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Tuesday 5th June 2007.

Yesterday i walked off the sunlit streets into the dark chasm once only known to men,there was a time when half a crown was slipped into your pocket,a gentle warning in your ear do not forget on your way home from school.Somehow you squeezed in between hairy arsed steel workers,hands as thick as shovels,the air hanging with musty oil,work boots large spat on dripped with after thoughts of molten spits,the air thick with fag smoke hung so heavy you expected the loch Ness Monster to come forth and suck your finger nails,you stayed silent,children then never spoke,you shuffled only when a gap came,your eyes watched the ticking clock,your hands neatly folded over that tiny thing,that older men teased you about,being only fit for stirring tea with,you wondered what else it could possibly be used for.
Then the empty high chair was yours,the cape came around,there was no call of...." How would you like it sir "...you simply received a ducks arse whether you liked it or not,the large mirror in front of you was simply used to watch the ticking of the clock wondering would you be able to rush home in time for Popeye...and not some Dr Who Tardus, to wonder where all your hair had vanished too. In five minutes your pocket was empty,the half crown you really wanted to spend on gob stoppers,the ducks arse stood proud and more hair was down your underpants than anywhere else,you were handed a tissue,with one hand and gently pushed out with the other into the fresh air,great gulps exploded your lungs filled so fast,you thought Popeye was your best friend.

Such Beast is now found down dark ally's,only known and whispered by men who still buy something for the weekend within the hallow's of the red and white stripe.Today on the main drag everything is bright, loud,a boom box of boogers,the mirror's glare shrinks fast into your skin,each whisper growls,under the strain of rattling music you know you are old for, it is not David Bowie,there is no starman,nor does Major Tom quite make it even onto the turntable...i once heard another of my generation,through the banging boom box ask if they had any Frank Ifield records..the stunned silence from the handsome young barbers made the boom box splutter into silence..i sighed at the time thinking wow,gosh, i was almost taken back to childhood expecting hairy arsed steel workers to linger up from behind the comfy sofa..doing an Irish Jig..to seven drunken nights by the Dubliners....

But yesterday there was no older man...the boom box and screen combined without him, a finger pointed me to the chair i sank in,the cape came around,i looked in the mirror a girl in a blue t-shirt the fresh air of the open door caused her nipples to push out, how nice i thought for a Monday,there was no need to place my hands in my lap, long ago the instant hard on,surrounding such treats as nipples hunted in red october had long frozen over to remain flaccid,i sighed at this notion, as the buzz took what fluff i still produced away...

The mirror now is no longer Popeye;the story now is of tram lines covering the face,crabs claws around the eyes, where have all those years gone,the saving grace to stop you reaching for the razor to end it all is the sparkle still remaining in the eyes,the rest of your body maybe flaccid, but the eyes still fights the troglodyte world out side the door..i used to think it was just me would would sink into melancholy,when sat in front of a barbers mirror,counting each year in each new tram line...but no, in one other blog last week another male was sat in another part of the world almost thinking the same thoughts..perhaps that is why barbers have red and white poles after all....and razors not reached for,perhaps we should bring back something for the weekend sir....

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bichoose
bichoose

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