A plump, ripe, breast.
Just take a moment, only a moment, to appreciate such a wondrous sight.
And before I go any further, I'd like to point out that I'm not thinking of one that appears marinated in a white wine sauce with a compliment of sauteed potatoes.
No. Nothing like that.
Right now I'm looking at a left breast, hidden behind a black singlet.
That same singlet is held together by thread.
My mind takes me on a journey where I am physically able to unravel each and every stitch, and suddenly the singlet falls to one side, and out pops this beautiful, bare, boob.
The left one.
What happens next is anyones guess.
Maybe I help her to put it back in, maybe I chance a quick squeeze, maybe, maybe,but wait. What's this?
SLAP!
It hits me like a flick on the balls.
Fifteen. She's only fifteen.
But she looks eighteen. Those three years make a hell of a difference, legality, personality, musical tastes........................
Musical tastes.
Mind wandering time again.
Fuck, what would she listen to?
Shite, probably. Spanish shite at that. Two years here and nothing decent to listen to.
Maybe I'm not listening to the right radio station.
Maybe I'm not looking in the right places.
Maybe.....
Fifteen.
Christ.
Born in nineteen ninety three.
Fuck, I feel old.
"Excuse me, but you help me with this??"
It takes me a moment to realise that this is a question, and that it requires me to offer a response.
I continue to stare.
"Sir, I want help with this."
"Yes. Sorry, sorry, what's......what's up....?
Time to get into the role.
And it is a role.
A role in which I didn't prepare for, in fact it's almost like opening night, and everyone else has their lines, but I was told to stand there and wing it. Improvise.
Improvise.
Fuck.
I've been doing that for three months now.
I stand up. The initial thought is one of dread.
What's she going to ask? Do I know the answer?
What am I doing here?
Whose idea was it to be an English teacher anyway?
Friday, 7 November 2008
Tuesday, 2 September 2008
Exhibition in Edinburgh
Below are some of the images that will be on display in the Traverse Theatre in Edinburgh from the 27th of October 2008. The exhibition runs for six weeks so feel free to pop in and purchase a limited edition print!
God loves a trier.
God loves a trier.
Friday, 29 February 2008
When all is said and done...
Top 5 Break up Songs.
(Nick Horby does not own the rights to this, it's been happening for years, even before Top of the Pops.)
1.Roddy Frame - Over You
2.The Beatles - For No One
3.Paul Simon - 50 Ways to leave your Lover
4.Foo Fighters - Walking After You
5.John Lennon - Jealous Guy
There now follows a short compendium of snippets from the above songs....
Make a new plan Stan/you wait up, she goes out/if you walk out on me/I didn't mean to hurt you/heard you were out in SW3/there must be 50 ways to leave your lover/I was trying to catch your eye/tonight I'm tangled in my blanket of clouds/there must be times when all the things she said filled your head/you said I'd get over you.
As you may have guessed I'm now single, fucked off, hurt and crying for redemption.
So I have come up with (trumpet crescendo) my eleven, yes eleven (it's louder than ten).............................................
STEPS OF RECOVERY (underlined)
1. Denial - to pretend that fuck all is wrong, the relationship is in tatters, but to you everything is hunkydory.
2. Ignorance - you pause, and stop pretending, denial turns into full blown ignorance, hunkydory becomes a close friend.
3. Moment of Clarity - you understand the problems and symptoms - WARNING - this only lasts up to a maximum of one month.
4. Acceptance Part 1 - begins with the realisation of the break up. This is also known as ' the amicable acceptance'.
5. Self Pity - everything you see and hear relates to you. Beware of overly sentimental films, music or books.
6. Anger/Refusal - a very dangerous position to find oneself in. Cue the regurgitation of past faults and fuck ups.
7. Acceptance Part 2 - you now find yourself realising that there is no way back (to her).
8. HATE - the most potent of all. Anything to do with the EX is now spouted from your inner hatred gene. This can last for years, depending upon how you have dealt with the last 7 stages.
9. Drought - depends on your ability with the opposite sex. A drought can last for hours or years.
10. The Move On - you start to notice more fish in the perverbial sea and life doesn't seem all that fucking bad, smiles appear on the faces of what would have been total cunts, lamposts shine, oranges land in front of you, complete strangers ask what time it is, and Liverpool win the Premiership. Films, music and books take on a different meaning and you are able to participate in 'the move on'..
11. Greener Pastures - new girl, new life, new outlook upon it. Until that is, you find yourself coming face to face with stage 1, then repeat.
You poor fuck.
(Nick Horby does not own the rights to this, it's been happening for years, even before Top of the Pops.)
1.Roddy Frame - Over You
2.The Beatles - For No One
3.Paul Simon - 50 Ways to leave your Lover
4.Foo Fighters - Walking After You
5.John Lennon - Jealous Guy
There now follows a short compendium of snippets from the above songs....
Make a new plan Stan/you wait up, she goes out/if you walk out on me/I didn't mean to hurt you/heard you were out in SW3/there must be 50 ways to leave your lover/I was trying to catch your eye/tonight I'm tangled in my blanket of clouds/there must be times when all the things she said filled your head/you said I'd get over you.
As you may have guessed I'm now single, fucked off, hurt and crying for redemption.
So I have come up with (trumpet crescendo) my eleven, yes eleven (it's louder than ten).............................................
STEPS OF RECOVERY (underlined)
1. Denial - to pretend that fuck all is wrong, the relationship is in tatters, but to you everything is hunkydory.
2. Ignorance - you pause, and stop pretending, denial turns into full blown ignorance, hunkydory becomes a close friend.
3. Moment of Clarity - you understand the problems and symptoms - WARNING - this only lasts up to a maximum of one month.
4. Acceptance Part 1 - begins with the realisation of the break up. This is also known as ' the amicable acceptance'.
5. Self Pity - everything you see and hear relates to you. Beware of overly sentimental films, music or books.
6. Anger/Refusal - a very dangerous position to find oneself in. Cue the regurgitation of past faults and fuck ups.
7. Acceptance Part 2 - you now find yourself realising that there is no way back (to her).
8. HATE - the most potent of all. Anything to do with the EX is now spouted from your inner hatred gene. This can last for years, depending upon how you have dealt with the last 7 stages.
9. Drought - depends on your ability with the opposite sex. A drought can last for hours or years.
10. The Move On - you start to notice more fish in the perverbial sea and life doesn't seem all that fucking bad, smiles appear on the faces of what would have been total cunts, lamposts shine, oranges land in front of you, complete strangers ask what time it is, and Liverpool win the Premiership. Films, music and books take on a different meaning and you are able to participate in 'the move on'..
11. Greener Pastures - new girl, new life, new outlook upon it. Until that is, you find yourself coming face to face with stage 1, then repeat.
You poor fuck.
Saturday, 1 December 2007
Playing pool with yer burd.
I have a piece of advice for young lovers, especially the ones that are experiencing the first date syndrome. Lads, do not take them to the pool hall. Lassies, do not go to the pool hall with them.
I had the privilege last night of watching two car crash dates, both involving the pool hall.
I was pishing myself watching couple number one, it went like this...... the lad sets the balls up, they toss a coin, the lad wins. He chalks his cue, takes position to break. Bang! Two balls go down, he smiles, re-chalks. Thump, thump, bang, bang, take that ya fucker. Doesn't even look at her, his eyes are squarely on the game, he wants to beat this bitch, and he will. Fucking right. Look at that double he just pulled off. There is fire dancing in his eyes, thwammo(long pot), oh perfect, she's struggling to comprehend the situation she is now in, in fact the poor cow hasn't even had a chance at getting near the table. He winks at her, she sort of grins, maybe wondering what the fuck is going on. His positioning is perfect, has been for the whole game, nothing can stop him. Now he's on the black, takes a deep breath. Twaaang! Oh, you fucked that shot pal. I smile. He is well pissed off, mutters something in Spanish and waves her on with a nonchalant gesture. This poor, little lass meekly comes to the table. It's obvious she hasn't a clue, it's in her eyes, they're crying out for help, maybe for a wee bit of guidance. I want to shout 'at least show her how to hold the fucking cue you nonce!', but he's bigger than me and looks like he could do some serious damage.
She does one of those girl type attempts, you know the one, like when girls try to catch a ball or throw something that isn't a shoe at your head. The attempt is piss poor. My autistic dead cat could've done better. That's unfair, my autistic dead cat was quite a shark with autistic dead dogs, but that's another story.
He pats her on the shoulder, chalks his cue, and thamm, the black goes down.
I was half expecting him to run around the table with his top over his head, or that he would run up to her and spit in her face and call her a cunt.
But that didn't happen.
Something much more surprising did.
He pointed his thumb at the bar, and off she went to get the round in.
I have a feeling this relationship will blossom.
Another table.
I watch this couple for two minutes, two minutes was all I needed, before I felt sick.
The balls are set, he breaks. Not a bad break.
She pots a ball, he is all smiles, condescending like. She screws the next shot.
He comes to the table, there are three easy balls, and he deliberately fucks up.
Deliberately. What a fanny.
She knows this, and this happens for the next two shots.
Please mate, stop this pretence, no matter how much you want a blow job, this is not the way to go about it.
You are looking weak and above all else, shit at pool.
Then it got me thinking, why take your girlfriend to this place, unless she can play the fucking game? What do you gain from looking like a soft sack of shit? Or a hard nut?
Don't take your girl to pool halls, unless they can play the game.
There is a reason why there is mens' tennis and womens' tennis and a separate tour for men and women when it comes to golf, and any other sport that you care to mention. Men are better at it.
Apart from curling, but that is just sweeping floors, so I can understand why women tend to be a bit better than blokes at sweeping an ice floor.
I'm not sexist, bbbuuuuuttttttt it's pretty fucking obvious, there is a difference when it comes to sport.
Professionals don't mix, so why do we bother?
To have fun? There are hundreds of other ways to have fun, but please not with with sport. It only serves two types; the arse and the ponce.
Time to go, my wench is calling.
I have a feeling I'm in trouble.
I had the privilege last night of watching two car crash dates, both involving the pool hall.
I was pishing myself watching couple number one, it went like this...... the lad sets the balls up, they toss a coin, the lad wins. He chalks his cue, takes position to break. Bang! Two balls go down, he smiles, re-chalks. Thump, thump, bang, bang, take that ya fucker. Doesn't even look at her, his eyes are squarely on the game, he wants to beat this bitch, and he will. Fucking right. Look at that double he just pulled off. There is fire dancing in his eyes, thwammo(long pot), oh perfect, she's struggling to comprehend the situation she is now in, in fact the poor cow hasn't even had a chance at getting near the table. He winks at her, she sort of grins, maybe wondering what the fuck is going on. His positioning is perfect, has been for the whole game, nothing can stop him. Now he's on the black, takes a deep breath. Twaaang! Oh, you fucked that shot pal. I smile. He is well pissed off, mutters something in Spanish and waves her on with a nonchalant gesture. This poor, little lass meekly comes to the table. It's obvious she hasn't a clue, it's in her eyes, they're crying out for help, maybe for a wee bit of guidance. I want to shout 'at least show her how to hold the fucking cue you nonce!', but he's bigger than me and looks like he could do some serious damage.
She does one of those girl type attempts, you know the one, like when girls try to catch a ball or throw something that isn't a shoe at your head. The attempt is piss poor. My autistic dead cat could've done better. That's unfair, my autistic dead cat was quite a shark with autistic dead dogs, but that's another story.
He pats her on the shoulder, chalks his cue, and thamm, the black goes down.
I was half expecting him to run around the table with his top over his head, or that he would run up to her and spit in her face and call her a cunt.
But that didn't happen.
Something much more surprising did.
He pointed his thumb at the bar, and off she went to get the round in.
I have a feeling this relationship will blossom.
Another table.
I watch this couple for two minutes, two minutes was all I needed, before I felt sick.
The balls are set, he breaks. Not a bad break.
She pots a ball, he is all smiles, condescending like. She screws the next shot.
He comes to the table, there are three easy balls, and he deliberately fucks up.
Deliberately. What a fanny.
She knows this, and this happens for the next two shots.
Please mate, stop this pretence, no matter how much you want a blow job, this is not the way to go about it.
You are looking weak and above all else, shit at pool.
Then it got me thinking, why take your girlfriend to this place, unless she can play the fucking game? What do you gain from looking like a soft sack of shit? Or a hard nut?
Don't take your girl to pool halls, unless they can play the game.
There is a reason why there is mens' tennis and womens' tennis and a separate tour for men and women when it comes to golf, and any other sport that you care to mention. Men are better at it.
Apart from curling, but that is just sweeping floors, so I can understand why women tend to be a bit better than blokes at sweeping an ice floor.
I'm not sexist, bbbuuuuuttttttt it's pretty fucking obvious, there is a difference when it comes to sport.
Professionals don't mix, so why do we bother?
To have fun? There are hundreds of other ways to have fun, but please not with with sport. It only serves two types; the arse and the ponce.
Time to go, my wench is calling.
I have a feeling I'm in trouble.
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