My wanky life

the end

noreply@blogger.com (Justin Ditler) — Mon, 25 Oct 2010 13:46:00 +0000

It is unfortunate that Alice met Stacy. Alice kicking me in the balls at school today was a rather petty act. So now it turns out that none of Alice's friends are speaking to me, nor any of Stacy's friends, and - it seems - not even friends of Stacy's friends. Which accounts for pretty much the whole year.

Nietzsche said that a certain intellect must live amongst ice and mountains. An entirely cerebral consideration. xxxxxxxxxx tells me she is engaged to the motorcycle guy.

I shall relish living in these lofty and desolate climes, far above Alice and Stacy and xxxxxxxxxx, not to mention Jive Bunny and Kevin Costner. I will listen to the House of Love album. My testicles must stop aching soon. I shall write no more.

tofu

noreply@blogger.com (Justin Ditler) — Mon, 04 Oct 2010 20:38:00 +0000

I copy here Stacy's mum's earnest poem about tofu:

milk of a bean
tofu
blank canvas of taste
tofu

tofu is good for you

No cows died
in the making of
tofu
No marriages breaking
due to tofu
Nobody shaking
in fear of tofu

No-one was shot
with guns of tofu
Nobody knocked
out or stunned for tofu
No-one was stopped
by grenades of tofu

protein
bouncy
have a good chew
tofu is good for you

No stockbrokers are staking
it all on tofu
No heroin addicts are taking
tofu
The doers of evil: forsaking
tofu
It's moving, it's shaking
The charts it is breaking
Everyone waking
up to tofu
Sales are through the roof
of tofu
Everyone feeling the truth
of tofu
You're the gin in my vermouth
tofu;
yes you,
tofu.

Let's hear it for tofu - hooray!
Lets hear it for tofu today.

wanky medley

noreply@blogger.com (Justin Ditler) — Sun, 03 Oct 2010 14:13:00 +0000

Who would have thought that Jive Bunny - a disrhythmic holiday camp DJ with a Bontempi mixing desk and the attention span of an infant - would have not one but two number 1s with their unbearable medleys?

Chas n Dave were reported to be "astounded" by Jive Bunny's DJ skills

Anyhow, my ten year old sister plays their latest single about thirty times a day (I suppose it's like musical chairs without the boring silences) which means she listens to two minutes of Eddie Cochran and three of Bill Haley a day, but this does not dissuade me from giving the class gerbil a vinyl treat. It has no taste either - it happily gnawed a sizeable chunk.

Unfortunately, the gerbil's digestive system unexpectedly showed some class and took umbrage. In other words, I appear to have killed the thing. I put it in a corner of the cage and half-covered it in sawdust. She's taking it back to school tomorrow so that should be okay. If she says anything, I'll just suggest it has started hibernating.

finishing alice

noreply@blogger.com (Justin Ditler) — Wed, 29 Sep 2010 16:45:00 +0000

"Well, Mr Snuggles," I say to a waistcoated hedgehog, in a sing-song baby voice that makes me want to throttle myself, "I think we have real star quality here in Alice." I pick up a different toy. "But how, Tobias Turtle, are we going to get her properly out of her shell?"

Alice's explanation of the Electromagnetic Spectrum differs from Einstein's

Marilyn Monroe, I tell her, was just a girl from the country to begin with. At my place over the last few days, I've been corrupting Alice with VHS. And we've been to see Batman. I've even (risky) taken her to the Curzon to see a Truffaut film. I get her to take the ribbon out of her hair and wear it down. I encourage her to make sexy starlet poses.

Then I tell her my cousin is a film-maker. I say I've told him all about her: Her...freshness, her vivaciousness, her individuality, (her gawky retard version of a 'come hither' look), her joie de vivre. I think I can get her a screen test. I can't promise anything beyond that. Truth is, she'd been simmering for a while before I came along. She was ready to melt.

Back at base, her virginity overcome, I feel obliged to complete the job and get her that screen test. I've just been on the phone to an 80 Marlboro voice from "Wet n Wild Films". She's booked in for next Tuesday.

more wanky poetry

noreply@blogger.com (Justin Ditler) — Sat, 25 Sep 2010 11:52:00 +0000

Stacy's mum's first draft of her love poem to her boyfriend, Roger.

They have all set sail
For other shores
And here am I
a smuggler's cove
worn to dust
A wide expanse
A sad beach

They plundered me
and I thought
I was a wreck

until you came
with your smart parley
and your charm to the britches
with eyes that spoke honesty

and now we have cleared up
that misunderstanding
about your secretary
and the cleaner
and the girl next door
and the au pair
and Judith
(Silly me! but you know how it looked
with her in only her bra)
and the interior designer I forget her name
and that lying cow from the Drum and Bush
and Alison
and Phoebe
and the girl from the newsagents

I realise
I have found a good man
at last.

alice

noreply@blogger.com (Justin Ditler) — Wed, 22 Sep 2010 22:50:00 +0000

Alice is new to the sixth form, just moved from a tiny village. I think she has only ever read about towns in a book. She's never seen them on TV - they don't have one.

Alice believes all thoughts turn into butterflies

I've decided to take her under my wing. I took her around some of the sights, booking in the process a backstage pass to her bedroom, a place so frilly and virginal it would make Laura Ashley puke.

Alice introduced me to her teddy bears individually. I shit you not. Introductions over, I told her that there was something special about her, that she had a freshness, something different, a real aura, presence, a stellar personality... if only she cast off her shyness. I told her that I was in awe of her, charmed, captivated.

She looked at me in amazement with her big blue saucer eyes, never blinking once. Tongue tennis and a squeeze of her breast is a start. She's a work in progress.

wanky diddler

noreply@blogger.com (Justin Ditler) — Sun, 19 Sep 2010 09:00:00 +0000

I didn't mind camping with Stacy, or her mong friend Simon, since Stacy was supplying the drugs and Simon the four-person tent. Trish, however, turned out to be intolerable.

Her babygurgling over every creature as "kur-YEWWT" (duckies/ickle sparrows/puppy with adORAbibble eyesiwies/birdiekins having an ickle bathy-wath) was bad but dismissable,

Cute lambs. After the first hundred thousand, the novelty starts to wear off.

her jolly insistence on a game of I-Spy during the slightest moment's silence was annoying but bearable, her half-hearted non-effort in putting up the tent or washing up or collecting firewood was infuriating but overcomeable, her enthusiastic squelchy masturbation each night was nearly as amusing as it was awkward, and her treatment of Simon as non-existent was merely an accurate reflection of his charismatic presence (and, in fact, it was her one redeeming point: her non-exchanges with Simon and his subsequent annoyance providing a little amusement). But the endless mentions of Gerald near drove me to murder.

A Trish story about Gerald would be cued by almost any mundane event, such as rain, and would proceed as follows:

"This reminds me of the time I was camping with Gerald. And it started to rain. Well, wouldyoubelieveit he touched the side of the tent even though I told him not to and we got wet. Then we did something, I don't remember... O yes that's right: We played I-Spy with my little eye something beginning with w which was water and that is so Gerald well we laughed and laughed it was so funny I tell you that's Gerald all over."

Gerald (Artist's impression)

Her Gerald stories would end with her donkey porn laugh and there would be a nanosecond of silence before she told another Gerald story, most of which involve I-Spy; or she would suggest a game of I-Spy here and now. One day she was going to put all her Gerald stories in a book, and everyone would buy a copy, and then, having read one to two stories, swallow their own eyeballs to prevent themselves accidentally reading any more.

Day six, and we were driving through the village of Big Shitting, which is distinguised from Little Shitting by the fact it has a large shop cum post office. "Aww look at the ker-YEWT ickle lambikins" said Trish, not for the first time, as we passed a field identical to a thousand others. Trish had to stop to get a stamp and post a letter (I think it was literally one letter) to or about Gerald - who was on a French exchange or got shot during the 1919 uprising or was tragically crushed by a camel while liberating the arabs.

Trish went into the large shop while we waited in the car. After a couple of minutes I said "I spy with my little eye something begin with F."

"Freedom!" I shouted, while accelerating out of there.

Stacy wouldn't talk to me for fifteen minutes.

wanky trip

noreply@blogger.com (Justin Ditler) — Sun, 12 Sep 2010 02:48:00 +0000

So I passed my driving test. Some mong friend of Stacy's asks if I will take him for a ride. Stacy can't come because she's crocheting bodywarmers for orphaned ladybirds.

I'm actually quite happy to drive around for as long as he wants, so when he says he wants to take some acid that's okay by me. I make sure I am driving very slowly past Highgate Cemetery when he's coming up. When we hit town again I turn the radio on and wait for the news.

		"Shit. Oh my fucking god." I half-scream, "Can you believe that?" "Believe what?" "We're at war with Russia. Perestroika, Glasnost... it was all a trick. Gorbachev - You bastard." "What?"

"Weren't you listening to the news? Yeah. It's all fucked, man."
I lean back and hit the steering wheel hard.
"SHIT!"
"Calm down, dude." he says
"Calm down? Calm down? The Russians, dude. War!"
"Really?"
"We could have just minutes left," I say, "Everything you see - all the cars all the shops, this carriageway, this car, us... it could all be dust by nine o' clock... Shit!"

We stop at the lights.

"Buddy, do me a favour," I say, "Just give me a quick hug, will you? Good to know you. Really. I'm sorry."

I pull away from the lights and let that sink in for a bit. I glance at him. He's frantically chewing a shoe lace. He's still wearing the shoe.
"There's only one thing to do" I say eventually.
His eyes are popping out of his head now. He's at Defcon One.
"What? WHAT??!!"
"Drive to Las Vegas" (We're in Stoke Newington now).
"Yeah!"
"The spinning wheel! Round and round! Yeah! Faster! Faster!"
"Yeah! Wooo!"
"We'll put it all on red."
He looks worried again.
"Why red?"
"Your blood."
"What? What about my blood?"
"It's turning black."
He's clawing at his skin.
"WHAAT?"
"It's okay. Don't freak. We'll just put it all on black instead. We can't lose."
"Oh. Of course."

Oh yes. We've got all night, my lovely. All night.

no wanky elephant

noreply@blogger.com (Justin Ditler) — Fri, 10 Sep 2010 14:04:00 +0000

Saw xxxxxxxxxx today. She was with the motorbike guy. He's so gormless. They're an accident waiting to happen. She said it was nice to see me. Was it? It's not as if I was spinning plates or making an elephant disappear. Did she mean that my mere image on her retina causes her mild pleasure? If so, why is she with the motorbike guy?

If I could make an elephant disappear, I would disappear it up the motorbike guy's arse. I'd like that. Not a lot...

I'd send Paul Daniels there too. And all the evils of the world. Jim Bowen. Jim Davidson. Stan Boardman. Tarby. Nice to see you to see you nice. At least Brucie will be dead by the end of the century.

wanky birthday to you

noreply@blogger.com (Justin Ditler) — Wed, 08 Sep 2010 10:38:00 +0000

If your mum is a hippy, you don't get a Mega Drive for your birthday. Some jewellery made of bat guano, perhaps? A giant bean curd patty? Well, Stacy got a poem. She had said she quite liked the thought of a poem, but once she had read it she left it on the table and went off crying to her room.

In a way it was so you
To be pushing on my bladder
Kicking me from inside

But I embraced the natural
way of the cosmos
You put me in touch with
the agony-ridden she-wolf
and the sadness of the moon

I pictured the face of Ganesh
As I pushed you from my uterus

You were angry
wrinkled
blue
covered in
cheese

but I
forgave you

I see you now
and think of
that sickly bug-eyed pale thing
suckling my teat

and I wish
your hair would behave

but you are more
than looks
to me

The megadrive Stacy didn't get for her birthday

wanky moon

noreply@blogger.com (Justin Ditler) — Sun, 05 Sep 2010 18:46:00 +0000

The moon hung heavy over Camden Town. It was a night to lighten with alcohol. Stacy was fawning over me and introducing me to some people made of wool. She told them I was her boyfriend. All I had said to her was I would stay the night (Her mum was away), on the condition that she burned no joss-sticks. Some ridiculously lusty but crusty farmer girl who I wanted immediately to wash at low temperature (although I certainly was not inclined to handle with care) was telling us how we made a lovely couple.

The moon

I knocked the edges off this low-soap world with shots of vodka until even the farmer girl didn't seem too badly in need of a bath. Somehow I wandered off down the canal and she was there too and then we were fucking by the side of the lock. Once wasn't enough for her, and I couldn't smell anything after eight or nine shots, so we went on a fucking tour of the borough's squares and graveyards. If there was a bush and a patch of a grass, we fucked there. Every time we crawled out of the bushes, the full moon was there, now not so heavy but rather like one of her full creamy breasts, reminding me to forget all about Stacy and do it again at the next bush.

I don't know how late it was by the time she leapt onto a night bus. Now alone, I remembered I was staying at Stacy's. When I got to her hippy hovel there was no answer. Her front door has a stained glass panel, of The Great Elephant Giving Birth To The Universe (or something), so I knocked a piece of glass through. It smashed pleasantly on the hall floor. I pushed my hand through the elephant's womb up to the wrist but I still couldn't quite reach the lock. After a few minutes I gave up.

This morning, Stacy called round. She said someone had tried to break into her house before she got back from the pub. She was worried and wished I was there. I told her it's okay I'm here now, and not to bother calling the police because it was obviously just some opportunist.

wanky bands

noreply@blogger.com (Justin Ditler) — Thu, 02 Sep 2010 11:29:00 +0000

Saw a few bands at the Highbury Garage last night. Most of them were forgettable shapes in T-Shirts singing about how floppy their fringe was. The only notable ensemble were called Manic Street Preachers. A bunch of Welsh boys all punked up. Punk and glam. Lots of eyeliner. Well, sort of a cross between punk and glam and Mrs Slocombe:

I liked their attitude. They were sneering at the other bands (Actually, maybe it's just because they've never seen non-Welsh people before) and they jumped about the stage like they were the best band ever. They have one really good song, about a motorbike.

The lead singer said they were the only "real" band there. Maybe so, but in some hilarious alternate reality of their worst nightmare they'll sell out and end up as a blue-jeaned stadium pop band. A Welsh Simple Minds, raking in the cash with anthems that fit well to DIY adverts. Music to buy a sofa to. That kind of thing.

Not likely, but amusing to imagine.

pisces*

noreply@blogger.com (Justin Ditler) — Wed, 01 Sep 2010 01:54:00 +0000

When I was ten our teacher, who had the kind of craft earrings that set off alarms in rational minds at five leagues distance, asked us to write horoscopes. My parents were called into the school over my entry for Pisces. I'll just give you the summary: "...All in all, it's such a bad time for Pisces you might as well kill yourself."

Like many people, my teacher could not distinguish healthy satire from genuine advice. As it turned out, she was a Pisces.

Hippies. Never were a good idea, and never will be.

* Esperanto for "wanky"

wanky shit

noreply@blogger.com (Justin Ditler) — Mon, 30 Aug 2010 10:58:00 +0000

The word is out that Stacy and I are an item. It doesn't matter that the word is Robert Plant's ugly lovechild's lie. The word automatically makes me a dealer by default. Can I get Darren Harvey an eighth? Of course I can. My sister is looking after the class gerbil. A few of its pellet-like droppings in one of those little plastic draw bags and I have a generous eighth of exotic to sell.

Darren Harvey wanted to smoke a joint when he came round to pick it up, but I told him my mum would be back soon and it was pretty strong smelling stuff. I advised him to eat a pellet instead.

"It doesn't taste so good, so try to swallow it whole" I said.

By the time we had listened to Fool's Gold 10.59 (12 inch) he was feeling very stoned.

"This is good shit" he beamed, showing a speck of brown on his teeth.
"I know."

I walked with him to the tube station, as I was going that way. He didn't tell me he was meeting Karen Plower there. They kissed passionately. Good for them.

I hope they got completely shitfaced.

wanky costner

noreply@blogger.com (Justin Ditler) — Wed, 25 Aug 2010 21:04:00 +0000

Yesterday, I went with a load of people to watch Field of Wank. I only went because Karen Plower is fit.

The premise of the film was that if baseball fields were built on all the farms, obliterating perfectly good crop fields, America could sustain itself on baseball, nostalgia, and regurgitated hotdog. This is probably true.

Kevin Colostomy starts hearing voices, and because there are no psychiatrists in Iowa and they believe in hick voodoo, everyone comes down to his Psychofarm and watches ghosts play rounders. Meanwhile, Darth Vader has retired and settled down in the countryside with his phone off the hook. Killing the Emperor sent him too much the other way, and he is now some crumby phoney hack writer. The subplot is that Colostomy stalks him until his brain bleeds and he agrees to write another crumby phoney book if Colostomy will fuck off.

In the end, everyone goes back to the thirties and dies in a giant dust storm.

I'd rather fuck a blender on full power than ever watch shit like that again. I hope Colostomy drowns. Actually, I hope he almost drowns but survives, goes broke, and ends up in obscurity working as a postman. Ha, I'm a sick motherfucker.

Apparently, xxxxxxxxxx likes it. Another reason to hope she dies. Karen Plower cleverly missed most of the film by spending the majority of it swapping tonsils with that prick Darren Harvey.

a wanky saturday

noreply@blogger.com (Justin Ditler) — Tue, 24 Aug 2010 20:05:00 +0000

By Justin Ditler.

July 1989.

I was listening to Joy Division and staring out the window at the dirty grey cloud over the roofs of Camden, but I got bored so I phoned up Stacy, who is a bit of a hippy, to score a teenth.

Her light green scratchy sofa bulged with cheapness. She was wearing some kind of horrible waistcoat I swear made of the same material over her unclean yellow T-Shirt. I swear she was listening to fucking Donovan. She just plays her mum's records; they all have this bubble writing in shitty blue or green or faded yellow. All the instruments are organic I shit you not.

Stacy was taking a whole concept album about some hippy farm in Bulgaria (I shit you not) to roll a spliff. She has noticeable eczema. She was packing the resin in with a biro and talking some shit about how much she loved the first joint of the day. She had on one of those 100% artificial smiles that no hippy would eat, ironically. Like she was chewing a coathanger, exposing her gums like she had no shame. The laugh came about two seconds behind the smile, just a little fart of a laugh, like she repeated some mungy bean growing in her sad hippy stomach.

Anyway she finally got the fucking thing lit, and she was smiling like a space cadet and waving the spliff around, looking like Robert Plant's ugly lovechild, going on and on about this fucking ashram she grew up (was molested) in. Eventually she passes the j to me, and now she's gurgling about how draw makes her horny. Well, we get about three quarters of the way through when she makes some spastic playpunch move that ends in her stroking my arm like she's seeing kittens in it.

So she blurts about how much she loves blowjobs and giving blowjobs, and then I have this fucking hippy sucking me off on this nursery school sofa in her mum's general nightmare living room that might have been designed by Donovan himself in collaboration with a French teacher and the gang from Rainbow. Yellow is not fucking mellow, mister, and purple and green rags thrown over shit don't help in the fucking slightest.

We used to have a little dog called Terence. It would jump into your lap when it was wet, all stinking and shaking its curls madly like a flid at a rave. One day I threw it off too hard and it broke on the wall. I had to take it outside and lay it in the road and wait for a car to run it over.

“Shall we have another spliff, now?” she smiled at me all goggle-eyed. What a wanky saturday. I need to find a new dealer. I think I might be gay (now).