Friday, October 19, 1984

Usual fictions

We had a houseful at Westdorgan Road.; Mo, Shawn and Penny, and me, Lindsey, Stu and Gareth. Mo was rescued overnight by firemen when the flat below hers on Stoneways Road went up in flames.

We had a big meal and then drank wine and a bottle of whisky. John Turney turned up on our doorstep and Lee too and so we all went up to the Westdorgan and got pleasantly pissed.

Turney and Lindsey and I were up until 3 talking about translating our dislike of the Broad Street crew into violent action. We got quite carried away by the idea. John is spending the night in Lindsey’s room, probably on the floor, although my mind invents its usual fictions and sordid scenarios.

Thursday, October 18, 1984

A poem of incoherence and absurdity

Lee reenacted Act One from Ubu Roi by Alfred Jarry at the Art College. He made a puppet theatre and puppets - Pa Ubu was a piece of Lee’s shit, Ma Ubu an egg, MacNure and his merry men sticks painted red and white.

I helped shout the lines.

I never did decide about moving back into Maynard Gardens and now Damion and Tony—a caveman friend of Gav’s and Gav’s brother respectively—are established there. So I’m stuck in Lindsey’s old room at Westdorgan Road, all 5’ x 9 feet of it; barely big enough for a bed.

Wednesday, October 17, 1984


A stifling air of apathy is abroad at the moment. My own days are sliding into a stagnant rut, and I can’t seem to do anything about it.

Heady thoughts are a thing of the past.

It’s as if I’ve suddenly grown very impatient with certain people, no longer willing to tolerate them with easygoing comments. I should think I’m alienating quite a few people at the moment; the crew at No. 38 and at Gaveston Street, Lindsey, the people at Mo’s flat (who’ve never liked L. and I since Lee’s behaviour at their party).

I can’t help feeling at times that there is something wrong with me, although I don’t think there is. It’s nothing that can’t be overcome.

We've made a promise to John to be down at Masquerades again tonight, but at this moment I haven’t the stomach for it.

Tuesday, October 16, 1984


A night out at Masquerades, and the evening turned very drunken and loud and oafish, Lee upholding his reputation for mayhem by dancing around in a grubby thermal vest, crossed braces and with a Rizla packet stuck to his forehead.

Lindsey and Mo were both a little disgusted at what they called our “laddish” behaviour, Mo so much so that that she scratched both Lee and I with her fingernails in protest. We were all drunk and the night degenerated into wrestling and throwing empty beer bottles at one another. As we said goodbye, Mo kissed me on the cheek and apologised for attacking me without warning earlier.

Barry and Z. turned up today and Barry again tried to get me to apologise to the latter for the wall incident but I refused; Turney is heading down there later full of the expectation of some sort of ‘scene’ with Z. and co., who he dislikes as strongly as I do. Things are uneasy at the moment.

Barry tries to pretend nothing is wrong but we all feel he’s abandoned us completely for the Broad Street crew.

Monday, October 15, 1984


My frustration right now is difficult to convey.

This morning Lee, Ian and Philip went as planned to Sutton Road to occupy the empty No. 39: the front door was locked, and so they climbed in through an open basement window, only to find five people sleeping in a first floor room who told them, “We’re squatters, man.”

I turned up at half-one after my Faulkner class to be greeted by strange faces staring down at me from an upper-storey window. When I found Lee I learned the worst. The punky five-some had moved in on Thursday, two days after we had been in the building, and had beaten us by a matter of days. They told Lee that they hadn’t been able to believe their luck in finding an empty house with an unlocked front door—it’s sickening even to write this—and so Lee and co. retreated in confusion and anger.

I couldn’t believe it and even now find it difficult to stomach. The horrible impotence and frustration I feel at our incredible bad luck is almost too much, and when I found out I really could have cried tears of anger and bitterness—fourth time unlucky. The gods have really got it in for us it seems.

Lee and I drifted around town in a daze, my mind a blur, just disbelief at this turn of fate and circumstances.

Robin Coldwater-Hicks is visiting the Grey House soon to tell Gav and co. that his mother’s dead and he’s selling the house, so we have to unearth another occupiable building soon or we’ll have half-a-dozen rivals also looking.

I know the people who moved into Sutton Road are innocent of any malicious intent or intrigue and that we were just very unlucky, but I can’t help feeling very bitter and these feelings are vented in the direction of Alex, Gav, Jason and their type; I won’t try and explain these feelings in any logical or reasonable fashion because they can’t be justified in any rational way, so I won’t try.

Too much arrogance, too much pretentiousness, too many students, too many post-punk hippies, too many young-people-with-hairstyles . . . Sometimes I walk round town with a permanent sneer on my face.

I won’t try and be consistent in my attitudes.
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