benjamin michaels - 9781784554750

8/20/2019 Benjamin Michaels - 9781784554750

1/15

1

About the Author

Benjamin Michaels was born in Rochester, Kent,

before moving to Portsmouth for University where he

studied the creative arts and graduated in 2010, before

eventually gaining a career in the media industry. He

spent the following six years working and living in

London. He now lives in Munich and spends his spare

time travelling whilst working on new novels.


2/15

2


3/15

3

Dedication

This work is presented as non-fiction, and it is

dedicated to everybody who has searched for answers

at the bottom of the bottle.


4/15

4


5/15

5

B e n j a m i n M i c h a e l s

L I F E N A K E D


6/15

6

Copyright © Benjamin Michaels (2015)

The right of Benjamin Michaels to be identified as

author of this work has been asserted by him inaccordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyright,

Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be

reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted

in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical,

photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the

prior permission of the publishers.

Any person who commits any unauthorized act in

relation to this publication may be liable to criminal

prosecution and civil claims for damages.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from

the British Library.

ISBN 978 1 78455 475 0

www.austinmacauley.com

First Published (2015)

Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd.

25 Canada Square

Canary Wharf

London

E14 5LB

Printed and bound in Great Britain


7/15

7

They say that in this world, riddled with torment and

suffering, that there is a person for everybody; a suitable mate,

the perfect partner, that one true love you’ll never forget, never

be without, never want to be without. I had that person; at least I

thought I did. I have spent the last eight years of my life

succumbing to her every demand; put a roof over her head, raised

her child, and filled her life with the luxuries I really couldn’t

afford.

Love. It’s a bastard of a word, capable of blinding those

deemed weak enough, welcoming them into a world of

camouflaged misfortune that promises endless riches. Find the

right mate, and you may just have that glorious happy ending

you’ve always dreamed of – fall blind behind the rosy tint and

you’ll struggle to see straight in this twisted world again.

All I know right now is that no matter what I do, or what

I say, she isn’t interested in me anymore. We have come to the

end of the proverbial line, and all I want is another fucking

drink …


8/15

8

Part One – Fucking

I have wanted women whose very shoes are worth all I have

ever possessed.

- John Fante

Ask The Dust


9/15

9


10/15

10

1.

It’s 3:46am. Wednesday-technically Thursday. Who cares?Another menial day at the office starts in exactly four hours

and fourteen minutes, yet I find myself sat here in the same

boxers I’ve been wearing for a week now, my fingers grippingat my thick black locks of hair, that are slowly drowning in

grease, staring down over my dad-like body, covered in fadedtattoos, rippling slightly from my excessive beer consumption,

into the bottomless pit of despair that is an almost empty (butnot quite empty enough for my liking) bottle of whiskey thatrests between my thighs, thinking about the one that got away.

I don’t mean this in the conventional way, I mean the one thatI should have reported to the police years ago. Instead, I sat by

taking every punch she threw at me, picking up the pieces

once she was done, and carrying on with my overindulgingways, blind to the long term effect it was having on my mental

health and my liver.Eight years together, suddenly halted to an ever violent

end. Crockery, tantrums, the fucking TV remote... she’d throw

anything she could, regularly. And yet, this is the sixth weekthat I have remained awake, albeit pretty smashed, thinking

about the W’s – Why? What? When? So many questions

unanswered. What did I do wrong? When did it all start to fall

to shit? Most importantly, why the balls did I put up with it?!Eight years, done. Scars for proof.When I first met her, I thought I’d seen an angel on Earth.

That, or someone had been fiddling with my smokes. She

seemed perfect in every way. Legs to make any man stand up


11/15

11

straight, and an arse that brought a tear to your eye – all three

of them! I need to have her I remember thinking to myself.

Unfortunately, at this moment in time, she already had adouche-sorry, boyfriend. So my time was spent elsewhere –

mainly disorderly with a skateboard under my feet and the sea

breeze in my hair, with some drunkenness thrown in for goodmeasure. Months passed, and with each one she only seemed

to get more and more beautiful. Her hair was short, brown,

silky. Her figure was slim but curvy and her arse stuck outlike nobody’s business. The last time I saw her she was much

less of an angel – or so my friends thought, but clearly some

people (myself included at the time) are attracted to womenwho like a nice finger-bang on the back seat of a bus. There

she was, douchebag in tow, his hand in her panties. That wasthe last time I saw her.

A few years went by and nothing. No sightings of saidangel again. I eventually moved away from my mothers and

started fresh in a new city. A new city, Portsmouth, with new

drinking holes... I had new hunting grounds. Women came,came (when I could get it up) and went – their choice, and I

was ok with it. Before I continue, I should make it very clear

that I love my madre, she is the true angel in this story and Icertainly wasn’t running from her but for a new life, anyway, I

digress. This one particular night, not that I knew it at thetime, would be a major turning point for my life. It was early

December and the chill outside sent my balls into my gut.

Nonetheless, it was no different from any other night, simply because, well, the pubs were open, and I was thirsty. So off I

headed, dressed in a pair of glittery leggings and a cardboard box wrapped up like a Christmas present – it was the

Universities Christmas Ball and I thought this would be highly

original... not to mention stupidly impractical. Having saidthat, considering it was a Christmas party, there was one

woman stood at the bar dressed as a fucking shark, with a

friend close by in a banana outfit – I immediately felt much better about my costume of choice.

I spent most of this night stood outside, smoking cigaretteafter cigarette and drinking whiskey after whiskey. The


12/15

12

cardboard box was very awkward to manoeuvre in large

crowds, and its flat edges also meant I was being used as a

walking table. Outside, stood next to me, was a small group ofguys; I didn’t know them, nor did I care to. I did, however,

know exactly whom one of them was talking about when he

reported the following to his friends:“Dude, there’s some hot bitch in there dressed as a shark!”

I laughed and corrected him. “Excuse me,” I said, “the

only “B” word you should ever call a woman is Beautiful.”This group of guys looked at me as if my uterus had just fallen

out of the soggy cardboard box I called my outfit. I continued,

“Bitches love that shit!” They laughed. I sighed,“Douchebags,” ditched the cardboard box and entered the

club.Without my box, I was 1) even fucking colder, and 2)

officially only wearing glittery leggings and white leatherloafers. If there was ever a time for me to have just gone home

and cut my losses, it was then. Instead I searched the dizzy

crowd for whom I would shortly refer to as “Beautiful SharkBitch.” I don’t know if it was the booze streaming through my

veins or whether it is genuinely hard to spot someone dressed

as a shark in a busy nightclub – either way, two hours passedand I still hadn’t found her . I grabbed myself another whiskey

and started thinking about the kebab van parked outside (theydone the best double sausage, double cheese half pounder

burgers in the city, and I was fucking starving at this point). I

headed out for one more smoke whilst I finished my drink,constantly spinning on an axis looking for the fin in the crowd

and humming the Jaws theme tune to myself. I steppedoutside, and almost instantly, my tits were hard enough to cut

glass – I made this the quickest smoke of my life and dashed

back indoors (still humming).There she was, stood by the exit, as if she was waiting for

me. I smiled, stumbled drunkenly and began trying to narrow

down my blurred vision and figure out which one was actuallyher. Now, get this... I introduced myself and she had the cheek

to ask me what I was dressed as... she was in a shark outfit at aChristmas party for fuck sake and she had the cheek to


13/15

13

question my costume! My retort was something along these

lines...

“Look beautiful, I don’t know what part you don’t get, butI am clearly a Christmas present”.

At this point, a tsunami of idiocy crashed over me as I

remembered that I was no longer wearing my box and was infact just a skinny prick wearing a pair of stupid fucking

leggings.

I corrected myself. “I was a present, but I lost my box.”She laughed, I laughed. I stumbled, again. This encounter was

about to be made ever more awkward as I reached into my

leggings and pulled out my mobile from my pants in anattempt to ask for beautiful shark bitch’s number. She

declined but quickly followed with,“Why don’t you just come back to mine? I’ll need a hand

getting out of this outfit...” Well, what kind of gentleman denies a woman in need a

helping hand?

The next thing I remember of this fateful night was

getting back to her house, having a cold beer and then waking

up to the sound of my mobile vibrating in my ear – at least Iwas hoping it was my mobile.

Yep. That’s what I figured. I was in her bed, naked, and itwas my mum calling – impeccable timing as always Madre. In

my search for beautiful shark bitch the night before, I had

completely forgotten (focussing on the task at hand) that mymum was picking me up in the morning for the Christmas

holidays. Gathering my bearings and saying goodbye toSharky, I pulled on my boxers and grabbed my keys; my

leggings were nowhere in sight. Now, it’s worth noting that I

was extremely hung-over and chaffing in the nether regions – two factors that do not help when required to run. I also stunk

of booze and fruity lube, a smell that would be under my nails

for weeks.I hadn’t been in the city very long and was still exploring

avenues, both geographically and mentally. I must have run incircles about three times before realising where I was. When


14/15

14

that infamous yet conniving penny dropped, my mission

began with more urgency than a Foreigner song. There I was,

sprinting for my life in a pair of pants and white loafers. Redraw in the groin and with a stomach that thought it was a

fucking gymnast. I deserved an award for dirtiest stop out of

them all. As I dashed through traffic, both automotive andhuman, my mum was still calling me. I cancelled the calls,

checked the time, and believed I was safe from ruining

mother’s image of her sweet little boy.I could see my halls appearing in the distance. I was

almost home free. The relief was unreal, surreal if anything. I

jumped into the middle of a dual carriageway determined notto stop. I was too hung-over and fuelled by adrenaline to care.

Though one thing is for sure, the piercing horn of a car a fewfeet away from hitting me did not help my headache. A rabbit

in the headlights, I stopped and slowly turned, thinking tomyself,

Christ, what these people must be thinking as they watch a

man running through the city in his pants at 8: 17am.I reassured myself that whoever it was, I’d be able to

apologise and wriggle free from some embarrassment with at

least a little dignity intact.Then I saw her. My angel. No not that one, my mother.

Squashed into her car with my brother and sister who bothdecided they’d come down and take me to lunch before

heading home for Christmas. Hello embarrassment, goodbye

dignity.


15/15

15

2.

It’s Saturday. May. Present day. I should be in London on adate but she cancelled. Too hung over. Offered me a coffee...

times like this I wish I actually liked the stuff, but it’s not myfault it tastes like a mouldy shit. Not to mention I’m burnt to a

crisp and I’m struggling to move. Dating anyone when youlook like a leper is not going to give a first good impression,

let alone help with getting the end goods of, providing

everything had gone well, a second date. So, instead, I findmyself coated in Aloe Vera, opening a fresh bottle of whiskey

and continuing... where was I?That’s right. Mother almost ran me over during my

attempt to get home after a one-night stand.

Almost as soon as I put my foot through the front door,she was calling to tell me she was outside. I tried to cover my

breathlessness and explained that I had just woken up and

needed to shower – I had to wash the stench of shark girl frommy skin and try to get the lube out from under my nails. I

asked her if she wanted to meet me in the local bar in twentyminutes. She kindly agreed and I bee lined for the bathroom.

It truly is incredible how much one persons aroma can stay

with you. It was burnt into my nostrils. I’m normally a big fanof the post coital shower, but I never did feel clean that day.

Meeting parent and siblings in the pub, I grabbed a beerand a fry up before taking a pew. All three of them were

staring at me. Smug. They knew. As my mum would later tell

me, it’s impossible for her to not recognise her own son thatshe raised for 18 years, whether he is just in his pants or not.

benjamin michaels - 9781784554750

Documents