I've just this minute come home, my mind racing from the dog stadium scum hole that is Brighton. I left the house at around 1.30 with my dad. We put on a bit of The Lonesome Crowded West (much to his discontent) and jammed to Jesus Christ was an Only Child before gasping in awe at the thunderous, heavenly, strawberry-scented pussy that is Doing the Cockroach.
But then we arrived at Asda - the supermarket which usurps Lidl in its shoppers, which are, to put it lightly, the outcomes of second-rate spermatozoa. My dad got a little trolley which turned out to be wonky. I pushed it towards the shop but then left it after my dad noticed its mechanical faults. 'You idiot,' he shouted, in full view of dozens of Coke-swigging, ice-cream-eating cretins with hazy eyes. 'There's a pound in it still.' I was so taken aback that I didn't know what to do.
Eventually, I went back to the car to grab my stuff. I returned the keys to daddy dearest, but not before buying a piece-of-shit sandwich - chicken and bacon, if you must know. At the cigarette counter, a woman plastered in tattoos was taking her time whilst her little blonde daughter bellowed and shouted commands. She began to hit her mum. The woman looked around bovinely as if to see what was going on. The kid continued. If only I had a pistol at this point - sometimes I salute the United States of Gun Crime.
I walked along the seafront as a gale blustered against me. I tried to read a bit of Love All the People (Bill Hicks), but my mind was somewhere out there with the wheeling gulls. Eventually, I got into the chapter and liked what I read - I'd finally got to the bit where he sends John Lahr a letter about being censored on Letterman. Suddenly, I gazed up from my book and noticed three young boys all wearing similar, blue checkered shirts. I braced myself for the worst. As I passed, I heard: 'Oh! I can read and walk.' I thought to myself: 'Yeah? Well I can walk and shut the fuck up.' I said: 'I like your shirts. You're aware you look very similar, right?' God, I'm pathetic - what a weak comeback. I don't know whether I can take this shit for much longer. My blood is English for sure but I'm sure my real family waits for me on some distant, wind-battered shore (other than Brighton's).
Some semblance of normality returned when I went to Waterstones - I hate the Library (even though I use it quite often). I grabbed Nelson Mandella's autobiography and caught the elevator to the fourth floor. I went to the politics section and grabbed a few Chomskys - not before getting a book on linguistics by him. I also got Flat Earth News (which I've been meaning to read for years) and The Conscience of a Liberal. I ordered in a few George Carlin books and felt a sudden, pink-tinged rush of hope. If only I can wait three weeks 'til they arrive - then I won't have to do something regrettable to any of the young urchins of this town.
On the way back into town - and this is the happy highlight of my day - I saw a drunk man sitting in a garage opening listening to blaring 80s tunes. I gave him the thumbs and said: 'Hey, dude!' He smiled back, although he probably thought I was mocking him in his state of careless insobriety. I wondered whether I should've gone back to sit with him for a bit; maybe learn some real stories. My more pragmatic, consumer side kicked in, though, and I remained on the beaten path like the rest of the bleating herd.
I walked to The Level (a local park) after popping into Sainsbury's for some pressé. As I approached, I saw a woman in a black hat. She's a relation of my mum's but she's quite backwards. I was feeling full of pep for once so I approached her - bearing in mind I've never approached her before. 'Do you know Karen Head?' I asked her. 'No,' she replied, along with some other incomprehensible drivel. A black man saw me speaking to her and noted her flustered state. He ushered me over as if maybe I were the one with mental problems. 'What are you doing?' I explained the situation to him (obligingly, of course - seeing as it was none of his business (maybe he's a Christian or something)) but he didn't seem to understand. He asked me: 'Are you okay?' I replied the only way I know how. Besides, how do I know if I'm okay? You tell me. Use your own amazing powers of discernment.
I sat down on the grass and drank my pressé. The sky was dotted with rafts of cumulus clouds and a faint wind lapped at my bald head. 'I'm a prisoner of my own thoughts here. I hate this park,' I thought. I drank up and left, inadvertently leaving behind my bottle. I need to keep hoping, but how can I contend with some of these people? This city is bearing down on me like judge and jury and I don't like the feeling. I'm stuck here - in this gorgeous town which is my own personal hell. I feel like crying. Buckle up, son. You're a man now. My head is dizzy from my flurried typing. I guess I'd better do something prosaic like cook dinner.
Note: I originally wrote this in the present tense but then changed it to the past. If anyone sees any mixing of tenses, please tell me and I'll correct the errors.
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