The trials and tribulations of a pretentious, self-obsessed, lust-stricken twentysomething, as glimpsed through the throb of pop culture.
Somewheres on the other side of 5 a.m. I'm sat afore the monitor with the dawn all creeping cross the sleepers lain out expectant on the windowsill, with the eyes all twenty-seven shades o' knackered, with the brains screeching demented twixt my drum-holes, with Morrissey greeting Saturday Morn by way of a line or two about "London, giddy London."
"Is it home of the free," he asks, "Or what?"
The digit hovering, trembling 'bove the ol' left-click, the cursor skippin manic round the "Send."
Catching a glimpse of a rogue reflection in the ashtray. "Look at you," I'm sayin’, "What a deplorable bucket o' bastard you are."
Still. Not at all unattractive in the right light and with the right level o' squint in the left-hand peeper.
Two o' yon sleepers on the tongue and kicked on down the gullet by way of a cheeky mouthful o' caffeinated brew, Morrissey all a sudden out his mind with concern regarding a coastal town that they forgot to bomb and the wet sand clinging to his sandals, and the screen… The screen still dashed with the gravel o' mine mind-wax.
What it says up there in half-mad digital shorthand, what it announces for the eyes all set to gaze, is that I love you. What I'm saying is I love you, and you should know this.
When she wakes up, y'unnerstann, when she wanders towards the PC stack all gruntin' and coughin' from the corner of the room, when she gets to browsing through the email with the cigarette smoke all stringing purple symphonies roundabout, when she's sippin from the first coffee of the day and clicking through the play lists in pursuit o' a riff might shatter the traces o' dream-fugg still shimmering back the eyes, when she comes across this lust-crazed declaration all hidden away midst forty-nine lines of gabbled neurotic effrontery, what she'll smile and say is "He loves me."
What she'll think and grin regarding is "So what the fuck else is new, hear me now?"
Morrissey, he's busy accosting his lover for flicking through private journals in pursuit of a line or two red-raw with intimate lovelorn scribbling.
Nowadays the fucker would just go snooping through the MySpace.
I love you, it says. I add a bit.
Now what it says is I love you and also, I'm set for to move to London.
I got a burning in the belly reeks o' a craving for to be heard and read, I say. I point out that the longer I sit here in this back room with the fag in the maw and the fags in the brains, with the fringe getting blacker and the eyes getting redder, with the stacks o' Chapter One Paragraph One getting closer to the roof-slates with each tick o' the time-tock, the longer this goes on, I say, the closer the factory gets.