I Love This City.
It's looked after me. Provided me with somewhere to sleep for awhile. Made sure I always got fed (if I had the money), was happy that my friends were nearby. Took care of me for awhile, when I needed it.
But like any new foolish fling, the things that are initially endearing become a chore very quickly. And you wonder if you've made a mistake.
The city threw belligerent drunkards at me. I told them to walk. It threw overly-threatening crack-addicts pretending to be homeless so they could score at me. They too were given short shrift. It threw prostitutes at me in the early hours of the morning when I needed the bathroom.
The city was testing me perhaps.
Anyway.
Months ago.
I am having a cigarette.
Whilst I am at work. But it's o.k. I'd filled-out the relevant form.
Being the afternoon, the comatose/dead woman had been cleared away by the paramedics from the staff entrance so I was free to mill about without fear of treading on any dying/dead people.
Present are a couple of colleagues. Being in their twenties they have absurd hair, so I don't make too big a thing about them.
A Youth wanders past, yammering into a mobile phone.
Youth: TELL HIM I'M GOING TO SMASH HIS FUCKING FACE IN.
He is wearing a tracksuit and yet does not appear to be an athlete of any sort.
In fact -in my experience - this attire at this time of the afternoon by a youth yammering in a barely articulate manner into a phone that frankly I'm astonished he could even operate is more indicative of a common criminal than an Olympic contender.
Youth: YEAH? WILL IF SHE SAYS THAT TELL HER I'M GOING TO SMASH HER FACE IN AN ALL!!
Pause. He is actually listening now, and I get the impression it is causing him some unrest.
Youth: LISTEN RIGHT. DO YOU WANT ME TO FUCKING SMASH YOUR FUCKING FACE IN AS FUCKING WELL? YOU FUCKING FUCK. WHY DON'T YOU FUCK OFF.
More silence.
Youth: YEAH? WELL TELL HIM FROM ME. IF I SEE HIM I'M GOING TO FUCKING SMASH HIS FACE IN.
Youth wonders off in a petulant swagger of nylon.
Me: He's got a whole lot of face-smashing to contend with this evening.
Colleague: Yeah. He'll be worn-out after all that.
Me: He may need a sit down. Perhaps a cup of tea or something.
Colleague: There's only so many cans of whupp-ass you can open in one night.
Me: He's setting himself up for a fall if you ask me.
Colleague: Mmm.
Me: I mean. That's a whole lot of faces he's talking about there.
Colleague: Hey. That woman. This morning. Was she dead?
Me: Dunno.
The city and I split up. We had some laughs, but I just don't think we were compatible. You know? It wasn't her, it was me.
But like any new foolish fling, the things that are initially endearing become a chore very quickly. And you wonder if you've made a mistake.
The city threw belligerent drunkards at me. I told them to walk. It threw overly-threatening crack-addicts pretending to be homeless so they could score at me. They too were given short shrift. It threw prostitutes at me in the early hours of the morning when I needed the bathroom.
The city was testing me perhaps.
Anyway.
Months ago.
I am having a cigarette.
Whilst I am at work. But it's o.k. I'd filled-out the relevant form.
Being the afternoon, the comatose/dead woman had been cleared away by the paramedics from the staff entrance so I was free to mill about without fear of treading on any dying/dead people.
Present are a couple of colleagues. Being in their twenties they have absurd hair, so I don't make too big a thing about them.
A Youth wanders past, yammering into a mobile phone.
Youth: TELL HIM I'M GOING TO SMASH HIS FUCKING FACE IN.
He is wearing a tracksuit and yet does not appear to be an athlete of any sort.
In fact -in my experience - this attire at this time of the afternoon by a youth yammering in a barely articulate manner into a phone that frankly I'm astonished he could even operate is more indicative of a common criminal than an Olympic contender.
Youth: YEAH? WILL IF SHE SAYS THAT TELL HER I'M GOING TO SMASH HER FACE IN AN ALL!!
Pause. He is actually listening now, and I get the impression it is causing him some unrest.
Youth: LISTEN RIGHT. DO YOU WANT ME TO FUCKING SMASH YOUR FUCKING FACE IN AS FUCKING WELL? YOU FUCKING FUCK. WHY DON'T YOU FUCK OFF.
More silence.
Youth: YEAH? WELL TELL HIM FROM ME. IF I SEE HIM I'M GOING TO FUCKING SMASH HIS FACE IN.
Youth wonders off in a petulant swagger of nylon.
Me: He's got a whole lot of face-smashing to contend with this evening.
Colleague: Yeah. He'll be worn-out after all that.
Me: He may need a sit down. Perhaps a cup of tea or something.
Colleague: There's only so many cans of whupp-ass you can open in one night.
Me: He's setting himself up for a fall if you ask me.
Colleague: Mmm.
Me: I mean. That's a whole lot of faces he's talking about there.
Colleague: Hey. That woman. This morning. Was she dead?
Me: Dunno.
The city and I split up. We had some laughs, but I just don't think we were compatible. You know? It wasn't her, it was me.
posted by Tired Dad at
11:35 pm
16 Comments:
I knew it. Soon as you have a baby the suburbs start to call your soul...
Would that be caffeine free Whup-ass?
You, sir, have just told the story of my walk to work. All you've omitted are the puddles of sour piddle and spew. Oh, and the fag ends floating in them.
Would you believe I'm from Oz? My suburb's less 'emerald', more 'urine-green'...
By the way -- I've posted a link to this entry in my journal; hope you don't mind? I tried to create a trackback link, but google strongly resented a link from sources other than blogger, and I'm too tired to pick this particular battle!
That's very presumptuous of you to assume he wasn't an athlete, he may be one of the new generation of darts players.
"It was'nt her, it was me."
You can still be friends ;0)
You know? This city... I think I've met her. Of course, ex's being ex's, I don't think I can rightly talk about her to you, either. The city knows people, and a contract isn't all that expensive to take out on a person--
Ignore Amanda - forget the city, move on. Try doing that whole 'Maybe we can be friends thing', and that there city chick will prove herself to be the total mentalist that your head tells you she is. Christ man, you're lucky to be alive. Walk.
You need sand kicking in your face,cunt chops.
oh lord..
Collegue says the better line..( whup ass is ALWAYS funny) and you beat a dead horse ( continue talkingafter the whup ass )
and you want to break up with the city..
christ..
you men and your egos
I feel sorry for people like that - so much face-smashing to do, so little time. They must be exhausted. I hardly have time to stir my fucking coffee these days, let along unleash extreme violence on hapless individuals. Would that I could, would that I could.
You should have kicked her to see if she moved or grunted. That would have been a sign of life of sorts. Mind you she was more alive in terms of brain cells than the track suit.
That doesn't just happen in the city you know. It happens outside my house on a regular basis - and no it isn't me on the phone and no I don't wear tracksuits and no I don't smash faces in.
I occasionally want to but I don't.
Tracksuit is obviously destined for higher management in the near future.
Country chavs are no better. They've just got a smaller bunch of people around them to threaten with a head kicking.
And they are wearing last season's tracksuits.
Cunt Chops?
yikes..
Ang / Fussy / Whoever You Are This Week: Indeed.
Duck: Gosh. Odd being friends. It's like we're in some Shane Black-scripted movie. Caffiene free? God only hopes so.
em: Hello and welcome. Don't mind the link at all.
pus: Ok then.
Amanda: You're reading too much into this. Erm. I think. I still love the place. We just need a bit of distance.
Allix: Welcome. See above.
Shane: Right. Reading FAR TOO MUCH into this.
Anon: BRILLIANT! I've not had an Anon comment in months! Always from brave people! Get in!!
Oh dear anon. Seriously though, do your best. It brings my stats up no end - everyone loves an internet spat and I've not had a decent one in at least a year.
Get a job or do better than 'sand'.
Anthrax or something? Come on. Do it properly. It amuses me no end.
C: OK. You got me.
M_G: I have to say I'm with you.
Dinners: Dear God man cheer up.
Missy: Having lived virtually everywhere in the UK, I agree. Grrr.
C: I know. 'Cunty chops' would have so much better. Let's wait and see if there's any improvement. I'm still chuckling at the 'sand' thing.
Ah, I've seen this before. Rebound. If you want my opinion, which I'm sure you do, this is a classic, textbook example of rebound. You may scoff, but I've seen cases like yours time after time in my field of professionalism. I'm telling you now TD, pull tourself together man, lay off the sauce, (I can smell it from here!)City wasn't for you, she was a short term substitute to get you through the dark days, a dirty distraction to fuel the fire of dying embers in your heart. She doused you in gasoline for a fast flame until you were burnt on the outside but still raw in the middle......Time TD, only time can spatchcock your heart on the barbecue of life. Be patient. Would you rather kill all nutrients for 30seconds in the microwave, or warm through for 30 minutes on 180*? Take these thoughts with you TD, and may they serve you well. THE DOCTOR IS ALWAYS AVAILABLE FOR ADVICE AND SUPPORT ON WWW.ILLALWAYSTALKSHITEVENIFIDONTKNOWTHEANSWERJUSTTOSOUNDCLEVER.COM Don't Forget
Anon: I love you.
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