I am not interested in words I am only interested in myself so I insert myself into others’ stories then look for myself as if I was Wally. I can never find Wally. I am reasonably interested in what words do though e.g. the wordless windmill they are not interested in what I do though e.g. worthy miller Deft-as-a-Post walking atop a waterfall with Escaped Prisoner climbing an Alp without any feeling in his fingers knows full well that all feelings will return when they punish his heresy.
An Airfix model of the Marie Celeste sits on a bedside cupboard. The pieces were not glued together by that little tube of glue they were glued together by that tub of sailor’s semen that sits on the bedside table. Don’t touch! Don’t sit on the table. Don’t sit on after the meal has finished. Don’t stand on ceremony. You may pick the model up as long as you don’t lift it or she may well fall apart in your dreams.
The Fall play it for laughs in the British Legion Hut on Portland. My dad gets up to dance with another man’s old lady he picked up tickets for the dance in a pack of superhero cards that use the shower cubicle for a toilet. The band encore with The March of the Contrarians warming-up for Hearsay playing in a working men’s club in Stoke, Plymouth. Hitching once I was picked up by a Stoker but I couldn’t tell from his accent which Titanic film we were drowning in. Hearsay open with a punishing version of Come Together to a right shower of Gothic Bran/d Flakes.
Airfix were not the only model makers there was another brand you had to make yourself called Revell and I had to make myself do it to prove I was a boy because girls were bred to model clothes and not interested in words except words about them which tended to escape through an icy tunnel in a fire storm of objectified fear. Maybe. Maybe baby. Gluey words from love letters wearing their underwear shimmy up the wrecked ship’s mast that lies jammed the length of the waterfall.
© Tim Allen 2018