Posted in: Short 'n Curlies by Si Spurrier | Tagged: short and curlies, si spurrier

Short 'n Curlies #21 by Si Spurrier

This Week I Have Been Mostly Hating:

This one fucking woman…

This tubby, over-loud middlemanagement skankpig, dolled-up in so much makeup she could've deflected a bullet, with hair like a fibrous condom and eyes so hungry for attention they'd transcended mere awfulness and become psychic black holes (even Joy couldn't escape their pitiless gravity), who yesterday sat among her co-workers in an otherwise quiet pub like a sow on heat; skrawnching and squealing her flabby-flanged availability into the maelstrom of conversational chaos; pumping acrid lust-musk into the air and raising the already-unbearable volume of her coterie to skullpulping decibels. And when her phone rang (some twinkly cuntbrained girly-girl fairytune, of course), after instinctively seizing the opportunity to imply, for the jealousy-inducing benefit of her beer-goggled suitors, that the caller was yet another Interested Male, where did she go to take the call; free from the background oinking of the hogs? Was it, reader, the warm airlock-porch nearby: not quite outside, but shielded from the noise and cold alike by thick, flyer-clotted doors? Was it, perhaps, the toilets: impressively hygienic and reassuringly soundproofed? OR was it the wide screening-area and sometime dancefloor: cleared of last night's broken glass and blood, perfect for her waddling, talk-n-trek state of semifuckedness, and benefitting from an unbroken view of her clamouring, balding, sweating little courters with all the waving, winking, wankbait flirting that that allowed?

No.

No, she oozed into the nearest corner, voice at top strain, sticky innuendo wrinkling her burlap face with the effort of wit, and stood so close to the poor, headachey writer lurking there, alone with notebook drawn — doing his best to blot-out the aural diarrhoea that had been splattering his concentrated attempts to work since the pigpack had arrived a half hour earlier — that he could not only hear the tinny voice of the sow's phonechum and detect the throat-prickling toxins of her hormonal perfume, but could actually Feel The Warmth Coming Off Her Sagging, Vacformed, Shelflike Arse.

There's a reason people commit murder, my friends, and it's called "Other People."

The Keyboard Is My FuckMonkey:

Work continues apace on the CityGuide To A Fictional Town: last week's rant-fodder of choice. At the same time I'm beavering away on the story itself, setting-up a creepy frisson between the pure tasty invention of the narrative and the cagelike detail-splaffing constriction of the World Around It.

Frankly, I was worried about this one. I'd planned the opening arcs of the story almost a year ago — long before leaving London for my lazy little sabbatical in the sun — and the whole time I was away — putting together the dreaded Fluff, adding layers of detail to the story's background — I was aware of a creeping sense of uncertainty. Living (as I was) outside a city (or, more specifically, away from London) it became harder and harder in my mind to justify some of the narrative plot-points within this increasingly Solid world I was fleshing-out. For instance, there are scenes in which whole mobs must be incited to open violence by a seemingly minor act. There are scenes in which character motivations have to turn on something as invisible as an idea, or an aroused prejudice, or a spastic decision made under the influence of creepy brainmelting narcotic Nomnoms. As beats on a structural wallchart hanging above my desk, this sort of esoteric wankery works fine. But inject it into an Actual world — fully formed, complete with history and culture and, yes, fucking maps — and suddenly the Plausibility Moose honks its moan of alarm.

How can the inexplicable, or the intolerable, or the ugly, or the desperate, or the extreme, or the unlikely — or anything else that strains the boundaries of human understanding — possibly work in a solid, functioning universe?

Now, living back in London again, I know I needn't have worried.

Two days ago I watched a middle-aged mother, standing on a tube platform, scream "I HATE YOU" into her toddler's face, then gather the sobbing kid up and cuddle her, like a hot-water bottle in an ice-storm, all the way down the Bakerloo line. Last week I saw a scruffy-looking emo-kid give a tramp £20 on a whim, then watched another doorway-dweller scream abuse because he'd got nothing. I've watched pigeons eating a pigeon. I've watched a hundred men in blood-red outfits and synthetic bearskin helmets march and pivot with clockwork precision, because they thought it would impress a woman whose family is more riddled with inbreeding than a creationist's History Of The Human Race, but who claims to've been chosen to Rule by God — So That's Okay Then. I've watched four cops shelter from the rain while — a hundred yards up the street — a crazy guy knelt on the pavement and screamed — screamed, you understand — at passers-by, because they refused to accept the wisdom of a tortured Nazarene-on-a-stick into their lives. In the past week I've eaten food from four different continents, have listened to a mate miserably explain how he can't choose between the two girls who claim to Love Him, have seen a popular racist bigot and one-eyed cuntflap announce his intention to run for parliament at the next general election, and heard the news of a Kid in Romford being shot at close range by a rocket-propelled Distress Flare.

This fictional cityguide of mine shouldn't frighten me quite so much. The truth is, it's not that constrictive at all.

Compared to good Old Smokey, you can get away with pretty much anything in other cities: make-believe or not.

BrainFart:

Gandhi once said: "I like your Christ. I do not like your Christians. Your Christians are so unlike your Christ."

Which is all very clever and quotable, clappityclapclap, but more importantly has about it the ring of, oh-ho-yes, #TRENDINGTOPIX. That man was totally ahead of his time.

"I like your Science. I do not like your Scientists. Your Scientists are so fucking Neurotic And Dull."

#ModernGandhism. PLAY ALONG.

Find Me @:

Twitter: @SiSpurrier

WWWebbage: www.simonspurrier.blogspot.com

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Contact@Chop-This-Bit-Outsimonspurrier.co.uk

Or the It Might Not Get To Me At All But If It Does I Promise To Recycle It snailmail address:

C/O William Christensen,

Avatar Press
515 N. Century Blvd.Rantoul, IL 61866
(Disclaimer: Secretly, I'm nice.)

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