Thursday, 3 September 2009

Shopping for girls

Friends and allies,

If there’s something I hate it’s that way that vomit has of rebounding onto the concrete and returning like a bloody boomerang onto your shoes. Not that they were new shoes, mind you – I needed to buy a fresh pair anyway. But the fact that destiny should remind me with the tidal wave method was a little jarring.

I understand that that’s a bit of a drab opening (“ooh look at me, I got drunk the other day, I’m like, so cool!”), especially considering I haven’t put a word in a blog since Matusalem’s grandfather was conceived, but I’m afraid it was the necessary prologue – both to my writing, and to its subject. You see, I underwent a revelation. An epiphany, if you like. One of those things in which you stare absently at a light bulb for an hour until eventually some bird comes pecking on one of your nuts and you suddenly figure out ‘Oh my God, that hurts like hell’ and finally wake up to send the bird away. Imagine what that must be like. That’s the kind of thing you wouldn’t expect to have happened even to Christ while he was on the cross, and yet we all undergo some major revelation at some stage in our lives which allows for the woodpeckers or robins or whatever comes by to hit a trance rhythm on our balls.

I’m sure your expectations by now have mounted as high as my aforementioned vomit in my throat, so before they fall back down to the ground (again like my aforementioned…), here’s the meat and the potato: I have understood what shopping is like for girls! I had to tour a couple of stores to find some new shoes, and I’ve comprehended what this activity means for the ladies. It’s basically like clubbing in the day-time. You walk into the shop and you’re sledge-hammered in the face by some blaring grunge music which always reminds me of a lorry crashing into a small house and breaking it down, there’s bodyguards outside and a crowd inside that runs like they were in the Pamplona bull race, God knows what for. If you’ve seen the film Platoon, then it’s just like that: an Indochinese warfare for the friggin’ shoe-shelves, charges and digging trenches, people weeping in a corner, huddled up and screaming “I can’t take it! I can’t take it!” and mortars covering the perfume sections… something. Got carried away a little.

Now that you’ve finally resolved this question of incredible interest to you about the fact that I’ve got new shoes, we can talk about something more interesting – like the weather. Well it’s been a couple of degrees short of the ice age over here and I can barely walk at night, let alone falter, the grass-fields outside in the morning are as white as Hillary Clinton’s ass after she’s rubbed it with sour cream (that was the worst analogy I’ve ever used), and I’m working like a bitch night and day. I was reading Tennyson’s Maud the other day and tonight I went to see a live poetry event which was dominated by a beat poetry hip hop guy who looked like he didn’t have the strength to inject enough cocaine into his dick to stand up straight (I mean him, not the dick). As far as lowering one’s standards goes, that’s got to be up there with Tom Cruise going from banging Nicole Kidman to eating the placenta of that black-haired goat-resembling girl he’s shagging now (or whatever else he’s done in the gross cultic bullshit he undergoes with his fellow priests – was it something like showering with the amniotic fluid? I’m not even joking. But whatever).

One of the links that led me to writing on this site has been sports, so I thought I may say a couple of words about that. Unfortunately, this conjuncture catches me with all the good timing of a Kamikaze pilot crashing on his own fishing boat on the day that his father is testing the new nets. I follow football, where by football I mean what yanks bizarrely call ‘soccer’ like it’s a sport for people who get socked (the only other etymological link I can find between the two has to do with socks, and I’m passing on that. To my knowledge footballers never did wear kinds of socks so peculiar and distinctive that their entire sport would come to be identified by that name. By this logic we might call the sport of Swimming ‘Bermudas’ because people used to wear Bermudas back then. ‘Hey look, Michael Phelps just won eight gold medals in Bermudas, his mother must be so proud.’). Anyway, going back to the pre-parenthesis oratory, I was saying that this is a severely difficult time for me to speak of football because of the current state of AS Roma, the squad I support in Serie A. The team’s form lately has been less that of a football team and more that of eleven sacks of shit thrown randomly onto the field and expected to run and shoot together like it had been implanted in their DNA. Every time I see them play this year it reminds me of a battle I saw once in a documentary where a band of chimps repelled the onslaught of a solitary camera-man by storming him with cannon-balls of turd. In this case the role of the camera-man is mine and Roma represent the party throwing shit at me for watching. As someone else once said, I would rather fuck the Queen of England than write about how we have been doing in that sport, so I think I’m going to close this dissertation here before it pisses me off.

Oi, begorrah! Onwards ye masses!

ACKNOWLEDGMENT: Debt is owed to Max Tyler for some of the material in the first paragraphs of this entry!

No comments: