Soho Amended

The Expanding Universe

Soho. Sharp winter morning. Clear and direct sunlight, little ultra violet haze. The moon, present and opaque, resting in a field of blue sky, discreetly lit.

Me, wandering down Tottenham Court Road pondering gravity. I am the rare rush hour salmon. Bi-ped traffic against me fleeing warm and wombed underground orifices in violent spasms.

I’ve had no sleep for nearly thirty four hours but I’m not complaining! I've sold an installation to a Harley Street skin clinic for a nauseating figure.

A tube station oral cavity spews out city geezers, waves of media geezers and emmissions of service industry geezers as I.T. drone-bee and media stealther alike are vomited up to street level.

Maybe at the same time, in the dark, in Yellowstone Park Wyoming, Old Faithful geyser ejaculates. No one around to see mind you.

Here, all are orientating toward work clinging to latte cups with the same volume as that steamy Yellowstone park ejaculate, clogging trendy city arteries with millions of gallons of hot cow cream. London Lips supping waxy paper containers full of steamy transmuted grass are not so different from baby calves suckling teats in a cold North Yorkshire field. When I think of London types like this it makes me hate them less. I think it might be called empathy!

Sleep depravation donates to my gloopy consciousness atypical muses and trains of thought. I am multitasking by (1) walking and (2) thinking and (3) listening to The Symphony of Sorrowful songs by Gorecki (the latter making me feel really sophisticated.) I am also drinking a latte for solidarity.

My brain virtually combusts processing multiple input, straing to put one foot in front of the other. It's as if walking and thinking are fighting to occupy the same bit of grey matter geography. There will be only one victor! By the power of greyskull, something's gonna give!

As I think more and more about the universe evaluating the likelihood that we are simply clinging to a planet in the middle of a slow-mo expanding explosion, it occurs to me I have actually stopped walking in the middle of a cold-snap Soho. I think I might be in an existential meditation!

I am now framed by a blacked-out transgender bar window. It is now just prior to nine a.m.

I am like a photograph. It's all very zen!

My tongue is pointing out of the left side of my mouth, touching my top lip. I think I might be having an epiphany! Some kind of phany anyway. If we are in the middle of an explosion, I must be part of an explosion too. I am moon dust and meteoric elements.

I scan the rush hour faces. All London eyes point to the ground at this time of day, like sinners. It is freezing. But... if I am derived from an explosion maybe I can access warmth? We are supposed to have an internal pharmacy, right? What about an internal boiler house? We might be able to access our own big bang?!

And just as I was thinking that I was onto something profound, as part of my magnum opus, as part of my bigwork (tm) the ugliest transvestite I have ever seen in my life opens the door of the transgender bar and asks:

"Which one of you queer cunts is first?"

I flick my eyes 180 and unpop Gorecki from my lugholes. Reality roots me stiff to the spot. I’ve crashlanded in a queue of about ten men. Men. I think men. Some very anodyne, some pansexual types, polysexual types, even some polyparrot types (I made that up). I look extremely straight (straight men always think that) and am therefore noticable.

Next thing I know, I am working behind the bar in The Truffle Club. Same day. I'm their little Northern plaything, flirting with she-males in the toilets.

Sanny once said “Chris, your life can change in a day” which doesn’t sound profound, but when I went to bed last night I didn’t imagine I would be examining a cock and balls on the same body as aesthetically perfect breasts. I think that might be profound. What is more profound is that the cock that is becoming hard is my own. The expanding universe indeed.

By the end of the day I have been sacked. Admitedly, my Martinis where very poorly presented but it wasn't because of that, nor for inspecting silicon boy-girls in the loo but because I fell asleep in a toilet cubicle whilst having a poo. Sleep is my grim reaper - anytime, any place, anywhere...