pig

Sorry about the lack of post yesterday. I meant to say on Monday that I wouldn’t be writing.

Dad and I went to Birmingham for the International Bike Show. I’ve been virtually every year since I was 4, and apart from the change that has taken place with technology/design and the coming and going of various marques, the same pathetic excitement of sitting on a brand-new fuck-the-world machine has lost none of its immature thrill for both of us. It was a marvellous day.

Despite feeling exhausted from the trip I still managed to make it over to Wandsworth to meet Rosh, Merve and Wilhelm for a bowl of pasta, glass of wine and a protracted conversation about Heavy Metal. Despite such jollity I wasn’t able to stay out long, I was knackered from the day and by midnight was sound asleep.

So, Monday night. I nipped out for a jar with Frank and Harry, got home, ate and bathed my balls and had just settled down with The Wire at about 10.30 when there was a firm knock on the communal front door. Obviously I spurned it, there are two flats in the house and being upstairs I have my own doorbell. No doorbell, no answer.

But the knocking persisted, it morphed into banging. I angrily got up and went to the window and it was then I discovered the flashing blue light wasn’t from the TV. Two cops glared up at me from the pavement. Never a good thing that, really. I went down stairs and opened the door, they moved towards me with a certain degree of intent. ‘You Cunt?’ one of them muttered. I replied ‘no’ with some aggression furious at being mistaken for a creature viler than Ebola.
‘You know where he is?’ I contained myself; one of them was already sizing me up despite looking as if he’d just failed his GCSE’s. In patronising tone I explained the fact that I live an entirely separate existence ‘up there’ (I pointed dramatically to my staircase) and have no idea where he is, what he’s doing or done, ‘…nor did I give a flying fuck,’ which wasn’t greeted very well by teen-cop still giving me hairy eyeballs. They began pounding on his inner door. I closed mine and carried on watching TV. For over 5mins they pounded, calling his name, clearly convinced he was hiding in there. He wasn’t, of course. I know when that dribbling cake is in and I’m delighted to report that since Sunday lunchtime, after I heard him grapple with the physics of closing a front door quietly, I’d not heard so much as a honk from his graveyard maw.

His post is gathering, golden silence prevails. It’s too much to dream that he’s in there swollen, fetid and gently inflating. Sadly, no. Cunt has done a runner and I hope, unless it’s on the fucking news, I never see him again. (…though I’m still holding out for a strong smell from downstairs and just one bluebottle, just one…)