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« BACK | HOME » ABOUT » THE SPIRIT SPEAKS » THINGS THAT WILL NEVER HAPPEN TO JUSTIN TIMBERLAKE NO'S 8 & 91

THINGS THAT WILL NEVER HAPPEN TO JUSTIN TIMBERLAKE NO'S 8 & 91

Not a lot of people know this, but in a previous existence, I used to live with D. Wayne Love. FACT. That’s how I met the band. Previously, I'd been renting rooms on a completely dismal council estate in Peckham, and it was quite possibly the worse place in the world. It was next to an adventure playground, with one of those big wooden swings with a tyre on the end. In the moonlight, it looked like a gallows.


There was this Chavvy Glaswegian who used to score from some friends of mine. They were a secret cell of militant gay anarchists, stationed in a tower block in Kennington in the flat of a Junkie ex-model called Gordon. Jake would just tip up, pick up his stuff, chat for a while then fuck off. I never paid him much mind, but he seemed nice enough, for a peasant.

So later on, when I met him at a party in Brixton, and he told me he had a room going, I told myself, well, how much worse could it possibly be...?

And it wasn't so bad. It was a nice big flat on the 19th floor of a tower block, with a beautiful view over the arse end of London. The interior decor was basically a mattress on top of a pile of crisp packets and used condoms, but at £35 a week, I wasn't complaining.

I moved in, tidied the place up a bit, and Jake introduced me to his cat, a cute black feline named Ice Cube, after his favourite rapper. I showed Jake how to fiddle the key meter using the switch from an electric lighter*; and it was happy days. Jake was hardly ever there; once or twice a week he'd come home, we'd chinwag about William Burroughs and the price of meat, and he'd retire to his bedroom, his John Coltrane tapes, his paperbacks, and his precious bottles of blue fluid…

I think it was a Sunday afternoon; my sulphate was wearing off, Jakes medication was coming on, and we were listening to Mingus over a Jazz Fag whenIce Cube turns round on Jakes bed, stares at her own hindquarters and goes'RrrrriiiiiiiaaaaaoooOOOOOWWWWW!' She was as surprised as we were when a series of nine mewling furballs slipped out of her. Life would never be the same again.

And for a while it was happy families; they were SO cute and Jake and I would giggle as they gambled amongst our discarded underwear and used hypodermic syringes. But then, after a couple of weeks, disturbing changes began to take place. The kittens sprouted at an alarming rate, and seemed to change overnight from furry balls of fun into feral juvenile delinquents. Their hair got spikier, their fangs longer, their attitude BADDER. They decimated the flat like a hairy hurricane.

Alone in the flat, unearthly noises kept me awake all night, too scared to get out of bed and be confronted by eighteen demonic, luminous eyes. Poor Ice Cube was totally terrified; in a desperate quest for milk, the nasty little droogs terrorised their mother, who was now half the size of her evil brood; Our living room turned into a scene from Last Exit to Brooklyn, re - enacted by the cast of Pet Cemetery.

I suppose those kittens were a product of their environment. The progeny of a promiscuous single mother and an absentee, substance - abusing stepfather in a disadvantaged inner-city area, the little bastards never stood a chance. I put a postcard in the newsagents window, and the very next day two peculiar middle - aged women came to take them away, no doubt to spend the rest of their short and violent lives being injected with Collagen at Huntingdon Life Sciences.

Jake and I could at least console ourselves that our loss was the cosmetic industry's gain.



*This trick used to work in 1995; the technology's probably evolved since then, but it might be worth a try. You buy a cheap, battery powered lighter, available from most petrol stations for a couple of quid. You strip away the casing and the bit where you press down, leaving a white plastic switch mechanism with a spring and a metal contact on the end. Insert the metal contact into the slot where the key goes, and click. Hey Presto! The credit on your budget meter will be doubled. You can only do this once for every time you top up your meter, but used judiciously you'll find you make considerable savings on your household budget, which you can later spend on crack.

 

(c) Orlando Harrison 2008