Heart of a Punk - Soul of a Rasta

Welcome back you wonderful person singular who reads this utter drivel and never complains, I'm fine since you ask, I'm still riding high on a wave of sarcasm and euphoria after last months seminal "friends and family issue". So what do I got for you this month, well it's not for me to say apparently, because this month I'm going where I'm told to go, and reviewing what I'm told to review, so like me you'll just have to take it or leave it - believe it!

16th April 2009.
What a lovely day it is - a lovely - promising to be really warm sometime soon - maybe - kind of day. Wait a minute stop before you start Ed, is it me or is this Fanzine turning into an elongated vain glorious blog? Probably. Anyway knackers there's no avoiding it, because: I feel like a blog people give me the eyes, but I was born just like you you you. I feel like a blog I don't want to go home……… But unfortunately I must, I've been summoned. So back to my hometown I must go e i e i e i o, summoned again by The Bigot, but it will also be a chance to bathe in the obvious delights of the majestic city of Wol-ver-hamp-er-ton, yes Wol-ver-hamp-er-ton, sunny Wol-ver-hamp-er-ton . It always does me a world of good to eradicate the fine air and beautiful scenery of Shropshire from my soul and replace it with the all encompassing stench of Bank's Brewery "hops mash" and the stunning panorama of Heath Town and beyond as viewed from Wolverhampton's High level station. In case you didn't already know the motto of Wolverhampton is "Out of darkness cometh shite" and for that reason alone I love it.

So once again there I sat in John's flat, slumped upon the concrete cosiness of his settee a mug of over brewed cold tea within reach. Our meeting started at an all time low and proceeded to plummet down hill at a mind bending rate of knots. If there had been a fly on the wall there, a fly with the ability to write, a fly with a piece of paper and a pencil, then for sure this is what that FLY would have written.

11.00am, down below two bald old men are facing each other across a coffee table, they are reminiscing, they are remembering a time when they both individually owned a comb, the brown bruised apple in the fruit bowl is rotting beautifully the scent is intoxicating, a plethora of items are strewn on the table, books, records, cds, tickets, photos and a few grains of sugar which will soon be swept on to the rug, the one who is here 24/7 is telling the other one "to do as he is f***kin told or there will be no expenses this month" he then frantically scribbles something on a piece of paper and inserts it into the top jacket pocket of one he calls Ed, he tells Ed that "he is off down the Newhampton and to f*** off out of his flat" items are gathered up swiftly from the table the grains of sugar are swept onto the rug.