Diary 1: Exhibit “A”

Bitstrip - Diary 1(ii)

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Guess who’s fucked? You’d be right: me.

 

Today another Moan-day and I’m running late. I slide my feet into my slip-ons feeling yesterday’s dampness and no sunshine to ease matters. With a look of rain I button up and shovel off to work feeling cursed. I’m in a rut, feck-arsing about, vegetating like a prisoner. Sinfully, I’ve become boring. Uneventful. At a standstill.

 

It usen’t be so; being nobody.

Despite my inner turmoil, I harbour dreams of conquering the world. Truth is, a reality check is only around the corner then depression will have me in its grip. I feel its onset. The start of the end. The end: a shotgun in the mouth and a sidebar news-story in a regional newspaper – 70 words? Meanwhile I’m playing survival as I look for a way out. An excuse. An exit.

 

But isn’t everybody? I’m no dim-wit; I know a thoroughbred doesn’t stand still. A guy has to shake a bone to be remembered. As I make over the bridge and work coming into sight, I egg myself on, screaming at my lot. You see, today I’ve come to a momentous decision: I do not belong here.

 

I roar into the blustery wind again: I DO NOT BELONG HERE.

 

It’s absurd, if not illuminating, for this reason: right now, at this precise moment, I begin thinking of myself as somebody else, as an entirely different person, a different life-form, a passenger no longer and instead at the wheel, driving my life. Perhaps something might happen, something good, a bonanza of some kind. Now I’m trucking along, growing in confidence, imagining my hour has come.

 

Only it hasn’t. False alarm, a false dawn. Reality hits. Nothing has changed. These past few years I often have the same escapist urge and do nothing about it. My mood dampens in keeping with the foul weather. There is no life-changing event. In fact, nothing has changed save for a revelation: mortality anxiety. I’m timing out; dying by degrees. My life is a wasteland. I’ve peaked. It’s downhill from here and I never made a jot of difference.

 

I’m appalled. By me. By my everyday. Feeling more antsy than usual, I dwell on it. When an idea takes hold how can it sit quietly, at odds with the body’s goings on, living a lie, mind and body, the self divided, acting in concert as one? Faking it.

 

Opinion has it you stop feeling things after a time, only I don’t. I’m uncomfortable in my skin and I’ve grown more conscious of it, of my existence: how peripheral, parochial, its become. Maybe it’s what made me lash out and deck someone. Oh, then there’s that. The fight and its consequences. I’m staring down the barrel of a gun.

 

Dad, he wants me to stick, to establish continuity. To invest in a life. One life. He knows I’m the eternal stop-starter, that I’m in the habit of discarding my life every five or so years. Nine is nothing, me, I’ve lived a dozen lives. I’m this, I’m that, then, hey presto, vamoose. I disassemble and restart in a new location with a new career, culture and friends, wandering the world to find home. It’s my reoccurring life-cycle, people and places always failing me. Or vice-versa. And I think if I start over one last time I’ll stop looking, a make-over bringing rebirth, bumping into the real me, finally. This dad knows, that if it’s stick or twist, I’ll always twist. Well, not always, see, these days I’ve lost my bottle; all will power is gone.

 

Instead I’m being pushed. This dad doesn’t know: fight then flight.

 

Or go to jail.

Yet, nobody is on my case.

Nobody knows I’ve a problem.

Yet.

 

Folk even think a guy like me has something. Sure, I’m a flash git in a suit but everything is relative. I’m being pulled under, caught in a world of ifs.

 

If only I was somewhere else I’d be doing something else.

If only I hadn’t taken so many wrong turns.

If only I bucked the trend.

If only I wasn’t everyman.

If this and if that.

 

Fucking ifs.

 

I start to wonder about it.

About regaining my individuality.

About becoming someone different.

 

Different to this ……

 

A snap-shot of us.

 

There she is at my door. In a skirt. A tight little number. Sexy brat. I wish I had it over her head. Instead:

 

‘You OK?’ I ask.

‘Just a little tired.’

‘Late night?’

‘Don’t start.’

‘What’s up?’

‘Notalot.’

 

I think she might strut. But no, she just stands there toying with me. I hold my own. With hands behind my head I bask, leering with fuck-you abandon. My x-ray eyes are on her, counting how many items of clothing she has on. Four. Maximum five (including panties). I’m allowed; I pay her wages.

 

We know what we’re doing; circling, sniffing. I’m like a five year old looking for hidden sweets. Perhaps she’s imagining me naked. She draws first.

 

‘What you looking at?’

 

She runs a hand over her blouse then paranoia climbs over her face. She goes to rub it off; she’s pawing at it, at her mug. There’s nothing there but it’s good because she submits to my stare.

 

I’m in control. And although the dominant one, I can’t condense it down. How do I explain I’m wondering what kind she is? Would we sleep as spoons? Would she wake me up with eggs Benedict?

 

‘Would you mind…’

‘Mind what?’ she asks.

 

She almost stops me; I almost turn away. I torch the idea but can’t be bothered making something else up. This is how it went down. Period.[1] We’re breathing it out. Making fists. Pissing the poison from our minds.

 

‘Oh, nothing’ I say.

‘Everything is nothing with you. You’re such a child.’

‘The way it is.’

‘Why?’

‘An exit is an exit!’

 

We keep saying nothing though she wonders about this. Deal with it, I think of saying.

 

‘Exits! Louis, what’s that supposed to mean?’ she asks.

‘Know what, I’m free-associating!’

‘… to dig yourself out of a hole?’

‘Like I’m in one?’

 

We stare. She’s only arrived and already acts bored. It’s true, she’s the only stimulus around here.

 

‘You do know I don’t take you for granted.’

 

Is it a question or fact? She awaits clarification, going limp, lifeless, praying on a confession. I continue:

 

‘You know sometimes ….’

 

Sometimes, I interrupt myself; cut myself off. Like now. She releases a huff. A sour face. A look of dislike. Meaningless questions; meaningless answers. And we’re only starting; warming up. I’m frustrated, fucked off I didn’t jerk-off last night. Then I might have slept. Now I could forcibly rape a sheep.

This is it, this is us: the waking day. Our everyday. The more I question the more alert she becomes. It’s our natural rapport, our intimacy. At least that’s how I have it in my head. Us, waking up in the office. Together. Courting.

 

Today her blonde locks are pinned back. Tightly. Her forehead is higher up. It’s how I like it. She’s quick to advertise her strengths: the acres on her face. Some famous ballerina said lashing her hair back was the cause of headaches. I suppose her suffering is fine with me especially if it’s for me. I’m down with penance.

 

She lingers. I register awe. Lust. I look. Gawk. Longer. Harder.

 

‘I look ok?’

‘Ya, fine.’

 

I don’t say ravishing. Instead.

 

‘Panadol in the canteen.’

‘I don’t have a hangover’ she says.

‘Wowa, frosty, hold up. Don’t pin anything on me!’

 

I’m holding my hands up. She draws breath. I like that she’s overstepped the mark: it shows how close we are; that I’m big enough to let it slide. She thinks I care about rank. I don’t. It’s why I passed on joining the army. Now there’s one General less. https://vine.co/v/hH1HMQLrn3z

 

‘You know the root cause …’

 

I’m swirling a hand between us but pull myself up mid-twirl, holding myself in check. Refraining. After all, why bother, why confess? She doesn’t care for my feelings, she only wants dirt. Gossip. Maybe she’s laying a trap. Tick tock, the sexual harassment clock! No more complacency for me, thank you very much. I change tack.

 

‘I thought you might have replied.’

 

It doesn’t need explaining. She ignores my text messages. I’m sending them into thin air. At least feed me a lie.

 

‘I swear I have this mobile that writes slower than me’ she says.

 

We’re looking at the guilty phone in her hand. It becomes a person. We’re having a three-way conversation. It’s what 22 year olds do. Discuss their mobiles.

 

‘Are we chatting about your phone?’ I ask.

‘Yeah. Why?’

‘I don’t do that.’

 

It shuts her up; stops her in her tracks. Now we’re back on track: back at work, all the while sailing away from nine o clock. She makes to leave. I pull her back. Pulling rank.

 

‘Any chance of a bagel. You don’t mind, do you?’ I ask.

‘You’ve never cared before.’

‘Well, what with your headache. Would make anyone narky.’

‘I’m not narky.’

‘Jumpy then.’

 

A huff.

Then.

 

‘You really should look at your diet’ she says.

 

Instead I look at my belly. And smile. I can easily see my dick over it.

 

‘At your age diabetes is likely’ she adds.

‘I’m sporty.’

‘More risk then.’

‘Is this you plugging your thing?’

‘It’s not a thing. I’m a celiac.’

‘Thought that was a type of car! You should try one – a sandwich; not the car.’

‘I only eat for one.’

 

She’s snappy and won’t let up. I’m not fat so it’s a wasted energy trying to pin a complex on me.

 

‘And eating three meals a day is feeding a family?’

 

She knows I’m right. But she has her ass to think of. Anyway, she can’t afford my diet. It’s rich in every sense.

 

‘Bacon and brie?’ she asks.

‘How you know me. Oh, and a latte. Thanks.’

‘No pastry?’

 

She thinks she’s being funny. Facetious is actually the word.

 

‘No thanks, though it beats eating tofu as a treat! I’m thinking of going celiac. A two litre diesel.’

 

I smile, patting my gut. She makes eyes at me – this isn’t her life. But it is. I go to reply but she beats the rush. She has already turned tail.

 

In her wake: a floral waft.

***

That was first thing in the morning. At 9am. After an hour I’m bored waiting for events to happen; for things to brighten up the day.

 

Then, later on. At 10:26am. My office. There she is, framed in the doorway. Again.

 

‘Maybe you shouldn’t be like, I dunno, so familiar with me.’

‘How so?’

 

She’s in the habit of saying no without actually knowing how to. I play innocent. We exchange nervous glances. A thought courses through my mind: what does it take to be a pervert? Is there a test of some kind? I go to pin her back, deliberately misinterpreting while revealing my bargaining chip.

 

‘Don’t be your boss?’

‘No! God no. That’s great, Louis. Really. That’s not it. It’s just …’

 

She stamps a foot, revealing how misunderstood she feels. Neurotic cow! The thrust of it is that I’m crossing a line. But I won’t let her say it.

 

‘Go on’ I say.

‘Hey, you seen the You Tube video about work practises?’

‘What? I’m not with you.’

 

I give a blank look. Yawn. Boring. You know sometimes, in ordinary day to day life, I die a little. Like now.

 

‘The video. I posted it on Facebook.’ she says.

‘Oh, ya! I’ll take a look later on.’

‘Ok. But I posted it two days ago!’

 

We’ve jinxed ourselves on Facebook. Cross-pollination. First week in the office and we’re FB friends. It would be unseemly to unfriend. I act like I don’t stalk her on-line. Of course I’ve seen her stupid video I just thought she’d keep us privileged. Instead twenty-six of her friends ‘liked’ the link. That really pissed me off. I know what she’s doing: they’re ganging up on me. All of them have me under suspicion.

 

Know what I’m thinking? How to make us an ‘us’. Why not? Aren’t we already involved? Otherwise this – work, training period, whatever – is pointless. I mean, why bother sleeping with her in my dreams if she’s going to carry on like this? https://vine.co/v/hHmYtIWPE5i

 

‘It’s good stuff. You should check it out’ she says.

‘You trying to educate me? Remember, I’m in law, not HR!’

‘Still.’

 

And ‘still’ sticks in my head. Still, it’s a warning before she drops me in it. Still, maybe I should keep a distance. She could pull reassignment. She could. Yeah, she might. I’ve mucked up before putting things in writing – those emails which I know she has kept – and now she’s saying …

 

Enough.

Still.

You.

The cheek!

 

I’m not desperate; at least I don’t have to be. I get a lot of come-ons so this is a mite unfair. Remember, it’s not me that’s supposed to be auditioning for something. So why am I under the kosh?

 

She finishes her little ditty. It’s rehearsed no doubt. Her Facebook friends put her up to it. But she’s holding back. She’s gone all squirmish. Girlish. Is it to protect her career or is she hiding her true feelings for me? Or else, maybe, just maybe, it’s a me thing?

‘You look crazy!’ she says.

‘Crazy?’

‘Ok, crazed. Louis, mind if I ask you something?’

‘Sure. Try me.’

‘There’s something wrong with you.’

‘That a question?’

‘Ya.’

‘How do you mean?’

‘You should see a doctor.’

‘For what?’

 

My lust? For losing my mind?

 

‘Being retarded!’ she says.

‘That’s not cool… or PC.’

‘Ok, sorry, for having a mid-life then.’

 

I let out a laugh, ok, its a ridiculous high-pitched squeal.

 

‘I’m only in my 30s! Oh, I get it – is it because I’m not brazenly hounding you!’

 

Now I’ve put it out there, she’s speechless. She watches me, horrified.

 

The pathos. Still, what do I care? Contrary to social etiquette I’m happy to sit out the performance. I button up. Spectate, watching her silently self-combust. Staring. Carnivorously. Disrespectfully. Are we terminal? She holds my gaze. Resolutely. We are sexual equals her look says. I cede ground. Blink. Withdraw. Retreat. Still, it’s not her, at least not the real her. She isn’t bred so. Bred posh. Assertive-like. Or defiant. It’s an act. The staring. An acquired put-on. She probably adopted it from some dopey character in a TV box-set. https://vine.co/v/hX35AYq21gX

 

‘It’s just everyone wants, you know …’ she says.

‘No, I don’t know.’

 

Truth is, I’m irritated. She’s such a hit with herself. She’s the kind of girl who volunteers she’s intelligent, the real blue-stocking, only she’s a phoney. She’s not hitting high IQs.

 

‘Well, you know, everyone …’

‘Ya, everyone – I got that bit. What is it everyone wants?’

‘Oh, nothing. Forget it.’

 

But I know what she means… So do you.

 

To follow the next instalment, insert email in the sidebar at the top of the page.


[1] The events described herein are all real save for a few parts that aren’t. I’m cataloguing events as they happen unless amending bits of legal necessity.

78 replies
  1. onenobodytoanother
    onenobodytoanother says:

    You have NPD surely you have figured that out by now. It is unbearable to listen to your endless self obsession. Get help, regular psychotherapy and meds might do it.
    The writing itself isn’t bad but how bored you must be of only ever writing about yourself. Nobody cares.
    Writing about sex is really not your thing. You have to enjoy sex to be able to write about it, give it up Louis cause that is something you are not capable of.
    Oh shit just noticed you recorded it yourSELF. Too funny. She is right there is something wrong with you.

    Reply
    • sarah manning
      sarah manning says:

      My friend’s a paralegal and told me to have a look at this.
      What’s going on? Does anyone know?
      Surely this can’t be a real diary thing? That poor girl if so. Such a bully :(

      Reply
  2. JGM
    JGM says:

    Just came upon this. Ok, the bad audio grated so I switched to reading and thought I’d drop it after a few words. No, the opposite. WTF, gold on the net. $$ It got me thinking, “The Rum Diary” for lawyers? He makes it look effortless. That’s a mix of gift and craft. A unique voice.

    To nay-sayers: he’s got his tongue in cheek! I think. He isn’t lionising himself but doing himself down with a twist of bite. Gloss is easy but introspection is difficult to write.

    Louis that anyone is having a go off you just shows their limitations – a donkey doesn’t get a thoroughbred :-) I’ve signed up so please email me to let me know the fallout.

    In Louis La Roc we trust!

    Reply
  3. sarah manning
    sarah manning says:

    Yeah, ok I get why you’d be intrigued in reading this and be a fan. But what’s the background to this? Everyone’s on about it in my office, but nobody knows what this guys game is. Why is he admitting he’s a sexual predator? Louis Lala Man fill us in!!!!

    Reply
  4. J Holt, Jackson
    J Holt, Jackson says:

    A bit mid-lifey but it sure is a big bit good too. He’s slugging everyone and himself into the bargain. It stings. And sizzles. But what’s it for? Is there more? Why the intrigue – is that an Irish thing?

    Reply
  5. Alex
    Alex says:

    slight element of narcisism crossed with self loathing – has to be a lawyer. reckon a solicitor not a barrister as not so arrogant….

    Reply
    • Jake, USA
      Jake, USA says:

      That makes you a barrister then Alex! I noted your other lazy comment on Diary 2. Hard for you to get up for anything… like a flat Coke

      Reply
  6. Dan @ Blackhall
    Dan @ Blackhall says:

    I heard about this guy in a law lecture at the Law Society of Ireland today. We discussed him in class and the class verdict is that this guy is a GIRL. We think ‘he’ is actually the girl that is being sexually harassed. Thoughts? Where ‘she/he’ might work? Which firm? Dublin?

    Reply
  7. Petra
    Petra says:

    Saw this tweeted by Above The Law. I disagree with Lauren above: it’s long-form story-telling; ie like a BOOK. Remember those things; books? The words seem truthful so on that basis I’ll follow.

    Reply
    • Lauren
      Lauren says:

      Thanks for the help, Petra. I didn’t know what a book was. By saying it was tedious, I wasn’t complaining that it was long. I just think it is tedious as seems far too contrived to be compelling. Its like Californication meets Fifty Shades of Grey, in the worst possible way. If you disagree, that is obviously fine.

      Reply
      • Petra
        Petra says:

        Lauren. If you ‘know’ books why refer to this guys scribbles by referring to (a) a TV show and (b) to female fiction? And by implication suggest, bizarrely, that he might look up to such rubbish. Baffling. I’ll leave aside dismantling your nonsensical definition of ‘tedious’ as a look in the mirror will help you

        Reply
  8. Alice
    Alice says:

    I’m also a trainee solicitor. To my mind this solicitor could be any one of 100 partners in the top Dublin firms. I’ve met that many and they ALL leer that way. Disgusting fat hairy, yet bald, beasts.

    Reply
  9. Janice 086 5672976
    Janice 086 5672976 says:

    As you’re a lawyer and smart I wonder if you can help. We got a builder in a year ago to lay a patio in our back-garden. He dug the foundation and has nott come back. I have a mobile number and called him loads and loads of times but he never picks up. I paid him 50% down. I gave him €1,750 in cash. My husband is furious. He is threatening a divorce. The garden is dug up. My marriage is a mess and everything will be ok if the builder comes back.

    Reply
    • BO'C
      BO'C says:

      Janice, you’re the kind of thing that makes us lawyers want to leave law. I’ve scribbled your number on the back of a few toilet doors. €20 I suggested.

      Reply
    • Toby
      Toby says:

      Practical Cecelia, since when was ‘art’ meant to be ‘useful? Tractors are useful. Washing machines too. Or the low-fat food you’re obsessed with. But is a painting useful? A sonnet? Seamus Heaney’s poems? Or Bret Easten Ellis? Or indeed the truth?

      Reply
      • Ryan
        Ryan says:

        Things tighten up in a recession; inspiration too. I guess Cecelia just means, sadly, that there are acceptable and non-acceptable ways of showing creativity.

        Reply
  10. Cecelia
    Cecelia says:

    Toby you dope, I wasn’t saying not have time for the writing. He or she stated at the outset that this blog is based on truth. So I meant not have time for the mind fuckery with the people on the periphery of his life, as described here. It’s a signal that he/she needs to get a life. Capiche?

    Reply
    • Warren, London
      Warren, London says:

      I just got a Christmas card from Louis La Roc!!! There was no stamp on it. A solicitor in Clifford Chance also got a postcard. We suspect he is among us in one of the big London firms and is only letting on he is in Ireland. But if he is in Ireland let us know so we can stop being paranoid!

      Reply
  11. Brendan, Irish solicitor
    Brendan, Irish solicitor says:

    Louis La Roc, you total twit, you make my blood boil. Over the Christmas period I had 2 clients who mentioned this stupid, deranged and pathetic attention-seeking Blog. Those clients looked at me differently and have me under suspicion by vicarious association. I truly hope Ken Murphy at the Law Society of Ireland catches you and has you up for Conduct Unbecoming of a solicitor. Business is tough enough without you shouting your stupid mouth off.

    Reply
    • Steve Breen
      Steve Breen says:

      More scolding from another anonymous solicitor. Brendan, its YOU who make me lose faith in the legal profession. Yes, humans have failings. Louis La Roc however doesn’t hide his the way you and the Catholic church favour doing.

      Reply
  12. M Matheson
    M Matheson says:

    I dream of the day I pick up the days newspaper and the headline reads “Rogue Solicitor Jailed”. Until that day Louis La Roc, I live in hope.

    Reply
  13. Shellshocked
    Shellshocked says:

    Ha! I kinda love this, the arguing, the conjecturing, the righteous indignation, the bitching. And that’s only the comments. I happen to know Louis la Roc and she is a cashier in Lidl.
    ((( ^ – ^ )))

    Reply
  14. Solicitor PB
    Solicitor PB says:

    I just heard you are part of the BCL law syllabus at Limerick University. The anarchist lawyer gone mainstream. If someone murders after following you then you have blood on your hands Louis La Roc. Stop this now before it goes too far. Please.

    Reply
    • Steve Cusson, Denver
      Steve Cusson, Denver says:

      Rod, it is what it is. I don’t know that he’s trying to emulate anybody. Where does it say he is? Have I missed something? His own voice is pretty strong. But sure, he’s wild like Easton Ellis …only difference is this guy is for real and in my book that makes him far more outrageous than Easton Ellis.

      Reply
    • Franklin
      Franklin says:

      You can’t. Well, you can, but as he’s a ghostwriter the whole point is you aren’t supposed to know its his graft you’re reading when reading some other stars ‘autobiography’. Its called life!

      Reply
  15. Claire Voyant
    Claire Voyant says:

    Louis, a heads up.

    In the rumour mill I got wind the Authorities have enough of your shenanigans. Various bodies have joined forces: Police, Law Society, Serious Crime etc. They’re closing in and I understand are about to shut you up goodo. Just a friendly tip-off.

    Reply
    • P Duke
      P Duke says:

      Claire may be right. Is Dr. La Roc your UNCLE? If so, I think you’re an Irishman who until recently worked as a solicitor in a major UK city. Its smart the way you’ve thrown everyone off the scent. But Louis, Claire may not be totally right. I think you’ve a move left. I won’t reveal who you are if you email me.

      Reply
  16. PC Bright
    PC Bright says:

    Bourgeois art or are you trying to overthrow Ireland and the system? Why protest? You seem to mix caring with loathing. Are you prophet or devil? Anarchist or leader of a New Order? Speak goddamn you.

    Reply
  17. "Saucy Susan"
    "Saucy Susan" says:

    Hi YOU!

    I’ve seen your blog and think (?) it’s kind of cool. So that’s what you’re at. It explains a lot….maybe too much!

    “Louis”, I don’t know if you should be writing all that stuff about us (not that there ever was an ‘us’). I mean, don’t worry, I’m not going to sue or anything. But, well, your poor dad? Does “Dr. La Roc” know? If he doesn’t know he will surely find out. And if he does know I’d pay a million dollars to know what he really thinks. Anyway, there’s the other thing – Sean, my boyfriend, you remember him? Well, he doesn’t know. I haven’t told him… but you can imagine……

    Ok. Gotta go.

    “Saucy Susan”

    Reply
  18. "Saucy Susan"
    "Saucy Susan" says:

    “Louis”, I just spoke with our mutual friend – coke bottle glasses girl!

    She sees what you are doing with differently and is convincing. She says you have used and abused me with this shitty blog.

    Here’s the position: IF YOU DON’T REPLY CONVINCINGLY TO ME HERE, ONLINE, I WILL SAY WHO YOU REALLY ARE. YOU HAVE ONE HOUR – remember I know your habits!

    Saucy Susan

    Reply
  19. "Saucy Susan"
    "Saucy Susan" says:

    Louis, in 50 minutes I will tell the whole fucking world who you are but from my side of the story. You reply here ASAP or I’m roaring my head off.

    Reply
  20. "Saucy Susan"
    "Saucy Susan" says:

    Louis, in case you dont believe its really me.. remember the “Lordy Leary” file we worked on!

    Reply or else

    Reply
  21. Louis La Roc
    Louis La Roc says:

    Hey, I tried emailing you!!! Answer please. Please do not do anything rash. If you do you’ll ruin us BOTH. Calm down. Lets talk and I will tell you everything.

    Reply

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