Always Read the Label Chapter 19 Chalk Farm

The gig went so well we got another review bringing loads of enquiries from A and R men to whom a few lines suggested the trail to the next big thing lead straight to our door. We met a few but left it all in Howard and Rays greedy hands, all agreeing they talked fluent bullshit.

There were more and more gigs on the horizon, but I still needed to sort out somewhere to live in between them so headed to Chalk Farm, praying Johnnie had remembered I was coming and was in.

I found myself eventually knocking on the flaky paint of a door in a dark low rise block that looked oppressingly East European with its long shadowy corridors ideal for muggers. Big pause and then the sound of a key being turned.

"What time is it?"
It's just gone 3. At least he managed to be in to forget I was coming.
"Mick the landlord said he'd pop over to see you. Think he said 4. Let me get dressed".

I get left alone to look at the mess left from last night. Overflowing ashtrays, a few small crumpled rectangles of glossy paper and some empty Becks bottles. The room stinks of their recent consumption and feels too warm from the telly being left on all night. There's a narrow balcony overlooking a car park and to the side a galley like room that has unpainted areas in the shape of wall units, and space which I reckon used to house a cooker and fridge. These have both moved to a windowless room next to the front door which you can just about fit into.

"That's the room". A now dressed Johnnie smirks pointing towards what obviously used to be a kitchen.
My heart sinks as I realise it'll have to do. Nothing a bit of decorating won't fix. Glad I'm not claustrophobic.

"It used to be Mick's office. Fuck knows what sort of business he had though. Doesn't like to let a lot slip about what he does. Seems OK though. You'll have to meet Bruce when he gets up. Make sure he approves".
I'm being vetted to live in a kitchen. I must have arrived. Bruce? who the fuck is he?

"He's Australian. when he gets up you can say g'day. He's alright, but a bit straight. He's at college and spends most of his time at the halls of residence where he's trying to get a room, so he won't be around forever. Want a brew?"

I have to talk to him from outside the kitchen while he makes it as there's no way we'll both fit in. Don't reckon we'll be having many dinner parties here. Unless we stick to toast. Or maybe tea which has managed to turn out fine despite the miniature kitchen. We're supping it when a loud knock on the door interrupts.

"Try and answer a bit quicker next time. Best for me not to hang about out there, there's a few people want a word in my shell like". Brushing into the corridor is a wiry bloke who seems keen to see everything with his constantly moving eyes. His shiny leather makes him look a bit beefier and wealthier than he is while his faded jeans and box-fresh trainers make him look like he's pining for his lost youth which his face says is long gone.

"You the new boy then? Nice to meet you, I'm Mick. He given you the drill? Cash is best, I'll call you 2 days before I'm coming to collect and you don't know where I am or when I'll be back if anyone asks. Which room you having? My old office? Used to be a right old sauce you could see from that window. Partial to walking about naked with her curtains always open. Lovely thing to watch in the middle of the day".
I'm being sold a shit room because of its view. He should be an estate agent.

"These any good to you?"

Mick holds up two long, thin joints magiced from an inside pocket. I don't quite know if I should take them but he thrusts them into my hand anyway. Oh well, seems a decent thing for a landlord to do. Better than counting the cutlery.

"My son always has a bit of hash lying about if you ever need some. Not really my thing as it happens. Don't let anyone in if they turn up reckoning I owe them. Not even if they're waving some sort of official looking papers. Phone me. I'll deal with it. Right then: where's the money my friends?"

He wants a moth upfront so I hand him the cash I've had to borrow from Simon till next pay day, then ask if I can paint the room while Johnnie shouts up to Bruce and goes to get his own money.

"You can do what the fuck you want. Just make sure you pay and don't trash the place too much. I'll have one of my boys drop some paint round. Careful with the carpet though - straight from the Nigerian Embassy that stuff. Costs a fortune. Eighty quid a square foot I'm told".

The carpet is about 3 inches thick and looks ridiculously upmarket and out of place in the little flat, indeed in this decade. Most parts of it are off-white; The rest a bit more off-white with faded stains.

"Only went in there to fit a few plugs on a tasty contract, walked out with a load of carpet and that weird statue".

He's pointing at a squat black shiny statue which I think is a warrior with a spear, onto the tip of which Johnnie has stuck a flyer. It looks so ugly it must be expensive. I hope it got pinched a long-time ago and there's no curse involved. Johnnie hands over the money closely followed by a koala bear, who must be Bruce. He doesn't even notice me as he sits down and stares mystified at the silent TV. Mick stuffs the money untidily into the same magic pocket and steps through the door after looking both ways.

"Bruce, meet your new flatmate".
He turns like it's a big effort and slowly lifts a hand while saying 'how ya doing?', not even waiting for an answer before turning back towards the TV. I must have passed the test then. Just need to move my stuff in, a couple of train rides with stuffed rucksacks.

It won't be today so I light up one of the joints. It's that really dry crumbly stuff that usually smells of the petrol tanks it's been smuggled in. Horrible dry 'soap' that you only get from fringe criminals, which confirms Mick's status as a dodgy geezer. The smoke it trails animates Bruce though who makes like the the Bisto Kid at the smell, eagerly taking his turn. We all end up staring at the TV like our life depends on it, but not so much anyone can be bothered to turn the sound up. This is obviously a nighttime flat, with the days just a hurdle to overcome before the moon brings everyone back alive. Which is great, except I'm in the room next to where they'll be hanging out waiting for the dawn. I make a note of what's to be my first ever phone number in London and head off to sit stoned on the train, just out of reach from the paranoia that comes with afternoon joints.

Walking down the sloping path again towards the estate I get that knot in my stomach when I spot someone struggling towards me with a massive bag. I'm ready to give Helen a real mouthful when I notice her face is streaked with tears and smudged eyeliner.

"What's up? Row with your girlfriend?" Not the most sympathetic opening line, but it's a vast improvement on what I'd planned to say when I next saw her.
"Oh fuck off will you. It's not my girlfriend. We've just had a row. I'm off to stay with another friend".
A train pauses behind us, which means she's got a long wait till the next one, whatever the timetable claims.

"You want a drink? We need to have a little chat. Might be best to give your face a wash as well".
There's not a lot of alternative options for her so we head back the way she's come and up to the flat, with me ending up carrying the bag, that's got even heavier, again. Tea seems a better option and when I open the fridge to get the milk find Simon's pan still staring back with its muddy contents.

"How've you been then?" I sound like that bloke in some homemade porn I once saw, but can't think of any better words.
"Alright. You were really nasty to me when I went. There was no need for that".
There was and it's called pride. Always rearing its big head and getting in the way, sometimes necessarily.

"Look, there's something I need to tell you. I had to go to the clinic after that night. I got crabs. I think you gave them me".
There's a pause long enough for her face to start to crumple before she catches it, rallying.
"I know. Well at least I do now. That's what I've been arguing with Panthea about. She's been calling me all sorts of names. I reckon I got them off a bed I slept in".
I reckon it's more who she was sleeping in that bed with, but say nothing.

"I'm really sorry. We both got a bit carried away. If I'd have known..."
"Itches like fuck doesn't it? I've had to shave my pubes off and put this sticky cream on".
She chuckles at this and I join in, remembering how stupid it looks.

"Have you got a spare razor? Just to show I'm sorry and so you don't look a freak on your own, I'll shave mine off. A show of solidarity".
"Do I get to see?"
"Yes. If you're good. Run me a bath and I'll show you after. What's the chances of staying around tonight? I'm a bit stuck again".
So that's why I get to see. I turn the immersion on and finish the tea, with chat flowing so easily now the embarrassment hurdle is cleared, I feel glad she's here.

It's a long time after the bath and I'm still waiting to see. I reckon it'll be after the last train has gone. Forever a player.

"We've got to move out in a few weeks. Getting evicted. I'm off to Chalk Farm. What do you reckon we should leave the council as a present? It really pisses me off that they kick people out of flats that stay empty. I want to leave a message. Any ideas?"

Before she gets to answer, Simon, who I'd completely forgotten about and hope didn't hear too much earlier, wanders in asking what we're doing.

I just have time to introduce Helen before she runs off to get a few more clothes on now we've got company and tell him what we're planning.

"How about we stick all those empty water bottles you can never be arsed to take down to the bins on the wall in the shape of a house?"

It's the nearest thing we have to an idea despite trying to improve it while we smoke another joint. All we need is some glue which Simon offers to try and get as he heads down to the off-licence. As soon as he's out the door Helen shouts from the bedroom that she's got something to show me.