Good Morning, Blog

Oh it's early.
I woke thinking about S, my lovely art history tutor at Brighton Art College. He used to love my work, and at the end when my practical tutor, Brendan Neiland, was tellin me he'd marked me down to a Lower 2nd because I didn't turn into a painter as he'd instructed me (I was always an etcher and illustrator, but a Fine Art one), S was always coming out of the room where my drawings were because he liked them. I liked him, too. Eventually the External examiner graded me a little higher, but S's approval was what counted. He taught us all sorts of unusual things, like the fact that Victorian people would not be able to understand our conversation, as we talk and think so fast these days and our sentences are peppered with technological references that would be beyond their knowledge. He regularly went on shoplifting sprees in the bookshop his ex-boyfriend worked in, partly to wind him up but also because he loved books. His portakabin office was groaning with them and when there weren't enough chairs, you sat on a little tower of books instead. I learned not to moan about being skint, because I bumped into him in the street once and was wwrooying at him about having no money. we were stainding next to a cash machine. He got his card out. "I'm going to lend you sixty quid', he said.
His eyes used to dart about with intelligence. Later in London I used to just drop into his house at Crampton Street to see him; On one of those occasions he told me the warehuse where all his books were stored in Hastings had burned to the ground, roasting all his library to ashes.
You see, I did a search for his name on Google and I think he might have died. You can imagine how sad this maked me feel, because he was young.

My brain told me a crap joke, to compensate. I hear Joby's going to write his memoirs, all from being an anarchist and squatting activis, through being a thatcher, a deep sea fisherman, a local councillor, and now an art student. I thought it would be about as long as Samuel Pepy's diaries, and then I thought if Pepys had written his diaries in Morse Code, they would be clled Pepy's Bleeps.

Sorry about the spelling. It really is very early.