fuzzy wuzzy doodle all the day

Modesta, Modesta,
The moment I saw you, I knew I adored you,
Naked and drunk as I was,

Your dirty brown hair and the fire in your eye,
Candid cool stare and the bruise on your thigh,
Have altered the clay of my life.

See me, ignore me, turn your slim neck and walk by,
I cannot forget you, regret you, respect you,
But please, with me, just once will you lie?

Add a verse if you like, the metre is all over the place anyway and if I carry on I’m just going to get dirty…..


I feel like this today, fuzzy, and a little wild. (Yes, I wake up to this head every day).




Is January a time for retrospection, a time to take stock, see if one is going in the right direction –any direction? I think that perhaps it’s linked to the dreaded “New Year’s Resolution” syndrome, the great anal-centric, annual self-experiment of ‘what is wrong with my life’, and how will I break the mould this year?

I’m told I should have goals. A smug man on the tv told me. He says if I write my goals down and concentrate on them, I am more likely to achieve them. I told him to “fuck off” and changed channels. A victory of positive action over positive thought.

Part of my reluctance to indulge in this is that, in truth, I’m ashamed of my goals. I’d like to move….

No really, that’s it.

Today I looked at a house in Devizes, in Wiltshire. A run down old cottage with an acre of land in the middle of nowhere, and my heart leapt, it’s a refuge, a hermitage, perfect. The only trouble being that the act of moving there would render me immediately unemployed and consequently unable to afford to live there…which is a bit of a rudimentary spanner in a well formulated plan?

Anyway, let me tell you about Friday night, it’s more exciting. A girl paid me some attention.

Ah “Fish”, I can hear you say, “again?”. “Tch, tch, you Lothario”, how well you know me. Yes of course it’s always happening to me I am, after all, physically and spiritually magnetic – as I walk through crowded rooms cruet, knives and forks, pens and paper clips detach themselves from people’s hands and stick to my forehead. Yes, there’s a queue of delightful women holding £20 notes waiting in line to spend just a few moments with me…which is just about where I stumble, full of regret and backward glances, out of my dream and into cold reality each morning.

Truth is I’m a tic. Like Suskind’s horrid creation in his book “Perfume”, I can lie low and survive on the barest minimum of contact, for years, and years….and years. I’ve actually noticed a correlation between the amount of time I spend with someone I love, and the amount of time I will spend in ‘hibernation’ when she is no longer there. My recovery period generally equates to one and a half years for each year I spent with that special someone. Which is a bit of a bugger really because on that scale, I am equidistant between the end and the beginning of another ridiculous fragment of this debacle I call a “love life”.

But I digress. Friday night in the pub. It was local pub, with friends, a busy night, a “school disco” theme, hot, sweaty, loud and full of people I know a little, to nod at and say “hi” to. We stood in a group, laughing and joking and dancing together, getting drunk and having fun. And then, at the bar while I’m buying drinks, the girl beside me said “hello”. She’s small and pretty, with her hair in pigtails with pencilled freckles. She seems to know me, and we laugh and joke for a few moments, until my drinks arrive.

I took them back to my friends and we carried on as we were. But now I have a little lump in my throat. She was pretty, I liked her, and I can see her talking to her friends.

Now, this is the difference, I walked back, and asked her if she knew me, and how, and she explained…and the difference being that it was wonderful, not forced. For the rest of the evening we laughed and joked, danced together and with our respective friends and…this is going to sound rather stupid I know, but she touched me. She played with my hair, at one point when I was at the bar she came and put her arms around me from behind. It seemed unconscious, just fun, but I could feel small breasts and her tummy against my back, achingly warm and intensely tactile through our two cotton ‘school’ shirts.

Silly I know, no big deal. Much, much later we sat in the bar as it began to clear, she sat on the table behind me as I chatted to a friend, and massaged my shoulders, seemingly without thought….I asked her to stop, and when she asked why I said “because I could get used to it”.

And she smiled because she thought I was joking.

I think I may be improving. In my previous incarnation as a born again single man I was much more “needy”. I had to remind myself that I ‘could’, if I wanted to, and I think in my selfishness that I hurt people.

But somehow this seems like another extreme.

Does anyone know how long it takes before your virginity grows back?