10/01/11 I’m sitting writing about Finnegan’s Wake and breastmilk, watching two giant Labradors wrestle in the backyard of my sister-outlaw’s place in the Hills. It’s cool inside but I can feel the heat rising on the other side of the glass, and I’m searching for something to listen to that will capture my mood. The Birthday Party’s Greatest Hits fits the bill, St Nick heehawing and woofwooofwoofing his way through my adolescence, post-adolescence and post-post-adolescence, all jerky screeching and pent-up private schoolboy angst. For a second I am lost in some fantasy flashback, I want to be wearing black rags like the Crowman from Worzel Gummidge, my dyed black hair back-combed Siouxsie-scarecrow, drunken and dancing around a drum-fire. Oh god please let me die beneath her fists… Saw him for my birthday a couple of years ago at the Belvoir, and some munted chick at the front of the stage kept trying to grab his crotch, until finally he snapped and told her to stop grabbing my cock ‘cause I’m 52 years old for God’s sake or thereabouts. And I realised I’m not exactly a spring chicken either, and we’re probably both too old to go running about drug-f*%cked and half-naked, really, but have you heard how Sonny’s burning, like some bright erotic star? Flame on! Flame on!