I Saw, I Conquered, I Came (3)

I Saw, I Conquered, I Came (3)

Number 3: Made of Fail in Maida Vale

Jake and I share what is possibly the shittiest flat in the West End. I realize that you’re already starting pretty up-market, but believe me, it is thoroughly possible to be in a nice area and still be shit—it just costs more.

It’s two bedrooms, allegedly, so there’s a place for my books and his absurdly large collection of liquor, but it’s not much of a place. The toilet, for instance, is more like a cupboard than a room, and the cupboard in there is nothing more than wishful thinking. It’s full (all twelve centimetres of it) of condoms—they don’t get used terribly often. So, as a result of overpriced real estate, the joy of urban living on a budget, and the irrational dreams of my pathetic roommate, I haven’t got anywhere to put my goddamn toothbrush.

I keep it in the kitchen, which is a cupboard with a toaster and a sink. Sometimes, when I’m brushing my teeth, I spit out the window on to the passers-by, just because I can. I gives me the bizarre sense of satisfaction, knowing that I can disgust someone whose face I’ve never seen, just by preforming a basic act of hygiene. What do they think, eight stories down, when they see a great blob of blue, mint-scented foam come hurling down from the heavens at them? Do they think “oh, Christ, I’ve finally met my end, now” or is it more along the lines of “damn youth and their silly antics?” I would hope they think the first and not the second, because I’m hardly a youth any more. I have to pay bills. My dreams are dead. I watch relatively attractive people have sex every day and it gives me much less satisfaction than spitting out the window at random strangers.

“Do we ever make non-sexual porn, Jake?” I asked, as he gleefully mixed himself some absinthe.
“What, like regular old nude pics? There’s no market for them anymore. I mean, fuck, every six-year-old boy sees a half-dozen twats on his way to school nowadays, doesn’t he? Pass me the spoon, please.”
“No,” I replied, tossing him the slotted device on which to rest a sugar cube. “I mean, purely non-sexual. Like, a video of someone walking along a beach in a sundress and smiling at the camera or something.”

He was silent for a moment, pouring the requisite amount of water over the sugar cube and into the brilliant green beverage. Then, he replied:
“One could argue that everything is sexual.”
“Okay, well, not explicitly sexual, then. Just, kind of... I don’t really know.”
He smiled. “Then I don’t either. Do you want a drink?”

Before I had a chance to reply, he was off mixing another absinthe. It’s an unbelievably fussy drink—so brightly coloured and fancy and thoroughly un-English. Drinking it in public is an invitation to get lynched by any pub lads and chavs in the surrounding area. Absinthe belongs at a roadside cafe in Paris, or Prague, or Berlin; somewhere with culture and finesse. Seen in a shit flat in London, it’s almost surreal.

“Here’s to you then,” He said, raising a class, “And to me as well. To Monty and Jake, the original disappointment duo, and to being Made of Fail in Maida Vale.”
“Did it take you long to come up with that one?” I smirked.
“About three years,” he laughed, “Since we moved in.”

When he laughs, he shows off his teeth.
For all his cigarettes and coffee, they’re almost blindingly white.
They reflect more than his eyes do.