I haven’t written a post in a while, due to lack of motivation and being trapped under a pile of newspapers, like Principal Skinner that one time. Although that last point might not be true.
I spent most of this morning lying on the floor listening to Thursday. The hood from my dressing gown cushioned the back of my head so it wasn’t uncomfortable. My arms eventually started to feel detached, and I also had to put my socks away, so I got up. I didn’t put my socks away. My boyfriend came back from the shop with some pick n’mix, which I then dropped on the floor, after about five minutes they stopped being ‘floor sweets’ and instead turned into ‘stuff I’m eating off the floor’, so I started flicking them into the bin instead. Some of them went behind the cupboard and I wasn’t quite bothered enough to retrieve them. As well as floor sweets I also have the remnants of vodka lining the pit of my stomach. We have birds living in the attic. Some dude on Deal Or No Deal has just opened a box with £20,000 inside, and he is bawling his eyes out. I think I need to start reading again. I think we will be having chicken for tea. The weevils behind the cupboard will be eating the jellybean remnants, I hope they enjoy them.
‘There is no one who could force his way through here, least of all with a message from a dead man.- But you sit at your window and dream it up as evening falls.’
I might start writing again next week if I am not trapped beneath newspapers. Continue reading »
I’ve been meaning to write this for a while, but because of a dire mixture of illness, darkness and just a little bit of self-loathing, it’s taken me until now to put pen to paper, or rather fingertips to sticky keyboard buttons. I write in response to a blog post published by Amanda Palmer on her Tumblr, entitled on being free (the new version of THE BED SONG and THE VIDEO). I had been bursting at the seams wishing to write a response, but never quite managed to sign up for a Tumblr, thus I am using the familiar cradle of WordPress to craft my reply. Or I shall do once I have found socks, as my feet are quite cold.
I am now wearing socks.
Amanda Fucking Palmer is a musician whose music I have listened to, internalised and adored for many, many years. Her latest album, Theatre is Evil, contains the Bed Song; a devastatingly beautiful track, which the first time I heard words could not even begin to describe how harrowed and pathetic it made me feel. In short, it is beautiful and infinitely exquisite. Her article on being free discussed her decision to change her song, and also addressed the questions which arose as to whether an artist should be able to change their art in the first place. Continue reading »
For my boyfriend’s 30th birthday I decided to take him to Paris- it was a bit of a landmark, afterall; 30 years living and breathing on our tiny planet, and never in that period of time had he ever been. So along with a packet of Haribo, I also bought a couple of plane and hotel tickets, and in our short stay at the infamous city of love, we came to learn just a few little things… tourists take note!
1. All Taxis are Driven by Mobsters and Madmen
I do not tell a lie when I state that 100% of the taxis we took in Paris were driven by French mobsters, scars adorning the sides of their faces, the Thrift Shop Song playing loudly in the foreground of the vehicle. Their piercing eyes bored into your very soul, and their 18 Euro standard fare to simply sit in the cab molested the deepest crevices of your Tesco-purchased travel money. Also, when I state ‘100%’, the actual figure rounds up to a grand total of one taxi- so harrowed were we by the 81 Euro ride from the airport to the hotel that we swore we’d walk the entire length of Europe if it meant we could avoid another taxi fare.
. Continue reading »
The above reads:
I’m attempting to correct my terrible handwriting, so that when they dig it up in a thousand years, they don’t think I’m insane.
Handwriting is an interesting thing. As children we learn to be very neat, to stay inside the lines, to do finger-spaces in between words to give them enough room to eat themselves to death, swell up, and burst. Then when we become confident enough that we know how wide a finger is without the need for a finger (I thank you), we begin to develop our own style, our own way of writing. It sort of personifies our personality… sort of. Some people claim they can determine if you’ve killed someone by the look of your handwriting, others think the love heart you put over the top of an ‘i’ means you want to roll around naked with puppies. Maybe. I’m no expert. Continue reading »
When I was in the hospital just before Christmas on account of drunken tomfoolery, and lounging around eating ginger biscuits for the majority of weeks after, I neglected to tell you that I became famous. Famous! Well, sort of. Not like mass-murderer famous… more like man-accidentally-eats-own-arm famous. Actually, maybe a little less famous than that. But famous nonetheless.
I may have told some of you last year that I landed a background role as a film extra in an extraterrestrial movie, filmed in the magnificence of Derbyshire, starring the superb Jean Claude Van Damme; and of course myself. So basically, I was in a low-budget alien film and had to run around a shopping centre screaming so JCVD could come in and save the day with his back-hair and alcoholism. Ladies and jellyspoons, hold on to your hats and heroin, I present to you UFO (trailer here).
Continue reading »