Demicoli

I’m writing this for a variety of reasons. There seems to be a massive power cut, so that has left me with absolutely nothing to do in the heat. The only thing I can listen to is Joe Demicoli’s version of Chiara’s What if We. Which isn’t such a bad thing after all. I like Joe Demicoli, yes I know he can go hamallu, and yet I still like him, because his wit is what makes me like him. I keep dreaming of going to some dinner dance which is held every Saturday evening at il-Buskett Roadhouse where he is there for the entertainment. Mister smiles every time I request this. He’s a crafty one, he smiles way too much! And yes I know there will be a lot of garish outfits to compliment the hamalli at Buskett Road House, but I still want to go. I can take hamallu, I don’t take nasty, but hamallu is not nasty, it’s just letting your hair very very down and laughing at a lot of jokes which involve sex and lack of it. So what? It’s a small price to pay to enjoy Demicoli, and I might just enjoy the hamallati too. Being a hamallu isn’t that simple, Joe Demicoli is not simple, there is a great mind behind all of that. But he knows where his money making lies, so he goes with the flow. And there again I think of my mother, and now it’s my turn to smile. Oh dear Lord, if she knew I was intent on anything like that, she’d be mortified. She would never go to a place with women whose arms are in camouflage four inch thick solid gold bangles. Myself… although I do not own any of the bangles, I actually like them. Because they’re so big and I like big. Again my mother would never venture to a place which seems over-run by an epidemic of bleach blondes. Myself… I like watching them. Am I a voyeur? Could be. I like watching a lot of things. I just stay as quiet as a mouse, say nothing, and watch watch watch. I’ve always been that way. But I don’t think I’d behave that way at the Roadhouse. I’d probably even join in and be as loud as the rest of the other people. My mother again, she wouldn’t go anywhere where she’d call no uplifting. Sigh. I’d like to uplift a lot of things I will not mention here. But where’s the fun in uplifting? Nowhere. Mum, it’s time you grew up a bit you know and didn’t think that a dirty joke meant queuing for confession the next day at 6am. Sexy, dirty jokes exist for a purpose, and that is either to make you cry or to make you laugh. I choose the latter. Even if they are so soppy that they could pass for a laxative. I sometimes wonder where I really came from. My stoic mum? I can never ever imagine her having sex, and even if she did, she wouldn’t have undressed from top to toe. How did I come about? Did she shoot it through a syringe in private or what? And perhaps she wasn’t sure it went in so she gave it another shot, hence producing unplanned me. Or perhaps behind the most straight-faced of people lie sex vixens? I’ll never know. Mum’s not telling and dad keeps mum about it. All I know is that I just have to go and see Joe Demicoli before I die.