This was meant to be over today. I’ve been sat on this train since 01:05, and it’s now 2:17. I left the place I was DJing at 11:19, and we just went through Woking. I’ve been typing into this Laptop since I sat down, clatter clatter clatter. I recorded some weird conversation with Nonny and Gwilym, I detailed my journeys of late, how my **** terms decree I must return to the parental abode very night, three hours or so there, four or five back, and then I looked up to this error message that said “Microsoft works has encountered a problem and must close”, and that was that.

All gone.

4000 odd words!

I can’t be fucked to try and re-say what I said,.

Fuckin, it was bollocks anyway.

Douchey yuicking crap.

Now my laptop’s battery’s nearly run out

And I can’t be fucked to type any more.

Fuck it.


Douchey fucking fuckshit.

“The next station at the service will be Farnborough, Farnborough will be the next stop.”

Clock says it’s 2:27 now.

So earlier Nonny and Gwil were on the phone, and they weren’t really talking to me, I was their audience, and they played and flirted, and I wrote it down as it went along, but then it got deleted, so I can’t retype it properly, but mainly it went.

“MY ARSE! There is a HANDPRINT on my ARSE…”

“You started it, I heard you saying about stilettos, Ads, you heard her, she was saying about stilettos…“



Gwil had this theory about rape figures in this country being so high because girls in bars are all stuffy and don‘t talk to boys whereas they do in America, but I am sure there is more rape in America.

Piers Morgan got sacked for printing photos of British soldiers pissing on Iraqis and arranging them in rape positions like Barbie dolls, or people pretending to be British soldiers pissing on Iraqis and arranging them in rape poses like Barbie dolls, or something, then fast forward less than a year and a load of British soldiers get done for pissing on Iraqis and arranging them in rape poses or whatever after one douche bag puts fucking photos of him and his twat mates fucking pissing on Iraqis and arranging them in rape poses like Barbie dolls or whatever in fucking Boots or whatever to develop, fucking douche bag.

Ha ha Piers Morgan, douche.

“The next station stop will be Basingstoke. Basingstoke is the next station.”

At least there’s variation.


Clock says.

Wade phones, says he can’t stand me having to go through this ridiculous charade and he’ll pay half of whatever my lawyer wants to get me out of it.

He has Pete played the best set ever.

I am Never DJing Again.

I hate DJing and I hate DJs.

Its fucking stupid.

Like, you play a Biz Markie record because you like it, and some kids dance and some run up to the booth and go, wow, you played Biz Markie, that’s fucking amazing, because they know it, then Wade plays a Queen record by accident as I’m trying to play the ODB, and the whole place goes mental, because they ALL know it, so so what? IS THE POINT?

So Peter’s set was apparently amazing, because he prolly played a load of electro stuff that people can twitch with brainless abandon to, and turns all the knobs up and down, so it looks like he’s doing something other than playing the record, like, he’s PLAYING THE RECORD.

Cos that’s what DJs DO, bubba, that is all.

But actually, that’s why Djing is great, that’s why Djs are great. Stupid douchey Djs. That’s’ why playing corporate fashion events, like tonight, will always be a bit gross, because you’re playing to a lot of accountants and shit, really, and being honest, they just wanna feel cool for a few hours then hear Agadoo.


When we get to Winchester I’ll get on a bus to Easteligh. When I get there, I’ll hoist my bag up on my shoulders, CD player in one hand, mike case in the other, and walk 30, 40 minutes up the windy hill road to my Mammy’s house in Bishopstoke, where Ill collapse into my kid brother’s bed.

He’s in Prague, drinking absinthe,.

I’m here, on a train again.

I read this article in The Independent by that douchebag Simon Price, and he’s all like, I am a genius because I play records in clubs, and sometimes they are really really popular records that everybody loves so a lot of the time when I play those particular records, people dance, so I am a genius. He’s all on about how he’s the best DJ in the world, because he has his “bombs,” like, when he’s playing something he actually wants to play and no one’s dancing, he plays Beyonce, or Guns N Roses, or whatever, in order to repopulate the dance floor, and apparently that makes him a genius.

Like, fucking, give the man a fucking OBE for his services to fcuking music! Shit!


“Winchester is the next station stop, the next station stop is Winchester.”

Get on Bus.

Old lady at the front, I smile, she grimaces, like I showed her my dick. Fuck you then lady.

Little rudes at the back giggling.

Blah blah blash.

My eyeballs hurt.

Bus jigs up and down. Can’t be good for my laptop. 16 minutes (13%) remain, it says. More than last night. It shut before Basingstoke.

I shut it.


I am sticky with sweat and I can still stink the Burger King on my cheeks, dead cow rotting in my teeth, fingers clammy yellow tacking the keys. I made it, friend, through the black and orange night, through the cars and the grass.

Now I think I have woken my mother.


Yes I have woken my Mother an Keith. I play her my version of Lady In Red though, and she says its better than the original, but she doesn’t like Chris’ lovely voice, so prolly it is crap really.

Go to bed.