BadFish
Huge Member
- Oct 19, 2003
- 17,903
I started writing this a few years ago, What do you reckon?
Brighton, a small seaside town much like any other in England. Developed by the Prince Regent for rich **** to holiday in way back when, and let’s face it, it hasn’t changed much cos no fucker cares anymore, at least them rich fuckers cared about the place they knocked about in. Didn’t care about much else though did they? I look through the rain at the grand squares and lawns that echo those affluent days gone by. The low sky suffocates me as I battle against the wind, i turn my face away from the bitter cold and look out at where the shit brown sea meets the coal grey skies. The collapsing pier in the foreground hiding the glorified neon amusement arcade behind built to keep the peasants off the Ballrooms and Regency splendour of the other one. Time is a great leveller as now they are both piles of shit in their own way. “Trudging slowly over wet sand” I begin to sing to myself as I try to light a damp fag. “This is the seaside town that they forgot to close down. Armageddon.” You’re not too far wrong there, Morrisey and to think that this cold wet shit is supposed to be spring.
So why am I here? Why don’t I just stay at home in the warm? Well that is one of the ironies of my generation, X I believe we’re called or is it Y or why? Clever eh, f***ing guardian readers intelligises everything don’t they? Intelligises? Is that a word? I bet it would be if one of those fuckers said it, instead it’s just me being f***ing stupid and uneducated. Anyway the irony of us wasters, the underclass or whatever you want to call us is that we can’t get out of bed and down the dole office on time to sign on for free money, but we will go to extraordinary lengths to get to a party, in fact not a even a party just a nice place to get off our faces with our mates. In fact most of the time they are not actually that nice but that is the crazy devil may care don’t give a f*** world we live in.
I arrive at Jonesy’s place right opposite The Lion and Lobster a couple of hundred yards back for the seafront. It is a basement place that lacks a little in creature comforts like furniture but more than makes up for in n that lived in appeal. I knock loudly over the music... I knock again hurting my knuckles on the rough peeling paint....I continue knocking until i am greeted by Jonesy wearing a pair of shorts, a highly tasteless Hawaiian shirt and no shoes. As if this vision wasn’t unsettling enough I am almost knocked over by the wave of heat escaping out of the door. “Heating’s f***ed!” comes the explanation “Pull up a deck chair.” The sweet smell of skunk fills my nostrils as I walk down the narrow hallway into the lounge. I begin to laugh away the melancholy that was building up on the journey here as I set eyes on Moony, Moggsie and Dutch Rod sat in stripy deckchairs with their jeans rolled up, shirts off, clutching cocktails. Mooney nods a hello and passes me a reefer, the white handkerchief on his head slips forward and a knot hits him in the eye. “What the f*** are you lot drinking?” I demand.
“Margaritas!” says Jonesy as if nothing is strange “Want one?”
“f***ing right I do.” I say as I plonk myself down onto a deckchair. “So what’s the plan for tonight, Rod did you manage to blag the tickets?”
“Got the tickets mate, and managed to blag a bottle of tequila from work. You get the pills?”
I smile and lean back nodding and letting out a big cloud of smoke “Life is sweet tonight, Rod, life is sweet.” My sadness drifts off on the smoke and with the help of my mates and an altered state i start to think that spring is beginning after all.
Brighton, a small seaside town much like any other in England. Developed by the Prince Regent for rich **** to holiday in way back when, and let’s face it, it hasn’t changed much cos no fucker cares anymore, at least them rich fuckers cared about the place they knocked about in. Didn’t care about much else though did they? I look through the rain at the grand squares and lawns that echo those affluent days gone by. The low sky suffocates me as I battle against the wind, i turn my face away from the bitter cold and look out at where the shit brown sea meets the coal grey skies. The collapsing pier in the foreground hiding the glorified neon amusement arcade behind built to keep the peasants off the Ballrooms and Regency splendour of the other one. Time is a great leveller as now they are both piles of shit in their own way. “Trudging slowly over wet sand” I begin to sing to myself as I try to light a damp fag. “This is the seaside town that they forgot to close down. Armageddon.” You’re not too far wrong there, Morrisey and to think that this cold wet shit is supposed to be spring.
So why am I here? Why don’t I just stay at home in the warm? Well that is one of the ironies of my generation, X I believe we’re called or is it Y or why? Clever eh, f***ing guardian readers intelligises everything don’t they? Intelligises? Is that a word? I bet it would be if one of those fuckers said it, instead it’s just me being f***ing stupid and uneducated. Anyway the irony of us wasters, the underclass or whatever you want to call us is that we can’t get out of bed and down the dole office on time to sign on for free money, but we will go to extraordinary lengths to get to a party, in fact not a even a party just a nice place to get off our faces with our mates. In fact most of the time they are not actually that nice but that is the crazy devil may care don’t give a f*** world we live in.
I arrive at Jonesy’s place right opposite The Lion and Lobster a couple of hundred yards back for the seafront. It is a basement place that lacks a little in creature comforts like furniture but more than makes up for in n that lived in appeal. I knock loudly over the music... I knock again hurting my knuckles on the rough peeling paint....I continue knocking until i am greeted by Jonesy wearing a pair of shorts, a highly tasteless Hawaiian shirt and no shoes. As if this vision wasn’t unsettling enough I am almost knocked over by the wave of heat escaping out of the door. “Heating’s f***ed!” comes the explanation “Pull up a deck chair.” The sweet smell of skunk fills my nostrils as I walk down the narrow hallway into the lounge. I begin to laugh away the melancholy that was building up on the journey here as I set eyes on Moony, Moggsie and Dutch Rod sat in stripy deckchairs with their jeans rolled up, shirts off, clutching cocktails. Mooney nods a hello and passes me a reefer, the white handkerchief on his head slips forward and a knot hits him in the eye. “What the f*** are you lot drinking?” I demand.
“Margaritas!” says Jonesy as if nothing is strange “Want one?”
“f***ing right I do.” I say as I plonk myself down onto a deckchair. “So what’s the plan for tonight, Rod did you manage to blag the tickets?”
“Got the tickets mate, and managed to blag a bottle of tequila from work. You get the pills?”
I smile and lean back nodding and letting out a big cloud of smoke “Life is sweet tonight, Rod, life is sweet.” My sadness drifts off on the smoke and with the help of my mates and an altered state i start to think that spring is beginning after all.