Sinister: The cry of The Fly: Help Me...

[Mark Crutch]

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 at compsoc.man.ac.uk
http://www.compsoc.man.ac.uk/~xav
"It hath whirred into life"
 
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