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Under the Donnersbergerbrücke
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Chinese New Year
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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. Its not that Im not interested in the finer points of Carlas sordid on-off relationship with Alan, Im 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.
Carlas 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 Jacksons 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 Magees. 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 soldiers 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 cant make an omelette without breaking eggs. That isnt 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 doesnt matter. What does she know? Its not that I dont appreciate her emotional input at this difficult time, but I cant 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. Hes 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 boats 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 its very subject
Choo fuck my wife?
Si doesnt have a wife. He isnt married. He doesnt 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 Magees, vomiting onto my cheap footwear whilst soddenly mouthing something about won ton soup.
This article has been viewed 29123 times in the last 10 years
Translation: 15th Apr 2005 - 09:04 GMT
For those not familiar with British slang, here is a translation guide (into us english)
1. Bollock = Testicle
phillyphil: 12th Sep 2005 - 14:21 GMT
i really enjoyed reading this story and i hope you write some more to it.
Peter: 12th Sep 2005 - 16:00 GMT
yeah we havent seen any entries form this author in some time. i keep hoping he comes back too, heh.
Horrible critic: 29th Jan 2006 - 00:26 GMT
I suggest you add one more word to your vocabulary- 'verbose'. Do look it up, and think on whether it might apply to you. Good writing is not about showcasing one's vocabulary, particularly at the cost of meaning, in the instances where you haven't quite understood the word you're using. A skilled writer can convey images and feelings- and, ultimately, meaning- subtly. I'm not suggesting you should stop using your impressive range of words; just think about whether it's really necessary to be so ostentatiously grandeloquent. Or maybe it's the drugs?
Silliness aside, it's good to see someone who does try really hard. You have all the tools to be an excellent writer- just please think a bit about what writing is all about.
a disturbed young man: 1st Aug 2006 - 19:44 GMT
yeah i know what you mean. upon re-reading. thanks for the crtiticism, which i revieve humbly and above all constructively.
a disturbed young man: 28th Sep 2006 - 23:40 GMT
also yes it is the drugs that make me do bad things. like the time i fucke.... but thats another story for another time, and not one that could or should ever be recounted in the presence of females.
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