Friday, January 22, 2010
WH'APPEN?
OK, gonna pre-empt all you told ya so Marxists, sitting there in your wanking mittens: LISTEN - IF A MAN CAN'T BE MELODRAMATIC ON HIS OWN FUCKING BLOG, HE SHOULDN'T BE ONLINE IN THE FIRST PLACE. That's why they invented the internet - for masturbation and hissy fits. Seven poxy comments?? That's IT??(two of which were from the same bloke, so that's technically just six)?? Jesus - no wonder Technorati banned me. Didn't ANYONE'S GIRLFRIEND slice their arteries into a mish-mash of flapping, spurting geysers, at least???
Y'see... this shit was standard when I was a little brat. My dad had this ritual, every second weekend: Sunday was designated 'Aggro-Day'. The old man would come back from the pub, laughing and singing and full of the joys of...Sunday afternoon, I guess. My siblings would get their heads down and rip into Sunday lunch, like a pack of jackals tearing into a lame baby zebra, fear in their eyes. It was coming...it was coming...oh here it comes...
Mid-munch, my dad would suddenly want to write a letter to his old mate, Johnny Cronin, who'd emigrated to Oz in '72 for a lifestyle of half-assed building projects and 17-year old Asian brides ((a year's worth of gummy blow jobs before the exotic 'wee burd' scarpered, with half his savings in tow - but, fuck it, give it 2 months of overtime and he could afford to snap up another one, easy)). Unfortunately though, there wouldn't be a stamp, pen or scrap of paper available to my dad - at that particular moment. Especially as we were meant to be eating. We didn't do 'literary lunches' back then. This really displeased my father.
So, 5 mins later - my mum's in tears, there's pork and gravy all over the wall, and my dad's screaming "YA SHOWER-A UNGRATEFUL BASTARDS!" and packing a suitcase. "SEE HOW YA COPE ON YER OWN!" he'd roar."CAN'T WRITE A LETTER TO A FUCKING MAN! I SHOULD HAVE GONE WITH HIM, INSTEAD OF BEIN' IN THIS FUCKIN' HOORS' COUNTRY - STUCK HERE, CLOTHIN' AND FEEDIN' YOU UNGRATEFUL CUNTS, AND CAN'T EVEN WRITE A FUKKEN LETTER!"
"Wahh, wahhh," we'd wail. "Please Daddy, don't leave us."
"FUCK YEZ!" he'd rage, pushing past everyone, dumping his suitcase into the boot and revving up the car engine. I'd be clinging to the tyre, "Da...da...don't go". My mum catatonic. My family destroyed! I was gonna end up like that shy, lonely girl in Infants' School whose parents had a divorce, and who was always breaking into tears in the playground and being treated with kid gloves by the grown-ups.
About 5 minutes later, my dad would turn the engine off. My siblings had disappeared to some vague semblance of normality down the Northern Line. My mum, eager to placate the old man, would try to open up the boot, to lug the suitcase back in.
"LEAVE IT!" he'd yell - and I mean YELL like the word 'yell' doesn't do justice. So, that was that. My mum spongeing Pollock-esque gravy splatters off the wall, me sitting in front of Credo or Winner Takes All, or whatever crap was on the goggle box back then, and my dad swaggering back indoors and slamming things, empty suitcase in hand.
You know...as far as my dad was concerned...any other day of the week, and Johnny Cronin was a "SHITHOUSE" and "FUCKIN' BIGMOUTH" and the object of much derision and laughter round ours. I still remember the Polaroids that used to accompany Cronin's badly scribbled bragging missions: comb-over; beergut sagging over tight Speedos; frightened hula-girl clenched under sweaty armpit; leering Celt face, peeled to Nagasaki ketchup in the Aussie sun.
So, yeah - count yourselves lucky. I just fucked off for a couple of days. Hardly the same level as mental torture as I had to endure. Not that more than six of you care (sniff). Brutes. Ingrates. TYRANTS. I will NEVER leave you, chicklets. Oh, who fucking cares. I don't give a toss about this blog's reputation. So, I lied. I shew off. So what? The devil made me do it.
Anyway, stay tuned, cos coming up -
**Exclusive, epic KID SHIRT interview - yes! KEK-W dishes the dirt, opens the back ferry doors and spills the goss on... Magick! Bekki Bondage! 2000 A.D Comic! Glaxo Babies! The Mob! Wild, Wild West - Ultraviolence in Chard, '70s-Stylee! Proper DJing! Blogging! Button-cocked IDM twerps! Birdwatching! Synchronicity Storms! And loads more besides...**
.
And then I'm quitting the internet.
Y'see... this shit was standard when I was a little brat. My dad had this ritual, every second weekend: Sunday was designated 'Aggro-Day'. The old man would come back from the pub, laughing and singing and full of the joys of...Sunday afternoon, I guess. My siblings would get their heads down and rip into Sunday lunch, like a pack of jackals tearing into a lame baby zebra, fear in their eyes. It was coming...it was coming...oh here it comes...
Mid-munch, my dad would suddenly want to write a letter to his old mate, Johnny Cronin, who'd emigrated to Oz in '72 for a lifestyle of half-assed building projects and 17-year old Asian brides ((a year's worth of gummy blow jobs before the exotic 'wee burd' scarpered, with half his savings in tow - but, fuck it, give it 2 months of overtime and he could afford to snap up another one, easy)). Unfortunately though, there wouldn't be a stamp, pen or scrap of paper available to my dad - at that particular moment. Especially as we were meant to be eating. We didn't do 'literary lunches' back then. This really displeased my father.
So, 5 mins later - my mum's in tears, there's pork and gravy all over the wall, and my dad's screaming "YA SHOWER-A UNGRATEFUL BASTARDS!" and packing a suitcase. "SEE HOW YA COPE ON YER OWN!" he'd roar."CAN'T WRITE A LETTER TO A FUCKING MAN! I SHOULD HAVE GONE WITH HIM, INSTEAD OF BEIN' IN THIS FUCKIN' HOORS' COUNTRY - STUCK HERE, CLOTHIN' AND FEEDIN' YOU UNGRATEFUL CUNTS, AND CAN'T EVEN WRITE A FUKKEN LETTER!"
"Wahh, wahhh," we'd wail. "Please Daddy, don't leave us."
"FUCK YEZ!" he'd rage, pushing past everyone, dumping his suitcase into the boot and revving up the car engine. I'd be clinging to the tyre, "Da...da...don't go". My mum catatonic. My family destroyed! I was gonna end up like that shy, lonely girl in Infants' School whose parents had a divorce, and who was always breaking into tears in the playground and being treated with kid gloves by the grown-ups.
About 5 minutes later, my dad would turn the engine off. My siblings had disappeared to some vague semblance of normality down the Northern Line. My mum, eager to placate the old man, would try to open up the boot, to lug the suitcase back in.
"LEAVE IT!" he'd yell - and I mean YELL like the word 'yell' doesn't do justice. So, that was that. My mum spongeing Pollock-esque gravy splatters off the wall, me sitting in front of Credo or Winner Takes All, or whatever crap was on the goggle box back then, and my dad swaggering back indoors and slamming things, empty suitcase in hand.
You know...as far as my dad was concerned...any other day of the week, and Johnny Cronin was a "SHITHOUSE" and "FUCKIN' BIGMOUTH" and the object of much derision and laughter round ours. I still remember the Polaroids that used to accompany Cronin's badly scribbled bragging missions: comb-over; beergut sagging over tight Speedos; frightened hula-girl clenched under sweaty armpit; leering Celt face, peeled to Nagasaki ketchup in the Aussie sun.
So, yeah - count yourselves lucky. I just fucked off for a couple of days. Hardly the same level as mental torture as I had to endure. Not that more than six of you care (sniff). Brutes. Ingrates. TYRANTS. I will NEVER leave you, chicklets. Oh, who fucking cares. I don't give a toss about this blog's reputation. So, I lied. I shew off. So what? The devil made me do it.
Anyway, stay tuned, cos coming up -
**Exclusive, epic KID SHIRT interview - yes! KEK-W dishes the dirt, opens the back ferry doors and spills the goss on... Magick! Bekki Bondage! 2000 A.D Comic! Glaxo Babies! The Mob! Wild, Wild West - Ultraviolence in Chard, '70s-Stylee! Proper DJing! Blogging! Button-cocked IDM twerps! Birdwatching! Synchronicity Storms! And loads more besides...**
.
And then I'm quitting the internet.
# posted by Martin : 11:04 PM <%=MakeComment("6837315050599513839","beyond the implode:WH'APPEN?","http://seagullscreamingkillherkillher.blogspot.com/2010/01/whappen.html")%>
