There’s this famous woman nearby. Well, I say famous. She used to be in some reality TV-show concoction that had a big hit then died a death soon after. Now she acts in the soaps and appears from time to time on quiz shows and as a guest panellist on morning phone-ins on local radio. She was in a leaked sex tape a few years back. I watched it out of curiosity but didn’t obtain orgasm. Anyway, she’s not far from me as we all sit around listening to the band playing a cover of Elton John’s Crocodile Rock while eating our undercooked burgers. It’s a posh lot I’m in the company of. Women with white teeth and boob jobs who haven’t done a day’s work in years, and men who are better than me in every way who earn more money in twelve months than I’ll make in a lifetime. And yet here we are rubbing shoulders for one day in a field in the countryside. It’s threatening to rain, but I’m more interested in the look of concern on her face as she keeps a watchful eye over her children. They’re ugly little stuck-up fucks, but it’s not their fault I guess. As they run around and she crosses herself while her fella chats with his mob, I take out a receipt from my pocket and scrawl some prose on it with a pencil. The receipt in question is for a Blu-ray of Withnail and I purchased earlier in the day. It’s in my bag along with a thumbed copy of Bukowski’s Ham on Rye. There’s dirt under my fingernails and bits of tobacco in my hair from where the wind kept blowing on our walk from the centre of town. The wind is a cunt. I tell this to my friends and refuse to explain myself as I see no reason to. But it is. It serves no purpose, and that’s that. The woman takes out a little mirror and adjusts her makeup while her husband talks about the last game of rugby he played with his geezer mates. He’s a big fella, and if he could, he’d quite happily knock the shit out of me. In fact, he’d knock the shit out of me then piss on my broken body, such would be his contempt for what I represent. Y’know, a pussy writer who pays more attention to feelings and emotion than acting like a man. Yeah, that’s me, but I’m not afraid of this meathead because, from experience, those that impose themselves physically have little to offer mentally. Presence of muscle pales to presence of mind, and this is what his wife knows all too well.

A Journal for Damned Lovers on Amazon.co.uk

A Journal for Damned Lovers on Amazon.com