Ghost Writer

Living in a city where the trains run on time is disconcerting, so it was quite a refreshing experience yesterday, when a fucked-up woman stumbled onto my carriage at Wolli Creek and called me a ‘Dog black cunt.’

What can you do, eh?

I thought maybe I could correct her and say that while I might occasionally be a dog, and while I am often a cunt, I was quite obviously white and that ‘Dog white cunt,’ would have been more appropriate. But I think it was wise I kept my mouth shut.

She then stamped up and down the train, swearing and shouting about how a man spat in her eye and called her a ‘fat slut’ earlier in the day.

She was like a character from one of my stories. I wanted to put her in box and take her home (albeit sedated).

The train pulled away from the station and eventually, the guard emerged from his nap room office. He tried to calm the woman down, but it was all a little half-assed and after five minutes of telling her to be quiet and her replying ‘Fuck off ya cunt,’ he shrugged, sidled up to me and said, ‘If she gets violent, hit the emergency button, yeah?’

Well of course, now the woman thinks I’m in collusion with the guard. Plain clothes Binding. She’s scowling at me and I think she’s going to go for me, when the train pulls in at Redfern and she runs off.

I’m used to that crap. 15 years in London. Although it was quite nice to be directly insulted rather than having some crackhead shove a bible in my face and tell me that I’d burn in the fires of hell if I didn’t give myself to the Lord Jesus Christ, or some twat who has their River Island satchel on the only spare seat in the carriage and then mutters passive aggressive nothings when you ask him to move it.

Anyway, a few minutes later, when the train stops at Central, the police wander on and ask if anyone’s seen an abusive woman. I tell them that she left the train at the stop before and that maybe the police would be more effective if they didn’t devote one of their officers to standing at a crossing at Bondi Junction and fining people who are crossing the road when the little man is red.

The cops around here do not fill me with confidence. They’re kind of like glorified school prefects. Not the hard brutes of London. Cultural differences. Swings and roundabouts.

Anyway, there are wars and shit happening around the globe, so I won’t harp on about the angry woman on the train.

Writing, that’s what this blog is supposed to be about.

Finishing this short story collection has given me so much space in my mind for other projects. I have finished the first draft of a novel and I have the outline of another one. These two do not contain any supernatural elements, but they do deal with my regular themes like fame, crowed tube trains, drugs and bad sex. If you liked my other shit, these new ones are uber-Binding. Rambling internal monologues. Death. Darkness. Heartbreak. All that good stuff.

A year ago all these things were just ideas. With Pills coming out, I feel that I’ve made a huge step forward. I really think you’ll like it. It stands up as a complete piece of work. Sometimes I can’t believe I actually finished the fucking thing and wonder whether some (literal) ghost writer just does all this stuff for me in my sleep. But I think it was 100% written by me. Yes, I think it was. Although you can’t really be sure of anything these days, can you?

 

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