March 26th 2005
Didz drops me off at home. Hug, give us a ring, we'll work on those songs.
God I wish we had shagged.
At least snogged.
Jumped upon by the Missus.
Missed you, so glad you're back, things get boring without you, and no-one cleans the tub.
I feel like I'm 13 again and just noticed them for the first time.
Who wants a good old fashioned homecoming ceremony on the couch?
Floor could do with a bit of action too . . .
'Oh, by the way, Peter called. He wants to talk some things over.'
'Carl, are you alright? You look rather greyish.'
Send a postcard.
A bed! Warm blankets. Sheets. Pillows (puffy!) The marvels of modern living.
Tell Anna the harrowing tale of camping misadventures, but most especially, Ditz, er, Didz's idea bout fishing with our willies. She finds this hysterical for some reason (oh, she would).
Toying quiet contentedly with her hair and wondering however I was so fortunate when she whistles lewdly at me.
'Oooooh, you fancy him Carl.'
'Don't be silly. You fancy Didz.'
'Well? Aren't you going to have a go at him?'
'Maybe,' I grumbled. 'I'mnotsureyet.'
'Oh, he's falling to mumble now and I don't have my mumble dictionary to translate.'
'Mumble mumble mumble.'
'Early to bed and etc' makes a man a chump.
But I'm a contented chump. A chump with a Missus to come home to chump. And a guitar and some friends chump. A mumbling chump. Warm in bed and spooning chump.
Chump who fancies Didz.
And still loves Peter.
Even now he has to ruin everything.
March 29th 2005
Back from one of those post-op Doctor visit things.
I have lost most of the hearing in the one ear. It's not going to get better after all.
Anna tries to cheer me by saying we could get me one of those old lady horn things I can stick in my ear.
Right, so I can look like a half elk or something in addition to being deaf.
Anna is silent for a moment.
'Don't they have elk in Norway?'
'Beethoven was completely deaf you know.'
I'm pretending I can't hear. (Ha.)
All I really know about Beethoven was that movie with Gary Oldman, and I am better looking than Gary Oldman even with a monstrous snozz.
If there was a real Doctor Who, he probably could fix my hearing.
It's like loosing a limb, no less. Only I'd rather loose a leg and hobble on crutches the rest of my life, or even in a wheelchair. At least I could run people over in a wheelchair.
I'd rather remain impotent/sexually frustrated obscure forgotten wobbly jowled crazy grey haired queer cross-dressing rocker.
How could anyone love this rubbish?
I need whisky.
No whisky on the premises.
Whatever happened to my painkillers then?
Ice cream then.
Anna comes by in a pair of my boxers (are those washed?) and a t-shirt, using that sinuous walk in which she sways her hips, just so.
Dips her finger in the ice cream.
Licks it off her finger.
This could get interesting in a pity sex way.
I'll take pity sex.
Will he be able to get it up when the Missus is peeling her shirt off and circling her nipples with ice cream?
That has got to be cold on the poor nipples. Must warm them.
Snogging him in that delicious, bodies lined up and fingers just sliding under clothes, under the waist of the jeans, anticipation hot enough that you can't barely bear your lover's touch?
Spread eagled on my back on the floor, Anna reaching in, fingers just brushing me, sweet and warm and
That was quick.
Anna still at it.
Brave woman. This is why I love her, even if she's swearing and crying and cursing the Queen and the entire royal line.
Mention of the Queen is one of the last things that will help.
'Anna, just. Give up. Your wrists, and . . .'
'Dammit Carl. I really was looking forward to that.'
Dinner (take-aways, fish and chips, mmm), telly, shower and bed.
I tell Anna if she really wants another go I can wear a hat.
'Why wear a hat Carl?'
'Humor value? I can put on a red nose too. Then when it's too frustrating you can have a laugh at least.'
She did snort at that.
April 6th 2005
Get up this morning to find a newspaper spewing bollocks about me having a solo career. Where did this rubbish come from?
Half naked dancing –
Don't people know what sarcasm is anymore???
Then again, it was a member of the press.
And we know how much brains they have, collectively.
April 10th 2005
He is not Normal People.
Which is why it is somehow not surprising that he shows up with – knitting.
'For dexterity Carl. I started taking courses at a community center. You should try it sometime, it's kind of fun.'
Oh yes. Excellent. Something else to re-affirm my masculinity. Really.
His knitting makes me feel guilty and un-productive lying around on the couch with a beer and watching Doctor Who.
Where did I put my acoustic?
It was hiding on Anna's half of the closet draped in a skirt and one of her bras.
My own guitar has gone transvestite. It is mocking me.
The world is mad.
Knit, clicking of needles, knit.
Didz blabbers at me.
'It's become a hobby really. You should come to my class sometime Carl. Hobbies are good to have. Got any hobbies Carl, outside of drinking and shagging?'
He says shagging like my mind is not going to plunge for the gutter and roll gleefully around in images of fucking the living daylights out of him. Or vice versa.
'You mean outside of drinking?'
Who is he, the Agony Aunt now?
'At least it's a problem of endurance rather than ability Carl. It's probably like riding a bike. You're out of practice. But it'll come back to you.'
Meaning: oh yes, you can get it up, but for about as long as the idiot 14 year old you once were.
I can smell his aftershave. Want to give him an indecent feel. Or graze his neck with my teeth.
'Maybe you and Anna should try something different.'
'We've tried everything Didz. I promise.'
Knit, click, knit, click. Is he supposed to be knitting his fingers into whatever he's knitting like that?
' . . . trying something new. Like when we went to Wales and you got creative. Whole new environment to get away from things. Fresh start. Same idea.'
Am distracted by the fingers stuck in yarn.
It just doesn't look right.
'Didz! No. No. No.'
'It was just a thought.'
Viagra is for Old Men. Old old men. Lonely men who sit at home and eat takeaways and watch Doctor Who.
My brain needs to shut up sometimes.
'Shyte. I knitted my fingers in. I always bloody do this.'
Am not daydreaming of sucking those knitted up fingers and making Didz moan, like cheesy bad porn.
G7! I can play . . .
How does a Didz aroused by Carl moan sound like?
He's still trying to untangle himself.
Lean in and the kiss is the easiest thing in all the world, because he's already trapped, you see, all that yarn. His lips are pliant and willing and I've got him splayed under me. Who's the wriggling little 14 year old now, hey?
Unzipping my jeans and he bends down to suck me.
Even in my fantasies Wellington can't stand at attention for more than 5 seconds.
Lazy bastards the pair of us. Bad company for each other too.
Fantasy Didz laughs at me.
Peter would've too.
Good good, I am a sickening and unbearable creature.
A lazy depressive self pitying egotistical fuck who wants to do naught but sulk and perhaps even die and thinks he can't survive or create without Peter. Clinging onto our sinking Albion between bouts of wanting to kick Peter's ribs in and leave him bleeding in a gutter.
Sunken Albion. Collecting memories like algae at the bottom of some dark, dead sea.
I know I've got to let Peter go. Let go all that love and hate and history and chaos and strife.
I've known since. Ages.
'You got a glassy eyed look there. You alright?'
It's almost like I've become Jekyll/Hyde. I have an Evil Carl that won't let go.
. . . . an Evil Carl?
Maybe I shouldn't have spent my youth dropping acid and curled up in a bong.
It wasn't any fun anyways.
I'll be locked up in a padded room with a white jacket that makes me hug myself and doped up on little coloured pills and forgotten.
Anna (and maybe Didz?) could come visit me.
Do nutters get conjugal visits?
White jackets could make for interesting bondage.
Didz has to ruin a perfectly good moment of existential crises with flopping about swearing and huffing and tangled in his knitting.
He's like a windy long legged kitten.
He's still tangled?
Good god. How does he even get his trousers on in the morning?
April 13th 2005
Anna gone for a few days, working mad shifts and clubs with the other Anna and crashing during the daylight hours at friends.
I sort of miss her already, but that's maybe because she didn't take out the trash before she went.
April 15th 2005
Hello empty studio on South London.
It's too rubbish early for this.
Didz says it'll be fun.
I ask if he's brought his knitting needles.
Quiet productive day, really, even if I kept being distracted by Didz and his Strange Mouth Gymnastics.
Boy has quiet a gob on him. Probably very talented in more ways than one.
Didn't keep having to sneak off to the bathroom to masturbate.
Or moan Didz's name under my breath like a lovestruck idiot.
My life is like Neighbors only without the strange Aussie accents and less actual sex.
Not complaining though. Wellington is getting back his land legs, so to speak.
I do need to get back to work.
Us pair of scruffy blokes with guitars taking the Underground.
Cars are rather crowded.
I must make room and press closer to Didz.
'Someone just squeezed my bum! I've been assaulted on the Underground!'
I will put my hand in my pocket and try not to smirk like a complete pervert.
If I position my guitar case correctly and prop myself against the pole right I can sort of give Wellington some love through my jeans.
Old lady giving me seething looks.
Christ in a handbasket. I'm trying to get off on the Underground in public. Embarrassing.
This is certainly Evil Carl behaviour.
I need to get shagged. ASAP. Somehow.
A crowd of rude boys across the way, soft cheeked and red lipped, hair in their eyes and their ties half-done and flapping around the edges of their untucked shirts. Mucking about.
Pushed over the old lady.
They purse their lips and scowl and feign casual shrugs and eye up girls greedily, heedlessly. Something to fuck. And then run from.
I used to be like that.
They are looking at Didz and I. Oh.
Snickering and pointing.
They are – singing?
'Did you see the naaa-ncy boys bumming his arse?
Packing up the fudge, dribbling on his cock
Barât's queer, didn't you know?
Oh how he buggers 'em my looooove!'
Oh. Very clever.
They can be the Gay Libertines.
Didz grabbing my arm, 'No, no, Carl, they're only kids, yeah?'
'Little monsters are going to go home with no teeth and cracked ribs and blacked eyes–'
Loudly tell them to go fuck themselves.
And I know how their mothers like it.
And their fathers.
Unfortunately a few of their fathers seem to be here too. And they look like they belong to the Sheffield United footie team.
Best to run.
If push comes to shove we can beat them off with the guitar cases.
Didz says he doesn't even know me anymore.
Didz windmills his long legs right over the turnsdial.
I used to be able to clear the turnsdials on the Underground.
But then, I was 3 years younger, maybe a stone lighter, and not heaving around a guitar case while the Sheffy U footie team was on my heels with murder in their minds.
Caught my thigh on the bloody thing.
Please tell me it isn't as close to Wellington as it felt.
Limping very very quickly and very criminally away from security officers and the footie team, people giving foul looks, though, one busker did applaud us.
And started playing 'Time for Heroes'.
The proper not so gay version.
Didz, helping my wounded self along, starts laughing.
'Oiy, shut up you ruddy fuckhead,' I say, elbowing him.
But then I'm laughing too.
' 'm sorry Carl,' Didz brings me the apology with ice packed in a towel.
Thank you, arsehat.
In addition to the thigh I did so much laughing that I've pulled something in my gut.
I will give him my Hardass Glower.
Except that I can't seem to stop laughing.
Didz murmuring, putting the ice against my bruise.
'Yeah, it's fine, Didz.'
He peers at me and seems to be considering.
Thoughts in the Didz brain?
I can die now, I've seen everything. Aside from an apology by Peter Doherty.
Didz leans in distractingly close. I can see his individual eyelashes and the little knick from a razor on his chin.
Am not getting hard merely because he's this close and smells so delicious. All sweat and some aftershave and a bit of orange. A bright and sunny fruit.
And he grins.
'Oiy, I know what you need, Carl.'
Yes! Turn me over and bang me like a gong. That's the ticket, lad.
Absolutely! A –
'Ah, come on Carl, it'll relax you. Better than lying around with ice on your groin.'
Not distracting to have Didz helping me out of my clothes and saying things like 'groin'.
I really am all of 15 again – ah.
Running his fingers down my spine and ghosting little kisses over my shoulders.
Warm water is nice.
Didz's hands on me with the vague excuse of 'washing' is better.
Oh bollocks. What is he playing at?
I'll grab his collar and kiss him.
'Carl!' he yelps and splashes in the tub.
'What're you – you silly sod,' he laughs, shoving me away, climbing out and shaking his damp hair at me. Then peels off his shirt and jeans and pants.
'I wasn't coming on to you,' he says as he slops into the tub with me.
'You lying cheeky swine,' I say, shifting to give him room. 'Taking advantage of a wounded man!' And I pout. Devastatingly.
Didz only grins and starts purring into my throat, nipping, and rubbing my arse with his hands.
Now that's how we like it.
He laughs, breathy, in my ear, pulls strands of hair out of my eyes.
And he starts kissing me.
Cupping my face in his hands, gentle, tender. Slow.
I feel faint.