To thine own self be true

Wake up and expect it will go on for ever when the reality is very, very different. Wake up, go to work. Lots of little disappointments. In headaches and in worries vaguely life leaks away. Keep telling yourself, it will get better and it is worth the ever so regal patience.

What do you live for? In what does your hope consist? Unclear. How shit of you not to be able to put it into words, and how boring to do that anyway. It is happening, it is happening, and it is so tiring, so often trying. It should be clear. You should have it emblazoned over your desk, tattooed on your forehead. Is it something to do with love, with looking upon your beloved and saying calmly, I don't want any more than this?

Some abandon thinking. Others never thought. Still others strive for justice, solidarity, to pass on knowledge and wisdom. I live by the heart, by the selfish heart that wills to hear a broken plea answered. And that is a vague way to live. Empty accusatory days. There is plenty of time for it though, isn't there? Plenty of time to ask oneself the question: am I living in full awareness of the quiddity of being alive? And to answer: Hell no.

George 3

Family, friends, please accept this intimation and meet at the crematorium of St Mary’s...

George senior stands outside the crematorium, dressed in the dark blue suit he last wore two years ago, to the wedding of Joseph, his only living son. Patricia, his wife of a quarter of a century, from whom he separated pleading utter indifference two years ago, leans on his arm. She holds a worried tissue in her tiny fist.

Fifteen or so guest, mostly members of their extended family, emerge from the crematorium. It is a spectacularly bright spring morning.

George senior squints up at the sun. 
“Ashes…”

In his head, he repeats the word, once, twice, as if doing so will give him a sign about what to feel. Then something breaks within him. An unexpected sensation takes over. A nauseating lightness from head to toe. Still with his head raised towards the sun, he closes his eyes and focuses on the fiery red glow on the screens of his eyelids.

A hand grips his shoulder. Uncle Tony.

George opens his eyes. 
“He wanted to be a singer.”

“You what?” asks Tony.

“He said he wanted to be a singer.”

Patricia leaves them and walks over to the mumbling group of relatives.

“What?”

“He told me a few weeks ago.

“Fuck you on about? I don’t know…”

“Neither do I...’ George looks up and closes his eyes again. “I never have. Never.”

Tony takes out his tobacco tin and quickly rolls an unfiltered cigarette. He takes a long drag, closes his mouth to hold in the smoke for a moment, then exhales.

“They’re coming over, George,” he says.

“Fuck‘em. I can’t bear ‘em. Let’s go for a walk."

They walk along the gravel path to the adjoining cemetery. Gravestones of sootblackened sandstone and lacquered granite lean at all angles. Some have collapsed completely, or vandals have kicked them over. 

George walks down the slatternly rows with Tony by his side, picking out the words.

He tries to imagine himself as a boy, fresh, soft-skinned and without spite. Nothing.
“A fucking singer.”

“George, come on…”

“It’s a fucking joke. It’s our fault, Tony. He couldn’t handle it. Why did he have to be so fucking... thick?”

“Come on, mate...”

“You know I’m right Tony. Your lot's just the same.”

“George, don't start...”

“Ah fuck off, Tony, don’t get precious. You know it as well as I do. It's shit heaped on shit. Never ends."  

“He didn’t know what he was doing. It was the drink. It had already done its damage. I know. I know what it’s like. To hit rock-bottom. Some can't hack it. It’s what happens. Round here...” 
Tony takes another deep drag and shakes his head. “It’s too much...” 

“You’re right there, lad,” says George.

George 1

The Vic. Saturday night. Bradford lost 4-0 this aft. George got started at about 11 in the morning – a couple of tins left over from Friday night, fuel for the coach ride over to the Valley. He hasn’t stopped since then. Hard to take, 4-0.

Cath, the menopausal landlady, serves George his pint with a disdainful shake of the head. ‘You gunna pull yerself together George or are you gunna sulk into yer beer all night?’

She’s joined by Stu, the barman from Samoa. He used to be a professional rugby player. Built like a gorilla. It’s midwinter and it’s dark outside, but he’s wearing bermudas and flip flops all the same. ‘How’d you get on there, Georgie boy?’ he goads, nudging Cath. ‘Did you win?’ 

‘You know what happened, you. Now fuck off back to aborigine land,’ George replies, lost in the bubbles of his pint.

Cath grins, her thin lips stretching over a condemned set of grey teeth. Stu laughs, looking at the regulars slumped around the bar to back him up.

The pub is filling up. The Tango brigade gets settled round the U-shaped banquette - all have dyed black hair, all wear black, all saturated in fake tan and mascara, stinking of discount scent.

Stevie, who Cath refers to as ‘that weird foreign lass’, tiptoes in and looks around.

A meek-looking woman of about 30, with lank muddy blonde hair framing her chubby, rosacea-afflicted face, Stevie sees George and smiles faintly. It’s a smile that simultaneously expresses relief and disappointment.

‘Stephanie, come here, sit down with me.’ Stevie hesitates. ‘Come on. Come on over here and sit with me. What you having?’

George stumbles back to the table with a double vodka and diet coke for Stevie, about £1.50’s-worth of which he spills en route.

Andy powers up the karaoke, starts checking his monitor and the mic. This brings George to life. ‘Time for summat from’t repertoire. What d’yer fancy, Steph?’ 

‘Not tonight, you’re too pissed,’ Andy says.

‘No I’m not. Come on, one song.’

‘Why don’t you stay over there and have a dance instead,’ Andy says. ‘I’m not having you falling all over my gear again.’

‘Come on, Andy, I’m not drunk. I’ve had a few but I’m not drunk. I’m not drunk.’

The drawstring from George’s hoodie is dangling in his pint.

‘Next time. Not today.’

George stares at the table. In front of him on the table three pints of lager are going flat. Time to get this night back on track, he thinks. ‘Steph, have a vodka red bull.’

I’ve told you, it’s Stevie, and I’m fine with this, thanks.’

‘Ah come on, I’ll get you one.’

George sways up to the bar, orders two double vodka red bulls and sways back to the table, nudging the glasses on to the edge of the table between the undrunk pints.

He leans over and whispers into her ear, the drawstring from his hoodie again dangling in his drink.

‘Steph, do you remember that text you sent to me that time? Do you remember?’

‘James, it’s Stevie. And I didn’t mean to send that to you. It was an accident. It was meant for another James.’

‘Do you remember what it said, Stephie?’

Stevie rolls her eyes and takes a long swig of her vodka coke. Made bold by her anonymity in this dark little town, thousands of miles from home, she had made this mistake after her first night at the Vic, a brief, shamefully deliberate flouting of caution. James repeated the story every time he saw her.

George leans in again. ‘Do you remember what it said, Stephie?’ He slurs, his fat lower lip brushing against her ear. He lowers his voice. Sour warm breath. ‘It said: Come over now and fuck me.’

‘James, you’re drunk again. Don’t be so...’ – she stops herself.

‘No, I’m not. I just wanted you to know...’ His heavy-lidded eyes seek out hers. ‘...I’m all right with it you know. You and me, Stevie. I’ll go back with you later. Or now if you want… No, let’s have one more first...’

‘James, you’re a damn mess.’

‘Yeah, I know, it’s all right.’ He smiles at her.’ I’ll go back with you.’ He leans over and pats her leg, sending his hoodie drawsting back into his pint. Stevie downs the rest of her vodka coke.

Mick the bastard – greasy haired, unshaven, wearing a polo shirt and baggy stonewashed jeans – comes up behind George. He clasps his scalp in both hands like it’s the FA Cup and kisses him on top of his head.

‘You doing all right here, love?’ he says into George’s ear.

George smiles at Stevie. Mick squeezes his shoulders. ‘You gonna fuck that later or what?’

‘We’re all right, Mick,’ George answers. ‘We’re all right, mate.’

‘Course you are, love. Course you are. There’s nowt wrong with you. And don’t ever let anyone tell you otherwise,’ says Mick with a dirty grin, before stumbling off to the gents, picking his arse crack as he goes.

The words to Angels appear in huge pink letters on the big karaoke screen.

‘Aah, Andy, come on. Angels!’ 

 

9-5

Wake up. Fall back to sleep. Veer in and out of dreams. In and out of a paralysed fascination with being alive. The is-ness of the thing. The consciousness of it. The meaninglessness of it. I'm awake again. Sporting a rock-hard erection. Have to get up now. Have to. Do it all over again. Make some more decisions. Put off making more decisions. Something always held back. Hi, how was your weekend? Oh fuck off.

Jogging

I'll tell you what, the silence tonight. Unbearable. Not sure why that is. Drying out from the weekend.  Yesterday's diazepam leaving its slugtrail over my membrane. Feels as if I would shatter like cheap glass if I heard a sudden noise. But I fill the void with music. Impressionistic music. Ravel, Bacarisse. Love the sound of that. That mad bushy-faced cunt Nietzsche was right: without music life would be a mistake. Take me somewhere I don't know and where yet I feel fated to go. Beautiful while it lasts. But what next? What now? There has to be a something.

Keep going back to the memory of my remark to Gerry about joggers. I said that joggers gave the impression of being pathological or something, that they ran and ran and kept on running because if they were to stop they'd go mad or die. Gerry laughed. I assumed at the time he laughed because he thought it an amusing apercu, and I felt quite pleased with myself, but now I know he was laughing at my naivety. Because it's not just the joggers, it's all of us, and I just hadn't realised it. We are all running, sweating, panting, to escape madness or thoughts of death.

I'm Gay and an Alcoholic

Okay, yes, I must admit it:
I'm gay and I'm an alcoholic
There, it's over, done, I've said it
No need to cry, no need to panic
I know I've been a bit pathetic
To not see that it's true
But there, I've fucking done it,
Now what about you?

Coming down

A, I will address you directly, because that is one of the only ways I have of preventing your memory from vanishing for good. A - and I use your initial interchangeably with methylenedioxymethamphetamine here - because of you, my sober life is a nightmare. I twirled with you and your friend to the buzz of fiendish techno on the scummy concrete floor of a disused warehouse. I somehow found myself with you back at my flat in the early hours of New Year’s day – you and your fat-lipped friend. I don’t have any memory of seeing your face or of physical contact with you while levitating at that New Year's party, but I do, just about, remember your face and the feel of you from when the three of us were lying on my bed, coming down. Your hand in mind. My gob on yours. Your angular shoulders, one of which I tried to hold as we surrendered to sleep. I try hard to remember, A. I remember also sneaking looks at you while you dressed to leave as daylight crept up, all too abruptly, and thinking, she's tall. And gorgeous. And she dresses well. And her eyebrows are good. Don’t leave.

You were from the same place as me. I remember you saying more than once - as if reminding yourself of the silly situation you found yourself in, or the silly person you found yourself with - ‘Darren from Batley’. That lightly mocking tone. So natural to northern folk. To people like us. We didn’t even talk about our shared origins. You just said, now and then, ‘Darren from Batley’. What a privilege to know that I was a coherent concept to you.

Can I remember how many times we kissed and how good that felt? No. Between five and fifteen, I think. In the morning we lay half-dead on my worried mattress. Your friend writhed and murmured next to us. Time was running out. You held in your hand a tube of lip balm, which I felt jealous of and replaced with my own hand. I remember more than anything else your rich, low, perpetually unimpressed voice.       

I remember, as rumours of your leaving plucked the threads of this living dream, forgetting what you were called, and confessing as much in shame. You said something like, ‘I told you enough times when we were at the party.’ Time is a scythe - on that memory, the bluntest.

Now, A, between my unsteady hands, I hold your memory like Andalucian sand. At least I have your texts. If they were actually written by you and not, as the final one would suggest, by some mocking and infinitely cruel accomplice...

Me: Alex, my tongue is all bitten up and I look like a corpse. Are you going to be able to make it out later? I think you should. (Translation: Alex, I’ve lost every shred of confidence I had when I saw you, but please come and see me.)

Alex: That text was funny. Well, what’s your plan for tonight? I’d like to but I’m really not sure I’m capable!

Me: Me too. I’m fucking broken. I don’t have a plan yet. But would be good go meet you at some point. Any interest in coming over my way? (Translation: Please, fucking please, I want to see you again.)

Me, hours later: Come on Alex, let’s do something! (Translation: Alex, I love you!)

Alex: We’ve just ordered an enormous amount of Chinese takeaway! I’ll see how I feel after but I can’t promise anything as I am a shell of a person!

Me: Good. MSG good. I’m going to keep drinking wine until you get in touch. Ha, ha. Herm. Sigh. (Translation: Thank God you replied. I’m going to avoid the tiniest suggestion of sobriety until, unless, you get in touch.)

Me, hours later: Right. I wish you would get active. I’m totally prepared to come over where you are. Well, not totally prepared, but you know. Come on, I’ll be depressed otherwise. (Translation: Oh fuck, you’ve switched off. Why? WHY? Was it my last message? Oh God, I'm dying!)

Alex: Food took nearly two hours to come. The only thing left for me to do now is go to bed and end this day! I’m sorry, last night was fun though x.

Me: Ah that’s rubbish. You should come over and sleep with me. Just get in a taxi. I’ll cover it. (Translation: An 'x'?)

Alex, or someone using her phone: I’ll be round in ten. I do have gonorrhoea though, hope that’s okay.

Me: That’s my favourite STD. (Translation: She's gone.) 

You will say I’m an idiot and that it was just a night of fun. But you were tall, O A, O MDMA, without you I feel nothing. Nada. Nowt.