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Mr_Twain

age:

	37

location:

	Leeds, UK

looking for :

	You know, that thing? With the stuff?

more about me:

	I'm just a bloke. A bloke without a rubber plant, who wakes up sweat drenched from deadline nightmares and who's only in it for the yuks.

8.309

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Bye Bye, Blog-A-Log
7/18/2007 12:00:00 PM

So, anyway, that’s me done. This is my last blog entry for blog-a-log. Right now I’m thinking “I’d better make these first forty words good because they’ll be up here on the front page for fucking ages”. Arseberries. Looks like I made a bollocks of that.

It’s traditional to tell the gathered blog throng on leaving this fine forum why you’re quitting - and I won’t disappoint you on that count. Mainly because it’ll help me fill a couple of hundred words.

I’ve mentioned previously how busy I am lately – and that’s part of it. In September I’ll be even busier, because that's when I start writing a novel under the toothsome tutelage of Martin Amis. Yeah, look at that name-bomb, bitches. That’s a whole story in itself.

Another reason is that I think this blog has run its course. I started with an agenda to be the “other” blogger; to tell you stories, be surreal and mix things up. Some of you supported that and, to you, I transmit cyber-snogs to all your soft, wobbly parts.

I’m really happy with some of the stuff I wrote in the early days. It’s been a great forum for exorcising ghosts, clearing out cobwebs and talking about my cock. And, let this be said, every single entry has been about dating, relationships and sex. Except for one or two that weren’t. Thanks for allowing me to do that.

Let’s not deceive one another though; it’s been over between us for a while now. No, please, don’t cry. It’s not your fault, it’s mine. I’ve been taking you for granted. I’ve been blogging more and writing less; phoning it in sometimes. If I had the spare time to write more true life stories and fewer navel gazing diary entries, I would continue - but I don’t, so I won’t. Shush now... It’s best we just quietly go our separate ways.

Here’s a positive note to end on:

In the week this final entry goes out, Parsley will finish her move south from Edinburgh to Manchester. It’ll be the beginning of a new chapter for us. For the first time in three years, we’ll be just a 30 minute train ride apart. No more juggling deadlines and negotiating cross country flood plains to get it together. This is great because, however dysfunctional Parsley and I are as a pseudo-couple, I care about her a great deal. It’ll be interesting to see if we can make a normal relationship work. Normal being relative, of course.

I won’t be starting another blog. Not one like this, anyway. Unless, that is, someone wants to pay me a shit-load of money to do so. In which case, bring it on – I need money to buy gourmet foods and DVD box sets of cancelled TV shows. I’m sure I’ll be doing other funny things on the Internet though. There’s a final episode of Sexwatch still to come, for example. Blog-stalkers might like to take down these URLs:

www.myspace.com/mister_twain

Any new projects will get a shout out there first. And if you want to keep up with Parsley’s world, you can become her MySpace friend too.

www.myspace.com/helloparsley

That’s enough advertising for Rubert Murdoch’s online empire. Here’s something Parsley and I made for you earlier:

It’s been class. It’s been a gas. It’s been a monkey’s hairy ass.

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Sovereign, Pt 3
7/13/2007 4:00:00 PM

I can pinpoint the exact moment that things started to go wrong. It was when she said “meow”. Let me backtrack a bit. We were in a graveyard, petting like hormonal teenagers – that much I’ve established. That wasn’t much of stretch for her, I discovered later. She was nineteen. I was thirty.

The fresh air, rather than sobering me up, had made me a little light-headed. More reckless. I put my hands on her waist and lifted her onto my lap.

“Ooooh,” she squealed, “Meow!”
“What?” said my brain, struggling to be heard through the alcoholic static. This internal exchange must have shown on my face.
“I do that sometimes,” she said.
“OK,” I replied. Then we continued kissing like guppies with Viagra contaminated water.

My jeans were getting ready to bust open at this point, my tool about to spring out like a naughty pink cucumber. With the inevitability that alcohol brings, thought turned to action and we were soon rolling around on the grass.

“Let’s go back to yours,” she gasped between dry humps.
“No,” I said, remembering the rules of male singledom, “Let’s go back to yours”.
“Oooh,” she squealed, “Meow!”

The rule I’m referring to, blog-friends, is numero uno in the land of the one night stand; never go back to your own place if you have a choice. Why? Because you can’t make a quick getaway in the morning if you’re in your own flat, silly. If you’re me, this is very important indeed. I suppose I could have got up at 8.00, put on my backpack and said “Bye bye, I’m off to Guatamala. Help yourself to cereal”. In fact, I might try that in future.

We snogged in the taxi and snogged down the passage. We snogged outside her front door. The house was tiny; one room downstairs – a bathroom and bedroom upstairs. As we clambered up I clocked some family photos; lots of brothers and sisters, parents, pets. A life.

Reaching the unmade bed, she undressed and flopped on to it before I could even get my boots off. She had small, pudding breasts with pierced nipples, tiny feet and...
“Oooh...” she squealed.
“Yeah. Meow,” I said clamping my mouth over hers to stop her making that noise again. Drunkenly stumbling through foreplay, she pressed her piercings against me. My cock was hot against the smooth, slightly convex paunch of her stomach and, below that, downy hair wet with pussy juice.

Snap out of it. This is Mr Twain’s blog, not the letters page in “Hustler”. This is how you can tell the difference:

She held my penis limply in her tiny fist and tugged it weakly. I nibbled her ear, asked her to hold me harder, go faster.

“I can’t,” she said, “I have injured wrists”.

She showed me. There were identical scars on each; thin, straight and pink. I blinked at them for a second or two.

“I put my hands through a mirror when I was arguing with my ex,” she said. There were no scars other than those single lines across each wrist. No scratches or jaggedness.

“OK,” I said, and wrapped my arms around her, her face against my chest.

The remains of the night wore on as we hugged, then stroked and kissed. We pulled and pinched and scratched and, finally, we fucked. She gasped, wrapped her legs around me, dug her nails in and began to rock. Alcohol numbed, I was impervious to her bucking under me, but she soon started to breathe more heavily and moan – softly at first, then louder. Then louder. And then, just as she was about to begin yodelling, she bit me on the shoulder.

Hard.

I gritted my teeth against it, the pain sapping all sensation from my penis , and I thrust more forcefully. Her teeth let go momentarily, moved an inch across, then sank into me again.

“That really hurts,” I said, stopping for a moment, still deep and hard inside her.
“I can’t help it,” she whispered, nuzzling my ear, “I want to scream”.

With that established we continued for most of the night, my orgasm delayed by the pain, my shoulder and arm a mass of broken veins and teeth marks. And as the first sun rays broke through the curtains, I came.

Shortly after that, standing in a strange bathroom, naked and aching, I checked out the damage. Bruises were already appearing, flowering like time-lapse poppies.

For the first time, I thought “Fuck. I have to get out of here.”

We sat in her living room, the only other room, drinking tea. There was no kettle, so she boiled water in a saucepan. I had dressed. She was wearing a white towelling dressing gown that was too big for her – covering her piercings. Covering her scars. In the light of day, with the alcohol processed, she looked older than her age. Older than my age.

I could feel my arm beginning to stiffen. The tea was too hot to drink quickly, but I wanted to go. I stood up.

She said:
“This might sound a bit sloppy, but, would you like my number?”

She wrote it in green biro on a torn piece of envelope. I took it and left.

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Sovereign, Pt 2
7/9/2007 3:00:00 PM

I don’t know what it is about graveyards and beer – but after the latter I often seem to end up in the former. Maybe it’s the lapsed Goth in me. Like Catholicism and stamp collecting, you can cast off the superficial trappings and pretend you’ve moved on, but there’s always a bit of it left inside you. The bit of Goth inside me is an extremely tiny Robert Smith.

Sorry. Everything’s gone a bit “Memento” hasn’t it? I’ll try to start at the beginning. Or, more accurately, the middle – which is where I left you the last time.

The live music scene can be unforgiving. There are nights you play to three of your mates and a drunk in a blue suit with oil on the knees. Then there are other nights where the place is packed, you’re rehearsed to perfection and the band’s drunk enough to relax but not so drunk they fuck up. Everybody loves you. If you’re the support act and blow the headliner off stage, that’s sweeter than something rude, wet and illegal.

Buoyed with post-performance adrenaline, I bounced over to the bar to collect our take and top up my lager levels. The cocky girl who’d flirted with me earlier, Sovereign we’ll call her, collared me as I put in my order:

“You were brilliant,” she said.

That’s all she needed to say, really. The inflated ego of the temporary rock God is an easy thing to flatter.

Before I knew it, she was invited to the after show piss-up at a bar across town with a late license.

The beers went down and the banter got louder. The flirting picked up its pace and I got very, very drunk.

It was at this vulnerable point that the conversation turned to tattoos.

“I’ve just had this done,” said our drummer, showing off a new, Celtic influenced sleeve.
“Ooh,” I said, poking it, “Scabby”.
With nothing to show in return, that was my contribution to the conversation done with. Sovereign had plenty to reveal though. Tats on her stomach, her lower back, her shoulder blade, her arms... Then she moved on to her piercings. For some foggy, alcohol-induced reason this display of modern primitivism made me hard. Maybe it was the glimpse of flesh she gave us as she hitched up skirt and shirt to display another barbell, or perhaps the promise of more intimate artwork as yet unseen. Maybe I just like bad girls.

“Let’s go,” I said grabbing her by the hand.

And that’s how I ended up in a graveyard, getting my face snogged off by a girl who would soon be responsible for giving me the biggest bruise of my life.

(To be concluded, Friday)...

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An Intermission
7/5/2007 8:00:00 AM

Firstly chums, apologies for the interruption to normal service. This will be resumed just as soon as I've scooped up my brain from the walls, ceiling and floor, cleaned of the fluff and poured them back into my head.

Work is still, in American parlance, "kicking my ass". Although why I would or should own a hybrid donkey/horse is as much a mystery to me as it probably is to you. And, further, I don't really know why having too much work on would lead to pedicular abuse of said animal - unless it was out of transference frustration. Either way, please don't call the cops. It's just a metaphor.

Quick story for you though: Parsley is halfway through moving to Manchester, so lugged down a load of her stuff on the train this week. This could be a long tale about not being able to hire cars and floods and chemical spills on the motorway, but we'll just jumpcut to yesterday when she set off home at 12.05 - a four hour journey to Edinburgh from Leeds.

At 18.30, I called her. She was clearly on a train.

"Why are you still on a train?" I said.
"I'm bringing the rest of my stuff down," she said.

In other words, after four hours going back up, she decided to pack up more stuff and spend another four hours coming back down again.

You know, I think I may have a new anxiety disorder. I will call it "agoraphobia by proxy". Briefly, every time Parsley has to travel somewhere long distance I freak out until she arrives in one piece.

It could be because she has asthma, yet rarely travels with her medication. It could be that she thinks flip-flops and a strappy vest are suitable attire for travelling through flood planes. It could be because she has a long history of getting on the wrong trains, falling asleep on them and waking up somewhere new and exciting - after all the other trains have stopped running. In this case, it had a lot to do with the fact that she had half her bedroom in boxes with her and 2 minutes to get them off at Manchester.

"Why didn't you tell me you were going to do this?" I said. Or rather, whined.
"Because I knew you'd freak out".

By which she clearly meant "you'd freak out before I got the chance to set in motion my ludicrous plan - bwahahahaha...".

Anyway. It all turned out fine in the end. Despite the station staff sending a learning-challenged porter to help her off the train with her stuff two minutes after the train had left at the Manchester end...

Boy. I say "train" a lot in this entry don't I?

As for me? I'm even more up to my eyes in deadlines - because the only thing I can do when paralysed with irrational fear is clean my flat. So, my apartment is spotless at least. Bonus.

Right now, I'm getting ready to go meet Parsley in Manchester where we'll either have lunch or I'll strangle her. I haven't decided which yet.

Part two of the blog entry I started last week is still on its way. Promise.

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Sovereign, Pt 1
6/28/2007 8:00:00 AM

“What the fucking fuck happened to you?” said my squash partner, Mr Sweary, “Did you fall down the cunting stairs, you twatfaced cock gobbler?”

The whole of my left shoulder and a substantial portion of the upper arm attached to it were covered with a large, unsightly bruise. Tender to the touch, mottled indigo and threaded through with yellow and black, I’d considered taking myself down to the local hospital to get it checked out. And by considered I mean, I sat on the bathroom floor rocking backwards and forwards while crying about my imminent death.

In the end, I didn’t go to the E.R. (which we call the A and E and is just like American hospitals, except you get to keep your money when you go there, but you leave with necrotising fasciitis of the face). The anxiety I had about the size and extent of the gargantuan contusion was outweighed by the embarrassment I would feel at having to explain where it came from. And yet, here I am some six years later, about to do exactly that on a web site read by several thousand people. Admittedly, only five of those actually read my blog – and one of them is my girlfriend.

Let’s have some scene setting. Before I met Princess Boo, I went on something of a bender. These were my slutty years, ill-documented in this column because, well, I think the interplay between established relationships is so much more interesting than a series of identikit, sordid disappointments. And, also, I don’t remember them too well.

Parsley once asked me how many people I’d slept with. After fifteen minutes of counting, she slapped me.

“You tart!” she cried, before retiring to the living room couch to watch cartoons and sulk.

She didn’t know that around 60% of the final integer came from just three years worth of sexual activity. The three years between leaving live-in lover Morticia and meeting Princess Boo. My “lost” years.

Those years are now a fog of binge drinking and weed; waking up in strange beds, wondering how I was going to get home. One night I was picked up by a drunken girl in a pub who fell asleep the moment we got into bed. I went down the corridor and shagged her roommate instead. Another time I woke up wrapped around a mate’s girlfriend, with him asleep and oblivious next to us.

In most cases, only these fragments remain; punchlines without the structural preamble of a joke to support them. The bruise story though - I remember that all too well.

It is the year 2000 blog-spanners , I am about to play a storming gig to a pub packed to the ceiling with post-punk punters, get spam-blasted on french lager, then go home with a highly unsuitable young lady – in roughly that order.

My esteemed fellow blogger, the bum-fluff covered Kid-Play, has made his disdain for amateur musicians plain. I wasn’t insulted by his blanket description of my kind as “assholes”. I can completely understand where he is coming from.

Singing lead vocals in a hot band is like having a license to print fanny. I have used and abused this position often - shagging my way through a swathe of funky girls with purple hair. For wallflower onlookers it must be a special kind of hell watching upstart guitarists, drummers and even bass players vacuum up all the poon in the immediate area as you stutter and mumble like Rainman on the sidelines. I would have hated me too in those days. While, you know, secretly loving me.

The game was afoot the moment I saw this girl. Dinky and cocky, she sat with a bunch of her friends on a table placed right in the middle of the stage.

“Sorry folks, you’ll have to move from there,” I said, heaving a speaker cabinet into place.
She fixed me with deep set, dark eyes.
“Make me,” she replied. But it was like she was actually saying “Take me out the back and hitch up my skirt, finger and fuck me, you scruffy muso type”.
“Shut your filthy cake chute,” I thought.

They moved. We assembled the PA and backline amps, taped down the drum kit and tested the mics. The venue began to fill as the band finished its sound check. That’s when I noticed she was still in there, drink in hand, still smirking at me.

If I have a type – and I do – she was not it. She ticked the petite and pretty boxes, but otherwise... She was street where I choose stylish, cocky where I go for classy. She was Lady Sovereign instead of Audrey Hepburn.

It’s funny how four pints of Stella Artois can change your perspective on things.

(to be continued)...

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