So there am I, living a life of musical isolation in a desolate part of Buckinghamshire's aesthetic mortuary of a county town. Most of my friends have grown old beyond their facial hair, and defend their middle-of-the-road taste with mocking disinterest as I shake the earwax from their tongues and cobwebs from their groins with an obscenely loud copy of Me & The Major, whilst tapping my foot to the music and causing the car to pulsingly spurt into more and more rapid movement. But to no avail. None of them are turned on by the poetry, the beauty. Yet there is one. One last ray of hope - a friend who is younger and more adventurous than the rest. A friend who sometimes accuses me of the same disinterest in her music that my older friends have in mine. Whilst I edge daily towards middle age, she runs fast in the opposite direction. One day I'll catch her, and then I'll run that way too. But she's away; in the good old US of A, chasing a dream. She'll be back in time for the London gig, but will she want to go? Will she be free to go? I tussle with the idea of buying a pair of tickets anyway, just in case, but a freak accident that sees me going mad on a scooter round the back roads of Rome prevents me being able to order them. But now she's back. She'd love to go. I try to order, but too late. My soul is gone, torn from my body by the fiendish vampire at the other end of the line. Just two words, and my euphoria turns to anguish. Just two words. "Sold Out." So I turn to my last resort, to those hundreds of friends that I don't even know. Not in the real word, but only by words, only by thoughts. But what are we, if we're not a collection of thoughts. And those thoughts are so rich, so varied, so kind, that I know I can call you all my friends. And so I beg to you, plead to you, offer you sexual favours that you won't want when you see me, and generally prostrate myself before you. Please, for all that is good, for all that is bad, and for all that is sinister, if anyone has two tickets for the London gig that they no longer need, please consider the despair of one of your closest, yet most distant friends. That's me, in case you didn't get it. Mail me. Name your price. But don't be greedy - I'm your friend, and she's but a student. Your reward will come in the life after this; a life in the fur of a big white dog, where the rivers flow with tigermilk and St. Lucy stands at the gate to welcome you in. And school dinners are permanently available. Unless you'd prefer a packed lunch. Xav -- xav@compsoc.man.ac.uk http://www.compsoc.man.ac.uk/~xav "It hath whirred into life" +----------------------------------------------------------------------+ +---+ Brought to you by the Sinister mailing list +---+ To send to the list please mail "sinister@majordomo.net". To unsubscribe send "unsubscribe sinister" or "unsubscribe sinister-digest" to "majordomo@majordomo.net". For list archives and searching, list rules, FAQ, poor jokes etc, see http://www.majordomo.net/sinister +---+ Nee, nee mun pish, chan pai dee kwa +---+ +----------------------------------------------------------------------+