Letters to My Sister (No.1 The Escape)

What is about stoned drummers I can’t get enuff of?  You’d think I’d fucking learn the first time round, but I spose not.  I think I’ve worked out what it is though.  It’s Calvin.  Yeah I know, you’ve not heard me say that name in time.  Yeah I know, I told you if you ever said his name to me again, I’d make you pay Old Boy style.  But lowe it Sis.  See shitty little Calvin, with his shitty little glasses, and short man ego had nuff pet hates, I forget most.  But now I let myself remember he hated drummers.  And he hated weed.  He used to get all up in my face when I said booze and fags was worse for ya, remember that?

And that’s me in a nutshell int it?  Once I get shot of one bloke, you can be damn sure the next one will be proper different.  I’d love to get them all in a room, so they could spout out all their issues and fucking ego trips, and combust together.  Except Stu and Erfin, they’d proper love each other if they ever met.  I know you never met Erfin, but he’s basically Stu, a bit weedier maybe.  Like I mean physically, they both smoke bags of it.  But I mean…they’d get on amazingly, until they got onto drumming.  Then they’d fall out.

Wait, how the fuck did I get into this already?  These are my preoccupations that’s the mess.  That’s why I’m gone Sis.  On the road.  Out the fuck of here.

That’s where I should have started, that’s the reason this is a letter not an email.  I know what you’re thinking.  Bullshit.  For one she don’t got the guts.  For two, um, no driving licience.  I dunno what happened Sis, I just fucking flipped out like some crazy biatch.  It’s Dem Boys.  As you would say in your pretend American accent.  And that car was sat there ready to go, and I can drive, I drive better than you, don’t I?  A ton less likely to get pulled over for anything.  It’s like seeing things a new way.  Laws are there to make things safe, but I’m not fucking paying all that money for them to tell me I’m ok to drive.   THEY THINK YOU’RE OK TO DRIVE, AND YOU DRIVE LIKE A FUCKING EEJIT.  It is said.

So tonight, one week after Erfin fucked me over and went back to his psycho-love-interest (this is the girl who used-the-shit out of him when he was vulnerable, from all that cancer stuff), I’m sat in the pub chatting to Fliss, and she says “Oh soo sad that didn’t work out, cos he’s lovely”.  Lovely?  He’s a spineless rodent.  Cute with it, sure as shit, but you know that kind of cuteness suddenly wears very-fucking-thin?

So, I let that go, but I know she worries about me, and so I was trying to be positive, and mentioned this bloke that I’m totally into (Oxo…you remember Gary Lazerick?  It’s his little brother, we grew up two streets away, but I just never remember meeting him, I’m sure I would remember).  And Fliss says, “Oh him, he’s a proper stoner…you know he’s a fucking drummer don’t you?”  And like that, I just felt like a teenager again, like it was the end of the fucking world.

Now I know what you’re thinking (it’s not the we-is-psychic-cos-we-shared-a-womb, yeah? stuff, it’s just I’ve known you too long, I can see your face right now).  You’re thinking, what are all these crazy stupid names?  So just to ‘clarify’ (the Americans love that word, yeah?).  Errol Effin, I hate the name Errol, so I give him some stupid pet name, and now everybody call him Erfin, and I want to smash their faces into plates with hammers.  Yeah, yeah got rage issues.  You know it bitch, I kicked you in the womb nuff times.  As for Oxo, don’t fucking ask me, some fucked up nickname somehow related to The Cube.

So I assume you’ve heard Dad’s into his second divorce?  And Mum is seeing that librarian still, you know the one with the curly hair who has worked there since we were like twelve?  Dad is so self-involved he bought me the Nova, but never bothered to ask me if I’d actually passed my test.  Which, as my driving instructor kept saying really sleazy things to me about gear sticks and backseats, was unlikely. I mean FUCK THAT SHIT.  You get me?  You do get me, that’s the thing.  They don’t fucking get me, not my parents, not my friends.  And as for Dem Boys.  They’re shit-scared of my cosmic powers.  They want it, but just not in the right way.  So they smoke weed, play their ‘Lana del Rays’ (sick of that song already), and stay with the girls who wear thigh socks and talk about party tricks like that’s all there fucking is in this life.

I am in a nostalgic phase.  I know if you were in the same country I’d be avoiding your calls, cos you piss me off big style.  And I know when you hear that I’ve hit the road in the Nova, all by myself, with only stoner music and a sketch book  for company, you will say I’m running away from my problems.  And that I am a selfish bint.  And that I skanked out of buying a round last time we were out, so I owe you a round of ale, plus interest.  You must miss the fucking ale over there.  I know they have craft beer.  But it isn’t proper British beer.  I had this oatmeal stout the other day, it was beautiful.  And I thought of you.  I do miss you like a rotten limb.  Like something overly familiar in how immovable it is.  And shit, I’m writing this only to you aren’t I?  So I spose all those years of sharing wombs, and buggies, and clothes (and hot Chris trying to shag us both in the same evening, and failing so spectacularly), must have had some affect on me.

So yeah, I’ve contradicted myself.  I said I get shot of one bloke, and make sure the next one is proper different.  But then I realised Oxo is another stoned drummer.  But at least he’s tall.  You always did give me shit for going after short blokes.  But not all of them are like Calvin, not all of them act like Jack Russels on Red Bull.  I’ve been trying to prove to you for years that not all short men, have short-man-syndrome.

But as blatant as the day is light, if he likes to hit drums, and shoot shit over a few Red Stripes, he will like intense conversations about what it feels like to vomit (Do you remember that?  That was Stu, but I swear on the bag of bad ju-ju in my glove box, Erfin once said near exactly the same thing).  Some day they’ll all end up in the garden of eden together, with Super Mario and the little mushrooms with faces.  Anyway, I’ve said nowt worth owt, as usual Sis.  I’ll see you on the flipside, and write you more tomorrow.  Love and hugs.

Little Rue xx


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