‘I Want Everything’ – The Godfathers
Louise’s party was truly shit! The music was good, namely Fields of the Nephilim, but it was the only decent thing. There were very few girls, no riots, no pranksters, no japesters, no booze (except for private and personal supplies, jealously guarded) or nothing. So Simon, Nigel and I left after a short while, whilst all the other boring buggers stayed. That shit made Libby’s party look GOOD.
I wouldn’t fucking dare have such a party.
Come back, Valentine’s Day…
Simon and I got back to Settledown at about 3am this morning. We got in bed and discussed a variety of things and then slept until about 9.30am, when his dad brought us both a Kapotae. We then both slept till about 11.30am, when we got up, read the ‘papers, and scoffed beans on toast.
He then drove me all the way home (approx. 30 miles) to my house – which I thought was really good of him. He came in and had a cup o’ tea and listened to some records ‘n’ some BTC stuff.
I bet he thought my room was a rite jyp hole. It certainly looks it – especially the ‘summer holiday ‘86’ remnants of beer, hair gel and inter-galactic nob-juice on the carpet.
He read Naomi’s letter and said it was good. He left at about 2.15pm, borrowing some BTC cassettes.
‘Hollow Hills’ – Bauhaus
NICKI rang at about 3.30pm. She was angry, asking things like, ‘So you do remember me, then?’
She asked me if we should forget it.
I said I wasn’t sure and that I wanted to sort things out.
She didn’t like this and told me it was well and truly over. She said goodbye and put the phone down.
It’s for the best, of course. Another failed Winterfood relationship. She wasn’t really the one for me. And distance didn’t help. I hope she’ll be my friend.
Naomi helped me understand.
By the way, it’s pissing down.
As well as the rain, Pot Noodle is being evicted and my brother Chip is allergic to cows’ milk.
I’m listening to Bauhaus. Cor!
Naomi. I will write to you tomorrow. And you, Flash.
WOW, GUYS! CHECK IT OUT!
GOSH! GOLLY! COR! YO-HO-HO!
‘The London Boys’ – David Bowie
Spindly, twisted fingers with freaky nails, emerge from beneath a burgundy cloak…
A hideous, thick-necked man-beast snarls, blood bursting from its simian nostrils and drool bubbling about its fangs…
Simon Nightingale has been very good to me, and I will never (can never) forget his hospitality.
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NEXT TIME: ‘No Bells…’