Well as predicted, as soon as I clapped eyes on the fucking germ and learnt of his circumstance, how does a person who never works, who does absolutely fuck all apart from living in fantasy la la world (whilst looking down on those that do have to work) is meant to handle the responsibilities of a relationship, let alone a family?
We left Cunt last time screaming ‘Don’t fuck with my life’at the severely anorexic mother of his children. The sort of thing you’d expect to come out of the mouth of a. a spoiled immature teen or b. said teen a decade on following more goodies from daddy, like a fucking house, guitars, mixing desks, keyboards, computers, fully furnished designer fucking everything for doing FUCK all…
Anyway, surprise surprise, she and the kid are gone. I’d already established that when the kid was about Cunt would have to be quiet, for the past few months it’s been relatively alright, even he understands that too much noise = screaming child, which directly effects him. And we can’t have Cunty getting fucking upset now can we, or daddy might have to come over and clap his hands over his sensitive ‘musicians’ ears until the nasty little baby stops making a horrid noise for FUCKS SAKE.
I helped; I didn’t slam doors (I’m not much of a slammer anyway, this is largely due, I think, despite my misanthropic default, to manners and respect, you know, indicators of being brought up well) and I made sure that I didn’t thump about, even when friends were over in the small hours following a skinfull. Besides, as already mentioned in previous posts, I have/had no beef with her or the kid. Why should they suffer more than they already do?
So, you’re asking, now his emotionless borg of an offspring and his ignored, disrespected and clearly ill partner have fucked off back to wherever, has my decency and goodwill been reciprocated?
Has it fuck.
Last night he had the fucking audacity to give me a full 6 hours of his repertoire, the only chink of light is that he’s clearly a bit sad that his family have fucked off, which, of course is entirely his fault. I mean the way he used to speak to her; really, you’ve not heard anything like it, it was infused with unadulterated hatred, made worse by its forced calmness. Nasty, nasty, nasty.
I’ve described his ‘music’ before right? He can’t play; timing, tone, tuning, rhythm are all off, he can’t sing; timing, tone, tune, key…never fucking had any of them, practise makes it worse, die death. But last night instead of confining himself to the (recently refurbished and fitted designer) kitchen (which is just slightly smaller than Kent) he was ‘musically’ doing territorial pissings (not the song, though he’s tried Christ help me, no, the act) by ‘performing’ in every room in the house, possibly in order to reclaim his pathetic existence as a 24/7 wanker. This meant that when I was cooking in the kitchen he was in the adjacent downstairs room, when I was in the living room, the same, and finally the bedroom, there he was.
I tried to remain calm, I thought, ‘he’ll stop in a sec’, I reasoned with myself, I have this facility. I’m an educated man, rational, decent even, it’s one in the morning and his directly beneath me clanging tonelessly…
I leap out of bed and on to my feet and land with both heels onto the floor with a deafening thump, I stamp, and I mean STAMP, to the bathroom where there is a wooden floor, grabbed the door and after yelling at Ian Kilminster volume, ‘shut the fuck up YOU CUNT!’ slammed it so hard against the frame the screws shot out the top hinge.
Immediate blissful silence.
I slept like a baby.
This is for him