I miss New Cross.

The past nine months have been certainly something - chaotic, expensive, wonderful, three pound ten a pint - but that was all expected, rather unlike the gaping chasm that once housed my overdraft and my continued inadequacy when it comes to spirit measures. For every time stood watching The Teenagers and encounters with saucepans there have been new friends, adventures on hills, good courtyard times, all sorts. Why people would want to mix with me is another matter; I have been described as ‘a big friendly walrus’ and I spent my childhood years mastering the Death Egg boss instead of having friends.

If only these times didn’t fly by; if only I had spent some of them learning instead of sitting here, back in Humberside, worrying my head about whether I can return… not that I would turn back time and live my life like it was a Baz Luhrmann song or some bollocks, because where’s the fun in that? I screwed my finances, but I did so laughing my kertwatted arse off, buying too many records, having my ears pulverised by a myriad of wonderful racketeers and I’m probably financing The Wine Cellar’s manager’s new telly. Not as much as my friends (oh mercy!), but every little helps.

I’m probably closing in on the best year of my hilarious existence and it’s all London’s fault. Now if only I wasn’t rounding it off here, having traded SE14 for DN38; Brockley, Honor Oak Park, Forest Hill is now Habrough, Grimsby Town, Cleethorpes. Fine, there’s a Björk special on MTV2 right now, but after that there’ll be The Wombats and The Fucking Ting Tings. The nearest place to buy records and see talented people perform is at least an hour away; there isn’t even a Chick Chicken for miles around…

Siigh mope whinge arrgh and so on. I’ve been here a week and I’m already sounding like a whinging little git but that’s what Scunthorpe, what Grimsby, and even Lincoln does to you when you’ve seen what the alternative is. I suppose I could be somewhere like Norwich and then I wouldn’t even have the wonderful Peter Levy to tell me about how someone in Gainsborough is complaining about their bin collection rota. Or Lincs FM, playing middle-of-road, Radio-2-lite joy from the Humber to the Wash although I don’t need them because my mother listens to Newton Faulkner, a feat all the more morose considering she used to be into the Cocteau Twins. Still, some records to steal. It’s nice not spending a penny in nearly a week. It’s also nice being able to steal media in a simpler manner, thereby making me want to spend less pennies. Look at me, I’m nullifying my argument. HOORAY

The thing is that I can go on to myself (I’ve seen the Google Analytics; nobody will be reading this) about this area but I should have gotten a job or something… people find ineptitude a selling point after all, right? And it’s only till September although I also need to work out where I’m living by then (email/FB inbox message AM I RITE?) so yeah. Disregard those paragraphs. Cast them out! But I still need to see people soon again and be less bored/boring than I have been in the past week or so. Perhaps, perhaps that will involve more blogging.

Oh yeah, and at least I don’t have that beard anymore.

roman david