Chapter Text
[sometime in 1996, two years before next chapter]
•••
Sad, drunk, and poorly.
Graham Coxon wasn't trying to write lyrics when he first thought of those words. He was trying to describe his displaced state of mind as his actions, or at least the first few actions he can recall when he was under the influence, came back to him. The rest of his memories then on blocked by alcohol.
In that severe level of intoxication, he pictures that his psyche had overfilled him, flowed through his actions devoid of restraint. He didn't need to know what, he knew it consisted of something he wouldn't be proud of, yet again. A lashing out to someone he was trying to keep an impression with. A stunt done in variable success. A joke landing in variable levels of effectiveness. The general idea of what the actions could be was enough an unpleasant thought that he hopes would remain shrouded in mystery.
Sad, drunk, and poorly
At that moment he was the embodiment of those three words, his head pulsating pain as he came into terms of his waking up from a blackout. He finds hmself lying on the wooden floorboards of his house in Camden. He always had an affinity to floors whenever he was under some sort of influence. His body felt heavy and immobile. His willpower a mush, as he tried to initiate himself getting up, and failing. Sad, drunk, and poorly.
He didn't want to think anymore at that moment, he was just wallowing in weariness from the shame he knew was going to fall for him.
It felt like hours of time and consciousness had passed when Graham finally mustered up the courage to rise. He sits up, his joints cracking, adjusting to the new change in position. He sits for a while, his thoughts empty but drifting. Once again he stays in that position for another while, then manages to stand up and sit on his bed.
Right by his bedside, to Graham's relief, he finds his wallet and keys, with a note underneath, written in a recognizable scraggy handwriting.
Suddenly a memory came back to him, He recalls something about yelling at someone at the pub the previous night, someone who had to receive the blows of his brewing negative thoughts for the past week, distilled into verbal or physical jabs.
He knows how harsh his words can get with alcohol's influence. What he was yelling about he couldn't remember for the life of him, that being the upper limit of his memory.
He tries to detect sensations in his body for pains and bruises, which are miraculously absent, except for the one radiating in his head.
His eyes averted the note for a bit. He wasn't ready to read the words as he realizes who the owner of the handwriting was.
If youre feeling better come to the studio. we start at 11
- D
P.S. i didn't leave you on the floor you insisted on laying there
It could only be the one and only Damon Albarn.
Oh great, Graham thought bitterly, embarrassed once again about the idea of needing help, of some sort of savior for him to get by.
The great Damon Albarn saves the day again. Surprise, surprise.
Guilt then slowly sinks into Graham. His memory only permits him to recall in fragments. He recalls his aggravated mood, his yelling to Damon, who looked apologetic. It got to the point where some fellows had to restrain him from Damon, and despite that, Damon was the person who managed to drag him home, put his items on the bedside, and even manage to write a note for him.
Whatever they fought about it was probably trivial, or maybe it was his blackout drunkenness looking for trouble once again. He was getting tired of Damon seeing him like this, like someone requiring monitoring and attention, like some lost lamb dragged along by a shepherd, who causes himself harm when the shepherd's eye is turned for a second.
He had been unpredictable as of recent history; unstable. When he realizes this, he had the urge to reach for a drink. Something then occurs to him. He realizes it is his body working mindlessly as if it had a curse embedded in him, a gear that learned to turn from his coping. He had been an empty creature with no intention, just a sprawling idea of himself.
He needs to anchor himself, he needs a jumpstart, he needs to learn, to fix himself. And thus, he brews his resolve. He decides to try to quit alcohol, to get back to stability, or at least, this idea of stability. It's an abstraction yet to be finalized.
He, instead, feels a foregoing sense of dread. of being sober, having to resume the normal occurrence of thoughts and having to deal with them as how a normal person in society would.
Once again, Graham feels that pang. Of loneliness, of pressure, of the seeming permanence of this feeling. He yearns to return to that zone. A form of intoxication, induced dizziness, light euphoria washing over him as he ignores consequence. Something about sobriety made him shudder. Is this greater good something he could handle?
He carries himself towards the fridge just to find a singular bottle containing a modest amount of whiskey, just enough to fill one glass.
He takes the final swig as he declares to himself, Last drink, I hope, savoring the rest of what the bottle could offer.
Trying to find something to occupy his mind, absentmindedly he paced across his house, from the kitchen to the living room to the bathroom then back to the living room. He caught his guitar staring at him from its seat in the couch, calling to be played, to which he complied.
He remembered the three words that came from his awakening. He thought of Damon being a sort of savior to him. He thought of this newfound attempt of sobriety. This song, he thinks, would likely never see the light of day, kept in a notebook somewhere, left forgotten, in futility. Maybe it could, but in a solo album, if he's even allowed to make one, if he makes an effort to remember it. Even if it's going nowhere, it has to get out.
A tune then came by Graham's mind.