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Urban bitchin'
Our man in Huddersfield paints a picture of small-town provincial culture familiar to anyone. Simon Armitage won't be pleased tho'

"It's hilly," she replied. "Phwoar," I thought, envying the muppets on her duvet. It was my first impression of Huddersfield - and she didn't even come from there!

The time was approximately 4.47 pm on the Leeds-bound 'express' from King's Cross and I had this thing about northern crumpet. It's a complex of mine, chamoan, I've explored it in psychotherapy, although I won't go into that arsey retard shit here. All I will say is that half an hour later I was being escorted off the train by two coppers for a completely unrelated incident. Apparently my ticket wasn't valid on this train, the friendly ticket inspector explained, who 'didn't like my attitude'. But I claimed a moral victory. After all, I wasn't from Yorkshire.

Nestling unconsciously in the heart of the middle of nowhere is Huddersfield, a West Yorkshire town with a population of around 120,000 and a mixed economy comprising retail therapy, massage parlours, smack and legal aid. As the station pulled into the train (happens when you're coked up for an interview) the distinctive blur of sandstone Georgian buildings fills your shitface. I would be wanking late into the night at The George Hotel, located in the main square, the priciest hole on my expenses guide (where I never got so much as a fucking blink of kip, nearby disco belting out Mozart remixes at 140db until the eerie owls).

55 squid gets you your basic four star minus breakfast. The room itself was impressive, coming with a bed, bolted on shitter, shower and shave bowl - and a complimentary box of matches. One drawback though, there was fuck all porn on the telly. Oh, and the mirror in the bathroom was too high off the floor to reflect my genitalia (there's an album title there).

As the hotel's impressive looking timewarp restaurant had decided to close four minutes early at 21:26, I was forced to track down hard drugs or food. I opted for the latter, sniffing out a kebab shop next to a row of estate agents with the natural instincts of Neanderthal man. For those property speculators among you one can snap up a two-bedroom shag palace for around 58K. Local employment opportunities range from mini-cab driving (more or less sewn up by the Nigerians, you'll have to pay them a tribute), hotel trade (do a loft conversion on your new gaff) or prostitution. Which leads me to Huddersfield 'Uni'.

No, I never knew they had a university either. Leeds it most definitely ain't - which is really saying something! Cunts wanted an L/SL to teach 'media' to regional reserve army of labour, one third of whom have 'serious literacy problems'. Ouch! That didn't make it into the advert, the cheeky human resources sauces. To say the site itself is disjointed is like saying Best has a drink problem. I swear I did not know where the fuck I was half the time. If you're ever unfortunate enough to end up on a tour of the 'campus' just say you've got a dose of the trots.

Unless they insist on wheeling you round on a commode you're laughing - until the interview that is, when you'll be asked by a panel of gurning civil servants what made you apply to Huddersfield (the money you dopey cunts! Why else would I be putting myself through this torture?) and to lie about your plans for future research (into 18-year-old snatches).

Huddersfield boasts an authentic range of corporate boozers (leisure is offering big returns this fiscal year), restaurants in the realm of what Negt & Kluge refer to as the 'imitation of a bourgeois life-context', a theatre and a pedestrianised high street (roughly one in 10 shops are vacant) ripe for surveillance (another growth sector). The women are up for it, and anyone with a southern accent is in there, and is liable to be handcuffed by a potential suitor to the first train out of town. My advice: save yourself the bother and don't get off in the first place.


Prayer to a Lover
Tit wank my spear you honky zulu.
mash my face till it comes like a rainbow
bowing and dashing like a black man.

Beat my bogdolian till it fires like a
mountain meadow,
fresh from the spray of rain
and spume me fiely till I bend

Grow on my arse like a face that wants to be slapped
eat away at my intestines till I fail to digest
at your behest.

Why not try a new position of burning acronyms into my teeth?
Dialling the police using only a finger formed of spunkridden pubes?
nine nine fuckin nine.

You make me feel like beating a malaysian to death.
fighting for the right to taunt ladies.
with my honky man-spear.

 

Reconciliation near Palestine
I come upon a stream some way outside the city
with a boy's face staring up at me
what do you want? I asked him
I'm Jesus, he replied.
taken aback I came straight out with it:
I'm a Muslim, I cried
And my allegiance is eternally pledged to Allah and his little bird Mohammed.
Jesus wept.
I asked him why.
He said:
because you're a Muslim.

 

A poem, written on finding the hem
of one's shorts dangling in spag piss

I have befriended a tampon in the shape of a bench,
French,
Whiling away hours, bending down,
Earnt money.
I sigh as the cloud-covered aspidistra eats away at my ironing board,
beautifully,
Whence the cruel John eats fish bits from my glazed navel.
What kind of man is this?
He who would eat beetroot from out of hollow shit.
Watchfully.
I climb aboard a space ship bound for Croydon,
Central line.
In the lap of a priest, I feel a cock rubbing on my loose flesh,
genitally.
Making the shape of a quim-rod flanging Quentin-stopple,
I feel a loose breeze fiddling with my turn-ups.
turned up.
Turnip.
And all I can think is:
Why do spags have better toilets than me?

 

Why I like eating Jam
It reminds me of a cunt.

 

Drole sense
I draw a painted loud on my fecking globulous braided fengmenocks.
eating fierce wenks over a bretted fist.
nine to the dozen dozing dogwaps, fepping like a twogger.
Loud to the kenk, making baply twice till it fenks me like a conk.
Mash me finely to a cropilike spangutench.
Do this till I cum showers of delighted marbles on your shiny surfaces.
I don't know if I'll have time to fix the boiler now.

 

Lovers make demands
shall I come to you in the night bearing gifts of mirth?
shall I eat strongly of the ripe chairlifts until we have our first?
is it time for me to announce to the carpet that we've loved atop it?
do you want me to scream till you febble?
like that time in Bangor?
should I not call the police first, to make it more erotic?
should I not grease up your fanghole so Mr. Cock can't get a substantial
grip in your girl-cavern of fetid bliss?
should I have been more blunt in my approach,
and called it a cunnie?
but if I do all this, will you fry my bacon better, you cunt?

© ML

 

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