The Ghost part 2

Another figure outside Betfred: this is ubiquity…repeat is this Wetherby’s characteristic ubiquity?
Bar3 has removed Katy and Thatcher’s cider from their pumps so there isn’t a single reason to go there any more and I wandered to bus stop to see I have two choices either 30mins or and hour. I decided to kill 30 minutes however I don’t know why but I just took a step down in my mind. I stepped into the facsimile that was the New Inn(est. 1900) for a woeful pint of Strongbow, with respect the Carling of the cider world. As this is where I spent most of my teenage times and 20’s it nice to look in just for old times sake and maybe one of my old chums would be there to talk to. I concentrated seeing not a real apple anywhere and no one I really knew.

People in 2’s watching the night descending on benches built for 4 near the bandstand. There is something tangible with the warm weather and the slow turgid ponderousness of the Wharfe as it slowly loses its volume to evaporation and the finite quantity of any body of moving water.

Wez Dance is someone who regularly forgets what I am doing and when I am doing it. I could go away for 10 years and, apart from more grey hairs, nothing would ever change with the golfing fraternity in Wetherby; they are circle complete with an interlocking chain. He remembers he hasn’t seen me in a while and asks me how the volunteering is going: I volunteered until May 2010 and not since. It was not for me. Forget not that ‘that’ school is a monster! It made a monster of me and everyone in it and continues to while teachers try desperately to say it isn’t so.
This is not a Hulk T-shirt. This is The Thing (MarvelTm). He’s not green and angry, but orange and hexagonal: how could someone get that wrong?
I drank my poor excuse for cider, Strongbow, and vanished to the bus post-haste, just catching the 19:15 out of the past. A singular Chav got on the bus in Collingham, moved towards the very back of the top deck and a smell of skunk filled the air on the 98. I drift into a dream of me in the past. We’re not in 1998 now (or any year since 1989). Whatever was happening to me by 1998 was worse for me than all the crosses I’ve borne since I returned from Australia in 2000. Drug and alcohol fuelled hiding me from the horror of my father trapping me in his demotic desperation; I disappeared into a colon where I found illegal highs beneficial. Working all day long in the warehouse that Robert Old built to fetter me straight from university, a job that was meant to help pay off my debt but became a very entrapping 2 years of employment. I spent all my extra spare time filling my mind with uppers, downers and hallucinogens; and dancing the nights away (I was 23 when I left university, but I was pointlessly inducing my old age too).

Cricket season is back with the crack of willow on leather. The usual discoloured whites with green streaks and browns. Howzat and not out.

I want to lay in a meadow and leave the weight transcending where clover flowers and amongst the clouds gathering above our dopey heads.

The bus let’s off pressure in great sighs. The hydraulics are malfunctioning and the sun is descending. We stop to wait for time to catch us before leaving Redhall. 17:38pm Friday 6th.

Row upon countless row of indistinct housing. Whether Victorian or mock Tudor or hi-rise somewhere to crawl for a night in safety. I was often jealous of Tess’s flight after the murder. The hidden pleasure of the places they called home; however briefly. I live in a hi-rise with its paper thin walls and zero privacy up down left or right. From my window I can see a 1960’s tower block and believe it is so much better built than the modern 2003 build I am currently living in.

‘Why does mummy hide her body’ says the Somalis boy to his father
‘To deny her sexuality’ says her consciously conscience driven husband.

Beady eye going to Belle Isle for tropical suntan and Lou Reed has been waiting for his man far too long.

Last night was an interesting one – I went back to the flat with 2 bottles of Weston’s Vintage 2010, made more of the Jerk chicken, fried onions, humus and pitta pocket and put my music on as loud as I’ve ever done before. Listening to numerous old 1989 era dance records and dancing my head off. At 11 I ventured out for a couple to Baby Jupiter, which is the closest boho joint, to continue this dancing vibe. I arrived to find faceless hordes drunk and being lecherous and was quickly turned off. I got talking to a very camp chap called Rob soon after arriving and was introduced to all his male and female buddies. Finally a DJ arrived and we got Atomic by Blondie: which was nice. The babyshambles lookalikes that are everywhere today with their perfect long flowing locks curled and set in some wispy semi grunge fake style who are all façade, attitude and as empty as a steel drum (banned). I can’t find any individuality in that mock rough edge: they’re all future Lawyers, Barristers and Politicians. I left them all to their pretensions and returned to loud 1990’s dance until 2am Saturday morning.

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