Pitch Imperfect (1/2) By Philip Wincolmlee Barnes

(1/2), (2/2).

Tap, tap, tap. That could have been the sound of my quasi-mystical Peruvian neighbour from down the corridor, wishing to speak to me about his recent dope-fuelled nightmares about witch doctors and wild, shape-shifting beasts. These hallucinations often disturbed him, and he sought comfort in my fancy Western logic or, more accurately, in my ignorant cynicism. But no; the walls were paper-thin and there was no sound coming from his room- still asleep, no doubt, from the previous night's consumption of drink and drugs.

Had he been awake, and stoned (his usual semi-conscious state), he would have been 'practising' on his guitar.

I use the word tentatively; for hours on end he would strum the same none-chord on fishing tackle strings (in lieu of proper ones), producing the kind of hypnotic drone last heard on the early rickety demo's of John Lennon's 'Tomorrow Never Knows'. Only much less tuneful, and it went on for hours. The tapping might have been from stones thrown at my window, from some annoyingly slavish friend- I had a number of these at the time; listless, unemployable men with the sickly complexion of jaundice, who used my domicile as a kind of 24 hr drop-in centre, in which to drink my coffee, bemoan having spent their giro cheques a week too early, and generally bore me shitless with their numbing, Epsilon-level, lassitude.

Tap, tap, tap.

It could have been any number of the other misfit tenants - the escaped convict unwisely trying to force the kitchen window again; the former prostitute turned maniacal Christian (which was worse), locked in the spare room by her schizophrenic boyfriend, the racist White South African, trying to convert me to his creed with books stolen from the public library about the Third Reich. But the tapping was, I realised, made by myself; the echoes from my heavy typewriter keys reverberating around the tiny box room which was now my home- or rather, a kind of bunker where I was attempting to annex myself from the outside world: from the hangers-on, the alcoholics, the mentally-unstable, the drug addicted, criminal, and the habitually lazy.

In other words, the type of human detritus - briefly fascinating due to their dysfunctional lack-of lifestyle, but generally not likely to convert Creationists to the theory of Human Evolution - that one invariably encounters when slumming it in cheap DHSS rooming houses, under the self-deluding pretence that it is the 'done thing' for the struggling writer.

The Struggling Writer- I've written it in capital letters as it really does have the anachronistic patterns associated with any kind of regulated employment. But, instead of pension plans, the yearly office party, and pulling the odd 'sickie', this breed are on a continual sickie, and most of them look it.

The annual works outing is supplanted by daily trudges to the local library, ostensibly to do 'research', but more likely to while away the long hours by lusting after the new librarian, or fantasising about acts of violent revenge against society, after receiving yet another curt rejection letter. Well- somebody has to pay. (Trying to commit suicide by drinking a litre of whisky and inserting eighteen sewing needles into your arm is not recommended: you fall asleep, the blood congeals, the needles rust. You go to work the next day looking like a fucking junkie.)

Struggling Writers, to quote T.S. Eliot, measure out their lives with coffee spoons. They also like to quote from other, successful writers, in order to contextualise why, in their mid-twenties, early-thirties or late-forties, they are still living with their parents, or have got a fridge that's been on the blink for three months, or are still vaguely considering masturbating over the lingerie section in the Freeman's catalogue. You see, some people seem equipped; they know how to hold a conversation, and with the right people, the so-called 'movers and shakers'. Fat bastards who talk too loud in restaurants, and their tie-dye wives who know loads about T'Chi, but fuck all about how to re-wire a household plug.

But that's sexist, of course.

They don't suffer from Foot in Mouth disease when attempting to smooze at literary soirees, book launches, and all those other stifling social engagements that seem to revolve around stuffing Arts Council canapés and caviar down one's throat, whilst simultaneously hacking up the contents of that day's Guardian newspaper. Struggling Writers are rubbish. We head for the free wine instead. Sometimes we even steal a few bottles. "Officer," I once had to explain in a somewhat crumpled state, "one minute I was at a hotel listening to Barrie Rutter do a Northern transcription of Shakespeare, the next I woke up here, in the graveyard of St. Mary's Church, Lowgate."

(Hanging's not all it's cracked up to be, either. It messes up your suit, and your carpet, when your stomach brings up the red and black bile. And I sprained my ankle falling off the chair. I didn't half feel silly.)

Continued .... Next Page (2/2)

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