George's Date update: Falling And Laughing with a past-the-date
loaf for an impromptu duck feed in St James Park with typeface
('Please don't call them fonts') fan Ms Maudlin. 27 pence can
stretch, to heaven sometimes. Working class, diamond bright and
self-confessed 'hard work', I felt immediately at ease, which
is worth gold. 'Kooky' can polarize, you want to hug 'em or hang
'em. Default to the former because kooky and bitchy rarely infect
the same host, and there's usually a good heart beneath the rambling
at tangents. Deserves a better hand than she's being dealt (creative,
less for career than the midnight flight from the high rise).
Fibbed about her age, the scamp. A young 'un. Terrorized a sedated
ICA with daft theatrics, throwing each other a platform to take
their performance further, danced around on the Mall. Maybe this
is why youth is prized. Nothing to do with fat ankles, they're
actually a laugh. 'Dark Star' (when space seemed to be a metaphor
for California rather than Japan) and Doug Trumbull, 'Beat Girl'
and the British New Wave, I could brick you up behind a wall of
bored tears about liking this woman. Maybe I just dreamt her,
conjured à la 'Weird Science', in a haze.
dawns for the hell of it. Slow starter, for a tale about speed.
I've never touched the stuff, although an ex did a tonne with
the Jesus And Mary Chain circa their 'Sound Of Speed' chronicles.
A gentleman might feel a need to turn a blind ear to tales of
keen debauch, else it cast a colourlessness on his type-you-settle-down-with,
safe-pair-of-mittens self, but no need with Ms Cream. Tea, éclairs
and the modern anti-semetism (flirt, then 'don't be daft') in
politics/ advertising, she doesn't drink or use profanity, and
wears modest, crocheted cardigans. My only Jewish connection is
on the Heron side, when a cousin vanished to the Israeli kibbutzim.
Republican estates went through a phase of sporting Palestinian
flags, Loyalists retorted with Stars Of David, to the delight
of her son, who assumed they'd gone to all that trouble for him.
'I'm too.. frumpy,' pre-surgery support counsellor Ms Cream
protested, self-depreciatingly. Despite the safe hands, I did
feel like a sleazebag quaffing, effing alleycat. We enjoyed 'Sideways'
('The Woodsman' is hardly fitting and has Bacon in it, anyway).
Like daily life, dating could become an exercise in Difference
vs Repetition - in noticing only angles, the exceptional, and
ignoring the heart. A woman with an exceptional heart, nevertheless.
February 2005. First...
We Let You Go. Dates with Alice, surname unknown. Art, then the
King's Road (crayfish and Tabasco pizza, three bottles of Pinot
Grigio which vanished quickly). An academic and more into the
gallery scene than I ever was (when asked how I approached dealers
I assumed she meant drug dealers, and had to admit that I probably
knew more of the latter than the former). The chat was cultured,
I was rusty. She talked surrealism in architecture, William Morris,
OuLiPo, Birkbeck headbend incl. postcolonial theory, Marxist bathroom
taps and Eric Satie's 'Vexations'. I burbled about Valérie
Valère and the importance of hallways in Anna Karenina.
Felt like a broadsword Celt wookie to her diminuative and well-oiled
C3PO but she was charming and direct. ('What are you like in bed?'
she asked, with the tone of someone suggesting we split a tossed
salad). Date 2 (Beuys vitrines, 'La Cave' under Southwark Cathedral)
was drier. Subtitles searching for the boundaries in any longer
term exchange, mutual dislike for self-charmed, me-centric City
life and being on-the-make through a lack of any alternative,
all with an dawning suspicion that our boldest demands and expectations
are an armour against the unexpected, and describe our worries
and brittleness more than any sassy urbane strength. Interesting
Dates. 'I'm not the kind who hops from one relationship to
the next.' We all say it but New Yorkers wait four days, Parisians
four weeks, Londoners four months and I wait four years, usually.
Determined to be straightforward. 'Must be adventurous in bed'
read one lesbian's wish list. 'I can't put that.' I mused,
as if getting-it-right doesn't involve leaving your shore, building
love on trust and trust on confirmation, and as if bed isn't a
source of confirmative hydropower, or sailing under the jungles
doesn't sound fun. Why play it safe, man? A modest,
self-fulfilling burden fluttered up from the trees and past my
mind's eye - territory - Oedipal rigging - good girls don't -
urban island minds where you have to be careful - sex and love
as essentially either/or - till a choice is between a 'nice' neutered
bore or a stark mentalist up for giving every vegetable in your
kitchen several. Ghostly canoes navigated tributaries of the New
Suave, towards the Zambezi, struggling with silent, sexual self-question
locked, tight as eyelids, into 19th century trunks. Half curious
to roll them, once in a lifetime, like a barrel of scaredy-cats,
over the plumes of Sheer Perv.
December 2004. Chav
Crass. Just home from the Hicks supporting Youth Of Britain:
a post-boy band, post-rap, chav Crass. Odd event by any standards.
An ex was there. Some, including myself, stay friends with their
exes (if we were good friends, why lose that?), some don't (too
awkward). I want to but it's too soon.
December 2004. ..three
hour sex ordeal in Stockwell.. It's not a weblog until there's
been a hangover confession ..pinned down and raped by other
soldiers.. Five late ones in a row, Resonance FM pans to and
fro and no, ..assaulted with a bayonet in the Tower of London,
it's not the worst of de Sade, it's just the news today, oh
boy. What's happening? Where oh where the backlit chimney pots
of Poppins? I shall take my promenade on Holloway, with comfits,
lozenges, pastilles, sherbets and subtleties for the urchins.
'Young fellow.' One was helping a couple with their shopping,
through the window of their Ford Focus. 'Sweet benevolence, and
sorely rare. A dragée.' I reached a butterscotch into his palm
and ruffled his crop. 'Sorry miss!' A dim court, where the scantest
wastrel, huffing a can bong like a Limehouse Chinaman, grunted
through fug for my business. 'A Pontefract pipe!' I smiled. Spinning
about, some Lower Highgate Basin ruffs were turning a compadre
upside down for his Filet O'Fish. 'Be off!' I raised some candy
canes but cast them instead as offerings. Shocked by their own
poverty of spirit, each repented, chuckled, chomped and sang.
November 2004. Night
flight: they're re-adhering Band Aid right this second, not far
from here, for Sudan. The first one happened at a time when British
pop romped more globally, yet the latest has the top spot sown,
they say. Follow a swallow's line past the inmates at HMP Holloway
(what a library of lives) to London Zoo, where a lion prepares
for slumber. Migrate further afield and the Red Crescent poise
until the smoke clears, to be allowed Fallujah (what an unholy,
blown-open anthology that'll be: black and white, red all over).
We tend to think in decades or less, fundamentalists live in centuries.
Maybe, if we airdrop Busted
in tonight, the disenfranchised won't feel it's a month
of Bloody Sundays. Maybe.
September 2004. Less
a missile, more a brief handshake, for it is dark. Mission Statement:
blank. Verse: blank. (Head: blank. If truth be told.) Round-the-back
handshakes not a new thing (blast each other off the topograph,
but one mustn't be rude) but it's disconcerting while we're
liberating the oppressable. Bob Mugabe and his level less interesting
to me than their screwy martial sidewinders, in Zimbabwe's case
Col. Perence Shiri (aka Black Jesus), invited for a brush up at
the Royal College of Defense after smoking twenty thousand of
the Mbele faith. Touch dusky when they did the invites. It was
fairly dark as people were being thrown en masse into mine shafts,
having had the brass cheek to vote funny and run from burning
huts. 'No talking at the back. What's this? "Please excuse
Black Jesus from Fusillade today, but he really loves Quasar at
the Trocadero."' Students.