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"You're on top form today," Dolly chirps. "Yes, Dolly," I explain to him. "For people who suffer from winter depression this is as undepressed as they ever get." Today is the summer solstice. Grey and rainy. Bummer, but nevertheless light, light, light. Doesn't really get properly dark, in fact. I went into a shop at lunchtime to buy a pie, and said to the girl, "You know, this is as high as the sun ever rises," pointing out and upwards. She looked at me doubtfully, glad this wasn't our first meeting. "The sun..." I repeated. "High noon.... midsummer's day.... step outside and look at it... " But she didn't. A little bit later, Craig comes into the bar. I find it difficult to wrench my eyes from the duvet of black chest hair up to his powerful chiselled face. Literally chiselled, in fact, with a couple of deep scars, but they only add to his manliness. He once told me how the scars got there, but we never repeat confidences here. You guessed it - Craig is another sex god. There are four in fact - Craig, Doshie, Burn and Aero. Rex claims a fifth, but his fifth choice is not to my taste, so I cannot include him. Polytheism can be taken too far, and four gods are enough for any boy. More would simply be greed. It's been suggested that if all four were ever in the bar at the same time then critical sex-mass would be reached, and the world would implode and disappear up a galactic rectum. "Rectum? Damn near killed him, darling."
"Ellow mite!" Craig goes, loving my adoration. Unlike Doshie, Craig never tells you he's straight. The sure sign of a real man. "Ellow mite - got a grite sheg lars nigh'," he goes on - me hanging on his every word, puppy-like. But not just for the obvious hetero, hairy-chested, scarfaced, utterly desirable reasons. No - listening to Craig is like being in an episode of EastEnders. You know those Mitchell brothers? Like that but leaner and younger. Endomorph not yet fat. You don't talk to Craig, you audition for a part, half expecting Barbara Windsor to enter left and kiss him on the cheek. "Ellow darlin. Ars yer bam fer lav bites?" It's a bit rude of me really. There's Scott, just back from the seven seas and chatting about Hal the temperamental computer, disoriented, and me I can't take my eyes off the hunk. (Late now - more tomorrow.)
Well - no more tomorrow. Most unprofessional of me, but this story is going nowhere. I gave it every chance, but in truth I don't yet know Craig as well as I plan to... so short of invention - which you really musn't do with your acquaintances (althought it's very tempting with a sex god) - we're up shit creek without a paddle. Mavis Beacon comments by Hotmail: Well - that was a waste of
everybody's time then wasn't it? Heh!! That's shut the old witch up :)
But what I want - what I really really want - to talk about - rave, rather - is the film Breaking the Waves by Lars von Trier which I've just this minute finished. Plus an hour's documentary about Mr von Trier which was equally startling. I'll reveal nothing except what you'd get in the blurb anyway, which is that it's about an oil-rig worker who has an accident and is paralysed all over. And his wife. Rent it, buy it, break into Blockbuster to steal it - the normal moral against stealing is hereby suspended by order of magnificat. Or - easiest of all, take an immediate subscription to FilmFour. This film alone is worth a whole year's payments. We're talking Bonnie and Clyde - we're talking Star Wars - we're in the same league as Once Were Warriors. And forget tinsel-trash like Jurassic Titanic, Fly, Wasp, etc. Don't come close. Not even the same medium. If you get my drift, baby. Breaking the Waves. Do NOT read plot-wrecking reviews before you see it. Trust me. I know my films.
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Copyright magnificat 1997 - 2001 |
