The Life History of Guillermo Brown

The church bell woke me early. Birds made noise. Clumps of dead ants stuck in the vomit on my lapel. Coffee steamed at my feet, a polystyrene cup of the Lord’s joe. Next would come the kneeling down, the come-to-Jesus soft concern. Oh yes, I needed salvation.

Mornings hadn’t always been so bleak. In the home, Janet would plunge a pot of Blue Mountain while I sat in the Orangery circling stories. I’d then walk the herb garden to the shed, smoke three cigarettes and get to work, living out a dream.

Critics described my first novel as Kundera meets Lad-lit, in praise. And, amazingly, money piled up. Fame hit me, too. I remember champagne breakfasts at the Wolsley and Radio 4 tables rondes with those tits Self and Lawson. High on the cultural agenda I walked London’s streets with my collar turned up, master of the fucking universe.

Novel number two took me further from Janet and the boy to campus tours of the east coast and parties I could never have imagined in my shed. A balding, drunk critic of a certain pedigree cornered me at a celebratory lunch and declared his love for my sub-text. I laughed.

I then decided to base my third book on the west coast. I flew in to LAX from Heathrow, drinking vodka tonic from a glass, a fresh Moleskine unused in my back pocket carrying an idea that would kill me.

The novel idea was that a sweet, tarty girl leaves Rotherham, or some other such place, with the expressed goal of becoming the world’s biggest porn star. Write what you come to know, that’s what I’d been taught. And what I came to know was this: I would end up homeless twelve months later on the day I awoke in a fetal position with my genitals stapled, naked on a threadbare carpet in a crummy motel far from the city with a ragged cut Mohican and a nosebleed. I looked up at the dressing table mirror angled to the floor and knew that I could never go by my own name again. I grabbed the forty ounce of malt liquor and, unwittingly, read the label before downing it. I had a new name, Guillermo Brown.

Inter-view

With the ‘Johnny’ installation, you appear to have come full moon. It is redolent of your early ‘pissoir’ exhibition.

Yes, screen. Perhaps you might inform people so. I commenced in commerce-looking-at with the recreation of a shatyanyellow pass from twentieth century. They named them ‘toilets’ at that time. I resounds strangely for us. Who would say, I will free the bilge in the toilets? It is boominlaffta to ponder that. Hownever, I journey off the lines. A full moon, you might suggest and I return that as veracity. Nonethoughless, the decay and fecalness of the age is gallopinghorsesofjoy to my organs.


And how did you create the hotbanger bags?

We first lit jonathonpiece and shaped with static gloves. I concentrated then with more erection than in previous pip-sessions. I visualized and it became existent. We hitsticked it into the makerbox and they latexed instantly.


And the filling? Some have said you have filled with your own chilcram?

No, screen. It was the pharms.


You visited them?

Yes, time in them. Disembodied bulges linked to crudey tubes, same for three hundred years. Only three left now in the entire. They furnished a galleon of jim-jam. I filled the ‘condoms’, as the then-people named them, at the station with full and frank assistance of my man-wives, before hanging in the fibre woods for packs to come review.


And would you say you’re happy with it?

I would respond, if permitted, but your pose is indiscrete and doggly.

(The lights dim. The fibre wood dissolves to a memory as recounted to the screen)

Burgers

The line-cook flipped over twelve patties in a row, side-stepping along the griddle. Reaching up, she plucked pickles and tomatoes and lay them on the toasted buns. Johnny watched her from his seat near the pass. Her ass shifted like a hefty shopping bag. Some piece of meat, he thought, tearing his club sandwich.

She flipped the burgers again after two minutes and laid cheese on every other patty. I got to have this girl, Johnny thought, doodling on his napkin. This one is tight. He threw his bacon to the damp dog at his feet, jabbed a tooth pick in his gums, spat on his fingers and slicked his eyebrows. He threw out an arm for the waitress. ‘Give me some of them burgers, will ya?’ he said, sweating.

Chapter Four

I woke up from a dream in warm water with the magazine soppy over my wrinkled penis. I had been eating lunch with Jeffrey Archer. He salted potatoes and told me his ‘golden rules’. ‘No distractions’, he barked, continuing to salt the potatoes. He ignored my questions on ideas, character and setting, vigorously salting.
‘Jeffrey,’ I said, reaching across the table to touch his hand. ‘There has to be more to it than that. Tell me what I need to do and I’ll do it.’
‘No distractions!’ he shouted and slammed the salt shaker down on the table.

Lavender Hair

Bluey’s bodybuilder friend jiggled effeminately to the music, sliding up and down the blonde door-frame, while we rooted around the air-conditioned larder for wide-necked jars to accommodate the pool balls pinched from the games room. Daniel played mixologist, creating ‘dry pussies’, a hard, sour blend of vodka, Pernod, pickling juice and thin balsamic. We used the fourth round to fill the pickled onion jars rammed with stripes. The solids were scattered among the honey, chutney and jam jars in the heaving larder. We laughed hard, and I began to choke, when Vanessa walked in, her lavender hair flowing.

Oxtongue Square

The collection of genital piercings was more comprehensive than imagined. Two hundred live models hung around three floors of blank-walled space. Jennifer, the farm-hand’s daughter, stood astonished in the Prince Albert room. Fifty-two men stood while a character in a magnetised suit brushed past them.

Jennifer thought about how her mother would milk their cow. She had always thought it the most natural yet intrusive procedure. She remembered how her mother had said that men were just like cows and had to be milked regularly.

The man in the suit stood next to her. ‘How do you like it?’ he asked, without a smile. Jennifer sniffed her fingers nervously.
‘It’s ok,’ she said.

Jonathon Repander's Extraordinary Circus

Born into an elite race of musclemen and women, my childhood was an amalgam of competitive posturing and hardcore muscle stretches. Us kids went behind the silver trailer and hung weights from our own parts. This was curtains for the girls. And they were thus strung to a life of freakery. But this was normal for them. We never used the homemaker phrase about clinging to the apron strings out on the road.
I showed prowess. My father sat me on his knee at seventeen and looked me straight in the eye with his greyed pinky socket. ‘Jonathon,’ he started, chewing on crud. ‘You know I loves you, don’t you?’ I nodded and licked my lips. ‘Well, I wants you to take on the family business and all that...’ I had then become the very man that we had been inventing behind the trailer all those years. Tears ran down my cheeks into my unnatural cleavage.

I'm Lemonade!

I found my calling last night when I slipped my Jamaica through my legs to the bum crack and taped it up. Next I enveloped my legs in synthetics and twiddled my dee. An hour passed in a rush of titivating. Complete as I woman, I stood rapturous before the mirror and mumbled Buffalo Bill seductively. My mother entered. She looked mid stroke. ‘It puts the lotion in the basket,’ I shouted, waving ferociously at her to leave.

Epiphany

Yesterday was a landmark day. I was sat on the floor, things lapping at the piss puddles in my thigh caves, when I understood life. It dawned on me that the meaning I had been searching had always been present. I was life. And it was like that moment in Short Circuit 2 when Lieutenant Harris from Police Academy rode in on a tank. Everything made sense. I said to myself, ‘Chuckles, you are the very epitome of life on earth. It shall be your duty herein to make our planet a place of scents for all.’ And so, I shall now spray you with my musk, my very bud.

Fruits

When there's little of public interest that happens to you it's hard to write here. So, instead of an account of what happened, I think we should focus on what might have happened. Yesterday I began work on a novella set in an imaginary banana republic governed by an ox of a man known to the peasant population as 'il furiotal' ('the hard block'). 'Il furiotal' was known for his sexual peccadillos throughout the land. He had a penchant for baskets of fruit. He would sit on his throne, a fat hole cut out of the velvet seat, while small servants with thin moustaches fed him grapes through his very own. He would do this for hours while the general population revolted.

Fannies drenched with product

So the failure of my last blog led me to this one. All 3 of you who read my last piece of shit, I thank you. The gratitude I feel for you is like that of the man who, his body shredded, a child pissing on his cuts, turns his face to look at you as you walk past him and says, in Tony Blackburn's voice, 'thank you, dearie.'

And this time I'm not going to proclaim anything about my prowess or ambitions. All 3, maybe 2, of you are fed up of hearing me talk. Every fucker is. Boring, boring, boring. Stinky old chopsticks up a slapper's flapper covered in brown.

But to those new to the game, let me welcome you all with a big fucking 'toot toot'. I promise you that this will most likely be the last entry in my fat fucking book of failures.