I listened to an online radio show. The guy interviewed is some kind of anarchist royalty. Once, years ago my radical friend in Vegas told me this rad-dude was in Manchester and wanted to hang out with cool people. I
I was gonna take him to Starfux but even though I waited for him I got a call to say he’d stood me up.
So long mad-rad-anarchist dude. We never did get our coffee date. I was probably deemed too uncool by the councillors of style.
My gran lives in a thoroughly working class area. It’s in a major city of the U.K. you go up a motorway past supermarkets and prisons. Then you have all these higgledy piggeldey tiny weeny red brick houses spread like low cost margarine over undulating hills. There are collapsing ambitious 1960s attempts at Utopian town planning on the cheap. 1930s terraces. Over green gardens , dogs, kids, blokes in England shirts ala JGBallard. It’s a mass cape of dog mess and ice cream vans.
Life is weird.
I feel too broken to be fixed.
I feel unimportant, uncool.