Mad Mondays and solitary drinking have since become a brilliant and necessary diversion for me. Not the least of it is that, in prolonging the weekend it means I can postpone the inevitable – writing. Any novelist who claims to spring out of bed and race to their PC first thing Monday is either lying – or crap. The reality is ten per cent inspiration and ninety per cent perspiration. Nine days out of ten I’m looking for a legitimate excuse to body swerve my computer. Roll on Monday!
The Wheeled Dance of Death
Robert irwin
‘Safe skating is fun skating! Be considerate to pedestrians, as well as to your fellow skaters. Obey the traffic laws. These handy dos and don’ts will make your day all the more enjoyable.’ Few people now remember how horrible it was in the 80s, how when the parks were crowded with clean-limbed, sparkly-eyed young people getting fit while having fun and making new friends and the whole ghastly scene was presided over by benevolently patronising skate-instructors in silver helmets and white t-shirts. Everybody used to look as though they cleaned their teeth regularly. The horror. The horror … All of a sudden, as I was penning this, it became more than a matter of words on the page, for it did indeed come back to me in brightly visualised detail how it was in those days and I could see the clear-eyed and friendly skate-instructor looming before me in a vision out of nightmare and I had to rush out to the bathroom and gaze down the lavatory pan and wait for the fierce surge of vomit. For a moment I had the sense that the skate-instructor was kneeling beside me and holding my head down in the pan. But I know him of old as an illusion and I am better now.
For good or ill those days are now past us. (For ill, I hope.) But back then in the 80s it was usually in the twilight that I used to venture out to skate. I have a skin condition and, if I was to be admired, I preferred that it should be as the silhouette of a extreme skater moving in the dark with lethal speed, rather than as the bearer of roses of corruption on my cheek. And besides I am very old. In my time, I have talked with Alex Sanders, the King of the Witches, about the uselessness of the backstop, the superficial flashiness of the grapevine manoeuvre and blood sacrifice. Going further back, I can remember Josephine Baker dancing on skates in front of the Trocadero. But it was my nocturnal encounter with the Ars Moriendi Skate Chapter that gave me confidence to roll out in daytime. As their name may suggest, the Ars Moriendi skaters are unusual in their antiquarian and morbid interests and they are primarily interested in reviving fin-de-siècle techniques of skating. Lithographs, engravings and old photographs are pored over as we struggle to recreate the costumes and skate techniques of Paris’s apaches and cocottes before the slaughter of the Great War.
Even so I have also learnt a lot of practical things from the Ars Moriendi, some of which is unprintable, but I suppose I could pass on a few tips. First, relaxation is the key. If you set out on your wheels and you are stone-cold sober and stiff and you fall, you are likely to do yourself a serious injury. SO KIDS, HERE IS A REALLY USEFUL SAFETY TIP! As part of the warm-up, get very drunk and, if possible, smoke a joint as a health-conscious preliminary to your skate routine. That way, if you fall over, you are much much much much less likely to injure yourself. Much less likely. I should know. Very little chance of getting hurt. These days I never put on my skates, except when I am pissed and, God knows, I fall over all the time, but I rise from the tarmac scatheless. People look at me strangely, but I am smiling as I reassume an upright position. It is as if God, or, more likely, someone other than God, is looking after me. Tripping on LSD on skates is, if anything, even more relaxing and, as I say, relaxation is the key to good skating. It is better to be quite relaxed and laid out flat on your back on the road than to be some teetering dwork who is to be seen frantically waving his arms and bending his knees in a pathetic attempt to stay upright. It just is a style thing.
Music also helps you to relax on your wheels. When I first met the Ars Moriendi gang, I was an uncultured thug who thought that the height of skate art was dancing on wheels to the Velvet Underground or Guns and Roses, but Ars Moriendi introduced me to the fiercer delights of Strauss’s Salome, Scriabin’s Poème de l’extase and Syzmanowski’s Song of the Night.
NEXT TIP. You need to learn how to stop. Now don’t use the brake at the back of your skate. It is almost completely useless. Unscrew it and throw it away. The easiest and most comfortable way to stop is to crash into someone. But you need to be thoughtful about this. Don’t crash into any old body. If you are a man, it is much nicer to crash into a young woman, the plumper the better, and to wrap your arms around her, as if steadying yourself for support. A well-executed rolling clinch can bring you as close to ecstasy as this lower world allows. At her best a young woman is more than a skater’s airbag, as she offers a pneumatic, perfumed bliss. If you are a female skater, you will doubtless prefer the reassuring hardness of a young male body to serve as your stop.
NEXT TIP. Always be aware of non-skaters – the pedestrians, cyclists, drivers, skate-boarders, small dogs, assorted vermin. Watch out for them and learn to hate them. They get in the way. Often deliberately. On a good stretch of tarmac they are a waste of space. Sometimes a pedestrian will try to play chicken with you. If you get a sense that is happening, you owe it to yourself not to veer an inch from your determined course and you should accelerate. You may also clap your wrist guards together in order to startle the obstructive fellow. Any skater who is any good has murder in his heart. Never try to talk to a skate-boarder. It is a waste of time as all those Morlocks can manage is grunts. You may be sure that not one of them has heard of Syzmanowski. Small dogs can be a pest. Practice the side-kick with your wheels.
FINAL TIP. It is well worth seeking tuition and advice from more experienced skaters. In London, they are hard to find and they keep themselves to themselves, preferring to meet in deserted warehouses and abandoned aerodromes. But there is one place where you can be sure of meeting most of the leading figures in decadent roller-blading. (I know that you are supposed to call it in-line skating, but we don’t.) In the months of April and May the great chapters of skaters assemble before the shrine of Our Lady of Fatima in northern Portugal and there they confer and pass on new movements. The Ars Moriendi attends regularly. I have never actually been inside the shrine, but I gather it is dedicated to the Virgin, who sometime before the Great War appeared before some local shepherds’ kids and scared them witless with apocalyptic prophecies before vanishing. But who gives a shit about all that? The point is that the beautifully laid white marble expanse leading up to the shrine is a truly great skating space. What is more, by mid-morning, there is usually a steady trail of old peasanty-type people making their way on hands and knees towards the shrine, kissing the ground as they do so. It is great to leap over them. To clear one of these folk is easy, but sometimes if you attempt to leap over three or four at once, things can go wrong and so be relaxed as you fall and, obviously, if possible, find someone to cushion your fall. Another thing, and here you may think me a bit weird, is that on the edges of the skating space are stalls selling votive objects for people to present to the shrine – wax babies and severed arms, legs and ears of wax. These stalls, summoning up images of injury and death as they do, furnish a perfect backcloth to my skating stunts. Without the risk of injury, the adrenalin rush, the wheeled dance with death, skating is nothing. As I get older, I accelerate, speeding towards my end. I ask myself if, this year when I make my eagerly anticipated appearance at Fatima, and, tanked up with vodka from the hip flask, begin to make my moves, is there any chance that I may behold a vision of the Virgin calling me to the righteous and sober life? And how would it be to collide with her?
Decadent Girl About Town
Catherine Townsend
My week of living dangerously started after my ex-boyfriend showed up the day before Valentine’s Day brandishing a bag of treats. Candy and flowers? No, it was my stuff, in a bin bag.
But in his haste to get back to the petite blonde from his office who he had always i
nsisted was ‘just a friend’, he forgot his American Express platinum card.
I probably should have done the mature and responsible thing and returned it right away. But what can I say? Karma’s a bitch, and that week, so was I.
So after spending one night crying into my Ben and Jerry’s – and giving my mobile to my girlfriend Victoria to avoid drunk dialling – I headed to Selfridges for a bit of shopping therapy. I wanted to look like a punk rock version of Audrey Hepburn, so within half an hour, I scored myself a pair of Christian Louboutin gold snakeskin peep-toe stilettos, a Gucci handbag and a Vivienne Westwood little black dress.
Then, I cleaned out my handbag in anticipation of the one-night stands to follow, replacing my journalist’s notebook with a silver clit-stimulating vibrator, an array of condoms, and mini bottle of lubricant.
I also grabbed some make-up remover cloths (so that I could handle post-coital cleanups gracefully, and would not wake up at some random man’s pad looking like a dishevelled raccoon!)
Despite my current sexual dry spell, I decided that only fabulous underwear should be allowed to grace my skin – that is, when I am wearing any at all! So I pick up a beige leather corset, plus a gorgeous bra, knickers and 40s-style hold-ups with seams up the back from Agent Provocateur. The total bill was £500 – almost a month’s rent, but so worth it.
On Valentine’s Day, I treated myself to a huge bouquet of roses, even though the florists, sensing men’s desperation, had jacked the price up to £7 per flower.
When the urge to test my ex hit, I rushed to the gym, skipping the treadmill in lieu of a gruelling half-hour session in the steam room. Screw detoxing, I was planning to work off the extra calories through sex.
Speaking of dieting, as a true gourmande I ditched Atkins and South Beach after realising that strict adherence to the SEP (Somebody Else Pays) diet is the only way forward. Which is brilliant when I get loads of offers, but once I didn’t eat for almost 48 hours this way – but it did wonders for my waistline!
On the new regime, breakfast is either two massive lattes at The Electric with an editorial contact in possession of an expense account, or swanning into the Hummingbird bakery to lick the icing off a pink cupcake [fairy cake].
Normally, I skip lunch – unless it’s a Bloody Mary, the cocktail that should be its own food group.
Midweek, my girlfriends took me out to drown my sorrows in goldfish-bowl sized mojitos at the Light Bar and lavender martinis at the Sanderson, but since this was the dreaded V-Day week they all had late dates.
So I took myself to Nobu, card in hand, for black cod and yellowtail tartare with jalapeno sauce and a lovely Gewürztraminer. I savoured each bite of the moist paper-thin fish and licked my lips afterward, ignoring the pitying stares of the woman on my right holding hands with her boyfriend. Guess she didn’t catch him checking out my cleavage when she went to the loo!
I soon realised that the sweetest moments in my solitude happen when I am doing nice things for someone else, not plotting revenge. In Hyde Park, I helped an old woman and her dog across the street, and became the Robin Hood of pastries when I bought boxes of giant sugar cookies to give to the homeless guy on my block.
On Friday night, I boarded a plane to Geneva to meet a six-foot-five male friend, and complete womaniser, who’s had a crush on me for ages. He escorted me to a dinner party, where we dipped chunks of bread into huge vats of melted cheese fondue. Then we slipped into the hot tub and sipped champagne while watching the sunrise.
Finally, we retired to the bedroom for dessert. ‘I want dark chocolate and pistachio ice cream,’ I tell him, ‘but blended together into a milkshake.’ He obliges, and I slurped the syrupy mixture as he slid his hands down my body.
But before we went any further, my conscience sobered up and got the better of me. So I dialled my ex, admitted that I had been using the card and offered to pay him back. ‘Don’t worry about it,’ he said adding, ‘It’s not you, it’s just that my emotional problems that made it hard to connect to anyone on a deep level. Anyway, how much could you have put on there in five days? Two hundred quid?’
I couldn’t help giggling as I put the phone down. Then I went back into the bedroom and fucked Richard, digging the five-inch heels purchased with my ex’s credit card into his back.
The Players’ Lounge
Mark Mason
Eh, Ash – Ash – ASH ! Cop for this, will ya? There, stick it down there. Odge up. Give us yer glass … there you go … get that down yer. Fuckin’ good stuff that, mate, not yer house bollocks, that’s ‘Poll – Rodjay’, that is … Bloke at the bar told me to get it … Yeah, good, innit? Eh, Lee – LEE ! Put her down for a second, have a gobful of this … look, you can go back to yer Stella in a minute, just try it … yeah, blindin’, innit? Eh? Nah, I know I ain’t, just thought I’d try it … Yeah, that bloke – over at the bar – hang on … where’s he gone? Can’t see him. Anyway, interesting bloke … Had a good chat with him.
Weird geezer he was … wearing this sort of scarf thing round his neck, I mean, fuck me, even Becks wouldn’t wear one of ’em … ‘krevat’, he said … thought they was summat to do with those Serb geezers? Anyhow, don’t get me wrong, like, he was a good bloke … you know, sort of … I dunno, sort of interestin’ … Used big words and that … he clocked me, soon as I got there, you know, he was just sort of sittin’ there, I thought, here we go, usual bollocks, autograph, ‘wot’s that manager of yours really like ?’, blah blah fuckin’ blah … but he wasn’t, didn’t do none of that, said he was … wot was it? … yeah, ‘fascinated’ to meet me, cos he reckons we’re … hang on, he wrote it down for me … where is it? Thought it was on that twenty … nah, hang on, it’s this fifty here … he reckons we’re … ‘the very pers- … perso- …’ wot the fuck’s this say? … ‘pers-on-if-ic-ashun’ … yeah, that’s it, he was going on about that … ‘personificashun of decadence in the modern era’.
Eh? I dunno. Sounds like a perfume, dunnit? D’ya reckon I should get some for Charmaine? … Hang on, wot’s this? … He’s written summat else … hang on … ‘drain of re- … re… re-sauces away from re- … re- … re-in-vest-ment in the game’ … yeah, hang on, I’ve heard those geezers from the posh papers saying that on Five Live … hold up, let’s finish this … ‘drain of re-sauces away from re-in-vest-ment in the game straight into Ferraris and Slippery Nipples.’ Wot’s that all about? I’ve got a Lambo.
Hold up, this ‘decadence’ thing … he was going on about that … trying to explain it, you know … here, look, he’s done us some notes … ‘Nero’ … wot’s Ash’s dog gotta do with it? … ‘Rim-bord’ … Eh? ‘Rim-bord’? Who’s he when he’s away from home ? … Nah, hang on, he mentioned him, it ain’t Rimbord it’s Rambo … stupid bastard can’t spell … anyway, wot’s boxing gotta do with football? … Wot else has he put? … ‘Oscar Wilde’ … Fucked if I know … Is he Kim’s dad ?
Tell you what, though, Lee, I mean I know he can’t spell, and I know he dresses like a twat and all that, but he was interestin’ … Nah, I know I didn’t get it all … All right, I didn’t get any of it, but he told me about this stuff and it’s fuckin’ good, innit? So he must know a thing or two. Reckoned one of the big clubs is gonna go tits up sooner or later … Wot, us? Nah … He must mean the other lot. Anyhow, he said when it happens we’d … hang on, let’s get this right … he said we’d ‘reap the rewards of our own decadence’ … Eh? Christ knows … Ere, Lee, d’ya reckon we could get ’em to stick this stuff on tap in the players’ bar ?
Vermin
Jacob Polley
Matthew Byrne. He and I plan to parachute from the outhouse roof using bed sheets held by their corners. His extravagant curly hair’s so unlike my own, and so like my own father’s, that I wonder if we haven’t been mixed up, he and I.
We both stand on the slates above the outhouse gutter, the white sheets trailing from our shoulders like capes. We bend our knees. We count to three. We stand on tiptoe, staring out across the y
ard. We count to three again. We stand.
Neither of us will step off into the air and eventually we climb down, ashamed.
After her bath, I spy the mole just below my mother’s ribs. She tells me it must never be picked. She says: ‘It was left over from when I was made.’
That night, I dream I pick the mole off and find it’s attached to a thread of skin that won’t stop unravelling from my mother’s side. I’m shocked awake by her laughter.
Sheds, pigsties. The brown-kneed sisters from next door who lead me between loose planks into the hovel where the workbench sits, its wooden top gouged and scattered with corkscrews of drilled steel. There they stretch me out and insist I be still and dead and numb in heaven, my arms stiff at my sides. Then they strip and examine me all over, their eyes and their little teeth glittering. From the road outside I can hear the cows like a low tide, coming in to be milked.
The sisters’ father walks with his gun broken over his arm: his low-slung beagle’s the only innocent around here. His master hangs two drawn rabbits naked in the shed, their skin the skin of his daughters’ hips when they lift one another’s dresses and ask me, smiling: ‘Do you think it’s wrong?’
Do I think it’s wrong? They know it is, but they wait. Their ears are four delicate locks. I realise then that to speak is to never say anything new.
The Decadent Handbook Page 7
