February 27, 2010

Carnival of Souls

Because Classic Movies are good. This film is officially in the public domain, so its being here is, in fact, perfectly legal. Free movies. Free, good movies. This can only be a good thing. 

February 26, 2010



Adverts never used to make me scream, but now I’m horrified whenever anyone on TV says ‘Hut’, whenever I hear the build up to the piercingly shrill shriek-fest that is a Boots advert and, more to the point, whenever those demonic Evian babies skate across my screen. Those babies are the hellish love-children of the Cloverfield monster and whatever kept freaking that couple out in Paranormal Activity.  Note to Evian advert people: seeing babies rollerskating and dancing is not cute, it is unnatural. The way you contort their bodies is repulsive and your disregard for the physical health of your CGI-Monsters and for the mental health of the unsuspecting viewer is almost as odious as the spectacle itself.

I fear that this advert is merely indicative of a trend that refuses to stop growing. There is an inexorable plague of children on TV. There are a couple more eye-stabbing Kid-centric adverts floating around at the moment, both supported by the government. The first is a swarm of children singing ‘I’ll Do Anything’ in a bid to stop their parents smoking, and the second a load of children talking about how alcohol is going to mess their lives up when they get older. Fact time. The smoking kids don’t care about stopping their parents from smoking. They just want to be on TV. Children love attention. They love attention more than chocolate, Spongebob Squarepants and certainly more than the state of their parents’ lungs. Children are selfish. The youngest members of the AA are probably looking forward to being able to get ‘mash-up’. One boy appears to promise himself a future where he will be offered drugs in a nightclub. He then proceeds to brush his teeth with such fervor for his ever so exciting future. One thing that children love more than getting attention is sticking it to their parents.

Now, humble reader, you may feel the need to interject at this point and tell your immodest columnist that I clearly have underlying issues with my own childhood, but this is not the case. This is how the ad-men want you to treat people who find the sight of children on TV abhorrent instead of cute, endearing and guilt inducing. The children in the public service announcements are menacingly attached to horrific social malaises as if they are the true victims of an uncaring society. We are being constantly asked to consider future generations, to make life better for them. All I envision is a new generation of apathetic droids emerging with a fag sticking out of their collectively foppish mouth and an enormous bottle of Cherry Lambrini in hand to chug on the way to the discotheque. 

So, perhaps I am uncaring. Perhaps I am soulless, and I should let myself be madly affected by the government’s children. Perhaps I should just sit back and relax while the three horsemen of the infant apocalypse scourge the ne’er-do-wells who dare to listen to their warnings, but I refuse to remain idle. Any advert campaign with children in it is destined to fail. I refuse to be conned by the acts of desperate ad-men who can’t think of a tool more convincing than shoving careless sprogs into the glare of the public eye to sell water, or to say that climate change is a bad thing, or that perhaps by eating sweetcorn one might turn into a big green giant. It adds a whole other specious dimension to the already mindless advert break. Rant over, it’s time to make myself a coffee. The adverts are on. 

February 25, 2010

A note on economic circumstances


Someone said ‘shit, this makes no sense’, and the world sunk to its knees again . We exchanged our feet for cake. We ate until we were fatter. We sunk the world. And lower, still.
I could kill that someone. If I wanted to leave my bed, I could kill. With a steak knife. Or a dessert spoon.
The cake was worth it. Not one of us can run. We are more equal than ever.

A man on the TV proposed the sale of our legs for some more sugar. Somehow, someone did something. And we have no legs. So the world grated soft our stronger genitals.
I could fuck that someone. If I could leave my bed, I could fuck. With a steak knife. Or a dessert spoon.
The sugar was worth it. Not one of us can walk. We are more equal than ever.

And lower, still.

Piles of dough.
Pits should be dug for all the shit.


February 23, 2010

My Philosophy. Number Two.



can't be

what you wan t 


just air.

it's alljustwater and ai.r

February 22, 2010

My Philosophy. Number One.





Metal pt.1


Metal on metal on metal. And sheets. And noise, an itchy noise. And an amputated hand grip on my knee. Anonymous love and care and boredom. More metal. The hand is metal. My eyes, lips, ear lobes. 

A fan presses air in the background. Killing itself. For nothing. It will clank to its death and no-one will offer finger comfort. The sky a gravestone in its mass grave. With all the other cars. 

Rebirth...either a monster or a storm. Nothing good can come of a metal revolution.

What if Jesus was wrong?

“Darling. Poppet. My love. Dearie. Duck. Sweet-Pea. Sausage. Mate. Mate. Mate. Poppet. My love. Chair. Darling. Nurse! Oh, my love. Oh, poppet. Oh, dear. Oh, sausage.”

light flash



and the fan breathes. It clunks, then breathes. It saw me.




So. I believe I'm supposed to be looking into influences. I read a lot of blogs so I would say that blog-land people have an influence on me and therefore on my writing.

Here follows a list of the blogs I like to frequent. Some are music blogs, some fashion, some just writing. Some are a combination. This list will probably (definitely) grow.






















February 15, 2010

My Heroine Pretend

italian futurism

There was a disagreement on the train. Man, mole on forehead, staring into his dog-haired wife/girlfriend/sister’s clumpy eyes. Fountains of stray hairs fail over her foundation. It’s not fair to call it a face. Water, yes. She needs more water.
‘There aren’t any reservations. We’re not moving.’
She said. He looked like he always did. Tired of growing old. Gripping onto everything nothing, because.
‘We’re not moving.’
But he can speak.

Reservation lady. It’s fair to say that she was portly. Red lattice jumper, thinking about latticed sausage and liver pie. And we exchanged several glances. And people might call that love, in another setting. But the modern-day Rosa Parks lovers’ refusal sponged her eyes. She was dry. Water. She needed more water.

And I sat in my red train seat, fantasising about having tea with Julien Soren. Trying to catch the eye of a fat woman. Trying to make traveling to Somerset exciting.
There was a poster in Leamington station. The wonders of the South West. It said. The wonders. The windows here are the same as everywhere. Rain like acne. Perhaps it’ll grow old. Perhaps the windows will crease. Perhaps I will see Somerset through a distorted lens. Perhaps it will be magic.

And I will disappear.

And reappear, again, in New York.

Or Oslo. Probably Oslo.

February 13, 2010

Two Lovers


Two lovers. 

A baby.

There are always two lovers and a baby. And she cheats. And he forgives. And they live, slightly fragmented, together.

And the baby resents. And grows. And resents.


It can either be great, be nothing, or murder. 

And then, then everyone dies. And someone else writes another story about two lovers and a baby.


I had an idea for a story. I was sat on a hill, on the top of a busy hill. People who scoffed at irony puddled the grass. I sat, pad in hand, masterpiece on the tongue. A woman. An abortion. A foetus. A woman. A birth. A boy. A tragedy. Pow. Pow. Pow. And awards and glory and money, so much money. Splashed, no, drenched by the puddles. And I will be a flood. 

Then I threw my pen. No. I stabbed the ground. I planted my pen. My gold pen. It has more worth. I cannot make an ache. I cannot carve a star out of my too-thin strings of arms. I can chop. I can reduce. I cannot, I cannot make and make.

And I walked. And I danced because. And I made friends for months and drank strawberry milkshakes on chewing-gum benches. And I wrote essays about dead people.

Present tense.


Two lovers.

A gun.

There are always two lovers and a gun. And he kills. And she cries. And they live, slightly fragmented, together.

And the police find them. 


She can take the blame, cover for him or visit him. And cheat.

And then, then everyone dies. And someone else writes another story about two lovers and a gun.


You know how this carries on.

You know how this carries on.

Write it yourself.

February 12, 2010


2 out of 5 stars


Drugs. They’re everywhere, apparently. And they look damn attractive. Skins is back and they’re all doing it. From Anonymous Suicide Girl in episode one, who performed the remarkable feat of parting a drunken crowd with nothing more than the anticipation of a fall, to Thomas, who can afford a modern house on the back of his drug pushing, it is obvious that drugs can grant you both superhuman powers and everlasting wealth. Pass me the syringe. I want me some of this life-changing ofcourseonlyinapositiveway elixir.

   Drugs have a great history on TV. In particular, weed. I cannot remember one bad weed-related incident on TV. Everyone seems to love it. Those crazy Peep Show chaps are always ‘stoked’ and they’re ruddy hilarious. Yes, their drug induced haze only ever seems to result in public embarrassment but at least they’re having fun... Even dour Betty Draper on Mad Men got in on the act recently. Cannabis not only got her in with the other ad-men, it also gave her inspiration to rise head and shoulders above her pesky male counterparts.

   Prescription medication has a slightly worse reputation. Dr. House’s addiction to Vicodin renders him totally and utterly unlovable because he’s always so ruddy grumpy. Nurse Jackie seems to be doing alright on her snort-and-relax pills but her increasingly short temper, forgetfulness and propensity to have nose bleeds can only lead to one thing: a major melt-down. Perhaps one on the same scale as Lynette Scavo from Desperate Housewives way back in season one, where her dependence on anti-depressants almost led to her suicide. Grim stuff. In all honesty, all this teaches me is that addiction to prescription medication is not the way forward: it’s a pathetic drug to be addicted to. It’s unglamorous, is only taken by mardy neurotics and doesn’t even produce a high.

   No. As keen followers of the deranged habits of ‘crazy’ Television characters, we like to stay up to date with all of the latest drugs crazes. Smoke opium with the Desperate Romantics! Snort coke with Skins! Take roofies with Hollyoaks! Of course, I am being silly. In most programs drugs are shown to have negative side-effects. If one takes drugs in Hollyoaks, one will either end up arrested or dead. There is no middle ground. Oh, actually, there is. Rape. You will end up raped, à la Sam-whatshisface from the Hollyoaks Late Night Specials. Everyone seems to die in Desperate Romantics. Granted, it is semi-historical and there were other underlying health issues like a complete lack of antibiotics in the nineteenth century, but drugs play a salient role. It’s only really in Skins that most people seem to come off relatively unscathed most of the time.

   Which leads me to the whole point of this drug-high diatribe. Skins. I used to like it because I was a 15 year-old public school boy. Bristol night life seemed so mysterious. I have now been out in Bristol many times. Life is not like that there. Life is not like Skins anywhere. Skins is about as representative of the youth of today as Jackie Stallone is of the elderly. When people take drugs in other programs, they turn away from being the vapid air-sacs that the writers of Skins dare to call characters. I bet they’re not even snorting cocaine, but indulging in a bit of Dip-Dab. Skins is a pathetic legal high. It is a classless, empty con of a drug. Give me Mad Men’s weed any day, because I’m not buying whatever Skins is trying to sell me.

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