Lost Post # 2: Document created 22 February 2007, 01:07:00
‘That’s rubbish.’ Exclaims the girl in the seat in front of me to her companion.
I am on a bus on my way home. It is nearly dark. I am tired and discouraged. It has been a long day.
At work and that.
I focus on the conversation of the two girls (girls, tweens, teenagers? I don’t know. When you see four-year-olds wearing fuck-me shoes you lose track) of indeterminate age but who are very young in front of me. I try and listen in order to drown-out the adolescent dribbling of the two male youths sitting behind me.
Male Youth 1: Yeah but have you seen this one? She is filth.
There follows some clacking of mobile-phone keypad. Then some crackly audio, obviously accompanying video footage being vomited out of a mobile phone. I hear a breathless female voice saying ‘Do it now. Put that dildo in my arse and fuck me.’
They are laughing fit to burst.
Male Youth 2: That’s Jessica init? Does she know?
Male Youth 1: Naw man. She’d gan mental. Darren bluetoothed everyone.
They proceed to show each other video clips of people that I have never heard of and that are apparently famous engaged in similar pastimes. From what I heard of the conversation, it seems something regarding the Hilton is quite popular.
I am already feeling quite gloomy. Intimate footage of sexual relations compiled and distributed without the female participants knowledge to every boy in their year is not the most cheering thing I could be hearing.
I glance behind me. As suspected, both young men (boys, lets be honest) are wearing school uniforms.
Looking out the window, I see that some wag has placed a traffic cone, complete with blinking light to warn drivers of impending hazard, on top of a bus shelter. Ha-ha.
Some time previously I had been in a city-centre public house waiting for said bus. At the bar had been a frail elderly gentleman completing a betting-slip with all the flourishes of someone signing the Magna Carta. I purchased my drink and sat at the only available seat. Quite close to a gentleman in his sixties who appeared to be made entirely of hair.
‘Cunts aren’t they?’ He says apropos of nothing.
‘Mmm?’ Say I.
‘The Australians.’
‘I haven’t met them all. I really couldn’t say.’
He sucks on his cigarette thoughtfully, although it seems to be sucking on him.
Anyway.
Focusing now on the girls in front of me on the bus, I hope for some redemption.
What is it that her companion thinks so 'rubbish'? Maybe her conception of basic human relations, politics or meaning in a western world over-saturated with stupidity, in which the major talking points of the day are from some made-up stories flickering on a box in the corner of their front-rooms? The ‘yoot’ can see through this surely?
And I’m sure they can.
‘You see,’ says the young lady addressing her friend, whilst pulling-up the copious bangles and bracelets that adorn her wrist and best part of her arms, ‘this is how it’s really done.’
‘Oh’ Says her companion with a hint of dismay.
‘See? I got ALL his initials. Even the middle one. And you can see it clearly.’
The other girls fiddles with her bangles in a slightly-ashamed manner.
‘You are rubbish. You have to really dig the compass point in on the first try or you’ll never really scar properly. You have to try harder. Amateur.’
Her ‘friend’ falls into silent embarrassment.
My stop nears. I concentrate on pushing the button-bell-thing between the correct stops so I do not have to walk too far. I cast out of my mind thirteen-year-old anal-sex aficionados and self-harming over-competitive females of a similar age and get off the bus.
Thirteen if a day.
My stop is next to the public house that is one-minute-and thirty seconds walk away from my front door. The general street area is speckled with vomit. At six in the evening. Impressive. I enjoy a drink as much as the next man, but to have to relieve your stomach outside a public house at that early hour is above and beyond the call.
I sidestep, and walk down my street. Occasionally side-stepping the deposits of the Phantom Dog-Shitter. I get to my house, and let myself in.
It is cold. Dark. Silent. Empty.
I put on some lights. I sit down.
‘Fuck the lot of you’ I say. To no-one in particular.
I am on a bus on my way home. It is nearly dark. I am tired and discouraged. It has been a long day.
At work and that.
I focus on the conversation of the two girls (girls, tweens, teenagers? I don’t know. When you see four-year-olds wearing fuck-me shoes you lose track) of indeterminate age but who are very young in front of me. I try and listen in order to drown-out the adolescent dribbling of the two male youths sitting behind me.
Male Youth 1: Yeah but have you seen this one? She is filth.
There follows some clacking of mobile-phone keypad. Then some crackly audio, obviously accompanying video footage being vomited out of a mobile phone. I hear a breathless female voice saying ‘Do it now. Put that dildo in my arse and fuck me.’
They are laughing fit to burst.
Male Youth 2: That’s Jessica init? Does she know?
Male Youth 1: Naw man. She’d gan mental. Darren bluetoothed everyone.
They proceed to show each other video clips of people that I have never heard of and that are apparently famous engaged in similar pastimes. From what I heard of the conversation, it seems something regarding the Hilton is quite popular.
I am already feeling quite gloomy. Intimate footage of sexual relations compiled and distributed without the female participants knowledge to every boy in their year is not the most cheering thing I could be hearing.
I glance behind me. As suspected, both young men (boys, lets be honest) are wearing school uniforms.
Looking out the window, I see that some wag has placed a traffic cone, complete with blinking light to warn drivers of impending hazard, on top of a bus shelter. Ha-ha.
Some time previously I had been in a city-centre public house waiting for said bus. At the bar had been a frail elderly gentleman completing a betting-slip with all the flourishes of someone signing the Magna Carta. I purchased my drink and sat at the only available seat. Quite close to a gentleman in his sixties who appeared to be made entirely of hair.
‘Cunts aren’t they?’ He says apropos of nothing.
‘Mmm?’ Say I.
‘The Australians.’
‘I haven’t met them all. I really couldn’t say.’
He sucks on his cigarette thoughtfully, although it seems to be sucking on him.
Anyway.
Focusing now on the girls in front of me on the bus, I hope for some redemption.
What is it that her companion thinks so 'rubbish'? Maybe her conception of basic human relations, politics or meaning in a western world over-saturated with stupidity, in which the major talking points of the day are from some made-up stories flickering on a box in the corner of their front-rooms? The ‘yoot’ can see through this surely?
And I’m sure they can.
‘You see,’ says the young lady addressing her friend, whilst pulling-up the copious bangles and bracelets that adorn her wrist and best part of her arms, ‘this is how it’s really done.’
‘Oh’ Says her companion with a hint of dismay.
‘See? I got ALL his initials. Even the middle one. And you can see it clearly.’
The other girls fiddles with her bangles in a slightly-ashamed manner.
‘You are rubbish. You have to really dig the compass point in on the first try or you’ll never really scar properly. You have to try harder. Amateur.’
Her ‘friend’ falls into silent embarrassment.
My stop nears. I concentrate on pushing the button-bell-thing between the correct stops so I do not have to walk too far. I cast out of my mind thirteen-year-old anal-sex aficionados and self-harming over-competitive females of a similar age and get off the bus.
Thirteen if a day.
My stop is next to the public house that is one-minute-and thirty seconds walk away from my front door. The general street area is speckled with vomit. At six in the evening. Impressive. I enjoy a drink as much as the next man, but to have to relieve your stomach outside a public house at that early hour is above and beyond the call.
I sidestep, and walk down my street. Occasionally side-stepping the deposits of the Phantom Dog-Shitter. I get to my house, and let myself in.
It is cold. Dark. Silent. Empty.
I put on some lights. I sit down.
‘Fuck the lot of you’ I say. To no-one in particular.
posted by Tired Dad at
10:19 pm
11 Comments:
I suspect I may have been a little 'down' at the time.
There's twelve more of these.
I will stop on request.
No, don't stop - I was interested when you announced their existence, even though I forgot to say so. And you post so infrequently, a bunch all together is a treat.
I spent my adolescence in Northumberland, and this post reminds me of a lot of the rubbish that was already happening way back then.
Y'know, if your name was, say, Nicholson Baker, this sort of thing would be being collected up in book form and critics would be looking for the deeper meaning. As it is, it's just us.
PB: I don't think it's peculiar to Northumberland. And it probably depends on your mood if you even notice these things.
FR: I know which I prefer.
Don't stop! That's some depressing shit ... but it's good to come face to face with the human condition.
I'd rather add the 'face of the human condition' to my very long list of ones to avoid.
Sadly all too human.
What a fucking way to live eh?
Actually. Is it entitled to be called 'living'?
I dunno.
There is hope though.
Somewhere.
There has to be.
Please continue, even when you are down you still write so interestingly.
Dinners: Like I say, I'm sure it depends on what sort of mood you're in.
Debs: Kind words. Do remember that this was some time ago.
Ok then, even when you were down ... and I still chuckle at some of the old posts when I go back and read them again.
I'm pleased you take the time but am worried that you spend so much time here.
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