The Week Before Christmas .
Teignmouth Road , Late December , 1979 .
Willesden Green ,
( constructed from notes I made at the time ) .
You know it's really cold
when you can see your breath
while you're inside .
This bedsit really stinks ,
like living in a fridge ,
today I feel
more dead than alive .
And I need some heat ,
'cos the cold plays shit
with my autism .
Shivering like a spastic .
So I rob the gas meter , again ,
and recycle a couple of fifty's .
Light all the burners on the stove .
Light a cigarette .
Boil water to make tea .
Put the transistor radio on .
Let's see what Capital has got today ,
let the London d.j. play .
And some strange bird is in my bed ,
with panda eyes ,
and candyfloss spikes all over her head.
and she's going ,
" give us a drag , jonny boy , and make us some tea " .
And I'm going ,
" the toilet's across the hall ,
so don't take the piss out of me " .
And then we both laughed together .
We met last night ,
at the Matumbi concert ,
on Wardour street , at the Marquee .
And I don't know who the fuck she is .
But she seems to like me .
And I'm broke again ,
but it's giro day .
Just killing time on government pay .
Waiting for the postman ,
easy money allows the punks to play .
And outside my window ,
that strange grey bloke who lives up the street
is walking his dog again ,
( actually , it's Dennis Nilsen the mass murderer ,
but I didn't know that , he hadn't been caught yet ) .
And candyfloss head has wandered off down the hall ,
feet slapping on the lino ,
sighing to herself ,
wearing next to nothing at all .
And the bread has got blue spots on it ,
but I just thought what the hell
and made toast with it anyway .
Beggars can't be choosers ,
and besides , it's only mould ,
probably do me some good ,
it just looks bad , but it don't smell .
And the christmas number one
is Pink Floyd ,
Another brick in the wall .
I quite like it ,
but candyfloss thinks it's boring .
And the Clash are at number twenty nine ,
with London calling .
So I'm stood there dreaming ,
listening to the music on the radio ,
when she comes up
and whispers in my ear ,
" the toast is burning , daddio " .
Then the post arrives ,
coming through the door slit ,
one letter after another .
A card with a fiver in from my darling mother .
And two weeks festive sustenance
from the social security brothers .
So we eat toast , drink tea ,
skin up some squidgy black ,
and then just sit there on the bed ,
putting the world to rights ,
dissolved together in idle chat .
And tonight I'm going to
the electric ballroom , in Camden ,
to see the Damned .
And as the candy girl left ,
she said she might see me there ,
she had nothing else planned .
It's the week before christmas ,
and London is frozen , under fairy free lights .
I am twenty two years old ,
and happy ,
and I feel so alive .
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