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the dirty man of europe

Jonathan Sayeed

"British households produce enough waste to fill the Albert Hall every hour. We face the shame and expense of being branded the dirty man of Europe."

Clare Short

"It's morally repugnant to sort of hurt the poor of the world."*

It's been scientifically proven that there are enough holes in the rozone logic to fill the Albert Hall. And confronted with a choice of 3 bickering ne'er-do-wells and the laughable concept of tic-tactical voting, I would vote Green again were I not on the run from the taxman. It's not like I'll still be singly liable for the thousands of pounds I was landed with when the Spanish fled from my flat six years ago. If I looked into it I could probably register. I just can't bear to let go of the romance. To quote Grampa Simpson, "I'm like mint sauce, 'cause I'm on the lam!"

* e.g., give a chav a chinese burn

_________

Niki sits cross-legged like a Turk, on the dead-end landing at the top of the short flight of stairs outside Mrs Crosby's room. He is surrounded by a massacre of plump, thick-lashed baby dolls lolling on the mince coloured carpet in various states of undress.
"What next?" I ask him.
"I lurrve to lick dawg poo," Niki drawls deliciously. His face is the colour of milky coffee, and my eyes linger on the ivory scimitar of his smile before dipping to my jotter on the bottom step. I draw a bulge-eyed cartoon boy wrapping his tongue around a coiled turd, and offer it up for his approval.
"What now? I'll draw anything you want. Just tell me what you like," I dare him.

"Coarse, graphic, non-consensual torture," he replies, in his measured, shipping-forecast purr. Precious smiles at me across the kitchen table. I had been rummaging in his temporary internet files the night before, like a groupie in a wheelie bin. I wasn't particularly moved by what I saw, but I'm mesmerised by his candour. I feel like I'm standing outside a forest. The clock ticks.
"Okay, then. I'll do you a painting." There's not much to say. He picks up his tea. His mug is yellow, with two little snouts where the handle broke off. He won't wash the inside because its brown coating improves the flavour of his tea. Sometimes, when he leaves it in the kitchen, I dip my nose and mouth into it and breathe the kind, lingering warmth.