The Loneliness of Being a Twat

The loneliness of being a twat

Not much sympathy for that

You’ve made your bed, you’ll lie in it

For all they care you’ll die in it

You’re looking for a shoulder

There’s a mirror there to cry on it

You blew it

Fucked up and you knew it

Saw the drama, walked right to it

All so easily avoided

Tapestries your dick embroidered

Friends have turned too many cheeks

Too many sins, too many weeks

They isolate you from the cliques

You’re poisonous, your morals reek

You’re excommunicated

In black holes ego created

Now you creep around the streets

Avoiding anyone related

Just in case they start to preach

As if their humour’s constipated

What’s the problem?

Was it all so bad?

You’re over it, but they’re still mad

You try to reason with the girls

They say you make them sick

So you try to get the boys on side

But they think you’re a prick.

Like it’s as if you antagonise by merely existing

Kiss anyone who looks at you, might wana try resisting

Left alone

Weekends on your own

2 numbers left on your phone

One’s your mother’s, one’s your own

Who’s the text from? Might’ve known

Try to make some new friends

Cos you’ve got no old ones left

Hoping they won’t realise you’re morally bereft.

Weeks go by, all seems fine

Breakdown a matter of time

Like the old ones tried to warn yer

Ill behaviour round the corner

Little creases turn to cracks

Up to no good behind backs

Always on edge, can’t relax

No one’s got no time for that, mate

Just behave yourself for god’s sake

You could save yourself the ball ache

Of the blame of all the heart ache

Get your name crossed out from parties

Getting phased out groups you started

Do you feel it?

Is it guilt?

Have you burned the bridges built

Have you noticed they all realise

The zombie dead look in your eyes

You’re fake, phoney

Billy-no-mates

Late, lonely

No one waits

Look around you

Where you at?

Stranded, no one’s got your back

But there’s no sympathy for that

The loneliness of being a twat.

Bus Rider

Late one Friday, catching the bus

Young hot girl starts looking at us

Ask her for a drink, yeh I don’t make a fuss

She rolls her eyes

Says I won’t tell a lie

I don’t date guys who ride on the bus.

I think for a minute like that’s a bit rich

You’re here sitting on the 76

What you on about, are you taking the piss?

She looks me over

Shrugs her shoulders

Says I’m just confident, not a bitch.

I’m looking for a guy with a little more class

Not a scruffy get with a weekly pass.

I’m like jeez, how’s that for a kick in the ass

So I say fair dos

But I’m looking at yous

And I’ll give you all my compliments, en masse.

5 minutes later, riding the bus

Young hot girl won’t stop kissing us

Get off at her stop without making a fuss

Say shall I come over?

She says it’s over

I don’t shag guys who ride on the bus

I ran through heaven right into a brick wall

Started with nothing now I’m getting fuck all

Tell her a minute ago we’re having a ball

She strokes my face

Not the time or the place

Says I want a real man or nothing at all

Well woe betide

I buy a daily rider

Just to save a fiver, or something

If I can get inside her by bluffing

She’ll get a MegaRider or nothing

But more’s the pity

Who the hell am I kidding?

She wants a suped-up rider sub-woofin

Maybe one day when you’re driving a car

You can take me on holidays

Or take me to bars

If you gave me some action, I could take you to Mars

But she kisses my cheek

Says I’ll see you next week

“You might not have money but you’ve still got your charm”

I think fucking hell you patronising bitch

We were both there sitting on the 76

“Yeh I might not be loaded but I’m morally rich”

“Oh! Morals, do yer?

I can see right through yer

Give me all the chat so you can look at my tits”

Wait a minute! You’ve got me all wrong

10 minutes ago we were getting along

Let’s just rewind and start from square one

Hey nice to meet you, can I sit beside yer?

My name’s Jimbo, paid up bus rider

Yeh, I’m not that keen on it either

But town and back for less than a fiver

It’s a steal

Let me shout you a meal

Kansas Chicken or whatever you feel

chuck in a Vimto as part of the deal

Let’s go to a disco or whatever appeals

I’m easy

Not remotely sleazy

Borrow my jacket, here you look freezing.

Hold my hands up, pissed, I got cocky

Ahead of myself, and my manners were shocking

I’m sorry

Can I get under your brolly?

You’re an alien, I’m a nobody

Some folk say I talk too much

I’m talking shit, I’m double-Dutch

Just hold my hand and shut me up

I’m on demand if that’s enough

Just pause it

Late one Friday, out on the street

numb stargazing, dying to speak

dumb heartbreaking kiss on the cheek

whatever that means

Heaven in black jeans

Same bus, same time, every week

Kansas City Chicken

Drunk and starving, really hoping

That there’s somewhere still left open

Empty streets, no cars, alone

No battery left on my phone

In the dark a gentle glow

Of neon red and bright yellow

4am, the clock is ticking

Looks like Kansas City Chicken

Wander on toward the beacon

Hope I’m capable of speaking

Pat my pockets, check for change

Close one eye to focus

Seems a lot of gold in there

But counting it proves hopeless

Blinded by the dazzle of the gaudy menu boards

Chap behind the counter says “What can I do you for?”

I ask him what he recommends

He says “the chicken’s nice”

I say “yeh, that sounds good to me.” And ask him for the price

I kinda see his mouth moving but struggle keeping track

I pour a load of coins on him, he hands half of them back.

Here’s your 12 pieces of chicken

In your bucket to be sick in

Not exactly finger lickin

But it’s Kansas City Chicken

Stumble home and scoff it all

Chuck the box over a wall

Feeling good, alive and kickin

Can’t beat Kansas City Chicken

Brogan West

Stood chatting to Brogan West

Play it cool and try my best

To look anywhere other than her chest

It’s hard chatting to Brogan West

She’s other worldly

Barely human

Fucking perfect

Something new, man

Never seen someone look so clean

Clothes immaculate

Skin pristine

Teeth whiter than KKK

She’s brighter than people say

How can someone who looks like that

All the Lycra, with zero fat

Be so natural, stand and chat

Like she’s normal and not all that

She’s an alien

Look don’t touch

Eyes bleeding I look so much

Soak it in

All her hilarity

Visuals plus personality

All the boys fawning for romance

Not tonight, mate

Fucking no chance

Don’t dilute her

Might pollute her

Unattainable

Boys obsessed

So connectable

So symmetrical

She’s electrical

Brogan West

Reading for a Wedding

Love is pretty good isn’t it

Think about it

Just a minute

This room alone

The people in it

Can look around

And wallow in it

Chances are

Within a yard

Or maybe 3

It’s pretty hard

Not to see

Someone you love

Are in love with

Or have love for

Or want to give

Your everything

Love their heart

Or love their mind

Or think they’re cool

Or think they’re kind

It’s reassuring

Don’t you find

To have so many

So confined

Who have your back

Who make you laugh

Who join you

When you’re acting daft

Or call you when you’re feeling down

Or buy some booze and come around

It’s little things

we need to hold

be grateful for and pass it

all around

appreciate

not everybody has it.

Not everyone gets to go to weddings

Or go to christenings

Or get invites to Christmas dinner

Or count the New Year in

Life is a lonely place for those without love.

Friends and family such a gift

Holding hands, a perk

We’re sat here in luxury

A vast support network

Your oldest friend the left of you

The other side your wife

Two saw fit to have you here

The most important day of their life

That makes you important

That makes me important

That makes everybody here important

Our presence

Such support

For two people we love

Our protection

Our thoughts

Always just enough.

Two people choose to pave a path with their loved one

You don’t have to have faith to have faith in someone

Coca-Cola

Nothing better, when hungover

Than a can of Coca-Cola

Evening sun and gentle breeze

Existing through the day with ease

Hazy collage memories

Of boozy laughs and revelries

Of city lights and jokey fights

Invincible, infinite nights

I’m smiling, I’ve got funny friends

With no regrets and no depends

I’m smiling thinking it all over

Smiling drinking Coca-Cola 

Slow Replies then No Replies

Flowing conversation

Funny

Sounding pretty breezy

Nothing over urgent cos I’m cool

I’ll take it easy

Insouciance or ignorance

For some reason the spark dies

I'd barely even noticed it 

Then slow replies then no replies

Something I don’t realise 

Then slow replies then no replies

Ask an open question

Reignite the conversation

Probably imagining

The growing hesitation

It’s your job to be interesting

Be erudite

Be funny

Send pictures of your purchases

She might go for your money

Thinking back, that joke you cracked

Maybe apologise

Or clarify the context

God

Those slow replies then no replies

sure know how to paralyse

them slow replies then no replies

Get all hot and bothered

Red

Insane conclusions fill the head

Her phone got nicked

Perhaps she’s dead

I check my phone

Increasing dread

Misunderstood, my tone misread

I’m stressed I over analyse

Them slow replies then no replies

Those girls can sure demoralise 

With slow replies then no replies

Send another message

try to make it unassuming

Sounding like I’m joking

When in fact I’m fucking fuming

Stare into the hole I dug

Hoping it might swallow me up

I see her posting pictures

With one of those hipster art guys

You must be fucking joking, right?

With all those maybe next week lies

It all comes crashing down and dies

The slow replies then no replies

All the whens and wonder whys

Then slow replies then no replies

Slow replies then no replies

Slow replies then no replies

Wake up feeling positive

Like maybe I misread it

Worth another shot at it

Then maybe I’ll forget it

5 things that happened in London

1. Tracy Barlow

With 10 minutes to get from the train to my brother’s school in order to arrive on time for a friendly 5-a-side football match, I must embark on my first ever solo journey on the London Underground. I jump off the train with purposeful alacrity and dodge and duck my way down the crowded platform. I spy Tracy Barlow off Corrie, who I’d seen but two and a half hours earlier at Manchester Piccadilly; I’d flashed her a friendly smile, hoping not only to portray my knowledge of who she was, but also demonstrate my appreciation of Coronation Street as a whole, as well her long-running integral role as part of Manchester’s cultural furniture. She scowled with notable displeasure and looked the other away. Mildly vexed, I thought no more of it. Confronted with her once again, no longer on home turf, I consider giving her a knowing glare, convinced she would be served a guilty reminder of her ingratitude to an amiable fan, though I haven’t got the time nor the desire so I push on ahead to keep to my strict timeframe.  I try to decipher my brother’s tube directions “Old street, Northern Line, bank branch South.” I literally have no idea what this means but hope it will all become apparent as I approach. I whack my Oyster card on the yellow circle to slink through the turnstile. The doors stay obstinately shut. Not enough funds on the card. Shit. Could do without this. A girl in the queue for the Top-up machines dilly dallies with her purse, a firm believer in the old adage “You snooze, you lose” I shamelessly queue jump and ignore any murmurs of displeasure coming from a throng of commuters behind me. The turnstiles fling open, back on track. Eyes fleeting from sign to sign, map to map, I jockey for position as the crowd slows painfully as we reach the descending escalators. Slow coaches with no place to go stick to the right and let the mechanism take them down underground, go-getters stay left and descend at double speed. I choose left and swiftly pass the patient book readers, phone tappers and smoochers when who should I pass for a second time? My old foe Tracy Barlow, texting away, oblivious to the presence of her accidental stalker. “We meet again, Tracy” I don’t say, and press on once more. Northern Line, here we go, South Branch, yes. Old street, this is the one, success! The tube whooshes in on cue. I smile, and exhale, satisfied with the ease of proceedings. My shoulder gasps for air when I release it from the suffocating grip of my overnight bag. I take a seat, happy. An attractive woman sits down across from me. I look up casually to steal a glance. Bloody Tracy Barlow.

2. Lap of London

Following a telephonic communication breakdown, I don’t get to football on time. I’m very pissed off. Not only have I packed and carried a pointless extra bag full of boots and kit, but in the rush I’ve also worked up quite a sweat; a sweat I was hitherto fine with as I anticipated a post match shower would be available to solve the problem. As it is, I’m stranded in London, perspiring with a couple of hours to kill. On the plus side, I’m stranded in London with a couple of hours to kill. I take out my phone and Google map where I am in relation to the city centre. After a couple of false starts, misjudging the direction of the blue circle, I turn around and head briskly in the right direction. Immediately my eyes begin to take in the wonder of London’s snazzy architecture, each building a celebrity in its own right. The Shard, Gherkin and Walkie-Talkie all make Tracy Barlow a long forgotten non-occurrence. The South Bank croons in the sunset, smooth, chilled, glamorous. Everyone is so young and beautiful my eyes are unsure as to who’s a movie star or just a passerby; I hope my hair hasn’t been too badly affected by the sweat. I take a moment and stop by the riverside, outdoor book stall. Rifling through collections of poems and plays in such surroundings, I feel warm with contentment and long for a permanence of such a lifestyle. I leave the gentle buzz of the riverside and plunge into a cacophony of city life, flash cars, red buses, neon lights, glaring screens, colour, concrete, glass, supermodels on posters, shop windows, musicals, cool people, posh people, incredibly well dressed people, homeless people, showbiz people, move I’m in a rush people. Everything is huge, everything is loud and I love it. My phone rings. My brother has finished football and is now in the pub. I open Google maps and relish the walk and warmly anticipate the destination.

3. Cause offence in a heated debate.  

A few drinks inside us, meal finished, we head for more drinks. After hours of jovial chat, law of averages would demand at least one touchy subject be broached. We all smile whilst standing our ground, talk a little louder, gesticulate wilder, talk a little louder still, are we shouting? I have the habit, when drunk, of punctuating an argument by casually dropping in “You’re a dick” as an affirmation of the point I’m trying to make. Unfortunately it tends to piss people off a bit. In this case, calling someone a “boring bitch” also brings the lively debate to a sour end. The receiving party sensibly takes leave of the table, allowing the remaining voices of reason to ‘tut tut’ and offer irritatingly well balanced dressing downs to me, the offender. I stubbornly maintain I was gallantly standing up in the face of a campaign against freedom of expression, yet tactically concede my delivery was a little off skew. A minute later, all is forgotten, save feeling slightly aggrieved at coming off as a bit of a prick.

4. Football Match.

Sun shining, hangover pleasingly tame, what better way to cease the day than head to the nearest football ground for a Saturday afternoon of sporting entertainment. A lazy start to the day means we’re running a little late. Approaching the ground we hear a sudden, joyous roar. “Shit, someone’s scored” we say to each other. A man standing by a tree offers feeble reassurance, “It’ll just be the players, coming out onto the pitch.” “Will it fuck” I think. The cheer was too short, sharp and celebratory, not building and hopeful. Crowd sound analysis aside, we rush to the ticket office, then for the gate. Another cheer! “Dammit, we’ve missed another!” We clarify the score with an amiable steward. 2-0. We’re only five minutes late! We take our seats in the stand. There doesn’t seem to be much adherence to the allocated block/row/seat system going on, just a kind of find a space you like the look of and set up camp vibe. The local crowd seem to be a laid back, friendly bunch, perhaps owing to the two early goals instantly killing any threat of defeat. Everyone seems to know each other, stood around in groups casually chatting away, ‘What did you get up to last night?’ ‘How were you feeling this morning?’ ‘How did the wedding go last week?’ ‘How’s the wife?’ ‘What’s going on with that girl you’re seeing?’ Some even network from group to group, like we’re all mates sat around in a pub on a Saturday night. Latecomers give well meaning V-signs to the greetings of “What time do you call this?” hollers from the seating behind me. Someone calls me “guv’nor” when asking to squeeze past. I feel very much at home and warmed by football’s power to inspire such positive community spirit. With pie in hand and cup of tea in the other, brother to the side of me and football in front, despite the seeming mundanity of the situation, I feel almost euphoric with contentment. Euphorically comfortable. Another cheer goes up; this time we’re part of it. 3-0. Finally get to see a goal.

5. Money

Dolled up, we head into the City. London is alive. Everywhere looks cool, everyone looks cool. After a few warm-up drinks, 8 of us squeeze round a table to eat. The lighting is low, a warm glow of candles, flatters the efforts made by everyone to look the part.  The relaxed vibe is momentarily flung into mild panic as a lady on the next table’s scarf becomes overly acquainted with one of the many candles. Flames fly, the woman wails as she stupidly spins the scarf in the air as a Hellish helicopter. Diners contort their bodies away from the danger until an efficient waiter snatches the blazing rag, chucks it on the floor and stamps on it with unscrupulous desire for caution. The lady looks on in horror; I’m unsure if it’s due to the shock of a supposed near death experience or the sight of a waiter stomping her expensive shawl to nought but ash. The menu is our oyster! Word spreads that we’re splitting the bill, starters definitely, cocktails a must, egg in a cocktail? I’ll have another. Money is no object, until of course the time comes to pay it. Eyes widen, air is sucked through gritted teeth when the grand total is revealed. Looks of suspicion are shot around at suspected big spenders though guilt lies in all of us as we chastise ourselves for the caprice shown but minutes earlier. The £50 I took out of the cash-point to cover the whole night suddenly seems laughably lacking as I hand it over to add to the stack of notes portraying our shameful profligacy. Wallet wounded, we head off to a nearby bar; patted down on the door, I didn’t realise hipsters carried guns; we enter a vacuum of metal surfaces and electronic sounds. “Two pints of Coors, please.” I holler across an impractically expansive bar top. The girl starts pouring pints, multi-tasking the till and calls back, “£10.40!” I assume my order must have distorted in the vast void between us. “Just two pints!” I clarify in response. The girl nods bemused and confirms clearly “Ten pound forty.” It dawns on me that £10.40 is in fact the correct price for my modest order as my balls disappear into my body and my wallet implodes. We sip our drinks conservatively then head sheepishly back to the all too familiar cash-point. The machine is deep inside a pokey corner shop; we crowd the narrow aisles as sober locals struggle to squeeze around us to make a few now less convenient, convenience purchases. The machine whirrs violently as the first of our group asks it for money. “How much are you getting out??” my brother flabbergasts as a hefty wad juts from the slot. “200 quid” our mate replies all skinny jeans, hair and panda eyes. “What do you need 200 quid for??” By this point she’s already taking the dosh and rubbing it gratuitously into the crotch of her jeans in a mock display of ridiculous extravagance. “Cos I’m FUCKING LOADED” she declares, drunk and joyous, wealth of notes cascading to the shop floor, we piss ourselves at the ludicrous spectacle before regaining some sense of decorum and pick up the strewn cash. The regular shoppers don’t bat an eyelid. “Sorry no cash available” reads the machine. Moneybags has emptied it. Those in the queue forming behind us seem less than impressed by the whole performance as we offer drunk and apologetic shrugs whilst squeezing past them out the door. We head out in search of another hole in the wall. I briefly consider the effects this haemorrhaging of cash could have on the rest of my month but with the glittering lights of buildings on a skyline I could look at forever, I find I couldn’t care less. 

Young, Cool and Confident

I met a girl last week

She was young, cool and confident

The way she spoke was all unique

I tried to think of compliments

Young, cool and confident

 

I touched her leg

I cracked a joke

I stood outside and watched her smoke

I paid for her vodka and coke

She’s young, cool and confident

 

She linked my arm from bar to bar

Sang like a star at karaoke

On my knee when pubs were pokey

Said she loved me, sounded jokey

Young, cool and confident

 

More then more young boys surround her

Jumping graves in seats around her

Laughing harder

Talking louder

Young, cool and confident

 

She held their eyes

she hypnotised

she magnetised

and mesmerised

all the time she had them feeling

Young, cool and confident

 

Jaw line

Smokey eyes

You’re fine

Won’t deny

Born charisma

Nonchalant

Young, cool and confident

Steal My Thunder

You try to steal my thunder

You cling to drag me under

You suffocate with thick fog

Then smile and ring my number

 

You’re there for my support

Need nothing of the sort

You pull me down to hold me up

Then act like I was caught

 

You love to think there’s something wrong

You love to point it out

You love to think you came along

and eased away the doubt

 

you didn’t

I’m good

Not misunderstood

Not lonely

Not lost

I’m rolling

No moss

I’m chillin

I’m live

You’re killing

My vibe

I’m not gonna choke

I’m vodka

I’m Coke

As long as you hope

I can’t

I’ll cope

With me on my side

Drinking with the rents

Drinking fun, with the rents

Away from the normality

Full of laughter, beaming youth

No hint of their mortality.

 

Years have passed, sons have grown

No responsibility

Now we’re all like mates, you know

With endless possibility

My friend said something racist

My friend said something racist

I didn’t see it coming

He said it with a look

as if he thought I’d find it funny

 

Was it really racist?

It sounded quite disgusting

I thought him pretty cool before

Now I no longer trust him

 

Maybe he was only joking

Quoting someone else

Maybe he was smoking something

Not feeling himself

 

Maybe he was showing off

Perhaps he’s insecure

I’m trying to find excuses

For language that I abhor

 

If I told him what it sounded like

Maybe he’d regret it

My friend said something racist

And now I can’t forget it.

Upward Movement

This one’s all about self-improvement

Upward movement

All about running

Making more money

Sounds quite good but tastes a bit funny

 

Stop

Look around

The clock keeps making a ticking sound

They’re all climbing, looking down

At you trying to write next Chicken Town

 

Chicken Town

You chicken shit

Circus leaves town when you look at it

One go round and you’re fuckin it. Move.

They’re all leaving

You’re stood breathing

One horse town and you’re stuck in it.

 

Shoulders back, sit up a bit

Find a mirror, look at it

Lose the chin

Find a jaw

Trainers on, get out the door

Run, run, run, run.

Lose a pound

Lose a stone

Delete her number off your phone

See a movie, on your own

Run, run, run.

10 miles

10 more

Soon you’re flying, soon you soar

Explode

Explore

See a girl, see some more

Run, run, run, run

Run, run, run.

 

Don’t sit in the comfy chair

Get some smarter clothes to wear

Get a job, be good at it

Take your wage and double it

Go for drinks in cool places

Hang around with new faces

Make yourself unbeatable

Run til you’re skeletal.

Make your charm offence untreatable

Mate, the sex was unbelievable.

 

If there’s a ladder, climb it

If there’s not then try to find it

 

Are you fitter?

Are you happier?

Are you more productive?