THE SPAGHETTI FACTION

"If I had wings, I wouldn´t do anything transcendent..." Iggy Pop.

This is a flight of confabulation. There is no story to follow. ALL ATTEMPTS at narrative will be prosecuted.

Every inanimate object is potentially deadly. The oil spillage in the Gulf was calamitous for BP's share price. Lettice Curtis, a World War 2 ATA pilot, lived in Danbury Manor and had a thing for Frankie Francis. Neo-junglist break core is compositionally liquid. Bunny Austin was the last Englishman to reach the Wimbledon semis in the 1930’s. Selwyn Bass, her dentist, made her toes curl.

Lorelei Lodestar has to sift through fool's gold to sparkle the imagination these days. It is a struggle knowing where to start. Overloaded with Wikileaks, her wings twitch in tense tandem with trepidation and alliteration. Breathe in. Breathe out. Shake it all about. Contemplate the wonder of the day and compose. Yet which to choose. There are so many. Random she could handle, random she embraces. But this is eclectic turned overdrive and then some.

She scans down the site. There is a vulture advocacy programme launched to prevent the scavengers dying of gout caused by the ingestion of uric acid. All life depends on unseen microbial creatures that eat at the core of self-expression turning eloquence into footballese at the drip of a tap.

Lorelei's critical overview is more acute than most. She is after all, an angel. She knew how to fly before she learnt how to dream. The distribution of winged incidence, however, comes with down force. Where many have flying dreams in which they soar above mundanity in transcendent mystical union with the metaphysical, Lorelei has visions of gutter level encounters with sewer rats, double yellow lines and dehydrated chewing gum. As a youngster at Danbury, she wafted away many a happy hour drunk on angelic wake time; the observing self tipsy with skybourne etherea. Dream, in contrast, is concrete, rigid, atrophied.

In current moments, skydiving off social housing high-rises knee-deep in unnatural expression of time and space, Lorelei is si malade comme un perroquet that no amount of footballer's comedy French can hope to lift her out of the nadir she's been in since her 1430 trial for FC Twente. That ball across her own back four. Sheer heresy. Her Joan of Arc ideation surfaces for air.

She logs off, pops her wings back on and floats off for a spot of class tourism. And why not guv'nor cor blimey. Wet Wednesday morning and all. Excitement, adrenaline, hypomania, rapid cycle. Novel cognition. Imagination. There are different names for it. The streets it is then.

Two likely lads from the municipal lido she frequents in late summer belly flop into consciousness. She takes out her wingery in the wooden changing booth, and waits for the hoi polloi to finish changing before she re-attaches, when boy talk breaks out.

- Let's go for one more beer, buddy.

- And a cig.

- Aye.

- We shouldn't really. Have a ciggy. After all that exercise.

- I'm still breathing fucking hard.

- It's good for us though.

- It is good, I know.

Polyester, khaki baggy shorts and skinny latte legs. Mixed race and Scottish, or rather, dual heritage and Northern British. Recreational drinking partners. Needy souls desirous of companionship till the late afternoon when they stab each other over possession of half a purple tin.

Lorelei shifts her prejudice into cruise control and kicks back. She'll need her kit on for this one. Allowing them time to vacate the lockers, she wings up and hovers directly above them, all the better to remain out of their line of vision. In any event, once the session is underway, they rarely look up. Gutter snipers tend to cast their gaze down. Grey-sky thinkers to a man.

Lorelei tails them to a ramshackle bench in an obscure piazza lamented by lumpen proles of the parish. They've just shared a box of Tennessee Fried Chicken wings, onion rings and Irn Bru as subconscious backlash against the rosy glow of aquarobic activity. Purple tins and roll-ups for dessert.

- So, I'm in the doctors waiting room by the way. And the voices start.

- What? In your head.

- Nah man. Oot the radio. They always have that fucking radio on. Tae catch oot the schizos and tha'

- You sure?

- Why else would they have the fucking thing on? And there's a note telling ye ta nae switch the fucker aff til ye have a wee word wi' the burd on reception. Tidy she is an' all.

- The MILF with flat chest and glasses.

- Aye. Anyways, likesay...

The vernacular is far from authentic. Not being fluent in Welsh (Irvine), she zones out. Ascending to just below the nimbocumulus, flapping smartly, she can maintain visual contact. Context is less successfully managed, but that is always more fun.

Wings off makes cycling and walking easier. That's the other thing about overground existence: ethical abrasion. To shop or not to shop? Whether to grass to the shoddy hobby bobby? Or to help Fido Dido escape from the underground cycle park at the Grand Arcadian shopping Mall Conglomerate plc.? Contact with everyday roguery, always simpler without wingery. The as yet unaccused has a shock of jet black stand up Afro somewhere between scruffy natty dread and Fido Dido. His bright purple hoodie with white logo perhaps not the best attire to go tea-leafing in, but there you go. Compared to his nimble fleet of flight around the corner into the complexity of the shopping mall, the proper copper is out of condition; his jingle jangle of accoutrements vies with his radio ham voice for the attention of the passers-by.

- STOP THERE NOW!

The urgency of his capitals makes Lorelei chuckle, snort and smirk in no particular sequence.

The law was out of order. The community support officer was in need of community support. The victim himself brings up the rear of the PC in front, shouting.

- STOP HIM SOMEBODY!!

Dickensian farce prompts ironic guffaws from the cappuccino sippers front of terrace. Lorelei is alienated by the student detachment, and less antipathetic towards the constabulary than she would've liked. The pull of authority strong, she masters her inclination to grass nonetheless. A colloquialism from a Radio 4 play helps steady her nerves. She trundles down into the underground cycle park. He re-appears trying to access the changing rooms kept locked from chavdom which never shower after cycling on the pavement with their seats too low and their under-inflated tyres. Yet she can't hold that particular prejudice against this one: he is bike-less and in need of ideas, fast. She morphs into a middle-aged scouser with a working class chip on his shoulder the size of the Duke of Westminster's property portfolio.

- Yer wanna go that way out, mate. That fat cunt'll never catch yer, she finds herself saying, out of the safety of her own gender and ingrained conditioning.

The giggly elation, akin to an amyl nitrate and nitrous oxide buzz she once combined in a night-club comedy set in Vauxhall's Strawberry Sundae, exhilarates her. Connivance in the escape plot liberates her, as does the use of the contraction of her cunt with a third person, a simple future form. Ordinarily she would have preferred a shall. But with cunt never. Appropriacy is important.

Mumbling something about institutionalised pig racism, the young chap coolly removes his mauve hoodie and black cap to reveal a brilliant white t-shirt. Bagging his ill-gottens into a similarly plain carrier, he flattens down his curly barnet and saunters away. All in a day's work.

Lorelei can't resist the notion he’s to be easily caught. Quite readily ID'ed away from large metropolitan centres, mixed raced street thieves can't be that hard to catch. Mind you. A big lad, but out of condition. She smiles at the hobby bobby as he puffs out his podgy cheeks, trudges upstairs, and away from the cycle park. The formalised English he only ever uses to impress rank, makes her feel instant animosity towards the fat cunt (#2), but she resists the urgent temptation to divert him. Were she winged, she might've allured him sexually. But that is so not where she is at these days.

- I'm continuing on up the staircase to level two, having already cleared level one, check, he radios bombastically.

Time for a work out. Hello boys. Donning her low-cut party wings, she seeks out her drinking companions in the windswept Chekhovian concrete below. She recalls Danbury however, and a young Frankie Francis.

On the 19:43 flight from naturalism, in wafts noted 90-year-old World War Two pilot, five years retired, but not yet past her sell-by, Lettice Curtis, aviator, flight test engineer, air racing pilot and sportswoman. She rolls her eyes skywards in response to the very notion of penile dysfunction:"This is the sort of imagination I am very much against. Back in the day, there was no question of it. It was simply not a question one asked. It just never came up."

Undeterred, Lorelei is romantically bound to rendezvous at 20:12 with a randy young Frankie. Wingless, her sex drive can be wayward, off-piste, 4x4. The wrong side of menopausal before 45, she now knows the purported loss of libido to be fictional.

Frankie wastes no time cutting to the thrill of the chase.

- Hey Angel Face, you still knock me out, after all these years. Would you care to bunk up with ol' Frankie?

She has ample time before she has to get back to the kids and the old man. But what of continuity? Some attempt at joined-up writing at least.

- We'll see, she responds coyly, as she brazenly licked her ruby reds.

A prial of asterisks appeared to signal her approach.

* * * Continuing on her flight from verisimilitude, she lands atop an ivory tower amidst dreaming spires on the sunniest October Monday since Boy George's criminal record began. She quickly loses her footing and flaps down to a more manageable lower tier of purpose-built private language schools and internationally funded aspiration. Lorelei craves deviation, diversion and distraction. From out of the thin end of the wedge, somewhere between her mental notes and sense of impropriety, she breaks wind. A loud but far from fatal histrionic trump of a fart that establishes her credentials as a grown-up tom boy with attitude. From the resultant up draft of methane and mild opprobrium, she produces a former Windsor border who has dropped out of Cambridge to flog chemicals to the locals and wax far too suspiciously eloquently about jungle than was appropriate for street cred.

A stream of air brushed against the page. Timely. Persona. Empathy. An other. And a change of tense. Just what she needed.

Tarquin, who wasn't called Tarquin any more, drove like a Danny meshed up with just enough Darren to give his cut-and-shut identity a bit of edge. His habit of forsaking the foot brake at roundabouts in favour of crunching down from fourth to second, as he switched discs in the CD player from the stack he had wedged under his chin, made Lorelei grip the rim of the passenger seat as firmly as she dare. She feared exposing herself as a flighty girl unused to vehicular transportation under the influence of seriously proscribed narcotics and conventional linearity.

Once in a while, Tarquin would be so into a track that he wouldn't think of changing it at a major junction. But this was rare. Lorelei wished she'd flown home from the festival just outside Ely. She swallowed hard and breathed deeply. Outwardly she smiled and asked questions. Her panic went unnoticed by the BZP-toting Tarquin and his skunked back seat passenger.

She longed for the power of non-linear travel. But then she also craved character, even though it always ended up disappointing her. Drug dealers like public school boys are sequential constructions strung out on product and free market. Lorelei was in conflict with narrative: never an essential angelic upstart. Drafts were better. Only when down to earth, did a narrative layer form. Grounded relationships between humans had a disturbing tendency to create character and story.

A roundabout was coming up far too fast. Lorelei gripped tightly and asked a question in an attempt to avoid a CD change. Too hard, she kicked in her cosmic scene-changer, a leftover from her fairy DNA, remnants of which still clogged her personality purity. Retail therapy. That's what metrosexual conditioning intended. What Lorelei Lodestar really wanted however was a beautiful man with a pair of dreamy brown eyes and a powerful calm strong centre and to live with him and his tribe in a green and pleasant valley near Abegele. But a new pair of shoes might just plug the gap. Let's shop till I drop. Ha! Let me drop, I shop, Lorelei laughed maniacally.

Lately Lorelei Lodestar's mini-crises have coincided with late capitalism's rapid cycling. Ups and downs. The bi-polarity of boom and bust. Treatment. A massive injection of lithium into the financial psyche. Faith in the Godhead known in reverential capital as THE ECONOMY.

In the gold standard we trust. The fiat system of today's monetary variety is the Seat Panda of currency. OK until you're half way round the roundabout and the upper middle class fucker wants to change the music again.

Freaked by her new funkier exposed happier enthusiastic self, she has parascended into despair as a moth flapping backwards against Tarquin's narrative up draft based on privilege and inequality and the best MDMA in the three counties.

The squirt of the steam frother frothing up the milk, the tickle of the crockery on tinkling china and the cymbaline clink of spoon and saucer and the next bit she couldn't read. God! I hate it when that happens...

Time for aromatherapy, hot bath and masturbation. Twice. DIY mini re-hab then back to flight of fanciful just in tandem for uncivil disobedience and anti-establishment: a sense of place essential for any winged creature of the printed word. Holding down a job or a pen and doing something familial and domestic on paper in a voracious business society is viable for only intermittent animals like humans, traffic lights and Lego mini-figures.

Let's stop. Let's drop. Till you stop Top Shop and stop shopping. Shop less. Do more. Half a million consumers have stopped passivity and have created March. Not out in the Fens, but in the bellyache of the beast.

Her left eyebrow arches at an oblique angle to the Embankment. A soft bellied landing no less. Time for observations of dissent and creative repulsion to the economic mythologies of ground life. She landed behind a mobile trolley-pulled sound system under Hungerford Bridge and switched down to third so she could put some flesh on the bone.

- Maggie Maggie Maggie... Dead! Dead! Dead!

Millions recollect the damage done. Needle is still deserving and forthcoming. A breakaway group bears a Thatcher placard: Liverpool Remembers.

The 74-year-old farmer, Daily Mirror reader, Unite member, here because solidarity is not a right, it is power. The Workers Power comrades from well, Workers Power, we, she, they... meet on Westminster Bridge under the shadow of The House of Ill Repute, The House of Amoral Spin. And other favourite parliamentary anagrams. She is delightful. He is pleasant. But intense. A strategist of the 5th International. He inhabits his role adroitly.

Lorelei begins to tire. Her overweight public sector lardage and undercover Daily Telegraph class traitor cover is not sustainable for another second. An alphabetised male is a leading contender for a coronary if she doesn't rest her-only-just-on-the-cusp-of-morbidly obese butt on a bench soon. She wishes she'd gone under the auspices of Dikes on Bikes via the Black Bloc...

For the rest of the duration she chooses female, continental, an amalgam of blondes past. Hair, complexion, body shape, physical presence, movement, smile to welcome enthusiasm on the part of the flirty, the middle-aged, the desperately lonely, and those whose everyday proclivities are ...

...suspended due to mythologies of the Budget Deficit. The economy, code for Class War, bothers the comrade from Socialist Appeal, with the mujaheddin Operation Cyclone beard, so much that he complains. She has already grown accustomed to open declarations of thoughtful opinion. It is going to be that type of day. She feels herself hedged in by good humour and British civility, if not reserve, and has caught herself on more than occasion using the word comrade without irony.

Generalised contentment has broken out on the streets. The mob, massed and calm, poses as the Great British Public for the benefit of the cameras save a few in extremis who act at the margins via thought-through, targeted, well-organised, mindful violence, actively directed at the directors of financial capital and their assets.

The March folds like the many-headed serpent of capitalism of the Anarchist Federation poster she has just accepted. The public, chaperoned by the forces of social orderliness, is cajoled and obligated to back up along Aldwych and Fleet Street to the official start of the March Against Austerity, Economy, Terror etc etc etc...

Slow to detour around the front of the Royal Courts of Justice due to the heavy irony. The Courts of Justice have been re-labelled for the day by a second generation Glaswegian Leicester City fan and educationalist. More common than asthma, missing chips in newspaper, banking spam, dirty finger nails. Words keep breaking through the kettle despite the cops.

Lorelei's left-wingery twitches: there is a radical sense of place and character developing. The imitation compassion of the institutionalised vampirical process has been ravaged by a definite article. Attack of the Forty Foot THE! The vampires of the twilight series stutter in retreat. The THE stakes are too high, they cry. And for just a moment of real time, even after taking off her glasses and letting down her hair, even the stunningly attractive Ugly Betty looks truly grotesque. Lorelei puts it down to bitch blonde brunette envy, but she knows she is wrong.

With one fell swish of the curtain rail, Lorelei lozenges London-by-the-Sea in her clocking-on card and Nouveau Labour health & safety fascists let off controlled explosions near a new narrative seam in a Can-Can dancer's Victorian des res. She has a 15-man a year habit and a lust for sailing only an upper-middle class nautical caricature would ever understand darling...

Verbal entropy near the equator for two weeks waiting for the fucking Doldrums to blow. Non-linear loops in from thje Scandinavian \fjords via an & from SKolhyrse. She latches onto character if only to get out of the train. She has her wings disguised as skis! In April! In Brighton!! We'll see about that ...

Meanwhile we wait for fresh discourse, another meanwhile shows up with left-overs from the March. The public sector lardage is taking the flak from the infantile Left Opposition by the manifest disorder of midlife crisis by entire sections of the mobilised movement, the crusty contingent, libertarians and unwaged slaves, as a train passenger discusses a tense cut from a more simple past to a less than perfect present on account of the budgetary bollocks made up by George, real name Gideon, and his posh made-up Lord Snooty pals for the benefit of the Andy Capps who no longer read The Daily Mirror in droves nor vote.

Fellow worker! aka consumer, socio-genetic conditioning in size 15 collar commutes to Herts and back yet utters nutter mutter worthy of reported speech.

But no time for that now Greta, the strudel is ready!

- And isn't it about time we had some dialogue?

- Shh, you say, pointing to the Quiet Zone sticker as you return to your reading, head down, privatised, atomised, repressed cooperative tendencies and reservoirs of compassion stifled by celebrity aspiration.

The stripes on polyester and cotton send semaphore to Lorelei's retro-regression, and so she decides the South Coasters need liberating from their own mist and Spring fug. She, as a mid-twenty-something-male-someone that she'd once inhabited and went cottaging, was wholesomely propositioned in the morning mist and knows of what she talks. The mingers' mist. The munters' fog on the Tyne. Fat Geordie in leather chaps. Not a good look. But the fug of the sea mist and fission of fused sexuality it all got a bit nebulous, hazy, fantazee, John Wayne big leggy.

Time to don Lennon's trousers, red nose, St Ormond's Children's Hospital heart and Rosa Luxembourg's sense of psycho-geography. She'd never carry it off. A mini-break? A nano-holiday? A micro-staycation? A fissure in the Monday-Friday nine-to-fiveness of it all. That. And sex. She had to acknowledge it hadn't died inside. Far from it. Actively seeking satisfaction was an essential part of an Angel's anti-ideation kit. Sex was how Angels did real. Real raises its smiley face, strips off its merkin and relax don't do it! when you want to c... ahem vicar! More jism?...End of the line. Brighton. Rockola Vegan Rock & Roll Coffee Bar. Note form only. Cappucino. Carrot cake. Cream and non-corporate smile. Genuine local locale. Blonde, fair, British. Cute in a gawky way. Next day. Back to St Albans.

This is Major Tim to Ground Control.

- Come in Buzz, this is getting way too random dude!!

- I know what I'm doing.

The next bit: One sunny day, and England is popping happy pills like never before. Lorelei appears in the sky and stops gravity.

Forty quid! Just to de-fuzz and get an email.

Forgetting detail is fine. The broader-brush-thinking involved in keeping it together when you forget the detail is more cosmic. Not Where did I put the little gizmo that bleeds the bleedin’ radiator? but His face makes me smile. Remember that. What do we remember? 250 words please by Monday on my desk.

End of Brighton Pier. A steadying sense of milieu. Have a nice cup of tea? Opposite the Pier. Up on the next level looking down on the promenade. Snap shot of grafittied wall. Baghdad Country Club. And Cafe Lodestar, next door but one to the pub where they had their only successful conversation.

Once in a twitter, Lorelei twongs the venetian blinds to peek at the incipient daylight threatening to crack through the murk that passes for Saturday. She craves early April freash air, she tweets.

Like fresh air, only with 20% more spelling. Aarrgh! Typojokes in cyberspace. Lodestar feels her chest contract and her pulse throb. A student of Jean Paul Braudilliard, trapped by her own meta fiction, she leaves twitterhea for St. Albans town centre.

A Rocky Road and a cappuccino @ Cafe Roma hint at self-admonition and introspection worthy of a fully-rounded personality. DANGER Jill Robinson! She counts to ten. Slowly. Her inner turmoil subsides. She glances at the sign in the Vintage shop across the misplaced Hatfield Road.

Keep Calm & Carry On... = Shut Up & Get Back to Work Before We Shoot You.

Opposite. A churchyard. Three recently emancipated young women, though in back then 20-year-olds looked like 40-year-olds, so it's hard to be sure. Three women stride contentedly to the Ballisto factory turned from patriarchal oppression and hosiery to feminism and shells, from male dominance and peace to female liberation and war. ARBREIT MAKT FREI! War work can set you free sisters, it reads over the entrance of the munitions factory that used to make stockings replaced by gravy and eyeliner in the struggle for freedom. The personal is politicised. Not yet. Too soon. Lorelei's got her dates mixed up again. Bloody rationing!

2nd floor. Medieval St. Albans. On the left: Marriage the Mantrap myth. And an old Herts. saying: "(S)He who buys a house in Herts. pays two years purchase for the air."

Luton Riots 1919. Just after the last war to end all wars sisters. Case #4 Attempted suicide brought before court, caused by drink and loss of work, tired of cutting her throat to save face, she wanted to self-immolate, but her WW1 lighter wouldn't work lest the Kaiser Billy's boys blow her head off. After the coming of the railway, women took in washing for Londoners who sent their laundry by rail to have it dried in the clean air of "healthy Hertfordshire". Broken fallen cross. Pathological shoppers take short cuts. Wood pigeons coo. Collapsed headstones. Family graves. Grave family relations. 1880's love ties like chains. In between the cracks in the narrative. Strips of emotionality. Impressionistic language that attempts to foster radical counter-current labelled EXTREMISM!

Cemeteries. Home to nutter mutter. Young trippers. Writers note down names from gravestones to use later. Ambrose Massey. Algernon Groot. You couldn't make these up; rogue semi-colons; Special Brew crew have polite 10.30am chat; their little fingers curl up around their still half full cans; angels take sanctuary from the mainstream; solace; solitude. Full stops.

Pre-fabs: prefabricated bungalows built at the end of the war, THE war... outlasted the 20 years they were designed to last. If anarchism breaks out in St. Albans, all residents should, as far as possible, remain indoors or in a shelter, until the social revolution is over. It started in the Blitz, Londoners with social-economic capital escaped the capital to the Home Counties. All Terry Thomas League of Gentleman good clean healthy fun don't you know? As workers in Sarf Lahdan dwelt knee high in knees up knees Mother Brody blinky blonky blimey banter and monochrome. Luckily for the healthy outdoorsy suburban petit-bourgeoisie, military intelligence had cracked the German codes, so they engineered the bombing of the East End instead of Harpenden. Operation Class War as it never did come to be known... Sacred to the memory of Vera Similitude

who died January 13th 1941

aged 58 years and of

Miserabilism

widower of above

who died Oct 31st 1963

aged 47 years

both greatly unloved and overly lamented

Also of Samuel

aka MC Beckett

their infant son

who was collared

in flagrante delicto

flouting generalised normalism

aged beautifully

as a leather chair

then died

Suddenly, [insert missing clause from first draft], Lorelei realigns the sensations of her imagination and her cognition whatever that means and realises the joy ride (TWOKing in East Leeds; Whizzing a Danny in 80's Liverpool; carjacking in Colombia) is the perfect vehicle to circumvent her car crash of a second marriage.

Back to basics. The dilemma, like her wings, is two-fold. And as they unfold, the second-person narrator drops out, lands on its feet and shuffles off, exit stage left-wing. Her wingery each present another double-sided facet of problem. The first is the constant urge towards self-indulgence. There are whole passages of tedious post-modern drivel congealing as hardened snot on the top lips of literary critics as we live and breathe and defecate and toil for the latter days of capitalism, utterly unread unquoted and unmemorable. Ahem!

She of course is a she, with personal identity issues to boot. Big Doc Marten's with red laces in tied like a Tom Boy to the tree of Father Nature growing out of Mother Earth. Binary bull. Ovarian Acquarian acquiescence or some such.

Time is our enemigo amigo. The suspension of the sentence across a prial of midlife tick-box bollocks is a prime example. Shopping at Homebase... Fifty lengths down the municipal baths... The washing that is always in need of being hung on the Siegfried line...

Then a notion. A cognition dropeth into the penny slot. Three words anchored in her flighty headlock. Hypnotherapy. Language. Change. Change? The only constant in her life. The price of Churchillian survival. Change comes through the barrel of Mao Tse-Tung's rhetoric. Change comes from without. Change is issued below the scanner.

Meanwhile, THE POLITICO-MEDIA COMPLEX gets capitalised: its internecine internal dispute is passed off as consensual. Poppy cock for nincompoops. The evil emperor pretends to squirm for the masses.

Light. Positivity. Happy. A three-word anchor brings her down to earth. Grounded. Rooted in a frame of reference as real as any other. Love and kindness is worth a trial at Liverpool Crown Court. FC Twente is a long time ago now.

SIGN OFF along the dotted line ...........I AM NOT DANIEL BLAKE. I REJECT VICTIMHOOD!

So many things signed away like that. Commitment to an entire lifetime of commitments she would never indulge herself in. Experiential existence. Below the water line. In the guttersnipe where the low-life lived and the rats gnawed away like phobia. Pure notes now. Rapid fire delivery. Till later. Danbury Manor had been a red-herring along the watchtower. Will E. Kelly the one-legged cat burglar was wanted on the manor. Wil E Coyote. The worst pun in show business. The Spanish tongue twister she lost in translation. The sky is bricked up whoever will unbrick it; the unbricker who unbricks it good unbricker he will be. PIT WIT AGAINST CAPITAL AND WAIT. There was sense in not saying or writing anything. The absence of words. The active listening. The wait. Give em enough rope. Learn to hang back. Idle. Composed not compose. The happy coincidence of words. The neuralgia of nostalgia. Poetic prose. Prosaic poetry... As half-inched by a scouser in Paris in the autumn of her life la.

The intimacy she craved with another receded into the mist the more frantic the attempts to get closer to it. As she drew nearer intimacy inexorably moved away. Wait. Preserve energy. Wait. For Godot's sake. It will come around. Just put it all in. Go to sleep. Wait. Wake. Smile. Breathe. Content. Calm. Confident. Confident on the cusp of ego. Maybe.

Once upon. There was a note about rats. Wednesday was rats day. No matter it was Tuesday now. Billy Kelly the one-armed cat burglar switched missing limbs for the hell of it. It confused the fuck out of the council. Residential care workers went temporarily insane. Good work Billy boy. The rats have escaped from the pages of Homage To Catalunya. They swim across the Cam. They can run ragged through the back streets of the Dingle. They paw across Orwell's sleeping face and into the dreams of every phobic in Room 101 until the fear subsides like their shrieks and squeaks. The 20 years old Espanish woman. Is bootiful. In CambBridge with an extra B for to learn speak good the english for to do MBA. Must Be Accountant. Marry Big Alpha-male. May Be Arsehole. Muy Bien Ahora. Monday Buy Anorak. The rain in Spain falls mainly on the plane. No good. The POUM militia is here 75 years too late for May 15th comrades. Might Be Anarchista!!

Big fcuk off rats the size of Diamond Dogs that the Colombian student saw. Too late now. We are all middle class. AND we are all poor. USA is the largest debtor nation. AND America is the wealthiest country on the planet. Rich Dad. Poor Dad. The current financial crisis (sic) masks the greatest transfer of wealth in history. Like a News International Apology, it is staggering in its hypocrisy. We are appalled by the allegations that some individuals at the Screws Of The Whore failed to uphold the values of decency and the rule of the poor law. For a business that prides itself on holding the powerful in Swiss Bank Accounts. We failed.

Like fuck.

The Lode Star is a navigation aid. Hair-dye (strawberry blonde), pesto, cat de-flea powder and something else she can't remember. Like the intimacy that she used to feel towards him. It's on the tip of her tongue. She used to roll it around the end of his urethra and let him watch her in the full-length mirror as he splashed over her out-stretched tongue and let it dribble down her chin. A memory that stood proud and erect with a smile on its face. The real story is the meta-sex, not the sex. The spaces in between the intensity of the fleeting moments of intimacy.

Lorelei is at once spirit guide, navigator, postal worker on strike for less overtime in the drive against asset stripping and covert anti-Unionism on behalf of the brutal class. As our members have already made clear, she is at odds with the convention of competition. The crisis of complexity and the interconnectedness of naturalism is her honeycomb. Busy Angels live in mythical imaginations where discarded tropes, memes and other detritus of critical apparatus vie for attention, so many mewling voices amid the anal... analysis.

Angel ideation flits restlessly. The act itself is enough. Go to work like a good egg. It is the privilege of the rich to waste the time of the poor. Quit your job, read the graffito. What effing job! A wag had sprayed. The right for the fight not to work. To sit there and do nothing a la Tracey Emmin. And wait. Wait for the creative to land. She clipped on her wings and took a line from the second paragraph for a walk. Selwyn Bass, the dentist, turned her wings to lettuce.

Back in the day, before Swedish, Romanian, Portuguese dentists were ten a penny, or ten for ten billion badly spent NHS pennies, she had a thing about Selwyn Bass. He was progeny of a comedy Yorkshireman who, as part of an opening sequence, once wrote a graffito about Arthur Scargill's appropriacy for the upcoming papal vacancy, and a can of almost non-alcoholic syrup her dad used so as to ply the gap between proper parenting and pub car park, when playing stud poker and getting plastered in the conservative Club with a small working-class c, because it could equally have been the socially conservative Labour club with one big L of a working man's northern chip on her fried shoulders, sore from sun burnt excess in General Franco's newly poly-filled Torremolinos, years before the nationalist's fascist's front's facade of missing cedilla's and catastrophic apostrophe's New Laboured to hoodwink the workers into voting.

She was long past that stage these days. The short-sleeved white tunic and powerful not-too-hairy arms lead down to the second most important attractive feature in a man in all heterosexual fictions: his hands. Hands she likes to ideate stroking the mole on her inner thigh as a jewel of the Nile leading to the oasis of oral pleasure, drinking from the furry plate, without the dental dam that only right-on dickheads from Westminster City Council's HIV awareness team deem necessary in such an armless flight of fantasy.

She was just getting into it, when she realised Selwyn Bass was actually a solicitor and about as sexy as a spread sheet when. An untimely period masquerading as an American full stop put an end to. Masturbatory was distinctly non-you anyway, young lady, she could hear her mother's voice moan in her head as she hovered over to unload the front loader that didn't contain her father's pristine white work shirts any more, any more than the Prishtina Sessions would make enough money for the near-Nobel prize-winning cosmologist's Liverpudlian spouse to retire on when the wind was in the right direction. She had't the heart to tell him. She had't a heart. Period. She had clipped negation. She could only say YES! to negativity these days. She had only positive radiance in her fictive heart. She was Angel. She did menstruate though. Like a bastard. All over the page. Sticky brown splots of blood, dense thickets of cloggy claggy bloody adjectives that left scatology everywhere.

The off-the-wall English Language test question for those foreign nationals desperate enough to marry into post-Norman conquest Anglo-Saxon robotics was this, posed as intractable as the cricket conundrum for British Asians:

Q: What is a dense thicket?

Answers on a postcard please to the Immigration & Nationalism Department of the Ministry of Unsound Language Proscription before the trees, bees and plankton die out and make absolutely everything we say, think or do utterly irrelevant for all time unless you take up the smart arse position and declare that the planet couldn't care a tinker's flying threepenny bit what the fcuking hell humanity might or might not do since it will survive on a Gloria Gaynor of a whim like a stegosaurus eating a pasty in a school disco it never asked to be invited to anyway.

Anyway, the speech markers draw in on Lorelei. A lorra lorra linguistics leads to Lodestar's navvy's equipment packing up and her Cilla Black psychological operation software kicking in. She has to go and have a word with the big boy upstairs. God, notionally from the East End of Glasgae for comic effect, always sups on Tenant's Super in homage to the spiritual properties of the old purple tin.

Lorelei likes to blether with the big man in first person present for the benefit of the Immigration & Nationality. She needs a reference.

"Yer not a fucking atheist are yer?"

´¨If I was, I just lapsed."

"Once an atheist, always a...."

"...always an atheist?"

"No... always a pain in the 'erse. Now clip your wings hen and git tae fuck."

Lorelei did as bid.

A: Less intelligent than a clever thicket!

She was in.

As John Maynard Keynes once wrote down for posterity with the perchance of forethought that he would be quotable one day, on the 18.55 to Krappy Rubsnif, Nodnol:

"The difficulty lies not in the unknown of the new, but in leaping from the fire escape in the fulsome knowledge that it might leave you only partially vegetated."

Welcome to the human race.

IMMIGRATION STATUS APPROVED. LEAVE WINGS IN OFF POSITION:

THE SPAGHETTI FACTION

Friday, November 30, 2018

KILL XMAS!

BULLDOZE THE BUSINESS SCHOOL

Thursday, November 15, 2018

PARALISIS TEXTUAL

NEVER HOSPiTALiSE THE SPANiSH

Sunday, November 11, 2018

LORELAI LODESTAR´S IMMIGRATION STATUS

SWALLOW TUFT AND BRIMSTONE

KILL XMAS!

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