afewwordsmarch2011

A few words on the subject

A few words on March 2011

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A few words on bingo and faking it

13th Mar 2011

Well my bottom has stopped hurting, you’ll be bored to know.

Hello.

That, novel fans, is what we call “the opening grabber” which all modern novels are rather forced to have due to the attention span of coked-up literary agents and their team of readers. An effect I have used to great...uhm...effect (bad writing there, Rich) in my last 3 books. You’ll recall them as:

“Okay but quick then,” she giggled. “And not here because I've got a staple gun up my bottom.” (T-Shirt & Genes 2001)

“When Jasper Philips pushed open the door of the hotel room, four things struck him as being wrong. Really, very wrong indeed.” (Gagged 2004)

“Wait, is this a con?” (Conman 2009)

Every one a teasing tease. You might want to try it

How are ye, as people who drink real ale and do live action role playing are wont to say, for reasons passing human understanding?

I join you on another grey London Sunday. My darling wifelington is out being stretched, bent, pummelled and generally spinally damaged at an early Pilates class. I have risen, tidied up the last night Wire-boxed set double bill detritus of fag butts, wine glasses, plates, hardened cheese, empty cracker boxes and Guardian pull-outs and taken early delivery of a bicycle.

As you won’t be fucked to recall, and who frankly could blame you, I am exploring the adventurous and bottom-aching wobbly joys of two-wheeled transport. My motorcycle CBT approaches (booked, rather oddly, for what my calendar now reveals as Easter Sunday. Perhaps appropriately, as the instructor will not only get very “cross” but no doubt spend most of the day bellowing “Oh Jesus Christ,” at me) and I am keen to get up to 5 speed gearbox on a bicycle. A terribly lovely friend called Paul has done a decent thing and delivered me his bike for practise. So the last hour has seen us both on Foxley Road SW9, in the drizzle, fucking about with locks and pumps and gears and lights and helmets and general working-class greasy hand manual labour. Bless the dear chap, he has given me a demo on “getting started” – one foot on a pedal, the other on the kerb, check for oncoming traffic, push off with the pedal, stick your other foot on and off you go. Inevitably when it came to “my turn”, my wobbly movement from stationary to off-the-bike-standing-like-a-twit-three-feet-later resulted in an “oh....right,” from him.

Understandable. You two-wheeled Evil Kenevals with your BMXs and your Choppers and your whatnot really can’t imagine the difficulty in learning this shit from scratch when you’re the aching, clumsy, ill-balanced gangly age of 38. “Then just push away and start pedalling?” You might as well say to a six year old: “that’s the throttle, that’s the speed gauge, that’s the steering column, now fly this Boeing 747 to Manhattan.”

But I’ll get there. (Not today, probably, as it’s pissing down, but soon).

This isn’t what I wanted to talk about today however. I wanted to talk about 2 other things. One small, one big.

Jeremy Beadles hands.

No, sorry, I’m being daft. First the small one:

I am passing advertisements on my walk (soon to be bike) to work for a young black comedienne’s live show. I forget her name, but Google will help me out...

...there you go. Llewella Gideon. I know nothing about her at all, and have gained all my knowledge, opinion and prejudice from the posters proclaiming her 1 woman show.

It would appear – and I can’t be fucked to do any research – that Llewella is that not-at-all-rare-enough-for-my-liking-breed: The character comic. Now there have been great character comics who either mix live stand-up with monologues as individuals (I’m thinking of Victoria “ello, ‘eve you seen me friend?” Wood). And even those who nary appear as themselves and do whole shows in the guises of other folk (Steve “Ah-haa” Coogan for example).

My issue here is the one of crashing, soul destroying, migraine inducing predictability, of the female character comic. Straight from drama school, or studying drama at some peice of shit regional University, these folk – as sure as eggs aren’t Ford Mondeos – are un-fucking-able to get a comedy club booking without resorting to the following:

Get a headscarf and big comedy glasses

Get a big woollen coat from Oxfam

Get an empty, clattering wheelie-shopping bag thing

Put on a northern accent

And then wobble onto the stage, up to the mic, peer around the room like a bird, adjust the glasses, twitch a bit and say “Is this the bingo?”

I have no idea if Llewella Gideon is of this ilk, but there is a poster of her opposite Oval cricket ground looking like this:

so I tremble with horror twice a day as I pass.

If anyone sees it, let me know if I’m wrong.

That was the small thing.

The big thing?

Well here’s a quote. You may recognise it:

“It's just that all men are sure it never happened to them and that most

women at one time or another have done it so you do the math.”

Of course, it’s the lovely but hasn’t-had-a-fucking-decent-role-since thinking man’s ditzy kook Meg Ryan in the infamous “deli scene” of “When Harry Met Sally...” (Rob Reiner, 1989).

The subject, you cineasts amongst thou will not need reminding, is the sticky (ironically, not that sticky actually)

subject of the female orgasm and the oft’ faking thereof.

Being sprightly youngsters, you may not recall what a watershed (but no other liquid shed) moment of pop culture this was. Prior to Nora Ephron’s script where man and women discussed the difficult mix of sex & friendship on the big screen, this really wasn’t considered polite table talk. Especially if that table was in a New York delicatessen. (Katz Deli, 205 E Houston St, New York, NY 10002 if you’re going).

But much hooting and covering of mouthing and “oh-my-godding-don’t-go-there-ing” occured in the audience as this – one of the few remaining taboos – was busted right open. (This was pre- Sex And The City primetime rampant-rabbit-warrening frankness).

Now I’ve been pondering the concept of the “faked orgasm” recently – not for the reasons you think, revolting people – and I’ve arrived at one of my ill-thought out conclusions. Humour me if you willst.

I’ve done a little reasearch into this, there being a FUCKING WIKIPEDIA PAGE ON THE DAMNED THING, click here incredulous non-believers, and here’s what I know.

According to data, survey, reseach and clinical whathaveyou, the principle top 6 reasons for a woman to go through the elaborate decietful motion are:

To please their partner

To hurry up and get it done

Not to hurt their partner’s feelings

Tiredness

Unsatisfying sex

Boredom

All valid and acceptable – by and large – magnanimous reasons. Which is what I’m getting at. Call me a pig-headed cromagnon Nuts reading twitmunch if you will, but from the politics point of view I believe dames are, as it were, in the clear on this. The small peice of white-lie fibber-storying, the slight fakery doo-daa and the put-on “oh-my-whatnotting” are hardly signs of a crumbling relationship based on lies and deciet. Surely the point is that it is, for the most part, a selfless act. “This is important to my partner. I don’t want to hurt his feelings. I don’t want to upset his fragile masculinity. Under most curcumstances this would be fun and satisfying to me. But tonight, I’m just not feeling it. Why ruin the evening with roll-aways and “get-offs” and “what do you think you’re doing there’s?” Make a noise, move about, everybody’s happy and I can go to the bathroom and then get back to my Ruth Rendell.

I’m right on this, yeah? It’s about thinking of the other person, how they might feel when their needs and your needs aren’t – right now – about the same thing.

Fine, okay, we’re in agreement there. It’s not a bad thing. It’s how two different people with their own lives and thoughts and moods muddle through. Give and take. Understanding. A bit of pretence now and then. Harmless. Selfless. Understanding.

Right.

So here’s what I don’t get.

There is, I believe, a “male equivalent” to the fake orgasm. (Okay, okay, I know the F.O. isn’t purely a female thing and apparently 11% of men surveyed admitted to pretending to come and whipping away a knotted but arid condom into a tissue and a bin so they could get some fucking kip. But that’s not the issue).

There is an element of “fakery, play-acting, deciet and thoughtful noise-making” that all men do and hope their partners don;t see through. Much like the bedroom squirms and gasps and “do-it-to-me-big-boys” of their other halves, this “pretence” is done by fellahs for all the same reasons: Primarily to please their partner; to hurry up and get the whole thing over with; not to hurt their partner’s feelings; tiredness; unsatisfying performance and boredom.

We don;t enjoy it. We’re not proud of it. We wish we could be emotionally involved every single time a woman wants to do it. We wish our bodies and brains worked at the same speed and rhythms as yours. We don’t want to call a halt half way through and leave our partners dangling with a “yeahhh, sorry luv, it’s just not doing it for me...” So we make noises. We move about. We widen our eyes. We respond. “Uh-huh. Oh yeah. Right. Yeah, yeah. Mm-hmmn.” All this for the same reasons dames dig in nails and say “yesss.” Because we’re different, but we care.

You gals fake it in the bedroom. Guys fake it in conversation.

C’mon, it’s not that different, is it? You lie back while we clumsily thrust and gyrate and say “yes...yes...yes...” to keep us happy.

We sit back while you explain your day and we say “no? Really? No? No? No, really?” for the same reason.

Give us a break

Love – and emasculated apologies - to all

A few words on dead scousers, fast cycles, blind dates and prodding

Sat 19th March 2011

Good morning each and some of you and you over the there and thingumywhassisname. How the fuck are things, as Roland Browning was nary heard to say?

It’s something of a glorious Saturday as I write. A springtime sun beams a smile through the wide net curtains of my lounge, giving the flat a fuzzy warm bank holiday sort of a feel. The broadcasting legend who isn’t Liz Kershaw is currently doing what passes for disc jockeying on 6 music, which through the wonders of tech and gadgetry, is being played through the telly. Whatever next. Toast out of the sink?

I’m feeling a tad cheery this afternoon as I have, after not too much falling off and swerving into vans and fences, and one face-first arrival in a pricklesome shrub on Foxley Road SW9, got to wobbly grips with the art of bicycling.

Yes, dear reader, you left me last week having taken delivery of my buddy Paul’s 7-gear pedal-me-go, as I have just right now, as I type, decided I’m going to call a bicycle (god, couldn’t you just punch me in my stupid face). It was raining last Sunday so I had to postpone going for a “go” on it. But that afternoon, after I left you and the clouds stopped crying, I donned gloves and scarf and a Levi’s denim jacket replete with Superman and Watchman badges (a must for any modern nerd-u-like) and took to the back streets of Camberwell New Road. And whaddya know, my fannying about with balancing and freewheeling like a tit paid off, I managed to get my clumsy left trainer on the left pedal as I rolled, gave it a shove, gripped the handlemabars and whe-heyyyyy! Off I went!

Since this life-not-really-changing-that-much event I have:

1. Been out on the bike for a half hour practise every night this week.

2. Had a bit of a go on the quiet cul-de-sac-y roadsy bits.

3. Been around Kennington Park like a twit.

4. Been laughed at by two guys in a BMW when I failed to successfully negotiate a lamppost on Vassall Road which made me feel rather foolish.

(About as foolish as I felt when heading to a pub for lunch last week, passing 2 far-too-old-to-be-skateboarding-skateboarders who remarked in outdoor voices:

“That was Mark Lamarr.”

“Huh? No it weren’t. It’s just a bloke wants to be.”)

Thanks fellahs. Nice elbow pads by the way. What will you do when your neice wants them back?

I shall keep you informed of my progress on the London roads. Or let you know which hospital I’m in. One of the two.

In the Guardian supplement today there is the usual “blind date” feature, in which 2 utter cunts are forced to spend an evening together and give a report on the other. (The report is almost always the bloke giving the girl 8 and hoping to stay in touch, the girl giving the bloke a 4 and saying they might meet, just as friends). This week however, the dame in the sketch reported that the fellah “needs to date someone of his own age.” Which is fine. Except she’s 20, and he is 19. For fuck’s sake. Hardly a May To December romance. More like a May to the second week of May romance. Get over y’self luv.

Lizbian Kershaw has just played a track by Dinosaur Junior. Or possibly Dinosaur Jnr. People who like bands like that are pretty precious about these things. Actually, I’m a fine fuckin’ one to talk. When Willy “grumpy bastard who apparently is too famous to travel by train and needs to fly to London from Liverpool for a book signing” Russell wrote his epistolary novel “The Wrong Boy” (it means a novel made up of letters, dolt heads) everyone told me I’d like it. The nov’ (it’s short for “novel”, dunderboobies) is made up of letters a young boy writes to Mozzer (short for Morrissey, thicklingtons). What’s not to like? Well I’ll tell you. In the bo’ (short for “book”, probably) the boy lists some of his favourite Smiths songs. The list includes “Hatful Of Hollow.” WHICH ISN’T A FUCKING SONG. IT’S THE NAME OF A FUCKING ALBUM. AND NOT EVEN A PROPER ALBUM. A SORT OF BEST-OF COLLECTION OF B-SIDES AND PEEL SESSIONS AND SUCH, RUSSELL YOU IDIOT.

Yeah, sorry ‘bout that. Anyway, Elizabethean Kershaw’s playage of some ghastly track by Dino.J. (a band presumably named after the purple dinosaur “Dino” from The Flintstones, as that’s the only remotely famous junior dinosaur ever) reminds me I’m likely to experience much more of the same clattery big guitar overdive 6th form bollocks this evening as m’wife and I are off to Brixton for a bit of a dance. I’m partial to vodka and a boogie as you know and ‘tis been an age since I’ve cut a rug with the youngesters so I’m muchly looking forward. However, the reason I fear the playlist is that the eve’ is a do entitled “PROD” which, acronymious-lovers amongst you will be not in the least bit interested to learn is the “People’s Republic Of Disco.” A sort of pinko commie muso indie on-trend love-in where the attendees are encouraged to bring the songs they want to hear, hand ‘em over to the jockeying discer so it’s all rather communal and like some kind of indie kibbutz. I hope that folk will enter the spirit and bring along songs one might want to dance to, rather than donning tiny tribys and tight denim and bringing the obscurist spoken-word alt’bollocks to show off thier tediously sophisticated tastes. I’m bunging some upbeat Morrissey and a bit of neo-swing to get the toes a-tappin. Or p’raps some Stevie Wonder? The acid test, surely. What kind of peice of shit DJ wouldn’t put on “Superstition” if offered it? A crap one, that’s what kind

Oh, talking of Willy “if you ask him a question at his signing about one of is plays he grumpily directs you to a Faber & Faber edition of the play with notes and doesn’t even make fuckin’ eye contact” Russell. Presumably when he flies from his beloved Liverpool to London (a town of cosmopolitan yuppie scum without coaldust under their fingers but enough money to put his fucking plays on) Willy flies from Liverpool airport.

Now, for those who’ve ne’er ventured to the muscial land of ginger hair, football, tearful sentimentality and car alarms, Liverpool airport is actually called – brace y’self – Liverpool John Lennon Ariport. I guess if New York can do it with the most progressive liberal President they ever had, then scousers can do it with art-school skiffle self-absorbed punning dicks who choose to solve the wortld’s problems by staying in bed for a fucking week. Christ.

Anyhow, the reason for the clumsy addition of the Lennon to the airport facia is the clever clever appropriation of the line “above us only sky” to thje airport building. A line, as you will know, from the fatuous dullard hit white piano monstrosity “Imagine.” According to my research, it was Lennon’s pious anthem for everyone to be equal and lovely and poor and hungry together while driving a yellow Rolls Royce that caused Mark Chapman to gun him down in New York for his hypocrisy.

“I’m off to see the Bootleg Beatles as the Bootleg Mark Chapman”

as Half Man Half Biscuit like to say.

However, as anyone who has ever been to Liverpool John Fucking Lennon Airport during the summer to try and get an Easyjet flight to Malaga would say, a better line from Imagine would be: “Imagine all the people.”

Do you recall Adrian Mole? One of the finest comic creations of the last 50 years, I’m sure you’d agree. Well, to illustrate A.M’s pseudo-wankery idiotness, you might recall he is constantly in correspondance with the BBC about his work. Mostly poems and whatnot. But he also creates a sitcom about a serial killer called “The White Van,” a script the BBC never get back to him about. And this is of course satire. However we now have “Dexter” – a US based black comedy series about a serial killer. And now a TV show on BBC called “White Van Man.” Art becoming life? I’m sure it says something about something/. But I’m too tired to decide what.

Finally, my japanese made washing machine has a button on it marked “Time Save.” This presumably means it does the wash in less time than the normal wash. I press this button every time I use the washing machine. Why the fuck wouldn’t I? Do you want to wait 2 hours for your wash? Or 40mins? Erm, I’ll have it done in 40mins thanks. Why are we even given the fucking option?

Now, I know you’re going to say it’s because the “time save” button is clearly a faster but less throrough wash. Possibly. But I live in the west. The most stainage any of my clothes are ever going to get are a grimy sweaty collar or at a push a bit of tomato on the front of a white tee. How thorough do people in the First World need their laundry to be? For chrissakes, Japan – who make the machine – are one of the most advanced technological white-collar tech-based cultures in the world? What could possibly happen in Japan that would need clothes to be . . .

Oh. Oh right. Okay. Sorry.

Love to all