It’s Friday and I’m stoned off me map and just embarking on another vodka frenzy, fine. Had a few days off, needed to, the last frenzy went on forever and ever and landed with a big bump at the end of last weekend. So I chilled out with a big lump of (suprisingly good) solid for a few days and made the most of what sun we’ve had, I went for a long walk on the beach up to Sandsend and back, walked in the sea, cold but nice, it was a powerful tide that day, going out, off my trolley. I need to talk about Peek-A-Boo Man while I can, before it’s too late, it’s getting weirder, he’s getting stranger. He’s a sinister individual, lives in the room above me. Seedy looking, shabbily dressed, usually unshaven, gray stubble, short hair, grayly balding, skeletal face, quietly spoken, uncannily creepy. Walks around all the time, never seems to sit down, active until the early hours, spends long periods cooking things. If I ever go into my kitchen, there he is above me in his kitchen, even if he was in the other room a second ago.
It was Keith who christened him Peek-A-Boo Man. I’m convinced he’s a serial-killing mass-murderer who cooks and eats his victims and renders the evidence down to nothing, I think he’s so clever he’s getting away with it and has got away with it for years. There are lots of strange noises going on up there and people running around half-dead with forks and knives stuck in their eye balls and blood spurting all over. That would account for the newspapers then; there is sometimes a bit of newspaper sticking out from underneath his door or, rarely, some newspaper outside it. Jimbob once saw into his room and he said there was fucking newspaper fucking everywhere, floors, walls, the fucking lot. I don’t know what he suffers from but he’s suffering from something, just like the rest of us in this place, including the-man-we-never-see but i think I’ve seen him, he can’t fucking hide from me.
Peek-A-Boo Man is always opening and shutting and locking and unlocking his door. You can do all the permutations of that one yourself, I’m off for a pee and see if I can spot him lurking or unlurking, but I think he’s in the kitchen preparing one of his many ‘meals’, he eats a fuck of a lot for such a fucking skinny bloke.
No work today, the sandman’s gone away. Just been listening to UFOrb by The Orb, got Metallic K.O. by Iggy + the Stooges on now. Big colly-wobbles. Butchers-strength slimy nub. Upholsteries upholstered, your gun, my gun. Ronnie and his Ray-Gun. Join the dumb, suck your dummy.
…END OF INTERLUDE ~
He got his name because his door is always opening, and sometimes you see an eye, and closing again, as he peeks and finishes peeking, out. There are two flights of stairs up from my room to the front-door landing, though ‘cos of the slope I am on ground-floor level at the back. If you go one flight from my room there’s a toilet on a small landing, past that and up the other flight, P-A-B Mans door is the first on the right as you walk to the front door.
Sometimes at night the light outside my room will be on when I go up for a piss, I will hear someone walking up the stairs in front of me and I will have a pee then come back down to my room, P-A-B Man will then descend the stairs up which he disappeared and slip back into his room, but I can hear him of course and I know what he’s up to, or rather I don’t know what the fuck he’s up to. Keith has often heard him scuttling around outside his door, in fact the first time he alerted me to it was when he said “I think there’s a rat in the building.” And I said “I know what you mean.” Often you don’t actually see him peeking, usually a clicking of the door opening and closing behind as you walk to the front door. I’ve seen him turn, as I walk out of the toilet, and pretend to be going upstairs, when I’ve already heard him come out of his room and lurk. Keith has many other stories, the best one is this… Keith was walking out one day, he has a slow and graceful, dancing, walk, but only slow, ‘cos his legs aren’t great at the moment. Maybe that’s why he gets spyed on more than most ‘cos P-A-B Man can hear him coming and going for ages. Anyway, he walked past P-A-B Mans door and heard him peek as he walked past, so he slowly danced himself and his rucksack backwards to observe P-A-B Man stood there, with his door half open, totally fucking naked… If you leave the front door unlocked while you nip out to the shops you will come back to find P-A-B Man has observed it and locked it…
When I was talking to Jerry during Folk Week about what he’d eaten, he held up his pint and said “I’m on a vegetarian diet at the moment.” We all were and had to wean ourselves back onto solids but the way he likes his steaks is “knock it’s ‘orns off, wipe it’s arse and put it on the plate.” Lovely. Louie louie. I never thought it’d come to this baby. Remember the white trousers with the writing up and down ’em and the package of brick, paper and spittle, the paper hieroglyphs of mimicked gladness, the rest a distillate of sadness and madness. Not even told you about the knobhead, well two of ’em, I was gonna smack with the ashtray have I? Won’t. That was last weekend and maybe I’ll tell you about it or maybe I won’t, I don’t quite know at the moment. Been some Strange Things Happening and glad it all culminating with me chilling with a big lump of hash ‘cos I was scared that it all was gonna crash. FAUST on now, end of Stooges tape. Beautiful cacophany, something off Faust IV-Jennifer.
Don’t know if i should go out tonight, acute angles are forming, re-forming, de-forming and informing. I just sneezed four times in Russian, to oblivion. Blow the man down. Skirt. Skate. Hake. Haddock. Cod. Saw the final squad, dark dominoes diving down. Running out of rope, spliced and played the lot. Jeff had a good one for steak too “I’ll stick my head up it’s arse and eat it from the inside out, I – thank – you.” Thats the position you can find the Whistler of Whitby any time of the day or night, with my head up a cow’s arse, Listening to 20’s / 30’s blues. I wish. It’s the pen talking now.
These 78’s are scratched to fuck but at least someone had the presence of mind to collect them all together, and it’s only like listening to an outdoor concert with rain and hailstone. I’m off my trolley and I can’t get my muppet to work. This is before I get washed and changed to go out. I can’t even fucking stand up. P-A-B Man is stomping around and I dont know what the fuck is going on. Twat. Twat. Twat. I am a twat, a fucking stupid twat and I am sick of coming back here alone and lonely every night. I know I should be getting into me, who and what I am, but I can’t, I just can’t and it’s so sad ‘cos if I can’t get into me, who the fuck else is going to want to, maybe I’m trying too hard, I don’t know but at least I’m trying I suppose. I’m so fucking lonely and it hurts, it’s not just sex, it’s someone to talk to, someone to hold, someone to touch and be touched by, I’m such a sad cunt and at times like this I get suicidal ‘cos I think ‘What’s the fucking point anymore?’ And when I go to sleep later and wake-up even later it’s even worse ‘cos there’s just me and my lonely little room and I think ‘fuck it all’. P-A-B Man is cooking again, I know ‘cos he’s got his extractor fan on.
Ran out of vodka, I think that’s why I’m so pissed off, got a smoke, but no woman to talk to, desperately need a woman to talk to. I’ve got the nonesenseeze sneeze disease blues.
I don’t feel in control of me or my life anymore, it’s out of control. Who controls the controllers? Am I me? I don’t know anymore. Nothing, ziltch. Zero. Who am I? Where am I? And what the fuck am i doing? I don’t know where I’m going but I know I’ve just been and I don’t want to go there again. I was totally incapacitated by it and still am, to a much lesser degree thankfully. Images of her still flood my mind and thoughts fill my head but it’s a lot better than it was. I’m just so fucking lonely I could die. And as well as being a fucking total head-case I’m an idiot as well apparently, I am an idiot, I must be an idiot. Donkey-coated alsation bites, no thank-you I’m sitting on the first one. Election. Chinese bites your honky-konky flunky from Saigon. Pink items pickled and dunked in the briney. Drunken and dunked, oh. Hey-ho, hey-nonny-no. A donkey clinic in Ethiopia. Donkey medicine. You are the donkey in the donkey’s mouth, based on the weight of the donkey infestation. Where’s my donkey gone?
Oh fuck me. Serendipity donkey. Feeling blah, blah, blah…..My soul uncoiling, blah blah blah… Pissing on the blimey, stoned, blah blah blah. Throwing a spanner in the works. Spoon it in, are you in yet? Use a shoe horn or buy a tub of ‘U Can’t Bend It’ off Badger. Or yacht varnish but make sure you rub it well under the flange. On an emotional roller coaster, up and down like a yo-yo but more down than up. Need a sodden gussett to suck the nectar, oh. And the next contestant please….sit down.
-Perce D’ Lips.