and slit your lousy dog’s throat with ’em.’ He’s got the grace to attempt a laugh (I know all about having to simulate mirth from the Grand-Dad episode) but he insists his mom likes to have the dog in the shop for protection. Even though the dog once chewed her knees under the sari. Five stitches and a tetanus. She needs another dog to protect her from this dog.
England is a nation of dogs. When the monarchy goes, it will be a republic of dogs. The Dog Coast. The United Church of Dog. Dog Mansions. The Dog Café. Dog University. Don’t know why the bulldog is supposed to represent my country. Frankly I would prefer a gonk. At least I could back-comb its blue hair, put it in curlers and tease it up with a bit of lacquer. A French pleat. A quiff. Gonk ponytails. Gonk plaits. Gonkery. Yep, I’ve coined a new word for the British people. The Gonkery Dental Practice. The British School of Gonkery. BA Hons in Gonkery specialising in a variety of hairstyles.
Look, my dad bashed me and no one cried except Girl and Mom. No one’s demonstrating outside Boots the Chemist from the Billy Rights Organisation, are they? There are citizens out there who would rather cry over dogs than me. Why? Cos dogs can’t talk back. They can’t say, Fuck off, you fat cunt, you know I hate meaty chunks. Back to the weather.
If the rain stops you get a weird flash of courage and hope. You think you will find a park to read the newspaper in, like they did in the early nineteenth century. Giggling when they fell off their penny farthings. You shiver under a tree whilst reading the paper (particularly the weather reports) because you want to believe this is a pleasurable experience. To believe this simple task has made you happy and emotionally stable. When you stand up you find you’ve been sitting in a pile of dog shit. Your new suede shoes are fucked. You stink. You’re damp. Your hands are shaking cos it’s cold. Your newspaper is the only thing you’ve got with you to wipe the dog shit off your chainstore clothes. You walk home staring at the sky with crazed, betrayed eyes. I want ozone to open wide and zap me with all it’s got. Cook me, hotness. Take my weedy little body and tan it. Give my white-boy face an unhealthy flush. C’mon, Big O! Gentle over the biceps and then pulp ’em. I can take it.
Yeah. Things are a bit rainy if you know what I mean. Mom. I dreamt her skin was dry. And I dreamt she died. Two glossy purring animals lie on her bed, surrounded by exotic plants with browning leaves. Under the Xmas tree are some presents wrapped up for her children. Mine is a chocolate stretch limousine. Girl hasn’t got anything in hers. It’s just wrapping paper. Sometimes I torment Girl, say hers is a chocolate minicab with three wheels. I am very sad about Mom’s absence in my dream. I remember her taking calcium pills to strengthen her bones. Painting her toenails. Teasing up her hair for her famous beehive style with a special comb. Sitting with her baby girl on her lap watching the weather on TV. I remember her perfume. It was called Moth. All I know is that moths smell blue. Like the night. I remember sweet complicity with Mom in cafés. She ate a full English breakfast and dunked her toast in the yolk for me.
It’s a bit rainy, if you know what I mean. Bitter filthy wet fucking rain. No. It’s not funny. All that scrambling to shelter under the shitty striped awnings of butcher shops. The giant turkey drumsticks piled up and covered in clingfilm. Blue and goose-pimpled. It’s raining. The sweating Dublin chops on special offer just about to pass their sell-by date in a big way. The sticky thick blood of livers and kidneys on silver trays, the second-rate eggs laid out on the counter, the pale rubbery slabs of Cheddar, the bundles of lard dripping in their wax wrappers – and it’s
still
raining. The clambering onto buses full of the insane mumbling upstairs and mothers screaming at their kids and fathers who’ve
England is a nation of dogs. When the monarchy goes, it will be a republic of dogs. The Dog Coast. The United Church of Dog. Dog Mansions. The Dog Café. Dog University. Don’t know why the bulldog is supposed to represent my country. Frankly I would prefer a gonk. At least I could back-comb its blue hair, put it in curlers and tease it up with a bit of lacquer. A French pleat. A quiff. Gonk ponytails. Gonk plaits. Gonkery. Yep, I’ve coined a new word for the British people. The Gonkery Dental Practice. The British School of Gonkery. BA Hons in Gonkery specialising in a variety of hairstyles.
Look, my dad bashed me and no one cried except Girl and Mom. No one’s demonstrating outside Boots the Chemist from the Billy Rights Organisation, are they? There are citizens out there who would rather cry over dogs than me. Why? Cos dogs can’t talk back. They can’t say, Fuck off, you fat cunt, you know I hate meaty chunks. Back to the weather.
If the rain stops you get a weird flash of courage and hope. You think you will find a park to read the newspaper in, like they did in the early nineteenth century. Giggling when they fell off their penny farthings. You shiver under a tree whilst reading the paper (particularly the weather reports) because you want to believe this is a pleasurable experience. To believe this simple task has made you happy and emotionally stable. When you stand up you find you’ve been sitting in a pile of dog shit. Your new suede shoes are fucked. You stink. You’re damp. Your hands are shaking cos it’s cold. Your newspaper is the only thing you’ve got with you to wipe the dog shit off your chainstore clothes. You walk home staring at the sky with crazed, betrayed eyes. I want ozone to open wide and zap me with all it’s got. Cook me, hotness. Take my weedy little body and tan it. Give my white-boy face an unhealthy flush. C’mon, Big O! Gentle over the biceps and then pulp ’em. I can take it.
Yeah. Things are a bit rainy if you know what I mean. Mom. I dreamt her skin was dry. And I dreamt she died. Two glossy purring animals lie on her bed, surrounded by exotic plants with browning leaves. Under the Xmas tree are some presents wrapped up for her children. Mine is a chocolate stretch limousine. Girl hasn’t got anything in hers. It’s just wrapping paper. Sometimes I torment Girl, say hers is a chocolate minicab with three wheels. I am very sad about Mom’s absence in my dream. I remember her taking calcium pills to strengthen her bones. Painting her toenails. Teasing up her hair for her famous beehive style with a special comb. Sitting with her baby girl on her lap watching the weather on TV. I remember her perfume. It was called Moth. All I know is that moths smell blue. Like the night. I remember sweet complicity with Mom in cafés. She ate a full English breakfast and dunked her toast in the yolk for me.
It’s a bit rainy, if you know what I mean. Bitter filthy wet fucking rain. No. It’s not funny. All that scrambling to shelter under the shitty striped awnings of butcher shops. The giant turkey drumsticks piled up and covered in clingfilm. Blue and goose-pimpled. It’s raining. The sweating Dublin chops on special offer just about to pass their sell-by date in a big way. The sticky thick blood of livers and kidneys on silver trays, the second-rate eggs laid out on the counter, the pale rubbery slabs of Cheddar, the bundles of lard dripping in their wax wrappers – and it’s
still
raining. The clambering onto buses full of the insane mumbling upstairs and mothers screaming at their kids and fathers who’ve
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