The Envy Machine

I don’t think I can respect anyone who ostentatiously gives up drinking for a healthy lifestyle of water, green beans and brown rice, just so they can live longer to reminisce about the good old days of whiskey and soak.

*

In a shop full of soap a young female staff member, half my size and twice my superior, leaves her position by the door and stands next to me.  For a brief moment I delude myself that there is chemistry there, but I’m sure she has me nailed down as a shoplifter.

There is nothing so obvious as a liar who tells the truth, which is why I cannot relax in expensive shops.  I nearly had a panic attack in Selfridges once, and I found myself stumbling around as though blind drunk, instinctively flinching away from anything that brushed the hairs on my hand, whilst my friend floated around looking at lipstick.  I wanted to stand on the beauty counter, open my coat wide and say I’M NOT A FUCKING THIEF and, for a moment, it seemed like a foolproof plan.

I’m much better in flea markets, car boot sales, record shops, one-old-man-and-his-dog pubs.  I sat in one the other day; one regular with an empty pint waiting for a refill at 12.15…. fifteen minutes after opening…. old Louisiana delta blues on the stereo, hard wood, beer with twigs in it and a haphazard pile of vintage typewriters.  I’m comfortable here.  You can’t be judged by the judged; it’s like trying to multiply zeroes.

*

One day this week I must drink some wine, write some filth.  A load of mad, teeth bashingly, hip shatteringly, thigh slappingly, dirty old sex, with deranged women cutting up silly, piss-weak boys into ribbon strips to tie up their presents, and decorate their fireplaces.

‘Tis the season after all.

Author: jimmicampkin

Writer and photographer (and occasional other things) currently living in the North East of England. Everything is my own unless otherwise stated. So blame me. View all posts by jimmicampkin