I'll go to bed early, and purposely not
sleep just for you. Ok?) So anyway, back to this old man. Who was
he? What were his motives? I lose interest very quickly when
drinking. You do it. You think about it. He was not reeking of
alcohol, he was clean-shaven, yet dishevelled (I think I said
that already), his flies were undone, but if it weren't for his
wandering from carriage to carriage (did I mention that?) then I
would have presumed it was either a broken zip, or him having
higher priorities like food and shelter. Perhaps he's an
eccentric millionaire who likes to dress up like a homeless
person and sit near attractive women with his flies undone, but
not so close that he has to give away much-loved money in a
costly lawsuit. perhaps he's a freedom-fighter, superhero, CIA
operative, or drunk, tired and bored pseudo-hippy with a love of
rockin rollin heavy fuckin music. Perhaps he is someone famous,
either before or after my time, or just not in the Eddie's jam
category. There's a film of Huck Finn, Reverend, in 20 minutes,
and someone has just come online to chat. (You know who you are,
don't you? You're too fucking happy). So how to waste space?
I'm wasting space.
I'm wasting space.
It gets better. I keep saying that, but from time to time it does, doesn't it?