Saturday, 4 April 2009

Tin Drummer's Breakfast, by David Peace

I am delighted to announce this guest post by David Peace, who has rendered my breakfast this morning in his own inimitable style. Enjoy!

Hunger. The constant rumble rumble of my empty stomach. Empty. Fucking empty. Always fucking empty. I walk downstairs hearing the birds outside. They sing. Sing for others, not for me. Not for Tin bloody Drummer. Because that's who I am. Who I always am. Tin Drummer.

Tin Drummer.

I cut the bread. Slice. The knife catches the light. I stuff the bread into the toaster and put the kettle on. It is the most warmth I will receive today.

Today they will laugh and jeer at me, when I arrive at the gym. Spiteful, hateful place. They hate me for what I am. Tin Drummer. Fat bastard, they will say. Fat bastard, their looks will say.

The kettle boils. Steam. Mist. Obscuring the day before me. I pour the boiling water into my mug. Boil, Tin. Boil. Boil.


I spread the butter on the hot toast. Flatten it. It fades away. Fading. Always fading. My butter. Tin Drummer's butter.

I eat the toast. Hot. Burning, burning, burning.

But I don't care. I never care about hot toast.

Because I am Tin.

Tin Drummer.

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