Crikey….tv is rubbish tonight. I’m hungry…and an Indian takeaway would go down nice…but…of course…I’m not eating. It’s not a case of dieting….it’s a case of starving myself. It’s good. I’m not saying it’s good for anyone else…but it’s good for me. It’s been a long day. Why does college have so many stairs? What is it about Medway? Hills and steps. What is it about the legend of Medway? All those tiny little houses as seen when you look over the vista of the Darland Banks. If you’re ready for another account of my IRV….then read on. IRV is Interactive Remote Viewing btw. God…do I have to keep reminding you? Ha ha…only joking. So yeah….here’s a strange one. Before I go on….I’d like to point one thing out. This ain’t no Life On Mars shit…the tv programme, I mean. I’m not saying that’s jank….but if you have been following my escapades since the start you’ll know that I actually went back with IRV in 1991. A fucking long time before them charlatans wrote Life On Mars. So suck on this…John Simm….Sam Tyler….whatever your name is….cos I went to 1991….way before you went to 1973.
Ah….I had to get that off my anorexia-depleted chest. I’m gonna hand you over to the Scruffy Duck now…to tell you about another mission of mine….and yes…Scruffy Duck is an alter-ego of mine….but I can’t write in first-person…apart from the intros….and in 2026 the Order of the English Literature Society (don’t google it yet…it doesn’t exist) decreed that ‘separated third and first person literature with convoluted subtext and para-intro-concentric first-hand narration of experience becomes a valid medium of expression’

I don’t know…I might be super-intelligent…but even I have a low grasp-factor now and then.
I’ll let the Scruffy Duck grab the reins. See ya soon darlings. We’ll have a drink sometime. Mine’s a vodka. Xxx

Somebody Called Me Sebastian.
May….1974
‘Sugar Baby Love….Sugar Baby Love….I Never Meant To Hurt You’
‘You have a fine voice, Sebastian. You can use it well…if you listen to me…you can be a little star of the Medway Scene’
Sebastian tipped his head towards the intruder….wondering…of course…who she was…and why she was making such an odd introductory remark.
‘Thanks girl’ he said
‘Do I know you?’
‘Nah’ replied Italix
‘I just come from the future and your story interested me…I have decided to come back and save you’
‘Save me? Shit…from what? And I can’t believe you caught me singing the bloody RUBETTES song’
‘You don’t like the RUBETTES then?’
‘Nope….catchy enough song…but they are keeping my second-favourite band off the number one spot….though I am sure that Sparks will usurp them…and hit number one…next week’
Oops…I’m afraid they won’t’
‘And how do you know that?’

Cos…like I said….I am from
The future….and I am super-intelligent’
‘Yeah…right’
Italix looked directly into Sebastian’s eyes. He had lovely deep brown eyes…every inch the heart-melting beautiful big brown-eyed rock star. She smiled….she would have fallen for him in HER time….much in the same way she would have fallen for Syd Barrett.
It wasn’t HER time though…so she resisted the instant adulation.
‘No really’ she said
‘ I know that your favourite band is Mott The Hoople’
‘I fucking love them…and I am going to see them on 2nd December’
No…please don’t go
‘I am seeing them at the Granada…East Ham….my uncle lives in Dagenham and I am going with him’
Italix shook her head…as a carrier-bag blew past them…billowing like a half-formed ghost…as they sat on the grass at The Great Lines park…Gillingham.
What do you think was in that carrier-bag?’ said Italix
‘How the fuck would I know?’
‘Obviously nothing heavy…or it would not have sailed by us…like a ghost’
‘You confuse me’
I confuse myself…but I need to tell you that you CAN’T go to that Mott The Hoople show’
‘Okay…cards on the table…what ARE you on about?’
‘Right…cards on the grass….if you go to that Mott The Hoople show…you will be stabbed by a drug-dealer…in the car-park…and it will be BEFORE the show…so you won’t even get to see your heroes’
‘You are obviously mad…but I do like you…and what’s this shit about you being from the future?’
‘No shit…I really am…don’t freak…but look at this’
Italix whipped out her iPhone.
‘I have some pictures here’
‘What the fuck is that?’
‘Technology from the future….come on…you heard Bowie singing about video-films and shit…on Drive-In-Saturday. You accepted that. It’s a progression. Here…pictures of you. You form a band called The Bolans…in 1978′
‘Well…I do love Bolan’
‘Yeah….and you called your band The Bolans…as a tribute to Marc…cos he died in 1977′
‘Jesus’
‘No…Bolan…but if you go to that show…you forfeit all of that…and look…here’s a photo…The Bolans supporting The Milkshakes at the MIC Club…Chatham…and another one…sharing the bill with Gash…at Newington Village Hall. Here’s a pic of the record sleeve of your single ‘V2086′ It’s a punk cracker’
‘What does V2086 mean?’
‘It’s the catalogue number of one of the greatest albums ever released. If you go to that show…you will NEVER hear the album’
Sebastian…..Seb…to his friends…but it doesn’t matter…laughed. The carrier-bag flew back and hit him in the face. He pushed it away.
‘So….if you ARE super-intelligent…and if  there is a great album with that catalogue number…what’s the worst album’s catalogue number?’
‘Easy….828 182-1 FYCF1′
‘And why is it the worst?’
‘Because the last track on the album is the WORST cover in recorded history’
‘Fuck…who are you? What is this about? I’ve not even had any puff?’
‘Look….just trust me…you can be a darling of the Medway Scene…you JUST have to promise not to go to that Mott The Hoople show…please…I actually like you’
‘The Bolans? I like that….let me think about this’
Yeah….and although you are called The Bolans…you model yourself on The Ramones…leather jackets…jeans…but you have spiked hair instead of curled bowls’
‘Ramones?’
Yeah…don’t go to the show…and you’ll hear them too?’

Sebastian…as taken in by Italix  as he was…still had reservations.

Italix had had enough. She slapped him across the face…not because she wanted to hurt him…but because she was frustrated at his refusal to recognise the danger.

‘See ya later…but don’t go to that Mott The Hoople show’

The carrier-bag was ripped away…almost majestically…maybe supernaturally….and Italix walked off towards the centre of town. She didn’t really head for town…that would be ludicrous….she evaporated….not in a haze of paranormal evanescence…more cos she was fucking pissed off.

So there ya go….I have had my food…4 cigarettes..and a grab of vodka….and I’m afraid it all ended up in chaos and disaster. You are Medway people. You know that The Bolans failed to substantialise their place on the Medway scene.  You know that Sebastian never did get his chance to grab his role under the spotlight of the Medway Estuary. Dennis Pearce never got to write about him…it doesn’t matter. Mike Sanders never got to break Evening Postian bread with him…it doesn’t matter. Judith Mullarky never got to hear his name…or to look into his deep brown swimming-pool eyes….it doesn’t matter.

He didn’t go to a Mott The Hoople show on the 2nd December 1974….not just  because the show was cancelled due to Ian Hunter’s hospitalisation. That doesn’t matter. He wouldn’t have been able to go anyway.

Another fate took Sebastian…and I guess you can chalk this up as a failure for me. I should have known it was coming. As another singer sloped out of this world…on 25th November…1974…pooched up on amitriptyline and depression…Sebastian….Seb to his friends…crashed into a lorry in the control…or miscontrol…of his yellow Yamaha FS1E….a fizzy end….the lorry delivering a consignment of carrier-bags to a well-known grocery store…which I am not at liberty to name.

I often think back to the day on the grass..at The Great Lines…when that carrier-bag zephyred into our conversation…..filled with leaves…and I wonder if it is significant that…after all the billowing bluster…there were only five leaves left

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