Till It's Finished

We were asked to play some songs to some people in a pub, an interesting pub, a stinking crisis arena where men go to perch on stools and bark at each other and wait impatiently for death or a fight or the guy who sells stolen meat to come in and sell some stolen meat. We couldn't say no and we didn't. They put us upstairs and moved the pool table over so there'd be room to waltz and heckle. We soundchecked and were fucking okay. Our friends arrived and the men began slurring with delight. We drank and played some songs. A dance-off erupted. We ran out of songs. We were thanked. We attempted to get the equipment back home in a taxi. The taxi informed us it long ago stopped picking people up from this particular pub. The non-payment. The abuse. The fluids. We waited a minute and booked the taxi from the nearby supermarket the guy who steals meat steals meat from. Everything was fine.


Three rolls of new carpet arrived and were immediately left in the hall for a week, taking up all the space and fulfilling, brownly, none of the functions of a new carpet except the smell. We would get back from work having forgotten about them and open the front door and they'd lurch at us, softly begging to be nailed to the floor, or however it is you install a carpet. But that's not our task, we'd say, patting their rumps and shaking our heads. Until the landlord gets her shit together you're just three colossal air fresheners.
And every night there'd be a long face to long face about the staggering untogetherness of the landlord's shit. And phonecalls and promises and apologies and Polish lagers, which on a weeknight is reckless and not to be encouraged.
And after three or four we'd sit on the floor in the hall with our backs against the carpets, reassuring them that any future spillages will be dealt with promptly, efficiently, and possibly erotically, but we can't promise the boiler won't piss its pipes off again because of the aforementioned widely-strewn condition of the landlord's dutiful cack. And you ought to be aware of that. And we'd sleep and wake up and work and forget and get home and there they'd be. It wasn't a satisfactory arrangement for anyone.

Booking Form

I wrote a thing on paper and put the paper on the bed and went in the other room to enjoy a few cold premium yeah go on thens and a fucking adequate sandwich. Two hours later everyone was dead. No, water came from the ceiling like in that film about terrifying damp patches and turned the paper into paste and the ink went into the bed and my mattress was full of nonsense and we mangled the landlord. A drunk plumber arrived and laughed into his toolbox and we tried to forget about everything. I slept on the couch and woke up to find my upper left eyelid'd become a little sausage and everyone I saw at work offered remedies: punch yourself in the other one so at least they match, wash it with boiled salted water, rub a gold ring on it. A gold ring? Yes a gold ring. Are you a fucking warlock? No my gran swears gold rings are good for it, she's always having trouble with her eye-flaps. Could that be because she keeps mashing her filthy jewellery into them? Could be, yeah.