Noughties by Ben Masters Read Free Book Online Page A

understood that he meant for me to follow him, and rose with a sudden flurry of panic and trepidation.
    This lad (a volunteering third-year) had stocky inclinations—could be hard if he wanted—and a face like the back of a shovel. He carried a piece of paper that bent and crumpled in the wind. (I was to sit in a secret room for half an hour and analyze the contents of this sheet, preparing clever-clogs things to say about it in my interview.)
    “Ah,” he said, peering at the paper. We were walking along the grassy edges of the main quad, boxed in by neat angular buildings straight out of the movies. “We read this poem for a tute last week.”
    “Oh yeah?” I was anxious but alert, trying to keep up.
    “Yah. It’s about the pleasure of the chase. Bloody good poem.”
    “I see.”
Pleasure of the chase, pleasure of the chase
. I fumbled after the words, desperate to possess them.
    “Here w’are,” he said, showing me into a tiny birdcage of a room, all the space hogged by a creaky oak table. “Good luck, Eel-iot.” He slapped the wind-beaten poem down and shut me in. There was a girl opposite, already under way, reading a passage for a Law interview. Her sheet was carefully colonized by different-colored highlighter pens and fastidious notes. She had tears sliding down her puffy cheeks. Fucking depressing.
    It took about fifteen minutes before the words of the poem began to register. I repeatedly passed my eyes over it but nothing went in … no discernible subject or images stuck. I wasn’t reading so much as looking. It might as well have been written in a different language.
    Whoso list to hunt, I know where is an hind,
    Pleasure of the chase … Come on, Eliot … it’s all about the pleasure of the chase … 
What
chase? The chase of
what
? Christ.
    Whoso list to hunt, I know where is an hind,
    It’s a sonnet … I think … one two three four five six seven eight nine ten eleven twelve thirteen fourteen. Jackpot! Sonnet. Great. Love poem then, right? So why is he talking about deer and hunting and shit? Kinky?
    Whoso list to hunt, I know where is an hind,
    Oh yeah? Even if you do say so yourself …
    But as for me, helas, I may no more.
    Unlucky.
    The vain travail hath wearied me so sore,
    I am of them that farthest cometh behind.
    Midlife crisis? Maybe you should think about getting a nifty little sports car or a nice young bird on the side …
    Yet may I by no means my wearied mind
    Draw from the deer, but as she fleeth afore
    Fainting I follow.
    Crikey, I know that feeling, mate. Brandy Knox, Year 12. Jesus, she was fit. She had legs like a giraffe and wore tight black trousers (great bum) with that scandalous thong-a-thong-thong-thong peering cheekily over the top. She oozed sex, but I couldn’t get near her. Only interested in older boys with shite cars and six-quid-an-hour jobs. I really feel this guy’s pain.
    Who list her hunt, I put him out of doubt,
    As well as I may spend his time in vain.
    Well, there’s no need to be a tosser about it. I’d have your back, be your wingman and that.
    There is written, her fair neck round about:
    “
Noli me tangere
, for Caesar’s I am,
    And wild for to hold, though I seem tame.”
    A little footnote at the bottom told me that the Latin jazz means “do not touch me,” which is a bit rude if you ask me.I do feel bad for him, but I feel worse for the girl/deer/whatever-the-fuck. Her boyfriend sounds like a right prick: overbearing, jealous, paranoid. In fact, almost exactly like me. Regrettable really, but okay as long as you don’t impinge like this Caesar chap. Come on though, the poet would behave the same way if he had half the chance—he’s already said he wants to ruin
my
chances. But is it all worth it? I guess. This girl he’s after does seem a bit of a lust-pot—“wild for to hold.” Oh yeah? Well, aren’t you quite the little—
    “Time’s up.” Spade face stuck his mug round the door and motioned me to follow.
    He