A Problem To Want – 15th April 2022

Kids, you are so lucky to be bored
I wish for a return to those days too
But someone here has to wash the dishes
And do all the things that I have to do
I suppose these things could be neglected
But who will feed the cat
In fact, I have to get myself fed
And who’s gonna take care of that?
Enjoy these times of twiddling thumbs
Pulling pleasures from thin air
Get to work at being bored again
One day soon, you’ll want back there

Instant Nostalgia – 11th April 2022

Remember that great time we had yesterday?
I’ll never forget what it meant to me
I know things will never end up back that way
And it’s best to let these things be
Remember those times we had this morning?
After waking up and changing things around
We carried on without heed to warning
Forever to share those memories we found
Now as each minute passes us by
I’m wishing that this time could be turned
I want to revisit each murmur and sigh
And examine all the lessons I’ve learned

Past is past is past is farce – 25th November 2020

“In the end, only three things matter: how much you loved, how gently you lived, and how gracefully you let go of things not meant for you.”

– attributed to Buddha

In the end (what end?) none of this matters, but I played along anyway.

How much you loved.

Sometimes I loved too much, other times, not enough. I have loved different people but shown it in different ways. Does that mean the love was different? I have become more careful and selective with my love, perhaps to the point that I don’t love anyone or anything deeply anymore. This is a countermeasure against loss. The extreme loves of youth are more tempered now. I don’t feel like this was a conscious decision but a naturally evolving one. It has come with stronger self-confidence and self-esteem but also at a loss of close connections with people.

I grew up with a strong independent single mother who was already tired of dealing with other people and their bullshit. I have become like her. We are loners but not lonely and not lone wolfs. We are just happy by ourselves or, in my case, with one very special person around. All my acquaintances I still call friends, I just don’t interact with them so much. This sometimes gives me a false sense of understanding as, in my mind, they are the same person as the last time I met them and nothing should be different. I still have this feeling after what could be years without speaking. Obviously, that’s unrealistic.

I could dream about meeting an old girlfriend as if it was just a current continuation of that relationship from that time. Never mind, we would be twenty years older, married with kids since. Those feelings are still in my memories but reality is much cooler.

I’m surprised sometimes that I know I won’t have those butterfly feelings again. Experience and understanding (and time) has calmed them. I am no longer crazed and tempestuous but I am still alive and capable. It’s a double-edged sword. Those feelings were special and wild, extreme highs, but dampened by such extreme lows. Perhaps some of my father’s manic depression got passed on.

Now that I have balance I guess I’m somewhat boring.

How much I have loved? I loved myself selfishly 100%. I loved others occasionally, but 100%.

How gently you lived.

My memories of youth don’t seem particularly gentle but the deeper I go, under the piss and vinegar, there is a big softy. I was a teenage asshole, sometimes even to my best friends. I was less an early 20s asshole but still could be a mean son-of-a-bitch. Having now lived in other countries around the world I believe I was very well suited to the typical British contrarian and sarcastic humour. I can fall back into it instantly I meet an ex-pat, sometimes so obviously I kick myself for it. It does, however, still make me laugh.

So whether with the simple act of aging or with growth and understanding, I am living much more gently these days. I gave up eating meat when I was 14, something that I believe inspires a gentler life. I was quite aggressive about it at the beginning but don’t even think about it anymore and thankfully it’s so acceptable these days that it’s barely a topic for discussion. There was always a tension about it before, having to constantly provide justification for what was perceived as different.

I was mostly thoughtful on the inside but could let my emotions get out of control. I’m still envious of more balanced people I grew up with, especially some who had to deal with me. I know we’re all a little fucked up in some way but I do often wish I knew then what I know now (and was able to act on it). It’s ironic that folks said that I was mature for my age. I must have been a very good deceiver.

When I was 30 and getting divorced I went to the psychiatrist and got diagnosed with mild depression and started to take a low dose of medication that stabilised a lot of my out of control emotions. When I revealed this to my mother, she then revealed to me that my father had suffered from manic depression (now known as bipolar disorder). I guess things started falling into place.

It still took me another 10 years or so of growth to get to a point where I was mostly and consistently happy and this reflected in my attitudes and behaviors. Of course, by this time a lot of small unique habits had developed which often have me reflecting how much like my mother I have become. It’s neither good nor bad, it just is.

I saw an online post about how we spend our second 40 years dealing with our first 40 years. I certainly spend a lot of time reflecting on those first 40 years. I also feel that, despite being 13 past the mark, my first 40 years haven’t been completed yet.

Looking back over these words I wonder if I even know what living gently means in the context of my life. Living gently feels like I should be a monk who is careful not to step on an ant, something I was reminded of this morning when I crunched a snail under foot in my driveway – those damn snails are everywhere.

How gracefully you let go of things not meant for you.

I’ve been thinking about this one for a few days already. Letting go was always difficult when I was younger though something I seem to have improved at. However, when I think deeply about this the only ‘things’ I consider in my life (in connection to this subject) are people. After having moved across the world a couple of times already, things such as books, albums, videos, comics, furniture, clothes etc are all replaceable. Sometimes the fun in having (and losing) those things is more about the search and discovery of them again.

The ‘things’ I feel more attached too have personal meaning, such as old letters or photos but in consideration, I haven’t looked at my old letters since I left England in 1994. They are in the pile of things that I do want to go through again and perhaps document before I shuffle off.

So, that leaves people, particularly friends and girlfriends. With that I can only say that I have gotten better at it over time. Teenage/early 20s are typically messy and I was not mature and confident enough in myself to deal with letting go. Possibly this relates to a subconscious search for a mother figure to replace my mom and not having a father around to learn from.

Letting go also sometimes meant pushing away, and that is not graceful at all. I tried my best at the time.

I’m finding it hard to write more about this without going into painful detail. Perhaps considering things that I don’t wish to share about other people as much as about myself. I have few, if any, regrets but also can be nostalgic for certain times and places with certain people.

Finally, we cannot hold onto anything, nothing is actually meant for us, it is just our internal impression of it.

There were ants crawlin’ on the floor – 8th July 2020

1990 was 30 years ago! Crazy – I was a young man. Scribble dribble. Lazy but content.

Play video games – was okay but got a little bored. Movies. YouTube – okay but a little bored. No exercise, no writing, no thinking – that was okay. That was good. No thinking – just doing but need to think – keep a clear head.

Sore neck. Stretch it out, massage it. Back to school back to.… Plan some things to do. Use school free time for myself. What’s my new Twitter password? Brain blank – it’ll come… Is my mind this empty? – what’s in here? – foggy blur. Sit and meditate – that password will annoy me for sure.

Gratitude Journal

I am so happy and grateful to be back at school. Even though I’m not doing much I started to get bored at home, despite there being lots of things to do there!

When you wore a crown of thorns and you left a trail of crumbs – 6th May 2020

I’ve never really been one for nostalgia but being stuck at home for 8 weeks has seen me sorting out boxes of memories that I thought needed some revision and organising.

Unfortunately, lots of great memories have been triggered, special times, wild events and even the mundane. This has brought forth a great sadness. Most of my physical documentation seems to stop about 10-15 years ago as social media pushed all life into the digital environment.

How often do you scroll back through your own timelines – let alone those of your friends? A pile of photos in a box is a tangible reference to a life that is missing in the opening and closing of a URL.

I’ve started putting more thoughts and ideas into this blog in an effort to move away from Facebook. Facebook is a great tool for many things in my life but connection isn’t one of them. I’m looking back through that timeline (and Amy’s too) and tracking down pictures that I will print and probably once again store in a box. The proverbial box in the attic.

Finding some of my mother’s photos that she kept has brought into perspective the question of why do we keep these mementoes? I found a picture of my grandfather when he was a little boy. That’s nice, it’s meaningful to me. I’ll keep it. In a box, in the attic.

I can pass all this onto my son and he can choose what to do with it. The box that gets passed from attic to attic. And in 500 years? Then what? Will our physical and digital histories be available through some new technology, beamed directly into our brains.

But who will care? We have limited access to historical accounts from more than 500 years ago. Those that we do may be random, some of those important enough to have things written about or by them and deemed worth keeping. What others have been lost? Now we are in this age of mass information what will be decided as relevant? Will the rantings of a mad president be worth a discussion in a thousand years time? Will the ponderings of a youthful adult going through life changes be held up as a fine example of our era?

My sadness is through a frustration of feeling stuck right now. I feel like I have done so much, the evidence being right in front of me, I’m no longer particularly excited at the thought of new adventures. My body is getting shaky, along with my brain. It feels like my time is over, or waiting for something to come and fill it again.

It could be the post honeymoon period of having planned so long to make this move to Thailand, that now things have settled down a calm reality is setting in. I would like to embrace this. My plan was to come here and not stress about work and the rat race any longer. It hasn’t quite ended up like that.

Looking back again I’ve realised just how serious I am when starting a new project. Starting new jobs, I worked so hard to make an impression. At varying points the energy ran out, possibly from realising that my hard work was not particularly appreciated, and over time that energy has seemed to run out more quickly.

Again, when I started my teaching career here in Thailand, I worked so damn hard – too damn hard – to make a difference. My bright flashes were quickly extinguished by the cultural politics of the education system. I see other teacher’s different responses to this and consider that they have a better way of dealing with things. I set myself too high a standard sometimes, I need to be more relaxed in my own expectations.

I go back to school tomorrow. I have no enthusiasm today but a vague feeling that everything will be ok and I will slip back into things easily enough. It is somewhat a relief to have some forced discipline again, the discipline of being required at a certain place at a certain time. I feel I need and appreciate that despite being philosophically opposed to the idea of it!

I can happily fill up my time either way. But what is it for? It’s just for myself. So, what am I for? This is a question I still have difficulty in answering. I’m going to go read a book.

“But you live your wisdom,” said I; “why do you not write your memoirs? Or simply,” I added, seeing him smile, “recollections of your travels?”

“Because I do not want to recollect,” he replied. “I should be afraid of preventing the future and of allowing the past to encroach on me. It is out of the utter forgetfulness of yesterday that I create every new hour’s freshness. It is never enough for me to have been happy. I do not believe in dead things and cannot distinguish between being no more and never having been.”

– from ‘The Immoralist’ by Andre Gide

Gratitude Journal

I am so happy and grateful to be going to school tomorrow. It will be good to have a reason to get out of my house.

I guess that’s just what I needed – 8th January 2018

It still seems weird to write dates that start with two-zero. When actual writing was still an actual thing, dates always started with a one-nine.  It was actual writing that originally gave me RSI in the right wrist.  From writing out invoices and orders at my job, when computers were just things that were talked about on Tomorrow’s World.  And then writing the diary of 1994ever, which I eventually ended up turning to an old word processor to complete.  It got to the point where I couldn’t even hold a pen.

The RSI returned later when I ended up back at an IT desk job, triggered by mouse usage.  I switched to using the mouse with the left hand so that I could develop the pain there too.  Not only do I have weak wrists, I ended up with torn elbow tendons too – this time from the repetitive work of being a barista.  Really it would all go back to having poor posture and being a general weakling.  I scoffed at my school friend who would spend time lifting weights to build his muscles but just how many things can you look back at and wish you’d have been smarter?

Today’s title is my obscure way of talking about cars.  As I have very little interest in cars I thought it might be a challenge to try and write about them.  Really they will just be a sidetrack to certain memories which will hopefully provide some amusement or at least diversion from things you might be more concerned about.

Before the age of eight, the only memory I have of my mother owning a car was falling out of it onto the pavement (it was stationary at the time).  I don’t remember about feeling any pain but apparently, I was upset enough to be taken to the hospital and told that everything was ok.

I used to walk to school and I can vividly remember walking down into the town and back up the steep hill with my mother carrying bags of shopping and nagging me to hurry up.  This was in a town called Whitehaven in Cumbria, England.

We left the north when I was 8 and spent six months in Devon but I don’t recall how we got there, whether by bus, train or car.  I have little memory of us owning a car here but we must have as I do recall waiting outside the school gates to be picked up.  In fact one day I was so annoyed and upset that my mother hadn’t come to pick me up and I ended up walking the 4 miles or so along the dual carriageway and up the hill to home.  My mother was there and surprised to see me as it was only just after lunch.  I thought it was home time somehow.  I argued that it wouldn’t make sense to take me back to school just for another couple of hours before having to come back and pick me up again but she insisted.  Bloody hell – I was upset that I wasn’t picked up, upset at my mistake and now triply upset at having to go back to school and answer questions about where I was after lunch.  I guess I survived but wonder at what kind of psychologic impact seemingly little events like this cause us as we grow up.

I don’t know why we moved to Devon.  I’m sure I was told but it probably had little meaning to my tiny mind.  Six months later though and we moved again to my mother’s parents house in the countryside, about 4 miles outside the small town of Wimborne Minster in Dorset.  The first car I remember from here was an old grey Austin Morris that had indicators that flipped out from the side of the car.  I found this hilarious and somewhat embarrassingly old-fashioned.  Because it was at this house I developed an interest in cars as most little boys do.  I think the Morris soon died and I mostly remember us having a white Ford Cortina after that.

Matchbox is a name most people my age will remember.  They were the most popular of toy cars though I seemed to own more of the cheaper brands than Matchbox ones themselves.  Despite having Maseratis and Lamborghinis my favourite car was a Ford Capri.  I just loved the design and the shape of the back window.  Perhaps I also started becoming aware of our class status in the world and just as I couldn’t afford to have so many Matchbox cars, the luxury cars would forever be out of my reach and somehow a Ford Capri was still within the realm of possibility.  I was only 10 so I should probably have started saving then.

Before I started being an anti-social teenager I would spend the evenings with my mother watching TV.  She looked after her parents but I didn’t have much interest or interaction with them except for Sunday roast lunches and even that I managed to get out of when I was a little older.  They weren’t horrible or anything, were quite left-wing I believe and also atheists.  But they were terribly old fashioned and me, I was a young boy desperate for adventures but stuck in countryside England.

The couch in my mother’s room was like an upholstered park bench so there was a lot of space underneath it where were kept things that needed to be handy but not used every day.  I decided I wanted to acquisition this space for myself.  Not for my things but for me.  I would lie underneath and watch TV from there with the aid of a cushion.  I wonder now if this may have been the start of my dodgy neck and posture problems.  I’m stretching and rubbing my neck now as I’m thinking about this.

Next to the couch was the bureau and I soon cleared out any junk and papers under here and made myself a space for a ‘race-track’.  This was merely a space into which I could push my toy cars and see which went the furthest and I would do this relentlessly.  The Ford Capri would often win and I somehow told myself this was because it was a superior car and not because I was pushing it harder than the others.

Next developed my interest in tables, scores and statistics.  I was already a keen football fan and poured over books of tables and statistics of years gone by.  My interest in music was also developing as I keenly watched certain songs go up and down the charts week to week on Top of the Pops.  It was here that I saw the Sex Pistols playing ‘Pretty Vacant’ and things changed forever, but that’s another story.

I decided it was best to keep track of my car races and charted their progress.  I don’t remember if it was day by day or week by week but I did fill a textbook with these charts and it was confirmed the Ford Capri was the greatest car in the world.

I think I must’ve stopped playing with these toy cars around the time that I retreated to live in my bedroom, or as I thought of it, as being too old to hang out with my mother.  I would walk or ride my push bike around locally until my late teens when I upgraded to a little 50cc step-through motorbike that I would hammer to death and never maintain and it probably wasn’t until my early 20s that I bought my first car – my dreams of a Ford Capri as far away as the luxury European sports cars.  I had to settle for a putrid coffee brown Morris Marina – my most hated car in the world.  It showed me as much love in return and we gladly left each other about a year later after an aborted attempt to travel upcountry for a gig that saw me broke and dejected, borrowing money to buy some consolation beer for the sad train journey home.

I think I ended up with a blue Fiat 127 next.  Extremely unstylish but I kinda grew to love it.  The weird thing about this car was the massive thin gear stick.  I discovered that this was a huge piece of plastic stuck on a tiny stick and ended up leaving it off.  It would’ve been a very effective cosh, like a small baseball bat, but luckily never required that use.

The next car of note was a Vauxhall Princess and not of note because of its ability.  The only excitement of this car was its purchase.  Found in an ad in the local newspaper it wasn’t far from where I lived and was in the price bracket I could afford.  I went round with my partner at the time and was greeted by a grubby overweight man in shorts and a wife beater.  He showed us the car and we decided we wanted it so went into his living room to exchange money and papers.  He took a seat in his armchair and filled out the paperwork.  It was difficult not to notice two things at this point.  One was the large jar of pickled onions beside his armchair, the other was the pornographic video we had interrupted his watching and that he thought was ok to let continue playing.  Suddenly the man seemed grubbier still – I mean, come on, pickled onions!  We dropped the money, grabbed the papers and escaped as quickly as we could, dreading to think what was now occurring in that dim front room.

At some point, that car left my life and the best car I ever owned entered.  Again, sourced from a newspaper ad – that was the only way to do things back then.  This was the magical Ford Escort that would soon be dubbed the ‘Rocket from the Crypt’.  The special thing about this car was that its body was barely held together by rusted metal and was sure to fail its next inspection – hence its price of 20 pounds.  The magic was underneath the hood as this thing never failed to start and never suffered any issues at all.  Sadly when it came to inspection time we had to let it go as the cost to fix up the exterior would be about 30 times what we paid for it.  I reluctantly sold it for 15 pounds and annoyingly found out someone had done a dodgy service on it putting it straight back on the road – something I wish I had considered.  I found out because I received a letter in the mail from the local police about driving away from the scene of an accident but I pointed out to them that I had already sold the car prior.


After this came a Mini van which I adapted with cheap stereo equipment and I would often bring along a second car battery to hook it up to directly, put the speakers on top of the car and have an impromptu party, jumping up and down on the bonnet.  Ok, I only did this once and I was drunk and high at Reading Festival but the memory is clear on that one.

The downside of this Mini van though was that the back doors didn’t quite close properly and the exhaust fumes would get sucked back into the car often making us feel sick.  As well as that time driving back from the Phoenix Festival in the pouring rain and windscreen wipers stopped working.  That was a tough drive.

That was all in England.  Once arriving in Australia cars became more functional, reliable and obviously, more expensive.  No 20-pound bargains here.  Due to the great distances required to travel anywhere else from where you are reliability becomes much more important.  I stuck with Hyundais and Toyotas, the Toyotas starting out as lease cars and often lent to friends in bands to tour as I needed to achieve a certain mileage each year to warrant it being leased, else paying huge penalties.

Very little to report about these cars except the one night parked on a busy street in Newtown, my girlfriend and I steamed up the car windows with various acts that were thankfully ignored by passers-by.  That gear stick though…..  Afterwards, we went to see the Jesus Lizard.  What a night.

Just before leaving Sydney my work colleague asked if I would like to sell him my car – a well serviced white Toyota Corolla that I never ever washed.  He wanted it for his daughter’s birthday which was a couple of months away.  I thought it was a good idea but still needed it to drive to Adelaide and would probably need until I decided to leave, but if he could wait until then, then it was a deal.

As it turned out I ended up sharing a house with a guy who likes buying cars, fixing them up a bit and then selling them again for a couple of hundred dollars profit.  This meant there was always a spare car or two hanging around the house.  My friend back in Sydney was often making sure the Toyota was still available so I asked my housemate about the possibility of using one of his cars for a while until I left.  One of the cars he had around was a beat up Ford Falcon ute which he was actually hoping to keep around as it was useful for carrying things about the place but he was also thinking he’d have to sell as he was mainly using another car to drive to and from work all the time.  And so a deal was struck.  If I paid for the ute’s registration I could use it and my friend could come and pick up my Toyota, and in time for his daughter’s birthday.

This ute is my second favourite car as it is a big chunky wreck.  Even my housemate said not to worry too much if it gets any little dents and other drivers in their nice newish cars tend to steer clear as much as they can.  It drives like a demon, has no aircon or heater and stinks of petrol and years of ground in oil and dirt.  It’s done nearly 400,000 kilometres and is on its second engine.  The accelerator is a little sticky and it chews up petrol so I’m not going on any fancy drives anywhere but for the back and forth to the office it’s perfect.

This update has reminded me of a Toyota ad that was constantly played on TV when I arrived in Australia. “More room front to back, more room side to side, the really really roomy Toyota!”  Advertising does work I guess.

Here we are in the New Age… – 7th January 2018

It’s been a long time between drinks.  Around 23 years or so.  1994 was a life changing time and then life took over and now I’m looking at another transitional period.

Life changes daily though.  It seems slow but every detail matters somewhat, and if you care to remember it.

Right now I’m sitting in an office, getting paid and doing very little work of reward.  The kind that is emotionally unfulfilling.  But right now, I’ll take the money, thank you very much.

Somehow, over time, you learn that working for ‘the man’, as opposed to working for yourself, is something that must be exploited to the full.  I managed to get myself into a position at one point of not doing any work-related activities at my job and started doing my own hobbies in company time.  Somehow I was also well paid for this.  It was always slightly precarious and eventually, it came to an end.  Then it happened again – and with the same company to boot.  I do thank you, although I wish it could’ve been more rewarding for both of us, to our mutual benefits.  Perhaps I feel guilty.  I know I would sometimes get annoyed when I actually had work to do that was interrupting my personal time and that’s not a good place to be.

The more depressing it became, the more I strove to distraction.  I ended up being very productive.  I could never make that jump though, to make money from doing the things I enjoyed.  I am envious of people who have been able to position themselves in this way.  I’m lacking in artistic talent, not through want of trying.  Often lacking in concentration, born on the cusp of distraction entertainment as I was.  The advent of new technologies only makes this worse and now that even they have surpassed my knowledge and I am like the old man programming his first VCR with only a 3 button remote, I sometimes pine for those days again.

My nostalgia is aligned with depression.  I was deeply unhappy for periods of time that I now reminisce.  That depression was an artistic motivation, a driving force.  The actions often more thrilling than the results.

Right now, I am biding time again.  In this strange period of inertia, the feeling of anticipation is immense and I am highly conscious of the grass always being greener on the other side of the fence.  Hence to take time enjoying the moment, the present, the now.  I visualise vividly a relaxing future whilst aware of the constant need for ‘work’ whether in some paid variety or just the work of remaining alive and managing the mundanities of life.  I hope to derive great pleasures from the digging of weeds or painting of walls but worry that I will start to ignore the dust that settled in the corners many years before.

Luckily I have an outside motivation, my wife, Amy.  Could I do it without her?  Probably, but without so much pleasure, enjoyment and fulfilment.

The bones of the tale are this.  In 1994, I relocated from small-town England to small city Australia. Sydney and thereabouts.  In 2018, I will relocate from small city Australia to small-town Thailand.  In 1994, I documented my time in transition. I have not looked over those diary entries since, but the intention is to add them here alongside current musings.  Let’s see how they compare.  Let’s see if I have really gained some wisdom in the intervening years.

The Week That Was – 4th November 1979

Record of the week: Specials – Message To You Rudy
Highest entry: BA Robertson – Knocked It Off

24th Aug 2022 – By this time my friends and I were just starting to form our favourite music and subculture. Danny Dowling and Nick Spooner were really into Two Tone and I loved the energy and politics of it too (without fully understanding it yet). I was pulling away more into punk rock, both music and attitude.

As I started to hang around in the village in the evenings over the next 12 months or so, that little group of friends was very diverse. Murray Jackman was the mod, Lee was the gribbly (our name for someone into hard rock and metal), Graeme was the trendy and I was the punk. Because the village was so small and there were so few kids we stuck with each other despite our subcultural differences.

4th November 1979
2p 180p*

5th November 1979
We’re back
2p 178p*

6th November 1979
Got John Wark in football cards
Danny brought radio but we didn’t find out no. 1 only number
2p 176p*

24th Aug 2022 – At this time we were all interested in hearing the chart run down on Radio 1 during our lunchtime. Sometimes it went on too long though and we had to return to class. As Lena Martell was number one though, we didn’t really miss out on much this week.

I guess it felt like another form of sport, instead of following your favourite team you were following your favourite artists.

7th November 1979
So I found out today
2p 174p*

8th November 1979
1. Lena Martell
2. Dr Hook
3. Abba
4. Sad Cafe
5. Queen
6. Tusk
7. Jam
8. Viola Wills
9. Selecter
10. Still
2p 172p*

9th November 1979
Total fuckup in the charts
What’s fucking no. 1
Tell me
2p 170p*

24th Aug 2022 – Not sure what the deal was here but it does show how difficult it was for information to travel in those days. In this current time of knowing about everyone’s farts and burps in real-time, there’s something missing. Much like the idiom about the journey being more important than the destination and living is suffering, having everything at your fingertips really has no reward.

I still have a goal in my mind now, from all the way back in 1979. I think I’ve mentioned it before. One night whilst listening to John Peel under the sheets I heard a song with the lyric ‘Who are these people?” I still have a vague idea of the sound of the song though find it a little difficult to describe. It was quite a simple song, kind of like the Angelic Upstarts or some of the more upbeat Messthetics post-punk coming out, like the Leyton Buzzards ‘I’m Through With You’.

Anyway, I never wrote down any information. Maybe I never heard who the band was, which is annoying because I did start writing things like this down when I heard them so that I could try and buy them later. There were many things that I did track down eventually, some of which were 10 or more years later. But this one has eluded me and in my mind, I have a feeling that one day I will discover this song again and then I will soon die. I would like to say that I will not die UNTIL I hear this song again. Let’s see.

10th November 1979
Ipswich 0-0 Villa
2p 188p*