+44 7766 395558 changed the group description. Click to view.
+44 7766 395558 ~ Chazzy ChaChing
IVE JUST SPOKEN TO ED ON THE PHONE. ED IS NO LONGER A MEMBER OF THIS GROUP! HE TRIED TO DELETE THE GROUP BUT ACCIDENTALLY DELETED HIMSELF. LOL. HE IS UN-ABLE TO DELETE OR POST TO THE GROUP. HE SENDS DEEPEST APOLOGIES TO ANYONE HE MIGHT OF ANNOYED OR UPSET. IN SHORT. VOTE LABOUR! END POVERTY (END OF MEMO)
18.56
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+49 1525 9798906 ~ Paul
I am actually looking for a halloween party… Anyone going?
19.04
+44 7765 356372 ~ Anita Sixsmith
We are opting out
19.04
+49 1525 9798906 ~ Paul
(I was talking about the facebook party above).
19.06
+44 7765 356372 ~ Anita Sixsmith
We dont even know you people
19.07
+44 7882 255838 ~ EnglishTwerkingClass
That’s what the parties are for, to meet people :)
19.08
+49 1525 9798906 ~ Paul
For those who are open-minded, adventurous, not judgmental
19.10
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+44 7584 132143 changed this group’s settings to allow only admins to send messages to this group.
+44 7584 132143 ~ TrustMeLondon
Eddie has asked me to forward the following. Last messages ever on the group, promise. Contact each other directly from here perhaps
20.15
Forwarded>
Hi everyone. I added you to this group intending to send information around for the general election. I selected my whole address book and two women @GlitterSparklePuss and Imogeon sent messages to the group says I was predatory, while another woman Eva said I had not stayed in touch with her after she said she was not interested and a string of messages were sent about who had or had not slept with me. I deleted the group from my phone but the group has continued somehow even though i cannot access it and it’s not on my phone and the name of the group was changed. I want to share my perspective on what occurred and @TrustMeLondon has agreed to forward this on my behalf. Some of this is personal and some of you I do not know well but I think it’s best I share openly and honestly.
20.16
Forwarded>
I have not been in touch with GlitterSparklePuss who I know as Daniella since 2013, and after seeing her message I contacted her. I attach screen-shots below of the conversation as this is the most open way I can share what occurred.
20.16
Forwarded>
Imogeon I do not know, I’ve looked at my contact book and I have her contact but I do now know where we met. She gives no details of why she believes me to be predatory and I’ve messaged to ask her if she can help me understand and I hope she will reply. Eva again I do not remember other than it says I met her in night club in my phone book and that she says it was in 2013. She says I did not stay in touch with her after she says she was not interested in me and I’m not sure why imogeon believes that means I was predatory. I was young and immature in 2013 and it’s clear I must have made GlitterSparklePuss, Imogeon and Eva very uncomfortable for them to remember and be moved to post all these years later. I feel deeply ashamed. I believe I have learned since then and done a lot of work on myself and I now have long term stable and positive relationships…. Read More
20.16
Forwarded >
I promise I will think deeply about this and would really welcome any feedback that can enable me to reflect and learn and grow to avoid such situations happening again, please do feel free to message me
20.16
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+44 7723 018520 ~ Red Ed
I’m sorry everyone. Eddie.
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LINE
Can be literal or implied and may refer to: a concept which includes but is not limited to an infinitely extended one-dimensional figure with no curvature and negligible width or depth (line); a notional limit or boundary (out-line, top-line, sky-line, red line, dead-line, Equator); a mark delineating ownership (border-line, to sign on the dotted line); transmission/text (by-line, punch-line), also the fundamental unit of poetic composition; emphasis (under-line); of measure (base-line, waist-line, hair-line, hem-line); umbilical cord (mascu-line?); circuit: for travel (bus-line, railway-line, air-line, shipping-line), for communication (phone-line, land-line, hot-line, date-line, pipe-line, on-line); indicator (life-line, bee-line); prepared dose of a powdered narcotic drug (main-line); a dance formation (side-line); fishing equipment; the former unit measuring flux; a direction, course or channel (inc-line, rec-line, bass-line, stream-line); a standard military formation; an offensive or defensive position in sport. In cricket, the direction of delivery; a length of cord or cable (washing line, tow-line, drag-line); dialogue to be spoken (pl. lines); islands in the Pacific; the police (disicip-line, to cross the line, to walk the line, the thin blue line); element of a stave; sign of age (pl. lines); old school punishment (pl. lines); a number of things or people in a straight row (front-line, bread-line); ancestry, descent (blood-line, aqui-line, line-age); conversation (chat up line, to spin a line, lie); to act in accordance with others (to tow the line, the party line); a throng edging a parade; the trajectory of a bullet. Also the point beyond which one will not fire; words to be spoken (off-line); of thought (hard-line); of sight (dec-line); of vision (flat-line); marking the starting or finishing point (gaso-line, end of the line).
Pain in the Neck
When Matey’s number came up, I’m not gonna lie, I thought twice about picking up. Not because we were on bad terms or anything silly like that, just that everything involving Matey had a way of turning out good for Matey, at the expense of everyone else. It was never anything major. Ordering a round then not having his wallet, sharing a cab and jumping out halfway, that kinda thing. I don’t th
ink he did it on purpose but his obliviousness didn’t make hanging out with Matey any less expensive. I couldn’t think why he’d be calling either because although Matey and I were mates, we’d never been the sorta mates who spoke on the phone. Curiosity as to what he might be after got the better of me.
— Matey? I said, picking up.
— Long time no speak, Matey said, sounding jovial. — How you doing?
— I’m alright, I said, finding his enthusiasm a little disconcerting. — What’s up?
— Well… Matey drew out the vowel, building up to something. — This is gonna sound weird but hey, do you know I’ve got a new girlfriend?
As it happened I did recall hearing someone in the pub a few weeks back saying something about Matey having bagged himself ‘another rich bird with a flat’. The daughter of a far-right Spanish politician, if I was remembering that right.
— Yeah, I said. — I did hear something. She’s Spanish?
— She’s really cool, Matey said, statement of fact. — I think you two would get on…
— Oh really? I said, and laughed. — And why is that?
— Well, she found one of your books, Matey said. — When we were unpacking. Did I tell you we got a flat?
— No, I said. — You didn’t.
But I don’t think Matey heard because he carried on talking without pausing for breath.
— It’s a fucking wicked little place, he said. — It’s really near you. She really liked your book.
— Which one? I said.
— I don’t know, Matey said. — The little one. But anyway, she looked you up online and watched the film you made with Anna. It’s so sick. It’s like Adam Curtis.
— Except not funded by the BBC, I said.
Matey talked over me again. — And she was like, you know she wants to do set design? But she doesn’t know many people in London, so I thought maybe if you were doing something, I don’t know…
— I don’t think I’m gonna be hiring any set designers soon, I said, amused at what Matey thought making zero-budget satirical shorts destined for 700 views on Vimeo entailed.
— No, no, Matey said. — Sure, sure. But maybe you two could chat. She really likes your stuff.
Sceptical as ever about the idea of working with someone I didn’t know, I wasn’t gonna pretend I wasn’t flattered.
— So what you saying? Matey said.
— Sure, I said, not entirely sure what I was agreeing to. — Why not.
— Wicked, Matey said. — Well, if it isn’t too short notice, you could come over now.
— Now? I said.
— Yeah, now, Matey said. — We’re having a few people over tonight, a housewarming. You can stick around if you like.
I’d promised myself I was gonna work that afternoon. The book I was working on was horribly close to deadline and nowhere close to finished, but the thing had been giving me a headache because I’d rewritten it and rewritten it and couldn’t work out what it was about and truth be told, I’d’ve taken any excuse to get away from it, let alone the rare opportunity of meeting a fan.
— I’m not busy, I said. — Send me the address.
I hung up the call, wondering what exactly Matey’d meant by ‘you can stick around if you like’. If it was an invite it was pretty blasé plus if he’d organised a housewarming party he would’ve invited people before the day of the party so why, I wondered, hadn’t I been included in those invitations?
Matey texted a postcode. I stuck it into Google Maps, which showed a walking route through the estates and across the park, estimated to take fifteen minutes. The address was on a side of the park I’d not been to so I dropped into Street View to take a look. A curious cul-de-sac, mostly garages and lock-ups, but at the far end was a standalone two-storey Georgian house. It had a yellow front door and a pointy roof and it was clear from the outside that the flats inside were expensive.
While I was clawing at the screen, trying to zoom in to see the upstairs windows, Matey texted again.
— Forgot to say
— Do u still have my records????
Matey’s records, left behind after a long Hackney Wick weekend (coincidentally the weekend Matey and I had had sex, if you can call three sleepy seconds sex. What a mistake that’d been), had been in the flat for so long it took me a minute to get what was he talking about. Then the records and the sad sex came back to me. I went into the hallway and opened the cupboard by the front door where the hoover and winter coats were kept. I rummaged through until I came to the record box underneath a pile of bin bags that should’ve been taken to a charity shops years ago. I snapped a picture of the silver box and texted it to Matey.
— Still here, I wrote.
I lifted the box out of the cupboard and flicked through the 12ˮs to if there was anything worth stealing. Heads High - Mr Vegas, Big Pimpin’ - Jay Z, white labels I guessed were drum ’n’ bass. DJ Matey staples. Fine for a party but quite frankly I could live without them in my personal collection.
— Nice 1, Matey texted back.
— Bring them with.
Annoyed by his bossiness, I was about to text back with the word, ’pls’ but, noticing my low battery, didn’t bother. There was little point policing Matey’s manners. Nothing ever went in. Instead, I plugged my phone in to charge then went through to the bedroom to dress. With sunshine streaming through the windows, thoughts of a party later and assuming Matey’s rich Spanish girlfriend was hot, I ditched my usual jeans and t-shirt combo and opted for a short, tight mini-dress that made my bum look excellent. I knew it was lame to dress up and I didn’t fancy Matey or anything, I just wanted to look my best. Or at least that’s what I told myself.
As soon as I left the house, I regretted my choice of outfit. It was much colder outside than it’d looked. My arms and legs came up in goosebumps. By the time I reached the park my teeth were chattering. Why had I worn a stupid dress? And why had I agreed to bring Matey’s records? The box was heavy and impossible to carry.
Fingers red-raw from clasping the plastic handle, I struggled through the park until, alternating the box from my right hand to my left, I bashed the funny bone in my knee with one of the metal corners. I dropped the box with a screech then picked it up again and limped over a park bench to inspect the damage. The impact had, disappointingly, left no trace.
Thinking I should text Matey, I felt where my pockets usually were and realised I’d left my phone behind. I could see it in my mind’s eye, next to the toaster, lighting up, getting calls. Or not. Half of me wanted to go back and get it but the half that didn’t want to lug the stupid box all the way back to mine won out. I could see the corner of Matey’s street from where I was so decided I’d either survive the evening without it or, if I was really that desperate, could pop back and pick my phone up later on. I picked up the box, this time forgoing the handle and carrying it in both arms held against my chest the rest of the way.
I arrived at the yellow front door and rang the bell. I heard noises from inside but no one came down. I rang the bell again. More noises, footsteps this time, then the front door was opened by a girl, much younger than me (and so much younger than Matey), who looked exactly how you’d expect the daughter of a disgraced far-right Spanish politician to look: 90s raver undercut, pierced lip, expression on her face like it was expecting an apology.
— Hey, I said, and smiled.
Matey’s rich Spanish girlfriend looked blank.
— Are you a friend of Matey’s? she said, speaking slowly.
I was confused. Hadn’t Matey said his rich Spanish girlfriend looked me up on the Internet? I’d looked myself up on the Internet and there were plenty of pictures of me that looked just like me. Maybe this wasn’t Matey’s rich Spanish girlfriend, maybe it was her sister, or one of her friends.
— Yeah, I said. — He told me to come round to meet his girl…
— ‘Ees gone out, the girl said.
— Friend… I said, then trailed off expectin
g her to elaborate further but she didn’t. — Well, these are his records. He asked me to bring them over. Are you his girlfriend?
Matey’s rich Spanish girlfriend bristled.
— Yes, she said, looking me up and down. She was in tracksuit bottoms and a vest but even if she hadn’t been I’d’ve felt overdressed.
— It’s just Matey said you’d read my book, I said then stopped, feeling like a total idiot. — Actually, d’you know what? Don’t worry. I’ll come back later, this evening.
— Ohhhh, Matey’s rich Spanish girlfriend suddenly changed tack, grabbing my arm. — ‘Ees you! Matey’s friend who makes the books. I’m sorry. Please.
She stood aside and gestured for me to come in, then stopped me on the threshold and pointed at the box of records, which I’d left on the pavement.
— If you don’t mind, she said. — I’ve carried so many of Matey’s boxes from when we moved in.
We sat in the living room, where Matey’s rich Spanish girlfriend was halfway through assembling an Ikea shelving unit and a bottle of port. With nowhere to sit and my skirt too-short for me to sit cross-legged on the floor, I perched on the windowsill, watching Matey’s rich Spanish girlfriend breeze over the instructions.
— So, she said. —How do you know Matey?
How did I know Matey?
— I don’t know, I said. — Just from around, people. Matey told me you’re a set designer. Where’s he gone anyway?
Matey’s rich Spanish girlfriend shrugged.
— What time are people supposed to be coming?
This time she didn’t even look up. I made a couple more lame attempts at conversation but was starting to get the feeling that Matey’s rich Spanish girlfriend didn’t like me and hadn’t read any of my books. I started to fidget, thinking I should just head back to mine and come back later, when the party started, rather than loitering like a spare part.
— You okay? Matey’s rich Spanish girlfriend said, noticing my restlessness.
— Yeah, I said. — I…
— You want a drink? she said, picking up the bottle of port.
Man Hating Psycho Page 2
