Humdrum Town

The smoking ban has come into effect. We are in a nearby pub, the ______, where the free jukebox plays Primal Scream's "Rocks Off". The place is empty, even though it's lunch time on a mild Sunday. Kevin and I are drinking white coffee with brown sugar. The three other people in here - men - go outside for a cigarette. Perhaps the novelty amuses them. I'm tempted to get up and choose some tunes from the jukebox. The walls carry black and white photos of the Afghan people (burka-wearing women; men carrying machine guns).

A blonde arrives and sits on the leather couch near us. She's reading the Independent on Sunday. Her son, about 11 years old, fiddles with the jukebox and demands salami pizza. She smiles at me, as if we share some secret her son is not aware of. The men come back in; one of them tells the blonde that they were laughed at outside. He think's it's horrible they can't smoke indoors anymore; she thinks it's wonderful. They seem like regulars.

"Suffragette City", by David Bowie, now on. Did you know the suffragettes used to meet near here, in a pub beside my tower block? God's honest truth. This song reminds me of being 18, long brown hair whipped around the dance floor in a Hong Kong club night called Far East, Far Out.

Sweetness, sweetness I was only joking when I said by rights you should be bludgeoned in your bed. I think I'm in love with this jukebox. I want to dry hump it all the way home.

Last night was the seventh, and final, episode of The Seven Ages of Rock. Brit Indie it is, spearheaded by The Smiths and (contentiously) ending with The Libertines. Seeing those images of Morrissey dangling from the stage, as Marr strummed his guitar, brought lumps to my throat. I remember being that teenager, half a life under water, suddenly coming up for air when I heard their music for the first time.

This coffee is gutting me. The pub is still mostly empty. Kevin informs me that today is Canada Day. Woo-pee. Are you going to celebrate? I ask. He half-smiles, ignoring me.

Yeah, we must look silly sitting here, writing in our journals. Hand in Glove, the sun shines out of our behinds... and if the people stare, then the people stare: I really don't know and I really don't care (though this song doesn't come from the jukebox, but from our earlier walk through an eerily quiet Victoria Park and its empty benches beckoning all Smiths fans to sit down, alone, with their walkmen and their maudlin thoughts.)