Fanzine
Buzzcocks, Joy Division, The Fall, Chris Sievey
Grass Roots Books
15th August 1979

Contributors:
Linder, Nicola, Roaring 80s, Andy, Neil, J.C., Martin, J, John, Eddie Manley, Stanley Knife, John D, Irna and Jayne, D.J. Turner, Hyphen, Roger Mitchell, Agapanther 2, Rupert, Ned the Donkey, Ed Thomas, Richard, New Hormones, Jez, Terry, Nick, Kev, Alan's Friend, M.Clancy, Jack, Volunteer Groupy, C.I.D, Fugue, CEE WEEEZ.
Offices: c/o Grass Roots, 109 Oxford Road, Manchester 1

TRANSCRIPTION:

PICK YOURSELF A JOB
I urinate. The drizzel pisses down on me. I am wrapped in a tight ball, my small jacket straining to cover me. The stench of urine and vomit penetrates my dormant senses.My mouth is a desert,ripped and slashed with too many cigs.I look at my watch. Six-thirty a.m.
I am aware of grey.Grey concrete.Where am I? Through the bleary morning I recognise the angular shapes of the poly,Aytoun street.
My loose coins are scattered around me like wreathes. Oh yes, the disco is over. No more dancing. I want to be home. I want to feel well. I do not want to be alive.
Memories of last night are still with me,, resting uneasily in my stomach. I try to vomit. I dribble down my chin like some spastic. My hands are black with dirt; my hair matted with vomit; the vomit that clots upon my jacket; my pants are ripped and filthy.
I try to stand up. I am alone. I stumble. I am alone. I feel so alone. There is no one.Iam shaking.I am shaking violently.
In my pockets my cigs have been flattened by my weight.My arm is bleeding from some unremembered wound.I am drinking away some unremembered pain.
I sway,Aytoun street.I make my way up to piccadilly.No one is about. The job centre. Oh!such pretty posters. 'COME IN AND PICK YOURSELF A JOB'.......Easy as that.Yeh.Smile.
I cannot see colour.It is one uniform grey.Grey day.A strange unique Manchester colour.Walking up past the formidable Queen Victoria;tree-murky green;arndale centre-yellow phallus;to let;bus 192,Hazel gro;shrub;ladies-locked;my stop;roadsweeper;i feel sick.
I wait at my stop,propped up by the barrier.Drinking because of the barrier.I can't tell you.You won't listen.Can't communicate.No, it wasn't bad sleeping out last night.I was too numb to remember.Not her.not me.not anything anymore.
The woman at the bus-stop edges away from me.The man hates me.A bus comes 211,Hattersly.It's not going to take me home.Do I want to go home,alone.It leaves.I am on my own again.wait.wait.wait.Oh!yes, I remember last night...waiting in the pub for you.waiting for you.Ah! have another,have another,you're not there,you're not there.Wait for you.You are a bus.
The next bus,211,oh shit,i feel sick.I turn away from the people the bus,Queen Victoria.In a lonely hole I throw up.Venemous bright yellow vomit.I panic and think I am going to die.I wipe my mouth with my jacket sleeve,and climb onto the bus,211.I fall asleep.Everyone on the bus looks at me in my dream,me shaking.
Stopjerk,Hyde,I get off.I lie on the floor.Wait again.Again.Will I wait for you again? Time.210.Home.The bus crawls up to Gee Cross.Home is up a hill.A hill I again climb.Climb into bed.I feel uncomfortable.My clothes smell.
No, you don't mean a thing to me.
love Ned the Donkey
xxx