Persilcuted

The Washing Machine Chronicles

Monday 17th September
We’re not talking, the washing machine and I. I come home and he sits in the corner, sulking, silent, blinking. I go to open the door but he won’t let me, I pull harder, and he digs in, stubbornly I stop before he snaps and he looks at me smug in his unbudging. I slink away, defeated.

Thursday 20th September
Sometimes he pretends to be finished. He fills himself so full of water that the glass looks empty from the outside, and then loudly he unlocks his door. Open me, he says, so innocent and full of soapy guile. And when I do and water pours from his mouth and gushes all over the floor, he watches open mouthed as if this was the last thing he had imagined.

Sunday 23rd September
He’s grumbling in the corner, gurjuh gurjuh gurj. I treated him to fabric conditioner in a bid to make the peace. The packet said one cap for light loads, and he filled the morning with the whine of his spin cycle. Who’s fault is it, I told him, if I don’t wear that much white?

Tuesday 25th September
I’ve begun making loud enquiries to John Lewis. Just outside the kitchen I stand and talk with volume of replacements and deliveries. I can feel his dial creeping towards me, edging himself towards the door, his gaze on my shoulders. I look back and he's in the corner, orange light steady.

Wednesday 26th September
I’m at the laundrettes. I know he’ll smell it on me when I go back, but I don’t care anymore. Let him find out. All the better if he knows.

Friday 28th September
The washing machine and I have come to some sort of agreement. A quick wash and three spin cycles. I had to push hard for the cycles but he gave in eventually. I’ve promised to stay off the delicate washes, and not go above 40 degrees. An uneasy peace returns.

Hearing Things

People are talking to themselves; in the streets, on the trains, in cars and on the buses, you hear them, murmur whisper roar. A cluster of people with invisible friends. And just as you're writing them off as yet more burnt-out urban crazies, they turn their heads and you see the flashing earmuff of the bluetooth generation. How connected does one man need to be? Walking around with the world in his ear, babbling with radiation. Because you never know when the call's gonna come... And notice I focus mainly on the male here, because it seems to be a mostly masculine preoccupation. Maybe men just need to feel more needed. The urge to remain in touch justifying the jewelery of the disabled. And as they wear their pieces, like medallions of self-importance, so that at any time, at any place, with only one limb free or less, they can scream to each other in the static, they raise their volume as their relevance diminishes.

Breakfast Epiphanies

I've never been a fan of Porridge. It's like ready mix cement, but more filling. Porridge sits on your stomach like an unwanted house guest; every morning you wake up to find it still there in its underpants, watching the screen and reading three-week old tv listings. But anyway, today, faced with the choice of cereal for £3.50, a sausage sandwich for £6, or porridge, fruit and maple syrup for £4, I went with the latter persuaded by it's economic value and additional bonus features. Sure enough, when it arrived I drenched it in syrup and the resulting spoonful was the making of my morning. Spoon two was more problematic, the porridge was so hot it burnt the roof of my mouth and made it difficult to pronounce consonants. I had to wait for it to cool. And wait, and wait, and wait. Man, porridge retains it's heat like a 15 year old boy at a school disco. When, forty minutes later, it was finally cool enough to eat, I gulped it down, blueberries, raspberries and all. Which is why I am here, unable to move, with a stone baby in my stomach and a delivery date looming.

Charismagic

Magic is either a crutch or a commodity; those are your basic two options. Let's face it, minus the card tricks, most magicians have all the personality of shoe polish, without the ability to shine. It is rare to find a trickster who transcends the chicanery, who can go more than five minutes without a quip. My friend Jacques, however, is a beautiful example of the exception. That boy will never go hungry. For him, magic is what makes life possible, it has taken him around the world and put a roof over his head. He will produce coins and steal watches like there is no tomorrow, and as a result, is welcomed with open arms at every club in town. People love him. And when I say love, I mean drape him with flowers and offer their firstborn. The devotion he inspires is matched only by the speed it is acquired. He is an explosion of bonhomie, a shock of geniality, a localised outbreak of virulent cordiality, and he turns the room around. You know why? Because everyone knows that at any point he can put the cards away and still have the magic.

A Poor Man's Messiah

At the height of my weekly guilt cycle, whilst waiting for mass to begin, he asked me for change. I think he meant coins rather than a cultural shift. Sorry, I said, referring to both. He asked me again. I refused. When I said no on the third time I saw something snap, just beneath his eye. He raged at me, spraying me with flecks of spittle, his eyes bulging. I watched and walked away. Twenty-four hours later, outside Brixton tube I'm offered a shot at redemption so I pull the trigger. I empty my pockets into an outstretched hand, all £3.78 of it. The guy receives the coins like the host and I think he’s about to weep. Thank you brother, he says, and wraps me in his arms. But I don't know who saved who.

Social Path

I like parties. Small parties, big parties, house parties, posh parties; all the different kinds of parties. Except the political ones. A party is a room full of fear; but with drinks. And I like to drink. I’ll drink you under the table, down the stairs, into the cellar and into the ground. I’ll drink you six feet under and still be standing for the toast. Here’s to me, the girl of your dreams. I can get lost in conversations, and wrapped up in your small talk, I can pretend you’re interesting and laugh when appropriate. I know where to stand to get the best canapés, how quickly to drink for optimum top-up, and when to leave so we still get a cab. I know the best press launches, the finest free lunches, the pick of the champagne brunches. I’m top of the list at every queue, I’m the first call of everyone I know, and the backup of those I don’t. I go only to those places they refuse to let you in, I can talk myself into anywhere and out of any trouble. I’m so well connected, electricians are in awe of me. I’m at home only when I’m out. I am the life and soul of the party, and the party is my life and soul.

Bystander

Outside Brixton tube, a bird crapped on my head. And not just on my head. Oh no. It ricocheted, and like some sort of JFK magic bullet, did a reverse somersault in mid air, and splattered on my nose. I think I even got a little bit in my mouth. The girl who I was with ran away screaming. I stood there in shock, still as a statue, which was ironic given the situation. People say it's good luck; in my book, anyone who counts defecation as a turn for the better has a pretty shit life.

Sleeping Ills

I used to go over to her house when I couldn’t sleep. Two, three, four in the morning I’d jump in a cab and crawl into her bed. Bam, out like a light. She’d leave for work at eight, and as she showered and dressed, I’d stir briefly. I’d watch her through heavy, muggy eyes and kiss her goodbye. By the time the door clicked shut I’d be fast asleep. Eleven, twelve, one pm, my phone would ring and she’d talk to me on her lunch break. I’d ask her how her day was from the bed where she left me. About three or four in the afternoon, I'd roll out and take a shower. I'd leave before she got home that evening and head off to do whatever it was that needed to be done. Later that night as I lay there unblinking, I'd reach for my phone and start all over.

Return of the Grin

I am licking the pavements, I am kissing the pigeons, I am giving to beggars; I have returned to the city of my love and it smacks to be back. I hit the ground running, I take a shower in three minutes, I buy a train ticket and a pie and it costs me ten pounds, I dive in the doors with seconds to spare, I cut more people up than a peckham-based pathologist. Nowhere do I feel more at home than the bleak, sleek streets of London. The skyline is in my blood, and I take deep inhalations of that chokey, smokey smog. And though this city is like a one-eyed dog with a gammy leg, and throaty growl, who you kinda think might just leap up and sink his frothing teeth into you at any point, the point is, it's my one-eyed frothy dog.

Last Night

I was in the bar and your friend was there, the grandson of the ruler or whatever. And he had a pot of that tobacco, you know, the one I tried the first night here? So I was like, hey! I wanna piece of that! If I can’t have beer, vodka, smokes, coffee, smack, crack, both kinds of coke or whisky, the least I can do is get stoned on the green stuff. I wanna try the pipe I tell him, and ever the host, he fills it up and lights it. Inhale deeply he tells me. I drag on it like it’s salvation. Three times he makes me do this. And as I breathe out I know it’s over. A tingling spreads in my arms, crawls across my shoulders, needles into my fingers, my head feels like its in a vice, tight and tightening, the world is going flat. I can barely lift my arm, but I do and manage to raise a deck of cards from the bar. Sign a card I tell him. The 52 papers are leaden and pull my hand to my lap like I've got a magnet in my crotch. I lose it in the deck and shuffle. I might as well be tossing plates. I turn out the joker. This is your card I tell him. No the guy says, laughing in my face. Cover it, I tell him, and I feel like I’m fusing into my seat. Have a look, I tell him, and when he lifts his hand it’s his nine of hearts. He flips out, I change it back to the joker and pull the nine from the zippered compartment of my wallet. The bar is going crazy. I bask in the glory for all of three seconds, when it becomes apparent I need to be sick. As I try to vocalise this, I am sick. Just a little bit in my hand. And then a bit more. And then I am being very sick. Lots of it. And not just on me. I pebble dash the bar. The barman manages to get away clean. The grandson of the ruler is not so lucky. His drink is spattered with congealed mash potato, as are my shoes, the peanuts, two cellphones, my juice and his card. I wipe his card down, lose it in the deck and cut the cards with my shadow. Give me a lobotomy, I'll still be finding the four of spades. And now I’m helping to clean up, I feel so bad man, but even so, I I can’t see, everything is going dark and starting to accelerate and I’ve gone a sickened shade of duck-egg green. I sit for a few seconds sweating, and realise I must pay a visit to Mr Bowl. I make it just in time and hurl up the remains of my fish supper. I drink some water and hurl some more. And as I’m acting as a shuttle from bottle to bowl, all I can think is Welcome to Dubai.

1897

For someone who can’t drink, I spend a lot of time in bars. Perhaps I am secretly hoping for second-hand intoxication, possibly I just enjoy being near what I can’t have, but whatever the reason, they feel like a second home. It makes me choosy though, remember, I’m still sober when the lights come up, so I’ve gotta be careful. I like a bar with something of the devotional about it, a hallowed place, a sacred space, alcohol the religion that draws worshipers without prejudice. I like a barman with precision, never a short man, a barman must tower, he must have the height to match the stature of his role. The barman absolves, he is the benevolent attender to all our failings, at our side in our weakest moments to serve out forgiveness and soda. As he stirs and blends, measures and mixes, burns the alcohol from the absinthe, waters down the whisky, and levels the levels to leave you standing, he must have stature. You can measure the quality of a bar by the specificity of its snacks, and as I sit at this one, nursing a lemonade, and eating shaved peanuts and sharply honed vegetables I feel rewarded in my choice. I like a napkin with my drink. Something to put on the bar and place the glass on. It really frames a drink. It turns the consumption of the beverage into a two-handed affair. Makes the left hand feel as useful as the right, you know what I mean? Tonight I share the polished counter with a line of men, business men, with nowhere to be until morning and only one way to get there faster. Men in suits, crumpled suits and pressed shirts. A line of us sitting there on stools, facing the taps, like cows waiting to be milked. A phone rings, and we look down, a cellular device next to every glass in case we become necessary. There is something of the effortless cool about not recognising your own ringtone. It supposes a lack of mastery due to super importance, that we have far greater things to concern ourselves with than our technological customisation. The guy at the far right picks up his clanging, flashing piece, looks at the number and sets it down. Let the world intrude not.

No-ing

Teach me one, he says, not so much of a request as a demand; a simple one, he says, an easy one, nothing hard, just teach me one. I hate this moment, I mean, maybe I should take it as a compliment, but all I see is a hunger that I don't like the look of. Besides, any magic worth doing takes a good two years in a cupboard, and when people find out the real magic is not in the tricks, they ain’t so keen. Sorry I tell him, I don't teach. Where can I find out, he asks. Look on the internet, I reply. Where? Give me some sites. I'm done with this talk and I say nothing, but he goes nowhere, just stands there waiting, changing the position of his feet. If you want it bad enough, you’ll find it, I tell him. He looks at me and it is clear the camaraderie is no longer. You are very selfish, he tells me, and storms off. My heart cannot help but sink a little.

Professional Liar

I don't know when I first wanted to be a magician, I think the answer is that I never really did. I sort of fell into it, like a hedge or crime. Growing up, Paul Daniels had all the appeal of cholera and David Copperfield was about as convincing as my portrayal of Mary in the school nativity. To let you into a secret, I actually don't like magic. Why produce doves and bunny rabbits? What would lead to the need for small, white livestock of earth and air varieties? Magic is nothing but the gross flaunting of pretension, yet in spite of this, here I am twelve years later, lying for a living, deceiving on a daily basis. And why? Because underneath all this fakery, this gauche glitzery and sequin-leotarded defectacular is a blitz to the real, an assault on the accepted. It is the ultimate fiction, a fiction that defies all senses. There is nothing like watching the moment of brainfreeze as an onlooker, so confident in their condescension, takes a heavyweight punch to the known.

Mass Congestion

Since I gave up on chemical reliances, I don’t have much to keep me going. The nearest I've got to a high recently has been the elevator, and even then I took the stairs to avoid the comedown. Of all the legal options, vitamin c is my only vice; alcohol, coffee and smokes are a no-no, I even think twice before a Sprite. Of course, there's only so much you can give up before you realise the deep, desparate human need for escape. There's nothing worse than being consistently present, true consciousness the final curse of the human condition. For me, the only way to sate this despair is to connect to the great Out There, and going to mass every week is my way of doing that. It's important to me. Actually, it's more like vital. I start to go a bit strange when separated from the Host for too long. It's like a spiritual weetabix. Unless you're allergic to wheat. Out here, the churches are few and far between, well, actually, two and far between, but for a half hour cab ride I can make it to the one near the river. It has a huge Filipino congregation, maybe a thousand I'd say, although I'm no rain man, and I've been going every week. I love it, my one moment of true stillness in the desert. However leaving is a problem. The first time I went outside I hit the street along with the entire contents of that church. And the Filipino's seem to have surpassed queueing. It was more like an ever moving stream of one-upmanship, progressing rapidly down the road, until they may as well have walked to their destination. I secretly delighted in the disparity from the innocence and bliss displayed inside those stone walls to out here where cabs are as rare as clouds and fought over by scratch and claw. Me? I just crossed the road. No-one seemed to be aware of this other lane of traffic, and after flagging down a cab I stopped another two by accident. Still, it's nice to have the choice.

Table Magic

I'm doing card tricks for the impossible, they're maybe Americans or Canadians, but either way there's no pleasing these Joes. Two girls at a table to the right are over-looking, Italian, dark-skinned, deep-eyed. As I leave this table to a thunderous hush they call me over. We want to see magic, they say. Well, what's a guy to do? I bring out the cards. What is your name? they ask. John, I reply. Ah, like Elton John! Here we go, I think. You look like him, they tell me (as do others), but you are not a gay are you? Not yet, I reply. I continue with the card tricks, and, after the night I've had, I don't hold back. I kill them. I knock them dead. I leave them with nowhere to go but awe, they are as freaked out as cats in a mirror. And the girl who called me across, this beautiful girl, is blinking in disbelief, her whelm, over. Can I hug you, she asks. Sure, I say, and she stands up, leans forward and hugs me, holds me more like, and as she does she whispers in my ear, ‘you’re doing great... you are doing great’. I have nothing left.