Sinister: gigs, scurrilous southern gets, horses and such

[ian]

firstly, something that may be of interest to those of you living in That
London:

CAT POWER
> >> Sun 5th may 7:00
> >> Bush hall 310 Uxbridge Road
> >> tickets, 12:50
> >> (rare pleasure, www.rarepleasure.co.uk)

this is in shepherd's bush, i'm told.  not being au fait with the nation's
capital, i can say little more than that.  quite how we're all going to fit
onto the pubic area of a man in the livestock-control business i am, as yet,
unsure.

from what i'm told, if yer interested, the number is 020 8222 6933
or you could just take a chance and turn up, i spose.

its a bit late, i know.  sorry i didn't tell you all this earlier, but i
had my dick stuck in a hole in the toilet wall (the THINGS you learn from
caitlin pigtails posts.  shame she wasn't more specific.  this turned out to
be linked to some sort of extractor fan, and i didn't quite get the blow-job
i was expecting)

anyway... you would like to come.  you know you would.  and you shall.  i
think it would make perfect after-greenwich-picnic entertainment.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------

an odd day, my friends.  it announced its arrival with a furious thumping.
not my head, this time, a real sound,  not the sort that the people in the
Back Of The Microwave make.  a shuffling, and a yelp, and then silence.

good, the man trap got her.  i turned over and went back to sleep, and two
hours
later i got up and freed her.  she didn't thank me, just stared and stared
with those huge pupils and hysterical eyes.  she was trying to say
something, but the gag prevented her.  i think it was 'why?'.  but i don't
know the answer to that, so i put her back in the laundry cupboard and left
her there, with a look that said 'let that be a lesson to you'.
--------------------------------------------------------------

another hour passes.
someone is throwing stones at the window.  i contemplate letting them
continue to do so, and staring at the wall a little bit longer.  tom waits
is singing 'and its time
, time time...', and if i had a cigarette and a bottle of whisky, i'd feel
like some sort of album cover.  but its 10 a.m., and i generally don't start
on the hard liquer until 10.30.
i can hear someone shouting outside the house.  and then, as if in response,
the
banging from the laundry cupboard begins again.

oh, for fucks sake.
what does a boy have to DO to get some peace?  i open the curtains, and
there's a fat, balding man in a tu-tu and a leather basque tapping at the
glass.

'WHAT?'

'i've got a message, its from --- who's that shouting?'

'its noone.  nobody.  ignore it'

'it sounds like somebody is calling for help'

'its the woman upstairs.  she's a big beatles fan.  what do you want?'

'i brought you this.  its a merkin'

the man hands over a battered cardboard box.
a merkin?  the word sounds familiar.  i look down at the object in my hands,
and when i look up the man is gone.  inside the box is a mass of brown
fibres, stitched together at the back - like some sort of wig.  there is a
note attached:

'set the lady free, or i'm calling the police
ps.  thanks for sending the boys round.  i enjoyed them immensely

a.p.'

for a moment i wonder what my aunty penelope could be playing at.  she
doesn't hang out with men in tu-tus, not since she joined the mafia.
then, a more sinister explanation strikes.  a.p?  could it be?.....  could
it
possibly be?

there's a return address on the box.

'a house in brighton that is not archel playforth's.
somewhere in brighton, far away from where archel playforth lives'

clever, but not clever enough.  not this time.  she forgets i am an
International Man Of Genius.
she must have got away from those white-slave-traders i sold her to.  i
wonder who the boys she refers to might be as i phone my friend mavis, the
hit-man.

'worrafuckdyawant?'  my friend is not impressed to be called at such an
early hour.  perhaps he has been out all night, doing strange Exotic
Organised Crime type-things.

'mavis?  its ian.  i wonder if you can do me a favour...?'

when you name a boy-child mavis, you have to expect some sort of adverse
reaction.  the boy is going to spend every day of his Growing Period
suffering.  intensely.  you're either going to produce a nervous wreck, or
an out-and-out psychopath.
mavis's mother wanted an out-and-out psychopath.  she'd got bored of the
women's institute, and wanted a child who would be able to get her some hard
drugs.

i met mavis in a gutter.  he was trying to steal my wallet, and i was trying
to stand up straight.  several hours later, he was leaning back, smoking a
cigarette, and saying i'd introduced him to a whole new world....
to this day, he's the only b&s loving hitman i know.
what?
what did you think i meant?

anyway, i promise mavis i'll give him all my special b&s memorabilia if
he'll just go down to brighton and remove an.....unwanted......nuisance.  i
don't have any special b&s memorabilia, but i'm sure i can find some.  i
mean, its easy to get hold of, innit?

i can imagine him now, chatting amiably to some little old lady on a
silverlink train, fingering his machete and humming 'electronic renaissance'
to himself.
he's not to finish off the Scurrilous Southern Get that is archel playforth.
he's merely to hurt her a little.  scare her.  scare her into silence :-
about her superiority, about my shortcomings, and about the nun in my
laundry cupboard.

why do i have a nun in my laundry cupboard?  i don't know.  i just woke up
and there she was one day.  i went to let her out, but she screamed about
calling the police, so i had to bash her with my 'scooby doo' bubble bath
bottle and throw her back in.  since then, i've thought about chopping her
up and feeding her bit by bit down the plughole, but i've just painted the
bathroom tiles and don't want to spoil them.

all this by 11 a.m.  after the first bottle of vodka, i put on some lighter
music.  planning a knife attack seems so much more socially friendly to the
sound of saint etienne.
--------------------------------------------------------------

'the 'state that i am in' stakes'

when my sister was small, she woke up crying one morning.  she told us she
had had a bad dream.  when we asked her what it was about, she told us there
were horses, and they were dancing.  quite why this frightened her is a
mystery to this day.
i have a waking dream, separate from the waking dream we all inhabit.  i am
lying, on my back, licking the dust from my lips, and savouring its bitter
crunch.  swallowing the dirt, and craving more.  above me, there is blue
sky, stretching to the mountains in the east and the cloud-bank in the west,
where it dies.  the sun scorches my face, but i don't care.  i am watching
the chestnut legs stride slowly and gracefully past, staring up as the
beasts above me walk either side (they won't step on a human unless they
have a policeman on their back), and are gone, to a place i can only
imagine.  all that remains is what always remains - the sky and the memory,
reminding us all how small we are, and  how tiny and defenceless a human can
be.

horses.  freud thought they symbolised the untamed side of the human.  a
potentially rampant sexuality kept in check by our superego, just waiting
for the moment when it could be free.  dreams of horses had only one
meaning - and there was a reason middle class, respectable ladies were so
troubled by them.
to others, they symbolise freedom, escape, travel.  to some, the white horse
is an embodiment of the devil.  others fear black beasts, racing from an
unseen source, impervious to any command but those of their skeletal riders.

to some, they're just animals.  friends.  workers, or money-spinners.

john jennett suggested we buy one, train it to race.
 some would howl in protest at the very thought but i can only imagine the
majesty of 'the state that i am in' as it glided over the green, decked in
terry-towelling and valourous in velour, galloping past the stunned
spectators, and striking some sort of blow for a kinder, freer world.
of course, it would only be a metaphor, and, like most metaphors would be
able to go free once it had rammed the point home.
would we dream of this beast?  perhaps.  perhaps we already do.

go free, little metaphor.  i fear i may have used you badly.

see you sunday?  i'll be the one in the fishnet tights

xx
ian

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