Paradox Paul's Story of Spark

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Yesterday the snow was thick on the ground. Thick as shit. And it was Mummy's birthday and she went into labour and called out the midwife who was horrid. Thick as shit. She said I was too early and she went away and the next day I was born, that's today. Whoopie. I weigh more than ten pounds, whoopie, and my face is so fat so they call me Currant Bun. My eyes are like currants in puff-pastry and my throught is thick as shit. I swallowed lots of mucus so they tipped up my cot and got most of the mucus out with a straw. Whoopie. Breathe that air. In two weeks I will get bronchitis, however the shops in Beckenham High Street will be closed so Daddy will walk into London to buy cheese and pick up my prescription from the all night chemist. Then I will feel a whole bunch better. When I start to crawl they will say "watch out Atom-bomb is here!" because I will destroy everything I get hold of! I have an older brother called Michael who pouts and will go to punk concerts, but I will giggle every day, more than Michael or big sister Louise who will date soldiers from the barracks, or little brother James who will pop along later and be big trouble. But then I will cry when I to go to Holy Trinity Infants School on the Lambeth Palace Road and Mummy and Daddy will take me to a psychiatrist with a beard in a dark room and he will show me curious pictures and wait for me to talk. But then school will be normal, until I go to Big School when I am eleven. I will be shy and grow long and skinny because nobody will notice I got a disease and soon I will have a nervous breakdown and cry in my head. I will sit in the car of my headmistress while she shows me a wonderful grammar school full of pleasant children and she won't understand why I will cry even more. They will put me in Battersea County School and then Boufouy School with thousands of children running around mad and I will hate it and hate it and read books in the corner, if I can even find a corner. Every morning Daddy will drag me out of bed because all night I will rock and moan and try not to wake up for school. Daddy will put off his work and teach me at home but I won`t want to learn and I will go to a tiny little school for a few odd children and I will write a space novel about the weirdo Similes and the bug-legged Metaphors. We will go to France for one day for a holiday but there will be no-one there and on that day I will love Maureen. There we will see half a horse hanging up in a shop window and the rain will be cold like at home and at school. Then I will to go to Aspen House School for a lot more odd children, in the middle of Kennington Park where I will feel sick again during football matches but when I am sixteen I will stay after hours and enjoy badminton with the headmaster and do the famous Masquerade puzzle in the library. I will take some exams and my maths teacher will feel sorry and help our whole class cheat. In the holidays from school I will learn to sweep up wood dust and Perspex dust and make coffee and buy biscuits at Presentation Unit who make architectural models and one pleasant day I will have money in the bank and in my right trouser pocket and sometimes we will go to America or Norfolk to work and make more money. But before that lovely day dawns I will go to Putney College for one horrible year just so I can enter Art School. The professors and brightly dressed students will secretly call me "Odd Fish" but I will say almost nothing and pass the exam with a "C" which is not good but not bad. However, then I will sit and draw boats as usual by the River Thames where it is still narrow and not brown and decide never ever fucking ever to go to Camberwell Art School because I will be old enough to say "FUCK FUCKING SCHOOL FOREVER! BURN THEM ALL DOWN CUNTS! PULL YER FUCKING CHILDREN OUT OR BURN THEM TOO, WHY NOT.." and I will earn money as an architectural model-maker until I am twenty five and almost grown up. But unfortunately although joyfully in short periods I will love a model-making female colleague who wears no underwear and smells like sweeties in heaven and I will feel grand as anyone who ever lived and died in the world, but because of this I will have another breakdown and go to hospital for one night. An angel will make me better but forbid me to know her, so after all that I will go self-employed and work all over London Town doing things like special effects and advertisements starring Superman wearing basketball trainers and I will continue to buy crappy sports cars and pretty records by Kate Bush and sit in the dark and listen to Pink Floyd and Mike Oldfield and New Order and think about marvellous things and terrible things. After work I will play for pub pool teams and drink loadsa beer and be drunken and watch television and go to bed when the town goes to bed, and still not sleep. I will writhe around in my sheets and wet cushions until model-maker Bob with dreadlocks moves all the way to Berlin for unknown reasons with Irish Denise. So I can live in their house in Worple Road, Wimbledon, with Danny Flynn the poet and Engine my cat who gets run over and buried in the garden in the pouring rain and the pouring tears and there, or in Richmond next door, I will meet Amanda Jayne Scott the dancing arobics teacher with the Finger of Death from an advertisemant in a lonely hearts magazine. She will be twenty-nine and I will be Toy Boy, but after one year I will meet temperate Tanja the German opare girl in Ye Olde Leather Bottle Pub and she will be only seventeen years old until she is eighteen. Then I will feel relieved. I will give up selling wine and delivering London Bus parts and coffee machines to sports clubs in my big white van around the Green Belt and we will go to Europe together forever. We will say good-bye to Mummy and Daddy and leave frosty England AT LONG FUCKING LAST and get off the ship in sunny Spain and dump half our clothes and shoes on a bench for the tramp at the dock to admire and take home. Then we will freeze in the night in the tent on the hard ground and have trouble getting into lorries. We will hitch-hike to south Portugal where it is warm enough and very new and only a little bit extremely boring and there we will live for a shortish six weeks. I will drive tourists around through mountains and backwards through streams, hurting their backs and drinking local schnaps at stops on the farms in a jeep in the mountains and in rivers and Tanja will work for unusual people in a restaurant. Strange as hell. But our adventure won't be forever as I will get fired for driving too fast and Tanja will get fired for something unknown and she will say "I'm going home to Germany". I will go with her but Gutersloh and her difficult parents will be tiresome as old ice-cream and soon I will depart and return like a hopeless, jobless, penniless fool to London where I will work in bars and deliver sandwiches and visit pubs once more to booze with the local losers. However, I will save a bit of money and travel around Europe again being tragic but happy and learning or not learning a thing. Some places will be lovely and some places will be nasty like Milan until I go to Berlin to visit Bob and the people will be pretty but Bob won't be home so I will go to Scandinavia. But then the money will be gone but Bob will come home to Berlin. His dreadlocks will be gone and I will stay in Lychener Street and meet the neighbours and make puppets and teach English and find some sexy girlfriends and some weird girlfriends and visit parties and take drugs which make me peculiar but have a nice time if I can remember anything the next day. I will get another broken heart and run away to a commune in France in the mountains and eat home made bread and jam for two months and dance and meditate and hold hands around the fire until a witch says I am lazy and I must go back to Berlin for ten years altogether. I will live in some squats and some other places and paint pictures on the walls and I will love Krisztina the pastry cook and visit her in Budapest. I will be an artist and people will look at my pictures and laugh or get confused and my stomach will shrink and I will get even more skinny and sleep too much and get a spotty face like a currant bun and feel mostly awful. So I will go to the island near England where Mummy and Daddy live when they retire and I will live with them next to the sea and then fly in an aeroplane back to Berlin and build a gallery and meet Sir Thomas Heger and Nikki Sudden and then meet The Ugly Americans and I will pretend to be a member. We will drink more and smoke more than usual and make awful noises and make CDs nobody wishes to purchase. I will have exhibitions and hold exhibitions and sell bits of art nobody really wishes to buy and there in Berlin and forever more shall my brain be a tumefaction.

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