Thursday, August 16, 1984

Just wait!

The situation at Maynard Gardens persists, and although I’m about to move back in there, my doubts remain.

It’s basically becoming a free house for the shaved weirds Alex considers friends, and Gav is being drawn increasingly into their circle; he now sports a shitty mohican, and when Lee and I object to Alex’s mess or the filth of the ground floor, Gav comes out with liberal sentiments . . . “you don’t have to go into his room,” etc.

Alex has scrapped his move to Amsterdam—which was the only reason Pete and Lee let him move in in the first place, knowing that if he'd been in on Maynard Gardens from the start it would have quickly deteriorated into a Vicarage situation. Sarah lives at Maynard Gardens too now, along with an arrogant twat called Andy who has an insolent and haughty air. Another shaven headed friend of Gav’s has moved in as well, and when they’re all in the kitchen it looks like Auschwitz.

Gav’s room is awash with pebbles, lolly sticks and letraset. “I have been so abused” is painted on the wall.

We have been so amused—and annoyed—by your pseudery, your useless ideas and liberal ideals, your flirtation with all things Eastern, the Buddha, and Japanese symbols, your low level tables and ‘performance art’ sincerities . . .

Punk Habitat –– Mindless Pretence!

I detest them all.

So in a way, although I’m doubtful about moving back in, I want to, simply for reasons of gut indignation. I don’t want to let Maynard Gardens become another “anarchist squat.” Lee and I are talking about rehanging a door at the foot of the stairs leading to the second floor, thereby sealing it off entirely.

All of this is bound to get to me eventually, so there’s some trepidation when I think about the future and the bleak winter months plagued in that place.

Barry rang this morning from his Dad’s restaurant in Debdenshaw. He and Ade seem committed to leaving the band, and B. considers their demo’ tape terrible. He is embarrassed by it, he says, and the more people he meets the more it is impressed upon him how crap Jason’s singing is.

And today Susie tells me Jason is going around with a copy of the demo tape in his pocket, getting angry at other bands and prophetically shouting, “Just wait . . ! “ 

The miner’s strike is now in its fifth month. I’ve scarcely mentioned the industrial troubles of this summer and spring, but that’s not because I’m ignoring them. I usually buy a copy of the Times to keep up.

Today, three thousand pickets tried to stop two Yorkshire miners from breaking the strike. Big battles with police result. There seems to be evidence of a very small trickle back to work. In Scotland, 105 miners reported for work, five more than yesterday. If the strike breaks now & the men start to go back then the entire dispute will have been lost. On Sunday, a demonstrator was killed by a plastic bullet as the RUC tried unsuccessfully to detain Noraid organizer Martin Galvin. Although they waded into the peaceful crowds with batons he managed to escape.

Life hasn’t been too gripping since I came back from Borley, and since then I’ve done little but mooch about here or wander around town, at a loss at what to do with myself. I suppose if I really applied myself I could go on holiday, to Europe at least, but something (dread familiarity) tells me I’ll stay here until my course over and done with.

I can’t wait until that day.

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