For my brother Tyler, may your organs fail before your dreams do.
Fine music on my stereo this cold Sunday morning. The sheer beauty of the blues seems cheapened amongst the hipster culture of today. It's a shame really. They have forgotten how to dance. It's all about being alone yet being 'cool' these days.
But not today. Today there is a different feeling in the sounds. A feeling of relief, of loss, of victory, of glory.
Today is the first of a new age. The Mayans said that 2012 would be the end of an age. Maybe not the end of the world but maybe on a more personal level. Maybe everyone will watch their world fall apart and be forced into something new.
I for one have watched the boy I was turn into the man I am. No more uncontrollable urge to drink myself into a coma. No more personal bests based on the amount of drugs i can take in one night.
All I long for now is the ocean, a dog, my own house with a bath tub and a garden.
Or at least that's what I tell myself.
It all began at the Brick lane markets. My newly arrived comrade Mary and I were were running amok after a night of booze and horse tranquillisers when we got the brilliant idea to buy bikes, black denim jackets, more beers and form an outlaw bicycle gang.
This choice was based on a knowledge of old tattoo shop banter, the gruesome stories told by people with names like Fletch, Stormin Norman, Uncle, Birdy and Mad Dog. It was the sense of "us again them" that runs deep in the veins of the great organisations like the Hell's Angels, the Outlaws and the Finks that attracted us to the idea. But also we wanted to import our own Haggard way of life. The brotherhood and the mess. The two ideals went hand in hand.
Our first would be purchase was promptly stopped by a plain clothed police officer spying on the illegal street sale of some stolen bikes. Damn the do-good bastard. It took me 15 minutes to haggle the thief down to £30.
As the cop issued the fines, Mary and I blended into the crowd to find a legitimate vendor. It didn't take long. Brick lane is the one place in london you can find everything you need and lots of it.
Having bought two barely ridable bikes and two vintage jackets, Haggard Bicycle Club was born. Now all we needed to do was recruit more members.
Asking someone to willingly do something that involves physical activity is like asking a heroin addict to vote. They see the value and good of the action but when it comes to crunch they flake and the ballot goes unfilled.
This was the problem we had with our main prospect Spencer.
This is a kid who wears stained glass leggings as jeans, goes out with more make up on than Mary. He looks like an anorexic Milan model who never made it. His mind is plagued by the delusions that he is a security guard for is student accommodation and that he was once a middle weight boxer which he bores us with tales of whenever he gets the chance. Somehow I doubt his credibility. But who am I to judge?
But we saw past his faults. After all he already owned a bike and beggars can't be choosers right?
His obvious avoidance of commitment to the club went on for about a month. All the while he held our hopes up with false promises like "Yeah man, all i gotta do is go pick up my bike then it will be on! We will rule this town!"
Finally the camel's back broke.
It was a sunny friday morning. Taking acid seemed like a much better option than working for a prick with too much money. So I rang the prick, faked a case of the clap, ate a tab and off I went. In search of love, adventure, friends, laughs and of course more acid.
I called Spencer to aid in my search "Sure why not?" was his response.
Why not indeed?
As soon as I saw his adams apple move in the swallowing motion I looked him straight in the eye and said calmly and very, very seriously "I'm going to shave your head."
This was not well received. Fear. Unbridled fear. This is what took over his mind and his actions. But thankfully I was able to coax him outside for an adventure.
After 3 hours of rooftop melt downs, Spencer's trip shifted gears on him. He retreated from the Saudi Arabian pot pusher's room, that I deemed a suitable place to hide out, back to the safety of his own room. I followed soon after and found him in the fettle position, chanting about his beautiful hair.
And that was were I left him.
We haven't spoken since. "leave that weird fucker alone" I thought. No sense in trying to kiss and make up. He isn't ready and more than likely never will be.
Just another sucker who's life was ruined by heavy metal music and dub step.
So that was were the Haggard B.C ended. In that horrid student's apartment. It was the first of many signs that the this world is not ready for another wave of acid taking, bike riding, whiskey drinking freaks.
Not yet at least. Maybe next year. Maybe in the new age.
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