Chinese New Year

London, UK - a disturbed young man - Friday, April 15th, 2005 : goo

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A continuation of The Diary of Manny Swindle part one and part two

From time to time, ungovernable events will inevitably transpire. Circumstances will come asunder, and as deftly as one might attempt their suturing, the resultant vestige of scar tissue invariably becomes an enduring retrospection into the turbulence of ones unrelenting self-pity.

On the night bus into town I sat transfixed by the attractive young lady sat delicately in front of me. I speculated that perhaps she might sense the lurid intent of my gaze as it strenuously penetrated her from behind. I was unable to entertain any further notions as I was rudely distracted by the discourteous conduct of another passenger. An ungainly young man sat restlessly in the abutting row of seating. I watched him absorbingly as he plucked out charred pieces of foam from holes left by malicious cigarette burns. He began to openly propel little rolled up balls of seat-foam. With the repeated snap of a sullied forefinger, these buoyant fragments soared in every direction. Our lines of sight coalesced on more than one occasion, yet each time I strove to appear increasingly nonplussed.

As I absent-mindedly inventoried the tiny burn holes in the lap of my track-pants, Carla began painstakingly recounting details of her most recent convergence with a gentleman named Alan. I listened as intently as I ever do. It’s not that I’m not interested in the finer points of Carla’s sordid on-off relationship with Alan, I’m merely preoccupied with the finer points of my own predicament.

This Alan fellow is a superfluously dull character. He works a four day week at my local Sexual Health Clinic, where for over a year he was my designated support worker. My genital afflictions have long since subsided, and my association with Alan has ceased. An intolerable cramp developed in my right metatarsal region. A blisteringly sharp pain, not unlike the sensation of red hot nylon dripping onto ones naked flesh. I must have expressed this discomfort outwardly, as Carla rolled her eyes; taking offence at my demeanor.

Carla’s relationship with Alan is anything but conventional, though I seriously doubt whether Alan realises the full extent of its unorthodoxy. Dependant on ones moral perspective, one might consider Miss McDermott to be somewhat salacious. With my social values loitering somewhere outside the electrified perimeter of Michael Jackson’s Kiddy-Ranch®, I feel it somewhat hypocritical of me to pass judgement.

“Oi, oi Bollock-chops!”

This is how I was greeted by Tall Si on my exit from the 104 night bus outside Magee’s. This defunct cargo vessel of yesteryear is now steadfastly anchored under a busy rail bridge. Fully licensed for the sale and consumption of intoxicating beverages and spirits. There had been an incident last year in which the boat had broken free of its allegedly permanent mooring. Perhaps in high winds, or good old fashioned high spirits, It had drifted a short distance downstream and sunk another vessel. This rogue of the tidal flow, a seasoned veteran of the many inter-city waterways of old. Upon finding himself fettered and fancied for the purposes of drunken merriment, he simply yearned for a glimpse of the freedom he had once enjoyed. This old soldier’s frustration with what it saw as a lack of vocational satisfaction, and his overzealous hunger for extrication were both ultimately unleashed onto his capricious young tormentor. Caroline was a houseboat.

Carla says you can’t make an omelette without breaking eggs. That isn’t altogether true. You can buy frozen, microwaveable, single serving omelettes from most good supermarkets nowadays. If the mood took you, you could alternatively reconstitute some powdered egg to create a sufficiently palatable dish without compromising the structural integrity of a single unfertilized chicken embryo.

But that really is beside the point. My only impetus for contemplating such a banal hypothesis is that of occupying my mind with something other than what has been troubling me for the past fortnight. Carla says it doesn’t matter. What does she know? It’s not that I don’t appreciate her emotional input at this difficult time, but I can’t shake that age old metaphor of the visually impaired playing shepherd to their equally disadvantaged peers.

I am not certain at what juncture a relationship moves from mere acquaintance into the kaleidoscopic realms of mutual esteem, or where this transcendental line resides. I am certain however that I would not care to be considered a friend of Tall Si.

Tall Si is a wanker. Everyone knows Tall Si. He’s the man with the gear. His look is invariable. He has oily shoulder length hair, which generally afflicts the shoulders of an equally disheveled T-shirt. His clothing tends to be emblazoned with witty consumerist parodies. My personal favourite is his red “Cock-a-Koala” T-shirt. It centers around some rather distinct graphic imagery and is somewhat fetching. He often augments this unparalleled chic with grubby fluorescent wristbands, some of which glow-in-the-dark. Last night however, in the fluttering orange-red glow of the hurriedly erected 60-watt paper lanterns that adorned the boat’s exterior, his unkempt appearance assumed a moderately Christ-like quality. I found myself momentarily at least, at an utter loss in my contempt for him. My temporary and somewhat foolhardy reverence however, was bluntly interrupted by it’s very subject…

“Choo fuck my wife?”

Si doesn’t have a wife. He isn’t married. He doesn’t even have a girlfriend.

I replied as obtusely as possible: “Yes… up the gary!”

Si laughed heartily; noticeably gratified by the fact that I had not only acknowledged his pathetic catchphrase, but embellished it with an equally witty retort.

“Kong hay fat choi motherfucker!” Was his considered reply and valediction.

I told Carla that this would no doubt secure me the usual discount on my next score. I explained to her that although Tall Si was an moron, his shit was top-notch. None of that low-grade shit that floods out of Amsterdam. They manufacture that tripe from oil and tyres and fucking tiny pieces of plastic mixed with gravy granules and fuck knows what else. She just fell through the entranceway of Magee’s, vomiting onto my cheap footwear whilst soddenly mouthing something about won ton soup.

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manchesta: up the gary heh!

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