Frank Morgan: Private Diary

keyword analysis

2009-03-02T10:09:00.007Z

Listed below are the latest search terms that have lead people to this blog.

Should I be concerned?

Some of these things, well I'm not sure I want to be associated with them I mean look at the list!

One thing that has come out is that, according to Google, i'm a leading authority on the chinese 100 day cough:

wtf?

See? Now that is worrying.

Here's the rest of the search terms that lead to this site:

hundred day cough
frank morgan
frank the rabbit face
omg wtf srsly
frank morgan bird calls blogspot
5 things that you like about denmark
dickless friends
prepubescent ladyboy
night owl wine labels
i am frank morgan
private diary incest
socrates adams-florou youtube
dickless males post op pictures
what is this hundred day cough
manzillian nude
frank morgan dance
what is a manzillian
omg srsly like wtf definition
i want your blood snail frank
frank ladyboy
fully clothed night owls
don't wear aftershave
wtfsrsly
dickless men pic
dickless boy
rabbit face
why do my teeth feel loose when i'm hung over?

2008-12-17T14:36:00.003Z

An Interview

2008-11-07T10:32:00.011Z

Frank Morgan interviews Socrates Adams- Florou

FM: Please come in, sit down and make yourself comfortable. NOT THAT COMFORTABLE

SAF: I bet you are going to ask me how I am feeling aren't you? If you do it means that you have no respect for me.

FM: How are you feeling today?

SAF: Oh Christ. I am feeling awful. I am sad and tired. I feel terrified.

FM: What makes today special?

SAF: Barack Obama. He is the most special guy around and he makes me feel great. He is the only good thing in my life.

FM: Care for a dance?

SAF: Absolutely not. I hate dancing.

Oh go on then. A quick dance. And by dance I mean sex. And by sex I mean give me forty pounds. And by forty pounds I mean kill me.

FM: I'm sensing you’re in a good mood today, excellent. Tell me your dream . . .

SAF: My dream is that I am slowly but surely becoming a slightly better person. I am being controlled by things other than myself and those things are making me feel better. I rub myself with lard and relax.

FM: Talking of dreams, who is your dream date?

SAF: My dream date is anyone who will let me kiss them.

FM: If you and I were going on a date where would you take me?

SAF: I would let you take me somewhere I think. If you forced me to think of somewhere that I had to take you to I think I would take you to an oriental all you can eat buffet and would eat solidly for half an hour before making my excuses and leaving.

FM: That would be alright I suppose, I mean it would be really awkward but at least we'd get a good meal, that bit would be alright - I guess if we didn't refer to it as a 'date' then it would be better.

If you bought me a drink whilst we were out, what drink would you buy me, and why?

SAF: I would buy you a delicious cocktail. I would buy you a wonderful, flowing, beautifully mixed cocktail with all sorts of pungent and powerful liquors within.

FM: And how would you dispose of my body afterwards?

SAF: I would roast it with a bouquet garni and then feed it to my pet snail.

FM: I feel honoured. Are you having a good time, are you enjoying being interviewed?

SAF: It's the best thing that has happened to me today. It feels like I am being probed pretty hard. It feels good. Are you enjoying interviewing me?

FM: I am enjoying the interview immensely, it is also the best thing that has happened to me today and I've been to the pub.

Using the ‘paint’ application quickly draw the first thing that comes into your mind

SAF:

'Chris'

'Snail'

'Abe'

FM: You are a gifted artist, my favourite is the one called 'Chris'. Is this a portrait of someone called Chris or an imagined Chris?

I assume the snail is your pet snail, who is Abe?

SAF: Thanks. Chris is someone I know. Abe is a monster. The snail is what I wish my pet snail looked like. Abe stalks me in my nightmares.

FM: I can see you have strong, confusing feelings for this Chris (Killen?) character, and by the looks of things he is a bit of a catch.

Abe seems pretty cool.

SAF: It's not Chris Killen - it's another Chris I know. He is a serious catch. Abe is very terrifying.

FM: Cadburys has just released their cheapest chocolate bar to date: the Credit Crunchie. How has the credit crunch affected you?

SAF: I have been totally unaffected by the credit crunch except for the irritation the constant news about it has caused me.

FM: Can you share with me some of your credit crunching tips?

SAF: My best tip to be unaffected by the credit crunch is to completely ignore it.

diabetic undercrackers

2008-03-13T19:27:00.003Z

I have added a link to Amanda 'the internet ladyboy hobo' Murphy's blog to my list of blogs what are well good. She paid me 94 euros for this which I've already spent on robot prostitutes and beer.

Yes!

Private Dickless

2008-03-11T19:44:00.003Z

Amanda 'pants' Murphy won the competition I set last week by decoding a secret message I left in a blog post - yay! well done Murphy - The prize was a guest blog post, here is that post, which, btw is top quality, you should read it, definitely, before she cuts you up into small pieces and uses you to feed her dogs . . .

I'm a dick dolly, name of Bachelor Kay Dickles. That's Kay as in short for Katherine as in short for Katherine Margaret Molly Hieronymus Dickles, esquire. I might've taken that too far. X the Hieronymus and the esquire, add a P.I. and that's more like it, bub. I might have been an esquire or bounty hunter if I'd had the muscle or the cock (sure attitude). As it is, I fell into this business the hard way. Making drunken promises I had to keep to friends who found themselves between various and sundry rocks and hard places. Luckily, the friends had cash and could pay me for my services early on, making me a professional sneak and do-gooder.

I'd take a picture of Mary's husband cheating on her with some Haitian hooker or whore, depending. I'd help out Nancy when her deadbeat baby daddy took off and I'd get him back on the grid. Wives and their no-good, cheating, town-skipping, dog-and-pony-gambling, whore-hoarding, toilet-seat-not-down-putting, lipstick collard, limp dick dirty dog husbands; that was my bread and butter to start. Those friends are all out of town and out of commission now. Women who get in tight spots don't often get out, even friends of mine. One after the other, they left to start over in Oregon or Montana or Canada, worse came to worse. I've still got my true friends near at hand: Sherry and Bloody Mary.

You can call me a private eye, A No-Shit-Sherlock, A Trench Coat Mafiosa, A Rockford Philly, Private Dickless, an Op, Sister Mary Shamus, the Grande Dame of Sleuth, a Snooper, Peeper, or Francis Gum Shoe. Just don't call me Veronica Mars unless you want the kind of sock in the face your wife can't darn.

It was the kind of day that made grown men want to run through sprinklers in their business suits when this action doll tracked his mud and female problems into my office. I'd been eyeing the pool in the courtyard of the Coronet Motel. I made my home away from home on El Camino Real, saddled up to a seedy motel that offered not only the occasional dip in the summertime when the pool gate was left unlocked but also access to the kind of clientele who might not want to go to the bulls for their domestic disturbances. The kind of clientele with private dickless needs.

This hombre was not apropos of my regular business. He looked like he had an axe to grind and fancied to use me to grind it. He slammed my office door behind him, tossed a wad of cash my way and asked, "You a dyke?"

"As far as you're concerned I am," I quipped. As soon as I'd said it, I knew it was a lie. This palooka could have me on my back, ankles up, with only a wink and a smile. I'd have to be careful and keep my knees at attention around this slick soldier. The clients who can see I'm a softy tend to pay well up front but a lot less in the end. This number clearly had the cash. He was lousy with lettuce and it was up to me to get as much of it out of him as I could before our dealings were through.

I wished myself luck, palmed the dough, and queried, "What's your beef, sailor?"

Saturday morning

2008-03-08T11:24:00.002Z

For five seconds I am blissfully unaware of anything but my breathing, I am in-between being asleep and being awake – I am both and neither. This is the calm before the storm.

I wake up.

The first thing I notice is that I am covered in blood

Then the pounding inside my skull and behind my eyes begins, and then, then I hear the ringing in my ears, a deafening squeal that threatens to shatter the few remaining teeth in my mouth

I look around, there is blood everywhere

I feel sick.

The heating hasn’t come on, I am cold and naked. I feel exposed. I stand up and knock an empty wine bottle over.

There is blood everywhere.

I look at myself in the mirror and see a wild eyed man staring back at me. I shudder and recoil, when did I cut all my hair off? When did I get so old?

My foot skids in a half congealed puddle of dark red blood.

This is the end.

broadcasting binary

2008-03-07T19:07:00.003Z

zzxxx## > !attached record
system error 100.01.01.-1

syntax error

transmitting coded msg:

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/*error*

*system error*/

}

end msg.

How can I be ill, again?

2008-02-18T17:16:00.001Z

I feel like my head has been crushed in a vice, inflated to twice it’s normal size and used as a football in a particularly violent game. I think my eyes have been punched in by an angry middleweight boxer then plucked from my skull and dipped in vinegar. It feels like a dirty rag has been stuffed into my mouth and down my throat. It’s like sawdust has been forced up my nose and rubbed into my punched-in, vinegar soaked eyes.

Every time I sneeze another bone shatters or dislocates. My vertebrae are all out of line, every disk feels slipped, It feels like I’ve been pushed from a moving car then beaten up, frog marched up ten flights of stairs then pushed down them. My ears are so blocked I can’t hear a thing, as if knitting needles have been slowly forced through the drum. When I try and drink some water it’s like swallowing metal filings and glass, that have somehow caught fire.

Apart from that everything is pretty good.

Night Owl – re-edit 7.1.4

2008-02-11T21:27:00.000Z

This story is one of many re-edits of the original story ‘Night owl’ by Brandon Scott Gorrell, the Alpha version can be found here and the other edits are listed on Brandon’s site.

The screen on my laptop goes black
I knew the power cable had come out. I watched the orange light flashing at me but I didn’t have the energy or the inclination to do anything about it. I’ve already checked my emails about sixty times in the last ten minutes. Refresh, wait, retry. And repeat.
Leaning back I put my finger in the ashtray, I fingered the ashtray.
Tee was round earlier which was weird because it was the first time he’s been here, to the house I mean. He brought a bottle of red wine and some grass. I tried to roll a joint but it went wrong and was really loose and about an inch long. It was nice weed though.
We drank the wine from cheap coloured glasses, you know, the sort you get when you’re having a party, plastic, disposable, and we talked about our friend Ana.
I’m in love with Ana,
I want to shout out of the window “I love you”.
She doesn’t know this, she is unaware. Nobody knows I’m in love.
It’s not true what they say about having to love yourself before you can love someone else. I am definitely in love with Ana, I know this because I just don’t care, she can do what she wants to me, she ignores me and goes out with other people. I will always be there for her to come back to.
This has been going on for two years, we do things together and go on pretend dates. I mean I pretend they are dates, I pretend our brief encounters are dates.
She doesn’t know I’m in love with her. I’ve told her like three times now but only when we’re shit-faced drunk. We always wake up in bed together. Me holding her not the other way round, I’m very aware she never comes to me in the bed, she is never holding me. We always sleep fully clothed and when anyone ever asks she always tells them we are just friends.
I’ve never seen her naked.
I showed her my pubes once, I’d shaved them into a runway stripe like Pamela Anderson, I named it the manzillian. That’s as far as we’ve gone. I’ve never even kissed her.
I can hear someone next door. Banging. Not ‘banging’. Crashing about, rearranging furniture. It’s too late to be doing that.
I climb off the bed. It takes a lot of effort and I’m not sure why I’m standing up. I can tell no one else is in. The house has that feeling, even though it’s not silent, there’s no sign of life.
It’s 11pm.
I check my keys and my wallet are in my pocket and go out the front door, slamming it hard to make sure it shuts properly.
I hate it when people invite you to a party and then tell you it’s in a bar. That’s not a party.
I’m going to a ‘party’.
Ana said she would be there. I text her on the way but get no reply.
I get to the bar and have to stand behind four people who are younger and having more fun than I am. I overhear the bouncer telling them it’s £3.50 to get in tonight, I’m not sure if I want to go in but I find myself digging in my pocket for change.
I don’t want to get stamped but the bouncer insists. So they can tell I’ve paid if I go out and want to come back in again. I tell him I don’t mind paying again but while I’m arguing this point some chick just grabs my hand and stamps me anyway.
I give her a look that says thanks but really sarcastically, a smile with a squint. I look at my hand and the black ink of the stamp spells INSECURE.
The music is loud. A girl hands me a flyer and says something that I don’t hear. The flyer has ‘BSG’ written on it in big letters. I fold it and put it in my back pocket.
I go to the bar and order a bottle of red wine. The girl behind the bar looks at me funny. The music is relentless. I look around and can’t see anyone I know.
A girl bumps into me as I’m paying for the wine on my card, she has a green badge on that says ‘kiss me I’m a rapist’ I want to kiss her then I realise it’s a guy.
I put my coat behind a sofa and sit down. I realise I didn’t pick up a glass. I drink from the bottle.
I take a wander round the bar. There are no girls in here.
I decide to finish the bottle of wine and leave. This takes a lot longer than I thought it would. Half way through I mouth the word ‘unsuccessful’. Somebody touches my arm but I can’t work out who it was.
On the walk home I go into Subway. The guy behind the counter tries to make me get a ‘foot long’. He really tries to get me to have the big sandwich, like too much. I’m too drunk to be hassled.
I wake up the next morning, fully dressed apart from my shoes. The laptop is on the floor. My shoes are on the floor next to the Subway wrapper. I feel like shit.

InPatient

2008-02-07T16:29:00.000Z

Does it make you feel weird, me watching you? I feel fine about it, and that makes me feel weird. Is that weird?

Did I tell you I lost my phone? What a hassle.

Kenny bit me on my arm last night, do you even know Kenny? I think he gave me hepatitis.

I don’t know what to say, it all feels very one sided. Nothing has happened, since. You know. Nothing has changed.

I should stay a bit longer, maybe watch some TV.

Or set fire to something. I feel obligated to talk.

Why have they left you magazines?

God I always used to love your shoes, does that make me shallow or a bad person? Just because I liked your shoes. I’m sorry I keep referring to you in past tense. can you even hear me?

I read somewhere that once you’ve been out, like this, for a while, in a coma, your muscles start to contract, slowly the muscles get tighter, drawing your arms and legs closer to your body. They call this position the pugilist, because you look like a boxer. How do you feel about that? Did you read about it too?

I’m gonna go now.

It's my birthday . . .

2008-01-31T22:05:00.000Z

I have pen all over my face
I am wearing my mums dressing gown
I have no front teeth
I said the word 'brains' out loud, 94 times in a row
I have sweetcorn in my eye

It's my birthday, in about 177 days time

Now wash hands

2008-01-29T16:19:00.000Z

So I go into the staff toilets at the end of the corridor.

I open the door and bang, it hits me right between the peepers. And I mean BANG, seriously.

The bowl, the toilet bowl yeah?

Full of bangers n mash, you know, bangers n mash.

Somebody hasn’t flushed. The toilet roll, that’s the mash, don’t make me spell it out.

The Future is NOW

2008-01-21T12:05:00.000Z

The supermarket across the road employs one member of staff, a security guard. There are no checkout staff, no shelf stackers, no cleaners and no managers, just a lone security guard who stands by the door looking bored. The shelf stacking and cleaning happens at night and is outsourced to a company called _______. The tills are self service.

But the streets are still filthy, my car won’t start and blood still drips from my nose.

If the future truly is NOW, then where are the robots we were promised?

6ix Sentences

2008-01-07T14:44:00.000Z

In the words of Lily Allen, 'Oh my god I can't believe it'. Wait, were those her words or Mark Ronson's? Hold on wasn't it a cover version of the Kaiser Chiefs. Whatever. anyway before I start rambling on, my short short story 'I Am a Private Detective’ appears on Six Sentences today:

I am a Private Detective

Please visit, read and (if you feel like hurling abuse) comment.

Thanks

FM

I want to deform

2008-01-04T14:23:00.000Z

I want to get hair extensions for my face and eat dirt from the pavement.

Today I picked up from the street:

A bottle top
A blue plastic bag
An unidentifiable piece of fruit
7 cigarette butts
A piece of hair
A blood stained tissue
A polystyrene container for food (used)
A stone
A piece of rubber from a car tire
A dead bird
A beer can
A playing card (7 of hearts – remember this card, you will see it again in the next week)

This is all evidence
This is all in the back of my car in a bin bag.

I want a sticker on my arm or my chest that says 'please do not look at me'

It is easy to get confused.

omg wtf srsly

2008-01-03T17:12:00.000Z

OMG

srsly

mi fliptop computer thingy has like totally broken n stuff - wtf - the man in the store sed it waz a gud one, then he said he'd give me money off if I did sumthin 4 him out the back . . .

so i dunno

y iz it like not wurkin???

he nvr called me eithr

n i can't write this sh1t in a innernet store - in public

i still <3 u tho

x x x x x

The last 10 searches that lead to this blog

2007-12-18T16:23:00.000Z

frank morgan dead
100 day cough
frank morgan =dead
hundred day cough
sarah morgan transvestite
100 day cough china
frank morgan
leave your light on by frank morgan
one hundred day cough
burger paints for living room

What can I take from that list?

a) I don't think any of these people were disappointed (apart from the ‘burger paints’ guy wtf was that about?)

b) I can probably console myself with the fact I'm probably not the only person dying from the Chinese 100 day cough.

c) Wait, Frank Morgan =dead?? Are the 100 days up already??

d) Who found out about my transvestite alter ego Sarah??

Detective

2007-12-10T17:31:00.001Z

I walk around London in the dark, I follow people for a living, I spy on people.

I walk through the meat market most days, there’s always blood and little bits of offal, pig livers, that sort of thing lying around.

The seagulls and the pigeons fight over the bits and peck at the bloody pavement.

Rabbit Face The Shopping Centre Clown

2007-12-07T16:16:00.000Z

I work at the shopping centre. I sell balloons to the children and sometimes I do magic tricks with a dirty hanky. When I was fourteen years old I cut my top lip off with scissors. Back then we didn’t have plastic surgery. They started calling me rabbit face so I pulled my teeth out with pliers, but yeah, they still called me Rabbit Face.

Chinese One Hundred Day Cough

2007-12-05T15:33:00.000Z

I have contracted the Chinese 100 Day Cough.

The symptoms are:

Flu like lethargy
Dry mouth
Vertigo
Violent mood swings
Paranoia/fear of death
A Tourettes-like compulsion to shout at total strangers
Aching bones (this may be psychosomatic as bones have no nerves and cannot feel pain)
Outbursts of origami
Secret compositions of Haiku
Choking
A brooding sense of worthlessness
Hording
Coughing for one hundred days
Death

The Ideal Xmas Gift

2007-11-30T20:01:00.000Z

Hai everybody!
Ok so it’s a bit early to talk about Christmas n that but I’m soooo excited, I know what I’m giving all my family and friends and I had to share it with you.

It’s the perfect gift, it won’t take up much room and you can use it again and again . . .

Feel free to copy this idea, everyone likes a home made gift and this is so personal!!1

Leave me a comment if you want me to make you one too.
Click this to see it!

Metallic Yellow Dog Bark

2007-11-28T17:13:00.000Z

Life becomes an endless tick list
of loose teeth
and inverted male genitals.
Splinter and separate the bones,
as necrotic flesh blackens on the stump

Under Cover, Brother

2007-11-27T21:57:00.001Z

There is a room. Inside the room is a pad, written on the pad is an address. The address is my address. The writing is not mine.

There is a small scrap of paper. I eat the small scrap of paper. It is the first thing I have eaten all day.

People keep shouting at me as I walk down the street. I am supposed to be under cover. I am supposed to be invisible.

My tongue is too big for my mouth, my cheeks have swollen up. I can’t breath. I CAN’T BREATH.

I crash through a glass door, the door doesn’t break but the noise it makes is worse than anything I have heard for days, worse than a hundred fingernails slowly scraping down a blackboard. A tiny bell rings and I fall to the floor in a heap.

I have no idea where I am.

If I could only sleep

Things I like about Denmark

2007-11-26T16:17:00.000Z

Today, for my lunch I had a can of Special Brew and a Danish pastry.

These are probably my two favourite things about Denmark.

If I ever went to Denmark I’d find a boozer that sold Special Brew on tap. I wouldn’t be quite so bothered about Danish pastries but if the boozer in question happened to have a couple in a glass display cabinet then yeah I’d buy them.

Short Novel

2007-11-23T14:45:00.000Z

This short novel was inspired by a distant memory of a blog post by Chris Killen in fact, it was this blog post.

oh, and this post by Ben Myers

ANYway . . .

The Procrastinator

I have an important job to do,
I think I'll do it tomorrow.

Eviction

2007-11-23T12:23:00.001Z

I’m being evicted. The landlord has had enough of the late or non existant payments and the damage that’s been done to his property.

I’ve done my best to board up the broken windows and put newspaper over the holes in the wall but there’s only so much you can do.

The bare bulbs swinging from the ceiling expose more than just the physical ills of the place.

I survey the dirt and the filth, I’m up to my ankles in empty bottles and pizza boxes. There’s mud and God knows what ground into the threadbare carpets. This is my life.

If you stand dead still and wait you can hear the cockroaches and the lice crawling and scratching in the walls.

I know I’ll miss the place when I’m gone.

Dream

2007-11-22T16:50:00.000Z

I still can’t breath.

I’ve just woken from a terrible nightmare; I was wearing an elaborate golden mask and chasing a dog through a house I didn't recognise. Suddenly I tripped and the mask came away, pulling with it my lips and gums. My teeth skittered away on the marble floor, in their place grew long misshapen fangs, I went to put my hands to my face, but there were no hands at the end of my arms, my arms had become tentacles. When I looked up I was standing in front of a full length mirror. I tried hard not to stare into my own black eyes, my face was covered with matted hair, I was a monster, a hideous monster, I fell to the floor screaming until I was hoarse but no one came to help me, no one came.

Addicted

2007-11-20T14:08:00.000Z

My throat is on fire.
I struggle to draw each laboured breath.
I light another Mayfair and take a slow deliberate drag.

Hung Over

2007-11-19T12:56:00.001Z

I hate shaving, you always need a shave when you can least be bothered to do it.

A mobile phone rings constantly in another room.

My teeth feel loose in my head, like the gum has dried and receded. I am afraid to look at them in the mirror or even touch them. I can taste blood.

I’d like lots of small cotton wool balls to stuff into my mouth. I’m not sure that this will help but the thought is comforting. I think I would feel safer if my mouth was full of cotton wool.

I need to hydrate.

A mobile phone rings constantly in another room but I don’t recognise the ringtone.

There is broken glass all over the kitchen floor.

Brown Bread

2007-11-15T23:15:00.001Z

If I was to die,
I mean really,
proper dead like.
I want it all to flash before my eyes,
my life.
But not like a film or a documentary,
I’d want to feel it,
touch it, even smell it.
I’d like to dip in and out of it as it flowed past
in real time.
I’d like to fast forward and rewind it
and live it all
a thousand times.

Another Late Night

2007-11-15T17:13:00.003Z

You can try pinching your face but this has a very
limited shelf life.

Even downing another can of Red Bull won’t keep my
eyes from slowly closing.

I do it anyway, I tip my head back and suck in the drink,
I crush the can and squeeze the nasty fluid down my neck.

I pick my teeth with a yellow biro and pull out what
appears to be a fairly large piece of skin. I
scrape the biro on the ashtray and the skin balls up and
gets covered in ash. I try not to think about it and
carry on driving.

My hair is wet with grease and hangs over my face.
I can chew the ends, I taste of cigarettes and chemicals.
This is not a good taste yet I find myself repeatedly
trying to bite and chew the ends. I do this without
realising I am doing it. The hair isn’t quite long enough
so I have to pull a face and distend my lips to catch the
hair, I look chimp like when i do this. I look subnormal.
I would like to break the habit. I need to make the
fringe shorter, I look for some scissors under the
passenger seat as if there was going to be a pair.

There are no scissors under the passenger seat.

I find a lighter.

I’m cold but my back is damp with sweat. I feel itchy
and open yet another can of Red Bull, spilling some of
the sickly sweet liquid over my lap. I open my window
but the noise of the wind is too much.

I have a near miss pulling on to the motorway and narrowly
avoid becoming a news story.

A sculpture.

A bloody, disembowelled transformer.

Ronnie

2007-10-22T14:12:00.000+01:00

Ronnie flips burgers for a living

The hours are long and the pay is minimum wage.

Ronnie sweats over a hot griddle.

Flippin burgers.

Ronnie was once told that the guy that flips the burgers
gets to poke the girls on the till. For def. Ronnie has
discovered this is far from true. The black dudes with
the cornrow hairstyles get to poke the girls on the tills,
the guys that wear do-rags and look like they want to be
gangsters fromdowntown LA, they get to poke the girls
on the tills.

Pretty much everyone smokes weed out the back by the
cardboard compactor. No one seems to mind this.

Ronnie stares at the grill for minutes at a time. The
burgers burn a little bit. Sweat drops onto the hotplate
with a hiss.

The utensil Ronnie uses to flip the burgers is a wallpaper
scraper. It has been used as a wallpaper scraper and has
flecks of paint on it.

Ronnie happens to know the meat content in the burgers is
not as high as the customers are lead to believe. Ronnie
happens to know a guy who worked in a slaughter house.
The guy that Ronnie knows says that the last thing you ever
want to eat is a sausage or a burger that you haven’t made
yourself. Allsorts go into these things. Bones, eyelids and
ball sacks, sawdust, spit and gristle. There's Spine, offal,
hoof, cock.

Ronnie still eats a burger every lunchtime.

Last Night

2007-10-08T17:11:00.001+01:00

- It’s really just perfume. Sarah points out to me.

I had been daydreaming up to that point and had missed the earlier part of what she had been saying

- Errm? I say, unconvincingly. Proving I had not been listening.

Errm? is not a definitive statement, errm? is not a reply, a satisfactory answer or a question pertaining to the previous statement. Nor is Hello, Hello is a greeting but I always ask Hello . . .? when I answer the phone, as if there may not be someone there, on the other end of the line.

- Aftershave. Sarah’s tone suggests a hint of exhaustion, as if talking to me was a Herculean effort of will. I don’t like this tone of hers but I fail to take exception to it before she’s off again. - Eau de toilette, it’s the same as perfume, men, wearing perfume.

I want to point out that I don’t wear aftershave, that I never have nor, I firmly believe but cannot prove, will I ever wear aftershave, eau de whatever or even deodorant. I want to point out that Sarah’s hair is dry and brittle and that I’m bored bored bored but something tells me to keep this information to myself. The easy life, that’s the one for me.

Sarah likes watching TV, even the adverts. Sarah eats raw carrot sticks and stares at the box.

I watch her crunching the carrot sticks and try to imagine it is bugs bunny on the sofa, you know, when he used to dress up like a woman and put lipstick on and that. I try to imagine Sarah as Bugs Bunny, administering hairy rabbit faced kisses to me dressed as Elmer Fudd, shot gun and all. But for some reason I keep imagining myself as a small boy and Sarah as a grotesque over-sized decrepit Bugs Bunny transvestite with rotten teeth and yellow eyes that look at me hungrily.

I try to watch the programme.

The programme (a long winded and surprisingly fact light documentary on channel 4 about Naomi Klein) finishes and Sarah hands me the remote, I don’t want it, decisions were never my strong point and I don’t want to watch tv anyway.

Sarah is in the bedroom, tidying.

I turn the tv off and go and hide in the kitchen. Or wait in the kitchen, there is nowhere to hide. I don’t want to hoover or dust or clean or scrape. I don’t want to paint the bathroom, I don’t want to choose the paint or buy any paintbrushes. I’ve tried to tell Sarah that it's all fine and I like the bathroom and the bedroom the way they are. Sarah made me paint the living room before we moved in and I fell off a chair and ruined the carpet whilst reaching for a difficult corner.

Eventually she leaves me to finish the ‘washing up’ whilst she ‘does’ the living room. Sarah’s idea of cleaning is to make me do it, then she breezes in and takes all the glory by making everything look neat and tidy. I do all the hard work and all she really does is straighten up the CD’s or put the pens in a neat line. Sometimes I feel like she is my supervisor, like she's there not to do any of the work, but to make sure the work is done.