Monday, 22 November 2010

The Devil asks you, "What went wrong?"

I breathe. I take a can of cold whipped cream from the fridge. I eat the entire can. I place the empty can on the table, thin beads of condensation rolling down the side towards the polished wood. I breathe. I feel nothing.

I've been doing a lot of thinking over the last few days, and as a result, I took a spiritual journey through nature at its most basic level. Here's how it went:

Last night I switched off my light, convincing myself I was tired. I lay there for HOURS, absolutely not tired still switched on to the terrors of the days. I guess zen has never really been my style.

It must have become too much after a while though because eventually I found myself in a forest. I had a torch and a napsack and a feeling I had to walk through the forest. And so I walked.

Jeezum, I must have walked for miles. And miles. My feet had worn away and yet I strove onwards, carried only by the bloodied stumps of my ankles. Soon I saw a sad light coming from somewhere in the I approached I saw what I'd been looking for and shouted out,

"Oh flaccid penis of life! What am I going to do?"

"My child," replied the flaccid penis of life, who sounded a lot like Dame Maggie Smith, "just let go."

"But I can't!"

"Dear one, be calm. Learn from me; if you force it, it won't rise and things will be worse. Then everyone will be disappointed."

"You're comparing my huge and terrible upset to erectile dysfunction?"

"Yes, child."

" make a lot of sense. Thank you."

And then the flaccid penis of life granted me my feet back and told me to run home and report what I had seen in my massively popular blog, The Rattle Bag. And so that's just what I've done.

Fucking hell, Nobody...I just compared my huge and terrible upset to erectile dysfunction. What is the MATTER with me?! :/

"You can find
a million faults in me
but Darling you can't say
I gave you nothing."

Wednesday, 17 November 2010


...just a quick note to tell y'all of a small progression in the mystery one has found oneself embroiled in...

Yesterday I saw the castrato on the bus. I haven't seen him for an age as I've been off work dying of stomach terrors. WELL I hardly recognised him! He now sports a shaven head and...A MOUSTACHE. To me that indicates one thing: A criminal mastermind trying to disguise his guilt with a facial adornment.

Perhaps he read my last post. In which case he'll also read this. Well I'm onto you castrato; you won't get away with it forever. The world wants Mr Whitehairblackbeard back. SO GIVE HIM UP YOU CRAP BAG SANS BALLSES.

I hope you're still on the look out since the case obviously isn't closed yet. Stay safe, wieners :/

Friday, 15 October 2010

Call me Hercule

Lately I've been experiencing a lot of coincidences. Today it reached the stage where I decided that they're not coincidences and are in fact connected by a universal strand meant for closer examination.

Yes that's right!! A MYSTERY TO BE SOLVED!! Oh doesn't that just spark a deep and dreadful excitement in the gut?

So first let me give you the back story, bring you up to speed on the whole operation before we move forward:

Some time last year, while I was still unemployed, drizzling around the house in my over-sized pyjamas with feet too cold and a look of deep space glazed on my vacant face; yes at some point during that year I managed to make it out of the house for a visit to my favourite high street media vendor where I bought a copy of I <3 Huckabees. Really strange, confusing film!! I've watched it twice and still find it difficult to keep up. Anyway, if you've seen the film, you'll know that this purchase and subsequent viewing of mine was the first coincidence, though of course I didn't realise it then.

Anyway, then I started work. As anyone who reads this blog with any continuity knows, I ride the bus every day to and from work. Obviously a lot of the same people get on the same bus as me, so seeing them every day isn't that big a deal. This will however become more significant as my story unfolds, so bear this in mind: I get the bus with the same people most days; I know what they look like; I notice if they aren't there. Okay, got that? Good.

Most days when I'm heading to work I get off at the far end of town so I have a fifteen or so minute walk down to work to clear my head and prepare me for another monotonous day of treachery. At some point, probably around May/June of this year, every day when I got off the bus, I would see a tall man in a pale blue shirt with white hair and a black beard, carrying a rucksack. A fairly distinctive looking man to most people, let alone an obsessive person spotter like me!

The first time I saw him, I obviously thought nothing of it, other than, "Wow, what white hair he has; so striking against that rugged black beard." Then, on another day, I was catching the bus home and I saw him again. This time he was at the opposite end of town. Fair enough, perhaps he's like me and likes to walk through town for some fresh air.

The third time was more significant - I saw him on my lunch break. I was starting to wonder if I'd bagged myself a stalker, but decided that couldn't be the case since he didn't seem to register my presence at all, even though I stared at him so intently every time he might well have burst into flames. That or he was just a really good stalker and is in fact hiding in my wardrobe right now...


Anyway, I kept seeing him. Pretty much every day for three whole weeks, There are a lot of people in and around Leeds and for me to see the same stranger every day for three weeks convinces me even further that this was no coincidence.

For the next part in the saga we need to go back to my fellow bus users. I get on at a stop near my house every morning. Three stops later a man, always dressed in a black shirt and a black and white stripy tie, gets on. He looks like a normal guy. HOWEVER he had black hair, PEPPERED ENTIRELY SYMMETRICALLY WITH GREY HAIRS. His voice is also really girlish for a man. Traits of an evil mastermind? Well stick with me, my theory is coming, slowly but surely...

The third and probably most significant base fact I want to give you, are details of the black shoes I've been seeing everywhere for the last two weeks. Seriously, everywhere I turn there's a single, shiny black shoe lying there as if it's been kicked off in a mad scramble. It's always one and they're always in the weirdest places: the middle of a road; stuffed in a bush; tossed in a field full of horses. It's so strange. And sinister.

Still awake? Excellent, here comes my sewing together of facts and follow up theory!

Probably about two weeks ago, around the same time I started seeing all the shoes, the castrato didn't get on the bus for many a day. The bearded man also disappeared. I haven't seen him for an AGE. Having seen him so often for so long, I was obviously worried.

Then, tonight, when the castrato boarded the bus and immediately fell asleep, and I saw another black shoe in the bus station, it all fell into place! THE CASTRATO MUST HAVE MURDERED THE BEARDED MAN AND THROWN ALL THE SHOES HE OWNED AROUND LEEDS AND THE SURROUNDING AREA SO HE WOULDN'T BE DISCOVERED!

THAT'S why the pepper haired man was so tired on the bus today! I could barely contain my terrified excitement at having struck upon this theory. Oh good God, I thought, what should I do?! Oh I know, I'll write a blog about it, logging my suspicions and vowing to keep my audience gripped with any further information I uncover over the next few months.

So there you have it, a real life mystery, signed, sealed and delivered avec verdict. I mean, obviously I can't be 100% certain I'm right, which is why I won't go to the police until I have something physical to show them - I didn't manage to pick up any of the shoes and can't very well go up to the man on the bus in case he murders me too; the only thing I really have to go on besides the facts I've presented is the extra strong inkling I've had to listen to ABBA lately...ONE OF WHOM HAS A BEARD :/

As I said, I'll keep all four of my faithful readers posted with any developments. All helpful suggestions welcome. I just want the bearded man found so we can lay his perfectly contrasting face/head to rest if indeed he is dead. However I'd also like to say,

"Mr Whitehairbackbeard, if you read this, please get in touch, I'm worried about you and think you've been murdered."

Let's just try and keep one another safe guys. And if you hear a castrato singing out a ditty in your ear, I'd like to know about it straight away.

Peace out, Napoleon.

Friday, 8 October 2010

Lines That Don't Collate

Well! Never have I more seriously considered lobbing my apple core at 'yooman bean! There I stood, waiting patiently for my bus, next to a lady who very well looked as though she was queuing for the same one as me.

I saw the bus on the approach so I got out my Pass of Extortion and waited for it to pull into the stand. There were several people in front of me, so I was in no rush to cut in front of the woman. I turned to her and said something along the lines of, "Why good day to you, lady of a similar politeness and social decency level as myself, art thou waiting for this here omnibus?"

Before she had chance to respond, a large turd with legs was pushing its way in between us, making for the queue of people in front of me! So shocked was I, I blurted out something along the lines of, "Erm, HELLO?" avec Ricki Lake hand/head gestures of indignation.

The turd had the turdy audacity to turn its turdy head and say, in it's stinking turd voice, "Oh don't worry about it! Take your time!" with a large intonation of turd-flavoured sarcasm, as though the bus had been there for five minutes rather than the five seconds of time that had passed in non-turd reality. The doors hadn't even skittered open yet!!

Boy-o-boy did I push past him as quickly as I could! No doubt my coat is stained with his turdish demeanour, but justice simply had to be done :/

He proceeded to sit in front of me on the bus and only then did I recognise him as the very same turd who used to get on the bus every morning and practically sit in my LAP, casting his turdflakes about the place like some grotesque carver of faecal matter, and was, in turn one of the reasons I now cram myself into the not-made-for-tall-people individual seats at the front of the bus every morning. Hence my longing to throw my apple core at the back of his head.
I refrained though; I figured it would only result in a horrible smattering of turd flying all over the place.

I sat wondering what on earth this country is coming to, letting actual piles of crap with legs ride on buses, when Jimmy McSmokes got on with a lady friend.

Jimmy McSmokes is a guy who must be about my age, but probably has the lungs of a 90-year-old miner. I'm guessing this from the STENCH of smoke that comes off him every time he boards. With no exaggeration intended, he must smoke literally one million cigarettes a day. It's as though his rather fetching wee tracksuit is made only of lit cigarettes.

Don't get me wrong, I hate Jimmy for that, he just disappoints me. And he lived up to that disappointment yet further today when he sat with a paper bag full of DVDs; like ten of them or something. He went through them all and picked the price sticker from each one. When the sticker had been removed, he threw it on the floor. Then he took the DVDs out of the recyclable, paper bag and threw that on the floor too.

Oh Jimmy McSmokes!! You were homeward bound! Do you not have a bin there? One made of cigarettes perhaps? Or could you not have held onto the bag and the stickers and put them in the bin that is...oh yeah, right next to the stop where you got off?

The most pathetic thing about it was that he didn't even look like he was doing it with any malicious intent. I think he thinks that where rubbish goes.
SERIOUSLY, where is this country GOING right now?!

Ahhhhh fuck it! I'm going to chisel out a grain of sand to live in. Have a little poem why don't you?


Take the camera out of my face,
I know you're lying to me -
those eyelashes aren't even yours.
And get out from the curtains;
my grandmother hung them
and if I find one footprint...

I've seen you, with your courderoys
and your meat-blood eyes
and I don't trust you.
How old are you?
Timeless, is it?
What're you going to do?
Photoshop me into outer space?

You aren't a wizard,
you'll never remove the reflection
of your face in my glassy eyes;
everyone will know it was you,
even if you are hiding
at the other end of a darkened tunnel.

NB Yes, these stories are indeed trivial, but hey, I'm just trying to raise a smile or two. :) <<< there's one, so I'm halfway there, riiiiiight?

Tuesday, 7 September 2010

No One's Laughing

The other day I bought a new jacket. It's smart and green, it has a hood. I was initially quite pleased with myself. But now I look at it and just feel sad. I'm sad because that jacket means it's Autumn again. And then it will be Winter. And then another year will have gone by and I'll still be sitting in this same chair with my little notebook open on my lap trying to write my way out of a paper bag. No wait, not paper, polythene. A polythene bag is more suffocating. And more depressing because you can see the world you're struggling so hard to get back to.

Today effort.

The bus roars on
a wolfhound through the fog,
sent out to find the bodies.
I turn my collar up
to look like on of those painters;
calm and detached,
a leafy branch floating
down the window of a river
with no perilous thoughts
to ruffle my peripheries
or disturbs the patterns
trailing out at my back.
But really I'm drowning.

Monday, 2 August 2010

Making Life-Sized Models of The Velvet Underground in Plaid

When I go to the shop; when I break, for the hundredth time this week, my vow not to eat a sackful of sweet treats; when I purchase a bar of Dairy Milk Fruit & Nut because I haven't had one in many a year, do you know what I expect? I expect more than ONE nut. And I do not think that this is unreasonable.

True, the name of the chocolate bar is Fruit and Nut, singular. However in the brief description on the back of the packaging it clearly states, "Milk chocolate with raisins and almonds." Almond*s*, plural. As in, more than ONE.
Really, Cadbury ought to have written something along these lines:

"Lots and lots of raisins, a drizzle of over-priced chocolate and a single ancient, crumbly nut."

That description gives away pretty much everything I need to know and allows me to make an informed decision on whether or not I really do want to spend more than fifty pence on a glorified packet of dried fruit.

Fair enough, this bar of chocolate no doubt slipped around the factory, going from one conveyor belt to the next with little or no human input before being wrapped, packed and shipped out around the country. But seriously, ONE nut?! JEEZ-O! It didn't even taste like a real nut! Get your act together CADBURY, why don't you? Hey, why don't you do the whole friggin' country a favour and EMPLOY someone to watch my friggin' chocolate bar to make sure I get more than one friggin' nut? It's not like Kraft can't afford it, with their squeezy cheeses and tinned meals! Just stop being s'damn greedy CEOs, SEOs and whatever other EOs it is that're hoarding all the dosh! Oh, and Simon Cowell, can't forget about that insanely selfish, narcissistic abomination dominating the entire Western sonuvagun world!


Everything is ruined again. Thanks Cadbury. Thank you VERY much :/

"Still, it's a choice and I choose to rage."

Sunday, 11 July 2010

Spare A Thought

This morning I woke feeling distressed. It may just have been because it was so darn hot last night and my mouth was glued together with dehydration and I'd been haunted by repetitive dreams about not being where I need to be at the correct time and I was a little bit hungover. But I think it was really down to the fact that the only thought rushing through my mind was that everybody always forgets about chicken breasts. I felt terrible.

So I decided to declare this Sunday the day of BREAST. It's not really going to be so much different to any other Sunday, other than the extra 'B(ee)' I've tagged onto the ol' day of REST saying. You geddit? I don't.

I've been wondering lately if maybe I should give vegetarianism another go. But then I decided that it's probably okay to eat things like beef and pork, just as long as the meat isn't coming from baby animals, because big animals have had their time, right? They've seen the sunrise, they've felt the rain spatter on their thick skin, they've endured the sting of a wasp on the end of their milk-sweetened teat. Plus I was reading an article about the lambing season and nearly started to cry for all those bleating balls of delight I've eaten in the past. Verdict: I'm giving up lamb.

Other than this, peanut butter is rocking my world once again. Is there really anything finer than sleeping late on the weekend before rolling into the kitchen to indulge in a slice of toast smeared with that crunchy delight? I really do not believe there is.

*exit stage trapdoor*

Wednesday, 7 July 2010

And Now For Something a Little Offensive

I was bound for London again this weekend for general hand-holding frivolity with Best Beloved. Two weeks in a row! Much as my ailing bank account doesn't appreciate the needlessly extortionate rates I'm faced with while I'm hulled up in our nation's capital, my little Bee heart surely does appreciate the respite from the gripping state of loneliness it is otherwise faced with, so all is well.

On Friday I trundled out of work a faithful packhorse with my too-many-bags-for-two-and-a-half-days, off to the station, hurrying to catch the earlier train. OH NO! I'd forgotten to refill my water before I left work! Usually in this eventuality I would have beaten myself up for hours on end for landing myself drinkless in a situation that would surely call for a drink, literally punching the crap out of my weary body. What a mess. But not today, Zurg!

The sun was shining, I'd made it in time to get the earlier train, I was battling the urge to drop dead from the pressures of heat and exhaustion, so what the hell, I figured I'd just buy a drink from the trolley. As you may have guessed, it was a disappointing excursion.

ONE POUND AND SIXTY PENCE was pillaged from my unwilling purse for a cup of hot, not boiling water and a hard teabag. I don't particularly like strong tea; in fact I despise it and the furry orange tongue that manifests as a result of drinking it, but I do like a small amount of squeezability (what a fucking horrible word) in my teabag. And when I ask for "several" milks, I expect to be given more than THREE. Three?! What kind of number is that when it comes to milk portions? Oh yes, that's right, it's exactly the amount of milk portions you'd give out with a cup of tea and it's about five fewer milk portions than you ought to give someone who has just asked for SEVERAL MILKS. Three is not even nearly enough! And what I found even more insulting was the fact that he also gave me THREE sugars after I'd clearly said, "No sugars but several milks, please."

This is just not cricket, East Coast trains!

And you know what else has been irritating me lately? Public toilets. Or, rather, using public toilets while there are other people in them. And more specifically when there's no other background noise and only one other woman in there so you can hear every tiny movement she makes. Especially if she's overweight. In my experience, using a public toilet at the same time as a bigger woman is wholly off putting and, frankly just unpleasant.

Get a grip, larger ladies! When it's an effort to wipe then it's time to think about detox! If Oprah can do it, so can you! I'm rooting for you :/

Monday, 28 June 2010

Not For Me, Honey

While I was travelling to London at the weekend, I sat behind a mother with her small child of about 3 or 4; it's hard to tell with children these days, they often leave the womb as 14 stone teenagers because their mothers overate while they were pregnant, resulting in a race of super humans, their super power being the ability to eat their dinner really quickly, along with their crayons, their siblings and their own arms. But that's another blog, for another time.

The mother was obviously switched off to the entire world outside the massive cloud of reasonably-priced perfume that encircled her because she'd sat herself and her child in Coach B. Coach B is traditionally the QUIET coach, as denoted by the stickers dotted about the place showing a set of lips with a finger held to them, the universally accepted symbol of quietness, one of which, ironically, the mother and child were sitting beneath. I say ironically because the child's voice didn't drop below the level of foghorn for the entire two and a half hour journey, despite the mother's ever so delicate, ever so effective shushings. (NB, anyone who reads this and then reads my novel...whenIfindanagent and whentheyfindapublisher...may feel they recognise elements of this story in chapter 7. What can I say, I travel by train a lot and there are a lot of irresponsible parents around these days.)

Anyway, by the time the journey was drawing to its King's Cross close, I realised the root of the child's over active vocal chord problems. Under the supervision of its mother, the child had consumed three cartons of Ribena, a big bag of Jelly Babies, an apple, two Coco Pops cereal bars and early onset diabetes.

Now I don't have such a huge problem with children eating a bit of sugar every now and then; I myself spent many a happy Sunday afternoon perched in the kitchen armed with a spoon, covertly devouring a tin of Golden Syrup. Yes, I had certain weight issues, but it was nothing a healthy dose of childhood pneumonia couldn't solve.

What I DO have a problem with is having my Friday evening jaunt through the Surrey countryside, those I like to spend in quiet reflection, ruined by the constant, hammering chime of, "Are we there now?"

If my children ever ask this of me they will receive a simple answer:
"No, we obviously are not there yet, but hopefully your real parents will be waiting at the station, because no child of mine could be stupid enough to think we are 'there' when the train is blatantly still moving. Now back to your needlework; your playclothes won't stitch themselves."

I am, of course, joking. My children and I will sing and dance our way about the country, pausing only in market squares to learn valuable life lessons about not feeling too sad if you don't catch a tomato and it splatters at your feet. And then, when we get home and Best Beloved asks if I mean to tell him that his children have been roaming about Salzburg dressed up in nothing but some old DRAPES, I'll say, "Yes. And having a maaaarvellous time!"

What a perfect life we'll lead.

Thursday, 24 June 2010


If you hadn't guessed already, blogging has become my latest obsession. Not only because it's a good way to stay practised and further my non-existent writing career, but also because it's great for whiling away the hours between asleep and awake that would otherwise be filled with endless streams of bitter tears as I stare at the tatters of my so far cactus-prickled life.

Anyway, I've taken to searching through other people's blogs to see where I'm going wrong, since prettymuchnoone reads this, except the Golden Few I treasure dearly. And you know what I was greeted with? Pictures of fat dogs with their assholes and balls hanging RIGHT out to dry.

Well yes, yes it does. And I've had just about enough of dogs right now. Last night I was woken up at midnight by a DOG. BARKING. Said dog has been barking into the early hours of the morning for the last three months. Boy, did I slam my window so hard it shit itself into submission! But only for last night. I can hear it right now. "Woof! Woof! Fuck you!"

It is RUINING Glee: The Music, Volume 2. Inconsideration to the nth degree.

Wednesday, 23 June 2010

Probably the last time I'll ever be courteous

Today I was waiting for the bus for nearly fifteen minutes, which is fair enough since they run every fifteen minutes and I only leave work at 16:30, so I'm used to waiting fifteen minutes for the bus.

Anyway, I don't like to sit in the front seats at the bus station because I guess I'm still afflicted with that secondary school mindset where sitting at the front of anything shows a little bit too much effort/eagerness and therefore picks you out as a "massive geek", and even though I'm a self-confessed "massive geek", I don't want to be hit in the back of the head with an egg, which is obviously what would happen.

So there I sat, mid-range, with a few seats behind me, a few in front, casually waiting for my bus.

Now, I am extremely picky when it comes to choosing a seat on the bus. I have preferences depending on the season, so since this is summer, I'll only go into my hot weather specific needs. (NB there are different morning and afternoon requirements, but I'll just cover the afternoon ones right now, to save time.)

- I cannot be sitting on the side of the bus where the sun shines for the majority of the journey. I have sensitive eyes and even with sunglasses this just isn't appropriate. I find myself squinting, gripping my teeth fidgeting to try and find shade, until I get such a headache all I can do is close my eyes and weep inwardly.

- I can't sit at the back of the bus because the engine smell makes me feel sick and often there are teenagers playing BAD songs over and over again, turned up too loud to be drowned out by my own music/maniacal thoughts about life. I also run the risk of being murdered by them because that's just the kind of people thy are.
PLUS the back of the bus often becomes very busy and there are limited seating options - the sofa running along the back is a definite no no; sitting next to one person is bad enough, two is like some terrible, unending bus-nightmare.

- I can't sit at the front of the bus in case an elderly or disabled person gets on and I have to get up and move. My overall levels of social awkwardness do not cope well in this kind of situation, so I prefer to just avoid them. At all costs.
The seats set a little further back than these also pose a sizeable problem in summer because they have the heating system running all the way along the window side. If bus drivers want my heat-induced vomit all over the saloon floor, then they should just keep on pumpin' that heat. Oh what's that? They were going to anyway? Oh good, my well-being means nothing. The front of the bus also, again, heightens the likelihood of my having to spend time in close confines with a stranger. From my experiences, strangers on buses often smell, or have personal space issues. Both of these things make me grouchy, which is the last thing I need at the end of the working day when it's more than likely I'm grouchy already because I'm having hunger/life-crisis issues.

- I don't *really* like sitting upstairs if it's a double decker, because I spend the entire journey terrified that
a) the bus is going to tip over, and
b) when it's time to get off I'll stumble on the stairs and fall to my broken-necked death.
The top of the bus is only really suitable if Best Beloved is with me so he can go down first and catch me should I indeed fall head first towards that hellish chasm of doom.

So in essence, the only suitable place for me to sit on the bus I catch home every evening is the seat over the wheel on the left hand side, next to the window with my bag beside me to deter strangers, and even this isn't ideal since most bus drivers don't understand the concept of slowing down for speed bumps.

Anyway, I sat waiting in the bus station. A man came and sat in a seat behind me. That was okay. Then, a few minutes later, a woman came. She stared at me the entire time she was walking over and plonked herself in a seat in front of me. For a brief moment I chastised her to myself, but then turned to more charitable thoughts: she was older than me; not ancient, but older than me nonetheless. And she had a huge nose. So I figured since she'd been hefting that around with her all day on her middle-to-old lady legs I should probably quit my whining and let her get on before me.

The bus pulled up. I signalled for her to go first. She refused. I could have just gone ahead. I SHOULD have just gone ahead. But I'd made the offer, I couldn't take it back, her nose was already half way there.
"No, no," I said, "go ahead!"
"Thank you," she said. "It's not like we're going to be fighting for seats, is it?"

How wrong she was.

I knew, almost immediately that she was going to sit in my seat. I didn't even try to hide my disgust. I slumped into a seat at the front of the bus, instantly too hot, the sun shining in my face, the threat of myriad old people looming over my tired little head. I ate an apple. Then I made what I thought was a sensible decision. I moved to the top of the bus. I'm 23 now, I should be able to handle a few steps on a bus.

How wrong I was.

I pressed the bell for my stop and headed towards the stairs, my bag swinging wildly from my arm because I had no time to sort myself out (the driver was insane). I TRIPPED ON THE STAIRS. I had a mild heart attack and grabbed the rail just in time. I swung into the wall and managed to steady myself. Then I died of embarrassment.

If I see the lady again tomorrow, if she sits in front of me at the bus station tomorrow, then I'll have an egg ready, though there's no doubt some alien forcefield emanating from the house-like beak dripping from her face that will protect her.


Saturday, 19 June 2010

Super Function

"Well Yellow," said the aubergine to the banana, "we really fucked up this time."

Come in, sit down, You are most welcome! Mrs Hippo the maid shall bring tea for us shortly, but until then let me tell you my story.

Y'know what's really been bugging me this week? The way Facebook has taken to saying things like, "Pets. Many people who like Music also like Pets." Why would I want to know that? It's as though they think I'm going to come to my obviously dull senses and remember that, oh yes, I too like pets after all! Thank you for reminding me, FACEBOOK. Well you know what, a lot of people that like *music* probably also like *paedophilia* and I just will not associate myself with them. So get a grip, Facebook, and stop acting like you know everyone's insides. Ugh.

In other news, the Isle of Wight Festival was...shing shing! AWESOME! Very very cool weekend spent with Best Beloved, Kimmywise, Jan, Mike, Robert Goulet, Craig Finn's mary, Russ from Hollyoaks, Juliette Lewis, Juliette Lewis's lawyer, Laurence of my Labia, Liza Minnelli, Liza Minnelli's lips, Stephen (even if he DID constantly fall down the stairs :/ ), Precious's Mom, Justin and Bieber, Terrance Torrance, Geoffrey Piscine, K.F. Elmo, Notorious Big, Gary Moray, Ike and Tina Turner...waaaaait a second! Ike and Tina were NOT part of our entourage! Get out! GO! Shoo! Off with you and your wildly over highlighted hair and juicy sausage lips and fists that beat! Be gone!

Those Turners, you have to be careful - they'll sneak up on your unsuspecting back and have at it at any hour of the day! Anyway, as I was saying, the festival was super. So many top acts playing. If you're actually interested in seeing who was there, check on Google or something or maybe Facebook will just tell you, even if you don't want to know, because I'm not about to rattle off a seemingly endless list of names that won't mean a lot to many people, that would just be boring.

I will however note my musical highlights:

WOOOOOOO! I'd never realised just how much I wanted to see this band play! I spent a lot of my teenage years listening to their albums on an endless loop, hoping that I might one day be as effortlessly cool as Debbie Harry who was, IMO, the forerunner for some of the hottest female singers out there today (KarenOandKTTunstallI'minlovewithyou). FYI, I'm not effortlessly cool. Or even cool a little bit. But I guess I'm coming to terms with my galumphing ways.
We discussed the fact that Debbie Harry wasn't exactly bopping about the stage, but hey, she's 64. At least she didn't try to act like a twenty year old stud like a certain member of the Beatles I won't mention, and although I will admit that the vocals weren't fantastic quality (though it may just have been the acoustics of the (sniff sniff) VIP area), I still really enjoyed their set!

The Hold Steady
Basically, before I met my good friend Ms Hannah Smart, I'd never even HEARD of The Hold Steady (-is ashamed-), but now I'm listing them up there as one of the highlights of the festival season so far. I'd only ever listened to them as a stationary band pumped from a CD (well, iTunes download) and even though Hannah had proclaimed them the best live act intheworldever, I was still dubious. Craig Finn has one of those voices that kind of makes him seem like he's drawling his words out drunk, telling you a story about how some of his friends went out dancing and it all got screwy but in the end they were all still American, and although it's enjoyable to listen to the music this way, they're definitely a band you SHOULD see live - Craig Finn is a really awesome front man and there's not a lot more to it! I mean, there were marys and wavings and dancings and drawlings and so so many smiles! I'm not quite there with Hannah when it comes to the whole best live act thing, but I certainly appreciate them a lot a lot more now - Best Beloved was officially sick of me singing Chips Ahoy! to him within about three minutes of my seeing them perform. Good.

Jay Zed
Not hugely into the music, but the dancing that took place was pretty much the best thing ever made. Even though there's no way you could ever know that.

Really never thought I'd be listing Pink among the highlights of, well, anything. Her act was supreme. Pretty much shit on everyone else's as far as show(wo)manship goes. She flew. Twice. And there was fire. And glitter. And swears thrown out in the air and a hamster ball with Pink inside and the handing over of a naughty garter to a sweaty man in the crowd. It was pretty intense. Na na na na na naa naaa I WANNA BE A BEAR!

So they were my main highlights I think, though when I've published this I'm pretty certain I'll remember something else...

There were very few lowlights, but I'm going note them nonetheless to give you a more rounded picture:

Ostrich Burger
After feeling unwell pretty much all day Saturday, eating an ostrich burger at about 1am wasn't the best idea I've ever had. Needless to say I saw said ostrich but a short hour later. On the floor. Outside our tent.

Seeing Juliette Lewis
The clue is in the title.

Seeing a massive *human* turd by the cash machines
Again, the clue is in the title.

Skinny braces
When worn by ageing rock stars. Shudder.

Hmm, so yeah they were the parts that I've remembered most clearly, although there were definitely far most amazingisms than those noted. I meant to write this as soon as I got back so it was fresh, but I've just been too busy ruining my life at work and sweating my organs out in the fresh summer heat. Plus I was abducted for a while by a pasty shop owner. He smelt like pasties. Now I like a good pasty, but seriously I think he was bathing in them to get such a solid, constant stink of pasties about himself. What a sicko.

So yeah, you're just going to have to deal with it and fill in the blanks using the power of your imaaaaginaaaaationssssss, if you can tear your minds away from the white noise that floods our modern senses for more than six seconds. Just get a grip on yourself. Learn another language. Sail a boat. Lick a stamp. Buy a parrot. Do something.


Wednesday, 2 June 2010

Zorbing Together

Today I cut my cheese and tomato sandwich diagonally, just to make today different from yesterday and every other day. But then I left my bag on top of my computer, so the sandwich was warm and pretty much ruined. I realised that that's what happens when we embrace change; sandwiches get ruined. I won't try it again in a hurry, don't you worry about that.

It's evening now and I'm too hot. I've been writing a lot of poetry lately, I'm hoping I've found the knack for it again, but I've no doubt spoken too soon and the pool of inspiration will be sucked dry by a greedy elephant and its wrinkled babies. But that's okay, I don't mind elephants. I know they'll give it all back in a long stream of elephant piss, which will surely serve to make it all more exciting, right? I've been aiming for something a little more putrid for a while now anyhow, so go ahead you gigantic grey mallows, make my day.

Do I use too many commas? I really need to get that under control. Maybe that's why noonehaspickedupmynovelyet. Oh fucksticks, maybe I should just give up on writing and spend my days crafting the world's biggest comma. Then one day it might fall on me and my dream of becoming a literary something will come true.

There are a few too many thoughts right now, wholesome and not so much. Explanations cause death and destruction. I don't even know why I started writing this.

"Just when I get so lonesome I can't speak." Sigh.

Wednesday, 21 April 2010

Good Posture Please

Today I listened to Dolly Parton's flawless '9 to 5' and decided that I'd probably listen to it every day from now on and be wholly rewarded by the deep message of unfulfillment it's sending. That was while I was in the bus station waiting to go home. Yesterday in the bus station I was accosted by a pack of woman gypsies with weeping sores on their bare feet and a stench of debasement and cheese and onion crisps about them. They got off at a bus stop that had three raggle taggle ponies tied to it. I think they were probably going to ride them into the sunset taking the hearts of the once honourable village boys with them. Who knows?

In other news, news that I hope will please you all as much as it did me, I started to eat my Reece's peanut butter filled egg on Saturday. There was a slight delay with the estimated start date due to a terrible affliction that struck me down for nye on a week. But Saturday was P(eanutbutter)-Day and OH BOY was it worth waiting for! Sweet and salty delights like you've never imagined in your wildest most violently horrific and stunningly opulent dreams!
In a way I thank the universe for my illness, otherwise the egg might not have lasted so long. The egg might well have been devoured in one gasping mouthful. The egg might have been liquidised and hooked up as an intravenous drip to see me through the weekend. But thankfully there's still a third of the egg left.

Oh, the egg!

Anyway, I wrote another poem this week. It's not quite finished, but I wanted to post one anyway. It doesn't really have any obvious relevance to the above insights, but let's just say it's about a certain EGG and not a person and leave it at that.

Peace OUT homedawgs.

Thursday, 8 April 2010

'Negotiating with the Dead'

I got to thinking about walkmans today. I was listening to my iPod and thinking about how the battery just dies. Pop! That's it, charge me, biznatch! I felt pretty sad to think I'll probably never indulge in the disappointment that went hand in hand with the drawn out sound of a singer's lyrics as the batteries of a walkman squeezed their last morsel of energy into the slowing tape reels. It just made me sad when I thought about modernisation, that's all; just the modern world making people sad again, nothing new.

I was also thinking about how, sometimes, people sound as if they're speaking through a mouthful of peanut butter, you know? Now don't get me wrong, I love peanut butter; I really fucking love peanut butter, but I don't speak when I have it in my mouth, that's just not right. Maybe those people ought to try taking a sip of water every once in a while instead of forcing me to listen to the sound of them peeling their dry tongue from the roof of their fetid mouth every time they go to start a new sentence, especially since all I really want to listen to is the sound of my walkman batteries dying. But I'll never get that chance again because apparently walkmans don't have a place in our society unless we're speaking in terms of music-technology history (which we rarely are), or we're getting all "retro" and acting like the art fag scenesters who casually mention walkmans in their oh-so-quirky songs as though they use a walkman every single day of their lives. Really they should just face up to the fact that their songs are just a passing phase and have about as much staying power as a fucking walkman in this every evolving world we appear to live in.

Anyway, I bought a Reece's peanut butter egg while I was in America so I'll mostly be spending the weekend nibbling at that. And playing on my Wii. Because I recently bought a Wii and I'm currently working on my Sarah Connor biceps, so a spot of Wii Sports baseball will no doubt shape me right up.

Here's a poem I've been working on. Pretty much sums up children and encapsulates the general feel of this little life excerpt you have nowfinishedreadingtheend.

Little One

Let's play a game.
- You take my large hand
in your small sticky one.
Peanut Butter permeates the air.

Look. He gets him with this sword.
- We play at destroying lives
for almost an hour. Then
you have to use the toilet.

This man is going to be killed now.
- You speak in slow motion
to emulate a man dying,
and sound like a walkman,

(NB, If anyone reading this considers using any of my work, just don't. You'll die. Like a walkman. Believe me, you don't want your legacy to lie with the scenesters; they'll only hate you for it three days later. Plus my copywriting is fairly airtight.)

Wednesday, 31 March 2010

A Drink with American Eagle

Tonight I spat on the floor of a public toilet. I wasn't drunk and I don't know why I did it; usually I would be disgusted with myself, but I feeling pretty pleased about it right now. I feel like I should do these things more often as tiny acts of liberating rebellion. Anyone reading this might believe me debase, but anyone who knows me knows that I'm really not. I just don't want to become one of those work-a-day lemmings you see dropping off the planet every day.
Judging by the state of the toilet cubicle, it hadn't been cleaned for a long time. The light buzzed and flickered. It stank of piss. So I don't think my saliva is going to do that much harm. Unless someone slips and falls into one of the unflushed bowls as a result of it being there. That's the worst that could happen. Pretty much the best situation we're looking at is one in which the bubbles and floating scraps of DNA combine and grow up from the floor into a new human. A human that reeks of alcohol-tainted urine. OH GOD WHAT HAVE I DONE?

The novel is finished. The spec letter and samples chapters are printed; the envelopes are written, ready to be posted to the agents. I should be more excited than this. But I'm tired. I've waited for this for so long, but the trials of working life are dragging me down, dudes. I just can't muster the energy to care about anything. Not even my face. Oh fuck. I have a spot.
I want to draw pictures again, and write some poetry. My surrealism walked out of the door months ago like a weeping raspberry playing a sad violin. Man oh man I want that bitch back.

I'm having a bad week. I guess I've been having a bad week since I got back from America two weeks ago. It was a genuinely magical week; too much happened for it not to have been real magic. We met the Jonas Brothers for crying out loud! I can't even go into it right now; if you weren't there then you won't understand. To those of you that were, I love you eternally.
Britain sucks. I feel old here! Really old. Like, so old I hadn't noticed it before because I'd forgotten how young I actually am. I put on my Red Sox cap and try to recapture former glories, but it's just not happening. My ears stick out and no one GETS it. Sweet Jerusalem I want to go back right now! Right. Now.

*closes eyes tightly and vanishes as though this is a movie and dreams really can come true*

Sunday, 24 January 2010

Alles braucht seine Zeit

So it's kind of late; I'm kind of tired; Best Beloved has gone to bed and I'm at a bit of a loose end. I don't really want to get into bed yet because I feel like I should relish the second of the two late nights I get in a week and do something productive. But I don't really have any idea what that something might be besides rambling on about life's little nothingnesses on here for a while.

Well, I've finally begun the long and arduous task of editing my novel. It's not quite finished yet; I still have two half-chapters to write, but because I haven't written anything in so long, I'm kind of out of the swing, so I figured editing would be the best way to get to know it again. It kind of sucks though...I've read these chapters so many times that I actually *hate* some of them now. Not good. I'm also convincing myself that no one is going to like what I've written. Is this storyline too thready? Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. Shit.

Jeez, I want life to just slow the shit DOWN right now. I'm 23 in May and I've only done *one* thing on my List of Things To Do Before I'm 30, and that was eat a Double Decker, and even then Best Beloved had to eat half because I just couldn't face the whole thing all in one go. I should really knuckle down. I should really book a flight to India. Gosh darn.

Anyway, I went to see Fyfe Dangerfield the other night in Manchester. That was pretty near to fantastic. The venue was tiny...basically just a living room with a bar in it. I was so close to him I practically caught his spittle in a jar; it was intense. The support act was darn good also! Villagers...which makes it sound like a band, but actually it was just a guy and his guitar. I think he might have a band, I don't know, so stop fucking asking me, alright? Anyway, I listened to him online afterwards and I would have to say that his acoustic stuff is far far far far far far far far far far far far better in all honesty. He has an amazing voice; he doesn't need all that background filler. I suppose it was kind of annoying how he kept touching his fringe all the time though. Yeah, that was kind of annoying. But then, if you're listening to him without actually watching him, I guess it won't annoy you...the background filler might annoy you, but him touching his fringe shouldn't be a problem, so just don't worry about it for now. Just relax.

Well, tiredness seems to have taken a bigger hold than before and I can't really make any sensible contributions now, so I should probably stop and clamber into my million-miles-away oh man that's a long way away. Further than that powdery moon. Further than that, for sure. I can't even describe how much I want to be in the very middle of the moon right now, curled like a mouse in its nest, with hot chocolate on an IV drip, being warmed by that pearly glow and just sleeping the next year away while my book writes and publishes itself, while Best Beloved sleeps beside me. Oh *jeeps* that's what I need right now.

"Somewhere out there, there's a young girl who will...never be a nun. Auf Wiedersehen, darling."

Thursday, 7 January 2010

It still won't sing

To be completely frank, right off the bat, songs that repeat the same line over and over again and again and again with exactly the same tone and backing music are just irritating. Why do it? GET A GRIP. Jeez.

Anyway, I'm currently sat at my trusty laptop with the very last chapter of my very first novel open in front of me and it would seem I'm a little bit stuck. This is such a terrifying precipice.
I'm very worried that the entire thing might just be one long string of letters slowly spelling out the word s h i t. Sigh. If I hadn't started work, it would be finished by now...but at the same time, if I hadn't started work I would probably have shrivelled up like a worm in the sun. What a tragic spectacle their little brown carcasses make.
To try and snap myself out of this nasty daze I seem to have slipped into, I've been caressing my poetry glands again of late. It's been so long since we were acquainted it's almost awkward to spend time together now. "It was too hot and too much had happened." (Ahhhhh!) However, I inhaled Miroslav Holub for an evening and feel a little more comfortable now. I don't want to lose this. Just another threatening quarry I suppose.
Perhaps a taster next time...not that anyone is reading this. How very romantic!

In other news, I'm learning German (again). So far I can wish you a happy new year and tell you that my daughter is engaged. So Gutes neues Jahr! Meine Tochter ist verlobt. *smile* I think I have rather a long way to go.

I feel like I should sprinkle in a little whisper of my blogs of old, but maybe my imagination is dead. Who knows. Plus, I haven't been kidnapped by any giant bourbon biscuits for quite some time now; my life just isn't that exciting anymore! SO GIVE ME A GODDAMN BREAK YOU LEECHES!

Okay, here's a little peal of pearl pour vous...
Let's stick to the programme;
you smell, I'm hungry.
We're all vindictive.

Signing off. Goodbison.