BRADY’S BAD FUCKED I wrote it on the bedroom wall, in yellow day-glo marker. Nice colour, blended well with the years of nicotine. I haven’t taken my medication for the past week. If I couldn’t go a few days without the lithium, I was in deep shit. I’d gotten the job ten days earlier and it entailed a whack of pub-crawling. Booze and medication Is the worst of songs. Sing that! A job of pure simplicity. Find a white girl in Brixton. Piece of cake. What I should have done is doubled my medication and lit a candle to St Jude — maybe a lot of candles. Add in a lethal ex-con, an Irish builder obsessed with Gene Hackman, the biggest funeral Brixton has ever seen, and what you get is the Blues like they’ve never been sung before.