A Girl Named Jolie
by McCutcheonI go out on Saturday night. Always with my mates. Men behaving badly. The regular posse of fuck ups and perverts. We get wrecked.
Starting point is down the pub. We drink strong pints of lager and ale. Do lines in the bogs. We need to forget our empty existence. I have been banging my head incessantly against banality. Suffering jobs that offer nothing except routine. The same old shite day-in, day-out. Lost in the calendar.
We don’t talk about these things. Whatever is left unsaid doesn’t seem to hurt as much. Time is no longer on our side, if it ever was. Our dreams didn’t come true. I will never be a spaceman orbiting around the moon. So we revert to the past. Wishing we were back playing footie on the green. Smoking spliffs. Debating the contents of NME.
I miss the days when a snog still meant something. I have gone from being idealistic to dull. No longer excited about twelve-inch vinyl or a new pair of trainers. Even the high times have become mundane. Life is dragging on a bit as of late.
We chase closing time. Out on the piss. Never drinking fast enough. We compliment this with ecstasy, speed, and cocaine up the nose. Anything for a rush. Blast off. The only way left to fly. Racing against the time warp.
Soon it is, "Time please, Gentlemen." This is not for us. We keep going.
We usually end up at The Ship Room. A cool club with an aquatic interior. Low lights. High ceiling. Aquariums line the walls behind the bar. Good looking pretenders drinking their trendy choices. Trying their best to be socially superior. The more it costs the better it tastes. They sip Sol with the lime stuck on top. American beer in bottles instead of pints.
The staff outshine the clientele. On the application form, ‘Gorgeous’ must be a prerequisite. Model types and pop star wannabes. Attitude so thick you could stand on it, the way 20 P floats on the head of a well poured Guinness.
We enter and make a racket. Out of our heads. Debauchery in our veins. The whole place breathes a collective sigh. The only reason we get through the front door is because we’re good mates with the DJ. And Alex is the main man. Reigning resident. King of the night. Rising faster than coke up a young model’s nose. The best unsigned turntablist in London. What can they do? Deny us our freedom escape? Bollocks to that.
The Ship Room has to adhere to Alex’s wishes. And thank fuck he is a nutter like us. Once a lazy small time drug dealer. Now a master on the decks. Out of our group he seemed most destine for redundancy. Now he is in top form. We remain inconsequential.
Alex stands over his receptive followers. Stoic stance. Head down. Modern sounds pouring from his fingertips. He spins electro urban house funk. Mad soul battering rams. We dance our crazy steps to the big techno beats. Lose our minds on the wailing scattered sirens.
Amongst all the preening and posing I have found real beauty. A girl named Jolie. Prettier than all the rest. A little sex-kitten who serves us drinks.
She is not in my league. Endless charms. Body skinny yet full. Elegant feminine feline movement. Sophisticated fashion in an effortless manor. Cunning cool with an air of supremacy.
Jolie is my fantasy girl. The kind I wank over. Beyond the type I get to meet in intimate situations. Still, you can’t help whom you are attracted to. Even if I am out classed, I keep hoping someday to meet a girl of her calibre.
Jolie wears an expression of lust on her beautiful face. It’s quite endearing. My heart stops when I see her. Despite the amphetamine. Nights like this are based around stimulation with alcohol and powders. She excites me in different ways. Gives me a non chemical emotion.
Jolie serves us way past the point of good judgment. We chat her up for that. She laughs at our slurred advances. All my friends fancy her. I think I like her more than the others. Maybe love.
Last weekend Jolie gave Jackson, Ian and me free tickets to her show. Turns out she is a singer in an experimental Trip Hop band. She explained the music is heavy in slow beats but defies entanglements of definition. There are going to be A&R men at the gig. This is her big chance. We said we would check it out. It is next Thursday.
I am looking forward to seeing her outside of the weekend blur. Think it might be an opportunity to get our personalities involved. Make her recognize who I am. I don’t really know her. But I do. I would betroth my love in a moment.
During the mellow week not much happens. I lay low. Bide my time. Go to work. Pay the poll tax. Thursday night can’t come soon enough. I am starting to get little boy at Christmas time giddy. Go to bed early. Than I just lie there without sleeping. Stare at the ceiling. Planning my entry into Jolie’s life.
Wednesday I return from a film and curry. Went by myself. Walked around bored. London is depressing to walk through at night, when the parks are closed. No one is about during the week unless you’re down Oxford St. or Soho. I get to the flat. Walk in tired. Ready for bed.
I hear wailing pleasure. Coming from Jackson’s bedroom. Female panting and purring. The incredulous sounds of orgasm. An amazing voice. I can’t believe my ears. It’s Jolie.
I sit on the couch. Read a magazine. Can’t concentrate on the words. Sulk over the pictures. The verbal reassurance of gratification continues at swan song volume. The higher the pitch the lower I feel.
Jolie comes out of the bedroom an hour later. All disheveled. Startled when she sees me. Looks a little taken aback.
"Oh, my goodness," she says. "Hello."
"Hello."
"You’re Mark, right? Jackson’s flatmate."
"Matt," I say trying not to sound daft.
"Right, Matt. When did you return?" She appears worried.
"A while ago."
"Right, well I was just leaving," she hurries out.
"Bye." I say to the closed door after she leaves.
I walk into Jackson’s room. He is sprawled out on his bed smoking a fag. Fully dressed. That is a relief.
"Eh, mate," he says with a wink. Obviously pleased with himself.
"I just saw Jolie."
"Yeah?"
"Well what?" I ask. But I don’t really want to know the answer.
"Well, she’s as hot as we always thought she would be."
"Uh-huh." I get a little numb. I don’t know where I want to be. Not here. Maybe someplace not on earth.
Jackson looks at me. All smiley. A right fuckin tosser. When did this arsehole ever get the chance to ask her out? Life isn’t fair.
Jackson isn’t the nicest bloke in this world. Never gets the rounds in. Pretends he’s skint when he’s not. But he has an easy way with the birds. A heartbreaker. Seems like at least once a month we get some teary appeal left on the answer phone asking for his return into arms he never loved.
"Didn’t let me shag her though," Jackson says with a shrug.
"Really?" Hope is instilled.
"I was licking her puss-E through her pant-E’s," he says with a phony American accent. "She was really getting off on it." He puts his hands in the air. Waves the Silk Cut about.
Ache. I get an ugly pain in my stomach. Green bile churns in my guts. Jealousy hurts something awful. Can’t even talk about it. We suffer alone. Emotional loneliness burns raw.
I go to the kitchen. Make myself a cup of tea. I want to get lost in my Spiritualized records. I go to bed. Put on my headphones. Stare at the ceiling. Hoping to float away. Trying to not think. Nothing at all.
The next night we go to the show. Only thing that lifts my spirits is walking past the queue and going right in. The venue is full of Select, Loaded and Mixmag readers. You can tell them apart by the way they are dressed. You just have to look really hard. Like differentiating between New Labor and The Tories. I also see a smattering of stuffy suits trying to fit in. Checking out what the kids are on about.
The band is already on. Making slow bass-heavy bump and grind dirty dancing funkadelic jazz. Jolie is singing her heart out. Bathed in baby blue and sensual scarlet light. Wearing a black mesh top and no bra. Leopard skin hot pants. Looking lovely as ever.
Jolie glides across stage. A modern day diva. Full of verve. Eyes to the sky lost in melody. Licks the tip of the microphone between verse like she is giving head.
She swivels her hips. Dramatically pirouettes taking in the audience. Shows everyone a gibbous view of her round supple breasts. It’s more than just her voice that mesmerizes the scant crowd of indie punters, trendy lads and trainspotters.
Jackson stands at the front of the stage. Looking up at his latest conquest. Proud and erect. I stand a few rows back with Ian. Hunched over my beer. We gulp our tins of Tennets. The purple monster works it’s magic. I tell Ian about the bastard Jackson, his American accent and the whole cunt licking thing. I leave out the part about my feelings.
Ian is young and full of passion. He is also very drunk. Been slamming back the bevvy. Trying to keep up with me drowning my sorrows all night. Ian gets that wild gleam in his eye. The look that has landed him in lock-up a few times.
Before I know it, Ian jumps on stage. Flails his arms. Screaming.
"I want to lick your pussy through your panties! Better yet I will take the panties off!"
To prove his point Ian takes off his trousers. Followed by his Y fronts. This is well out of order. Ian should have at least waited until the set was over.
The bass player attacks Ian. Thinks he is a hard man. Whacks him with his guitar. The sound reverberates through the amps. I jump for the bass player. The drummer hurdles his cymbals and lands on me. Jolie goes for Jackson still standing on the edge of stage. Kicks him right in the nose with her black leather boot.
We get thrown out. The show is cancelled. The A&R men bugger off. Next weekend down The Ship Room should be interesting.
Starting point is down the pub. We drink strong pints of lager and ale. Do lines in the bogs. We need to forget our empty existence. I have been banging my head incessantly against banality. Suffering jobs that offer nothing except routine. The same old shite day-in, day-out. Lost in the calendar.
We don’t talk about these things. Whatever is left unsaid doesn’t seem to hurt as much. Time is no longer on our side, if it ever was. Our dreams didn’t come true. I will never be a spaceman orbiting around the moon. So we revert to the past. Wishing we were back playing footie on the green. Smoking spliffs. Debating the contents of NME.
I miss the days when a snog still meant something. I have gone from being idealistic to dull. No longer excited about twelve-inch vinyl or a new pair of trainers. Even the high times have become mundane. Life is dragging on a bit as of late.
We chase closing time. Out on the piss. Never drinking fast enough. We compliment this with ecstasy, speed, and cocaine up the nose. Anything for a rush. Blast off. The only way left to fly. Racing against the time warp.
Soon it is, "Time please, Gentlemen." This is not for us. We keep going.
We usually end up at The Ship Room. A cool club with an aquatic interior. Low lights. High ceiling. Aquariums line the walls behind the bar. Good looking pretenders drinking their trendy choices. Trying their best to be socially superior. The more it costs the better it tastes. They sip Sol with the lime stuck on top. American beer in bottles instead of pints.
The staff outshine the clientele. On the application form, ‘Gorgeous’ must be a prerequisite. Model types and pop star wannabes. Attitude so thick you could stand on it, the way 20 P floats on the head of a well poured Guinness.
We enter and make a racket. Out of our heads. Debauchery in our veins. The whole place breathes a collective sigh. The only reason we get through the front door is because we’re good mates with the DJ. And Alex is the main man. Reigning resident. King of the night. Rising faster than coke up a young model’s nose. The best unsigned turntablist in London. What can they do? Deny us our freedom escape? Bollocks to that.
The Ship Room has to adhere to Alex’s wishes. And thank fuck he is a nutter like us. Once a lazy small time drug dealer. Now a master on the decks. Out of our group he seemed most destine for redundancy. Now he is in top form. We remain inconsequential.
Alex stands over his receptive followers. Stoic stance. Head down. Modern sounds pouring from his fingertips. He spins electro urban house funk. Mad soul battering rams. We dance our crazy steps to the big techno beats. Lose our minds on the wailing scattered sirens.
Amongst all the preening and posing I have found real beauty. A girl named Jolie. Prettier than all the rest. A little sex-kitten who serves us drinks.
She is not in my league. Endless charms. Body skinny yet full. Elegant feminine feline movement. Sophisticated fashion in an effortless manor. Cunning cool with an air of supremacy.
Jolie is my fantasy girl. The kind I wank over. Beyond the type I get to meet in intimate situations. Still, you can’t help whom you are attracted to. Even if I am out classed, I keep hoping someday to meet a girl of her calibre.
Jolie wears an expression of lust on her beautiful face. It’s quite endearing. My heart stops when I see her. Despite the amphetamine. Nights like this are based around stimulation with alcohol and powders. She excites me in different ways. Gives me a non chemical emotion.
Jolie serves us way past the point of good judgment. We chat her up for that. She laughs at our slurred advances. All my friends fancy her. I think I like her more than the others. Maybe love.
Last weekend Jolie gave Jackson, Ian and me free tickets to her show. Turns out she is a singer in an experimental Trip Hop band. She explained the music is heavy in slow beats but defies entanglements of definition. There are going to be A&R men at the gig. This is her big chance. We said we would check it out. It is next Thursday.
I am looking forward to seeing her outside of the weekend blur. Think it might be an opportunity to get our personalities involved. Make her recognize who I am. I don’t really know her. But I do. I would betroth my love in a moment.
During the mellow week not much happens. I lay low. Bide my time. Go to work. Pay the poll tax. Thursday night can’t come soon enough. I am starting to get little boy at Christmas time giddy. Go to bed early. Than I just lie there without sleeping. Stare at the ceiling. Planning my entry into Jolie’s life.
Wednesday I return from a film and curry. Went by myself. Walked around bored. London is depressing to walk through at night, when the parks are closed. No one is about during the week unless you’re down Oxford St. or Soho. I get to the flat. Walk in tired. Ready for bed.
I hear wailing pleasure. Coming from Jackson’s bedroom. Female panting and purring. The incredulous sounds of orgasm. An amazing voice. I can’t believe my ears. It’s Jolie.
I sit on the couch. Read a magazine. Can’t concentrate on the words. Sulk over the pictures. The verbal reassurance of gratification continues at swan song volume. The higher the pitch the lower I feel.
Jolie comes out of the bedroom an hour later. All disheveled. Startled when she sees me. Looks a little taken aback.
"Oh, my goodness," she says. "Hello."
"Hello."
"You’re Mark, right? Jackson’s flatmate."
"Matt," I say trying not to sound daft.
"Right, Matt. When did you return?" She appears worried.
"A while ago."
"Right, well I was just leaving," she hurries out.
"Bye." I say to the closed door after she leaves.
I walk into Jackson’s room. He is sprawled out on his bed smoking a fag. Fully dressed. That is a relief.
"Eh, mate," he says with a wink. Obviously pleased with himself.
"I just saw Jolie."
"Yeah?"
"Well what?" I ask. But I don’t really want to know the answer.
"Well, she’s as hot as we always thought she would be."
"Uh-huh." I get a little numb. I don’t know where I want to be. Not here. Maybe someplace not on earth.
Jackson looks at me. All smiley. A right fuckin tosser. When did this arsehole ever get the chance to ask her out? Life isn’t fair.
Jackson isn’t the nicest bloke in this world. Never gets the rounds in. Pretends he’s skint when he’s not. But he has an easy way with the birds. A heartbreaker. Seems like at least once a month we get some teary appeal left on the answer phone asking for his return into arms he never loved.
"Didn’t let me shag her though," Jackson says with a shrug.
"Really?" Hope is instilled.
"I was licking her puss-E through her pant-E’s," he says with a phony American accent. "She was really getting off on it." He puts his hands in the air. Waves the Silk Cut about.
Ache. I get an ugly pain in my stomach. Green bile churns in my guts. Jealousy hurts something awful. Can’t even talk about it. We suffer alone. Emotional loneliness burns raw.
I go to the kitchen. Make myself a cup of tea. I want to get lost in my Spiritualized records. I go to bed. Put on my headphones. Stare at the ceiling. Hoping to float away. Trying to not think. Nothing at all.
The next night we go to the show. Only thing that lifts my spirits is walking past the queue and going right in. The venue is full of Select, Loaded and Mixmag readers. You can tell them apart by the way they are dressed. You just have to look really hard. Like differentiating between New Labor and The Tories. I also see a smattering of stuffy suits trying to fit in. Checking out what the kids are on about.
The band is already on. Making slow bass-heavy bump and grind dirty dancing funkadelic jazz. Jolie is singing her heart out. Bathed in baby blue and sensual scarlet light. Wearing a black mesh top and no bra. Leopard skin hot pants. Looking lovely as ever.
Jolie glides across stage. A modern day diva. Full of verve. Eyes to the sky lost in melody. Licks the tip of the microphone between verse like she is giving head.
She swivels her hips. Dramatically pirouettes taking in the audience. Shows everyone a gibbous view of her round supple breasts. It’s more than just her voice that mesmerizes the scant crowd of indie punters, trendy lads and trainspotters.
Jackson stands at the front of the stage. Looking up at his latest conquest. Proud and erect. I stand a few rows back with Ian. Hunched over my beer. We gulp our tins of Tennets. The purple monster works it’s magic. I tell Ian about the bastard Jackson, his American accent and the whole cunt licking thing. I leave out the part about my feelings.
Ian is young and full of passion. He is also very drunk. Been slamming back the bevvy. Trying to keep up with me drowning my sorrows all night. Ian gets that wild gleam in his eye. The look that has landed him in lock-up a few times.
Before I know it, Ian jumps on stage. Flails his arms. Screaming.
"I want to lick your pussy through your panties! Better yet I will take the panties off!"
To prove his point Ian takes off his trousers. Followed by his Y fronts. This is well out of order. Ian should have at least waited until the set was over.
The bass player attacks Ian. Thinks he is a hard man. Whacks him with his guitar. The sound reverberates through the amps. I jump for the bass player. The drummer hurdles his cymbals and lands on me. Jolie goes for Jackson still standing on the edge of stage. Kicks him right in the nose with her black leather boot.
We get thrown out. The show is cancelled. The A&R men bugger off. Next weekend down The Ship Room should be interesting.