In the evening, drink.
The continuing journals of Everett True.

Thursday June 1 2000

At midday, interview Simon Fowler from Ocean Colour Scene on the phone. Nice bloke. Now I feel bad about slagging his single off a few weeks ago... or at least not telling him that I have.

In the evening, drink. It seems like the only reasonable thing to do, in the circumstances. (You know you're in trouble when you need to start checking three different places to see what day it is.) Jon and I play some tunes at the Free Butt (soul and hard rock) - on which, a whole book could be written. It would be boring, though. Doubtless, I mailed more editors and they all ignored. Doubtless, I thought about reviewing some CDs and didn't bother. Doubtless, I sat and chatted with Jon and became depressed. Later, the six of us race around a pool table to the sounds of Cliff Bennett - and Jon and I chat about more stuff into the wee hours, until C comes downstairs, annoyed at the fact we could be having fun when she has to work tomorrow. Jon tells me a couple of secrets and I feel so oppressed by the idea I could have been enjoying myself that I don't venture outside the house for the next six days. Aside from the odd shopping expedition.

Friday June 2

Day one. Scrabble around chasing work at The Times. Speak to someone who's heard from someone else that there might be a rumour that someone else thinks I'm employable. Play another 20 hours of Dr Mario on the Gameboy. Wonder again why The Age hasn't contacted me. Bring a couple of videos downstairs. Look at the weeds in the back garden. Oh, for a fragment of suspicion, of mystery about my life. Resolve to never give up glamour again. Receive e-mail from Edie Mullen, now working in some capacity at GQ - apparently because she said she knew me - and doubly resolve to never give up glamour again. Life is bloody depressing sometimes.

Saturday June 3

Day two. Charlotte's here - so at least there's someone to talk to that isn't Jon. We shop. We enter receipts on my tax chart. We buy a shoe rack, and many different fruits. We discuss my depression. We have a disturbing talk in the evening during which I tell her about everything - what little there was - that was going on shortly before we last moved out of this damn Hillcrest house. Disturbing, because there should have been a knock-on effect, but wasn't. We clean some of this damn Hillcrest. We eat fish.

Sunday June 4

Day three. I write any number of CD reviews for web sites as I've finally realised it's no good being commissioned to write stuff if I don't write it. Slap! We watch a film about a lady pirate that is more than faintly ridiculous. At the last possible moment, we discuss different ideas for Loaded - the only memorable one of which entails me throwing FHM across the room, and shouting "we'll look at that after our ideas, not before". Agree lad is out and new Mod is in. It needs to be stylish, funny, and sharp. Oh, and British of course. Think that the women on the cover should wrap up warm (surely they have a chill by now) and that every issue should include tips on How To Talk To A Girl. Or whatever. We like agony columns.

Monday June 5

Day four. Write a tedious news/gossip item for The Times Metro section. Which is nowhere near as exciting as it sounds. Write more tedious CD reviews, although I'm not denying some of my editors are very nice. Speak to a variety of people on the phone - or perhaps none at all. Who can say? In the evening, half-heartedly attempt to formulate SWOT analysis for Loaded, give up. I'm only going to be speaking to Robert Tame for five bloody minutes. Write a couple of tedious interviews as well - and resolve one day to find a job that merits my skills. Like pasting wallpaper.

Tuesday June 6

Day five. The morning is exciting. Speak to Robert who covers his own arse, as always - and informs me that I'm an outside candidate because (a) I'm too old and (b) I don't have enough experience working on men's magazines. He's nice enough to tell me how much IPC liked VOX, though - which must be why (a) they shut it down and (b) made me redundant. Speak to Brett Lewis, ace designer and yachtsman, about the possibility of creating a little mischief somewhere. Speak to Andrew Mueller and my heads spins. He offers himself for the post of foreign correspondent, should the need ever arise. Speak to Martin James, who has a new baby to look after. Speak to my ex-girlfriend Melanie - you know, the one who left me on a railway station platform in Germany for a junkie she'd met the day before - who has a new absent boyfriend to look after. Speak to Charlotte and we watch a triumphalist program about British football together. E-mail James Brown and suggest he may well be looking for people with ideas. C works out how much money I have. It could last me for three years. It could well have to.

Wednesday June 7

Day six. Nothing happens today. That much is apparent by the number of replies I receive to an e-mail that says I'M BORED large and clear. Perhaps I write a couple of CD reviews. Perhaps I don't. Waste money (£60) gambling in late afternoon, which is depressing - especially after I'd spent a pleasant coffee with Will. Damn.

Thursday June 8

Martin James promises to come over during the day, but his car breaks down on the way. Interview the singer from Travis on the phone, cos it helps pass the time. Time to go outside once more. DJ in the evening. It starts off extremely slowly: two bands soundcheck, one of which all have the same haircut as my flatmate but are half his age, neither of which is particularly pleasant. Soon, however, Pete Bagge's penpal Lorna and partner Chris show up with their impenetrable Glaswegian accents and tales of rain and alcohol and comics, and make me feel better. Even if I do bend their ears with my tales of nothing. Play "Sitting On The Dock of The Bay" twice in a row (Otis Redding, Staple Singers). Last time I went round Kurt's house in LA, he had a Mavis Staples album at the front of his record collection... actually, that probably wasn't the last time. Yes it was. The other times were in Seattle. Play "Harlem Shuffle" and "Stoned Out Of My Mind" four times. Play pool abysmally once more, and the Northern barkeep becomes a fraction more irritating with every meeting. Female barkeep is impressed by the fact I once shared an escapade with Kat Bjelland. Which there were more like her out there.

On the way down to the Free Butt, meet another ex-girlfriend Sarah Kestle. She seems lonely, and saddened by the knowledge that she is.

Friday June 9

Our slumber is interrupted by the sound of a fly buzzing trapped underneath those damn blinds. (Still not cleaned.) This has a major effect on both our days - especially after I'd come back a fraction tipsy and late, and has only slept for a couple of hours. So I go downstairs to find a can of fly spray at 4 am, blinded by the brilliance of the sunlight. In particular, it means that I still haven't written the Ed Kuepper biography promised so long ago. (C annoyed at previous evening's phone call from Lisa Paulon who says she wants to rescue me from my depression.) Exciting news just before I leave to go up to Essex with C in the hired car, so we can pick up a computer. The Times Metro wants to run large(ish) with my Sacco suggestion. Send off a flurry of excited e-mails to my very dear friend Eric Reynolds - press agent for Sacco's book at Fantagraphics - mentioning same. We play 1985 compilation tape on the way to Essex. Much to C's disgust, it features Sonic Youth, The Ex, Nightingales, Bogshed and The Legend! among more palatable cutie acts like The Wedding Present, Pastels and Mary Chain. Eat pub meal in Essex. Drive back in time to see the very poised Storm And Stress at the rather wonderful Hanover community centre. This is doubtless a very good thing indeed, because it means I get to exercise my opinion on strange experimental music once more. And watch a man imitate a table dancing.

Saturday June 10

Too much sleep, as Bongwater once sang. Suddenly, I'm like an uncaged panther - a black one, on the prowl, straining at the leash, eager to be out the door and away. This, at 1 pm. Sigh. Another day out! Must stop, must stop... moving. Too late. We buy a steamer and some paint, a load of food and some idiotic battling tops-type tops that fortunately we are allowed to return the next day. What excitement. We visit a Ford showroom, while I wait in the car. We run naked through the streets and smear hot butter over our genitals. All right. That last part could have been made up.

In the evening I talk to the very nice political and humanist cartoonist Joe Sacco on the phone to New York for nearly an hour. (My phone bill.)

Sunday June 11

Visit one house in the morning - nr Poet's Corner, they're charging what I've been quoted for Hillcrest (