Sinister: a quiet night at the Ian's Head

[ian]

here on my own now, after hours..

the pub is empty.  i like it that way.  the only light comes from the
blinking of the cash register and a small row of fairy lights strung behind
the optics.  the juke-box has stopped playing and i am savouring the
silence.  it nuzzles up to me, curling its presence around me - an old
friend, rarely encountered, sorely missed.

they don't make pubs like this any more.  in fact, they never have.  the
Ian's Head is a curious place to be.  usually, it is a haven for the flotsam
forgotten by time.  you'll see various people you recognise, and many that
you feel you know, vaguely, from some guess at an existence that never quite
materialised.
there's a special seat in the corner for charles aznavour.  he only visits
occasionally, but everyone knows him by name, and he never has to buy his
own drink.  cole porter pops in from time to time.  visit on karaoke night,
and you'll catch him singing "under my skin".  but only when he's finished
chatting with hermann hesse.
these are the quieter nights.  on the busy ones, three legged ostriches
jostle for position at the bar with hare krishna devotees.  the buddha gives
an audience at the long central table, surrounded by prophets; priests and
prostitutes from all the ages.  he never says anything, and they never
listen - that's the way they all like it.  huge parties of office workers
pour in, dancing to whatever songs play in their respective heads, all
joining together in a final horrific cacophany.

not tonight.  the Ian's Head is closed for business.  i sit, sipping an
orange juice and staring at the string of flashes - green, purple, hexagon,
yellow, as they light up one spirit bottle after another, and i try to
forget about the ghosts that haunt every room.

i'm escaping.
you see, last night, i was visited by an angel.
yeah, yeah, i know.  how very billy graham.
but this angel didn't have a special message for me.  he didn't want to
share the secret of existence, or make me live a righteous life.  he wanted
to eat my chocolate and surf the internet for porn.
-------------------------------------------------

saint peter turned up about half-past-six.  i've just got home from work and
am preparing to relax with "take it like a man 4 - uncut and extra-long"
when i hear a cough from the sofa next to me.

a coughing sofa, how odd....
he smiles. he's come as an old-testament prophet.  you know the sort - eyes,
hair, staff..   the shock of finding such a creature next to one on the sofa
whilst one is in the middle of fondling one's special secretness is enough
to falter the hardiest of fucknuggets.

"oh, don't mind me.  where are the maltesers?"

i put my special wand of wonder back where it is nice and polite to have it
and ask him to use the doorbell next time.

"but i'm an angel, we don't need to"

"no, you don't need to.  but its considered polite not to interrupt a person
when they're....when they're......"

"when they're fantasising about four-way-sex with a blonde-youth, a saint
bernard and a jar of horlicks powder?" he doesn't wait for my reply...
"sorry, couldn't make friday, so i decided to come early".  he looks down at
my wilting pride and joy - "bet you wish you'd done the same"

i remind myself that smashing a Minister of God over the head with my
bagpuss glass probably isn't a very good idea.  it might get broken.

"were you this rude to mary?"

he looks at me quizzically.

"you know, mary, mother of jesus?"

remains blank for a minute, and then realisation sets in "oh, HER... sorry,
not really my department, that one.  the witches and the catholics tend to
make more fuss about her and, personally, i tend towards being C of E......
anyway, no, that wasn't me....... that was gabriel.  and HE'D have been more
likely to join in... ya know, they say she was a virgin when he arrived....
they say nothing about when he left.."

i resolve, mentally, to check this allegation should i ever meet gabriel,
turn the television off and go to the kitchen to fetch the
substandard-balls-of-honeycomb-joy.  when i return, my guest has adjourned
to the computer, and is looking at www.hot-jocks.com with some distaste.

"this isn't really my thing.  have you got anything.....different?"

"different?" i'm not sure what he means "listen, you can't download anything
dodgy on there.  i'm not into that sort of thing, and you can get into
trouble for-"

he's stopped listening, and has evidently found something that pleases him.
the screen depicts a young black woman with startlingly red hair (only on
her head, mind) licking the nipple of a nubile sylphette who, for some
reason, is wearing a nurse's uniform.

"really...can't you see this sort of stuff at home...where you're from?  i
mean, i don't want that sort of thing on my computer, its....erm....."

he mutters something about a holy-firewall and is busily entering my
credit-card details into www.nanny-nymphettes.com

"no, you can't DO that.  there's no credit on it.  can't you barter with
them?  offer them a soul or something?.... - not mine.  i'm using it"

"bartering with souls went out years ago.  christopher marlowe pissed all
over THAT little game.  no self-respecting credit agency would have anything
to do with Absolute Reality these days"  with a sigh, he closes the site
down "haven't you got ANYTHING interesting on here?  what's this?"

www.jeepster.co.uk - "you won't like that.  its a record label.  they're
quite small and there are a couple of bands that i like that-"

too late.  he's already ordered himself a t-shirt and is staring, entranced
at the screen.

"what is this wondrous vision before my eyes?"

"stop being sarky.  i happen to LIKE that band.  she sings with them, and
yawns sometimes in the middle of their concerts.  look, she may not be
perfect, but -"

"perfect?  PERFECT, MY BOY?  SHE IS THE LIGHT THAT MADE THE DARKNESS FEEL.
SHE IS THE WHISPER THAT HERALDS THE THUNDERSTORM.  SHE IS THE REALITY FOR
WHICH I HAVE LONGED.  THE PURITY I THOUGHT COULD ONLY COME IN DEATH -
ABSOLUTE DEATH, THAT I MAY NEVER EXPERIENCE"

"oh...okay then.  i suppose she is quite nice, if you like that sort of
thing"

"who might this raindrop in the desert of existence be?"

"err...her name is isobel.  isobel campbell.  she sings with a band called
belle and sebastian.  sometimes she plays the cello too.  she has a nice
voice, but sometimes it goes all whispery and weak and-"

"DO NOT PRESUME TO CRITICISE SUCH PERFECTION.  where may i find such a
creature?  you must take me there, and introduce us."

"oh.  i've never actually met her.  i danced quite near her at a festival
once, but she didn't look at me.  oh, and once i stole some beer and oranges
that - oh, never mind about that - i don't know where she lives.  try
scotland.  its a big country, just north of england.  quite pretty, so i'm
told.  although i've only really seen raspberry fields.  look, i'll find you
an atlas.  don't drink the beer, its manky, and don't take the piss out of
their-"

i am talking to myself.  the room is empty.  the computer flickers, makes a
whirring noise, and shuts down.  i turn out the light, and tell myself not
to think about things.  i just need to lie down for a while, take it easy,
perhaps have another tablet.  its perfectly normal to imagine you've been
visited by extra-terrestrials.  fuck, it happens to so MANY people - jimmy
carter; roswell; joan of arc.  bloody saint teresa of avila was always
wibbling on about such experiences.  you've got nothing to worry about,
ian..
you're perfectly, perfectly, sane.

i take a seat, switch the video back on.  it doesn't appear to be playing
properly.  i fiddle with the tracking a little and jeff stryker reappears,
only to be replaced by a man with a long beard, a flowing robe, and a staff.
a man i recognise from somewhere.

"ian...   i have gone to seek my destiny in the north of your island.  there
is one of whom i have dreamed, one who i must find, or dream.... forever.
be happy, my friend, and save me some more of those little
chocolate-honeycomb thingies"

bloody hell, over my BEST porn tape, too.
------------------------------------------------------------------

but now, the bar is empty.  and, as i may have mentioned, i like it that
way.  if this were a joni mitchell song, a bar-maid would walk by in fishnet
stockings and a bow-tie and say "drink up now, its getting on time to
close".  but this is MY head, not joni's, and, for once, i am In Charge.  i
consider putting "blue" on the jukebox, but the silence is too fine.

and then....she's there.

she looks around her, fingering her coduroy skirt, chewing her nail, and
wearing that familiar expression of perma-boredomn that both pleases and
exasperates me.  she shuffles over to the bar and fetches herself a
babycham.

"isobel?"

she looks in my direction, but she doesn't see me.  she is humming to
herself, a tune i should know.  it sounds vaguely like "the boogie woogie
bugle boy from company b" but it isn't.  she calls over, asking who's there.

and i don't reply.  what do i tell her?  be careful, my dear, there's an
angel of the lord coming to scotland, entranced with your beauty and
convinced you are his destiny.  watch out he doesn't descend on you without
warning, especially when you're wanking.

she'd laugh at me.  a clever man once told me 'ridicule is nothing to be
scared of'.  but i still am unable to live my life according to this wisdom.

i slip out of the bar, unnoticed.  Ian's head, once again, is no longer
mine.

as i walk away, the lights go on.  the jukebox launches into melody, and i
can hear the sound of many people laughing, talking, singing an old, old
song

"then i saw her face
now i'm a believer
i couldn't leave her
if i tried..."


(to be continued, i'm afraid)

ian

---------------------------------------------------------------------

okay, in a break with ian tradition, time to acknowledge that this is a list
and that other people sometimes post too.  some of you, indeed are rather
fine:

kirsten kenyon said:

>you're laughing at me...

never, dear, we're gaping in amazement, admiration, and perhaps we're a
little bit jealous.


corduroy boy said the following:

>Trailers before Lord of the Rings: Vanilla Sky. Tom Cruise is a pilchard
>*but* I only looked up from my popcorn because the first track for the
>soundtrack of Vanilla Sky was, methinks, Looper

yes, i was shocked by this too.  it does seem like a big break for monsieur
davide.  it may even convince me to see the film (which, from the reviews so
far, looks RUBBISH, although one should never trust a reviewer).  where from
here, i wonder?  there's no stopping the man who once talked of watching
elvis licking pavements.  one day, i suspect he'll be licking pavements
himself, and being watched.  perhaps being watched by the likes of drew
barrymore, brad pitt and judith chalmers.  and we'll say - "i saw him when
he was NUFFINK.  he OWES us"

hmmm...there was more i wanted to say, but it escapes me.  how you've
entertained me over the last couple of weeks, my lovely fluffy friends.  how
you've made me smile, chortle, laugh.  how i guffawed at that satirical goth
debate.  it could only have been satirical, couldn't it?  i mean, people
don't say "being a goth is like being gay, you'd never want to do it", or
words to that effect, in seriousness, do they?
of course, we'd never say that.  because that would make us a bunch of...

no, no rude words on sinister.  you know what i was thinking.

have nice nights, people,  don't blame it on the moonlight

xx
ian


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Tomorrow will bring happiness
Or at least, another day

Phil Ochs
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


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