[SIZE=+1]`She is my best friend, my only friend and I have screwed her every which way. I am sewage'[/SIZE]
Sunday May 9, 1999
I'm sitting with Bridget and I can't believe what I've done. That's not an idle phrase. I literally cannot believe what I've done… what I'm doing… you see I'm not actually sitting with Bridget, I'm sitting near her. She's unconscious and I'm half drunk.
It started when Bridget announced she was in love. This doesn't happen often. Her affection is fierce and beautiful but in the wrong hands she bleeds through it. Loverboy was someone I used to work with. A particularly efficient swivester called Bruno. In the old days he would win bets on impossible lays. Now he was doing accumulators. That's what he claimed at the party where I introduced him to Bridget. Usually when swordfish like Bruno hit on Bridget she memorises their lines and makes everyone else laugh at them. She doesn't end up banging the glans off the author in a bathroom and flashing her tits from the window. It lasted the weekend. That's practically a marriage for Bruno. Predictably, two days later Bridget started leaving him messages he didn't answer. When she told me she wasn't worried, I thought: `Yeah, sure - nor is a smackhead kangaroo in a minefield'.
So I decided to return Bruno's calls for him. Just to let her down gently. I knew I could do his voice because I'd once called his home with the `Mum, it's your son - I'm gay' routine. I knew Bridget didn't know my office mobile number, so I used that for `Bruno'. I still expected her to rumble me. We would laugh, she'd call me a bastard and I'd explain what a stain Bruno was anyway. But she love-bombed me. And I found myself flirting back. With every second I dragged myself further into a lie I couldn't possibly defend. We do this, don't we? Mmm… but why? Bridget's vulnerability spurred me to protect her with a lie and at the same time fuelled a sick urge to impale her on it. The misanthropy behind this drive is flat and grey - a dead force - but it produces an icy thrill every time the lie takes you further than you thought possible.
Bridget called `Bruno' the next day and told me she'd bought two tickets to Paris for the weekend. I could have owned up then and paid for the tickets. But all I did was make my impersonation of Bruno more caricatured - put the onus on her to work this out. Did she bollocks. We arranged to meet in the pub the next day at seven to choose hotels.
The next evening, I casually `bumped into' her in the pub. `I'm meeting Bruno at seven,' she wiggled. I said I'd have a drink with her till he arrived. And I told myself how clever that was. When Bruno failed to show, I would be there to pick up the pieces and would serve my penance without the need for a confession. So I would never have to destroy the perfect trust that had built up in the between of us. So easy, so Nineties, so shit.
I suppose Bridget started crying about half seven. More drinks. I was perfect. `He's probably just late' segued seamlessly into the what-a-bastard bolero. At some point I switched to vodka martinis. I think I knew I wanted to relish this on a scorched rush - unleaded by copious beer or the blubs of gin. And after seven of these electric olives, she dried up, started to look mended, and the tiniest poisonous emissary of a mercy fuck cleared its throat in my groin. Oh no. Oh yes.
Bridget woke up shy and lovely. I made her toast. She is, you understand, my best - some say only - friend. But as I looked at her and sipped her coffee, knowing that she badly needed my friendship, my deepest dread was that this new turn would sour my planned pool-and-porn weekend with Robert and Jonathan. So what did I do?
I sent her home and phoned her up. Bridget? Bruno. And I made him say: Sorry about last night but he was already in Paris… a work thing… he promised to meet her at Gare du Nord and blow her fanny off. She agreed, of course. With added guilt. Then I just took the rest of the day off and previewed Anal Piss Machine for the boys. So how surprised am I that Bridget got so slammed on the way back from discovering no Bruno in Paris she necked a bottle of Paracetamol? How unpredictable was it that she would turn up at 2am, announce her overdose, and collapse tear-blown and useless through my Taraquoia resin table. A remedial slug could have told you that, Geefe, you moron. I must have suspected it on some level because I had the sang-froid to heave her on to a couch, sit down and write this - clocking casually that I still had another hour to empty her stomach (if she had told me correctly what time she filled it). The main reason, though, is that I am a genuinely worthless bastard. I have friends who I think should not have been born and my medical record shows there was a time when I tried to kill my brother. But such feelings are as the deepest tender love compared to how I feel about myself. There is something so dizzyingly hideous about realising how callous you can make yourself if you try.
You get used to being objective when you write these columns. Hopefully you find in your own experience reflections of tiny universal truths. But you'll forgive me for failing this week. The only conclusion I can draw now is that I am the sort of fucked-up selfish sewage the world is better off without. And now I feel sick that I told you any of this. But it's 4.30, I'm late filing and wha the hell. Somebody told me there's a snuff room on the Net…
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
I should reiterate with each of these posts - they are satirical pieces written by Chris Morris for a UK newspaper a few years ago.I doubt many people outside the UK have ever seen them and they deserve a wider readership so I thought this would be a good place to put them.
Sunday May 9, 1999
I'm sitting with Bridget and I can't believe what I've done. That's not an idle phrase. I literally cannot believe what I've done… what I'm doing… you see I'm not actually sitting with Bridget, I'm sitting near her. She's unconscious and I'm half drunk.
It started when Bridget announced she was in love. This doesn't happen often. Her affection is fierce and beautiful but in the wrong hands she bleeds through it. Loverboy was someone I used to work with. A particularly efficient swivester called Bruno. In the old days he would win bets on impossible lays. Now he was doing accumulators. That's what he claimed at the party where I introduced him to Bridget. Usually when swordfish like Bruno hit on Bridget she memorises their lines and makes everyone else laugh at them. She doesn't end up banging the glans off the author in a bathroom and flashing her tits from the window. It lasted the weekend. That's practically a marriage for Bruno. Predictably, two days later Bridget started leaving him messages he didn't answer. When she told me she wasn't worried, I thought: `Yeah, sure - nor is a smackhead kangaroo in a minefield'.
So I decided to return Bruno's calls for him. Just to let her down gently. I knew I could do his voice because I'd once called his home with the `Mum, it's your son - I'm gay' routine. I knew Bridget didn't know my office mobile number, so I used that for `Bruno'. I still expected her to rumble me. We would laugh, she'd call me a bastard and I'd explain what a stain Bruno was anyway. But she love-bombed me. And I found myself flirting back. With every second I dragged myself further into a lie I couldn't possibly defend. We do this, don't we? Mmm… but why? Bridget's vulnerability spurred me to protect her with a lie and at the same time fuelled a sick urge to impale her on it. The misanthropy behind this drive is flat and grey - a dead force - but it produces an icy thrill every time the lie takes you further than you thought possible.
Bridget called `Bruno' the next day and told me she'd bought two tickets to Paris for the weekend. I could have owned up then and paid for the tickets. But all I did was make my impersonation of Bruno more caricatured - put the onus on her to work this out. Did she bollocks. We arranged to meet in the pub the next day at seven to choose hotels.
The next evening, I casually `bumped into' her in the pub. `I'm meeting Bruno at seven,' she wiggled. I said I'd have a drink with her till he arrived. And I told myself how clever that was. When Bruno failed to show, I would be there to pick up the pieces and would serve my penance without the need for a confession. So I would never have to destroy the perfect trust that had built up in the between of us. So easy, so Nineties, so shit.
I suppose Bridget started crying about half seven. More drinks. I was perfect. `He's probably just late' segued seamlessly into the what-a-bastard bolero. At some point I switched to vodka martinis. I think I knew I wanted to relish this on a scorched rush - unleaded by copious beer or the blubs of gin. And after seven of these electric olives, she dried up, started to look mended, and the tiniest poisonous emissary of a mercy fuck cleared its throat in my groin. Oh no. Oh yes.
Bridget woke up shy and lovely. I made her toast. She is, you understand, my best - some say only - friend. But as I looked at her and sipped her coffee, knowing that she badly needed my friendship, my deepest dread was that this new turn would sour my planned pool-and-porn weekend with Robert and Jonathan. So what did I do?
I sent her home and phoned her up. Bridget? Bruno. And I made him say: Sorry about last night but he was already in Paris… a work thing… he promised to meet her at Gare du Nord and blow her fanny off. She agreed, of course. With added guilt. Then I just took the rest of the day off and previewed Anal Piss Machine for the boys. So how surprised am I that Bridget got so slammed on the way back from discovering no Bruno in Paris she necked a bottle of Paracetamol? How unpredictable was it that she would turn up at 2am, announce her overdose, and collapse tear-blown and useless through my Taraquoia resin table. A remedial slug could have told you that, Geefe, you moron. I must have suspected it on some level because I had the sang-froid to heave her on to a couch, sit down and write this - clocking casually that I still had another hour to empty her stomach (if she had told me correctly what time she filled it). The main reason, though, is that I am a genuinely worthless bastard. I have friends who I think should not have been born and my medical record shows there was a time when I tried to kill my brother. But such feelings are as the deepest tender love compared to how I feel about myself. There is something so dizzyingly hideous about realising how callous you can make yourself if you try.
You get used to being objective when you write these columns. Hopefully you find in your own experience reflections of tiny universal truths. But you'll forgive me for failing this week. The only conclusion I can draw now is that I am the sort of fucked-up selfish sewage the world is better off without. And now I feel sick that I told you any of this. But it's 4.30, I'm late filing and wha the hell. Somebody told me there's a snuff room on the Net…
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
I should reiterate with each of these posts - they are satirical pieces written by Chris Morris for a UK newspaper a few years ago.I doubt many people outside the UK have ever seen them and they deserve a wider readership so I thought this would be a good place to put them.
