“Nico had worked out how to use the video recorder. Two honest English yeomen, John Cooper Clarke and Echo, were holding target practice in the kitchen. The targets were small black flies on the ceiling, the missiles were jets of blood squirted from hypodermic needles. The brand new leatherette sofa had already become pock-marked with cigarette burns. Tea had been constantly made, rarely drunk, mostly spilt on the off-white electrostatic nylon carpet. The paper light shade had been torn down and... mutilated by Echo, as it reminded him of a ‘student gaff’. A naked lightbulb exposed the bare walls. There had been a small mirror, but that had also been removed. There were two armchairs, the brown plastic type covered with cheap foam cushions; your neck stuck to the back whenever you tried to get up. No cooking had ever been done in the kitchen, but the place was filthy. The walls splattered with blood, putrefying takeaway cartons stacked on every available surface. In the fridge was a slow, sad, pink effluent waterfall of melted ice-cream.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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