Islington, March 19th-6 pm 1999-A
any pub, tables sticky beer on the wall and the TV always tuned to sports channels, bathrooms and dirty drunk that kind you give way to the toilet.
few hours is my eighteenth birthday and I still wonder how it is possible I believe when I come to the bar, fake pouting and striped shirt, ordered pints as big as my head, I put one foot before the other mixes but Newcastle stumble on carpet edges and four inches thick emitting innumervoli "ooopsss "I never abandon the clumsy but still do not know, and I hope is soon.
secretly I'm on vacation, I want to celebrate in a place where this makes sense without multiple of nine white balls, escorts pimple or skirts, I might say that I have committed so much to see me in front of a plate pudding and baked beans so thin it looks like a joke, fractal wallpaper and sofas burned, in return, the beer is plentiful, sgasata e pesantissima, ci sono il calcio in TV e le freccette libere, un paradiso precoce.
Sto ancora digerendo l'ultimo pezzo di toast mentre mi trascinano fuori, in un freddo marzolino davvero fastidioso, le case sono spaiate e grigie e decine di anziane signore vagano sui marciapiedi con le buste del Tesco, trascinandosi rumorose come barattoli dietro la macchina degli sposi.
Entriamo in casa di Sean scavalcando giocattoli, pianole, pacchi di bacon e mucchi di vinili. Guardo l'orologio e penso che fra tre ore potro' tirare fuori la mia ID e bere cose nell'ordine che preferisco, e l'hangover sarà finalmente solo colpa mia. Beh qui, perchè nel mio paese potevo già farlo e almeno potevo dare la colpa allo stato. Primo cedimento ideology of a long series. According
pub first and last eighteen years of my life: four Newcastle, two portions of chips with candle, three songs of the Jam ballads in the most uncoordinated and can take a taxi to the hotel with the most amazing wallpaper I I can remember-first in the standings only my house, with blue and green diamonds, and circles in the living room that only the BBC Klee-romantic is the background, the wishes of the brothers international concern, the screams from upstairs to wake us up with a can in his hand and the bubble in the nose, the misty dawn of the twenty-March and the apotheosis of the circle to the head, last but not least a pound of bacon served at the table of the pubs absorbent dirtier of Albion. Really.
Flight back seat to embrace spent senior companion and absorption pad fetish that zozzissimo beer pub, trying to reconstruct plausible versions politely for the family, the brain cooked to perfection in a pot of braised sentimental-rocknroll partially unexploded, the endorphins like butterflies caught in the net.
landed in Rome I did not feel shock, if not the lack of offerings of milk in tea, royal gadgets, double malt tartan free and without remorse.
had to be one of those earthquakes in the long term.
DNA Does not fake.
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