Monthly Archives: December 2010

Sweep

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Blond

Blond man: Do you admire me because I am an alpha male? Because I am light-skinned and fair-haired? Because I am rich? Because I am stylish? Because I boat? Because I represent the individual? Because I am heterosexual? Because I am in in a relationship? Because my partner has long, blond hair? Because my partner admires me? Because I am special? Or because you are so very ordinary?

And why does the last of you not look? Can’t he bear to? Has he been hurt? Is he a failure? Is he standing between you and your dreams?

Dark men 1,2,3 and 4: He is remembering a dream. We just love the way he does his hair. Where is your voice coming from? You sound TERRIFIC.

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Racist Gingerbread

Gingerbread men can be a bit up themselves, in my opinion. It’s because of their shape; they think they’re little men.

Doesn’t mean they can’t make you feel small.

Trouble was breaking out in our tin. It happens when someone gets put in too early from the oven: the heat stirs things up.

I’d been in there a while with a cookie. I’m a fairy cake and past eating but my icing is special and I look too good to bin.

I’m gay- nature or nurture, you tell me.

‘This guy is racist confectionery,’ starts one.

‘Get a life. It was an observation.’

‘Am I from Africa? That passes for observation, these days?’

‘Hmmm, not quite sure how to put this, numbnut, but you’re very brown.’

‘The colour of my bread has fuck all to do with you. You’re bald with shrivelled currant eyes.’

This is where I stepped in, pointing out that my parents were first generation Indians but I was made with white flour.

I said the sweets that adorn us are often just what’s left in the cupboard.

I said it’s a matter of luck and that I guess I was luckier than most.

It’s also about the same time that the punchy g’man plucked off my crowning jelly tot and stuck it in his belly button, in a gesture of hostility.

‘Look, I don’t care if you’re from Swindon, mate,’ says the biscuit. ‘You don’t look like the other ginger guys in here, is all.’

‘Well, that’s because I was burnt, alright? You happy now?’

‘Fine, that’s all you needed to say.’

And they did that stupid stiff walking they have to do, in opposite directions.

I was left like a pillock in the middle, with a crucial well in my icing sugar.

That night when I went to sleep I had this really bitter dream about the jelly-tot swiping, burnt g’man, where I broke the butter cuff off his left hand and took a chunk out of his head.

In the morning, I couldn’t let it lie.

So I went to him in front of the whole tin and I said, ‘Yeah, well you know what they call baked goods that get left in the oven? FORGOTTEN TREATS. Just remember that next time you’re throwing your charcoaled body around.’

And do you know what he said?

Do you know what made me want the fat cow that keeps us to lift off the lid and swallow me, right then and there?

‘I wasn’t burnt in the oven, Cup Cake. I was on duty in Iraq.’

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