My friend Simon, who I have referenced many times here, is no longer my friend Simon. We agreed, before he disappeared in a bizarre froth of pissed-up and vinegar, that I won’t cause any problems for him and he won’t cause any problems for me.
His last words to me, delivered two hours into my birthday back in April, were, “Fuck you, yer fucking cunt. Yer fucking cunt. Fuck you!”
Three minutes before this he had been threatening to fight me, saying, “Come on yer fucker! Come ON!”
Two minutes before, he had been trying to cheers me with his glass.
“No, I’m not fucking cheersing you,” I had said. “You were just threatening to bottle me.”
Why the reason for this sudden falling out?, you may well ask. That’s complex.
Why write ‘yer’ instead of ‘you’?, I pretend to imagine I hear you cry.
That’s easy. He’s from Liverpool.
I would like to say here to any particular Simon who might stumble across this and think it’s about him- relax.
This is entirely fictional and for the purposes of entertainment.
Any resemblance to any person either living or dead or dead drunk is entirely coincidental. All rites served and then reserved.
That said, he DID say I had carte blanche (that’s French for ‘bleached cart’) to write about our entire narrative of woe last year that was responsible for me ending up in exile in the jungles of Myanmar (Burma) for a year.
He said I could only publish if I told the whole story, so in bullet points, on which I will later elaborate:
- I turned up in Saigon from Bangkok in March last year to pick up a suitcase I had left at his (I was planning to fly back to England for a Saudi gig interview)
- I stayed at his a couple of nights
- The second night he went crazy, accusing me and his girlfriend, Nhien (again, fictional), of fucking each other and threw us both out at midnight.
- She had no money and nowhere else to stay but with me
- She said things were over and she never wanted to see him again. I felt the same
- She got changed into see-through negligee
- I tried to ignore it
- Her boob fell out
- I couldn’t ignore it
- We ended up fucking each other
- I ended up in Vietnam, not Saudi
- I had some shit at the job I was at
- Nhien was playing games all along
- Nhien and Simon started seeing each other again without my knowledge
- Simon wanted to be mates again
- We became mates again
- Nhien and Simon had a fresh start outside of Saigon
- Then they split up
There, that’s pretty much it. I can now pick away at bits of this and create something way more interesting than the list you have just skipped over. Crucially, I have told the whole story, at least the main narrative, so think I have discharged any obligation to Simons, both real and imaginary.
There’s also another integral secondary plot in which the elusive Mr. Double plays a decisive role. That bit is seriously fucked up.
Meanwhile, there’s an overall story arc this is just part of and that I was far too damaged to write about at the time, involving being disowned by my highly-narcissistic mother and the awful events surrounding that.
Wondering just where do I start with all this, I realise I already have with that bit about the argument with Simon (go back to the start if you’ve forgotten. This time, I’m just asking for overall comprehension. Next time there will be a quiz.)
I’ll close this section with Simon’s given reasons for turning on me:
I had changed; I was arrogant; I was condescending; I wasn’t someone he could do business with; although he still liked me a bit he disliked me way more- about a quarter ‘like’ and three-quarters ‘dislike’.
I said, “Well, that’s not really a basis for a friendship then, is it?”
“Fuck you, yer fucking cunt!” he replied.
That’s about where we came in.
As this is a discrete and necessarily long narrative describing a series of events that made me even more uncomfortable, I had planned to write it as a book called ‘Make Yourself Uncomfortabler’ until someone pointed out that writing a sequel to a book that sold at best only enough to nearly half-fill the boot of a Ford Kia was not only stupid but really, really stupid.
I still need to tell the story, however, damn it. It’s either that or stop updating the blog and I just paid to renew it. That would represent the kind of senseless loss of money that led me to bung David Icke £25 for ‘The People’s TV’ (or whatever it was) in return for a squiggle on a bit of badly-folded A4 paper that was supposedly his signature. Similarly, I recently accidentally paid for Super Powers on Badoo and forgot to cancel before they rebilled me.
Time-wasters on Badoo.
I’ll put this stuff in a new Category- Uncomfortabler. I’ll try to tell the story in a reasonably logical way but I’m what literary theory might call an ‘unreliable narrator’- probably because I was smashed at the time but then again I might just be making it all up. There’s always that.
That said, re the Badoo thing, if any reasonably attractive woman is reading this Gallery of Grotesquery and thinking, “Yeah, I like the sound of this guy. He has paddled in the Shoals of Derangement- as have I- and managed to bring back not only some nuggets of wisdom but also a few compensatory behaviours which have to be either accepted or addressed.” – well, I’m all ears.
I’m not literally ‘all ears’, obviously. That would be hideous.
I have the standard pair of auditory devices, enabling stereoscopic surround sound that mean I can always roughly pinpoint where noisy things are (I do have tinnitus, though, due to a fat, old farang tipping a bucket of dirty water over my head in Thailand a few years back).
In addition, I have two eyes that cleverly combine a pair of 2-D images into an optical illusion of 3-D that allows me to perceive depth and not bump into things.
Along with this, I have other facial features which are attached in a regular fashion (i.e. neck) to a fairly standard, yet well-endowed*, male body that has been subjected to regular infusions of beer.
My Star Sign is Wandering and I like walking except sometimes I don’t so I get a taxi or whatever instead.
Send me a comment. I won’t publish (unless it’s exceptionally deranged).
UPDATE: Ran into Simon six months later. He said sorry. I accepted his apology.
Talk about a let-down ending.