as someone who used to fall asleep listening to Christopher Young's soundtrack for Hellrasier II: hellbound each night for almost a year... i've spiced it up a little... le chant des templiers - chant of the templars... unless it's raining... then falling asleep to the sound of rain... i sort of allowed myself to focus on something i'd best call an: agreeable veneer... each single time i try to avoid banter with colleagues: yeah, i know i sort of must but the mere thought of banter makes me feel ill... i'm not here to make friends, i'm not here to get into a relationship with someone i'm working with... well sorry... so much for a woman's excuse when dealing with football hooligans: oh but you wouldn't talk to your mother, your sister or your grandmother like that... well i'm all three of those things... yeah... sure... and like there aren't men who would *****-slap a "steward" on a ******* whim... while i have the whole 6ft2 and 100kg worth of defense... i'm not here to make friends... we used to have friends in high school, tightly knit friendships, very idiosyncratic in-group / out-group preference... i don't think i had any friends at university: perhaps one Japanese guy, Tomikuni... but by then superficiality kicked in and people were branching into hierarchies and chances of seeking out nepotism... now? again: an agreeable veneer, but deep down i'd rather speak a robotic hello how are, enjoy the match to a crowd of 200 strangers than pretend to be friendly with colleagues... even today i was *******... sure, there was a shortage of stewards, so instead of initially patrolling the crowd upon entry via the park we were spontaneously put on the turnstiles, great! an adrenaline rush... then after we finished that task we were allowed to go back to our original designation... i radioed the control room: control, control, park 3 returning to designated position... copy... the park had 6 stewards designated to patrol it... for a good 40 minutes? who was there? me! and only me... **** it... came 9:30pm and a demented Quasimodo was ringing the bells like there was no tomorrow, i sat on a bench in the graveyard, took off my right shoe and readdressed the situation of a folding sock on my sweaty foot... if these sub-Saharan pseudo-Arabs are thinking about work as: loiter... listen... they once spinned the narrative the narrative that Covid was a "racist" virus... you know how many of these copper-necks i've watched... go into the toilet... do their either no. 1 or no. 2 deed and walk out without washing their hands?! too many... that's how many... pretty much all of them... at least the blacks are actively willing to integrate... imagine if the blacks didn't integrate... would they be singing in the Baptist choirs?! would these blacks even sing, if they remained chained to their African tongues?! and? oh my god, the blacks are the cleanest, most pedantic ******* out there, they can almost compete with white neuroticisms... that's how good they are... but some of these *******... so i sat there for a while drinking too much coffee listening to the bells of All Saints' Church... footsteps: my own... the moon, almost full... alle das ist die nacht! all that is the night! the forever hardly any flow of the Thames... is the Thames a river, or a makeshift: pond?! oh sure, i'm agreeable, at face-value... what i've learned from the English is the double-edged sword psychology... being two-faced... at least a Russian might tell me outright: oi! ****! oh, no no, not among the English... polite comes first, anything else comes second and of note: with dire consequences you were never going to expect... see: flimsy ****... an agreeable veneer... i'm actually gagging for the moment of confrontation where i roll my eyes back, hide my pupil and iris and merely show my eyes as fully sclera entombed before grieving an over-hyped teen... tensing my muscles... over-sizing myself... that's yet to come... i'm currently leaving each shift slightly disappointed... not enough adrenaline... i want, more! but to hell with the current whereabouts of the action... even if i were raised a catholic.... don't protestants get confirmed? sorry, i "missed" being confirmed... i was reading some Gnostic literature... i "forgot" to get get church "approval" or, "disapproval"... whichever... do i care? my current top three tier "guys" to emulate... Jason, Michael... Pinhead... i abhor people that are satisfied with being safe... i hate weakness as much as a **** might abhor keeping to a standard of germs... i abhor, weakness... a lag in responsibility... in drives me nuts! i could almost **** for a thrill of knowing that i'm killing something; lesser... i'd be killing it by also inquiring into myself as... paradoxically being: kind... it... yeah.... oddly enough... "it"... i abhor weakness in people... which is why i am a face of an agreeable veneer...so many ******* are just weak... pencil-pushers... hierarchy-minders... the weak might have inherited the earth... but what "earth" are we speaking off? this, *******?! oh, wow! dementia prone bollocking, right, this one? i need to sleep, i need to remind myself of my romance with the night...

nights like these are so rare... i drink more than i write,
i don't actually care about writing,
sometimes i just want life to sink in...
i left the house after doing some minor chores:
preparing a mushroom soup - oh, not creamy,
none of that English cream soup *******...
clear... a dollop of cream can be added later,
the mushrooms were not blitzed up, sliced... floating...
the broth was based on extracting as much from
a carrot, a parsley root, some celery...
a leek... if only the local shop sold some celeriac...
a bay leaf, allspice, a pinch of cinnamon
some paprika... one or two cloves... fresh leaf parsley...
a mushroom and a chicken stock cube to counter
the need to salt: i still salted the broth a little...
black pepper... obviously i also had to cook some pasta
to later float in and around the mushrooms...
garlic... with its skin on... oh... about three teeth's worth...
all rounded up on a decent amount of butter:
after all... if it's a clear soup... you want some oomph!
since no protein is being used, you need to counter
that lack with some fatty lubricant...
ha... the commute... if i'm lucky an catch an express
train from Southend Victoria into central London
it takes me about 8 minutes to travel from Romford
to Stratford... then the central line to Victoria...
then the victoria line to... ****... two stops... oh...
right... to Victoria station, then the district line to Putney Bridge...
today i had to get a district line to Earl's Court
so i could catch a district line from Edgware Rd.
toward Wimbledon...
just this once i wasn't feeling it...
all afternoon i was exhausting myself while thinking
of Gemma...
******* butterflies, didn't eat anything, drank a little
whiskey... and to think: i used to love coffee with cream
or milk... now? always black... with the added dollop
of whiskey, two sugars...
i saw her again... but **** me... the butterflies weren't
there... i fall in love easily...
but i fall out of love even more easily...
reality kicks in these days... i think i have aged:
falling in love with the idea of love...
reality is bound to disappoint me...
to think that i might be with a woman - earn money...
in order to pay for unnecessary **** is... giving me a limp ****...
that women are the prime instigators of any economy:
what would a man spend money on?
whiskey? bicycles, spare parts... the odd shoe...
some socks?
capitalism is not going to survive the onslaught
of emerging bachelors... skint *******... i know:
i'm one myself... no wonder women need to be propped up...
paid more... why? they'll spend the money!
men won't spend jack-**** on... jack-****...
i still have a mother, i'll sometimes buy her flowers...
but to hell with buying a birthday card...
a kiss on the cheek and a few words...
why would i buy flowers? when i can have daffodils
randomly spurting up in my garden some February?!
am i... going to chew on vinyl: that licorice plastic?
- first time i came across Gemma she was so giddy...
flirty... and that was only on Saturday...
on the ride home she would rest her elbow on my leg...
get a headache... stare at me when i pretended
to not be looking through the side of my eyes...
i mean: for a 39 year old... most 20 year olds don't look
at pretty...
today she was so reserved... cold...
oh... right... well... thank god i had an ideal in my head
rather than what could possibly come...
a sort of scenario was playing out in my head
from the movie: As Good As It Gets...
a single mum will always put her offspring first...
regardless of whether the offspring was conceived by
an abusive alcoholic ex that beat the kid and choked her...
sure, sure, i'll allow all people to have that *******
luxury of being existentially filled by having children
they can subsequently ****-up...
me? i'm just happy when i grab the eyes and full attention
of a 4 year old girl looking at a glowing marble /
fluorescent squid that i become momentarily...
at least in their eyes... perhaps this current job i'm doing
really is a stepping stone to becoming a secondary school
chemistry teacher... oh **** me... if i got into a primary
school environment: i'd have my fun...
it's also good that i have an underground sort of mindset...
to the brothel i go: eerily 'appy oh oh...
- since Saturday after first meeting Gemma
i sort of forgot to ******* - oh, none of that only-fans
crap, scented candles, ****** or streaming...
like i once noted: on the throne of thrones...
take a **** which oddly enough is always predicated
by ******* while sitting down...
*******? i sometimes need to relax the **** muscles...
******* helps... and then a quickie in the shower...
yeah: but after our second encounter today:
with so much reservation...
it was going to be either Kendra Lust or Samantha Saint
on my mind...
why do all the pretty ones always go down
the route of ******* or prostitution?
is it the sort of mentality that beauty ought to be shared?!
i mean: **** me... an oak tree is beautiful...
it can / has to be seen by almost anyone...
is that the same with women?
- so we stood there talking *******... me...
one lesbian (if i were a Don  Juan... she could perhaps be
a nun... but a lesbian? "conquering" that?
eh... not exactly ugly... but a butch mentality...
slap some make-up on, close my eyes... most definitely
****-able) - we ended up talking about bones...
where are the smallest bones located...
i suggested the wrists... the parts of the body most
flexible... Gemma retorted... no... the smallest
bone in the body is in the ear...
now i'm going to google that... to see... ****...
she was right... the smallest bones in the body are
the: malleus (hammer), incus (anvil) and the stapes (stirrup)
and they are located in the ear...
then onto the turnstiles... oh god... the turnstiles at
Fulham are like a century ahead of the turnstiles at
Oxford... ******* Brummies... lovely folk...
almost if not more lovable than... Scousers...
GEORDIES / MANCUNIANS are not SCOTS!
   don't even get me started on those south western
***** from Bristol...
yeah... well that was great... i felt like a teenage boy for
about two days and now my honeymoon period
is over... reality bit back...
   all my dreams and fantasies crumbled...
                  whatever initial attraction she gave me...
she now was fulfilling her role,
she had a job to do... i was reduced to a status of:
less the person to initiate her, to comfort her to someone
on her plateau, hardly any "superior"...
it's nice to be sober up on this reality-juice...
it makes all the more sense to seek ideals like:
that's a bottle of whiskey that i'm calling ms. amber...
fraulein bernstein etc.
there are always the prostitutes...
it's not like i was going to play a good uncle Caesar
and profane myself with surrogacy of a child that isn't my own...
i don't have the sort of resources.