So, set the scene, I'm on a moth-eaten, stinking saggy excuse for a sofa, also known as my bed, in the living room of my friends' house (friends brushed over, will return to them later on). Due to the lack of central heating, double glazing and/or fireplace, I'm fucking cold; two t-shirts, two sweatshirts, jogging bottoms and a duvet don't seem to cut it this far into the arctic circle. I have just embarked upon the caffeinated voyage of my fourth cup of coffee in the space of an hour and crave a cigarette more than Graham Norton craves cock up his irritating arsehole. He is quite obviously a taker. To my right there is a 3/4 sized nylon strung "classical" guitar that has this rather unique buzz to the G-string, adding to it an ineptitude deserving of a witty comment. In front of me there is a TV, the screen no bigger than 12", that shows three channels, four if the wind direction is exactly south-easterly and the moon is gibbous. There are various scraps of paper on the floor, on one is a draft sketch for a flyer for my band, another is merely a letter consisting of broken promises from the sodding department if sodding work and sodding pensions (their hold-tone is Vivaldi's "Spring" if you had ever wondered, I know that music off by heart, as do quite a few others my age according to the news).
I like to draw up contrasts between this town and the one I left behind, namely Haslemere, to distract me from the cold. Haslemere doesn't even contain the only nice thing it ever brought forth to me anymore, my dearest darling dollface Rebecca's now at Oxford, being clever and complaining about having to lug a WHOLE SUITCASE of books up there. She seems to think that I have this pre-conceived opinion of what everyone she meets there will be like, which is completely and utterly correct, and though I know this is neither mature or reasonable, I doubt the elitist cunts will give a fuck. But anyway, Haslemere, hmmm, news from there is that my step-father managed to smash up my Mother's car in a particularly spectacular fashion. Don't see him getting kicked out, all I can say is that he's lucky he didn't smoke a cigarette out of his bedroom window, or perhaps help himself to a bottle of Hardy's, he's lucky he just caused several thousand pounds' worth of damage to a poor woman's car, namely the only thing of value that she owns outright that doesn't sit round the fourth finger of her left hand.
I'm in a rock'n'roll band, one that plays gigs and everything, and I fucking love it. We've got ourselves supporting Glen Matlock of Sex Pistols semi-fame, and various other gigs around Leicester, and to be quite honest it's the only thing I'm enjoying doing at the moment, probably because it is the only thing I'm actually doing at all, apart from waiting in vain for my JSA to come through and trying to blag cigarettes off of complete strangers. Maybe I should busk.
I can hear some nice chaps outside kicking over wheelie bins and banging on peoples' windows, reminds you how thin the walls are. Today I had to listen to the next door neighbour screaming at his wife for two fucking hours, and when you start hearing dull thuds and muffled cries you find yourself stuck between ringing the police or turning the music up. I'm not going to divulge which option I chose, it'd just bring judgement, I'm only dropping it in here because I'm setting a scene.
I spoke to my Dad today, an occurrence none too common. I'm not sure whether it's the tell-tale signs of an impending mid-life crisis or just the fact that he, all of a sudden, likes rap and hip-hop, but he's off to see Dizzee Rascal next week, he's clearly gone bonkers. Yes, I really did just put that, and without the slightest hint of irony.
Well I'm sure anybody who bothered reading this will feel enriched by now, their thirst for inane knowledge about my shambolic existence satiated, who knows, maybe even a comment will come forth, something encouraging from Tom? Perhaps something witty from Ken? Who knows, maybe even something admirably bitchy from Henry that I'll resent but only because I'll wish I'd thought of it? Whatever, it's got me through an hour or so of caffeine shakes, now comes exhaustion and Miles Davis.