Sunday, 13 December 2009


When the rhythm calls the government falls Here come the cops
From Tokyo to Soweto viva la musica pop We are black & white
and we dance all night down at the hop and the letters were tall
on the Berlin Wall viva la musica pop so if you're feeling low
stuck in some bardo I, even I know the solution
love, music, wine and revolution love, love, love music, wine and revolution
This too shall pass so raise your glass to change and chance
and freedom is the only law shall we dance...

Saturday, 12 December 2009

Certain half deserted streets

Almost completely deserted, actually.

Just got back from Matter. It was... alright. The music was *fucking blinding*, the club was not actually as good as B2t in Birmingham or Bangface, most of the crowd were trendy wankers or rudeboys, and I had shitty pills that did nothing. However, I did see Chase & Status who were excellent despite having their stupid MC talking stupid incomprehensible shit into a microphone straight out of his stupid, self-assured face. I swear for the most part all he said was "widiwidiwidiwidiwidiwidiwidiwidiwoah-oh-ho, let's go", and occasionally paused to shout "Chase and Status" in increasingly ridiculous accents. "Cheehyus un stee-yah-tus". SHUT THE FUCK UP YOU STUPID PRICK. (I don't like MCs) Noisia were good too, as to be expected from old bangfacers. :) I thought Andy C was shit and boring as were most of the other acts. A few randoms in room 2 were wicked, Culture Shock was the best of them, played some stupidly hardcore neurofunk, I felt a bit like I was in World War 1, in a positive way. Wow that was a weird phrase.

Also - while I was on the bus to the O2, meant to be feeling excited and up for it, which I sort of was, I predominantly thought about jess dreamily. And when I met the girl I went with and her mates, supposed to be all sociable, which I sort of was, but I mostly thought about jess still. And when I was in the club, dancing about and whatnot, and when I was at the bus station talking to this big gang of guys, watching fights break out and talking to one about the racist character of the police, and when I was talking to a welsh bloke who'd had 2 grams of coke and a gram of speed taken off him, and a german tourist girl, and when I decided crazily to just walk home from Greenwich, literally a few towns away from home, and when I even more crazily made it, with a flawless route... still just thought about jess.

Being in love is weird, man. =p

  • There is nothing like a big crowd of macho slick-haired morons determined not to smile at anyone to bring out the closet elitist in you
  • There is nothing like a cheese and salad cream sandwich to replenish one's energy stores at 5 in the morning
  • There's nothing like Jacob

Tuesday, 8 December 2009

One of my favourite poems ever.

I have no adequate interpretation of what is being communicated here, no sense of the poem's structure or the author's intentions, but it is... completely amazing. The Love Song Of J. Alfred Prufrock.

Let us go then, you and I,
When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherized upon a table;
Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,
The muttering retreats
Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels
And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:
Streets that follow like a tedious argument
Of insidious intent
To lead you to an overwhelming question. . .
Oh, do not ask, "What is it?"
Let us go and make our visit.

In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.

The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes
The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes
Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening
Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains,
Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys,
Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap,
And seeing that it was a soft October night
Curled once about the house, and fell asleep.

And indeed there will be time
For the yellow smoke that slides along the street,
Rubbing its back upon the window-panes;
There will be time, there will be time
To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;
There will be time to murder and create,
And time for all the works and days of hands
That lift and drop a question on your plate;
Time for you and time for me,
And time yet for a hundred indecisions
And for a hundred visions and revisions
Before the taking of a toast and tea.

In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.

And indeed there will be time
To wonder, "Do I dare?" and, "Do I dare?"
Time to turn back and descend the stair,
With a bald spot in the middle of my hair—
[They will say: "How his hair is growing thin!"]
My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin,
My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin—
[They will say: "But how his arms and legs are thin!"]
Do I dare
Disturb the universe?
In a minute there is time
For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.

For I have known them all already, known them all;
Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,
I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;
I know the voices dying with a dying fall
Beneath the music from a farther room.
So how should I presume?

And I have known the eyes already, known them all—
The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase,
And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin,
When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall,
Then how should I begin
To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways?
And how should I presume?

And I have known the arms already, known them all—
Arms that are braceleted and white and bare
[But in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!]
Is it perfume from a dress
That makes me so digress?
Arms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl.
And should I then presume?
And how should I begin?
. . . . .

Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets
And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes
Of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows? . . .

I should have been a pair of ragged claws
Scuttling across the floors of silent seas.
. . . . .

And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully!
Smoothed by long fingers,
Asleep . . . tired . . . or it malingers,
Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me.
Should I, after tea and cakes and ices,
Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?
But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed,
Though I have seen my head (grown slightly bald) brought in upon a platter,
I am no prophet–and here's no great matter;
I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,
And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,
And in short, I was afraid.

And would it have been worth it, after all,
After the cups, the marmalade, the tea,
Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me,
Would it have been worth while, 90
To have bitten off the matter with a smile,
To have squeezed the universe into a ball
To roll it toward some overwhelming question,
To say: "I am Lazarus, come from the dead,
Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all"
If one, settling a pillow by her head,
Should say, "That is not what I meant at all.
That is not it, at all."

And would it have been worth it, after all,
Would it have been worth while,
After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets,
After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along the floor—
And this, and so much more?—
It is impossible to say just what I mean!
But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen:
Would it have been worth while
If one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl,
And turning toward the window, should say:
"That is not it at all,
That is not what I meant, at all."
. . . . .

No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;
Am an attendant lord, one that will do
To swell a progress, start a scene or two
Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,
Deferential, glad to be of use,
Politic, cautious, and meticulous;
Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;
At times, indeed, almost ridiculous—
Almost, at times, the Fool.

I grow old . . . I grow old . . .
I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.

Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?
I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.
I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.

I do not think they will sing to me.

I have seen them riding seaward on the waves
Combing the white hair of the waves blown back
When the wind blows the water white and black.

We have lingered in the chambers of the sea
By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown
Till human voices wake us, and we drown.

John Winthrop, you fat fuckin' legend.

We must delight in each other, make others’ conditions our own, rejoice together, mourn together, labor and suffer together, always having before our eyes our commission and community in the work, our community as members of the same body. - John Winthrop, 1630.

Possibly a nutter apart from this quote, but it's nice to remember that the past wasn't characterised by total idiots all of the time, and that this kind of idea is not new. :)

I know you're a recluse you know that's no excuse

Oh my actual days. A few days of learning, chilling out, christmas shopping and drinks at the hobgoblin.

And theeeeen.

A whole MONTH living at Molly and Jacob's house. :D I'll get to see them all the time. And all my friends all the time. And Jess. :) And it will be christmas. And we'll have whiskey and wine and hot food and it'll be cold outside and cosy inside and we'll play instruments and gorgeous music to eachother and get out of our little heads.

I'm literally laughing aloud at how happy this idea makes me.

Tuesday, 1 December 2009

It's well your birthday soon

So I was thinking I might let you off maid duty for the day. If you're good. And you make me trifle. =p


Me and Kie on Facebook Chat


You wake up, with a boner, in a bin filled with shit.


And you wank up the walls until, exhausted, you sink back into a delirious, dream filled sleep.

It's December! :D

That means it's literally practically christmas now. :D Time for warmth, cuddles, family, rampant sentimentalism, becoming significantly fatter, mulled wine, eggnog, pine needles, mince pies, rudolph and fuck it, it might even snow!

Get. Right. In.

Monday, 30 November 2009

Battered Accoustic

Here is my version.

One night in December the four of us came staggering back to my place, laughing and singing loud into the deep; as if we could, this time, chase despair away for good. We never had much food in my flat, but there was a battered old acoustic in the corner, a view from the loft window that could be used to see the stars on cloudless nights, and love on tap.

The door was stubborn, but eventually relented to a shoulder barge. This prompted a totally disproportionate cheer from the others. I grinned and shook my head as we shuffled in, shedding our wet winter coats and boots in the landing and talking happy nonsense. I turned the heating right up, and listened to the strangely comforting groans and complaints of the pipes. Sophie danced into the kitchen and began to pour everyone some wine. I watched as she stretched to reach the glasses, and her white tee-shirt rode up a little, revealing the perfect skin around her hips. Mike was at the computer and had put Radiohead on, and Lily was busy with powder and credit card on the coffee table.

I came up behind Sophie and hugged her, feeling her smile through her back. We stayed like that a little while… I closed my eyes. After some time she turned, still hugging, to face me, her forehead resting against mine.

“Let’s drink our wine, Jake”

I breathed a laugh, and we took our wine through to the other room, where Mike was laying stretched out on the floor, grinning at the ceiling, and Lily was sitting propped against the sofa, eyes up, sniffing and breathing out.

“What would we do without MDMA” she sighed.

We all giggled and looked knowingly at each other. Mike spoke from the floor.

“We would stay inside, you know… We would withdraw, and we’d be those petty little creatures that our parents all became, live the 9-5 and get excited when a special of fuckin’, the bill is on, or something.”

“So cynical, Mikey” Sophie purred.

“We’d do coke instead” I said. Everyone giggled again, and we each took turns to sniff a line of those magic crystals. Then we knocked it back with our wine.

I stretched out on the floor like Mike, breathing heavily to keep some control. I think everyone else did the same but I can’t be sure. I know the floor felt more comfortable than usual, and I knew I was in one of those rare spots where I wasn’t out of place. A brief moment of sanity, I thought, and smiled.

At some point all the lights went out.

A t s o m e p o i n t ... a l l o u r l i g h t s w e n t o u t .

The warm waves of Everything In Its Right Place washed over us, and we… simply flowed, with the tide. Problems couldn’t touch us. Not there. Not then. It was the Promised Land that our young minds craved to live in. The moon, the air and all the world gently tingled with attunement and approval, whispering reassurances in our ears, it’s okay, it’s okay, it’s okay.

It’s okay, I remembered.

I felt Sophie’s delicate fingertips touch mine and lightly rake along them. I reached for her hand and held it. After a minute or two, she rolled over to me and nuzzled my shoulder. We looked at each other with spaceship pupils, and smiled. I closed my eyes and listened to her contented sighs, wondering how I’d gotten to this beautiful point. After a while, I sat back up at the coffee table, with the idea of having more. Mike, Lily and Sophie all had the same idea, funnily enough. We chuckled.

“Addicts…” muttered Lily, grinning.

Mike hadn’t stopped smiling, and stretched out his big arms, pulling us all into a group hug. Our heads rested together. We stayed like that for a long time, nobody said anything. We swayed a little.

Sophie brushed her lips across my cheek, and then round to my face. Our lips were still but touching for a few seconds, and I held my breath. Then we kissed and kissed and kissed, sighing into each other’s mouths with relief. And then all of us were, Me, Sophie, Lily and Mike, heads turning to one another without discrimination or care as we pressed our lips together and ran our hands over each other, delirious and drunk on indeterminacy, consequences a faint memory in the flush of instinct and absence of fear.

What goes up must come down… The pedestrian hesitation of our interactions the next morning presented itself as it always does; a little jog back out of reality, a reminder that mental health is a temporary pleasure and nothing more. I didn’t care, though. I woke up cuddling Sophie underneath sleeping bags. And besides, we had touched the infinite, or nearly at least. Mike quietly played Blowin’ In The Wind on the acoustic in the corner as I cuddled closer for warmth and comfort, and though the world outside was bright grey and there was scarcely food for breakfast, we were at peace that day.

My copy of No.1 Fake arrived today

It was cooool. My flatmates read it, all liked my poem and it sparked off a general discussion about poetry and technique in art. Get in. :)

Today I got lost in Lewisham. Funny times. I asked some chavs for directions, they were actually compeltely polite and pointed me the right way.

Man... we actually have the most delicious takeaway pizza place near us. It's proper nice. I wolf their pizzas down in nooo time. Like I literally ate my whole pizza in a 2 minute walk to the library just now. That's good pizza.



I'm living in fear, a little bit...

Thursday, 26 November 2009

Edward and The Thieves Part 2.

Rory crumpled to the floor, spitting up blood and clutching his stomach. Keith stood still, eyes wide as they could go, as if their very widening would prevent further bloodshed. Edward stood quivering in the centre of the room, tranquil. Tears still snaking across the little trenches of his worn-out face. His eyes were closed, and it seemed for all the world to Keith that any minute now the wind from the kitchen window would sweep this poor old man away. Everything was quieter in the aftermath of the gun shot... In the distance, birds sang.

Fuck, thought Keith. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck. What now? I'm not prepared for this, for fuck's sake. I'm not a violent man. He nervously felt for the Animal Liberation Front badge by his breast pocket. 20 years in this cause... is this it? Is this little loopy loo with some antique shooter gonna finish me off? His heart raced. He thought about his family and, hating himself, let a few silent tears grizzle their way out from his veteran eyes.

Suddenly, Rory croaked "A...amm, muh, muh... ambulance"

Keith stared horrified at the blood-soaked American. So he's not dead. He reached for his mobile.

"I can't take that risk, I'm afraid" said Edward. The gun was trained on Keith.

Keith took a few shuddering breaths. "Edward, now, just... listen alright? It is Edward isn't it?"

No reply.

"Edward he's gonna die if we don't call an ambulance. Alright mate? You'll be a murderer. None of us want that."

No reply. Despite the horror of the situation, Keith felt a twinge of every-day frustration at the old man.

"Edward for fuck's sake!" Keith cried, voice cracking.

"No... no. We can't call him an ambulance. I've already shot him, that's jail time, and I don't rate his chances anyway. Now who the bloody hell are you people?"

What the fuck is going on. It really, really wasn't meant to be like this. Keith's hands shook.

"We're... we're animal liberation activists, Edward. Please let me call an ambulance, alright? Please."

Where is this old boy gettin' confidence. Jesus fuck I didn't sign up for this.

Edward's face switched from glaring anger to a contemptuous sneer. He gave a low chuckle.


"You mean to tell me that my home has been invaded by bleeding heart hippies? You mean to tell me that you are responsible for stealing that letter?"

Keith just stared.

"Well then. I shall dispose of you both in the river. I daresay you'll enjoy getting back to nature"

"You know what Edward? Fuck you, mate. Fuck you, you silly bourgeoisie cunt. It'll be an honour to die by Rory's side, fightin' against your fuckin' cruelty! And that daft old bitch is never gonna love you. In fact, I bet she thinks you're a tit."

Scarcely believing what he was doing, Keith walked towards Edward, arms outstretched, leaned his chest into the barrel of the gun and spat full into his face.

Edward had been struck momentarily rigid with rage, but on feeling Keith's spit slap into his cheek, snapped out of it.

"Well then. This is it. Get ready".

Keith thought about adopting a crucifix pose, emulating Jesus, but decided it was too pretentious. He mentally made vows of undying love for his family and his wife. He was ready. He braced himself for the bullet. In the distance, the birds sang.

And a car pulled up.


"It's Margaret!" hissed Edward, scrabbling around frantically, gun cast aside.

Keith stood dumbly blinking, wondering if he was dying and this was all a hallucination.

"It's Margaret, you unwashed brat!" Edward seethed, slapping Keith into the moment. "Help me! Hide! Get behind the TV and take Rory with you".

Keith was so shocked that he simply obeyed, thinking longingly of the roast dinner he would have been enjoying by now.

Edward danced about the room like a man possessed, throwing a rug over the pool of blood where Rory had been and trying, ludicrously, to correct his appearance. Keith heard the sound of the door open and shut, and footsteps.

Keith heard a woman's voice.

"Edward... I've been meaning to say this for a long time... Look I know you're a good man. I'm not promising anything but... oh, god. Will you take me to our spot in the park, like old times? Just once? I know you want it too. I know it."

She sounded more hopeful than confident. Hang on, thought Keith. This is my chance. The old man hasn't got his gun on him and he won't wanna ruin the moment. I can walk out of here.

Once more, Keith leapt from behind the television. Margaret let loose a deafening scream and nearly fell over as she staggered back in terror. The look in Edward's eyes was baleful.

"...Edward. I'm gonna walk out of her now, okay mate? This is over. It's all over."

Keith began to walk slowly towards the door, hands raised. Once more he heard the gun click, and froze.

"Edward... Edward, what are you doing?" sobbed Margaret.

Edward blurted out what had happened in a half-crazed shout. Nothing to lose now, thought Keith. He turned to face the two of them, and noticed that Margaret had a strange, distant look in her eyes.

"All... All I know is I should like to be taken to our spot in the park a few more times, at least. And if my Edward gets locked away for murder that can't happen... and I don't suppose that between two of us we can lift that man's body..."

Suddenly her voice hardened. "You there. Thief. If you help us get rid of his body, we'll spare you".

A little flame of idealism deep in Keith's belly guttered and died as the tempting scent of continued existence wafted over him.

"Alright. Alright you old bastards."

I have an idea

I am blocked on this opening for a short story. So, maybe anyone who reads this should just comment and continue it how they want to. I do have my own version but it's not working for me. Bah, here it is anyway continue it as you will, I've called it battered accoustic:

One night in December the four of us came staggering back to my place, laughing and singing loud into the deep; as if we could, this time, chase despair away for good. We never had much food in my flat, but there was a battered old acoustic in the corner, a view from the loft window that could be used to see the stars on cloudless nights, and love on tap.


  • Get Involved
  • Interesting
  • Good times
  • Interesting times
  • You love it
  • Hab
  • Han
  • Brynevere
  • Is that the original
  • Is that a bit freudian
  • is that a live version
  • sandwich bags
  • i'm harny
  • habby days

  • ...Writers block can fuck off. :(

I really, really miss my girlfriend.

Wednesday, 25 November 2009

Distant dial tones

I dreamt that I was going to meet Molly&Jacob and it was summer. I was in a new house with my mum and it was kinda nice and I was wondering how I would be able to get in touch with them. Then I heard someone shout "Jacob!" from outside and it was Molly's voice. I went outside and it was a gorgeous day, bright clear blue sky and awesome sunshine. No one was on the street, but then I thought, hang on, this is stonehouse drive. So I ran in the direction of their house, but it had been replaced by a a big detached house that was sort of circular in shape, and decorated in a really bourgeoisie way, and you had to go to up some little spiral stairs to get to the door. and cleo was knocking on the door and some guy I didn't know, so I said hey to them. And then some distant friends of the family of a slightly chavvy and matriarchal bent opened it, and beckoned them in, and then saw me and in total shock ushered me in where there were more of that crowd and they all wanted to ask me about stuff in that really loud, outgoing and superficial and overly concerned way that they do. Then I saw Freya Samuelson who I've met like 3 times and never spoken to, and a guy from my uni. They said hey, I asked how they knew eachother. The guy said "well, we're friendly now, but we used to step out back in the day". I laughed and mocked his use of the phrase 'step out', comparing it to how an 18th century gentleman might say it. He laughed and expanded the joke a bit.

Then Dan knocked on my door and I woke up. He wants me to go to the science museum with him and emily in a bit to make some robots. :) I might go.

Whenever I wake up from afternoon sleeping I feel strangely floaty and egoless, and like I want to just be meekly nice to everyone.

Tuesday, 24 November 2009

Someone give me something new and geeky to get into

I like getting into things that are new and geeky. It can be anything. TV shows, films, intellectual subjects, books, games, whatever. :) *nods*

Monday, 23 November 2009

God... fox hunting. =s

You loved the fucking poll tax, and you propped up Maggie Thatcher, and you didn't give a fuck about Tony Blair until he threw your hobby back at ya

Sunday, 22 November 2009

Hyperdub, hyperdub

I went to the hyperdub launch last night. It was a totally elite dubstep rave. It was in elephant & castle. I took drugs. There were famous DJs. The club, corsica studios, was actually a squat, and is run by a not-for-profit art collective, so there was no commercial shit on the walls and it had a very underground feel. Well, technically it was slightly underground. I spent the night with some students from Oxford that I met. One random bloke was talking to a mate of mine in the toilets, and when I came in stopped me and went "ahhh. See this guy's got it locked up you know what I'm sayin' man he knows I know you know" and then he started laughing and shook my hand. And then he said "but seriously though the girls they love it don't they? *gestures at me* these broad shoulders?". I just laughed. "he went nah nah seriously tell me man do they or do they not." I said "Well it's probably more to do with confidence than shoulders really". My friend laughed and agreed. The bloke said "weeeeeeeeeell you say that but fuckin'... I'm confident man, you know what I'm sayin', and they ain't flockin' to me" and laughed again. "You've gotta admit it man, girls love dat shit". I said "Well, my girlfriend does like my shoulders. but I'm not some fuckin' casanova mate. I wouldn't worry about it really." And smiled. He grinned and said "yeah yeah, fair play boss". Then I said "Right I'm gonna do some drugs in the toilet now. It was nice meeting you man" and we shook hands and that. I saw him later and he pointed me out to someone, and like mimed a wide frame.

What the fuck? :L I wonder if he was gay. It was a funny encounter though.

Another strange one was this guy on the dancefloor near me at one point. We were both raving away, and we caught eachother's eye and grinned as you do, and he was really going for it. Then he leaned over to shout "THIS IS FUCKING RUBBISH!!!" still dancing like a madman and grinning. I laughed and shouted back "WHY ARE YOU HERE THEN?". He shouted "Absolute fucking shit!" and laughed and carried on dancing.

London life, yo. Got back at half 7 this morning. Chatted with the people I went out with for a little while, then went to bed about half eight. It almost felt like old times. :)


Saturday, 21 November 2009

Friday, 20 November 2009

Thursday, 19 November 2009

Yush yush.

I'm becoming insane

Is an awesome track by Infected Mushroom.

I keep getting massively excited and hyper and random lately, to the point where I sort of scrunch up and spin round and squeal a bit. I have no idea what to do with the energy of it, but it just suddenly booms to a level far beyond what a human can usefully contain. But this is not a new phenomenon, I've had phases of it for as long as I can remember. Just absolute extremity of emotion for about 10-20 seconds.

And I like my new uni friends. They aren't my real friends. but they're nice and funny and unique and clever people, genuinely. And no bullshit or anything. Sort-outs.

I want to be immortal. I really do. Fuck the pseudo-romanticism which seems to sometimes surround death.

I want to get published before I'm 20. Not as in famous author of a novel or whatever, although obviously it'd be nice. I don't particularly care how or in what sense, I'd just really like to be. Don't care about money or anything, just the achievement would kick arse.

I miss Molly and her never-ending sarcasm/loveliness dynamic. And her molly-ness.
I miss Baz and his randomness and beaver humour and occasional deep sincerity.
I miss Kie and his wild, paradigm defying, infectious Joie De Vivre.
I miss Jacob and there's really no sense trying to categorise what I miss of him.
I miss Jess and her everything. With ludicrous intensity. :L

Tuesday, 17 November 2009

Funky seminars

They've been good today. :) There was a desperately interesting lecture about how madness has been defined, viewed, treated and so on throughout history. I though the analysis of Michel Foucault, who no one except Jacob will know probably, was especially provocative; he said that madness/insanity is entirely a social construct, invented to alienate those who don't fit in to whatever the society of the day is like. He claims it has no objective existence at all, and that necessarily to label someone mad we must assume that we have a monopoly on what is rational and sane, which we don't.

I think Foucault was wrong. But I think there's a lot of truth in his analysis and a very strong case for it. I also got to defend the Marxist view of human nature (it largely doesn't exist) at some length today, and it was unchallenged. In fact there were nods, smiles and agreement+expansion. Unhearrrrd of I'd have been laughed at and indulged for the sake of argument at school and college. I was. Not taken seriously! Weird. =p And a further chance to discuss how religion is essentially subservient to political and economic interests later (more Marxism) which is actually the consensus in academia by the looks of it.

My blogs are getting geekier.


My favourite intellectual

Is, I think, Michael Parenti.

The goal of a good society is to structure social relations and institutions so that cooperative and generous impulses are rewarded, while antisocial ones are discouraged. The problem with capitalism is that it best rewards the worst part of us: ruthless, competitive, conniving, opportunistic, acquisitive drives, giving little reward and often much punishment -- or at least much handicap -- to honesty, compassion, fair play, many forms of hard work, love of justice, and a concern for those in need.

Sunday, 15 November 2009



Normally... gym wears me out and makes me feel sleepy and post-coital. This time... not! :o

Saturday, 14 November 2009

Alex highly reccomends this

Wanna watch this with jess+jacob. :)

Wednesday, 11 November 2009

Edward And The Thieves or The Foreigners

On the morning of September 13th Edward Brannegan knelt down onto the plush carpet of his living room, and began to cry. Normally when people cry it starts as silent tears or perhaps some quiet and dignified sniffling. Not so for Edward. As soon as he saw the room he howled and wailed with immense volume, as if he’d been stabbed by one of those asylum seekers he’d read about in the Daily Mail. Still wailing, he set about rolling around the room in his blue and white pinstripe pyjamas.

“No, no, no! Noooooo! I simply, I, I simply shan’t have it!” he cried to no one in particular.

“This is the very last straw, the VERY last straw I can tell you” he said, his voice high-pitched and hysterical.

All of this came as something of a surprise to the thieves who were hiding behind Edward’s grotesquely oversized television.

“So, Keith” breathed one under the cover of Edward’s spectacular sobs, “is this how we roll in Britain?”

“Shut it Rory. You tryna tell me nuffin’ ever went a bit tits up at Uncle Sam’s Gaffe?”

“Sorry, what?”

“I thought I told you to shut it, you stupid yankee dick’ed.”

Rory smirked. “That’s right Keith. That good old soft racism of the British is alive and well in you, huh pal?” he whispered.

Keith’s face turned purple-red, rather like the helmet of an erect penis Rory thought.

“Well I’m glad you’ve got time to offer some socio-fucking-logical analysis Rory! Pratt.” Keith hissed. “What the fuck are we gonna do now? This bloke’s gone bonkers.”

Edward had begun rhythmically pounding his head against the exquisite coffee table, and was now loudly muttering incoherencies in a highly distressed tone.

“Wotsy sayin’?”

“I don’t know. I think he said Mummy just now. Yah, mummy.”

“Mummy? Fucking mummy?? Jesus Christ. The richer they are the… weirder they fall, I spose” murmured Keith,

secretly quite pleased with his turn of phrase.

“That’s great, Keith. Pure poetry. Now can we stop messing around, god damnit? He’s an old frickin’ man, I could knock him out in say… six seconds. Okay? I’m gonna do it and let’s get the hell outta here.”

As Rory began to move Keith immediately restrained him.

“ ’Old the phone mate. You said it yerself. He’s an elderly gentleman. We can’t just run round there and knock ‘im on the bonce, we might kill him! Fuckin’ hell. That’s just your yankee attitude innit? You’re all the same. Justa buncha soulless playground bullies when ya get right down to it aintcha? Make me sick.”

Edward was staggering about the room as if drunk now, wantonly tearing books from their shelves, idly smashing up the furniture, and deliriously yelling about Margaret, who had never loved him.

“Yeah well you know what Keith? This is all about your lack of moral fibre. Yes Keith it is don’t sit there all open mouthed like you’re in one of your shitty British cartoons. Face it. You aren’t really devoted to this cause. You don’t really care.”

“How bloody dare you! I have been in this movement for twenty –

Both the thieves froze in place as they heard the gun click.

“Margaret… Margaret… I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I’ve tried and I’ve tried and I’ve tried and I can’t do it anymore.”

“What is happening?” mouthed Rory, eyes wide with tension and fear. Keith did not reply, and his complexion became much whiter.

“I realise… I realise that I failed you. I know you wanted so much for me to get off the bottle and spend more time with you and Jack but look I just couldn’t, you know? Life isn’t some fucking fairy tale, you know? IT’S NOT A FUCKING FAIRY TALE!”

Edward sobbed noisily and ungracefully.

“Look at me… moments from death and I can’t even say goodbye without crying. But then I was never much of a man”

Rory’s face was an ocean of troubled questions. Keith frowned and hesitated. Then he ominously mimed shooting himself. Rory closed his eyes and gulped.

“But… but the point is… if I, pathetic wretch that I, that I am… can be permitted to say any final thing to you it is this… I love you and I have always loved you. And I’m sorry you got me. You deserved… so much b-better and I know you’ll find that… s-someday. God… I had written all this in a letter but it seems that fate has conspired to take even that away from me. Now I am a silly old fool. Babbling at the breeze.”

Rory and Keith stared with horror at the envelope they had assumed contained money.

“Enough… goodbye.”

The thieves leapt out screaming no, wait a second, stop.

Edward screamed and fired.

Monday, 9 November 2009

Sod it one more he's awesome

The past month was the 10th anniversary of the massacres in Rwanda, and there was much soul-searching about our failure to do anything about them. So headlines read "To Say `Never Again' and Mean it; the 1994 Rwandan genocide should have taught us about the consequences of doing nothing" ; "Learn from Rwanda". So what did we learn? In Rwanda, for 100 days people were being killed at the rate of about 8000 a day, and we did nothing. Fast forward to today. In Africa, about 10,000 children a day are dying from easily treatable diseases, and we are doing nothing to save them. That's not just 100 days, it's every day, year after year, killing at the Rwanda rate. And far easier to stop then Rwanda: it just means pennies to bribe drug companies to produce remedies. But we do nothing. Which raises another question: what kind of socioeconomic system can be so savage and insane that to stop Rwanda-scale killings among children going on year after year it's necessary to bribe the most profitable industry that ever existed? That's carrying socioeconomic lunacy beyond the bounds that even the craziest maniac could imagine? But we do nothing.

Chomsky, you fat fuckin' legend.

Of course it's extremely easy to say, the heck with it. I'm just going to adapt myself to the structures of power and authority and do the best I can within them. Sure, you can do that. But that's not acting like a decent person. You can walk down the street and be hungry. You see a kid eating an ice cream cone and you notice there's no cop around and you can take the ice cream cone from him because you're bigger and walk away. You can do that. Probably there are people who do. We call them "pathological." On the other hand, if they do it within existing social structures we call them "normal." But it's just as pathological. It's just the pathology of the general society.

Sunday, 8 November 2009

It's never quiet here

Motor bikes and dubstep pounding away outside my window, and my thoughts buzzing round lazy-persistent. But I'm warm and peaceful. I might go make a chip butty. But it is 4am. Who the fuck makes a chip butty at 4am? Hmm. I'm gonna go for it though.

Saturday, 7 November 2009

Fireworks night in London. :)

It should be good, right? I'll compare and contrast with Hastings. I have a standing invite from a flatmate to go to Crystal Palace on Mcat and Nitrous. I may put aside my suspicion of Mcat for a night. :) Anyway, I'll have a shot of JD for each of you, of course, and yeah long live the queen mother on a space hopper.

I miss Jess. :(

Everyone should clearly listen to Drum and Bass a lot more

Eat it.

It's better than grunge. =p *shamelessly offensive blog*

*prepares for abuse*

Oh god it seriously is though. :D haha

Relax, nothing is under control.

Friday, 6 November 2009

So there it is

So there it is, work it out for yourself,
Yeah be selective, be objective,
Be an asset to the collective,
'Cause you know you've got to Get A Life

Is there anything I can do about anything at all

The first thing you see is a blank wardrobe with no clothes in it because they're on the floor. Resting on top of it is a blank greeting card bearing a black and white photograph of two road signs, one pointing to "Outer Hope" which is apparently found in the wardrobe, and the other pointing away to "inner hope", found either in the unmade bed or, perhaps, out of the dirty windows and onto the streets of London. Next the focal point of the room, the desk. Disorganised heap of day-to-day essentials. Money. Toothpaste. Nail Clippers. Some miscellaneous print-outs of dreamy and amateurish poetry. Debit card. A stack of as yet unopened David Bowie albums. Vitamin pills knocked sideways next to empty wine bottles and beer cans. Books abound - left-wing political polemics, histories, creative writing. Acoustic Guitar leant against the bed, patiently waiting.

Wednesday, 4 November 2009

Open Letter To A Business Man on the London Underground

You smile while you're on your mobile and in your private zone
You laugh and broadcast happiness straight into your private phone
And when you hang up your smile drops and your cheeriness quickly fades
So were you really enjoying yourself or was it digital charades?

Do you hate the public? Are we boring? Are we dull or stupid or scary?
Are we the unwashed factory slugs to your ethereal fairy?
Do you find my curiosity disturbing? Do you find my naivety funny?
When you fuck your high-class escort girls, do you think about your money?

And how is it that you make the journey from 'me' to 'our'?
And in your quaking moments where do you find your power?
And what's the real scope of men, and where is our real range?
And why's life so mysterious? Why's it so fucking strange?
Why would I even ask you this, why don't I let you be?
Who's the villain of the piece, is it you or is it me?

Still December

It began on one of those still December nights when the whole world is quiet and unhooked, and nothing seems to move save the impenetrable whispers of the breeze and time itself, impassively drumming out the beat of ever. A night where a downtown street thug paused and let some wonder of the purpose of things float into his mind. A night where the local vicar had found himself leaving his marital bed and venturing out to a poker game some streets away, never sure why, but with godly guilt left suspended. A night where wolves and sheep danced noiselessly, and blended into a myriad.

It was also a night where Shybur was crouched atop a church spire, licking his dagger from handle to point and staring without eyes at the moonlit horizon. Awake. Awake. In his other hand the flickering oscillation of a compass needle told him why he was here again. He was not the only one. The pace of Shybur’s dagger-licks increased so that years of dirt were quickly removed revealing the weapon’s name, glowing in faint green lettering, Arkadas.

In another part of town, an inordinately fat man in a red and golden robe was bursting ridiculously out of the door of a bar and onto the cobbled streets, his rich chocolate laugh echoing loudly into the cool night air, absent the warmth that usually accompanies humour. A local pick-pocket noticed him.

“Nice dress fatty!” he guffawed.

The night stayed still and held its breath.

“I said NICE DRESS FATTY. You deaf as well as massive?”

8 miles away, Shybur silently mouthed no, and leapt with terrifying speed from the church spire.

The fat man was chuckling – an oddly high-pitched sound.

“Well, quite.” He muttered, his voice dropping suddenly to a rumble. “I would expect so.”

The pick-pocket suddenly felt his throat run dry, and his thoughts turned to his mother for the first time in many years. He mustered some bravado and managed to almost entirely conceal the shake in his voice. “I was being sarcastic, you fuckin’ mug. You look like a post-op Dawn French who got battered by a travellin’ circus.”

No, no, no Shybur breathed as the city raced beneath him and the wind cracked at his twisted physique.

The fat man turned to face the boy, slow and thoughtful. Jimmy the pick-pocket took an involuntary step backwards and his mind fell blank and cold.

“Would you like to know how I got it, Jimmy?”

“Whuh, wha, how’d you know my name??” Jimmy exclaimed. Why was there no one else coming from the bar. Surely there were more people at the bar for fuck’s sake. Oh god. Oh god someone help. I only nick to pay for food someone fuckin' help. Please. Please.

“How… how d’ya know my name? HOW DO YOU KNOW MY FUCKI-”

Jimmy fell silent as he noticed the bloodied corpse of the bartender lying in the doorway of the bar.

And then there was nothing but his heart. Pounding. Pounding. Pounding.

“Well Jimmy… that’s a long story.”

Off to see Beans On Toast in Camden.

Crisps. Carlsberg Export. Ben and Jerry's. 'Ave it.

Monday, 2 November 2009

Thursday, 29 October 2009


My downloads go at about 1.5 megabytes a second. That means I download films in 20 minutes, easy.


Literally I fuckin' stuck the Star Trek movie on to download last night, thinking I'd have it for the next night, went and chatted to flatmates and made a sandwich and then bam it was done. So I watched Star Trek. And it was bloody good. Remember when we all watched X-Men? (*ROOOOOOOOOOAAAAAAARS and gets naked*) Well if I remember correctly we had the choice to watch Star Trek as well and chose against it. Fools I tell thee. Fools. =p

Anyway I pretty much just wanted to brag to Molly that my downloads rinse the fuck out of hers any day even if she's at Merly's. ;)

Whoop whoop! Although I can't watch my downloads now. They're too fast. :L

I wonder if Jacob will make it across the trains. :) Haha. Let's hope so.

Hastings todayyyyy and Dylan Moran on Mondayyyyyy happy happy happy happy happy. :D

Tuesday, 27 October 2009

I remember when we used to take drugs together

...You get tired by the evening
you take your tablets
wash them down with a sip of Kronenbourg
and I think back to Millenium Eve
when we took pills in a Camden bar
climbed up the fire escape at midnight
stood on the roof
flapped our arms like eagles
and talked about infinty.

Wednesday, 21 October 2009

Down With The Kids - Tim Clare

The past is another country
A crap one, like Belgium
Rife with brown-trousered tedium
Where no one sees disasters coming
Where the phones are big as bricks
Where men sleepwalk down aisles with their future ex-wives
Where the only telly is repeats

But don’t slag it off
Cos I was born on those streets
Where my gawky demeanour and penchant for munching
Made my peers jeer ‘Oi speccy! Oi sumo! Oi bumchin!
I heard that the bruise on your tricep needs punching
Now don’t you go dream of amounting to something!
I told you last Tuesday – or hasn’t it sunk in?’
These lads who led lives of fags, football and spunking
Who sat their exams and got straight As – in flunking

While girls deft as surgeons sat squeezing their blackheads
All strung out on burgeoning hormones like crackheads
They used boys like me for their sarcasm practice
I vied for one girl who seemed gentle and kindly
An angel, she’d surely have never maligned me
She’d never go ‘dickhead’ or ‘wanker’ behind me…
Oh the rolled eyes and wrinkle-nosed dry gagging gesture
She did to her friends when I tried to impress her,
As if she’d been licked by some rough-tongued molester
Like Caliban came from his cave to caress her
Or swarms of black locusts had tried to undress her
‘Get back to your books and Nintendo, professor!’

And so I jawed shut
Like a vault
Or a clam
Like a Transformer morphing back into a van

Fast forward
To now
And my ego’s intact
I’ve seen a girl naked
(seen several, in fact)
I keep my achievements impressively stacked
And when I’m a twat, well – it’s part of my act

And one day, I end up in a scene from my dreams
I’m up on a stage and the crowd’s mostly teens
And so mustering all my newfound self-esteem
I think: Right – time to show these kids just what ‘cool’ means

I thought they’d like me
I thought they’d admire me
I thought they’d be inspired
Aspire to be like me like I was some guy off the telly

I thought they might at least smile politely

Oh in my head, how they’d applaud
They laughed and howled and cheered
But in real life I got ignored
Cos they thought I was weird
The youngsters sat there looking bored
They made me feel a crooked fraud
Till something deep inside me roared:
I will not take this anymore-d

Okay, I’m not ‘down with the kids’
So I say
Down with the kids!
Drown ‘em like a sack of philistine kittens!
The kid gloves are off
It’s on
With the man-mittens

I don’t wanna be cool
I wanna be a curmudgeon
I’ll speak at your school
With its fresh dreams to bludgeon
‘The Oxford English Dictionary defines “teenager” as
Buhhhhh! Uhhhh!
Aged 13 to 17
You young minds who sit before me today
Are rubbish
You download your rubbish opinions like ringtones
Scoop rubbish maize snacks into bum-fluff edged gobs
A putrefied mackerel smell wafts from your pissy bits
You lurch between fury, indifference and sobs
Your clich├ęd McHeartbreak, your shrill swine-faced hissy fits,
Your feelings are rubbish
Glum zit-witted yobs
And even if one of you does become an astronaut
The infinite vacuum will press its thumb against your tiny visor
And not let go till you’re a joyless atheist

You still think death is other people

Huge, freakish, ungainly children
You need to think about death more
I remember that I’m going to die
At least five times before breakfast
Which I take at 2pm
In my underpants
Playing Super Mario Sunshine on my Gamecube
While you’re stuck in a classroom that smells of pencils
And what do I have for my breakfast?
Whatever I like!
Pork pies in gravy
And Poppets
And booze
I can eat what I want!
I can drink when I choose!
Oh I think I’ll consume this huge vat of cheap wine
So I’m rat-arsed in time for the 3 O’Clock News.’

So fuck the kids
Well, don’t fuck the kids
But down with the kids!
Get off my lawn!
You’ve never heard of Teletext?
You don’t even know you’re born!
With your wi-mo i-hood my-isode nanos
And ability to hear through the ears in your knees!
No wait
I’m thinking of crickets
Their chirruping wing strokes as teens sit in judgement
And gag after quip after joke I make tanks
Grip my mic, but I know where they’d like me to stick it
Their faces as hard as a concrete abutment
Their afternoons measured in texting and wanks

So go on, don’t love me! I don’t need your approval!
I’d sooner fork out for a bollock removal
And if you should come crawling back on your knees
Bearing blog hits and Friend Requests begging me: ‘Please!
Without you the whole world is greyer and colder!
Look! Jenny has Tippexed your name on her folder!’
I’ll shake my head slow in the warm changing breeze
‘No,’ I’ll say, smiling. ‘Not till you’re older.’


Got to go... leaflet for the demo... tired... gonna have to discuss politics with strangers... weirdly, I actually sort of hate discussing politics with strangers... but it's for a good cause... personal frailties no excuse etc... ah, I want bed and Frijj and Disney films and jess.

The nazis come to london...

...And London sees them off. :)

Monday, 19 October 2009



Sunday, 18 October 2009

Random poster I saw earlier:

AND IT'S NOT 1924.

Perhaps the arty among you will know what they're on about. :)

Don't need no baby, 'cause music is my SMUUUUT

These beats are all I need

Saturday, 17 October 2009

An overheard conversation outside a launderette in New Cross

LO: You 'eard?
SS: Woss that love?
LO: Outside Venue the other week?
SS: No, no...
LO: Some bloke got shot.
SS: What??
LO: Yeah. And then stabbed as well, 'parrently.
SS: Jesus fuck. Some people eh.
LO: Mmm. Well it's all of 'em coming out o' these pubs innit. Pissed up.
SS: Don't ask me! haha. I aint got not theories.
LO: Yeahhhh yeah it is Harry. You mark my words.
SS: *laughing* If you say so.
LO: It's these class tensions innit. Iss the workin' class. They feel downtrodden.
SS: Wot workin' class? hahaha that's the funniest fing ah've ever 'eard.
LO: *laughing* Well you know the working class. You're working class.
SS: That may be true darlin', but we're a dying breed. Disappearin' as fast as the toffs.
LO: But the work must still get done...
SS: Anyway, we can't afford no fuckin' guns. *both collapse into hysterical laughter*

Temporal Strawberries

I'd met her in the park the Sunday before the Monday when it happened. She was curled up on the grass by the big oak tree, our big oak tree, in its shade. I sat down beside her and breathed in the summer air and contemplated things. She didn't move. This was how our meetings always began. She would be there already, I would join her. She knew I was there. We'd sit quiet for a little while. That might seem strange to you but it worked for us. Everyone is in such a rush to say something, anything, that most of the time people's conversation is just vacuous bluster. Not for us. That pressure to talktalktalk just wasn't there for her and me. The contrast was nice, some relief from the usual pace and falseness of the world. There are other methods of communication, in any case.

When it felt right I said to her "It's like you asked. No one knows that either of us are here, I didn't tell anyone."

Her eyes fluttered open and she squinted and blinked in the summer's day light. Mentally, I swooned. She inched forward to rest her head on my lap and said "Thank you" quietly. I bent down and kissed her gently on the cheek. An uninterrupted summer's day with Amber... It was one of those days where life surreptitiously slips you everything you could ever want and it might just as easily fly past without you ever noticing.

I've never been able to just sit by our oak tree, so with a wonderful inevitability I sprang up, knocking the delicacy of the moment, and began to climb. She spluttered laughter and disapproval and stared at me, incredulous from the grass. I grinned down at her.

"But Amber! All joy and beauty is necessarily fleeting! You're an artist, you should know that. Besides, I brought you some strawberries, so you've got to forgive me."

I took out the little box of strawberries from my backpack and watched her eyes light up. So beautiful. I threw one down and it landed on her and matched the red of her dress. Straight away she started eating it and got to her feet and stared up, a cute caricature of defiance. "That's a silly romantic fallacy, darling". She smiled, and started to climb after me.

On Monday it happened.

The Tuesday after the Monday when it happened I went back to the park at dusk. We all did. I got in the branches and threw strawberries down at the ground for hours, slowly decreasing in regularity until my last one was gone. No one asked me why. The birds made a mess of them, of course.

Thursday, 15 October 2009

Rip out all the epilogues

There's about to be a meeting run by the Socialist Worker's Party about Malcolm X.

Not clear what I think of him really. A racial separatist and radical muslim for the majority of his life, and then a sudden swing into egalitarian social justice. I get the feeling he had the right ideas all along, but was choked by Nation Of Islam's narrower agendas. Anyway he has a nice quote about inequality:

Well, I am one who doesn't believe in deluding myself. I'm not going to sit at your table and watch you eat, with nothing on my plate, and call myself a diner.

Wednesday, 14 October 2009


A bloody miserable prose poem. =p

Here's the statistics of poverty:

80% of us live on less than 10 dollars a day.

25, 000 children died today because of poverty. They did yesterday, too. And they will tomorrow.

UNICEF says they "Die quietly... far removed from the scrutiny and conscience of the world."

Less than one percent of global expenditure on weapons spent instead on education would mean that every child could go to school. This hasn't happened.

There are 121 million uneducated children in the world.

About a billion people are unable to read or sign their names.

Here's the poverty of statistics:

They say nothing to us of the reality of the situation. They say nothing to us about Soa, a street-stall owner in Diego, who burst into tears of gratefulness when she was given 8 euros. They say nothing of her wrecked dignity and by extension our own.

They say nothing to us of how Jermaine Jackson has 26 toilets in his "main house" while over a billion of us have no access to any sanitation whatsoever.

They...bore us. Desensitise us. Even the personal stories manage only to elicit a vague and aimless empathy. Charity feels like a bandage on a broken arm.

Poverty stands.
A massive, shaking black elephant in the room. Desperately and noiselessly trumpeting.
Vast and incommunicable.

Nailed it. :)

So listen
Terrorism isnt caused by religion
Or an old school vision of Islam
It's against the Qur'an

And it's a new innovation
Caused by mash up situations
That's what makes them turn to arms
The problem is modern
And it's all local factors
Dictatorships, injustices and wars cause fatwas

Who needs incompetence when you have bad luck

  • Saturday morning - Turns out my to-be-landlord's a sexually inappropriate headcase, and so I've got nowhere to live in a few days.
  • Monday evening - leave my friends and girlfriend to go to london. Bad back.
  • Monday evening - get followed home by this fucking creepy bloke muttering "motherfucker" under his breath.
  • Tuesday morning - ILL. Miss all my lectures at stay in bed all day feeling useless.
  • Tuesday evening - arrive too late to an open mic to perform, and then find out I could have paid less for the train. Nearly lose my phone. Tesco shut so no bread or butter for the morning.
  • Tuesday evening - realise it was my mum's birthday today.
  • Wednesday morning - wake up LATE but manage to sprint out of the door and catch my train. Get caught at the barriers and manage to avoid fine with smooth-talking but have to pay for the ticket.
  • Wednesday morning - Arrive at my lecture, it is inexplicably not there and full of art students instead, no explanation is given and reception doesn't know anything about it.
  • Wednesday morning - Realise I've forgotten my student card and have to deal with a receptionist who obviously hasn't been laid in about 10 years in order to get into the library.
Karma? =s

Tuesday, 13 October 2009

At the rave

You came bouncing up to me, all colours and beaming
Eyes like spaceships, wide awake, still dreaming
You planted a kiss on my cheek and said something lost to the bass
So I just grinned and gave you a thumbs up... that usually works in this place
But your return grin quizzed me quietly, and it was curiously disarming
You were random, ephemeral, generic, but oh, so, charming

And then we danced by the main stage, and the beat was inside my brain
And I felt about as relaxed as Maragaret Thatcher on cocaine
But I fucking went for it anyway so as not to seem mundane
While you whirled the night away freely, your inhibitions slain

So I dropped another pill, and though I winced as it went down
My ego soon deserted me; along with any trace of a frown
And we kissed and smiled and danced and hugged oh yes, we really played the game
And I'll see you at the rave next week - we won't remember eachother's name.

Stuff that matters

Banksy, Hugo Chavez, tea, The Wind That Shakes The Barley, Frank Turner, Come On Coma Victim, my grandmothers, fresh air, happy-face stickers, deliberate re-adoption of childhood culture in later life, Jack Daniels, beating your personal frailties, climbing trees, Marx, George Carlin, avant-garde art movements, my mum, home-spun advice that actually works, tolerating vulnerability in exchange for emotional participation in the world, milk, Christmas, bungee-jumping, MOLLY WEBB, folk music, makeshift beds, luck, JACOB WEBB, epiphanies, snorting cocaine off mirrors, trying, hygiene, Kieran O'Mant, Kieran O'Mant, Kieran O'Mant, laughing for inordinate amounts of time at the stupidest/basest possible thing you can think of, sharing, teddy-bears, raves, butter, bears, wild plans, criminal activity, fake arrogance, occasional humility, voluntary self-degradation for common entertainment, Saul Williams, Baz Walters, chocolate, hospitals, star-gazing, sex, fat people, hope, acoustic guitars, warmth in all it's forms, DJ Scotch Egg, bombing a shit-load of speed and ending up inexplicably outside bar blue drinking wine chatting to some Columbian girl who played guitar, Rowan Hebden, MDMA, Bob Dylan, Merlin doing stupid stuff and making noises, laughing so much you feel physically sick, cuddles, Dan Le Sac VS Scroobius Pip, Sage Francis, the sea and the beach, Dubstep, education, performance poetry, staying alive, MOLLY AND JACOB, Dillinja, David Bowie (yeah why not), Bangface, Katie Rogers, Clubs Drugs Pubs & Parties, masturbation, Gill Scott Heron, the Beat Generation, honesty, WH Auden, Stephen Fry, intellectual ancestors, transcendence, kisses, Abbie Brockhurst and her special hug, Chase & Status, LSD, University, funny stories, red dresses and Jess Walters. <3

Monday, 12 October 2009

19:47 service to Hither Green


Oh well. I suppose.

I'm gonna live fast and I'm gonna die old.

Thursday, 8 October 2009

19:10 service to Hastings

and happiness. Fuck yes lads. Fuck yes. :D

Ridiculous passage from the Qu'ran:

Those who disbelieve Our revelations, We shall expose them to the Fire. As often as their skins are consumed We shall exchange them for fresh skins that they may taste the torment.

Making up for the geek blog

Tuesday, 6 October 2009

Eric Daaaarbeeeey you fat fuckin' legend. :D

Come on in, I’ve got a sale on scratch and dent dreams.
Whole cases of imperfect ambitions, stuff the idealists couldn’t sell.
Yeah, I know none of its got price tags, you decide how much its worth.
And none of its got glossy colored packaging but it all works just fine.
I’ve got rainy day swing sets good night kisses and stationary stars still flying at the speed of light.
And over there out back if you dig down through those alabaster stoplights and those old 45’s
You’ll find a whole crate of second hand hope.
Yeah right there, that’s no chrome, you just gotta work, polish it up a little bit. Most folks give up too easy - trade it in for some injection mold and here and now. And over there across the freeway, you see that purple awning flappin’ in the breeze? Well that’s Momma Genuine’s shop. She’s older than all of us put together
But she still laughs like a house. Now, she only sells tools but not like ya know, She’s got saws that put back together, drills that make whole...
Mommas a cool legend to know, and she sells duct tape too.
And down there at the end of the block are two kids, crew cut and pig tailed sittin’ Behind a bindle top table selling peanut-butter ice-cream out of a galvanized pale, And there’s no metaphor there its just good ice-cream.
So here’s whatchya do, take a look around pick out what reminds you of places
You wanted to be but gave upon going
And jam it all in this big box called “now”.
Then go across the street to Momma Genuine’s, ask her how she’s been,
Show her what I gave ya, she’ll know exactly what you need
And then go back in the center of that freeway and get to work making it all fit.
You wont have any directions or factory numbertabs but don’t panic.
There’s a hundred ways to do it right and none to do it wrong cause your startin’ out with what’s already been given up upon, you cant do any worse.
Use the tools momma gave ya, hum a little while ya work.
Then you find yourself sproutin’ extra thumbs!

Take a break.

Go around the block, get yourself an ice cream.
Smile when they hand it to you, tip em if you can
And when you get back it’s all gonna make sense.
You’ll see where it’s gonna fit perfect and where the duct tape has to go.
And when you get finished, take whatever spare parts you got at the bottom of “now”
And make yourself a little sign that says “tomorrow”, and hang it on your masterpiece.
Then you go back down the block to where those two kids are packing up their peanut butter enterprise cause somebody told them they’d fail and I want you to hand them tomorrow.
Make sure they know how important it is.
After they’ve run off with it all elbows and smiles y’all can come back here,
We’ll do it all over again. Now im not telling you this to make a profit,
That’s how so many good ideas go wrong.
I’m just tired of seeing every day people screaming through these doors
Convinced they’re gonna hock even their littlest hopes and dreams to fund their 401Ks.
I’m tired of seeing this whole world bet on going big or giving up.
Only handing out glory to newspaper headlines and story book endings,
‘cause the truth is I think we need those swing sets most on the rainy days.
I’m happy going to sleep after just a goodnight kiss,
And I believe that beauty can be as simple as two kids, crewcuts and pig tales, handing me a scoop of peanut butter ice cream that tastes so good, you’d think it was a dream.

Monday, 5 October 2009

Geek blog

My favourite comic character:

The mysterious Stick is a sensei who trained the young but experienced Matt Murdock (Daredevil) to control his enhanced senses and taught him the acrobatic martial arts that would make him so formidable.

Unlike Matt Murdock, Stick was born blind, so he has trained his techniques to a very dangerous style enabling him to protect himself better than a seeing person could. Stick is the master of the Chaste, a group of mystical ninja which seek spiritual purity and enlightenment as well as physical toughness. They have feuded with their rival group, The Hand, for centuries in a legendary secret war that stretches back to feudal Japan.

Stick has made it his mission to keep the Chaste pure and clean from any evil infection. He forbade another of his prominent students, Elektra Natchios, from staying between their lines because of her vengeful personality, in spite of her formidable progress.

Stick is quite punishing and arrogant with his charges. He encountered the X-Man Wolverine when he was in his feral state and brought him back to reasoning, in part because of continued battering from his bo (staff) and hard nose advising.

Eventually, the Hand sought to wipe out Stick and the good warriors of the Chaste altogether. Stick thwarted an assassination attempt by four Hand operatives; he then summoned the other members of his order to New York City. With the assistance of his clan, Stick defeated Kirigi, the Hand's most lethal ninja at the time. The Hand regrouped and attacked Stick and his band of warriors that now included Daredevil and his then current lover, Black Widow. The Hand had almost overpowered the small band of warriors, when Stick and Shaft resorted to an ancient technique that drained the life force from all ninja present. Unfortunately, the technique resulted in the explosion of Stick and his comrade as a result of the excess energy they had absorbed. The Hand considered the destruction of their arch-nemesis and leader of their enemy a victory and turned their attention to other schemes.

Years later, the Hand again turned its attention to the leaderless Chaste, once again attempting to destroy them, this time to prevent the Chaste's members from locating the new-born child that would bear Stick's reincarnated soul. The Hand severely crippled Stick's soldiers, reducing their number to a handful of warriors. The few remaining traveled to New York, seeking the assistance of Daredevil. Reluctantly, the Man Without Fear aided his former mentor's disciples, returning with them to Japan. Once there, The Hand attacked the Chaste and Daredevil relentlessly. Fighting alongside Daredevil, the Chaste barely managed to escape and safeguard their master's reincarnated spirit.

Stick is a reference to the Zen master Nantembo (1839-1925) - who was famous for striking his students with his nantin staff.