Friday, 29 February 2008

i read my story last night, and then some people typed something on a typewriter


i read my story last night at the cornerhouse. it was a fun night. i think i drank a bit too much. i drank a bit before i went on. i went on second. i said something about how if anyone wanted to go to the toilet before i read i wouldn't mind waiting. i think people thought i was making a joke. i meant it though. no one went to the toilet. i felt strange. i had the miniature plastic horse in my pocket while i was reading.

we went to the sand bar afterwards. i was supposed to go and find the comma press people, who went there too, i think. i kept meaning to get up and go and find them and say hi. i didn't find them. i felt a bit bad about this afterwards.

a friend of Sally Cook called Lauren had a typewriter. all the people at the table got interested in the typewriter. i think the typewriter had been bought that day for £7. we put in a bit of paper and typed a story, like the game consequences. Sally just emailed me the story that we typed. here it is:


story typed drunk on a typewriter by more than one person

Oh Lord, I am something small and confusing. It was strange. It was like something in The Nutty Professor II, The Klumps. I was born miniature and strange. I was not Eddie Murphy. I went for a job interview. 'What are you?' they said. I fiddled with my biro. 'What do you think I am?' I replied. The man played with the ends of his moustache as he considered my question. 'Are you some kind of gerbil?' he said. 'No.' I said.

'Ok then.' I bantered with this silver gent. 'Let me make you a 29th February proposition as a lady is entitled to do.' 'Ok,' he said. 'No problem.' And so that is how I was indoctrinated into the secret circle that is the Choho Ladies Pie Eating Contest Club.

'Euff,' I said. 'Wen r u goin 2 rite like toby lit?'
'Soon,' was his ambivalent response.
'Cool,' I said.

u mite b nxt wit da typeritaaah see sian 2 emillee
y is dat see emillee

I woke up in a cold sweat, my back spasming. Shit, I thought. But I am still worried about my eyelid. I have been wondering about Mark's pie a lot. Since Rod said it could not be a supermarket pie. But probably I shouldn't be worrying about my eyelid and the pie in an interview anyway. I've joined an internet dating agency. I claimed to have stigmata. So far I've had no response. I'm starting to think there's a lot of religious intolerance in this world. And so it was, the eyelid, the pie, the stigmata and the rather confusing void space in between.

I awoke the next day with a jolly good bump and a carrot in my top pocket. I chewed the top of the carrot and contemplated the previous few days of existence. What was the purpose of the carrot top? Sally woke with a smile and looked towards the sky and asked 'father I've lived for today...'

What happened? What was all this? These things like parked dogs outside convenience stores. Things left behind, unremembered, an episode of Russ Abbot's comedy programme 1989, dreadful and realistic and confusing and not a thing worrying about GCSEs, not a thing worrying about spots in the mirror, not a thing worrying about which girl will fancy you.

Let it go. You will be dead soon enough.

[click here to read more about typing the story and look at some pictures of the 'original copy'. the people who typed the story were me, Sally Cook, Sam Garrett, Sian Cummins, Tim Russell, Mark Perry, Sally's friend Lauren, and (i think) Marc Lunness, and Beth.]

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