Monday – The alarm goes off at 5.56am. I reach an arm out half asleep, turn it off and reset it for 9.07am. I roll over and savour that warm feeling of knowing I don’t have to get up for another 3 hours. It’s the only reason I set the alarm for so early in the morning – to savour that feeling. Sometimes I’ll set the alarm to go off three or four times throughout the night just so I can repeatedly wake up, turn it off and bask in that nice warm back-to-sleep feeling.
When I finally get up at 9.07am, I feel really tired due to having woken myself up at 5.56 earlier that morning. It’s been years since I’ve had a proper uninterrupted night’s sleep. But I can’t complain really. I consider myself to be quite lucky. I live alone which means I can live by my own rules without anybody telling me what to do. I work freelance as a self-employed writer and researcher which means I am my own boss and can choose the hours I work. I’m happy with things like this.
The only problem I have is that my mind is shot to pieces and I struggle to tell what is really happening from what is happening inside my head. I think this is mostly due to not having slept properly for years, exacerbated by abuse of various substances over the years to increase excitement and stave off demons in equal measure. Trouble is, as I’m no longer sure what’s real and what is imaginary, I don’t actually know whether I’m still taking these substances or whether I’m just imagining that I’m still taking them. I went to the doctor to seek professional help but he got as far as checking my heartbeat and then he mutated into a wolf and ran howling out of the door. This is what happens when you underfund the NHS, I guess.
I’ve got a 2000-word article to write today on the subject of pharmacogenomics, something I know very little about. I’ll need to spend a couple of hours researching on the internet and if that fails, I’ll just make stuff up, which always seems to work. I’m not sure whether this is because the people claiming to be experts don’t really have a clue or whether my imagination is unbelievably accurate.
But it’s Monday so I struggle. It’s the first day of the week and I’m a procrastinator which means that Tuesday is my Monday and Monday… well, I’ve never worked out what Monday is for. I decide to go for a walk in the park to empty my head of the contents of the weekend but end up witnessing the disturbing sight of a middle aged man masturbating in the bushes, which leaves my head the opposite of cleared. Damn the bloody council for putting mirrors up all over the park.
I reason that a quick visit to the pub is what’s needed. But I can’t decide whether to go to the Half Moon, the Prince Regent or the Railway Tavern so I end up having five drinks in each. This certainly puts paid to the Monday blues and upon returning home I knock out exactly 2000 words on pharmacogenomics, all of which are absolutely A-star quality, before making a late night chocolate mousse and smoked salmon smoothie in the blender. As delicious as this sounds, it actually came about by accident as I intended to make a strawberry and banana smoothie but drunkenly pulled the wrong ingredients from the fridge.
At midnight, it’s time to feed the moths. I turn off all the lights in my flat, don my miner’s cap with head-light, open my living room window and hold out my palm containing morsels of tasty clothing – a bit of jumper, scraps of shirt and the remains of some old underpants.
Lazarus is the first to arrive, as usual. I call him Lazarus although he insists his name is Jeff. He’s a giant black and cream moth and I call him Lazarus because I thought that he was dead when I first saw him. He was on the floor behind my standing lamp and there he stayed for about two days. Then he rose up on the third evening and busied himself around the bulb of my lamp.
I think I’ll call you Lazarus, I cried, amazed.
My name’s Jeff, he replied.
We got chatting and became friends. As moths go, he’s very friendly. We’re into similar music and films. He’s quite clued up on international politics. He really hates the Turkish president Tayyip Erdogan, gets quite worked up whenever he mentions him and starts flapping about angrily and bashing into the window and the walls. The other moths don’t really talk to me. There are about a dozen of them. They just come each night and eat the pants.
Lazarus has told me that being my friend has done wonders for his reputation. Turns out that this is a big breakthrough as far as the moth community is concerned. They’ve always yearned to develop some sort of meaningful relationship with humans but have never managed it and have always been incredibly jealous of the pretty butterflies, who have managed to lure humans into chasing after them with nets. Lazarus is now seen as some sort of shaman. He says the other moths want to talk to me but are far too shy.
I felt quite humbled and strangely proud when he told me this, especially when he said he’d been using the friendship to his sexual advantage. Apparently they all want a piece of Lazarus now. Not just moths either, he told me gleefully. Seems he’s been putting it about a bit among some of the local daddy long legs, who see him as a celebrity and get a bit giddy and starstruck around him.
The other shy moths all clear off quickly once they’ve eaten the pants but Lazarus sticks around. I think he wants a late night chinwag.
Not tonight Lazarus, I say, yawning. It’s one o’clock in the morning. I’m absolutely hammered and I’ve got to be up in about three hours to reset my alarm and go back to sleep. It’s Tuesday tomorrow. The start of the week for us procrastinators.
Oh it’s not you I’m interested in, he says in a low seedy rasp. My date has just arrived.
At that point I notice a daddy long legs floating clumsily about by the top of my curtains.
You sly old dog, I say and we both smile.
I make the pair of them go outside. Not that I disapprove but I don’t really want any of that sort of thing going on in my living room. I don’t think my landlady would like it either. I reckon if I were to phone her up at one o’clock in the morning to tell her that a moth and a daddy long legs were shagging in the flat, she’d not be very pleased at all.
Tuesday – The alarm sounds at 9.07am and I drag myself out of bed, knackered. I lurch slowly for the door and trip over a curled up mound at the end of my bed. It’s Geert.
I should explain. Geert is a Dutch ghost who inhabits the spooky attic cupboard at the rear of my living room. Geert doesn’t like sleeping in the spooky attic cupboard at the rear of my living room as he’s terrified that other ghosts might be lurking about in there. Geert is scared of other ghosts. Not for any paranormal reason, he’s just exceptionally shy and socially awkward around them and never knows what to say. Usually he blurts out something stupid and then feels terrible for days.
I will often wake to find Geert in my room. He’s equally terrified of living humans as he is of ghosts but he’s got used to me since I moved in. He still shits himself when I wake him up and he sprints up the stairs screaming, before calming down and remembering that it’s only me. I’m just glad I don’t have guests staying. Trying to explain a screaming ghost running through the flat first thing in the morning might be problematic.
I make Geert a cup of weak tea (just how he likes it) and he trembles as he tells me that he thinks he heard suspicious rustling noises in the spooky cupboard during the night. I explain it was probably mice or rats or wind. In the two years I’ve lived in the flat, I’ve never had so much of a whiff of another ghost. Despite his constant panicking, neither has Geert.
I live in a split level attic flat in Tulse Hill and I was warned that the place might be haunted shortly after I moved in. A neighbour told me that many years ago the flat was owned by a very strict religious loner who preached total sexual abstinence only to tragically drown one night in his own backed up semen in a terrible wet dreaming accident. Some of the neighbours believe his masturbating ghost stalks the area at night and claim to have seen flying ropes of ghostly white jizz speed past their windows.
Geert, however, wasn’t this man. He had only travelled to London after becoming a ghost. He told me that he never travelled much while he was alive so had decided to make up for it in death. He spent a few years roaming around South America, Africa and South East Asia before whizzing around Europe and finally deciding to settle in London. He’d been in the flat for about eighteen months before I moved in.
Geert begs me to check the spooky attic cupboard out to make sure there’s nothing untoward hiding in there. I sigh but reason that it’s better to do so otherwise I’ll have to put up with him whimpering in there all day, which is hugely distracting.
I turn the flickering cupboard light on and tread carefully on the creaky floorboards. The cupboard is quite large, going back a good 8-10 metres and bending round in an L shape. I can hear the faint rustling sound that must have scared Geert. It’s coming from around the bend. I expect it to be mice, which I often hear scampering around beneath the skirting boards. It turns out to be the end of an old 78 record playing on a dusty old gramophone player in the very corner of the spooky cupboard. I had no idea that there was a gramophone player in here. How odd.
I tell Geert what I’ve found. At that exact same moment, the flickering light goes out and the door to the cupboard slams shut. I hear the thud of something hitting the wooden floorboards by the door. It’s the door knob which has fallen off. We’re trapped in the cupboard. Geert starts screaming in terror. Have you ever been stuck in a spooky attic cupboard in pitch blackness with a screaming ghost and an eerie gramophone record playing in the corner? It’s bloody annoying. I have to slap Geert out of it. Finally he shuts up.
We have to stay calm and controlled and get ourselves out of here, I say, fumbling around in the darkness for the doorknob. I spend nearly an hour trying and failing to reattach it so we can free ourselves while Geert sits behind me shaking and mumbling We’re gonna get spunked on by a wanking ghost to himself. Suddenly, it hits me. The realisation, that is, not a dollop of milky ghost fluid.
Geert, mate, I say. You’re a ghost. Surely you can just walk through the closed door and then let me out from the other side?
Oh yes, says Geert. How stupid of me to forget!
Bloody Geert is such a plonker sometimes.
Once freed, I replace the light bulb in the cupboard and take the gramophone player to Cash Converters in Brixton. They give me £75 for it. I give myself the rest of the day off and head across to the Ritzy to see what’s on at the cinema.
Wednesday – I sleep right through my 9.07am alarm this morning but am woken up at 9.15 by terrible flatulence caused by over-indulging on chilli pickled onions last night. It always pays to have a back up alarm. The day gets off to a bad start when I discover that I’ve run out of Advocaat to pour over my morning Weetabix. I can’t face having them with milk so I have to make an early morning trip to the off-license. I hate buying booze first thing in the morning. It makes me look like such an alcoholic. Especially when I can’t make it out of the shop before opening the bottle and taking a few large swigs.
As I return to the flat I spot my neighbour Adam from the ground floor who has just finished his morning run. Adam and I are quite different in character, differences best summed up by the fact that he has been out jogging this morning while I have wolfed nearly half a bottle of Advocaat. I don’t want him to see me with a semi-consumed bottle of booze in my hand so I quickly neck the other half and toss the empty bottle into a neighbour’s garden before he sees me. We exchange neighbourly pleasantries and then he sets out on a long and rather tedious monologue complaining about the number of times he’s had to visit the Royal Mail delivery office to collect parcels because the postie always comes when he and his wife are at work.
I’m on the verge of passing out due to rapid alcohol consumption plus I’m fearing I’m about to be hit with a deluge of first world problems. So I interject and say I’m happy to take his parcels in for him. I think that this good neighbour offer will make me feel less bad about sloping off up the stairs.
Oh great, he says. We’re expecting three deliveries from Amazon today. If you could take those for us, we’d really appreciate it.
No problem, I say and then I go back to bed for a few hours to sleep off the Advocaat binge. I’m woken by another powerful bout of flatulence around midday, which is lucky as it prevents me from sleeping through my front door buzzer which is sounding as I exit the bedroom. I race downstairs just in time to catch the postman who hands me three parcels for the ground floor flat. I take them in and knock on Adam’s door. There’s no answer so I go upstairs to my flat, get a pen and piece of paper and write a note:
Dear Adam, I tried calling to deliver your parcels but you weren’t in so I’ve dropped them at the Royal Mail delivery office. Please call by during the normal opening hours. All the best. Gary
I pop the note under his door and make a trip to the delivery office. It’s a tiring walk so I head back to bed for a few more hours’ sleep when I return home. It’s nearly 8pm when I’m woken up for the third time today by my own grotesque flatulence. I really must ease off on those chilli onions. I exit the bedroom to notice that the front door buzzer is sounding again. I head downstairs and open the front door. It’s Bilinda Butcher, the guitarist from My Bloody Valentine.
I panic. Bilinda lives just a few streets away from me in West Norwood and I fear that she must have seen me repeatedly walking past her house trying to catch a glimpse of her, or heard me in her garden at night pressing my face up against her window trying to peek through the crack in her curtains, or spotted me rummaging through her wheelie bin for discarded song lyrics to try and sell on eBay. But she doesn’t say anything about any of this, instead she produces an acoustic guitar from underneath her enormously oversized woolly jumper and asks if I’m interested in having her perform a private unplugged gig in my flat.
She’s amazed when I say yes, telling me that she’s been wandering the streets for three months with this offer and I’m the first person to know who she is. She explains that she’s doing this to kill time in between MBV albums.
It’s an awful lot of time to kill, she says, and we laugh together knowingly at this little joke before she starts berating Kevin Shields for his perfectionism.
The next one’s been recorded already and he said he’d be a week mixing the guitars. That was in April 2015, she says. Now he’s locked himself in a studio in Cork and is saying it will be mid-2028 at the earliest before it’s ready.
Bilinda tells me she’s excited about playing her songs in their stripped-down acoustic form. It’s how they were originally supposed to sound, she says. MBV started as a folk band but Kevin gradually introduced layer after layer of distorted feedback and before we knew it all the songs were buried beneath this wall of insane noise and the indie music press loved it.
I tell all my London-based friends about the gig in the hope of getting a crowd together, but none of them believe me as I’ve falsely announced that Bilinda Butcher from My Bloody Valentine is gigging in my flat on numerous previous occasions and they’ve all fallen for it at least once.
In the end she has to play to just me. It’s not a great gig to be honest. The unplugged versions of the songs sound flimsy and my recurring flatulence interrupts on several occasions, like some awful heckler. The noise of my wind was so intense, Bilinda said it reminded her of the guitar reverb that usually cloaks their songs. The smell, she said, reminded her of a cheap deodorant that Kevin wore for a brief period in the late 1980s.
I apologise and ask how much I owe her for the performance.
Oh don’t worry about money, I’m doing it for the fun, she says. I tell you what, though. I wouldn’t say no to a Snowball if you’ve got the ingredients.
I tell her I’m sorry but I finished off the last of the Advocaat this morning. She smiles and leaves.
Later that evening, I tell Lazarus about the gig.
Pfft, I prefer the Jesus and Mary Chain myself, he sniffs, but I can tell he’s a bit jealous.
Thursday – I’m up early this morning to go jogging in the park. I do two laps dressed in my giant Donald Duck costume. It’s torture and takes forever. The other joggers in the park stare at me and some make rude remarks. Bloody hypocrites. If people can dress up in these outfits for the London Marathon, then why not for a gentle stroll in the park?
I decide to go for a lie down in a bush and almost doze off but am woken up by a dog, a little King Charles Spaniel, who tries to stick its wet nose underneath my fake duck head.
Hey you, wake up! the dog says. You gotta help me. You see that hipster twat over there?
The dog nods towards a young guy with a ridiculously well-groomed beard, oversized vest, skinny rolled-up jeans and slip-on daps who is busy fiddling with his smartphone.
He’s my owner and he’s an absolute bellend, continued the dog. I need to escape. You look like the sort of nutter who could help. Create a diversion, run up to him in your duck costume, push him over and start swearing at him. While he’s trying to work out what the fuck is going on, I’ll peg it. Which way’s Battersea, by the way?
Although I sympathise with the dog, I say I can’t help. For a start, I feel too shagged out after the jog. I don’t want to risk losing a fight with a hipster in a park while dressed as Donald Duck. Someone’s bound to video it and put it up on YouTube. I don’t want to star in a Hipster Fights Duck viral internet video.
You selfish cowardly bastard, growls the Spaniel and then it urinates all over me. How do you like that, coward? it cries.
Not bothered, I reply, rolling over to get up. It’s water off a duck’s back to me.
I’m really annoyed that there are not more people present to hear this perfectly well-timed pun. There is only this stupid Spaniel and the remark has clearly gone over its head as it doesn’t even acknowledge it. I will probably never be in a position to crack this joke again and it’s been wasted.
I’m still smarting over this when I reach home, plus I now stink of dog piss. The flat is so hot it’s like a furnace. This makes the heat inside the Donald Duck costume unbearable plus it intensifies the stench of the Spaniel slash.
I pass out. When I come round several hours later, a panicking Geert is stood over me. He’s found out about Brexit and is worried about what his rights are as a Dutch national.
Have they said anything about freedom of movement for ghosts? he asks me, looking even paler than usual.
I tell Geert there’s nothing to worry about. After all, how could you possibly stop ghosts getting through border controls? I reassure him that Theresa May has no plans to kick ghosts out of the country, although she is renowned for doing U-turns so you never know. I don’t tell Geert that.
That’s not what it says in here, Geert says and he points to a pile of Daily Express newspapers he’s collected in his spooky attic cupboard.
I ask Geert where he got these papers and he tells me he found them in the recycling bin downstairs.
Don’t believe anything you read in the Daily Express, I yell at Geert. He looks both scared and relieved.
You mean it’s not gonna be the coldest winter in a hundred years? he asks.
No, I say.
Then maybe I’ll turn your heating off again, he says, wandering off towards the kitchen.
It’s a good job that Geert’s got someone like me to look after him, I think to myself as I disrobe from my dog piss-stained Donald Duck costume.
Friday – I’m excited as I’ve got a date this evening with my girlfriend Rosa L. She lives just around the corner from me and we’ve not been together for long. Rosa L and I met in the reduced items aisle of the local supermarket. We both went for the same 49p discounted Tiramisu at the same time. Our eyes met and that was it – we had a blazing row over who spotted it first, screaming and swearing at each other as a small crowd gathered.
Then suddenly it was as if something clicked and I felt as if I’d met my soul mate. She must have been hit with the same realisation at the same moment because suddenly the screaming and swearing turned into snogging and hands up each others’ jumpers. Security kicked us out so we ended up both missing out on the Tiramisu but it didn’t matter – this was a love worth 49p.
Since then we’ve been inseparable, apart from all the time we’ve spent apart, which is often a few days at a time. But we love each other. She’s paranoid that she’s too socially awkward, too uncompromising, too coarse for me. But I tell her these are all the things I look for in a partner. She doesn’t get on too well with Geert though. She dismisses him as a crude face drawn onto a pillow while he always refers to her as ‘that sock puppet’.
Rosa L calls for me at 7 and we head down to the Knowles Bar for a few games of pool. We manage to get a handful of frames in before we hear a cry of I’ll take the both of you on best of five, twenty quid.
It’s Leo The Stump, renowned hustler and nutcase of West Norwood. Despite being only just over two feet tall, Leo The Stump has a fearsome reputation for kicking off in pubs. He’s national champion at jiu jitsu in the under 3 feet category. We don’t want to risk upsetting him so agree to his proposal.
The first four games are shared. Leo is a good player but he needs a bit of help. He’s too short to even see let alone reach the table, so to overcome this he collars random blokes exiting the gents toilets (which are right next to the pool table) to lift him to the table for each shot. It seems that Leo The Stump, despite his carefully cultivated macho image and occasional homophobic comments, likes being handled by an array of male strangers.
Trouble is, most of the men who get cajoled into hoisting Leo into position for his shots clearly haven’t washed their hands after their toilet visits and by the deciding frame he’s become like that bowl of peanuts at the pub bar. Leo The Stump now contains traces of around 15 different types of urine and he’s started to smell like a bad alleyway on a Saturday night. Both Rosa L and I are having to take tissues to our noses and eyes after every shot.
The frame goes all the way to the final black but I crack under the stench and, with my poor aching eyes misting over, miscue right through the cloth. A laughing Leo insists this means that I’ve forfeited the game under pub rules. I don’t want to get into an argument and get my backside kicked so I pay up £20 plus a further £100 to the landlord to get the table re-clothed.
It’s been an expensive night but at least I have my Rosa L. Back at my flat, we kiss.
I love you, I say, stroking my hand across her face.
She gently takes my hand in hers, holds it up to her nose and sniffs.
You shook his hand after the game, didn’t you? she says, screwing up her face and gagging. There’s little point in trying to deny it so I just nod and slope off guiltily towards the shower.
Saturday – It’s the weekend and I have a picnic planned with Rosa L round the back of Norwood Bus Garage. Not the most romantic of locations but fewer wasps and hyperactive children than most parks. The weather looks glorious. We prepare everything and then I pop out to the supermarket to pick up a bottle of champagne while Rosa L gets herself ready.
Downstairs in the hallway I bump into Gladys, my 82-year-old neighbour on the ground floor. Gladys is a dear old lady with a very active sex life for an octogenarian. I can sometimes hear the moans and groans emanating from two floors below if she’s getting a particularly good seeing to.
If you’re going to the supermarket, can you do me a favour? she asks. Can you pick me up a couple of packets of condoms? I’ve got a date from that Tinder at three.
Gladys licks her lips at the thought of her impending date and her eyes glaze over as she thinks about all the things she might get up to. I agree to do this for her. I’m all for doing my bit to promote safe sex among the elderly.
Get me those new Werther’s Original flavour ones they’ve just brought out for older lovers, she shouts at me as I go out the door.
The supermarket has its usual Saturday morning queues and I tut to myself as I sling a bottle of bubbly in my basket and make my way to the condoms aisle. They have quite a varied selection but no Werther’s.
Excuse me, do you have any of these in Werther’s Original flavour? I ask a passing assistant and cringe as she looks at me like I’m someone who likes getting fellated by pensioners.
We’ve sold out, she says. They’re only currently available in one of our stores in a parallel universe.
Oh right, I say. Is that far from here?
Third aisle on the left, past the biscuits, there’s a sign saying ‘gateway to another dimension’. Just go through it, she says, walking off.
I head past the biscuits and sure enough, there’s a sign saying ‘gateway to another dimension’ and sure enough, I walk through and I’m in what looks like the same supermarket only slightly different. None of the boxes of cereal or jars of piccalilli are trying to talk to me, and the place is filled with horny pensioners queueing up with baskets full of Werther’s Original condoms.
I reach the condom shelf and to my relief there are two boxes left. I grab them, join the queue and get pawed multiple times by randy old ladies who think I’m game once they clock my purchase. Finally I’m done and slip back through the gateway, finding myself next to the biscuit selection once more.
The only thing I don’t understand is it’s nearly sunset. The supermarket assistant from before sees me. You found it then, she says.
Yeah but I spoke to you about ten minutes ago. Why is it half a day later?
You lose eight hours transitioning between the dimensions, the assistant tells me. Sorry, I should have explained that.
I race back to the flat. Gladys is not happy with me. She says she had to do it without protection and tells me I’ll have to help her bring up the baby if she ends up pregnant. I’m more concerned with letting Rosa L down on the picnic but she’s fine.
You went all the way to another universe just to help an old lady? That’s really sweet of you, she says, kissing me on the lips. We crack open the champagne and have a mini-picnic at the flat.
Sunday – It’s the day of the Lambeth Festival in Brockwell Park but the day starts badly when I fall out with Rosa L over a Subbuteo argument after breakfast. I win the game 3-0 but then discover that her goalie had accepted a bribe to lose the match. Organised crime within the Subbuteo community has got really bad. The problem started when the Subbuteo manufacturers started producing little organised criminal figures as a game accessory and now they regularly infiltrate and interfere with play, tempting vulnerable players with backhanders.
Rosa L swears that she didn’t know anything about the deal and she bites the head off her goalie to prove it, saying that’s the last dodgy deal that he will ever be involved in as she spits the little decapitated head out onto the pitch cloth. She then reminds me that one of my centre forwards was once banned for six months for taking drugs so I’m hardly in a position to lecture. This really annoys me as she knows it was an unfair ban. He had taken medication for Attention Deficit Disorder and had not been aware that it contained a banned ingredient. Rosa L and I have a blazing row and she storms out.
This means I end up going to the festival on my own, which I have no problem with. I’ll sort things out with Rosa L later. We have these silly disagreements every now and then. I arrive at the festival, which is a free community event with all sorts of fun and games going on, and the weather is glorious. I immediately drink three pints of sweet cider at the scrumpy tent and then I find myself talking to this mysterious woman who is running a stall called Rebel Chutney. She obviously thinks I’m an interested punter and launches into her pitch about how she’s trying to overhaul the image of chutney and jam as these cozy middle-class things.
She shows me a tattoo on her midriff of radical feminist Shulamith Firestone and tells me it’s the fault of the patriarchy that jam and chutney have ended up so mumsy.
Here, try this beast. It will blow your mind, she says, passing me a square of pitta bread with a raspberry-scented dollop on it. As I gulp it down, she whispers in my ear, It’s got opium in it.
I space out for possibly a few hours after consuming the drug jam and when I come to, I’m in some relaxation zone. There’s a sweet smelling aroma in the air and a weird guy practising Tai Chi in front of me. I go to speak but it takes ages for the words to come out. My brain feels like it’s half asleep. In fact, everything has slowed right down. I realise it’s the effects of the opium. Then I realise that the guy in front of me isn’t doing Tai Chi at all. My spaced out brain has slowed his movements down and he’s actually being attacked by several wasps and is frantically trying to fend them off. That explains why he’s screaming.
A really slow-speaking security guy in a hi-viz jacket is trying to say something to me but it’s taking ages.
Wwwhhhhyyyyyy ddiiiiiiiiiiiiddd yyyyoooooouuuuuuuuuuuu ttthhhhrrroowwww jjjaaaaammmm aatttttt hhhhhiiiiiiiimm?????????
I struggle to decipher this but then I piece it together. The sweet smell in the air, the empty jar in my hand.
Why did you throw jam at him?
Now the wasp attack begins to make sense and I can see that the guy is covered head to toe in a sticky dark red gel which the stripey little bastards are gorging on. I don’t recall doing this and I feel terrible. Those wasps are gonna be as stoned as hell.
It was better when I thought he was doing Tai Chi, I mumble, slowly.
Later I stretch out on the grass in front of the stage and soak up the vibes of the dub reggae floating from the sound system. I hear a buzzing behind me and it’s the stoned wasps arriving to enjoy the dub, having caned the opium jam that I lobbed over the Tai Chi bloke. They all land on my shoulders. Normally I’d freak out at this but the spacey dub vibes make it impossible to go mental, plus the gonked out wasps are too enthralled by the music to get nasty. They all nod their little heads along to the sounds. One of them says, this is some good shit. I can’t believe I’m bonding with wasps. Then a passing hippie hands me a joint which I share with the wasps and everything feels perfect and full of love.
There will be a time in the distant future where humans have evolved to a point where there are no divisions. No nation-states, no social hierarchies, no gender inequalities, where millennia of international travel and inter-cultural mingling eradicates ethnic difference and we are all the same colour mixed race. We will have surpassed capitalism and mastered gene therapy and there will be no wars, no incurable disease and no death. We will have reached the end of fragilty and stupidity. Advanced genetic engineering coupled with breakthroughs in thermonuclear science will mean that human lifespans outlast the time it takes to reach the furthest parts of outer space and we will be able to explore the galaxy together, find new homes for our species and cheat the eventual violent death of the sun to live happily ever after.
Either that or we’ll wipe ourselves out in the near future through our greed, ignorance and stupidity. Could go either way really. But our generation will be long gone by then, having wasted all our time arguing on the internet and being mis-sold PPI. What a bummer.
I feel a tap on the shoulder. I think it’s one of the wasps jumping up and down but it’s Rosa L. She sits down next to me and slips something into my hand. It’s one of the Subbuteo organised crime figures in handcuffs.
I fixed it so there’s no more match-fixing, she says as she kisses me on the cheek and rests her head down on my shoulder where she is immediately stung on the side of the face by five wasps.