A rebel without a clue.

Tidy up and serve food.  Fit to burst upon a plate Messy basket and baguette And an interlude I record While consumptive old Rosie Is, wrapped by benevolent booze, Befriended once wouldn't it be Entente cordial and drink fearless Into the daring poured afternoon. Popped to the Nation of Shopkeepers for a couple of Weston's Old Rosie and a chicken burger. Ran into Rachel who used to work in the Southwark Tavern. Seen her in there before and thought I recognized her, but couldn't remember where from. Nice juicy breast, lush mayo and twice fried fries. She recalled my name, but I just couldn't get hers. It was 2009 when I left Rotherhithe for Shropshire. Batteries gone, returned to move my stuff back to 42. Feels refreshing. Emma and I loaded her car. Need to return for a couple of items on Tuesday. My self same room since 1989 is full to the brim. Lots of nights safe and sound. Nice to listen to The Fall on my Musical Fidelity pre/power amp and Mordaunt-Short s...

Fat fuckers eating mr whippy with flake, octogenarian stumbling by guided by that ankled stamp. Pop goes the bubble of over chewing gum; like Lolita but not cute. At the transit of Albion Place and Land's Lane. Some unauthorized hustlers is checked by community support officers. 'who do you think you're talking at?' speaks mother into handset. And they with paper and plastic carriers rush like unwanted flyers blown or flotsam washed high on dirty sand. Up and down while the wind gathers the clouds to pour away the nothing. The man with temporary fancy blowing bird like forever. What an absolute waste: just let me slap yours empty hands! If I could bulldoze all the shops, cafés, restaurants, office blocks, cinemas, petrol stations: what would we have left? Monuments, churches, schools, facilities and many bemused individuals.

When you get me within 2 meters of Facebook and I've had too much to drink I don't know whether I can be held entirely responsible for the series of actions I put in place. The vile and pointless things I may write on chat or on a profile which, while profound to me in the inebriated state, are absolutely disjointed and fragments of a booze troubled mind. 2 such discussions took place yesterday evening. Both pitifully rude and intrusive; plain daft. The detritus of 'Metro', 'Shortlist' and 'Stylist' that follows me on my journey. Waste paper, discarded drinks cans, cola bottles, graffiti on the windows and chairs and the dusty, muddy faded seats. The crummy x98 with it's fading purple seats and glum faced brutes. Paping thin wasting away with cracked and yellowed teeth and salt and pepper hair. I ate all the Ben and Jerry's the night before last and chucked 3 lemon puffs down my neck last night. Fighting my girth again. With boredom comes tid...

It was 7:30 on a Tuesday morning in 1991 on that fateful day. I was dragged to Garforth to be questioned about the drug problems in Wetherby and specifically at the high school. I didn't know this was ever going to happen, I feared another visit from the police was in the offing for an entirely different reason. Luckily my dad was out at work already and it was just my mum and I: my dad had a real temper. My mum didn't know I'd ever done drugs and she was very disappointed and ashamed of me. I was driven in a Vauxhall Cavalier to meet my destiny with fingering prints and mug shots to be questioned. I realize that someone at Wetherby high must've spoken to their parents about the burgeoning drug culture amongst the sixth form(mainly the upper sixth) and word maybe got to a the police to get along and speak to the culprits. To me being invited along for this interview was interesting and experimental: I didn't let the weight of the event effect me perhaps as much as ...