'When routine bites hard��
Hiroshima Yeah!
issue 22/December 2006
It's confetti, it's toilet paper, it�s the silent scream of your waking dream. Welcome to the last HY! of this glorious year. This issue was brought to you by Gaviscon and Guinness and written by Mark Ritchie. The cover is by Dave Tough. Dave is currently putting together a comic zine. If you�re interested in contributing, please write to him at 20 Kilmory Gardens, Carluke, Lanarkshire, ML8. FUCK � - reproduce any/all of this zine AT WILL. Just don�t pretend YOU wrote it � �cos THAT would make you a TOTAL CUNT. Read HY! on the world wide weird at geocities.com/sniperglue. Do it before �they� stop you!
GG ALLIN
you weren't god
you weren't the devil either
but you dived into the madness
beautifully
fearlessly
hilariously
laughed at
feared
despised
as prophets always are
communing with blood and body
piss and shit
violence and love
amid leather
denim
jim beam and smack
you were a preacher
a poet
a pariah
both the unforgiving
and the unforgiven
living those songs
in a thousand tiny bars
touching people
one way or another
whether they liked it or not
holding a mirror up
to humanity�s twisted soul
you made the dead come alive
THIS POEM IS NOT ABOUT YOU
Over telephone lines,
we disconnect.
The slow, sad strain of years
etched into each pause,
each tiny tremor.
The old days are far away,
yet we re-live them often,
as if they're all we have
left to bind us together.
Our sentiments are now as
cheap and tacky
as Christmas cards -
our words faded tinsel,
dying embers,
a robin frozen in the snow.
THE MASTER RACE
After a few drinks,
I slide through the streets
easily,
confidently swerving
in and out of the crowds,
avoiding cars, buses,
the uncertainty of everything.
But confidence
has a lot to answer for �
a fine line between it
and mindless arrogance.
Some people don't NEED to
be intoxicated
in order to walk down a street,
their lives a constant 'go' sign,
bloodless, anchorless and free,
bellies and breasts bouncing
in time to the beat of the world,
smiles and scowls weather-beaten,
unchanging, set in stone.
A superior species
dressed to kill in living death.
TUESDAY NIGHT AT NICO�S
Loneliness is dulled by
the fire of the crowd,
looking out a window
at all the passing mannequins
aimlessly wandering,
helpless, in the neon lights.
Sporting heroes, lifelong losers,
we all congregate here,
washing down the disappointment,
wishing we had more,
more than this pale shadow
of what some fools call a life.
MY KIND OF ANIMAL
My kind of animal stalks the streets,
alone and afraid,
hiding, hunting,
seeking out the darkest corners,
the quietest space.
My kind of animal looks like easy prey
to the hyenas and vultures
who think we will curl up
and passively await
the sweet sharpness of their claws,
fade beneath their great and vicious wings.
But they do not count on
our armies of mirrors and shadows,
our allies in the dark.
They do not know that their tragedies of teeth
cannot kill us,
only bruise us a little,
only delay us slightly on our way to greater triumphs,
bluer skies, clearer streams.
Hurt and hungry,
they will never taste
the pale splendour of our bones.
CDS
RAPE THE DEAD � CELEBRITY DEATH CAMP (SELF-RELEASED) www.myspace.com/rapethedead
Emo-core, eh? It�s a RIGHT old laugh, but I reckon Emu-core would be a lot more fun � bands jumping about with silly puppets, Rod Hull style. Okay, I KNOW it�s all about venting your teen-angst through acts of safe rebellion like painting your bedroom black and dying your hair green, but this lot sound about as teen-angsty as a My Little Pony doll. �Shocking� songs like �Phist Phuck� and �Bomb the USA� will have even your easily-shocked elderly relatives yawning and demanding you play some Slayer. RTD are from the quaint English coastal town of Southend, too, which tells you a LOT. Bet they all drink Pimms with their parents on beautifully manicured lawns and will end up as stockbrokers in a few years time. Just TERRIBLE on SO many levels. A celebrity death camp WOULD be a good idea, though.
KELLY WILLIS � WHAT I DESERVE (RYKODISC)
I�ve eyed up this CD several times since it�s release in 1999, the reason being that I�ve spent YEARS swooning to Kelly Willis� masterful rendition of Tom T Hall�s �That�s How I Got to Memphis� (the sublimest song and performance on a whole ALBUM full of sublime songs and performances, 1998�s �Real � The Tom T Hall Project�) and her mighty duet with Jay Farrar on Townes Van Zandt�s �Rex�s Blues�. I eventually bought this for �2.99 in Oxfam and, while it has some fine moments here and there, it�s essentially rather disappointing. Track seven, �Cradle of Love�, is probably the best thing here (I think there was a LAW passed in the mid-90s that you HAD to have a heavenly seventh track on your album or something). However, anyone attempting to cover one of Nick Drake�s agelessly perfect songs is onto a non-starter as the version here of �Time Has Told Me� proves. It�s nice enough, but it�s just NOT Nick Drake! The attempt at The Replacement�s �They�re Blind� is more successful, however, and closing number �Not Long for This World� is gently melancholic. Grab a copy of that aforementioned �Real� CD or just download Willis� track from it, if you�re that way inclined, and put it on �repeat� instead of buying this. It�s what YOU deserve.
TOM WAITS � REAL GONE (ANTI)
You should never trust reviews (not even THIS one, darling reader). I�d heard somewhere that this album was devoid of loveliness and piano, two things I�ve come to EXPECT from Tom Waits albums since my relatively recent conversion to his music. Well, it�s true about the piano being conspicuous by it�s absence but there is certainly PLENTY of loveliness to be found here. The epic ten-minute plus �Sins of the Father� is the first evidence of this then there�s the husky �How�s it Gonna End�, �Dead and Lovely� (a jazzy, underwater waltz), the hushed �Green Grass� and �Day After Tomorrow� which summons up the ghost of a young Bob Dylan. �Circus� is the obligatory spoken-word track, on which Waits does a GREAT impression of William Burroughs while telling a tall tale about various sideshow freaks. The rest of the songs swing between the weird and the woozy, often built on some very strange human beat-box style foundations, but Waits writes such timelessly fab songs that they sound fantastic no matter how many mangles he puts them through.
FOR HARLOW�S MONKEYS � II (SMITH RESEARCH / SMOKERS GIFTS) www.myspace.com/ocelocelot
The last CD I reviewed by this lot (see issue 14) tried it�s best to give me nightmares, so it was with some trepidation that I delivered this limited edition 3� disc into the warm encasings of my Matsui Digital Series CD 600. Over the course of 15 minutes and one long track (which is divided into eight sections according to the tasty colour cover), this managed to transform a sober and peaceful, if somewhat waterlogged, Friday afternoon into a cacophonic trip into the pits of Hell. A howling maelstrom of feedback squeals while distortion rapes the ears and evil fairies fuck about on some sort of accordion/carnival ride/arcade game. Occasionally, the noise subsides long enough for a kind of peace to reign but, like toothache, the lull never lasts. I really don�t understand why anyone would want to listen to this for pleasure.
VARIOUS � BURT BACHARACH�S 60 GREATEST HIT SONGS (DISKY)
Ah, now THIS is more like it! I picked up this three CD box-set of easy-listening gems for only �5 in a charity shop (the old lady who served me was fuming she hadn�t seen it first!) Who could go wrong with songs like �The Look of Love�, �24 Hours from Tulsa�, �Make it Easy on Yourself� and �Walk on By�? It�s a shame that the Dutch record label responsible for this obviously couldn�t clear some of the sweetest singers of these songs, though. There�s not a Walker Brother, Dionne or Dusty in sight here but there ARE plenty of Gene Pitneys, Bobbie Gentrys, Timi Yuros and Sandie Shaws. Even Cilla Black washes away the memories of her ultra-naff 1980�s TV career with her version of �Anyone Who Had a Heart�. Some of the greatest moments, though, tend to be the weepiest, obscurist gems � Chuck Jackson�s �I Wake Up Crying�, Gene McDaniels� �Another Tear Falls�, Jimmy Radcliff�s �(There Goes) The Forgotten Man�, Jackie Deshannon�s �Lifetime of Loneliness�, etc. Of course, there are also a fair few duff moments too and these are usually the cheery/cheesy numbers (Alma Cogan, for example, has a voice you�d love to punch), but this is ultimately rather great.
TOM WAITS � ORPHANS (ANTI)
This three CD box-set (yeah � ANOTHER one) is a thing of beauty (and, at �25, so it SHOULD be � and that was the CHEAPEST I saw it going for). It�s lovingly packaged in a sturdy, sepia-hued booklet with loads of photos and lyrics. The music itself is divided into three segments, entitled �Brawlers, Bawlers and Bastards�, spanning the many styles and moods of Waits� career. There�s nothing I can really say about this that I haven�t already said many times before about previous Tom Waits albums. It contains moments of shouty madness, moments of gentle wonder and a shitload of magisterial material, including covers of The Ramones, Daniel Johnston and Kurt Weill, as well as a vast amount of original songs, some new, some rare, some unreleased. �Brawlers� is perhaps the most �normal� selection (though, with Mr Waits, that�s not saying much). From this disc, �Road to Peace� stands out for being a rambling, Dylan-esque anti-war song with lyrics as reportage rather than poetry while �Sea of Love� and �Bottom of the World� are just plain gorgeous (how about �the moon�s the colour of a coffee stain� for a lyric, eh?) �Bawlers� is a MAJOR treat for lovers of Waits� gentler moments, containing as it does 20 songs of desolate beauty like �If I Have to Go�, �World Keeps Turning� (which popped up at the end of the film �Pollock� a few years ago) and, er, 18 others! The original version of �Down There By the Train� (immortalised by the late, great Johnny Cash on his original �American Recordings� album from �94) is also here. What MORE could you want? The �Bastards� disc contains most of the weirdest surprises, with lots of spoken-word stuff and general craziness. �Two Sisters� sounds like something from the �O Brother, Where Art Thou?� soundtrack while Waits� version of the Charles Bukowski poem �Nirvana� is truly lovely as is �First Kiss�, an odd ode to his wife. �Children�s Story� and the two hidden tracks, on the other hand, are fucking hilarious! At 56 tracks, there�s almost TOO much to take in here, and I think it will be a while before I properly digest it all, but it�s already proven itself to be a worthy addition to the incredible back catalogue of a unique and brilliant artist. How did I ever live without him for so long?
MARK KOZELEK � LITTLE DRUMMER BOY � LIVE (CALDO VERDE)
You wouldn�t expect a grumpy drawers like Mark Kozelek to like Christmas so much but he MUST do, as this is his second festive live release (the other being 2001�s �White Christmas�). Apart from the title track, though, there�s not a mince pie in sight as Koz treats us to delicately finger-picked versions of songs spanning his entire career, right back to the very first Red House Painters album, and a couple of tasty new songs, �Moorestown� and �Unlit Hallway�. To be honest, the delicate finger-picking gets a tad samey after a while (especially as this is a double CD). It�d be nice if he occasionally, y�know, actually STRUMMED his guitar or something but that�s a minor quibble, really, when you�re dealing with a songsmith of such impeccable quality.
A-HA � ANALOGUE (ALL I WANT) (POLYDOR)
Woke not long before 10. Had coffee and a scone. Got a letter from Andrew. Walked into town and bought this CD single by A-ha � a fucking brilliant song, actually � for 99p in a charity shop. Desperate to get out of the place's cramped confines and away from the hordes of mad bargain-seeking pensioners, I eschewed my receipt and change (a whole 1p!) Then I did my usual aimless browsing. Bumped into Grant in Avalanche. He was on his lunch-break so we couldn't chat for very long. He's going to Manchester again at the weekend and said he'd tape me the new Joanna Newsom album. I bought a nice Christmas card for my mum from the soon-to-close Eddie's Books and Cards in the Argyle Arcade, then got some garlic and cheese bread for �2 from the German market in St Enoch Square then went to the Crystal Palace for a pint of Guinness. Was served by an ex-Royal Mail colleague, who's the bar-manager (or something) there now. I don't think he remembers me, though, and I don't remind him. Read the Metro. Noticed that the old Tower Records shop is being turned into a new Music Zone store. Had an extensive browse in Missing. They were playing ultra-shite music (this, though, is the opinion of someone who'd just bought an A-ha single!) then had an Abbot ale in the Sir John Moore. The twat who got barred from the Horseshoe for having sex on a barstool was there, talking really loudly about nothing - you could hear him all over the pub. What a cunt. I got out of there before I was driven to commit violence. Went to the Horseshoe and had a Carling standing at the bar then went to Failte for a Guinness. I felt better once the booze had begun to work it's magic on me. It almost ALWAYS works! No wonder there are so many alkies in the world! Had another pint of the black stuff in a quiet Nico's. Well, quiet apart from the pish music (Mcfly, the Fratellis, etc.. aargh!) Had a final pint (of McEwan�s Export) in the Variety then got curried veg and rice and walked back, stopping for six cans of McEwan's on the way. Was back at 7.30. When i got in, there were four people coming in and out of various doors in the hall. I remarked to Craig that is was just like Central Station. John came to my door to ask AGAIN if he�d left his guitar there. He obviously couldn't remember asking me last night OR knocking on James' door at 2.15am! Watched my Drive-By Truckers DVD and had a couple of cans. Went to bed just before 11.
MORRISSEY � I JUST WANT TO SEE THE BOY HAPPY (ATTACK)
Well, the reason for spending �1.99 on this isn�t for the title track (which is the FOURTH song lifted from Morrissey�s last album) or the video for that same song (my crappy PC won�t play it) or EVEN the perfectly acceptable live version of �I Want the One I Can�t Have� (taken from a gig in London FOUR years ago). No, the reason for spending �1.99 on this is the �brand new b-side�, a song called �Sweetie-pie� which sounds like it was recorded at the bottom of a well and includes the kind of mad, warbling female backing vocals Moz likes so much (these are provided by his latest protegee, Kristeen Young. It�s just a shame that the acts he champions always turn out to be complete SHIT). Looking beyond the strange production, it�s not a BAD song � it�s actually oddly affecting but also makes you worry for poor old Mozza as it includes yet more semi-suicidal lyrics (�Sweetie-pie, I�m ending my life because I�ve fallen in love and nothing is enough�, �I will be there to meet you when it�s your time�, etc). Don�t forget, the main track on this single includes lines like �soon, I will be dead� and �for my own life, I don�t care anything�. Morrissey, some of us will NEVER be happy, no matter HOW much we want it.
DRIVE-BY TRUCKERS � GANGSTABILLY (NEW WEST)
Although this is the first DBT album, it�s the last one I actually BOUGHT. Originally released in 1998, this reissue contains sleeve-notes lovingly written by founder Trucker Patterson Hood and a whole load of great songs. With pedal steel guitar to the fore and heart-on-sleeve numbers (�The Living Bubba�, �Sandwiches for the Road�) nestling comfortably beside more lighthearted songs (�18 Wheels of Love�, �Steve McQueen�), this is fab, as is�
DVDS
DRIVE-BY TRUCKERS � THE DIRTY SOUTH : LIVE AT THE 40 WATT (NEW WEST)
A sweaty and impassioned DBT are caught here, in August 2004, playing a sold-out show in their adopted hometown of Athens, Georgia. It makes me wish I�d gone to see them when they played in Glasgow earlier this year but, typically, that was just before I got into them. As the title suggests, the set-list mainly comprises songs from their album �The Dirty South� with the added attraction of some tasty older material thrown into the mix and a frenetic cover of Jim Carroll�s �People Who Died�. There are also interview snippets with the band scattered between songs. It�s interesting to finally put faces to each member of the band. I discovered that Patterson Hood looks like the singer out of The Flaming Lips, Mike Cooley looks like a cross between John Cale and the smarty-pants comedian Mark Steele, Jason Isbell looks like the fat kid from �King of the Hill�, the drummer looks like a bearded Angus Deayton and the bass chick is the third sexiest bass chick EVER (Kims Deal and Gordon being numbers one and two, respectively). There�s even a bit where Cooley MARRIES two fans live on stage! This is a band that likes to give and give!
BUKOWSKI � BORN INTO THIS (MAGNOLIA)
I wasn�t even aware that this film EXISTED � I just kind of stumbled upon it while browsing online one dreary weekend and ordered it from trusty US Direct (�Your personal importation service for Region 1 DVDs�!) It�s claims to be �the definitive documentary� prove to be TOTALLY ACCURATE, I�m pleased to say (not that there have BEEN all that many Bukowski docs that I�m aware of). You can tell it was a real labour of love for first-time film-maker John Dullaghan, who outlines his struggles in the making of featurette which is part of an impressive list of DVD extras. There is a massive amount of archive footage of Buk doing what he did best � writing, drinking and hanging around LA - as well as recent interviews with main players such as his widow Linda, his daughter Marina, Black Sparrow publisher John Martin and famous fans such as Tom Waits and fucking Bono (who seems to appear in EVERY documentary about EVERYBODY, ever!) If you even have a passing interest in Charles Bukowski, you should see this. If you�re a fan, it�s downright ESSENTIAL.
MORRISSEY � PASOLINI IS ME (APOCALYPSE SOUND)
Bootlegs are NAUGHTY, aren�t they, but this looked so TASTY, I HAD to have it, even though it cost �17 (second-hand, too!) It mainly consists of a live show from Germany, poshly filmed for TV in June this year. It also contains various other live UK TV appearances as well as five songs from a Dutch festival. For reasons known only to himself, Moz is dressed as an Italian waiter throughout. This nicely whetted my appetite nicely for�
GIG
MORRISSEY � SECC, GLASGOW, 2ND DECEMBER 2006
Got a lift when Michael and Maureen went to Tesco in Lanark. Got the 1.25 train to Partick, walked back to the flat and was in at 2.50pm. It began to rain and got dark and horrible. I thought I saw John's light on so I knocked his door a couple of times but got no answer. Ate a couple of rolls I'd made up then went out and had a pint of Calder's in Cooper's on Great Western Road, sitting on a sofa by the window. Then I walked to Finnieston and went into a very quiet place called Elbo Room, where I had a bottle of Stella for a very reasonable �1.50. Then it was 5pm and the time I�d arranged to meet John, so I went to Bannister's and got myself a pint of Miller (which was �2.15). Some woman was handing out free chocolates, so I took one. It wasn't too busy and I watched the sports results and the fucking 'X Factor' on the big screen and waited and waited. At 6pm, I decided to ring Dave and see if HE wanted my spare Morrissey ticket, as it didn't look like John was going to show. To my surprise, he said he�d get the next train into town, so I felt a LOT better after that (because the gig wasn't sold out, I wouldn't have been able to sell my ticket). But he rang around half an hour later to say the train got cancelled but that he'd drive instead and leave his car outside my place. I had drank four pints by the time he called back, just before 8pm, to say he was down the street. I went out to meet him and we went to GG Brothers (!) off-sales where I bought a bottle of Buckfast, which we drank while walking to the SECC. We finished it off down by the river, admiring the lights of the �squinty bridge� and the new BBC building then we went into Hall Four and watched Moz's pre-show entertainment (we'd missed the support act, Kristeen Young, but were treated to films of James Dean and Bridget Bardot, among others). When Moz hit the stage, I ran as close to the front as I could get and went mad jumping about to 'Panic'. It was probably the BEST time I've ever had seeing Moz (better than April's gig at the Academy, I'd say. Speaking of that venue, our hero called it 'smelly - as if Molly Weir had died backstage and they forgot to bury her'. He also asked if we'd seen him on the Russell Brand show the previous night, asked what we thought of him - to which loads of people booed - and then said 'he's actually very sweet') - not least because, along with 'Panic', he also did 'William, it Was Really Nothing' (the first Smiths single I ever bought) and other songs I'd never seen him do live, such as 'The National Front Disco', to which I danced with arms around some guy I didn't know. My only gripe was the amount of neds in the crowd *, but at least I got to punch one of them in the kidneys (he was shouting 'Fuck off, Morrissey' and giving him the fingers - WHY was he even THERE?!) which I realised in retrospect was a bit stupid as he was about five feet taller than me and was surrounded by his mates, but I got away with it. It was this same ned element who were giving nazi salutes during 'Irish Blood, English Heart' and 'National Front Disco' and chucking beer about (a pint glass nearly hit me, so I tried to throw it back over my head, but only succeeded in pouring most of it's contents over my own head! I think someone had pissed in it, but I didn't care). I was edging closer and closer to the front as the gig went on, as more people wimped out (when it comes to Moz gigs, I�ve got STAMINA!) The closing 'Please, Please, Please Let Me Get What I Want' was moving (he changed the words to 'WHO I want' and repeated a verse to make it a bit longer than it's usual couple of minutes - it was odd that he did all three tracks from the 'William' 12 inch) and reduced one of the neds standing near me to kiss his girlfriend then punch someone! Nice! Then it was all over and I sat on a bench outside the hall and waited for Dave, who'd managed to capture a few songs on his mobile. We made our way out into the rain and walked back to Byres Road. Went into Oran Mor and drank many drinks. I had some pints of Miller, a few whiskey and Cokes and a couple of ciders and Dave took great pleasure in winding up not only the bar staff but various other people as well, which was pretty funny. We left there after 2am and went back to the flat. I stuck a Leatherface DVD on and we went to sleep. During the night (we discovered the next day), Dave went into the wrong room after returning from the bathroom. It was the room of the Irish guy who lives across the hall. Why doesn't the stupid cunt just lock his door?
* Note to English readers � Ned = Casual / Note to American readers � Ned = Jock
BOOK
LISA CRYSTAL CARVER � DRUGS ARE NICE (SNOWBOOKS)
It was impossible to resist a book by an author described on the cover as �Hunter S Thompson in a mini-skirt�. The fact that a quick flick through revealed she was the founding member of avant-noise-terrorist collective Suckdog and had a couple of bizarre encounters with GG Allin (Suckdog�s first release was entitled �Rape GG�, a compliment he later repaid with the song �Suckdog� on his �You Give Love a Bad Name� album) merely sealed the deal. These are Carver�s true-life tales of an unorthodox childhood, a jailbird dad, time spent working as a prostitute (she left because she �enjoyed it too much�), obsessive relationships with various underground celebs (Smog�s Bill Callaghan and Boyd Rice to name but two) and a shitload of crazy behaviour and crazier music. Credited with creating one of the very first �personal zines� at the arse end of the 1980s in �Rollerderby�, Lisa�s book is fantastically entertaining as she writes with clarity, wit and charm about life lived on the fringes of the rock and roll underground.
ZINES
Not many people still do paper zines in this wonderful digital age, which is a real shame. That�s the reason I keep sticking zine reviews in here (even though it�s always the same ones I end up mentioning � it�s �cos NO ONE ELSE IS DOING ANY! Or, if they are, they don�t send copies to ME). Luckily, these zines both have MySpace sites now, so all you lazy twats who�d rather gas your own granny than leave the warm, safe glow of your PC screen have NO excuses not to, at the very LEAST, dip your toes in the waters of these beautiful publications.
ABOUT AVERAGE � ISSUE 36 www.myspace.com/whyneedshollywood
Straight outta Middlesbrough, a crazy muthafucka named Willshaw! This month, Andrew regales us with stories about Steven Spielberg and the ongoing adventures of his alter-ego, Trotsky, as well as treating us to some fucked-up drawings of aliens and break-dancers (and Kim Gordon??) A steaming post-modern cauldron of ideas, your life will be improved greatly by reading this monthly kick against the pricks.
DOLE BABIES � ISSUE 0 www.myspace.com/theonlymaggieponce
The fourth issue, this is largely dedicated to Maggie�s seemingly never-ending story about her brief stint working in the Virgin Megastore in London�s Oxford Street. It sounds more like a Nazi boot-camp than a friendly and fun place to work, but it�s an intriguing tale nevertheless, and vaguely reminiscent of the classic �Temp Slave� zine from yesteryear. There are also a few other pieces, slagging off religious people and stuff. Maggie�s writing is always entertaining and often hilarious.
PSIONIC PLASTIC JOY � ISSUE 10 / MEDIA JUNKY � ISSUE 3 c/o Jason Rodgers, PO Box 138, Wilton, NH 03086, USA
In typical fashion, not long after I had written the intro for this section, these unsolicited zines plopped through the letterbox. Spookily, Jason�s intro to PPJ echoes my thoughts on the lack of paper zines these days, and he encourages those still fighting the fight to not give up. An admirable sentiment, though he�s also GLAD that personal zines have all but been destroyed by online blogs (wonder what he�d make of HY! then?) PPJ contains poetry, artwork, fiction, an interview with media writer Douglas Rushkoff and a long and brainy essay called �Primitivist Praxis� which seems to be about anarchy and aliens or something. Some of it�s interesting but it�s not much FUN, really, and feels a bit like eavesdropping on some po-faced student�s dull pub chatter. �Media Junky� is a review zine mainly going on about OTHER worthy, anarcho-type zines. Yawn. Jason also heaps praise on a William Shatner album, so he�s obviously certifiably insane.
THE PROWLER
She called on the night that the clocks went back. Autumn always made her depressed, she said. Some people thought it was that Seasonal Affective Disorder thing but I wasn't so sure. I think it had more to do with what happened to her back when we were at school.
�Can we meet?� she whispered, her voice sounding small and faraway. �I feel really bad tonight.�
It was getting late and most of the pubs would soon be closing, so we arranged to meet at an all-night coffee shop on Woodlands Road. It was only ten minutes walk away from my attic room and Jenny had a car, so it would be no problem for her to get there from her place on the South Side. The moment she walked in, I knew something was REALLY wrong. The first thing that came out of her mouth didn�t change my mind, either.
�There�s someone watching me.�
I sipped my hot chocolate and noticed how rough she looked, as if she hadn�t slept in days.
�How do you mean?�
�I saw him in the garden, in the middle of the night. You know I find it difficult to sleep, especially at this time of year. I was cleaning the venetian blinds last night when I saw him. He didn�t even try to hide. He just stood there, staring.�
�Are you sure it wasn�t just your mind playing tricks on you?�
�I know what I saw, Paul. I�m well aware I�ve had some problems but I�m not a TOTAL nut job.�
We fell silent for a moment. We were the sole customers in the place and the only sound was that of a Miles Davis CD playing low.
�Do you want me to come back with you tonight?� I asked.
�Would you? I feel so stupid, but I�m scared.�
�Hey, you�ll be doing me a favour. That room of mine is driving me mad. It�s so cold, I have to sleep in my coat.�
It took us about twenty minutes to crawl through the traffic back to Jenny�s house, a fairly large semi-detached brick building she�d inherited from her grandmother. I�d only been there once or twice and thought the place had an eerie atmosphere, though I didn�t tell Jenny this, of course. She had enough on her mind.
When we got inside, she turned the TV on, muted it and put a Throbbing Gristle album on the turntable.
�Jenny, without wishing to cause offence, I�m not surprised you�re depressed and paranoid, listening to this shit!�
At least it made her smile.
We sat up half the night and made quite a dent in her bottle of Chivas Regal. I would occasionally go to the window and look out into the garden but all I saw were shadows, a bird table and some overgrown bushes and trees. There was no one out there.
I had been asleep on the couch for around forty-five minutes when I awoke with Jenny shaking me, her face a mess of running eye shadow.
�Paul, wake up. He�s out there. Come and look.�
Wearily, drunkenly, I made my way to the window and peeked through the blind.
�There�s nobody there, Jenny. Go back to bed.�
�He�s hiding because he knows you�re here, but I SAW him.�
Pissed-off and brave with whiskey, I pulled the blind all the way up and started shouting at the windowpane, at the empty, sleeping garden.
�Show yourself, motherfucker! I can SEE you out there. Come out NOW or I�ll rip your fuckin� balls off!�
Unsurprisingly, nothing happened, nothing stirred. I pulled the blind back down again, turned to Jenny and sighed.
�I think maybe you should go and see a doctor.�
The next day, she woke me at ten. She�d called in sick and wanted to go and buy a burglar alarm, while I kept on with my suggestions about seeing a doctor. She wouldn�t hear of it so, reluctantly, I went with her to various hardware stores, pricing alarms and security lights. I thought this would reassure her but, when we were told it would be four days before anyone could come round to install the equipment, I resigned myself to an extended stay on her couch and a few more sleepless nights. I preferred the couch to her spare room, which was filled with antique dolls once belonging to her grandmother. Their painted porcelain faces and frilly dresses gave me the creeps and at least in the lounge I could sleep with the TV on, it�s silent flicker bathing the room in a warm, comforting glow.
She also bought a baseball bat.
That night, halfway through the six o�clock news, I was nodding off from a combination of red wine, fatigue and boredom. I�d cooked us a pasta dinner while Jenny sat on the floor in front of the TV and idly flicked channels.
�I think it�s HIM, you know,� she remarked, jolting me awake.
�How could it be?� I retorted, picking up a peanut from the bowl beside me on the couch and flipping it into my mouth. �He moved away years ago.�
�Well, I think he�s back.�
We didn�t say anything for a while. The newsreader�s voice washed over us, his words insignificant, hollow and meaningless as distant clouds. Finally, Jenny spoke the words we�d both been thinking.
�He TOLD me he�d never let me go.�
I didn�t know what to say to reassure her. At the back of my mind, I always knew there was a small chance that this day would come. If it wasn�t paranoia, if it wasn�t depression, I had no way to fight it. The thought of a REAL, physical threat terrified me, but I knew I had to play that down for Jenny�s sake. She�d been through enough and I wanted to protect her.
�If you really think that, then maybe you should go to the police,� I said.
�What, like LAST time? A fat lot of good they did then!�
�It�s different now. Times have changed. They have to take these things more seriously.�
She laughed but it was a hopeless, hollow, this-is-the-end-of-the-world sort of laugh. The news ended and the weather report came on. The forecast didn�t look good.
2006 - GOOD RIDDANCE
I don�t think I�ve ever felt as wound-up and worried as I have in the past 12 months. Things that never used to give me a second thought now give me knots in my stomach that I�m convinced are turning into ulcers. I fret and I frown about the simplest things, like signing-on or making a dentist�s appointment. I�ve ALWAYS been a worrier (it runs in my family) but it�s NEVER been THIS bad before. To top it all, I�ve lost a few friendships this year, which is weird and confusing and sad. Firstly, back in June, it was a guy I�d known for about 11 years, who I used to record music with. I�d wondered for a while why he never returned my calls. It seemed odd, especially as when we did eventually meet, we�d have a really good time... or so I THOUGHT. The last time I saw him, in the street, he launched into this speech about how, every time we met, he�d come away feeling depressed, like I�d been �getting at� him, somehow. He admitted that this may be because he was, in his own words, �a drug addict� and that it may be his own paranoia making him feel �got at�. He said that he felt �weird� about continuing our friendship which made me feel like he�d punched me in the gut. I explained that this was all news to me, that I always had a good time when I met him and that I�d NEVER intentionally do or say anything to hurt him. I admitted that I usually drank too much and could sometimes say or do things I didn�t mean, but that I honestly didn�t think I�d EVER said or done anything like that to HIM. We hugged a couple of times, he told me he was glad we�d sorted things out and said he�d ring me and we�d meet up sometime. Of course, that call never came and I haven�t seen him since (apart from once recently in the street. I don�t think he saw me, though, and I averted my gaze). It really upset me for a while but then I realised that perhaps our different �addictions� had made it impossible for us to be friends anymore. There�s nothing more boring than a drunk person when you�re sober - not that my friend was usually SOBER when we met, but he was always more sober than me (apart from a couple of times when I went round his flat to record songs during the day� then I�d be drinking only coffee and he would be doing bongs). When that was coupled with drugs, it meant we were on ENTIRELY different plains. I had to reach the conclusion that, sad as it makes me feel, we�ll never be able to regain what we had. And I think he must feel the same way.
Then there was another incident where I accepted an invitation to go round to a friend�s place and have a few drinks with him and his girlfriend. Warning bells should have gone off in my head as I knew that, when he called, they were both already drunk on vodka, whereas I�d only had a single pint of lager. At their flat, as I tried to play �catch up� with a three-litre bottle of cider, we listened to a few CDs, all of which got mercilessly slagged-off by my mate�s girlfriend, and various silly, inconsequential things happened in the blur of drink. The evening ended after only two or three hours, with the female physically attacking my friend and trying to throw us both out of the flat. If that wasn�t bad enough, she called me up the next day to drunkenly insult me. This left me bouncing between feeling incredible anger and deep loss (I�d been friends with this guy for nearly ten years). I vowed never to speak to either of them again until I got an apology from the girlfriend, which I eventually did, after a few conciliatory phone-calls from my friend. All it took was an �I�m sorry� and a little hug and a kiss when we next met. That was a close shave, but I feel like my friendship with them is a ticking time bomb. One of these days, it will go off.
The most recent thing to have happened is something that came as no great surprise. This guy I�ve been friends with since 1990 used to be a quite good fun back in �the early days� but, somewhere along the line, something changed in him and he became a maudlin, self-pitying bore who would only phone me when drunk. For ten years, I don�t think I once spoke to him when he was sober (of course, he could be a LOVELY guy when sober, which is why I put up with the other side of him for so long). Believe it or not, I HATE drunk people when I�m not drinking myself. They bore me and they scare me. They talk gibberish, get aggressive for no apparent reason, and my friend-since-1990 is no exception. It was only in the last year that he started to phone and meet me regularly, soberly, and it was almost as if the bad old times had been banished forever. Had they FUCK! The last conversation I had with him wasn�t even the worst � in fact, it didn�t even come CLOSE. I just finally got SICK of putting up with his SHIT. I�d told him a hundred times I didn�t want to talk to him when he was drunk and yet STILL he would call (sometimes several times a day, usually for hours at a time). This is a guy so selfish that, after a two-hour conversation centred almost entirely around himself, he�ll say �So, are you bored talking to me now?� As if it�s MY fault! As if my SOLE purpose in life is to be there when HE wants to talk, for as LONG as he wants to talk. As if I�m merely a character in the sad soap opera of his life. It�s the delusion of delusions � thinking the whole world revolves solely around you. That kind of thing wears you down over the years, it makes you wonder if this person who keeps going on about �friendship� can REALLY value it so much when he�s willing to blatantly ignore a friend�s wishes and make them miserable by an endless barrage of needy phone-calls and texts, simply because he�s drunk/down/lonely. So �lonely�, yet all he does is sit in his flat and drink vodka, not eating for days, phoning people up (you see, I�m not the ONLY one he has participating in the soap opera � he�s GREAT at manipulating people), trying to intellectualise his problems when the only REAL problem is the vodka and the not eating and the isolating himself. Why do you think I hang about in pubs so much? Most of the people I know are lonely to some degree, which is why they get themselves out of the house. Sitting around on your own will make practically ANYONE go mad and I�m truly sorry for my friend-since-1990 because we had a few good times (though, to be honest, the vast majority of our nights out were marred, if not ruined, by his drunken self-pity and paranoia) but the scale has been tipped the other way too often, for too long.
On a more POSITIVE note, I did get to meet James Dean Bradfield from Manic Street Preachers this year (in a Somerfield in the middle of Glasgow, of all places), I heard loads of brilliant music (especially Drive-By Truckers, who were my discovery of the year) and I still have a lot of great friends and a wonderful family, who usually manage to keep me on the right side of sane. For these things I am very grateful. So, happy Christmas and New Year to all HY! readers. Your support means more than you know�