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[One of a series of extracts from Leon Blackwell’s notorious autobiography “Evens”. The diary of Old Lynn’s most revered psychopath.]
(Appendix I pages)
Random Bar Room Meanderings…
A few weeks after my Mother died, I was hit with a blunt, painfully obvious observation. I was completely and utterly alone. Without any companion to call my friend or acquaintance. Gaunt, pale and nothing. Looking in the same old mirror behind the same old bar, in the same old pub, with a burning self-hatred that’s so familiar, it’s practically a close relative. What am I doing here?
Such is death. As in the “small deaths” we cope with on a regular basis, some by our own sword, some not. Not much to look forward to tomorrow, except a cheap haircut (nothing like the smell of balsalm in the morning).
You see, human beings essentially need each other to continue their existences. But what happens if the one person that you were close to dies? And what if you don’t feel very human at all, in any case?
Nothing happens – you just exist. And hog the oxygen on a day-to-day basis. I get catharsis through ending lives and writing in my journals, but maybe I don’t want catharsis tonight – there must be other things I could be doing with my life.
I once thought of a great idea for a business; “A library with a drinks license”. Simple. Ever want to drink bourbon as you read Kerouac? Now you can. Fancy a double Archers with an Archer? I practically insist. Imagine a vodka bender as you read Irvine Welsh (of all people). Guaranteed a post-closing time punch-up. You’d get existentialists with their bottles of Newcy in one corner. Get romanticists with their sherry in another. The name of such an establishment? I wanted to call it ‘Pompous Pricks’, but my friends begged to differ.
Ah. My “friends”. Good bunch. Salt of the Earth (or any other condiment you care to mention). Haven’t seen them much lately, to be honest. Too busy being selfish. As we all are when we first get a sweet taste of companionship with someone who rocks our world of lonely bitterness, and injects a healthy dose of love and passion into the mix. Compare that to talking to your friends about the hobbies of glamour models, who could resist the former? If only ______ knew how I felt about her. About how her radiant smile reaches out of the photographs I have of her, and clasps onto my needy heart.
“Downward Spiral”, “Ever Decreasing Circles”, “Round The Bend”, etc. etc. Why is it always circular? Why can’t I feel oblong tonight? Yes. That’s it. A worrying case of incompatible shapes is happening in this bar. Everyone else here seems to be bulging circles of self-absorption. And I’m an oblong. NO. Screw that. I’m an hypotamuse. We clearly don’t fit together. Listening to these people’s petty conversations in this infernal place, I can’t help but feel envious. Why can’t I get enjoyment from sitting in a bar and talking about old cars? A cranky old Ford Fiesta? I’ll have a double. A classic model of Capri? Ooh, I think I’ve spotted a real ale pump. Am I a “Pompous Prick”? Maybe. I certainly don’t get erections from hearing about dodgy carburetors.
So what does a Pompous Prick like to talk about in pubs and bars across the land? Nothing. We probably all prefer to stick our pronounced noses in our drinks and quaff to good health, with our smouldering self-hatred burning brightly eternal.
A few weeks after my Mother died, I was hit with a blunt, painfully obvious observation. I was completely and utterly alone. Without any companion to call my friend or acquaintance. Gaunt, pale and nothing. Looking in the same old mirror behind the same old bar, in the same old pub, with a burning self-hatred that’s so familiar, it’s practically a close relative. What am I doing here?
Such is death. As in the “small deaths” we cope with on a regular basis, some by our own sword, some not. Not much to look forward to tomorrow, except a cheap haircut (nothing like the smell of balsalm in the morning).
You see, human beings essentially need each other to continue their existences. But what happens if the one person that you were close to dies? And what if you don’t feel very human at all, in any case?
Nothing happens – you just exist. And hog the oxygen on a day-to-day basis. I get catharsis through ending lives and writing in my journals, but maybe I don’t want catharsis tonight – there must be other things I could be doing with my life.
I once thought of a great idea for a business; “A library with a drinks license”. Simple. Ever want to drink bourbon as you read Kerouac? Now you can. Fancy a double Archers with an Archer? I practically insist. Imagine a vodka bender as you read Irvine Welsh (of all people). Guaranteed a post-closing time punch-up. You’d get existentialists with their bottles of Newcy in one corner. Get romanticists with their sherry in another. The name of such an establishment? I wanted to call it ‘Pompous Pricks’, but my friends begged to differ.
Ah. My “friends”. Good bunch. Salt of the Earth (or any other condiment you care to mention). Haven’t seen them much lately, to be honest. Too busy being selfish. As we all are when we first get a sweet taste of companionship with someone who rocks our world of lonely bitterness, and injects a healthy dose of love and passion into the mix. Compare that to talking to your friends about the hobbies of glamour models, who could resist the former? If only ______ knew how I felt about her. About how her radiant smile reaches out of the photographs I have of her, and clasps onto my needy heart.
“Downward Spiral”, “Ever Decreasing Circles”, “Round The Bend”, etc. etc. Why is it always circular? Why can’t I feel oblong tonight? Yes. That’s it. A worrying case of incompatible shapes is happening in this bar. Everyone else here seems to be bulging circles of self-absorption. And I’m an oblong. NO. Screw that. I’m an hypotamuse. We clearly don’t fit together. Listening to these people’s petty conversations in this infernal place, I can’t help but feel envious. Why can’t I get enjoyment from sitting in a bar and talking about old cars? A cranky old Ford Fiesta? I’ll have a double. A classic model of Capri? Ooh, I think I’ve spotted a real ale pump. Am I a “Pompous Prick”? Maybe. I certainly don’t get erections from hearing about dodgy carburetors.
So what does a Pompous Prick like to talk about in pubs and bars across the land? Nothing. We probably all prefer to stick our pronounced noses in our drinks and quaff to good health, with our smouldering self-hatred burning brightly eternal.
Which brings us full circle – or full hypotamuse if you like. What AM I doing here, in the arse-end of nowhere in fucking Cracktown? Trying to find myself? I found that already, and tossed it into the floods. To relax maybe? Perhaps. If so, I am failing; I am not relaxed in the slightest. Just scared.
Yes, I’m scared. Scared of the future. I used to detest all concepts of the future so much, it was a mortal enemy that needed a good kicking. Now I fear it. To be precise, I fear this loneliness is a permanent fixture of my life to be. Even if I get caught for my dark deeds and suffer the indignity of prison, sharing space with some like-minded sociopaths. My loneliness will still go on.
That’s my fear.
The horror.
Yes, I’m scared. Scared of the future. I used to detest all concepts of the future so much, it was a mortal enemy that needed a good kicking. Now I fear it. To be precise, I fear this loneliness is a permanent fixture of my life to be. Even if I get caught for my dark deeds and suffer the indignity of prison, sharing space with some like-minded sociopaths. My loneliness will still go on.
That’s my fear.
The horror.
***********
“Evens” is available from all good bookshops now.
ISBN 1010 2020 1010 0102
£6.99 paperback.
ISBN 1010 2020 1010 0102
£6.99 paperback.
