Down The Lane

Reading Time: 8 minutes


Phew, thank fuck, the fucking intense attack of loneliness has lifted, may be back tomorrow but I don’t mind if I can enjoy it while it’s away. Rant, rump, runt, ramp. Ling. Conger. Vodka/hash interlude. For the rest of my life I hope. Hop or rope. Is that your watermelon, can I exchange it for a bit of fish-wrapper? Crab. Eel. My mates room is full of fridges now but there’s no fucking way I’m looking in any of the cunts, even when he threatened to shoot me. I don’t eat anything when I go round to his place anymore.

Think I’ve finally got the key to the blues, but it’s avery painful experience to go through ‘cos it’s all a bit too near the knuckle at the moment, but am going thru and will come out the other side with some magic music as ever, ha. Ruth keeps appearing in my dreams and it’s very disturbing, but the only way to get thru it is to go thru it, painfully. Supped another barrel of Cross Buttock in the week, I got the last pint. There were many jokes about it, obviously, but the best one was when Steve the barman, who’s only 18, said this to a really beefy, shaven-headed Teesider and his reaction.

Beefy – “Pint of Cross Buttock.”

Steve – “Certainly Sir, would you like the left one, the right one, or the rusty bullet-hole?”

Beefy – “You fuckin’ wot? You trying to say I’m fucking gay like or wot? Grr Grrr.”

Ha-ha, Luckily I wasn’t around ‘cos I don’t think my fits of laughter would have helped the situation any. Had a mad day/night in there last night, a guy from Ireland who is a great singer/guitarist is here, he turns up occasionally, we were totally pissed and stoned and singing and playing. He had some amyl (remember our amyl nights dancing like crazed machines) and we kept going to the bog and getting blasted on it and laughing fit to bust and going back having to act like we were’nt totally off our fucking maps. We were staggering around sniffing and laughing in the yard with the manageress laughing her tits off at us, with him going “We’ve got to act sober when we get back in there.” And we did. Sort of. In our own way. He was impressively manic.

I heard everything, saw everything and said nowt, as usual. And laffed beneath the trees of my mind, that’s one of yours you know. Full moon madness on the lunatic cycle again. Nostrils damned us. Gods fur dinger. Elastoplastic variations sensitive. To pain weighs. Us fur dinner. Claptrap open vents. Too much glue. Fur gloves aloft. We don’t want any more cake, we want the fucking knife. Another one of yours I believe Sir, never a truer word said ingest. My fucking powers of endurance are being tested to the limits over this head-fuck crap. Hurt by a woman. Twice bitten, thrice shy. I have to force myself to point myself in the right direction and just carry on. Don’t know how I’m getting thru it but I am. Well yes I do, it’s the usual, alcohol and ganj, the twin poles of my existence, and fucking will power and sheer fucking bloody mindedness. Blundering around. Wobbling, bob. Wobbling around the town like the crazy cunt that I am. One day in the pub, Kev the barman was talking to someone and saying as he pointed round the room – “I’m a nutter, and he’s a nutter, and he’s a nutter, etc.” Ha Ha Ha. Hee Hee Hee. Ho Ho Ho.

Why do I get the crazy ones?

I fell in love with a drunken whore

and was bewitched by the evil bitch

I should have known better

but love is blind and I could not see

that she was a stupid, crazy, alcoholic slut

flaky, like flaky pastry

lots of layers but no substance

I saw all the layers one by one

lots of lies but not much truth

she wrecked my heart

she wrecked my soul

she wrecked my life

I wrecked her fucking car

but it wasn’t her car, was it

it was his, she was still his

the puppeteer dangling her

on invisible strings she loves I loved her, but didnt like her much

towards the end, when i finally knew

I should have turned the light off

closed the door, and walked away

I’m still licking my wounds

trying to repair the damage she caused

her cold-hearted cruelty nearly killed me

there’s some queer cunts on that side of the river.

Having to invent myself all over again, things begin and things end, but she still haunts me. Need to pour some white sauce on me bit of skate. I’m a Lover not a Fighter. But I’m really fucking worried about them fucking fridges. Them there fucking fridges like, baby. Keith lent me a good book, but I can’t remember what it was called or who it was by. It was a humerous historical fantasy type thing, there was a great bit in it where this female character was on about how she managed to manipulate this king-type guy into doing whatever she wanted him to. “Oh I just stuck my finger up his arse and sucked his cock,” she says. Nowt else to say really is there except to contemplate the exquisite pleasure of being able to suck a cunt with yer digit in her anus (uranus?), but I know you don’t do that at the moment, cripes, it’s out of choice with you but unfortunately with me at the mo it’s ‘cos the wind’s blowing in the wrong direction or summat, fucked if I know, or rather, not. Shame.

The landlord has just rang up and said “Paul, it’s Steve, I’ve got an angry arse!”, which means he’s just put a barrel of Cross Buttock on, but I’ve got a cold/flu thing that’s going around and it’s knocking fuck out of me so Im not going anywhere tonight. There is a proper process.

Jingle bells, get back on his bike and rediscover the joys of cycling on a long chalk, brief, backs, knees and hips, bunged up. On This Killing Floor. I’m doing an art-work called Virus No1, it consists of lots of phlegm I’ve brought up, spat into a 25cl beer bottle, and I’m gonna paint a couple of small pieces of bread in acrylic, say one red, one yellow, chuck ’em in the bottle, cork it and see what happens. Oh, I’ve put a bit of wine in and might put some sugar or honey in, just for a bit of food, for what ever might grow or breed in there, I don’t know. If anyone wants it before it starts increasing in price and becoming really valuable, they can have it for £500 and thats an absolute fucking bargain, pass the word around. I might do one with a Ship-in-a-bottle next, but that won’t come cheap, at any price. Bit like chicken wine, it works out very expensive by the glass, and I’m not even talking about a full glass, I’m not even talking, I’m farting in semaphore and someone else is deciphering it, so there’s never such a thing as ‘me’ or a ‘full picture’ or ‘fact or fiction’ or any old rubbish like that, it’s all shite and it’s a load of old bollocks and I mean old. Butt knew…. Yew no. A spit in the bottle. Fict or Faction? I Wander. You yell yellow, hell, hello. Spit, spot, spat. Mip, nop, map. My name is Lucifer, Please Take My Hand – Black Sabbath. Binzo, bonzo, banzaii, bleb. A column for nelson and the rest, no not till they cough, shout. All punk really was, was Black Sabbath speeded-up, you know. I wonder what Ronald Git is doing now, I couldn’t give a fucking shite, could you? No, cos we’ve got Black Sabbath by hook or by crook, for good or for bad. Pish. Doc trout.

I forgot to mention my best Peek-A-Boo Man experience. I was sat writing about 1:30 a.m. one morning and I heard him come downstairs, (presumably) to take some rubbish out to the bin in the back yard. My room is on that level, as you know, and I always have my window open. I looked up to see him jump sideways, right in front of my window, and then jump back when he saw me looking at him, I often pass out with the curtains / window open and the light on in the early hours, and I guess he has stood there a few times and watched me unconscious. He waited for about 30 seconds and then went to put his rubbish in the bin like everything was normal. Scary, huh?

Have got art by Keith and the Rev. Dr. and nice photies I could send if yer expanding yer ballistical bollock set, but thought yer scanner was fucked. Could always use yer antennae though, could you knot? I found myself and lost it again in the wink of an eye. Got a Soul comp. tape on. Found this from a review of What Katy Did Next by N.Hogg Esq. and thought it was worth remembering.

‘And the films: This is WKDN. I was walking down the street the other day, along with my kids and a companion (She was a fucking foxy bitch – W.W.) and her kids. And someone else’s kid, as it goes. Paul Moller, who sings with WKDN, lives near me, and he was on the same street, but walking the other way. I had just been to the bakers to buy sweet cakes for everyone in the party, and we were about halfway through our dry decoctions of sugar, fat and flour, when up comes Moller and says “Look at you all, filling your faces.” He frightenend me to my spirit, which recoiled, laughing toothily and baring it’s belly. He’s mad, thought I, looking round for the children. Out of the corner of my eye I saw my companion raise a cake to her lips and take a moist bite. She hadn’t heard what Moller said. Good.’

I do remember the occasion but don’t remember it being menacing like that, I was just trying to be friendly and humerous. And the woman he was with was a fucking foxy bitch, but she never ever looked at me twice, obviously had her cake and was moistly biting into it. We did used to scare fuck out of people sometimes, or baffle or confuse ’em, didn’t we, I can still do it but don’t at the moment unless some arsehole starts carrying-on and needs telling, or if something needs sorting. Lot’s of things I’m not saying, but only because I can’t fucking remember ’em. Will do though. God bless the Queen’s mum’s piss flaps! Keith said “Hello, Fuck Off.” He woke me up at 7:30 a.m. with a bottle of wine and I’ve drunk and smoked him under the table, he’s gone to bed and it’s only 12 noon, I’m off out on the rampage.

Winds light to variable and some snow on the hills. Had a strange day (aren’t they all), went to the pub at dinner time and the door was locked, got a plate of chips(!) but they had no fucking beer to sell me, fucking hell, all change. Might have to move the office again but I fucking hope not. Keith knocked on my door at 7:30a.m. this morning, I was fast asleep, he had a bottle of wine and told me that he hadn’t been to sleep so I wasn’t getting any more, and we were going to get pissed, which we did. We finished the wine and had a few spliffs and I poured us some vodkas, he moved the table in the yard into the middle, and I put my cactus on it and we took chairs and sat round it to worship the cactus. The lad upstairs heard the bagpipe music blaring out of my window, woke up, poked his head out of his window, couldn’t believe what we were doing and came to join us. I was as high as a fucking kite and Keith was dancing around, when I got up and laid on the floor it got too much for the lad and he disappeared, we had scared him off, we came back in and Keith disappeared, I took his stuff upstairs and he was laid in bed.

Things have happened that I can’t talk about at the moment, maybe never, would love to tell lots of things but have to keep my gob (pen) shut, not even hints, sort of, but I hope I can say some nice things though there’s lots of disintegration going on. I thought I was falling apart but when it all starts going off/on around you, can you lose your head when all around you are keeping theirs? Dribbling. Dribbling milk down her chins. Wot? Blah. Blat. Will she? I Hope So…

– Whit Wank X

Peely just played The Fall live from ’91 – fucking hell, good stuff, gave me a little tickle.

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