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Tuesday, 16 August 2005

Brel de jour

Hi Swipettes,

We here at Swipe Towers can't contain our excitement at having procured a sneak preview of the blog that's about to set the www on fire. It's sexy, it's innovative and it positively reeks of moules marinieres. Please, give up your hearts and incomes to:


dimanche 29 février
Last night I dreamt about

dead mussels,
a pregnant, dwarf-eared rabbit being stewed in Chimay,
giant moustaches called Adolphus flying over Utrecht.

Then I was lying in bed with a grizzled old whore who wore too much makeup and smelt of haddock, blancmange and beeswax. We made love like lemmings in mid air, spiralling through the ether, falling, ever falling down the cliffside, plunging towards the jagged, splintered rocks until, just as I was about to come to my climax, I died.

I woke up with a headache. What can it all mean?

// posted by brel @ 3:28 PM

jeudi 26 février
I've had so many women - I lost count at 7,476. After a bit of time passes it can be difficult to remember how, why, when you liked someone - if at all - and nice to revisit it from a safe distance. Sometimes as far as several thousand kilometres. The girl with no breasts I felt up in the public swimming pool at Schaarbeek when I was 15. The relationship at school that ended because of her aversion to mussels - although I suppose, looking back, she had a point. I suppose the shells are a bit sharp. The much older woman whose skill in manipulating my body was as funny as it was frightening - I had never been folded in half before. I can still lace my boots with my teeth to this day, you know. As long as there's not too much damp in the air and I haven't eaten any sausage. Curse this lumbago. Then I recall the first time with someone I can still think of fondly, someone I fell quickly and hard for, and the thousand or so times we were together after that, and the last time with her too. Christ, that Pam Ayres was some woman.

The few whom I could not get enough of - Danielle Steele, Nana Mouskourri, Brenda Blethyn, Blossom from Eastenders, Wim Jonk. The way they smelled - haddock, carp, bloater, with a soupcon of emery board. The way they felt - like farting in a vat of linseed oil. Or tasted - mushy peas sprinkled with Ovaltine. The number of times I was with the Special Girl and wished she would just shut up and fuck me already, becuse I had never come with anyone that way, ever - apart from Clodagh Rodgers, of course. But she kept on and on reciting the shipping forecast for the whole of 1957 until I had to bludgeon her with a kipper. The times sex felt as much like appearing on Celebrity Who Wants to be a Millionaire as a spiritual calling. And how those moments kept me going for weeks afterward, like mussels dotting the cord of our moribund relationship.

These are nice, these little sketches of people I have enjoyed. It passes the time while I'm having a dump.
// posted by brel @ 1:13 PM

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