issue 26
april 2007
Welcome to issue 26 of HY! This ISN�T a zine for shiny, style-obsessed, over-evolved lads and lasses. No, THIS is a zine for all the melted snowmen and the withered flowers of this world. This is a zine that documents the heartbreak autopsies every single one of us must face while we�re journeying through the bleak landscapes of our lives. If you can find some time to stare at a computer screen � go to www.geocities.com/sniperglue and learn all about the good news.
Don�t email us, though. We don�t want to hear from you.
This issue by Mark Ritchie and Gary Simmons. Dedicated to Mac (2003-2007). R.I.P.
"Perhaps my best years are gone. When there was a chance of happiness. But I wouldn�t want them back. Not with the fire in me now." - Samuel Beckett
KILLING THE HOMELESS
�Spare some change, mate?�
Claude didn�t like the guy�s attitude.
Cocky.
Plus, his clothes looked a bit too new and a bit too clean.
Also, if he really WAS homeless, why was he sitting out in the rain?
No, Claude was having NONE of it.
As he approached the spot where the beggar was sitting,
the line was repeated again, more solemnly this time �
�Spare some change, mate?�
Claude reached into his coat pocket,
took out the pistol,
put it to the beggar�s forehead
and, before he could even react,
pulled the trigger,
causing blood and fragments of brain to slide down the brick wall
behind him.
The other people in the street froze in shock,
possibly thinking they might be next,
but Claude didn�t even notice.
He simply put the gun back in his pocket
and calmly walked away.
RIVER MAN
I walk into the Plaza,
buy an overpriced drink
and sit in the lounge for a while.
It�s peaceful here,
watching the people come and go,
taking taxis to mystery destinations,
coming down from their rooms
for a couple of drinks before dinner.
I could get used to these surroundings,
but the truth is, I only came here
because I was bored and needed
somewhere to take a dump.
Soon, I make my way down to the river,
where I've been hanging out a lot lately.
It's beautiful,
especially after the sun goes down.
There�s a sense of serenity,
looking at all the lonely lights,
throwing your empty bottle into the water
and watching it float away, gracefully,
along with the reflection of the moon.
ENDANGERED SPECIES
�You're the tensest person I've ever met,� she says
as she stands on my back.
How can I explain that, all my life,
I've been waiting for something to happen.
Something terrible.
Waiting for the random luck thrown down by God
to go against me.
It's no wonder I'm tense.
No wonder I don't want to move on,
to evolve,
if the only thing to evolve into
is greed, hatred, guilt and grief.
I'd rather be a sweet, sleepy dog,
dreaming of chasing rabbits around an endless backyard,
unaware of the tumour growing inside,
unaware of the needle that's coming
to deliver me from this dull ache of sunshine.
JUNGLE
Everyone's on the hustle.
You can tell it by the way they walk.
There's an angle to everything,
a way to turn any situation
to your own advantage.
Most of the time.
The trouble with 'the law of the jungle'
is that it's a contradiction in terms -
there IS no law in this jungle.
It's every man for himself.
Do or die, sink or swim.
If you don't like it, get out.
If you can't accept it, fine.
It doesn't NEED your acceptance.
Just DEAL with it or DON'T.
Either way, it doesn't care.
BOOZE-HOUND
it fucks me up, i know,
but GOD, it makes the world
seem softer and freer and cleaner
for a little while.
i'll take the hangovers,
the reduced life expectancy,
the shame, the shame, the shame,
because i've found my god and my devil
in a glass,
making the dullest lights shine bright,
the crappiest music sound good,
making the half people feel WHOLE.
i KNOW it never lasts but
surely it's better to be truly ALIVE
for a few glorious hours
than to coast along mundanely
for a million, endless years?
QUITTER�S CLUB
She was from New Zealand
and she asked 'Are you a quitter?'
expecting me to say 'No'.
When I said 'Yes', she was surprised.
You're not SUPPOSED to be a quitter
in this society.
The TV ads and the talk-shows
and the shiny, pointless world
wants us ALL to WIN,
to ENDURE.
Well, I'm SORRY,
I'm in the WRONG game,
so I don't CARE if I get to the end.
I want to ABORT.
I want to DELETE.
I want to QUIT.
Why don't YOU?
BEFORE
addiction.
in the midst of it,
you feel beautiful,
warm,
bathed in love -
it's the edges around it
that make you suicidal,
hateful,
hopeless.
so, what is the answer?
tell me, CUNT,
what is the fucking ANSWER?
AFTER
when you wake up,
the house is flooded with sunlight
and there are bright yellow flowers
in a vase.
clothes hang out to dry
in the gentlest of breezes.
nighttime is gone from the world
and you are reminded that
all rivers meet up in the end.
13.7 BILLION YEARS OF HELL
Selected Dispatches from an Unwilling Player of Gods� Little Game
By Gary Simmons
Dear Mark�
Saw some of �The Wright Stuff�� I can�t believe the pig-headed attitude of these people regarding the child-porn downloader being spared a prison sentence. So much for our oh-so-enlightened era! �This man is sick� doesn�t work with me. Just coz the whole business is against our society and cultural morals and values, doesn�t mean to say that a person who wants to look at kiddy-porn is �sick�. Are gay people �sick�? Are animal fuckers �sick�? The attitude taken is that of arrogance and ignorance. Can you MAKE a human being? Not in the fuckin� obvious way, I mean if you could remove the water from a person�s make-up, be given the remaining few pounds of chemicals, could you then reconstruct that person by �just adding water�? No. So what do WE know? Pretty much fuck-all, I would say. It�s easy to put difficult, uncomfortable human urges into the �they�re ill� box. It�s been done to folk who have a different political stance as well as those with a different sexual leaning. As Quentin Crisp said, �Health consists of having the same diseases as your neighbours�. As an example of the dark ages we are STILL living in, and will CONTINUE to live in : Tell people you�re straight, nothing happens. Tell people you�re bi-sexual � you�ll start to get trouble from certain quarters. Tell people you�re gay � you�ll DEFINITELY get trouble from those same quarters. Tell people you�re a gerontophile and that�s gonna FUCK YOU UP! Tell �em you�re a paedophile and you�ll get LYNCHED. No wonder it�s just safer to PRETEND you�re �normal�, bash-up the missus and support some fuckin� football team. Fucking CUNTS!
**
Hmmm, yeah, re. Strong �work ethic� coz-my-dad-worked-HIS-fuckin�-BOWEL-ACTS off running one, then two, then one again fucking SHOPS with all it�s smash and grab/arson/multiple nighttime break-ins/air-rifle-shots-from-passing-cars/gun-in-dad�s-face hold-up/Jiggaboo-with-six-inch-nail-banged-through-wood-weapon/vandalism/juggernaut lorry overturning on daddo�s car outside� Yeah, I really really wanna follow in pater�s fuckin� footsteps, zig-a-zig-ah. ME� with 4� suicidal depressions in my port-fucking-foe-lee-oh!!! I�ll tell you all a-fuckin�-bout it some-fucking-time!! I could write a BOOK! My father started with all good and innocent intentions after WWII and did well coz he worked HARD. But, come the mid 1970s, everything fuckin� changed completely and having a TV and Radio (!) shop or a �self-service� launderette became akin to havin� a jewel-encrusted midnight stroll through the back-streets of Hackney� er, it WAS Hackney, actually. In the end, no insurance company would insure him (for a �reasonable� premium) unless he had �The Hatch� style metal shutters and an alarm system fitted that was linked to a fuckin� base station full of security cunts who would then, in turn, contact the fuzz!! And, yes, of COURSE I like the life his hard work in HELL provided for our family but� I ain�t, and I CAN�T, and I WON�T repeat it over again. Not now, not ever� in the year �2007 : a debased democracy�. Cunts.
Wishing you success in your application. Love from Gary xxx
GEROGARY�S �IN CASE OF TOTAL SYSTEM FAILURE, PLAY-LIST� (evidently, Mr. GeroGary did and it made no fuckin� diff what-so-EVER!)
HUGGY BEAR � HER JAZZ (this is from a Scottish-alcoholic-gay-love-affair mate�s personal gifty comp cassette and video, so I have absolutely no fucking idea of the original format, label or date� Go and �goo-goo� it, or whatever today�s youth-some peoploids do now whilst not a�jerkin� off to group chat-room file-sucking cyber-orgies or www.babyart.nu, and the depraved like. Yuk. Oh, and Bikini Kill rule TOO!)
RAMONES � S/T. LP (Sire. 1976)
MARK RITCHIE � INSECURITY GUARD. Cassette (KAW. 2003)
MARK RITCHIE � DEAR GARY. Personal cassette (27th July 2002� I THINK! Some cocaine-fuelled fuck-up�s pathetic attempt at some kind of communication coz he was too pasty to write me a PROPER letter. Quite pitiful, really)
SCORPION � DO IT WITH ME. Japanese language cassette (my ex did some vocal work for an adult telephone chat-line and all I got was this lousy 8-minute recording of FILTH! Scorpion. 1995-ish)
SEX PISTOLS � SPUNK. Bootleg cassette (obviously recorded straight from the, then, bootleg vinyl, complete with some-cunt�s-ripped-me-orf repetitious jump on the song �Problems�. Everything they ever did is now available on DVD-A/SACD, no? How very scratchy. 1977 ��and we are going mad�, one would presume)
SHEENA & THE ROCKETS � ROCK�N�ROLL HEART. CD (I wouldn�t have let this one through if t�were not for the two magnificent pieces of ultra-sugary Jap-bubble-gum-rock-for-drivin�-dad�s-Dihatsu-into-Barclays to, contained within� those diamonds on a pebble beach being �Pretty Little Boy� and �Happy House�. The other 14 tracks deserve a dishing out of the DEATH FUCK! Probably on either Invitation or Alpha and probably 1998� if you lose sleep over such ridiculously obsessive and pretensive minutiouse DROSS!)
SHY RIGHTS MOVEMENT � REWARD TIME. Cassette (contains both gorgeous songs from the ultra-rare and, very valuable let�s not deny it, 7� release �Only the Lost Can Find Their Way�/�The Solemn, Balanced Weight of the Hammer�. KAW. 2002)
SHY RIGHTS MOVEMENT � TRAUMA PEEPSHOW. Cassette (includes two spine-tingling goose-bump-raising classics; �Butterflies and Stars� and �By the Cigarette Machine�. BEAUTIFUL! OK, so me �n� my punk-chick-bitch DID sleep with half the fucking band� bowl-lacks t�ya suspicious rumour-spreadin� hetero slag-heap ARSEHOLES! KAW. 2004)
SKULLFLOWER � SORTIES. Cassette (fuck Moz, THIS is the real Eurovision material. Broken Flag. 1996)
Thanks to Tony Fernandez for continued inspiration. R.I.P. Tabula Rasa bar. I drank there.
MUSIC
CERAMIC HOBS � ALL PSYCHIATRISTS ARE BASTARDS www.pumf.net
BBC2�s �Culture Show� recently ran a piece about the 1980s alternative comedian and sometime singer Ted Chippington, someone who I�d pretty much forgotten all about despite owning his �classic� 1987 single �The Wanderer�. �So fucking what?� you might say, but I mention this because a lot of the songs on this - a �bootleg� CDR copy of the forthcoming Ceramic Hobs LP due out on vinyl later this year � have a distinctly Chippington-esque air about them. Maybe it�s the none-more-Northern vocals, or the absurdist/surreal sense of humour or maybe it�s something else entirely. Whatever it is, there are plenty of brilliant moments here, be it the screaming thrash of �Bogwash� or the Oi!-fest that is �Stick the War on Terror Up Your Arse.� Respect is also due for naming a song after one of my fave-ever childhood cartoon characters, �Secret Squirrel� (which is, frankly, HILARIOUS! All they need to do now is write one called �Undercover Elephant� and I�ll be happy as a pig in shit), and sampling Maggie Thatcher on a song called �Horrible Old Trout�, with it�s chorus of �Ding, dong, the witch is dead� is surely a stroke of genius. It�s not ALL fun and games, though. �Wir Kinder Vom Bahnhof Zoo� sounds paranoid, druggy and vaguely sinister while �Six Degrees of Dissociation� ends the album proper on a sombre and mysterious note. What ARE they going on about? Like an episode of �Lost�, we may NEVER know... but then the track suddenly mutates into another knockabout thrash-a-long before we�re left to mull over the six extra songs at the end of the disc. These include bonkers chants, repeated references to Humpty Dumpty, accordion-wailings, garbled spoken-word pieces put through mangles and music that is charmingly all over the place, like a less well-rehearsed Fall on heavy downers. At one point I was even reminded of chilled-out reggae one-hit wonders Althea and Donna. Now THAT�S fucked-up. The final track, �All Psychiatrists Are Bastards� is one of the funniest things I�ve EVER heard. REALLY!
VARIOUS � CASSETTE CULTURE COMPILATION TWO www.cassetteculture.net
This is a two-disc CD compiled from tracks recorded by members of the Cassette Culture website, which is a good place to check out when you�re bored with looking at porn. There�s plenty of electronica on offer, the best of which is Cultural Amnesia�s track �Contains� with it�s mildly amusing voice-over. Other noteworthy artists are Greg Segal (who does that nice, spacey ambient thing), Freiband (who cover Nick Drake�s �Black Eyed Dog� in a hauntingly minimal fashion), Shithouse (who treat us to HEAVY ROCK sung in an Australian accent with their �Planet Hell�. Right fuckin� ON!) and Mental Anguish (whose beautiful track �Infernal Further Deterioration of Waving Air� blends electronic and acoustic elements to brilliant effect, belying their rather misleading band name). There�s also noisy drone from Cheap Machines, Hal McGee and others as well as singer-songwriter loveliness from Ken Clinger, Robin O�Brien, Ben Niven (whose track �Woodwind Style� celebrates the oft-overlooked importance of woodwind instruments in rock�n�roll!), Don Campau and Shy Rights Movement (whose name I shouldn�t REALLY mention as that�s my �band�, although I appear to be the only member left these days, making the name even FUNNIER, I think!) This is a pretty eclectic selection of what�s going on BELOW the underground music scene.
PAUL WESTERBERG � OPEN SEASON (LOST HIGHWAY)
This one slipped beneath my radar for a few months, as it�s not TECHNICALLY a Paul Westerberg album, but the soundtrack to an animated kid�s movie that also contains tracks by Talking Heads, Deathray and Pete Yorn. But, when you consider that eight of the twelve tracks here are by the ex-Replacements singer, it bloody well SEEMS like one of his records - all you have to do is program out all the other tracks (even though they�re actually not too bad). It�s typically perverse of Westie (as NO ONE calls him) to choose this type of project to unleash some of his greatest new material in years. Seven of his songs here are brand new (the exception being �Good Day�, which comes from the 1996 album �Eventually�) and they�re not the kind of saccharine-coated shite you may expect to hear on the soundtrack to a cartoon about cute woodland animals, either. �I Belong� and �Whisper Me Luck� are gorgeous piano and mandolin-drenched ballads while �Meet Me in the Meadow�, �Love You in the Fall�, �Any Better Than This� and �All About Me� are addictive, upbeat stomping rockers. Elsewhere, the famous Westerberg wordplay is given an outing on the gloriously dumb �Right to Arm Bears�. If all that weren�t enough, two of these songs also see a kind of mini Replacements reunion, as they include the bass and backing vocal skills of Tommy Stinson.
THE HOLD STEADY � SEPARATION SUNDAY (FRENCH KISS)
Aah, my new favourite band to listen to while in transit between the big city and my COUNTRY RETREAT (I still use an old skool CASSETTE walkman too - none of that iPod SHITE!) It�s a shame I couldn�t find this, The Hold Steady�s second album of three, before I saw them live (see last issue for a review of THAT), as they played a lot of songs from it. But �better late than never�, as THEY say. One of the great things about Craig Finn�s lyrics is the way characters, themes and phrases spill over from song to song. So, here we get to know more about the drug-taking, skin-slashing, religion-obsessed kids-in-America Charlemagne, Holly and Gideon who also make appearances on the band�s other two albums. Finn�s ear for dialogue is masterful (the Adam and Eve story is related through the voice of one character thusly: �I guess I�ve heard about original sin/I heard the dude blamed the chick, I heard the chick blamed the snake/I heard they were naked when they got busted/I heard things ain�t been the same since�) and his ultra-wordy, reference-packed tales are so densely-written that it takes a while for them to fully sink in. But, if you invest some time in getting to know these stories/ songs, you�ll find that they�ll stay with you a lot longer and mean a LOT more than the latest dollop of E4-sponsored glamour-boy pop pap such as the instantly-lovable singles by The Fray and The Enemy I reviewed last issue, which I liked at the time but haven�t played since. If you love words, if you love the sheer THRILL of guitar, bass, drums and keyboards colliding in the joyful, sweaty union of ROCK �N� ROLL, then you�ll fucking LOVE The Hold Steady.
THE TRIFFIDS � CALENTURE (DOMINO)
Woke up at about 8am or thereabouts on a sofa in Julie's hall. Erren was in a bed in an adjacent room. Got my stuff together (took me a while to find my specs - I'd been LYING on them but they were OK, amazingly) and left. It was sunny and people were going to work and school. Got a Pot Noodle in the 'corner' shop on Queen Margaret Drive and was in the flat not long before 9. Put 'Wright Stuff' on. Still felt pissed, so I knocked on John's door just before 11 and he came into my room and we had a drink or two and I played 'Outside This Bar' on his NICE acoustic then FORCED him to play ME something. After a while, we went out and had a drink in Oran Mor, surrounded by actors, of course. I had a Magners with ice (which I had ALL DAY, actually). Then we went to the music shop in Otago Lane as John wanted a capo for his guitar. Next stop was the Big Blue, where we had drinks sitting out by the river. That's when I heard the voice message from my mum, who'd ALSO left me three texts last night. I rang her back. It was about Mac - who'd had an operation. After I'd thrown my empty bottle into the river, we went inside and, soon afterwards, the barman told me to stop being so loud and swearing as 'this is a family restaurant' (which became the day's catchphrase). Then we went to the Captain's Rest, as John wanted to see if this girl he's met in some pub lived nearby (turns out she DOES). I rang Gary from there, as I had 100 free minutes on my phone and it was the occasion of his 1st gig in nine months or something AND I was completely rat-arsed! We chatted for about 1 � hours, I think, though I can't really recall what ABOUT. He
was speaking to John too. The barmaid said, as I was buying my 2nd (I think) cider, 'It's not for your friend, is it? Because I think he's had enough'. Actually, it was probably ME who was the more pissed! After all that, I went and got a pizza and we were back in the flat at who KNOWS what hour, but it must've been EARLY. I vaguely recall kissing and hugging James in the hall. Must have passed out as I ate, �cos I awoke late - 11-ish or 12-ish - with the nearly-full pizza lying on my lap, box open, etc. So, I continued eating and went to bed a bit later on, fucked. Nect day I woke early, feeling unbelievably shit. Had two wanks, dozed on and off, drank some 10-day old water that was in a bottle by my bed then went to the shop and got a bottle of Coke. Opened a letter which arrived yesterday but couldn't face starting to read it. Eventually dragged my clothes on and walked into town for a midday Magners with ice in Sleazys (it was �3.70!!!) Read the new �About Average� which had arrived earlier as I started to feel a little better. Aimlessly wandered round shops (saw Drunken Eyes in WHSmith) and it started raining on and off, which was typical, as I'd put my shoes-with- holes-in-them on (easier to put on than my boots, the STATE I was in). Had a Guinness in the Counting House at about 2pm then spent �3.99 on this DOUBLE CD by The Triffids. Some NAUGHTY staff member at a certain Glasgow record shop is obviously earning extra cash by selling on their promo CDs to the shop they work in (I�m guessing it�s someone who�s SIGNED to the label who released this CD, as rather a LOT of Domino promos turn up in their 2nd-hand racks.. oooh, I WONDER who it could be..) Don�t get me wrong, I�m QUITE HAPPY to pay a mere �3.99 for a brand new DOUBLE CD I wanted to buy ANYWAY, it�s just that �This promotional CD remains the property of Domino Records and must be surrendered upon request� blurb I don�t like. Then I had a �2.99 meal of baked potato/beans/cheese/garlic bread/Pepsi in the St Enoch Centre. 1st time I've bought food in there for YEARS. Got back at 5.20pm. Had a Pot Noodle and some nicked-from-the-kitchen cornflakes. Had a half-doze to some ambient music then watched some TV and went to bed at 11pm.
PAULA FRAZER & TARNATION � NOW IT�S TIME (BIRDMAN)
Some kindly soul sent me a load of Paula Frazer albums on one of those modern MP3 disk thingies after I gave the �Gentle Creatures� album a glowing review in the last issue. After I�d put this, the latest from her and sometime band Tarnation, onto CASSETTE (yeah, I know.. I�m a PERVERT) and realised that all the tracks were in alphabetical order rather than the order in which they SHOULD appear on the album (that�s what you get for being a cheapskate, illegal downloader, I suppose) I began to SWOON to the loveliness of these songs. At times, Paula sounds like a cross between Linda Thompson and a female Neil Young (the title track is a kissing cousin to his �Helpless�), with the ache in the voice and the yearning, country-tinged instrumentation. There�s a song called �Shadows� here and, unsurprisingly, it�s gorgeous, just like every OTHER song called �Shadows� (Edith Frost and Red House Painters have both done songs by that name and, if you can think of any more, award yourself two bonus points). There is, thankfully, NOTHING remotely modern on this album � just lots of pedal-steel guitars and strings and beautiful songs galore.
THE GREAT AMERICAN ARMADILDO FACE PROBLEMS GANG � SONGS IN THE NOISE OF PORNO / LIVE @ KELLY�S CORNER (PASTE ROOM RECORDS) [email protected]
It doesn�t bode well that this cassette came with a note attached which read �It�s the worst shit I ever heard� (it was sent to me via a third party, not the band or label). And it doesn�t bode well that every single thing I�ve heard from Paste Room Records has been puerile and pointless and a pathetic waste of both tape and time. This isn�t any exception � in fact it�s even WORSE than the other dross I�ve had to endure from them. Side one is two teenagers (if they AREN�T teenagers then they REALLY need to GET A FUCKING LIFE) messing about with a tape-recorder, an acoustic guitar and some composed-in-less-time-than-it-took-to-record-them �songs� with titles like �I Wanna Marry Dildo Face�, �My Testicles Hurt� and �I Was A Teenage Bird of Terror� (actually, that last one�s quite good). Despite the occasionally funny line (�I�m so Oi! I wear my boots in the shower� and �We�re so metal, we have DADS� spring to mind), this stuff really shouldn�t ever have been allowed to escape from the bedroom in which it was recorded, where it�s probably the most HILARIOUS thing since Derek and Clive. Side two is an almost unlistenable recording of screaming, drunk twats battering artlessly away at various instruments. There should be a LAW against such abuse. In all honesty, a bunch of cock-chugging chimps or two-year old children could produce a better racket than this. Why did they BOTHER?
EXIT-STANCE � WHILE BACKS ARE TURNED� (MORTARHATE)
One of our most likeable new readers sent this CD in for review, �a mid 1980s anarcho punk band�, according to his accompanying letter. Bearing that in mind, and looking at the cover depicting mass hangings and song titles like �Slaughterhouse� and �Animals Suffer � Why?� I could TELL I was in for a LAUGH RIOT when I slipped this into the slot of my CD player.. and I was RIGHT! This is actually pretty good. The Cocker-knee singer (is it the guy from Wat Tyler? It SOUNDS like him, as well as being reminiscent of those nice Crass/Conflict boys) spews out impassioned lyrics like �The voiceless now have a voice�, �The shit still stinks� and, hilariously, �The CUNTS! The CUNTS!� You can tell he means it, maaan, and there�s nothing whatsoever wrong with THAT. In fact, in this age of pointless celebs who will happily feign concern for anything from the starving millions to animal rights as long as it gets them a few valuable column inches in some pointless star-fuck mag, bands like this are as refreshing as a blast of icy cold air on a hot summer�s day. At 23 tracks, it DOES outstay it�s welcome a bit, but that�s the problem with CDs - they usually DO.
GIG
THE AVENGERS � UNDERWORLD, LONDON, 6TH MARCH 2007 by Gary Simmons
This was to be my first night out in eight bloody MONTHS! Eight MONTHS of a�fuck-fuckin� the DOG!! No fun-on-the-dole since May 2006�s 999/Devilish Presley bash at the very same cunt-bouncer infested venue and just before my wretched depression REALLY took hold and saw me a�cutting my limp wristies in the flat-with-the-evil-light-blazing-through-through-the-floorboard-gaps, up down Archway way. I hadn�t even BEEN to the Westend or Scam-den since M went back to Madrid, and THAT was on 1st November 2006! I�d been stuck in my OWN lousy area for FOUR bleeding months with only two of THEM seeing any REAL change in my mood, you BASTARDS!! That amounts to SIX long months, all told, on umpteen grammy-whams of Sodium Valproate and Fluoxetine without a single PINT in SIGHT!
I prepared myself for this momentous occasion with all the well-disciplined precision of a nappy-wearing NASA-trained U.S. naval captain out to fuck-over a love-rival; I bought two x two-litre boo-talls of Sainsbury�s �Basics� (Arthur BASSICK, ha!!) 4.7% cider, @ �1.37 and then down to �1.29, on different days� Don�t ask me, I just DRINK it. I photographed one bow-tall, lovingly, in my Space 1999/2001 bedroom and then, all a�tarted-up like John Inman (R.I.P.) at his most camp(b)est, I set forth for the very centre of the known universe; Tottenham Court Road underground station, armed only with oyster card and accent. I had a quick butchers in the Building Centre in Store Street, a favourite old haunt of mine, and saw that lots of NEW buildings had been added to the huge scale model of London there, most notably the Willis Building which is now almost complete (yeah, complete with a�gawpin�-at-me-CUNT-BUILDERS-even-though-they-are-SURROUNDED-by-London�s-architechtural-marvels and indeed are, as I�m mocked, actually WORKING on one of �em, the white nigger FUCKS!!! Maybe I should take it as a �compliment�, you know, here in the oh-so enlightened year of 2007? Maybe� But I WON�T, coz I TRUST my instincts, they�re NEVER wrong, NEVER!! NO� �The ONLY THING that MATTERS is fuckin� REVENGE!!� G.G.)
I left a HY! flyer on the �peoples� notice-board and worked my way past the don�t-buy-anything-here, buy-it-in-John-Lewis, hi-fi shops (CUNTS) to the Blitish Museum where I sat outside, in the weak spring sunshine, and started my drinking at around 3pm. I received well-deserved hero-worship from a 22 year-old H.M. French tourist who, ever-so-slightly-embarrassingly, got one of the girls in his tedious travel group to photograph him �n� me together, all matey-like! I�d �met� him in the museum�s bog. It was difficult communicating as his only Engerlish words were stuff like �Led Zeppelin�, �Kiss�, �Manowar�, �Black Sabbath�, �Deep Purple� and �Plastic Bertrand�. OK, I gave him that last one. Well, it�s a good piece of historic froggy punk-pop-PAP� In fact, it�s �fine by me�. I managed to scoff my EIGHT Sainsbury�s buy-one-get-done-free �Hot� Cross Buns during my four to five-odd hours of cider guzzling, so to ease the blow to my out-of-condition system. I gave a plastic (Bertrand!) cup of cider to my new French buddy, spoke to B. Museum employee Andy, who said that he knew me from thee post-eviction �we drink here� days, with M, and also from Wanstead, FUCK heads!! No one seemed bothered that I was drinking� either I was successful in hiding it from the bored-as-fuck security chaps or they just don�t give a bleedin� MONKEYS! Dunno. Don�t care. Just want to DRINK. Maybe I�m seen as a sort of PART of the museum�s exhibits?! I dished-out some HY! flyers; a FIST-full to a GAG-all of Blitish TROLLOPS, who said that they liked R �n� B. �Oh, there�s LOADS of R �n� B in there,� said I.
It started to get cold, so I went into the museum�s �Great Hall� for some more discreet cider-supping and then on to the Costa-lot-for-a-coffee-so-why-not-drink-your-own-cheap-cider-here-instead-if-you-have-any-REAL-sense-at-ALL in the Virgin Megastore basement (it�s dark down there�) No fucker messed with me and it came to pass that I spent a Heaven-sent one hour and twenty minutes there a�boozin� in cyber-disgrace with Mark and John on my mobile blower! You can�t stop US, you know! WE WILL WIN!! I told John how much I loved him, via a rendition of that Splodgenessabound�s song about Rolf Harris, which isn�t bad for an eleventh-hour blind (drunk) date and I textually lashed Mark�s boo-toks with virtual cruel instruments (Steel-Tipped Martinette, Bull�s Pizzle, etc.) Oh, what a gas THAT was! I polished-off my first two-litre bowl-tool of cider and opened the second, a�swiggin� it on the 134 bus to the very HEART of Scam-Den! This is pretty good for someone who�s been out of aktion for eight months, don�t ya think? Well, I should CO-CO: I hung-about (�a�bay� yut �, as is pronounced after Cockneyfication� Well, I WAS born in the Salvation Army Unmarried Mothers Hospital in the Lower Clapton Road, like my mate fish-faced-postie Billy Boy and that bleeding comedian Mike �Eastenders� Reid. Big fuckin� DEAL, huh?) I hung a-bay-yut, I say, in the vicinity of the Underworld for a while, saw homeless/jail-bird/fellow dole-scum Colin (as I ALWAYS seem to do!) and offered him a drink of cider from my carrier bag. But he already had his OWN carrier bag, with White Lightning therein, so we just huggy-wugged a couple of times, all Masonic (Mansonik?)-like, and we mentioned, in passing, M, Carlos, Carlos� ex ritch-bitch-spoilt-to-kingdom-FUCK Julie� Then I took bear�s-self to the Devonshire Arms where I�ve not been for a seemingly clinically depressed ETERNITY! I do LOVE that anti-Scottish-�10-note goth/alternative pubic house� but I DON�T love their prices, so I asked the barmaid what the cheapest drink might be; �It needn�t be alcoholic,� I said, coz �I just wanna BE here.� I got a �1.30 Pepsi (one of my two-litre bowl-towls of cider was fuckin� �1.29, REMEMBER?!?!) with ice and stood myself at the far-end of the bar a�textin� Mark, M, and my nice niece, Toni. I asked the bar staff if the new Intrepid Fox (ex Vespa/ Conservatory/Caf� M�nchen/White Hart� I�ve a�pissed-it-up in �em ALL since 1981, or there-a-bay-YUTS) was still run by Pat. It WAS! He�s a fucking CUNT. Well, I suppose I�ll be too tanked-up one day (Frosty Jacks by THEN) to resist trying it out, you know how it is. Hopefully I can try and get myself barred-for-life or something, but knowing MY luck, Pat�ll probably offer me a JOB there for my trouble. CUNTS! A JOB!?? Him, Patty-wat, and his humourless nu-metal GUARD dog! Just what the fuck is WRONG with all these people? Do they REALLY think that being behind a bar, serving loser-DRUNKS or, even WORSE, posey CUNTS, do they REALLY believe it�s, like, some kinda STAGE or something?! Well, I�ll TELL ya just what kind of a STAGE it is� it�s the next STAGE to the local fuckin� DOLE QUEUE!! Ask Maggie Ponce THAT question!! SHE�LL fuckin� tell ya ALL a-bay-YUT the R �n� R �GLAMOUR� of Rock Bar work, the deluded fuckin� TWATS!! Ask American Erin too, if it ain�t all fuckin� KILLED her yet! Poor, poor Erin, a victim of the Rock Bar age! So, FUCK Rock Bar phonies! WE HY! journos are the REAL R �n� R STREET-bar-staff underground!! WE don�t even get PAID!! OH, by God�s very own FUCK, it costs US!! My whole life� my whole fuckin� LIFE� I even bring out a few extra plastic cups to share my cider with YOU fuckers!! Well, I downed the rest of my second bowl-stool, minus about an inch or so (lightweight? Southern poof?? C�MON you SCO-TTZ!!) and I made my way to the Underworld PROPER. It was a BIG mistake to ask the subhuman CUNT bouncers on the door (�ticket-tearin�-along-the-perforated-line-is-my-business� and my business is not FIT to wine and dine a retarded THREE year old! So why AM I doing it?� Derrr� coz ya LIKE to tear bits of paper, you worthless pusy-brown DISCHARGE from a failed whore�s CUNT!!!) Erm, where was I? Oh yeah; it was a big mishtake to ask the subhuman cunt bouncers if Ian (someone M and I know from the Gossips days) still worked there. Predictably, these FUCK-BULBS� once-highlighted-by-Lydon, �opening statement� was one of aggression and violence; �IAN WHOO?!!� I replied; �Er, I dunno �is name, Ian Potato �ead we used to call �im�� Then, in my successfully tanked-up-to-the-brim state, the two honky black-bomber-jacketed repressed-fag spud-�eaded BUMMER-boys started going on about stamping on MY head� or something. Fearful of a catastrophic failure resulting in the loss of mission, crew and gig, I just said �OK� and walked down the stairs to Punk Rock HEAVEN!
So, NOW you can see just WHY I sympathise with Islamic terrorism? The Islamics aren�t MY enemy. I get on OK with �em� they�re CUTE!! It�s the WHITE BRITISH �fellow� London CUNTS (and elsewhere), born �n� bred, who�ve made themselves MY enemies!! Do you not GET it?! Can you not SEE what�s going on here?!! Welcome to MY fuckin� nightmare, Alice!! How could ANYONE hate Boy George or Marilyn OR me?!?! All I fuckin�-well DID was ask a simple and polite question but, just coz I asked about a potato-�ead to two READY-MADE potato-�eads, the thick-as-freeze-dried-astronaut�s-SHIT, over-paid (let�s not deny it) CUNTS took offence, yet MY �8.50 entrance fee was a�payin� towards THEIR fuckin� wages and, for THAT honour, I expect a fairly good dickie-eye probing or, at the very LEAST, a buttock-wise BOTTLE-fustigating, the lackluster FUCKERS!! And I BET they still live at homo with Mummy and Daddo, the middle-aged system-animated-still-born breast-fed-off-of-great-granny�s-none-too-eager-and-well-deflated-SLUT-SACKS! MERETRICIOUS TURDS!! Yeah, but THAT won�t stop me �n� who�s army a�kidnappin� the whole fuckin� venue-INFESTATION of �em, puttin� �em on prime-time Al-Jazeera, clad in well-chic �n� groovy orange dehumanisation clobber and �doing� an Al-Qaeda fair-ground attraction on �em. THAT�S what I call show-biz, folks! Oh ALLAH, it sure is enough to make you wanna join the other side� and um GONE maan, solid GAWN!! Well, what would YOU do? Go home and slap-up ya BITCH or something fay like THAT?! Cheer-up, for FUCKS sake!!
Once past the would-be-if-they-had-half-the-chance konzntration kamp guards it all changed and I met old-mates-not-seen-for-yonks and made a few new ones, all without spending a PENNY on the Underworld�s oh-so-punk, over-priced (to pay the DOOR CUNTS) booze. Yeah, fuck THAT for a lark! I only had �12 left until dole-day anyway� two fuckin� WEEKS in the future! I watched the two, girl-fronted, support bands. Can�t recall their names (I�m sure it�s on the netty-wet, if you�re keen to know) but the second lot were from Coventry and, I�m happy to report, their leopard-skin-leggings-clad singer kept pushing her black-spotted honey-pot NOT-close-enough-for-comfort, toward my ugly mug�s direction, causing me to raise one�s George O�Dowd-esque plucked he-may-un knowing eyebrows at my new mate from Tibet/the Steppes of Kazakhstan/wherever the fuckin� FUCK he said HE was from. Er, yeah, this band were FUN! (As is reading this review). God, all I wanna DO at my forty-fuckin�-seven-fuckin� YEARS is have a GOOD TIME, ya know what I mean?! Well, DO ya?? I spoke to, and shook hands with, original Avengers guitarist Greg Ingraham�s absolutely CHARMING 18 year old daughter at the merchandise stall, a great surprise and a real HONOUR for me! I told her that I�d been into her dad�s band since taping �Car Crash� off of John Peel�s show in the late �70s and then not being able to find ANYTHING by them until I stumbled upon the �Avengers� S/T (�pink album�) LP in Oxford Street�s Virgin in 1983 and, oh my, that�s NOW been released on CD and was being sold THERE at the gig for a FIVER!! An utter MASTERWORK and a downright CLASSIC! Even the SLEEVE is worthy of a place in some �best record sleeves of all time� doodah. It�s in the same league as Bowie�s �Aladdin Sane�, Sparks� �Kimono My House� and Skullflower�s �Ponyland� vinyl jackets! Jesus CHRIST�S sloppily circumsised conkers and solitary SLUG, fuckin� SEND me a tape and I�ll TAPE it for ya! What hoity-toity university-educated fuckin� �rock mag� journo would do THAT for you, huh?! See, with me on your side you don�t HAVE to trudge through this desperate and hollow life having never been given a chance to hear this out-and-out plastic BULLET!! You don�t HAVE to endure yet more of life�s Hell without reading the Marquis De Sade�s �One Hundred and Twenty Days of Sodom�� coz you can go fuckin� BUY it!! You don�t HAVE to put-up-and-shut-up with thug �security� CUNTS� We can fuckin� well regulate OURSELVES and �make up (our) OWN rules!!� Avengers � �I Believe In Me�.
God! If I had the riches of some certain �punk� superstars I�ve seen in the past, instead of asking the fucking audience �who�s the best band so far then?!� (tw� at, in Syllable�s�) I�D bloody start up my OWN fuckin� small club, with out-of-work Sept 11 hijacker back-ups on DOOR duty because, for FUCK�S sake, THEY couldn�t be any MORE against US and OUR culture than the PRICKS we�ve been blessed with here ALREADY!! CAN you see my POINT?!?! Do you even MANAGE to get yourself out of the fucking HOUSE?!?! Are YOU one of those David Icke-coined fuckin� REPEATERS, perhaps?? And �do you BELIEVE in rock and roll??� and �what does rock and roll MEAN to you ANYWAY?!� And �could you POSSIBLY help us?!?!� Whitehouse.
I made more mates, drank the dregs of abandoned drinks (coz I�m a�savin� the fuckin� planet) and then I heard the start of �We Are the One� firing-up, so I scurried day-un the front and lived the life of a FAN! Penelope Houston is a year older than me, born in 1958 and, as my three regular readers will know, I�m not THAT much into �girls� of my own age, preferring slightly younger looks but, you know, Penelope is positively GORGEOUS! It�s SHE who should be doing all those shite �anti-aging� cosmetic rip-off ads instead of ol�, what�s-�er-name� Blandy Drak-Sow and her disturbingly disorientating upside-down eyes. Not that our Penelope would be interested in a�peddling all THAT muck, anyway, I�m sure!
I screamed at Greg; �GREG, I LOVE YOU!!�, I FLASHED my �Glad I�m a Girl� (Penelope�s webstore; www.penelope.net) T-shirt at all and sundry, I SAT on the stage, longways, in front of Greg�s mic-stand, and made my old BUTT well a�comfy, I SHAT on the girl-next-to-me�s bubs, I snuck-out and POISONED the city�s water supply, I DELIBERATELY infected both men AND women with inumerable strains of sexually transmitted disease, I WROTE subversive literature during the gig for distribution via the underground press in order to undermine the establishment� All this I did, whilst the younger fans went fuckin� WILD!!!
One dreadlocked guy got onto the stage and tried to talk to Penelope, but she couldn�t understand and his embarrassed mates tried to coax him down before a PROPER bouncer persuaded him to abort his, obviously well-meaning but possibly misguided, mission (dunno if this �OK� bouncer was with the band?)
M had interviewed Greg only a week or so earlier, in Madrid�s Gruta 77 venue, for her Dole Babies zine and website (www.myspace.com/theonlymaggieponce), so I heard it all in advance via dictation machine and international phonecard. Greg was GREAT in that i-view, he even made an admirable attempt to grab M�s BUM when they said goodbye� and who can fucking BLAME him?! I shall now hand you over to �Vale� and his/her 1983 sleeve notes from the �pink album�, coz it tells you about the Avengers actual HISTORY and MUSIC rather than about MY sunken hopes and axe to grind/me-me-me-against-the-world pathetic frustrations. Take it away, Valey-poo�s-de-bum-bums;
�In San Francisco, 1977-78, before the proliferation of ten thousand garage bands (�hardcore� and otherwise), the Avengers invented and played a few classic teenage rebel songs. Their motives were unselfconscious and direct � life HAD to be changed. Punk rock was nothing but a spontaneous revolt by young people � who else? � against a society which thought it had perfected the mass marketing of a billion-dollar-a-year �youth culture�.
Created amidst a genuine underground as it was originating, these songs reflect a breakthrough � however brief � into a vision of life expressing firsthand passion and revolt� before that revolt became mere style� or a violent simulation�
What the Avengers put on this record are music and lyrics stripped down to basics. Survival without lies. Rebellion without guile. What you hold is a document reflecting a spontaneous black-humor response to a world of total corruption. And, also, what you hold is the only Avengers album ever likely to be, an album celebrating a world with a grim history and a grim future. Before the final collapse, laugh in the ruins of tomorrow, today��
How can I beat THAT then? Can�t.
After the gig, I approached Penelope but she characteristically, and wisely, shuffled away after I asked her where Greg was (I look SOOO good for my 47 years that she is afraid she won�t be able to control her feminine passions, I just KNOW it). Greg remembered M but was so ass-shamed of his failed bid at buttock-fustigating that he couldn�t even FACE me! The fact that I was starting to get on everyone�s TITS is neither here nor there. The potato heads were their usual obnoxious-bastard after-gig selves, you know, in getting the bloody venue cleared. I said �Yeah, I�m going, as you asked so politely�. CUNTS. I hung about the Worlds End pub above for a time, looking for some MORE action, but a Tuesday night in Scam-den must be punk-anarchist-alternative-goth-weird-fetish night-in with dog, slippers and whore-licks. MUST be. Anyway, there ya go� So who knows how to have a fucking GOOD time then?? I FUCKIN� WELL DO!!! Regrets? Yeah, that I didn�t buy a 50p Avengers poster for fear of it getting all bent-up on the journey home. Fuck it.
FILM
GHOST RIDER
Had a veggie breakfast and a coffee (plus two slices of toast some women had left lying on their table) in the Henglers at about 11.10am, which set me up nicely for going to see �Ghost Rider� at noon. There weren�t many people in the cinema, as the film had been on for about two/three weeks already, so I got WELL comfy and put my feet up, sipping from my can of Coke. It was probably all the booze from last night, but I had TEARS in my eyes at times throughout the film. Especially moving were Nicolas Cage�s �You CAN�T live in fear� mantra and the bit where Sam Elliott, as the crusty old grave-digger, told him that he didn�t sell his soul to the Devil out of greed but out of LOVE. Fucking BRILLIANT! Also loved the bits where Cage changed into Ghost Rider and kicked some righteous ass, with the words �Look into my eyes..� (reminding me of GG Allin!) The effects were amazing, the locations were beautiful. My pre-teen comic-obsessed self
couldn�t have HOPED for a better movie about one of my all-time fave characters. Also, it was pretty funny that he kept playing songs by The Carpenters!
SUNSET ON THE HARBOUR
The student union bar was crowded as usual. It was only the second week of term and everyone seemed to have plenty of money and time to spend hanging around with all their new friends. Silas hadn�t made any friends yet but he decided to go for a few drinks anyway. It was about five o�clock, the time most people were just finishing work, but these people didn�t look like they�d EVER worked. These people looked like they�d been drinking all day. Silas, on the other hand, had worked all his life and this was a whole new experience for him. A new city, a new start.
�Can I have a vodka and orange juice, please?� he asked the young barmaid. Several people laughed but he wasn�t sure if they were laughing at HIM or at something else entirely. When he got his drink, he stood alone at the end of the bar, glancing shyly around at the crowds of people, who all looked so impossibly young. He looked at the handsome boys in short-sleeved T-shirts and all the pretty girls with their hair, legs and unattainable breasts.
�How�s it going, mate? You look about as out of place here as me.�
Silas spun around and was confronted with a serious looking man dressed all in black, except for a brown trilby hat.
�Yeah, well, I�m a mature student. Just started.�
�Me too. You�re probably about fifty, right? It�s not much fun being ancient around here, is it?�
�No, it�s not. I feel like a granddad or something.�
�What are you studying?�
�Politics. How about you?�
�English. I came in here for a pint but then I realised I�d left my wallet in the house.�
�Can I buy you a drink?�
�That�s very kind of you, mate. I�ll take a cider, thanks. My name�s Bobby, by the way.�
Soon, they were sitting on barstools, putting the world to rights. There was something about the other man that Silas didn�t quite like, but he was so grateful having someone to talk to that he put it to the back of his mind. He�d never been a very good judge of character.
�The thing about it is,� Silas said, �today�s kids don�t have any work ethic. I mean, look at me. I left school at sixteen, went straight into an apprenticeship. My old man would�ve battered me if I�d talked about going to college or anything like that. That�s just the way it was. Nowadays, you get kids going to college for years on end, never working. I mean, who the fuck�s keeping the economy going? It�s mugs like me who�ve been paying through the nose for the privilege.�
Bobby was nodding at everything Silas said, drinking from his pint glass and occasionally looking around at all the other students, most of whom were in large groups.
�Fancy another?� Silas asked.
�Don�t mind if I do.�
�Another cider and a double vodka and orange, love. Yeah, as I was saying� What was I saying again?�
�About the economy,� Bobby said.
�Yeah, the economy. I�ve been keeping it afloat for years, paying my taxes. So, when they made me redundant, I just decided enough was enough. Thought I�d get myself an education. Saw one of those adverts on the telly. You know, �It�s never too late to start learning� and all that. So, here I am. But it�s not as easy as I expected. Fitting in�s a bit of a problem, isn�t it?�
�I know, mate. Listen, I feel really bad about you buying me drinks. Why don�t you come back to my place and I�ll get my wallet and we can go somewhere a bit better. It�s full of kids in here.�
�Okay,� Silas said. �Wait a minute, though, while I go for a piss.�
Twenty minutes later, the two men were walking up the dimly lit stairwell of an old tenement house, Bobby fumbling for his keys.
�You can come in for a drink if you want,� he said. �I think there�s some vodka, if that�s your tipple.�
�Oh, I�ll drink anything,� Silas said. �I just need to sit down for a minute. These stairs are killing me.�
Bobby chuckled and led the way.
The flat was filthy, with most surfaces covered in empty pizza boxes, cans of beer and bottles of cheap cider. Everything looked grimy and old, the furniture was caked in layers of dirt and the curtains were little more than rags pulled across the large windows.
�Sorry about the mess,� Bobby said. �It�s the maid�s day off.�
Silas laughed and sank down into an armchair which he belatedly realised was covered in newspapers. He removed them from underneath his rump and placed them carefully on the floor by his feet.
�Now, where�s that wallet?� Bobby asked himself. �Shit! Oh, here�s the vodka, though. Fancy some?�
Silas nodded and was presented with a chipped mug into which Bobby poured some of the contents of the bottle.
�I�ll just go and ask my flatmate if he�s seen it,� Bobby announced.
�What?�
�My wallet.�
�Oh.�
Silas relaxed in the chair and looked around the room. It looked fine. Messy and in need of a good clean, maybe, but it was a lot better than his own pokey little room in the halls of residence. He�d have to think about moving himself into a place like this. Suddenly, Bobby was back. Standing beside him was another, slightly younger, man.
�This is my flatmate, Ron.�
�Nice to meet you, Ron,� Silas said, extending his hand.
�Can�t find my fucking wallet,� Bobby said. �But Ron�s got some blow, if you fancy a smoke?�
�Oh, I don�t know about that. I�ve never smoked dope before,� Silas admitted. �I�ll just stick to booze, if you don�t mind.�
�That�s cool, mate,� Ron said. �All the more for us.�
The vodka bottle was nearly empty when things started to get weird. Silas was drunk and had been going on about his college course for some time. Bobby and Ron were sitting on an old leather couch opposite, passing a joint back and forth.
��and I said to him, �Who the fuck asked YOU?�� Silas said, finishing off another long monologue and another mug of vodka.
Bobby was smiling at Ron, who repeated the phrase � �Who the fuck asked YOU?� Then both men laughed.
�Yeah, exactly,� Silas said.
�Exactly,� Ron said, causing Bobby to collapse in giggles once more.
�Listen, guys, the vodka�s nearly done. I�ll go out and get some more,� Silas said, as he attempted to rise from his chair.
�Listen, guys,� Ron repeated, and Bobby was nearly on the floor, he was laughing so hard.
Silas was too far gone to really tell what was going on, so it came as quite a surprise when, as he was struggling with his jacket, he felt the blade pressed against his throat.
�What are you doing?� he asked, but Ron didn�t say another word. He simply reached into the pockets of Silas� jacket and rifled around until he found his wallet. After removing all the money and credit cards, he gently ran the blade down to Silas� stomach, where he held it for a while.
�Okay, MATE, we�ve all had a laugh but now it�s time for you to piss off. And don�t bother telling anyone about this, �cause we know where to find you. You should be more careful who you drink with in future. Now get the fuck out of here. NOW!�
Silas heard laughter and a door slamming as he stumbled, three stairs at a time, down the dingy stairwell, in a panic, desperate to be out of there. He didn�t look back. He didn�t feel drunk anymore. He only felt foolish and scared.
Once he was out in the street, he looked at his watch. It was only just coming up for nine o�clock, which meant it wasn�t too late to go for another drink. But then it dawned on him that he�d just been robbed of all his money. So, he found himself walking in the general direction of the halls of residence, but he still didn�t know the city very well and kept taking wrong turns. After a while, he found himself down by the harbour, where he�d never been before. He stood there for a while in the chilly evening air, looking at all the lights going on in the nearby restaurants and casinos, thinking about what had just happened, watching the sun going down.