RuKsaK

The Dog and others talk to me of going out on the piss all the time. He tantalises me with regalings of the evenings, nights of beer and conversations and laughs. He names exotic, sturdy sounding brews: Hoegaarden, Organic White, Tetleys. He namedrops areas of London congested by pubs. Lists names of friends, making them sound like Dickensian rogues, and he gets me really homesick.

Then I go home sometimes and all of us assemble for all the above. Then, I find the beer costs over three quid, even for the same Russian stuff I’d been drinking the week before at ten percent of the price. I can’t buy alcohol after eleven o’clock. We need time to get to know each other in our year-changed haircuts and bellies.
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The same things don’t happen.

Mike doesn’t drag me round strip clubs, belting out his comedy laugh, because were not in St.Petersburg. My brother doesn’t fuck a whore up the arse at the end of the night because we're not in Moscow. Dom’s eyes don’t go a hilarious opaque yellow, because we can’t afford the vodka.

It’s then I feel a little sad. I don’t tell anyone. I don’t want to down our reunion.

It’s not our fault. It’s how good the past was which is the problem. Memories, crawling up behind me and shitting on the present and future. The more good times that go by the more they endanger more in the future. The past, as is its job, curdles the future.
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I need more crap memories.

Next time I go to London I don’t need all those good times in my head. I need a lifetime of boredom. I’m willing to do a head-swap with any really dull bastards who need over a dozen countries, numerous sexual adventures, endless amounts of alcohol, a year-back of amphetamines, twenty-seven flats lived in, being arrested three times, at least twelve truly different jobs, scores of tits, a thousand headaches and a hundred varieties of shit spillage in their memories. I'll need this exchange for just a week or so.

It’s charity I'm asking for.

So, my past reduces my future to rubble, inflates my ego©, makes me rant, drives me to a blog – Christ!. Like shitting, it’s an egg timer. Old folks with a zeppelin full of shit behind them, and memories which’ll never be superseded, are left no choice, but to give up the ghost.

At least, next time you use the term ‘old fart’ – pause a sec and then go for ‘memory-laden, dying shite-master.’ That way, they’ll be happier to die - to know why.

Old fart is the worst insult I’ve ever fucking heard. The first time someone calls me it, I’m going for an uber-dump.

Thursday, December 02, 2004

I'll swap drying paint for a blow job