the bar looks familiar, though i've never been here before. there's a pair of plywood saloon doors to my left and, from within, i can hear the opening chords of "jolene". i regret not bringing a stetson, and catch a glimpse of myself in the reflection of a beer ad. far too neat. i set about dishevelling myself, and take a step inside. i'm here to meet an old friend. someone i haven't seen for a couple of years. i'm nervous. i walk into a pillar. a man passes and feels my arse. i'm about to shout out my customary response - "fifty quid and a bag of maltesers" - but i get the feeling i recognise him, and follow him through into the saloon. i can see him sitting at a long chrome table, laughing loudly and ostentatiously waving a cigarette. and i can see who he's with. i tell myself there's no point in backing out now. i'll go and talk. my friend...my old friend...how i've missed you. no...can't do it - "barman, a bottle of tequila". the man who serves me frowns a little and hands me a lemonade..."just the one, mind". i open my mouth to protest but he's already gone and like so many men in the past he leaves me with my jaw slack and nothing to say. i sip the carbonated saccharin bubbles through the plastic straw provided and decide to make my move... i shuffle across the bar, regretting my blatant attempt to grab attention by wearing only a basque and a rafia table mat. i wish i had a nice duffle coat with a big hood that i could tuck myself inside... <ahem> my friend is alone now, but does not turn round. instead, our eyes meet in the glare of fluorescent light on an empty whisky bottle. i stare for a moment at the pleasingly adrogynous face, and attempt a smile, and the sinister list turns to greet me. coldly: "so....what brings you back here?" "i missed you. i never meant to go like that, without saying goodbye, i...i..." "you just didn't have time for me any more...yes, i know. so many other people left me the same way. i thought YOU might be different." .......... .......... "err....lemonade?". those beautiful, ever-moving lips rearrange themselves into a semblance of a smile. the list takes the glass from me - "i'd prefer a tequila, but thank you"..."oh, and sit down, and stop shuffling your feet, and fold your hands" "fold my hands?" "just do it" i take my place next to the list on a wobbly bar stool. we talk of old times. of cabbages and kings. i ask if it still owns the parrot, if it looked after the pterodactyl i once made, if it remembers the time we ran gaily along the streets of selly oak together. it tells me i've put on weight, says i'm too old to have started smoking and says it has managed just fine without me, there are always new friends to be made. it starts to explain what it ate for breakfast this morning, about the really cute guy that works behind the counter of the local independent record shop and oh isn't he lovely and.. just as i'm drifting off, it says: "Love is where you find it. I think it is foolish to go looking for it, and I think it can often be poisonous. I wish that people who are conventionally supposed to love each other would say to each other, when they fight, 'Please - a little less love, and a little more common decency'" and i remember why i came back to find it. nobody talks to me like this any more. "another drink?" it nods, and again i walk over to the bar, this time obtaining an economy-sized bottle of jose cuervo from an obliging bloke in purple trousers. i open the lid and take a deep breath of the fumes and, for the first time, hear the song on the jukebox. one of my favourites: i remember a time when you told me love is touching souls surely you touched mine.. i look across at the duffel-coat, corduroy flared man-woman-list in the corner. did it touch my soul? yes, in a strange sort of way, there's no denying it did. i re-take my seat, whisper the words "i love you" so quietly that nobody but the ghosts in my mind can hear it, and hand over the bottle. the list doesn't reply. nobody ever replies to those three little words when you most want them to. i light a cigarette, then put it out. i'm to old to start smoking. ian ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Tomorrow will bring happiness Or, at least, another day Phil Ochs ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ oh, just a quick ps. that will totally ruin (or maybe improve?) the ending of that mail, but stuart gardiner said: * Andthe second was a sixty-something barman at the Sports Hall bar who asked *what an Arab Strap was. I said I didn't know. Well, you'd have done the *same, wouldn't you? actually no, i'd take great delight in shouting "its a COCK-RING". but perhaps that isn't something i should be proud of. buy me a drink, sinister list, and i'll give you a pack of cheap fags +-------------------------------------------------------------------------+ +---+ Brought to you by the Sinister mailing list +---+ To send to the list mail sinister@missprint.org. To unsubscribe send "unsubscribe sinister" or "unsubscribe sinister-digest" to majordomo@missprint.org. WWW: http://www.missprint.org/sinister +-+ "sinsietr is a bit freaky" - stuart david, looper +-+ +-+ "legion of bedroom saddo devotees" "peculiarly deranged fanbase" +-+ +-+ "pasty-faced vegan geeks... and we LOST!" - NME April 2000 +-+ +-+ "frighteningly named Sinister List organisation" - NME May 2000 +-+ +-+ "sick posse of f**ked in the head psycho-fans" - NME June 2001 +-+ +-+ Nee, nee mun pish, chan pai dee kwa +-+ +-------------------------------------------------------------------------+