Last night I was walking, turned the sharp corner into Whiplash Avenue. Johnny M was there, later Keith in his cricket whites and cap, we were on the way to Spurs v Arsenal. Further on I realized that, though I’d been to the ground earlier that day, I’d forgotten to buy a ticket. Go anyway, to get scalped, but the crowd’s below capacity. ‘Got a ticket for a genuine supporter?’ I ask, and the first guy’s got a fistful – they’re pink. Permissible tickets, no charge. I go in, to try and catch up with Keith, who no longer has a coat over his whites, and has fallen in a clownish heap of long limbs on the cinder track, cut strings & arse in the air.
& if that weren’t bad enough, the night before got into some sort of war involving my bentwood chairs, which ended up splintered and smashed in spite. I hurled abuse and something else at my tormentor as I ran from the house (big, townish) and went off along what looked like East St, Faversham, munching on a cold roast chicken, but feeling justified, when I suddenly (& as you can imagine, shockingly) realized – I was Morrissey! Enough to wake anyone up. And him a vegetarian, too!
Must stop laying off the dope if this keeps happening
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