Month: July 2014

Rita’s story

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So, another backstory, also from the pub

Rita, the barmaid. She’s pretty good. Good at her job anyway.
Life? Not so much.
She’s single, not really an issue
She’s 50, still ok
She’s never been in love. There have been men of course, many men. She’s fifty and an barmaid, there have been plenty of men eager to take advantage of an easy lay. But never love.
Men have been revisited, often multiple times, rarely on consecutive occasions. Given the numbers you’d wonder why she isn’t a mother.
She doesn’t use condoms, she wants the feeling
She’s not a mother, maybe it’s her body, maybe it’s the smoking, maybe it’s the drink, maybe it’s luck. It doesn’t matter, she’s childless and she wants one. Two. Three. Any. But it’s getting late, her clock is ticking, she’s 50 and single, what else can she do? Without a child her life’s been wasted, pointless.
She wants children
She has none
She’s getting old.
Tonight will be the end of it, it cost her her job but she did it, enough free drink for the youngest, fittest guy in the bar, enough free drink to make him want what she can offer. It cost her her job, but tonight’s her chance.
She’s fifty, he’s twenty two.
Tonight was it, if she’s capable, she’ll be pregnant.
She needs it, needs kids, tonight’s the chance.
Tonight she gets pregnant or she doesn’t
Tonight leads to happiness or it doesn’t

She’s desperate.
It’s been two weeks, two weeks of no sex, no smokes, no drink, two weeks of crossed fingers and crossed legs.
She’s desperate, she wants kids, she needs kids.
The stick is there, soaked in her piss
Pissing on a stick, so classy
She’s pregnant
She’s not pregnant
Nothing else matters but the stick
Here she sits, in a grotty cubicle, in the grotty pub she worked in until so recently.
Grotty toilets
Grotty pub
Pissing on sticks
Not pregnant
She has everything she needs here
The cubicle
The stick
A blade
She’s pregnant
She’s not pregnant
She’s fifty
This is her last chance, her last attempt at creating life.
She’s pregnant
Or she’s dead.
The stick starts to change…..

Books, man and boy part 1

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So, this one- man and boy by tony parsons- really got me, I moved from empathy, to anger, to confusion, to outrage over and again.
The books about a guy who’s approaching thirty and looks back over his life and starts regretting stuff. He sleeps with someone and his wife leaves him. She promptly disappears to japan and he’s left being a single dad. Now, Iv never been a single dad (except possibly the six weeks my partner spent in hospital last year) but still I identified with a lot of the themes in this one.
Identified enough that this book is going to get several posts dedicated to it.

The only real moment in the book I didn’t enjoy fully was the ending, it all suddenly became a little too convenient and Hollywood like. Which is a shame as I had the sequel ready to go, but now I’ll be reading something else- and potentially many something else’s- before moving onto it.

So look forward to several posts related to this book

Art, a quick scribble

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So, I’m not very good at art or drawing, but just occasionally I’ll pick up a pen and scribble something down in what has become my ‘style’

Here’s a quick one that I scrawled in the pub the other night.


I don’t know why, but so often I end up drawing these scrawled faces, the themes remain the same, I’m sure deep down I have major issues

John’s story

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So, another helping for you


You know, were I to write a diary it’d be empty. I have nothing to say and nothing to write. My life’s empty, it’s fairly pathetic, but here I am; at the pub. Drinking with Derek. Because Derek’s here and so am I.
Wouldn’t it be a wonderful thing, truly wonderful, if I could tell you my life was normal and average or tolerable and acceptable but it’s not. I’m too old, my wife’s too ugly, she’s probably fucking the gardener. She’d leave me if she had a decent lawyer. The fact is we’re going through the motions, she’s a bitch and I’m a loser.
I’m in my forties, too old to start again, too young to just accept it and settle. Yet here I am, rich enough to stop caring. Poor enough not to be able to change things.
Here I sit, my clothes worn, colours faded, jeans patched up. If I were smart I’d spend the money; new clothes; new car; new woman.
But no,
I’m John, I’m pathetic, I’m a loser, my wife’s a bitch, I’m in the pub, she’s fucking the gardener, I wish I had something.
Anything more than sitting here with Derek. I’m drinking with him because he’s here, and because I’m here, but he has nothing to say either, he has no story. He’s just an old fella with the shakes. He’s probably had as pathetic a life as myself….