I am going to keep this updated from now on. I am writing a lot more at the moment so I'll post stuff up every week. I am no longer a drip. As i read on a toilet door earlier - I fuck everything I kill.
I have been very elusive this past 18 months doing many jobs and living everywhere - sheep farm, tractor parts warehouse, cleaning, building playgrounds, working with racists at B and Q...I forget the rest.
Been sleeping in my sleeping bag a lot.
Plenty of touring too with many people i love making excellent music.
But now I am going to WRITE!!!!
Check it out mothers.
Here's the first piece, a reworking of the ancient greek story of Icarus, his Dad - Daladeaus is a weird lorry driver.
It started when I asked him why he decided to become a lorry driver and for the last fifteen minutes he’s been giving me his life story. He must be working his way up to a grand finale. I yawn and look around the cab of the lorry, then back at the man. He’s red, almost sunburnt, and I wonder how he got like that if he spends all day inside.
“So there was this fancy dress party at the school,” he says. “My son’s school. He was nine. All I had to do was help him make this costume. He says he wants to go as a big bird and I say ‘what about a little pig?’ Cuz I don’t want to make this costume. I wanna go to the pub. A pig you can wear pink and put a plant pot on your nose, whereas a bird costume takes some effort, right?”
“Yeah, they have feathers.” I say. The clock on the dashboard says 21:15. I should be home but I missed the last bus and my phone is dead.
He carries on talking. “But I think, fuck it, I’ll make some effort - be a good dad for once. So we go to the craft shop before it closes to buy the things for the bird costume. Wood, fabric, card for the beak, even a bag full of feathers. Everything. We get back home and start making it. It’s going great, except, I’ve forgotten to buy glue for the feathers and there’s none in the house. I make a joke - ‘looks like you’re gonna be a bald eagle’. He runs upstairs crying, saying that I’ve messed everything up again. I start feelin’ bad and shout ‘don’t worry, I’ll fix everything by tomorrow.’”
“What do you think I did?” He says and looks over at me. His head is nearly perfectly spherical, like a marble.
“I don’t know,” I say. I think about my wife at home.
“I went through all the drawers in the house until I found these four big church candles. I put ‘em in an old pot and melted them down. Now don’t ask me how I did it but I got all these feathers stuck to the wings with that wax, and they’re looking great.”
“This is why you became a lorry driver, right?” I ask.
“Yeah. I’m getting there,” he says and looks irritated. “So the next night we’re at the party, my son’s over the moon in this bird costume, the tantrum about the glue all forgotten. Then he gets picked to be a contestant for best fancy dress. I start to tear up as he runs up on to the stage to join the other kids. He’s stood there next to this one kid dressed as a black bull. It’s weird looking, not really right for a kid at fancy dress. But anyhow, my son’s up there with everyone else, except they’ve put him right underneath this big stage light and I’m thinking ‘oh Christ.’
“You know how hot they get?” He says.
I shake my head “No” and check the time again.
“Well… you could probably cook an egg under one. He’s been up there for about five minutes when I see the first feather fall to the floor. The contest’s only just beginning and the wax has already started to melt. Feathers start dropping off and people are starting to whisper. My son’s looking mortified.
I think the last straw was when that black bull starts laughing. It’s muffled by the mask, like canned laughter. My son looks crushed. He’s off the stage in a flash - a pile of feathers lies in a heap where he was standing.”
I turn my head, “What happened after that?”
“I walked out to the car. He’s sat there staring straight ahead. I got in and tried to talk but he didn’t say a thing. He just went cold on me. Went to live with his mum after that. That’s when I thought about becoming a lorry driver. I thought, if I’m alone I won’t have to let anyone down ever again.”
We sit in silence for rest of the journey until he drops me off at the supermarket carpark near my house. I get out and say thanks. I want to say something else but it’s too late. I shut the cab door and walk home, leaving the man in his exile.