Nameless voices crying for kindness

I signed on in Farnshaw at twelve and phoned Grant to ask him if he wanted to go for a drink.

While waiting in the dole office I noticed my old English teacher Mr. Giles sitting there—Jeremy told me later that he’s been made redundant after taking secondment for a year. I didn’t get a chance to speak to him.

I met Grant by St. Anne’s and we went for a drink at the Albert Hotel down Moxthorpe Road and had four pints there listening to “Pyjamara,” “Strawberry Fields Forever” and “Suffer Little Children” repeatedly on the jukebox—this last song has been banned by some shops because of its Moors Murders subject matter. We went on to the Builder’s Arms (PIL, Hendrix) before walking home to listen to more music - Beefheart and The Fugs second album this time. The latter is an excellent record.

Grant mentioned as an aside that John Peel played a track by the (now defunct) Eat People on his show last night. Grant and the band recorded the track for inclusion on a compilation LP of bands from Phases back in February—he came up from Gloucester to a studio in Whincliffe especially. The LP is out now and John Peel played Eat People’s sole contribution at 11.30 p.m. last night, much to Grant’s surprise, who was listening in bed at the time.

He said it was an odd and slightly embarrassing experience hearing himself singing on national radio; he now thinks the band’s stuff is fairly undistinguished and he agreed with me when I said it sounded very much like the Birthday Party. He even conceded that such was his admiration at one stage he’d made a conscious attempt to sound like Nick Cave. . . .
He left about five. Mum and Dad came back and Dad later told me of his amusement at the way Grant had asked him for a light, with exaggerated politeness and awkward words. Nanna P. was brought across in the evening, and although she was quieter than usual, she was OK. Andrew rang later too. He’s back in the UK after his Denmark trip and is talking about America now.

New Britain

I was up before eight in time to see Mum leave for work but I made no effort to sit down and make a start on my work.

I frittered my valuable time away until  two when guilt finally took a hand and forced me into action. I made desultory notes for an hour and a half until Grant’s call interrupted me. It’s just a case of getting going, because I know once I’ve conquered the initial psychological barrier I’ll be able to do the work quickly and do it well. Perhaps coming home to do it was a mistake.

Grant called round half-an-hour after he’d called, staying until ten. He says he’s writing an obscene country and western song based on an impromptu rendering into a tape machine he and I did years back and has just finished reading a life of Artaud. I played him Whitehouse’s New Britain and the shrill electro-screams and metallic breathing prompted him to put his hands over his ears and demand that I turn it off because it was unnerving him. We listened to The Fugs and Captain Beefheart instead. . . .

Grant is going back to Gloucester soon to find accommodation for next term, which begins Oct 1st. We talked about the supernatural for a while and he told me of the alleged haunting of Woodley residence hall at Gloucester, where the shade of a mid ‘70s suicide has been heard and glimpsed on the top floor—one student supposedly felt himself being dragged across the floor in the middle of the night. Crying and sobs have been heard coming from one particular room, but always stop when the door is opened, & Grant said the building has an odd atmosphere. He also told me about the ‘Gloucester Prowler’ who creeps around the corridors of Woodley trying doors.

Dad was morose and subdued the brief time I was in his company. This I attribute to his hassles over his job that continue unabated. I’m returning to Watermouth tomorrow night to sign on Friday, and I’ll then travel back to Easterby the same day. This will consume another two and possibly three days of my rapidly dwindling holiday. I can’t push the guilty feelings from my mind. . . .