never normly works proply an so I panic. It’s as if there’s some other voice a mine givin it, Don’t say that, it’ll make u look like a gimp. An so I’ll go, Yeh, maybe so, but…Then I’ll realise that the other person, the one I’m s’posed to be talkin to, can hear me. So I’ll quickly shut my gob, only to hear the other voice go, You fuckin sap. Now you look like you can’t even talk. Which you can’t, you stammerin piece a wasted shit. For fuck’s sake, just speak up.
Fuck off, leave me alone. I’ve just got gunge an shit down my throat.
Speak up, boy.
Obviously this voice must know that actually it can’t speak up, that it can’t talk cos it’s me, innit, it’s my voice. But it keeps tryin anyway. An then another voice, I reckon that makes it three fuckin voices, will go, Boy? In’t no fuckin boy. In’t no girl either but in’t no fuckin boy.
I just slated the way I was thinkin, same way my mind slates the way I speak. I slated it even before I finished thinkin it never mind sayin it, so I ended up soundin like a dick. An it’s like I know in my head an can even tell to you why I talked like a fuckin pehndu. But I couldn’t ever say it. Couldn’t ever explain it to anyone with my mouth. Couldn’t say, No, I in’t thick, I just got thinkin bout how wrong what I was sayin was, an then got thinkin bout how I weren’t totally right to think that way, but by then it was too late to say what I was gonna say anyway, so now I’m just sayin this instead. OK, I suppose it could make sense. I could’ve said it to someone an they might even’ve understood me. But I couldn’t really say it cos I’d mess it all up with loads a erms an sorrys an shit. An anyway, it only just makes sense an seeing as how I’ve probly already made a floppy dick out a myself, then the person I’m chattin to in’t exactly gonna listen to me explain why I sound so crap. It don’t matter none that this time I’d actually be makin sense. An so you just look like a sap an try to make things better by tryin not to give too big a shit. But I in’t a sap. OK? In’t a sap, in’t fuckin thick. I understand me. Fuck it all, fuckin useless tongue. Probly couldn’t even sixty-nine it. An no, I in’t a perve for thinkin that. This is just my mind remembering one time when my stupid tongue made me look a total khota in front a Kavi an Deepak an all the other guys in my Science lessons. I din’t know what sixty-nine meant, you see. I thought they were chattin bout the bus that goes down Chiswick, the one you take if you go down Brentford. I couldn’t even ask for a bloody bus ticket. Obviously I couldn’t. You can’t pull if you can’t fuckin talk, can you? Not unless you’re that Hugh fuckin Grant from that movie bout shaadis an funerals an shit. Always sayin sorry an erm an stuff. He still got his dick sucked, din’t he? It was on the news. Hugh Grant. Ponce.
Daydreamin is good for you. Better than wankin even, or at least that’s what someone told me one time. Actually he weren’t really tellin me, why would he? He was tellin someone else an I overheard him. At least my ears work. Unlike my fuckin tongue, my fuckin Shitesprecher. That in’t even my own word. It’s from a German lesson, I think. Or History. Same thing really, same teacher so you get em mixed up.— You’re trying harder these days, aren’t you, Jas? Carry on like this and I mean it, you’ll deserve at least a C in GCSE History…If you start having all those problems with it again, I’m always here to help. Not just History problems, you understand, any problems. We care about pupils at this school.
Lookin back, he was probly gay.
Or, again, was it German? We did bout Nazis in both lessons. Heil. I wonder if it’d be possible for a guy like me to be a Nazi. I’ll daydream that I’m a Nazi. I know it sounds like I’m being a wanker cos they were scum like suicide bombers, killin all them people an that. But were they all wankers? At least they walked an talked proply. An even if you reckoned they walked or dressed stupid, at least nobody’d take the piss outta them. Fuckin saluted them instead. Maybe I’d not talk such piles a shit if I spoke in German. It’s like, they don’t stammer cos they know what to say. An if they’re Nazis then fuck to all those voices criticising the way they think bout the way they talk an all that bollocks. Anyhow, fuck it. Someone made up the word Shitesprecher, meanin tongue, when we were doing a lesson on Nazis for History or for German. Mr Ashwood laughed with us even though I don’t think he found it funny.
Maybe I should’ve followed Hardjit to the library. I couldn’t go back to Room 418 cos Davinder an that girl were probly still in there an I was so late for lesson I’d get a detention if I showed up now. Should I daydream bout being a Nazi, or doing History bout Nazis when Mr Ashwood was always late himself so never got pissed off if you were? I remember that lesson when he… oh, man, no way. You in’t gonna bunk off lesson just so you can spend your time daydreamin bout some other lesson, you sad, sad, gimpy sap. I’m such a fuckin pehndu that not only can’t I decide what to say but I can’t decide what to daydream bout either. You could choose anything. But I reckon daydreamin is like proper dreamin, when you’re actually sleepin. You can’t sleep less you stop tryin to. Just got to ignore the voices tellin you how tired you are, an those that keep sayin, Get to fuckin sleep or tomorrow you’ll be knackered. Shouldn’t listen to them voices. Shouldn’t think at all. I only got bout twenty minutes left so I shouldn’t think at all.
—Why you being so quiet now, Jas? I tell you, sometimes you’re just like your father. I’m sorry, Bobby, but my son, he’s just like his father.
It’s Uncle Bobby, one a Dad’s best mates from Ilford who always cracks rude jokes whenever he comes round an who somehow makes Mum an Dad stop tryin to sound so fuckin posh all the time. He’s probly come over to see Dad but Dad’s still at the office cos Dad’s always at the fuckin office.
—Don’t worry, let him sulk in the corner, Uncle Bobby goes to Mum.— His salad is tasty today. Nice and meaty. Not like that rabbit’s food last week, thank God. These vegetarian children. Bloody gaylords, all of them.
—Jas’s not vegetarian, Mum goes, grabbin the corner a her turquoise pashmina shawl before it slips off her shoulder.— His grandmother is, and I’m trying to cut down for this new diet I’m trying. But Jas just doesn’t like meat, do you, Jas? That’s why usually he doesn’t put it inside these healthy salad plates of his. He doesn’t even eat my chicken biryani any more, even though I put extra chillies in it just for his sake.
—There’s a word for this kind of behaviour: arrogant. That’s what you are, Uncle Bobby says to me.— You should be grateful for the food your mama cooks for you. I remember I was bloody grateful to my mother when I was a young boy.
—Oh, don’t worry, Bobby, I don’t mind. It means I don’t have to reheat yesterday’s leftovers so I don’t have to feel like a bad mother, she goes, lettin out one a her posh laughs that makes her shawl nearly slip off again. Fuckin pashmina shawls. She’s got eight a them. She even wears one when she’s gardening. She bought them one time when Amit’s mum came back from Bombay an turned their living room into Pashmina Shawls ‘R’ Us or someshit. After she’s finished ‘R’
straightening it again she tries a spoon a my salad.— He’s trying to be a healthy young boy, that’s all, she goes. She makes me feel nauseous. Mum always makes me feel nauseous.
Can you imagine me makin a salad? Fuck that. But sometimes I’d like to, just to be healthy an that, I’d like to like salad. So fuck it, let me have made the salad.
—This, lamb is it? Never had lamb in a salad before but it’s not bad, young man. Then he winks at my mum.— Looks like you’ve got yourself a gaylord chef in the family. It’s a bit too spicy for an old man like me, but it’s not bad, son.
Fuck off, you wanker, an stop callin me a gaylord. I so wish I could say this out loud. You wanker, please fuck off. I request you to fuck off out our house an cease referring to me as a homosexual, you wanker. I in’t your son. I’d rather be your own personal fuckin rent
