Archive for April, 2009

eighty nine


Academically I peaked before making a decision at a cultural crossroads.


eighty eight


When I moved to London I worked out that Uni mattered little, so I ignored most of the reading material and coasted.

eighty seven


If three people spoke in seminars then I was one of them. I was not the bookish quoter of wrote text, nor was I the measured balance of reading and screening. I was lively, rooted in emotional reactions. I left the set texts behind and busked it from there.

eighty six


Further all the time, at a distance, the crossroads. Little idea where I’m heading.

eighty five


Long coat, ill-fitting, too-tight shirt and black trousers. Sneakers didn’t fit the look but they or Army surplus boots were all he had. He could have come from four eras.

eighty four


She shared my mother’s name. A mistake I should not have made, flushed with youth and wine and other things. She told me she loved me around hour twenty, so it was never really going to last longer than twenty four.

eighty three


Silent running. The house thrums, but I make only the tiniest of noises: I’m not really here you see.

eighty two


Between 1999 and 2008 I collected somewhere in the region of two thousand individual comic books. They provide around 9 meters of pain and discomfort whenever I move house.

eighty one


The idea of Morley presented me with a non sequitur over breakfast at Veselka’s: “I would consider, one day, writing a book of false starts.”



The idea of Morley presented me with a non sequitur over breakfast at Veselka’s: “I would consider, one day, writing only in repetition-repetition-reh-puh-tih-shuun.”

seventy nine


Hunched over my stomach in the tube, a terrible hangover biting hard and my brain twisting around the concepts I’m trying to read, I start to dry-heave and wretch, choking for air. It took three attempts to read Atrocity Exhibition, worth every disorientating shock.

seventy eight


The first drink I felt comfortable in was Vodka. Cool, crisp, malleable: it was the shape of vacancy and the texture of apathy. What I started to like about it, when I started to like it, was the speed with which I could forget myself. It was tremendous and easy.

seventy seven


There was this bearded man and a former scenester who took me under their collective wing, one demonstrating bedroom collectivism and the other midnight revelry.

seventy six


A casual conversation with a friend: “Fancy coming to FROG?”

seventy five


“Only when he was on ecstasy.” An odd story that it starts with those words. A character who relied on external chemical imbalances for emotional connection rather than internal ones. Mine were always internal.

seventy four


I couldn’t listen to The Saturdays. I tried, but it just wasn’t happening. What tore up nine years that the resurgence of The… could be bookended with The Strokes and The Saturdays? What happened to me in that time?

seventy three


I lose track of where I ought to start my story, and find notes for a forgotten project. They read:

“Did he love you?”
“Only when he was on ecstasy.”

seventy two


Once upon a time, a fan and an idol crossed paths at the foot of the stage. The idol kissed the fan, and others, while pausing for breath mid-verse. Something happened. They hugged later.

seventy one


It could be said that I am the product of Pete Doherty and the act of thinking too much, but it probably shouldn’t.



Silent Alarm can suck my balls.

sixty nine


She took to studying me with malignant indifference. We broke up to Bloc Party.

sixty eight


She entered a small, pokey little room, and realised he would do his best in drunk isolation.

sixty seven


When I got to London the move from tatty pop-punk to braying young scenester didn’t take too long. I didn’t cut my hair for a long time and it hung like a mop over my eyes.

sixty six


I was six when my first girlfriend got out of Hedge End. She left for America. Her name was Lottie. I associate her with Teenage Mutant Turtles and Micro Machines.

sixty five


“We are made up of the choices of our cultural inputs, but beside that we are fundamentally all the same.”

sixty four


By the time he remembered the crossroads the girl was long gone. He turned left.

sixty three


She was stood at the crossroads. She wore _______________________________________I don’t remember what she wore actually, I just remember her smeared make-up, which was all that seemed to matter.

sixty two


Music festivals aren’t remembered for the hours of boredom and tedious mediocrity. History will not record the name of the band I saw that Friday afternoon, nor that I lay unmoved.

sixty one


Summer 2004, too much sunshine. I singularly fail to seduce my then-girlfriend at The Reading Festival, and Mark and I are left once again in the lurch by our dirty idols when The Libertines play as a three piece. Later we mock The Distillers, shouting to them ‘Play the Thunderbirds theme!’ _____________________________ Why?



“The dual problem and pleasure we have here, and by ‘we’ I mean both the societal collective and the specific ‘we’ I’m about to sit with, is the inability to outgrow a subconscious tendency towards the iconographic coupled with personal refusals, though not by ourselves in this this instance, to embrace that in acts of self-mythology.” At this Morley hung his jacket over the back of his chair and joined myself, Thompson and Johnson for breakfast at Veselka’s. He soon ordered waffles.