Cutting Edge!

Applause!

Welcome to our alternative poetry readings. live from the Avant Garde Club.

Now I know you've all come tonight to hear Fatso's new anthology "No Superkings, sorry" - (perhaps his most brutal work of all) but let me introduce our newest and freshest warm-up poet - Jenny Smith

(polite applause amid murmers "but I wanted to see Fatso!" and "I hope he doesn't fall asleep this time!")

JS clears throat:

"This is my most radical piece to date:

Half-term! What a load of shit that is!
Its not even christmas. Or Easter.
And the kids get on your tits
And they hog the laptop all the time
if you're not driving 'em to sleepovers that is!

And don't get me started on Halloween...!

(Sounds of "boos" start to erupt dangerously amid murmers of "doesnt' even rhyme" and
"where's the irony? thats what I want to know...")

Look! Its a work in progress, okay?

When the hell is it Monday?
When I can get rid of the bloody lot of them
Daughter says she's got a sore throat
well, I tell you, she's bloody going.......

Ow! No, stop it! Hey! Thats not very ladylike!
(tomatos and paper cups are being thrown now)

"Fatso! Fatso! Bring on Fatso! Get off, you talentless waste of space!
AND you're not allowed to smoke in here!"

Well, sod it then. Did Philip Larkin ever have this trouble, I wonder.

Slum Landlords

Nothing to say these last few days really. Just been buried in hopelessness.

Went to Fatso's for sympathy about the house. Told him all about my crushed dreams and disappointments. He looked at me intently. Some would say blankly.
"You want carrier bag?" he said in the end.

This was the only kind of comfort he knew how to give.

I walked out the shop, shoulders hunched.

Go the young Poles' shop next door thats quite good for vegetables and that.

"You have room?", he says to me
"Do what?", I say
"You know room I can rent?"
What? I'm Rackman now am I?

If I wasn't a better person I would say: yeah, I've got a house round the corner going for £269,999 but we're open to offers!!
Instead I merely said: "Where are you living now?"
"Its ok," he replied, "I'm married."

Well, for fracks sake.

That afternoon a woman from Northern Ireland made an offer on the house.

Bloody Football!

Haven't posted for a few days, my hand is killing me. Swollen up with veins standing up bright blue. Woke me up the other night. Its obviously a terrible curse put upon me. I bet Fatso knows something about this.

And don't think i got any sympathy from him either. He was looking a bit dejected when i went in there today. His last two novels "My trips to the Cash & Carry" and "There's no bloody Barcode on this one!" have not been well received. They can currently be found in the bargain basket at Wilkinsons. And his Groucho club mates have been seen wooing and flirting with the Polish Grocer up, the road. If you ask me, he's better off without them, all that bloody twittering from Stephen Fry and Jonathon Ross. But he hasn't asked me so i'll keep quiet.

Got wound up this morning. What a surprise! Some Dad at the school gates told me my Son was good at football but not exceptional. Bastard. And how funny this Dad should get such insight. And what a coincidence that his own son never ever gets picked for the school team like mine. How strange that is. Oh Lordy! Can't they just play lacrosse instead?

Hand hurts. Going for a fag.

ASBO City

How many more shops am i going to walk out of? At this rate i'll be getting an ASBO.

Shop near Son's school. Run out of parking vouchers don't I. Go in. This really awful Asian woman glares at me, says they don't do them anymore. Fine. Ok. Especially as I see that the old voucher parking spots are now Car Club spots. Someone did explain about them but i've completely forgotten what they said.

Two days later, with only 4 fags left, I go back in the shop. The old bag was there again. Behind her, the white display shelf only has a yellowing sticker for Marlborough.
"Don't you sell fags anymore?" I venture.
"No." she glares.
"Well, this is a pretty f...... * useless shop then, isn't it" I explain as I walk out.
I think it was the way it was said.

Now say what you like about Fatso. Say what you like about the useless fat idle indifferent Git, he will come up with the fags. And if he doesn't have my brand, he will mumble some explanation. Admittedly i don't really listen but at least the fat lump offers one.

And he doesnt have to. Stock my Superkings or explain i mean. He could hurt me in the only way he can. But no, he doesn't. He's loyal in that respect. A bit like some lazy fat labrador that no-one really goes near.

Incidentally there's white people working in Fatso's shop. I can't have that! No telly blasting out the Namaste channel, no talking shit with numerous dodgy-looking relatives. This is not good enough! I don't want that type in my local shop.

I have a theory that Fatso's book - How I was Pursued by Some Crazy Bloody Woman - has been well received. Rumours are it got a good review in The Times Literary Supplement. And that Max Clifford has been sniffing around. Also there is talk in the Launderette that Fatso is now close mates with Stephen Fry and Tony Parsons and He now divides his time between The Ivy, The Groucho Club and Hugh Hefner's mansion. (They'd need a bloody huge hot tub there, I tell you!).

And funny, the last time I saw him heaving out of a posh car, he didn't look angry with me anymore. Why?


* answers on a postcard please

Out of hand....

Had to work in the shop at the rugby match today. Was really pissed off. What is it with this rugby shit? I mean who really cares? Apart from the 82,000 who attended that is. Bloody feet are killing me and had to do bloody 12 till 8 pm. I mean sod this!

For some insane reason I walk home. Its actually less hassle than trying to get a bus in the high street thats full of pissed rugby fans urinating by Waterstones. Whats the point of drinking all that bloody beer?

I walk along the main road yearning for 10 smokes. But it has to be Smokes from Fatso somehow, or they would lose their significance. I haven't seen Him all day and feel he deserves
a kick up the arse.

Disappointed to see that Fatso was not in residence, the idle git. It was his Son who, I must say, was not remotely fat, in fact he was extremely svelte. This scores points against him from the start. I scowl at him for this reason, the selfish git and he, in turn, scowls back.

"Where's that fat...your Father," I ask innocently.

Son gives me a deep and significant look.
"upstairs resting. Suffering from mental and physical exhaustion"

"Oh? Had to fill up an extra shelf did he?"
(And i bet he even did that wrong)

"If you must know," he hissed, "The shop was innudated today with Movie fans and Bloggers. One even brought their bloody dog for Gods sake!"

"Oh?" I ask innocently "And how is Fa....your father now?"

"Fat... I mean Dad is in a state of delirium . Muttering things about that Bloody Woman and
Restraining orders.."

He gave me my change coldly. The silence like a huge weight between us.

"And how did you do?" , I venture tentatively.

"Not bad. Tenner a photo, great demand for White Sliced and Superkings, and 3 coach parties booked for next week!"

I go back out into the street. Broken glass crunches beneath my worn cheap soles.
They'd need a bloody wide-angled lense, I tell you.

Defiled!

My legs are wobbling! My eyes are glazed. A terrible sense of shame has crawled over me like a second skin. How could I have done it? That Thing I said I would never do! If only I could turn the clock back! But I know its too late. I will have to bear this burden for the rest of my miserable life. I was going to save this for Confession but I will confide in you as friends. I used a Debit card in the Newsagents.

When they started taking cards, these small shops, I swore I would never be a part of it. Small shops should have cash only - or a slate like with papers and that - because they're not frackin' Tescos. Why can't people have enough money for their fags and chocolates and that. Why should they live by a swipe of a card?

I mean I have done it at Fatso's occasionally. I have bought a few groceries on the credit card. But He doesn't count. Fatso is like a cheap whore. One of those really - and I mean really - cheap types you pick up at a place with sawdust on the floor. You can defile him all you like and forget him afterwards. It really doesn't matter how much you misuse him. He likes it.

But not my Hallowed newsagent next door. Who I treat with such reverence and respect. Leaving Him pure and untouched. Keeping it traditional with fivers and loose change. I mean i've run out of fags before - of course I have. But when your Oyster cards' dried up too - it can push a person with the most purest principles over the edge.

When I put my card in His rented pin machine, I felt another side of me - the dirty side - had been revealed and my hands shook as I put in the Pin number. I looked at him with tears in my eyes. Will He ever forgive me? I have treated him on the same level as that scrubber Fatso.

If I didn't know better, I would have actually said that the Newsagent rather enjoyed this degrading act. In fact there was a big smile on his face throughout the whole perverted and filthy procedure. It just shows you never know anyone!

The Cat bit my foot.

Oh My Giddy Aunt....

Bless you and thank you sweeties for your concern. Sorry, yes, I have been off the rails but not in an "Easy Rider" sort of way, more of a "for Flip's sake" sort of way.

Got an offer for the house - nice couple of Balham. Too low, Husband says, can't accept it. Disappointment sat in my stomach like a stone. They're first time buyers - they probably can't find the money. So back to indifferent viewers tramping over the house. I really thought we'd caught a live one there.

Go to London to cheer up. Meet mate outside Cineworld Chelsea. Phone goes. School. Son is ill. Leg it all the way back up the Kings Road. On the train home, Husband phones, he had collected him after all . Come home, have a bloody lie down. Bollocks to it. Cat bites me.

Then work. Stocktaking. What is this work shit? I hate it.

Son been off for three days. Yesterday he drove me mad lying on that bloody sofa. But today I feel much better about it for some reason.

Went to see Fatso in his shop. He seemed in good spirits. Probably had Danny Boyle on the phone. And the miserable git actually said Goodbye as i walked out. Took his bloody temperature I tell you! He'll be smiling next!

Missed you, sweeties

Thank you

Lovies, Treasures, I am honoured to accept this award from my dear pal Suburbia. Bless you and thank you.

Oh no, the eyes are welling up already , the emotions are sitting tight in my throat. I am choked with kindness and love, excuse me a moment.........

Phew! Much better after that fag - I mean breath of fresh air.

This pancake day business. What a load of old shite. Now, no-one likes a bit of a pancake flip more than i do. But when the frackin' thing splashes everywhere and that eggy batter stuff lands in the neighbouring carrots ......! AND on my Laura Ashley dress....!

And then - everybody pigs out on them with sugar and lemon - and do i get one? Do i shite! The greedy buggers! I'm lucky if i get a bit of squirty cream! Common and souless I know but I love it!

Have been amazed at the number of people (husband included) who is full of wonderment that I make my own pancakes "from scratch" and not buy the ready made mixture. What a reflection of our times. I mean its only an omlette with flour in really isn't it. Why do you need to buy that shit for?

For all my swearing and smoking, i do try to serve as fresh as food as i can and cook from "scratch". At the moment I hate Tescos and them 'cos they sealed the sad fate of Woolworths so have sent them to coventry. And i've been traipsing up the local shops for eggs and bacon and fruit and veg and that. But i feel sadly alone in this venture.

There's the local grocer , I shall call him "Fatso" because he's a useless gormless lazy git but say what you like about him, he does come up with the goods. Actually he looks exactly like that fat policemen in Slumdog Millioniare. I asked him the other day if he went to the BAFTAs and what was Danny Boyle like and do you know, he just looked at me blankly. I mean the modesty of the man!

Now when i go in there , i give him a conspirital wink. He looks scared and gets his wife to serve me. Why?