An internal monologue on the nature of life, football and habitual drug-use as viewed through the lens of Dionysus/Uncle Franky Z/Frank Zappa.

Recommended listening: anything that makes your heart race and your pulse ache.

Breathe in; deep and hard as I can.
My Guts hurt.

Smells like the innards of beasts. Take a hefty sniff, become one with the smoggy haze that envelops me. Staring at the ceiling, jaw slack, eyes heavy. Inhaling smoke. A babe, comforted by his crib.

People ask: “You eating enough?/You sleeping enough?/You getting enough vitamin A, B, C D, E, Keratin, Serotonin, Diazapam, Temazepam, DMT, Caffeine, Nicotine,  Marijuana, Vallium, Lithium Salts, Depakene, Ziprasidone,  Eye of Newt?” A Dostoevskyian nightmare on an industrial scale.  This is the victory of the west over communism. Now Russia can have all the modern western conveniences like hard drug addiction, terminal boredom from eternal unemployment and endless vistas littered with the dead souls and spirits; void of any hope or purpose in life , filling up with death, decay and desolation. Russian winters to the power of thousands.

A friend of mine is having a shindig, a big one, which she assured me would be “very totally fucking Mexico” and everyone is going so I must go.
I must go.

Crack wise with some guy who looks like me – who I don’t know – plus Thom Pernét – who I do- . Drink Pabst Blue Ribbon. Tastes like drain water. Make jokes on Footballer’s names – Didier Dogba, Shark Van-Bommel, Super-Mario Götze – not watching the Football unless a goal goes in, then we celebrate like it was Dionysus on the pitch, running himself ragged. I’m craving  for something white, crunchy and vibrant, exactly fucking nothing like the piss-poor imitations you’ll find in the supermarket.  Gum sticks to the roof of my mouth and it’s arsenal 1-0 up but even now I stare blankly, darkly, at the television.

Coca-Kolo Toure.

Flung into the air by a guy twice my size. Tall, strapping young lad, his breath rich, syrupy with booze, giving a herculean bear hug, eyes wide with excitement, face pockmarked, and rough; the inside of a worn glove. He’s having such a good time and I’m fucking grinding and freaking on his buzz man, ecstatic to just be near someone who feels how I wish I felt.

Prawn-Wright Phillips.
On a bed, getting kissed, Feeling a soft pair of lips practically Sellotape themselves to mine. The heat between us makes me gasp; rough and full of yearning.
Northen Sol Campbell.
Maicon the Greek.

Her musk reminds me of “him.” I pause, for longer than a heartbeat but shorter than a breath and then the moment passes and I’m left with a sore mouth, lipstick caked in globs under the base of my tongue; greasy, foreign; like some horrendous polyp or cyst. The taste of chemicals makes me nauseous. She slides off me and puts her underwear on daintily, slipping away into the thronging mass outside.

What. A. Riot.
A throbbing gristle of people noise and colours so complex and repeating.
Repeating. Repeating.

Can slightly hear it now. Reportedly this has saved my life on the streets.  Slide cooly downstairs, unseen through a crowd of hipsters in tight shirts with itty-bitty waists and teeny-weeny girlfriends, hair like a rats nest perched atop their heads. Tongue wet like a hound’s, lips dry like Tony Adams; now days anyway. Zoning in and out of focus as my lungs fill with air.

Feels like drowning in reverse.

“You OK mate?”
Feels like drowning in reverse. I stare blankly at faces that swim in and out of focus, my vision wet, soupy.  A remix of the Beatles. Dubstep. Dubstep. More Dubstep, Drum and Bass, electro house, WitchHouse,  A remix of an Elvis track, IDM, EDM, French House, Minimalist Techno.
A beat, a quaver, a minim.
“I said, You OK mate?”
Pepe Reina, and his imaginary best friend Fernando Torres, gone but not forgotten.
“Don’t look OK mate.”
Can’t remember the time or the date or even who I am. Feels luxurious.
“You want some of this J my nigga?”
Reminded of something some hipcat named Pablo Biswell once said: “You always have to round up to the nearest whole wolf.” But I don’t say anything, roll my head back like a drunken bull and run my hands through my hair.

Breathe out; deep and hard as I can.
My Guts Hurt.

Talking to a girl named Monique. (Or was it Lisa?) Met in Paris (Or Barcelona or Amsterdam or Tangier or Bristol or London or Leeds or Valencia or…).
I say:
(Maxine?) “Yeah… So… whatever, I heard the new ‘Sea Bastard’ album is gonna be Fuckin’ A. It’s got kind of a New-wave/post-industrial feel to it. Or something.”
She smiles, laughs and asks me:
“ce qui est  “Fuh-keen-Ay?“”?
I reply:
(Reyann?) “Errr… what?”
She asks: (More urgently this time)
“ce qui est  “Fuh-keen-Ay“”?
I reply:
(Oslo?) “You know… like… Fuckin A!” and I move my hands to indicate.
she says:
“Ah. Mais Oui.”
“…” (Mexico City?)

We kiss for a while and it feels better than good, the waft from her perfume crashing over me in an awesome and clement wave. Drink Pabst Blue Ribbon and smoke  Camel Yellows. The room is made of a bright white hunger that shines through a chink in the half open drapes and nothing matters any more. I look shit in all my clothes, but you… you look positively Italian. Even in an oft warn Barcelona FC kit. Bojan, Number 10, the one with the blue and red stripes.

The smell and smoke of incense hangs heavy in the air,, a hazy fog that snuggles cosily against my eyelids. ‘Killer in the Snow’ by ‘The Birds of Maya’ plays, layering it thick and smooth into my ears like a sheet of shellac, a cacophony of noise and psychedelic vibrations that tears a hole in my aching brain and takes me straight to Valhalla, the kind of music that makes me want to fuck on the floor and break shit then curl up in a ball. A blissful, cathartic mess, stuck in a post-coital explosion of ecstasy and absolute, violent satisfaction. This room reminds me of you horribly – a discarded sock, a long forgotten earring found beneath the bed under an empty packet of cigarettes – but half naked and half asleep, it isn’t so bad.  Like the dainty, unwrapped innards of a birdcage, all elegance with a brave sombreness, anything can be funny, comedic, exciting. The frames that hold our fragile understanding together like silk tape: these are the tools to make people understand you. So you communicate via a lens smeared with Vaseline, a pen or a pencil, blue tarpaulin covered  in dog turds, the pickled innards of a dead shark, the jewel encrusted skull. So when the shit eventually hits the skids, as is it’s want, what difference does it make? You meant something to someone. Someone framed you as more than a man: more than a simple, mechanical heartbeat next to some clunky shit wired to your left ventricle. (I am not a doctor.). This is real fuckin’ life.  Shit just got (R)eal (Madrid), and you passed with flying colours. Reminded of something Thom Pernét once said before we drank ourselves half to death on the pristine lawn outside his uncles house, ruining Petunias and missing the second half:

“Driving mate, it’s all in the hips. And Zidane was better than Pele.”
My guts hurt.
And all of a sudden, there is a small calmness inside of me.