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Tuesday, 18 October 2011


PHOTO OF AN EXCEPTIONALLY 'DEEP GUY' /this was a bad time, it looks like a man whose going to have a breakdown and heartattack at the same time, thanks for capturing it JON BAKER

          I stepped outside and looked up into a clear blue sky, it’s a good day, I nodded to myself. Or is it? I always question everything. It’s one of the burdens of being a “Deep Guy” The sun suddenly starts to pierce my eyelids and I stare down into the ground as I struggle to get my focus back. Why is the sunshine regarded as such a positive force I think to myself? It’s not trustworthy. I mean how can I trust something I can’t even look in the face? If the sun were a human being it would not be my friend. He/She would be giving me evils for the whole night as I desperately squirm around looking for some focus away from He/She’s glare. Why must he/she be so angry with her/his penetrating heat and glaring light? Clearly the sun had some unresolved issues from its childhood, why had it chosen me to punish? Well I just don’t know. But hey, when you’re a “Deep Guy” and consistently sensitive to the communal anxieties that form what we call a “society” you tend to be the first to get your eyes burnt. I can sniff out tension in a room like some people can smell dog shit on a shoe. I can also smell dog shit on a shoe. I have often been complimented on the versatility that comes with my sense of smell. As I stood bent down trying to regain some composure, I had already decided that though the street looked very pleasant and the people looked nice in their fewer clothes than usual, something just was not right. As a “Deep guy” it’s difficult to appreciate anything simply on it’s aesthetic value and yeah maybe that makes you a bit of a stick in the mud on the majority of a hundred percent of occasions, but hey, that’s the price you pay for always being right.

            Finally the black dots were clearing up and my vision began to come to. In the near distance I could hear the weeping of a small child, I was half sure the child was a girl. My eyes were now following a dried urine trail on the pavement and slowly weaving in and out of that was a new white liquid. I looked to my left to find the rest of a 99 sitting slowly fading into this flirty dance with a piss trail. I picked out the Flake.  I could only imagine an over zealous lick had pushed the body of the Ice Cream away from its cone base and onto the floor. I’m no detective but this must have been what happened. But who could explain the Ice Creams desire once free; to so openly flirt with another mans discharge? What we were looking at here was the equivalent of the Nabokov story Lolita. The vigour and youth of the agile young ice cream slipping and sliding between the stale smelly stagnant old mans weakness, seducing and illuminating his sense of worth. This may be an inaccurate description of the book. I have to admit I haven’t read it. But I could tell from what I was looking at, it wasn’t going to end well and so crossed it off my reading list instantly. 

I suddenly jumped my head out of my musings and focused back on the weeping girl. I had to hold back my own tears, as a “Deep guy” the disappointments of melting Ice Cream, along with other forms of child torture like bursting balloons had always killed me. If there was a God clearly he was a bully for creating such possibilities for childish despair, and having spent time trying to get on with some bullies in my life I didn’t have any left for a giant invisible one. I handed the girl the Flake and tried to smile, “five second rule” I said and patted her on the head. I turned around wiping a small tear from my cheek, and walked away like a hero. Within seconds it dawned on me by turning around I was walking back on myself. I’d be back in my flat in within seconds. Not wanting to look like a “Deep Guy” who didn’t know where he was going I decided to combine my amending the mistake with a little education for the young mind.  It wasn’t hard for me; the incidents of the last three minutes had really pissed me off. And even though he doesn’t exist, me and God, well we were finished. I approached her “and another thing” I said like Columbo, before denouncing any possibility of God’s existence. I asked if she understood what I was saying. She pulled the Flake that was dangling from the corner of her mouth like a Cuban cigar out and puffed. “God’s an Ass,” she said.  I was pretty sure I had spoken with more fluency than this, but I couldn’t argue with the sentiment of her summarisation. Job done. I shook her hand and said “All the best”. I wasn’t sure why I did that. I turned like a hero. I decided this time to acknowledge the existence of the child’s father. I went to shake his hand but he was not so keen. It transpired the Ice Cream was never hers and he was not very happy with me picking up random chocolate off the floor and putting it into her daughter’s mouth. I apologised and tried to turn like a hero. As I walked the five steps back to my flat I realised I was outside the Catholic school I had applied for on behalf of my son. I wondered if this would affect his application.

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