fpf?=14: I've got just 5 words for you: "Hello, my name is T-

(written 30 July 2009)

OK: I was in the cinema at the film festival, and it was filling up, and the guy in front of me gave up his seat for a lady. I had my hands folded and I was comfy. The movie was really great. My friend Margaret had a seat so that’s good.



I’ll tell you the story - seeing as we’re going to Rift Reloaded on Friday, which is a party of course revisiting the Rift nightclub and I can’t really remember when the last time I expressed myself to “fuck you I won’t do what you told me” by that lovely 4-piece Rage against the Machine, can you? – about the first time I went to the Doors.
1: Phone call from friend in 6th form (fancy school) pretending to be Gareth’s mother agreeing that I am indeed staying the night.
2: skip a few
99: 3am, and I’m sitting on the mezzanine level – although I’m sure that this wasn’t part of my self-analysis at the time: “Wow. I’m sitting on the mezzanine level at the Doors...” – gazing down at the dancefloor, rotating under the strobing lights and cemetery air of the smoke machine. Since 2am the DJ has found that death metal is a crowd-pleaser, and so a pack of head-bangers showing acquiescence to the whims and desires of satan stand bound in a circle on the dancefloor – and I don’t mean the satan thing metaphorically: To my stoned 17-year old brain this was forming solidly as a deathly reality just 10 feet beneath me. In the centre of the dancefloor was a metal chick. One of the metal-heads stumbled forward and crashed into her. So she shoved the guy back, but with like full on supernatural power, so the guy went flying off the dancefloor and crashing into the wall, and the circle of head-bangers closed in again and went on pulling invisible burning chains and sweating under the whip of the lord of the damned and the chick went back to slamming her head. It was very fucking weird, and so it’s no wonder I can’t really handle R&B at all...
100: You might expect that I would run to the arms of jesus after an experience like that, but, come on – you know me. I made of much sterner stuff than that, and sure I knew it was just the drugs...

So here’s a poem, simple enough:

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Probably a good idea
To bring your warmest clothes, at night
It gets quite cold up here these days,
You’re in your old room on the right

I’ll be there
in your mother’s car
Friday night
at 10 past 8
We’ve got a booking
But it’s OK
They’ll keep a table if we’re late

James & Amy’re coming round
Is there anyone else you’d like to see?
We were thinking Sunday lunch,
In the park under the tree?

I’ll need 10 minutes
With the 2 of you -
Just 10 minutes
ought to do
Don’t forget
Your mother’s books,
probably at your
at your sister’s too

I’ll be there on Friday night
Friday night at 10 past 8
I’ll be there at 10 past 8
- But don’t worry, I can wait.

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om” - you kill my father. Prepare to die,

Tom