After a hair cut I cut a turn to get my arse down the music shop. It’s the last one alive, most of them have fallen away because music is cheaper to steal. My hair cut is shit and I’m pretty annoyed with the fucking hair dresser. Anyone can learn how to cut hair, some even learn how to do it well. What they don’t fucking teach them is the meaning of words. ‘A little shorter and a bit thinner’ does not mean attacking my wog with all the vigour of an eight year old running from woollies after the first time he nicked some pick and mix. I love this little record shop man. The chart shit is pricey but you only buy from there once in a while. For the most part record shopping is about filling in the gaps and that’s where this place comes into its own. Shit loads of racks of classic shit for a fiver. I’m laughing when I see shit that I should own but don’t. Why should I own it? I guess I’ve been horse fed this shit from reading too many copies of music magazines. Own what you want, I couldn’t give a fuck. While I’m thinking away in a semi moralistic manner Pet Sounds jumps into my hand. Fuck I love this album, massively over rated but the poor fucker did go mad writing it. It’s my last bluey without going to a cash machine so I get on it and present myself, the cd and my horrible blue bank note to the guy at the counter. (I should point out here that this guy knows me. He doesn’t know who I am or what my name is but I’m in here often enough for him to know I am a regular.) ‘I’m surprised you don’t own this already’. What the fuck, I can’t believe he just said that. What a grade A superstar gumbo prick. I lost this album to an ex, the first thing I am going to tell my boy, should I have one, is never trust a woman with your music. You’ll never see it again. I can’t believe this gumbo little shit is judging me. He hasn’t had a wash for three days for fucks sake. He can’t afford the fucking batteries in his alarm clock since he stopped working for the man so he could save his dried up little soul and stack cd’s in this shit tip. It’s already been a lifetime and I haven’t replied. I can feel my stressed Eric vain starting to bulge but I’m gutless, you already know I don’t say anything to him. I don’t currently own this album, I know I don’t own it although I know it is good, great. That’s why I’m fucking buying it. This prick is in front of me spouting his holier than thou music credibility across the counter, a haven of safety, like a preacher because I must live in a cave to not have this album in my collection. I’m keeping this shit rag in a job man, without me he’d be on the breadline. I could pimp this shit of the internet and check out red tube while I’m at it. I don’t own it, it’s not as though my life until now has been a needless waste of my father’s efforts and my mother’s pain as a result of not owning it. No mate, I can’t believe I haven’t got it either. That said I don’t live in a cave. I hate myself for it but I chose The Irvine Welsh route, I eat three meals a day, I own my own home, I’ve got a shit hot stereo and all that fucking shit that comes from taking it up the ass but being able to pay for the privilege. Meanwhile you’re having your arse roasted in between judging people whilst staring at the clock until it’s time to go home at which point you’ve cleansed your soul for minimum wage that buys you the privilege of taking the bus to your flat to have some cold beans and dream about winning the lottery just before you have a wank and pass out you smart fuck. ‘I know mate’, what a gutless piece of shit. I hate myself.
