I had written a post last week entitled "The End". I couldn't resist the irony of using a song written by an alcoholic who drowned in a bathtub to describe an alcoholic's surrender to detox. It started something like this ......
"This is the end,
Beautiful friend."
J. Morrison.
A beautiful friend who ......
stood by me for more years than I can remember and helped me forget them,
lifted me up when I was down and let me down when I was in need,
embraced me as an lover and embarrassed me as a fool,
disclosed secrets to strangers and hid them from those I love,
made me powerful, invicible, all knowing and weak willed, pleading, lost,
made me lie to myself and made me lie by myself,
encouraged my desires and disabled my ability to achieve them,
boosted my Ego and destroyed my Self,
and so on.
But now, upon more sober reflection and in the light of the support of those close to me, the experience of those who have been through this and the wisdom and support of Penny and other blogger friends, I prefer to consider my current situation as an opportunity, a possibility, there to be seized.
"The sea's the possibility
There is no land but the land
There is no sea but the sea
There is no keeper but the key
Except for one who seizes possibilities, one who seizes possibilities"
P. Smith.
or, in another poet's words,
"You only get one shot, do not miss this chance to blow
This opportunity comes once in a lifetime, yo
..... Success is my only motherfuckin' option, failure's not"
M. Mathers.
Maybe I'm overblowing it a lil, but how many chances do you get?
As he pondered his future, waiting, anticipating in unfamiliar detox
Realizations dawned, futures unfurled, somewhere in the mind of fox
A change in course from failures to triumph, remember the Red Sox?
Or more of the same, one big step closer to a cold and lonely pine box
Woefully inept poet.
So, what's it gonna be, fucker?
Sunday, September 25, 2005
Sunday, September 18, 2005
Get Pissed, Destroy!
We were hanging out in Victoria Square, outside our sleepy town's only record store, conveniently located next door to Blewetts, where the best pasties in town were sold. I ate one of our county's famous delicacies with one hand, the other clutching my latest purchase, Generation X's debut single, "Your Generation"/"Day by Day". Though I was eager to get home and listen to it, we first needed to decide on what to do later that evening, it being Friday. Dibs scoured the West Briton for signs of nightlife, rarely spotted in our quiet backwater.
"The Garden, Penzance. Friday night, Mystery Band. You don't think it could be...." he wondered aloud.
The Garden was a smallish club, the only respectable venue for rock bands in our languid county. We'd been there many a time to see mid-level british rock bands, the likes of Hawkwind and Be Bop Deluxe. But now our ears and hearts were tuned to a new sound, one of vitality and energy that we hadn't experienced before, but which we could immediately relate to and feel part of.
"Nah. Why would they play down here?"
"They'll play anywhere. We should at least check it out."
In early 1977, the lead singer of the Sex Pistols used the word "fuck" in an interview on national TV. Instant infamy. Just as they attracted fanatical followers, they attracted many who wished them and their fans more than a little harm. As much as they revelled in the hatred levelled against them, after getting the shit kicked out of them after every gig, the Pistols decided to start playing anonymously. We had to check it out, of course we did.
We rolled into the cozy fishing port of Penzance in the late afternoon. The doors to the Garden were still closed. After a brief stroll down the promenade to take in some sea air, we claimed a table in the pub next door. As time passed the pub started to fill with people around our age, with the same expressions of anticipation and subdued excitement. Eventually the Garden doors opened and we got tickets. But still no confirmation as to who was playing. As we walked back to the pub (if they were playing that night they'd most surely come to the pub first), it was apparent that the local cops were patrolling in unusual numbers. An excellent sign.
More time passed, more pints were consumed and pernods were added to the rounds. By about 9.30 we were getting not only well pissed, but also somewhat concerned that no one was showing up. It was my round and I forged my way to the bar, now quite filled with expectant drinkers. As I tried to catch the barman's attention, I noticed the volume level drop somewhat around me. I got his attention and was about to order when, in my left ear, came an already unmistakable voice. A nasal, sneering half-whine that suggested both malice and derision.
"Four pints of bitter." Lingering on the "s" as if "four" needed more explanation.
I turned my head slightly. John Rotten looked back with his head cocked.
"We're thirsssty." He sneered.
"Sure, sure. Go ahead." I mumbled.
"Thanks."
"He said thanks, he said thanks!" I thought to myself giddily.
The Pistols established themselves at the bar and started drinking several pints in quick succession. About a half hour before closing time they headed out. We and the rest of the pub followed.
Within no time they were on stage, ripping through songs we knew, "Anarchy", "God Save the Queen" and "Pretty Vacant", and songs we were hearing for the first time, "Holidays in the Sun", "EMI", "Liar", "Submarine". We were in the midst of a seething, surging, sweating mass of energized bodies. The energy level in the small club was unmatched by anything we'd experienced before and wouldn't even quite be equalled by the even more kinetic Clash a few weeks later.
Afterwards, while my friends headed to the bar, abuzz with the electricity of the show and the pernod, I ventured backstage. After asking Rotten, sitting, slouched and soaked with as much sweat as me, about the upcoming album - he was polite, friendly but clearly not too interested in chit-chat - I asked Sid if he fancied a beer.
"Sure."
We sat at the bar, had a couple of beers and chatted about stuff - the album, the ex-record labels they hated so much, Sweden (they'd just toured there - "fucking boring, fucking cold too"), football - regular pub talk really. Finally we were kicked out as the club closed. Though not before Sid scrawled his name on the sleeve of my denim jacket.
While we staggered toward the car, though I was clearly the most drunk of the six of us, I fished out the keys from my pocket. Still buzzing from the show, meeting Sid and several pints and pernods, I took off, completely ignoring the mini-roundabout outside the club, instead driving right across it. We sped down the road running parallel to the promenade and seafront, talking excitedly about the show. At the end of the promenade the road gently curved right, towards the quay where, as a child, I had so often boarded the Scillonian for our annual family summer trip to the Scilly Isles. As the road curved, the car continued on its linear path, ending with an inevitable, yet surprisingly quiet crunch as it hit the wall lining the pavement.
Within seconds, it seemed, we were surrounded by three police cars. They had been expecting trouble and had finally found it. We staggered out of the car aided by the cops, actually a pretty friendly bunch, no doubt happy that something had finally happened. No one was hurt, though Dibs would complain for days afterwards that his thumb had been bent and hurt like hell. Frankly, the little fucker deserved it. Though there was no damage to life or limb, my dad's Datsun was completely totalled. This was not good - he really liked his Datsun.
Weeks later a friend of my parents, a locally respected lawyer, would stand before a judge pronouncing me a fine student, planning to go to a well respected college at Cambridge who didn't know that pernod was a strong drink. Naturally I received the maximum possible fine and suspension.
A few years later I would be sitting in the bar of that same respected college when a friend would walk in carrying a newspaper,
"Well your old buddy's really fucked up this time" (I'd played the story up a bit).
Throwing down the copy of the Sun on the bar, I read;
"SID KILLS NANCY!"
Yeah, he'd fucked up real good this time. Though I'd spent barely twenty minutes drinking with Sid Vicious, I'd grown to resent the media's treatment of him, first demonizing, then ridiculing. Something like this was, at least in hindsight, inevitable.
A few days later, just as inevitably, he too would be dead.
The day after wrecking my dad's car I decided it would be diplomatic not to drink.
To the best of my recollection, that day in 1977 was the last that I went without a drink.
The last day until tomorrow.
I'll be back.
Soon. I hope.
"The Garden, Penzance. Friday night, Mystery Band. You don't think it could be...." he wondered aloud.
The Garden was a smallish club, the only respectable venue for rock bands in our languid county. We'd been there many a time to see mid-level british rock bands, the likes of Hawkwind and Be Bop Deluxe. But now our ears and hearts were tuned to a new sound, one of vitality and energy that we hadn't experienced before, but which we could immediately relate to and feel part of.
"Nah. Why would they play down here?"
"They'll play anywhere. We should at least check it out."
In early 1977, the lead singer of the Sex Pistols used the word "fuck" in an interview on national TV. Instant infamy. Just as they attracted fanatical followers, they attracted many who wished them and their fans more than a little harm. As much as they revelled in the hatred levelled against them, after getting the shit kicked out of them after every gig, the Pistols decided to start playing anonymously. We had to check it out, of course we did.
We rolled into the cozy fishing port of Penzance in the late afternoon. The doors to the Garden were still closed. After a brief stroll down the promenade to take in some sea air, we claimed a table in the pub next door. As time passed the pub started to fill with people around our age, with the same expressions of anticipation and subdued excitement. Eventually the Garden doors opened and we got tickets. But still no confirmation as to who was playing. As we walked back to the pub (if they were playing that night they'd most surely come to the pub first), it was apparent that the local cops were patrolling in unusual numbers. An excellent sign.
More time passed, more pints were consumed and pernods were added to the rounds. By about 9.30 we were getting not only well pissed, but also somewhat concerned that no one was showing up. It was my round and I forged my way to the bar, now quite filled with expectant drinkers. As I tried to catch the barman's attention, I noticed the volume level drop somewhat around me. I got his attention and was about to order when, in my left ear, came an already unmistakable voice. A nasal, sneering half-whine that suggested both malice and derision.
"Four pints of bitter." Lingering on the "s" as if "four" needed more explanation.
I turned my head slightly. John Rotten looked back with his head cocked.
"We're thirsssty." He sneered.
"Sure, sure. Go ahead." I mumbled.
"Thanks."
"He said thanks, he said thanks!" I thought to myself giddily.
The Pistols established themselves at the bar and started drinking several pints in quick succession. About a half hour before closing time they headed out. We and the rest of the pub followed.
Within no time they were on stage, ripping through songs we knew, "Anarchy", "God Save the Queen" and "Pretty Vacant", and songs we were hearing for the first time, "Holidays in the Sun", "EMI", "Liar", "Submarine". We were in the midst of a seething, surging, sweating mass of energized bodies. The energy level in the small club was unmatched by anything we'd experienced before and wouldn't even quite be equalled by the even more kinetic Clash a few weeks later.
Afterwards, while my friends headed to the bar, abuzz with the electricity of the show and the pernod, I ventured backstage. After asking Rotten, sitting, slouched and soaked with as much sweat as me, about the upcoming album - he was polite, friendly but clearly not too interested in chit-chat - I asked Sid if he fancied a beer.
"Sure."
We sat at the bar, had a couple of beers and chatted about stuff - the album, the ex-record labels they hated so much, Sweden (they'd just toured there - "fucking boring, fucking cold too"), football - regular pub talk really. Finally we were kicked out as the club closed. Though not before Sid scrawled his name on the sleeve of my denim jacket.
While we staggered toward the car, though I was clearly the most drunk of the six of us, I fished out the keys from my pocket. Still buzzing from the show, meeting Sid and several pints and pernods, I took off, completely ignoring the mini-roundabout outside the club, instead driving right across it. We sped down the road running parallel to the promenade and seafront, talking excitedly about the show. At the end of the promenade the road gently curved right, towards the quay where, as a child, I had so often boarded the Scillonian for our annual family summer trip to the Scilly Isles. As the road curved, the car continued on its linear path, ending with an inevitable, yet surprisingly quiet crunch as it hit the wall lining the pavement.
Within seconds, it seemed, we were surrounded by three police cars. They had been expecting trouble and had finally found it. We staggered out of the car aided by the cops, actually a pretty friendly bunch, no doubt happy that something had finally happened. No one was hurt, though Dibs would complain for days afterwards that his thumb had been bent and hurt like hell. Frankly, the little fucker deserved it. Though there was no damage to life or limb, my dad's Datsun was completely totalled. This was not good - he really liked his Datsun.
Weeks later a friend of my parents, a locally respected lawyer, would stand before a judge pronouncing me a fine student, planning to go to a well respected college at Cambridge who didn't know that pernod was a strong drink. Naturally I received the maximum possible fine and suspension.
A few years later I would be sitting in the bar of that same respected college when a friend would walk in carrying a newspaper,
"Well your old buddy's really fucked up this time" (I'd played the story up a bit).
Throwing down the copy of the Sun on the bar, I read;
"SID KILLS NANCY!"
Yeah, he'd fucked up real good this time. Though I'd spent barely twenty minutes drinking with Sid Vicious, I'd grown to resent the media's treatment of him, first demonizing, then ridiculing. Something like this was, at least in hindsight, inevitable.
A few days later, just as inevitably, he too would be dead.
The day after wrecking my dad's car I decided it would be diplomatic not to drink.
To the best of my recollection, that day in 1977 was the last that I went without a drink.
The last day until tomorrow.
I'll be back.
Soon. I hope.
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