The Gorko Gazette

DRIVING THE BIG VAN

Two helpings of chicken satay curry for the fatty
Who used to be a chef
Who used to be lots of things
Before time separated the chaff of opportunity from the wheat of necessity
This morning I was ungodly hungover
In a Sainsburys meeting room
Watching corporate training videos on an IPad
I lied about not working there before
5 years ago
Quitting very dramatically
Leaving without notice
My new manager Elliot
Is none the wiser
Is 22
Baby-faced
Fresh as a bucket of milk
I like him
But I also feel the need to intimidate him
Who are you
young boy
to be boss of me
Now himself
a man
What-o
22 I was a lout
A dope-fiend sexless mop-topped muppet
I hid a hip-flask full of hot whisky and honey in my hi-vis jacket pocket and sipped at it in the chiller when no one was watching
None of that now
I’m the driver
Which is a position demanding of sobriety and respect
Deft judgment
A kind nature
A jolly hello!
A hearty handshake!
I think for all this joking
There’s nothing that funny about
Being stupid and angry all the time
Making the same bad decisions
Over and over
Working so many jobs
Because no place can stand me
Nor I stand it
The record of my life is like an old ornament
Knocked off the mantelpiece
Shattered
And some of the pieces have been hoovered up
Or cannot be recovered from too far under the sofa
All those cracks and chips and inconsistencies no longer add up to a neat whole
It’s a bugger
But all I can do is
Go to work on Sunday
And try not to think about it
Try to have fun
Driving the big van

---

THE BOSS’S DAUGHTER

She set me on fire
Still does
After 3 years
And how much we’ve changed
Back then I’d be stretching the pizzas
And staring at her arse
As she was washing the dishes
Clanking and slamming them around in the soapy sink
Angry at her Dad
At everyone
I liked that about her
She was a fierce babe
And too right
Her Dad paid me fuck all
And her even less
Her rage was not without reason
Her lot in life has been rather shite
Yet despite everything
She’s turned out the way she has
A real tough, cool cookie
I couldn’t believe my luck
That night on the fish quay
Drunk to hell on white wine and margaritas
When she turned the corner
And her black eyes flashed
And we kissed like animals eating each other
I never knew what she saw in me
The curly-haired creep
The bum pizza-maker
But here we are now
With our flat
And our funds running low
I worked for her Dad for a year then left
Tried a bunch of different avenues
Failed at them all
Then came back
We’re both screwed that way
We don’t know ‘what we want to do’
I’d be ‘without occupation’
If it was up to me
The poet
The writer
HA!
They don’t pay you for that
Unfortunately

---

ONE LEG

Our street is always quiet
Except for the cats fighting in the middle of the night
And the African lady next door
Shouting at her kids in the morning
In the flat it’s quiet too

Mia has dreams I’d be a terrible father
I go out drinking and don’t look after the kid
She has to buy all the baby things herself
She is the only one who changes its nappy and buys it the right food

Mia never finishes her coffee
When I make it for her
She complains that
The cup tastes like washing-up liquid

When we listen to music
It annoys us
We turn it off
The flat is never cold
But it’s never warm

I wretch in the shower
I blow a snot-rocket and it mingles with the hair in the drain
I wonder why we aren’t having so much fun anymore

We leave for work at the same time

On the Coast road
I get a phone call
And briefly there is the excitement of a panic as I pull my phone out of my fleece pocket

‘What’s up?’
‘I’ve just scraped my car on the drive gate. I knew I was going to hit it, but I just kept going. It made a horrible loud sound.’
‘You need to learn how to steer when you reverse.’
‘Yeh, I know. Bye.’

I’m almost out of petrol

I can’t get in the unit
Don’t have the key for the lock

I can’t be arsed with any of this shite

There’s a seagull
On top of the Royal Mail depot
Standing on one leg
With impeccable balance

Here’s Bob

He lets me in
And I perform my ridiculous function:

Rolling cold dough into balls

ABOUT THE ARTIST

George Vincent is a working-class writer from Newcastle Upon Tyne. He works as a chef. A very bad one.

Image generated on Magic Studio

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