Off Message

I really have nothing to say today. So, I’m just blogging for the sake of it; for the sheer, bloody-minded, waste-of-everyone’s-time (including my own) sake of it.

So Tony Wilson died Friday evening, just as I was embarking on what would turn out to be quite a drunken night, wearing my Factory T-shirt. In my own way, then, unwittingly, I sent him off in style. I didn’t know Tony Wilson, but when I was in Manchester in the late ’80s/early ’90s, I’d see him around occasionally: at the Hacienda once in a blue moon; at a recording of some daft gameshow he hosted (with Frank Sidebottom no less). But I lurked in the landscape he’d helped create – the Hac, of course, and the PSV club, a shabby shack in Hulme that had once been Factory’s headquarters – and was steeped in the music he helped shepherd to existence: Joy Division, New Order, the Mondays. So, RIP.

okay then. Readership of Off Message has suddenly shot up, and I’m getting random comments again. Weird.

Oh, and I seem to be running the ‘classic’ dream gamut right now. Had one the other night about me teeth falling out. All I need now is that one where I’m falling and wake up just as I hit the ground.

I think my head’s gonna explode. Got a total bastard behind the eyes that I can’t seem to shift. And now I’m starting to feel queasy. Wonderful.

I don’t dream much (or, if you prefer, I don’t remember my dreams much – same difference, pedants), but I used to have a recurring dream where I’d discover a new comic shop with a huge back issue section full of exciting comic books I’d always wanted. This shop was variously either somewhere in Sydenham or somewhere in central London and, needless to say, didn’t actually exist. I think we all know what that dream’s about.

The other night, for the first time in a long time, I once again dreamed about finding a new, non-existent comic shop. But in a novel twist, in this dream, the shop was crap. Badly stocked, small and uninteresting.

Even my dreams mock and disappoint me these days. 

This weekend the sun came out, and the temperature got up to 30 degrees for the first time this year. And so of course I stayed in and read lots, no doubt to the horror of everyone I know. There’s an unwritten rule that as soon as the sun comes out you MUST go out in it. Indeed, the pressure to do so is immense, and anyone who DARES to stay indoors is considered either an albino freak or a miserable fuck. Or both. So that’s me, I guess. A freaky miserable albino fuck.

I was just outside the office, and a man in a suit walking along the street suddenly stopped, doubled over and vomited by the side of the road. Then he vomited again. Eventually he got back up and I asked him of he was okay. He nodded, and said, “Is there a supermarket or something round here I can buy a hunk of cheese?” Because, y’know, of course: that’s exactly what you want after you’ve been sick – a hunk of cheese.

are starting to freak me out. Who are you all, bumping up my viewing figures? What exactly is so fascinating about this blog? It’s rubbish! Entirely lacking in every way. Frankly I’d rather read the back of a matchbox, and I write the bloody thing.

Honestly, I’m mystified.