Francois, part 3

Oh Francois

My mind harks back to when our love flourished like dead aloe vera. Our love was tinged by the smell of palmers cocoa butter oil, joop, and Kylie Minogue’s light years. Those were the days when the mere suggestion of eastern euopean fags that smelt of burning tyres and virgin trains cappucino would signify great intent. I would tremor at the mere sight of Richard Branson and the sock shop and  paperchase stationary would excite and delight like a bagel cooked in the microwave. Halcyon days. Days where you hoped an egg would never end, and when the ground beneath your feet felt like a mixture of cement, gravel and occasionally, dog turds.

You stole my affections like a turd burglar from a man with many pockets in his coat and the habit of wetting the bed.

And now I look at the manure farmer and the feathery Cs of his downcast, beautiful eyes in a haze of cheap chardonnay. About this time of night, Francois,  we’d be chewing on a coconut and glowering at each other, resentful of why we weren’t garnering more appreciation from each other, ready to rip out each other’s gizzards for telling each other the same old stories with the same old arguments, like a couple of angry duvets. And our down was bunched up at opposite ends of the linen square.

“Why can’t you lo0k more pleased to see me?” I would snarl.

It was hard to speak normally with a muzzle on.

“I am pleased to see you” you would drawl. I never understood why you’d have to sketch your responses to my bad moods.

An uneasy ceasefire would then begin. I don’t know why Francois would insist on dining at ‘The Beirut bar and grill’.

Then we’d walk home. I’d lag 5 meters behind. It was really important to insulate pipes, especially as fuel costs are rocketing. Francois was so wasteful. Once he sprayed a whole can of febreze just on one pillow case.

Then the paradoxical communication would begin. Triangles everywhere. An air of unfairness and injustice hung in the air, like a pair of Hitler’s wet undergarments after he’d walked home in the rain after his Zumba class. It stank the room out. Or was that all the dishes in the sink? Or the overflowing bin. It became so hard to tell whether the stench was from the decay in the house, or the decay in our relationship.

Francois Part 2

Oh my good god, part 2 of my life saving Twitter story ‘Francois’ now has it’s sister part. Read part 1 here,

Of course, you’ve read it. I know this cheri. You probably read it every day, just to validate your existance. You might read it to your boss to secure a promotion at the polystyrene cup factory. You might sing it, like a song, to someone you hope to entreat to be your aggressive lover.


When I feel that raw, dull ache, I know Francois is hard at work to break down the wall I have built. It’s a dry stone wall. He hates walls.  He held a fondness to deconstruct them with naught but a crudite in his elegant hands. I think of his aristocratic sneer & congugate verbs.

Everytime I pass a disabled toilet with radar access, a brick is removed. It’s very obtrusive. Especially as you can see inside the bog.But is it he who is deconstructing the wall or do I deconstruct it with my own gnarled beaks? It’s him. I told you that at the start.

I loved the way his thyorid problem made his eyes bulge alluringly, like frogspawn in a pond. The more they bulged, the closer he was to me. I shudder, like a biro and think about speaking english in a foreign accent.

The manure farmer strayed from his watch, and all my hard work fell around my ears, like quadratic equations.

The farmer had claimed me in our most vulnerable point of our relationship. When we’d split up. It’s difficult to sustain your relationship when you’ve split up. The not seeing or speaking to each other really takes it’s toll. That’s how the farmer weedled his way in, like a weedle…

Let me tell you how it began…

Francois Part 1

Some of you  gifted with the blessing of twitter may have been following my story about Francois. Due to huge pressure from my adoring fans, I’ve been asked to consolidate those tweets into one regular monthly payment, much like a debt consolidation business who can use a government loophole to free you from your catelogue bills.

So here it is. A tender story of love and loss that will move the hardiest of coutenance:

One fateful night, I sighed. He looked up from his manure plough and drew me a picture of ‘Francois’. It was then I knew he loved me.

Francois. That name stung me like a slap from a gay man. I could only smile into a receptacle and look at him from under my carpet sample.For now, all I have is a crude picture of Francois and a man with a manure plough who loves to watch me exhale.

 I enjoy the attention.


The name plays on my lips like a herpes scab. I search the air, looking for some sign. I see one. It says ‘Give way’. I do and so I yield to my manure saviour.

He is burly and his hands are dry and cracked. They contrast with Francois’ pink silk gloves. My mind sweeps back all too willingly to the evenings where Francois would leave his pink gloves over my balti dish. Foolish memory! How you taunt me.

“Oh Francois! look what you’ve done to me!” I silently cry out, hoping in some way he can become sensible of my words.

As  my manure farmer looked dolefully on at my twisted visage, he pleaded with me to love him. Yet it was Francois that I could only think of. Francois and his quick wit and receeding gumline. How he would make a nest out of breakway wrappers and fag ends. How he’d smoke naked.The manure farmer threw a stone at me in a futile attempt to get me to look at him.  It hit my arse. Despite the crippling pain, My eyes would only see Francois and his goitre!

 Oh Francois! Once we played doggie on a stick on the wasteland behind the tip. He was so cosmopolitan. I missed hibnobbing with the binmen! Life with Francois had been a haze of celebrity binmen, soft drugs and hard women and dirty-dirty houses that smelt of chip fat.  Just thinking of the glamour catches in the back of my throat. I thank the heavens a sink is close by, in this field. Which is rather remarkable in itself, so maybe the heavens listened. The manure farmer cannot match this.   I hate the farmer for not being Francois.   He looks sad.   He silently pleads with doe like eyes for me not to leave. In my head I was already gone.

To be continued (via Twitter and then consolidated on here)