Journal, Blog and Thoughts of a Fat, Ageing and Kinky Guy

by Matt Triewly

Preface

A fragmented account of my life since 2008 and constantly being added to.


Thursday 6th July 2006: The Mysterious Death of Steven Hiller

Feel slightly under par. Despite the fact that I am on higher levels of Lisinopril since Monday I've been experiencing an underlying sensation of mild nausea and just detectable 'sticky' vision. I was going to go swimming today but have decided perhaps to go tomorrow. It seems to me that exercise either raises my blood pressure or puts my circulatory system under some strain which then leads to the dizziness and nausea. I believe that my 'vertigo' stems from heart and circulation problems and not inner ear defects. It's not good whatever the cause. I will hopefully have the chance to commit suicide before it gets too bad.

Talking of suicide I watched a programme a few days ago about the case of Steven Hiller - I think that is his name - who plunged to his death during a parachute jump. On the day of the tragedy he went skydiving with two 'friends' and jumped from the aircraft at about, I think, 20,000 feet. They performed some formations together then separated before opening their chutes and touching down a safe distance apart. After landing, Steven was nowhere to be found. His reserve chute was found by itself and alarm bells rang. A search was conducted and someone noticed that a small area of corn in a field had been flattened - this was shown on the film but obviously not the body. The police were called and it was ascertained that vital straps had been cut. It was now apparent that his death was not accidental. Initially the police overlooked a pair of scissors that had been left in the boot of Steven's car because an 'expert' concluded that they could not have cut the straps - wrong! Because of this oversight his skydiving mates were suspected of his death. There was some evidence to suggest that there had been friction at times between them. Fortunately another investigator returned to the scissors in Steven's car. They were tested for fibres and it was concluded that they were used to cut the straps. The boot of the car was not locked so there was a remote possibility that someone could have had access to them. Once again, suicide came to the forefront of the investigation. Steven's state of mind and lifestyle was put under scrutiny. It was discovered that he was heavily in debt - he was a student at an army college - and that his relationship with his girlfriend was coming to an end. His friend said that he wasn't - his opinion - worried about the debts because he would soon be earning a high salary in the services... however he had failed several exams so the future high earnings may not have materialised. His girlfriend said it was only a 'casual' relationship - how would she know what he really felt? Underneath he may have been really desolate. The other factor was that he had recently embraced the faith of Roman Catholicism - a sure sign of existential crisis. Naturally, the priest interviewed stated that it was contrary to 'God's law' that anyone would take their own life; but just because you go to church doesn't make you a believer; or a 'good person' for that matter. The most interesting thing, for me, about this case was the footage of him prior to his last jump: in the minibus; practising manoeuvres with his partners; in the plane - in all of them he looked happy, even larking about. This fact was remarked about by his family, girlfriend and friends: how could he kill himself when he appeared so happy. During the programme it was revealed that he had a talent for acting - though we all have a lesser or greater aptitude for adopting a persona. I postulate - nobody will ever really know - that for whatever reason he intended to end his life. I believe that he didn't want his jumping buddies to get any wind of it otherwise they would have aborted the jump so he had to act as he normally behaved prior to jumping. It maybe that he thought he would be easier on his parents if there was some doubt as to the cause of his death; or possibly he derived some twisted satisfaction in leaving this world with a question mark - in that he succeeded!

Also on telly yesterday was a short programme about the personal life John Le Mesurier - I mention it because of some of the insights of human nature! Apparently JLM was a very attractive man, especially when he was younger - a former friend of his on the programme said: "You either have it or you don't!" I don't obviously; but that's by the way. JLM's first wife was Hattie Jacques whom he had two children with. She left him after a few years for a younger man and JLM was so soft that after a bit he let her and her lover move in with him. Eventually he met Joan and they then got married. Joan then had an affair with JLM's best friend, Tony Hancock the comedian. The funny bit is that Tony Hancock was an alcoholic prone to depression and violence - he treated Joan like shit... unlike JLM who was a gentleman. Had not Tony Hancock committed suicide then Joan admitted that she would have married him. As it was she returned to JLM and stayed with him till his death in 1983. What can we draw from this about the general nature of women? 1. Woman want young good looking men - Hattie Jacques. 2. They see nice men as weak - Joan. 3. Treat 'em mean keep them keen - Tony Hancock. 4. They only pretend to care - would Joan have cared about JLM's feelings if she had gone off with Hancock? 5. A bloke is only a stop gap till something better comes along.

Wednesday 19th November 2008: I Collapsed Yesterday

Funny enough, yesterday morning I had woken up and felt better than I had for a long time. Feeling energised I'd had breakfast followed by a long soak in a very hot bath. This hadn't been a good idea with hindsight. Anyway, after the bath I had then got dressed and feeling motivated had then commenced on giving the flat, and in particular the kitchen, a bloody good clean. In between cleaning I was also drinking quite a lot of tea and also playing the financials on Ladbrokes.com which involved predicting share and commodity prices. I hasten to add that if one kept cool and wasn't too greedy or took too many risks then money could be made; I had once made a £100 in a week and had wondered at the time if I should become a 'professional gambler'.

I have digressed.

Anyway, it was as I was sat down placing a bet that I experienced this strange sensation of the flat, with me in it, being picked up as though by a giant and then being spun round in his hand. I was also aware of objects falling to the floor. I then found myself lying under the table with a load of pens and pencils beside me along with the pot I kept them in. I realised immediately that I had collapsed. The strange thing was that apart from a very slight 'pulsating' of my vision and breaking out into a cold sweat I'd felt physically okay. Psychologically though I was extremely scared. I'd immediately speculated as to whether I'd suffered a stroke or a minor heart attack and decided that the best course of action was to stay where I was for a while as I didn't want to provoke another and more serious attack of what had precipitated my initial collapse. As I lay there keeping as still as possible I speculated reaching up to the table and phoning for an ambulance but decided not to as they would have to break down two doors to get to me. Also, I wasn't that convinced that they could actually do something for me since I had been complaining to my GP for some time that I had been suffering from intermittent dizziness, nausea, clamminess and a strange visual disturbance in which my vision when I turned my head quickly took a second to catch up only for him to tell me that the symptoms were either due to Meniere's Disease or stress. I had once put it to him that it was perhaps the recurrent dizzy spells that were making me stressed, but he ignored that. To be fair he had arranged a CT scan which revealed nothing and subsequently a MRI scan which picked up a very small scar in my brain which at the time they had diagnosed as a 'pinhead' stroke. But after later analysis by a neurologist they decided it was most likely a natural and not uncommon 'fold' in the brain. After these rather unsatisfactory consultations with the GP I had unhappily concluded that either they didn't know what was wrong with me or that the doctor did know what was wrong and that he was protecting me from the knowledge that I was suffering from something serious that nothing could be done about. Either way I had lost faith in the medical profession.

So, I had lain under the table for quite a while and after a short bit I had begun to feel perfectly okay. I had then got up and dragged myself to the sofa where I had lain down and eventually drifted off to sleep. About twenty minutes later now feeling totally recovered I had got up but thinking constantly about what had happened. I soon resigned myself to the depressing fact that I was probably going to die soon and to make the most of life whilst I could. I also called my son, who was twenty-one, and asked him to pop round so that I could have a chat with him.

In the evening I watched a programme, narrated by Ian Hislop, about the large scale closures of railways in Britain and the end of steam. The programme had evoked a strong feeling of melancholy in me not just about the end of the 'golden age' of railways but about my own life. I'd also realised that I was only four days away from the twentieth anniversary of my mother's death and had speculated morbidly that maybe I would die on that particular day.

Thursday 20th November 2008: A Visit to the Doctor

Visited the doctor this morning and told her what had happened on Tuesday with me collapsing.

She thought it could be a mini-stroke. I mentioned to her that I thought an MRI scan would confirm it but apparently it's too expensive and my treatment would be just the same. She said that I was anxious and that that wouldn't help. I replied that I wouldn't be anxious if I hadn't collapsed. I will be having more blood tests anyway. I also underwent an ECG whilst there and she informed me that my heart had a few problems though she didn't feel that they were acute - great. She apologised for not being able to give me a firm diagnosis (which a MRI or CAT scan could have done). She then asked me what I thought. I told her I felt that I was going to die soon and though I appreciated what she had done I believed that the human body was a complicated chemical reaction which was working its course - some working quicker than others!

Later on I phoned my son, James, again and asked him to come over so I could tell him a few things in the event - highly likely - that I should die. He was concerned but I felt it the right thing to do.

I also informed the Company and got the impression they think I am 'swinging the lead' - I wish!

Juki says that at the end of the day I am only a number to them and she is right - they will try to cut down my cost to them.

In the afternoon Juki came round and we watched Il Postino - a brilliant film.

Ronan also phoned up and he thought I should get a second opinion but I know it's cardiovascular and I also need as much money as possible if I'm going to lose my job.

So many regrets I have in life but the biggest one is not being a better father to my son. Also, I should have stayed with one woman all my life and pursued an interesting career. Too late now!

Thursday 27th November 2008: Fobbed off?

The Surgery phoned today and asked me to see the doctor, my regular doctor, about the results of the ECG. I had gone in with a mixture of feelings as on the one hand it was good news that they had finally found out what was wrong with me and perhaps could do something to rectify or treat it. On the other hand it might be that they couldn't do anything about it and that it would only be a matter of time before my condition deteriorated perhaps resulting in my death.

As it happened the doctor casually told me that my 'enlarged heart' was nothing to worry about since many people of my age had enlarged hearts like mine and most of them wouldn't have any symptoms at all. He had added that there was no reason to believe that I wouldn't reach a good old age. I hadn't questioned his diagnosis but as I had left the surgery I had felt 'fobbed off'. Again.

Tuesday 16th December 2008: Another Attack

I experienced another attack earlier. It felt like I was spinning through space. It probably lasted about twenty seconds. Afterwards I felt sick and wobbly and was sweating with blurred vision. It was about 08:15 this morning.

I managed to get back to sleep and finally got up at about 11:15. I had a little breakfast and have decided to go back to bed. I feel better but still not right.

I must get my affairs sorted and I'll leave a list for my son and the executor. I'll do that later.

As I have said before, I just wish it was all over. I have contemplated killing myself because I feel constantly ill, anxious and that there is no future.

Thursday 1st January 2009: Woman Raped?

It's the New Year and I'm feeling pretty tired as there was a lot of noise outside the flat. Last night there had been a lot of screaming, shouting and crying. I was woken up several times and in the morning when I had bothered to look through the curtains I could see a police car parked outside.

Later on I mentioned the noise to Ulrika and she told me that a woman had claimed to have been raped*. I'm feeling a little guilty now as maybe I could have prevented it (if indeed it had happened) had I bothered to look out of the window. The problem is that one just accepts rowdy behaviour as a fact of modern life nowadays.

*She was indeed raped and a non-local man imprisoned for it.

Sunday 25th January 2009: Trouble Outside the Flat Again

So, I finally get to bed at about 0130 and the only decision I have to make is what sordid fantasy I'm going to run through my mind whilst I make love to myself-

<Crash>

What the fuck is that?

<Shouting>

I peer through the crack in my curtains down onto the street. It's a very nice street in the day and regarded as 'posh' by many. Unfortunately it's the main thoroughfare between the town with its bars and clubs and the main estate...

There's about seven lads and they've torn off a street sign. They're mooning, scrapping and shouting - cunts. And what's more annoying is they're not moving on. After about ten minutes I decide to call the Old Bill but as I get to the phone my lounge is illuminated by flashing blue lights. Most of them scarper but the slow (and stupid) ones get caught. I was hoping to witness a bit of police rough handling or even brutality but it appears that they are only cautioned. It quietens down but now I'm visualising bare bottoms being seriously birched and yobs screaming and pleading for mercy.

Naturally, I was a model citizen when I was a youth.

Wednesday 28th January 2009: Hot Chocolate with Maria

Maria texted me this morning to see if I fancied meeting up with her in Thorntons for a hot chocolate to which I replied, yes.

Maria is forty-three and I know her through once chatting to her at the Balcony Bar nightclub. That was about three years ago. Since then she has divorced her husband, had an affair, remarried her husband and finally split from her husband (after he had an affair). She's the type of woman I get involved with. Emotionally fucked up.

The important factor though is that she is sexy: lovely dark hair, glossy olive eyes, tanned, and though a little plump, curvaceous.

We met outside and she insisted on buying as I did last time. We then went up to the counter and was served by the 'Model'. The 'Model' is about nineteen and a very pretty slim brunette with large entrancing charcoal blue eyes. Once when she was wearing a very low cut dress my gaze was drawn to a very beguiling mole betwixt her ample breasts. I confess that I fantasised about shagging her on a couple of occasions after.

Returning back to reality, the Model had asked me if I required marshmallows on my hot chocolate. 'No, thanks,' I'd replied wondering in return if she would appreciate an offer of hot spunk on her bare breasts.

Having got our drinks Maria had lead the way to a table. Once sat down she then asked me about my ex's, and I must admit I do seem to have an embarrassingly large number of them. However it didn't seem to faze her. She then inquired about Juki so I explained my relationship with her.

"I'm only friends with Juki though we do hold hands when we're out. I think she would like to take it further but for some reason I do not feel able to commit to her. I like her as a friend and she is good company."

Maria had been satisfied with my reply. Or had appeared satisfied.

The above is partly true. I did once get Juki's top off and suck her breasts but she didn't seem very interested so I never bothered again. However, she also recounted a tale (having commented on the lack of discipline in schools today as a pervy does to tease out similar inclinations) of how she was once slippered by the headmaster, with the deputy present to witness, for being involved with bullying as a member of a girl gang. She only got one whack but said it really stung and didn't cry as she refused to display weakness. I have to say I found that rather exciting and must probe more about this incident at some point.

Returning to Maria, I get the impression that all she wants is a bit of uncommitted company now and again - I can cope with that. All the time with her I played the understanding and caring male and the strategy seemed to work as we parted with a kiss and cuddle. I reckon I will be seeing her again.

Afterwards I popped into Somerfield straight after to pick up a few bits and pieces. The background music above the aisles was playing All Night Long - a hit from the eighties. I could never last 'all night long' now, not without Viagra anyway. Still, I felt lifted.

Monday 9th February 2009: Have You any Weakness?

I had an appointment with the neurologist earlier. During the course of the examination she asked me if I suffered from any weakness? I wanted to say: "A penchant for spanking firm, lily white, naked female buttocks perhaps?" But I didn't.

Friday 13th February 2009: The Future is Today; Tomorrow Never Comes

It's one of my colleague's funeral today. I wanted to go but as I suffered another bout of vertigo I decided to play safe and stay at home. There would be nothing worse than being ill and staggering around drawing attention away from the person who we are there to remember.

I feel a little better now but still not well enough.

It's a shame as he was a real 'Diamond Geezer'. He was one of those that what-you-saw-was-what-you-got. He could laugh at himself too, and more importantly he laughed at my jokes too!

He was only 56 and it was not two months ago that he seemed in good health - seemed. We were informed that he was undergoing a course of chemo and I thought well at least he's going to fight it. Next, I was shocked to hear, he had died.

Stunned.

I keep thinking: What's the point of it all?

Deafening cosmic silence.

There's a quote from Robin of Sherwood: 'Nothing is forgotten.' But, what is 'it', exactly, that remembers?

Sorry, too heavy.

The only option, I see, however absurd, is to live for the day. The future is today; tomorrow never comes.

Changing the subject...

I am looking forward immensely to the forthcoming 'torture' and 'flogging' of S. Juki is too. Last night I got out a few implements and tried them out gently on her jean clad bum. She concluded that the 'senior' cane is the most painful though the flogger came close. She also is determined to try the cane out on me and after I virtually gave her my copy of Il Postino, her new favourite film! Gratitude, I ask you!

She also told me that she was slippered on a few occasions at school and that that really hurt - something else I can try on one of my victims.

Changing the subject again...

I received a text from Ginger Sue this morning asking how I was. She seems keen to come over and stay the night. As I am still single, a meal, a DVD and a bit of mutual masturbation may be quite pleasant. Ginger Sue is in possession of lovely ivory fat arse which needs a good slap or even a caning. Unfortunately I don't think she's into that. She has got a rather pungent fanny which is interesting. I'll let you know.

Maria, though I had a hot chocolate with her the other day and introduced me to her daughter, still seems to want to maintain her distance. I'm not going to pressurise her. I noticed that she's got lovely tanned arms with alluring just noticeable dark hairs on. I would love to see her naked. But we'll see!

Sunday 7th June 2009: Funny.

Funny...

I'm waiting for a Number Nine bus to take me back to Ryde and I'm at the 'Old Police Station' bus stop. Behind me is a wooden jetty and the leisurely flowing waters of the River Medina.

I'm startled to hear a voice say: "Will we have to wait long?"

I turn to see a little old lady.

Where the hell did she come from?

She's dressed in a camel coloured long overcoat, with dark brown tights and plain black shoes. On her head is wide brimmed cream hat with a brooch at the front composed of various fruit. Her features are strong with intense grey eyes and her pallid flesh is deeply wrinkled. I do not recognise her.

I respond to her query: "The bus should be here any minute, we can see it merge onto the roundabout from here."

"I don't have time to wait that long," she says, then adds: "You don't have much time either."

The remark chills me to the bone and I feel as though not only can she read my mind but she can also see my future.

I shiver inwardly and gaze in the direction of the roundabout scanning vainly for the bus. I want to get away from here. And her.

I discern footsteps and turn round to see her descending gingerly the rusting steel steps that lead directly into the muddy waters. I feel that I should stop her but a cruel thought takes over: I want to see her drown.

I observe, morbidly fascinated, as she submerges slowly into the water. I wonder, almost distractedly, if her distinctive hat will float off but it doesn't and she disappears into the murky depths. I expect any second for her to burst to the surface gasping shrouded in bubbles.

Nothing.

I conclude that she has drowned. How weird. How very weird.

I stare at the spot for several minutes almost in a trance.

Then a movement on the opposite bank breaks me out of my morbid reverie and I watch in astonishment, amazement as she walks calmly out of the water. As though nothing has happened she makes her way slowly up the bank and then disappears between two abandoned warehouses...

Funny, funny, what you dream...

Tuesday 8th February 2011: Blue Day

"Hi!" She smiles.

"Hi!" I respond and smile back politely.

We pass at the end of the meat aisle and for a second or two I cannot place her.

*

She's behind me in the queue at the checkout now - we're in the Co-Op.

I remember that a few years ago I kind of fancied her in an unattainable way - she was married - but though she was an 'older' woman there was just something about her: well spoken, assured, handsome, well presented - the kind of attributes that grow on you

But something had changed and I no longer found her attractive.

"Steve died... died about two weeks ago... we were on holiday on France... massive heart attack."

"I'm really sorry to hear that."

I touch her shoulder, as if I really think the gesture will take away an ounce of her pain.

I visualise Steve the last time I saw him before he sold the shop, a chemist's, on Ryde Esplanade... I see him old yet still vital, tall, bald with white wild tufts of hair at the sides and animated about retirement.

I think of all the knowledge he once possessed - now gone.

"My mother died just before," she adds.

She seems shocked that life could turn out this way, yet tragedy is always the penultimate chapter. I want to shake her and say, 'How could you expect it to turn out any other way?'

I don't. Instead, I touch her longer on the shoulder again.

"He was a good bloke, you'll miss him."

She smiles again.

I pay for my shopping and simply say 'bye', leaving her with her sorrow. Her loneliness.

*

I'm walking along Spencer Road on the way home and the sky is a luminescent blue, a mesmerising blue, only I understand that, only I know what it invokes in me: a transcendent serenity beyond the suffering of existence - it makes me at one with the cosmos.

I just wish I could impart that to her but I know that she wouldn't understand, just wouldn't understand what I mean by a 'blue day'.

*

I get in and phone my son - it's great to hear his voice. I love him and miss him dearly.

Saturday 26th February 2011: What Are Dreams For?

I am walking up to McDonalds from the bus stop for Tesco. It is a clear day and in my arms is my son - he is about six years of age.

I look up and see several military helicopters flying over the town of Ryde about a mile away. The craft are not British as they are adorned with the markings of a foreign power - I speculate that they may be Iranian or Chinese.

For some reason it does not really concern me that the country has surrendered without a fight: 'Bloody New Labour... I knew they'd sell us to the highest bidder.' I say to my son.

I feel him grab hold of me tight and say: 'I love you Dad.'

It makes me feel warm inside and my worries dissipate because that's all that really matters to me.

'I love you too, Son... the thing is though it's all a dream because this is the future and you can't be six in the future because in reality you are twenty three now. Dreams are strange... where do they come from? What are they for? What do they mean?'

'Well... Dad... sometimes dreams aren't dreams... sometimes dreams are true.'

It's getting interesting because the sub-consciousness is now communicating through my son... soon I will know the meaning of life...

An angry and persistent bleeping propels me into the waking world

And

All I am left with... is a half answered question.

Fuck!

Thursday 4th June 2015: Black Girl Running for a Train

I'm sitting on a train. The train is stopped at a station. I'm on the right hand side and looking out of the window. Movement attracts my attention. A black girl is running across the footbridge which spans three platforms. She is struggling to get through as people who have alighted from my train are walking in the opposite direction to her. I wonder if she will catch the train. I speculate that she is possible on a final warning for lateness from her employer. Probably not. I root for her nevertheless. I wonder if I should stand in the doors so that she will catch the train. I decide not to. It's not my business. I don't know her. Why should I care? I still hope she gets on though. I'm in a good mood today. Sometimes I'm not and I think bad thoughts about humanity. I lose sight of her. Then I espy her enter the carriage. I'm pleased for her. She walks down the aisle. She is a little out of breath. She appears to be in her late twenties. Or early thirties. Her face is kind of thin and though not beautiful she is attractive - attractive-ish. She finds a seat next to a young guy and plonks herself down. The seat is facing the rear of the train and two rows away from mine. I am sitting in the direction of the travel. I prefer to be that way though I don't mind if I do have to sit the other way. I know that some people always have to be facing in the same direction as the train travels. A colleague of mine does.

The train pulls away and begins to accelerate. It is an electric train. And electric trains can accelerate quickly. I turn my head and start to look at the scenery passing by.

I notice the guy sitting next to her is twisting round and talking to a young woman behind him. She has obviously just got on at the last station too. But I guess she got to the station in good time for the train. The guy and the girl continue with their conversation. I don't think they are anything other than acquaintances but I wonder if either one or both are thinking of having sex with the other. I probably would. The woman that is. I'm not gay.

The black girl suddenly says to both of them, "Would you like me to swap seats? It'll be easier to chat then."

The girl says, "Thank you, that's most considerate of you."

The black girl gets out of her seat and they swap positions.

Kind and considerate. The black girl is kind and considerate. I like that. I warm to her though I have only known of her existence for minutes.

The next station is mine so I get out of my seat and stand behind others in the aisle. To my right and sitting down is the black girl. She is fiddling with her mobile phone. Probably a boyfriend. I can't imagine she hasn't got a boyfriend. The train slows to a halt and stops. The doors open and everybody begins to shuffle down the aisle. The black girl gets up. I say to her, "After you?"

She replies, "Thanks, it's amazing how many people you can get in just two coaches."

Her voice is well spoken now that I can hear her clearly. Almost 'cut glass'. That surprises me.

"It is isn't it," I respond and nearly lost for words.

She walks in front of me and steps onto the platform. She exits the station and she goes left whilst I turn right and walk to the road bridge that crosses the line. I glance momentarily in her direction and see that she is talking and walking to an older white guy. I wonder what she does for a living. I wonder if I will ever see her again. I wonder what it would be like to fuck her. I wonder if she is kinky.

I remember that I am happily married...

Saturday 6th June 2015: When you Least Expect it

When you least expect it. Death that is. I don't think about others but I often wonder how I will die and what it will be like. Will I know what's happening to me? Will it be agony? Will I be fighting it to the last? Will I passively accept it? Will the 'beginning of the end' start with a doctor or specialist saying to me, "The results have come back and I'm afraid it's not good news..."

Who knows?

But there are a couple of other scenarios (is that the right term?) one of which is that you can, for instance, be walking along a road minding one's business when a meteor lands on you or you get hit by lightning. You'd certainly have no warning and for the individual it's probably the best way of 'shuffling off this mortal coil'. Probably.

However, there's a twist on the scenario to the one I have just described. Imagine that you have just walked out of a shop, happy with what you've purchased, looking forward to going home, optimistic about the future, and when you step onto the street there's a nutter with an assault rifle and he looks you in the eye and in that brief moment you know that you're going to die. What do you feel? What do you think? What do you do?

Again, who knows?

You're probably wondering now why I am writing this. Well, early Saturday afternoon I'd had to deliver some personal forms to a company I'm hoping to pick up some extra work from and after I'd done that I agreed to meet the missus and her sister in another town. Anyway, having dropped the letter in I decided that I would use the longer, less busy and more scenic route to get to town.

So, I've got the sunroof open and my favourite station playing on the radio. It's a beautiful day: blue sky and sun shining. I'm appreciating the countryside passing by. I feel good. I feel optimistic. I'm looking forward to seeing the missus and having a nice relaxing afternoon. I get to a bend in the road and there's a black car (possibly a BMW) heading straight for me. I slam my brakes on and he just swerves out of my way, missing me by a couple of feet. You fucking cunt, I think, you could have killed me.

He'd overtaken on a blind bend because he either didn't have the patience or he was some kind of speed freak. I'd only had the briefest glimpse of a dark haired young man but my immediate impression was rich parents and spoilt brat. I could be wrong.

As I had carried on I'd thought that I'd been lucky and had reflected upon what might have been. I also realised that I'd had no time to feel fear - my body had reacted instinctively. That said, I'd then imagined my missus sipping tea with my sister-in-law and wondering where I'd got to. Perhaps ringing my mobile for it to go to voicemail time after time. I saw her becoming gradually concerned and then finally panicking. I saw my son answering the door to a policeman...

But none of that happened. This time.

Thursday 11th June 2015: The Cruel Bitch Who Never Gave a Damn

It was just as I'd turn right into the top of the road that I'd seen her running across the street for a bus. Well, not so much running as cantering. It took me a second to realise that in all the time I'd known her I'd only ever seen her walk. To anyone else this probably wouldn't be noteworthy but for me it was kind of significant. Why?

Well, if someone's running for a bus it hints that that individual isn't fully in control of their life because they're not as organised as they should be: they can't plan how much time a task will take; they haven't made allowances for unexpected events and they've allowed other (lesser individuals) to delay or thwart them. In short, you lose a bit of dignity when you run for a bus.

I don't think that it's really that important for the majority of us (I regularly run for buses, trains and boats) as we're all human and for want of a better term, shit happens. But, but, because I'd had her on a pedestal (a pedestal of my own construction) for many years that glowing and perfect image of her cracked just a little in that instance. Just a little.

I need to explain, go back in time a few years...

I've probably known, or rather known of, Gina for about ten years when I often used to see her wandering around town or walking back home. She was probably in her late thirties then and she had straight shoulder length blonde hair. She was slim and normally wore a faded blue denim jacket. It was rare that she would put on a skirt (I have seen her only once in a white summer dress) so jeans or black leggings would be her usual attire for the bottom half of her body along with white sandals on her feet. Facially she had these cold blue-green eyes, a straight nose that reminded me of Hitler's and thin spiteful lips. Her face shape was neither thin nor round and her flesh was permanently bronzed - my guess was that she had her own tanning machine. Now from how I've described her you'd probably think she wasn't attractive or stylish but she was good looking, not beautiful I grant you, and I fancied her at the time. I hasten to add that I fancied a lot of other women too.

Anyway, a couple of years later our paths crossed when she got a job at a café I used to frequent a lot when I worked along the seafront. In fact her daughter (a clone of her) was dating one of the guys who worked there. From the moment I saw her there I vowed to get to know her better. Maybe 'know her' in the biblical sense too. Oh yeah, I probably ought to tell you that I was also in a relationship with Della (a story for another day) who, if I was lucky, I would see about once every two weeks. That said, I remember chatting to her one sunny summer day outside the café whilst I was on a short break with my colleague. Her sleeves were partially rolled up and tantalising revealing her toned and tanned arms. I also recall wondering at the time what the rest of her body looked like uncovered. I would never know. Anyway, we got to chatting about relationships and she'd told me how when she'd found out her husband had been cheating on her she'd confronted him with it and had ended up punching him so hard in the face she'd broken his nose. She'd then kicked him out of the house and had nothing further to do with him. As she told me how she had broken his nose I had detected more than just the gratification of revenge I had also seen, or thought I'd seen - a glimmer of something darker flashing across her features. There was something vicious or sadistic just below the surface. Now most normal fellas would run a mile at that but not me because I have a moth-to-flame attraction to that kind of dangerous female. From that moment on I fantasised about her treating me cruelly. In fact I have composed a couple of blogs in which I totally submit to her whilst she beats, abuses and humiliates me. Of course the fantasy is highly exciting and incredibly arousing but would the reality match up to it? I don't know.

A couple of weeks later, when she was on a day off, I got talking to her colleague, Joan, and her boss John about her. Joan had counselled me not to get involved with her as, "She has massive debts and just uses blokes to get as much as money out of them as she can before dumping them without a second thought. Not only that but she doesn't have a twinge of conscience about taking The Social for as much as she can either. The only reason she doesn't get taken to court is because she's probably shagging the head of Social Services. She's a nasty bit of work. Do not get involved with her. She doesn't give a damn about anyone except herself and her daughter."

John had then recounted a tale about her too.

"Not so long ago a pal of mine took a shine to her and ended up bedding her. A couple of days later she found out where he lived, went round and with great satisfaction told his wife everything. Everything. It caused a lot of problems. She's totally malicious."

As they had told me this I had become erect. What a bitch, an über Bitch. And Nietzsche would have loved her. Probably.

I think the question to ask at this point is: Why my obsession with her?

I have to confess that there's a part of me that admires her for the way she lives her life. She doesn't give a damn for anyone or anything that doesn't have value for her. She sees society for what it really is: a bunch of self-centred, greedy, lusty and deceitful apes who underneath couldn't care less who they trample upon or rip off in their rush to gratify their own (sometimes perverted) desires. She probably sees herself that way too. She lives for the day and couldn't give a toss about the passing of time, the absurdity of existence. Yep, she doesn't give a damn.

I suppose in a fashion by submitting to her I am endorsing her red-in-tooth-and-claw way of life - albeit adapted to the modern world. Nature. Darwin. Survival-of-the-Fittest. Endurance-of-the-Just-Fit-Enough. By surrendering to her I am 'merging' with her. Mixing my genes with superior genes. Or possibly it's about memes. If I'd never got to fuck her.

Or maybe Nature in its dark and twisted way really sought to destroy me, the weak, the worthless - death, slow and painful death, by über bitch...

I think I've perhaps I've gone off at a tangent.

Anyway, I guess really what I would have liked to see her do was stroll across the road and dare the bus driver to leave her behind. You see, because that first time, in all those years, that I saw her give a damn was the first time I didn't about her...

Monday 15th June 2015: If You Weren't You Who Would You Like To Be?

Friday went to a party. It was a sixtieth birthday party for a work colleague. I was flattered we were asked. He didn't invite everyone.

It was a fairly low key affair and I/we mingled and chatted with the other guests most of whom I knew already. I have to confess that underneath I'm an individual who is fairly introverted but who over the years has developed a false personality in order to survive in this world; though I'm actually quite content with my own fantasies and speculations. Occasionally I'll observe the clouds passing overhead too. The problem, however, with creating a false persona is that one is expected to live up to it and to be honest I can find that a bit draining; I'm expected (though maybe I'm not and it's just me that thinks that) to be always telling jokes and anecdotes.

Anyway, there was a point where we were all just sitting around the room and not saying much at all. It felt awkward and I felt compelled to try and kick-start things. So I said to everyone: "Here's a question, if you weren't yourself who would you like to be?" Nobody came up with Jimmy Saville or Rolf Harris, which was a relief (topical bad taste humour, I know). After a bit of murmuring a couple of people came up with things about how they'd like to be famous musicians or artists of some sort but the general consensus was to be an individual with talent. Of course I couldn't actually answer the question honestly which was hypocritical since I'd been the one to pose it. You see, saying, out of the blue, that you frequently desire to be a young and gorgeous, lesbian sadomasochistic slut or a slave to a cruel, highly intelligent and heartless beautiful mistress will raise eyebrows even in these times of 'It's cool to like 50 Shades'. I also have to work with these people. Well, despite this thought provoking question the discussion soon petered out and we wandered outside into the garden to pastures anew. I hasten to add that as it was raining there were no seagulls hovering overhead though I wouldn't have put it past the malicious bastards to have sneakily followed me from home. Once outside, partially sheltering from the rain, we got talking to another guy from work and his missus who was quite upfront about the fact that she was a feminist; this was a female who said she didn't take any shit from anyone. However, she did admit (isn't alcohol a wonderful thing for loosening the tongue) that she respected a strong man who knew how to handle her. I can't remember how I actually responded to that but it was along the lines of, 'For every strong woman there's a stronger man.' I may also have mentioned something about spanking - as you do. She then nearly, nearly, confessed to being submissive in the bedroom. My missus reckoned she was definitely into spanking and being a slut. Interesting. I reckon I'll have to suggest we all go out for drinks and a meal one night.

So, that was the highlight of the evening.

In the morning I was replaying the events of the night before in my head whilst at work and also the question I had posed: if you weren't yourself who would you like to be? And then I remembered from when I was a teenager there was one particular person I wanted to be. Pete Duel.

Now, for those of you who don't remember, Pete Duel was most famous for portraying Hannibal Heyes in the seventies television series Alias Smith & Jones. Google it for more info. Anyway, Heyes was a smart-talking, likeable outlaw who was now attempting to go straight with his partner Kid Curry in order to be granted amnesty from the governor of the state. Each episode they'd get into some sort of scrape where either Kid Curry outdrew the baddie or Hannibal Heyes outsmarted, with wit and style, the villains. Often both. They were both attractive characters to an inadequate, ugly and mainly unhappy youth and I daydreamed about living their adventurous life. Of the two it was Hannibal Heyes who I gravitated more too and I saw Pete Duel *as* Hannibal Heyes. When no one was around I would attempt to affect Heye's mannerisms in the mirror. I would practice saying, "That's a good deal?" I would see myself as resembling Duel even though the only thing I shared with him was brown eyes. I wanted to be five foot eleven as he was described in the wanted posters. I think I loved him. Or rather I loved the character and person I sought to be. It wasn't a sexual love either.

And then he killed himself. Pete Duel that is. Shot himself in the temple. Blew his brains out. Was found sprawled out naked under the Christmas tree, among unopened presents, by his girlfriend of the time, Dianne Ray.

I was fourteen years of age at the time when I had been walking past the newsstand when I had seen the headlines: Star of Alias Smith & Jones Found Dead with Gunshot Wounds. It was the 31st December 1971. New Year's Eve. I had rushed home and put on the news to discover that it was Pete Duel. Shocked. Devastated.

After a bit I realized through television he would be kind of 'immortal' because his image would never fade and he would never get old. Or rather never get older than thirty-one. And thirty-one became a significant number for me - ironically I was thirty-one when my mother died suddenly too seventeen years later. Duel had of course died in the early hours of the 31st too.

His death permeated every bit of my being. I wanted to die at thirty-one. Suicide was glamorous. In death one would gain the love and adulation one lacked in life. It was an act of redemption too - one's shortcomings would be overlooked and 'sins' would be forgiven.

I also attempted to see look-alikes of him - individuals with long dark hair, high cheek bones, a wide smile and warm brown eyes - everywhere in a vain attempt to 'resurrect' him. I failed. Of course.

Universal Studios also failed by recasting Roger Davis as his replacement too. In the end I stopped watching the series - Davis was a good actor but could never replace Duel. Also the scripts were beginning to get weak. I'm not certain if they'd had his younger brother Geoffrey Deuel take on the role it could have succeeded either. Not that he would have done.

As the years rolled on by Pete Duel diminished in my mind. Hannibal Heyes was a fiction and Duel a troubled young man who drank too much and suffered from depression - a dangerous combination. I revised my opinion about suicide too in time - it was only an 'aesthetic' from afar and a cruel 'fuck you' for all those who loved you. I also began to see suicide as Schopenhauer did - a question put to the universe by the suicide that would never be answered, like hollering into the abyss and waiting for the echo.

I have rambled on too much but this I know (from a voice in a dream) - you can't win in this world but put off losing for as long as you can...

Saturday 11th July 2015: An Act of Random Kindness

The sun is shining strongly through the window and I'm squinting my eyes. The seagulls are screeching as per normal and I'm sitting on the sofa which won't be fully paid off till December. I've got a mug of coffee, Fairtrade Decaffeinated, on the little table by my side to the left of me. I feel good and in a few minutes I'll be getting ready for work. The missus is having a lay in. She's on holiday at the mo.

It's funny really cos at work yesterday there were two things that I mainly remember. One, was that an elderly guy said to me: "I hope you don't think I'm rude but you do really look just like Bernard Cribbens."

I had responded: "He must be a really good looking bloke if he resembles me then!"

The old guy hadn't responded and had then just moved on.

I then wondered if I'd misheard him and he had actually said, Doctor Crippens.

Moving swiftly on.

But there was another moment when it was quiet for a bit when I recalled an incident from when I was a child - an act of random kindness.

I don't know how old I actually was at the time but I had come home from school and on the kitchen-table was a toy projector. It was made out of light blue plastic and I think made by Palitoy. With it were some film strips. I had said to me mother who was there: "Who's that for?"

"It's for you," she had replied.

I couldn't understand it. Why had I been bought a present when it was neither Christmas nor my birthday as they were the only times I got presents.

"But it's not my birthday yet," I had queried.

"I saw it in Woolworths and I thought you'd like it."

I still couldn't understand it.

"It's for... you."

In the end I did accept it and I loved that toy. It wasn't a moving film projector but there were slides of Disney films like Snow White and Sleeping Beauty.

That evening we had turned the lights off in the kitchen and with my mother and grandmother as the audience I had conducted the show. It was a bit like magic. I had felt really happy that night and when I had recalled that whilst at work yesterday I had felt tears welling up in me. Sad. Sad to think of that act of casual kindness from my mother all those years ago. Sad to think that she has been long gone. Sad also to think that perhaps these acts of kindness ultimately mean nothing in the grand scheme of things.

Time to get ready for work now.

Thursday 16th July 2015: The Last Chapter?

It's strange the things that come into your head. Or rather my head. Fantasies of a sexual nature. Fantasies of power and ego. Speculations about 'life, the universe and everything'. Fragments of dreams from the night before. Memories of events you thought you'd forgotten. Memories of events you wish you had forgotten. In fact it can be safe to say in my case that I think of everything except things that could be useful or beneficial to my life like how to make more money or how to make life easier and/or more fulfilling.

Yesterday was no different.

So, I was there at work and someone asked me about libraries. I gave them the answer I believed they wanted which is a strategy I increasingly use with age: tell people what they want to hear. And then I remembered going to the library in my home town all those years ago. I recalled the thrill of not just entering a building full of books but rather entering a marvellous world of knowledge and fantasy. And it was all free too. It was a wonderful place. I read science fiction and lost myself in fantastic worlds. I read about ancient history and travelled back to the past. Shared in the glory and heroism of great battles. Agincourt. Trafalgar. Battle of Britain. Thermopylae. I wanted to be a great hero who overcame the odds to prevail. Alexander the Great. Alfred the Great. Nelson. Wellington.

I also sometimes took out books of knowledge about science and technology. The future thrilled me as much as the past. Flying cars. Monorails. Laser guns. Eternal life. Space travel. Time travel. And all this was created by lines of black symbols printed onto white paper which triggered pictures in the brain. Incredible.

I don't think that now because rarely can I lose myself in a book like I used to. I did at one point believe that all you needed in life (apart from the basics like food, clothes and shelter) was a good book. Don't get me wrong, I still read with interest but not with real passion or enthusiasm anymore. And then speculating about this I recalled a woman who used to work in the library who did seem to live totally immersed in the world of books. She was a funny little creature and she kind of put me in mind of a mouse the way she scurried around the library. She was short and a little stooped with glasses with her grey hair tied in a bun. She wore glasses too which were often just balanced on the end of her nose. Needless to say she was a spinster. But I never thought that was a problem to her because reading and books seemed to be her calling. She shared her passion with others too and would read to children who became mesmerized by the stories she'd recount to them. She also knew (or seemed to) where you could get a book on whatever subject it was that interested you. I remember her as basically being on the quiet side but very knowledgeable and helpful. I think also in a way I envied her because her life appeared to be full and she didn't rely on anyone. I imagined her cosily at home with her feet up on the sofa and a cup of tea by her side under the lamp-stand engrossed in a book...

But I was wrong. Totally wrong.

I guess it was over ten years ago, maybe longer than that, when I remember reading about her suicide in the local paper. I'd thought surely that couldn't be her. But it was. She'd taken an overdose. She had become slowly unconscious before the poisons had stopped her heart and then killed the cells of her brain, the cells that had contained so much knowledge, the brain that had held so many pictures, so many stories...

According to the coroner she had become depressed about the world, had begun to see it as a horrible place with horrible people and the only solution to her was to destroy that dark picture of the world, the ghastly picture that had inexorably grown and malevolently squeezed out all the other rich pictures she held in that wonderful mind of hers like a kind of tumour. Tragic.

Of course I never really knew her. And that said, do we really know anyone? Do we even truly know ourselves?

I also wonder whether that was for me a kind of a turning away from the inner world of fantasy, that too much introspection could be dangerous that too much reading of books could lead the mind not to the light but rather to the dark. Hmmm.

Okay, time to get dressed, time to get out...

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