Chauvinism: A Guide

He stood on a seat at the edge of the deck in the dark and used it as a stage to give a live performance of 'getting his cock out.' I was engaged in conversation and missed the spectacle but my friends, voices bitter with mild distain, filled me in. Obviously elated following his show, he sat down on a chair and leant back, dinner jacket agape, arms in Lincoln-esque power-recline pose, and looked me in the eye. I recoiled before he opened his mouth. When he did it was only to congratulate himself on his performance. In the same way I've heard a small number of men referring to a small number of women as 'sweaters' I nick-named him Dinner Jacket, or Blazer for want of short semblance. I watched as a friend of Blazer's spat heavy amounts of saliva onto the wood beneath his feet. He screwed up his face in a way which suggested both discomfort and remorse for his fading dignity which he was unable to stop from fading post intoxication. Embarrassed, he put his head in his hands. Cocky Blazer, whose hairline, I noticed, was receding, although only in his twenties, asked if I was a student. I said no and asked which university he went to. He told me to 'fuck off asking,' as if aware I may be judging and said he worked for HEFCE. Oh God, I thought, no wonder our country is in a state.
Feeling sorry for his friend, I asked Blazer to get a glass of water for him. 'Shut up,' he replied, and with those two words I was raging. venom flooded my mouth. How dare he speak to me like that, how dare he? Vile ignoramus. And to make matters worse, as we were leaving, a woman accepted his invitation for a kiss. A little piece of me died.
I suppose I lost the upper hand as we walked away from the Thekla, by vividly imagining stamping on his head with my leather boots until small fragments of his flimsy pink brain were scattered on the pavement, each individual bit of which I stamped on again, repeatedly. But if he'd just accidentally fallen overboard...

Sunday 22nd November 09

Auburn

I'm walking up the road from the Prom bar where I've been sitting, greasy-haired and half properly dressed, half pijama clad, biding time, escaping the banality of unemployment. I would have ventured in the opposite direction to my friend's house, but the loneliness I feel tonight doesn't call for feeling lonely with someone else. So I'm walking up the Gloucester Road, instead of down it.
As I go past the white-fly-postered HSBC cashpoint, a gruff voice calls to me,
"Auburn."
I look in its direction.There's a man sitting on the pavement behind a fortress of boxes, the back ends of which all face towards me. He's wearing a long grey coat and has drug-shined eyes that sparkle in the streetlight.
"What did you say?" I ask.
He looks blank.
"Auburn? As in auburn hair?" I run my fingers through my side-spilling ponytail, which I suppose is sort of auburn.
He looks blank still.
"I want to go home," he says. And again, "I want to go home."
"You want to go home?"
He looks blank.
"We all want to go home," I say dumbly.
"Are you cold?" he asks.
I think for a minute. Metaphorically yes, but no, I'm not cold.
"No," I reply, "are you?"
"Not yet, I might be later on."
"Is this your home?" I ask.
He nods or shrugs, I think, and says, "Where do you live?"
"Just around the corner," I point.
He nods.
"Well, tomorrow's another day," I say. And I think he mutters "thank you" a couple of times - unless it's my mind trying to give me peace.
He watches through his mirror eyes as I walk up the alleyway.
The loneliness doesn't fade for either of us, but at least it isn't cold.

1.45am 19/11/09

Grandma's Fruit Cake.

Donated by Lu (Sophie 3RW, Cherry 1H)

This is Sophie and Cherry's Grandma's recipe for useless cake makers like us - it's foolproof and requires no cooking.

Ingredients

12oz (340 grams) finely crushed digestive biscuits
2oz (56 grams) raisins lightly chopped
3oz (85 grams) glace cherries
3Tbsp golden syrup
3 oz (85 grams) butter/margarine
7 oz (200 grams) dark chocolate

Method

Melt butter, syrup and chocolate together gently (preferably over hot water) until chocolate is melted.
Stir in remaining ingredients.
Smooth into buttered 1 lb (.45kg) tin and chill.
Turn out onto suitable board or plate.

The Killing Fields

The monument holds sixteen shelves
of skulls and bones,
those with large blows at the front.
Teeth, rooted in the ground
and clothes strewn over and under the earth nearby,
must have been put there for effect.
But this is no intentional museum,
those teeth were recently punched out
There’s a praying mantis attached to a tree,
I’ve never seen one;
And take a photo before you point to a sign
which says; ‘the killing tree’
that children were taken to be beaten against.
The mantis and the butterfly flourish.
Purple flowers rise from the graves,
peacefully.
A tourist with a camera round his sunburned neck
asks if we’re in the Killing Fields—
I stare at him in amazement.


2006

The Crow

November 3rd

It started a few weeks ago. Out of the corner of my eye I noticed I was being followed. Followed by a large, black, beady-eyed raven. It has been pointed out that due to the small numbers of ravens around these parts, it might more likely be a crow. But I know it’s definitely a raven. If it’s a raven I can draw analogies to Edgar Allan Poe whose raven spelt doom. If it’s a crow I can only think of the darkness of The Crow: Stairway to Heaven – one of the most needlessly disturbing films I’ve seen, which really only provided a door to the twisted inner sadist workings of the writer’s mind. So it’s definitely a raven. At first it was perched atop a chimney top, watching. This went on for a few days. And then yesterday it was at my feet, staring up at me inquisitively poking around scanning the windows to my soul trying to convey its message. It beat its large wings and flew up in a flurry of jet feathers. I’ve not heard the message yet but know the beast will be back. I live in fear.

Babysitting

I'm nearly twenty-three years old which is too old to be payed to babysit, so I'm not overly impressed when my neighbour gives out my number to a friend of hers. The friend calls me up at work and begs me to help her out and because I feel guilty that I'm allowed out all the time and I know it's hard for parents to get the opportunity I sheepishly give in. On the day I'm feeling pretty low, lower than I've felt in a while and meeting strangers isn't top of my list of fun activities. I put on an old shapeless gun-metal blue jumper which screams I-don't-care-what-I-look-like-today and head out.When I arrive the couple are late so briefly introduce me to his eight-year-old daughter. I ask her if she'll show me where everything is so she will feel in charge which makes her smile. Her dad and his girlfriend leave. When they're gone I get let into their world. The girl tells me her father is working his way through the alphabet but thinks this one will last, which makes me laugh. If not it'll be 'O' next (he's already had three 'Ls'). We go into the living room and from my memory of babysitting I'm expecting the usual middle class CD collection (Terence D'arby, Tracy Chapman a bit of Radiohead to show they can be 'edgy') but what I actually find is far, far better. There's a cabinet with fossils from all over the world and not just your standard ammonite, there's a sloth's claw and armadillo skin, a suffocated crab and an entire fish. In another cabinet there are small boxes with drawers in them, each labelled with the names of countries and each with a camera symbol on the front. Sliding one open, I find (to much excitement on my part) slides inside. I haven't seen slides in years. I say to the girl, who is quite happy to give me a running commentary on my findings; 'do you know what these are?' 'no,' she replies. 'These are slides, look if I hold one up to the light you can see the picture on it.' So she takes one in her hand and asks me to hold it up to the light for her (I'm taller). And I think how wonderful it is to show old things to young people.

Oct 17th

Halloween 2009

Creating a Posada Print Inspired/Day of the Dead Costume for Halloween

1. went to Artrageous. Bought face paint and feathers...(more expensive than you'd think)

2. took hat bought at WOMAD a couple years back with
mud to prove it...

3. Used old pages of Yellow Pages to cover hat with PVA/water mix.

4. Created 'feathers' from cereal box...covered with paper then realised I'd created what could be mistaken for a demnted origami turtle so rejected grand feathers (alright rejected feathers later after deciding they were a choking hazard)

5. covered dried out hat with a layer of blue tissue

paper which I was pleased was incredibly cheap from

Romantica.

6. Painted flowers using ancient acrylics I found

in a shoebox. Can't remember those Art shoes...

I got a D in A-level art but this was not to deter

me.
Added far less grand feathers.

Um, I tried it on?















7. Hey presto a week of hard labour later...

I was going to do a step by step face painting photoshoot but the frustration incurred from paining ones face in a hurry then having to walk friend's dog with friend dressed this way before we went out and dog nearly getting eaten by other dog whose owner said 'this has never happened before' meant I could not be arsed. Ho hum.

Compliments ranged from a guy in Bath (Green Park Tavern) dressed as something out of the Young Ones taking my photo while speaking Spanish at me and lifting his shirt to reveal a massive skull tattoo, to being called a whore and a man in the centre of Bristol. Ironic considering I was covered head to toe and many girs were almost totally uncovered. I HATE the centre of Bristol on a Saturday night. Who bred those people?
My eyes still have blue paint on them.

FIN