Status: Finished, but never forgotten.
Live Forever
Is it my imagination, or have I finally found some
It’s been a year today since I saw Oasis. Flipping heck! How time flies when you’re having fun. Or, alternatively, moving from the rural backwaters of London to the smoky playground of Manchester, in the vicinity of Old Trafford (oh, joy) with your alcoholic father and bitch of a stepmother. But now, after the months of getting ripped on by the inbreds at my school, I’ve got a reason for waking up again.
And I’m seeing her today. Shit. What the hell do I wear? Not my football kit, she probably hates football. Most girls do. My ex-girlfriend pretended to be interested and watched games with me, but only to ogle the footballers. Such is life. God, I know nothing about her. Hmmmm. I’d guess that she’s one of those girls who takes no crap from anyone, except Damon Albarn. Boo, hiss. Personally, I don’t know why you’d waste your money on that puerile piece of garbage – officially called Country House, though my dad always accidentally forgets the ‘o’ in ‘country’ – because you’d need to pay me to listen to it. And pay for the therapist I’d subsequently need. Anyway! I digress. Clothes.
For obvious reasons, I can’t wear my Oasis t-shirt. She’d probably rip my head off and use it as a pin-cushion. No, wait. I can’t imagine her sewing. She’s too feisty to sit around and sew all day. There’s no way she’s going to end up a housewife. She’ll probably be PM, some day. Thatcher has nothing on her.
And again, I’m distracted, and I’m guessing about her, and I’m rambling. I specialise in that. Internal monologues, they’ve become my saviour, seeing as whenever I open my mouth at school the kids instantly start calling me a Cockney. Except they forget the last syllable. I’ve pretty much given up with it, I just knuckle down and do the work. And then they beat me up when I come top, which I always do, though I try not to be up myself about it. Not out loud, anyway. I’d get my wrist broken again.
I’ve got to roll with it. Isn’t that a crap pun? Yeah, I know. She wouldn’t be impressed. Mind you, she’s not adverse to fun or anything; she likes re-enacting Star Wars scenes. Which can only be a good thing. God, I so need to focus!
Eventually, I take the executive decision to pull on a plain white t-shirt and jeans, even though it’s boiling. Shorts are a bit naff, really. Sunglasses, I’m such a poser, but I’d like to be able to see over the top of the ridiculously bright sunshine. Cap? Hmmmm. No, I’ll take the risk that my head will burn up. Girls like guys with tans, don’t they? Not that I’m anything special, just your prototype brown hair/brown eyes. Slightly wonky nose, broken after a horrible accident where Mum threw a cookbook at Dad a few years back, and – well – it missed him. And hit me. Delia Smith is lethal, let me tell you now.
What could she see in me? This girl, not Delia. That would be weird. Anyway – I’m not really anything to her, though she does owe me 30p for a Yorkie. And maybe I’m her ticket out of the North. That’s what she wants; London.
I miss London sometimes. I miss the red double deckers; the Houses of Parliament all golden and yet somehow foreboding; the feeling that round every corner, something was happening. I miss my friends – Mike, Tom, Deano; I miss watching Fulham (even though we’re crap at the moment, things can only get better, right? Surely we’ll get out of Divvie 3 this year?); I miss walking down to Trafalgar Square to throw coins in the water. And I miss Mum, even though she’s mental. But she’ll get better, and I can go home, and off to a decent uni.
Linda sticks her head round the door, unfortunately for me, fag in hand and make up in other.
“You going somewhere, babe?” she queries, looking bored. Peroxide blonde hair and Tango orange skin, she’s the Queen Bee of the Essex girls. Except she’s too old to be a girl now, she’s a hag from the sunbed sessions and her teeth are yellowing from the constant tobacco abuse. 40 a day since she was fourteen, and she reeks of nicotine and cheap perfume. She’s the ultimate cliché. No wonder Mum’s gone mental, knowing that Dad divorced her for this wreck. And moved up north, away from the apricot orchard tucked away in the London suburbs, and away from everything I’ve ever known.
“Yes,” I respond, shortly. “Can you go away now? I’ve got stuff to do.” She sighs, dramatically. My vision of Essex is that of a harlem of Lindas, each more dramatic than the last. “Seriously...” I become whiny. She begins going through my bag! “Leave my stuff alone, you bitch!”
“Wassup with you, darling? You’re always a little shit to me, but you’re being particularly twattish lately. Tell me about it, babe.”
“Don’t call me babe, and I won’t call you a bitch.” She smiles lazily and flicks the ash on top of my Definitely Maybe CD. Bitch…
I’m all for women’s rights, I’m secretly a bit of a feminist, I appreciate women as people and not objects. But Linda’s a harpy, a demon, the epitome of everything the suffragettes hated. And I have to go now, to see the nameless girl who makes me think that maybe I can cope in this shithole until Mum gets better, and I can see the pigeons in Trafalgar Square again. Maybe.
And I’m seeing her today. Shit. What the hell do I wear? Not my football kit, she probably hates football. Most girls do. My ex-girlfriend pretended to be interested and watched games with me, but only to ogle the footballers. Such is life. God, I know nothing about her. Hmmmm. I’d guess that she’s one of those girls who takes no crap from anyone, except Damon Albarn. Boo, hiss. Personally, I don’t know why you’d waste your money on that puerile piece of garbage – officially called Country House, though my dad always accidentally forgets the ‘o’ in ‘country’ – because you’d need to pay me to listen to it. And pay for the therapist I’d subsequently need. Anyway! I digress. Clothes.
For obvious reasons, I can’t wear my Oasis t-shirt. She’d probably rip my head off and use it as a pin-cushion. No, wait. I can’t imagine her sewing. She’s too feisty to sit around and sew all day. There’s no way she’s going to end up a housewife. She’ll probably be PM, some day. Thatcher has nothing on her.
And again, I’m distracted, and I’m guessing about her, and I’m rambling. I specialise in that. Internal monologues, they’ve become my saviour, seeing as whenever I open my mouth at school the kids instantly start calling me a Cockney. Except they forget the last syllable. I’ve pretty much given up with it, I just knuckle down and do the work. And then they beat me up when I come top, which I always do, though I try not to be up myself about it. Not out loud, anyway. I’d get my wrist broken again.
I’ve got to roll with it. Isn’t that a crap pun? Yeah, I know. She wouldn’t be impressed. Mind you, she’s not adverse to fun or anything; she likes re-enacting Star Wars scenes. Which can only be a good thing. God, I so need to focus!
Eventually, I take the executive decision to pull on a plain white t-shirt and jeans, even though it’s boiling. Shorts are a bit naff, really. Sunglasses, I’m such a poser, but I’d like to be able to see over the top of the ridiculously bright sunshine. Cap? Hmmmm. No, I’ll take the risk that my head will burn up. Girls like guys with tans, don’t they? Not that I’m anything special, just your prototype brown hair/brown eyes. Slightly wonky nose, broken after a horrible accident where Mum threw a cookbook at Dad a few years back, and – well – it missed him. And hit me. Delia Smith is lethal, let me tell you now.
What could she see in me? This girl, not Delia. That would be weird. Anyway – I’m not really anything to her, though she does owe me 30p for a Yorkie. And maybe I’m her ticket out of the North. That’s what she wants; London.
I miss London sometimes. I miss the red double deckers; the Houses of Parliament all golden and yet somehow foreboding; the feeling that round every corner, something was happening. I miss my friends – Mike, Tom, Deano; I miss watching Fulham (even though we’re crap at the moment, things can only get better, right? Surely we’ll get out of Divvie 3 this year?); I miss walking down to Trafalgar Square to throw coins in the water. And I miss Mum, even though she’s mental. But she’ll get better, and I can go home, and off to a decent uni.
Linda sticks her head round the door, unfortunately for me, fag in hand and make up in other.
“You going somewhere, babe?” she queries, looking bored. Peroxide blonde hair and Tango orange skin, she’s the Queen Bee of the Essex girls. Except she’s too old to be a girl now, she’s a hag from the sunbed sessions and her teeth are yellowing from the constant tobacco abuse. 40 a day since she was fourteen, and she reeks of nicotine and cheap perfume. She’s the ultimate cliché. No wonder Mum’s gone mental, knowing that Dad divorced her for this wreck. And moved up north, away from the apricot orchard tucked away in the London suburbs, and away from everything I’ve ever known.
“Yes,” I respond, shortly. “Can you go away now? I’ve got stuff to do.” She sighs, dramatically. My vision of Essex is that of a harlem of Lindas, each more dramatic than the last. “Seriously...” I become whiny. She begins going through my bag! “Leave my stuff alone, you bitch!”
“Wassup with you, darling? You’re always a little shit to me, but you’re being particularly twattish lately. Tell me about it, babe.”
“Don’t call me babe, and I won’t call you a bitch.” She smiles lazily and flicks the ash on top of my Definitely Maybe CD. Bitch…
I’m all for women’s rights, I’m secretly a bit of a feminist, I appreciate women as people and not objects. But Linda’s a harpy, a demon, the epitome of everything the suffragettes hated. And I have to go now, to see the nameless girl who makes me think that maybe I can cope in this shithole until Mum gets better, and I can see the pigeons in Trafalgar Square again. Maybe.