What is that smell? It’s like. No biscuits
today. Bread looks good. Got some already. Sort of not barbecue but smoky.
Cheap chocolate. Not the cheapest. Suzy asked me last time if I thought she was
cooking with it. A joke. Not that funny. More ironic. Ironical? 39p for four
bulbs of garlic. Roasted garlic. It is really something. Just squirting a bulb
of brown roasted slimy roasted gorgeous garlic into my mouth is reason enough
to be alive. Tomatoes. Shit raw, great cooked.
Gunpowder.
That’s it. Cheap fucking jeans. Why gunpowder? I think I smelt it when I got
them. Eight quid you get what you get. And people died in that factory
building. Safe to read in Guardian, anyway. No collapses there. Words are
fictions. I read that too. Olive oil. Nope. Two quid here, a fiver for a tiny
bottle in the stupid hippy shop, rebranded as medicine. Lamb reared under
humane standards. So cute in a field, tasty on a fork. It is indefensible. The
tongue is mightier than the brain.
Breaded ham. Bearded ham. Gordon’s
ALIVE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!Gordonzola. Gianfranco Zola at the
near post backheel flick goal a hunchback genius everyone loves him. I like it
when John Terry cries, he crumples like a soggy biscuit dunked just a second
too long in a nice cup of tea. Skimmed milk. Diet cola. Three bottles of wine.
Cotes du Rhone. Coats of Rome. Pasta in the shape of cock and balls on sale
next to Trevi Fountain. They say the water is bleached these days. And so what
anyway. Tourists. Everyone hates and are, is, them.
Dark
rum, white rum. No price difference. Curtis pours you extra if you tip him
more. Wednesday club in the sun. Shorts on for four years. The first rule of
Wednesday Club is: No girls. Unless they are serving us booze. Aqua Beach is
bikini Wednesdays. Unbearable. British. The urge to look and appreciate is the
same as the leer of guilt. Head down then passing a note to the bar manager.
Aii dios mio.
Fucking jeans. Making me sick. Everyone can
hear that smell. Yeah well done you idiot, put your stuff right at the back end
and watch it trundle down to the till. Then we can all hold our nice heavy
baskets for a few seconds longer. Fuck off. God if only I could kick you up the
arse just once that would be reason enough to be... but not. Never as good as
it seems. Not as grand as roast garlic. Garlic pills ten quid for 30. Four
bulbs for 39p. Rots in the fridge in the Caribbean. Potatoes too, shit. Take my
word for it, life is all about a perfect potato. You don’t know the half of it.
Shit
is that all? Not even twenty quid. Why am I always surprised?
Ah
fuck, I think I’ve been thinking in poetry prose bollocks.
Fucking conference calls.
Fuck
off.
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