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by Tim Wells |
99 1/2 Won't Do She's not long back in London when I visit. Her flat is sparse. Bed, bathroom, tiny kitchen. That's OK though, she's just edging 5ft herself. There're no pictures on the walls, no furniture to speak of, and she's nothing to read. Her only possession is her laptop. We leave to go for a drink and she covers the computer with her quilt. "That's the first place they'll look I say." "Yeah, I know," she says, "but it might be that one step between them looking and me opening the door and catching 'em." It is then that I know she'll be fine. She is prepared. Caractacus So, round at hers and her feminine wiles have, once again, made it necessary for me to lay down the history book I'm trying to plough. She's talking about Jeffers, but it turns out she doesn't really know who he was, she's read about him in Bukowski. And can't I ever drink in any of the same bars as her and her friends? I like pubs, pubs with red-faced men. She likes the coterie tit to the mouth of lifestyle. And why is it I never wear anything now? My statement to the effect that I am wearing clothes now does not go down well. My boyfriend abilities are more Viz than GQ. She turns this week's next big thing up and starts to dance the fall of the Roman Empire. I get back to Agricola's biography. As governor he aimed to Romanise us by teaching the classics, building villas, and encouraging the wearing of togas rather than barbarian trousers. Tacitus notes "As for the Britons who had no experience of any of this, they called it civilization, although in reality it was part of their enslavement." MTV blares.
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