Soho Amended with Ellie's Suggestions

Some Kind of Phany

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

This morning I am the lone rush hour salmon, pondering gravity. Strong counter-currents of a cold and grumpy workforce today are trying to throw me off my BigWork™ as is the intense arctic weather. But this fish has a mish. Mm-mission.

Steadfast, I plod. BigWork™ is only for the headstrong.

Passing peep show shops I see a little man pour boiling water and disinfectant – scalding the sex shop step. The water evapourates immediately. In this cold, the tower of steam is reminiscent of Old Faithfull Geyser at Yellowstone. I guess it must be midnight there. I think of Faithfull’s sulphur ejaculate, the geyser chucking it’s muck into the night sky before it’s acid rain fizzes back to earth on a racoon’s head.

Back to Soho wildlife and my role in it.

The gravity of thinking about gravity aids swimming against these dense schools of commuter-fish. Bi-ped traffic swims up against me in waves from warm and wombed underground guts. I won’t be distracted. I have bigger fish to fry in my mind.

I briefly inspect the tube station oral cavity spewing out city geezers, waves of media geezers and emissions of service industry geezers as I.T. drone-bee and media stealther alike are sicked up to street level.

Wildlife observation: Many cling to enormous latte cups. These milky coffees are clogging city arteries with gallons of hot cow cream. The huge beakers also serve as hand warmers inducing a little hibernating blood closer to grateful palm skin.

I think of warm hands and milky tongues and it makes me feel kind. London lips supping steamy transmuted grass from waxy paper containers are not so different from baby calves suckling teats in a cold North Yorkshire field. When I think of London lips 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.) Even I am drinking a latte for solidarity.

My brain virtually combusts processing multiple input, straining 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 and evaluate 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 am an exploding geyser.

I scan the rush hour faces. All London eyes point to the ground at this time of day, like sinners. It is glacial. The temperature is nature’s cocaine. Bright eyed and latte-d up I muse…. 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.

Precious reader, at no stage in my ten year plan did I see myself examining a cock and balls on the same body as aesthetically perfect breasts. But here I am. 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.

Some Kind of Phany – Part Two

By the end of the week 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.

I fell asleep in a toilet cubicle whilst having a poo. Sleep is my grim reaper - anytime, any place, anywhere...