Sun Oct 17, 1999.

Yesterday the Accrington Gazette had the headlines "Mystery of Lights in the Sky" .The UFO fleet is apparently on manoeuvres for a forthcoming invasion (again). Coincidentally, at about the time this "activity" was going on my cat Crispin was unusually intense and lively, racing around the statue of Zeus in the hallway. I presumed at the time that it was simply "kill the moth” game but it might in retrospect have been "chase the invisible alien cat-like thing" game. Emma phoned me up to say that her Crystals were still glowing after the event and she had a strange tingling down her spine, all apparently linked to the UFO's. I told her to sell her story to the Gazette, but spice it up a little -abduction and so forth (with a hint of sex!). Duncan is brooding over his latest unrequited love. Should Hairdresser’s Assistant count in this category? (or in any category for that matter?) - I wouldn’t have thought so, but the poet needs his muse. He’s sent a selection of his latest work to Iain Sinclair to read since the great man on his visit to the Literary Club didn’t take the hint when Duncan thrust his pink binder at him. I think he ducked under it, apologetically. Outside, all is still, waiting for the THING to happen. Someday it will.

Thu Oct 21, 1999.

Accrington is shaping up for the Millennium. A giant, glistening, metallic sculpture has been lifted into position opposite the Town Hall. Unfortunately it looks a lot like a Swastika and virtually overnight it was ritually daubed with suitably fascistic slogans. I think it very likely, from murmurings in the Marketplace, that it will be dismantled and heard of no more. The town will then make do with a Millennium Fireworks Display (a limp rocket & 2 bangers). Toddlers wielding sparklers will be wrestled to the ground and thrown into prison by Security! The Lord Mayor will give a limp speech about WW2 and then do his pathetic glove puppet entertainment. Some Jugglers have appeared in town doing things with skittles and annoying dogs who pirouette in berserk fashion. Why they’ve appeared nobody seems to know. Cold & windy today -- suitable weather for a plethora of shopping trolleys to commit suicide into the canal. I counted at least 6 still visible. Wore my Liberty scarf for the first time this year. Some bloke, tall and thin with a ridiculous stride and nebulous identity, called me a Ponce. What a jolly whizz! In the Floral Grill I sat in my window seat and enjoyed a bacon sandwich. A naked woman with a beard went past the window with a plate of herrings on her head -- a ghost from the 1830's? No it's just loony Linda on an outing from the Institution up the hill.

Wed Oct 27, 1999.

Woken up by my cat Crispin straddling my face and smothering me to death. Naughty puss! The Accrington Intellectuals now meet in a new home, an early nineteenth century church called St.Andrew-in-the-Creek, now secularised through disuse and standing (almost proud) in Vogle Square. Our squabbling echoes disconcertingly and one can imagine Dead-God is catching every word and sitting in smug judgement. Forgive us poor Sinners! Pigeons of long occupation, nesting in the rafters above drop the occasional subtle hints to the congregation bleating in the pews below. Last nights topic was "What is Intelligence?”. The usual unfriendly bickering and physical confrontation ensued, particularly between Phil O'Reilly and the Elephant (Bert Oliphant) who squared up to one another and had to be restrained by Henry Bent. Mrs. Hobhouse put on a beautiful spread (mostly pork pies & sausage rolls) at half-time. During the second half people started to mill about the church, exploring the nooks and crannies, and forgetting the reason we were there in the first place. Occasional cries from far off corners alerted us to a ‘direct hit' from a pigeon above. Strolling about the ethereally lit town afterwards, amid the tuneless chanting of drunks and the barking of homeless dogs, I felt a wonderful kind of serenity --goodness knows why, maybe it’s because of late I’ve felt more in control of my life. For instance this morning, after struggling for several weeks reading the turgid, uninspiring, frankly ridiculous autobiography by Rudy Flicker 'My Life In Hell, And Beyond', I chucked it out the window. I thought, "Life is too short." This gesture pleased me no end. I was free at last!

Sun Oct 31, 1999.

Yesterday I visited Ruth who lives in a haystack in a field near a Motorway on the outskirts of town. Despite dire warnings from Social Services she still insists on smoking in her little nest and therefore could incinerate herself at any time. Even when it's been raining, the interior can still be cosy & dry, so the risk is huge. She brewed me some tea on her 'safe' gas stove, which I drank despite my suspicions that the water is extracted from a nearby cesspit. She's threatened to turn up at the Accrington Literary Club with stories about her alleged love affair with the novelist Martin Amis but I’ve managed to discourage her. She’s a local 'Character' frequently appearing in the Gazette through her eccentric behaviour -- sometimes getting together with loony Linda & parading about the town centre naked or else making extravagant claims about UFO's which appear to her in the night; aliens visit her and give her mysterious objects such as empty boxes and other miscellaneous trash. She brings her 8 dogs to the local Public Baths and chucks them in, willing or not, to the displeasure of idling old grannies. Re-housing seems out of the question, attempts to do so result in her filling the rooms with hay & stray dogs. The stench becomes unbearable. Before I left she signed a copy of Amis’ 'London Fields’, tattered and stained; it turned out to be a library book due back in September 1997. I left her puffing away on a foul smelling cigar, dogs in a howling frenzy, cars rumbling on the flyover nearby. Crossing the muddy field I waded through refuse and God knows what. It’s a strange old world.

Please note -- I AM NOT HOWARD JACOBSON AND THE 'DAILY TELEGRAPH' CAN BUGGER OFF!