Patrice

Sunday:

I have moved to Broadstairs in Kent. It’s on the edge of the London sprawl, I’m a little nervous, I’ve never lived in London before. I don’t like to look at the city from here. We’re so high up, it just spreads before us for miles, it makes me feel anxious and sick. I have to turn away and make the picture smaller and safer so I go to the back of the house. I am so surprised to find we can see patches of blue sea from here. This is more palatable. Everyone thinks that all you can see from this cul-de-sac is the city - but that’s because they lack imagination. Not me, I’m smart and inquisitive. I walk further down the lawn. It gets better; there are a thousand sandy steps down the cliff to the sea, reinforced with wide, weathered, wooden boards. And the sun is shining - that didn’t happen in Liverpool where it was just grey, industrial days of rain. The people down here are complete nob jockeys of course but who cares, it’s a pleasant setting. Not quite warm enough for a bikini, though, unless there’s a very sheltered cove at the bottom.

I go back into my house, to share my good news. There are two men in the house, both in their thirties, attractive, dark-haired. Both married to a pair of silly girls united in their purposeful, confident somnambulism, yet sadly divided by a mutual loathing.

The younger, bearded man is hiding his face. It’s almost like he is wearing a full face of make up, but I can’t see him through it. I can see parts of his face, but not his eyes. I’m dissatisfied with this so I leave him and go to caress the shorter, musclier man. He says he’s feeling guilty about being disloyal to his pathetic wife and refuses to engage. I hear myself say: ‘I’ll go and fuck the other one then’. A woman’s needs are manifold, as Benny Hill did say. 

I feel proud and smart because, in a snap, I have invented a back-up plan and put it into action. That’s surprised him - as he turns away to lie on his front I skip down the stairs to find my bearded. responsive, lover. I have regained the power. 

Don’t try and win, with me - it’s not going to happen, boys. I’m aware that the more attention I receive from men, the more successful I feel. It’s possible there’s something not quite right in that, but it’s just the way things are. Don’t get me wrong, I really enjoy the fucking, I just don’t always enjoy being Patrice.

Wednesday:

The fat, blonde, adoptive mother has gone away today. She returns later, I think she’s working. In my care she has left her new toy. It is a little black baby. 

I mother it, bathe and change it, in between my duties I dig my nails into its back to hurt it and pinch the skin of its arms as hard as I can. It reacts but it does not understand. It trusts me when I am kind and fears me when I am cruel. 

I know I should not hurt this innocent creature but it’s too easy, tempting and pleasurable. I try to limit myself and behave properly.

It may not be a baby at all but a cat. A small, black cat with thick, soft fur wearing red gingham pantaloons and a matching top. I put it in the bath, it tries to stand but the water is too deep - and it’s also too hot. I have already checked the temperature five, six, seven.. so many times that I became tired of repeating the action. I even checked with my elbow, what a caring mother figure I am, I know so well how to act properly at every stage. The water is not boiling, not at all - but it’s still a little too hot. I let the water out so the kitten can stand. What a silly mistake to leave the bath so full, goodness me - there, all better now. 

The adoption agency left her here just 24 hours ago and already she is unsupervised and in danger. The system has failed her already; the system left her alone with me. I tell myself she wasn’t my responsibility; this helps me to excuse my behaviour.

I rub her fur and dry her just in time for her stupid mother to come back from work and claim her fluffy, clean, new baby. We both coo over her. Then I find myself on my own. I look back on the day and consider the ways in which I metered out my sly, confusing cruelty. Feel revulsed and saddened.

Some day, and that day may never come...

Australia. Blair (just off plane) enters Rupert Murdoch’s kitchen.

Tony Blair: I believe in Britain. Britain has made my fortune. And I made my living in the British fashion. I had freedom but I never wished to dishonor my family. I found a "party" - not the Conservatives. I went to the working men’s clubs. I stayed out late. Cherie didn't protest. I supported Neil Kinnock. He made me drink whiskey and tried to take advantage of me. We went to the polls against the tories. But they beat us. Like an animal. Our movement was shattered, held together by sellotape and bits of string in Peter Mandelson’s Ford Montego. I could hardly weep because of the pain. But I wept. [He breaks down at this point, and Rupert Murdoch gestures to his son, James, to get him a drink. James makes tea and spills it everywhere] Sorry... [He regains his composure and carries on] The tories had won again. We sat on the opposition benches, like fools, and those bastards, they smiled at us. Then I said to Cherie, "Look, if we’re going to get into power we must go to Rupert Murdoch."

Rupert Murdoch: Why didn't you come to me first?

Tony Blair: What do you want of me? Tell me anything, but do what I beg you to do.

Rupert Murdoch: What is that? [Tony Blair whispers his request for Dark Chocolate Hobnobs in Murdoch’s ear] That I cannot do.

Tony Blair: OK but, listen, I will give you anything you ask if you make me Prime Minister.

Rupert Murdoch: We've known each other many years, but this is the first time you ever came to me for counsel or for help. I can't remember the last time that you invited me to your house for a cup of coffee, even though Cherie and Wendi attend the same Pilates class. But let's be frank here. You never wanted my friendship. And, uh, you were afraid to be in my debt.

Tony Blair: I didn't want to get into trouble with the rank and file.

Rupert Murdoch: I understand. You found paradise in Britain, you had a good trade as a solicitor, you made a good living, even though you got a third in your law degree. You became an MP. And you didn't need a friend like me. But, uh, now you come to me, and you say: "Rupert Murdoch, give me the keys to no. 10." But you don't ask with respect. You don't offer friendship. You don't even think to call me Rupey. Instead, you come into my house on the day my colostomy bag is to be changed, and you ask me to put you in charge.

Tony Blair: Look. I just want some Rich Tea.

Rupert Murdoch: For the last time, we don’t HAVE any biscuits.

Tony Blair: Can I be Prime Minister or not?

Rupert Murdoch: Tony, Tony. What have I ever done to make you treat me so disrespectfully? If you'd come to me in friendship, then this scum that voted the Tories in would be suffering this very day. 

Tony Blair: Be my friend – Rupey.

[Murdoch shrugs, Blair bends over and drops his trousers.]

Rupert Murdoch: Good. Someday, and that day may never come, I'll call upon you to do a service for me. I might want a lift to the garden centre, or to declare war or something..

Tony Blair: Nice one, Rupey.

Rupert Murdoch: Whatever. [Blair leaves, and Rupert Murdoch turnes to James] Crack open them chocolate-covered ginger biscuits from Lidl. Second drawer down.

Sex is a BAD idea - stop doing it IMMEDIATELY

Scottish psychiatrist RD Laing said: ‘Life is a sexually transmitted disease and the mortality rate is one hundred percent.’

Which perfect logic proves, in my view, that sex is a bad idea. Not just a bad idea but a TERRIBLE idea. If you have sex you’re pretty much fucked. Because, my lovelies, there’s a pretty big risk that you can get pregnant. It’s recently been proven as scientific fact - they teach it in schools now and everything.

And if you DO get pregnant you give yourself the most horrible dilemma. Either (a) you terminate the pregnancy and get depression because of the guilt and shame, or (b) you keep it and get depression because you’ve had a baby launched into your life.

If what you want more than anything is a baby and you CAN’T get pregnant - you’re fucked, obviously, but (and this is the clever part) if you CAN have that baby you’re heart aches for you’re STILL fucked - see first paragraph option (b).

If you're too old to get pregnant then PLEASE - geriatric sex? Have some fucking dignity...

If you have sex, are of fertile age and don’t want or get a baby you’ll just get fucked over anyway by annoying relatives, friends and acquaintances bleating that: ‘You don’t know what you’re missing!’. You might as well give in and just have one, at least people will be more sympathetic about the fact you want to throw yourself under a train.