January 24, 2012

Eulogy of imaginary anti–narritive author

He was not good enough for the volcano he fell into. By merging his atoms with the future-rock boiling in that crater and with the atmosphere he has made the world a worse place, despite the insignificance of number of his molecules to the worlds. That is how shitty he was.

I speak, of course, of ‘renowned’ anti-narrative ‘author’ Eustace Broxtowe. I use the term, to use a cliché, in the loosest sense. It’s not that I have anything against anti-narrative; but there is anti-narrative the experimental, ground breaking and exciting literary form which disregards traditional notions of story, character and setting and there is “As follows, it being borne in beard, his family had all bearded for the applicable fungi. For the shire show blue ribbon, at some point.”


Though I mourn all the trees and squids whose lives are being wasted to make the ink and paper to print all the undeserved eulogies (and this one, which he more than deserves), not to mention all the ‘celebratory editions’ of his work that will now be printed and sold, it is at least a short term sacrifice for a long term gain. Since he can no longer produce any new work, no squids and spruces can go into the printing of that: both in its original run and in the aforementioned reprints at his eventual inevitable death, which would be in addition to the reprints of the work he did produce this far, if you get what I mean. You do, don’t you?

There are other reasons, apart from freeing us from his writing, why it’s no bad thing that Broxtowe is inhaling granite. Let us not forget that he had a criminal record, having been arrested on numerous occasions for basalt and battery and obsidian publications. Ok I’ll stop now.

- Joseph Gedling

February 02, 2011

Pantoum – The Song of Someone Trying to Write a Poem

Done in class. A lot of my class poems seem to revolve around the fact that I can never think of anything to write about in class.

Oh crap! We've been told to write a poem,
But shit! I have no ideas for a poem!
Fuck it, nature! That's always a good subject!
Trees trees trees trees trees birds and shit!

But shit! I had no ideas for a poem,
So I'll be unoriginal and write about the
Trees trees trees trees trees birds and shit
And say a load of things that have been said before.

Right, I'll be unoriginal and write about the
Dancing sunlight dappling a forest pool
And say a load of things that have been said before
About pikes in cool clear ponds like Hughes.

Dancing sunlight dappling a forest pool
Lofty autumn vaults dropping tarnished treasures
Above pikes in cool clear ponds like Hughes'
Cliché is how I solved my poetry dilemma.

Lofty autumn vaults dropping tarnished treasures,
Because nature's always a fucking good subject,
This is how I solved my poetry dilemma
When crap! We'd been told to write a poem.

January 26, 2011

So on it

I appologise for the awful title of this post.

Anyway, I have a cunnung plan. I'll post this up before the seminar so that if I wake up late and forget to bring the physical copy again in my rush (as I did this week) I can just get Dan or someone else with a computer to fire it up.

I went for the Bill Shakes style of sonnet because basically it's easiest. Less stuff has to rhyme with other stuff.

'At sunrise we'll all dance the hempen jig'
- A line stolen from an Alestorm song,
A crime that may to some seem appauling,
But I'm not that good when I aint got long.
But giz time motherfuckers and I'll knit
A poem of my own, scented like lime,
Full of gratuitous swearing and shit,
And nonsense concepts just to make it rhyme.
But plagerism's just so easy when
In class tasks you never mean to publish
If no-one minds some more blatant theft then
In the manner I started I'll finish:
'Look in my eyes and it's easy to see
One and one make two, two and one make three!'

Shitty, I know.

And now, in MLA style, the refrencing-
Alestorm. Captain Morgan's Revenge. Napalm, 2008.
Tenacious D. Tenacious D. Epic, 2001.

(MLA only makes you refrence albums, not songs. The songs were Captain Morgan's Revenge (Alestorm) and Tribute (Tenacious D))

January 19, 2011


I figured I may as well use this for something other than essay draughts once in a while.

Basically, we were given poems and told to cut them up and make a new one out of them. The glue and scissors was a bit primary school but a nice change of pace from alot of uni stuff. I actually enjoyed it, despite not being too nonplussed (what seems to be my word of the day, btw) about poetry in general.

The poem I had was Carol Ann Duffy's Valantine (here: http://www.poetryconnection.net/poets/Carol_Ann_Duffy/9274) and I managed to take this love poem (albeit unconventional) and turn it into something sinister and sexual, which I'm quite proud of.
(Note: ALL words here are from the poem itself, even connectives. That was the rule. So if you ran out of ands/ifs/whens then that's it, you had to do without them. I did allow myself punctuation though.)

'Not an Onion'

Not a red rose onion.
It is a heart wrapped in brown paper.
Not a cure card or kissogram.
It promises the love of undressing.

It will blind you Here with your knife.
Take Its platinum moonlight like a lover,
Its feirce kiss will stay on your lips,
Its scent will cling to your fingers.

January 12, 2011

The aesthetics of this blog

I've realised, my blog has this nice, rather steampunkey brushed copper 'skin' and even cogs in the banner at the top, and what font is the default and only I can use? Ariea or whatever non-serif crap this is, compltley runing it's steampunkiness. Times New Roman or something else serrifey would work much better. Bad show, blogbuilder. Bad show indeed.

December 24, 2010


Writing about web page http://mystery-incorporated-uk.blogspot.com/2010/12/christmas-incorporated-uk.html

Something I wrote for the patheticly written webcomic I write. Not to be taken too seriously.

“I can’t believe you’ve got us working on Christmas.” Complained Jacob, trudging through the snow behind Rowan.
“Ah, quit complaining;” replied the latter, “we get paid triple. Besides, I thought you weren’t really into Christmas?”
“’Course not! It’s not like I’m gonna miss the food, the drinking and the family togetherness;” Jacob said with a tone of bitterness suggesting that despite his inflated claims of apathy, he did indeed mind missing Christmas “I’m just worried that we’re gonna learn some ‘heart-warming’ lesson or something, and you know I’m allergic to that crap.”
“You got your anti-allergy meds?”
“Then we’re sound.”
“I really need to join some sorta union. So what’s the deal here?”
“Some rich guy…”
“How rich?”
“Rich enough to hire the only detectives who’ll work Xmas (at quadruple rates) in order to find out who stole his spoilt son’s Christmas presents. Anyway, he…”
“S’alright, you just explained in your aside. Actually, that’s the other thing I’m worried about: that there’ll be a ‘shocking’ twist where it turns out you set all this up and stole the presents so we could get paid.”
“Eh,” Rowan replied, with alarming nonchalance “money’s money.”
“Your seduction by and fervent support of the patriarchal industro-capitalist ideology sickens me, Rowan.”
“Uni’s changed you Jacob.”
“Go play with lights, worst-boy electric!”
The two sunk into a nicely familiar silence of animosity. A suitably festive metaphor would be a cosy Christmas stocking that’s been in the family for years and is adorned with the knitted likeness of a scowling Frankie Boyle stabbing a reindeer in the eye with a syringe. They trudgingly trudged onwards through the snowy snow this sickeningly, self-consciously ‘ironic’ badly written sentence.
The two (Alexandra and Elliot being absent for reasons so hilarious I’ve had to withhold them for fear I might be sued by grieving families for literally one case of terminally split sides) reached the door, and Rowan rang the bell. A few moments later the pair saw something that made them instantly forget their quarrels, for the young maid who had answered the door had cleavage so deep that, diving into it (as so many longed to do) one would be unsurprised to find the wreck of the titanic nestling at the bottom. It would, however, be chauvinistic not to describe the rest of her too.
The half of MI_UK present were shown into a large living room. In one corner was a MAHOOSIVE Christmas tree with a noticeable lack of presents, and above the fireplace hung empty stockings – though none bearing the countenance of Scottish comedians famous for their dark humour. Of course there weren’t – that was an overwrought metaphor, remember?
Even more noticeable than the lack of presents was the man awaiting them, resplendent (and as Douglas Adams has taught us, the word ‘resplendent’ is hilarious used in certain contexts) in a solid gold dressing gown and top hat.
“Great;” muttered Jacob to Rowan upon seeing Shiny McShine (which in his head he had instantly nicknamed the man) “another eccentric! At least this one isn’t a fucking Cluedo character!” Then, turning to the screen “That’s the game known as ‘Clue’ to any Americans reading, since someone in marketing decided that a portmanteau of ‘clue’ and ‘ludo’ would spin you out so much you’d all go on high school shoo---mmph!” {At this point Rowan wisely covered Jacob’s mouth.}
Shiny – who apparently follows the conventions of Shakespearian theatre and had not noticed the aside – began to speak. He had the kind of voice you’d expect from someone wearing a solid gold dressing gown and top hat:
“Ah! So you must be the unorthodox detectives I…”
“With the greatest of respect;” interrupted Rowan “save it. We’ve heard the brief and you’re not paying us for manners.”
With that, Rowan headed over to the stockings and Jacob to the tree. After some close examination of the floor around the tree Jacob discovered an unusually coloured hair. He picked it up, sniffed it, licked it, and then wrote a 2000 word essay to confirm his thesis. He held it up to Shiny and Rowan:
“Green. Grinch hair. You can probably get them sprayed for or something. That’s where your presents have gone. Mystery solved, let’s go get pissed.”
“And,” chipped in Rowan “since its Christmas, we’ll only charge you quintuple our usual rate!”
“But aren’t you going to find my very expensive and valuable stolen presents?” inquired McShine, taken aback.
“Look;” said Rowan bluntly “we solve mysteries. We don’t solve mysteries.”
“Besides,” Jacob added “when a Grinch nicks your presents you’re supposed to learn” {he shudders} “a valuable lesson about what’s really valuable at Christmas time.”
Eventually, McShine (or whatever his real name is) managed to haggle MI_UK down from five times their normal rate to 3.9 times their normal rate seeing as half of them didn’t show up, the half that did show up where half-hearted and half of the half that showed up given half a chance spent half their time hitting on the maid (who it turned out disappointingly lacked a French accent).
Elliot, however, never quite fully recovered.


December 04, 2010

Notes on vanity

I've just realised that I favourited my own blog (this one) in the list down the side. Vain bastard.

November 25, 2010


Thought I'd be a nausiating prick and post a link to my Boar Article:


Also one to my other blog, which involves a cartoon me and some friends 'solving' 'mysteries'. It's 'funny', a 'parody', and I've used 'too' many 'scare quotes' (here, not in the comic):


November 17, 2010

Multiple viewpoints Task

This is a continuation of the last thing, the tasks set for class. This one's long though which is why it's got its own.

Multiple Viewpoint Exercise

Look at him, sitting there. How can he chew so noisily? Wait; he’s talking now. Swallow first you prick. And God! His voice is so nasal, so annoying. What’s he saying? Something about golf. God, I don’t give a shit. Golf’s like the most boring sport ever. Woah! Where’s that come from?! That was racist, and not even casually. Man, look at his chin wobble. Actually don’t, that’s making me feel ill. Why shouldn’t I tell him? Why shouldn’t I tell him what a bigoted, boring, self-inflated cunt he is? Oh yeah, because he’d fire me. That’s why.

God, it felt like I was there hours, watching that fat cunt’s gelatinous chin wobble as he ate. And the way he ate! He chewed so noisily, and spoke with his mouth full. It was bad enough that he spoke at all, considering the crap that came out his gob (and I don’t mean the food). Everything he said was either about golf or immigration. And his voice! It’s so nasal and annoying. Imagine a wasp flying close to the mouthpiece of a megaphone. I almost told him how boorish and bigoted he was, but I remembered he was my boss and held my tongue.

Do you know how nasty it was, hearing you chew so noisily, watching you chew with your mouth open. Fucking swallow first, it’s disgusting. Or maybe just don’t talk at all; your voice is so annoying and nasal. God, I nearly told you what a fat, bigoted prick you are; and how I don’t give a shit about golf, but I remembered you’re my boss and so I didn’t.

Two men, and employee and his boss, sit at a table, somewhere about the middle of the restaurant. One, the younger and thinner, is aggravated at the other but he tries to hide it. Fortunately the older, fatter gentleman – evidently the boss – doesn’t realise and just drones on nasally, talking in pars and prejudices. This disagrees with the young man as he is now visibly struggling to bite his tongue. Fortuitously for him, he succeeds.

{Waiter} You get all sorts in here. These two were evidently a boss and his employee, from the way the older called the younger ‘Perkins’. A very old fashioned boss, it seemed from him addressing his employee by his surname, and old fashioned in his views too. The things he said! Perkins clearly didn’t approve either, I could see his jaw clenching and his eyes narrow, so pissed off he was it took physical effort to stop himself speaking out. Luckily the fat controller didn’t notice and just kept droning on, about golf among other things, in a really grating, nasal voice.

{Elderly Japanese Businessman} I had such a hard time ordering! Seeing as I am here on business and was thus dining alone, I indulged in some people watching. A table towards the centre was most interesting. A large gentleman sat with a younger, thinner one. The older spoke in a voice most adenoidal. Whether it was this alone which aggravated the younger gent – for aggravated he was most definitely, though he tried to hide it the mastery of his emotions over his body was evident – or whether it was what he was saying or some mannerism of the elders I could not see from where I sat or – most likely – some combination of all three, I could not tell. However, I believe to have deduced – though I am not complete in my certainty – that the more aged man was the employer of the younger, in so far as I believe ‘Perkins’, by which he called the younger, to be a family name and not a first.

As I peered into the restaurant to see if they had any spaces free, one table caught my eye. Two opposites sat together, and old and fat and a young and… well not thin as such but not fat. There was clearly some kind of power-relationship here – The young was subordinate, he was clearly pissed off and not hiding it well, yet he didn’t do anything. I couldn’t hear them, but I figure it was a boss and an employee after a promotion; or maybe an elderly uncle and a nephew who’s after inheritance.

In class tasks

We were told by George to upload the various fiction tasks we did in class. So here they are, in no particular order. I'm holding off uploading assessed ones for now since they're supposed to be anonymous.

Dialouge tasks:

‘Bad/Soap opera’ Dialogue

A: “Please! You’re breaking my heart!”

B: “I didn’t know you had one, bitch!”

A: “How can you do this to me?!”

B: “How can you do this to me?”

A: “Do what?”

B: “Him.”

A: “Wha… How did you know?”

B: “I didn’t; but you just confirmed it!”

A: <Gasps>

201 Word sayings/stories thing

Chris, you disappoint me. Have a good sniff of this and make sure it’s chlorine. I’m getting seriously worried about this group. Always trying to distract me from the lesson, asking whether I’ve managed to kill any moles in my garden recently whenever moles are mentioned. I bait them out and hit them with a spade. Do you appreciate that?

And every year I get asked about that damn cat. I only tell that one once to each group, and only when asked, because it distresses me. But each group tells the year below to ask about it. The cat was asleep on a high shelf in the shed and I didn’t know this. I turned on a hedge trimmer, startling the cat and causing it to jump down and decapitate itself, poor thing.

Contrary to popular belief, my middle name is not ‘Wan’ or ‘Foo’, and my wife is not ‘Sue’.

“Are you a scouse Sir?”

“Have you ever been nutted?” (I am from Liverpool, though my accent’s mostly gone.) Ba-ba-ba-ba don’t do that! Remember, if you’re going to fix cracks in you path, do it when it’s cold because the concrete will expand with heat. Chris, you’re a disgrace!

Uninteresting happening in variety of styles and story/non-story in 50 words:


Carrying fifteen cans of cider back really hurts your arms. Fifteen cans for ten pounds. What makes it worse is that I live in Cryfield, which is like the furthest away from Tesco’s that it’s possible to be. I got other stuff too, but it wasn’t alcohol.

Customer feedback form:

Task Undertaken

Transporting by hand 15 cans of Srongbow Cider from place of purchase (Tesco’s) to Cryfield; the University of Warwick residence farthest away from aforementioned Tesco’s.

Positive feedback

The cider was 15 for £10.

Negative feedback

Carrying it hurt my arms.

Any other comments?

Brought some other items as well, but they weren’t alcohol.


Once upon a time, in the Kingdom of Warwicke, there lived a Scholar who sought the Elixir of Inebriation. To acquire this Elixir the Scholar had to travel far, to the Cave of the ‘Great’ Tesco; a giant, faceless entity that valued gold above all other things. Though his path was long, the Clerk was unburdened and with company so his journey was fair.

           But alas! This Tescos’ Cave (for he had many) did not contain the Elixir of the Woodpecker, which the Scholar most desired, so he must fain settle for the Elixir of the Bow. But Yea! The Elixir of the Bow was three-quarter-score phials for ten gold pieces, so the Scholar was happy.

           But fie! This happiness did not last! For the phials were heavy and this self-same Clerk resided in the village of Cry-Fielde, which lies in the corner of Warwicke furthest from The Cave of Tesco. And he was now alone, his fellowship having sought other and fewer things in the Cave, and he having consented to separate from them. And thus, the Scholar’s journey home was arduous, and caused him great pain in his arms.

           That Scholar did purchase other things that Tesco’s cave, but none were other forms of the Elixir of Inebriation.

Story/Non-story in 50 words:

The thing about having your brain taken to another dimension is that it requires one to pay close attention. I failed to do this and am now unfortunately trapped in the body of a squirrel. I’d love to stay and chat longer, but someone is about to pinch my nuts.

'Write a Picture' task - Extended version (More than the one I read in class):

After Wake

Black and white. White on black. It’s a contrast so frequent that there isn’t a single simile or metaphor regarding it that hasn’t been worked to death and then sent to the Knacker’s yard and made into cliché.

           The white pamphlets cover the ground, not densely enough for comparison to snow, more like dandruff. Bad dandruff. The dandruff is thicker towards the formation, like some scabby giant has shaken his head over the line of be-shielded black-clads that stand there, showering them in his albino skin.

           The batoned men are rowed, likely guarding a route as those jungle ants do on Attenborough narrated primetime, and are armoured (like the ants) with an exoskeleton, theirs artificial. Some stare forward into the distance, others point and turn their heads to converse with their comrades. However, the route they guard does not teem and bustle with life like with the ants, only with white leaflets. Who will clean them up?

           What has happened here? A wake? Who’s awake? Certainly not that dead fella… Oh, I see now. Of course. How stupid of me.

           What do they talk of, the shield wielders, as they stand there? Is it purely business: “That one looks like trouble.” Or do they find time to talk of other things?

           Perhaps some talk of the woman who now walks before them? Dark haired and dark clad too she is quite alone in the abandoned road, a leather bag of who knows what at her side, going only she knows where. Donne wrote that no one is an island but she sure looks one at the moment; a lone woman adrift in a sea of asphalt crested with paper breakers and, far off, washing a reef of faceless men.

She alone moves here; all else is static. ‘El Presidente’ may be dead, but her life carries on.

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