It has indeed been a fucking long time. Why? Why has your barman left you without service for so long? I've had time to defy or gain employment with governments, gangsters or grocers, find a wife, hide from her husband, get into mischief, bed or debt with just about anybody. The sorry and perhaps vaguely predictable truth is that Pete, Debs and I have been rotten drunk and just about as indolent and careless with our pocketful of remaining days as a summer can make you. What is it Mr Camus said? In the midst of winter, I found there was in me an invincible summer. That's the twentieth century for you. We're in Science Fiction now.
Just last week the Rachel was walking in the gardens. For days the moon's been yellow and dull, this year the summer's fresh for the season, the days growing and getting light.
"She's the jewel lodged in my crown, cut through my forehead now the heist has gone down, pretty, pretty dangerous and determined to take a piece of me with her."
Fuck. Sounds as though Mr Once-A-Month is awake again. Last night he told the barman about true love and your barman explained the minds of women for applause and whisky. We have a lanky motherfucker from the best little chain pub in the whole of Reading should be paying attention right now. My thinking on women's minds? Sorry, thought you asked. Still, here it is. Women don't think. Woah! Calm the fuck down Toots! Thinking's shit. It's all some of my regulars do. No, what I mean is women dream. The whole fantastic, narrative, technicolour, intoxicating dance of whispers, lies, laughter and hopes kind of whirls about in them like dreams. When the gentlemen here are thrown on their flats and gutters, all the thoughts they've had instead of working through the day get jumbled and dance in their heads. For women, things are exagerrated and stunning and moving and beautiful and confusing during the day. Men get this when they drink, this is why a good drunk can soar with a joke, swell a story, sing like a crazy cunt and rust their spectacles at the sight of a woman laughing. When women drink, of course, it's fucking madness. I'd like to come back as a woman, if I wouldn't miss being bewildered so much.
If you've missed any redecorations, rummageThe Cellar, and make sure you're on the mailing list so you don't miss out again. Or don't. There must be something more interesting to do with your time. A Way With Words Divorce Haiku You know what, Toots? You can actually buy Mike's Place t-shirts and mugs. Imagine that! Get yer credit card out and find out what's in our dodgy lock-up.
Now get out of here. We're not that fond of you.
�Where the fuck is he?� she mutters at her telephone. The answermachine keeps its own counsel. I should know.
�He�s always banging on about fucking summer days, times he wishes he�d shared, Mike.�
Of course Mr Once-A-Month was in the bar, chewing musical grist with some raincoat rogue.
�So why�s Eleanor Rigby in Revolver, then? By that reasoning, it should be on Sgt. Pepper.�
�I�m off, squire. Got to ruin a reputation, polish my own, that sort of thing.�
Rachel picks through the darkness of the bar like it�s sticking to her face.
�Hey, what are you doing down here? It�s two o�clock.�
Your barman looks at her, confused, not understanding the question.
�Just staying healthy, baby," says Mr Once-A-Month. Sunlight gives you cancer nowdays.�
He reckons you can be besotted all you want. You can fucking worship someone and feel physical pain when they scowl, they cry, they don't laugh at yer jokes. Like our trenchcoated mentor put it, you can be ready to "swim through a river of shit just to suck the cock of the last man that fucked her." Romantic old yellow-eyed wolverine that he is. Fact is, though, unless it's coming back on you, unless they want you like you want them, or at least close enough, you'll never get the big daft secret that marks out love.
I pointed out that the only person he confides in these days is me, and Pete's liable to escort into the river guys who drop the matches in this bar, dig?
We're always here. Just be glad you only visit. Why not whisper over the bar?
Right, kid. Two poems and we're off. The first is by Steve Turner, and will be removed if he notices and complains.
Had a way with words.
Seduced them from braincells
had them falling at his lips.
Had a way with women.
Spoke them like a language,
saw them understood.
And the words
worked on the women
and the women
turned into the words.
He had a way with
women and words
words and women,
although words never failed him.
This next one's from an Oxford correspondent, and is called
"You're less difficult.
You don't leave me so breathless."
"Oh, I will," she said.