This is something I wrote in 2001, that’s nearly twenty-one years ago as I write this. It’s either genius or a piece of shit. I suppose it could even be both.
You decide! (or not, I don’t care)
Fuck multimedia, fuck computers – too many people – too much information. A gem or should that be a germ of an idea.
You came here expecting to find something to do with openings or chapters or both but what do you get?
I don’t know.
But you’ll get this.
I’m a fucking lunatic and I’ll screw with your heads. So you should fuck off now if you know what’s good for you.
Fuck off – now.
Go on then.
All the pricks have fucked off.
There’s only you left so I can tell you the truth. I’ll understand if you don’t want to know and feel like fucking off yourself – so I’ll give you another chance.
To be honest that’s not your last chance you can fuck off whenever you like.
Don’t say you haven’t been warned.
You’re going to get a peek inside the fucked-up head of a fucked-up fifty year old, though by the time you read this, I’ll be older, or dead.
So I don’t give a fuck – OK.
Open the book – read – I do a lot of that occasionally when I’m in the mood but over the past two years I’ve done none.
NONE – fuck all.
‘Cos I’m fucked up – just like most of the other fucks in this fucking weird world.
It’s dissolving into chaos again.
Can you cope?
I’ll try to make sense of it and perhaps help others, maybe even you if you haven’t fucked off yet.
Headache – Tablets? Spliff? Nothing?
Tablets – definitely tablets – hang on.
Now – headache will go. More drugs.
I’m sure tomorrow will bring something new.
It’s tomorrow. What’s new? Why am I trying to make sense of this shit in this way – it’s not going to work. I’ve seen enough soap-operas to know that.
Fat fifty year old seeks solace in . . . in . . . in . . . in what? Someone’s arms / bed / drugs / drink / food / work / laziness / couch potatoness.
Fifty year old seeks solace.
The opening chapter of a new phase of life. A matchmaking service for fat fucking fifty year olds.
Bring me your baggage, I’ll incinerate it. I’ll piss on your bonfire, I’ll fuck with your head. Come on in.
It’s me, it’s my opening chapter, my fucked-upness. Time – time to sort it out again. She’s got a name – oh yes – a name, a face, she’s alive, she’s real.
She loves me, I know. It’s the way she looks away. What will Daisy think? She’ll never know – I’ll never go there. No. No. No. Never.
You think I will, don’t you? You believe I’ll go there and worse – more – further. You’ve got to believe that, otherwise why would this story exist? It’s got to go somewhere.
Why not here?
Aren’t you bored with soap-opera plots?
This is a post-soap era. A new time, an opening chapter even.
Are there things that I am ashamed of? Things that I could not reveal to the world, like the way I scratch my arse and smell my finger afterwards?
Worry no more, an opening chapter will fuck my head up, so I don’t care about such shit.
There’s more important, deeper things, for me to discover now. Like what am I? Who am I? I can’t know the intensity or the depth of those questions, not for a while – not until I’ve fucked my head up some more.
Did you know that the distance between the nucleus of an atom and one of those things, particles, that orbit around it, is in relative terms, greater than the distance from the earth to the sun?
It’s something like that anyway. So what’s that like then? What – 93 million miles – a long way a big stretch of nothing apart from the odd hydrogen (or is it helium?) atom.
You are made of 99.99999 etc% nothing, and the titchy bit that’s left is nothing but a vibrating particle and the thing is, those particles wouldn’t exist if they didn’t vibrate. So all there is really is vibrations. Good vibrations – bad vibes.
So again – what’s good? What’s bad?
The tone is set. Fat fucked-up fifty year old seeks enlightenment.
Can you help?
Come on guys – it’s the twenty-first century for fuck’s sake. Give me something new – Christ, I’ve had Picasso before, sucked up Tarantino, dissolved Tracey Emin, digested Damien Hirst. Is that all you’ve got to offer?
Get over it.
She looked at me. There was interest in her eyes. She must have thought, have imagined what it would be like. But it’s not going to happen.
She’s young, younger anyway, say twenty years – thirty then. Rich.
Rich, smart, but there’s not a chance. She’s not my type. She’s straight for fuck’s sake – a lo-mo, a burger-eating, planet-fucking, shallow-minded consumer without question – not my type at all.
Why the fuck is she looking at me like that?
Daisy would have something to say about that, though you’d think that secretly she’s been wanting to get rid of me for years, forever probably. Daisy doesn’t want to live with a fucked-up fifty year old, not to mention fat, any more than I do, but I’ve got to – at least until I’m 51 – or dead.
I won’t care then – it’s all downhill from there. So – this time next year my fifty-first has got to be something special . . .
I wonder what it will be?
Rosie, Rosie and Daisy. Tough pretty Daisy, lovely fluffy Rosie. 99.9999 etc % nothing, just like me – and everyone – so why am I so bothered then? Who the fuck cares?
You know what. I do care don’t I?
So this coming year is going to be a big one. This is the year that I’m going to crack it at last.
But has it got anything to do with Rosie? Of course it has. It’s even got something to do with that butterfly that shat on Mount Fuji. I could compact the solar system into something the size of a beetroot – then that butterfly shit would be rubbing right up against my nose – then it would have an effect on me.
This morning, when I woke up, I felt good. I felt good even though I knew today was going to be weird.
It started when I popped into the newsagents to buy the Guardian and do the lottery for tomorrow. I saw her again then. We had coffee – me and Rosie. Coffee – biscuits – but I didn’t eat any because I’m fat. Have you noticed that, only fat people drink diet drinks? They don’t work do they? Get a life.
Rosie’s cute – blonde hair and brown eyes. Is that natural? Does that mean her hair is dyed? So what – it’s just a couple of bleach molecules.
Blonde hair brown eyes, nose slightly turned up, but not so much that she looks like a pig. Pretty girl, pretty woman. Cute Smile.
Get back to reality. The illusion of a universe in a sea of vibrations a veritable maya of confusion and fuckedupness. And most people have to have their fucking soap-operas.
But Daisy – Daisy, how would she react? She’s dying. Daisy’s dying and I don’t know what to do.
I’m fucked up. I have fucked up. It’s all my fault. Poverty – depression – low immunity – disease – illness – death. My fault. My fucking fault.
So what if my teeth hurt and my guts scream for rest. So what if I fucked up. Daisy’s going to die.
Rosie smiles again. Stop it – you can’t do that Rosie. Rosie stop, stop Rosie – stop for fuck’s sake.
But it’s not Rosie. It’s not Daisy.
It’s not Rosie or Daisy it’s me. I’m dying, dying, dying.
Mmm . . . the morphine’s kicking in . . . mmm – it’s me. I’m a fucked up fat fifty year old. I don’t care . . . mmm.