* 200 articles. Two years. Whelk. The best of Upsideclown. Might be reprinted.

The Ibizan book of the Dead

10 June 2002
Dan's been taking some holiday time

They had the England game on a giant screen over the bar. And when I say giant, I fucking mean it. The thing stretched up to the roof, which when you take into account the fact that the Britannia Bar is more generally known as the Britannia Barn is quite an effect.

Of course, everyone had seen it earlier anyway, at the Paradise or the George or, if you like that kind of thing, the Dorian, or on shitty pirate cable in one of the "local" bars, which are nothing of the sort but have straw donkeys on the walls and tattooed barmen who came over on the run from the law in the 70s. So by this time nobody was exactly glued to it, except three pissed-up Scots blokes who had somehow managed to miss all the signs - the bunting, the flags, the tattooed beerguts screaming into each others faces - and were cheering the Argies like they could turn back time with the power of blended whisky.

We're slurring for England,

We're playing our song.

Odd pockets of sudden stillness on the dancefloor when one guy caught sight of something on the big screen and tugged his friend's shoulder. So they would stop, and look, and a ripple effect would go out across the warehouse. By the time the edges had looked over, the moment had passed, the spotters were back to slipping in beer, and the ball was out of play. Like the polar opposite of a Mexican wave.

The DJ wasn't helping much. E'd up twat from Gateshead who left a pregnant fourteen year old back home to chase the big break. Didn't realise that all those "Ibiza Club Classics" compilations were full of thirtysomethings with flats in Hampstead or Paris or Milan. When he's out of it, which is most of the time, he'll come up to anyone in a suit and ask if they're "spotting". At which point they usually break his nose.

Anyway, he'd decided that, what with England's glory and everything, scattering a few football songs in among the happy hardcore would be a really good idea. Which is all very well if it's "World in Motion", not so good when you're down to Ant and fucking Dec, "Back Home" and "Allie's Tartan Army". Christ's sake...

All of which is completely lost on the boy I've been chatting to for the last thirty minutes, if by "chatting" you understand, "sitting next to, making intermittent eye contact, smiling whenever he gurgles something apparently meant to be a witticism and letting him feel my tits".

He's pretty photofit. Crew cut, white T-shirt outshone by a vicious case of sunburn, biggish biceps failing to distract from none-too-faded acne scarring across his cheekbones. Low, of course. Married at 20, hasn't called his wife since he arrived last week, but his wolfpack of mates have in effect insulated him from pulling by hovering up everything in a Union Jack thong. A loser among losers, one of the world's born stragglers. But now he's got me. Thirty seconds of tongue, a hand on his cock and he's mine.

When you're lifting keys from bags in the cloakroom, you can't really afford to be choosy, but I've done pretty well this time. The hotel is walkable from the Brit, and it's a decent size, well-appointed, and clean. At least for the moment. I'm a little concerned he might notice that all the clothes on the wire hangers are men's, but I really shouldn't have worried. Before the door clicks shut he's stretching my spaghetti straps and burying his face in my tits as if my sternum grew truffles. It's not quite the fireworks and shooting stars you might have expected from those sultry Ibiza nights, but he's nicely distracted as I reach for the sports bag I'd dumped within easy reach, unzip it, take out my own big hard weapon (a claw hammer, in point of fact), and give it to him. Hard. In the face.

There's a nasty cracking sound, and when I pull his head back by the hair I can see he's bitten through his lip. But he's still making little suckling faces, even as his eyes roll up into his skull. Like he was just hungry. I let him have it again in the other temple, and he goes down with a sound like a bad tackle. I've got the Stanley out before he hits the ground but I think he's gone by the time the real work starts.

Anyway, the rest you'll have read about by now. The bathtub, the removal of the kidney, the phone by the side of the tub and "Call an ambulance" written in the mark's own blood on the wall. I don't know. I was bored.

I dumped the kidney behind the bins at the Britannia Bar, but it didn't seem like a great idea to go back in, and the smell was sticking to my hands, so I thought I'd head for the sea. Wash it off there.


This is the fucking archive

Current clown:

18 December 2003. George writes: This List

Most recent ten:

15 December 2003. Jamie writes: Seven Songs
11 December 2003. Dan writes: Spinning Jenny
8 December 2003. Victor writes: Rock Opera
4 December 2003. Matt writes: The Mirrored Spheres of Patagonia
1 December 2003. George writes: Charm
27 November 2003. James writes: On Boxing
24 November 2003. Jamie writes: El Matador del Amor; Or, the Man who Killed Love
20 November 2003. Dan writes: Rights Management
17 November 2003. Victor writes: Walking on Yellow
13 November 2003. Matt writes: Disintermediation
(And alas we lost Neil, who last wrote Cockfosters)

Also by this clown:

11 December 2003. Dan writes: Spinning Jenny
20 November 2003. Dan writes: Rights Management
30 October 2003. Dan writes: My only goal
9 October 2003. Dan writes: The Knot
18 September 2003. Dan writes: The Engelbart Elephant
28 August 2003. Dan writes: The Amity Index
7 August 2003. Dan writes: This Sporting Life
17 July 2003. Dan writes: Touch
26 June 2003. Dan writes: Metadata
5 June 2003. Dan writes: Street Mate
15 May 2003. Dan writes: Usher's Well
24 April 2003. Dan writes: Medicamenta
3 April 2003. Dan writes: Weapons of Mass Construction
13 March 2003. Dan writes: David Sneddon, Bukake Secret Agent
20 February 2003. Dan writes: Mary Sue
30 January 2003. Dan writes: Bait and Switch
9 January 2003. Dan writes: What Never Happened
19 December 2002. Dan writes: Sermon on the Mount the Face
28 November 2002. Dan writes: Ballroom Blitz
7 November 2002. Dan writes: The Photographer
17 October 2002. Dan writes: Diaphragmatic
26 September 2002. Dan writes: A life in the day
5 September 2002. Dan writes: Different Class
15 August 2002. Dan writes: Story and sequel
25 July 2002. Dan writes: Fellatious
4 July 2002. Dan writes: Skin Mag
10 June 2002. Dan writes: The Ibizan book of the Dead
16 May 2002. Dan writes: The Sissons Situation
22 April 2002. Dan writes: UpsideClown and Out in Hollywood
28 March 2002. Dan writes: Nereus' Daughters
4 March 2002. Dan writes: Diomedes
7 February 2002. Dan writes: Text Only
14 January 2002. Dan writes: Civil Engineering
20 December 2001. Dan writes: Nativity
26 November 2001. Dan writes: The Wedding Band
1 November 2001. Dan writes: what dreans mecum?
8 October 2001. Dan writes: Stop me if you've heard this one before
13 September 2001. Dan writes: Mother of the Muses
20 August 2001. Dan writes: I say I say I say
26 July 2001. Dan writes: Bigger, Better, Brother
2 July 2001. Dan writes: Hecatomb
7 June 2001. Dan writes: Dispassionate Leave
14 May 2001. Dan writes: Small Town Boy
19 April 2001. Dan writes: Maintaining the Driving Line
26 March 2001. Dan writes: Cut and Paste
1 March 2001. Dan writes: Redemption
5 February 2001. Dan writes: Blyton the Face of the Earth
8 January 2001. Dan writes: Smoke Signals
18 December 2000. Dan writes: The Loa Depths
23 November 2000. Dan writes: The Limits of Melissa Joan Hart
30 October 2000. Dan writes: Shiftwork
5 October 2000. Dan writes: Dawson
11 September 2000. Dan writes: Testing Times
17 August 2000. Dan writes: Onanova
3 July 2000. Dan writes: Roboto il Diavolo

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