A Level 42 LP

Desperate searches for meaning. It gets easier when you accept there is no grand scheme of things. All we have is our own sense of responsibility to others and to ourselves to be decent, to be good, to be kind. Needing to be with someone and then finding this impossible is genuine hell. What I find worse is having this and then being ignored or having to sit and listen to someone else's conversation. It's better to have your own space to feel isolated in. This all sounds like Buzz Lightyear. All I'm left with are late night programmes which feature footage of otters. My father had a punt on 'Ottery News' in The National. The bosom of the family. Strangulated hernias. Dropped boxes of Milk Tray on Xmas Day. Pose with the Cracker so we can take a picture of you in your element. 'Let's try to fill the endless night'. The singer said 'send in the troops'. I asked the multi-instrumentalist why he'd picked Turbonegro. I knew it was his doing. Hi-jinks on the road. Xmas insanity. You are always right. You can't be argued with. You don't like being categorised. You dislike folk thinking about you. Of course there's no way they could ever get it right. Way back in '86. A spell of 'detention'- share a room with chunky boys with flat tops who play Sly Fox on a loop. Hang out with hyper misfits who wake you up with the sounds of 'I've Never Met A Nice South African'. I would have preferred 'We Hate You White South African Bastards'. A theraputic week. What you need is your mood lifted by Gene Wilder movies or whirlpool baths. Why are you in here? I have a social problem. Why are you in here? I'm intae the drugs and that. In later years I met you again. You really were wacked out on 'ludes. Out of your mind in Ladybank. I can't even make it to the 'David Sands'. How I wished I had daubed creative graffiti on the side of Pleasureland. Instead I saw plenty of teenage riots from the outside. Skinny dipping in the loch. I did hear about it. I heard about the poisonous algae too. Afterwards. Hang out outside the chippy. I ken the reels. See Davie Powrie walking past wi' his funny ears and his England shirt. He's in the middle of drinking himself to death. I knew of a dog called Mojo. Fuck yer/Super Mo. Was he found 'riding women in old caravans' as well? A Mojo lookalike hit me in the baws wi' a cricket bat. He was called 'Manning'. He was a 'poseur'. He liked Prefab Sprout a great deal. Now he works in 'financial services'. The days run away. I hate stories about 'teenage love'. It's not what I knew. Teen hell. A culture of bullying. Mental and physical cruelty. I intend to drown tonight. I can't take it anymore. I still can't.