Sid Vicious' Spit

Sid Vicious' Spit
S.P.O.T.S tour . . . someday in seventy something . . .
i'm with scouse. He's pierced his own lip with a safety pin & now itz fucking green
lost our jobs 3 days ago, been travelling following the unofficial/unreleased/unpublicised 'schedule'
& they never fucking play ANYWHERE due to SOCIETAL CONTROL & i'm pissed off/tired/spotty/dirty & scouse has caught lice some fucking where . . .
& we get to the peak district, in winter. Me: dirty ramones T, arseless jeans, plastic beach sandals.
SCOUSE: a filthy raincoat, pvc pants, old docker's boots minus laces. We beg a while. Get moved on
by the LAW. Try to rent a fucking tv in a town we dont even live in – get on the spotted for public indecency-
no underwear is a fucking crime up here. Itz minus 5.
meet some other kids. They have gin. The gig is gonna happen – OK.
Pistols play for all of 22 minutes before the plug is pulled midway through BELSEN.
A minute for each audience member – nice. It is no fucking FUN.
The last time I ate was a sausage roll a day ago. If i could throw up, I'd probably eat my own vomit – waste not, want not. I am so FUCKING COLD. We wait around outside. True disciples. Total fucking angelic faced wasters with no future AT ALL. Johnny doesnt even speak. Johnny is a big fucking STAR now. The cunt. Steve only speaks to himself. Paul cant even fucking speak. SID comes crashing out. Leather jacker over bare chest breathing Breaker fumes. Like, who gets fucking pissed on Breakers? But he's tall. Way taller than I thought & prettier than I thought. Scouse pushes me forward. Sid almost walks straight through me – he smells fucking bad. Like decomposition. I say: Say Sid, can i get your autograph? I say this because I'm a bona fide cocksucker who is malnourished & blue with cold.
He says: Sure fuckface.
I say: Oh, hang on, no fucking pen but . . .
He says: OK try this.
And he spits in my face.
Scouse says: fuck, that's great.
A girl. (I think itz a girl) tries to lick it. I push her away, sloppy seconds bitch.
They are gone, into the night. All i have is Sid's saliva freezing on my face. I am a long way from home. Infected. Hauling around the DNA of Sid Vicious. If Scouse tries to lick me one more time; i swear to god i'll carve him up with this Stanley knife.
In the motorway services cafe, we eat 32 sugar cubes between us.
Scouse steals 3 mars bars & a biro from the stationary shop. Better fucking late than never.
Tomorrow we are going to see the Clash. Joe Strummer is OK, but the rest are fucking tosspots.
America didnt deserve Sid Vicious. But he deserved America.
In England's dreaming, I never rise to the surface. I am a bloated dead white groper fish.
I get home 8 days later. My old man tries to take a strap to me. I pick up an iron bar.
This is the end beautiful friend. Of everything.
I get disappointed at the Stranglers gig. Fucking frauds. Course there's no fucking Rainbow at the Rainbow we aint dumbfucks Hugh . . .
But Peaches was OK. & the Frenchy is kinda cute. Got that Delon thing going on . . .
I leave when Ten Pole Tudor comes on. Biggest wank job around . . .
Sid is dead, they tell me. I say: itz for the best – Cooper-Clarke agrees. Johnny dont care. Ronnie is still in Rio . . . I am pretty vacant. 4 SURE!!! $$$$$$$
WASTED
WASTED
WASTED
WASTED
WASTED
Ever had the feeling you've been had?
Hah ha ha!