For all the people who tell me I can't be a feminist

My feminism ruins my chat up lines
So much so that you couldn't call them that
I feel pathetic, ironic
Less of a man
Because I haven't touched a girl without her permission
Girls spill their drinks on me in clubs (with no apology), boys don't
Boys ask permission before they touch my entertaining hair
I love women, they're better to be around
I'm not gay, bi maybe but don't stick labels on me
Actually girls do that to me all the time
Literally, they rub their wet hands on my clothes
And stick stickers on me like I'm an object
But no a man is not objectified
Male equals misogynist
Equals creep
I can't criticise a woman's actions, thats sexist
They're in the struggle
This makes me wish I was a girl
I want informal privileges
I'm a ****** is that clear by now?
I don't know if I can **** a girl with my *****
With all of HIStory behind me

I suffer under patriarchy, but not like you do
I understand even non feminist girls,
Or bad feminists,
Still products of this gut wrenching, repulsive system
I'm crying now, an emotional wreck
My mates, some female, will tell me not to act like a girl
But that joke isn't funny anymore
It's too close to home and it's too near the bone
(or *****)
Literally the **** in my trousers is a curse I can't control
An animalistic cage that traps me within expectations
As I write outside a club, three people grab my hair
One male, so I'll take back the generalisation that they ask first. He didn't.
Girls look cold out here
They've come out like this for me
And I shouldn't feel guilty but I do
In the club I'm genuinely objectified
Girls get slurs, sexually abusive labels, they're human there
I'm literally shoved aside like a door by girls eager to look hot at the bar
The only feminist in a room full of chicks

I tolerate this because I love women
Is that sexist?
Is that gay?
If so that's very disappointing
But I've masturbated to **** involving girls
Is that sexist?
Female friendly ****
****** **** - Is that sexist?
I'm academic, I 'get' the gender binaries
Transcend sexuality labels - Is that arrogance?
Why don't these ******* love me?
Note the ironic slur
(Males can be ******* too)
So maybe I'm just the *****
But...I'm sorry
This is poetry, or prose dressed up like it
Emotional inadequacy dressed up like it
I've seen like minded men dispense with the term 'feminism' in pursuit of popularity
That tears me apart because women do the same
I'm not gay
I'm not gay
Stop with the labels
**** me with a strap-on if you have to
Get us back
But I'm not submissive, just overly dedicated
It'll hurt because my **** is virginal
Pure
Sure, I'm a feminist
But stop with the labels
This has become obscene
Put me on page 3 and call me a hero

I'm being sexist here
By noticing gender
Real feminists, please improve me
Fake feminists, how dare you use my views against me?
If I wasn't ugly I wouldn't be a feminist
(Product of my environment and all that)
Like you but with a rather different inferiority complex
As I said, please love me?
Or at least, let me be your friend because the average boy repulses me
Maybe we have at least that in common?
These men cause me to
Try to emasculate me
Women too even but it's understandably rarer
Though on the rise in our modern age
As feminism "succeeds"
But this is my pathetic emotional venting
My male sense of self importance
Or am I too harsh on myself?
Ok so I'll self aggrandise
I transcend your petty, completely logical movement
Look at yourself in the mirror
Metaphorically
(I'm fat too, and some girls make me feel the pain of it)
Yeah I'm a feminist ally
But I'll school half of you

"You've" made me leave the club now
I can't look at these amazing women the same way they want me to anymore
But by 'you've' I mean 'I'VE'
The emphasis is on me to remain rational,
Calculating (my chances with who in the club),
Hardy,
The breadwinner
The one with the jeans
Look, I'd wear a dress if it wasn't for the connotations
Ramifications
I'm ahead of my time, let's agree on what we can
I'm on your side can't you see?
I'm big, I could hurt you and I hate myself
For representing what could be
What is
What my brothers do behind my back
(Because my sickly chivalry would have me try my hardest to pummel these ******* into the ground to protect the damsel in distress)
But I'm not a violent person
As I text, I cant go back into the club but to say goodbye
to my female friend who I came out with alone despite the ****** undercurrent
I half notice two men try to charm this girl
I hear echoes of 'This Charming Man'
(Later I will go and stand on my own, leave on my own, go home, cry and want to die)
These ******* 'gentle' men

But here I'm being arrogant
Self indulgent
Assertive
Typically 'male'
I see a fight break out
The women aren't allowed to be involved
Their voices are drowned out though they push themselves between combatants
Men, we are responsible for wars
**** all of you (*some)
I'd trade social and political male privilege for free 'freedom from guilt'
I'd trade my **** away so I'm not called one callously
(You could even use it as a ***** if you wanted, but its not as big as the shop-bought alternative)
And the funniest thing is, I think my words are important
Think I can say all this and be a controversial,
Exciting
Challenging figure
Asserting my intellectual dominance
Now that's ironic
Ironic to the core that eats at me
That makes me feel like your plaything
Because these ironic jokes like me calling you ******* are too close to home, too near the bone
The bone I gave away, possibly to you (but it hardly matters)
I'm too 'above it all' to be loved or to love faithfully (like Morrissey?)
But all I ask is for your love

That's all I ask
For me to **** on the **** of your respect and trust
Like I did my mother, using her for milk
For sustenance
So my kind survives
And now I go back to the wild,
To the looks that barely notice me as they smash or glance off me
That label me a pig
Or a creep
Or a ****, a *******
Or a gay,
Or a man
Or a feminist

---

So next thing I know I'm with a load of girls again
(Rugby playing girls my mate knows)
I'm the only 'lad' (Irony really hurts)
I'm told my presence makes them claustrophobic
I give them five minutes
(Because my male voice counts for nothing when deciding on a club)
I tell them I'm a feminist
The more honest way out than pretending I'm gay
Its OK now
Thanks, labels.
I swallowed and dealt with the rejection because I'd just had this emotional vent
Thanks vent
And thanks girls for trying to make me feel small and unwelcome at your table
Because it makes me better
Makes me stronger (like men desire to be)
Only I was a step, a poem, a vent ahead this time
So I wasn't crushed or pierced under your high heel
High horse
You weren't willing to flip the tradition on its head and buy my entry to the club
When I couldn't pay
But it's OK.
At least you were real with me
And I'll be there in spirit
In my dreams
Checking you out while you buy drinks
Then wake up and hate myself again

Tears were in my eyes when the girl said that to me
But I, like a true misogynist,
Fought them back and remained a gentleman
Polite and robotically rational
Pliable
But really, how painfully ironic are these semantics?
To 'fight' emotion
To 'fight' honesty?

Like men do, because we're all the same

I washed three times but still:
I smell the vile breath, and still
I see the sunken bloodshot eyes
a pain too deep and miserable to scream
from its open grave, vestige of human lies.

Tomorrow your vacant eyes will not remember this face
yet the fetid smell will not ever leave my head.
Again and again it plays,
the blurry vision of a heat induced hallucination
sneaking up, once again, to threaten my sanity.

I thought it was a child,
an innocent, ill-fated child on a bike,
perhaps still burning, perhaps still alive.
Yet all I could find was the shell of a human life
bruised by a world which is infinitely unkind.

As you blinked at me and slurred your dissent
I disentangled your legs from the wheels
tugged you out of your certain crematorium
dead weight to weak arms and shaky knees,
dead weight to all our cushioned lives.

My abandoned car blinked furiously
ignored by the lives that unblinkingly drove by
No longer human, no longer of use,

illegal smelly immigrant

I wretched violently on the way home
the smell of your skin on my clothes and hands
the unsettling disgust in humanity
steeped into my disillusioned plans.
Only one man stopped:

‘anche io sono straniero ma…’

His conscience dirtied by judgement over judgement
your rotten breath etched deep into his identity
an anchor of blame which has nowhere tangible to go
defensive and defenceless to this worldwide generalisation.
Anche io sono straniero ma.

Did I really save your life, did I choose to be this way?
To follow the trail in the grass
where the cheap boxed wine pulls drunkards off course.
To acted upon automation, like the Belding’s ground squirrel,
putting itself in danger in the name of evolution.

You asked god to bless me but did I really do you a kindness?
Or should I have let the heat put you to sleep, cease your pain?
Head nuzzled in the prickly grass, feet tangled in your rusty bike
barbed wire inches from your eye
invisible to the road, invisible to the world.

And as xenophobia prevails, as hatred and fear win the UK
and all these cars speed away, I feel lonely and wired incorrectly.

I cannot not hear you,

Your voice,

and your paper bags rustling,

full of gifts.

For the season that’s in it.



You will bring them home,

wrap them.

Offer them up with Love.



With Love.



We are all capable of Love.

Even you.

Despite your mouth, your words, your hate.

Muslims.

All of them.

You say it loud enough for ‘BurkaBurka’ to hear.
(Your words not mine).



She who stares out the window,

proud face,

sweaty palms holding the bar with a

white knuckle grip.



It’s a hijab, by the way.

Soft H.



I figure to myself,

if I too, were to indulge in ignorance,

and if I too,

were to go down the broad generalisation route;

lethargic sigh

I bow my head in shame and,

my heart leaks inside,

as I think of your ancestors.

Your Caucasian, European, Christian ancestors.

Your bloodline.

MY Bloodline.

Your line-of-blood.



Our long thick crusty trail of blood.



I stand between you and she.

I smile but I know she cannot see.

It’s us against them.

Just get me off, off, off this tram.

She thinks, I imagine.



And my heart cries for the blood on my hands,

that you reminded me of.

And it cries for the backs of the world’s indigenous peoples

and slaves that my ancestors paved a New World over.



And their children’s children’s children thinking

that their hands are clean

just because

their victims

are

forgotten.

A kiss hits the lips,
As cotton wool cannon ball,
Full power,
Dusting of icing sugar flies in my eyes,
Blinded by sweetness,
Cos love never dies!

Love may become blinded,
Or lost in a mist,
Keep on practising,
You'll soon get the gist,
Believe can evade her,
Never you can,
Because woman is woman,
And you're fickle man,

Not in generalisation,
Love lives in this nation,
She believes like I,
In world *******!

Without love,
There's nothing left!
By ladylivvi1

© 2013 ladylivvi1 (All rights reserved)

I could if I wished add to the list,
it goes on if I do or do not
I could imagine or throw in my lot
with
the wandering minstrels
then I've got songs good or sad
I could add.

I imagine

the preen if the peacock can preen is a scene clipped from Dante's inferno

I know
I have been there
my plumes facing where
the air meets resistance.

I have fought and have failed
seized the day and been jailed

the German in me
don't give a
Fuchs

but it's a patch under par

and I have no wish to be a
generalisation
a mile post that marks the end of a civilisation.

I am the art
in me
the living part
of me
and the only piece you see
is that what you want me to be

If it is a list and any addition I may make could be possibly missed

Tough.

A kiss hits the lips,
As cotton wool cannon ball,
Full power,
Dusting of icing sugar flies in my eyes,
Blinded by sweetness,
Cos love never dies!

Love may become blinded,
Or lost in a mist,
Keep on practising,
You'll soon get the gist,
Believe can evade her,
Never you can,
Because woman is woman,
And you're fickle man,

Not in generalisation,
Love lives in this nation,
She believes like I,
In world *******!

Without love,
There's nothing left!
By ladylivvi1

© 2013 ladylivvi1 (All rights reserved)

You asked me if I wanted
to go to the movies
Said you had an extra ticket
And here I'm doing the math:
On your party last weekend
Your boyfriend analyzed my boredom
The empty look in my eyes
Quickly I proceeded to having fun

A few days later you forwarded
Two job adds from your account
One of which I was underqualified for
But thanks for the compliment
One was to work at a Bio store
Thanks for the gross generalisation
But sincerely thanks for the effort x

And finally today out of the blue
You have one extra ticket
That's you, him and me
Free tickets come in pairs Sis
It's either 2 or 4
And so I asked you:
Is this an intervention?
"...no... See you saturday"
Hope you recovered well
From the violent pantsfire :)

TAKE ONE: not enough time to relax and for the buzz to wear off, i.e. not reflective enough, jumbled mess of feelings, spaghetti tangles - also not enough alcohol for me to relax into writing something with genuine feelings...

i don't know why i'm sitting up and trying to force this
onto a piece of paper...
i'm literally: knackered... i'll be unimaginative...
force of habit i guess... nothing more:
     i'm not expecting to write something spectacular...
not since leaving the house at 10am...
getting to Wembley for 12pm... being one of the first
people from the company, not even the managers
were there... a shift that started at 12:45pm and ended
at 1am...

buzzing

i got home at 4am... which i reckon isn't that bad,
walking to Wembley Park Station... ****...
and the underground worker i asked before the shift
promised me that: oh no, the Jubilee line is not
affected by the night-tube drivers...
only the Central and Victoria lines are affected...
that's the information i read up on the TfL website
anyway... ****... oh well... walked to Wembley
Central and everything just clicked...
the N18 bus was almost packed... sitting in traffic...
generous driver opened the back doors and about
5 of us jumped in... went to the upper deck...
took off my coat... took my tie off...
      unclipped about three buttons from my neck
down... and the buttons on my sleeves...
rolled them up...
               what just happened... did it?
       tired, buzzing, tired, buzzing... if only i could
get a beer...

put some music on...
    my life is currently epitomised by...
                FooR x Majestic x Dread MC - Fresh
but obviously i wasn't listen to that...
Piano and String Quartets from Schubert's The Trout...
for the love of night buses in London...
and esp. after an event like that: you can feel the vibrations
of everything going back to normal...
   i can sort of imagine a Halloween party this
year... with someone dressed up as the year 2020...
with a face-mask... a face shield, pandemic white overalls,
yellow plastic gloves...
  yeah... that would really make up for a great
Halloween suit...

ended me being the only supervisor in charge of about
20 stewards... there were these two others
but one was busy with his 16 while the one i was
supposed to work with ****** off somewhere
and never came back... i was originally only supposed
to be allocated 6 stewards...

man-down... let's do this...
   surprisingly very little trouble...
                 vaping... drunkenness: obviously...
it's not a football match: you could actually drink in view
of the "pitch"...
            but i was like: wow...
    94 thousand people in this hole in the ground that
rose up and dragged walls around it...
and right in the middle.... this tiny... tiny...
    stage... a boxing ring...
                 at first it was sort of unimpressive...
the crowd was scarce... the day was still here...
the artificial lights looked like someone was
shining light into mirrors...
                 light was barely coming out of them...
Tyson's cousin was one of the pre-fight fights...
me running around tending to all the stewards
under my supervision, tending to their needs...
and obviously... one *******...
but when i say *******... well... it's complicated...
even his mother said that he has underlying
mental health issues... and a drinking problem...

///////////////////////////////////\\\\\\\\\

TAKE TWO

i'm finally sitting down and willing to write something
that might feel equivalent to squeezing a lemon,
something genuine... like: i might cut myself...
and then squeeze a lemon... pour some salt on the cut
that came about by accident while cutting vegetables...
i want this night to sink in...
i missed last night... i only got home at 4am...
mind you: that's a good record... if you're leaving Wembley
at 1am... Wembley Central...
getting the N18 bus to Oxford Circus... then the N25
bus to somewhere like Manor Park...
switching to N86... getting to Romford... then walking
back home... in your hand... some memorabilia
(programme) from the Fury vs. Whyte boxing match...
you still don't know what just happened...
some people paid a lot of money to see this match-up....
but you? you were there... for free...
and getting paid on top of that... first take...
i tried my hardest to capture everything...
impossible... not after 4am... i mused for a bit
until 6am... saw the sun coming: i'm out...
this rabbit's heart is pumping too much...
its legs are swollen from all the running around...
i got up at about 2-30 in the afternoon...
   looked around... what the **** just happened?
where was i for the past two days?
i know i left home at 10am yesterday...
   i came back home at 4am today... so that's pretty
much two days gone...
   where was i? where...
                  somewhere... somewhere...
            let me tell you... in a stadium that's supposed
to be fit for a football match...
seeing 94 thousand people crammed in...
with nothing to look at but this little stage...
a boxing ring in this hole in the ground that rose up...
it's so... different... i have no better word for it...

so i calmly sat down... watched a little of the West
Ham vs. Chelsea match...
got bored... went out to buy three ciders... drank one...
then started making dinner...
Silesian gnocchi - the trick being...
you cook potatoes... let them cool...
        you squeeze them into a "mash"...
cut them into four portions...
                      take a quarter out...
add a quarter of potato flour... one egg-yolk...
mix it... first with knife and spoon...
then with your hands... if you went all in with your
hands you'd get too much goo stuck to your fingers...
then you add the removed quarter of potatoes into
the mix...
         once properly kneaded... you pinch little
doughnuts from the dough...
                         you pinch... roll them in your hands
and then squish them by inserting your index finger
into them being in the cusp of your hand...
then... you boil them in water... two minutes once
they rise to the top... then... you get some cold water
into a bowl... and take them out... put them into
that cold water so they firm up...
   and slightly stop cooking... but to firm them up...
and then you serve these with a nice onion sauce
and some pork belly and some... pickles... coleslaw...
i knew that i needed to do something today...
return to reality...
   i knew i needed to watch: this is going to be painful...
brilliant show... dark comedy at its finest...
i knew i needed to take out the garbage...
yesterday was yesterday...
                it's another world... another stage...
it's not a world for poets...
                 there was a point where the poet was needed...
i already mentioned the incident...
a mental health crisis...
   a muddle of conversation... the guy was with his
mum... she bought the tickets...
but he was being a complete *** about it...
well... he went off... left him... because he asked
her to buy him some spirits... but they don't sell
strong alcohol in any stadium... just beer...
he became ******* about that... he was already drinking
the night before till late...
too exited to see the fight...
          what a ******* muddle... drunk... abusive to
my stewards... each time i had to step in and try
to not... call in the intervention team... the SIA ******
that would come in and handle him physically:
twist his arm and be all wide-eyed with fear-adrenaline...
i'm not ******* radioing in for those ******...
we can talk this over... no need for violence...
no need for an ejection... let's play ping pong...
i tell him: listen... you paid to be here...
i'm being paid: to be here... see the difference?
it's not fair that i get to see this for free: and get paid
for it... while you're just willing to forgo seeing this fight...
your mum bought the ******* tickets...
stay... look! the lights are on! there are 94 thousand people
packed into this stadium! stay...
i took him to the side... he cried... ashamed...
rightly so... panic attacks... cry all you want...
but you're still going to sit this one out...
here... if the crowd is too big... sit on the seats reserved
for the disabled people...
more space... you'll be surrounded by stewards...
twice he tried to leave... once i had to ask my manager
to speak to his mum when he became a sort of a missing
person... found him... sat him down...
he watched the fight... personally? i too was overwhelmed...
but i was working... so i could let that show...

it's almost funny... me writing this... it's like the fight
didn't even happen... well... it sort of did...
but for me... it felt like... playing with toy figurines
of superheroes... or some G.I. Joe...
sure... but i was switching at watching two ants
fight in the distance and the screens above them
that enlarged them...

and to think: this was no my role... my official title
was media escort... i helped about three new media
personnel to get the proper credentials:
but the rest were usual... the other supervisor ******
off somewhere so i had to fill his role... take care
of the VIPs and the people who paid extra money...
faces that became blurry... didn't recognise any of them...
fame is a cruel bride...
i was more concerned with the wellbeing of
the stewards i inherited... from only supposedly 6
i had... about 20... kneeling to each of their whims...
some were just too neurotic: too confrontational...
i had to step in to explain to the public:
he's a nervous creature... spare me the trouble...
just... go along... it'll make my life easier...
just stop making the argument that smoking
your portable-shisha is not smoking a normal
cigarette... listen... i've become a contained
animal when it comes to smoking since 1pm...
and i have to wait until 1am to have a drag...
if i have to do it: you can too...

oh i did manage to watch the entire Fury vs. Whyte
match... by then everyone was watching it...
so i could cool off...
some cute black girl VIP asked me if i could call
in a blocked toilet in the VIP section...
i have the stewards a heads-up when approached
by a Frank Bruno lackey (think... Mr Pickwick
and Sam Weller... but this wasn't a Sam Weller you'd
want around... nothing humourus about this
Sam Weller... just a star-struck busy body)...
oh he has a body-guard... he's going ring-side...
he needs extra protection...
i passed the message on... hey... i was only assigned
the role of being a media escort...
why the **** am i doing all these other roles?
and... **** me... this is only my second shift
at Wembley... the first shift was a joke...
i was on level 5 in the glass room... telling people whatever
the **** i was telling them... now... in the thick of it...
i'm stressed one minute... relaxing the next...
i'm coordinating stewards left right and centre...
i hate the idea that just because i had a radio
and an ear-piece i'm the ******* island of peace
that Noah found after the flood...
            i already know what that Manchester ******
of a "supervisor" is doing... betting online on the sly...
i clench my teeth... grinding my teeth: everyone's alright?

by now i'm already doing what i usually do at
a football match... i yawn... i'm thinking of returning
to my garden, to my bed and finding some peace...
because... that's the usual standard...
10% of people do all the work of... let's cut the pie up
fairly... 50% of the work...
which would make them: sentence prone to get
their bearings in doing... oh no no... not menial:
manual labour... that's the whole **** joke...
doing... menial... manual.... pointlessness...
i'm thinking: did the Nazis read the myth of Sisyphus?!
- and it's not like we're a cohort of bricklayers...
we're ensuring people don't become over-excited...
we keep them in check...
pick up a brick... throw it... great...
but then try to not argue with a human being...
try to appease them...
tell them: listen... mate...
i too love freedom... believe me... freedom...
so i watched...

  these supposedly high tier women... well...
that's a great dress... that's great ***...
but... ahem... i can't seem to be able to distinguish them
from prostitutes...
personally? i think i've had better looking women
in my bed at £120 an hour
than... £3000 an event at a dinner table...
sorry... i think i'm sparring with some of these days...
i'm looking out of curiosity... some of the stuff they
float is... so... unimpressive...
   maybe that's why i look like it like...
David Attenborough looking at...
oh wow! i just thought of it...
imagine... a pre-history... where...
           that meteor: what proof?
        killed... not massive lizards... but... massive insects!
i get money... you get a lot of fluke on that...
i have a kaleidoscope of pyramids and stars of David
in my mind...
i was not, supposed... to this work...
it just became automatically assigned to me...
because... only a day prior... went to the Turkish
barber... went for a haircut... looked pretty SS...
just needed the suit...
   once i got bored of the high-payers sitting around
too long after the match i sort of started interpreting
a funny march... i'd walk around the glass wall
with a: slide up... move leg forward... stomp...
repeat... repeat...
  
   oh man... but once the VIP "celebrities" were pushing
the lines...
the manager didn't call me to intervene:
but i intervened...
familiar faces... honestly? i didn't recognise most
of them... i can count my fingers... i have two hands...
i can count how many toes i have too, believe me...

i did see Frank Bruno when he was returning from
ring-side... he looked like such a shell of a man...
he actually brushed against me...
almost paranoid... half the man...
       i guess that's what happens in this sort of business...
someone always takes you over...
he wouldn't have received a 94 thousand crowd
for one of his fights... but maybe he sorted spotted
a kindred soul...
i just thought: Frankie ol' boy... maybe you should
switch from what sort of sport you watch?
you were a boxer... why not decide on...
Olympic judo? that's still fighting...
but the rules are tighter... it's more of a play-around-rough
up... you're not in harm's way from a concussion...

and... let's face it... the Fury KO of Whyte?
that wasn't a proper undercut...
he skimmed his chin... he: skimmed it...
it wasn't an outright Mortal Kombat undercut...
he didn't punch him: he kissed him...
and... Tyson has no body of a boxer... aesthetically...
he's fat at the hips... he has love-handles...
and... i guess that's what happens when
you reach a certain height... 6ft9... i've seen men taller
than me... most of them get a hunch... their shoulders
are not proportionate to the rest of their body...
they're much smaller...
personally? i don't think Fury has an aesthetic physique...
maybe that's useful... it must be useful...
like i never understood men that strive
to have the size of their arms to be almost proportionate
to the size of the legs...
makes no sense... to have the same volume
of arm to leg...
you know: you just want some aesthetic bulk
around your collar-bone...
  that drips down a layering of details...
Fury is a love-bun... around the waist...

                       once upon a time: said a David to a Goliath...
oh man... the VIP section was a treat...
i walk in... start talking to the catering staff...
help them with removing the bottles...
and there's this... i hardly can say this about most
men i meet... this pretty copper-neck curly:
i don't ******* know what he is...
half-Somali half-Kurdish... it's London...
it's Danzig... but we get on...
busy? not so busy? who have you seen?
he says: i don't know most of them...
me too... i couldn't tell you who's famous and who
isn't...
   i spotted this itchy look...
"famous" women...
   herr primofizier doesn't recongise her...
slim clad... eh... 10th of a buttocks exposed...
i'm still ******* running on blank...
Love Island type of celebrity... sorry... what?
i'm not even talking to the VIPs... i'm talking to the catering
staff... they seem less: oh... you see me...
ergo... i see you...
                so he pulls out a bottle of Budweiser...
i tell i wish... just give me a cold bottle of Sprite...
back up... back up...
   i've seen too much of that face on t.v.
Dermot O'Leary leaving via the press entrance / exit...
my stewards ****** up... he was supposed
to be leaving via the "VIP" entrance / exit...
he really did surprise me... i spontaneously say hello...
hello back...
             ****... i didn't bring my t.v. along...
weird... seeing people of superficial fame
in real time... i mean: Kant's famous.. but he's also
dead... it's like a hall of mirrors...
when you see someone on t.v. but when you
see them in real life you're like: so... where's the t.v.,
mate?! because it was different with Frank Bruno...
he was a boxer... he did something beside
present a t.v. show...
                 tiers of fame...
who else was on the list... best those...
THOTS of love island?!
         me... i thank the guy part of the catering staff...
who gave me a cold bottle of Sprite...
Paddy McGuinness...
         i have to actually type these words into a search
engine... regarding who i saw...
indian comedian funny eye...  Romesh Ranganathan...
and? he was walking past me with...
QI cast... search engine... Alan Davis... Davies...
   anyone else?
        Stuart Pearce! but... that was another occasion...
he walked so casually past me at some other
football match...
        no... wait... there was one... ****... there wasn't...

it's new territory for me...
trying to ensure a bunch of stewards are tended to...
and... seeing people... fame... ha ha...
more like a social club... given... there's...
what... 9 billion in this world?
i'm thinking... double-down... take to some art...
wait... with luck... once you'll die...
ah... then it'll kick in... but by then...
you'll already be dead... so... it really won't matter
to you...
                  hmm... now that i have seen
famous... "famous" men... men that should really
walk with either t.v. segments of their incursion
on the pop psyche or... tags like: hello, my name is:
Zee / Zed... and i'm famous beause:
penicillin and ****...
TAGS... i am yet to see a famous: a F'AH-MOUSSE:
i.e. woman...
          the famous men... just as disorientated
like the rest of us... rich men?
sort of in-group scared... well... buoyancy...
it's so much different to what i've already experienced...
supervisor of stewards... do it properly...
crowd management can take on army-like-rigour...
famous people don't keep each other in check...
well... they do... when they get into trouble...
but they do this: keeping-each-other-in-check
when it's too late...
             i once went to a Big Brother... whatever the ****
it was... with this high-school friend of mine...
Tina... signing... opening... whatever the **** it was...
and while in the crowd...
placards... reading APPLAUD... blah blah...
with... "celebrities"...
and now i'm mingling with "celebrities"
and... all i'm thinking about is...
talking to the catering staff... for a free bottle of Sprite...
because: that's human! because there's a God
and no Pharaoh!

- and i know i attended this high pretege event...
i know that... where hierarchies of men
tickle thumb... tickle thumb...
i'm still of surprised why i haven't been allocated
a place in an asylum...
well... the fight was one... but i was trying to
keep this panic attack riddled beef-cake of a boy
from:
funny... that... there's this one lineage of madmen
that cry... have panic attacks...
while their mothers remain stern... priceless:
while there's the lineage of "us" that have
the capacity to make our mothers cry...
because we cook, we are custodians of
the household... we tend to our gardens...

               and we also tend to people...
                      supposed upper tiers of people...
levelling ground...
            like i said... if there was anyone famous
in this crowd... i spotted about... 3 or 4 faces...
the rest... skim reading... tabloid journalism...
i much prefer talk to the cogs and the generalisation
of machinery... it was a success that
some of the stewards that under me replied with:
i want to work with you again...
because you listen to my concerns
and you implement a change in making
my concerns abate...

                 now i'm relaxed...
the 3h trip via N18, N25 and via N86...
relaxed me... as did Schubert... the Trout...
             tonight's the night i drink to excess and
think... well.... "think" about people...
i'd rather think about masks... masquerades...
and Madame... Tuss... Tusseouds...
   Tussauds... too many ******* vowels!

this grand event happened... seriously?!
American Pie...
what if you were to sing...
Nights in White Satin?!
           or Combichrist: Sent to Destroy?!