The Burning Boy

GATHER IT GENTLY

2010-11-01T16:35:00.000-07:00

my friend asked me today what kids are into nowadays. and I said that I have less than the foggiest.

well.

I shouted Justin Bieber?!?!!?! a few times. And Miley Cyrus.
I'm never around children, so I don't know. and I don't care. I know what they should be into and that's all that matters. They should be interested in Daniel Defoe, inheriting my debt and living with the SUPERCANCER that's going to kill everyone come 2070 (my ETA in maggotville)
that and decent music. god knows what music's going to sound like in 2070. hopefully white noise. or they'll have properly developed that high pitch noise that adults can't hear into proper music

god I hate that noise
I can't wait until I don't have to hate that noise, before missing that noise before remembering that, fuck, I can grow a proper beard now so who really gives a shit?

So. This thought got me thinking RIGHT NOW NOW NOW about kids over the ages, when childhood was so romanticised and
SO SO SO SO SO SO SO SO MUCH BETTER THAN ANY CHILDHOOD YOU EVER HAD, FOOL
and music. of course. So, here follows a collection of songs that make me feel nostalgic for a childhood I never had.

because I was pre-foetal.

happy, happy pre-foetus.

PAUL ROBESON- MA CURLY HEADED BABY. fruiting obsessed with this song at the moment. SO GOOD. I wish this was number 1 right now and forever. Deep.

DINAH WASHINGTON- THIS BITTER EARTH. I wish that my mum vaccumed around the house when I was a toddler singing this beautifully. and the carpet was dirty anyway and no-one cared because, fuck, we had soul. and we were happy.

we had a cleaner.
and a nanny.

and, that's great and all. but. it ain't bitter. and, well, bitter's better than our spotless carpets.

CONNIE FRANCIS- LIPSTICK ON YOUR COLLAR. I used to work with a woman called Wendy and we'd dance around our candle shop to this song with all of the elderly customers. then she'd tell me about spending her afternoons in the record shops, listening to music in booths. and rollerskating up and down the pier. they were all poor, but they had the record halls. my grandparents met each other before they knew each other rollerskating up and down weston-super-mare sea front. I love seeing old people dance. This makes them dance. It makes me smile.

PETER GABRIEL- SLEDGEHAMMER. And my mum dances to this. And she's happy. It's like her spice girls. I'm pretty convinced that if I was a child when Peter Gabriel was around I'd be John Conner from the Terminator and life would be soooo fucking exciting. You just try to kill me, machines...

IMAGINATION- JUST AN ILLUSION. before everyone knew about AIDS, everything looks like so much fun.

Also. That Imagination video is officially my favourite music video ever. Just FYI.
I feel like one of those creepy old men now. Like someone who's always reaching into the past and discovering that -goshdamned it- everything used to be so innocent. and we were happy.

which is, of course, a crock of shite.
but at least children were happy. children are far too sexualised now. that's a topic for another blog post. I'll do it tomorrow, promise. PREPARE FOR A RANT. OF EPIC PROPORTIONS. WELL. ACTUALLY MORE A LAMENT THAN A RANT, BUT I'LL LEAVE YOU WITH THIS CROCK OF SHITE TO ILLUSTRATE MY FORTHCOMING LAMENT, ARE YOU READY? GOOD. ok then.

JUST SAYIN'

TAKE A DIRTY PICTURE

2010-11-01T16:09:00.000-07:00

So I feel really weird when I think that someone finds me attractive. I always have. I kind of see myself as a weird gangly ragdoll, not something that's physical
or, you know,
physical to other people.

on the bus today there was this one guy who kept staring at me and

I'm probably being vain/paranoid

but I felt really really weird. not uncomfortable. more human. I forget that I have a body far too often for my own good.
I opened up my moleskine, wrote twattish things and tried to not make eye contact.

always, always on trains as well. 14 year old girls have some sort of magnetic attraction to me. They're always giggling and not in an -OHMYGOD HE'S SO TRAGICALLY EMBARRASSING I CAN'T BELIEVE I'M SHARING THE CARRIAGE WITH HIM FMLFMLFMLFML- kind of way, but in an omg he just looked my way omgomg my hormones What Am I Going To Do With All Of My Fucking Hormones...

...baby?

kind of way. which I find kind of sweet, actually.

sidenote: I sound like a cunt. I realise this. I'm happy that i'm happy enough for this trivial shite to seem like something to me: sidenote over

not that I would ever reciprocate it. but still, it's weird. I prefer being something without a body
I mean, fuck. I've got a blog. I live on Facebook. I live through my sims. It's not that I don't like being with people all the frigging time and being sociable, but. I never think about actually being with them. To you I'm just words and weird pictures and

it was nothing perverse, just eyes. on me. eyes.

i'm not used to that much intimacy with strangers. sure, in my single days I was all to happy to swap fluids with any twat without knowing their name/age/species, but that was...it was different. it wasn't intimate. I was using them

not being objectified
(without my consent)
(I've got a boyfriend to whom I consent)

not that I had a flip out. or anything. I opened up my moleskine, wrote twattish things, tried not to make eye contact and bought myself a pot of strawberry hot chocolate.

fuck, that's good hot chocolate.

BUT OUR LOVE CAN BE THE MOAT

2010-10-08T09:06:00.000-07:00

I went into a Dr. Martens shop once because it was raining. Me and my friend tried on these ridiculous pair of UK Print DMs and the salesman gave us the side eye

the thing is
I kind of wanted a safety pin through my ear
and rips in my underwear
and something that made a noise when I stomped.

Anyway. As you can tell from the purply button thing at the bottom of this site, I'm kind of affiliated with VICE and they just invited me/everyone who reads this blog to a free party where they celebrate all of the lesbians and teen punks who've been wrecking puddles in their DMs for 50 years.
Go.

http://viceland.com/drmartens50th/

HIGH, LIKE THE 4TH JULY

2010-10-06T12:18:00.000-07:00

I kind of wish I was more european sometimes. Then I'd understand the signs in Polish supermarkets. Or at least give them some custom.

One just opened down the road. I've never seen anyone in it apart from the owner who stands at the back of his shop looking wistfully out of the window. There was a woman in there once. I imagine that it was his wife. And they spoke, in Polish

her-you need to sell some more food. we need more blankets and key rings. I only have the one key-ring.
him-it's hard to sell stuff to people who don't care. there's an established supermarket down the road and, well. it's hard. I can whittle you a key-ring from my old teeth. they're all dropping out, you know.
her- I know. it's impossible to kiss you. i taste old potatoes and suet.
him- what's wrong with suet? suet's the foundation of many many nice puddings.
her- they're fatty. you're getting fat. you were never this fat in Poland. also, your mother is fat. you know that your mother is fat. do you want to look like your mother?
him- my mother's pregnant.
her- your mother's not pregnant, she's seventy five.
him- she is pregnant.
her- unless your mother's pregnant with key-rings i don't give a damn. i want the metal ones. not rotten teeth.
him- fine. you see how easy it is. come work one day in the shop. one day.
her- fine

and still. No customers. but but but. They have this fantastic energy drink thing which has a picture of the most Eastern European looking muscle-man ever clutching a can. And I would like to be that man. Also, I want to wear garish sunglasses and bright pink t-shirts and be really pervy and inappropriate but heck. that's ok. I'm danish. or swedish.
FFFFUCK I LOVE SWEDES. Without reason. Pure, adulterated love.
Europeans, in general. This is of course all in general. Europeans in general give less of a shit than most other people. They're born with ire in their eyes. And they love the best music ever. And they're extreme.

Us Brits. We're just angst. We're bones and guilt and
it all seems so false.

Next year I might do the shitty Brit thing and EXPLAW EURUP.
Maybe I'll go here. It's totally Europe. The other parts are on VBS.tv. search for Groezrock if you want to see the rest of it.

HE MADE ME A TAPE OF JOY DIVISION, AND TOLD ME THERE WAS A PART OF HIM MISSING

2010-10-06T11:01:00.000-07:00

So, I'm a little bit obsessed with Perfume Genius' album, Learning. If you haven't listened to it yet, DO IT NOW. If I knew how to link it on Spotify, I would, but I clearly don't. I am a little bit technologically retarded at the best of times. I'm on my fifth iPod.

I lost the first one.
The second one never woke up.
The third one was dropped from the top of a tall building, wind in my eyes.
I accidentally drowned my last one in Apple Juice. The irony was not lost on me at the time. For lack of wanting to express myself in a better way, I lol'd.

and now I'm poor. I'm actually eating rice every night. no money for lunch. just my iPod, typewriter and lots and lots of bunting for company.
don't tell me I wasted my immense wealth on crap. my gold-winged plastic pig watering can begs to differ.
(give me money?)

god. that's so fucking internet of me.

anyway, I'm back at university now. If you read my blog a fair while ago you may remember that I mentioned dropping out. Well. I didn't. I decided to grow the fuck up and carry on with my life of reading and writing prett looking story books.

and being back, I feel like I have to dive the fuck back into writing on this thing because it's about the only thing that keeps me from working now. And, shit. Work's a drag. Not that I need to tell you that.

All of the freshers have been running around campus. I hate them. I was sat in the piazza-

(Warwick has a piazza. It's like a council estate amphitheatre)

-with my copy of Robinson Crusoe and there were these two guys performing some sort of weird capoeira. Weird in the sense that they'd probably been doing it for about a year and were falling over. But they were doing it for ages, and it was kind of entrancing. I'm stuck on page thirteen of Robinson Crusoe now because I was staring at their awkward contortions for ages

until I got distracted by these freshers who were typically flouting their virginity by talking about their mates who got some 'gash'

so, where has all the beauty gone?

It was raining. I enjoyed the rain. My copy of Robinson Crusoe has crinkled pages, and my iPod ran out of battery (it didn't die, this time) stuck on Perfume Genius' 'You Won't B Here'.

I forgot about it. I went to my lectures, came back home, charged and Perfume came sparkling through the headphones

'they won't be here tomorrow. they won't be here tomorrow.'

an empty piazza. a sky full of rain. a copy of Robinson Crusoe melting in my hands.

imagining the perfect day.

here's 'You Won't B Here'.
It was first posted in 2007. I feel behind the times.

SHE CAN ALWAYS BE REPLACED, SHE CAN ALWAYS BE REPLACED

2010-08-15T09:07:00.000-07:00

I remember how much I love writing now that I'm doing it again. I'm going to crack out some words this afternoon. Bleeding hearts, you've got competition because I'm on the poetry stroll. I suppose I've been feeling a bit lost recently. If lost = terrified.

I graduate in less than a year's time.

And I need to find a job/something to do/something that will mean I don't have to come back to somerset to live and walk and while away time and money

and I need money. I took out my first ever credit card the other day just so I can pay for the rent of a house that I'm not even staying in yet. I'm proud that I'm finally doing what everyone else my age was doing a couple of years ago. I think I'm proud. I'm more proud that I've managed to resist it up until now without a job/regard for what I'm spending.

so I'm going to have to get a part time job, which will be glorious. I've always wanted to be a waiter/barkeep/I've already worked in a shop but heck, shops are fun.

but THE FUTURE. I didn't realize how expensive it was to get a Masters. I've been toying with the idea of going for one ever since all of my friends who have graduated have been complaining all over facebook about being unemployed and depressed and poor. But I think that taking a masters would leave me more depressed, more unemployed and more poor than if I just went out, rented a shitty apartment in London and worked in KFC for my whole life. 'Writing on the side', of course. And when one of my poems is published, we'll see who's laughing then! That's right! You.

I've always said 'I'M MOVING TO NEW YORK', but realistically New York's not going to want a recently graduated delusional with no idea what he's going to do, just that he wants to be able to write and watch crap reality tv and be a hermit while contributing anything to THE CITY.

besides, a masters degree in New York would cost me over £50,000. I don't have £50,000. If I went on Total Wipeout, 101 Ways To Leave a Gameshow and Deal or No Deal, I might be able to scratch together £50,000. Furthermore, I don't really want to pay someone £50,000 to tell me how to write. I'm far too obstinate for that.

so, well. if someone out there is reading this and wants to give a hardworking, keen, spirited, intelligent boy a job anytime soon...let me know! I will be ever so grateful.

well. It's worth a shot...

ALL THINGS GO, ALL THINGS GO

2010-08-14T16:19:00.000-07:00

We all know that it is/was Summer and there's more sun than usual and

well

it's time to talk music. FUCK actually, I'll do a fashion post first. FUCK. prepare yourself for a fashion+music mash-up. This post is going to be like a catwalk.

bam bam bam bam WURQ

This is what I think you should be wearing/listening to at the same time.

1. anything JWoww wears and Requiem by Kashiwa Daisuke

JWoww's style is determined by how much flesh she can get away with legally showing while somehow maintaining an air of don't-fuck-with-me-or-I'll-turn-your-dick-inside-out. She basically grabs whatever scraps of material she can gather from the numerous bitch-downs she has outside of dirty nightclubs. It's spectacular. Now, imagine that you're menopausal and listen to Kashiwa Daisuke. Her Requiem is stunning. It's a song that catharts fear without falling into depression. It isn't a cookies and cream song that says 'hey, it's ok to be afraid. it's ok that everything's shit. You'll get through it...' nor is it a death metal anthem about how EVERYTHING'S SHIT DIEDIEDIE. It's pain and breath. It's saying that everything's shit, but fuck. we'll dance anyway. and we'll breathe. and everything's shit. but fuck. let's get fucked. And there's nothing more 'getting fucked' in my mind than a menopausal woman in rag-whore clothes dancing to weird electro on the sunny beaches of the craggy British coast line. There's nothing more Summery than that.

2. velvet slippers (monogrammed) and Love Lust by King Charles

Summer's also about being fucking decadent for a while, being romantic and feeling glorious about everything. There's no item of clothing more glorious than monogrammed, velvet slippers. You can't get a decent pair for under £70. I want a pair. Summer's about being outside in the garden, BBQ on in the day. Haze in the early evening, chairs still outside. Blankets around shoulders, wearing slippers and smoking cigars. Velvet slippers and cigars and tilting the head back slightly with a small chortle, subtle flirts and happy love for a while. And finding chirpy songs like 'Love Lust' to impress your friends with and say- yeah, I saw him in Brixton like five years ago. He's gone downhill, but what can you expect?- before someone on spotify interrupts you and it's gone. And the song's over and you're left outside cold, wearing silly slippers. And there are bills to pay, and you spent £70 on slippers which won't even keep you warm...not such a good idea any more. And the head tilt, small chortle, subtle flirts girl never fucked you. But still.

3. animal masks and The Ritz by Realboy

All of the hipsters are wearing animal masks, which makes sense. They need to look like they're hiding something. Hipsters want everyone to think that they could/should be spending all of their time shooting up in loft flats decorated with blood paintings by some tragic dead/dying poet. The half-animal masks hide the spots where their blood-shot eyes and two ton eye bags should be hanging over their razor sharp cheekbones. Besides, animal masks are twee and makes them look like they couldn't give a fuck. The truth is that they give a fuck more than everyone else. That they live with their parents and don't have razor sharp cheekbones because mummy makes too many nice home cooked meals. The animal mask hipster has posters of Pete Doherty in his/her room and plays Mumford and Sons in the privacy of his/her 'ironically decorated' (ie. unchanged since their pre-puberty days) bedroom. These people are twats. They own ukuleles. Heck, I don't want to go off on a tangent here, but I really really hate hipster types. They're so frigging desperate. There's one girl at university who wears vintage etc., has her close circle of 'in' girl friends etc., is butt ugly but ooh that's alright because aesthetics don't matter etc., but she is about the most vile girl that you can ever come across. Unless you're with one of her ugly girl friends she'll ignore you completely. Unless you're talking about Kierkegaard or Jay Jay Pistolet she'll think that you're retarded because she twitches her retarded frog features on her pancake face. She's the girl in school who no-one liked because she smelt of grape juice and now she's discovered that it's cool to shop in charity shops so she has a HUGE sense of entitlement. There's another girl who did some mephodrone once and dates a guy who's involved with the one nightclub in town. Big deal. People think that she cums diamonds. Hipsters dirty themselves with the misplaced notion that they're entitled to everyone's adoration because they look like fucking arsewipes wearing whatever kitsch and ohsocool thing that they decide to wear. Which, for now, is animal masks. So, fuck. Let's mock them and let's dance while doing it. There's nothing contrived about Realboy's The Ritz. It's a really really fun tune. Dance like a mother fucker, wearing an animal mask...then take it off and piss on it.

4. AA see thru short sleeve t-shirt and Shadows by Au Revoir Simone

OK. I won't shout any more. This is my Summer. Genuinely. And I would probably hate it if everyone did the same as me/wore the same shirt but...it's the best shirt ever. British Summers are never all that hot but it's good to get a bit naked. This shirt allows for semi nude moments. It's really soft. It's huge. It drapes more beautifully than anything EVER. It saved my life at Glastonbury...I had awful hayfever and I used this shirt as a gauze around my face. I looked like a terrorist, but it worked beautifully. Also, it grows and I've got into the habit of wearing it like a dress shirt around the house with just my boxers on underneath. And why not? Heck, if it weren't for indecency laws I'd go out wearing just the shirt. And why not? Au Revoir Simone are the most beautiful girls with the most beautiful voices. I listened to Shadows in the woodland behind my house the other day, wearing my favourite shirt. Crunching leaves with sunlight peaking through the branches. Birds and a carton of melting ice cream. That's Summer.

ALL THE THINGS THAT MAKE US LAUGH AND CRY

2010-08-14T14:50:00.000-07:00

Before I forget, I want to write about something I saw the other day. I was walking back from the station. I'd lost my headphones (again) and had my iPod next to my ear playing WU LYF as loud as I could without distressing the old people in my village too much. The old people were nowhere. It was six. Curtains closed, gates locked just in case MOAT or HUNGERFORD or CUMBRIA happens in Brent Knoll. I'll say it now, because it's expected.

That will never happen. Not here. Not to us. We don't belong in the newspapers. Even the post office's local headlines are never about Brent Knoll. This week it's about molestation on Burnham sea front. My mum said - something. She remarked.

I was walking and Heavy Pop had just ended. I heard some more music in the background. It sounded like some weird jaunty arabic music that had been composed by a drug-stuffed Tinkerbell. Whenever I hear music outside in the village, I tut. There's a party. The other day I went outside of my back door and I head 'Tik Tok'. I tutted, went up to my room and thought about the weird sex games that the old people must get up to.

Kesha does that to me. Music outside does that to me, but only in the village. Villages are places where life doesn't happen. Or, life happens in a structured and safe environment. Once a month with the bazaar, once a year with the wassail.

LIFEDOESN'TGETMUCHMOREEXCITINGTHANTHIS

Christ. I'm stretching this anecdote.

When I got closer (this all took about 10 seconds by the way) I heard that the song was, in fact, Cyndi Lauper's 'Time After Time' and the wind had somehow distorted it. I was walking past the open gates of the house expecting to see some children running around, a BBQ, men in hats with cigars and cider, other men laughing with men at the BBQ, women with wine, men looking at other men and laughing and then shouting something about football just in case someone thought that the look was, in fact, underlined by homoeroticism. Which it was. Sausages burning and punch.

There was one car in the driveway.

There was one fat woman dancing in her garden.

And I wanted to dance with her. To go through the gates, dance for a bit, find some wine to quaff and then, when her husband comes out, she can say 'This is Will, my new friend' and we would have laughed and it would have been a bit awkward but, heck, I love those ransom connections. And I always pretend that I have lots of them.

I always speak to people at bus stops, or meet people at parties. But nothing sticks.

Olives on the verandah. Dreams.

There was a road sign opposite the gates, one with black and white arrows. There was tar smeared in shots on the white of the sign.

I walked on. In my mind, she's still dancing.

OH, YOU SAID IT FRIEND. ACH, EACH DRINK WAS LIKE

2010-08-14T14:46:00.001-07:00

I was in London again recently and

the thing about big cities,

about getting away and being in nice hotels with devices to clean your bum-hole

well, one of the things

I find

is that people are more people-ish and less

this is hard to describe

more desperate to make friends and be friends and show that HEY I AM A FRIEND

AND THIS CONNECTION IS REAL. OK?

not that everyone’s shouty.

people are less shouty.

there’s silence everywhere and people who are people

not people who are with other people with iPods blazing and kids sparking handrails with dirty hands.

Although there are dirty hands.

Ugh.

Expect better.

I don’t know where I was. I don’t know where I am today, really.

Bristol, milkshake. Park and ICE. In the rink, where I didn’t fall over once.

I am a king, of sorts. All sorts.

PAP SMEAR

2010-08-13T17:31:00.000-07:00

And excuses for my awful record of blogging lately.

Number one. It’s summer, and I like to go outside and play with all of the other pasty big kids.

Number two. It’s summer, and ice cream.

Number three. I’ve been operating a laptop without the ‘h’, ‘y’, ‘?’, ‘6’ and shift keys until today when I ventured into PC World and purchased a keyboard so I can type everything and anything that I can ever want to.

Like... Who’s 6th? Why, you ought not to worry about such silly things.

Spectacular.

And I’m going to look silly in the library with my laptop and keyboard, but I find that most people in libraries aren’t really people who are familiar with the freezing heights of Cool Mountain so I won’t really worry.

Shit, and I said that I would do a glastonbury review.

Um.

OK.

Here: it was good. I enjoyed myself.

WHAT FOLLOWS IS PRETTY INCOHERENT. IT’S HERE BECAUSE IT CAN BE AND IT’S GOOD TO RECALL THINGS SOMETIMES. I HAVE A DIARY WITH NOTHING IN IT.

OOPS.

More specifically, I got there on the Friday and missed Tegan and Sarah. Apparently they were average. I arrived just in time to see Vampire Weekend be all amazing and Summery and I wanted to drink some Horchanta and I want to see them again right now. As in now now. Then Dizzee Rascal, and I danced with friends. Most of my friends danced, with the notable exception of Ben who refused to dance/stay awake/not wander off taking photos of lights and grass for the entirety of the weekend. And then I missed Radiohead but I don’t really mind because, well....

OVERRATED.

and I’ve said it. Radiohead.are.not.Gods.

Broken Bells...good but not as good as I wanted them to be. To be fair, I couldn’t really see anything because I had horrific hay fever and I was blindblindblind to everything. Many people asked me if I was alright. Many people assumed that Thom Yorke made me cry. Not so. Because, well....

OVERRATED.

and it’s true, if it’s said enough times.

And no XX because of eye-death but that’s alright because they’re kind of overrated too.

(SIDENOTE: THE XX SHOULD NOT WIN THE MERCURY AWARD. WILD BEASTS DESERVE IT. I BET TWO POUNDS ON WILL HILL THAT THEY WOULD WIN AND I NEED THE MONEY RIGHT NOW. I’M TAKING OUT A CREDIT CARD WHEN I GET OFF THIS TRAIN AND I NEED RENT AND A PLACE TO STAY. SHIT. I SPENT £35 ON A KEYBOARD. SHIT.)

and wake up. notable on Saturday...um. Memory. Is. Not. Working. Because.

I didn’t take any drugs.

I barely drank.

From what I can remember, here’s a list

GOOD

THE NATIONAL

TUNNG

MUSE

SCISSOR SISTERS

Pizza was tasty...um.

RAY DAVIES

BAD

EMPIRE OF THE SUN

I DON’T LIKE KATE NASH

I THINK THAT JACK JOHNSON IS A TWAT.

besides, all of this is irrelevant.

my half-remembered observations mean nothing

if you went and enjoyed it, great.

if you didn’t, sorry. That’s not my fault.

And sorry for this post.

Expect better.

HALF AWAKE IN A FAKE EMPIRE

2010-07-08T15:32:00.000-07:00

it's july and I just-shit no posts in july- so here I am,

tail between my legs

there's not really been any reason for me to be quiet apart from being ridiculously busy most days. glastonbury, moving+cleaning to make the landlord have a money orgasm of my deposit money, spending a few days in Taunton without the internet and today

which I have spent sleeping, largely. Apart from the ten minutes which I took out to watch Maury

I usually love Maury. He's never judgmental of the twats who are NOT the father of whatever illigetimate child popped out of the dirty prostitute spreading her crabs on his chairs

but that's kind of the problem. Maury is a breedingplace for misogyny. FEMINIST ALL OVER YOUR FACE because it's depressing how I can watch a tv show and just accept that every woman on there is a Whore or a Slut and, you know, those sort of labels are a bad thing. and the dad is almost always a bumhole. everyone's usually from the ghetto or the huge plains of America where condoms don't exist

and I can imagine the swathes of unemployed people judging everyone on their tv, worms wriggling around their cellulite as they don't realise that even though there are people more fucked up than them on tv

you know, sort your life out. pow.

today's Maury was a jolly holiday special. The audience had to guess whether the woman strutting around his stage are 'real' women or transgender. Or, as Maury kept asking-

WHAT IS IT?!?!?!?!

which is kind of insensitive, kind of anti-queer, kind of misogynistic, kind of simplistic, kind of disturbing, kind of zoo-like

all kinds of wrong, basically.

and it really doesn't warrant a whole hour long program

about people who want to be freaks

and want to be vilified

and torn to shreds

and objects.

I couldn't watch all of it. STILL. I was curious to see whether IT was a MAN OR A WOMAN?!?!?!?!?! so I Sky+ed it and I will watch it later

because I'm a huge hypocrite

because I am a bad person?

or, because I'm trying to care about something that I know I should care about but, shit, it's hard to care about this stuff sometimes

when it's thursday, and I'm sat on my ass doing nothing

you know, you know, you know,

I should be doing shit. not being slightly outraged by maury.

game of 40/40 in anyone?

A LITTLE WHISTLE

2010-06-22T15:22:00.001-07:00

It's probably better without confession. Things in the real world could get messy. We'll see tomorrow.

messmess mess I like to make a mess

with my cheese and onion sandwich filler

I also need new music. I need to go on a binge of all of the bands who I probably should like/am going to see at Glastonbury.

I need to decide whether I like The Big Pink or not. I quite like their Dominoes song I think but this is what Spotify is for. True story, I was supposed to be in their video for 'Tonight' but I couldn't make it. It wasn't paid so I was hardly going to go out of my way for it.

but, errr the Big Pink. OK. My reaction is similar to that band that everyone liked a couple of years ago that sung about daddies. Glasvegas. People were properly cumming their pants about them so I went to see them in the Queen's Head on the Thursday and they were the grumpiest group of shits I've ever had the misfortune to see. Heads so far up their own arses that their heads were back on top of their shoulders stinking of shit. If that makes any sense.

If you want some original insults, ask Malcolm Tucker. He'll chuck in a few fuckityfucks for free.

I'm clearly not laddish enough for The Big Pink. SO. Not going to see them, please. If I want to feel like I'm at a football match I'll go to watch West Brom play against Grimsby Town instead. Except this would be like a football match with hipster type people who are there because Dazed did a piece on how cool The Big Pink are and it's cool to like them, or something, even though their music's shit.

I'm glad I gave them a listen. I would have been one of those people otherwise.

I'm also not looking forward to the amount of people wearing something ill-advisedly 'festival' from Topman/shop. Last year everyone wore black fedoras with white stripes. I felt like crying.

I just listened to 'The Chordettes' sing 'Mr. Sandman' as a remedy to The Big Pink. You might recall that I felt equally repulsed by The Dirty Projectors. And the same goes for The Drums. They're another band that just appeared and everyone's cumming themselves because they were on a Kitsune compilation album, Morrissey went to their gig and they wear bow ties and shorts and omg they're well fit bbz, but like in a they'd totally break if I bent them over the desk and fucked them lolz are they gay bbz? kind of way

and I am repulsed that I typed that. Text speak should not be used in writing. I tweeted this to Margaret Atwood the other day. This is what she had to say in response:

MargaretAtwood

@the_burningboy: Aw...me writing in Textspeak: No worse than Telegraphese, once.. doesn't mean one no longer speaks plain English, eh?

Margaret Atwood should not be text speaking. It's just wrong. Anyway, I'll give some first impressions of bands that I'm supposed to love because I'm a boy and I wear short shorts in a moment.

Midlake: comparisons to Radiohead. As in, good. I will happily listen to this forever.

Beach House: the singer seems a bit whiney. Like...ooh. I sing. And I try to sing like I'm stuck on top of a cloud. I can imagine some girlfriend in her mid-twenties dragging her boyfriend along to this for a spot of ill advised romance. And him looking confused with a beer in hand. I mean, I'm bored of them.

Next.

These New Puritans: I heard something from these people a few years ago. They were alright then. They've got worse. Well. Wait. No, worse. Like a cross between System of a Down and the Ting Tings. I like System of a Down. I hate the Ting Tings. Also, the singer has a speech impediment. Lulz. OK. I gave them another shot. This song's alright, but the rest of it is shit. I'm giving them the benefit of the doubt:

(note...these bands probably appeared on my list of bands i'm really fucking keen to see that I posted on here the other day. I'm a hypocrite. Shoot me.)

Everything Everything: quite good. I would enjoy seeing them, at least. I can dance. And that's important. And the man sings in falsetto, which means that he dances. And I like this song, I'm listening to Schoolin'. I'm going to see them. DEDICATION. Here's another song by Everything Everything:

errrrr that's the list for now.

I'm planning on giving short reviews of everyone I end up seeing, more so that I can remember what I did more than anything else. I can never remember everyone I've seen after a few weeks.

I really like Schoolin'

It's going to be a song of the moment.

POW

ps. your feet smell like cheese

LAST NIGHT'S LOVE AFFAIR IS LOOKING VULNERABLE

2010-06-21T06:10:00.000-07:00

I wish I had made this blog more anonymous.

I have

I want to tell stories of

but I don't feel guilty.

and it shouldn't matter.

but I'm exercising restraint when I don't want to be.

just saying.

ALL YOU EVER THINK ABOUT IS SICK IDEAS INVOLVING ME INVOLVING YOU

2010-06-21T05:09:00.000-07:00

so, I've been obsessing again. just listening to one song over and over and over and over and over again

I say obsessing, because the song is 'Obsessions' by Marina and the Diamonds. I tried to hate her, but I can't.

Spotify is aching. Also, Kelis. 4th July. I'm having a macho week.

Something about sport,

but who cares about the world cup anyway? England were always going to be shit. We haven't not been shit for so long that I don't know why it's a surprise. Hopefully it can all be over come wednesday and flags can be taken down from cars.

and I can be satisfied, because my couple months old prediction of Argentina winning is going to come into fruition. People hate that I'm a pundit now. People hate it when I'm right.

particularly about something I know relatively little about. but I know stuff, and I can talk football

it just does nothing for me. it's drone, it's noise. it's men and sweat and

you know, that's not nice.

so, life is watching Come Dine With Me and-

-the other day. there was a peace festival in Leamington Spa. Which I attended. And there was no SPORT. There wasn't really any peace,

just tramps singing and circles of people and tramps singing in circles of people

demented facepaint. a girl painted to look like Jigglypuff got raped.

crying women, everywhere

and lots of weed, people shaking eating cakes. This was a Dante vision, under the smog of 'peace'

with the hope that

peace starts in the lower middle classes

and spreads to the rest of the world.

we went to pubs and I was almost debauched

but for now, eyes closed. summer's coming.

HITS HAYFEVER HARD

2010-06-13T13:08:00.000-07:00

this is one of the coolest GIFs I think I have ever seen.

it's a pretty amazing man who can become every monster in the book

imagine how much money he could get for going onto Scooby Doo and taking everyone's part

monstamazing.

not trying to flog the t-shirt, but here's the source: WOW (it's Teefury so if you click that any time other than today the t-shirt's not going to be there)

I DON'T THINK YOUR EYES HAVE EVER LOOKED SURPRISED

2010-06-13T09:22:00.000-07:00

I'm going to be honest, I'm only writing this post to get rid of the annoying video that I was paid to put on the blog.

So. I won't bore you by making up some self-indulgent shit.

just enjoy the picture of the dog about to eat a cupcake.

become the dog.

I'M READING ROBERT BROWNING, YOU SHOULD BE TOO

2010-06-13T09:14:00.000-07:00

Porphyria's Lover

THE rain set early in to-night,
The sullen wind was soon awake,
It tore the elm-tops down for spite,
And did its worst to vex the lake:
I listen'd with heart fit to break.
When glided in Porphyria; straight
She shut the cold out and the storm,
And kneel'd and made the cheerless grate
Blaze up, and all the cottage warm;
Which done, she rose, and from her form
Withdrew the dripping cloak and shawl,
And laid her soil'd gloves by, untied
Her hat and let the damp hair fall,
And, last, she sat down by my side
And call'd me. When no voice replied,
She put my arm about her waist,
And made her smooth white shoulder bare,
And all her yellow hair displaced,
And, stooping, made my cheek lie there,
And spread, o'er all, her yellow hair,
Murmuring how she loved me—she
Too weak, for all her heart's endeavour,
To set its struggling passion free
From pride, and vainer ties dissever,
And give herself to me for ever.
But passion sometimes would prevail,
Nor could to-night's gay feast restrain
A sudden thought of one so pale
For love of her, and all in vain:
So, she was come through wind and rain.
Be sure I look'd up at her eyes
Happy and proud; at last I knew
Porphyria worshipp'd me; surprise
Made my heart swell, and still it grew
While I debated what to do.
That moment she was mine, mine, fair,
Perfectly pure and good: I found
A thing to do, and all her hair
In one long yellow string I wound
Three times her little throat around,
And strangled her. No pain felt she;
I am quite sure she felt no pain.
As a shut bud that holds a bee,
I warily oped her lids: again
Laugh'd the blue eyes without a stain.
And I untighten'd next the tress
About her neck; her cheek once more
Blush'd bright beneath my burning kiss:
I propp'd her head up as before,
Only, this time my shoulder bore
Her head, which droops upon it still:
The smiling rosy little head,
So glad it has its utmost will,
That all it scorn'd at once is fled,
And I, its love, am gain'd instead!
Porphyria's love: she guess'd not how
Her darling one wish would be heard.
And thus we sit together now,
And all night long we have not stirr'd,
And yet God has not said a word!

WHERE DO PEOPLE LIKE US FLOAT

2010-06-13T03:39:00.000-07:00

And I wasn't going to do another blog post today but I'm thinking about Glastonbury now. I've been to every festival since 2004. And every year apart from last I've had to miss some part of it. 2004, SCHOOL was more important than seeing muse apparently. They're back this year though, so it's OK. I can make up for it.

Also back but not back back at Glastonbury, The Libertines. I need to see them. Need need need. They were there at the 2004 festival as well.

I WISH

I had good enough taste to see them then.

I was too scared, I was sticking with my friends and getting a little bit overawed when Nelly Furtado sang 'I'm like a Bird'. And I remember, with my friend's little brother on his shoulders saying 'this is a big act for so early in the day, it's going to be amazing, it's going to be amazing'

and some time spent in the circus tent. that was 2004. 2005...er. what

wait a second. just found my thingamabob from TWOTHOUSANDANDFOUR so I can actually try to remember who I saw. shite, Bright Eyes were there and I missed them

funny though, because another year they were there and I had a bit of a moment with Conor Oberst. We had a shout conversation from the stage

enough of remembering who, because I need to tell you my Glastonbury stories. That was the whole point of this post. In 2005 I made my way into NME, Q Magazine, onto the front cover of the Q Glastonbury Daily, The Observer and the BBC Website. I was a celebrity and all because I was wearing huge glasses. I have had several interactions with the stars. I have motorboated Beth Ditto. I have grabbed Quentin Defalon from The Teenager's crotch. I shook hands with Seasick Steve (it's all good, apparently) and hugged Alice Glass. Last year I made it onto the Pyramid Stage. N*E*R*D were playing and they needed some dudes who could mosh. I was a dude. I got flung onto the stage and

all the people, it was special

I saw some people who I knew in the front row and it was satisfying. I'll pop the video at the end. I stayed on for a couple of songs. I was exhausted. I couldn't hear any music, just the crowd. No beat, so I jumped everywhere just jumped and jumped and thought

fuck

I'm in front of quite a lot of people here. I left my bag (passport money some clothes) under the railings, had to fight to get it back for about an hour,

managed to make it to Friendly Fires and Lady GaGa in time.

and then I thought I saw someone who I knew, so I texted him. Later that evening we met up. Later that weekend we got married. Later, later. A few months later and we were properly together.

Pharell William's is my homeboy. I should join his posse, again.

but THIS YEAR will be great too. I'll try to get my own gig on the pyramid stage.

And now a list of bands I'm planning on seeing. I might do a little review thing after the event. I probably will.

LIST ...considering I'm not going to get there until late on Friday: Vampire Weekend, Phoenix, The XX, Broken Bells, Simian Mobile Disco, Get Cape..., Carl Barat solo set (could This be a Libertines reunion? :O...the plot thickens), Jakwob, Chiddybang, Kelis, Laura Marling, Midlake, Wild Beasts, Marina and the Diamonds, Delphic, The National, Scissor Sisters, Muse, MGMT, The Temper Trap, These New Puritans, Everything Everything, Tunng, Loudon Wainwright III, Crystal Castles, Primary 1...er yeah. Except I'll probably see other people and it'll be completely different

on the other hand

AH I'M EXCITED!

(try to spot me. it's not hard):

YOU'RE SO WORTH IT YOU ARE

2010-06-13T03:24:00.000-07:00

but I wish I could-

it's sunday. this time last week I was pre-celebrating my birthday. It's been a weird week, again. I could do with another roast dinner. Perhaps tonight.

this time last week, I had television producers on the phone begging me not to quit on them. Running away from running away, I keep telling myself that I made the right decision

not locking myself away for 13 weeks.

but I can't stay in Somerset all summer. I'm going to try to get a job. I saw an article on how elitist American Apparel employers are, so I'll apply there. Or at a milkshake shop. If I get money, I can disappear for a couple of weeks

besides. I talk too much about shit like this

LET'S TALK ABOUT HAPPY STUFF BECAUSE BELIEVE IT OR NOT I'M ACTUALLY A VERY HAPPY PERSON MOST OF THE TIME

AND I KIND OF GET ANNOYED WITH PEOPLE WHO ARE TOO INDULGENT

so, sorry

BECAUSE I'M TRYING NOT TO BE SELFISH I'M TRYING NOT TO DOMINATE

I'M TRYING TO

ok, right now. I have never posted a kitten video on this website. Therefore, it is not a proper website.

that's right bitch. that's a kitten getting confused with its own reflection. POWebsite. Hello there.

I always thought that dogs couldn't see their own reflections. Cats are not dogs. I suppose.

Also, GOOD NEWS. er er er er

that's it

Glastonbury Festival in a couple of weeks. I've bought a journal.

= it's on.

I WON'T RUN AWAY FROM A LIFE WORTH LIVING

2010-06-12T06:15:00.000-07:00

er, so I might as well promote something else that I wrote on here:

http://theboar.org/tv/2010/jun/10/who-wants-live-forever/

it's one of many TV articles I've written for the university newspaper. thrills and roses.

it's so beautiful outside today. I'm going to get the hammock out and read something about Victorian attitudes towards (subject matter undecided) and try to do well in the exams

just thinking about graduating next year makes me smile

because I'm definitely definitely definitely never going to come back to somerset. The DREAM is New York and I will live in New York, in a scramble tiny flat with murders on the doorstep. Or London, where I will live in a less tiny flat with rape on the doorstep.

so long as there's at least a chance that I can be one of those tragic cases of people killed 'meters from their doorstep' that I read about in The Metro I'll be a happy bunny. Because then I can either be a survivor

or just totally tragic

or, die a 'new york death'. rotting in my flat for weeks before anyone notices.

and I'm pretty certain that Victorian (subject matter undecided) will have little to no bearing on my actual life. although sounding like a twat at mish mash dinner parties could be a bit of a larf, it's not really my bowl of soup and all of this information that I don't want to learn will become nothing as I learn more about how Kerry Katona's gained/lost weight and given up/gone back on drugs.

but, this is what I'm doing. and somehow I know that it's the right thing for me to do. just don't ask me why. just don't ask me where I'm going,

I just close my eyes, new york.

IT'S NOT MUCH BUT IT'S IT'S AH ALL I'VE GOT

2010-06-11T10:46:00.001-07:00

It's the WORLD CUP apparently. I had a dream the other week that Argentina were going to win,

everyone's been shouting NO NO NO NO they'll never win but I had my dream

MLK's dream came true

and mine will too

I say MLK's dream came true, but I'm watching an episode of Louis Theroux's wild weekends and there's a lot of black men who disagree

and want to start a race war

and think that Tom Jones is black.

Louis always attracts the weirdos/freaks/people who should probably be confined in a straight jacket and not allowed to speak the same language as everyone else. Just baby talk will do.

no, no, because everyone deserves a voice. just...I wish there was more temperament sometimes on TV, not just Extreme personalities. We don't live in a cartoon world. The Powerpuff Girls can't save us here.

it would be cool to live with all of the cartoons though. have breakfast with the Cookie monster (wasn't there something about him having to go on a diet recently? I almost bought a cookie monster tshirt from american apparel yesterday but I don't want people to look at me and go Ugh he clearly doesn't eat cookies, what a liar. besides, I do. besides, I prefer Bert and Ernie. They had a Bert and Ernie tshirt as well, but I already have a couple of those)

and then go for a jog with Billy Whizz. or look for the princess, again with Mario. There's whole websites and blogs and a hell of a lot of misc. about people transferring themselves into cartoon worlds or putting cartoon people into the real world and I don't want to write any fan fiction

-there was this cartoon series in the Guardian a couple of years ago. I wish I can remember who the cartoonist was, but they were brilliant nevertheless. My favourite was a real life mario and luigi running about and being mario and luigi...and one of them dies with his head down a toilet. How he got there was unexplained but the visual of cartoon antics being incompatible with the real world was fantastic-

but there's something so innocent about transferring yourself into someone else's imagination without thinking about anything

going to sleep on impossible beds, waking up to impossible adventures

and running away with the plot line. things won't work the same. no control.

it's like drugs without the death effects. or the scary PSAs in schools and fat teachers telling you that everything is Your Choice, but You have Respons-i-bil-i-ties to Yourself and Everyone around You and taking an ecstasy tablet will probably render you useless or inanimate for the rest of your life.

and in cartoon worlds there are no complications, there's no restrictions. there's nothing to stop Dumbo from flying or Popeye from becoming a hardcore mutha-fucka fucking mothers with his spinachPowered biceps

and everyone's pixels or colour

and nobody

you know

is properly human.

just jumping on turtles and chasing the princess, please.

oh, self publicizing time. I wrote this poem about pinnochio a while back. it seems appropriate:

Honest John throws the apple

core to the floor, hand

reaching for Pinnochio,

run and run.

He’s a man now. The fish

and cat are both dead

and there are never

flowers at Gepetto’s grave.

He ties himself

to bedposts

and wants to be a puppet, again.

HIS HEAD WAS LIKE GIGGLE

2010-06-08T13:17:00.001-07:00

I'm twenty tomorrow. Officially not a teenager any more. I could not be more excited.A few weeks ago or whatever I might have written about being scared about growing old or I might have been excited. I don't remember. All I know now is that I don't want to be a teenager any more. I don't think I've ever wanted to be a teenager. What's the point of teenagers? Now I'm (almost) twenty, I am technically no longer tied to childhood.

I am free.

I was talking to a friend today about how empathetic I am. I am, kind of. I care a lot about animal welfare, women's rights, human rights violations...

anything medical I really don't give a shit about. Honestly. I know that it's awful or whatever, but some part of me doesn't really care about helping find cures for conditions that are killing people.

I suppose I don't understand everyone's fear of death.

-not that I'm drawn to it particularly, I just...it's a part of life in a perverse way. It's not the only part of life that matters. I wouldn't be very happy if I had cancer, AIDS etc. but I'd like to think that it wouldn't stop me from living my life

I don't want to support cures.

my friend is older than me. he said that he has no abstract empathy for anyone other than his friends and family. Which I can understand. Over the years my empathy has been worn down

I cried when Jessie sang that really sad song on Toy Story 2. I used to cry pretty much every night because I felt bad for something or another. Whether it was a woodlouse or The Little Train that Could. I remember crying a lot thinking about when I left and everything

you know, would be different.

I don't want people to be lonely. I...don't like people being lonely. And the thought of my mother pottering around her house without noise

face in the pillow.

but now, I don't cry at anything. Nothing. At all. I have a partially written rant post that I'm going to finish sometime and post and think

CHRIST I SOUND LIKE A CUNT

but I'm worried about growing older and wearing down. And eventually I might not care about not eating meat. In all honesty, I don't feel as strongly as I used to. Apathy's been creeping in, after 11 years.

but I would never eat meat. I could never eat meat.

no no no no no no no

and I hope I'll always care about abuses in the sex industry. because that's all about stinting development, about being forced to grow up and never doing it

and I suppose that's what I've been worried about. Other people not being young. Other people being hurt

and now I'm twenty, it's too late to worry about being a child. I haven't been a child for so many years. I've always had friends who are older than me, I've always been reading ahead and becoming more involved with THE BIGGER PICTURE than any of my peers. Everyone's always said 'you're really mature' and now

now

finally

I might have caught up with my age.

STOP ME OHOHOH STOP ME

2010-06-08T13:04:00.000-07:00

Mark Ronson's a funny man. As in odd funny. I get the impression that he's always snorting glue or on some weird depressant drug. Prozac? Does prozac make you weird, dopey and giggle?

Dopey autistic.

ANYWAY. He likes trumpets and saxophones so he must be an alright guy. I adore his jushing up of Apply Some Pressure.

And he's back. Here's a video:

I LEFT MY HOUSE, LEFT MY CLOTHES

2010-05-30T16:30:00.000-07:00

It happened. I'm out of touch with the youth. I don't want to be around them. They scare me. Hand me my rice pudding to fling over my wall.

I had a peek at the charts today and I realised that I only knew about 5 songs. Dizzee Rascal is number one with (and it hurts me to write this) 'dirtee- kill me now- disco'. And then there's a series of songs by people who look like Usher/Tinchy Stryder, Eminem's somewhere and

shit, I'm old. I'm 20 in ten days and I know everyone who's older than 20 is all 'you think that's old' but 20 is very old. not a teenager any more. and not knowing the Top 40 is a symptom of oldness.

fuck it, I want to be old. I'm kind of becoming this Miss. Trunchball figure.

I had such a marvelous day today before children spoilt it. Me and a friend went on a pedalo through the river in Leamington Spa, milkshakes and singing like complete twats. A boat went past, and a little girl looked confused. Not -how did that happen? or what is that? confused. a confusion that only little girls understand. a what. a big, huge, what. and we pedaloed for 30 minutes, went shopping. then home, for a mini-marathon of nordic movies. The Idiots and Let The Right One In. Both deserve hella long blogs of their own. I promise to do an Idiots one soon, at least

because I need to find my inner idiot

and my housemates were having a BBQ with people who play tennis in the garden. meat, I don't eat meat. so, movies. and pizza, chips. the neighbours were having a decidedly more raucous BBQ, kids playing and they came over to the garden. Piggy in the middle, I just heard these voices and I closed the lounge door

safe

then later. banging on the kitchen windows. screaming names of people in my house, at the front door. My house was surrounded by these children. children with...high pitched voices and footballs and running with match stick legs. ready to break everywhere. i don't want breaking, anywhere. no .no .

and we all took refuge watching Oskar and Eli fall in love. Beautiful, beautiful. Children should be vampires. all.

hit-hit-hit-hit-hit me with lightning.

WONDERFUL LIFE, WONDERFUL LIFE, WONDERFUL LIFE,,

2010-05-29T10:08:00.001-07:00

That's right. That's right. That..s

I'm kind of trembling at the moment. Everything I've got to feel guilty for. I thought I should make a list, a note-whatever-of everything over history that made me feel guilty
so I can remember, and so I can remember. It's all pretty much from my childhood because that's when I knew how to feel guilty. I can't remember everything now, so there will be more posts over time.

So, here's a start. The guilt monologues.

Number one.
I can remember barely anything, actually. Oh. One day, me and my friends were going to the cinema. It was pizza hut, cinema. There was a suggestion that someone should buy a dvd...south park. or a cartoon. or something that none of us, under 12, would be able to buy.

BUT IF WE PUT OUR HOODS UP!!!!

and the cinema film was shit. it was shit. I think it was star trek, I don't remember but it was shit. and I didn't have any money, so I took a ten pound note out of my mother's purse. and I was caught. and I felt guilty. because it was a sin.sin.sin.

I had half a bag of popcorn. I threw it in the bin.

Number two.

School, break time. Dares and no, no dares. Just me in the toilets. I jumped into a cubicle and -I was 10, I think- and hung from the wall, by my fingers. I didn't know that there was someone on the other side. They shouted. I locked the door. And I waited, as there were crowds. and baying and people saying 'who, who, who' and I came out, and I blamed it on someone else. and they took it. and they took it.

Number three.

School, again. On the bus, there was a room at the bottom. Exclusive and small and a little hideaway from the old kids at the back and the too young kids at the front. and we didn't like ED, and we thought

ok ok ok

this is a good idea, pranks and there's ice and we'll play some tricks.

so we unfastened the bolts-something, I don't know bikes. my bike cost me a fiver from a reclaim store- and waited to hear tomorrow when he fell.

he fell. the deputy headmaster gathered us on the bus. and everyone knew it was us. and my stomach was death. and we explained, I explained, liver on my tongue that we didn't know. we didn't know. and we got away with it.

I saw ED the other week in a train station. I didn't say hello.

Three for now. More later.

...let's go out and make some guilt.

LOTS OF STRING, DOOM AND GLASS

2010-05-29T08:31:00.000-07:00

I don't know if I've mentioned this before, but I fucking love Hermann Nitsch. Yeah, I'm a vegetarian and his art's really brutal/involves a lot of slaughtering and shit, but the dialogue that Nitsch creates between destruction and beauty is compelling. So. I just found a sis-part series of videos on Nitsch's work. They're all pretty much silent, so I recommend putting some AWESOMECOOL classical music on in the background. Holycrap, I only just went and made a playlist on spotify. It's of beautifully distorted classical music. Webern, Finnesy and Penderecki mainly. It's hashed together, so put it on shuffle.
PLAYLIST: CLICK HERE. HERE. HERE. HERE. ALL OVER. HERE.
VIDEOS:

Credit to Incubate Tilburg for the footage.

FUEL, CLEAN BURNING. NON TOXIC.

2010-05-27T16:10:00.000-07:00

Eurovision. Is. Here. Like I should scream, one way or another. In all honesty, I try not to care. I put on my varsity jacket, sunglasses. I grab a packet of Davidoffs. I quote the Smiths and complain about everyone wearing too many denim jackets, clear frames and smoking Malboros. Gauche.

And I've never been interested in Eurovision before. I've been far too interested in finding obscure bands on BLOGS, feeling smug when I can't find them on Youtube and posting the songs with a jaunty picture on Youtube.

Except. I would probably go to Vimeo, now.

One year I went on a French exchange. I had to live with this kid called Antoinne for a week. I still feel sad when I think about his mum. She was a potato sack. She was smiles of hope that her very very very (squared) weird son could get friends. He broke his shoulder after he slipped on the ice on the first day. He was in pain, he was grumpy from then on in. He tried to show me porn, this XXX website. And we played video games that I didn't understand. And the cool 13 year olds smoked pot while I waited and waited for Antoinne to finish wanking.

I even cried one night when we went bowling. No-one liked him. No-one. And the walls were paper thin in his house. I didn't shit for a week because I didn't want his family to hear me. They just fed me cheese. Bread and cheese.

One good thing: MARIOKART. It was the first time that I played MARIOKART and I was shit at it but it was fun.

Sidenote. I was so excited on the ferry ride back from Caen. I watched Oceans 13 in the ferry cinema and I was almost sick. Closer (I think...? The one with Julia Roberts and Natalie Portman and Jude Law...I think?) was on in the other room, but it felt like I'd be watching porn and I didn't want to watch porn with ugly girls.

no no no no no

and I won some money on the Who Wants to be a Millionaire? machine. and I shared a cabin with

just say. people.

and, come a couple of months. Antoinne came to my house. During his stay in THE VILLAGE, he managed to develop tourettes. He chased my dog around the house barking and telling the dog off for barking. The dog wasn't barking. We went to the pub and he imitated an air conditioning system, asking 'what was that?' to my family. He took money from my mother and made no effort with any of my friends. He was more than a burden. I was more concentrated on doing my homework that week than I had ever been in my whole entire life. It was a nightmare. He didn't speak any English. He was supposed to be practicing his English and he didn't speak any.

Come the saturday, Eurovision was on. And I dumped Antoinne on my mother. They watched it and I had three hours of peace.

HEAVE.N.

I should scream, one way or another.

THANKYOU AND FUCKYOU EUROVISION. BECAUSE I LOVE YOU, rightnow, tomorrow I'll look at this and think

fuck

basically

because I'll be smoking a vintage pipe in a bolero, singing The Cure and complaining about people smoking Davidoffs, wearing varsity jackets and quoting The Smiths.

but for now, for the record, I want this one to win:

these tear dro-o-ops that drip drop, drip drop

...you smell like lipstick again.

YES.

I like her because she looks like she should be in the Eurasian version of Mean Girls. A complete bitch. I wonder how many people she had to shank to get to the top. She's definitely killed someone.

I want her to be my best friend.

SCRAPBOOKS FULL OF ME IN THE BACKGROUND

2010-05-27T16:06:00.001-07:00

It’s a long way home and I almost forgot that I had a blog. Train blogging. Hello, reader. Sorry for treating you like my neopet that I left to die six or seven years ago. I checked on it’s status the other day. Not dead, just starving.

I didn’t know that virtual pets never died.

There’s a baby doing a weird scratchy groan a few rows of seats ahead of me. GcHuuuuurnh over and over. I can see the father. He has chinese symbols on the back of his neck.

I pass no judgment, but my headphones are in, but I’m listening to Bright Eyes (specifically the Fevers and Mirrors album), but there’s an article near me that I’ll start reading in a second called ‘When’s the best time to have a baby?’

Not now. Not yet.

(well, I dragged your ghost across the country) pulsing in my ears.

I just spent the past few days down in Somerset. It was sunny, I was wearing my factor 50+.

And we argued a hell of a lot. A lot a lot a lot. I’m like a whine sometimes, a balloon slowly deflating. Fart noise with my mouth, but it’s OK in the end and we carry on.

There’s never been a more perfect moment to listen to the Libertines, The HaHa Wall. I thought I might have killed it for me in the ESSAYHAZE. I listened to it + campaign of hate about 500 times. They are anthems of dirge. Still not dirty enough for you.

There’s so much green everywhere. Cows. Stones. And a pile of clothes. Scattered clothes somewhere on the line between cheltenham...specifically, Birmingham. B31. Was it a body? Should I phone the police?

I’ve already seen the police once this past week, housemate went crazy. I was eating cold porridge in the kitchen, there were screams.

And there’s a pile of clothes next to the train line. I think.

I was in Taunton yesterday. My boyfriend was in college and I thought it would be fun to spend my time reading Robert Browning in a skin burn park. You should read Porphyria’s Lover. It’s beautiful. All this

OOOOOOHAH, ....UNDERTAKERS WON’T HAVE ANY TIME FOR YOU. OH! A PROBLEM BECOMES A PROBLEM WHEN YOU LIE TO YOUR FOLKS, WHEN YOU LIE TO YOUR PEOPLE, WHEN YOU LIE TO YOURSELF

the saga. libertines.

yeah. All this.

I WANNA BE I DON'T WANNA THINK ANYMORE

2010-05-17T11:16:00.000-07:00

I like to pronounce 'issues' like isssssues because it amuses me. and we all have isssssssues, but for now let's forget and swallow the sky.

my essay haze is over. I managed to scramble together 18,000 words in a couple of weeks. I managed to not hand anything in late.

fuck-lots of work.

ER. There's a competition if you like making videos and shit. You can win £1,000 from Kopparberg for basically showing them what you already do: http://findkopparberg.com/#section/klash

I don't make videos. I had to make on the other day and I refused to watch myself back on it. The volume had to be down. Completely down. And I assumed that it edited itself and everything was cool.

show my words, not my face. because I hate how everything has to be MULTI-DIMENSIONAL, like I won't get far if I don't make my essays 3D.

besides, the glasses look silly. I want mickey mouse 3D glasses FUCK yes (big smile)

Anyway, win money. OK?

TURNED INTO A BITTER MESS

2010-05-07T05:47:00.000-07:00

There can never be too much politics, but it's all just white noise now. People don't understand. People don't care.

Everyone tries. And we move on. Bin men are still bin men, bankers are still bankers. The birds are still there in the morning and drunk people will always break shit.

CH-CH-CH-CH stutter, because it never happens.

So enough of this election shit. The country's not fucked. Well. It's not any more fucked. There is no doom, just butterflies and rainbows

-and everyone on facebook is all OH NO and upset-

-and twitter will eat itself-

-and I just want a peanut butter and strawberry jam sandwich, please-

I would go now, but the shops are going to be full of election people. Of people complaining and wringing their hands. Like whenever anything happens. The hands are wrung.

remind me what we're mourning.

because all I see is the same dusk settling and the same cats either fucking or fighting outside my window.

(I thought that one of them was dead yesterday, I just head a huge screechfight, silence and saw a dead cat. But it was fine. And the evil white cat left it in peace)

SO. Music. Listen to music. Today is definitely an Au Revoir Simone day. The sun is peaking and I'm missing my boyfriend.

YOU SAY Y-E-S TO EVERYTHING

2010-05-06T13:55:00.000-07:00

Today was THE-BIG-DAY for UK politics. THE-BIG-DAY that we'd all been waiting for ever since Gordon Brown stole the crown from Tony Blair's bloody, maimed head.

because we all need to be democratic, at some point. because we need to make a decision at some point. because we need to choose who will choose everything for us at one stage or another.

we get a pat on the head from THEGOVERNMENT for being such good subjects. at the moment it looks like we're fucked, no matter what.

Up until 8pm yesterday, I was planning to vote for Labour. Not because I support Labour, not because I like Gordon Brown, not because I care what dress Sarah Brown is wearing, not because I care about many of their policies- heck- not that I know about many of their policies. They mean nothing.

because I hate David Cameron. Like every journal wielding government funded student at university who pretends to know everything, I hate David Cameron. He's the political equivalent of a false virgin; he pretends to be fresh/ to have saved himself just for you and that this moment right NOWNOW is the moment of not only his lifetime but yours and well and, fuck, together you can rule the world... but you know that he's about as loose as the guy in one man one stump. You know that he's prostituted himself more than the dirtiest crack whore on the corner. Everything...from the magazine he sent me through the post of him cradling a baby to his inability to state any policies instead relying on tired, largely meaningless buzzwords

CHANGE! BIG SOCIETY! VOTEVOTEVOTE IF YOU WANT CHAAAAAANGE!!!!!!!1!!!

makes me want to gouge out my eyes and feed them to Nick Griffin's brood of staffordshire bull terriers.

And then there's George Osborne. I hate him more than hate itself. He's a smarmy little shite, just rubbing his hands and smirking. That's all he ever does.

And the Conservatives have such a piss poor human rights record. They don't like the gays (duh), and it was depressing to see the Torys actually run a largely anti-gay campaign whilst still saying that they were going to CHANGE EVERYTHING. The conservative campaign against the gay labour MP in Exeter was driven against his homosexuality and little else. There's Phillipa Stroud who tried to 'cure' the gays. There's all the gay b+b related scandals. And then there's David Cameron in the 11th hour shaking hands with Peter Tatchell because the Conservatives HAVE CHAAAAAAANGED! ...he probably washed his hands afterwards. It was a guilt-handshake. He can blame it on the election. He never has to think about it again. Don't worry, bigots, Davey MC hasn't left your ranks quite yet.

So by all accounts, I should have voted labour...but I resent the fact that I'm being forced into making a tactical vote. The Lib-Dems didn't stand a cat in hell's chance in Leamington Spa, and I know that people are going to say 'they don't stand a chance if you don't vote for them', but my vote would have been so wasted that I might as well have just not bothered turning up.

I hadn't even considered not voting for Labour, but when it came down to the actual vote itself

disenfranchised

doesn't

...

it doesn't describe it.

my vote was the equivalent of 0.3 votes, nationally. It was meaningless. A vote for Labour would have been a submission to whatever form of government this is.

So. I did what any slightly unstable, obtuse person in my position would do.

I spoilt my ballot.

and I hoped for a hung parliament. then it will become clear that the government will always be the government, no matter what name we put behind it. no matter what head on a stick they praise for a while then rip to shreds. we con ourselves that we need change, that we need to develop.

I want to see what will happen if it all just goes.

If chaos is allowed.

blood won't run through the streets

And we become human, again.

IS A MOMENT I TREASURE

2010-05-05T09:27:00.000-07:00

I want to get a projector, stand in its light and play this video on my skin. Magic.

ALL YOU PRETTY THINGS LOOKING FOR SOMEBODY

2010-05-03T08:19:00.000-07:00

Innocent Smoothies are a lie.

I feel cheated.

Conned.

Molested.

Their newest smoothie, 'Buy one get one Bee' has the same guarantee that it is comprised of 100% whole crushed fruit and juice that you find on all of its smoothies

but it has honey in it.

what.the.actual.fuck.

what.in.the.cunting.fuck.

side note: it's actually very tasty, and I'm probably going to buy another carton later on. It's like slurm. Good slurm, not the stuff that you can buy from Cyber Candy. Slurm from the asses of mutant bees.

LUSH.

HOLLYWOOD INFECTED, I SEE YOU

2010-05-03T07:40:00.000-07:00

There was an old woman with one of those four-pronged stick things on campus today. Perhaps that's when I should be a student.

when I'm old, not a woman. If I had to be an old woman, I would make sure that I was Japanese. Because old Japanese women are the best sort of old people ever.

I just have so much love and respect for them. I have no idea why. It's completely irrational. I don't feel the same way for any other 'group' of people. It's probably a little bit racist, but in a nice way.

I just like Japanese old women and, fuck it why not?, men more than I like most other people.

I get that feeling...the one where it feels like your abdomen is being tickled by fairies. The same feeling I got when the Australian gap teacher was teaching me History when I was 9. The same feeling I get around someone with a beautiful Irish accent. The same feeling I get when I see someone lick their thumb to turn the page in the newspaper. When I see someone doing something that they don't need to do, that I could help them with. mechanic people being routine. to see something futile but endearing.

not that old Japanese women are futile. they just share that emotion.

but I'm stuck with being white, I'm stuck with being male, I'm stuck with being english, I'm stuck with being skinny and gangly.

for now.

I'M HOLDING ALL THE TICKETS AND YOU'LL BE HOLDING ALL THE FINES

2010-05-03T05:32:00.000-07:00

It's a Bon Iver kind of day. My favourite playlist on my iTunes is my 25 most played. Bon Iver occupies two positions on this hollowed chart; at number 19 with Skinny Love and at number 11 with For Emma

I feel like...Simon Mayo? Did Simon Mayo do the charts for years and years before he was shifted off to Radio 2/6? Mysteries. Anyway. I feel like whoever the chart show man used to be back when the charts were cool

back when there were cool kids.

It's a Bon Iver kind of day. I was playing my TOP 25 with a view to singing all of the songs in autotune. I have a Glee app for my iPhone and it has an autotune thing. it is pretty much the coolest thing ever.

but I couldn't bring myself to fuck up Skinny Love. I went to see Bon Iver on the Park Stage at Glastonbury last year with my now boyfriend. There was this big ribbon tower that looked like it was going to collapse all of the time, and we decided to watch Bon Iver after watching M.Ward from the top of the tower.

I remember, a couple of days before then. I was sat on a hill trying to write the best story ever. It was just about lots of abortions. I thought it would win me the game of life.

it was cold and we were huddled on the ground and I just remember all of these chinese lanterns in the sky, orange sky, and couples everywhere swaying and looking happy

and i just wanted to grab them and say- this is a break up album, this is about how love destroys

because they were too too happy

but it was so beautiful. to see people in love dancing to gutted songs. it was beautiful.

no-one makes you feel more lonely than Justin Vernon. nothing more than Skinny Love. But I'm lucky, now.

YOU'RE A CANDY QUEEN, AND LET.ME.SHOW.MY.DAR.LING. WHAT THAT MEANS

2010-05-02T06:15:00.000-07:00

Magic FM is funny. The Bangles are singing about ETERNAL FLAMES, GIVE ME YOUR HAND, but I can't feel any hearts beating. The Bangles, not the Buggles. Because video killed the radio star, then the radio star became a zombie and ate everyone's brains

fuck you, internet.

Sorry. I'll make sense now. I'm trying to do student finance forms again, OH SHIT YES, The Carpenters is on the radio.

Magic FM is amazing. The Carpenters and Simon and Garfunkel are about the only two acts my parents played when I was still smearing shit on the walls that I can bear to listen to now. Whenever I hear The Carpenters I see orange

shityes, Magic gets it right again. Seal. Fucking Seal.

Whenever I hear the Carpenters I see orange, a picture of Karen Carpenter smiling and I don't see the bones

when someone told me that she died from anorexia, I really couldn't understand how someone just-

-you know, someone so beautiful with songs and a voice and a smile, no bones

when I was sat on the floor eating babybels in a kit-kat sandwich. mr. kipling mini victoria sponges. a whole packet of petit filous. probably some salt and vinegar McCain crisps.

just couldn't

so here's a Carpenter's song:

FOR LAUREN

2010-05-01T09:13:00.000-07:00

oh, Little Edie,

I can make you famous.

oh,oh,oh,

I can make you a star.

jazz hands.

. that is all.

LEAVE YOUR GUN AT HOME, BILL

2010-05-01T07:21:00.001-07:00

I want to be a 1930s man in a sharp suit, running up to girls with Jazz Hands with the promise that I CAN MAKE YOU FAMOUS.

I need to watch Chicago again. And learn how to become a better Billy Flynn.

fuck, it would be cool if everything was a musical. Once I was singing that 'so long, farewell, auf weidersen, goodbye' song from The Sound of Music down the main corridor of my old school. It was deserted, just me and the pictures of people who had done stuff on the walls. And the names of Oxbridge winners and Head Boys and Head Girls, but fuck them because I was skin and not just letters. There was another photo of the headmaster with his children. His mouth was stuck in a permanent muppet smile, like the top half of his head could suddenly just fall back and I could look into his body. And see nothing but crumpled notes about how to make Primark ties look classy. His son was behind him with a snooty, toe stuck up arse look. I know that he'll be fucked, later on.

Anyway, i was singing and the deputy headmaster came out and joined me. And we had a beautiful few seconds of walking down the corridor singing The Sound of Music. Me, the Deputy Headmaster and then his Secretary.

I often dreamed about starting to sing a song in the dining room and then everyone sings along...that's just joy, you know?

So i'm glad I have a moment of musical joy. I just need to be Billy Flynn and try not to break anyone's heart, dreams. And I will make a star out of you, I promise.

HMMM PERHAPS MEN ARE NOT AS EVIL AS FEMPUTER THINKS

2010-05-01T05:46:00.000-07:00

Essay space again. But I'm down in Somerset watching Futurama and looking after cats. Something about being snoo-snoo'd. Work's piling up like shit at a tiny, dirty elephant enclosure. So I'm writing for my creative writing portfolio instead of doing boring (read: largely irrelevant) essays.

I appreciate all/any feedback. So I thought I might as well post these OHSOMEGAIMPORTANT pieces right here. They're all untitled at the moment because i'm cool and shit. So. I'll just number them.

Untitled Number One

Drops of water chase down the window of the train. There’s a child, young boy, black hair, teeth, opposite me. He has one hand on the table and the other in his lap. His mother holds a rucksack, his rucksack, decorated with a smiling cartoon that I don’t recognise.

I follow the rain as it falters, mid window. It shivers as the train moves, but it stays stuck.

The child stares at nothing. His mother is restless. Her eyes are shadows. One hand gets a firmer grip on the rucksack. The other is everywhere. In her hair in one moment. In her handbag, the next, scrabbling for a tissue or a list or whatever mothers need.

There is a conversation about politics on the table next to me between a pin-stripe and a black-suit businessman. ‘I mean, it’s just ridiculous.’ and ‘I totally agree, they’re all wankers.’ etc.

I reach across and ask them for the time.

‘It’s 6pm.’

The woman opposite me checks her watch.

‘More like five past’

and pin-stripe does a half nod smile and ‘er, so yeah. As I was saying’

The child looks at me, straight into my chest. I smile at him. He stares into my chest, and I carry on smiling. He seems to be unaware of all the hedges, trees, sheep, buildings, metal, wood, metal jetting past his head. Smiling and staring, I see everything.

A lonely tree in an empty, green field. Its branches crawl across the dusking sky. Men where there are no men. Tricks of the light. Jumps and hands firmly in pockets. A man standing, bald. In the big windows. Still. and bald. And blue. The room was blue. A house reflection in the shadow. A whole pool of shadow. A leap. I almost-

The child looks at me, straight into my eyes. The mother’s a shadow, blind to the busy seats, the inane chatter and idle connections. As if I shouldn’t look at anything else.

He is browless. His eyes a light brown. I wanted to see a miracle. I just see colour, and a pit of black.

No.

I turn my head towards the window. The rain has all gone. I missed the race. Now there’s just reflections. Reflections and trees and a purple moon, boy in the light with black hair, head shake faster and faster and fall, onto the table, mother with lipstick, through my eyelids a shatter, train slows and doors poft.

Train shudder. Just the sound of the train.

Eyes open, and I’m alone. I walk to the toilet, wash my hands. And I wait for the train to stop.

Untitled Two

Moon haze stains the window. My eyes are too heavy for the cotton sheets. They are nothing, here. They are no-one’s and they are nothing.

Heels arch. Toes curl. Lips like a fist and take it. Take it.

And again, back pressed to the grey duvet. Silence and zips. And breathing through my nose. Silence and turning the light back on. Silence and then door lock.

I’m wearing a nightgown. Ribbon around my waist. I don’t need the money when I’ve got ribbon. Ribbon for the world. And my hair can be ribboned and I can find a tree and I can climb the tree and I can see a field from the branch-

Feet flat on the duvet. Grease hair, white shoulder. Something happens.

I don’t know if that’s the moon or just pollution. I hear there’s too much pollution.

My fingers are fingers, and I touch the glass lightbulb. The searing lightbulb. I touch it with my fingernail and scour nothing. Feet flat on the duvet. Ribbon around my waist. Lips like a claw and I touch it. Touch it.

I door click, I light off, I breathe through my nose. Zips and silence. And I breathe through my nose. And again, back pressed to the grey.

And I want to peel the moon haze and press it to my face. All around my face, so I see nothing but the mist and the impression of a star in the glass of my eye. And I have eyes, and I can swallow, choke, I can choke the dark and. And something happens.

A lightning flash. Or a choke, and die.

Silence and zips. And door click. And grey, again. My eyelids are too thin for the yellow ceiling. They are no-one’s and they are nothing.

Duvet feet. Upright and I caress the glass of the lightbulb. There is a man, down on the street. I know I can see a man. My fingers creep to the metal at the top of the cold glass. And my claw is like a fist. And my fist is like a fist. And my feet are fists. The ceiling is a fist and it punches, and I throw the lightbulb smash, and I dance, fuck it, fuck it, I dance with my fists and I hope for the moon and there is brown, everywhere.

Soaking the blood.

Door click. Silence and zips. It will be morning, soon.

Untitled Three

He had bushy eyebrows. There was an ingrown hair above his lip. He had more hair on his inner thigh than on his shin. His shin was shiny, and smooth, if you touched it right.

There are birds on top of the pylon. Muted by eighties fuck-rock in the bus. Most of everyone is background chatter, playing on phones, matching heads for love, giggling and there might be some commotion, soon. I see the birds on top of the pylon, and then they’re gone.

white line on the road, again, again, again, again.

We could be here forever. The head on my shoulder stops and starts to snore. I like the rhythm, I like the heat. I like the way our hair touches. Perhaps we will get stuck, and we could be here forever.

The English Teachers talk about tax and everyone does anything behind them. Once someone got a blowjob in a school-trip bus. Someone told me. A teacher found them and told them to stop, and nothing came of it.

He had a straggle of hair under both of his knees. There was one long hair above his left nipple. He never touched his armpit hair. His chin was clean, and he never scratched me.

We’re at the ruins of a castle or a monastry or somewhere people lived and prayed. We are with the rocks. A man in a cossack leads us around, speaking words.

There aren’t any clouds in the sky. There’s a ditch covered in brambles behind all of the rocks. I think about running and jumping into the ditch, about having dirty palms, about bleeding and tearing into my polka-dot dress, about drinking the ditch water and swallowing and swallowing until

The monk stops and asks if anyone knows anything about rituals. My bus buddy, awake, raises her hand.

‘Rituals are things that people do over and over again’

and I force my fingers into my palm. I look at the sky. I feel the lace under my left shoe. There is hair over my eyes. I can see all the blue and there’s two planes above me. One flies over the other’s jet-stream. It looks like it’s going back in time.

My tights are sore around my thighs. I try to breathe but my tights are sore

hands clutching the stretch, ripping a hole. a huge hole. and another. they might meet. and cross each other. what then?

He was bald, but hair matted to his chest. My hair lay cold on the pillow. His hair matted to his chest.

It’s all whispers and a Teacher in my face. Girls with pigtails laugh and the boys are on the ground, away from all of the commotion.

‘Speak to me,’ the teacher. ‘What’s wrong?’

the brambles look thick. I curl my finger. I moan. Through the hole in my tights, I moan. I throw my head back, I open my mouth. I let the sky into my mouth, and I moan. Thinking about his matted hair, his hairy thigh, his stretch stomach,

‘Christ. Everyone’ but they’re being hurried by the monk, to some more rocks,

‘Stop it.

You have to stop it’

his grey eyes, his frown and the way he hummed along to Bach and taught me how to play Liszt on the piano

‘Christ almighty. Stop it.’

and the way he made me love, I didn’t want love, but he gave it anyway, and the way his teeth grinded when he stopped

a Teacher grabs my waist and I am on the ground. I am under a jacket, and on the ground.

laughing and laughing and laughing

at how the sky is so full and

He was getting the post. I ran. And I ran.

I'M NOT FADING, I'M NOT FADING.

2010-04-29T04:33:00.000-07:00

I brought a tea cup from a trashy second hand cheap shop a few months ago. Water tastes so good with bone china. Tea is for old people, and I'm all for not becoming old until I'm 70, then I can throw rice pudding at children

be the scary old man in the broken down old house.

There was a witch in my village. She had the most amazing huge old house, rust on the metal grill that surrounded her perfect garden. There were never any lights on, there was never anything behind the windows. Just grey. Everything was always just grey. And the door. Her door had a spider-web window hat. I went there once to collect money for animals (animals don't waste money. they chew it up, they shit it out. animals don't waste money) and I saw antlers and a flickering light through the spiderweb. And a dog, barking closer and closer.

I ran. And I thought I saw the devil through that window. For a brief second. And I was so afraid.

I haven't been scared in a shitlong time. I haven't wanted to go out and collect money for animals in a shitlonger time. I'm growing old.

I fucking hate it.

Perspective isn't anything. Perspective is becoming numb. Perspective is forgetting about witches and feeling safe.

I walk through the 'rough parts' of town and I try to feel intimidated. And nothing ever happens. I don't think I'm lucky. I can do anything. I can go anywhere. I am so fucking free.

but I can't be afraid, any more.

so I drink water and ribena in my tea cup. I squirt strawberry sauce in my porridge. I am always the last to bed and I try to sneak watch the free porn channels when no-one's in the room.

so I've got a choice. basically. and I'm trying to choose. I have a chance to fuck my education and run away. and be a child again. and not know that the future's going to be great and i'm going to be rich with space and silver photo frames and fuck it, a garden, and die with the static. and be afraid.

I just want to be afraid.

MY TRUNK HAD ALREADY BEEN MOVED IN, AS WELL AS MY HARMONIUM

2010-04-28T10:24:00.000-07:00

Hi. I write articles for my Uni Newspaper. People should read them. Here is my latest. It's about sex and stuff.

There are only a few things that are certain in the modern world. Kerry Katona will get fat again, cry about being a coke addict, snort the ashes of one hundred thou sand crushed Atomic Kitten CDs and die, leaving nothing in her wake but a five page epitaph in the Daily Star.

We will always care more about Kerry Katona eating sushi than we will about Cleggmania, Sam Cam and that rabid Scottish bull dog, no matter how hard Rupert Murdoch tries. McDonalds will make you fat. Burger King will make you fat. Nick Clegg will make you fat. The Andrex Puppies will make you fat. Gok Wan will tell you that you’re fat but you’re fabulous, or something, and make you expose your stretch marks in front of your grandma and The Nation. Everything on TV is for and by The Nation, an anonymous group of twats who spend their Sunday afternoons masturbating to Racing on Channel 4 and deciding that Joe McElderry is now the voice of The Nation be cause he’s cute. Or something.

More than this, we all know that sex sells, apparently. Whenever anything vaguely sexual comes on TV, there will al ways be some pillock near by who wants to justify the sudden awkwardness in the room with an oh-so witty anecdote about the economy of sex on TV. Say ‘sex sells’ enough times and it be comes about as monotonous a drone as the white noise that will forever leech onto my null and void collec tion of analogue TVs. Except the white noise isn’t quite as self-righteous as the lager wielding, Times-reading sofa commentator.

I’m not exactly the most clued-up person on the economics of television, and I am sure that TV programs with lots and lots of fucking in them make lots and lots of advertising revenue for lots and lots of television executives. And good for them, truly! But does every single TV pro gram need to be reduced to a base, sexual level?

I’m not saying that Newsnight has become a late night haven for Paxman fetishists waiting for the closing five minutes in which he strips down to his off-white Y Fronts and performs a disturbingly erotic dance, but there is definitely a misplaced emphasis on sexual attraction and seduction across the entire sorry spectrum of TV shows.

There are, of course, overtly sexual TV shows. There have been for a long time. Sex and the City ploughs on with its second movie coming soon, and I’m sure that scenes of menopausal women hav ing their way with bare ly post-pubescent boy toys will be titillating enough, but in com par i son to the bawdy romps of the TV show, the new Sex and The City will always pale in comparison. Sex and The City is reflective of how stan dards of sex on TV have gradually disintegrated from people fucking to make a point to peo ple fuck ing be cause there needs to be a sex scene in every single post-watershed program. The once perky labia of your TV set is drooping lower than a fat man sleeping in a loosely strung hammock.

Every taboo has already been broken. Queer as Folk introduced rimming to middle England at the start of the millennium. Joan Collins’ character in Footballers’ Wives had sex with her adopted Brazilian football megastar son. Channel 5 ran a documentary about a man who has sex with his car. Rebecca Loos masturbated a pig on The Farm. Kinga made sweet sweet love with a wine bottle on Big Brother. Every single combination of midgets, obese prostitutes, eighty-year-old male strippers and inanimate objects have all cheated on each other on some godforsaken daytime chat show.

Sex can be innovative and in spir ing in the right context. The rimming worked on Queer as Folk not be cause it was shocking but because it made gay sex beautiful. Footballers’ Wives worked be cause it was campy and kitsch and the weird sex scenes were so extreme that they be came cartoonish. Rebecca Loos’ indulgence in bestiality was just shocking, crude and in appropriate.

And then there’s TV’s obsession with sexualising the seemingly innocuous. Children’s TV pre sen ters seem to know the score, and it’s almost a rite of passage for every female ex-Blue Peter presenter to appear in the glossy pages of FHM.

Perhaps Bob the Builder will turn into Bob the Rent Boy soon enough to in crease ratings. Dora the Explorer has already been given a more revealing outfit. Heck, in a desperate move, the final series of Big Brother could bring back Moira Stewart to per form lap dances.

Sex on TV is ridiculous and worthless. Expect to see David Cameron awkwardly writhing in dirty underwear in a desperate attempt at quelling Clegg-mania in Thursday‘s debate.

NORTH AMERICAN SCUM

2010-04-27T03:44:00.000-07:00

Obvious title. Fuck my ear because I don't care. I saw LCD Soundsystem last night and I was planning to do a whole instant review thing but I went to sleep instead.

Instant(ish) review:

It was good. Sound of Silver material was great. The new stuff, not so much. The London Evening Standard gave it 5*s but I would give it 3. It was good enough, but my feet got tired.

I was more interested in the oddities in the crowd. There was a boy with blond bowl cut hair dancing like a 1970s Hawaiian seductress all night. Dangerously close to people, and no-one else seemed to notice. He looked like the son from the mother-son murder team in Psychoville.

And the Drug Geeks, there were a few. The people who act like they're proper druggies because they took mephadrone once but if you showed them an E they'd probably think it's a nurofen. And run. One of those, right next to me. Hook nose, weird 1.5 chin thing. And lips that aren't used to kissing. They looked like they belong to a flute, a rusty flute, somewhere. And stooping to sing along to every word, because singing every word to a cool band is cool and the cool band will think you're cool. He sniffed someone's shoulder, and laughed.

And this rugged cowboy Davidoff Perfume model type who was always staring at me whenever I turned around.

And angry Asian woman, well, not angry. Just blank face, not moving. And she might have been dragged out on a date by the man attached to her bum.

And boring people who wear costumes to make them less boring. They failed, clearly.

Anyway. James Murray says that they're going to stop making music soon because he's too old. Or something. He's 40ish but he already looks like a bloated Morrissey. Perhaps he's right. I just wish I'd seen them a couple of years ago, before they had all of this new shit.

GATE CLINK

2010-04-21T11:25:00.000-07:00

The last time I drank vodka I was passed out in the toilet of a men's toilet in a gay club for about 3 hours.

I'm not a pussy.

I drank a whole bottle.

And it was vodkat.

Keep it clean, kids. ALSO watch this because Simian Mobile Disco are cool and shit:

ADDERALL IS AN AMPHETAMINE THAT CONTROLS ADHD

2010-04-19T02:25:00.000-07:00

I stole again. The new Crystal Castles album. It is the best thing ever.

ever lasts from the moment my eyes open to the moment they blink, and ever again. and ever.

in normal people speak. it's the best thing ever, now.

it will change tomorrow/in the next few hours when I go to the cookie shop.

SHIT. Or I could listen to Crystal Castles, Crystal Castles at the cookie shop and the world might actually implode.

or something. or I might just get another cookie.

sidenote: those ear plug things should be banned forever and ever. actual ever. the ones that make a huge hole suddenly appear in the ear lobe. they make me feel sick.

but yes. I'm not going to link to it because every single link seems to die after about ten minutes. Google and you'll find it.

and buy it anyway. because jesus told you to.

OOH, AND I SUDDENLY SEE YOU. OOH, DID I TELL YOU I NEED YOU.

2010-04-17T05:21:00.000-07:00

I made a mistake. I flicked through the Daily Telegraph. I knew that it was awful, but I didn't appreciate quite how homophobic/anti-feminist/proProPROFUCKINGPROConservative it was.

There were a few letters about how homosexuals were denigrating the moral fiber of Christian Britain. That it's the moral right of not only B+B owners but also doctors, registrars and anyone who comes into contact with people in any sort of public capacity to not have to associate themselves with homosexuals. Apparently, their belief that a man's willy should not be in another man's anus is sacred and we should protect their bigotry at ALL COSTS, GODDAMN IT.

First of all, I refute that we live in a Christian Britain. The lonely voices in The Daily Telegraph seem to be trying as hard as they can to stave of secularism. As bad as it is, it is commonplace for people to be stabbed/shot/raped every day. It's not even news worthy. It kind of bores your average reader of The Sun. People even say that young women should expect to get raped if they go out dressed to dance. People need more exciting deaths to sate their appetite, hence all of the recent mephedrone deaths being lapped up (btw, I don't know one person who has ever called it miaow miaow. Just saying.) like they're going to go out of fashion.

because they're going to go out of fashion, and people will find another moral-disaster-that's-wrecking-Britain to masturbate over.

and that's just the way things are.

Rape is literally a joke. I hear people joke about rape a few times a day. Fuck, I almost got raped and I laughed about it. Is that bad? The thing is...I don't give a shit about myself. I don't know whether I'm speaking on behalf of THE YOUTH (i'm not), but I am desensitized to atrocity. I can look at what happened in Haiti and go 'that's awful' without feeling anything at all. It's too...normal.

Disaster isn't special enough, any more.

And rape is the most awful thing, but as a Society (Big S) we're really quite laxidasical about it. We tut, shake our heads and turn the page. If it's even in a newspaper. It has to be some sort of special rape to merit the attention and momentary pity of the newspaper editor.

And I'm not afraid to say that I'm a feminist.

but if I start talking about how awfully women are still being treated and regarded, I see eyes glaze and thoughts about eating ice-cream, painting nails, fucking fucking fucking. It's all been said before, it's all been heard before. It's a history lesson. It's condolence for the crazy who thinks that things need to change.

for the better. not change as in build new houses. or redesign google. not change for the sake of change because we're all capitalists, suck on that hippy bitches change.

but gays. people always like to freak out about gays. According to The Daily Telegraph readers, religious rights should supercede basic human liberties. I have little against religion. I think that it can be alright. I've just never been religious. And I hate people who are religious just because it validates everything that they believe to be true and correct. It blights free thought and restricts the independent thinking of an ardent believer. I hate people who pick out passages from the Bible like it gives their bigotry authority.

I know the Bible, and I'm quite happy to quote it back to them. It doesn't mean a thing.

because, fuck it. Jesus said that Love is the most important thing. One reader wrote in saying that the argument with homosexual rights and the Church has direct parallels with the Church's moral qualms with abortion. Yes, they are both moral issues for the believer, but the analogy is crass. Homosexuals are sentient, intelligent people, not foetuses.

We are not this huge group.

We are not a community.

We are people who like to fuck other people.

We are people who like to fall in love, sometimes.

We are people who are not defined by who we fuck but who we are. What my cock does is irrelevant to my identity. It's ignorant to assume that it does. Most of the time, I am a sexless creature.

We are not we. We are not we.

I am an orchid. Smell me. I am an orchid.

Illiterate rant almost over, I refer you to the personals in the Daily Telegraph. Listed under Men looking for Men are 5 ads, 2 from boys looking for sugar daddies, 2 from old men looking for old men and one from a woman promising to give them everlasting happiness and joy from rescuing them from the burden of being gay.

There have been no aeroplanes today, as well.

We are all stuck here.

And we can't get out.

I'm not mourning the lack of sensibility.

The Eighteenth Century finished a long time ago. And people will keep trying to kill other people. And people won't care. And a dog with eyebrows and a cat playing the piano are more exciting than Burma. Everyone knows. Everyone knows.

Death shuffle. Death shuffle. We might as well start enjoying the death shuffle.

APHILAAA, COMES WITH A HOUSE. ON THE GRASS, KEEPING US AWAKE

2010-04-17T05:17:00.000-07:00

Hi. This sounds good.

Listen to it.

Maybe dance.

You know how.

WE NEED TO GET THE BLOOD BACK IN THEM

2010-04-17T04:11:00.001-07:00

Dreams can only be weird. They're weird if that face from Power Rangers was whispering Keats into your ear in a German accent, a soothing German accent whilst treating you to a meal of white chocolate spaghetti with marshmallow sauce.

I want some white chocolate spaghetti with marshmallow sauce.

That is the best idea ever.

They're weird if you're just looking at yourself reading a newspaper. Sometimes I dream that I'm just staring at the walls all night. Just looking at the ceiling, thinking about nothing

and it's beautiful

because I never think about nothing

I've been worrying far too much recently. I've been morphing into a fortyfive year old mother of four, eating porridge with water and treating myself to a glass of Jacob's Creek at the end of another stressful day. Feeling the death shuffle. Starting to feel the death shuffle.

I haven't actually been eating porridge with water/ Jacob's Creek. Nah mate, it's still Ben and Jerrys for breakfast and Jacques/Kopparberg/Cocktails for lunch, but mind-melt minded, my brain is identifying as the fortyfive year old matron.

lush.

so last night I dreamed something again

and it was beautiful.

because I rarely dream about something.

it was all in kaleidoscope, it was a party. it was me, alan ginsberg and felicia hemans shooting up in the toilets of a blow-job toilet gay club. not london, never london. dancing to 1940s drum and bass, and we dove deep into the sewers and made fuck times. but we all hated each other.

like dreams mean shit, anyway. I still woke up and ate my peanut butter, like every other day. Smelling the same.

in my old dreams, i would be scared. and i'm never scared now. i haven't had a nightmare in over a decade. more. and fall. i would always fall.

(we have four jars of peanut butter in our cupboard, just in case)

and i decide that I'm just about ready to leave the village, the pleasant sunsets, the cow torn grass and death shuffle

and i decide that it's time (again) to be young and to be that old man breakdancing in a seaside high street not because he wants your cash but because he can fucking break his neck if he wants to, bitch, now shut up and clap. or not. you choose.

and i decide that it's time to fall, again.

WE REALLY NEED TO GET IT ON WITH OTHER RED HAIRED PEOPLE AND START HAVING KIDS AND STUFF

2010-04-16T04:57:00.001-07:00

The METRO told me that Easter's over and now I'm fucked.

So, of course I want music. and I always want music, but I convince myself that raping music blogs for music is a worthwhile activity and not just something losers do because they don't want to do anything that's actually worthwhile.

besides, i've been raping for a while now. and I've already blogged some of the aborted songs.

have some more, ok?

The first couple I had to upload to Youtube myself. The pictures mashed up so I can vaguely call them artwork is by me. Effort and a half. The bands should hire me or something. Or pay me.

Or something.

Breton-The Well

Freelance Whales- Generator First Floor (Aislyn Remix)

Kleptones- Cibikini

Baths- Maximalist

Emvee ft. Bonjay- Glitch Feisty Rub

Crystal Castles- Doe Deer

Fuck without condoms today. Please.

SO WHEN I THINK ABOUT LEAVING THE HOUSE I PANIC

2010-04-15T04:18:00.001-07:00

Say what you want about Stalin/Hitler, they had some serious style. None of this raggedy hipster/hip-hop show daddy crap would have been allowed in the sexy Soviet Union or the Nazi part-ay.

YES YES they were undeniably evil.

YES YES they were shit people.

etc.

but regardless of this, their societies still had culture. And in a not-exactly liberal society, the formation of culture is fascinating. You probably should have studied a lot of the fundamental shit in school, but if you haven't, Google Stalin's Cult of Personality and Hitler's draw towards English legend as a foundation of the Nazi identity.

I ain't your history teacher.

OK. Vice have posted a couple of interesting posts recently which have made me want to look more into the art/fashion/music/cinema/literature produced under/inspired by extreme censorship.

CLICK HERE for a short piece about 'fasion's forgotten fascists'.

And watch this guide to Russian Parallel Cinema:

Also. Read The Master and The Margherita. Thanks.

NOW I KNOW YOU'RE MINE. NOW I KNOW YOU'RE MINE, STEP

2010-04-15T03:54:00.000-07:00

The pair of RayBans I stole the other day have given me an eye infection. Apparently that's karma or something, but I think that a small eye infection is price enough for a lush pair of sunglasses.

Karma's a load of shit.

I never really do anything good and loads of good stuff always happens to me. I've lost my bus pass twice and on both occasions it has been returned to me. The first time was by a stranger who phoned me, sounding gruff and scary. Without telling me that he had my bus pass, I just got told to meet him by Kelsey's as soon as possible.

It was exciting. I ran.

I didn't even know that I had lost it. Apparently he found it on the pavement, asked the nearest person who I was and they gave him my number. It pays to be popular, apparently.

It was exciting. I ran.

The second time, a stranger found it, showed it to a friend and then the friend gave it to me. It pays to be popular, apparently. Oh, also my passport. Dropped it in London...near Shepherd's Bush I think and a stranger phoned my mother to tell her where it was. How he knew my mother I'll never know.

Nope. I'll never know.

I'm always finding notes on the floor as well. Money notes, not love notes.

And people buy me stuff.

Or I get stuff for free.

Or money off.

like. The other week I gave a Big Issue man 50p extra and in an unrelated incident on the same day the bar-keep gave me 50p off my drink.

but

Karma's a load of shit.

And I'm just lucky, ok?

WHAT'S THE MATTER SWEETHEART? SQUEAKY STRETCHER

2010-04-14T15:47:00.000-07:00

I entered a competition. With this. Do you think I'll win?

I'M GROSS, DIRTY, DISGUSTING RIGHT NOW AND I DON'T EVEN CARE

2010-04-14T02:27:00.000-07:00

Who is Justin Bieber? Yes, he's a young singing sensation. Yes, he looks like more of a lesbian than every single lesbian that I know. Yes, young girls want him even though they don't technically know what they want yet. They're the same young girls who would do anything for Robert Pattinson. Is that cute? That whole legions of pre-pre-pubescent girls declare their LOVE for whoever it is decided they should LOVE? Pedobear says yes. I say no.

The parents who won't let their children eat anything that isn't organic, who ban them from playing in the street because there must be hundreds of kidnappers everywhere, who wouldn't let their kids build a den unless it was furnished by Laura Ashley...they're the same parents who would happily let their children share a bed with Michael Jackson because it's Michael Jackson! or queue in the rain for days to get a glimpse of Justin Bieber and possibly talk with him possibly kiss possibly sex possibly someone famous in the family!!!!!1!!!1!!!

besides which, Bieber just looks like an unformed foetus.

And he always talks about dating girls and stuff, but he probably prefers to play with his action men. Or Barbies.

I used to have a Barbie. I got told to give it away. I've never forgiven my parents for that. Never forget.

OH, also my favourite monkey toy. It was called Monkey and they distracted me with a new monkey toy, I dropped Monkey and they threw it away. Yes, it was old and manky, but my little brother still has his childhood toy which has been fixed and washed and restuffed and everything. My older brother still has his. This shouldn't affect me, but it does. Now I'm left with Little Monkey.

I hate Little Monkey.

And I mourn Monkey.

Anyway. I don't know who Justin Bieber is. I don't want to hear him sing. I want him to go away, please. Thanks.

I'M GOING TO BE A FIREFIGHTER, BUT YOU'RE ALWAYS GOING TO BE A BITTER CUNT

2010-04-13T14:34:00.000-07:00

Even though I've never enjoyed watching Shameless, I'm watching it now.

Conclusion.

It's shit.

I've seen a few episodes of this series and I remain unconvinced. All I keep hearing is that it used to be great.

And Four Weddings, which was never great. It was funny, once. And I enjoy it because I enjoy watching shit.

I don't enjoy watching excrement.

I just enjoy watching people without class indulging in not having any class. And who doesn't? It's like Jersey Shore. If you've never seen Jersey Shore, watch it. It's about people like those in the video at the top of the post.

and it's hee-hee-heeeeelarious. To a Babyshambles lyric then (because TV is to culture what the Babyshambles are to The Libertines: an illiterate, deformed incest baby), 'why would you pay to see anyone in a cage?' Which is basically a side-route for me to say what everyone already knows. That TV is a cage. It's a Zoo for lazy people. It's a Zoo for people who are too lazy to get off their arses to laugh at the legions of classless bitter cunts pushing their illiterate, deformed incest babies around any given town in any given country.

It's Ok though, because I like being a lazy, bitter cunt. And who doesn't?

Also good, and on my Wow-I-like-this(but I'm doing a serious degree [but fuck them, who says I can't] so I shouldn't)-radar is High Society. It's basically a parody that's not a parody of the New York 'upper classes', a definition that doesn't ring true with my definition of the 'upper class'. Hence the picture of The Earl of Rochester, with another pointed reference to the Libertines. Because I like the Libertines, and I should be listening to them and not watching Shameless.

ANYWAY. Watch High Society because it's good and it's actually hilarious.

It's like a load of Ja'amie Kings from Summer Heights High parading around in ball gowns and throwing drinks and causing drama and feeling their pulses deaden because LIFE.IS.SHIT. for the privileged. Of course. And they go to a different charity event every night.

Tonight's for cancer. Tonight's for AIDS.

Fuck it. Let's all have an AIDS party and be happy about it.

OK?

Here's the first episode of High Society.

I LOVE NEW YORK.

Now. Read a book.

OW, JAMIE

2010-04-13T12:03:00.000-07:00

said the chav girl to some boy, somewhere. with the somewhere being directly outside my window.

I'm hiding in my duvet. My curtains are closed. The voices are in the distance but my heart is running out of the door.

They don't pose a threat, at all. Really, they're probably incredibly harmless.
the voices have gone.

I'm not used to there being youths in my village. I'm not used to there being anyone other than old white people. I went on a walk the other week and I jumped with joy when I saw a black man. I almost felt like welcoming him and congratulating him on becoming the first black man to visit/Dear God possibly even live in my village, but I didn't want to scare him away so
smileSMILE-not forgetting the teeth- and 'Good Afternoon!' jolly jolly.

Context. My area has been under the jurisdiction of the same Tory MP for the last 27 years. It's like New Labour never happened. It's like the internet never happened. It's like capitalism is just a buzzword. We have a pub that's empty by 22.00. If you're still there at 21.30 you're going to be judged for living a life of hedonism. You will be accused of sodomising the fairy trees and scaring away the butterflies.

Context. A crazy lady (context: the man who impregnated my mother fucked her on my sofa) told me that if you see a ribbon on a tree, the fairies will visit that tree. My village is also WORLD FAMOUS amongst people who really love butterflies. re. no-one.

There's a walk in my village that crosses a railway line. Sometimes I stand on the line and wonder if tragedy will rape the village with shit-angst modernity.

but the trains only come once every couple of hours, anyway

and I've got to watch TV and shit.

and I refuse to sacrifice myself for the sake of a village with only one (potential) black resident. and a post office.

FEELS LIKE I'M GOING INSANE, YEAH

2010-04-13T11:35:00.000-07:00

let's get acid

and just

dance.

give
me
the
drgus.

thanks.

ALLIGATORS HOLDING TRAYS AND ALL THIS DEAD STUFF

2010-04-13T10:07:00.000-07:00

I won some sunglasses yesterday. They were lying on a table in a pub, unclaimed. I took them. They are my prize.

A pair of slightly used rayban wayfarers. Tortoise-shell.

RE. THE EXACT PAIR I WANTED LAST YEAR and now i have them without spending £120.

RE. AWESOME.

OK. Call me a thief. It turns me on. I'm finally beginning to write again, as from now. I have yet to exercise.

And I keep going crazy. Phases of crazy. I ate a huge ice cream yesterday topped with mr. whippy. white chocolate/honeycomb/raspberry pavlova. I needed it. Just prior to huge ice-cream engulfment I decided to make a point by ripping up a ten pound note.

I did it and I felt nothing.

I didn't want to do it again, but I didn't not want to do it again.

And I scowled at my boyfriend, and I hated the world.

And I hated everyone, and I kept stopping and I wanted to run back to the station and get a train to wherever my 70...no, 60, now, pounds would take me.

fuck, edinburgh.

it always seems so far away.

no, middlesborough. or somewhere in rutland. no-one knows where rutland is. It's like wonderland.

next time I won't fight it. and I will go to wonderland.

I looked on Googlemaps and Oakham is in wonderland, and Oakham has a station. It probably has a place where I can set up shop as a well to do woman wondering the countryside because mr. rochester locked his wife in his attic.

or, I'm not Jane Eyre and there won't be a religious man available to give me shelter and fall in love with me.

Jane Eyre must have been crazy because, you know, she had breasts.

I'd just be a traveller. A mysterious traveller with dull eyes.

YES a single to Oakham from Bristol is £36.95 if I leave right now. So my dreams...my dreams...

I don't know if I'm getting side-tracked or not.

There's this competition I think I'm going to enter to win a trip to North Korea which is intensely exciting. Watch these videos. Thanks.

It's a three part documentary that's not at all objective but is really interesting and a little bit funny. WATCH THESE VIDEOS. THANKS.

WE MADE OUR OWN COMPUTER OUT OF MACARONI PIECES

2010-04-07T04:34:00.000-07:00

I never look into mirrors. For this reason.

i'm going to start exercising again.

after years of doing nothing, I saw cellulite on my bum

and vanity aside, (vanity is always aside)

I don't want to slip and become one of those people who I always judge for letting themselves go whilst eating a muffin/strawberries and cream frapuccino from Starbucks. Venti.

They're probably drinking a skinny latté.

I hate people who drink skinny lattés.

They always emphasise the skinny when they order.

'Hello shopkeep. I would like a skinny latté, please. Yes, that's a small, skinny latté.'

and I also hate it when the barista asks me whether I want cream on top of my frapuccino. I'm clearly not drinking a frappucino to be healthy. I clearly don't care about being healthy. Or else I would order a skinny latté, please. I don't see why the café people...with the eyes! Always judging with their eyes when I say...'Yeah. Of course I want whipped cream.' A frappucino is not a health drink. It's not a wheatgrass and lemon smoothie. It's cream. A lot of cream and sugar in a plastic cup.

ANYWAY. I'm going to start exercising again.

Starting now. And my bum will be delicious.

And I will still have the whipped cream, thank you very much.

And my bum will be delicious.

10PM TO 4 AND I CAME TO HIT THE FLOOR

2010-04-07T02:40:00.000-07:00

I think that I'm supposed to like Dirty Projectors but they're just shit. I'm not one of these elitist hipster types who only like bands with elbow itchy obscure names

you know, Nietzsche shit or names inspired by Slapp Happy lyrics. sidenote: I was taught poetry by the lead singer of Slapp Happy. Take that to the face, fact fans.

Obscure references and not-really name drops aside, I like some middle of the road shit. Yes, James Blunt et al. are just undeniably shite but some of it can be quite interesting. Take Broken Bells. I didn't know that I was supposed to like them when I first heard them on We are Hunted and I was quite excited because I was all, Oh this is a band that no-one knows, look at me being all kitsch and shit. Like I usually am.

did I mention I was a dick?

but yeah. then I found out that it was Dangermouse's new band and I gave the record company execs a pat of the back. They reached me. OK so their album isn't the greatest album in the whole entire world, but it's not awful. Most of it will be deleted from my iPod in the next couple of weeks, but Mongrel Heart, Vaporise and The Mall and the Misery are staying. Fact.

Ok. So I might be one of those cunts who only likes obscure bands at the moment.

Forgive me. I'm young. I'm 'finding myself'. You probably did it too, or you're going to do it.

But I like Dido.

And I like Susan Boyle. Some would say too much (THAT LINK IS NOT SAFE FOR LIFE. YOU WILL HATE ME IF YOU CLICK IT. MORE IMPORTANTLY, YOU WILL HATE YOURSELF, AND FOR THE RECORD THAT IS DEFINITELY NOT A TURN ON) .

And I like shit pop music.

HA I haven't even brought up my Britney Spears obsession. I used to cream my pants whenever I heard a Britney song anywhere, whenever I saw her picture. When her vagina picture was released, page 5 in the Daily Star, I posted copies in the sixth form common room at school. I made copies of Blackout and gave them to all of the different houses* and they listened to it whether they wanted to or not. When Circus came out, I played it non-stop in the kitchen at uni. My housemates were all 'oh, the cleaner will hate this' but she turned it up.

I have to admit that I'm less ape-shit crazy about Britney now that she's under conservatorship. I was drawn to the crazy. To the fake British accents and hot tub orgies. To the trips to the mental hospital and everyone thinking she was going to die.

She was in that precious space between life and death. Heck, in some people's minds she was already dead. She was superhuman.

At a time when I was trying to be superhuman, too. I saw a photo of myself from Britney obsessed era the other day.

I looked like death.

And I thanked my brain for thinking I was ugly.

So, people change.

I am people.

I've never talked about those years to anyone or anything. And I'm never going to. I will say this much.

They were beautiful.

They were constructive.

They were cathartic.

And sometimes, I would do anything to connect so fully to that state of mind.

VAGUE. OVER.

The point of this blog post is, well. There never is a point really. Does there need to be one?

MOR music is generally shit.

But I like boring folk music.

And I will be able to stand bland rock when they make it appropriate for a fist bash European discotheque

*cough*

BASICALLY. MORAL. If you speak to someone or anyone, don't say 'what type of music do you like?' because that is clearly a bullshit question and people will come out and just say, 'oh, you know I like Coldplay and other stuff. Arctic Monkeys' which not only makes them sound like uninventive and boring arseholes because you've cornered them into the corner of mediocrity and inoffensiveness where they are scared to offend someone who likes music, but you also sound like a complete chief.

That's a bad thing.

GAD. I didn't even mean to have a rant.

I'm sorry.

Have a Youtube cat and otter to make up for it:

Oh yeah. And don't forget that the Dirty Projectors are shit, mmkay?

*I went to a private school. Shoot me.

FUCK ME GENTLY WITH A CHAINSAW

2010-04-06T05:28:00.000-07:00

SO I just discovered that movie scripts can be read online.

Today is most definitely a HEATHERS day.

Here's the scripted opening.

Which is almost completely different to the actual opening.

WATCHIT WATCHIT WATCHIT

FADE IN:       
EXT.   SUBURBAN STREET--DAY 
      VERONICA SAWYER, a sullen seventeen year old beauty is jogging down a suburban street in a stylish running outfit.      
Evocative female voices can be heard, softly wailing.       
EXT.   NEIGHBORHOOD PARK--DAY       
VERONICA lurches into a neighborhood park, running with an increasing sense of desperation. The female voices wail louder.      
EXT.   PROMENADE--DAY       
VERONICA whooshes past a series of shops and a movie theatre.       
EXT.   THE SAWYER HOME--DAY       Reveling in her own sweat and agony, VERONICA bounds onto the lawn of her impressive upper middle class home. She painfully rushes closer and closer to the front door as the female moans swell to a deafening summit. The evocative wailing cuts off as she grabs the doorknob.       
INY.   VERONICA'S BEDROOM--DAY       
VERONICA zips into a chic, but understated ensemble as she launches into voice-over narration.                               
VERONICA (V.O.) Heather told me she teaches people Real Life.
Composed and unsweaty, VERONICA fingers her bangs in the mirror then rambles off.       
INT.   HIGH SCHOOL HALLWAY--DAY       
Continuing her narration, VERONICA glides through a bustling high school hallway with a frozen smile.                               
VERONICA (V.O.) She said Real Life sucks Losers dry.If you want to fuck with the eagles, you have to learn to fly.

WE DROVE IN SILENCE

2010-04-05T02:53:00.000-07:00

GIFS are cool. That's a dogdayam fact.

UNICORNS are cooler. Robots are pretty meh, but unicorns + gif = sex-wow-cuminmypants.

ANYWAY. It's EASTER MONDAY so this means that I'm going out to see A Single Man. Jesus was single. Jesus also liked sodomy, so A Single Man is the most appropriate film I can think to watch today.

Colin Firth is a bit of a twat though.

I keep expecting him to just sigh and die.

sigh and die and then he can't look mildly bemused any more.

he's not attractive.

not that he needs to be attractive, but his characters are always caught in romance.

and he looks like a toad, less of a toad than Philip Seymour Hoffman but a toad none the less.

Sigh, and die.

*UPDATE* I suppose this can be a mini review.

It was a beautifully shot film.

I enjoyed it.

I don't want to fuck Colin Firth,

but I enjoyed it nonetheless.

This was the forth attempt made to see this film, it had always been sold out so my expectations were high. I had a pink white stripe sweet bag and film on eyes. It glossed.

Basically. I can't write much.

watch it.

please.

RUN AROUND ON ME

2010-04-04T10:04:00.000-07:00

YES. I worked out videos. That's what the Html thing is. GENIUS as in, I am a genius. If you're reading this without having read my previous posts, you'll probably think that I've got a few screws loose because I am now about to go and embed youtube videos where youtube videos should be instead of links. Oh, possibly vimeo as well.

You could not possibly understand how exciting this is.

Anyway, tegan and sara. Alligator. I'm listening to it at the moment.
It's fairly average, i'll be over it by tomorrow, but for now

dance.

MAYBE WE SHOULD JUST HAVE A CUP OF TEA AND CHILL OUT NOW

2010-04-04T03:57:00.000-07:00

I want to star in a decades old private detective TV show. My own. I can be called...Huxley or Drew Atoll or I could just be Jessica Fletcher's bitch.

because she's sexy

not that I could ever gross myself out. and, to be honest I would never want to have sex with Angela Lansbury. Because. Just because.

but a private detective in a big hair decade with crystal stares and silk, lace and silk. and huge vials of poison dripping into china tea cups, eyelids disappear into the skull, veins and big pupils. face, face down in prawn cocktail.

gasp.

five people who WANT TO SEE THAT DEAD PERSON DEAD later, and it's the scorned ex-lover or the mysterious stranger from the past, also scorned. and I one-up the police force, we giggle and the credits. plonk theme tune.

perhaps I can be in danger.

or perhaps I can be in trouble.

every week, people will be grateful and cakes will be baked in my honour.

or I could just be Jessica Fletcher's bitch.

FFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFH

2010-04-03T16:31:00.000-07:00

don't mourn me on facebook. whatever happens, I don't want to be mourned on facebook with poor grammar and chav hearts. I don't want to be mourned on facebook.

which starts my mini panic attack

and I want to be in bed, but it's so far away

toclarify: I'm not going to die tonight,

toclarify: I'm not intending to die tonight, but I want it written somewhere (HERE) that I do not want to be mourned on facebook.

This probably won't be read in my lifetime. Shit, it seems like 90% of bloggers here are psycho christians who would love nothing more to try to save me, bless me etc. after I die

and I want the world to know

-I've shouted, but echoes only last for seconds, if that-

that I do not want to be mourned on facebook. I do not want a church service, hymns and prayers.

I do not want to disappear behind a dignified curtain.

Set me on fire, on a wooden stick, and let everyone see my beautiful destruction. And smell it. And smell the burning boy.

I will be stuffed. Naked. In a museum, a fuck-me-cool museum. Or break my bones and sell them in Evolution. Evolution's a shop in NY, I think in the SoHo area. It's fucked. They can sell me. OH. Both. Burn me. Stuff me.

both so permanent

but I know that I will get a facebook page.

I'll fake my death and see.

but I will get a facebook page devoted to little dead me.

ENTER PIN **** THANKYOU

2010-04-03T14:45:00.000-07:00

OBSERVE.

that 9/10 of the bloggers on here are sososo Christian. Like it's a competition to see who loves God more.

I don't know if God's got the internet.

(is he PC or mac? Debate)

I don't know if God even knows what the internet is.

My God is Jessica Fletcher, and she can solve any mystery that comes her way. She knows what the internet is, but she doesn't like people trying to wank her off all of the time. It's like God rape. YES. These Godcunts are actually rapists.

Please don't touch Jessica Fletcher.

She doesn't deserve your words.

I want this: MURDER SHE WROTE GAME

but it's only available on PC and I've got a mac.

So I think that the question about whether God is a PC or mac guy has been answered. He is a PC man.

YES, there is nothing rational here. There is nothing. I'm watching a film where people walk, blurred in the distance into a crouch-girl infected graveyard. Junk food for the brain.

Perhaps obesity will be beautiful, one day.

At the moment, I'm skinny. And skinny. I will be skinny, even when it's repulsive.

by which I mean more. More repulsive.

YOU KNOW WHAT, YOU'RE TOTALLY RIGHT. SORRY.

2010-04-03T14:30:00.000-07:00

BRAINFUZZ

and

I have

BRAINFUZZ

It's Saturday night and I'm not making my nose bleed. The Sun says that everyone*'s going out every morning and getting fucked on mephadrone

*young people. specifically, the young sort that I know. re. middle class, public school OMGlet's-get-fucked.ac.uk because we're at university yah and we need to rebel, but not so much that we're illegal or anything, yeahyeah let's all get fucked on mephadrone.

FOR THE RECORD. It isn't that bad. Shit, it isn't even that fun. It's pretty pathetic. Go illegal. You should always go illegal.

And on that note I go and speak to a Scout Group about healthy living.

I don't.

On that note I grab myself a bowl of crunchy nut cornflakes because they are well tasty and I feel like clogging-NO. Shit man, it's almost Easter. And I have a Flake Egg to eat.

Healthy.

Eating.

Can.

Suck.

My.

Little.

Finger.

Tell me it's salty, please.

TWOTEN, AND THIS SOUNDS GOOD

2010-03-31T04:37:00.000-07:00

I never cry. It's not that I don't want to cry, it's just that I never actually cry. I probably have enough to cry about

QUIET, EMO CHILD

but I never actually cry. Yesterday, I had a very long and taxing day in thebigtown. Meetings with men wearing glasses, fat men with glasses. Awake at 5am, train train train, tube, waitwaitwait, meeting, tubetube EAT, meeting, meeting, and I feel molested.

So, music. When I feel molested there is music. So I thought I would share my post-having-been-paedo'd playlist. It's a hotchpotch, like the mash-up mind fucks of the glasses men. So listen, like/find/buy them even though I blatantly didn't.

I would actually upload the MP3s if I knew how to.

Computers were made for 1950s wet dreams, not actual now-now-now.

Here goes nothing:

THE GLITCH MOB- DRIVE IT LIKE YOU STOLE IT

I was actually pulsing, physically pulsing to this tune around Westfield. I saw Pete Burns sitting outside a café looking like shit. Actual shit. Like his name should be Pete Burns Unit and not Pete Burns. I'm claiming that observation as original, by the way, even though it really really really isn't. And he looked at me, fag in claw, confused. The power of music. Listen. And pulse.

THE NATIONAL- FAKE EMPIRE

I resisted listening to The National for a long time. They just look like tools wearing jumpers their grandparents died in. He stole his voice from that bloke from the Editors. And I feel odd about tender 'sweeping' songs. However, Fake Empire is soft enough to avoid the shit stick of over-production that fucks up a lot of their other stuff.

STARS- YOUR EX-LOVER IS DEAD

I listened to the opening lines of this manymany times yesterday, but mainly in Bristol Temple Meads from 20:00 to 20:55, (when there is nothing left to burn, you have to set yourself on fire) feeling at once like a complete twat for being so indulgent but thinking FuckWhateverIDon'tGiveAShit because I fucking earned that indulgence. It's a sweet song. I like it. Live through this, and you won't look back.

WYE OAK- I HOPE YOU DIE

This was on the playlist...OK. Backtrack. This wasn't like an official playlist that I organized. This is just what I was listening to that is now a playlist in retrospect. ER this song, good. It's a song to daydream to. And to sit not looking anyone in the eye even though all I want to do is look everyone in the eye in the busy tube. It's a good song for all that.

ALELA DIANE- THE RIFLE

Just a nice woman-with-voice-and-guitar singing a song and playing her guitar. With a beautiful tone.

AU REVOIR SIMONE- ORGANIZED SCENERY

I love Au Revoir Simone. They are angels. Well, they're three gawky girls with pretty voices. I saw them in Union Chapel in London last year and they were angels then. Listen to all of their music, please. Organized Scenery is a little bit dancey (but not really LET'S GET FUCKED ON MEPHADRONE dancey) and I skipped.

BROKEN BELLS- MONGREL HEART

NEW MUSIC. Broken Bells are kind of moody, a bit droney...but in a good way. Listen to their first album which is out now. Available on iTunes, probably amazon and...well...ThePirateBay.

POMPLAMOOSE- DON'T WANT TO MISS A THING

As in Girl With Scary Eyes and perhaps kookytooforced voice singing Aerosmith with xylophones plonking in the background. A Youtube semi-sensation, this cover works better than most.

ALPHABEAT- HOLE IN MY HEART (THE SOUND OF ARROWS REMIX)

OK so I love Alphabeat. I hated them when they came on an hour late at the Park Stage without apology, but I have forgiven them. Plus the fooooking Sound of Arrows remixed Hole in My Heart to make it amazing. Anything that the Sound of Arrows turns into the musical equivalent of a Pet Shop Boys cum shot on Grace Jones' face. LUSH.LUSH.LUSH. I actually sung this out loud in Notting Hill Gate station, people didn't stand around me. LUSH.LUSH.LUSH.

AGE OF CONSENT- HEARTBREAK

You can barely hear the vocals on this, it's low impact and beautifully catchy in a THIS IS NOT KYLIE, MORE JOY DIVISION/WELL, REALLY THE XX/ WELL, REALLY HURTS kind of way. Whatever. It's not on Youtube, so I might load it onto Youtube. We'll see, we'll see.

BE CRAZY

LITTLE BIT CRAZY

JUST NOT ALL THAT CRAZY OR THEY'LL CART YOU AWAY

AND

D ANCE TO DEPRESSING

LIKE NOT THAT DEPRESSING THAT THEY'LL CART YOU AWAY

MUSIC

BE NORMAL. OK?

TRIPLE THREAT RULES

2010-03-28T16:27:00.000-07:00

It's 00.27. Day begins, of course.
And everyone in the casa del quemaduras is watching WRESTLEMANIA. As in the highlight-of-the-wrestling-calender and highlight of my boyfriend's year. And my brother's year.

just to clarify-------

Yes, I live in the countryside.

No, my brother and my boyfriend are not the same person.

Hence blogging. Because WRESTLEMANIA is definitely not the highlight of my year. I liked wrestling when I was 13. I went to see Insurrextion, an actual WWF event, in London or someplace big that was megaWowexciting. I could barely see anything, but I bought an Undertaker t-shirt because, well, death and shit is cool. And it's kind of cool to think of sombre funeral men suddenly going ape-shit crazy, even now.

My eyes have yet to make a connection with the TV screen. There's some demonic Happy Birthday song. Wrestlers are so dark and brooding. They're so...well. They should be sex. They are the fastest of the fastest sperm, physically fit etc.etc. but this is Wrestling Entertainment. They are the fastest² sperm after a car accident, wearing a full body cast with OMGI'MFOOOKINGAWESOME painted all over the plaster. Yeah, that's a shit analogy. Forgive me. I keep getting distracted by Facebook. It's now...01.32 and I'm not used to typing this late.

Unless it's for an article, or an essay, or anything that's important.

not wordvom.

Wrestlers. Never a crotch bump. Notice that.

Forgive me, and this is crass, but whenever I think about wrestling I'm transported back to when I was a 13 year old kid talking about how PHHHIT stacey keibler was with my 3 friends (I was ridiculously popular) while we fought in our own Wrestling Federation. I was the champion. THE GORILLA, yes! I was the Gorilla and I was the Champion. We put down about five mattresses in a basement and properly went to town on each other, with actual ladders and chairs. I should be completely BrainFucked from fighting. It was a short and fruitless career.

but look at me.

I'm great, actually.

SMUG. SMUG. SMUG.

Oh, back to the crassness. Yes, Chyna. I always think about Chyna. And her clenis. If you don't know....a clenis is a cross between a clitoris and a penis. She took too many steroids and...yeah. So the legend goes. Well, there are pictures. I'm not going to link to them, but you can Google if you want to.

you don't want to.

CONCLUSION BECAUSE BED IS BETTER THAN BEING A GOOD BOYFRIEND:

WRESTLING IS SHIT.