Grip

'This is Guy. Strictly speaking cognomens aren't en vouge yet. But we're the elite here.'

It was Nathan

'M. Guida Pal. Cicero actually. Nova Roman you know.' The heavy gold bracelets spilling out from under his his thick hooded cloak said it all.

'I'm a guide too. That's what I've been doing for the last few years. Paving the way. There's a lot to talk about Jake.' Lauren looked guilty.

She handed me some wine. I gulped it. The mosaics were beautiful - Ancient Rome in Africa. Nathan, Guy, whatever his fucking name was, was watching me carefully. He couldn't stop himself from smiling.

'I've been waiting for this day for a long time' he grinned.

The full impact was starting to hit me. I was in another country, another time, in another body and the two people I thought I knew were giving me the distinct impression that what I knew was horseshit. This was nothing to do with drugs. This was serious. I finished the wine and demanded another.

Candles

(Jake: 30 May 2003)

It’s not me, the world’s gone crazy. It’s my birthday today and I suspect that if candles are involved it would create a health hazard. Heh, Heh. Last night was fun but a dismal failure so far as casual sex was concerned. Four of us ended up going to Bar 22. I know… I know… but everywhere else was closing. The bouncer wouldn’t let us in because Jonti was too pissed. Too pissed to go into Bar 22 – for fuck’s sake, what the hell is the world coming to?

I had a good chat with Mum today. She’s a top lass and does part with golden nuggets of information now and again. I like the smell of her hair. It reminds me of being little. Alice bear came round too. It’s all been arranged for tonight. I’m not sure exactly sure what we’re doing or where we’re going but I’m looking forward to indulging in rough sexual congress with a nameless, painted harlot. Hot dang mumma, I’m coming home in a box

Max penetration

(Jake: 29 May 2003)

I’ve had that roundabout feeling again today. It must stop at some point so that I can get off. Even Jaz Man mentioned the carousel in his disappointingly, sugar-coated shit, non-hit wonder. I think it would be in my best interests to listen to more rock music. Maybe I’ll dabble with a bit of Slayer to pep me up a bit before I go out tonight. Fuck that, I need Sex Pistols. I’m feeling a bit anxious and aggressive for some reason.

I’ve arranged to go meet Nathan and Jonti in town later – just a few drinks to ease me into the weekend. I’ll probably get a bit sauced and end up leering stupidly at young women in the mistaken belief that I’ll take one home and neatly fuck her on my kitchen table for maximum penetration. Oh, I can smell the cheap perfume already.

I must get this down quickly. It’s all to do with Lauren. I had another dream about her last night – well, at least I think it was her.

Walking and talking.
Pitch dark, ruined amphitheatre –
like the one in El Jem.
I was walking in straw, crossing a courtyard
Fuck, I’m back here again
Shadowy characters, gathered in corners.
They were looking at us and muttering.
A fat man stopped me and asked me for a cigarette and, for some reason, I said: ‘Sorry mate, I don’t smoke’.
He knew I was lying and became demonic.
He chased us into a room with peasants rolling about on straw.
They were INJECTING THEMSELVES.

I panicked and woke up at this point. I’d seen the revolting fat man on the train.

Spinning a yarn

(Jake: 28 May 2003)

It's a small world – I bumped into Nathan on the train last night. We had a bit a laugh actually, but it does unsettle me slightly that he’s fucked my sister. I know somebody had to do it at some point but he was the guy who took her cherry. He was Panda’s ‘first love’ and she was hung up on him for ages after he dumped her. I didn’t tell him she was gay these days.

It always throws me when people call her Alice. With great drunken enthusiasm, I told him the story of when she came home from school with two black eyes. He seemed vaguely interested and told me an equally exaggerated story of when he fell off a shed roof and broke his collarbone. Evidently, one of his mates had dared him to break into a deserted house up the road and have a sniff around. It turns out that the old lady who used to live there had gone completely mad and was dragged out in a straight-jacket a few years earlier. He reckons that the house was completely untouched – there was even food still laid on the table, covered in cobwebs. He was mooching around upstairs, heard some weird voices, bricked it and tried to get out of an upstairs window onto the shed. The twat fell off and had to go to hospital. We talked about drugs then.

Anyway, I went into work today and finished the article and sorted out a few other things. Pretty uneventful day on the whole really. I may have a quick look at Tabitha in my Buttman magazine in a minute.

Le grand désordre

As the train lazily pulled out of the station, the protagonist (young Jacob for sake of clarity) stole his last glance at the myriad of blackened, crumbling town houses and graffiti-soaked railway properties. The view became an infinite loop of human salad – a huge demented battery farm. He tapped away at his laptop for a moment but his thoughts were interrupted by a rasping noise that escaped from the man sat opposite. The clitter clatter of the train’s progress caused the sleeping man’s limp head to jerk sporadically, painting a greasy '8' on the window with his dirty hair. Jacob’s initial feeling of amusement was replaced by one of revulsion as the man’s flabby jowls vibrated again and again, producing saliva that was starting to collect as a white froth in the corner of his mouth. Averting his gaze, Jacob’s attentions landed on a small slip of paper on the table in front of the fat man. It was upside down and the writing was very small.

He was too distracted with wandering puerile thoughts to digest its contents. Besides, his nicotine receptors had other plans for their host. He made his way to the smoking car to smoke – and render himself inebriate on warm cans of Stella. It was apparent, at this point, that the generic fat man was becoming increasingly slipshod in his work and had missed a perfectly good opportunity. His superiors would be pissed also.

London

(Jake: 27 May 2003)

Today was divine payback for an unhealthy weekend and blagging yesterday off. I had to go up smoke to cover an expo in Angel. Luckily they had shed loads of media information to hand – just as well as I spent most of the time smoking rollies and drinking ludicrously overpriced coffee.

I’ve just got on the train back and, for once, I’ve actually got a seat. I’ll finish this later.

All I can smell is my chemical BO and the city slime clinging to me. I’m shaking like a shitting dog and need more sleep. I don’t need prescription drugs – I need a fucking drink.

Bland

(Jake: 26 May 2003)

Sat on my fucking ass, drank Sainsburys’ American-style root beer and watched shit daytime TV. I should have worked today but feigned stomach-related illness on the basis that work is a contributory factor to my shaky emotional state – and being in a shaky emotional state gives me bad guts. In fairness, I did eject a wretched tide of diahorrea filth this morning but I think this had more to do with my weekend’s misdeeds than any non-specific ‘tummy bug’.

I sat through a bland diet of cringeworthy discussion programmes featuring moronic and misinformed members of the public, sugar-coated shit DIY shows hosted by twat-faced C-list celebs, soul-crushing news and thin Australian soaps. On the soap front, I did enjoy Libby Kennedy from Neighbours – she has great tits and a dirty wry smile that strongly appeals. I like her freckles too. Should Kym Valentine, who plays Libby, need a vacuous, scrambled egg-brain to shaft her senseless and put fruit in her arse, I’m definitely her man. Stephanie Scully is pretty foxy too but I’m afraid that she’s just not well endowed enough: tits like fried eggs. Oh baby Jesus, why am I so obsessed with crap female celebrities?

Cat

(Jake: 24 May 2003)

Cat Deeley is a naughty little blonde minx. Annoying? Yes. But she’s dirty. I caught a bit of CD:UK this morning and I’m convinced that the sparkly-eyed host is an animal in bed. Should she ever ask for my hand in marriage, I would have to gracefully accept. However, in the pre-nuptials I would insist that one of her A&R friends would give me a multi-million pound record deal as part of the agreement. Oh yeah, and that I could put her over my knee and smack her bare bottom whenever I fancied – and in public, should the need arise. She might go for it.

The sun’s shining right into my balcony this morning. It’s lovely and very life-affirming. I’ve had a dodgy rocksteady vinyl on at full whack this morning; a bargain at 50p from Help the Aged. Panda rang – she says that there’s a new girl started in her office who I would really like: dark, beautiful, intelligent, GSOH etc etc. I do love my sis but she gets on my tits sometimes. Shame she’s not mates with the Cat though.

Just going out with Nathan for a couple of cheeky looseners at the Potter’s.

Butterfly

(Jake: 23 May 2003)

I am now officially leaving the jam jar. I took the last tablet exactly 14 days ago. Do two weeks constitute an adequate reality/fog buffer zone? It may all be a touch melodramatic actually. In truth, I’m not sure I notice a whole lot of difference at the moment – apart from the odd electric shiver and the fact that I am experiencing the most painfully rampant sex drive since my teens.

Having unsuccessfully managed to decide what I wanted for dinner tonight, I’ve spent some three hours systematically smoking gear and cracking off over some dog-eared porn that I keep hidden away for just such emergencies. The need was so great that I ransacked the orderly little piles of papers and knicknacks in the loft and, in the process, discovered some forgotten pictures of me and Lauren.

After my sex fury had finally subsided I spent some time going through the holiday snaps. Lauren and I had booked a last minute thing two years ago. She looked so beautiful. I so fucked it up. I think I still miss her.

At this point I really should really try and do something constructive. Perhaps I could finish off that fucking song. No doubt I’ll spend the last hour or so drinking, and jotting down mindless buzzwords or drawing grotesque pictures of cocks in one of my special books. Chin up, it’s the weekend. It’s not all bad – I could be you.