Thursday, November 11, 1982


After spending the evening in Westway Loop Bar watching Barry trying to sell six grammes of oil (Shelley bought one), we came back to the kitchen where I wrote “I AM A7X” on an enormous piece of polystyrene which we took round to Alex’s room. Blue smoke billowed out as he opened the door: he was absolutely stoned, gone, helplessly laughing against the wall.

We smashed the polystyrene up in the corridor and rushed off to Pankhurst where big pieces of the stuff lay by the bins. We attacked these, breaking them over posts, snapping ‘em under foot and running back breathless, shrieking with laughter. There's polystyrene everywhere and I'm sure there’ll be hell to pay in the morning for this lunacy.

I’ve just heard that President Brezhnev died yesterday of a heart attack. I didn't really feel anything on hearing the news. I'm sure he’ll be replaced by yet another ageing hypocrite.

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