Sunday, 9 December 2012

What A Week

What a week, i'll say, by George, that was some week. Went to London last weekend, armed with armfuls of jam and little tasty postcards. Sold some of them, all the jam. sold all the jam and then some. I drank too much and became an idiot: such is the Real of intoxication. In London I stayed in three different beds, which makes a nice change from the sofa that is usually my home. It sounds mighty salacious too. In one room, you had to go through someone else's room to get there; the next was an illegal loft conversion, and the last one had a bed that was falling apart. But each house had their own splendid blend of idiosyncratic hospitality. On the day Palestine became recognised by the UN as a non-observer state – is that right? – i was in the brockley mess having a cup of tea and writing my novel. the news came through on the BBC website and Beirut was playing on the stereo, the song called the Gulag Orkestar. OK, so it's only faux middle-eastern music, but it's more appropriate than Gaga or Barry Manillow or Mumford and Sons or anything at T in the Park. On that day, a shot of olive oil was in order, i'm sure you'll agree. Then myself and my comrade set up an exhibition in shoreditch. the printers screwed us around so we couldn't get the print we wanted. we won't go back – that's the free market for ya. Each day was marked by an inability to fulfil our objectives, but thursday came and went off pretty well. jammojitos, need i say more? banalograms, need i say more? it took a long time to drive from elephant to shoreditch in a overheating car and if there is one i learnt as a result of that ordeal it is this: never buy sausage rolls from shell garages unless you are sure they have been heated very recently. (also, check the water in your radiator) (finally, if sausage rolls are below expectation, do not use them as an alternative to water in the radiator.)

Wednesday, 21 November 2012

What a week.

what a week, hey? i took to charging around the country side delivering chinese takeaways to people. i've been slowly working out the most efficient way to go about this and i think i have sussed it. it goes like this. drive to takeaway, unclip sat nav and put in pocket. leave car unlocked for expediency. enter takeaway. if meals are not ready then consider the address on the reciept. if address not known, type into sat nav, and then turn sat nav off. pick up bag and leave, enter car, sat nav and bag of meals on passenger seat; reverse, aim the appropriate way down the street, accelerate, switch on headlights, buckle seatbealt, clip in sat nav, turn on sat nav. turn on radio. when i get to the house there are more options of which to choose, including. do i leave engine running while i hunt for the house in the dark and in the rain? do i check the amount owed before i go to the front door or use my phone to check it in the dark? do i leave the car unlocked? do i fumble around for change for longer than nessecary in the hope of a higher tip? yes it's full of intricacies. i speed like a madman, something i am compelled to do by working on commission. it's just like grand theft auto. i ran down a hooker at about 8pm on tuesday night, but i outran the cops pretty quick so it was OK. meanwhile, israel! what would god say? thats what i want to know? ok so they may have different prophets, but yahweh and allah are they same bloke at the end of the day. let's not get into this too much, taking sides and whatnot, and just say the one thing that can be known for sure – this is going to go on and on. when children die and people don't stop doing the things that make children die then something is seriously fucked up. the novel i'm writing is slowing down dramatically around the 20000 words mark, whereupon i have done some serious rejigging and had to stop and consider at length where to go now. maybe i will have a crusading female priest who becomes a maverick bishop in all but name, doing ad hoc ceremonies in underground car parks until catholic henchmen hunt her down. if i were richard dawkins i would say, nay spit, the words 'of course they didn't accept female bishops. their archaic rules are dictated by the word of a made up entity of which there is no factual scientific basis. but the more alienated from society they become, they easier it will be for the atheist armies to crush them when the Atheatic day of judgement comes, circa 2030.' And then i'd chew on the corpse of a newly baptised child.

Saturday, 10 November 2012

What a Week

what. a. week. lord, the week has been some week, that much is true. i spent the first part of the week stapled to a pin-board in a corridor of an consultancy office, and i can tell you this. people do not take any notice of notices. hundreds of times people passed me, they didn't notice that i was stapled to the wall. they didn't notice the words on me, the words 'help I'm stuck on the wall, please get me down.' finally, on Tuesday night, i was released, just in time to stay up watching the Americans elect their president. i fell asleep minutes before the result was announced, and thus picked up elements of the speech as soundbites the following day. that obama though, he is slick like a Tony the tiger. that is a man who knows how to talk. romney, he's like a condescending uncle, who smiles and nods as he tells you that he had to kill your dog because your dog had got too big. so i started nanowrimo about 6 days late and have been trying to catch up ever since. some days im like wayooooo let's write and all the pain of the world rushes through me like an empathy conduit and i type a veritable projectile vomit of words onto the computer. other days, like Wednesday, i sit there like a koala, wasting away, clutching something for comfort, possibly watching breaking bad. i went to Devon on a train and saw a double rainbow on the way, as i rode the train. a unicorn was running up the side of the rainbow, which i found particularly weird because the far end of the rainbow's arc was very steep, too steep for a unicorn to get up, i would have thought.

Friday, 2 November 2012

what a week

floods floods, electricity, waves, wind, wind, wind. oh, the USA, battered again by the powers of evil. who would have thought that the storm blighted the Caribbean too? we tend not to focus on that. Cuba and Haiti? no one will notice the difference, they say. and just as one storm passes across the ocean, in a galaxy far far away, Disney buys star wars. who can blame them? the legions of children are just waiting/starving to make toys for the next three films, and can we expect them to be more stupid than the prequels? i say yes! binks the second, i reckon, jar jar binks' grandson, commanding an army which is trying to counter the counter-revolution. (is it not true that the righteous in the sequels will be a new rebellion against the power of the jedi?) but with Disney at the helm, no depth is too low. it's like the ocean – humans barely known what's down there, what evils lurk, and so it is with the rubbish that Disney will be capable of reaching, below the dive depth of any submarine. of course, i will watch it. i like star wars. at the beginning of the week i phoned up the bank to talk to them about my loan. when they put me on hold, the most forlorn music played. it was as if it said, 'sometimes, all you can do is accept the inevitable, and get another loan. don't worry, leave it to us, we will steadily ensure that you will be in poverty forevermore.' barclays, though – who knows – perhaps they will all be in prison before long and all slates will be wiped clean, or the end of fight club will come to pass. but considering the way they've managed to survive so far despite their criminal activities, my hopes are possibly mere fantasy. just got to button up my shirt and pay them payments every month, as the great philosopher kant once said, it is imperative that i maintain a decent credit rating. life is hard but so am i as E once said, another profound thinker. and so i walked towards but not all the way to the beach and i listened to polica. polica makes walking very cool, very cool indeed. breathing changes, loosens up. in all the songs the vocals are the same and yet this never becomes tiring. best recent discovery, polica. i came across a dead pigeon which i nursed back to life by sprinkling upon its head the pollen from a young dandelion and performing the ancient ritual of pigiennia. off he flew in spark of new and profound life, only to be hit by a passing truck.

Monday, 29 October 2012

what a week

what a week hey? gosh, indeed, i mean savile, what happened there? i cant even remember when that story started. i cant remember being surprised – it all rather crept up on you, didn't it? a bit like savile himself! but certainly i was dumbfounded and horrified. i mean, what the hell? bbc! where are you! as Norwich city fan delia smith once said. meanwhile, George osborne doesn't pay for his ticket on the train only to dig into his pockets and pay the £170 or whatever it was or else be thrown in with the animals in the standard seating area. ah but that was a long time ago, an age in the life of the newsreel. but that boy, that George, he's a cheeky one. one day he's skipping the train, the next he's parking a turd square on the head of a pensioner. i also took a train. i took one from crewkerne to home. a girl was crying on the platform and i offered her some chocolate. she said 'oh, go on then' and snapped a bit off. to be honest, she snapped off a bit more than i hoped she had. but i couldn't very well ask her to give some back, with the tears down her face and everything. the train was held up somewhere in Dorset. i had no idea where, it was late and i dont have GPS on my phone. it wasn't a station that's for sure. that's for sure! it was pitch black i tell you. we were all told to get off, they had run out of coal, or whatever it is that makes trains run, and we had to walk to the sea and get a boat the rest of the way. get back and wham, hurricane city! Sandy's on her way. it's like the motion picture Grease, with john travolta and olivia newton john, and just as badass. one of those BBC reporters, john sopel i think, he just loves it, kept saying the sea is swelling like a cauldron. presenters were lining up to get their storm report in, just hoping, hoping, hoping that they will be on TV when a building falls down or a person gets swept away. day after tomorrow, that's what it was, the soundtrack was virtually playing over the montage of waves and satellite images. does new york know when it ends and when its representation begins, i wonder.

Saturday, 27 October 2012

The milk

That night I drank milk. I drank it and kept drinking it. I drank all I had and then some. I went out to get more. I cleaned out the local shop's whole supply. I drank full fat semi skimmed and skimmed. I drank it straight from the bottle the carton and the vat and the truck. I had a hose. I had a funnel. I drank until the cows came home. 

I drank it non-stop until the gulps hurt then I drank more. I drank until I couldn't breathe and then I kept drinking. I drank until the calcium in my teeth made them so strong that they bit through my tongue without me noticing. I drank until the milk eroded the back of my throat and mixed blood into the falling milky cocktail. 

I drank until my bones were so so strong they destroyed themselves. I drank until my eyes cried milk and drowned the pupils so they looked like pathetic tiny raisins, shriveled and lifeless, on the expanses of two identical moons. I drank until the quantities of calcium turned my brain into an udder, and made me see cows floating in the milk lake of my tears. I held onto them as they passed. They were indifferent to my using them as a raft. They didn't even say moo. We floated towards eternity. Towards the inevitable waterfall that no one is strong enough to paddle against with their pathetic puny human limbs. I drank as we fell as we tumbled through the sky as the milk painted my clothes and hair and got up my nose and charged into my lungs. I drank and I drank. I drank all the milk we were drowning in, to save us, and then cried it right back out again, so we started all over again, the flapping the gasping the screaming for someone to save us and the drinking the endless drinking of the milk

Friday, 19 October 2012

Exclusive: A Tough Diet for Tough Times.

Government cuts are causing people to eat their own walls, a new study had shown. The politically central think tank, the Institute for Political Structural Integrity (IPSI) has found that increasing numbers of lower to middle class families are finding food too expensive, as wages stop rising, and are using the walls in their homes for extra food. But the consequences can be dire. 
Says Anne Brickton, spokesperson at the IPSI, 'the problem gets worse the lower down the wage spectrum you go. Those on minimum wage, for example, are eating particularly malnutritious walls, and those living in flats built in the Thatcher era are eating downright poisonous ones.'
Another consequence which seems to be too oft ignored is the importance a wall has in keeping up a roof. Anne says 'many walls have a variety of purposes – partitioning rooms and keeping ceilings up. Exterior walls also keep in heat, meaning that with every extra wall eaten, the fuel bills rise, and many of these people are already in fuel poverty. Without walls many roofs will fall down, causing the whole structure to collapse.' Food has never been part of the intended purpose of walls, says wall expert Peter Clockers, and in fact cause more harm than good. Anne declined to comment in any detail on whether the walls of the rich keep up ceilings up. 'We would not want to speculate on that at the moment,' she said, 'as far as we know the rich have not taken to wall-eating so hopefully the problem will not arise.' 
The walls of the rich are especially thick and a diet of thick wall is certainly a risk. However, GP Mark Darkwood says it is possible that the genetic constitution of wealthier people allows them to digest such walls, but this is yet to be verified. 'At the moment we are treating less well-off people,' he says, 'who's walls are lacking in any nutritional value whatsoever.' 
It is unlikely that more affluent families will turn to wall-eating because of the preferential treatment given to the wealthier under the coalitions policies. 'The tax revenues from the wealthiest in our country is invaluable to the UK's income,' said David Cameron. 'These are the wealth generators of our country and we should be supporting them as they support us towards recovery. Damaging the foundational integrity of wealthy families' homes will simply drive them overseas.' Labour have yet to develop a serious policy that goes beyond criticism of the Government, who reply to Labour's accusations of incompetence by saying that for every eight walls currently eaten by the poor, it would be only be reduced to seven under Labour. The Government stand by their commitment to lower the deficit even of it means a few months or even years of wall-eating. Cameron says, 'it's tough for everyone now but with hard work and a stuff upper lip we will once again thrive as the prosperous, magnificent and imposing nation that we once were, and on that day the poor (at least, the one who have survived) can re-upgrade to the ready meals and canned goods that they so enjoy.' 
So, 'hang in there' is the message right now but for an increasing number of families around the country, it is fast becoming a question of all for one and one for wall.