A beatnik cult filmstar down on his luck whos greatest perfomances reflect in both yours an my daily life, well known in the seventies of becomeing a parody of his most prolific perfomances often humouress tragic an kitsch.

A long lost folk guitar player, sensitive an enigmatic who released one fantastic (over looked in its day) album before vanishing in to the abyss of his own makeing, you just dont know?. Then i realised i probably did know, grumpy middle aged portly buisness men with too much self importance, drunken townies spitting at you an homless nutters looking for someplace to shootup.

Brighton has well over its share of crazy people, it has a hip image an attracts a lot alternative people. It also attracts every drunken bastard that escaped from manchester and has been liveing in london. in the summer this just becomes crazy, half of the countrys undesirable great unwashed head here looking for free parties, cheap warm beer and a spot on the beach to pitch thier dirty asses.

Dont get me wrong i am pretty charitable in fact a damn sight more than most. But im sure theres a line between unfortunate people down on thier luck and lazy dirty drunken scabby bastards who couldnt give a fuck whos piss they are sleeping in, i dont like to walk out of my place of work an find some guy pukeing onto my shoes then takeing a leak against the car parked next to me. This to me isnt very 'troubadour wandering cateweazle' happily pied pipering along spreading his new age wisdom and universal love to his brothers an sisters. This isnt very kerouac, finding his true spirit pursuing his hedonistic pleasures, chaseing the sun wherever it may take him, liveing for kicks.

Bukowski is a good read an we all have little charlie in us that likes to 'not give a fuck' and shout abuse to passers by because in our drunken stupor we all know the truth an the world just sometimes needs to listen!, but please kids no shitting in the streets its fucking sick