ISSUE 40
june 2008
Have you ever drank alcohol first thing in the morning? Ever felt ashamed of something you�ve done whilst drunk/drugged? Ever sat, in despair-soaked clothes, staring at the horizon and longing to be somewhere far, far away? If you�ve answered �no� to any of those questions then go and read some dull fashion rag (like the NME) and daydream about your future �happiness� amongst the spoon-fed and the brain-dead� you�re fuckin� WELCOME to it, CUNT. Everyone else, GREETINGS from HY!, the zine that promises much but delivers little� EVERY MONTH!
This issue by Mark "troubled" Ritchie, Gary �troubled� Simmons and Simon �troubled� Morris. Welcome to the shadows, friends.
UNEMPLOYMENT ZONE
They send you there when you become a �problem�,
when you�ve been unemployed so long that they don�t know what to do with you anymore.
I was given an �advisor�, who I had to see once a week.
Her name was Nancy and she seemed nice enough.
She was into reading about history and gave me a token for money off a book in Borders
which I ended up giving to someone in the pub.
She couldn�t understand why I was unemployed and I told her I couldn�t either
but that perhaps it had something to do with the depression I�d mentioned
when she asked if I suffered from any illnesses.
In truth, I didn�t WANT a job and hadn�t even been looking.
I valued my freedom more than money and I HATED being told what to do.
But, in the end, getting a job seemed like a better option
when she started mentioning eight-week �job-search courses�
during which you�re made to apply for anything and everything:
cleaning jobs, toilet attendant jobs, road sweeper jobs.
The thought of going to that place every single day to apply for jobs I didn�t even want
filled me with such DREAD that, suddenly, my attitude changed.
If I had to be somewhere every day then I�d rather get PAID for it,
so I said I�d go for one of the call centre jobs she�d been trying to foist upon me for so long.
I went for it and I got it.
When she found out, Nancy seemed really happy and gave me a hug,
telling me to call her if I had any problems.
The funny thing is, I walked right past her only a few weeks later, on my way to work.
She was outside HER workplace, having a coffee and a cigarette,
and she looked right through me.
It made me smile more than anything else that happened that entire day.
WHAT BECAME OF THE LIFE AND SOUL?
The wedding ring was huge and expensive
but, still, she flirted with everything in trousers �
kissing them, touching them,
going back to hotel rooms with them.
She seemed to possess an insatiable hunger
and could be found in the pub almost every night.
Sometimes she�d have female friends with her
and we all joked about her being a pimp
or the boss of an unconventional dating agency.
The last few times I saw her,
it was always with the same guy.
Maybe they settled down, or ran away together.
Or maybe he killed her, or she killed him.
But she�s not there anymore, propping up the bar,
the life and soul of the place.
And I kind of miss her.
Wherever she is.
FUCK EVIL
It's easy to let them ruin your day,
the negative heads, hatred junkies,
those so entranced by their own misery
that they believe it their duty to spread it around.
They skulk in corners,
ready to ambush those who least expect it,
and you COULD let them win.
You COULD allow them to darken your skies
with their poisonous idealogies,
flood your brain with death and spiders.
Or, instead, you could have a John Martyn song
playing on "repeat" in your head:
"I don't wanna know about evil, I only wanna know about love".
That's a good mantra to have,
and here's another one for you:
FUCK evil.
13.7 BILLION YEARS OF HELL
Selected Dispatches from an Unwilling Player of God�s Little Game
By Gary Simmons
I GOTTA get back to bed to nurse my bruised face, arm and leg. They don�t come out until a couple of days later, do they? Mum and dad think it was from the fight at the gig, not my paedophilic lynching (well, I DID hit Ross-the-cunt FIRST, even though I knew I didn�t stand a fucking chance). This is all big-mouth GABBY�S fault� those so-called �punks� are ultra-narrow-minded PUPPETS! Everything I ever heard Rollins and GG Allin say was RIGHT. They (Mr. and Mrs. �Punk�) ain�t even prepared to DISCUSS it! Pure FASCISM!! OK, gonna go back to bed. I�m fucked. Hare Krishna! (Until THEY take dislike to my libertinage!)
*
I�ve been back to Makro for yet ANOTHER replacement lamp for dad (the first packed up, the second wouldn't screw together�) Did more chipping, chatted to Steve-on-methadone about being happier without job/responsibilities/wife, etc, told Linda (Tony�s wife and mother of Michelle) about my fight in Camden (she was horrified). Soyuz-TMA 12, Expedition 17 launched with South Korean ISS visitor. It�s the 122nd Soyuz.
*
5.08pm: Sitting outside Spitalfields (Jack the Ripper territory) venue in the HOT sun in WELL the East End (E1!) supping Sainsbury�s cider and a �3 bottle of Leffe having just seen Philip Best, who said �Hello darling� to me! Am about to CUM!
10am: Can�t begin to tell you what a GREAT night I had. Met a 56 year-old REAL East London gangster called Eddie, sucked Philip Best�s nipple with some mad Jap girl, got Ramleh�s set-list�
and here IS the Ramleh set-list wot-I-got! Funny, coz I saw �em at the legendary Equinox event in the summer of 1983 and, 25 years lay-tus, there I am watching �them� (= �Gary Mundy and co�!), having just met Gary in person for the first time outside the venue. WOO!!
*
I wrote to Ian Moule because I wanted that T-shirt (well, in a size �M�!) Note OMP Al Bean (Lunar Module pilot on Apollo 12) doing his bit for the cause. Ian sent me the pic like this, with Al Bean cut off.
MUSIC
TINDERSTICKS � THE HUNGRY SAW (BEGGARS BANQUET)
Red wine, rain, crumpled suits � put those words into Google and you�ll probably end up at a Tindersticks review, but all THAT is so LAZY, so here are MY Tindersticks buzzwords: seeing them on TV during Glastonbury 1994 after having just moved into my first bedsit, witnessing great live performances from them at various Glasgow venues, letting their albums wash over me like a bottle of Night Nurse, some of the perfect-est sleepy�n�slow duets this side of Lee and Nancy� you either GET IT or you DON�T. What else is there to say?
EELS � SHOOTENANNY! (DREAMWORKS)
Here�s my monthly fix of Eels. Got this one ostensibly for the euphoric rocker �Saturday Morning�, which I heard on Jonathan Ross�s, er, Saturday morning radio show, believe it or not, but there�s SO much more to it than THAT. These 13 songs are beautiful, funny and just plain GREAT and you KNOW that for every lyric like �Every day I�m here, all I feel is sheer agony�, there�s one hot on its tail like �Somebody loves you and you�re gonna make it through.� What�s WRONG with a bit of therapy rock ANYWAY?!
BEN KWELLER � BEN KWELLER (ATO)
Dunno what age this guy is but, from the zillion pics of him posing in the CD booklet, he looks about 11. That can�t be right though, �cos he�s a PROPER dab hand at this music lark, writing and playing everything on this 2006 album and singing about going to bed with GIRLS and stuff (in a song called �Thirteen�� and NOT the Alex Chilton one EITHER. Saucy!) This is joyful power-pop that brings to mind the sunnier moments of Josh Rouse, Teenage Fanclub and even Travis. There�s also the occasional nice piano ballad to make you swoon with delight.
UB40 � TWENTYFOURSEVEN (REFLEX MUZIC)
This, the brand new (and �last ever�, apparently) album from reggae-obsessed Brummies UB40, was given away free with the Mail on Sunday. Lots of bands are doing this now, which seems mystifying, but not in THIS case because THIS album is absolutely FUCKING SHIT.
VARIOUS � PIAS / CHAIN WITH NO NAME SAMPLER
Another freebie, but THIS one actually has some REALLY nice stuff on it, if you leave aside the first few tracks of dancey BOLLOCKS. The songs by Dead Air, Thrice and Danny and the Champions of the World are all very affecting as they weave their gentle spells while Flogging Molly�s �Float� is a nice Celtic fiddle-de-dee drinking song and Son of Dave�s singer sounds SO MUCH like my mate Timo that I was TAKEN ABACK for a few seconds. But the REAL star here is Angus and Julia Stone�s �Bella�, which is all quiet acoustic finger-pickery and breathy female voice and is quite, quite LOVELY.
E � A MAN CALLED (E) (POLYDOR)
Well, this doesn�t REALLY break my self-imposed one-Eels-album-per-month rule since it�s a SOLO album from Mark Oliver Everett and it WAS only �4 and, aw FUCK it, life�s too SHORT for RULES and shit. My �merry, merry� month of May would have been a lot poorer for not having heard the poptastic �Hello Cruel World�, Beach Boys-esque harmonies of �Fitting in with the Misfits� and desolate piano ache of �You�ll Be the Scarecrow�. E�s are GOOD!
ISOBEL CAMPBELL & MARK LANEGAN � BALLAD OF THE BROKEN SEAS (V2)
Here are some nice duets between former Belle and Sebastian babe Campbell and former Screaming Trees smackhead Lanegan. You can tell they�re aiming for that classic Americana vibe from the cover pics of small-town motel living and it works well, mostly, although sometimes you feel that Campbell�s songs don�t quite have enough gravitas to sit alongside those by hard-living types like Hank Williams (whose �Ramblin� Man� appears here). But what do you EXPECT from someone who�s more at home hanging about in poncey Glasgow coffee shops than downing whiskey and painkillers in the back of a Cadillac speeding towards oblivion?
NOCTURNAL EMISSIONS � FRICTION AND DIRT (STAALPLAAT)
Although these enigmatic, ambient soundscapes of claustrophobia and alienation are lessened in impact by having titles like �The Woodbine I Smoked Because Captain Beefheart Gave it Me� and �The Devil�s Arse�, they still manage to convey some of the horrors of our modern world: child abduction, acts of random violence, racism, homophobia, intolerance in all its myriad forms� or maybe Charlotte Bill and Nigel Ayers were just mucking about with some instruments and stuff. Either way, it�s a pleasant enough way to pass 68 minutes 19 seconds while not being life-altering in any way whatsoever.
FRANK BANGAY � A TRUE VOICE SINGING (CORE SOUNDS)
Well, �singing� may be a bit of a misnomer but there�s no denying Frank Bangay�s �true voice� credentials. His poems of lost souls adrift in urban loneliness are sometimes harrowing but more often prefer to focus on the GOOD things in life: walking in the park, etc. He WAS �a co-founder of Survivors� Poetry�, after all (as the CD booklet informs us). When he�s backed with some rocking muso-types, Frank reminds me a bit of the London band Diary (good luck trying to find anything about THEM on the interweb!) buts it�s the stripped-down melancholia of tracks like �Wasteground� and �The Laughing Flowers� that REALLY hit the spot.
JOHNNY CASH � AMERICAN V: A HUNDRED HIGHWAYS (AMERICAN)
Johnny Cash�s recorded output in the final years of his life was nothing short of INCREDIBLE.
His voice manages to sound both frail and mighty at the same time and songs that you may have previously written-off as being overly sentimental (like Gordon Lightfoot�s �If You Could Read My Mind�) become HUGE, catastrophic and AWESOME� �Help Me�, �God�s Gonna Cut You Down�, �Further on Up the Road�, Hank Williams� bleak �On the Evening Train�� This is one of my most-played albums this month.
GIGS
WILLY VLAUTIN & PAUL BRAINARD � WATERSTONES, GLASGOW, 30TH APRIL 2008 /
THE ARCHES, GLASGOW, 1ST MAY 2008
Got up at about 6.20am, had a shower, got ready and got a bus into town. Got paid! Did work type things. When I got out at 4pm, I got a 44 bus back to the West End. Some guy with a map sat next to me and asked where the uni was. I went to Zen Arcade and got some photocopies done and a CD burned for Gary P. Ronnie said he�s renting a new place in Dumbarton Road but isn�t exactly sure when he�ll have to move. Saw Paul Buchanan from the Blue Nile chatting on his phone on Byres Road. When I got back, Andrew�s package greeted me. I changed into a pair of jeans and walked back into town. Had three swift pints in the Brunswick before going to Waterstones for about 6.25pm. Didn�t need the ticket I�d paid �3 for (no one asked for it), found a seat and watched Willy Vlautin reading from his brilliant �Northline� novel (see HY!#37), talking about various things (such as breaking his hand after falling off a horse) and playing some songs with pedal steel-ist - and fellow Richmond Fontainer - Paul Brainard, including the song named after the novel�s main character, �Allison Johnson�. Magical! I recorded the whole thing on mini-disc. Went to the Variety for a pint of McEwans then splashed out on �6 noodles from a noodle bar, got two litres of Blackthorn cider and walked back. Was in at 8.35pm. Assembled zines and readied Gary P�s package for posting. John M sent me a blank text, presumably by accident. Did NOT want to get up and go to work the next day, but I DID get up and go to work the next day. Posted some things at lunchtime in the Glassford Street post office, had some coaching with Linda. Laura went home early �cos she wasn�t feeling well. Can�t say I BLAME her, either. Spoke to the big ginger-haired guy (who�s been starting the same time as me this week) when we finished, about his upcoming maths exam. Was surprised to see James in the �Shoe when I went in. Not seen him in WEEKS. So I had a few with him, standing at the bar (well, HE sat down). He�s not been out much and was asking me about work and all that. Thought I�d better eat something after that, so I DID, on the sunny steps of Borders. Then I went inside and read the Bob Mould chapter in a new book called �We Owe You Nothing�. The comedian Dave Gorman was doing a reading, so I thought I may as well stick around for it and I�m glad I DID because it was an hour of FREE comedy, although he was there to promote his book �Unchained�, about travelling across the USA trying not to give any money to big corporations (ironic, then, that he was doing the gig in Borders!) Hurried along to the Arches and got myself a pint of cider (later on, I had another couple). Willy Vlautin was manning his own merch stall but there was nothing I didn�t have already so I went and watched the support act, Endrick Brothers, who were alright. I only saw a couple of songs, though, as I returned to the bar and who should I run into but gig-mates Alan and Andy, so I ended up chatting with them about ALL sorts. They�d bootlegged the recent Neil Young gig in Edinburgh so Andy helped me with my mini-disc mics, sticking them onto my hat so as to get a better sound (I probably looked a RIGHT twat but he was RIGHT about the sound). Willy and Paul STUNNED the place with a fantastic 90 minute set of stripped-down classics, including a great newie and an extended version of the spoken-word �Postcards from Walter� from Richmond Fontaine�s �Post to Wire� album. Unfortunately, my disc ran out before the breathtaking second encore of �Barely Losing�. Still, I think this may have been the very BEST gig I�ve seen Willy do and that�s REALLY saying something (as Bananarama once sang!) Andy and Alan went and spoke to him afterwards, standing at the bar, and he (Willy) greeted me like he KNEW me, but I don�t know HOW. I mean, he�d seen me earlier and may have seen me last night but I doubt he remembers me from any of the OTHER times I�ve spoken to him (unless he has one of the world�s most amazing memories). Anyway, there was some hand-shaking and photos were snapped and, I have to say, Willy Vlautin genuinely seems like one of the NICEST people in the world of music, which really gives me a warm glow inside. Outside, drunken idiots were celebrating Rangers winning some football game. We said goodbye to Alan, who was going for his train, and I got a subway back West with Andy. I gave the finger to some drunk twat, but there was a pane of glass between us, so don�t think I�m TOO brave, gentle reader. Also, later on, I felt quite BAD about it �cos he was only being a bit boisterous with his mates. Got off at Kelvinbridge and was back at 11.30pm. Didn�t have anything to eat, just packed my bag, drank a little cider and went to bed.
FRIGHTENED RABBIT � ORAN MOR, GLASGOW, 7TH MAY 2008
Spoke properly to our new team-leader, Lee, who seems nice enough (er, I HOPE!) Spent some time off-service doing a �Think Quality� questionnaire thingie which I scored 100% on! At lunchtime, I went to Avalanche and got an Eels CD for �4.99 and was also given a free sampler CD too, proving it�s BEST to shop INDIE. It was another incredibly hot and sunny day and I bumped into Andy Monaghan in St Enoch Square, who�d just been grocery shopping and said that he�s skint, despite having recently joined the getting-a-bit-famous band Frightened Rabbit. He�s not getting any royalties �cos he didn�t play on their album and is only getting about �10-�15 a day when they tour. He walked me back to work and told me about how amazing the SXSW festival in Austin was and about how �all the chicks in Denmark are really hot�. He took my number and said he�d try and get me on the guest-list for their show at Oran Mor that evening. I went back to work and had a coaching session with Linda. Everyone was moaning about the heat but I thought it was okay in the air-conditioned office. After work, I eschewed the �Shoe �cos I (mistakenly) thought that the big Rangers-Man United game was on (it turned out to be a week LATER!) and went straight to the Brunswick instead. Had a �1.50 pint of Miller. The guy who always plays Joy Division and paces about like a psycho was there. I went to the Hall next, to see if Sam was there and Sam WAS there, so I had a pint and a chat with him. He said he was going to stay at his sister�s place in Ayr for the next few days and we chatted about work and stuff. I got a 44 bus from Woodlands Road and went for a pint in Jamie�s new pub, the Common Rooms, only Jamie wasn�t in. Quite a good pub with good music (Neil Young, Ryan Adams) and a funny and �different� menu (they charge nearly �9 for a latte but �coffee with milk� is only about �1.30!) Then I went to Tennents for another pint before going back to the flat to dump my bag and change into some �evening wear�. Had a little cider. Was in Oran Mor for 9pm and got my free ticket (Andy had texted to say I was on the list). Got a cider at the bar and watched two quite-good support bands. One was a guy with an acoustic guitar and a drummer, who were joined by various people playing mandolins and trumpets, etc. The other band had accordions and violins and sounded a bit like the Pogues. I had four pints of cider in all and was astounded to see another black guy in the toilet, handing out soap and towels and shit, JUST like the other week at the ABC. WHAT is THAT all about?! Watched the majority of Frightened Rabbit�s set but began to flag a bit and decided to call it a night. Got a roll from the Maggie van and was back in my room at 11.45pm.
BOB MOULD � ABC2, GLASGOW, 23RD MAY 2008
Showered. It rained. Got a subway into town. Saw the guy who lives in Forth but works in Glasgow eating a pasty in Central Station. Worked. Had coaching with Linda. She told me and Laura about her new bunnies. Got my usual cheese salad roll from Crumbs on my first break (�cos corporate sandwiches SUCK!) Spent some time by the river at lunchtime. Kenny texted to say he couldn�t make the gig. Had a couple of pints in a pretty busy Horseshoe after work then I went to the Brunswick for a Miller. It�s only cheap from Sunday to Thursday, so it cost me �2.70. �The Ballad of John and Yoko� played. Walked past the ABC and saw Bob Mould�s Highway Tiger mini-bus� No big, swanky tour bus for HIM. He keeps it fuckin� REAL! Had a pint of McEwans in the Variety, standing at the bar, listening to the Lemonheads. Then I had a �1.80 cider in Nico�s. Sat next to this incredibly drunk woman and someone who looked like her DAD but, the way he was touching her, I hope it WASN�T her dad. They had the Kerrang! channel on, which I enjoyed. Went to the ABC at 8pm. It wasn�t shit-time, it was SHOW-TIME! Caught the end of Oppenheimer�s set � they were Irish and alright. Kind of electro-rock. Looked at Bob�s merch stall. I hummed and hawed about buying a T-shirt but didn�t bother in the end. Had two ciders instead. Bob and his band (no Brendan Canty on drums this time� it was some other guy) totally KILLED the place with Sugar classics like �Favourite Thing� and �Hoover Dam�, solo classics like �See a Little Light� and an INTENSE �Hanging Tree� and H�sker D� classics like �Chartered Trips� (which evolved into an extended freak-out) and �Makes No Sense At All�. A mosh-pit formed down the front at the end but I stayed slightly further back. Great to see Bob with a band in such a small venue. I got shivers when he caught my eye a few times. Seems like everyone had a BLAST� I know I certainly did! Was out of there at 10.10pm and went for a piss in a doorway then got a veggie burger and walked back. Saw an urban fox! Was in just before 11pm and watched Jonathan Ross�s chatshow, with the Osmonds and Neil Diamond guesting. My ears were ringing LOUDLY and I went to bed at 12.10am.
DVD
PRICK UP YOUR EARS � SPECIAL EDITION (ITV DVD)
THREE QUID! Three fucking QUID! How can a recently-released DVD as EXCELLENT as this be sold, brand new, for THREE QUID?? Not that I�m complaining, as this is one of my all-time fave films. It�s the Alan Bennett-penned true-life tale of playwright Joe Orton and his a-bit-mental lover Kenneth Halliwell who ended up battering Orton to death before topping himself with pills. CHARMING, eh? But, still, this is a LOVE story at heart, albeit an unconventional one. Orton�s short life had plenty moments of giddy joy � library book defacing, seedy public toilet sex, writing a screenplay for the Beatles which was rejected for being too risque � but the humdrum realities of life in a cramped London bedsit ultimately proved to be fatally suffocating. Gary Oldman is excellent, Alfred Molina is excellent, Bennett�s screenplay is excellent (and cleverly mirrors Orton�s own writing style), the tasty extra features are excellent� EVERYTHING about this is excellent. And all for THREE fucking QUID! Incidentally, the film�s title - coined by Halliwell, who often �helped� with Orton�s work - is a playful anagram of �Prick Up Your Arse�.
NO SAGE WORDS OR TEA FOR ALICE �
Ceramic Hobs tour diary, March 2008 (by Ceramic Simon� continued from last issue)
Brussels Kraak Festival
This weirdo music festival one-dayer paid our air fares and put us up and fed us, all using Flemish Arts Council grants� this kind of treatment is almost unheard of in the history of the Ceramic Hobs, feels like we�re dreaming. The dream turns to nightmare when Ryan Air manage to lose our guitar and keyboard, our lift is really late and our merchandise lady (flying in from Denmark, god all this stuff sounds impressive and high-powered doesn�t it) gets stranded at the OTHER Brussels airport. We feel like idiots abroad and we are. Most of the other bands are staying in the same hostel (�B+B Jacques Brel�) and this makes for a nice rock�n�roll atmosphere although the rooms don�t have TVs for us to hurl out of the window, and the other bands are American and therefore amateur drinkers (but they make up for it with weed). We meet Chuck, a deep South guy who plays in an insane folk rock group called Cherry Blossoms, he can get us a guitar. Chuck is frazzled from touring Europe on a shoestring budget and rambles entertainingly in a beautiful accent about Neil Diamond�s pot valet and conspiracy theory. Psychedelic Horse Shit are staying here too, they�re an oddball post-punk-ish group from Ohio, their main man is clearly an Anglophile and wants top hear gossip about The Fall and Alternative TV� he can get us a keyboard. Sorted. We hit a late-night offie and kebab shop in a Turkish ghetto. I fuckin� love Kurdish people, me. Next morning picked up by a glamorous French driver who�s personally responsible for delivering us to and from the venue. Proper bands probably get this sort of treatment all the time. The festival is split over several stages, the main two are in an old underground station (Recyclart) and a huge old church (Brigittines). We�re in the church � never played anywhere as big, beautiful and unique. With typical gracelessness all the bands moan about the acoustic in the place! The dressing room is the size of one of our normal venues and has loads of free food everywhere. I�m starstruck to find we�re sitting next to Marshall Allen, 83 year old sax player for Sun Ra. After hearing the quality of bands throughout the day, I start to feel like a fraud � what the hell are we doing here on a bill of people who can actually play properly and know what they�re doing? Better use up all my free drinks vouchers and stop worrying. Psychedelic Horse Shit were charismatic, funny, melodic and chaotic. Dragons of Zynth were musically stunning and uncategoriseable. Cherry Blossoms are the most out-there band I�ve EVER seen � seriously wacked. Bardo Pond did a magnificent set of noisy improvised psychedelia. Slaughtered on fine Belgian beer by this point. Get war paint on and shamble onstage to an ELO intro tape. A lot of the crowd seem to fucking hate us and gob and throw bottles! I am fairly obnoxious and we cover Plastic Bertrand to take the piss. Sections of the crowd are going mental, really into it. I�m bare-arsed naked at one point and launching myself into the crowd getting people to drink strawberry food flavouring, like some kinda less healthy or well-endowed Iggy thing. Afterwards we�re signing albums for some German couple who said they came especially for us, me and the drummer go to the other venue and loads of people keep approaching to say we were the best band of the day, and lots more are looking at us with pity and embarrassment, ha ha. Fuck it, I feel on top of the world and I�m dancing around to brilliant live techno mixing from DJ Elephant Power when our French lass arrives to give us the lift home. Late night kebabs and cheapo �Jupilar� beer again. Bit of tourist stuff day after, get recognised at the airport by someone who was there, drive back from Stansted to Blackpool while necking a bottle of high-quality duty-free Sauza tequila. My head feels very big at this point, a tour of Northern toilet venues should sort me out�
(to be continued next issue)
COOKIE�S REVENGE
For once, the sound of her radio alarm going off didn�t fill Cookie with dread. In fact, she even smiled a little at the cheesy pop song heralding the dawn of her 16th birthday and the day she would leave school and town forever. This was to be the day when she would finally fight back. The first day of the rest of her life.
After getting dressed, she stuffed her rucksack with a few favourite T-shirts, mainly ones emblazoned with band names (the Misfits, Nirvana, Sex Pistols), and made her way as quietly as she could into her father�s bedroom. He was passed out, fully clothed, on the bed as usual, the result of another all-night drinking session. She reached into the dressing-table drawer, found his wallet and helped herself to a couple of �20 notes. Then she raided the fridge before leaving the house for the final time, not even bothering to lock the front door behind her.
Normally, she would get a bus to school but today Cookie wanted to take one last look at all the places from her childhood; the swing-park where she�d hang around (back when she still had friends), the oak tree she used to climb while playing truant, the bin she puked in after her first taste of cider. Fuck all of it, she thought, kicking an empty can of Diet Coke at a passing pigeon.
A few minutes later, Cookie couldn�t believe her luck when she spotted Pam Potter, one of her biggest tormentors, sitting on a wall, smoking a cigarette. Potter was usually with her gang, who called themselves the Rebel Girls, although their �rebellion� mainly consisted of achieving top grades and sucking up to the teachers while picking on younger girls and anyone considered �different�. Cookie preferred to call them the Retard Girls.
Before she even knew what was happening, Potter had her smoking arm twisted behind her back and a six-inch kitchen knife pressed against her throat.
�Morning, bitch,� Cookie snarled in her ear.
�What? What the fuck are you playing at?� Potter stammered.
�I�m not PLAYING anymore. That�s the POINT. I�ve had ENOUGH of your SHIT and it all ends RIGHT NOW!�
Potter didn�t know what to say. She was used to having her gang around to back her up. All of a sudden, she felt terribly helpless and alone. The look in Cookie�s eyes told her that this was serious.
�What do you WANT?� Potter finally managed to say.
�I want you DEAD!�
Then Cookie laughed.
�Look,� Potter said. �I�ve got money. You can have it. My purse is in my bag. Let me get it.�
She went to reach into her Gucci handbag but was stopped by the cold steel pressing even closer to her immaculately tanned windpipe. Cookie grabbed the bag and tipped its entire contents out onto the pavement. Various bottles of expensive lotion and perfume rolled into the gutter but the purse was in amongst the junk and was soon safely tucked away in Cookie�s rucksack.
�I want your phone as well.�
�My� PHONE?�
�Correct, slut. Give me your fucking phone NOW!�
Potter did as she was told and handed over her brand new Sony Ericsson K850i with 5.0 mega-pixel camera, multi-format media player, 40Mb internal memory and Bluetooth. Cookie gazed at the device lovingly for a few moments before throwing it to the ground and gleefully stamping on it with her cherry red Doc Martens until it was smashed into smithereens.
�Now you won�t be able to call your little FRIENDS, will you? Won�t THAT be a shame?�
Then Cookie dragged Potter from the wall by the hair, kicked her in the face a few times and left her lying there, sobbing and bleeding.
It was time to go to school!
Entering the huge, imposing iron gates of St. Mary�s, Cookie smiled at the graffiti informing the world she was �a filthy dyke�. I bet I�ve had more cock than any of you frigid bitches, she thought to herself, before putting her knife to good use by slashing a few car tyres. One particular vehicle she left untouched, however. The one belonging to the headmaster was reserved for special treatment.
When she got to his office, the scene of so many of her life�s humiliations, Cookie felt calm and confident. He didn�t notice her at first, sitting behind his big, important desk, engrossed in some paperwork. Mr. Derek Hannan, this evil little dwarf, had made Cookie�s school life almost unbearable and she wasn�t in the mood for letting him off lightly.
She knocked on the door and then he looked up.
�Can I help you?� he said, disdainfully.
�Yes, sir. I need you to sign my leaving form. Today�s my 16th birthday.�
�It�ll be my pleasure to sign your form,� Hannan said, getting up from his chair. �I�ve been looking forward to this day for a very long time.�
�So have I,� Cookie replied, when she had the self-important midget�s scribble safely down on paper.
First of all, she kneed him hard in the balls. Then, when he was squirming around on the floor like the pathetic weed he was, she began smashing up his office, using one of his very own golf clubs. Was it a five- iron? Cookie didn�t really care as she used it to obliterate every framed picture on every wall. Next, the proud cabinet of gleaming sports trophies was duly dispensed with before she started laying into Hannan�s beloved tropical fish-tank. Its glass shattered as water and brightly-coloured, dying creatures cascaded over the cowering head master and his cheap, dandruff-speckled suit.
�See you in Hell, CUNT!� Cookie said, as she slammed the office door.
Knowing she had to work fast, she sprinted back to the car park, found the petrol can and matches she had hidden in a bush the previous night and got to work on Hannan�s Vauxhall Corsa. Within seconds, the headmaster�s newly polished pride and joy was up in flames.
Adrenalin and euphoria flooded through Cookie�s body as she raced away, looking behind her occasionally to see the mayhem she had caused. That�ll teach them, she thought, when she finally heard the bang.
The bus station wasn�t far and, in no time at all, she was there. Her bus was boarding so there wasn�t much time left. Going into the grotty ladies� lavatory, she reached into her rucksack, pulled out a big, black marker pen and wrote on the wall in huge letters �COOKIE WAS HERE� BUT NOT ANYMORE!�
Then she got on the bus.