Was wading through old emails deleting what I could and I trawled up one from Bill Drummond / Penikiln Burn from a few years back, something to do with Robert Anton Wilson. And I think to myself, that its about the same time period that he writes about in his book, 17, that I destroyed in a fit of disgust a few weeks back. It might be worth looking up to see if he actually writes about the same subject matter at the same time.
So I dig out my spare copy, and lo and behold the very next chapter to where I'd gotten up to reading, was written / dated the same day he sent me the email in October 2006.
Could I be legend?
Dunno. After explaining that the chapter will be about his dealing with Stock, Aitken and Waterman, he drops in a few lines explaining he's in on the ledge in his flat in Shoreditch/Dalston, on a indian summer's evening looking out at London.
And suddenly I remember why I had to destroy my first copy.
It takes me to a place, memories, hopes, dreams and heartache. So near and yet so out of reach.
And I know, I have to destroy a second copy of The17.
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