Hi Bums (U.S. meaning),
Who likes Peter Andre? I do. Obviously we share a lot in common musically, but really Peter is like a sort of greasy son to me. I used to live with him back in the last decade. We'd read together, and sometimes he'd watch me taking Salvia in the green house (My Salvia/greenhouse music selection: Just the song 'Death Rave' By Motor ), which made him laugh a lot.
Anyway, I was looking through some old boxes of tissues, and I found some scribbles I'd done about him. One poem, and a sort of diary of one of our days spent together... I do miss him.
Anti-Justice
Pete up on 'cid,
What did Katie did?
He hallucinates a dog,
It implodes and becomes a frog,
Peter and Andre,
Keats.
Portrait of the Artist as a Young Kangaroo, Living With Peter Andre.
Anna walked into the bathroom, and looked at me as I sat straining 'pon the toilet. 'You gunna be long?' she asked unsmiling, with upward eyebrows. 'I told you never to come in here, disturbing me when I'm having a shit' I replied with quiet yet unconcealed frustration. Anna frowned slightly. 'Why's it OK for him to be in here then?'. We both looked at Peter Andre, who was lying fully clothed in the empty bath tub, looking at our plain white ceiling. He moved slightly and looked back at us for a time, then let his greasy head roll back into place and resumed his daydream - all this without expression. I looked back at Anna with the same expression she had initially dealt me, and whispered 'It's different with him. You know that.'
She said that I was making her late for work, but then went back to bed.
I thought that Peter Andre was asleep as we sped to work in my blue Mini, until he suddenly turned off the radio. 'I was listening to that Pete' I lied. He ignored my faux protest and asked 'Ian? (he used to call me Ian) That Anna you live with - is she from that Russian book?'. 'No' I replied softly. 'That book was written over a hundred years ago'. Pete stroked his knee and muttered 'Tolstoy'. I nodded and applied the brake a little too hard. He began to tap the window slightly with his knuckle, but then as if remembering gossip asked if I'd ever read any Tolstoy, to which I replied that I hadn't yet. After a pause, I added 'You want us to read some tonight Peter?'.
He smiled and put his waxy yellow rain hat on. I assumed that meant 'yes'.
I looked at the piece of paper. It had 'One Stop' printed on it. A receipt. Some old fucker must have left it on the counter, so I put it in the bin and continued re-stocking the Golden Virginia and menthol L&B's. Ten minutes later I looked at Peter Andre, who was standing outside looking at the grey clouds. It was drizzling slightly, and Pete was smiling. I offered him an apple, and he galloped back into the shop. As I polished the granny smith, I noticed Peter's waxy yellow rain hat fall from his pocket mid-gallop. I pointed this out to him, but he didn't care - he just wanted the apple, so I let it roll across the counter. Pete took a huge bite, and his top lip was pushed up so far that it touched his nose. As he chewed he surveyed the shop - first the sandwiches, then the drinks, then the cigarettes and finally me. 'Ian?' he mumbled - only just clearing his mouth of granny - 'Are we all doomed?'. I replied that we were, and he smiled.
'I'm glad' said Peter Andre.
