Living on a high street is odd. I was sat on the sofa, watching My Name Is Earl, blown up the size of God via the grace of my projector and my well angled wall. It’s always loud on a high street. I’m getting used to it. But a bloodcurdling, Tom Waitsian roar was coming through my High Street stained windows. The roar of a man, wet with booze, parched from a lack of love. So I though. My instinct was to get up and see what the fuck was going on, but the sleeping head of the girl lay in my lap, and it was the most beautiful thing I thought I’d ever seen. My heart went out to the shrieking, gurgling, retching man on my high street, and my brain flipped back to Earl.
After a while, the fragility of the Digital Video Disc, or whatever that acronym is really for, put paid to my enjoyment of the episode in which Earl makes a child scared of The Boogeyman, and Randy gets to bounce on a bounceycastle*. Within arms reach I found some jumpers and vests to replace my lap, and rose myself, to do some drawing. As I stood, another roar came from the street Outside of my window, and in front of the Draculian Natwest steps a pair of men brawled and rolled about, a shopping bag rolling at their Siamese side. A black cab was waiting, its passenger holding open the door, summoning one of the men. One, bald, casually dressed, was on the floor. Another, hairslicked and suited, was on top of him. I rooted for the bald man, who eventually managed to drag his way up the side of a car against which they embraced, terribly. Headlocks were exchanged and the cab pulled away. I looked for my camera, but when I got back to the window it was all over – the bald man had picked up his shopping bag and was walking purposefully away, whole his suited assailant crossed the road, a little behind him, and continued to shout strange guttural obscenities that neither suited, nor matched, his sloaned head.
I looked at the sleeping thing, and it breathed contentedly. I put a Tom Waits LP on, lit a cigarette, poured myself a glass of whiskey and Coke, sat myself down at my swively chair, and drew a picture of myself discarding the smoking carcass of a pink blob, emerging from an inferno, smiling.
* I didn’t fully get Chilly’s trampoline thing. I think I do now. He said, “What colour is YOUR parachute? Well it seems to be green/ you keep running to the bank machine/ you keep flipping through a magazine/ you should be flipping on a trampoline.”
— Monday, February 5th, 2007
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