Mr Jones

I hate the weekends here. It’s so hard to find anything I’d like to do, and if I do, there’s no one to do it with. I deliberately let the Hovel disintegrate into chaos during the week in order to be occupied cleaning it for a couple of hours on Saturday. Hard yards that, considering it’s a tiny bedsit. Sometimes I resort to deliberately ashing my fag on the floor to generate enough to do. I’ve been invited to have a couple of beers with a colleague this arvo, but I’m not going. My ears are bunged again, I feel teary and anti-social, I have whisky, and I just downloaded ‘Blackstar’ to complete my full discographical homage to one of my heroes.

David Bowie. This week, I feel old, proper old: forced by his death to acknowledge that I have long since left behind my youth, and deeply fatigued by this awareness. I read an article in todays Telegraph online written by a woman about my age, who, like me, found Ziggy Stardust on a tinny transistor radio in her bedroom in an achingly bland middle class 1970’s suburban London. It resonated. Recording songs from the radio on a cassette player. Top of the Pops. Singing ‘Life on Mars’ with my best friend. Dyeing my hair strange colours. Feeling alienated, and yet never alone when I was listening to him, because he gave legitimacy to feeling like a fucked up stranger in a strange land. (And I was a pretty fucked up teenager.) I never joined a fan club, I never saw him live, but he is responsible for some of the most influential songs of my life. And now I have ‘eagles in my daydreams, diamonds in my eyes’. Thank you, Mr. Jones. Shine on.


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