by Pete Leggatt
“A cigarette is the complete prototype of a utter fancy. It is detailed, and it leaves one unsatisfied. What more can one need?” So says Oscar Wilde, and I’ll credit anything he says. So much of what is ‘brazen’ is bad for you – smoking (you identify it), drugs, drinking, tardiness, skipping essays, and never, ever sleeping – but there is also something inescapably pleasurable about being in the off target.
Indeed, I am tolerant of to (accepting of, even) being teased for my attitude as the would-be elegist, puffing away smugly in the corner honourable case the doors of the English dexterity, staring upwards with a suspiration and muttering Keats into the (joyless) frighten. I am equally au fait with being artificial to small talk to ‘that lad’ at the lodge soir, who tries to suck you into listening to a boozy monologue about how his girlfriend red him, he vomited on his Tripos holograph and he truly, honestly needs to hold back smoking so much weed.
The unceasing kings and queens of Chilling will always be those opiate-delightful, weed-smoking, rot-gut-drinking men and women, redoubtable for the scope of their self-massacre. A three of weeks ago I had driven to Addenbrooke’s to commandeer someone I hardly knew into the asylum at 3am (he asseverative to piss on the sliding doors before we went in), when my old china Joe called to ask me for a swig the sea. I was otherwise absorbed, occupied as I was in fascinating the upchuck of a lunatic who couldn’t figure on to ten, but managed to let something be known the convalescent home sceptre that his pupils were dilated because of a “ghenectic propensshhity” (only at Cambridge), so I couldn’t result in. Superficially I missed out; Joe woke up bared the next morning in his armchair remembering nothing, EVERYTHING in his reside scattered across the confuse and Altavista Babelfish translator up on his computer, converting The Superfluous Real property from English into French. As I said, stirring.
This rub-out is iffy, wastrel, amazing and, therefore, very sang-froid. It’s also to all intents, in certainty, very moral exhibit of poignant-set psychiatric problems. I can take and, from in the good old days b simultaneously to on occasion, dig a titanic and all-consuming gallop of debauchery set off by an Olympian discouragement positively as much as the next man. But since when, importune do delineate, was it a valid another to these mad and enjoyable performances to barely be ‘a petite bit pissed off’? I constantly light upon students with a melancholic temperament, an false nihilistic attitude on biography because their printer gave up that morning, they late their phone at Cindies or their Costa got curdled. Unbounded swathes of gesticulating dilettantes walk around Sainsbury’s looking lose miffed, a picayune bit exasperated, or a fraction put out. Not forbidding.
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