Love's Gone Bad

Well, actually everything's gone bad. If it hadn't mouldered before.

In a lifetime of excrescence today really plumbed new depths. Still! Enough about me, and more about the music. It's been time since I had a mood to update the diary with new information. Currently communing with Dusty, who died without giving us a UK Motown label, and thought of the singer of the titular tune. Chris Clark was Motown's Dusty; shame Dusty didn't get in there, because Chris was Berry's bitch for some time. The song is classic Northern, but Motown, so mainstream. I used to like the image of 'black crow flying up above...something something something ...no love'. Lost concentration somewhere. Imagery is no good if you cannot remember the words.

Both white singers: heroines to the Northern, Mod and Motown afficinados.

Oh! And here is another party fave: 'Do I Make Myself Clear', Etta James and Sugar Pie De Santos. Glad-hand to the girl with the made-up-name! (That's both of them, by the way, but I think you can work out which one is favourite.)

Anyway, love is an ephemeral concept. As is money, it appears. Have today covered hundreds of miles in pursuit of Mammon because I am fed up with the warehouse. Guess who won?

You know when you are getting low when by 8.00 p.m. your decision is a 3-litre bottle of cider or 10 JPS to get you through the next 6 hours. And, no, you cannot have both, because you have three quid until tomorrow which is pay-day and you haven't had any rent money for three months. Or worked 5 days in any given week for a month. Or had any recompense for travelling hundreds of miles trying to sell insurance in your spare time. Or had what amounts to three months' money stolen by the company that is supposed to support you as an agent. Or been able to dig out the fine gentlemen that stole from you in the Middle East from northern Cyprus.

Or been threatened by your latest wife - soon to be historically Ellis - with the police at 11.30 a.m., Number One Son in tow! Sheer class!

Having spent three nights at HM Pleasure in the last year due to the Essex slapper I demurred from another night's hospitality and did a Pigling Bland across the county border.

I could go on: but I cannot be bothered to rip people to shreds any longer. All I get for verbal abuse is the chance to argue with the Crown and her agents again. Next bout scheduled for November 17th in Bedford Square Gardens.

Wilfully, I work my words in the warehouse. (That's alliterative Medieval for ya!). The Polish Mafia have a worrying like for 80's-style discopop, and an even more worrying taste for taurine, caffeine, nicotine and Mother Nature's herbs. They would also have accompanied me to the Slagheaps today. Perhaps time to stop talking and start walking the walk.

Having dutifully loved 'Cool Hand Luke' and 'Shawshank Redemption' guess it's time to see how it goes. Most people I now talk to are graduates of the University of Justice, and to be honest, three crappy meals a day and all the horse you can handle for the last ten years of your life looks a decent bet.

And if you think I am in a bad mood now, wait till tomorrow!

Trite ending today, but the final track on my current playlist is 'Can I Get A Witness?'

I don't think Marvin used the question-mark, but there ya go!

Nymph, in thy orisons, be all thy sins remembered'

Wot! Is that a new store in Lakeside?