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Re(2): Gypp farewell
IP: 79.74.203.183


When I saw a box of those EPs in the boot of someone's car at the '96 gig. I stole them and made them disappear. There is a chapter dedicated to this time in the new book. I don't blame you for putting the pic up Joe..After all my life is public. But I got such a bad fucking time round about 1977/78 from people around me, rival bands, people who just couldn't bear the thought that I was actually trying to DO something rather than just sitting there living with mediocrity and waiting for middle age to drown me. It was the sound of smalltown laughter that's all. But when they've stolen your girl, laughed at your efforts laughed even louder when someone in the national music press agrees with them. When you've been doing the best you can between the ages of 20 and 25 to actually make something good and then you lose your home... and everything..well it's sort of hard. Then the stupid cunts in the concerned classes are still writing articles asking "Why Do So Many Young Men Kill Themselves" To which the answer is,
"Because they want to, you fucking idiots!" The rest of my life ever since then has been a striving for success chiefly as a piece of pure revenge. I am NOT like anybody else. I don't react like anybody else. It's a good job my central drive is creative because if I ever went bad there would be a fucking body-count. I think my main thing here is that over the past few years, I feel that I have done such essentially GOOD work, why would someone persistently want to quiz me upon the minutiae of my obscure youthful experiments and failures? Sometimes there is genuine sadness and hurt behind these thing...I'm not ashamed of them. Failure after all, is the manure of success. It is, however, one of the faults of the English, that they will sometimes just sit there and sneer and laugh and satirise. It's a great way of stopping dictators (we never produced a Hitler, a Mussolini or a Napoleon) But it's also a bloody brilliant way of stifling creative people even as they begin to work. You mustn't be successful here in Britain, in case you accidentally emphasise some other twat's abject stasis. Well it didn't stifle me. I'm still here. Still making things. The war's over. I walked out of it. But I can still remember the sound of the whip coming down and the echo of smalltown laughter.

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