Sticking it to the Pink-Cab Man


Well, last night I made the depressingly common error of leaving my mobile phone in the back of a cab. And as usual I struggled for the rest of the night against the materialistic melancholy of having lost an object.

This morning, Esther got a call from a cab driver who demanded £30 for the return of my fone. Choking on my effervescent vitamin drink, I began to realise that my precious smartfone was being held to ransom.

“Can’t I just pay the fair from there to here?” I reasoned.

“You can but that will be even more money” he replied calmly and with calculation. He had an answer for everything..

“I can’t afford that much” I moaned, my head filled with monstrous images of money spewing from cash machines over the course of the weekend.

“Well, why don’t you ask your friends for money?” he said tersely, in his strange Asian Alan Partridge voice. “Or perhaps you want to call me back later when you have woken up?” he snided. Well reader, I was rather annoyed. But I agreed anyway.

‘Goddam privatised schmuck’ I hissed once the receiver was safely down. We had arranged to meet at the Natwest at the bottom of our hillock, and I got 3 ten pound notes out, a cunning plan forming as I walked. I met two accomplices, Jarvis and Panda, who were heading down early to get the first-fried chips at Two Steps. I told them my predicament and they decided to loiter with me for moral support. We were not an intimidating bunch: rather than heavies, I would have termed us ‘lights’, so feeble and friendly of face as we are.

"We are the 'lights' and we disapprove of this sort of business"

Another call from Mr Partridge, saying he would be half an hour late. Cursing, we stumbled down to Lisa and Dom’s house for a cuppa and some fighting talk.

I decided to stash a tenner in 3 separate pockets, so that I could profess to only having one, and two if pressed, and then as a last resort, all three (although by the time I produced the second, it would be clear I could have many more hidden about my person).

Eventually, he called back and we headed back up the road, where he sat waiting in a hideous pink cab. With trepidation, I climbed in the back.

To my surprise, he handed me the fone first before negotiation began. ‘The naive fool’ I cried internally. As he told me his long and deeply boring blow by blow account of the difficult drive over here, I fingered my most scruffy tenner, waiting for the right moment.

“You’ve caught me at a rather bad time” I began, noticing the spasmic microexpression of lost opportunity flash across his face.

“I am very poor at the moment. Ten pounds is like £30 to me, so that’s all I have to give you” I offer up my scruffy bit of paper.

“This is not good at all!” he says, mostly to himself. “Your friends out there, can’t they help you out?” he says, nodding at Jarvis and Panda.

“Oh no, they are even poorer than me”

“This is no good at all. No good at all”

I reach for the door handle before he can lock it and drive me to deserted moorland. I pass the tenner through the hole, and he snatches it away. Then I’m away- feeling proud of my victory of wills over a grasping jobsworth. So what if his children starve, the takeaway’s on him tonight. Smashing.

I walk home with much better posture. I was channelling Cher Lloyd’s gypsy swagger..

BORING ‘N’ UGLY 8


OMG is that a clitoris?

Dec 7th

Esther brought up the small cock debate on the dog walk with Lisa today. “I was just being an evil bitch” says Lisa, “But Dom’s still got a big ‘un”.
Before I new that there were showers and growers (about 6 months ago to be precise) I had kind of resigned my self to having a smaller than average willy. 3 inches soft, 6 inches hard. A very mediocre improvement. Still it seemed to do the job (but it’s mostly unemployed).
As a virgin, I had avidly read the problem pages of FHM while I waited at the barbers.

“I was the only bloke in a college of 300 women” the hairdresser would boast as he chopped the hideouls marine cut I wanted at the time. He never said what that meant- so he learned how to apply fake tan like a pro?

‘Look at you now, the only manicured metrosexual in the village’ I should have said. Is 15 years too long for a comeback?

The French call it L’esprit d’escalier (the inspiration on the stairs, it comes to you after you’ve left like). With me it’s usually ‘the spirit of halfway along the trans-siberian express’.
“My boyfriend’s penis is so small that I can’t feel it inside me” one reader said. “He just sits at home and cries about it all the time” she concluded. Oh God, I thought, what if that’s my fate? A sad man growing old with his light permanently obscured by his bush(el)?
It reminds me of that joke “My wife’s so fat…she killed herself last week”.
My party trick, around 6am usually, is to strip off and walk around showing everyone who’s still awake everything I’ve got to show. (Not much according to Lisa). So whether they like it or not, pretty much all of my friends have seen my willy. So whether I am small or not should be a moot point by now.

Maybe it’s ok to have a small cock so long as you’re not afraid to show it?
In my head, that last line was spoken in the voice of Carrie from Sex and the City:
This is what I always heard when she spoke: “After all, aren’t we all just a bunch of privileged cunts wearing couture angst?” [meaningful silence]. Cut to credits.

Dec 9th
No lecture today- my tutor is protesting in London. The big kid. The only reason anyone goes to these protests is to take their anger out on Tescos and get their photo in the Independent. Did your dad cut your allowance? Go and join the demo. Did your girlf/boyf go off with a sexy activist? Go and smash a policeman’s face in and win them back. Don’t like politics or fashion? Join the Young Socialists. That’s the only reason I went to the Stop the War demo in 2003- for a party and something to do. Boredom not ideology drives our generation. Nothing better to do? Pretend to give a damn.

Who gives a shit- so what if the fees go up, it’s not like anyone will ever be earning £21K any time soon so it’ll never get paid back. You aren’t really expecting a good job as a result of your shitty paper certificate? Don’t be an idiot- it justs means you can afford a chip on your shoulder in the inevitable call centre where you end up, and have a higher class of daydream than the other school-leavers. “I could have been someone” moans Shane McGowan in Fairytale of New York, “Well so could anyone” comes Kirsty MacColl’s withering reply.

What’s in my head today: The Power by Snap: The Jim Carrey version: 


Just read this week’s Heat, my favourite magazine like ever. Thoughts: So Cheryl Cole is ‘torn’ between an ugly white man and an ugly black one. Maybe she only goes out with people who make her look better. And who won’t cheat. Why does Audrina Partridge look like her face is undergoing a landslide? In fact her whole body does too. Why are the best outfits always on the ‘What Were They Thinking‘ page?

Watching News 24. I wish the students would stop throwing things at police horses. It’s the people on top that they’re out to get. Imagine having a doughnut-filled bully boy on top of you, tensing his thigh muscles in anger as scrawny middle class dropouts get all hot headed and try to knock you over.
One student is interviewed “I paid £44 to get here today [have you never heard of a Student Railcard?], don’t get me wrong” he shouts at the top of his voice, “Clegg, you need to man up. You have 3 options, grow some balls and oppose it, abstain and you’re no man, or support it and be a dick” he bellows.
“YES!” shouts a neighbouring chav. Like he is ever going into Higher Education.

So Nick, did you get that; you can either have balls, or a dick or nothing; what do you choose?

"I want my balls back"

 

Dec 13th

“If I had turned out the way I should have, I would be making little cakes by now” says Lisa wistfully. “Instead I’m sleeping in and chain smoking”.
What did I want to be? What should I have become? I’m just glad I’m still here, what with my predisposition for falling over, indecision, and sudden fits of recklessness, I could have been a quadraplegic by now. The spine is so fragile I think, what a stupid design. Sometimes when I sit with my arm round Esther, I think ‘a quick twist and she’s dead’, and I have to sit on my hands for a while.

My mother once revisited her youthland and found an old woman staring at her like she’d seen a ghost. She approached her quizzically. “I’m sorry dear”, said the crone, “but I remember you, and I never thought you’d survive into adulthood”. No further explanation was offered, and the woman drifted back to her shopping.

The benefits of a healthcare system are that evolution is frozen- the weak and the frail get to live out their lives in an artificially safe environment. Instead of the old dying and making way for the young, they hang around- it’s not unusual to have the choice of grandparents or great-grandparents for babysitters.

It must come as a shock when you suddenly stop being young and realise that you’re ONE OF THEM- a fogey, a biddy, a dirty old man. I can feel it, coming in the air tonight…

I have the sudden desire for an enema in time for Christmas.

Why I am in love with Cher Lloyd


1. She is a freak. She pulls ugly faces and talks like she’s on drugs. She has all the hormonal world-challenging coke-high of being a teen, but none of the sweaty self-consciousness. Her ugly facial expressions reveal an inner landscape of earthquakes, cyclones and floods, with a population of personas drowning and surviving as each disaster passes over it.

2. She is selfish and egostistical and lacks a conscience. She is a bitch and a diva. She would be a shit friend. But that is what we want from a superstar- everything about them should be antithetical to normal life.

3. She’s a psycho who would beat the shit out of you any given Friday night, but luckily her ferocious chav-complex gets channeled into a pop star persona that makes the walls shake. She has the solidity of a Platonic form, next which worldy objects, like Simon Cowell’s hair, are but wisps in the wind. When she appears on stage, space and time bend under her weight, and the moon and sun move that bit closer.

4. She swaggers and pouts on the stage not a like a plugged in sex doll (yes you, The Saturdays), but like a feral child of indeterminate sex, who feeds on the heightened emotions of her audience. She devours our empathic fear (what must it be like to be on that stage?), and binges on our vicarious vanity, drinking deep from the adrenaline we leak from every pore. In return, we get an in vitro transfusion of pure transcendental POP.

5. She is an automaton, an alchemical genie that takes on a solid form far more durable than her lamp-holder’s (the public) shaky-handed mortality. She is post-human, not because she has machine-parts, but because in a sense, she is a machine. She has been made in the X Factory, and while the other products (One Direction, I’ll see you in the Bargain Bins of 2011) perish as they reach sunlight, the Cher Lloyd™ is eternal..

6. She is God- and we have invented her to fill the hole left by Jacko- that peter pan figure who made impossible dreams come true, all the while generating nightmares that incrementally destroys the world from the inside out. Forget dubious Descartes, she offers the true proof of existence: I get goosebumps from Cher Lloyd, therefore I am. Like God, true celebrities are proof that we exist because they represent beings more wonderful and awesome than our imaginations could ever come up with.

7. She has an old soul. If the vampire in Let the Right One In could sing, she would sound the same. A life of pain and over-analysis is fossilized into an eternal well of molten anti-matter, spewing from her Superdrug-glossed lips.

8. She is as common as muck, and every Guardian reader who encounters her will be sickened by her unapologetic vulgarity. You couldn’t take her home to your mother, unless your mother was a scary gyppo. While they are placated by Katie Weissel’s pseudo-aristocracy, Rebecca’s aspirational poise, and Matt Cardle’s fake humbleness, Cher offers no such comforting veneer of class.