The #Marathon Man

Whilst most enjoy this event, and thousands of charities benefit, this day reminds me of being assaulted by a runner at the Flora London Marathon while I was cheering all the runners on in Druid Street.  As I was about to put money into his bucket, this ‘fun’ runner grabbed my breasts and sprinted off.  It really hurt.  My friend ran after him to see if he could catch his number but the Marathon Man sprinted fast past 100’s of other ‘fun’ runners.  This is a song I wrote about it, fantasizing that I’d caught him.   It is published in my first collection ‘Tales from the Deep End”.

 

Flora 59384

I’m the marathon man, and proud of my identity
I’m the marathon man, I run for the, MS Society

I wear a blonde wig and carry a very large hockey stick
St Trinian’s style school skirt that barely covers my genitalia

I’m the marathon man, I can’t possibly fail
I’m an internalised homophobic male

I jog along fine as I grope at the girls I have such a good time
I run like flash Harry my balls bounce along to the finishing line

I’m the marathon man, I have destination
I’m like a woman without a castration

1991 three blondes and a dwarf
1992 ginger at the Canary Wharf
1993 St John’s ambulance nurse
1994 half a brownie pack – the Brown Owl first
1995 Left of the jazz band on the Jamaica Road, a woman on crutches
1996 Left of the jazz band on the Jamaica Road, a woman in a wheelchair, (the same woman?)
1997 Left of the jazz band on the Jamaica Road, that same woman wasn’t there, but there was a bird on stilts
1998 there was this woman who looked like a lesbian, but she loved it
1999 & 2000 lots more birds
2001 loads more, loadsa loadsa birds
2002 birds

2003
I’m the marathon man, burnt a hole in one of my, plastic breasts,
I’m the marathon man, but I think its time to, give it a rest

She ran faster than Harry and took down my number that bitch at the Bermondsey tree
The poor MS people lose out on the cash, and I’m having an alcohol re- lapse

I’m the marathon man flora 59384
I’m the marathon man flora 59384

 

Re yesterday Helen Mirren/Karen Millen kerfuffle and Tesco delivery man declining to have his photo taken

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…… and thinking about stocking fillers, this book is an excellent idea.  I wrote it as part of my swimming pool show I did at Edinburgh Fringe in 2008.  I’d received a £5,000 award and wrote a ten line poem, hence the title.  The excerpt below was written as a voice over while I was underwater with a small air tank built and kindly donated especially for me by #Chrystal Palace diving shop.  I went underwater in my sons dolphin duvet and when the voice over ended I came out of the water, like I was coming out of an embryonic sac (if you were on acid/mushrooms or E’s).  My Scotsman review went something like “a peculiar cross between Tracey Emin and Josie Long”.

I was thinking about this when I was looking for Karen Millen yesterday, that’s why I got in a muddle.  There is always a reason.  In the light of this, and in the light of the press about Boris this week, here is the extract of the book (past performances underwater) that includes Helen and Boris.

 

Birth Story

Thank God it’s nearly over, its been really stressful here these last few months, growing, sudden UV lighting and shit music. If I ever hear “Building baby’s brains” or “Mozart” one more time I’ll do a stillbirth.

I wish she hadn’t given up smoking. I could do with a fag and I could murder a drink. Three glasses of shit CAVA at a wedding then dealing with her guilt for 8 months. That was worse than the gastroenteritis.

I’m really looking forward to going through that deep dark tunnel and getting into the pool. Soon I’ll be pissing in someone else’s water rather than my own stinky sac, and it’s getting pretty stinky in here. Just got to hold off from shitting, just for a few more minutes otherwise it could all go horribly wrong and I’ll end up with Dr Bari doing a ventouse, that’s what happened to my brother and he’s never recovered. They took him to a cranial osteopath but he’s still got a flat head. It’s difficult to air brush baby’s heads.

I’ve done my stretch in this old cell, some have made it through the other side – some haven’t. It’s pretty hardcore to survive in these conditions. It’s dark all the time and very basic. She could have done it up a bit, she’s 41, she’s had plenty of time, some pictures on the womb wall, wouldn’t have to be anyone too raunchy, Helen Mirren perhaps. An internal tattoo would have been nice, but maybe that would have stopped my concentration and deep exploration of my inner child.

Thank God the sex stopped. Most unsettling. Then all of a sudden, it began again and she started taking it up the arse. That was only two weeks ago and by then it had got so tight that I couldn’t move around, my arse was right by her arse.  Doesn’t matter so much these days if I develop a liking for it, well, at least in this country, at the moment.  But who knows what my life will be like.

I think I’ll be a poet when I grow up.

I’m a baby stuck in a womb
I’ll be out soon
Thank God they rolled the dice again
Otherwise Boris would have been my name
Apparently Boris Johnson’s buttocks are similar to those of Adolph Hitler’s
I heard that at a gig she did
That’s when the arse thing kicked off and my kicking stopped
Now it’s my turn to help her out
Otherwise she’ll have to shout – more
So, here we go, I’m really shitting myself now.

#Fires and washing machines and Tesco delivery men bring me washing powder

img_0611It’s Saturday, 4th November, am thinking rain, fireworks and sparklers yet pondering over the washing powder that these two chirpy young delivery men have bought me.  (As you can see from the clock I haven’t put it back from last Sunday because it keeps us all on top of things and Tesco Delivery are even less likely to be late.)

There has been a lot in the press this week about washing machines catching on fire.  I was aware of this a long time ago when I wrote one of my first poems published in my first anthology “Tales in the Deep End”, even Amazon have a 2nd hand copy of this unique book which includes tales of assault by a charity London marathon runner dressed as a St Trinian’s girl with false bosoms, wig and hockey stick  to yogic internal cleansing poetry and illustration.

Separation and Anxiety

My washing machine caught on fire

I will never leave it on its own again

People laughed when I performed this wearing a swimming hat, but as usual, this poem had come from my personal distress and PTSD and OCD around washing machines.  I used to pay the babysitter an extra 50p an hour to keep an eye on it.

 

Blog Flog Book while fantasizing about photographing Tesco Delivery Men

An old friend from school (not one of my 101 boyfriends, although he said he would have liked to have been) discovered my last book while looking up another Essex author and bought it online and has reviewed it on Amazon ….  if you haven’t got it, it makes a great book for Christmas stocking fillers or birthday strap-ons.  Yes, one needs to start thinking about Christmas, I’m sorry but one does… Christmas, Christmas, Christmas ……

Mind Full of Mad Verse – Liz Bentley  (Chipmunka or Amazon or ebay)

 

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