this morning jake and i are heading into london, he needs to open a bank account and get a new mobile number, neither of which we do, and he wants to look at some clothes shops. i’m his guide being a dedicated follower of fashion.
before i leave i ask my mum if i can get the phone number of the house seeing as though my mobile is not picking up signals, although it receives and sends texts. so there i am in the kitchen asking for the phone number.
my mum goes to her address book and gets out all her numbers from overseas.
‘mum i just want the home phone number.’
‘why don’t you take all the numbers?’
‘i don’t need all the numbers i just want the home number.’
then before i can even breath she starts screaming at me, ‘why don’t you want the other phone numbers i was calling you this morning to give them to you but you were not listening, your just rude, in fact everyone says you are rude, not just me, everyone.’
so standing my ground i reply, ‘i didn’t hear you calling me at all, i was in my room, or having a shower but i did not hear you.’
so she goes on, ‘you don’t listen, your a rude man and it’s not just me that says it.’
i’m fighting my inner conflicts, how easy it would be to just fucking hit her. i mean how much can a man take. i’ve had a life time of this shit and there’s only so much abuse im prepared to take. i saw this coming and made an informed choice to see it through, basically for my dad, but it’s the devils bargain really, i have to much self worth and respect for myself.
so i say very calmly, ‘mum, come on. think about what you’re saying. i have asked you for one phone number and look at your response.’
more allegations of rudeness and not listening.
‘well actually it’s you that are not listening, i have said several times i just want your home phone number. it’s really simple.there’s nothing rude about that at all.’
‘everyone thinks your very rude.’
then i snap.
‘the only person in this house who is rude is you, your actually a very rude abusive person who twists and distorts things and uses an outdated and ineffective form of emotional blackmail to make me feel guilty or inferior but all it does is make you something really ugly.’
i walk out.
this is what i am up against, a mentally ill mother who spends every moment of her time degrading me and comparing me to martin who is her favored son. while i have no objection to her favorite’s i do to being personally attacked and degraded. fuck her.
i walk out into the garage and confront my dad.
‘i came here to see you dad, not her but you may as well just take me back to the airport because i’m actually not interested in being abused by her madness anymore. it was okay when i was a kid and helpless and unable to defend myself against something i didn’t understand but things have changed, i’m actually an adult who can distinguish between whats healthy and what’s not.’
dad looks at me, he looks sad. ‘i’ll talk to her.’
i jump in the car with martin and jake and while jake is incredibly sensitive to the dynamics martin smirks and diminishes the issues. for him he cannot empathize, cannot sympathize or cannot recognize what a sensitive situation exists, he has no experience of mental illness and is desensitized to her behavior completely, plus he’s never on the receiving end as he’s some sort of corporate guy and i work with, wait for it, people with mental illnesses.
of course i always have.


jake and i go to see martins flat, it’s wonderful, massive great big place in the centre of islington, very nice place save for the animal skins on the floor.
we help him carry some furniture in then head of to the train station, jake lights up a cigarette, he’s hanging out for a smoke. he asks if i want one knowing what i have been through in the morning, ‘jake’ i say, ‘i’m going to need something stronger than that.’

wandering around london in the pouring rain, i take jake to all my favorite clothes ares, when i was his age i was the same, it’s incredible to believe but i was a sharp dresser once upon a time. so we walk along the back streets of carnaby st where i used to work.
in the summer holidays back around 1977 i worked in a punk rock shop next to a shop that boy george owned. i think i wrote about this period in an earlier blog but it was a time when london was vital, it was exciting and vibrant but wandering along it now it feels really tragic.
there’s lots of little second hand shops and jake and i go on a wild hunt for outrageous stuff, he ends up buying a few things and a burgundy bag while i find a black punk jacket with an anarchist sign on the back. fuck it i think to myself, i’m an anarchistic kind of person and this seems quite apt given i was just reminiscing about my punk days to jake.
as we wandered down wardour street i told him about the marquee club and the 100 club and all the bands i saw there.
x ray spex,
the ruts
the clash
the jam
siouxsie and the banshees
the vibrators
the sound
eddie and the hot rods
the slits
the damned
the buzzcocks
the adverts
and on it goes...
punk wasn’t just an aggressive noise it was a movement, a reaction to smash up all the control and power and take things into our own hands, it was about doing it yourself, do it yourself bands, where it didn't matter if there was no lead guitar solo or drum solo but just an energy and some good words, it didn't matter that the magazine was printed n glossy paper with lots of adverts, instead it was just photocopied fanzines and free press covering music politics fashion and design. yeah those punk years were amazing but as all counter culture movements it was repackaged and consumed by the mass market and instantly lost it’s integrity and therefore it’s power. this is why bands like the church are so valuable, they don’t compromise, they remain true and hold on to their essence. sk and mwp told me once they wrote a manifesto as kids starting out that stated their intentions and they stuck with it, thirty years later.
anyways jake leaves me in london’s biggest bookshop, foyles in charing cross. i notice that
phillip pullman has a very interesting book out called ‘the good man jesus and the scoundrel christ’ which looks brilliant but i am so broke i can’t buy it. jake and i discuss pooling resources to get it, he’s also a big pullman fan but we decide to wait for the paperback.
i am looking at the sci fi when i over hear a conversation between two scottish girls,
they are talking about ‘cites of the red night’ from which my name sake captain mission plays a large role. one says, ‘it’s his best book, really good, there’s this great pirate in it called, captain mission.’
when i read that book i was already known as captain mission but after reading it knew that it was a name that i felt an affinity to. although if you are thinking of a burroughs book, read ‘ghost of a chance’ in which captain mission is the main character and it is a great environmental message.
i hover upon the edge of actually saying something but then i think better of it, i mean what can i say, ‘hey i am captain mission’. it’s a bit like saying to a stranger ‘i am sherlock holmes.’
another strange thing about london is the coffee is crap, really the worst coffee i have ever had the only place is starbucks, one every few blocks.
we wander through the small alley ways of covent garden, all designer labels and high price tags, jakob and i are definitely on a second hand budget but we admire the suits and styles.
as we head home on the tube i begin to feel the dread, we are both exhausted, i confess to jake, ‘i don’t think i can last.’
jake says, ‘mmm, try to be positive, keep positive or it will get worse.’
‘i’ll try. thanks for listening jake, i’m really grateful that you understand.’
‘oh i understand, she is nuts.’
ha there’s always that moment where the student outgrows the teacher.