RuKsaK

I was born in Bridlington and this is not the start of any story. The immediate view was useless – I was not content. Not out of uniqueness, or amazing cognitive power, but because Bridlington is a peeling seaside town, in architectural deficit, full of tiny grey histories. All its babies feel the same.

I don’t live there now and haven’t for over ten years.
------
My penniless brother doesn’t have a computer. Phoning from Seoul is cheap:
‘You read my fucking blog yet?’
‘Nah.’
‘What the fuck is that! What else is there to do in Bridlington? Everyone in that shithouse should be made to read my blog at school anyway. It might save someone’s life.’
‘What are you talking about you cockend?’
‘Look - just fucking read it.’
‘I tried, but couldn’t.’
‘Shit man – do you want me to send you the short words version?’
‘Aye, and your Bobbited dick in a sandwich bag. I couldn’t access it.’
‘Eh?’
‘You’re banned in Brid library.’
‘Eh?’
‘Your website thing won’t open. It’s obviously got too much filth in it.’
‘Oh man! I used the word shit once or twice and bags of fucking, a dash of wanks and cocks. Never used tits and there’s no arse overload.’
‘Did you get any cunts in?’
‘Oh fuck – the cunts! No - the cunts stay. Bridlington library can suck on my fat cunts!’
‘Yeah – they didn’t fucking have the Da Vinci Code as well.’
‘Right – well find somewhere else to read RuKsaK then.’
‘Why do you call yourself RuKsaK?’
------
So, incognito, I couldn’t get into Brid library. British libraries don’t have cunts in them. Well, not the kind I like.

I’d like to think my brother reads RuKsaK covertly and with joy, but I know he doesn’t really give a shit. In his own words:
‘I would rather have Bin Laden’s fizzing cock in my ear.’

Thanks to my brother for making me always snap my spear of destiny, for trailing my expletive-tattooed umbilical cord into Bridlington’s municipal buildings.

And - I’m gonna get pornographic on their arse.

Saturday, January 08, 2005

I am Oedipus. I am the Trojan Horse. I am a 1,000,000 mile long piece of broken, greasy string