Momus Black Letts Diary 1979
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Here at the chilly cusp of neoliberalism we find the artist who will later become known as Momus. He’s an Edinburgh youth turning 19 and studying Literature, Psychology and Sociology at Aberdeen Momus University. His father runs a successful language Black Letts Diary college, his mother works for a religious publishing company. Young Nick — a virgin who models his love life, rather unwisely, on the epistolatory 1979 affairs of Franz Kafka — has fallen hopelessly in love with a student at the Glasgow School of Art. His world is defined by Paula, David Bowie, his twitchy halls neighbour Byron, German writers, art, existentialism, Schoenberg and postpunk guitar groups. He reviews bands for the student paper, types short stories and — faithfully every night — tells his black Letts diary about his day. 1979 January 1979 January Monday 1 Tuesday 2 With Father back at the office today, the house was taken to pieces and And so into the bigger, better diary of 1979; more a nightly essay than reassembled under the guise of Spring (!) Cleaning; the painted room, a pale skeleton of dull cares and affairs — yes, objectivity is obsolete, parents’ bedroom and breakfast room were mercilessly gutted of signs and from here on the expressionistic eye of existential truth will expose of habitation and rendered sterile. excitingly my existence! I, meanwhile, strolled uptown, walking along George St. to Or, on a less pretentious note, a diary which talks about fewer events in Queensferry St., Stafford St., Grassmarket, Cowgate, and High Street. more space. Five years of rigorous training have been but a dry run; My tour of the old town opened my eyes to the sad state of repair of the goods is here! some potentially charmingly decadent buildings down the hill from High Street. My interest in 19th Century Edinburgh was strengthened by the And after those wild exclamations of intent, today. Outside the snow lies Stills exhibition of photos by George Washington Wilson; stereo prints packed on the ground, none has fallen since 1978, but car travel is of Scots scenes of the 1860s. Particularly interesting were views of imprudent if not impossible. Father spent much of the day on his back Princes Street; men in top-hats, ladies in long black dresses, hotels, with a cold, feeling that he should be at Young Street, but instead clubs, cabinet-makers. Very picturesque. watching T.V. and having Emma rub his back. The air was less suffocating today. Mother’s mood improved, so it was merely boring, Quite a lot of people were about on the streets, though only a handful not unbearable. I read a few lines of Kafka, but lassitude won the day. of shops were open. Cars were having terrible problems; an old Morris Minor had to turn round at the top of Dublin Street because it couldn’t The outside world intruded a couple of welcome times; before I was up move through the lights! a Mrs. Nielson from No. 13 came in — sounded loud and snooty. Nick Sherrit phoned, inviting us to a party at his colonies residence; the Mother actually relaxed with us in the sitting-room much of the evening, prospect seemed at first attractive, but nobody actually went. while I taped Costello’s new album from the Peel show. We looked through the old diary, Mark quizzing me on dates, etc, til one a.m., I recorded Peel’s top 10 while T.V. churned junk films. The family then retired after locking the cats in the kitchen together. pottered variously. I retired at one, full of tepid white Hirondelle plonk. Never mind; this time next week I’ll be home from home! 1979 January 1979 January Wednesday 3 Thursday 4 The regular tap-tap of melting roof-ice as it dripped into my room drew Henry King woke me with his usual nuzzling routine; hanging over my me from oblivion to the lethargy of a lie-in. Emma, from what I hear, neck, biting the tips of my fingers, smothering me with his bottom. visited her paramour, Jonathan. Meanwhile, I went uptown with a fiver, but was embarrassed when I tried to buy a packet of tissues and I strolled to Rod’s, where he and his very gay friend were ‘warming the thought I’d left the money at home. I had intended to have a haircut, place up’, and arranged an appointment at 1. Rod cut, his friend but Rod must, as I remarked to Mother, be on holiday in Portobello. washed and dried. A v. amusing phone-conversation occurred; Rod’s friend punctuated the conversation with ‘Oh my God’s and ‘Oh, I’ve I walked down Heriot Row and via Charlotte Square to Rae Mac then got quite a story for you…’s. ‘Was it John?’ asked Rod. ’No, it was the music shop on Stafford Street, buying a plectrum for 10p. Arrived Gary,’ sang his sidekick. later at Cockburn Street, thinking I would buy a hat further on at the South Bridge Oxfam Shop if they had one, but not sure if I’d dare to Mark and I walked to John’s house by way of King’s the Hairdresser wear a hat if I had one… when I was luckily waylaid by Cockburn St. (for Gents), where I bought a tub of Brycream for my fringe. At the Market, where I bought a Magazine/Devoto mirror-badge as a token Thomson house we played darts and snooker. I was fairly quiet, letting mark of exhibitionism. Cut to N. in St. James Centre looking smug, and Mark do the socialising. Nothing ever changes in the Thomson fade… household, it’s quite depressing or reassuring, depending on one’s mood. The house was deserted at around six. Father and Mother went to the Simms’ for drinks, and were presented with a brass cartridge case from We walked home, helping a feckless OAP in a Mini on Castle St. to W.W.1. Avoiding death duties? Mark and Emma skated on the iced-over mount the hill, and watching several idiot drivers giving the term ‘ice cobbles. I did so too, briefly, but kept sinking into softer areas. follies’ a meaning in the motoring world. The others had eaten without us. John Thomson phoned, inviting me to a snooker afternoon tomorrow; Mark’ll come too. Hope he’s not offended by my lack of contact lately. We later took the kitten to the gardens, where it wandered quite boldly. Scrabble from 11.15 to 12.15 — I won by 50 points; had consistently A decadent (after German cinema, c. 1920) production of ‘Macbeth’ good letters. was ditched by Father in favour of Scrabble. I won, and watched the play in between shots. Read Tintin over hot chocolate before retiring with the more subtle attractions of Kafka’s letters. 1979 January 1979 January Friday 5 Saturday 6 Henry awoke me, but I lay in, dreaming of a holiday in Egypt, until Father and Mark went shooting, Mark later talking about the massive about one o’clock. My cold, or whatever, was improved. I walked up to amounts of alcohol that the ‘guns’ consumed. the bus-station and St. James Centre, buying an NME and reading it on a seat between rushing lines of sale-shoppers. I still have an irresistible Meanwhile, Mother and I went to the A1 Cash & Carry and bought the fascination for the music papers, though I often despise their continual deep-freeze things that Mother hadn’t wanted to buy in front of John hypocrisy; praising a band one week, criticising the next. It’s all part of (the E.L.F. driver), for our own personal use. that dancing serpent, Fashion, I suppose. When Mother had gone out to pay £1000 (on the company cheque- Mark, Father and Mother mentioned testing their cross-country skis book) for her China holiday, I opened the door to an enormous dresser somewhere — I don’t know if they did, but they certainly did go to the from Heidi’s, to rout the smaller one downstairs to Mrs. Kiso and inhabit Bairds’ house for drinks. I watched a videotape of ‘What’s New a large proportion of the breakfast-room wall. Mother and I lifted it into Pussycat?’, not enjoying it much. I think good comedy should have firm the breakfast-room, but it took Father, Mark and me to lift the huge top roots in real life, and even be a little tragic. And this film relied on section onto the bottom. attitudes to sex that are very two-dimensional both to men and women, and very ’sixties’ — ‘Aren’t we liberated and promiscuous these days?!’ I felt muzzy and feverish for much of the day, worse towards the end. I Woody Allen saved it from being trash. put off going to collect the cross-country skis for our Norwegian holiday until Mark arrived home, and we went up together in biting East wind. Emma had Joanna in, staying the night. Mark went to the Shepleys’ to babysit, earning the paltry fee of £1. Father and Mother went I don’t Colin Stuart’s party was still on, though, and John Thomson changed his know where for drinks (supper?), remarking on a boy with smart boots original intention to drive me only from his house, and obligingly came and saying ‘They were a drunken crowd!’. I had a quiet night in, to pick me up at Drummond Pl. after a snack dinner. The party was held watching a good play about a girl brainwashed by a religious sect.