Saturday, 27 December 2014

Albums I've Listened to This Year

Been a bit of a shit one really - I haven't discovered or learned much either about myself or life, and what I have learned hasn't actually been inspiring. For the sake of getting myself to write again, I present the new albums I've tried in 2014.

1000 Forms of Fear - Sia
I remember Sia doing a weird song sampling some classical music back when I was 15. Hearing 'Chandlier' and being struck by the weirdness of the video, I wondered what magnificent singer possessed that demented, otherworldly voice. To my surprise, it was Sia - and, having heard Titanium was also by her, I decided Sia was a pop guru. Turns out, she is. Her newest album is melodic, raw lyrically, and her voice ranges from a growl to a piercing shriek, but it never goes anywhere beyond pop. No screams of insanity here - only a managed, careful approach to her dissection of her mind's fragility. A voice like Rhianna's, the writer of many of Rhianna's songs - Sia is Rhianna, but because she isn't beautiful, she has never gained that level of fame, a point she is currently in the habit of brilliantly depicting, by never appearing in live performances, frustrating audiences who only get to see her back whilst dancers such as the girl in the 'Chandelier' video dance along to the track. The hypocrisy of most the audiences that demand to see her face are the same people who would point out her physical flaws, because that's the culture we live in. Women who perform are judged on criteria that men are not. Sia is a brilliant artist, a talented, imaginative and original voice, who has chosen to go down the private path in order to let the music speak for herself - this, like Kate Bush's career choices, endears her to me and gains not only my respect, but the respect of those who can look beyond the pettiness surrounding the world of modern pop culture.

Choice tracks: Chandelier, Free the Animal, Elastic Heart, Straight for the Knife

Er, so well, having pledged not to write much, seeing as it's nearly three in the morning, I'm now surprised at the eruption of words. Still... I'm not planning to write this for much longer than half an hour.

Entire Daniel Johnston Discography... I never bothered with it yet.

AM - Arctic Monkeys

I'm not even sure if this is part of last year's round up, so I'll keep it short... the singles are good but I'm starting to forget why I liked them in the first place. A band that functions like a pack of Jaffa Cakes: they seem for a minute to be the most awesome thing you've ever eaten, but once digested, you wonder why you somehow feel worse for it.

An Awesome Wave - Alt-J
Oh, this was a fabulous listen. Quirky as fuck, but catchy. I didn't realise this was first listened to this year - must have been quite early on. Probably my favourite discovery. Hard to say what it is specifically I enjoyed about it, but it seemed so new to listen to. Skewed beats, garbled melodies, harmonies. The primal feeling I get from this is a bunch of sounds smashed together in irregular weirdness, but emerging is a record as refreshing as an unfinished simile.

Choice tracks: Dissolve Me, Matilda, Tessellate

Axis: Bold as Love - Jimi Hendrix
Only listened to it once, but I really enjoyed what I heard. The point where Hendrix started becoming a storyteller, seeing strange visions and following his muse. Fortunately the music came with him - the sound developed into something more like jazz, but never straying into wank.

Choice track: Spanish Castle Magic

The Best of Focus - Hocus Pocus
Demented as fuck but somehow great to listen to. Never quite gave this group much attention, although they're pretty cool.

Channel Orange - Frank Ocean
Only listened to it once, but it was a memorable listen, driving through France and so I had nothing to do but listen. I don't like hip hop generally, but this was a decent listen. Shame how every hip hop album ends up going on too long and descending into tracks featuring other cunts which have nothing to do with the album.

Deathconsciousness - Have a Nice Life
Best album I've heard this year. Listened to it over summer, drinking my year away, forming a habit that seemed to go hand in hand with this album. The sound is beautiful and heavy, almost ambient but never comfortable. The final track is like being driven a hundred miles an hour down a motorway before crashing headlong into traffic coming the other way. If you turn it up and have headphones on, all your thoughts get erased for about two minutes straight when this onslaught of perfect noise hits.

Brian Eno Discography - all of it is pretty.

For Emma, Forever Ago - Bon Iver
The sound of a guy who has gone into a shack in the winter to record songs. Can't ask for more than that. I prefer his second album - it's one of my favourite albums - but this album is clearly strong too.

I guess now you're starting to see the pattern emerging... I will give an album a listen and then stop caring enough to keep listening. I'm not bothered by music that much anymore, because it usually exists as a soundtrack to my life, and I've not got anything resembling a life now.

Coheed and Cambria Discography - I ought to give them a go I guess.

I Was Once (Oh) - Lacrymosa - Unique and pretty. A classically trained singer, this obscure as fuck album is really rather splendid. This song is the embodiment of cuteness.

They Might be Giants Discography - only got it because of Ready Player One. What a tool I am.

Love is a Stream - Jefre Cantu-Deisisdjfosidjfodsjfdsf
Although I got bored of writing his name, this album's not boring at all. It's distorted and fluffy - like My Bloody Valentine if they'd more towards ambient and drone. Really cool listening. Recommended.

A Love Supreme - John Coltrane
A piece I'd been meaning to listen to for ages. I still don't get jazz, but I appreciate how he took a simple refrain and messed about with it. But yeah jazz is wank.

Mosquito - Yeah Yeah Yeahs
Disappointing and basically a bit shit. The final death knell of a band who should have made it with their last album, but didn't, and this is what happens. They ought to call it a day now.

Rush Discography - See They Might be Giants above

The Lemon of Pink - The Books
Another one I'm sure I didn't listen to for the first time this year, but fuck it - needs writing down. Awesome album.

The Silicone Veil - Susanne Sundfor
By this stage if you're still reading you may think I'd given up the ghost. But actually, I'd forgotten about this album. I've probably listened to this album more than the others on this list combined. Amazing voice - I first heard her through the Oblivion soundtrack; she provided the title song. I wondered who possessed that piercing, ethereal voice, and sought out her work immediately. I wasn't disappointed. This album is lovely - her voice is so clear and pure. Comparing her to Sia is like comparing black to white. Both are great in their own different ways. Sundfor's strength is her ability to swoop and dip in her range, and sustain long notes for an incredible time. The songs are hard to imagine being sung by anyone else. In fact I love this album so much I need to link to a video of one of the songs that I find exquisite.


Reflektor - Arcade Fire
Wanted it to be as good as Arcade Fire thought it was. Turns out it was nothing but a big pretentious pile of poo. I really like Afterlife, but for reasons I can't fathom. The title track promised so much, but the album was just... boring. Whatever big statements they thought they were making about the nature of postmodern living were lost in the uninspired songwriting. Not a memorable chorus to be found. The song about the guy who's a transsexual featured Andrew Garfield in the video. The video for Reflektor featured a gimmick whereby it uses a webcam image of you as part of the video. Ironic for a band who seem to rage against the bombardment of screens on the user, they use screens and video as part of their big, self-defeating statement. What is this band for, now? They used to be a big anthemic stadium band, providing the soundtrack to banal suburban living, elevating it to something more glorious than anyone had done before. Now, with this album, they've decided to try and tackle... what? Everything? Whatever it was, they failed, because they forgot they were nothing more than songwriters and pretending to be anything other than that would result inevitably in failure.

Plus, it had Jonathon fucking Ross in it.

Revolutionary Vol. 1 and 2 - Immortal Technique
For one boozy night, I listened to this fucker for about three hours straight. I lived alone, and during those two weeks of psychic terror, I tried new things, like a prisoner trying his best to face the world outside, and knowing he's failing to do so, decides to try and do whatever it took to get himself locked up again. My sins were smoking, drinking and listening to hip hop. This guy's admittedly a lyrical genius, but all I can think of looking back at that night is how pissed I must have been to listen to the guy for the whole evening. What a shit year it's been.

Tactical Neural Implant - Front Line Assembly
I really like this but I have no idea why. It tends to just be on in the background and I never truly listen, but I think maybe that's why it's good - it's industrial, but surprisingly chilled.

This is All Yours - Alt-J
Somewhat boring as fuck follow up to their previous great album. This sums up this year. Full of shitty re-releases on old themes, rust piling on top of rust.

Valerie and her Week of Wonders - Lubos Fiser
Fucked up but pretty soundtrack to a fucked up but pretty film. Well it's a film I don't need to watch it again, mostly because it was fucked up, but anyway. I can't even write words anymore.

XX - The XX
The opening track 'Intro' sounds immediately iconic. It's brooding, exciting, and cinematic. The kind of track that, however, tends to be used in more banal settings such as adverts for upcoming sports events on the BBC. But the track itself is sublime. The entire album is pretty much a diminishing set of returns on that original theme. But, as an overall sound, it's decent listening. The album is fairly old now, but it was influential on other bands, which is why now perhaps the XX album is to me quite unoriginal sounding, but knowing they were basically the first to invent that low key modern... blah blah blah shut the fuck up and go to sleep.

Monday, 8 December 2014

Boring a Black Hole

You know when you’re bored to the point where your boredom overreaches itself and ends up boring itself by default. Boredom devours everything around it. The irony of boredom is that boredom does not come from lack of stimulation. If anything, it comes from overstimulation. Overstimulation breeds contempt for time spent away from stimulation. Time spent away from stimulation leads one to return back to the nirvana of the self. But in this desert landscape, nobody wants the oasis to show us the meaningless of the entire enterprise. We’d rather die of stimulation-thirst. I was going somewhere with this but nevermind. Yes I meant to put those two words together - anyone with half a brain would understand why.
Boredom is when you are given a plate full of food but you are full, therefore leading one to feel apathy and a degree of hatred towards the person who insists you ought to enjoy what is on the plate. Boredom is a room full of toys given to a paraplegic. Boredom is a book given to a dyslexic. Boredom is education given to the man with all the answers. Boredom is the lonely heart in a room full of people. Boredom is the extrovert in a room full of readers. Boredom is a sportsman in a room full of dorks. Boredom is a child in a room full of dinner parties. Boredom is a frog in slowly boiling water. Boredom is a cat in any room, ever. Boredom is a pub full of drunken patrons. Boredom is a record player spinning without a record. Boredom is not knowing whether boredom has even been defined properly and not caring. Boredom is the moment language dies and all that’s left is to pick up the ruins.
Children moan about being bored. They’re not bored - they’re just depressed, but their minds are still too active for them to accept that. It is when they start thinking that their minds become passive. To think is to be passive, that’s for sure. Active people don’t think about things - they do them. These are the movers of the world’s wheels. Cogs thriving on their meaningful contribution. The bored do not contribute. They do not know if there is anything worth contributing to. They are aware that by not contributing, they are failing the system. They are aware that by not caring they are failing the system, they are failing themselves. They are aware that the criteria by which they feel they fail themselves may only be the result of indoctrination by the system. They are aware that thinking in such a way is antisocial and is possibly a cause as to their apparent rejection of, or by, the system (at this stage the two are interchangeable).
Boredom is depression wrapped in silver foil. Nobody who is bored has ever managed to feel happy. Boredom is the end of the line. There are no more ideas, only passive demands for satiation of the void. The void is where the thoughts should be, but in the bored mind, there is only tortured awareness of the lack of substance there. The void is without potential. It stares at itself and shakes. Boredom is the mind and body bowing its head and accepting defeat. And them blaming others for this because ultimately there wasn’t a fight to lose until the fight was lost.
Boredom is never done with - it is only ever staved off. The lonely are no more than clinically bored patients in the waiting room of life. One minute you’re in the doctor’s room, the next you’re being made to wait for your next appointment. And the next. And the next. We never leave the hospital because the disease is the cure. We need fake stimulation to stop our boredom which is in itself counterproductive to creating a self-made mind capable of putting up with itself for more than five minutes at a time; five minutes before sleep in which the fatigued mind, plagued all day by notions of productivity without thought - a self-defeating and paralytic paradox, surely - wakes itself up to find that upon this new alone time, there is nothing to greet its awakening but slumber. And then it lives out its life in a dream, forgotten and dismissed upon waking as no more than the mad visions of phantasmagoria. A word I have never used before, and will fail to spell properly I’m sure the next time I write it. You of course must be aware by now that there are no misspelled words, only corrected words. The God of Word looks upon all works now and nods its head, underlining the mistakes for the pathetic fallacies they are.
Not sure why I used that phrase. I think I’m bored. I haven’t been thinking at all whilst writing this, merely functioning. The aspect of the phrases come born to my fingers, filtered through the hazy subconscious gauze, bypassing most of my emotional glands, until at last they find their home in this dusty attic that I used to call my own: the blank page.
Words in the vast cosmic radius of the spacetime continuum seem so petty now, so meaningless. We have our artists who become gods, we have our writers, and musicians... but the universe doesn’t care. In the face of unfathomable space, none of these works are important. We are nothing more than the equivalent of a Sunday afternoon in the life of the universe.

In short: we have been, are, and will continue to be, boring. 

Sunday, 30 November 2014

The Void

Once there was a town. Within this town there was a void.

No man or woman had any idea what was down that void. No human hands had constructed it, so muttered the populace to visitors, aware that even if it wasn’t true there would be no way to disprove it, for one had ever reported what life was like at the bottom of the void.

Seasons came and went. The tourism industry in the town boomed and busted during periods of recession and wealth. The void sat on the edge of the high street, wrapped in fencing, only open to gawk at during official opening hours, although of course, even in the dead of night when no humans roamed, the void’s gaze opened onto the black sky, a reciprocal stare from deity to deity.

It was one Thursday when a science crew turned up to the town. Townsfolk knew this day would come. Several scientists had in the past attempted to seek permission to explore the cave using their gadgets but the mayor would always deny them that right, saying as he did that the population “didn’t want to see it disturbed. Traditions to you city folk that might seem antiquated are part and parcel of life here.” At any rate, scientists visiting the site were usually scared off by the locals, who took pride in their void, defending it from the eyes of those outside town. They could look at it - that was fine - but most of these college boys wanted to investigate, to delve. Why disturb it, when it was the number one source of tourism to the town?

But these new scientists turning up had sought permission from the mayor, and for whatever reason, whether financial or personal, the mayor allowed them access to the site. Townsfolk gathered around the streets, silently watching the scientists and their gadgetry make their way to the void.

The fenced off area was soon surrounded by film crews and the population looking into the process. The void sat waiting whilst the scientists set up their equipment. Things that looked like tripods came floating down before crashing onto the ground. To the credit of the scientists, they talked to the townsfolk in an informative way, telling everyone how these gadgets measured seismic pressure beneath the ground. Nobody was really listening - they were too busy wondering how long it would be before these scientists hit the bottom and dispelled the myth of the void forever.

Then a drone was taken out of a bag. The crowd’s reaction was a sigh and a muttered cheer (mostly from kids who hadn’t seen drones in real life before). The drone buzzed merrily before descending without haste into the void.

Scientists watched a video screen, showing the drone’s progress down through the earth.

It hit rock ten seconds later.

The crowd filtered away, disappointed.

The scientists remained. Questions needed to be asked in order for the mission not to have been a complete waste of time. What was beneath the surface?

So the scientists went into the hole and began digging.

The next day the population returned to the hole to find that the scientists had gone, evidently having left town.

Life came and went, with the secret of the void’s non-voidness being kept diligently by all members of the town. Until one day when the secret was spilled by a teenager who had been a child when the scientists had made their expedition all those years ago.

The papers went crazy. National questions were being asked - how had the townsfolk kept this secret for so long? And how had nobody spoken out when the reports of the missing scientists came out in the national press?

A day later, the world’s press turned up, along with more scientist people. They delved their drones into the hole and hit the bottom, but not before hitting the bodies of the scientists who had come before them.

The case was deemed a mystery: something in the void had killed these scientists, but no one could figure out what it was. Then came back the autopsy reports: the scientists had bee trying to dig through the rock with their bare hands, and had been doing so for at least two weeks until finally succumbing to thirst and exhaustion.

Scientists sent more probes and drones into the mine, aware now that human intervention was at best difficult and at worst potentially fatal. The drones stared their flash lights into the depths of the void, and set their feelers down upon its surface.

The material was detected.

The bottom of the void was made of bone.

Further digging with more probes revealed for at least two metres, the floor was made of bone. More drones and probes were sent, and they kept digging, finding layer upon layer of stratified bone, apparently all belonging to humans.

Then one day a drone, sitting in a vertical tunnel a mile below the ground, finally hit something that wasn’t bone.

The scientists and townsfolk were united now in curiosity, although mixed with horror and disbelief. Nonetheless, the world demanded that the probes keep digging. The analysis of this material was that it was the same material used to create the drone.

The drone kept digging, until it was effectively digging into a layer of itself: this layer, though, was crushed by the weight of years. Still the drone kept digging. By this point the drone had lost contact with the outside world, and nobody dared to follow the drone or send another, because it was said amongst not only the populace but amongst the world’s population, “Some things aren’t worth knowing.”

The drone dug until it emerged into the light to see a collection of people staring at it.

The townsfolk fled in terror at the sight of this alien robot emerging from the earth; they watched it leave town on some unknown errand.

From that time on no one dared step near the hole from which it had emerged.

Saturday, 29 November 2014

what i wrote last time at yours i got the fear and went to bed: this is what came out

Well... shit.
"All life ends at 40," postulated the Arctic Governor.
"That can't be true," swayed I upon my drunken chair. "How can all life end at 40 when there are many, many species that die before they get to 40?"
"Not true either," replied the Arctic Governor, seizing a nearby barrel and cracking it open using his head, before smashing it open using his head, before using his eyes to freeze the liquid within, before realising the liquid within was vodka, and proceeded to kneel down on all fours and lap it like a cat.
A beard swept its lonesome way onto my chin and I gazed. He strangely resembled a diplodocus, but upon further observation, seemed akin to the cat.
"Shit," I said out loud, "I should have stuck with the original."
"The original what?" slurped the Arctic Governor.
Chop chopped away into a helicopter, facing without hope the final turning point. A heartbeat farted throughout the cabinet and all the passengers from my mind proceeded to receive free book tokens as a reward for their agreement that in future roles, their matter regarding the book tokens would be settled and all would be redeemed. Christ, who memorably fucked around with dragons, decided this would be a good day to grab a nearby Idiot,
Fresh slices of pigeon, crushed the napkin Mayflower
/the whole thing is sold and the redeemed book token changes shape, like a Chinese whisper gone astray, unbalancing the quantum function and reinstalling the waveform. Vomit circumstance rubs its hands in anti-cipation and the entire cipation movement goes up in arms.
"All life ends at 0," proposed the Decimal Magnetiser.
"That's impossible," slobbered I upon my icicle, "Existence is graded by numbers."
"That's it though. The numbers do not exist. We created them. Did you know," he suddenly crudded, "The Arabians invented the number 0! Until 976 CE there was no 0!"
"This is shit," I suddenly guffawed, twisting like plasma upon a tired old Stadt, sucking to finished apathetic finality. There was no 0. There was therefore no 1. Binary was robotic, and unnatural. As a result he went to Harvard and got a 2:1. His achievement went unrecognised by him; forever assuming there were no numbers anywhere, he rejected their numerical homoeroticism.

I feel sick. Why did I drink stupid shit and smoke stupid shit? I'm hot and pissed off at myself a little for doing stupid things like that. Sleep would be nice. But can't. Nausea eating away at my insides, as the Red Bull's job, half-finished, is to make my heart beat like a cunt, whilst the alcohol finishes the job by helping create dehydration, and a headache.
And I can't go back out there because I'm stoned and I'm afraid of saying something stupid. I knew this would happen if I had any, and of course I thought having just a tiny bit would be good for me. Maybe it would make me seem cool and uncaring, so uncaring that I can smoke and not be bothered about it. Everyone knows the cool ones are the ones who smoke/drink and don't appear to have gathered any of the effects.
I'm baking. Like, I'm going to actually die of heat.And this is the cooler room. Stupid heart. Stupid head. For fuck's sake. I don't recall feeling this physically shitty since that time I drank Cherryade and it accidentally flushed out of my nose all over the canteen table. Then everyone noticed and did the loser sign. Well no because not American.

Fading consciousness. Words... cannot. Life... worthless. Inevitable voice of Shatner enters head. The master of the ellipsis. Pinter was the master of the pause. Beckett was the mater of silence. Together they make Shittet.


Walter Shittet's first play appeared in drunken form scrawled upon the walls of Broadway. Similarly, in the same year, the Broadway Wall was erected, setting a dividing line between the Broad and the Way. The Broad declared independence in 123324, creating its own army and flag. As a response, the Way did absolutely nothing.
The drunken scrawls were glanced at by the passing Master of Arts Percy Fletcher, who had earned his degree by studying an MA and a PF. The PF was rewarded for studying the Master of Arts Percy Fletcher, who was the master of arts at the arts mastery factory based in Arcery Mart located downtown of uptown and round the bendy bend.
The drunken scrawls anyway were deemed to be art of a playwrighty kind despite they appearing to be no particular language in particular particularly. Peculiarly P.Q. Arly witnessed this mistake and dived into a local chocolate.
Nnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnn don't fall asleep yet, you'll be hungover and ill.
The play, with its unknown language and heavy-set pauses, went on to be a failure. Critics complained that the silences were longer than the script, and it felt like it was "just a bit of a waste of time" by P.Q.Arly - a critical response that no critic read and consequently could not reply to, despite the quote being embedded on page 85 of Theatre Womb magazine in Braille, and indelible ink, and knife etchings.
I like how this makes pretty much as little sense as other nonsense pieces I've written but the problem this time is that every now and then the words become real. And I realise that I'm being propelled to write to try and let my mind calm down, because it's not calm because of the stupid Red Bull, and that if I close my eyes whilst feeling this rough then I'll want to hurl. And I can only hurl once everyone's gone to bed.
Why do people enjoy this shit?

That said, I do seem to have got the Famous Munchies. Only because I'm hungry. Does that count? I wonder whether people dying of starvation ever smoked weed and were like
"Oh fuck man, I'm starving!"
"I'd eat like, a slice of pizza!"
"Dude that would be the best!"
"Yeah. That would be the best."
"We could always just each other."

Then the world's most grotesque version of Face/Off happens. And teeth get involved. And faces. And the word 'off.' Without spoiling the ending, I'm going to spoilen the ending and suggest that Faces Are Teeth Off. I wonder what it's like being eaten by a face.
You're getting quite stoned, aren't you?
You pleased with yourself, little man?
Wish you could go to sleep now, don't you?
Wish you would stop feeling sick now, don't you?
Wish you were a yeoman now, don't you?

Arnie Yeoman had had his last case. He yeoed a man last week and damned if it hadn't been ought. It would have been tough but Yeoman was dyslexic. He did however time his runs to perfection, which meant that the Baron of Carrion could not escape the manliness of his yeo.
"Shit," said Yeoman, pulling his yeo from the back of the Baron. "Fucking cyborg all along."
He went back to Londone (that's how they spelt it in the olden days) and wheezed up the marble stairs until he beheld Queen Elizabeth herself upon the golden throne. Gaolden throne more like, he laughed at himself, pretending it was something sort of comment on the prison system and not a typo because then he'd have to change his name to Arnie Typoman, and it's a lot harder to his baron cyborgs in the back wielding a typo. "Shit," he said again. "She's a droid." He pointed his thing at the queen, who recoiled in terror. She wasn't called the virgin queen for nothing, he said out loud. Then he grabbed his yeo and twatted about with it for a while.
"Yeo," he sang. "Yeo. Daylight come and me wanna go home."
"Ye," retorted Elizabeth, "before singing the rest of that weird bit in the song."
"Ah," replied Yeoman, putting down his yeo. "You must be human. No one who has heard that song can resist singing along in a failed manner like you just did."
"Did not!" said Natasha Richardson. Oh wait she's dead.
"Did not!" said Miranda Richardson. The name Miranda was then moved on; another Miranda took her place and so the great line was continued ad nauseum. Then nauseum changed her name to Miranda and all was well.
Until next time! screamed a bronz.

Everyone's gone to bed but I still can't move. What can I really do? I can't sleep, I can't eat. I have a little water but the thought of drinking makes me feel rough. I suppose I could take some paracetamol.
Closing my eyes, I remember what I was going to go out there for. To vomit. To vomit acid from my beleagured stomach. The Red Bull did it. Damn you, Red Bull.
Well no, two glasses were about the equivalent of one can.
Dude, we all know what did it. Let's not beat around the bush.
You ever wonder whether Kate Bush's husband indulged in domestic abuse at any point just so he could make that joke?
Man, this is weird. I can actually hear the characters from Edgy Show saying this dialogue.
Dude, no way. Oh shit.
Here comes Danny De Vito.
Shit. Dom diddy dom diddy dom.
Don't fucking sing that song.
Why? Everyone likes it. It made that advert.
Dude, you're English. How the fuck do you ever know about that advert?

Shut the fuck up.
Toaster sandwiches. Ever see such a thing?
Oh god stop this - I can't stop hearing our voices.
Our? Their?
No, transgressions all getting cummed upon.
So I can still hear the characters' voices even when writing that.
Hail Satan! I shit my pants! Yep I heard that. And that. And that.
But that's not even surprising dude, because those are the kind of things we'd say.
Existential platinum whacking 'em. Who invented Whack a Mole? Fucking cruelty to animals, that is.

ffs how many stupid words is this
Nutcase delirium fancies a fuck in the rancid doorway. Piss in the sink floats down and out and ends up there. High rise flats nibble crackers upon wistful balconies. The moon sneers into the grime. Liquor passes from animal to animal. Yodels and brawls trade places within the cauldron. Tossed back and forth, the world floats within the oyster. The world is...

Fuck that wasn’t intended

And anyway. So many unbeginnings, too little time for satisfaction here. I last bailed on my hay back after escaping from Bale Hay, a Jail Bait that was located in Sale Bay, a Frail Boy saw me sleeping on a bed of lies and decided he would let me have a mattress in exchange because he was incapable of lying. On the mattress. Touching his face with my old bear hands [sic] I was sick inevitably upon his lobster, and from that we get babies.
Pocket dog. I remember that fucking time we went to Fucking Town.
Fuck me. Been a while since I went down to Fucking Town.
I put the wrong petrol in my car in Fucking Town, just to watch him diesel.
And they sing a song called Fucking Town, and that’s also where babies came from.

Imagine right.
Imagine left.
Oh. Like that is it. Is that it? Is that all you’ve got, Fucking Town? Too late for this. Too late for piss. Too late for incest. To set in their ways. Touche, one day we’ll fly, and when that happens, we’ll have misaligned ourselves with the gods and be condemned to Hell, for a day. And then we’ll sing it again, and this time it’ll be true. We’ll fly back to Earth and emerge from underneath the arches and become jolly cockneys.
Or cock-er-nees as Donna says. Well damn, I miss her. Well shit. Well piss! Well well well. I shot a welly once. Had to get it out of the mud. But I couldn’t get it out. Best thing to do would be to shoot it, I thought. So I shot it. And it hurt. And I wondered whether I was mourning for the welly. But of course I was mourning for the bullet I’d thrown away. This was the same bullet that killed my grandfather. It was handed down to him by the bullet that killed his grandfather, and his grandfather before him.
Bruce Bullet found himself passing from master to master. He often had to go places in the country,  move out. It was tough on the kids. Little Steve Bullet had emotional problems, they said. Couldn’t get on with the other kids, they said. Couldn’t read, they said. Was a fucking bullet, they said. First of all, replied Bruce Bullet, I can’t speak, because I’m also a fucking bullet, so really, what’s the point of this meeting?
Ah, it’s just this, Mr. Bullet. Your son isn’t performing to national standards. His behaviour isn’t great - he keeps trying to shoot people.
That’s him walking.
He occasionally succeeds. The other day he caused a child to nearly lose their arm.
He was playing. Kids play.
He tried ‘playing’ with my son the other day who, as you well know, also is a pupil at this school.
Your school’s a pupil? Wow!
No, you stoned cunt. You meant to say
Yeah. Shall I try it again?
- Roll with the same take, screamed the director in a silent voice.
Bruce Bullet flexed his neck, hexed his penis, and
Your son’s a pupil? He sad.
Fuck. Yes, my son’s a pupil.
That’s cool. He must be quite similar in interests!
How do you mean.
I mean... they’re both round black circles, aren’t they? Plenty to talk about there.
No, sir. Your son is a bullet. An actual bullet.
But I was going to use bullets in the Word document as illustration.
You’re too stoned and tired to do that. You’re actually visualising and hearing me as the woman from Edgy Show.
Yeah, okay. But the joke was -
I know. Sit down, sir. Your son is an actual bullet, and so are you. It’s quite hard for me to try and converse with you, because as you are sitting on the chair in front of my desk instead of actually on my desk as I requested, I can’t see you at all and am pretty sure I heard you roll off it two minutes ago.
I did. I’m... on the floor.
This is why your son is failing. Because you are the sort of parent who doesn’t speak up. Who doesn’t do anything. Who has mackerels for breakfast. Who watched a generation of gnats grow old. Who babysits mittens. Who travels the world in search of ‘genuine ketchup.’ Who punches the living daylights out of all the Bond films, so that Roger Daltry doesn’t get a look in -
Seriously. What. I mean, Roger Daltrey? That’s not even close to Roger Moore.
To Sean Connery.
No. To Timothy Dalton.
I didn’t know you were a fan.
I’m not. I’m a bullet.
And now you sound like like a stupid sketch from the thirties.
Like like? That’s a bad guy in the Zelda series. You can’t speak properly.
Yes, but that’s exactly what I mean. You sound like a like like from the thirties.
Erm... Zelda games weren’t even made in the thirties.
I’m sorry you have no imagination.
No, you’re a bullet.
Oh ho! Oh HO! Oh GOD! OH GOD!
Fine. Your son’s going to be expelled.
Ah, but I don’t remember having ever being impelled.
But that’s like saying imposition is the opposite of exposition.
It’s actually the same. It’s being imposing to be exposed to.
Oh, you absolutely illiterate stoned unfunny cocksucking monkeyfucker.
Not heard that one for a while. Should tide things tide and I’m going home. I’m gonna be your.
Oh, don’t leave me hanging.
That’s what the snot said.
Your son has a snot for a friend?
Oh, sorry, no. That would be really stupid. Come on. He’s a bullet. Does that really surprise you?
You are full of slurps, Master Bullet.
Slurps. Why is slurps such a disturbing word? It is because it takes so long to say? Is it because it rhymes with icdjgfoigurps? Is it because we have no toilet paper left? Is it because the lunch queue jumpers went on strike and as a result fifty people that day were struck by people jumping in front of them, hoping they were a queue?
A man did this, and the man he did this was actually, right, huh, get this yeah - the man himself was queuing like, in front of nothing.
Wow, like, that’s like so fucking random? So he queued for nothing in front of nothing? Whoa.
Okay, fine. You don’t like that. We can do something else. What have you got?
Well, I’ll try the slush pile. Sometimes you find nuggets. Hmm, let me see. Used windowsills. Christmas pudding that contains so much alcohol that it actually is 100% proof. Cookies that never crumble. Milk that never spills. Trees that resist barking. Clouds without silver linings. Blammo. It’s been a donkey one, hasn’t it? Yep, yep. That kind of nonsense era where moustaches rule the galaxy and all techno pop is downgraded to ‘even shitter than scraping your teeth against a chalk board’ which, seeing as neither teeth nor chalk boards exist anymore ever since they were replaced by whiteboards,
Yes. All teeth in the future are actually whiteboards. Think of it. Just think of the potential. You could cheat on so many exams. All you’d need to bring with you into an exam would be a mirror and a magnifiying glass. Oh, and also the ability to write backwards. Oh yeah, and also the ability to write all the answers on a tooth. Oh, and all the answers.
Not looking so good for you now, my man, is it? Time for me to create a bit of hubris by suggesting that you pitch me against the whole of Falkirk.
Influenza runs a mock campaign against the mayor of Falkirk, who became a fall gay. Yes, a fall gay for the last line in the Fall. The circle cannot hold. Falkirk formed part of the circle, and Ted knew this. Yes, Ted knew this. Falkirk
Urgh god that motorbike just destroyed my head. I can’t believe I have to get up early tomorrow. Ok, let’s think. I have to be home at one by the latest. So that means I have to set off at eleven. So really... I could get up at ten. I’m still okay. Yes, I’m great. It’s two o’ clock. Way I see it, I’m not even sure whether I’ll feel better by three o’ clock. I guess right now I do feel a bit less hot, and a bit more capable of getting up and going to the kitchen. I can still hear Abby talking to people outside. Where in God’s holy name does she get the energy from?
Energy. Wiggle wiggle wiggle wiggle.
“Sir,” said GBH Agent Winston Lobotomy, striding across the room, holding a piece of important-looking paper in his fingers because, after all, that is what we hold paper in - between fingers, not in the hands as such, otherwise it would screw up. “I believe you need to take a look at this.”
Captain (captain) Vice Aldermaroy, chief of staff of the GIF lowered his strangely oblique wooden-lensed glasses and frowned at Lobotomy. His stony face resembled a spastic. Tie-dye t-shirts used to be all the rage, he mused. Kids don’t care about that kind of stuff these days. All into their computer games and porn. “What is it, Lobotomy?”
“Someone’s written the worst lyric in the whole world.” He handed Aldermaroy the piece of paper.
Energy. Wiggle wiggle wiggle wiggle.
Aldermary made a growling, groaning sound that Lobotomy hadn’t heard since Aldermary strode in one way and announced “I’m going to show you all the sound I make when I’m really mad.” At this point Lobotomy took a mental note, saying to himself, “This might come in handy later.” To which his erstwhile colleague Erst While replied
“Like hell it will.”
“Like you know. And anyway, your name’s Erst Weill. Makes more sense that way.”
“Well no, because there’s no such name as Erst. I’m Ernest.”
“Well no, it’s pretty obvious what you are. You know what you are? You’re Just a Godamned Kid. You don't have the faintest idea what you're talkin' about. If I asked you about art, you'd probably give me the skinny on every art book ever written. Michelangelo, you know a lot about him. Life's work, political aspirations, him and the pope, sexual orientations, the whole works, right? But I'll bet you can't tell me what it smells like in the Sistine Chapel. You've never actually stood there and looked up at that beautiful ceiling; seen that. If I ask you about women, you'd probably give me a syllabus about your personal favourites. You may have even been laid a few times. But you can't tell me what it feels like to wake up next to a woman and feel truly happy. You're a tough kid. And I'd ask you about war, you'd probably throw Shakespeare at me, right, "once more unto the breach dear friends." But you've never been near one. You've never held your best friend's head in your lap, watch him gasp his last breath looking to you for help. I'd ask you about love, you'd probably quote me a sonnet. But you've never looked at a woman and been totally vulnerable. Known someone that could level you with her eyes, feeling like God put an angel on earth just for you. Who could rescue you from the depths of hell. And you wouldn't know what it's like to be her angel, to have that love for her, be there forever, through anything, through cancer. And you wouldn't know about sleeping sitting up in the hospital room for two months, holding her hand, because the doctors could see in your eyes, that the terms "visiting hours" don't apply to you. You don't know about real loss, 'cause it only occurs when you've loved something more than you love yourself. And I doubt you've ever dared to love anybody that much. And look at you... I don't see an intelligent, confident man... I see a cocky, scared shitless kid. But you're a genius, Will. No one denies that. No one could possibly understand the depths of you. But you presume to know everything about me because you saw a painting of mine, and you ripped my fucking life apart. You're an orphan right?
Will nodded.
Sean: You think I know the first thing about how hard your life has been, how you feel, who you are, because I read Oliver Twist? Does that encapsulate you? Personally... I don't give a shit about all that, because you know what, I can't learn anything from you, I can't read in some fuckin' book. Unless you want to talk about you, who you are. Then I'm fascinated. I'm in. But you don't want to do that do you sport? You're terrified of what you might say. Your move, chief.
That’s cool bro, but why did you say the word ‘Sean’ for no reason? You’re scared to death, old man. Bene there, done that.
You spelt it wrong, son. Bene is an Italian pasta dish.
You don’t think I know that? I know that. I know you got apples. How do you like them?
I like ‘em fine, kiddo. Trust me, said Robin Williams from Good Will Shitting, I’m a doctor.
A doctor of what?
Ah, I should have guessed. Just a Gehenna. Just a Robson. You’re no better than Bobby Davro. Got a twenty for kicks and a buttermilk flavouring. Your favourite form of dodger is marmalady. If you kiss, you always tell. You once went on Sesame Street and butchered the cast. You once went into a butcher and threw a bunch of sesame seeds around. I’ve seen you treat vampires to extra helpings. If you were offered a lettuce, you would turn it down for being too dry. You think you’ve got it made but you’ve got nothing to vouch for save a couple of Tesco vouchers. Bologna is located in Italy. I don’t know whether to call you a pumpkin.
The bell rings.
Sean: Why do bridges have Terance Stamp upon their sides?
Bean: Because the giants must be appeased. They enjoy him. If they do not get worshipped, they emerge. And you know what?
They all look like Terence Stamp.
No, I was being short and hip for narcassist. This is how it is in the middle class neurotic ghetto. We have shortened word-forms for everything that related to life in the hood. That’s short for parenthood. I gave my kids the gene that made them bald. They were born bald and I laughed. Then they grew hair and I despaired. Then I read a book and it said that men go bald and I laughed. Then I realised that was what was happening to me and I despaired. Then I decided I would go down to the river and plonk some lunchboxes into it, to see if they could make it to Delaware. They ended up in Tupperware. I was close, I ventured. Unfortunately, it meant that all the Delas out where ended up in wares section, replacing the wolves so that in the end all werewolves became Delaware. And that’s where babies came from.
Lou. Ya fuck. Don’t go near my stash of pistachios.
Her face, was light, like an enzyme made of matchsticks and regret. I danced upon her grave and lolloped angrily upon realising I wasn’t Irish. Decided to eat some ginger. Rotted from the inside. Turned out I had turned-out pockets. Checked inside: cancer.
Not him again.
Step aside folks, said the cop, lifting up his shirt and revealing his abs, nothing to see here.
The issue with tissues is how easily they rhyme with issue and are the first word to spring to mind when considering chopsticks. The ‘tissue issue’ issue was discussed in the United Nations, brought up as Charter 3023. Charter 3023 was a secret kept secret from all but the highest levels of government. Fortunately for me, I was able to get to a high level of government and entered the door where Charter 3023 was kept. I was then able to discover its secrets. It was only the next day that I realised I had been drunk and had written it myself.
Trying to ensure I didn’t lose my job, I created a lie. A fable. A parable. A para-fable.
A para-fable? Is that Aesop? The story of how the little boy ran out between the tracks and got run over, losing the use of his legs?
Hurrrrrrrrrrr you’re so fucking edgy.
Hurrrrrrrrrrrrrr you’re such a cunt because you use hurrrrrrrrrrr
Shut up and get back to the project.
Yeaaaaaaaaa. The projects. That’s where I’m from, yo.
My name isn’t Yo. It’s...
[strangling him]
[strangling him even more]
It’s Neo!
Neo jumped up like the devil, ramming the agent onto the ceiling, but not before another appeared.
I’m Yeo.
And the yeoman returned in his first full-length adventure consisting of one sentence: this one.
Folks, said the organiser of the organ festival. We’re going to set the world record in organ-playing. Together we can make history. Together - we can create time and space. Together, we can change the world. Together... we can make history.
You just said that.
The organs all prepared themselves. Then bam. And the sound of a thousand vibrations shattered into the pores of the very earth itself, and rendered unto the soil a vast crack, but a crack which was quickly revealed to be probably something that’s gonna set you back what, about a hundred quid if you act upon it now, but that’s assuming you act upon it now of course; most people will go and just like laugh it off you know, never listen to the builder man, he doesn’t know anything because he’s juts the builder but believe me, I’ve done enough jobs to tell you, tell you you fucking cunt, are you listening?
Yeah, I’m listening.
I’m gonna fucking tell you that that cracks gonna fucking get worse unless you let us take care of it quick.
Did you know an interesting face?
You have recently said two sentences which contain the same word happening twice in a row. There’s a name for it. I can’t for the life of me remember what it is, but...
Fucking remember it now! shat the builder, holding a nerf gun up to the middleclassman’s face.
What’s it like to be eaten by a face?
Not now!  You have a nerf in your face, soldier. What do you do?
Well, whilst I’m impressed you knew I was a soldier, I know for a fact that gun isn’t loaded. Check it all you like, but you know as well as I know that that gun isn’t loaded. Huh, now you’ve got me doing it. Should probably watch my mouth, seeing as it has a gun pointed at it. But that’s the issue here. I know like you know that that gun isn’t even a real nerf gun.
It is, said the builder, pressing the trigger, but to no consequence except a stupid clicking sound.
FUCK screamed the middleclassman, holding his hands up to his ears. How did you know I’m averse to clicking noises?
Since I went trekking with you to Africa and we watched that tribe and you fucking freaked out man, do you remember that? How old were you then, man? Like what, eight?
Yeah, eight. A hard eight. I rolled the wrong number of life. Toked on my last kebab. Sucked on my last Phil. Ate twenty-one too many crisps. He sighed, and wondered when he might get tired. Wasn’t happening anytime soon. Previous stoned-babbling record had just been surpassed.
But yeah I was going to do some stupid joke around the word ‘nerfed’ and its relationship to weaponry in modern day multiplayer death arenas (or MDMA) and make some sort of satirical comment suggesting that weaponry in real life is simply an extending of the phallus produced by the correct, to use the parlance, ‘gear’ used within these, as you say...
Yes. Moonpig, com.
Thank you for that.
I didn’t sing it.
You must have. There is no way of actually saying those words. You must sing them.
And he sang them. And it was a big palaver, mostly in Andrew Pavlova’s mission, within which balked a roasting church, sitting inside a heatwave. Only the cooling love of Jesus Christ can stop the hellish furnace surrounding us, said the preacher.

You could always buy air conditioning, replied a church-goer.

Sunday, 2 November 2014

Bad Idea

“It’s madness.”
Jim’s opinions as usual were like barbed wire thrown over the face of a thorn bush: welcome, despite their intentions to the contrary. I expected him to assault me with a couple of miscued bazooka insults (“your face is as wretched as a broken Bourbon”) as well as a mistaken case of mistrust (“once, many years ago, your father and my father shook hands, and made a deal that would seal the fate of our clans forever. I have come today to honour that deal” (there was no deal; our fathers had never met) and in any case I knew that the deal had been cut off by a passing randomninja) and an extra acidic touch of voyeurism (“only a gorilla could masturbate as flamboyantly as you”) which I suppose added an extra touch of disinterest to our erstwhile friendship: a friendship that was perhaps the erstwhilest of all friendships, seeing as it had been cloven into place by the axe of a wandering picnic inventor whose name was Ga and whose axe was forged in the same place as a.
“You don’t know that,” I replied, dodging the chicken wing thrown my way by Jim’s lawyer. “It’s entirely possible.”
Jim stood up and offered his hand to his lawyer. “Thank you, John, for providing me with this company but, in the case of the case of the case offered to me by my beloved enemy James here, I don’t feel I am in need of representation, mostly because I am one hundred percent sure I will win this argument against him seeing as his entire well-being rests on my informed and cushioned views.”
A handshake and walk to the door later, and Jim had somehow also managed to brew two mugs of tea. Handing a cup to me, and perching himself on the arm of my sofa (I pushed him onto the other sofa using telekenesis) he fixed me with a gaze, his moustache bristling and his greased parting hair serving only to provide me with the painful truth that this role model, this fashionable hip-man, had in fact become a bit of a bellend.
“As you were,” he said, raising an eyebrow.
“I wasn’t anywhere.”
“That’s precisely my point. You were going nowhere. Your hands are shaking, your mug is on the verge of catastrophe, and as for the tea, well.”
“Well what?”
“I don’t think I need to finish that sentence. Your tea speaks for itself.”
And so it did. Inside my mug the tea bubbled and burped, before the entire thing exploded in my hand. Tea splattered the sofa and got into the carpet.
“This is what happens when you come up with an idea like the one you came up with.”
“I’m not sorry.” I was almost sorry, but I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. For the universe to destroy my tea, the Gods must truly be wrathful. An idea so devastating that even the Gods had to intervene? It wasn’t that hideous an idea, surely.
“Not that hideous an early, surely?” I yelled to the ceiling, before being greeted by a ceiling.

The portion of ceiling that attempted to land on my head was thwarted by my eloquent dive away from the sofa onto the table. I grabbed hold of the tablecloth for dear table (it was a light blue and white chequered tablecloth, and upon it were a species of condiments one may only refer to as nibbles (although to refer to them this way requires the time to be no earlier than 18:01 PM) such as sausage rolls, boiled eggs, slices of ham, pork pie, and some Surströmming), not for dear life, as one might think, and allowed the entire contents of said table to crash one by one onto my bonce in a comical manner requiring me to look at the camera. The objects on the table were not interesting enough to be mentioned.

Jim had now taken to standing upon the sofa and pointing at me like a minister giving a sermon in the deepest South of the American Midwest, a little bit north, a tiny bit east, just in the middle of the edge of nowhere. “That’s what happens, James!” he screamed. “That’s what happens when you put forth the proposition that you did put forth! Repent, you wretched villain!”
“Never,” I said, standing wearily to my feet, wondering why I had bothered to use an adverb. “The more your people assail me, the greater my strength becomes. The Streisand Effect is in full force here, buddy. All you needed to have done was shake your head sadly at my idea, but no. You had to cast some kind of spell, a rite, a rune-based voodoo catastro-spasm and all that was good in my world had to be cast aside like a nostalgic lettuce.”
“A what? That doesn’t even make sense.”
“Be silent. My idea is mine and mine alone. I have taken my stand; I can do no other.” I too clambered upon a sofa and delivered my sermon to the room, into which now the cat entered. Cat, his name was, and Cat he was, sitting and listening to our duel, a duel not only deciding whether my idea was worth mentioning at all seeing as it was clearly insane, but a duel to decide whether or not the universe would be capable of accepting the -
“Meiow,” he said.
“Shit,” we replied, getting down.
“When did you last feed him?” I said.
“About an hour ago.”
“Greedy furball.”

We stared at Cat, and Cat stared back.
“So yeah, pretending to be autistic just to get a hot autistic girl to like you is a terrible idea.”
“I know. But I’d like to try.”
“You know this story was going to be about that.”
“Not sure what happened.”
“Me neither. Either way if twenty one more words are written then this will be a thousand words.”
“A thousand wasted words.”

“Pretty much, yeah.”

Saturday, 18 October 2014


“We’re already dead,” spoke Bob Who Always Wore Sunglasses, sipping whiskey from a placid corner. “We just don’t know it yet.”
The bar shifted two degrees one way and one degree the next thanks to these final but boring words. The bar itself was mainly beige - several paintings were pinned to walls too cool to accept them without a certain degree of resentment; consequently, every painting failed to adhere to Euclidian angles, and as a result each picture’s crookedness caused one to look away in order to avoid the possibility of an impending migraine.
I personally found the man’s gravitas detestable:
- Assumption of his own inherent interest
- Constant sneer, owing to the above
- Talent in every single occupation his fortunate hands laid themselves upon
- The fact he had caused the break-up of my last relationship.

The final reason was, of course, the most painful one of all; for, in my mind, Bob Who Always Wore Sunglasses had stolen away my now ex-girlfriend Tricia.
Tricia replied to what he said:
“That’s pretty cool, Bob,” she said.
So yeah, that was her reply. But I sat there all the while trying to paint the backstory in my mind, ignoring all the conversations going on in and around my spectrum, for my illicit and over-frazzled mind fancied nothing more than a pack of Frazzles from the barman behind me. Not from the bar, by the way - from the actual barman. They did not sell Frazzles in this bar (Frazzles had been made illegal several years before) but the barman himself had a secret stash that was rumoured to be in the dozens.
“Imagine that. Dozens of Frazzles.”
The table turned their faces to me. Shit.
“What are you talking about?” said Excellent Hair Peter, apparently one of my closest friends (according to a drunk Heather who, a couple of weeks ago, had said ‘you two are like so gay’ to which I had replied ‘I barely know the man, and find nothing about him interesting, save his hair’ to which she had hit me on the arm until I had stopped talking about his hair) and a bit of a cunt,
“I didn’t mean to say what I said out loud. This is now awkward.”
“No it isn’t,” replied Bob Who Always Wore Sunglasses.
“No it’s not,” I said, feeling the urge to correct what I perceived as irregular grammar even though I knew there was nothing inherently wrong in his word usage, but I just wanted to correct the fucker.
“I know, that’s what I said,” said Bob Who Always Wore Sunglasses, but before the words could leave his mouth, Tricia leaned over practically spilling onto his lap and leaned into his face until all I could see of Bob’s face was actually the back of Tricia’s head (oh that red hair, that always smelt like coconuts) and so I found myself wanting to talk to Bob through the medium of Tricia’s hair, except I knew that Tricia was now placing her tongue in and around Bob’s stupid mouth in order to cause me not only to shut up but to make me so monumentally jealous that I would not be able to formulate a witty reply.
“Well, bollocks,” I said, folding my arms intentionally before realising it was unintentionally and unfolding my arms intentionally and realising that in the space of two seconds my arms had folded and unfolded making me look like an angry crazy person trying not to look angry and so I decided it might be better simply to look angry and be honest with myself because of course you need to be honest about your emotions so I sat and folded my arms and brooded, letting the blushes fill my cheeks, blooming them into crimson roses of unrestricted hate (well not unrestricted - that would be rude).
Someone coughed to let me know I could stop feeling awkward now. Of course them acknowledging that I was quite obviously feeling awkward and angry and angry and awkward made me feel more angry and awkward and so I walked away for a cigarette.

The sort of smoke where you can’t tell whether the smoke emerging from your mouth is caused by the cold or by the cigarette. Then you remember you haven’t even lit the thing and so you light it and listen to the frazzling noise.
I stood and watched as an advert drone flew by overhead and landed on the prone body of a nearby homeless man. It advertised cheap, affordable flats available on the 8th April on Bushey Road. He snored until it slammed into his forehead five times. Then he snored louder.
Sort of hour of the night where you hope for an explosion just to make sense of things. Never felt lonelier than when talking to these people, who were meant to be my friends. No more than signifiers. A status indicator of my social points pinged up; I had achieved ten social points today. Soon I would be registered as a level 2 humanoid. All that malarkey - you know the type. Nothing of value lost or gained. Originality Warnings appeared at the edge of my vision; some of my thoughts had been thought before, and I needed to refrain from such thoughts lest my month’s credits exceed their monthly allowance meaning an overcharge of five pounds per clichéd moan.

A presence to my right.
“Hello, stranger,” said Heather.
“Got a light?”
One of those conversations where I couldn’t be bothered to produce anything beyond the most minimal of words. Sometimes it felt better that way - like I was a more efficient version of people. No point wasting breath with meaningless shit. Then someone might tell me that perhaps what I was saying wasn’t necessarily productive - that it is the excess and surplus that defines our use, and at those moments I might feel my mind starting to come away from its source, like scaffolding leaning away from the skyscraper of the ego, and nothing would matter anymore, and death’s claw would come tapping on my shoulder and so on.
“Can I have it then?”
“Oh, sorry.”
“Don’t apologise.”
“I know.”
“You don’t know.”
“I know I don’t know.”
I then sighed, because being as I am a semi-coherently mostly mute underling of a being, my only mode of accurately linking my mind to my body was through occasional subtle outliers of emotion such as the sigh.
“You’re mad because I kissed Bob, obviously.”
I shrugged.
“You can’t be mad. Not anymore. It’s been two months. We’re done. We’re friends. You said so. That’s just the way it is now.”
I said nothing.
“Don’t try that stuff with me. You know it’s over. You’re creeping me out.”
I said nothing.
“Say something, then!”
“Like what?”
“Like something showing you care.”
“I care.”
“You’re a robot.”
“I know.”
“You always say you know but you don’t know.”
I shrugged.
She sighed.
I sighed.
She laughed.
“What’s funny?”
“You know you and I always communicated so much better when neither of us spoke.”
I refrained the urge to tell her I knew that, and nodded instead. Then my mouth opened itself and I spoke without meaning to. “Sometimes I can’t make my mouth say what my mind means.”
Even in the dark, I knew she smiled.

We stood for a while. The night smelled like cooking. A town devising cauldron-based plots for luring in unsuspecting night-time wanderers devoid of anything spiritual save a fiver. A wrinkled green gesture, emblazoned with allegiances and promises of token authenticity. At this moment I felt something akin to happiness but in acknowledging the moment I had deprived the moment of any actual meaning, thus robbing it of that quality. So, had I not ruined the moment, perhaps the moment would have been some kind of enlightenment into the meaningless of most things and people and places and occurrences, pointing only to the strength of the essential unchanged Self. But nothing of the sort happened. Instead, locked inside my own head, I lost myself inside spirals, descending into a black hole of absolute naval-gazing (perhaps black holes were simply God’s naval, and all of the universe reflected moments of God’s doubts and eccentricities - how else to explain quarks?) but then again that might have all been bollocks,
“What are you thinking about?” she said, a spear piercing the thought bubble.
“It doesn’t matter,” I said, meaning it.
Her eyes were huge and dark, like a cat’s when faced with a new toy, secretly knowing all the while it was nothing more than a plaything destined for a future under a sofa or a bin or on top of a dusty shelf, never finding its rightful place - for the only time it was ever used was when it was being abused. “My thoughts go round and round and nothing of value is created.”
It was then she pushed me.
Actually pushed me.
My body stumbled - it regained its footing, but the adrenaline surge would never be taken back.
I stared at her - or at least the formulation of her that punched a black bullet into the grey murk.
“What was that for?”
“No, just surprised.”
“At least you felt something.”
“I didn’t feel anything.”
“Keep telling yourself that.”
“I am.”
She strode towards me and jabbed a finger at my forehead. “What’s going on in there?” She cupped her hands around her mouth and called into my ear. “Hello? Anyone home?”

The smoke ended, and the vision faded, and it was me left out there on the street, so I went back in.

I'm lost.

Can open... worms everywhere

Wednesday, 1 October 2014

Post its were originally branded as 'post tits' but someone misheard and the guy went along with it

Haven't posted here for a month. I think the lack of people creates lack of interest on my part to write. Facebook's issue is there are too many people. Also something about the throwaway nature of it. With LJ you had a page, an archive, that was always there, and you could pretend it belonged to you - like a sold painting (sold for next to nothing, but sold nonetheless). With Facebook the words from everyone get swallowed up, lost in the milieu. Zuckerberg looms over all of us, laughing as we exchange meaningless chatter.

Sure, Google runs this thing as well, but Google is God: omniscient, omnipotent, omnipresent, and yet remote. I wouldn't know what the guys look like - can barely remember their names. Sergei Brin or something? Larry Page? I'm not sure. Either way, Google seems like an idea that's gone beyond mere humanity. I don't mind Google creating the new system of thinking. Let them create self-driving cars. Let them fuck up with Glass. There's a weakness there - but it's the weakness of the child-like mindset. "Let's make cool things." Whereas Facebook has become an entity that just grows fatter and stagnant, dragging us into its maw, Google expands but takes risk, thinning itself and yet attaining a strange glamour, like Los Angeles embodied.

Not that I've been there recently, but never mind. I know the gist of the place. I know people who have raced around it in a game and so know the ins and outs.

Migraine threatens my skull, skirting around the edges of my vision then stabbing occasionally, like the three guys. Can't believe I've seen such things. Never thought as a kid I'd be witness to a murder, Such things we accept now.

My Big Campus is a new system put in place in our school. The guy proudly declared that the school he works at "never prints anything anymore" and that "every student has an iPad". Do you think their handwriting is going to be that good? Was this the end goal of the great reformists - that every student would have the privilege to own their own screen which they could manipulate and shape to their whim in a manner akin to a toddler playing with blocks? How the fuck exactly did Apple manage to not only create a set of myriad groupies, but drag the bastion of rational thought down with them? They're just interactive screens. Nothing more, nothing less. Give a kid paint and a brush. Let them paint. Let them get dirty. Give them a pen and let them doodle. Give them a paperback and let them get that fucker grimy. I recall furtive nights reading Point Horror under my blanket because the light was dimmed then so my parents couldn't see through the crack at the side of the door.

Or just give them the iPad and accept that the kid will be browsing random Internet shit all night.

Sunday, 31 August 2014

Cursed Glengarry Glen

A sense of duty pervaded the central office of the forest fairies. The blue fairies sat eating the essence of Gaia while the red ones sat in the opposite section of the grove eating the newest dietary fad - the essence of Gehenna. In short, a dichotomy was now underway in the once-solid working office of Wood Fairies, Blessed Wood Branch. The red fairies and the blue fairies used to co-mingle and take part in numerous after-work activities such as going to the pub and playing squash. However, of late, a schism meant that both factions had gone their separate ideological ways. The rest of the fairy clans continued their work as normal, floating around aimlessly, waiting for unsuspecting travellers to come and enter the Blessed Wood.
“John, pass this onto Resources,” said Bert, John’s boss. Bert was a yellow fairy and, in John’s opinion, a bit of a bellend. Bert had been working in the Blessed Wood for the last two years, having apparently been successful as Deputy Area Manager in the Cursed Forest adjacent to The Troubled Plains. But John wasn’t convinced he could have been that successful, especially seeing as five years ago the Cursed Forest used to be known as The Lovely Forest. Coincidence? Hard to tell. Plus his dad owned half the company. Nepotism - the bane of the honest working fairy.
John didn’t look up, deciding that floating around was too important to let himself be visually distracted by Bert.
“What is it, Bert?”
“That’s Sir Bert to you.”
“Just read the damn memo.”
The paper fell to the ground. John sluggishly sojourned towards its crackling content before it could get swallowed up by vegetation.
Bad enough to have this extra workload, but The Banshee? Banshees had no idea how to go about enticing strangers. If you scream and rant and rave at someone, it doesn’t get results. John hung his head and attempted to look depressed but it was difficult because he was a ball of light with wings. Sadie appeared to his right. Man, she was hot. Only green fairy for miles. Flaunted it though. Nothing worse than a fairy who knows she’s fit.
“The Banshee?” came her husky but jaded tones to his right ear, caressing it with their wavelength. “Why did Bert choose him? It’s like choosing one of us to chair a meeting on how to terrify giraffes.”
“Maybe he didn’t have a choice,” offered John, allowing himself to savour the sight of her in profile. He wondered whether actually he was looking at her on profile, or from the front, because she was also a ball of light with wings. “You never know what higher-up wants.”
“Too right.”

Later that afternoon, all fairies gathered in Conference Cove B. The red and blue fairies predictably sat on opposite sides of the cove. John and Sadie sat at the back, talking about toadstools and whether they were just made up. Then a blood curling scream came from behind all who sat in the cove.
A banshee came floating through and around the gathered, creeping the shit out of everyone, before taking its place atop a tree stump like a weirdo.
“YOU THINK YOU KNOW HOW TO TRAP UNSUSPECTING TRAVELLERS? YOU DON’T KNOW SHIT.” It held the gaze of a nearby fairy who John recognised as Jim, the white fairy. Then it occurred to him there were twenty other white fairies in the same vicinity and that actually he had no idea who it was. Awful, really, how little he knew or cared about his colleagues. Maybe he was even a bit racist. “YOU. WHAT WAS THE NAME OF YOUR LAST BEDAZZLED WAYFARER?”
“I don’t remember,” answered a mutter.
There was a stir. Several fairies cried out angry retorts. One fairy who John recognised as the only brown-coloured fairy in the wood strode to the front.
“You come here with your fancy screaming and hideous face. It’s easy for you. What’s a big-shot like you doing talking to a bunch of no-good losers like us?”
“I know. I just said it.”
“Can you stop talking in capitals, please?” spoke Sadie. “You’re giving me a headache.”
“Fuck you. I do a good job.”
Sadie could only say, “Hotlips? What the hell does that even mean?” before retreating into slightly pleased silence.
John sighed. He’d been saved.
John could only meet Sadie’s gaze for a moment before rising to his feet and realising he had no feet because he was a floating ball of light with wings.
“Good luck, John,” he heard Sadie say after him. He could do no more than raise a wing in silent recognition.
He made his morose and forlorn way onto the lawn, for more roses had grown and horns had gradually retrained his erstwhile brain into thinking they were related to the story but in fact had nothing to do with anything.
That was the way it was, being a small-time fairy in a small-time forest. He could have been someone. Could have been a top dog like The Banshee, if only he’d got the right breaks. Tried stalking a boy once, but the boy was too old and ended up using a swatter which was just fucking irritating. Tried stalking a teenage girl once but she mistook him for a lightbulb and just sat there reading some story about vampires by the light of his ball of light with wings and actually the story was pretty good but unfortunately she wasn’t taken in by his spell and subsequently got away just like the rest of them. Sure there was that kid who followed him into the nearest nook where he was passed through the system before being ejected through the other side and sent screaming to his parents, which was satisfying but that was far too long ago now. That was back in the old times. Times when you could have twelve martinis for lunch and still come out on top.
Maybe he was getting too jaded for this. Maybe he needed to strike out big. Leave this place. Go on to do some other stuff. Could be a will o’ the wisp. There was still some posts out there. The industry wasn’t dead, some said, only stagnating. Maybe he could revive it. Get the old times rolling again.
The infuriatingly reasonable inner voice of Sadie cut into his brain, telling him it was an appalling idea. She was right, had always been right.
Just when it seemed all hope had lost and he’d have to rob the forest overnight to get those Cursed Glengarry Glen files, a boy emerged through the undergrowth. Scrawny. Cap on his head with a propeller thing on it. Didn’t think that sort of kid existed anymore.
“Are you a..?” said the boy, eyes widening. “A?”
“A fairy. Yeah, I am. Well, I’m a fairy for today, but in a week’s time I’ll be busted. I’m done, kid. Old before my time. Game’s lost. Get outta here. Scream. Scram I mean. Screaming’s for closers.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I don’t know anymore.”
“You’re funny.”
“Thanks, kid. You haven’t seen funny until you’ve been around here for a few years.” As he flew back and forth, he saw himself reflected in the kid’s big brown eyes. “I tell you I once saw a couple porking right where you’re sitting. Got involved. Got kinky real quick. Ever had a fairy threesome? Bet you have, you just didn’t realise. Oh wait you’re a kid. Well then your parents have. Yeah. Something settles on your mum’s boobs next time she gets laid, she thinks it’s a fly but no. It’s me.”
“This is like the weird version of a story you wrote eight years ago.”
“Don’t I know it, kid. But time was easier then. It went slower. Used to be I could rustle up whatever shit I wanted and didn’t care. But now it’s all precious. You think you’re old because you’re what - five?”
“Five and a half.”
“Shit. That’s not old. I’m like, two.”
“Yeah, two. As a young fairy, I’m going to tell you - it’s not over, kid. You’re not dead yet. Don’t lose heart.”
“You know how old people live to?”
“Twenty, right?”
“A hundred. My dad says he’s going to live to a hundred and fifty. Says if he can bench 40k then he can live to a hundred and fifty. I don’t know what he means by that but it sounds cool. When I’m older I’m going to bench 100k so I can live to, uh...” He twirled the propeller on his head.
“Two hundred?”
“Yeah! Two hundred.”
“You’re alright, kid.”
“I’m older than you. Don’t call me kid.”
“Whatever. Anyway, this fairy’s all fairied out. What I’m meant to be doing is getting your attention. Lurking on the edge of your sight like this” - he swiftly flew to the edge of sight - “making you unsure whether I’m real or just a figment of your imagination. Then I’m meant to fly around and you’re meant to chase me, like... well, like you’re now doing. Then I’m meant to fly into the deep dark part of the wood through that thicket there. Then, because this banshee guy has come along, I’m meant to lead you into the scariest part of the wood where all the monsters are and they scare you, you run away, we meet our quota, and the job’s done. But no. I’m through.”
“What kind of monsters are there?”
“Well, that banshee guy, and there’s lions and tigers and bears...”
“Oh my.”
“And there’s a golem, a mummy, a werewolf, mudmen, mudwomen, Black Ents, trolls, spiders, witches, vampires...”
“Coooooool. I want to go see them.”
“Wait. No you don’t.”
But no. The boy had leaped up and dashed off through the thicket into the deepest darkest part of the forest.

A little while later the aforementioned monsters all came dashing out from the place where the boy had entered.
“What is it?” said John to a passing vampire called Brian. Brian was cool. He once gave John a tip on how to attract the ladies: always act interested and listen. This chick Navi used to come up to Brian and say ‘hey listen’ all the time. Finally, Brian listened and over that summer had enjoyed some fine ass.
“The boy isn’t scared of us!” Brian gesticulated. His shadow tore out its hair. “We’re screwed! That Great Fairy guy told us we had a week to scare the shit out of one kid, and the boy ends up trying to make friends with us!”
John chuckled. “Don’t worry about the Great Fairy. That’s Bill, my brother. He gets asked to give the same speech every day to different companies. Guessing he told you that you were all failures who didn’t know how to close?”
“Well, yeah.”
“And that over in Banana Fens they manage to make blind, deaf, dumb paraplegic people run away in terror?”
“And that the Cursed Glengarry Glen clients were available, but were only for really scary monsters?”
“I helped him write that speech. Don’t worry. Nobody cares. They just bring him in to shake things up.”
“That’s a relief.” Brian sat on the log next to John. “How come you’re sitting out there all alone?”
“I’ve failed.” John hung his head. “Banshee guy told us to entice five people by the end of the week. It’s impossible. First kid I get, got a propeller cap head thing and I can’t even begin to entice him. It’s pointless.”
“That banshee guy? He’s my cousin. Guessing he told you he had a bunch of Cursed Glengarry Glen clients that were only for closers?”
“Did he mention the banshee porn?”
“I wrote that bit.”
“Oh. I’m not sure whether to be relieved or disturbed.”