Saturday, May 12, 2012

The big things don't matter.


As I get older I sense more and more that the big things don´t matter, only the details. If the details are sure, everything else follows through, geometrically amplified- right?


I'm sitting in my little office overlooking the wharf, analysing marketing strategies. This is a strategy for selling sweet drinks to teenagers. It will be very successful and there will be many more achoholic teenagers, and teenagers having accidents and fights and the shareholders will be happy.

The phone rings.

It's Billy.
Yes Billy.
I'm downstairs.
I'm working.
Fuck off.
Come on.
Fuck off.
I want a drink.
Fuck off Billy.
Come for a drink.
Fucking hell Billy, I'm working.

I think he smelt a weakness there. Like many base characters, he has an instinct for a weakness.

Come on, I'm downstairs. I've got a fiver.
Jesus Billy.
Come on man, don't be a cunt.
Give me two minutes.

Billy looks a complete disgrace. His is hair matted, his jeans are filthy and there is an odd black smear on his cheek. Jesus Billy, I say. Did you sleep under a truck? I almost feel sorry for him. Billy just looks down.

Anyway, soon we are at the Prince of Wales.We are the only ones there apart from the old guy who is always there "God Bless the Queen!" he cries across the room, raising his glass.

At the bar:

 Mine's a pint of bitter.

So's mine, says Billy.

The drinks appear; thanks Billy.
Billy looks coyly at the floor.
You fucker Billy, I say, as I hand the barman the money.






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