Come on, Chad, turn it over. You know I want to see the monasteries thing.
He can be such an arse sometimes. £1.11. Seriously. Someone sent me a card that was 11p under postage and because Royal Mail didn’t have to go to the trouble of actually delivering it, I have to pay another pound. It’s not Chad’s fault, it’s just been a shit day. It’s filthy hot, that damned car alarm has been going all day, I have to pay to deliver my own fucking post and then that twat in the car tried to intimidate me. I seem to be a magnet for twats.
Forget it, I’m going to get some chocolate at the garage. Want anything?
Yeah, alright! Couple of beers would be good.
He’s okay, really. I know he says that stuff when I’m not around to stop him. Shouting things at strangers just because they look different. He’s just like them in that sense. But most of the time, he’s actually a good guy. He was going through the music channels, wasn’t he? Must be hard for him, these days.
I don’t listen to his stuff, he doesn’t read mine. We agree to disagree. But look. I mean. I’m RIGHT. He needs to know that. Sure, he likes lager, I don’t. Who cares? It’s not a craft, anyway, it’s a drink. But music? If it’s just a matter of taste, then it’s kitsch.
Is he pissing? He’s pissing in the bin. And that’s a dressing gown, isn’t it. It’s only Wednesday.
Five sixty.
There’s six.
Cheers, see you.
Having a go at someone for keeping bags of old receipts, it’s just mental filing, isn’t it. We all have our own ways. But I let him off for the things I disagree with, because he’s alright really, as if we’re all entitled to our opinions. But if something’s demonstrably untrue, I’d be spineless not to try persuading him. I can draw the line at only pushing him within his capabilities, but that’s condescending and how would I know, anyway? And, quite simply, I’m not here to advertise product. Some things are just crap. But if I was going to tell him his flies were down, I wouldn’t stand on the table in the Marquis and shout it. I’d probably find out my own trousers were around my ankles. I should just tell him quietly. If he gets angry, at least I haven’t embarrassed him.
What’s going on. What’s all this white. My heads killing. Maybe its these contacts. Put the bag down. The wall’s cold here, think of the cold. The brick scratching on my cheek. No don’t think of skin. Get down. Don’t think of touching no you are you twat. Fingers should never touch a brain. Touch air and move a brain. It’s not right.
That music in the Post Office and it being so hot. Now I’ve got to get back to Chad. But he’s alright, really.
I am a God. Writing with McCartney. “The greatest living rock star.” It’s obvious where Kanye West is going with this but, luckily for him, the stakes are much lower now. While I can see him turning up at a club with a Kotex on his head, he’s not going to get shot outside his home.
I see that David Crosby can’t stand him. Well, again, the stakes are lower. Maybe a bit too low. Crosby ranted at audiences because he could see them uniting to end a war, whereas Kanye just really wants to sell some branded trainers. Crosby was like his audience – one fucked up lotto ticket away from a pointless and violent death. And where Kanye’s profile keeps him safe, Crosby’s and Lennon‘s made them even more at risk of being busted.
Kanye understands his position. “What do you know man? You’re not a musician.” He sets himself up for comparison with the rock canon. Uh, maybe ‘New Slaves’ was Pulp‘s ‘I Spy’ with even more righteous fury. Then, standing alone under bright lights:
Look At Me.
It’s not Kanye West: the Classic Rock Years. It’s just Kanye West. But he should put down his phone more often. It’s not enough to say
Look At Me.
