a beautiful revolution: blog

Breastfeeding

I’ve always considered breastfeeding a marvellous thing. Not only does it bond mother and child, but it also offers up a free dollop of immunity. Marvellous. God bless the perfectly natural, not even slightly erotic, wonders of Mother nature.

I was sitting in my local pub-garden the other day with a friend [sorry, I’ve decide to keep my friends identities secret from now on – I think it’s for the best – I have a moral duty] anyway, there I was, sipping a Stella artois, when she, my anonymous friend, whipped out a booby. I wasn’t quite sure what to do?

Should I mention how perfectly natural, and proper, and un-erotic I thought it all was. Should I pretend I hadn’t noticed? Should I say, in a matter of fact, friendly, reassuring way ‘hey, that’s a lovely breast you have’?

I decided to ignore it – pretend I hadn’t even noticed.

About an hour later, my anonymous friend decided to whip out her other booby.

I decided to ignore that one too, and continued talking to her about God.

Half an hour later, my anonymous friend, lifted her white top and said ‘shit, I’ve forgotten which side I used last time?’

‘The right’ I immediately replied.

Whoops

I just wanna

Why are Indian shopkeepers always on the phone?

Who are they talking to?

Does 'Asian Babe' run a 24-hour hotline?

I arrive at the Blessed Ones door, take a deep breath and enter.

Today, I want to continue talking about my tragic childhood. The complete terror I felt during each and every catastrophic interview I attended – The humiliation I felt during my time at Wembley Playcraft.

Wembley Playcraft was a toy factory. It made footballs, ducks and bright red AK47’s. I was in charge of the cardboard box department. I lasted six weeks. I left with no reference and a crushed ego. I then moved on to the trauma of unemployment. This lasted several hundred years.

I take a seat, and mentally prepare to off load. The Blessed One smiles and asks me how I feel? This question floors me slightly and I have to re-think my opening line.

‘Lost’ I eventually say ‘completely lost’

The Blessed One asks me to explain further.

‘I feel like a child - lost in a busy office – everywhere I look I can see grown ups dashing about doing important grown up things whilst I sit in the corner, too afraid to play with the big boys’

‘You are very good at painting pictures’ smiles the Blessed One

I nod proudly.

‘And that’s the problem’ she continues ‘ you are very good at explaining, rationalizing, creating an image for me to understand, but you never relax, you never take a deep breath and just feel … you only allow the fear, the pain, the shame in for the briefest of moments and then you start to explain, describe, think of ways to fix it – make it go away’

I stop nodding.

‘I have tried from day one to get you to feel. I have tried for over a year but still you refuse to feel. Andre, stop analysing the pain, stop looking at it from the outside in. To fix it, you must feel it. Now how do you feel?’

‘Lost, frightened, foolish’ I howl, tears streaming down my face.

The Blessed one sits silently for almost 10 minutes, whilst I continue to cry. ‘You’ re never going back to the bad old days … those days are gone … but unless you let go … unless you feel … you will be stuck in this place … in this lost place, forever more … you must trust yourself … you must feel’

Eventually the tears stop falling, I pull myself together, and ask the Blessed One why she thinks Indian shopkeepers are always on the phone?

A beautiful: School

By the time I reached middle school Ashley my homosexual friend had been replaced by Mark. Mark was a completely ‘normal’ boy. He liked football, fighting and girls – our friendship lasted 3 weeks. I spent the next 3 years alone, desperately trying not to be noticed, praying each and every night that big school wouldn’t be so dull.

‘Do you find life dull?’ asks the Blessed One

‘Dull is perhaps the wrong word … my life isn’t dull … it’s boring … I find life, people, myself, boring’

‘Why do you find life boring?’

Well if I knew that - I wouldn’t be here, with you, would I, you stupid cow, I think but manage to keep to myself. Honestly – pay peanuts …

Big school wasn’t dull – it was terrifying. I had 27 GODDAMN PANIC ATTACKS within the first month. Life was really bad, I thought, until I met Joe - the schools bully. His ‘if you don’t nick sweets for me everyday, I’ll kick your fucking head in’ threats, were more than I could take – Suicide became a real option.

One year, my Mother [now divorced] and her new partner [Tit] took my brother and I to Wales for the week – when we returned, our house had been burgled. The police were called and they immediately question their chief suspect – ME. I explained that I WAS IN FUCKING WALES AT THE TIME WITH MY MOTHER AND HER PARTNER [TIT] YOU STUPID FAT BNP SUPPORTING FOOL and so they eliminated me from their inquiries and moved on to prime suspect number two – Joe, the school bully. Joe was charged … Ha. When I returned to school the following week Joe and half the school were waiting for me. Whilst I put up a good fight [I hid for two hours in the library] they eventually found me and beat the shit out of me. From that day fourth, I hardly went to school. I spent most of my time in record shops being harassed by paedophiles. One day I was standing in Spin-a-disc perusing the latest American imports when a man asked if I’d like to listen to his rare, and quite extensive American import collection. I said I would and several minutes later found myself sitting in his car … ‘Wait a cotton picking minute’ I thought  ‘this is not right … this man is weird … he wants to fuck me up the arse … I am in big trouble here’. I looked across at him shaking in anticipation, I smiled, he smiled back and as we stopped at the lights, I opened the door and ran like the wind. The next day I began taking hardcore drugs – dried banana skins. They were shite.

The Blessed One, turning to a new page in my ever increasing case book, asks me to talk a little more about my Mothers new partner – not wishing to be rude, but now considering a new, slightly wiser Blessed One … I mean … hello … I was beaten to a pulp … harassed by the police … groomed but not quite soiled by a filthy sick paedophile … and I’d started taken hardcore drugs … and she wants to know about my Mothers partner, say ‘he was a complete tit … I didn’t like him … he didn’t like me … he was a tit … and Mother, to be fair – divorced him pretty quick sharpish’.

‘Did your Mothers new partner make you feel jealous … did you feel abandoned’ asks the Blessed One.

I nod and decide to get a new therapist first thing Monday morning.

I am now 18. I have a Girlfriend called Marcia. We have sex on a regular basis. Every Friday night I walk through the scariest neighbourhood in town [Kingsheath] with my UB40 and Yellow Man albums to meet her at the local youth club. Marcia normally waits for me outside but on this particular evening she doesn’t. I spend the whole night trying to convince Trudy [Marcia’s friend] that Marcia hasn’t dumped me for a ‘handsome thug’ called Terry. Trudy is unconvinced. I go home and phone Marcia. There is no reply. I spend the next four days trying to speak to Marcia but every time I phone - her Mother fobs me off with excuses. I am gutted, crushed - my world has no meaning.

A few days later Marcia knocks at my door, with Terry - the handsome thug from Kingsheath.

‘Have you been sleeping with my girlfriend’ Asked Terry, menacingly

‘ABSOLUTLEY NOT’ I say

‘Good’ he growls, dragging Marcia back up the garden path.

I never heard from Marcia again.

My Mother tried to comfort me ‘It’s her lose … there’s plenty more fish in the sea’ she gushes. My Father still … still unable to forget the pooing incident wants to know what I plan to do with the rest of my life - when am I going to get a goddamn Job?