I went to a party on Holtspur Road with Lee and Pete. Lee and I stayed perhaps five minutes in total. It was a one room, red-lit affair, The Smiths blaring above the din of party chat and laughter. Pat Duncan and his shaven-headed friends loomed around the doorway, PD looking drugged and/or drunk, blinking and staring around at the walls and ceiling and people as though he’d forgotten glasses or was wearing new contact lenses. . . .
It was the worst party I’ve been to for quite a while. As such moments I vow to myself never to go to another party again, for I’ve yet to go to one that I’ve thoroughly enjoyed. L. and I walked back, leaving Pete to be sociable . . .
Wessex Road was alive with ambulances and police motorcycle escorts racing past with wailing sirens and flashing lights. There were quite a few skinheads about. I overheard two in the Pembroke earlier saying they were down from Broadbourne to “fuck modettes” . . ..
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