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.

If you want to get ahead, get a hat...

It caught my notice, this week, that the sexual assault charges in the US against Dominique Strauss-Kahn were dropped. Dominique, despite the pretty name, is a bloke of the French variety. He’s 62 and is a BIG CHEESE in France (all puns intended) as he was head of the International Monetary Fund. Which is like a bank in the way the Bank of England is. Meaning they have money but no cash points - and apparently it’s impossible to open an account there.

Anyway, I think that justice has been done. I’ve seen his alleged victim, she’s a beautiful, slim 32-year-old. When I was that age, I must confess, it was a peculiar fantasy of mine to have carnal knowledge of as many garlicky old French fellas as I could squeeze into my working day. Seriously, who could resist him? 

Those of you who watched the Star Wars movies and secretly craved to be forced to wear a gold bikini and get chained to Jabba The Hutt know EXACTLY where I’m coming from. Oh come on, who among you reading this now can HONESTLY say you’d turn down a bit of violent, abusive, mid-afternoon sex with a random codger? Let’s face it - we’ve all done it. For me, nothing else quite matches the unexpected pleasure of a pot-bellied granddad jumping out and grabbing my tits while I’m hoovering.

Happily, Mr and Mrs The Hutt are now free to leave the States and intend to return to France as soon as possible. Where Mr The Hutt faces further sexual assault allegations from another money-grabbing *hussy. *independently wealthy journalist

The main story of the week, however, has been the overthrow of Colonel Gaddafi in Libya by rebel forces. The picture that stays with me is of a guy called Al-Windi who found himself in the leader’s bedroom, during the storming of Gaddafi’s compound, found and wore his best military hat. A lovely thing it is too, all red, gold and imperial-looking. Some would say it is a tad camp and ‘male-stripper-on-a-cruise-ship’, but not me. I can’t think of a better souvenir for the day Al-Windi gave the hat to his dad, who had suffered much under the 42-year-regime of Colonel Gaddafi. I would have flogged it on ebay, myself, but fair play to him.

If we ever awaken from our apathetic slumbers and get to overthrow the monarchy here, I’m definitely going to march on in to Buck House and get myself something nice. I fancy one of those black, wide-brimmed, velvet hats with all the white feathers. It was the hat that set Kate Middleton off giggling and Wills blushing when he wore his for the Order of the Garter ceremony at Windsor Castle. 

It would be very ‘statement’ at next year’s Grand National. It would need a totally pared-down outfit, however, so as to not look overdone. Personally, I would team it with a simple, black, wool-crepe shift, black, patent, platform Mary Janes and a golden carriage. *clicks fingers*

Liverpool Riot Report Tuesday August 10, 2011

Liverpool endured another night of trouble on Tuesday in the Toxteth area, south of the city with rioters playing a cat and mouse game with police in the area’s narrow, terraced streets.

In the hours around midnight of Tuesday I saw approximately 50 young men masked-up and running in and out of the streets to terrorise police.

A resident on Park Road told me he had seen police injured during the confrontation and said the mob had: ‘Chased the police away’.

One group helped themselves to bricks out of a skip to lob at the ten or so riot vans in attendance, I saw a man smash a paving slab on the road, to provide throwable missiles.

At 12.30 am I saw two cars parked sideways across Lawrence Road as a barricade to police. They had been torched and were burning fiercely, sending plumes of smoke 50ft into the night sky. This scene was attended by three fire engines - two of which subsequently had their windscreens smashed.

I saw ten or so of the Liverpool Council’s purple wheelie bins overturned and set alight and observed the windows of the Granby launderette smashed.

As the police helicopter illuminated the area, police attempted to seal off the area, with 40 or so police in riot gear around Lodge Lane, stood seven abreast to block the tiny side streets. Police parked their cars and vans across the major roads out of Toxteth, which prevented the mob from making its way down Princess Avenue towards town as it had done on Monday night.

By car, the area is not easy to exit as, after the riots thirty years ago, many of the terraced roads around Granby Street had bollards installed to turn them into dead ends. A mob on foot, however, proved impossible to contain as rioters drifted in and out of the side streets like shadows.

The people I saw confronting police were aged between 16 and 30, exclusively male, dressed in dark clothes, with hoods, scarves or high-zipped tops to disguise their identity. The mood of the rioters was relaxed, mischievous even - they chatted between themselves in between sporadically lobbing missiles at the police vans and fire engines.

Some police, by contrast, sounded angry and stressed as they ran in groups to cordon off the streets. A police van driver wound down his window and yelled at me, as I sat in my car to observe, shouting : ‘Do you want to get burned out? What the hell are you doing here at this time of night. Get out!’.

I didn’t see the anger which was exhibited in the Tottenham crowd after Mark Duggan’s family protested his shooting. I heard that missiles had been thrown at the riot police on foot, but I didn’t see this and I saw noone injured or arrested. The police appeared to be taking the softly-softly approach of containment, rather than push for arrests.

The area thronged with residents, around the heart of the trouble, they stood in large groups in the streets, watching, talking. I saw one mum, cowering behind a male friend, stood 100 yards from the confrontation, clearly terrified. She shouted to her friend: ‘Where’s my son, where is he? Tell him to come out. Go in and fucking get him, now!’. One group of young women, not 50 yards from burning cars, had taken their kitchen chairs out to sit on the pavement in their PJs, share cans of beer and enjoy the show.

A number of residents told me trouble had been happening intermittently over the previous 48 hours but by 3am the area was deserted and silent.