Sit down, eat some sugar.

The Plan

Sun, 27 Jan 2013 14:38:41 -0500

Ramble about the world.
Write.
Be in a glam rock band.
Become reliable.
If become reliable, back to Manchester to try to get ex back. If too late, never mind, because am reliable by that point. Reliable good.

s’meg!

Mon, 23 Jan 2012 12:40:57 -0500

s’meg!

I’m so broke and he’s so paid fuckyouverymuch: We...

Wed, 14 Dec 2011 10:19:45 -0500

I’m so broke and he’s so paid

fuckyouverymuch:

We love it when they call us Big Poppa.

Soil and Sadness

Fri, 09 Dec 2011 18:32:27 -0500

E.Coli, Listeria, Bifidus Digestivum, or is that one made up?

These are my brothers and sisters!

A billion times removed, sure, but we’re made of the same junk.

I don’t really want to slaughter my kin,

Or 99.9% of them, at least.

Like family, you’ve got to let the right ones in.

So no, Dettol, I won’t accept your bathroom tyranny,

I shall not practise germ warfare.

With soap they wash away, to the sea, to the sea,

And if some choose to stay, invade me, make me stronger,

Make yourselves at home!

I’ll keep you while I’m healthy, and no longer.

But then I get sick and it’s all “Please don’t make a scene

in the public areas, sir.

Would you take something, make body and mind serene?

“Don’t show us you’re ennui or nausea, diarrhoea or depression,

Irritable polar or bi-bowel syndrome,

We have pills for that, sir, we have a succession.

“Prozac, Valium, Listerine, Advil, Ritalin, Benzedrine,

These are your friends.

Doctors that tell you otherwise are just downright mean.

“They’ll let you suffer through funks and slumps, and splits with girlfriends,

Terribly messy affairs.

It is far better to be up to your eyeballs than at your wits’ ends.”

But aren’t the ends of your wits the interesting bits?

Proof that your wits are too much for their confines?

That Prozac you’re munching is the same as what’s given,

To caged tigers to make them forget they’re not bovines.

love-life-dream-big:

Fri, 09 Dec 2011 18:31:28 -0500

love-life-dream-big:

A mess of branch and felt green fingers: More poetry in English

Fri, 09 Dec 2011 16:14:27 -0500

A mess of branch and felt green fingers: More poetry in English:

fyskeveron:

Obviously I could write something funny like the brilliant Sit down, Eat Some Sugar fella- but I just posted a load of stuff in the wrong language so I should ease us back in to avoid giving myself a panic attack:

I’ll race you past the border and push you in,

Because then you’ll have to fill…

last night i dreamt i was burgling your house. i met you on the stairs and said ‘im burgling...

Fri, 09 Dec 2011 16:13:49 -0500

last night i dreamt i was burgling your house. i met you on the stairs and said ‘im burgling your house, how does that make you feel?’ and you said ‘fuck you you fucking motherfucker. i refuse to critique the two or three mediocre poems you will inevitably write about this experience’. i think this was a bit mean of you and you should apologise.

my brain sounds like this today because my unhealthy obsession...

Fri, 09 Dec 2011 13:39:00 -0500

my brain sounds like this today because my unhealthy obsession has become a healthy one. don’t we all grow to love our oppressors in the end? stockholm syndrome. as long as i keep writing about her and refrain from climbing into her bedroom while she sleeps to sniff her hair and write messages on the walls in blood, i should be A-OK.

My overuse of the C word doesn't mean I'm a misogynist, I promise.

Fri, 09 Dec 2011 08:34:00 -0500

I’m quite annoyed with tumblr for making poems come out as double lined. Can’t really be bothered faffing about with the formatting, but I might have to, eventually.

90% Sure You’re a Cunt

I’m ninety percent sure you’re a cunt.

Now I know what you’d say if we weren’t at war,

You’d chastise me for being too blunt.

‘It’s just such a vile thing to say,

vaginas aren’t disgusting, to be feared, mistrusted.

Germaine says they’re a fine place to pray.’

Oh balls to your half-baked feminism,

I’ve actually got one, and you actually don’t,

and saying it is sexual weaponism.

But let’s not get lost in semantics.

Why don’t we get back to the main event,

Which is you and your nocturnal antics.

I hope you had fun in that plastic bag,

In some field in the arse-end of nowhere,

With some FHM tart that you found in the crowd,

All fake tan, tight bum and no body hair,

While I was at home nursing flu.

There was no one to wrap me in blankets and tea,

So I played songs to remind me of you.

You returned to my door, looking ruddy and brown

After love, with her stain on your skin.

You smelled a bit funny but seemed honest enough,

So like a fool I said ‘come on in’.

The wine that night tasted sweeter,

The foreplay did not seem so clumsy or cold.

To each other we were lover and heater.

Can a memory retain its beauty,

Can you hold it up as proof there’s a point,

If you know the event to be false?

If you know you were in the company of a cunt.

I don’t know what demon has bent him,

But the smiling face of evil wants me back,

And I just want the box-sets I lent him.

I’m ninety percent sure you’re a cunt

And mine is an eminently rational mind.

If you’re holding out hope for that underdog

Chance, then I’m afraid you are in quite a bind.

DISCLAIMER: Brazil Dance Girl is not an FHM tart with no body hair. She is quite lovely and clever (even if she got on my tits a bit). I know what the internet’s like, I don’t want her seeing this and getting offended. Its artistic license, more what i was looking for than what i found.

Photo

Mon, 05 Dec 2011 13:48:59 -0500

Photo

Sun, 04 Dec 2011 16:31:58 -0500

Poems

Sun, 04 Dec 2011 16:00:00 -0500

I don’t really like writing poems so much, but they tend to be more appreciated in writing seminars than my prose stuff. I feel silly putting poems out there for people to read when I don’t really read poetry for fun myself. I enjoy the ones on my english course, but that’s mainly cos I’m really analysing them. I don’t have the willpower to read a daunting array of words for shits and giggles. I love ‘this be the verse’ by larkin though. http://www.artofeurope.com/larkin/lar2.htm

The Emerald Isle

I’ve been thinking, you know what’d be grand?

One more wet, depressing body of land.

Britain be lonely in the rain no more,

Cheer up and settle for the girl next door.

It works, she warms your inner narcissist,

She’s the same as you, only it’s not incest.

You share so many of the same interests,

You both drink, fight and resist arrest.

Like yours, her house stinks of repugnant loo,

And her little sisters are all pregnant, too.

And the fact their kids will have ginger hair,

Won’t diminish their dollop of despair.

So just sip your lager and try not to grimace,

Knowing next door they’re doing the same thing with Guiness.

Ode to Poncho

Oh you, you look like a triangle but you’re really a square

Oh you, you are/emphasise the wind beneath my wings/arms

Oh you, you are gravity’s favourite, she pulls on every inch of you

Oh you, you only barely insulate, and it better not precipitate

Oh you, you irritate my skin but you stimulate my soul

Oh you, you give happiness without reason. Don’t you know about waterboarding?

Oh you, Jeremy Clarkson would not approve of you, so I do.

I hate beige carpets

They’re spreading, like the Sahara into Spain

Every room of every suburb

And they never get clean.

The dog walks muck in once the Rug Doctor’s packed away

The shameful blemish is exactly the point

They never get clean.

We’re wandering in the desert

Wearing socks

And we never get clean.

The Christmas Market

The boy is in thrall at all the world.

For him, it is not the wind that spins the precious wings of the golden carousel,

Or that teases the exposed nerve of his face with a rare, delectable pain,

It is angels.

The men and women don’t put up their umbrellas to shelter their hair or their suede,

But to catch the snow for later use. They saw the tree doing it.

The soldiers and monkeys dance and clap because winding up their backs gives them pleasure.

There is no uncertainty that the gypsy stallholders have enormous lungs,

And their breath is warm cinnamon steam.

The minstrel who blows his through a musical honeycomb, he has a home.

He has a grand townhouse, and a beautiful wife, and a comfy chair. This is merely a hobby.

Weaned on brightly lit, modern chicken shapes,

This dark chocolate pantomime has made the boy’s belly ache.

How cruel his blasé father, to deny him such reality on all but the coldest of days.

For father the market square is only a well-polished turd, with price tags.

“Go play in it, boy, and try not to catch anything”.

There is no mystery under the full moon.

The night’s bright egg was similarly unsheathed,

When wild-eyed wonder died drunkenly in some fever-wet bed, long ago.

And nine more times before the funeral, for it was slow to be mourned.

She let me read her diary.

She sent me a scream

A cackle a groan a howl

No one word can do it.

It’s a sound that just won’t come

At night when plans are out the window

And you’ve both fallen to throbbing hate over whiskey and coke

Poured through frozen laughing gargoyle grimace

Salty when it hits the back of your throat

Or fallen out the window. Trust

I read it tucked in kept schtum in public muffled.

Nightmares of cock and cunt and sick and come and love and pain and Joni Mitchell

And jokes and warmth about the same

And blood blood blood arms and legs opened detached

The blue yearning disconnect okay,

But the death and rape and heat of being female

Never seen such hurting attached to an email.

Was that almost funny, that little rhyme there?

To bring the prosaic into the midst of despair?

Such cheek! Such mirth! What a rebellious cad!

‘Cause that’s what I did, I acted the lad.

I turned to my mate, from torment of the keenest

To giggle at the bits that referred to my penis.

i think the reach is my favourite bit, but I’m not welcome...

Sun, 04 Dec 2011 15:21:00 -0500

i think the reach is my favourite bit, but I’m not welcome there cos i sided with the plucky underdogs. maybe that’s why, actually. I now regret siding with them, cos they are racist. this gives me an ethical dilemna. I want my character (alba de beauvoir the bald breton archer) to have some kind of ethos, y’know? some guiding principle. now what fucking priniciple is there that involves fighting on the side of racists? it cant be that she’s racist herself, cos she’s breton not nord. Also I wanted to do the Dark Brotherhood story, and they are totally nihilistic and greedy.

So I’m in a pickle.

I’ve decided she is like Samarin out of James Meek’s corker ‘The People’s Act of Love’. Samarin is a genius who eats a dude so he can make the world a better place. its complicated. cannibalism is his people’s act of love. So Alba has some kind of overreaching raison d’etre that involves maintaining a civil war and being the CEO of Murder Ltd. I haven’t decided what it is yet. I’ll see how shit plans out. Games are so much more interesting when you overthink them.

The Chief

Sun, 04 Dec 2011 13:31:43 -0500

I wrote this a very long time ago, before I realised there is a racial stereotype of Native American people that says they are alcoholics. I apologise, and would like to emphasise that I’m not racist, I just wanted to write an amusing story about a Hunter S. Thompson type guy. He could be from anywhere, really.

The Chief

Perhaps there truly is something perverse in wearing the usual gentleman’s attire of shirt, tie and jacket without the traditional accompaniment of trousers, shoes or socks, for the Chief was receiving some less than kindly looks as he walked along Bag Street. At least he had on pantaloons. He walked with the unsteady gait of many of his hopeless generation. Burdened yet self-consciously breezy, informed as much by Charlie Chaplin as by personal misfortune. The end result of this chaotic locomotion was a sideways stumble and clumsy landing on a stool in the Angry Crab Tavern. “Get dressed or get out.”, said the barman. The Chief sighed. “Joseph you are in no position to talk. Your arms are naked, and I can see most of one of your nipples. By such standards I am conforming perfectly to the dress code of the venue.”

“What? It’s a warm room. It’s completely different. Why, a fellow comes in looking smartish but for bare legs and feet, looks like he’s been up to some, uh, debauchery. Either that or he means to be, later on.”

“My good man I wish I was less innocent. I wish I had been enjoying life’s fineries, rather than merely struggling with the meagre offerings which circumstance provides. Seeing as some bum has made off with my slacks, maybe you should cut me some slack. I wouldn’t be surprised if that was the origin of the phrase.”

“Chief, ah am a god-fearin’ man and this is a family establishment. Ah will not have public decency offended on mah property.”

Chief shook his head. “I know you are better than this and I’m disappointed to hear nought but hypocrisies and untruths. You know full well that public decency is regularly offended in this place and that very fact prevents it from being a family establishment. I imagine you could charge more for drinks if you could prevent Supple Pavros from doing party tricks with his unmentionables.” This elicited a chuckle from the moustachioed Greek further down the bar. “And if you are so God-fearin’ you’d know that the scriptures tell us to treat all men as brothers, clothe the naked and feed the hungry. Now I don’t expect clothes or food, but I am mighty parched.”

“Just because ah’m afraid o’ Him don’t mean ah’m famil’yer with His work. Hey Pavros, this boy on point about the scriptures an’ such?”

“I believe that’s the general gist of it, yes.” His mustache billowed quite magnificently when he spoke.

Joe submitted grudgingly. “Well if your state of undress comes with the approval of the church, I best get you some communion wine.”

Pavros finished his drink, put on his tall, purple hat and took up his mitre. “Don’t know if pagans are deserving of the immortal blood. Best get yourself a gin and tonic.” He patted the Chief on the back and, with the aid of his mitre, staggered out. “You heard His Grace,” said the Chief.

Joe got to work. The Chief glanced down and seemed to remember something. “I would also like a cheese sandwich.”

The Rat

Sun, 04 Dec 2011 13:28:42 -0500

Leonard woke up in the wrong armpit. It wasn’t that he preferred the left one and had to make do with the right – it was just all wrong. Too smooth and pale, and it smelt of fake flowers and dead beer. Or that could have been his breath collecting in the hollow. He shut his eyes again and felt a dull ache as his list of things to do that day grew rapidly. The toilet was close, as was the need to decontaminate his body. That helped to prioritise matters. Unfortunately, the bed was up against the wall, so he needed to clamber over the armpit’s owner to get there. So as not to rouse her, he had to place his limbs very carefully, supporting his weight on arms placed far away from where he thought hers might be. And in order to do all that, he had to open his eyes. He cursed the vulgar chain of necessity that forced him to meet the gaze of the Boob. Hovering over the real, living woman like an absurd gazebo, the single uncovered breast stared deep into him, and found him lacking. It pointed a chilly nipple at him in accusation of some crime or other. He was glad the duvet kept the other one under wraps. No one likes to be ganged up on.

The bedroom floor was challenging – a slight stumble and a sense of disgust at the state of the place – but no great assault on his conscience and so definitely the high point of the day so far. “All right, son?” Dad was in the bathroom, scrubbing his hands with an acrid and overpowering liquid, “you’ll catch a cold like that.” Pants were on the list, but not very high up it. Leonard scurried behind the door frame, for dignity. “Go on, get some of that stink off”, he said on the way out as his offspring shuffled in, face to the wall, and slammed the door. “Try the strong stuff, it’s like agent orange. It might poison those crabs, you dirty bugger.” It did in fact turn out useful, purifying Leonard of the night’s lingering taint. Maybe it was the fumes, but he felt a heady rush as the day’s big lie began. Nice to have some purpose. From the cabinet he found and necked some painkillers. Aspirin, paracetamol and ibuprofen. One of each because variety is the spice of life. Next – the bedsheets. Although maybe he should get rid of the person wrapped up in them first.

The air was split by gaudy europop. That’ll help things along. Mystery girl was stirring as he ran in to answer the phone. He frantically burrowed through clothes and wrappers to get to it, because even though he needed her out, manners are manners. A jacket pocket throbbed. Little picture of Sophia on the screen doing a face. “Right. Might come a bit earlier ‘cos the interview’s been postponed ‘til three. You don’t mind steadying my nerves a bit, duck?” That’s grand, darlin’, I’ll tidy up. Well there’s not that much to tidy. And I’ll make breakfast. Well, I’ll cut into a melon then. Bye-bye.

Mystery girl asked who it was. Oh, just my mum. Shit. She curled her lip in bewilderment at the darlin’ part. Just a little joke we’ve got. Do you want a brew?

Could’ve just said no, sorry, busy with work or sleep or disease. But then that would’ve just made him a rubbish boyfriend, wouldn’t it? He liked the idea of duty. The hot water scalded his fingers as he squeezed the last drops from the tea bag. The end bit’s always the most concentrated, and he hated to think of the goodness he was throwing away if he didn’t. Worth the pain but it turns out, oh, she doesn’t drink tea. She has this thing apparently, it makes her go really hot. And why did she say yes? She thought he meant a beer. Two things, right. Did she not think it strange when he asked how many sugars? Well, she thought he was a bit odd. And is that not a bit decadent? Hair of the dog, ‘course. And what do they call tea in… London? Sussex, right. She’d probably just say cup of tea, to be clear. Well that’s just far too many syllables.

She had to go. Leonard didn’t have the patience for translation. He asked her what she was up to today. She was free actually, and she quite fancied breakfast. Ah well, he didn’t have anything in at the moment. He had to go to the shops. The little Tesco round the corner? No, no, no - the far away shops. The fancy ones with the, erm, organic fava beans. Mum usually had fava beans for breakfast. Some kind of trendy gluten-free thing. Mystery girl didn’t mind coming along. Oh no, you wouldn’t like it. It’s in a very ugly part of town. Lots of unhappy people. Best that you go home, we can’t have you getting shanked now, can we? Ha ha.

“But isn’t your mum having melon when she gets here?” The day’s big lie wasn’t getting off to the best start. “Oh my days, you are such a wanker.” Mystery girl got dressed with exaggerated, jerky movements while Leonard, brew in hand, tried to think of a response. The words that usually flowed just weren’t coming to him. Eventually he just made a dismissive ‘pff’ sound. She glared at him and said “I lied last night. It doesn’t happen to a lot of guys”, before storming out. Leonard shouted after her that yes, it does. He took a sip from the cup and put it down on the bedside table. It tasted pretty bland in the lonely room with the weak, milky light.

The curious thing was that his dad didn’t seem too put out by the state the house was in. Ordinarily, strong words would’ve been used, like ‘atrocious’, ‘dickhead’ and ‘rent’, but today, the head of the household was in high spirits. Maybe he’d won big at cards, or one of his boys had gotten parole. Or maybe, thought Leonard as if recent events had given him any reason to be optimistic, he was trying to make up for the hurtful jibe about the crabs earlier. Either way, Dad blew through the house like a restorative breeze, collecting bits of broken bottles and propping up knocked-over lamps and leaving a lemony dew on all the furniture in his wake. When Leonard went to clean the stains of ketchup which had missed the kebab still rolling around in his innards, he found he’d been beaten to the carpet shampoo. Much of the furniture was in disarray in the dining room, which wasn’t expected. The piano featured an ugly dent. Listen, Dad, I’m really sorry about all this, I can barely even remember last night. The piano was probably Sudlow. You know what he’s like. Should I have a word with him?

“What?” There was anger and disbelief in his tone. The pause which followed nearly had Leonard making fresh mess. “Look, never mind, son. I’m not happy, but boys will be boys and all that. Just help me shift this table.” On second thoughts, it must have been some kind of religious conversion.

Downstairs was made to look civilised, but for a few stubborn stains and bumps in the wall which were covered up by a canny arrangement of rugs and pictures. Mum could be fooled until the professionals came in. In the bedroom, preparations had to be made for Sophia’s arrival. Whoever that girl was, she won’t be getting her stuff back for a while. The bin liners in the landing cupboard swallowed up her hat, scarf and make-up bag, which was leaking something red and sticky. The landing cupboard was home to things they wanted to neglect but not lose. More lamps to right and bottles to tidy, and the bedsheets were finally free to be de-stanked. On second thoughts, the landing cupboard could have them for now. They were replaced with a bright orange Umbro duvet cover featuring a muscular, stoic looking man with a ball. The new pillow case was lacy and lilac. He sprayed some deodorant about and felt proud of himself. The perfect crime.

The doorbell announced that it was show time. Leonard, panicking, picked up a book at random so he could look up from it, cross-legged on the bed, when she entered. Dad got to the door with warmth in his voice. “Is the cat gettin’ better?”

“Nah, we had to shave it,” said Sophia.

“That’s a shame”, he replied, but couldn’t stifle a giggle. “Are you gonna be in there a while?” he called after her as she shuffled up the stairs.

“Probably.”

Hopefully.

Sophia burst in and jumped on him, pressing the book between them. “’Knots and Knot Tying.’ Glad to see you’re improving yourself.” In one clean movement she threw it across the room and rolled over, dragging up the boy between her thighs. Leonard was impressed at the efficiency and strength of the action; his list of things to do had, in a wrestling move and a kiss, rapidly dwindled down to a single item. He was not, however, impressed at the next move, which involved a hand pressing down on his head. Hang on, you cheeky monkey. I’m thirsty. He reached over for the tea, which had cooled. “Me too, actually. Pass it here.” He cheerfully provided for his lover, who looked at him with a raised eyebrow. “No sugar?”

Yeah, it might be Dad’s

“He has loads of sugar”

Maybe he’s cutting back.

“I can’t imagine that lush cutting back on anything.”

He’s acting strange today. The hole - did you see the hole in the piano? I think that was me and he was very forgiving.

“Has he found God?”

That’s what I thought.

“What’s God got against sugar?”

For some reason, Leonard began to sing. I want a little sugar in my bowl. I want a little sweetness, down in my soul.

“You’re acting weirder than usual too, come to think of it.” She propped herself up on her elbow and sniffed. “Is that Lynx Africa? I thought you hated Lynx Africa.”

You’re crackers.

“You’re gaslighting me.”

What’s that?

“Telling a woman she’s crackers.”

You learn something new every day. Can we get naked now?

“I know you’re hiding something. Clean sheets and Lynx Africa? Have you fucked a… guy?” Sophia laughed.

That was a phase!

“Ha! Bird, then.” She pushed him away.

Leonard affected sincerity. I’m so sorry. Believe me.

“I’m not arsed. I got with Sudlow last week. Stallion, tellin’ yer. Oh come on, you can’t look like that, you hypocrite. And didn’t we say it was a casual thing anyway?”

I thought we had something special.

“And yet you went ahead and- you pathetic dick.” She said that one quite slowly, and sprung to the door.

Wait, we can still carry on can’t we?

“You’ve got issues, man.”

She opened the door and stopped. Something heavy was being dragged from the cupboard. Heavy and shiny. A bin liner had slipped, allowing golden hair to spill out. Leonard looked out. “Dad, have you killed Mum?”

The Last Picnic

Sun, 04 Dec 2011 13:27:20 -0500

The traffic’s bad, but no worse than usual. The mania for escape is no more intense than the mundane battle for road space that goes on every morning. Beeping horns and V-signs usually boil my blood, but today it’s strangely soothing. Familiarity in chaos. A Land Rover cuts me up, a stack of tins collapses in its rear window and the driver swings a cricket bat in invitation. It’s fine, we’ll get there. Deep breaths. I am serene as a glen in a Visit Scotland advert. The real war isn’t out there; it’s in here, with this harpy.

“I specifically reminded you about the butter. Twice. Three times.”

She did.

“You were rushing me. You make simple things so bloody stressful.” We don’t need butter today.

“I think you’ll find this is far from a simple thing.”

I do a squeaky voice, “I think you’ll find.”

“I’m sorry, are you having some kind of fit?”

“You’re so condescending.”

“You’re a child. Why am I spending my last day with a butterless child?”

“Well, you put too much butter on the crackers, anyway. It’s sickly. The paté should be the star of the show.”

“Butter them yourself, then. It’s your picnic, apparently.”

I don’t have a clue what she means.

“I don’t even like butter.”

She looks at me. Her nostrils flare. That was almost definitely the wrong thing to say.

“Did you passive-aggressively leave the butter behind?”

“What?”

“You did!”

I did.

“Don’t be so paranoid.”

“You…” She tails off, leaving it unsaid - a barely sheathed sword. Her lips draw back against her teeth. Silence.

Whilst she seethes, I’m left to watch the world. Some poor sods are having sex in a car park. Broad daylight, but the police are busy, or gone, more likely. Good on them. Might as well get a few more notches in that bedpost whilst there’s time. Shame about the venue, but then I suppose there wasn’t much time for planning. There’s plenty of empty houses about, mind, and full of comfy beds. Old habits die hard. “I hope they’re wearing protection.” No reaction.

There’s a clear divide between the hedonists and those who choose life. Most families cower in their cars, some looking to one another for comfort, some so covered in their possessions that they can’t see that their kith and kin ache alone. The worst thing is seeing the cars that haven’t been driven away. Left on the driveway, the owners deciding they’d rather rot in a box in the back garden than tough it out with the rest of the human race. A weathered, broken old woman stands before the locked door of one bunker. She doesn’t feel the need to go anywhere.

I’m not sure which bothers me more between the hatred written across every line of Justine’s face, and the look of mortal fear upon everyone else’s. Why doesn’t she have that look? Why don’t I, for that matter? In the sun-visor mirror I look just as cross and stupid as I always have. Maybe whatever it is everyone else is so afraid to lose, we happily saw off years ago.

Eventually we lose the traffic. The road that takes the escapists as far from the city as they can get, that’s not ours. Lucifer perks up as trees start whipping by. He barks.

We used to take him for walks around here all the time, but then he got old and dilapidated. There’s nothing more depressing than that moment when they see a squirrel and, for the first time, realise that chasing it isn’t worth the fatigue. The squirrel just sat there nibbling its nuts, the smug little fucker. Walks stopped being fun after that. If he’s not going to bother, neither am I. We started overfeeding him, so he had something to live for. I reckon obesity has opened up a rich new chapter in his life. Now he thinks we’re going to make him run about, and he’s not happy. I’m quite jealous of my dog, actually. He’s oblivious to his impending doom, and yet the prospect of exercise fills him with such profound emotional torment that he feels the need to share it with us, splitting our ears with his air-raid siren yowls.

I’m doing nothing about it. Justine will crack eventually, I think. Time passes. We suffer. As the park gates loom, Lucifer’s yammering reaches a crescendo, and our failure to acknowledge his soul-rending music offends him. He gets physical.

“Ow!”

With a final shriek, Lucifer is flung with coiled force back into the seat. His fat takes a couple of seconds to jiggle out the impact.

“Oh, be nice, Justine. He’s just a hairy ball of affection. He means well. Doesn’t he, boy? A-yes he does!” Rubbing his head makes me swerve the car a bit, but the look of pure unadulterated love I receive from his pudgy little mug is a more than adequate pay-off. I enjoy being the good cop in this dynamic.

“Well that hairy ball of yours stinks, and it’s sadistic. I’m positive he knows exactly what he’s doing with those claws of his.”

“Aw, you alright, duck?” I rub her arm, it’s a pretty pathetic peace offering, but it’s all I’ve got. She thaws a little.

“I’ll survive.” A wry glance. I giggle. Cheers, Lucifer.

“Here we go.” I park up and grab the picnic from the boot. She drags the dog out by the ample scruff of its neck.

“It’s like hauling a sack of potatoes”. She laughs as he spills out onto the tarmac like a pudding.

We find a spot with a view, from which the end of the world will seem picturesque. She starts to pull things out of the basket.

“Oh, here’s the butter.” A gargling, stuttering note of surprise issues from my mouth of its own accord.

“Did you forget to forget it?” There’s a touch of warmth in that voice. I try very hard to look sheepish. “You’d be a right knob if you weren’t so endearingly idiotic.”

“I think that’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

“I try to keep you on your toes, darlin’.”

My falafel is exquisite. Her spanish omelette is a bit salty, but I don’t say anything.

“Check what I brought.” I brandish a bottle, extremely proud of myself.

“I thought we were saving the ‘96 for a special occasion.”

“Very funny.”

A glass each, and a little splash for Lucifer’s bowl. He’s a lightweight. We get wrapped up in a blanket. She lights two cigarettes between her lips and passes one, lipstick smeared, to me. Here we sit, smoking, as the bombs drop.

Thief in the Right

Sun, 04 Dec 2011 13:23:44 -0500

I haven’t blogged for a while. I am not savvy about new media, this isn’t what tumblr is for and I’m pretty sure no-one will ever read this. But I like the idea of having a portfolio on the internet, and this is much nicer than keeping everything on gmail.

So yeah, I want to be a writer. I’m going to post the things I’m proud of. So here you go, Prudence, a story based on a real guy called Vincenzo who tried to steal the Mona Lisa a while ago.

Thief in the Right

Is it foolish to tiptoe? Silence is unnecessary. This is to be a smooth operation. I wouldn’t work so hard without allowing myself to whistle with some gusto. No, no room for bravado, no gusto. Pride before a fall. Softly. What would suit the occasion? Perhaps ‘Ride of the Valkyries’. Dramatic. Ominous. Could fall over at any minute. But no, this won’t fall over. Snatch and grab. Airtight. As well thought out as an aeroplane. Which incidentally, is a thing also concocted by an Italian. Da Vinci laid the egg; the Wright brothers merely iced the cake. No doubt tales of my exploits, too, will reach some young American in centuries to come. He too, maybe, will be inspired to liberate some smirking beauty from her prison and carry her home. His American model, of course, will not be a patch on my Gioconda. America! We can take credit for that one, too, can’t we Vespucci? Dio mio, we’re good. It was probably an Italian who made France happen. Actually, probably not. An Italian would have done it better.

Monteverdi, then. L’Orfeo, Act 2: Ecco pur ch’a voi rittorno. A lilting, intricate little number. Rescues such as this should be done with delicacy and finesse, not bombast. I am Orpheus, sneaking through the underworld to bring my love to the land of the living. Clatter will perk the ears of Cerberus, in a manner not unlike those final notes of my ditty echoing back. A tad loud, makes my bum clench. Am I tiptoeing? Ridiculous! Among the French, I suppose, one inevitably becomes a cliché. When in Rome.

Sang-froid. Ordinary walk. Clippety-clop, clippety-clop. A few other lackeys, buffing floors near the target. I’m supposed to have finished work an hour ago. “Afternoon, colleagues. I may eat macaroni, Michel, but it is your wife who cooks it for me. Oh, I just need to pick something up. Ciao”. Clippety-clop, round the corner, and there she is. Coast clear. The cleaners won’t get to this part for at least another twenty minutes. They will assume the painting has been taken down to be photographed. It is polite to gaze upon her for a moment or two. That cheeky grin. She knows, and she loves it. My complicit lover jumps into my arms to be carried from the palace of her impotent husband. You are heavier than you look, signora. No offense. It is a bit of a struggle to the stairwell, but faint heart never did win fair maiden. Needs must I pass a security station. Thankfully the guard has wandered off. Why need I be thankful? I made sure to do it today, on Pierre’s watch. He is so rarely at his post, the sensual oaf. These Gallic barbarians, too busy eating paté from atop one another’s thighs to look after their loot. They must have expected this would happen. They must. They practically beg for me to relieve them of this burden. And oh, what a burden! And what relief when she’s safely by the stairs.

There, there. How my back aches. I require a congratulatory stretch, like the yawn of a well-fed cat, before I set to work liberating the masterpiece from her gilded cage. Shoddy work, the frame warps at the slightest twist of a screwdriver. Haphazardly I fling the frame into a dingy corner and make to leave. At the door, horror. The knob won’t budge. Well this is a kick in the face. I can’t rightly wander back through the way I came with three square feet of wood stashed down the front of my smock. Is that a stolen painting, Vincenzo, or are you just pleased to see me? I could go out of a window… might damage her. Stashing her in the toilets might be an indignity. Sheepishly putting it back is an option. I was just taking her for a walk, officer, honest. Please show me pity, I am merely a simpleton escaped from the Salpêtriére.

My eyes burn fire into the doorknob. I strike, and off it comes. Clippety-clop. This way walks another revered colleague. I shall stand in the dark, with the thing tucked behind my legs. The dismembered knob goes into my pocket. A polite nod from the man in the same uniform. He jingles with tools. Tools would be useful. He passes, but then, “Excuse-moi, monsieur,” I am a genius, “it appears some young hooligan has made off with the doorknob, and this door, most inconveniently, is stuck. Yes indeed, there is no respect in the world. What kind of scoundrel would steal from an art gallery? We serve only the public good. If you’re going to thieve, do so in a common market, I say. Merci, garçon.” The good man obligingly holds the door open for me, and I awkwardly shuffle out, concealing my prize on the other side of my body. A glorious victory for Italy, and perhaps a pretty penny for myself, if I am shrewd.

pulltheripchord: “THE BEAST,” LAURA MARLING Look at yourself in...

Fri, 02 Sep 2011 08:27:28 -0400

pulltheripchord:

“THE BEAST,” LAURA MARLING

Look at yourself in the mirror;
it’s a sight I understand.
You consider it all for a second
and put it down to sleight of hand.
I give you the best, the best that I can.

I suggest that you be grateful
that it’s your blood on my hands,
and assume yourself weaker (the fall of man),

and look out for the beast.
Tonight he lies with me.
Tonight he lies with me,
and here comes the beast.

"But don't forget the songs that made you cry and the songs that saved your life" - Rubber Ring, The Smiths

Sat, 21 Aug 2010 23:02:57 -0400

Hi imaginary reader! can i call you Prudence Schofield? good. well im gonna do a blog, and you’re gonna read it, and its gonna get messy. its fine though. everybody likes mess. here it is.

It’s a fact of life, everyone rips off annabel in the end. here’s the original.

http://alrighttdarling.blogspot.com/2010/08/music.html

I’m excited about this, because it means I can get all high fidelity and obsess about a sound someone made once and then forgot about. My music geekery is my favourite of my geekeries, as its a bit dirtier and more acceptable in polite society than my other ones: games and books and steve buscemi. Like all geekeries, however, its still just cultural masturbation (that is, done too much and due to absence of actual human contact). not that i wank too much. im a perfectly healthy wanker. YOU’RE ASKING TOO MANY FUCKING QUESTIONS, PRUDENCE.

1. Vengaboys - We’re going to Ibiza.

Pretty shit song, but i think it was the first song i ever bought. it was back in the nineties, when people bought songs. It was either this or eiffel 65’s ‘blue da ba dee da ba die’. In a french supermarket, because my brother told me to. Really just to show how my musical tastes has always been pretty much analoguous to his, even through the shit bits. although he listens to bleepety bloopety technoey shit now, and i only ever listen to that by accident.

2. Oasis - What’s the lager, morning swagger? / Red hot chilli peppers - suck my funky smack biscuit

Your first steps in decent music are always a bit clumsy, aren’t they. I wish my mum and dad were bohemian french nihilists who played leonard cohen around the house so i could have been a cool child. at least they’re french. as far as beatles tributes go, id rather listen to the rutles.

3. Libertines - The delaney

It’s good when you’re 13 and you pick up an nme and put badges on your blazer and walk around like youre dead clever because you managed to do those two things. tbh, i probably still do this, in a different guise. i think i namedropped pitchfork last year, like some kind of big-shot. crikey.

4. Nina Simone - Nobody’s fault but mine

Its shit when you’re really lonely for ages and you think its because you do daft shit when you’re pissed, like headbutting friends (“aw bless, i think that means he likes you”) and maybe causing the death of pets and passing out in 6-year-old’s beds while they are actually in that bed. but its fine when feeling like that makes you scream this song into the carpet, cos thats fun. gotta love nina, the mad bat.

5. the xx - islands

had dead dead good sex to this album once. well it was good for me anyway, haha. i think she might have fallen asleep.

6. animal collective - the purple bottle

sometimes everything just turns out perfect, and sometimes im not talkative

7. brahms - chally

it’s good music to get shit done to. everyone ignores classical, but they had a few hundred years to get it right, and some of it is passable.

8. the flaming lips - do you realise?

sometimes the sky freaks me out and i feel the earth is still a ball, but its only like 15 foot tall and i have to keep running on top of it like im ed, edd n eddy and its a gobstopper and its rolling down a hill and if i stop moving it’ll crush me in a comic but ultimately fatal way. but usually im fine.

9. public enemy - rebel without a pause

its the twenty first century and i dont have much contact with non-white people. i hope my penchant for p.e. makes up for it and i don’t one day pick up a daily mail for the sudoku and end up a klansmen. saw em live a few years ago it was amazing. they’re forty-odd now but they don’t half jump about.

10. laura marling - rambling man

this one’s for the future. im off to uni next month and its in the middle of nowhere. i feel like this song is about me in five years, when i’ve forgotten human language and i’ve got a hundred-yard-gaze like a ‘nam vet and i’m covered in moss and i’ve fathered a baby half-wolf-half-boy (although i’m trapped in a bitter custody battle with a she-wolf, who wants to move to the suburbs and build a better life for our offspring).

i’m gonna do more of these, Mrs. Schofield, its been lovely.

save 6music

Wed, 14 Apr 2010 09:42:00 -0400

I have two things in common with old ladies. One, I fall asleep at parties. Two, I can’t get enough of Terry Wogan. I don’t know what it is about the guy. He’s just so warm and poetic and… Irish. Anyway, when he quit radio I was at a bit of a loose end. A boy can’t live on Perfect Recall alone, god damn it. So, like a dropout being picked up by the navy I joined the pallid ranks of the 6music listenership.

6music isn’t just a station like Galaxy or Radio 1; a soundtrack to driving or doing the pots that you hardly pay attention to. Listening to it is like sitting in with a dysfunctional but cosily affectionate family on Christmas Day. Those giddy kippers Adam and Joe will be up at dawn to put Lego in their mouths and, in a fit of overexcitement, make a little mess on the carpet. Then a manic Lauren Laverne will be yacking away to herself and trying to make everything seem effortless like a stressed mum popping Benzedrine to get dinner out on time. At the table the debonair uncle from out of town Jarvis Cocker will spout louche witticisms to at once enrapture everyone and make them resent him a little for making them look boring. And, to rap it up, your old granddad Guy Garvey will fall asleep in a sprouty haze in front of the Great Escape after wearily telling you how it was done in his day: with socks and tangerines and none of this ‘having a record deal’ you kids go in for nowadays.

All this lovely intimacy between presenter and listener soon has you smitten, but it is of course secondary to the songs they play. On Radio 1 your lucky to get a bit of stale indie misery like Scouting For Girls to interrupt your autotune-induced coma, and to derive any pleasure from what Radio 2 plays you have to, basically, be Bono. I apologise if you like the Black Eyed Peas or Jon Bon Jovi. They are not without their merits and I am obviously a massive snob, but only on 6music can the xx be followed by Fred Astaire. For this I would give it my last Rolo. Maybe that’s faint praise, I don’t even like Rolos. I’d probably give it the whole packet.

My point is that every other radio station in the world would see no overlap in the demographics of the latest mopey young beauties to hit the ground running and a dry old white guy from the fifties, and would consequently see no gain in ad revenue from including both on the playlist. Here though, the presenter is free to play what’s good because the BBC doesn’t do adverts. Ironically, that is exactly the problem.

The BBC is uniquely paid for by taxpayers with a mandate to inform and enrich the people. So, like prissy advertisers, the government wants to see a bit of return on investment – not in the form of cash but political capital. Gordon Brown wants to say to us “look, I know we’re trillions of pounds in debt to China or something, but all the money we spend on entertaining you is worthwhile because Snog Marry Avoid got ten million viewers last night.”

When the money runs out what are you going to save? The £100 million TV channel that everyone watches but no-one cares about, or the largely ignored but well-loved £9m radio station. You keep BBC Three, evidently, because the numbers look good in the Daily Mail. There is no statistic for adoration.

But what part of the necessity to ‘enrich’ does BBC Three fulfil? On Mr. Garvey’s show the other day he read out an email from some expats in Mumbai thanking him for sending over a bit of north-western melancholy, which is understandably rare in sultry India. The everyday simplicity of this sentiment masks how rare and touching it actually is. One doubts Snog Marry Avoid would be able to make Mancunian rain land on Mumbai earth. Productions ought to be valued by necessity rather than popularity, and for them people in Mumbai there is nothing more necessary than the soggy whiff of home.