Back in Bangor, I.

Yesterday I rode backwards on a train through North Wales, the ugliest way imaginable to enter such a lovely land. From Crewe to Bangor the journey is wraught with tragedy, taking one as it does through the thirty mile caravan (my Us chums read Trailer) park, many wet miles of bog and broken down machinery, sheep and bracken and falling down chrches and general poverty. But that is looking out of one side of the train. Through the opposite window, one sees sea for miles, the sunset, bloody, gulls and the pebbles on the beach. A sky like thunder, bruised, on fire. Bangor is teeming with townies, a feature more exagerated than when last I visited three years ago or so. They are small, tense, and plentiful, and gob and squall en masse.

"Mam, I fockin hay choow." "Yoo fockin wot?" "Don tark li'that t'yore Muvver." "Fockin slag." "She's a one, no?" "Yeah no?" "No yeah."

Bangor has a little more night life than when I lived here, and my brother takes me to Time, a sort of an indieish club with bad bands, and a DJ that plays Fun Lovin' Criminals and Shed 7 and Cornershop and The Strokes. My old mate Gwilym shows, and regales me with tales of school, when he dislocatd my arm and me and fraggle boy Halliday got covered with bees and had a fight in the computer room, and whaddya mean Halliday has Spawned, siored a a baby fraggle! Dear Lord, why, in the name of Christ and all the lepers?

After back to Buff's. Buff has taken over his Mammy's old flat, so it's just like old times. Weed and 'Im Your Man.' Buff's Mammy focked off to an island off of Amsterdam to live in an art gallery with a genius, and makes flags, or something. I am so not surpried.