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A little extract from my new book, Lola

Martin was perched on his scooter, fluently reclining into the backrest, a studied pose suggesting a mixture of casual detachment and a faultless,

‘Look at me, who the fuck are YOU looking at?’

Which was exactly what he was trying to impress upon the rest of the world at all times, the intensity of his personal demeanour, altering in tandem with his moods. His moods were transformed regularly, sometimes by chemicals which he paid cash for, at other times, by just about everything else.

‘Everything else’ was always going to create a few ‘problems’ for Martin seeing as he was planning on living out his life before the adoring gaze of the rest of the world. If he was going to exist, he needed an audience while he analyzed and tried to make sense of it, criticized it and then demanded CHANGE via the words and music clattering about inside his head. This was where the ‘problem’ actually was, although he didn’t really see it that way because he had a head that shouted at him accusingly, telling him that he actually knew nothing and everything at the same time. Which of the voices he paid most attention too was usually dictated by the levels of chemicals in his bloodstream. 20 years young/old, constantly practising the fine art of idolising himself as he lit his Woodbine, sucking in his cheeks and cigarette smoke at the same time, his appearance so perfect, so sharp that he was, without doubt, the star of his own Saturday night, Sunday morning, this episode apparently titled,

“Waiting for that fucking idiot Micky”,

Tonight’s presentation, currently delayed until the arrival of Micky, or to be more precise, the money Micky owed him, both still on the train from Morden. As far as Martin was concerned, Morden may as well have been Morocco, it wasn’t Soho and were it not the home of the most regular, if not a little fucking stupid, customers for his burgeoning pill dealing ‘empire’, it wouldn’t even exist, not to Martin anyway.

Immediacy was everything, Now! Now! Now! Was his holy trinity, not tomorrow, not in 30 minutes or an hour or two, NOW. Micky should have been here NOW, he wasn’t, so he was nowhere.

 The only time any consideration was seriously given about what was beyond NOW, pill dealing and rock’n’roll superstardom aside, was when he had to choose what he was going to wear, particularly on a weekend. The weekend was everything and the start of this one, or certainly most of the cash Martin required to pursue it with, was currently still on a train coming in from bloody Morden.

 He flicked the ash from his Woodbine, and glared at his watch.

“Where the fuck is he?”

Martin existed at the centre of his own universe of and therefore, the world needed to revolve around him, so delayed trains from the suburbs were not something he was prepared to tolerate. The doors to the pub and some liquid relief from his current state of anxiety remained closed, Victoria never opened up early, not even for him, unless of course she needed to see him, more than he needed an out of hours drink.

“Fuck it!”

Lighting another cigarette, he snapped to attention and headed towards Wardour Street, maybe Harlesden Ritchie would be lurking about already looking for something nice to keep him going over the next few days? He would catch up with Micky later, they went to the same clubs, knew the same faces, but that of course, was where the similarities ended.

Lola sucked up her spaghetti as her mother dispatched a ‘mummy size’ measure from the bottle of gin and started getting ready to open the pub to the world.  The gin hit the spot, as the streets began to sparkle with the coolest young people the world had ever seen. She went downstairs to unlock the doors, Martin was no longer waiting outside, although there were plenty of people striding past who looked very similar to him. Not that he would have been able to admit that fact as he strode through Soho muttering obscenities beneath his breath aimed at Micky, then himself and everybody else he passed.

“He’s a cunt; I’m a cunt, why are you looking at me? Why aren’t you looking at ME?”

5,4,3,2,1, the weekend starts here. 

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About simonmasonsays

"A jumped up country boy, who never knew his place."

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