|Conversations with Phillip (standard:other, 1049 words)|
|Author: Andrew R||Added: Jun 10 2002||Views/Reads: 1830/1||Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)|
|What excuses do you make for yourself and your dirty antisocial behaviour? How about blaming it on the best modern poet never to be poet lauriat? He just happens to have died 20 years ago.|
Conversations with Phillip By Andrew Rough "Mr Holland, do you have anything else to say?" The woman, who looks about forty, with faintly greying hair, gives me a weary look. I turn to Phillip to get his considered opinion on the situation, "I don't see how it's relevant Phillip, but if you think." I look back at the woman again expectantly, waiting for a response to Phillips comment. She sighs and gives me an exasperated look, "Mr Holland, just for arguments sake pretend I can't understand what Mr Larkin is saying," "He's not speaking French you know," I consider my comment then carry on, "He can speak French though, if you would prefer." "It's not the language he's speaking Mr Holland, we've been through this, I can't actually hear him, or see him for that matter. Would it be possible for you to tell me what Mr Larkin is telling you?" I give her a kindly understanding look to show that her shortcomings don't matter, I nod apologetically at Phillip who is looking at me in that irate manner he gets when he starts to get impatient, "Phillip says, he can see your nipples through your shirt." She gets up suddenly; I can see Phillip's comment has offended her, "I'm sorry, you asked, I told Phillip I didn't think it was relevant." She gets up writing something on her note pad, which she hands to the burly looking piece of meat at the door, he reads it and walks towards me with a syringe in hand. I don't struggle, I hope my amiable good humour will change his mind; I just wish Phillip would stop shouting profanities at him. I met Phillip Larkin on a train. It was one of those old style ones with the separate compartments, they still run on the Reading line. We were just passing through Slough when he came into my carriage, short, balding, bespectacled man with a mild mannered expression, "Always hated Slough, it's a fucking shit hole." I must admit I was quite shocked by the vulgar comments coming out of such a refined looking mouth. I realised instantly who he was, who else but the most talented poet of his generation could make such a foul comment about Slough. I had to agree, admittedly, Slough is a shit hole. "Mr Larkin? What a pleasure to meet you." "Call me Phillip, dear boy." He sat down next to me with a mischievous look on his face. He was wearing a large Mack, made popular by exhibitionists of parks everywhere; from underneath it he took out a magazine. I looked out of the window, thinking he wanted to be left alone, but he nudged me on the arm and said "Have a look at the nipples on this one dear boy, they're enough to make you come on the spot." He laughed heartily at my expression. In those early days of our friendship he seemed to delight in shocking me. The only problem was his bouts of depression, brought on mostly by people failing to understand what he was saying, he would take to standing inches away from them and with flem spitting out of his mouth scream, "Am I speaking fucking French? I can speak fucking French if you want me to you know." Even though I'd read it about him, his vulgarity always embarrassed me. I marvelled that someone who could produce such marvellous, beautiful poetry could be such a vulgar, perverted, hateful little man. I shouldn't say that of course, he take comments like that as a compliment. My relationship with Sarah had never been particularly steady. She worked in the same office as me in Reading. We had a strange relationship, which she liked to keep private from the rest of the office. She said it made it more special, more intimate. I didn't mind, as long as we still had our intimate moments together. At least that's what it was like before Phillip decided to be my best friend. He found it even funnier to shock Sarah than he did me. It's quite easy to shock a nineteen-year-old secretary when you're a dead middle aged famous poet, especially one with such a reputation for perversion and vulgarity. I still hold to this day that things could have been different with Sarah if the security guard hadn't caught Phillip watching her from behind the Yucca plant with his zipper open and his hand on his anatomy. I thought it was a bit unfair that I was asked to leave the building and clear my things; they should have just banned Phillip. That should have been it, but oh no, I had to be week willed. It's hard to say no to a would be poet Lauriat. In his low moments Phillip would go on long rambles about the injustice of dying just before he was named poet lauriat, "That shit Hughes didn't deserve it. He was such a git his wife stuck her head in the oven to get away from him." I tried to suggest that Sylvia Plath suffered from clinical depression and that if Phillip cared to read Ted's 'Birthday Letters' he would see just how much he really cared for Sylvia. I thought he was being a little too self-pitying and venomous to poor old Ted Hughes, admittedly an inferior poet, but all the same. Maybe it was my defence of Ted that made Phillip become so malicious towards me. He suggested I go to Sarah's flat in Tooting to explain what had happened in the office and apologise on Phillips behalf. How was I to know that Phillip had snuck in with me, whilst Sarah when out to buy some cigarettes. I can understand her annoyance at finding Phillip doing something like that, in her underwear drawer of all places, and calling the police, fair enough, but to blame me for the whole situation, that's a bit unfair isn't it? And Phillip, the malicious little bastard, would do a runner before the police arrived, only to reappear in the Doctors office a few days later and make vulgar comments about the poor woman's nipples. "You're a fucker Phillip, a real fucker," the bastard's smirking at me. How come they haven't tied him to a bed? Tweet
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