Friday, 21 June 2013

Writing People's Names in Toilets with the Offer of Blowjobs

I suck balls.

No I don't.

But I felt that way the other night when I went to a creative writers group.

I was hoping to meet some like minded folk: interested, eager and up for a laugh.

What happened was a dick swinging contest between the guy leading it, who went over pish I've heard before like: 'In our crit groups you're not allowed to say anything negative, it must always be positive.' Now, I can understand, 'Don't make fun of people's work' or 'keep it balanced,' fine that's all good.

But blowing smoke up someone's arse is only going to lead to them getting rejection after rejection and saying 'These magazines are talking out their arse. My creative writing group says I'm da bomb!'

But the guy leading it meant well. The other dick swinger was a guy who seemed only to be there to tell everyone how he had almost made it, and even though he wasn't quite there yet, he knew it AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAALL! He bragged about how he had known this one and fucked that one but it hadn't YET led to what he wanted. He told us he was collaborating with this artist in New York on a project called Trans Atlantic Toilets! I vomited and he didn't notice, so I rubbed some of it in his smoking jacket pocket. When he went to the toilet I went too, and I pissed all down his leg. He didn't notice, because I smiled in his face the whole time and told him he was AMAZING! And I wasn't gay but I felt something like love for him.

I think I was too convincing because he picked me as his favourite. When everyone was leaving he took me to a wee bar in an alley up from Charing Cross. When he got sloshed he told me the toilet project was a load of shit. It was really just them writing people-they-didn't-like's numbers on toilet walls and offering blow jobs on their behalf. He'd started off with some proper fuckers who deserved it. But he'd ran out ages ago and spent most of his time twisting the smallest perceived slights into reasons for putting numbers up there. Only today he'd written his old mum's number in the bogs at Hyde Park and offered 'filching' on her behalf. Then he erupted into tears and told me all about his book, which was a sci-fi novel about a guy, not unlike himself, except with a massive wang that could tell the future.

I went to the bog and escaped out the window. I won't be back next week.