There was a waft of farts hanging in the air. I was back. Back in the office for the first time since an exploitative role in my mid-twentys. Suddenly, I realised the benefit of office life. Free coffee. And the chance to smell some new farts.

I joined the gym for good measure. There was the distinct smell of shite there, I heard someone grunt as they squeezed out a soon to be jettisoned passenger. I remebered the benefits of the gym now too, lots of people scurrying about using the equipment you’d like to use. Some of them a little mad and on steroids, breathing heavily as they tie their shoelace. In rooms that smell exclusively of shite. It’s good to be back.

Perhaps I’ve been duped by the home gym idea as I have the home office. Perhaps it is better to not have all of your own space taken up by things that already exist and are purpose built. The issue, of course, is that the things are not owned by the a benevolent state or municipality, instead by a coke head somewhere who manages to fly by night as a venture capitalist.

I’ve become increasingly fixated on winning the lottery recently, which is a poor state of affiairs for a would-be Marxist. Or is it? Perhaps it’s acknowledgement that I should be removed from the system of production entirely because it’s all so bad? No. My participation in the lottery is bad because a) I’m clearly the bourgeousie so live a comfortable enough existence and should just get on with it. b) I have terrible luck, so am unlikely to win. c) If I did win, I would probably live a similar life to now, as I’m so phantasmatically cuckolded. d) The lottery is a shitshow and we should support state endorsed gambling. (At least one of the points is up for debate, I’ve worked with some very good organisations who receive considerable money from the lottery and probably couldn’t continue to exist with out it. Yes, I’m aware that better systems should and could exist… But lets not get into that, it;s just a knock about for christ’s sake.)

Anyway, I should spend my time writing competition entries for writing competitions, but the issue is I’d probably win one and be forced to write. Then what? My dream becomes an actualised reality. It’s like the wild group sex encounter I’ve always dreamt of. Imagine the horror if it came true.

Or AI, which is correcting me with every odd word I write. I used to dream it would come and imagine an imagination for me. Now it’s here it resembles my least favourite primary school teacher. Conincidentally the same time frame where I first experience erections, make of that what you will.

I have AI now, we all have AI now – apparently there is no choice. But, I have AI now, because I recently bought an expensive new laptop. I bought the laptop so that I would write things again. I think, in psychoanalytic terms, the laptop is the objet a. Please someone teach me psychoanalysis. Maybe I should buy a chez lounge. That way I’ll be able to read Freud and Lacan.

I bought the laptop to acheive the unacheivable. Of course, I should write. In fact, I am writing. Does this prove the analysists wrong? Probably not, read what I am writing. This is prattle. I’m supposed to be several thousand words into my War and Peace. Not halfway through Adrian Mole 33.1/3

I did write a play yesterday. Start to finsish. Of course, it wasn’t very long and it needs corrections. But I wrote it. Perfect timing as well, with the Fringe starting… tomorrow. I may need to rush to get rehersal space. And a cast. And a director. And a director of lighting – important that as I had quite a few hard cuts where the plot ran thin. Anyway, in theatre soon I’d imagine.

The phantasmatic reminders of my inadequacy are particuarly bad this time of year. Of course I’m a born showman, but suffering from cripling stage fright. Damn my luck. Not only that, but my best friend in early childhood is now a Holywood actor. I’ve probably mentioned that before. He does haunt my every waking, and not waking, second. After our promise to go all the way together (not like that – though it was a confusing time – I was 14), he ditched me for the cooler older boys. A ruthless streak I took moral umbridge at, however being the rejected party I didn’t have much of a choice. A rivalry developed. There was a power imbalance in that I was no longer cool, having been very cool. Anyway, lets not get into that too much. Suffice to say he’s back on stage, in Edinburgh, and is the toast of the town. In a theatre across the road from my new offices. Tip of the hat to him, I say.

One of us is working everyday for a new tomorrow, better than the last. And one us has a new laptop and smells poo in the gym. Of course, I jest. Now, after everything I’ve been through in life, I can honestly say I’d love to win the lottery. No. I can honestly say I wouldn’t change it for the world. Form is temporary, class is permanent. Enjoy your oscars, pal. I’ve got the Scottish Transport awards to look forward to. I jest repeatedly, but I’m not really joking because I can always cling hopelessly to the fact that his mother used to tell me that “I had more in my big toe than he did…”, in his toe? I never heard the end of that, so not sure what she meant. But I was gifted.

As a would be Marxist, I can rationalise with the material facts. Positionality, we call it. Yes I’m from the bourgeouise, but it’s a stupid, drunk and fat vein of the bourgeoise. And rural too, it counts for very little. I might as well be a prole. (I say that as a terrible joke, of course.) I like to use the comparitive material, opportunistic and cultural advantage, that he clearly had over me as rational for my own failure to do anything I’d actually like to.

Anyway. I await our inevitable bumping into each other. I’m ready.

Funny, as a would be Marxist, and a would be psychoanalyst, and a would be writer, I’m honestly quite content. I do look forward to the inevitble meeting. I hope I get my nose rubbed in it. That would be psychicly arousing to me. Perhaps we’ll meet at one of the festival sex parties that undoubtedly, actually happen and I have somehow found my way into. That would be great. That would show him. Maybe he could shatter my sexuality too, why not?

Lastly, while I’m on the topic. My old pal is not only an ‘artiste’ but a patron of the arts. You know the cinema where I did much of my becoming. The one where I met my wife. Where I found out what it is to be. Well, you rememeber how it went suddenly and very sadly out of business. Desipite my own renewed patronhood, and hours of genunine toil? Well, my old pal has swept in to save the day. Great stuff! I put in £50 quid or so, which is probably an equivalent figure. Comparatively speaking. If we imagine hours divided by wage. I’ve actually put in more. Not that I like to brag. But we’ll both habve our names written on the wall, so it’s all the same. My name will be on a special wall, where only the bar staff can see it. When they poo. Actually, I think they got rid of all that bit. I wouldn’t want my name on a wall anyway. That’s tacky.

Anyway, quite a peculiar set of circumstances this time of year. Looking forward to the fringe. Expect content from me! I’ll be dropping content. Content. Content! Or I’ll be existing! Quite a feat in itself. Good luck!

Over and out.

P.S.
Forgot to mention, I also wrote a terrible poem about Pizza and bikes. I’ll enter it into the Edinburgh Cycling Campaign action group food and cycling competition and not win. That’ll show those pesky psychoanalysts!

P.P.S – (It’s been a while since I’ve done two Post Scripts eh. Good stuff.) Anyway, thanks to AI who contributed the image above. You’ll notice it’s a little strange. I used Canva and prompted with something along the lines of “Bodybuilder has the word “BACK” tattooed on top of his muscly back. Behind him, there are black and white checkers on a wall.” I hope I’m not liable for anything. Probably a good kick in. God knows I deserve it.