So, yes, I’m busy again – worry not, I’ll be giving some extra time to a request given to me by a band soon and you’ll be feeling the throws of my unemployment worries but until then, I found this old entry I made on a forum I participate in and realised that – apart from the obvious waxing poetic – it’s not half bad:
I step out of my door and the next door pub worker’s reggae kisses my left side as lorry hisses, squeals and lorry driver ‘chatter-breaker-1-4-9-this-is-the-fat-man,-who’s-this?’s hit my front. I smile my faux-sucker smile at the hood that rides in front of my gate, nearly knocking me over, as I open my mostly pointless marking gate. Riding on the hood, the distinct storm of weed teases the back of my throat as the 453’s fume brakes entrance my nose whispering “Go on, jump me.”
I can’t, of course, not yet. Not until. When I’m walking my road the all too knowingly named shops, from Jade’s Jerk to Cummin Up, flood the street with enough sense to cast the traffic into unimportance. The saliva can’t help but rush to the tip of the tongue when you walk past damn good Jamaican food in between all the Four Seasons of Mega Kebabs. If I can ignore those and get to The Hobgoblin for a pint o’ the same, I can probably get back without buying any of what the street’s got lying around either. That does unfortunately mean bypassing Terry & The Terribles: the most stalwart drunks I’ve ever met. I’ve worked in a rehabilitation center and not even there did they manage to drink quite so well, so long and so noisily as Terry & the Tattooed Two. The benefits of the system, I suppose. Drinking from 6 a.m. until 10 p.m. on a church’s doorstep is all part o’ the privilege of being British. And why not drink? And why not live most of your day on the street? And why not shout at your friends and have arguments until you realise your own mortality and break into tears asking only for forgiveness from the tattooed mate you’ve just hit with a broken bottle – after all it’s the privilege of being British.
In an odd way, I love Terry. Sure, I work and I study and I try but that’s me. That’s not Terry. I’ve chatted to Terry and I’ve chatted to his mates Mike and Si. They’re alright at 7 a.m. when they’ve only had a couple. They have interesting views and are honestly sensitive people: Mike and Si don’t regret the tattoos on their faces just regret that “people should react in such a weird fuckin’ way” and, you know what? They’re right. I’m glad I took the time to talk to ’em. They owe me a favour or two by now as well so I’m pretty glad I know ’em.
They told me this old road is the supposed to be the oldest in the country. I asked ’em “So why’s it the cheapest on the Monopoly Board?”
In other news, a cat has decided to live with me.
More photos are on me Flickr which can be reach through me google profile ———————–>