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March 12, 2006

Why I dislike blogs

I would just like to say that this entry link is a prime example of why I've started to dislike a lot of blog culture.

Not the entry itself, I quite like the entry, it was amusing and even made some decent points (I may not agree with all of them, but I quite liked some of them). What I dislike are the comments.

Bloody horrendous they are.

It could be something to do with the internet, the fact that we don't have tone, facial expressions, or anything that we get in regular conversations means it's hard to judge the tone and feeling of any given entry that doesn't make it entirely obvious. This leads to people misinterpreting things, getting offended by things they shouldn't, and worst of all, assuming other people are getting offended.

Seriously, the number of people who just dismissed this entry as ridiculous was just unsightly. Why can't people on blogs at least back up what they're saying?

Why can't people who are obviously giving offence just come out and admit it? If you're going to call someone's argument stupid then either back up your point or go the full mile and come up with some intelligent or creative insults.

In conclusion, if you don't want people calling you an idiot then make your intention clear, and keep an open mind to what people mean because it's nigh on impossible to tell in such a distanced medium as the internet.

March 10, 2006

My weaknesses?

Neat little thing here where you get your friends to tell you what they think your weaknesses (1st link) and qualities (2nd link) are and see if they correspond with what YOU consider them to be.



February 01, 2006

Webster Fares Well

Hiya guys, I'm running for the Welfare and Equal Opportunities officer sabb position, with the tagline "Webster Fares Well". You can read my online manifesto at www.sunion.warwick.ac.uk/voting. Hopefully you'll read it, like mine the best, and vote for me.

Even if you're not going to vote for me, PLEASE VOTE! It is collossally important that as many students as possible vote in this election! Voting is open until Friday night so please vote, and hopefully you will help me to Fare Well for Welfare (sorry about the pun).

January 11, 2006

My Granny the Tranny

Another cabaret story.

My Granny the Tranny

When I was just a boy, I felt extremely lucky to find out that whilst most other children were fortunate to only have the regulation four grandparents, two grandfathers, and two grandmothers, I had an extra grandmother, who only visited on weekends. And I didn’t find it odd that her name was Roberta, or that she lived with nanny-Abigail, or that I never saw her and grandpa-Bob in the same place at the same time, or that sometimes she had the beginnings of a beard, because sometimes old women are a bit stubbly, and it’s not polite to point it out.

Every now and again I went to stay at their house, in the spare room that smelt unused but very clean, with the bed that had floral patterned and held a slight scent of perfume, which I later found out to be Chanel number 5 as Roberta liked all her rooms to smell pretty. Over the course of the weekend I’d play games with my varied grandparents. I’d go travelling with grandpa-Bob, clambering over, around, and below the furniture, through Antarctica battling polar bears, through the regular Artic running from the penguins and more polar bears as we could never remember which pole they lived at, all the way to Africa where we were dodged and danced through Zulu spears in the dessert, then on into Asia to meet Maharajas and Samurai, and, with a startling disrespect for basic geography, we plunged into the Amazon, and Bob called the Amazons a gaggle of hussies who should put some clothes on. Finally on to the most dangerous place of all: Canada, where the Cannibals lived.

And all the time granny-Abigail would keep us supplied with glasses of ginger beer, pots of tea, steaming mugs of hot chocolate, biscuits, cakes she claimed to have baked herself and all the other stereotypically English things to eat and drink that grandparents think they’re supposed to give their grandkids because that’s what their grandparents did, and that’s what our generation will do to our grandchildren too, if only because we read it in Famous Five, and tooth decay be damned. Though none of my five grandparents ever gave me a Worthers original. Whoever made those adverts can fuck off and die.

Then on Saturday would always come the favourite part of my visit, granny-Roberta would descend one morning, make-up perfectly applied, summer dress swirling just below the ankles, hair held up with varied shining hair pins, breasts expertly in position and realistic as always. She’d sweep into the breakfast room, give me and granny-Abigail a kiss, then casually ask her that’s really what you’re wearing today Abi, darling? Then we’d all be whisked off for a nice breakfast at one posh hotel or another and one granny would try to feed me up, while the other tried to slim me down. Then we’d hit the shops and Roberta continued my education in looking damn good. She would point out to me which shirts looked good with my complexion, which jeans were too ripped, and which weren’t ripped enough and try and try in vain to wean me off wearing Hawaiian shirts. She bought me my first jar of hair gel, and taught me to style it in five different ways, each of which made me look like a marine from WW2, but in a retro kind of way, it really worked.

It was invariably granny-Roberta who I came to when I needed further education, when I started to realise that looking good was only the slightest of comforts in the battle of the sexes. Knowing the minds of both men and women she always gave me pertinent and sensible advice and while I always ignored it, I always realised I should have.

Eventually I had to find out exactly why I had a surplus grandparent, and suddenly a lot of things made sense to me. Like why granny-Roberta had fake breasts but never had breast cancer, and why she used a beard trimmer to shave her legs, and why grandpa-Bob had shaved legs, and why I was the only person whose grandmothers frenched. Though I never did find out why they still did that aged 80. I felt like they’d been lying to me all that time, maybe because they’d been lying to me all that time. It was like finding out Father Christmas wasn’t real, really like it actually, as my sister told me this one too.

But even though I knew, I never let on. It was a comforting illusion to us both to think we’d never figured each other out, even though he/she must have known that I/ … me(?) knew, and that I must have known that he/she knew that I/me knew, and if I say knew one more time it’ll become a really uninspired gag, won’t it? So we both knew, but to admit it would mean that I didn’t have an extra grandmother, merely a grandfather who liked to wear really nice dresses, perfume, make-up and a garter.

I kept up the pretence and one day when I went to visit granny-Roberta I was told by granny-Abigail that she was upstairs, getting changed. I went up the stairs and knocked on the door and, hearing no answer, I went in uninvited. Inside I found grandpa-Bob, face down on the floor, suit jacket half off, limbs splayed on the bright, yet tasteful, carpet. One hand reaching towards the red dress he’d picked out for Roberta that day. I saw all this, I took a deep breath, then I carefully picked up the dress and placed it carefully back in Roberta’s wardrobe and closed the door. After straightening Bob’s jacket, I went downstairs to tell my grandmother that her husband had died.

So grandpa-Bob died, and we had the funeral, and it was all very sad, people cried, old women got out of their wheelchairs, things like that. But we never had a funeral for Roberta, she never died. And she’s still with me, in the back of my mind, and every now and then I can almost hear her. Criticising my outfit.

A Happy Story

Read this one out at a cabaret last term, hope the bloggers enjoy it.

A Happy Story

You know it seemed to me that with this atmosphere of death, destruction, vague pessimism and general despondency, the world could use something a little upbeat. Some cheap and cheerful, nicely positive, cute and mostly inoffensive, bit of fiction. So I set myself to thinking: what happy thing would be appropriate? World peace? Well that’s too big, too unlikely. A whirlwind romance? Too unpredictable, too racy. A lottery win? Too material. A random shag? Too macho. A completely happy story, without a trace of irony? Now that’s just ridiculous. I was stuck, and all the thinking was making my head hurt. I needed to get out. Get some fresh air. Things were getting stuffy in my head.

I walk out and two things happen at once; a black cat crosses my path, and I sneeze as I’m allergic to cats. But out of this dual badness, goodness just happens to arise. Amidst the post-sneeze head rush and thoughts of how neat these little turns of fiction can be, a clear idea rises from the ocean of my subconscious mind, onto the beach of my imagination: a cute, fluffy little kitten, eyes wide and adorable in that way kittens’ eyes are when they’re manipulating you. Everyone loves kittens, right? How could it go wrong?

I approach my muse, holding off another sneeze, so as not to scare it away, and I absorb its glorious visage. And sure, it’s a little scruffy and old and flea-ridden and scratched and bruised and skeletally thin and frankly a little on the diseased and smelly side, but I decide this is perfect. I will make this dilapidated creature beautiful through my art. As long as I don’t have to touch it.

So I take my quill and parchment, read: biro and scrap of paper, and I write the story of the poor, yet adorable, kitten that is, quite inexplicably, totally unloved. Homeless and forlorn, this little black kitten wanders the streets until, one day, I cross his path. He follows me home and before I can slam the door in its face, as the poor creature expects, and as I, frankly, am wont to do to strays who follow me home, she opens her dark eyes wide at me, and I’m overcome by this adorable and pathetic little kitten. So I open my door wide and I adorably feed the adorable kitten saucer after saucer of adorable milk, as I think this is what you’re supposed to do. And the kitten is definitely not sick from all the milk, and I definitely do not have a sneezing fit, and despite the fact that I am a vegetarian I find some left over roast chicken in my fridge to feed her and she purrs appreciatively. And it was funny, because no sooner had I written this than an adorable little kitten followed me home.

So my kitten and I were happy, I was miraculously not allergic to her, and she never shat in the house, brought mice inside, or even grew up, but stayed forever a sweet little kitten, who never had to be ‘fixed’, who was never chased by dogs as she was too cute, and was never violently buggered by tomcats as she was too small and innocent. And if ever I had a bad day and felt the weight of the world on my shoulders then she would be there to nuzzle me, purr sweetly, and reassure me that the world is warm and fuzzy after all.

However … however, I could not stop myself writing. Before I knew it I had raised my quill once more and while my left hand tried vainly to tear the paper away, my right hand was writing away, turning my endearing happy story, into a tragedy. I wrote that my adorable kitten grew bored of me, bored of never aging, bored of milk and roast chicken, bored of living in a warm and fluffy little paradise, and it ran away. And it wasn’t funny that no sooner had I written it, my kitten was off out the cat flap, down the garden path and straight over the fence, which was an odd melodramatic image, as the door was open at the time.

So I was sad for awhile, missing my poor, pretty, pretentiously perfect, little kitten. But I decided to be brave, to be strong, to try and hold on, and soon I decided it was best to get over the kitten, there was no use dwelling over the tragedy I’d written of her life, making it an even sadder story, nor any point trying to write it a satisfying conclusion as I’d only end up killing it in some horrible and tragic way. I decided to write a new story, a better story, slightly more realistic, but nevertheless very upbeat. The kitten, this boy’s dream, had failed, but what about man’s best friend?

I wrote a dog, a big golden retriever, with a lovely, glossy coat. This would be a real man’s dog that would fetch sticks, chase cats without catching them and scare children, old people and charity workers away from my house. A dog I was proud to take on long walks through parks, and who was trained to sniff the dogs of attractive female dog-walkers, hence providing an obvious and clichéd opening to talk to pretty women.

True to form this dog arrive, bounding down my garden path into my arms, knocking me over so that we wrestled in the mud in a manly and good-humoured way, yet, in a stroke of good fortune, neither my designer jeans, nor his coat got the least bit muddy. And by the end of the week all the people I didn’t like knew to steer clear of my property lest the dog should bark aggressively at them and snap at their heels, whilst never actually hurting anyone. And in the first long walk alone I had three phone numbers of stunning female dog-owners, who I seldom called as they had hairs everywhere in their houses and over their clothes and smelled of dogs, but the fact remains I had the numbers, and unlike with the kitten, I could leave my dog out at night so that I could go on the pull, safe in the knowledge that even as I would just manage to score a goodnight kiss from one bitch, he would have already shagged about three.

But again I couldn’t keep my hands off the quill, this time I got greedy, I was nostalgic for my kitten and wanted both her and the dog, so I wrote my kitten again, wrote her returning, haphazardly over the road to my front door, as cars swerved to avoid her, always just missing serious accidents. As this happened, I was waiting on the pavement to scoop her up into my arms, when the dog ran out of my house, a golden blur, straight into the middle of the road, straight for my kitten and once more given the opportunity I could not stop myself writing this into a tragedy. He snatched the kitten up in his jaws and shook her this way and that, tossing her to the floor, a poor broken ball of fluff, matted with blood. And my dog turned his golden head and looked at me, his eyes aflame, blood dripping from his maw. Then the truck hit him.

Maybe animals weren’t the way to go? Maybe something a bit more human, a bit more grown up would work. So I wrote a wife, not the masculine dream wife, the product of years of misogyny, but a balanced woman. She would be gorgeous, yet subtle, slender, but not thin, small, but not short, intelligent, but not pretentious and funny, but not comic. She would be a fantastic cook, who regretted the fact that she did not have much time to cook, due to her career as a hugely successful international human rights lawyer. And when she came home at night and ate the meal I prepared lovingly for her, humouring me that it could actually match up to her fabulous culinary expertise, and then we would retire to the bedroom to have absolutely red-hot, fantastic, explosive sex.

This time I couldn’t even wait for it to come true before I wrote the tragedy, and before I even got to try her cooking, brag about her career, or take her upstairs even once, she had cheated on me. Then she left me. Then she died. I spiralled into a deep depression, and burnt all my stories, threw away my pen and never allowed any writing implements near me again in case I felt the urge to write once more.

Instead of writing, I went back to where I found that first diseased and dirty feline. I searched for hours until I found it, or one that was suitably disgusting, and I carefully guided it into a carrier with a sharp stick. I took it to the vet and I had it fixed up, given medicine. Then I took it home with me and fed it the proper cat food and a bowl of water every day. And I was happy that I finally had something real, it wasn’t perfect or spectacular, it wasn’t house broken, it scratched and bit sometimes, it brought in rodents of all shapes and sizes, but I was patient with it and knew that I was making its life better. But no matter how patient I was, I was still allergic, and the constant sneezing really got to me after a week and I had to turf it out and give it to someone else. Still, I tried.

So we all lived. Except for the kitten, the dog, and my ex. Who were dead.

January 08, 2006

First time for everything

Well, ladies and gentlemen, I just got fired for the first time.

Yes, indeed, I have been let go from the glorious institution that is the Leamington Bar and Grill because (and I quote) 'my heart is not in it'.

With only the merest of warnings (that was either invented or so slight I forgot about it) my job has been lost based on the fact that I apparently don't work hard enough and have been 1 minute late for my last two shifts.

Never mind the fact the bar supervisor is the most bone idle bitch who's ever walked the planet and actually leaves early allowing others to take care of the cleaning for the sole reason "I'm going to the pub", and never even lifts a finger around the bar.

Never mind there's a restaurant supervisor who constantly half-arses his job, has frequently come in late and hungover, and only ever serves attractive women, or women he thinks will tip well.

No, instead of them, it's me who gets fired, for the flimsiest reason ever.

God I hate people.

December 15, 2005

Groovy, I guess

Which Fantasy/SciFi Character Are You?

A wandering spirit caring for a multitude of just concerns, you are an instrumental power in many of the causes around you.

And so am I, very dangerous: more dangerous than anything you will ever meet, unless you are brought alive before the seat of the Dark Lord.

October 26, 2005

Yay, more egocentric quiz stuff

CV31. Yay for Leamington.

13th October. For those of you who forgot: you're asses, but I forgive you.

About 4 or 5, almost all innappropriate.

Large Southern Comfort on the rocks (dash of lime optional) or a Gin, tonic, slice of lemon. 'nuff said.

Vegi-burger and chips

Stir fried tofu with black bean sauce, or a vegi-roma pizza from domino's.

Pseudo bohemian losers, my friends, reading stuff, and

Wings of Desire's pretty awesome. Princess Bride would also come up there. American Beauty too. Finally I also love Brazil.

Not that I think anyone would care enough to call it, but no.

First one, then the other.

On the opposite sex: diesel.
On me? Sweat, for I be a manly man!

I wear Hawaiian shirts non-ironically, I do plays mainly to get the cast hoodies/t-shirts, I was once knighted an honourary girl with a twig, whilst I was up a tree over the river Thames.

Well I don't drive, so it'd have to be the London/Leamington journey.


Favourite of all time remains Coupling. At the moment I am much enjoying Family Guy, Farscape, and Scrubs.

Navy blue.

Never been there sadly.

No thanks. Well, maybe the dedication to actually achieve my goals, rather than keep wishing for them.

Only ever had the one, when I was 13.

Alas poor Yorick. That's either an English geek reference, or a comic book reference. Take your pick.

Libra. 'cos honestly I'm a balanced person.

October 20, 2005

Not for the faint of heart

Seriously, what's the deal with rimming anyway? Seriously.

If you wanted to taste what I ate yesterday,
You only had to ask.
If you think I could be cleaner,
Then, well, that’s a pretty easy task.
I mean: what are you, a cat?
To be honest the only worming
I’m comfortable with down there
Is the kind I’d tell my doctor.
And it’s not like I ever asked you for anal, is it?
Now you seem to quite enjoy it,
And I don’t want to spoil your fun,
But that slippy-swirling sensation,
Of tongue lashing my rectal passage,
Lathering up my rear iris,
Feels more like diarrhoea than
Any kinky kind of act.
But, well, if you really have to
A little to the left please?

And can I at least double-fist you?

September 04, 2005

Guess I don't have to abandon hope after all

Writing about an entry you don't have permission to view

The Dante's Inferno Test has sent you to Purgatory!
Here is how you matched up against all the levels:
Purgatory (Repenting Believers)High
Level 1 - Limbo (Virtuous Non-Believers)High
Level 2 (Lustful)High
Level 3 (Gluttonous)Very Low
Level 4 (Prodigal and Avaricious)Moderate
Level 5 (Wrathful and Gloomy)Moderate
Level 6 - The City of Dis (Heretics)Very Low
Level 7 (Violent)Low
Level 8- the Malebolge (Fraudulent, Malicious, Panderers)Moderate
Level 9 - Cocytus (Treacherous)Low

Take the Dante Inferno Hell Test

August 31, 2005

Two more poems

Running out on me

Time is running out
To say how I feel
Time is running out
Like the world is running out of seal.
There are not many left you see
They keep drying or being killed
Or something
Like all these endless tasks

I, or someone else, invents
Kills off the seal of time
'Till none are left
In the ocean of my love.

Time is running out
To say "Oh love me if you will!"
Time is running out
Like an armeggeddon film.
The counter's ticking down quickly
It beeps as my heart pounds and pounds and pounds
And no hero's coming to save my day
Now Willis, no Cruise, no Gibson,
'Cos they're all actors
(And twats besides)
And now those numbers,
Red, like my heart
And the knickers I stole from your line,
Has reached zero
On the apocolypse of my soul.

Time is running out
To say my words of bliss.
Time is running out
For me to go and take a piss.
I bladder like my heart is bursting
With stuff I really can't hold in
But I can't find and outlet anywhere
For urine or for love.
Now the pain I feel is real
And really quite uncomfortable
So my muscles, like my being,
Are so long overstretched
That, like my romantic yearnings,
They have just given up.
So now piss stains
The trousers of my being.

Time is running out
To say anything at all
Time is running out
For you to be the cinderella at my ball.
Which is fact no-one turned up to
And I had to waltz all on my own
Which was slightly weird
And when you appeared
You left
As none of your friends were there,
And running after you I did not see
The glass stiletto on the floor
And sharp shards splinter into
The sole of … my foot.

Time is running out
To say what I wanted to say
Time has now run out
Oh well, I would only have fucked it up anyway.

Maybe I should have actually done something
Instead of writing a poem about it?


In school once they showed us
This prism of crystal
Demonstrating the light
Flowing from each sharp edge.
I looked and thought though you
Were not paying attention
That crystal was you true,
Sharp edges light flies through.
And while I would never
(Lacking talent)
Try to paint or sculpt your profile,
As I charted that light,
With my blunt HB pencil
It was like capturing the sight
Of your dark features bright.

Still my sketch was not good
I could never draw you well
And on paper your lines
Are smoky indistinct
Fading out before me
Though it is my instinct
To capture light in print.

So your crystaline form
Continues it's escape
From me and from my eyes.
Bright delicate crystals
Cut with light just reminds
Of flight of lines like hind
From hound that just wants to be kind
And how I could never draw you well.

August 16, 2005

THAT guy

It has recently occurred to me that almost all women of my acquaitence (and certainly all the ones I've pulled) have had a previous boyfriend who's messed them around, given them trust issues, and ultimately who they're not yet over.

This causes ridiculous short farces of relationships, lack of sex as the want to take it slow and then the short bit kicks in, and ultimately emotional hardship for me. I'm sure it's the same for many of you guys out there.

While before I prescribed to the "all men are bastards" view, so previous boyfriends would almost certainly have fucked most girls over, I am now revising my opinion:

There is one guy out there going round and messing up all the women!

You know the one, the guy girls cry over "oh he treated me so badly, oh I can't trust men any more, but he was so sweet sometimes and I'm not over him, I'm so sorry." The guy who sleeps with them and is either so bad or so good that they can't then sleep with other people.

Well I say, ENOUGH! We must track this man down and string him up!

Who's with me?

Summer poems

My life in poetry

I'm ashamed
And you should shame me too
Because this actually happened
And somewhere in this foetid sea
Of narcissism and post-modernity
Imagination does languidly lurk,
Unseen, unused and out of work,
Trying to drag down this boy who has been hurt,
Prevent him from sounding like a total berk.
And failing.

Dumped by MSN
How post-modern of you
Dumped by MSN
How unimaginitive of you
Whose song I once thought was so sweet,
But now my sweet is bitter.
Like a sheep who's lost his Bo-Peep I bleat
Whilst like ev'ry other girl you titter

On and on in cyberspace,
Where no-one hears me moan
And you don't have to look me in the face
As I let out a love-lorn grown.
You've shorn away that look of grace
In bold black ten point your words are stone

For though you say you don't want to be like
Ev'ry other girl, uncruelly unkind,
That's how your words seem (not sound)
Stripped away's your voice, what you type's not quite,
How I expect to hear you and I find
Myself imagining a girl around
These letters in which nothingness abounds
A girl who's not you, but as the 'net is blind
She poses with your screen name and starts fights.
A girl not you, but ev'ry one I've found,
Who's very sweet in her own mind,
And for my own good my own life she blights.

Looking back at that MSN convo
(I can as I saved it)
It seemed to me that all these girls
Whose ex's messed them up
That rather than an army of such churls
Who go round treating women like crap
There's just one bastard ruining future wives,
Tracks down every girl that I might meet,
Insinuates his way into their lives,
Maybe massages her feet.
And interspersing massages and more
He does his best to fuck her up
When I, a decent bloke, takes the floor,
It's too late she thinks of him and can't stop.

Sure you think I'm paranoid,
But I really think this guy exists,
Making the world an unpleasant void,
And ruining my relationships.

So even though she hurt me this time
I'm trying not to blame her
I knew that she would ne'er be mine
As he'd already claimed her.

So that was my technological break-up,
Please forgive it really happened,
It's indicative of the way things don't work today:
With a post-modern twist
And lots of irony
And me moaning about the things girls do to me.
And not minding
As I can turn it into poetry.

All fucked up

So I'm all fucked up
But aren't we all?
I think that we were meant to be that way.
With our broken smiles
And tender guiles
Our neuroses tied up in a pretty bow.

For everything in life does do it's part
To make you who you are.
From our thoughts sold
To new loves grown old,
Until our stars fall around
Our ears like snow.

And all our lives are spent like this,
Notching notch after notch in our minds,
Until there's no more room
And we're scored right through
Marks storying our fucking up over time.

So now you've notched me,
But you're untouched.
No knife is sharp enough to scare through,
But unseen to me,
Beneath what I see
Those tender guiles have
cracked you.


When I was a child my thoughts,
My actions were all those of a child.
I played as a child.
When I thought I was an adult
I still played.

My life was a pretty blue balloon
That I bounced up and up
From the inside
Never touching the ground, ´t´was my blue moon
Red, yellow, pink and green beside.
And I thought that it would never stop.

King´s Cross, Aldgate, Edgware Road,
These stealthy pins prick my balloon,
But there was no loud pop, no childish screams,
Glass and metal shards tore my world at it´s seams,
Searing bright and reflecting me
The child the world still knew me to be.

Blue rubber bursts, and it´s an adult´s cries
Yet another´s mirth
I hear from my balloon that falls from tattered skies
And deshevelled, torn, it flaps to earth.
I step out , I see, and I walk
And have my rebirth,
In the adult´s world,
An ugly place where shadows stalk,
Destruction´s ripped banner lurks unfurled.

I´m no more a child,
But I´ll still play,
Batting up coloured moons,
Keep mean pin pricks away.
So that children can remain just so,
Their lives sweet and warm and mild
Up in the air, and they will never know
How their balloons light up my adult´s life
And bring an end to dark.

I like you like

I need you like the prisoner needs the bars
In his dark dank underground cell
No light, no hope, his private hell,
But your bright teeth intruding are.
A cage I love to lie in, that's your guile
I'm in you though I wish I weren't
I'm held but not the way I want
Still sitting in the space behind your smile.
Your bars hold your prisoner's gaze in your eyes,
The dark, pretty, but empty space,
I look and there's no other place
I'm stuck and happy and it's no surprise
Without bars
I'm no prisoner.

I care for you as I care for world peace
That vain poor hope all wars might cease.
I think that it's a good idea
Loving and living, no more fear
Caring for friends, enemies too
But I know there's sod all I can do.
So I try to be polite
Hoping always I just might
Change something, maybe, by being kind,
Yet always lies at the back of my mind
A thought my good intentions tries to hide
As long as I'm without it
We can hope it.

I love you like I love the lie
Wrong, forbidden, the giddy thrill
Once more I'm the child with the guilty grin
Who has his parents' disgruntled face espied
That creased up portrait, with the look that kills
All fun, reminding to lie's a sin,
And the portrait looks at me in distaste
And guilt comes
Like a bus or bullet too late
Reminding you of that rule of thumb:
That when thrill dies
There are no more lies
And without them, I'm me.

I dream of you as a coma patient dreams
Alone and sleeping and yet not quite
And maybe he will never wake
But in pseudo sleep will ever dream
And oh! such dreams
Elysium, Valhalla, Heaven, Hades and Hell
Such bright places, burning faces
The black of fire and enshrouding light
At night
He sometimes dreams of things he knew
But what did wrong, does right
The darkness long, is light
So I almost would regret to wake
But dream these dreams always
Of release.
But without them
I'd have it.

I hate you like God hates the devil,
All-knowing He saw, felt the worming hate that grew
Wriggling 'neath the halo in the bright angel's brain
Leaving it's long glistening trail of slow hate
It slithered on sowing hate in fertile heads
Hate for him that brought that heated pride
Rebel prince cast down halo for a crown
And is too cast down, He felt wings stripped
Flesh and feathers plucked by that wild rush
One by one, as he fell on and on
Landing at last in burning hate
Born of that splash of hell's fire
Bubbling up into Eden
He hears the subtle whispers
Feels the snake's temptation
Feels them tempted and tastes
First sweet bite of fruit.
None would have fallen
Without his hate
Yet all-loving
He loves his
Snake child still
But knows
How good
Without hate
He's not love.

May 24, 2005


Beginning of a longer work that I wrote over easter, I'd like some feedback to see if you think it's got legs.

It’s a dingy room by all accounts. Plaster cracked all over. At least three colours blotched on the walls, peeling or never finished. Rows of chairs that look like they were left over from the bingo. A bar in one corner, serving warm ale and cold water, even in here there’s a regular drooping folds of beer fat over his barstool. And at the back of the stage, the one stylish thing in the place, the black back wall, daubed with messy almost-rectangles of almost-white paint. Deliberate chaos, sort of what tonight’s about.

The music’s magic. Rhythm and melody and discord and accident all blended together with crushed ice into one fiery cocktail. Inspiring and intoxicating, it bowls you over backwards and then whispers in your ear. But before you know it you’re on your feet and the music’s inside you, changing all you know.

A three-piece, even the band doesn’t match. One tall, one medium, one almost medium; One thin, two fat; one grey and balding, one grey and red-faced (so if I squint he’s pink), one brown and young. A replacement for the third of a broken set, dead for two years, heart attack, I don’t remember his name. It bothers me because I should know; after all I performed the service. The kid’s better, though he could use some dark glasses for his image. The dead man’s brother’s playing saxophone, on a break now, waiting for his time to come, or for his breath to come back to him. If he doesn’t cut back he’ll wind up with his brother, playing the blues in heaven. That’s the ex speaking, forever sitting on my right shoulder.

The double bass purrs at me, low and strong, I can almost feel the vibrations, disturbingly steady, deceptively regular. The backbone of the music, snaking around you, tying you in, always holding you, even when the piano’s path catches your eye. It’s there around you, solid. The piano leads you down a dozen false turnings, snaring you in a musical maze, making you run in circles, but never going the way you think. You fall through hedges, holes in the floor and sky, it loses you in every direction, waits for you to catch up. And all along, in and out of sight the saxophone sings its dance in the sky. It’s beautiful, it’s stunning, it can make you stand in awe as it writhes, golden in the air, shouting at the earth, whooping at the heavens, then swooping down to stand still behind you and whisper burning longings. But it disappears into the maze when you turn around, and you run after it, missing the fiery brilliance.

Not only is the kid better, saxophone player’s better since the funeral. He played the service and it was the best I’ve seen him. It’s as if he won’t accept the 40-year-old kid is better than his brother so he plays for both for them. I once told my ex that dead guy was better off playing in heaven. She hated it. Maybe now saxophone player just has something to play the blues about, a real soul handing around to put the spirit in the jazz. My ex hated that too. We argued, but that wasn’t really what I meant. There’s no idea more gloriously self-indulgent than playing the blues to your own death. Nothing so tragic as playing jazz to everyone else’s life.

The saxophone player switches to the clarinet and he makes a long high-pitched whine sound like an angel crying because he lost his choir. The sound hangs in your ears, just long enough to interrupt itself with cascading notes all falling on top of each other, ending abruptly by flowing into another perfectly different whine.

The room fits the music like the music fits anything. Bingo-chairs, cracked blotchy walls and single stylish wall. None of it matches and that’s just perfect for jazz. That sound that doesn’t fit in anywhere, that defies rhythm and form, subverts you to the path of freedom. Yeah, knaff walls, knaff furniture, cheap bar and a stylish backdrop: that’s what jazz is. Or maybe the music just made it seem that way.

The only thing bothering me is the ‘No Smoking’ sign. People are supposed to smoke during jazz, it’s rebellious, dangerous, and self-harming; you’re not quitting like society tells you to. And the smoke creeps lazily up in a sinewy silhouette, curling its way to a cloud in the ceiling, only it smells foul, gives you cancer, and really it just conforms to the idea that smoking is cool peddled by a different part of society. It’s just that’s normally the part of society that likes jazz.

May 23, 2005

Well let's give this a go …

Ok, my first actual blog entry on my blog and it's the first time in a long time that I've actually had time to myself.

Actually that's not strictly true as I'm on a break from doing an overdue essay, but I need to take a moment, so here I am blogging away with buffy playing in the background. And it's comforting, to finally take a little breather, to not have to worry about rehearsals for two seperate plays, or about not having time to revise, or do work for the Othello submissions pack.

Oh and the plays, why did I ever think I could do both Junk and Noir Way Out? I felt like death for the entire week leading up to the performances, my friends were worried I was going insane. But it's over now and I can recover from a very fun, but very draining experience. The cast parties were awesome too. I love drunken debauchery.

Also recently revived my love of comics after the recent and brilliant free comic book day at "They Walk Among Us" the local geek-boy store. There are some great ones, (thinking ahead and considering doing my dissertation on Daredevil) but I have not been able to find a comic shop in coventry or leam.

So yeah, that's my first blog/neurotic whine, hope it made you feel better about yourself.

April 29, 2005

Which Greek God am I? Thanks for asking!


?? Which Of The Greek Gods Are You ??
brought to you by Quizilla

April 15, 2005

Another one

Aww, give us a cuddle. You're an Emotional Drunk!

"But I thought he liked me. It was all going so well. I can't take it, you know? Not again. Why me, you know? My life is so fucking shit. I'm just a worthless piece of nothing shit. Everything I do is shit, or it turns to shit, or I turn it to shit."

– pause –

"You've got beautiful eyes …"

Emotional Drunk
What Kind of Drunk Are You?
Brought to you by Rum and Monkey

Had to post this

Sex With Nuns
Are You Damned?
Brought to you by Rum and Monkey

Sex With Nuns

Whether as a punishment or as a reward, the fates have decreed that you will spend eternity having sex with nuns. Better be careful though, they are 'Brides of Christ', and if he catches you at it he'll pull out your pubic hair.

I love Rum and Monkey.

April 07, 2005


I'm stuck in her web
I'm the fly to her spider
She's caught me and I'm crawling
Towards her eight lovely eyes.

If I can see them I'm happy
And I can see that she's hungry
She'll eat me right up
And I'll be lost inside.
Too polite to struggle.

To the fly that's what love is:
Giving yourself entirely,
Letting her have you.

'Welcome to my parlour'

To her I'm just another fly
Accidentally ensnared
And not really wanted in the web I'll die
Teeth crunching exoskeleton
Shatter it, my insides splatter out
Disgusted by the feelings that I hide
She doesn't hear my final cry.

'Said the fly to the spider'

For behind her stood a little boy,
4 years old if he's a day,
Clutching in his sticky palm
A stick,
A toy,
With which he tore her web away
And squashed the spider in two now stickier fingers.
Fly, still dying, screams at her insides,
Foul, dark, spurting, revealed on kid's nails,
And on sticky palms our innards mix together.

But on another day, another spider,
And another fly,
A kinder boy just chases them away,
And they escape,
The fly showing hunter how to hide,
And live,
Spider teaching prey to hunt.

'As flies to wanton boys'

To the spider that's what love is.
The fly who gets away
With her.

I'm not that fly,
I never get away,
But some day:

“Welcome to my parlour”
Said the spider to the fly.
“Have you met my friend
the four-year-old?”
Replied the unsubtle, unsly fly,
The suicidal glint of love in his eye.

April 04, 2005

Love Tastes Vaguely of Almonds

Before you die,
Not quite sure why,
You realise there was just a taste.

In books with endings
You figure out before they end
It always had it's place.

I don't like those books
And I don't like the taste
They leave upon my brain;
A hint of missing talent,
Of paper waste,
Of the cliche that kills

Because of all the ways that we could die,
It just comes back to this one,
A hint of almond on the tongue
The warning just too late.

Those books make me feel like that
Like I've digested arsenic
Or cyanide (or whatever the hell it is)
Into my brain
With no warning ‘till death takes my thoughts.

Love’s like that
It takes your thoughts away
Until none are your own
And you wander and wonder
In a lovelorn stupor,
A romantic coma,
A lovetorn illusion,
Original thought buried in recycled ideas.

Like the footprint in the flowerbed
Easily seen as the flowers are stripped,
And on her bed.

There’s blood on the sheets,
As you forgot to remove the thorns,
You thoughtless lovelorn fucker.

When you get the taste of love
Imagination dies
Replaced by one thousand little gestures,
Someone prepared earlier.
Originality in love is a lie
As even the romantically unromantic is cliché.
Man’s search for original gift of love
Mean’s there is none.

There are only so many times
That the butler can do it
Before he gets too tired.

There are only so many times
The poison can taste vaguely of almond,
Before you spit it out.