Welcome to Acerbia; population: π
This is the archive of the many and fabulous adventures of . Like a hard-bitten son of Michael Moorcock's Jerry Cornelius taught to write by William S. Burroughs; continually reincarnated, debated over by intellectuals and literati at cocktail parties the author can't get invited to, the target of scorn and ire from women everywhere, frequently mistaken for a former member of the Warsaw pact, named after the Italian explorer Giuseppe Acerbi, slowly rewriting the Book of Cataclysm, this is postmodern fiction at its most playful and creative.
Mixed Company
When I came back from the bathroom to rejoin the dinner party I realised that the David Gray CD had started over again and must be on repeat, the conversation had somehow moved from house prices to swinger clubs and there was a distressing low number of very thin after-dinner mints left. I cleared my throat as I sat down.
"Your ocelot needs retuning" I said and reached for the raspberry coulis.
The hostess and host blinked in perfect synchronicity as if I'd just declared that I'd confirmed the kill. Some of the other guests paused their sideline conversations and turned to watch the response. The hostess's face had contorted through confusion, indignation and back to placid pleasantness and broke into a smile.
"Oh yes, of course. I've been meaning to see to that. Anyway, the thing about living in West London really is that..."
"I could retune it for you if you'd like" I said, and swamped the last profiterole in thick syrupy blood-red sludge before prodding at it with a spoon.
"Oh, and how much would that be?" she asked, immediately reducing me to the status of hired help instead of dinner party guest. I smiled and drizzled some more dark chocolate sauce over my desert.
"No fee, I haven't had an opportunity to retune one since I came back to London. Yours looks to be a rather unique one with some lovely grollings and I reckon I could have it pitch-perfect again within half an hour"
By flattering her and telling her how special it was I had returned a compliment for an insult and by waiving a fee I put myself above her monetary wealth. In the arena of dinner party conversation I was now Decimus Maximus and she was the tired old lioness.
"I think... Robbie, correct me if I'm wrong here, I think we haven't had our ocelot tuned since we got it" said one of the other guests, tapping her partner's arm so that he would nod "you must come round and do ours too"
"Oh, I haven't even looked at ours in years" said another prim woman. The crowd was turning against the hostess and she would have to yield.
"Yes, thats very kind of you, of course you must come back and... tune the ocelot" she paused on each word of tune the ocelot, still mystified as to what I was talking about. Meanwhile I simply tucked into the pudding and smiled at everyone. Knowing full well that I had subverted their very thoughts for the remainder of the dinner party. With my mouth full I had to suppress a giggle as the hostess deflected requests to show off her ocelot, telling everyone present that it needed retuned and wasn't in prime viewing condition.
Quick and Dirty
To the man with the barcode tattooed to the nape of his neck
Respect to you my friend, I bet that hurt like heck
But before the ink ran and smudged for all to see
Were I to scan you would I be paying for a tin of peas?
Negatory
My therapist suggested that I start saying "no" more often. The obvious joke at the time was to refuse but I avoided it. I could see the beginnings of a smirk at the corner of her mouth as she realised I had contemplated and decided against it. She was obviously making progress with me.
In practice it wasn't as easy as I had imagined it would be. There are so many ways to say no and if your immediate reaction is to say yes or just to aquiesce to something then you find yourself working against your own instincts. There would be a slight delay as the brain said yes and the mouth said no.
"Can you help me fix this Excel graph?"
beat
"No, I don't know how to do anything in Excel"
I struggle against years of being told I could do better or that I wasn't reaching my potential. It has only recently become obvious to me that I am good at things that I don't want to be good at. I feel like Michael Palin being told his perfect job would be Chartered Accountant only for him to wail "I already *am* a Chartered Accountant!" These things that I am good at are things other people seem to find difficult. I in turn find it almost impossible to lie or hide my true feelings; if I am sad its pretty bloody obvious that I am. It just feels a lot of the time like I'm being asked to assist with the most basic functions any chimp should be able to fulfill.
"Can you help me absorb this oxygen into my bloodstream and maybe digest some of this food I've eaten for me?"
beat
"No, I don't know how to breathe or eat, I'm a hardcore oxygenarian"
Now if somebody wanted help with writing a screenplay, or maybe they had a lot of money they needed to spend in a very short space of time, then I would have no trouble with saying yes of course, let me help! I guess people don't want to give up the fun things though.
Kismet
As we walked to a very early dentist's appointment near Edgware Road the market sellers were setting up their stalls. Overheard the persistent cawing of seagulls and around us the incessant chatter of small huddles of schoolchildren. We walked past somebody setting up trinkets and novelty items, an iron-mongers, scarves and gloves, a fish-mongers, a fruit stall and finally a doom-mongers.
"Get'cher doom here! Cheapest doom in London!" he yelled with the practiced bellow of an auctioneer or primary school teacher.
He must have arrived much, much earlier than anyone else as he'd already set out his wares.
"Nibblets of despair, just two'poun' a bag! Suicide squids fresh out of the lake of gloom! Sadness available by the kilo! Get your nice prime cut doom steaks here!"
We paused to look, and true enough his prices were incredibly reasonable for an inner city market.
"Did you fancy some doom later?" asked my darling girlfriend. I didn't really know.
"Morning miss, looking for some niggles of doubt? Maybe I can interest you in a whole insecurity complex? I'd offer you a personal tragedy or two but it looks like you've already brought one with you"
Market stall blokes always pick on me for some reason, I think its because I just exude some sort of aura of spinelessness and nobody ever really loved me in my life. Life just isn't fair for me.
"Oi! No free samples!"
In Which Beth Overcomes Her Urinary Infection
I read Wondermark devoutly. I hope he will include my piece in an upcoming book he is co-producing called Machine of Death These two things are not related, nope sireebob.
Behind The Mask
The first time I saw her was in the green room backstage at Benny's. She was a filler guest and I was the main attraction. When I arrived at the studio she was already on Benny's couch, being shown on the screens inside the green room. I liked the costume, it was sassy and yet practical, she had utility pouches which I could only guess the contents of and there was a large swathe of cleavage behind a mesh window that I felt pretty certain would distract even the most committed criminals.
Keeping my mask on throughout the interview I spent most of my time thinking of her as Benny asked his questions, all of which had been vetted beforehand by my agent. It was as the waves of applause washed over us as we stood to face the crowd and Benny thanked the lovely Feralina and Mister E that I whispered to her that I had an opening for a sidekick.
We met on a rooftop after a foiled bank robbery, she did most of the foiling as I stood back to watch her style. She used a mixture of savate and karate and the occasional gadget as circumstances required; a dash of sleeping powder here, a handful of caltrops there. When all was said and done she thanked me for letting her do it her way and I thanked God that she didn't cover her legs and seemed to like doing roundhouse kicks.
As I drove her back to my secluded mansion in the Mister E Mobile she told me she was still saving up for her own Feralina-bike. I mentioned I might be able to help with that as I had a few multi-purpose crime-fighting bikes that could be tailored towards her signature style. She smiled behind her domino mask and I scowled, but behind my armorplated chestpiece my heart was pounding more quickly than the last time I had defeated The Square.
Once we arrived back at my secret hideaway though and I'd removed my holsters, armor and cape and she was unzipping the back of her leotard we encountered a problem.
"You first..." she said.
"No, no, ladies first" I countered. And neither of us moved to remove our masks.
Neighborhood Watch
Since moving from Hackney to Hampstead I have witnessed a gang mugging, a running gun battle and a car repossession. In the space of four days since I moved thats not at all bad. Of course, being that this is north west London there were some details that made these activities very different to the Hackney equivalents
The gang mugging was five little girls in summer dresses with a blanket of goods laid out on the pavement. They ambushed us as we walked slowly towards us and asked if we would like to buy any toys or cookbooks. Proper muggings where they steal your wallet and watch and beat you are easier to endure than five little girls with hopeful expressions trying to sell you Nigella's Saucy Bits.
Further along the same street we saw two teenagers in masks ducking behind walls, peering round. One was carrying a Beretta 92, the other had a smaller Sig or Glock. There was shouting and a flurry of excitement as one fired a few pellets at a third teenager further along the drive. None of them were on target and there was a jeering catcall of "wanker" from behind the protective boxes up the drive. Gun battles in Hackney involve real bullets, real blood and real chalk outlines.
The car being repossessed was a red Ferrari F40. In Hackney it would have been a poster of an F40.