That is: 99p for a Heineken. 99p for a Gino's Pepperoni Pizza. And 99p for another Heineken.
So I felt very much at home having dinner at Peter's flat in Romford this evening, taking the couch and pacing while he laid down tracks for Hamlet and we tried to find a sound for Zeus. Romford's in Zone 6. It's very spacious, although the Rom itself is only four foot wide at low tide, as I discovered for myself when we stepped over it. Its banks are concrete and it is totally odourless. The brick streets on the way to the flat were practically empty at eight, and as I made my back at eleven there were three or four points of light, and a live band somewhere, but nowhere selling apples, and the streets still pretty empty. Empty in the same way that most of America is empty, good empty.
It reminded me more than anything else of the film Brick. It made me miss my camera. It made me want to scout for locations. But what does this mean?
The train back was also empty except for the scattered pictures of Heath Ledger's Joker (this modern world so stable and Utopian that box-office takings in America now make the front page) so I'd thought I'd pass on another scary clown anecdote to go with the Deburau story, in lieu of moody shots of the Rom...
It concerns the first ever appearance of Ronald McDonald, pasted below. Now my homeboy Tom, who has something of an in into the clown world, told me once that the performer in question was so disgusted with his own appointment that he took everything he had ever learnt about "correct clown proportioning", then purposefully set out to create as off-putting a Ronald McDonald as he could. Well, it clearly had a lasting affect on Stephen King. And Matt Groening. And it goes a little something like this:
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