A rebel without a clue.

Sunday 10th April, I disappeared on to the train on Sunday. ... I glimspsed 2 Mallards drifting on the early morning Aire and felt a little sprite in my feet.  I could actually travel for ever and never get tired(oh I'd be bone weary). Moving through Leeds City Station I pick up a cup of coffee and a Mcdonald's McMuffin and jog along the platform to await our first leg. I spy a copy of the Daily Star and am about to pounce when the guy beside me just gets there first. I don't read newspapers as I feel they bend your ear and corrode your soul, but then I haven't read any newspaper in a long time so I was ever so slightly moth like for a fleeting moment. That guy saved me an indignity and helped me recover from news melancholy. The first leg is 3 hours from Leeds to Birmingham New Street. I find the carriage with the fewest sets and get a forward facing table chair. I have a dislike of the squeeze that the rest of the seating arrangements provide on any mainline trai...

Wetherby is a camp for the dying and the dead. There are old people and dangerously ill people too everywhere on a Thursday. It's that midmorning time of day and a Thursday market day too, but it's another symbol of the death of Wetherby. In the previous allegory metaphor there were just a few atoms left circling dying and now I see the remnants of galaxies. Somewhere someone is being bombed indiscriminately and somewhere 3 media darlings are fanning another media dreadful: Fern! We're bombing the wrong people.

In the bowels of the Marriott no one ever hears you scream. Gucci init, LV init or emptiness init? Remember there is a reason for stepping back from the brink. Remember to decide. You decide. I decide. It's ours to decide. I don't want to die without at-least making decisions about me: ones that appease me; fuck all the rest.

I am in the guilded hall with fat lasses eating scones and lashings of cramming cream. Ensconced between columns of marble they scrape butter pleasure, jam and sup tea from chipped porcelain. Synchronized hand wiping on white paper napkin. Mechanical short locks and dangling ear stand out. Glasses, bespoken spectacles, glitter of ringed fingers and wagging pen. Autobahn in the sun. The fun fun fun. 

Office girls get up and dress like whores. Office gentlemen dress like confirming priests. Some of them drag on fag ends in longing for destiny Some of them talk to their handsets like it's war. There is a faux friendship here And blank impotent rage When in years gone bye nine bells would toll The reality of slavish coil doesn't depend on whistles. Fake leather elbows on a tweed coat: oh is that the best you can do? Drag them away one by one and shoot the lot. Put them on the east coast cattle truck to be boiled down to tallow.

Oh the misery I spent Friday nicely. But Saturday wasted was 40 pounds lighter 40 pounds unreal I wanted 40 pounds of flesh I ended towards the rear Unable to take part Oh, 'cept for Hazel,  The night wasn't fore Trailing out by 10pm 40 pounds rounded down £1.25 of all I can concern.

Eh you know I'm not one for complaining, much, but I think I've just spent £250 quid on the biggest waste of 5 days ever. Exeter piss poor backpackers with zero feeling shoved full of itinerant workers and chinamen. Launceston so in the middle of nowhere to not know where nowhere is (is it Cornwall or is it shite or is it on the A30 between nowhere and nowhere) and where a heart can be broken by so someone so effortless and quiet. The longest road though has to be the enormous effort to get to and from Falmouth without mindless and gormless ranters and to trundle along in a happy shopper bus through one too many Trelistlessnessesevenlevonpoollooe only to arrive in Falmouth and discover the set of keys that Globe gobshite backpackers of Exeter will no doubt want their £10 of flesh for. Then to stay in The Ladder where the locals are listless and eyeless zombies drivelling one too many Grandma Weapon Grade and Old Rosie and where DJ's play lotus spread and aren't eclecti...