Squids are the Angels of Disgust, waving tentacles like phalluses covered in toothy, sucking holes. Disgust fascinates me. I am sure that if we could overcome it, we could be unstoppable. Disgust comes from the fear of invasion, the fear that the disgusting thing will get on your skin, inside you, in your mouth and up your nose, and yet the disgusting is often a mere half-inch from the sexual. If we all made ourselves do one disgusting thing before breakfast I am sure that we could take over the world.
I won about three pounds on the Grand National. War of Attrition did not run. I drank a vast amount of Mother’s Ruin with the Best Girl and noticed that the dead hedgehog has moved several feet down the road. Clearly a zombie. Best Girl and I made a Book of Glory for an absent friend, stuck full of tasty pictures and headlines from Take a Break and Chat, like “Thank God for My Bionic Girdle” and the world’s worst Daniel Craig lookalike. Then we wrote drunken nonsense in it and I drew a picture of a small dog. A good time was had by all. I watched us as we played out in the garden: LoH in his cowboy shirt, cardigan and shorts, his shaven hair growing back fluffy; Brother Mine all in cream like Jesus; Snout in his Thundercats T-shirt with his hair a homage to Slash; Best Girl’s boy, who I like to call Extended Play (because it has the same initials and because of his consumption of energy drinks) sporting skinny tee and yellow Wayfarers and Best Girl, her new jeans immaculately accessorised, standing next to me as we giggled ourselves silly. I love them. I was rocking my ancient dungarees. Here’s some advice – never get drunk wearing dungarees. It ends badly.
Now I am back in the spare room scrumping for words, trying to keep my mind out of the sea and inside the killer. Outside the Rag & Bone Man is cruising the street, looking for damaged and discarded things, just like me. Spatchcock is sitting on my shoulder, which I suppose she thinks is funny. Time is getting on, I must away.