Sackcloth and Fag Ash

If two men burst into your house in the middle of the day wearing balaclavas, the first thing you should invariably do is look at their shoes. This has two benefits. Firstly by lowering your head, you are protecting the most vulnerable parts of your body, your eyes and your throat. Secondly you might recognize the footwear of your assailants as they place a large sackcloth over your head and bundle you into an awaiting vehicle. Next if you can try and recognize the chugging noise of a VW Campervan that you’ve spent a good deal of time in over the last year, then try and kid yourself that your two best friends are kidnapping for a really good reason. I couldn’t think of one, such was my state.

The last two months had been hell. I'd invested in a dirty washing up bowl full of guilt. No I hadn't converted to Catholicism. I'd given up on my oral tobacco fixation. The only way I was able to achieve this monstrous feat is to con myself into feeling like the biggest cunt on the planet should I buckle and smoke an actual cigarette. The thought of waking up in the morning, no matter how many episodes of the Shitford Files I appeared in the previous night, and realising that I ingested a lorry load of Phillip Morris lung candy, frankly is more than I could take. How long had it been four maybe five maybe six weeks, I couldn't tell, perhaps I didn't give a fuck anymore. I'd got to that stage where even if so much as a twelve year old girl passed me in the street smoking a fag, I'd be likely to twist her fingers off and stub the bastard out on her cheek. If Bill Hicks were still alive, I'd have fucked him in the ass and tell him where to stick his fags. I wonder if he really felt a bit of a twat at the end? So I was over the cigs, but I was unhealthy, angry and unpleasant. Either way it got me thinking. Guilt might finally be a useful emotion in my battle to final achieve full human status (it was a long shot I know.) What if I used this new found guilt emotion to achieve some lasting stability in my life, form empathetic relationships with other humans? What if I could feel guilty when I failed to listen to someone right the way through to the end of their sentence? What if I began to feel bad about my disastrous lack of sensitivity? The more I thought about it the crazier it sounded and the more it sounded like it just might work. Right then the phone went and instinctively I picked it up regretting it instantly. It was my sister. "What do you want?" I vaguely remember saying. I hadn’t spoken to her for a year and instantly she hung up like a needy thing. Right before I went to get up to go to the bathroom, I stopped myself. I should feel guiltier about my appalling phone etiquette or at least get someone or some software to field my calls. Surely it's better to be permanently unavailable than permanently rude. I would have to address this.

In the last month since my cravings began, I hadn't left the house. I'd refused to communicate with anyone unless they'd had a computer and a broadband connection. My mother was on dial up, bitch. This communicative restriction proved easy enough to begin with. The local supermarket delivered all the items I previously had to go out for. The curry houses all delivered via Instant Madrassenger as I called it. My jokes were getting appalling and I had a string of Eastern European honeys ready to pee on demand via webcam. I had reached my filthy zenith.

It had all started the day after all that nasty business at the club I'd calculated that on the previous evening I must have smoked more cigarettes than my grandfather did in the entire war. I lay in bed looking forward to a life of emphysema. The battery in my phone had died, the credit had run out. I leant over the side of my bed in my cattle shed room and looked Zac in the eyes; he was as weary as me. "Get me a fucking gun and I'll do us both a favour." He looked at me in disgust and left the room to lick his balls. And for the next month inside was where I stayed, between my bed and my computer, between the fridge and the television. Helen the widow next door neighbour goes out walking with Zac most days, so that was covered off and I’ve just been ignoring the phone and the front door bell. Frankly I’m surprised a dumb young constable hasn’t kicked in my front door in attempt to throw up at the feet of my leathery flyblown corpse. But that’s typical me, wallowing in the martyrdom of a lack of attention (there I go again.)

And now I've been kidnapped and I’m bouncing around in the back of Ray’s van like something he pulled out the river. Marvellous. I’m never gonna trust Ray and Mike to do another job for me again, not even if it’s just a mild favour. Amateur doesn’t really cover it. I’m mean I don’t even care whether they had good intentions, their execution sucks and blows at the same time. Anyway we’ll see what they have in store when they get me to where we’re going and untie me. I can’t believe I can actually hear their voices, they’re talking about Beth. Fucking cripples.