Friday, 31 May 2013

mixture of truth and lies

A Quick One

What do I know? I know about awkwardness. That’s as much as I know about. People walk around all finding it easy to converse, wearing their smiles like it comes so easily. Me, I need to practice that stuff. Had to be taught it from a young age. I could feel my body taking in new things, but never really understanding them - only doing them because I was told they were the right things to do.

Age nine, walking around MFI with my family, my sister told me off because I was scratching my balls. Why? I thought. My balls are itchy, and the guy showing us the kitchen probably couldn’t see.

Age six me and a friend had a conversation; he told me about a girl he hated called Pippa. I said, casually, “why don’t you kill her?” When he realised I wasn’t joking, he told me that murder was bad. I realised that until then, I had thought of killing as something that was just done to bad people. Blame the murderous Teenage Mutant Hero Turtles (now renamed Ninja in the UK - no idea why they were ‘Hero’ in the first place and I can’t be arsed to google to find out why).

Age twelve I hit a girl in the playground on the head because she was being mean to my friend. She was called Lucy. When she started crying, I remember saying “Oh, come on” and hit her again. An intervention by the teacher would have been beneficial, but no teachers were around. Subsequently, when she cried in a way that let me know she was really hurt, and really upset, I garnered it from the sound, and watched her run away. The fact that she was too scared of me even to tell a teacher about it still haunts me. For the rest of my time in primary school she became quieter, and I never once apologised.

Secondary school I used to pick on a kid because he was a Christian. Usual things: pouring drink down the back of his trousers at lunch, kicking the football at him during lunch... by this point, even I knew there was something else at work here, some force that no longer felt like it was me. I would go home and tell my parents what a nice day I had, and believe it. It was only when I went to bed that my mind would come to life, voices would haunt me from the day, cries and whispers, all entreating me to sit up and remember, and do something to myself as punishment, because nobody else in the world seemed to be willing to do anything.

So I took the knife to my arm and cut. When I first did it, I thought I was doing it as a joke, because I’d read about teenagers doing it to themselves. I thought they were silly and meaningless. I decided I wasn’t doing it for the same reasons as them. I wasn’t really doing it, anyway. It was just a thing that happened, and the scars on my arms afterward would probably go away.

One evening I looked at my arm and saw what a mess it had become. The point where I cut into the scar tissue to see what would happen was the point where my mum walked in and screamed the house down. I wanted her to be angry, to tell me what I was doing was silly, and that I was naughty... I even wanted her to laugh at me. Anything would have been better than the tears and the embrace. I didn’t want any of that. I wanted someone to shove me into the light and hold me up to all my sins.

Instead I got home schooled. My mum decided that school was making me this way. For the next two years I sat at home, losing whatever friends I had, losing whatever will to live I had left, wishing and hoping that it might all come together somehow after this was over, that going to college might change things round. Those two years I felt parts of my brain come away. I looked at things on the Internet that I knew I would never forget.  The cutting stopped, replaced by a new will to die: computer games. I played, but it wasn’t really playing. It was a duty to the hatred within me to make everyone I played against as miserable as I was. To bring someone to tears was the ultimate victory. In those moments, I lost whatever regrets I had over the things I had done, over the girl who I had hurt in primary school. She was gone, in the past, never to be seen again.

The first day of college let me know that I had wasted my life waiting for it. I was ignored, and rightly so. My ego shone through like a boil. I was not here. Whoever I was had departed. There was only this shell, a remnant.

Deciding to kill myself, I logged onto my computer one last time. A Facebook friend request. That never normally happened. It was from Lucy Hearst, the girl I had fucked up in primary school. She probably wanted to add me, tell me I was a wanker, and then unfriend me. Fine. I deserved it. I accepted it, and waited for her to come online. I said ‘hello’ and waited for the semi-illiterate stream of abuse.

Hi, how ru? Long time :) she said.
Im ok ty. You?
Not bad ty.
Hope u dont mind me asking but y did u add me?
I was mean to you.

There it was. It was out there.

In primary school. I hit you.
Yeah i remember

There was a long pause. I guess it was now or never.

That’s ok. I’m surprised u still remember lol
I do. It was really mean. I dunno what i was thinking
You were a kid its fine
Is it really? Ar eyou just being nice?
Errrr lol
You’re just being a bit intense :P
Sorry. I’m just expecteing you to say something like ‘ure an arsehole’ and then unfriend me
Lol wtf
Well, i’m not. I just want edo tsee an old school friend
You think of me as an old friend?
Even thouh i was mean?
You were only mean once. You were ok otherweise. Dw about it! :)
Lol but what
You really dont think i’m a mean person?
Well i dont know u that well, i dunno what uve done since. Killed any cats?
Err lol no
Then ure probably ok

I stared at that for a moment. ”ure probably ok”. It was lacking in proper grammar or punctuation. Incredibly basic vocabulary. And yet it was the nicest thing anyone had said to me, apart from my parents, who had always been nice to me just because I was their kid. I was probably OK. Maybe I was OK.

Thanks, that means a lot
That’s ok :)

Then came some stuff I look back on as childish immature stuff, where I got all hyper-emotional and thought I was in love and asked her out and eventually scared her off but, for a moment there, I was OK. I would never have a conversation with her again, but she remained a Facebook friend - and somehow, that was all that counted.

As for me, I went on. Didn’t cut myself as much, did some bad things, did some good things. But, I guess I turned out alright.

I’m Morgan Freeman. This was my story.

Thursday, 30 May 2013

a result of listening to the clancy brothers

Scraggy mcjim
Scraggy mcjim
Had a face like an arse did old scraggy mcjim

Now he married john’s daughter for a farthing and six
Pulled down his red pants and got raping real quick
‘cept john’s daughter paula was a randy old wench
she grabbed his fat cock and shoved it between her dentures

she soon got to sucking and scraggy was led
he lay there feeling peaceful as the clouds passed o’erhead
he thought about england and thought about killing
after this, he thought, he’d get to enniskillen

scraggy mcjim
scraggy mcjim
had a face like an arse did old scraggy mcjim

now paula got bored of wrapping tongue round his cock
if he came, she thought, he’d probably get over her smock
so she chomped down so hard that he screamed like a horse
ran screaming from the room, blood dripping from his balls

scraggy mcjim
scraggy mcjim
had a face like an arse did old scraggy mcjim

paula was a simpleton, everyone in town knew that
she walked like a donkey and wore a straw hat
but no one ever crossed her after her time with scraggy
her dentures could send a man to hell in a jiffy

scraggy mcjim
scraggy mcjim
had a face like an arse did old scraggy mcjim

scraggy spent his days brooding in the pub’s corner
still kept his friends, was never thought a loner
it was only when he died that peace could he rest in
coz his cock was lost forever in paula’s intestine

scraggy mcjim
scraggy mcjim
had a face like an arse did old scraggy mcjim

Coronation Street "All Based On a Novel"

Coronation Street, Britain's longest-running soap opera, is all the work of an author, it has emerged.

Trevor Blank, who died in 1974 aged 93, wrote The Coronation Street Chronicles from the time he was a nineteen-year-old in public school up until his death.

The novel, which runs at 750,000 pages, was kept a secret until last week when, between takes, Sally was overheard by a runner saying "What happens in Chapter 12,000?". The runner, who prefers to use the pseudonym Jack Rat, decided to google as heard as he could (using "quote marks and shit") until he stumbled upon the novel being sold second-hand on Amazon for eight million pounds.

He sent a private message to the seller, asking who it was, and, to his surprise, they replied. The letter ran as follows:

Dear Smysdon Plunktington-Withers,

Thank you for your correspondence. Owing to my current gambling habit, I have accrued a debt of six million pounds. My father's novel, which we promised never to sell or reveal to the public, is being sold here, in the most high-profile place I can think of. Desperate times call for desperate measures.

Jane Blank, Son of Trevor Blank

P.S. Are you going to make your payment out as a cheque or in cash?

Jack Rat send the correspondence to his local newspaper, which ran the story, garnering enough interest in the local area to prompt swift enquiry to the national press. Finally, at a press conference last week, the producers, actors, and even tea-people of the Coronation Street set gathered to reveal the full truth: that they had taken the entire narrative of the past fifty years from the novel, and that they still had a quarter of the novel to go, and until then, Coronation Street would run until 2025.

In accordance not with the family's wishes, ITV have released The Coronation Street Chronicles as an e-book, and will explain carefully to the family that just because it is not a physical book, it will still sell and make profit.

Having read the novel over the course of a month, I am surprised at how well the novel predicted the future, having been written in the Victorian era. Passages such as,

"Morning, Mother," spoke Sarah-Lou on her MOBILE PHONE,


"Ey'oop John," said Fanny, whilst eating PIZ-ZA,

bear witness to Blank's remarkable ability to foresee future happenings such as Italian microwavable food, and phones which run on microwaves. It's all microwaves, according to Blank - a theme that runs throughout the novel.

"I'm not sure what t' do about t' neighbours making noise next door," wept Curly's wife.
"Fry 'em," said Curly. "Kill 'em all. Microwaves."

The character Curly, originally written in the novel as a Texan with murderous intent, was later changed for the series, in keeping with the novel's traditional Lancashire grittiness. Commenting on the changes made to the book, Blank's daughter moans:

"I really don't think they needed to change as much as they did. Vera Duckworth, for example. She was fine as a duck."

The novel occasionally veers into fantasy territory, with Hilda Ogden staving off an invasion from a dragon and Ken engaging in hand-to-hand combat with an army of skeletons. Nevertheless, the novel is decent, and I would say it ranked amongst one of the greatest works of modern times. The adaptation, however, probably stands as the superior work, if only for the episode where Rita and that all get stoned on pancakes or whatever. In the original story, they all actually got stoned to death.

Wednesday, 29 May 2013

Lynne Frederick

I was making toast when I flicked onto BBC 2. As I waited for the toast, I could hear the movie that was playing. Posh English people. Seemed like a nice film, like something along the lines of Railway Children (pun intended). I settled down, with my toast, and decided to watch it just to pass the time. Better than watching Homes under the Hammer or whatever.

The film was called The Amazing Mr. Blunden - a stupid title, but a title nonetheless. As it went on, I became enthralled. The storyline was about two children who had to go back in time to save some other children from a house fire in a big posh house. I won't spoil it, but I was surprised at how advanced the discourse was on the nature of time travel and how we affect the past.

More than anything, I was struck by the refined and charming lead actress. Of course, afterwards I had to google her. Lynne Frederick. Never heard of her. I assumed as she had got older she had found roles on television. I was surprised I hadn't seen her in anything.

Wikipedia tells the story thus:

She was married to Peter Sellers on 18 February 1977; they divorced in 1980. Although Sellers and Frederick had come to a financial agreement in their divorce and the actor was in the process of excluding her from his will a week before he died of a heart attack (on 24 July 1980), she inherited almost his entire estate worth an estimated £4.5 million on a technicality, as the divorce decree had not been finalised.
She reportedly suffered from severe depression because of Sellers' death and attempted suicide numerous times.
In her later years Lynne's health suffered and she died in 1994, aged 39. Victoria, Peter Sellers' daughter by his previous marriage to Britt Ekland, last saw Lynne three weeks before her death and subsequently stated, "I was so shocked. Lynne was sitting in her kitchen, dressed in a filthy kaftan. She could hardly move. She was swigging vodka directly from a jug with a handle on the side."

So yeah. Pretty sad for someone who seemed to have it all: beauty, money, talent. Stupid how things like this can move me to sadness but there you go.

Tuesday, 28 May 2013


So bad

So painful

I'm actually gonna die



Monday, 27 May 2013

He is credited with the popular quotation "it's not how many breaths you take, but the moments that take your breath away" used in the 2007 film Hitch starring Will Smith.

'He' being....

of course..

Genghis Khan

Sunday, 26 May 2013

"It's OK To Hate Black People Now", Says Head of Metropolitan Police

Following the recent attacks by black people upon white people in Woolwich and Morden (home of this very blog), Chief Inspector Orr has given approval for those not sure about where they stand to come down firm on the "whiter side of the racial fence".

Orr, 59, who has held the post for eight months, gathered reporters for an inpromptu press conference yesterday evening, making his intentions clear from the moment we were subject to not only retinal scans, but skinital scans whereupon the DNA of our skin was checked for a percentage of "unholiness". Having witnessed Orr's brief conversion to Extreme Catholicism back in December, this didn't come as a surprise. What did come as a surprise was when, upon entering the press conference arena area thing, my erstwhile friend and colleague Fatima Whitbo'o was yanked from my side and ushered out of the room. A police officer whose cap bore the signet "Orr The Cleanser" stared at me for a full twenty seconds, before whispering my ear "do not let anyone know that our tests failed."

I nodded, aided by his hand clasped on top of my head which forced me somewhat in that overall direction. Those around me wrote notes down; unfortunately, most of the notes appeared to be pictures of boobs. What was happening here? Had Orr gone mad? I held my Mad-o-meter up to him and it exploded. Shit. Best to just sit back and do my job. I proceeded to listen to his introductory words whilst drawing boobs on my iPad interface.

"Ladies and gentlemen of the... Jewry," began Orr, smirking: a smirk that went around all round the room, like a Mexican wave of hatred. A spic wave, if you will. Like some sort of puppet on some sort of string, I found my mouth advertently sneer, rather like Vigo from Ghostbusters II, but with less leather involved. Orr was on top form today. My job was to remain a detached observer, like someone working for Reuters: never write down the word 'terrorist'. Also, never call someone a tyrant, a racist, a diatribemonger, or an overall prat. Just note it down.

My hand continued to draw boobs nonetheless.

At this point it occured to me that perhaps Orr had hypnotised us all somehow. The power of language to create a seismic racist outlook. Have a break. Have a nig-nog. No. Must fight this. I am a good person. Don't let him win. Fight back.

I stood up, and said "This, sir, is madness."

The room bristled and bridled, like a cat presented with a piece of orange.

"Sir," he said, head swiveling in interest, like an owl presented with a piece of orange, "Who do you work for?"
"I work for myself. I am a freelance."
"There are no freelances. Descartes used words to that effect. You know as well as I do that nothing you do is free, that you are presented with conflict every day and that you are never in the wrong."
"That is true. Earlier today some wanker cut me up. Called himself a barber." The room nodded knowingly.
Orr grinned. "So you see, someone else is to blame. Isn't it possible your head is shaped the wrong way, and that any haircut on your bonce will look rubbish?"
"Never," I said, slowly trying to sit back down. "My skull is perfection itself."
"My point is proven."

I squinted. Then I realised I had to stop writing because all I'd written down were a picture of boobs as well as the word "fudge"

Thursday, 23 May 2013

Road Runner

Blade Runner

Someone chasing after a being considered inferior

The only difference is Deckard was successful


in conclusion...

Road Runner is a lesbian

Why are Beheadings So Disturbing?

So I've seen a couple of people be beheaded in the news recently, and it makes me wonder why to me the idea of someone being beheaded is somehow the worst way to be killed. Sure, quicksand, rape, murder, and many more! ways of dying are obviously worse in the 'being worse than' sense, but somehow being beheaded just takes the biscuit.

I can tell this is going to be a stupid piece of 'writing' but fuck it.

So, someone in the news whose face looks all happy but grainy therefore letting you know they're dead is dead (I appear to have forgotten how to begin and end sentences). As a result we wonder why they died. Their head was chopped off. I think the thing that first made me repulsed by beheading was the knowledge that it would kill you stone dead. Second of all is the idea that somehow there's that thirty seconds of being still alive and aware of what's happened to you.

I think though, it's the finality of it. It's like - everything that makes you you is reduced to a ball that anyone can kick about. The rest of your body flops around like the useless piece of junk it is. Inside your head is a soul, and by taking it away from your body, your killer has shown that they have taken not only your life, but your dignity by taking your entire body away. Or something.

If I knew someone I knew had been decapitated to death, it would be as if they hadn't even been given the chance to die in a dignified way. This even applies to accidental decapitation.
"How'd your mum die?"
"A piece of debris flew at her."
"Shit. Where to?"
"Her neck."
"Her head flew clean off."
"Lol. Fuck."
It's the reduction of life to a comical stupid and cartoon-like end that makes it worse. It's like the death that no one wants.

It's the horror of that possibility when you can feel your own head sliding away from your body and realising "Oh. My Head Has Come Off. There is no way I can possibly survive this. They'll have to sew my head back on. But everyone will know that it actually come off."

Maybe it's just the sheer brutality. I guess I apply this horror-death to the idea of generally being chopped in half by anything death-related. It's the reduction of the body to someone else's plaything, mere seconds after having been someone completely alive. No space in between to actually 'die'. No chance to scream in agony and rage against the dying of the light.

That's it perhaps.

Except that someone who dies in an explosion has the same suddenness. I guess finding the charred remains of a loved one is kind of worse than finding their head.
Except the head is the face of the person you loved, now shorn both of expression and the body you expect to find attached.
I'm not sure where I'm going with this but it reads like the last diary entry of a crazy person :P

Monday, 20 May 2013

RIP Ray Manzerek. I wonder if he'll be cremated.


- So, Europe.
- Huh. Yeah. Fucking Europe. Don't even get me started.
- I... don't want to get you started.
- But that's what we said to the Germans back in '39, wasn't it? But get started they did.
- Yeah... but the Germans now are different.
- Time? Yeah right. Invented by Europe.
- What do you mean?
- Time? Space? Spacetime? Relativity? Einstein's theory of relativity? Einstein was German. Time as a concept is European. Free your mind.
- I quite like time. It makes talking to boring people not seem like the eternity it promises to be.
- Boring? I'll tell you what's boring. Listening to European MEPs whittering on about human rights laws, telling us what to do, even though we aren't connected to them at all. They know nothing about being English.  Pulling out of the EU but staying in the EEA would create one million English jobs. The left-wing media don't tell you that, do they?
- Er, well, considering you got that off the BBC website...
- Listen, boyo. You don't tell me what I do or do not browse. What I do is my own business, not yours.
- I just...
- You're part-European, aren't you?
- Well yes, I'm half-German, but I don't see how...
- That tells me everything. Of course you're pro-Europe.
- I'm not pro-anything. I genuinely want to hear both sides of the argument.
- Oh please. As if it's even worth listening to the lies given to you by those in favour of staying. It's all corrupt. All lies.
- Right. But we live in a democracy, which stems from the Magna Carta, a document credited with the rise of free speech, and as a British citizen, I exercise my right to hear both sides of any argument.
- Well, it's pretty obvious which side you're going to agree with. I know your type. Raised to believe that gays are good. Raised alongside blacks, thinking you're not even better than them. Raised as a socialist despite inheriting daddy's money to pay for your out-of-touch university course.
- And you?
- I went... it's not about me. It's about you.
- It's about neither of us. It's about Europe.
- Yes. Europe. The whole thing.
- Everything?
- Everything. It's all that matters to most politicians these days. Everyone needs a scapegoat - we've finally found one.
- So really, you need Europe to be the bane of your life, otherwise all your mistakes will be yours.
- Yes. Like staying in the EU.
- Yeah but... if you leave the EU and things are worse, you'll have no one to blame.
- Yeah but... things won't get worse.
- Yeah but... there will always be bad things in life. Like spiders.
- Spiders will be erradicted when we leave the EU.
- Oh, right. So you're insane?
- Insanity is a European concept invented by Voltaire.
- Erm.
- 'Erm' is a hesitation word deriving from the Old Saxon word 'Nooom' which itself was descended from the Vikings who were European.
- You're retarded. This entire piece is retarded.

Sunday, 19 May 2013


Ok, so when Mia broke up with me, about two nights later, I compiled a playlist based on my 'emotion'.

Strange thing is, now that I'm with Donna and I'm the happiest I think I've been for like... ever... I still listen to the playlist. Its original signifier has slipped - instead I accidentally made the best playlist possible. It's a bit like the Silmarils - I've distilled whatever mattered into something better than the sum of its parts. Or something. I haven't read that book in years. And I remember Mia as a sequel to Sacha, nothing more.

I may have posted this before, but I'm posting it again. I just honestly think it's a brilliant playlist.

Here it is.

The Rolling Stones - Moonlight Mile
Coldplay - Princess of China (Stick with me here)
Anoice - Finale 
Jack White - Take Me With You When You Go
Emilia Torrini - Bleeder
PJ Harvey - Long Snake Moan
Christina Perri - Jar of Hearts
Pearl Jam - Jeremy
Joni Mitchell - I Had a King
Nightcall - gits from the drive soundtrack
Low - Laser Beam
Led Zeppelin - the Wanton Song
Martin Lauridsen - Magum Mysterium
Majora's Mask Soundtrack - Song of Healing
Terraplane Blues - Robert Johnson
The Crack of Doom - Howard Shore
Sleep - Go-qualia
Garbage - Blood for Poppies
Raconte-Moi Une Histoire - M83

Tongue in Cheek Analysis

Ok, so the first track is just surprisingly tender and pretty for the Stones. It uses the pentatonic scale, giving it a foreign Chinesey feel. This pentatonic stuff continues with the Coldplay track, in which Rhianna provides a great counterpart to Chris Martin's plaintative pleas for her to come back or whatever. The final lyric of 'you stole my star' appealed to a man-child like me who was undergoing the traumatic experience of having to deal with emotions. At this point, the theme of despair really hits home - and the next track (truly epic imo) really lets rip with the despair. Sounding like the theme to 28 Days Later made better, it wipes away the plaintitve pentatonic themes, going full pelt for the minor key. Its length adds weight to the overall theme. The playlist has reached its heart. The planes crash and all is over. Can there be any recovery from this? Also, Moonlight Mile and this track are both finale tracks to their albums, as is the next one.
Following on, in a direct contrast, is the understated and jolly intro to the Jack White track. Despite also being a final track of its album, it doesn't have the doom-laden feel of a final track. Instead, it jumps around and seems to shift between major and minor. I've ascertained that its melody is actually in Lydian which, to me, is the perfect way to depict that up-down non-state of the vacuous mourner. I love this track.
And then, constrasting the rock, is a beautiful (end of album) track which I put in because I distinctly remember trying to get Mia to like it, thinking "oh, if she hears this, she'll really know I love her" whereas she listened, said "dem lyrics" and then nothing happened. She continued her life and did not gush. I knew then this track would never be our track. But it exists still. It is tender, and loving. It could be mine and Donna's, but... I don't want to pin Donna in like that. She's too good for me to treat her like some kind of hollow replacement, fulfilling a role. So the track stays in the wilderness, and perhaps only mine. "When things go wrong, you'll find you're a bleeder." No longer my attempt to appeal to the 'you cut yourself and that's ok' demographic. "You're a man, humble as a hope." It's me. It's stupid that it took me until now to realise the word was 'hope' and not 'horse'.
Then BAM. Just a brilliant segue into the PJ Harvey. I chose this just to get myself out of that lovey-dovey-holding-onto-the-past bullshit. The playlist enters phase two.
Jar of Hearts next - probably my favourite break up track ever. Amazing melody, and solid lyric. Followed by Jeremy, a paean to being fucked-up and hateful. Pretty cool contrast.
Then I Had a King. It's a sophisticated, melodically complex track with poetic lyrics and shit. "I can't go back there anymore, you know my keys won't fit the door". It was my attempt to see into the woman's POV. Joni Mitchell is good for that. I'm kind of joking. I dunno. :P
Nightcall is just a great track. It works well as a contrast to the accoustic track before it. Contrast between the robotic verse and the melodic chorus represents the ups and down of post-breakup brainwrongs. At this point I began to realise that I just wanted to make a good playlist, so the breakup aspect of it goes. Still, at this point I think the playlist sustains its strength. "I WANT TO DRIVE YOU THROUGH THE NIGHT, DOWN THE HILLS."
Laser Beam - a brilliant contrast yet again. This track is one of the two extra-excellent tracks by Low from their 'Things We Lost int he Fire' album. It's the sound of 3 am, drunk and alone, wishing for someone back. I find it sounds so extraordinarily beautiful and sad that I just know it's been used on some teen film about a kid being in love with a gay.
The only misfire on this playlist is the Led Zeppelin song. Usually, contrast works well, but I just realise that... although I find this track quite groovy, it doesn't work as a stand alone track. And I don't like Led Zeppelin much. They're definitely not a band capable of profundities or even real beauty. And the track before it is too beautiful to 'wake up' from. The other wake up track, the PJ Harvey, worked because it was going from brilliance to brilliance. This is going from beauty to shit.
Which is a shame because Magum Mysterium is really lovely. Sure, it sounds like Karl Jenkins, but I like that. It is rather overwhelmed by the previous track. What does work is that it's a longish piece and emotionally powerful enough to recover.
A perfect bridge between the two tracks is the Song of Healing from the Majora's Mask game in Zelda. A Lydian piece, it represents the transition from bitterness to beauty. (I am being tongue in cheek, honest - this is how I felt at the time, alas)
Then a cool blues piece by Johnson. Just my favourite blues song. I'll never stop liking this. I like the gritty blues sound sandwiched between a bunch of classical pieces. Perhaps placed wrongly in the list - but perhaps the jollyish nature of his blues makes it seem more consolidatory than truly despairing.
Then next, a track which I think this piece is the greatest piece from the whole LOTR trilogy. Pure joy. My attempt to represent me finally attaining my way out.
Sleep - Go-qualia.... is the point where you sort of settle into a new reality. It's uncertain. It's grey, foreign, weird. I like this piece. Really good ambient.
Then there's a random Garbage track and an M83 track. By this point the playlist's lost its edge but y' know.

Ok, I've run out of energy and this is getting boring

Thursday, 16 May 2013

Helping a year seven aspie who, compared to my year 11 dude, is some proper mega aspie from like, books.

In Maths: "This is as easy as cherries."

In Science: "The word 'eclipse' comes from the Greek 'eclipsis'" to which another pupil asked "Do you have the Internet in your brain?"

I wish I was paid more to do this job. But at the same time... it's kind of refreshing just to be honest and realise my brain and my other shite mean I don't think I'll ever be cut out for, or really want, to have one of those proper job things.

I just don't believe enough in anything to be willing to work for than 35 hours a week for it, no matter what the pay.

Thursday, 9 May 2013


"Take a seat, Clark."
"Sure, Stan."
Stanley Beckett gestured to the seat upon which Clark Kent sat. Clark Kent scratched his head, wondering why he was being gestured at when he had already sat down. But that was the thing about mere mortals, he supposed: they operated on a slower trajectory than he did. He, the Superman, the finest specimen of humanity available to humanity.
"You know why I've brought you in here?" said Stan, leaning forward in a tent.
"Nope," said Clark, cheerfully putting his legs up on the desk, leaning back in a manner redolent of a red doll.
"You were seen flying over New York the other day."
Clark sat up straight. "What?"
"Got your attention now, haven't I?"
"But how? Do you work for Lex Luther?"
"No, you asshole." Stan lit a cigar in the manner of a man with no idea of what it is like to be a sausage.
"What then?"
"Binoculars. Someone saw you flying around, spinning in somersaults. Saving people from fires. Then going back to spinning around and generally fucking about. Rumour has it you even flew alongside a plane just to freak people out. How did you think you could get away with this?"
"I dunno," shrugged SUPERMAN, "I just thought being a demi-god meant I could get away with it. But what's the big deal anyway? Jeez - I save the world like, at least four times a month. Cut me a little slack. I'm just trying to make a little moolah here to fund my main project."
"But that's the problem," said Stan, pointing at the desk for emphasis, "This place here is your main project. We don't pay your thirty k a year to fuck around. Your name is Clark Kent. As in clerk. As in what your job is. Don't go thinking you're some big shot just because you can fly."
"And have superhuman strength."
"You threatening me, son?"
"No, just listing my powers."
"Don't get above your station, kid."
"I'm also invulnerable."
"Don't get cocky, kid."
"I have the ability to heal too."
"But if you're invulnerable, why do you need to heal?"
"I am faster than a speeding bullet. My speed is on par with The Flash's. I have X-Ray vision, intellect that is beyond genius-level, eidetic memory..."
"What's - "
"It means I know everything."
"... I can emit solar energy from my eyes. To quote Wikipedia's entry about me, 'The effective range of his beams are hundreds of feet it can also reach hundreds of miles wide instantly disintegrating a person.' End quote."
"Any person in particular?"
"No. Anyone."
"I have superhuman breath."
"Yeah. I can blow stuff. I once saved a town from a tornado by inhaling the twister into my fucking lungs."
Stan blew cigar smoke out in a surprised phoo. "Anything else?" he coughed.
"Superhuman hearing, superhuman vision, superhuman olfaction..."
"I can smell incredibly well."
"Ok. Is that really important?"
"Also, I am a master combatant. I have fought and learned from Wonder Woman and have learned advanced martial arts techniques from Batman. A am a decent swordsman and sword-maker, getting a B in my last sword-making exam, and I also know how to wield a hammer."
"Anyone can wield a hammer."
"A forty-ton hammer?"
"Well... maybe not." Stan stubbed a cigar out into a nearby ashtray, grinding it slowly and surely in a vague metaphor representing his phallus being stubbed out or his sadistic tendencies being transferred to this cigar instead of the man in front of him. "But really, Clark..."
"Go on."
"Why the fuck are you working here?"
"It's disguise."
"But why? If you really can do all this shit you just told me... why the fuck do you even need to disguise yourself? You are, as you say, a super man, and should therefore fear nothing. And you learned how to fight from Wonder Woman? I can now honestly say you fight like a girl."
"I'd kick your ass," Clark muttered.
"What was that, son?"
"Nothing, sir."
"That's what I thought." Stan wandered the office, staring into the photos of him back in the day. Memories washed over him like the juice from a miseaten peach: all sticky and orange. "See, son... why do you even need to learn kung fu if you have all these skills like superhuman sight?"
"Be honest, kid. You're not really as good as you think you are."
A zzzzzzzzzztttt sound emerged from the vicinity of Clark Kent.
"What was that?" said Stan, blinking.
"I just burned off your nose hairs using my laser sight. That's how super I am."
"Well, shit. That changes everything. I'm sold. Fuck it. You're promoted."
"Thank you, sir."
"Tell me... if you're a demi-god, then why are your flies undone?"
"Shit. Oh. Wait."
"Made you look."

And then Clark Kent went into the toilet. And knocked on the door.

"Who is it?"
"It's Superman."
"No. Superman."
"I'm... I'm busy."
"I can bust this door down with nothing but the power of thought."
"Fine. Come in then."
Stan beheld a pair of pants around which a man was settled. "What do you want?"
"Workplace bullying is a crime," said Superman, slapping a leaflet about bullying on the desktop. "Remember that, citizen!"
Then he flew off but crashed into the wall and then, like a fly, flew around and around for a while because he couldn't remember how to get out of the room. Meanwhile Stan did some work.

Saturday, 4 May 2013

Something about this day has made me feel unwell. Unwell because I attempted to stop space and time in give in entirely to an addiction threatening to undo any good work I might have achieved on a personal level since the debacle of 2012. Woke at two o clock, having slept like a corpse owing to taking a sleeping tablet just for the hell of it. Scraped butter over toast. Lounged. Don’t recall much else. Struggled to maintain meaning of things; instead eradicated reality through the same procedure.
Finally decided to ‘get up’ around one at night. Got dressed and made my way to the 24 hour Tesco. Spending hours inside a computer room didn’t used to faze me: in fact I used to do it routinely. But now there is someone worth living for. More than one person, in fact. A reality out there for me. I exist more than I used to. But old habits die hard.
Having got to Tesco, I discovered it was shut. A car park in which all I could do was light a cigarette. Thoughts of suicide flashed through my mind, neon yellow urine lights around me judges of my new addiction to the fake. For some reason there were two boys playing football. Who plays football in the middle of a deserted Tesco car park at half one on a Saturday night?
I drifted outwards, cigarette in hand. ‘Protection’ by Massive Attack came on the radio, and at once it seemed I was in a film. I watched as my hometown drifted by. A  couple holding hands. Shop fronts devoid of life. A few smokers outside a pub. Nothing new. Nothing unexpected.
Nothing lost by spending a day being unsociable. Nothing gained.