MY teenage bedroom screamed: “I am not like you, and I assure you I never will be.” The shelves were piled pointedly with books on sex and aggressive art, while my most repugnant records (Rektum, Revolting Cocks, erm, Ratt) were always at the fore. Cuttings about angry young men and slutty young girls papered the walls – around a shrine to Gaye Bykers On Acid – and I was trying to start a line in acrylic-painted cigarette cases adorned with sickly babies, long before the government health warnings caught on. The eagle-eyed might spot some snot-nosed, middle-class rebellion going on here. Otherwise, why would Hanoi Rocks’ ‘Dead By Xmas’ be blared out on repeat every December?
I was always desperate to prove myself by going one harder than anyone else, which left me deflated and baffled when there was no approval forthcoming. But as a result, it was not a warm room. I was working on becoming warm and likeable, watching girls at school closely for the way they crinkled their eyes when they laughed, or touched your hand in sympathy. It’s taken a couple more decades but I’ve nearly nailed it.
It strikes me not a lot has changed in my decorating skills though. I’ve got the explosive styling of an angry teenager – gender undetermined – and the paint job of a child. I decide the place needs a woman’s touch, and so set about tarting up my unfathomably-purchased chandelier (because every chandelier needs further adornment, right?) and making a medical box, like a grown-up would do. Um, THERE.
Keeper? How about you just suspend your judgment if you come round? If your eyes hurt I can apply first aid.
Yikes.
Hey man, now you're really living 
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