Songs for the Sick

If people were just honest with eachother we could save us all a lot of misery.
I didn't know where he was on Friday, who he was with or what he was doing but I thought only the worst.
My idea of THE WORST at that moment in time was the porn video that was repeating itself inside my brain.  Him with her, or maybe with that other girl, or maybe with them both, or maybe even with HIM.
I always thought I was quite clued up sexually until I moved to London.  But I quickly became convinced that everyone in London was having ragin orgies every weekend.  I don't think I was far wrong.
So yes, I was expecting the worse when I walked into that house at 3am. "Where's D"?  *guilty looks from his friends*  "He left I think" said one stoner, "Nah he's upstairs" said a sly looking blonde. 
I walked upstairs and was immediately drawn to the door with the big golden knob handle (wonder why?).
Slowly opening the door, awaiting visions of naked women everywhere and seedy looking men with video cameras....but instead I saw HER...that beautiful girl who Id been quite taken with at the party the week before, she was cool and witty and clever and i'd spent a few hours talking shite with her.  She was so beautiful. I wasn't surprised at all he'd picked HER.  But then beside her was a guy with long blonde hair, beside him a shaved head bloke, and next to him D.  And to my surprise they weren't having an orgy.....but were burning nasty brown looking stuff on a piece of tinfoil and inhaling it.  What a relief.  They were just doing drugs.  What kind of drug was this?  I'd never seen this done before.  I'd only really done pills, and snorted a line of coke maybe once, but coke was expensive.  I figured this was some new drug that was out.  What was it?........................................HEROIN.  Oh.  I see.

I am lying in Green Park in the sweltering heat.  I am hoping the sun will frazzle what's left of my brain for it is making up thoughts that are incomprehensible to me right now.  Why would he be doing heroin?  Does he think its cool?  Is he trying too hard to fit in?  How long has he been doing it?  Why did I not know about it?  Am I THAT dumb? Do I make him THAT miserable?  I can't comprehend.  Is this the end, my beautiful friend?  I seriously think I would happier alone.  This drama is becoming a chore.

To You,

I am sorry for the things that I did not say to you. Now that it is too late I can not say them. So put all the blame on me for the way things must be. I have kept all this in side me. I am so sorry for not letting you know how I felt. Now that it is too late maybe I can tell you anyway. I wanted to make you my world, I wanted to be your girl. I was so afraid of losing you I wouldn't fight for you. I know that you had loved me and maybe still do. All I want is to be next to you. To feel your touch, to taste your kiss oh this would be so bliss. Maybe it is not too late for me?

From Me x

Maybe I should be doing more to help us but I don't have the strength.

And anyway, why should it be down to me? Why can't he help us? Why can't he help himself?

I have found my sadistic side of late. I dream of causing him pain. Of tearing open the scratches on his arms with my teeth.
When I try to distract my brain back to when we first met, I get this pull in my belly that makes me love him, unconditionally and totally and completely I love him but we are not in that place anymore. We don't drink coffee and smoke cigarrettes all morning in bed while reading magazines and gushing out our plans for the future, our hopes, our dreams...now we don't even dream. We just sleep. Well I do... a lot. And he's never there at nighttime so I'm not sure exactly when he sleeps, if at all. Perhaps he's a vampire. That would be slightly more appealing I think.

*Present day note: In an interview with Graham Coxon he talks about toying with the idea of switching these verses around so that the Happiness comes first and the Emptiness comes last...that way around is more valid to this story so i'm taking the liberty of doing just that.

Jet black hair, blue eyes, cute button nose and Porcelain skin thats how I look but its not what I see.

Each time I look in the mirror I see a different person. I seem to be changing on a daily basis. The size of my pupils, the colour of my eyes, the blotches on my face, my skin is peeling, its literally falling off and I fear I will soon disintegrating into nothingness. I will wake up one day and I just won't exist anymore. The fear, the paranoia is getting too much for me. I am crawling these four tiny walls. If I go out on the balcony I get vertigo and we only live on the first floor.

Today a child looked at me as one would look at a scary tramp who was about to mug you. I didn't even realise but I had black eyeliner streaming down my cheeks. I looked like a really fucked up Peggy Moffit. Speaking of which, I went to yet another insanely pretentious 60s do. Somewhere in the East End in some club that used to be owned by the Kray Twins. People were walking about in space suits and girls had their clothes spray painted on. I sat there in the corner with my 60s bob and my 60s psychedelic dress and my 60s drugs. Getting so bored with this scene. Dismal. The men are so pretty but are so obviously gay even if they don't know it yet.
I'm 21 years old. Aren't I supposed to be out diggin some new scene? Oh yeah thats right there is no new scene because the music of today is boring with a capital B!

Anyway, D's friends Chris and Bob were there and I hung with them, D was supposed to come but didn't show up...hes becoming increasingly good at that these days. We went to a party after and I saw a certain TV presenter snorting something from a spoon. Nice. He does kids TV too. I went round the corner to the phone box to try to see if D was at home but of course he wasn't and I got accosted by two black gentlemen who wanted to give me ride somewhere..."where to sweetheart, only 20 quid"...Um but I dont even know where I am let alone where I'm going. Why do I continue to find myself in these really dodgy situations. Luckily Mr L saw me and gave me a lift home.

I woke up this afternoon, alone once more, looking at my horrid face in the mirror.

The tap on my shoulder woke with me jump. Where the hell am I? My body aches. My head is exploding. "Wake up love, we're here". That familiar stern accent. Looking out of the small porthole window, that familiar grey water, grey skies, rain. Always rain. The murky banks of the Irish Sea. I am home once again. Or at least that place which I was born. I doubt it is a place I can call home. I doubt there is any place on this planet I can call home.

So I failed. My bright new shining life in London Town. The dream - The glitz, the glamour, all the famous people I was going to be friends with. The reality - The slums in Kentish town, the crack den across the road from The Forum, the sweaty armpits on the tube in the morning... and HIM. The useless boy I fell for. The boy who had the ability to be anything he wanted to be, he had the talent, the looks, the friends in the right places but he screwed it all up. Together we screwed it all up.

I went to Princess Diana's funeral last week. I sat cross legged in Hyde Park watching it on the big screens because we sold our portable TV just weeks before. I cried although I have no idea why. I never really thought much of her when she was alive, but death does glorify the human being somewhat. And she was a victim. We all love a victim. Poor, shy Diana Spencer with all her mental health issues and her horrid husband. I cried for her today. It was sad. The even sadder thing was getting off the tube at Camden on my way back from Hyde Park and it was desolate! Shopkeepers were only just opening their shutters and it must have been almost lunchtime. I have never felt such an eerie presence as walking through Camden Town that day. Feeling like I was the only person still alive that day...but just barely.

I spent my last day in London looking out at the playground from the window of our flat. I must have spent 3 hours watching these little kids play, so innocent, so happy, so full of life, when I just wanted to end mine there and then.
I stole his money. I stole his last £100, how would he get his fix then? I stole it and bought a bus ticket. Now I'm awake in a fuzzy haze on the Seacat ferry. Back to muddy, grey, rainy Belfast. Was the song "Shipbuilding" written about this city? It is after all, as depressing a song as this is a city.