Bookcase Fetishist

by brightonsauce

Bookcase Fetishist

[Old one, nearly pretty – might delete the breakdown section, plus addition of full stops during ramble.]


I took a few days away from literature, and braved a train journey of some many ninety miles to the Midlands – we call it the North of England, and here my buddy lives in one of our English ‘New Towns’ with his wife, an [sic] headmistress, a type of learning assistant. What a woman she is, smiles a perfect smile and [she] likes coffee, and is ‘busy, busy, busy’ like a molester, and the chap himself, my chum, himself, is employed as a man, or a student type of job vacancy, delivers cars around a vast car park, one side of the car park to the other side, all day long, for a living wage of twelve shillings. He works outdoors of the depot, wears the grey boiler suit, a company pinny, and a red cap cheers his indomitable spirit.  A mask prevents pubic hairs and his tattoos from smearing over, and soiling the vehicles’ fine leather upholstery.

The couple mortgage successfully on a shiny estate where during my visit inspection I freely wandered about inside of their totally authentic house. I discovered the selection of loose bargain sex toys, swimwear, a display of loofers in the bathroom, a mobile telephone museum, and also their fat children conceived with other people, that is not the issue at this point in conjunctive. The point, would you believe, is they possessed not a single book in the house, can you believe the fact? I shall say again: no books in view. There were ceiling stereo plasma lamps and Vettriano posters on every wall, white leather sofas, a garden shed, swing-ball deluxe, plastic banana grips; all the usual stuff you see on Antiques Roadshow America. Indeed, quite obviously my friend is descended from poor people, what we used to call the working class, common fellow and evidently I would make my excuses and eat the gentleman’s relish when I returned home, under candle possibly, at night time in my castle, rather than linger and risk infection from the take away of so-called hot dog or the pizza kebob variety. I had personally never realised before how working class this individual really was, this fellow, not myself being a man of prejudice. At some point we did, however, I recall, relax with a moment between us, and sat upon his ‘settee’ drinking our tins of Carling Pisner. His Staffordshire Ridgeback sucked at my balls, it was,

‘Her time of the year on heat,’ he said.

‘I have the mysterious aura for wildlife attraction,’ I informed the pair, and growled seductively, continued, ‘dogs, rats and bears find me irresistible in these shorts, like the book, I am pony whisperer, have you..?’

‘I read a book once,’ he said, my friend, ‘that K-pak shit.’

‘Great stuff,’ I said, ‘although the film does have prat Kevin in a lead role,’ I said.

‘You have very tasty balls,’ said the dog, with an understated, a canine-cockney charm.

‘Thank you,’ I replied, ‘and you have wonderful technique, Lassie,’ adjusted so the beast might dislodge crust that had formed between, whatever district is not relevant, as my pal then took us all down to his local pub The Sticky Bitch.  I met the remaining folk without teeth and a selection of the regional alcoholics.

‘I am not a snob,’ I said, and took a baseball slap to the jaw from some bald prison officer, or scaffolder gentleman: Pavlovian response, by all accounts, to my face and voice.

‘Shanker,’ I said, and waved both of my wrists, ‘you bloody snitches, I’ll see you on C wing, nonce.’ I utilised dialect techniques learned at Mai-Tai, and like Bear Grylls, survived the encounter and crawled home to Battersea by taxi.

I say all this crap-crap being as I often think about books and back in February, noticed the fetish for bookcase display about the place over on Writercom, and thought to set myself up as a consultant: polished, painted nails and a high wig by way of an advertising home page.

‘This corner here for your Japanese novels, and the Harpers and Queen over there, darling. Country Life anthology – up top of picture on the side table, Chippendale absolutely,’ is the sort of thing I do say, professionally.

One of the first bookcases I examined ‘professionally’ at the peak of this widespread new movement, belonged to blog colleague ‘Hippy Cornflake:’ a man very much into all the yogi walla, mindfulness, not dying kind of nonsense, the type of phoney hippy who completely ignores spliffs, bongs and the ash for cash which is evidently at the heart and soul of Ja. This puff-daddy, a pufter, disregards completely the ras tafari essentials which to many of us Bob Gandalf and the Wailer adherents is our real meaning of everything easy skanking, life and hippy. And NOT red barns, I repeat not red barns at sunset; I surprise you, I know with my electricity of taste, but hempsters are here to stay in our shoe box houses.  This American so-called ‘hippy’ makes me bloody sick with his recipes, what a bongo loser prick, flap-jack, a personal issue, and allow me to continue and stop the rot, a world of one episode, sub-editor, please delete the previous paragraph.[monolodge]

I am now semi-retired from the bookcase arranging industry, after the downstairs bookcase crash killed the guinea pigs in flight, and downsized our original Georgian stack, reconstructed using my top choice selection of volumes, books, reconstructed the amber case for display in the event of royalty or visitors I might need to humiliate with my worldliness, knowledge, or really any long scientific term you people can possibly think of would do the trick. That was the plan, yet appears I have made some kind of error with the resources at my disposal – the books I alone have purchased through time. Is this the hand of fate, I say for in viewing my selection of visual literature, it seems I possess an entire wall coated in titles ‘Nazi Chief’ and ‘World War Two Prison Hell Block H,’ ‘Inside Churchill’s Cigar,’ ‘Hitler’s Nanny,’ all these books, all leaned side by side like a perfect, rather fine regiment actually and gives the impression I am a supremacist militarist at home with my fat Junta wife Erika, which I am not, not really, and I shall soon sprinkle the shelves with a more perfumed selection of say some Eliot, Wodehouse and Roger Scruton, David Irving, Nietsche poetry all in good time.

Meanwhile, here as I write upstairs at my bureau, back side, I see a right scruffy medley shelf that requires a sprinkle itself. Highlights? There is the well-thumbed ‘Anarchist’s Cookbook’ for which I certainly risk jail once upon a week ago, then Pop’s Dutch cap in a bag, the Russian Don books, Ivanhoe, Gulliver’s Travels, Leonard, and Raymond Carver-arse bottom of the shelf who makes me flipping cross, as does any successful writer, shits.