09/16/2026

10am buckfast 10 year 2 late

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I don’t have it. Not like I used to. I’m back where I thought I belonged, in these high flats, in the living room of some poor cunt who pretends he wants us here because he knows we won’t leave, bottle in hand, watching the sunrise over the River Clyde. There’s a girl laughing hysterically at every word I say, touching my leg, her hand getting higher and higher, letting me touch her anywhere I want but she won’t kiss me. Marianne’s an old pal of hers apparently. But she knows I’ve got gear.

Your phone's ringin again mate, says Jambo.

I see a few of the young team walking to the shop and I'm reminded of a piece I've tried writing one thousand eight hundred and seventy two times, an ode to 10am buckfast. But I can't imagine anyone would care about a gang of half ned/half hipsters who can't fight or pay their tick bills, on the Sunday morning after a rave descending on the off licence for bottles of two bob tonic wine while the more well connected of the group go and see a man about a dog in a scheme with nicer houses, always somehow a fifteen quid wait and return taxi away. I'm reminded of the line from that poem that says:

Because nobody tells you which night you'll spend the rest of your life in.

I look at Jambo, hunched over the coffee table chopping lines of gear I know he'd pocket if he thought he could outrun me. We were best pals once but I don't think he remembers. I could be anyone right now, but right now I'm the man with the gear and that makes me the man and that's what matters when you're on it. I look at my girlfriend for the night. She is beautiful. And in a way everyone uses everyone. I'm not fucking special. Is there a word for misanthropy when it's written by one's own cock, I think to myself.