My first Guest Cunt is the wonderful @obscurethingy. I adore her, she makes writing this blog worthwhile. Below is her story.
Literary but not very bookish.
Wibbly screen, backflash to the late 80's. Me, living in Londontown, up from the village and dumb as a bale of hay. Many tales of hilarity and stupidity ensued. One day, after a particularly stirring visit to the theatre, I found myself attending a demonstration to support a sort of thespian 'Occupy' movement. Shakespeare's first ever theatre had been uncovered whilst a new office block was being put up, and we, the People, were fighting to save it. I was a twat in search of a 'cause', of course I would offer to sleep on the site to stop those nasty diggers and plebs in hard hats obliterating a priceless and beautiful piece of English history. I spent a night on the pavement (OK, on a sunbed); it was wet, cold and yet exciting. I had been homeless once so it was no big deal to sleep rough, plus we had the added bonus of celebrity visits and press attention. When a guitar playing, hat wearing older guy started to pay me attention, I was so flattered and naive that I went along with it. That is how I came to be living under a table in a Portakabin, cooking dinner for some famous people and letting an ignorant balding thug shag me on a dirty mattress in an empty warehouse while Peter Stringfellow's ex wife arranged parties outside with her new toyboy. How we laughed when she stupidly locked her keys in her convertible and the Police had to break in and retrieve cases of champagne. The whole episode was a farce; a genuine piece of history was about to be buried, lost forever. But right next door to it was a ready made popular tourist attraction backed by a much more powerful thesp related mafia. We never stood a chance.
By day I went to work,
hallucinating from tiredness, washing in the toilets or going to the
swimming pool next door. By night we threatened to chain ourselves to
the ruins and got drunk or stoned. I gave massages and tried to play
Mum. We made friends with the security guys sent to beat us up. The
'boyfriend' became increasingly unpleasant and possessive, culminating
in a night where he threatened to break my legs after 'catching' me
talking to one of the younger lads in a darkened room (he was sick). I
yelled in his face that I wasn't scared of him, and went back the next
day to grab some of my things and talk it over. It was a sultry sticky
day, and I felt dirty, used and old. I had really believed in it all,
but was left with a grim sort of foreboding and a
feeling of futility. That night, the Marchioness sank almost next to
the site, and I never went near the place again.
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