Was a dark time – a dark little flat at the back of an unloved house. A bed that had to be folded up into the wall every morning. My sculptures rotting under tarp amongst the weeds
in an unloved patch at the back of the house. A spare bed for guests made with cushions
laid on top of two PA speakers at the end of a cold, damp kitchen with mould on the walls
– sink always piled with dirty dishes. The view from all windows was of a brick wall except from the one in the bathroom which was of weeds. The last summer there Ants marched in a line from the front door through our flat & up the wall at the head of the bed. I was too drunk to be bothered if they ate me I never noticed. The toilet was always getting blocked so I kept an unravelled coat hanger next to it for poking around down the U-bend.
We had a ships decanter, one’ve the few luxury objects in the flat, kept stocked with
alcohol. I emptied it one night going steadily numb with headphones on
listening to Sultans of Swing on continuous rotation just to escape.
The best thing about Penarth for me in those days, was the train out’ve there
& the fact that my mate Chris Monger lived round the corner. He had the best
record collection I’d ever seen & made it his mission to turn me on to stuff he thought
I should hear if I was serious about music.