I hate the term 'dramedy', but I guess it suits. I thought I would post a short story, that I wrote recently, as a way of introducing myself to the board. I would also very much like to hear some feedback. It's about 10000 words long and contains some adult language.
If I stay here long enough life won't find me. Part 1
"I'm gonna be candid for a moment here, gentlemen... so... like... listen closely... I have come to the conclusion that the design of individual Kraft cheese slices is undoubtedly Man's greatest ever achievement," I said.
"Holy shit man. I am in no way drunk enough for conversations like that. And in any case, I'm in a laughing-out-loud quandary... no really, I am... I'm worried that I'll become one of those people that express slight joy in another person's text humour by footnoting my messages with 'LOL'. I don't think I'm ready to be that kinda person," said Alexander as he tried to drag a console control pad towards him with his foot.
"You're already a worse kinda person, Alexis; you kiss people on both cheeks when you meet them," Andy said as he intercepted Alexander's foot's mission.
"What can I say? It's an easy way to cop a feel."
"Is that why you do it to guys too?" said Andy.
"I thought you writer types were supposed to be all poetic and that? I was made to do Hamlet at school and I swear I never seen 'cop a feel' in there anywhere," said Stuart as he entered from the kitchen.
"Ah the irony, when only last week you interrupted my conversation on Gogol with that 18-year-old nymph by asking if I'd rather f**k a legless or armless Britney Spears," said Alexander.
"Hey, that's... f**k you. If you try to pull girls by discussing books then you deserve all you get."
"Oh yeah that reminds me - Alexander, I came up with a great idea for a book the other day, and you know, it made me really wish I was a writer. I probably could be a writer. But, yeah, anyway, it is about comparing the London bombings with the Glencoe massacre; you know, like welcoming people into your land and then they f**k you in your sleep," said Andy.
"That's my second favourite thing to happen to me in my sleep," I said.
"Andy, I dunno, that's a little contentious..." said Alexander.
"What's your first favourite thing?" asked Stuart.
"...and it's a little too hostile for a man of my taste," said Alexander.
"Dreaming sweet dreams," I replied.
"Hostile? So is blowing up tourist buses. I went on one of those buses in Berlin. Excellent value and the driver was a top man," said Andy.
My friends and I, ladies and gentlemen: my meandering, crass, pontificating friends. Oh, and I. Maybe I am being a little harsh. After all, we had been drinking for a couple of hours by this point. It always begins with whiskey and conversations about music, film and literature, but slowly descends to the point where we are bold enough to question each other's Pro Evolution Soccer abilities. That is when one can tell that the alcohol and grass have hit the blood stream.
I must apologise - I do have such a habit of throwing my reader in at the deep-end. My name is Mark, I am a 25-year-old Philosophy graduate from Glasgow, and the scene I am describing is the pre-night-out drinking-den that is my friend Stuart's humble home. We tend to go there as it allows us to drink approximately a bottle of vodka each without paying the prices of the pubs that line Sauchiehall Street and, as Stuart is a delectable and gracious host, we are provided with copious amounts of the best Northern Lights this side of Norway. Most importantly, it generally means that we get laid without having to indulge in the mind-numbing conversations with girls that the sanctuary and quiet of pre-club bars clearly promote. In this way, we get hammered, go to a night club, rub up against a girl, scream some incoherent sentence above the deafening music (most probably something like - "look at you") before dry-humping them against the sticky interior wall. It's the male equivalent of a Peacock's tail-feathers. If these girls had the skills of whores then the prostitution game would surely become financially unviable - having said that, ugly married men need a hobby too. Anyway, I digress horribly. As I mentioned, I am Mark, 25, Socrates-wannabe. I do most of my philosophising at work, work being my role as a relief customer service assistant at all of the Glasgow-based Cheque Centres. Indeed, my most important thoughts are utilized on selling foreign currency, promoting short-term loans with 250% interest and sanctioning pay day advances to people that have been in a constant cycle of debt with the company for at least four years. In addition, I mostly work in the Bothwell Street branch and the manager there is half a chromosome away from being Down's Syndrome. She is a 40-year-old woman with bleached blonde hair and mousy roots. One of her front teeth is bright yellow and she is truly repulsive. On a daily basis she tells me about her sex life, her husband's eight-inch penis, her vaginal sores and how he comes home from work and shouts "get over here wench" as he opens the door. Instead of asking customers which denominations they would like, she asks them which dominations they would like. She tells every currency customer that she has given them a "nice wee dolly mixture" and tells every pay day advance customer "not to spend it all at once." She is not intelligent enough to realise just how patronising this sounds. On top of all of that she is the loudest person in the world and everyday when I get in from work I have to shower to cleanse from me the fact that a woman like that works above me. Not only do I have to deal with a simpleton sociopath at work, I also make barely enough to survive. If I didn't still live with my parents I assume that I would end up a face down in the bottom of a swimming pool somewhere. Ok, it's Glasgow I stay in, so maybe face down in the bottom of a trampoline. I tried moving out once but renting a West-End flat with Alexander almost scared me to death. At home I more or less eat the same seven dinners every week, I watch the same television, I go to bed at the same time and that's fine. But it's not my life, it's my parents' life, I am just lodging in it for a wee while. However, when I moved out and I was still eating the same seven dinners, watching the same television and going to bed at the same time, it terrified me beyond belief. The only difference was that instead of hearing my mother moan at me for not doing my own laundry or for looking glaiket all the time, I had Alexander preaching to me about his theories of love, life and Big Brother contestants. I was not ready to start life if that was the way it was going to be. I stay with my parents and it delays starting my life. Plus with my mother's home cooking and military-style bed-making abilities I am free to spend the vast majority of my £850 a month wage on alcohol, grass, LPs, books and movies.
It was this kind of financial thought-process that led me to withdraw the dishwater smeared Ikea glass filled with vodka and pineapple juice away from my mouth.
"Oh yeah, lads, I've come up with an idea for a completely victimful, but altogether financially rewarding crime," I said.
"Yeah, you told us last week when you were off your dial," said Andy as he rested his control pad cursor on Brazil.
"I did? Oh cool, we going ahead with it then?
"Less Pinky and the Braining Mark and more team selecting," said Stuart.
Stuart never played computer consoles. At least, not on a Saturday night; he needed his left hand for toking and his right hand for drinking. However, he was always itching to get the games underway as it meant he could joyfully commentate on the action above the sounds of whatever music he was trying to introduce us to that evening (tonight it was Get Cape, Wear Cape, Fly, I believe.) People say that watching whales migrate is a view of awe-inspiring splendour. Others say that seeing Alaskan salmon attempt to battle their way up waterfalls of horrendous force is one of the most beautiful and humbling encounters one can have in life. But believe me, when one sees Stuart time his sips and puffs for every Pro Evolution Soccer throw-in or general lull in play, one is unable to contain the awesome joy it evokes. Stuart is a fairly well-rounded, fun, intelligent and dynamic individual. He doesn't care much for the arts and delights in loudly interrupting any conversation we have on Coltrane, Nabokov or Rolf Harris. He comes from a lovely family. His mother is an absolute doll, and most night-outs end with one of the group detailing how they would like to slip into bed with her while Stuart's father is on an extended golf trip, and show her just how eager young men are to please - several times. His father is a legend and one of the funniest guys you will ever meet, a drinking buddy, an opinionated intelligent gentleman who likes to play class clown. He is the kind of guy you could go to and discuss a prostate problem with. If, you know, that was your bag. In essence, you wanna f**k Stuart's mum, have a post-sex barbeque with his dad and then discuss it with Stuart over a weekend game of pool. Stuart graduated with a 1st class honours degree in Electrical Engineering from Glasgow University and he now makes more in six months than I make in 12. Last year he bought a stunning penthouse apartment overlooking the Clyde. His neighbours are footballers and actors. He has his very own private parking spot with a fairly new BMW vacating it. He works roughly 9-5 five days a week and the rest of the time he does what he wants. We went to the same high school as one another and I actually achieved better marks than him, but he didn't study Philosophy at university. Sometimes I look at him and wonder why I didn't follow him into a course like Electrical Engineering. I mean I could have all the money and stuff that he has, and when I got home at night I could relax in front of my floor to ceiling windows with my cock in one hand and Wittgenstein in the other. He studied a profession at university, I studied a hobby. Of course, I have the ability to satirise his life. That has to be worth something.
"Right lads, I'm going Arsenal," I said.
"I'm Brazil," said Andy.
"Yeah... let's go."
"You can't go Arsenal if I'm Brazil."
"Why not?"
"Because it's impossible - Arsenal couldn't play Brazil. Arsenal are a club team that play in the English Premiership, Brazil are an international team. I mean, Gilberto is in the Brazil squad because he is Brazilian, but his club team is Arsenal. How can Gilberto play on both sides? It just can't happen."
"For f**k's sake Andy, just get this game going," said Stuart.
"F**k you man, there has to be some kinda rules," said Andy.
"Celtic played Republic of Ireland in a friendly match once," said Alexander.
"Yeah I know, but that was a friendly, this is a serious match," said Andy.
"A serious match? Jesus. Ok ok ok. I will go Ghana," I said.
"Ghana? Right ok, we will pretend it's a World Cup group match then," said Andy.
Andy - an enigma wrapped inside a special needs person. He genuinely is a special case. He is the most unique person I have ever met - he is utterly anal and I swear the boy must be autistic. He has been unemployed for several months now, but it doesn't seem to bother him. In fact he actually does quite well out of it. Not only does he collect his cheque every couple of weeks, when he visits the job centre to continue his eternal search for employment, he hustles money from the other unemployed people.
"You see, it is quite simple, when you go into the place you've got to go to one of those wee machines that dispenses tickets with numbers on them. You know the ones that determine where you are in the queue? Well, what I do is wait until about half an hour before the busiest times, I go in, take about 20 tickets and sell them to all the dudes that are desperate to get away quickly. I got a fiver for one once; its genius. Of course, I only hustle the Protestants. I wouldn't do that to my Catholic brethren."
You see, the man is clearly unhinged, but what can we do? He has been our friend since primary school. You are less discerning about friends back then. If they can play football, or generally run without falling over all the time, then they become your best friend. We didn't have the heart to dump Andy from our group. And in any case, his stories could be entertaining in the same way as One Flew over the Cuckoo's Nest is entertaining. He is a fiercely proud Catholic but was the only pupil from my Catholic primary school that wasn't sent to the local Catholic secondary. Instead he went to the non-denominational school, or as he called it - "The school for infidels." Only a complete religious bigot could know the definition of infidels at the age of 12. On his first day at Infidel Grammar, not understanding that Rosary beads were for praying, he wore them around his neck like he was Godfrey of Bouillon on the First Crusade. On the second day he had them ripped off his neck by an "orange pig-f**k." On the third day he began wearing gloves so he didn't have to touch anything or anyone at the school with his bare hands. It is safe to say that his attendance at a non-denominational school embittered him somewhat. He frequently maligns every kind of authority in Scotland as being "Protestant anti-Catholic scum" and thinks the British government initially appeased Hitler so that he would move onto Catholics next. Apart from his insanity, bigotry and his definite need for an analyst, the guy is actually okay. He would do almost anything for his mates and is sweet as toffee to his mum. After school finished he attempted a few degrees at Paisley University, but couldn't settle on anything. He would like to be a priest, but doesn't believe in God.
Gob-smacked by that contribution! Wow never seen one that big, maybe that's why I hav'nt read it at this hour, but I will... promise!