Liverpool. Last saturday. The swan. Ford street. A heavy metal boozer. Old-school metal at ministry-of-defence levels. AC/DC, motorhead, sabbath, newcastle brown.
When I lived here, no jaunt to the city centre was complete without a pint or two in here, so there’s no way I was visiting and missing out.
The rest of the city centre was a washout, however. Hmv? Gone (to liverpool one, for fuck’s sake!) Dr Herman’s? Gone without a trace. Probe records? Gone – nae cunt leaves til we find it, yeah?
Liverpool was traditionally one of the most musical cities in the uk. West side of the country, so a massive irish population; like glasgow, manchester, birmingham or bristol – how many bands that changed your life came out of these cities?
So for probe records to die, the way live venues have died, something totally rotten has taken over.
And now, it’s the end of days. I’m writing this in cowdenbeath. At work. Waiting for the hammer to fall. For the remaining shoe to drop.
Just supposing tomorrow is the end of all things. I’ve had a pretty good innings. I’ve made it past fifty. Experienced intimacy with well over one hundred and fifty people. Performed and recorded music – some of it good. Written half a dozen novels. Published one.
If I go out in the next twenty-four hours, I can at least, while the flesh rots from my bones and my eyes vapourise in my screaming skull, imagine that I at least had a fucking great time while I was alive.

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