A Little Bag Of Justin

I gave blood yesterday for the first time. I’ve always wanted to do it, but something has always stopped me. Also, strangely my mum has always been against it. She has always thought that I should save my blood for myself for some reason, so used to frequently rip up and throw away the letters from the blood donation people. They got so pissed off with me not coming to the sessions that eventually they sent me a letter saying “This is your final letter. We can’t afford to keep posting things to people like you who just won’t give blood no matter how many chances you are given”. Strong stuff. Trying to shame me into giving blood.

I still got another letter later from them saying “One final chance. Please, we need your blood. PLEASE.” After that it just descended into begging. So after this long build up, I was a bit disappointed when I did finally give blood. I have always thought it would be a wonderful and yet deeply gross experience; with blood pouring out of your arm while nurses are stuffing you with cookies and muffins and forcing money into your other hand. No money though. No muffins either. Just little packs of biscuits the nurses had stolen from hotel rooms. And I didn’t even feel all mega fucked up afterwards. I was hoping for a light inebriation, but all I got was a slight confusion, which didn’t really make much difference.

It wasn’t really gross either. And it only took like 5 minutes. So I guess my point is – give blood. You might as well. It’s not difficult, and it leaves you with a feeling that you may have helped save someone’s life. Unless some stupid nurse drops your blood and the bag bursts and so really you have just made some cleaning ladies day a bit worse. But either way, at least I know that there is a little bag of Justin out there somewhere, just waiting to fuck somebody up.

Hi Ho

I heard something on the radio the other week which seemed so self evident that I was surprised that I had never thought of it before. These two English guys were making fun of some American or other who had made stupid grand pronouncements about the social effect of Disney films.

Stupid American: “The film Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs” is really all about promoting a good work ethic. Here we have 7 physically challenged old men – we knew they were old because they had those long grey beards – who lived a bare existence in the forest, who had to work in a mine. And did they grumble about it? No. They went to work singing everyday. Hi Ho, It’s Off To Work We Go. Can you think of a more positive way to start a working day? I believe there was one fellow who was grumpy most of the time, but that was more of a plot device than to do with the work he was doing”

English Commentator: “So the film Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs was about promoting a good work ethic then apparently. This guy seems to have missed out the fact that despite there bare existence, these 7 physically challenged old men had a monopoly on a diamond mine…”

I forget what he said next, because those words stuck with me. Monopoly on a diamond mine. Monopoly on a diamond mine! The fucking seven dwarfs had a monopoly on a diamond mine. Those little fuckers were rich. Puts the whole film in a new perspective. No wonder they weren’t too bothered that some white bitch came and brought loads of trouble down on them.

They knew they could buy their way out of trouble if they needed

Des précisions en Français.

I asked Nick to translate an email from a Magnus submitter the other day. His response made me truly believe that he should work to further international understanding, and break down the language barrier once and for all. Enjoy:

Cher Monsieur,
Je vous prie de bien vouloir m' excuser d'utiliser la traduction informatique, aléatoire, pour m' exprimer en Anglais, et vous remercie de me permettre des précisions en Français.

//Sorry to have used babelfish, but I never learnt your language because your ppl and your culture disgust me, thank you for letting me write to you in my native (and far more elegant) tongue. Such understanding is not what we expect from you pig-ignorant roast-beef enthusiasts.//

Je vous remercie pour toutes les peintures que vous avez placé dans votre magazine.

//Cheers for all the pretty pictures you done put in your mag, like.//

J' avais demandé à l' administrateur de ART actif un lien en direction de votre site, il vient juste d' être ajouté, toutefois cet administrateur exige de moi la réciprocité (un lien sur votre site), en compensation de la gratuité de son
intervention (la publication du lien sur la première page de mon portofolio).

//I had asked the acting manager of ART / the manager of ART active, to put in a link to your site, and he's only just gone and done it, would you believe. Now he wants you to return the favour, in compensation for his gratuity of his intervention [it strikes me that this gratuity is really a condition-laden demand for mutual back-scratching, but whatever]//

Pour avoir un lien sur votre site je n' ai pas utilisé le questionnaire que vous soumettez aux artistes, j' évite de donner des renseignements sur moi car je ne suis pas le sujet de mon art, donc pas de biographie ou informations autres que les sujets abordés en peinture, il vous est possible vérifier l' expression de
cette attitude à cette adresse: *****
cependant je vous prie de bien vouloir m' excuser et publier un lien
sur votre site en direction de www.artacti.com/ .

//In getting my link on your site, I did not fill in the questionnaire you give us artists, cos my art kinda speaks for itself like, so I don't like to give out info about me cos I am not its subject. Hence, no bio or subjects not pertaining directly to the painting. You can verify my position on this at the saatchi gallery address above. Hope this ain't a bother. So go on then, publish a link to the artacti.com address.//

Veuillez agréer, cher Monsieur, l' expression de mes meilleures salutations.

//Best regards,//


//PS I may have toned down the flamboyantly polite style in an attempt at mocking his not knowing English. Sorry.//

Why I don’t give a fuck about shit on the floor

I’m not for littering. Let me start by saying that. I have always thought that if there is a bin around then you should always put your litter in it. I mean, why not?

I have to admit though, that I’m not really that against littering either. Maybe it’s because I have always had a disgustingly high mess threshold so when I see rubbish on the streets I’m not really bothered in anyway. When we were in Amsterdam for the Queens birthday and the rubbish was piled higher than our heads I thought it was kinda amazing. Ditto for the aftermath of Reading festival. But I suppose both of those times were different to the norm as all that mess represented good times had, so the more there was the better the time it must have been.

I think my lack of caring about litter really just stems from living in Richmond. This place is fucking clean. So clean that I know that if I drop something on the floor, the likelihood is that tomorrow it won’t be there.

Which is why I had an argument with my friends tonight. We were on Richmond Green and there was a pile of empty beer cans abandoned near us, and I couldn’t see what the big deal was. Someone asked me if the rubbish bothered me. I said no. Because why would it? I know for a fact that regardless of whether or not people litter on the green that Richmond is so …well rich, that tomorrow undoubtedly there will be street cleaners coming by to clean it up. Caring about it is the equivalent of caring about cleaning your room before the cleaner does in a hotel. Why bother? It’s their job, and they are going to do it anyway.

Someone brought up the oh-so-clever point of, “Would you like it if the rubbish was up to here (points to a couple feet off the floor)? Because that is what would happen if everyone littered.” No, no it wouldn’t. I wouldn’t particularly care, as I have previously mentioned I have an incredibly high mess threshold, but more than that, would it really ever get that bad? Can anyone really actually believe that as humans we would ever let it get to the level where we were wading through our own rubbish? No. Certainly we would not. And definitely not in Richmond.

Someone else made the argument that if no one littered then we wouldn’t need so many street cleaners and so wouldn’t have to raise taxes to pay for them. I usually at that point would make the trite point that litterers keeping street cleaners in jobs, but I decided not to tonight, as I am a little older and wiser than last time I had this argument, and I know understand that no matter what happens we are still gonna employ the same amount of street cleaners. And even if we fire some, taxes will not go down as a result.

Can you seriously imagine any politician saying “and a special thanks to everyone for keeping the streets tidy. I’m not going to spend the money we saved on street cleaners on something else, instead I’m going to take it off your tax bills”. No? Because it’s a stupid fucking thing to say.

As I said at the start, I’m not for littering, but in Richmond, I don’t think it matters so much as elsewhere. I know England is filthy, but not this town.

Elspeth Driskill

So it's been about a month now since I last wrote anything. I didn't realise that I had been letting things slip so bad. Oh well, I'm sure almost no-one noticed.

And anyway, I've been busy busy busy these last couple of weeks. I've just got a new job, I've been editing my websites and also, I've been preparing (mentally at least) for my brothers wedding. Which was on Saturday by the way.

I've spent the last few months asking my brother over and over again, "So what is it exactly that I'll have to be doing as an usher?" and each time he told me that it wouldn't be much, that I just had to take care of the guests and the rest would be pretty straightforward.

I didn't believe him for a second, well not untill we actually got to the venue this weekend for the rehearsal and saw how shambolic everything was and was told by his other ushers that we'd just blag it basically. After that, I thought "phew so I can relax this weekend then".

Not so, from the moment I put on my monkey suit for the wedding until the moment I fell asleep that night I was constantly on edge. My brother was getting randomly stressed at things going right, and was taking it out on us. Not that things weren't really going right, but I think he enjoys being stressed out. The thing is, there really wasn't that much ushering to do, but that wasn't the problem. The problem was that there were so many people to remember.

In my family, I am the figure of fun (as with my friends I suppose) so it doesn't suprise me that Gerry will have told his friends exaggerated tales about me. The problem was, that meant that lots and lots of people new who I was, and had that hopeful look in their eye that I knew them too. Add to that all of my new family in law, who I have met recently and cannot remember the names of, and the whole stag party who I do generally remember, but there are one or two names that slip by me. And then of course, all the random family friends who I haven't seen since I was tiny who think that somehow I will know who they are. Eventually, after using 'man' to address everyone for a few too many hours, I just starting acting as a bouncer and just shouted at people to do Gerry's bidding until they did it. Which was nice.

Anyway, the point of all this grumbling was really meant to be that now... I have a new sister. And her name is Elspeth (or Elle). And she is great. Oh yes.

Sleep... if you can get some

So it’s been a while since I wrote. What have you been up to? Nothing? Well anyway in the last couple of weeks there have been 5 parties which required my immediate attention, and I made it to four of them. Not bad hey? But then I feel like I probably missed out on the best one. Doh. I was incredibly hungover on the day of the missed party however and I think the fact that this snippet from Hollyoaks made me laugh more than anything has in a very long time, shows how drunk I was when I watched it (late the night before the missed party).

[Joe had just found out Louise has only asked him out to make her ex husband jealous]

Louise: When I asked you out, I meant just as friends

Joe: Friends?! You make me sick!

Just imagine that being said in real life. Trust me, it’s pretty funny.

Anyway, Happy Birthday to all relevant party throwers of late, and especially to Zoe, to whom I’ve very sorry I missed your party. Hope it was fun!

I'm didn't get naked.....oh there's photo's are there

I fire a shot at the man in black pointing a gun at me. He’s not very far away, but he’s half in shadow, so I can’t tell if I hit him or not. I raise my gun to fire again but when I pull the trigger nothing happens. Shit! Is the gun empty? What the fuck am I supposed to do now? I hold it up in front of me and try and tell what the hell is wrong with it. I start squeezing the trigger hoping it will fire. An old Slovakian appears from nowhere behind me and puts his hand on my gun and pushes it down and away from me. “Noooo…” he says gently as he takes it from me. Only then do I realise I was pointing the gun at my brother.

Exciting stuff hey. Well, I’m afraid that’s all I can tell you really, as apparently the stag do rule is “what goes on tour, stays on tour”. Needless to say, Gerry didn’t die, but he did get beaten up by two girls in bikini’s. And we did drink 91 pints between us in a five star hotel. And the majority of us threw up. A lot. Apart from that, I honestly don’t remember much except all my brother’s friends telling me on the way home that I could drink a lot as well as dance for hours, which as far as I’m concerned simply isn’t true.

But then again I do have another vague memory of deciding that my brother would have to drink as least as much as me, and then downing the rest of my pint. Maybe I took one for the boys hey. Because I fucking hate dancing. But I did love firing a gun.

I love you guys

This weekend was one of those times when lots of shit happens, but everyone is too drunk to be sure exactly what that shit was. Ignoring the shit for the moment, let’s focus on the hangover that comes the next day. Today. The hangover that makes you feel like you’re going to die and that you quite possibly want to kill the people who helped you get so fucked up too, only you feel too rough to do it.

Now I talk about hangovers a lot, about how sometimes they make the world seem beautiful, about how they can be kinda fun. But today’s hangover was not like that. It was like a never ending abyss of feeling like shit, and not being able to face making myself better. So I did the only thing I could, I sought help. I sought out one of my oldest friends, and luckily for me I got a bonus friend as well when I turned up at Tom’s house in the form of Susan.

I have known both of these people for a fucking long time. More than half my life. Tom is an almost Seinfeld shaped legend, and Susan is like my beautiful sister. And they made feel better. They reminded me that my life is pretty great, I just have to remember it. I mean, obviously my life is shit by most peoples standards, but the friends I have are so amazing that if I had a second mouth I would devote it solely to smiling all the time.

Susan really showed me why today though. She did the sweetest thing ever; she gave me a pencil holder. Now in itself that is a crappy present, but the fact that I had mentioned that I felt like I needed one for my business to her randomly at some point in the past and she had remembered, thought about it, about me, and got one is just… well it’s just perfect really isn’t it. So in honour of her, here is second limerick I ever wrote (I was going out with a girl called Carrie at the time)

There once was a girl that everyone knew as Susan
Who thought that it was her friendship I was abusin'
And although I'm not a poet you know
I just wrote this so I could show
That Carrie's friendship above hers, I'm not choosin'

I'm sorry this is poorly written...I'm a little hungover

So I discovered something weird last week, something that no-one is gonna care about, but something which I still feel like I should share. Where I live is under the flight path to Heathrow. I’ve lived here all my life and I’ve gotten used to the planes. While I was at uni I forgot about them for a while, but now that I’m back I’m just used to them again. I often stare up at them when they go by, as they are filled with people who have just arrived from another country, and so I like to gaze up and wonder about all the stories that are inside that big tin can.

So after a lifetime of gazing it seems strange than neither me nor any one I know has ever noticed that where we live under the flight path, or more specifically the green where we have spent many a summer getting wrecked, is exactly where the planes put their wheels down in preparation to land.

See I told you that you wouldn’t care. But I thought I would share anyway.

Talking of flying things, some birds have nested on my roof just above my bedroom, and recently their eggs have hatched. Aww I hear you say. BUT NO! Not aww, AAAAAGGGGHHHH. These baby birds never shut up. From sun up to sun down they don’t stop chirping for a minute. And what’s more, they have nested right inside the guttering so I can in no way see the little birds for the limited aww factor they might provide. I’m thinking of getting a scarecrow and sticking it out my window, but we all know what happened to Homer when he turned on the birds.

The Real Lesson Of Time Travel

You know when you’re watching TV and in whatever TV series you happen to be watching, the characters for some reason go back in time? And when they’re actually in the past, one of them will say something like “Be very careful not to affect anything, as even the slightest change which you make could drastically alter the future”. Come on, you know what I’m talking about, just about every TV series does it. Even the fucking Simpsons has done it. Remember now? Good.

So I was thinking about this the other day, and it occurred to me, why does it only matter what we do in the past? I mean sure, they have future knowledge and whatnot so could intentionally change things, but usually they just step on a bug or save someone’s life to change the future irrevocably. And these things require no knowledge of the future at all. This basically means, what these sci-fi writers are trying to drum into us is that we do make a difference. That every action that each individual takes is in fact vital to the universe, and so we should all get out there and take action as our actions count.

Nice thought isn’t it. Makes sense too. It even makes sense that the sci-fi writers would want to tell us this message, as I assume that they are mainly nerds so spend most of their time indoors with delusions of grandeur.

The thing is though, that I thought it through a bit more, and if you think about it, every episode in every show in which they travel back in time, when they do return to the future it has never changed. I mean sometimes it has until they go back and fix it, but all those bugs they’ve squished and tea they’ve drunk and lasers they’ve fired and whatnot haven’t affected anything. So real the lesson we should learn from these shows is that nothing we do affects anything. We could blow up the white house, exterminate a species or give all our enemies the plague. And the future wouldn’t change.

So all our actions are pointless. That sounds more like the message sci-fi writers would want to give us. There is a bitterness inherent with being a geek with too much power. All that knowledge and bullying mixed together isn’t a good thing.

So basically what I’m saying is this weeks lesson is that you can do what you want, as ultimately there are no repercussions.

Happy 256 Day

Ha I fooled you there for a minute there didn't I? I'm not depressed, it's 256 day! If ever a day could be an equal to my birthday or Christmas without presents then this is it. I was just trying to add a cliffhanger into the proceedings.

I've come to the conclusion from this day that you should spend more time thinking about what you could have and less time thinking about what you used to have. I have nothing but potential right now, but on this day I did like 256 suggests and lived like I should. And so I spent my day as I hope you spend many of yours, in the way I like best. In my pants playing xbox on a projector. On a bed. With snacks. And pancakes. And my girlfriend. And oh boy was I not sober.

Happy 256 day everyone.

PS I love you guys

I feel sick

So it’s 256 day tomorrow. My lucky day. My luckiest day. Theoretically the best day of my entire life. Yet I’m fucking depressed about it because I’m gonna spend it alone.

Never before has something this good felt so bad.

A fat person in a steam room

4.16am Sunday February 5th 2005. An old man gets onto a night bus after his arduously long wait is finally over. Although drunk as usual at this hour he somehow spots the plastic sign on the bus driver door as his gaze floats up from the floor. “One twenty” he thought “Those fucking bastards have done it again. I’m fucking lucky I found that twenty pee just now I suppose”. He handed over the money grudgingly as he snatched the shitty paper ticket. “Not much to look at for £1.20” he mumbled as he got his lighter out and made the heat sensitive paper draw itself a little happy face. The man next to him was trying not to look at him by staring as some discarded chicken bones as if he was starving before getting off at the next stop. Some more skull eyed passengers climbed on board looking for a place to rest. The last was an old mum without the baby and she glimpsed at him as she passed before sitting down nearby.

“I suppose you know who I am?” the man said, taking out a bottle of gourmet bourbon and offering it to the lady. After her smallest gestured indicated no chance of acceptance he swigged on the bottle viciously, then fell back with the bus as it turned, almost as if he was falling down in triumph. The man moved in front of his chosen companion and once more implied that she must recognise him due to his notoriety but the lady, now wishing she’d stayed at home with her baby just stared blankly out the window. The old man desisted for a minute and joined her gaze at the real life TV scenes flowing by.

“Just look at me” he thought “please just look at me. Just for a bit. Come on”. However no matter what the old man said his words could not attract her attention, full or otherwise, and she got off the bus with her eyes firmly avoiding his. The bottle of bourbon half empty now, the drinking became slower but the talking was faster. It was always going to be one of those nights. The remaining passengers looked like they might not want attention or at least like they might fight anyone who gave it to them, so the man just swung with the rhythm of the bus. After they got off the man, who for arguments sake we’ll call James O’Drunken-Nobucks or Hobo Jim for short thought he would have easy pickings for conversation. But none came.

“Just look at me” he thought so began loudly claiming to be every celebrity under the sun his drunken stupor would allow him to remember. The stupor also allowed him to remember briefly that by saying more than one name to the same people he was making his whole case less credible. “Both the fucking Attenborough’s” he said finally as he reached for at least a chuckle from these night monkeys who were all doing their own bus routines, which didn’t involve looking at him.

“So celebrity curiosity won’t get ya? Well then maybe more of a train crash approach might work” he thought. Or at least he thought emotions and mumbles which closely represented that sentence. So Hobo Jim in desperation decided to start with the racist jokes he heard from an unfortunate element he was forced to socialise with. He didn’t feel it, but holding a bottle of bourbon to your lips can make you say these things like someone who does feel it if they were in your state.

“Blacks…I hate em….i mean they’re just not white are they…they fucking black. And jews…stupid bastaaards…I knew a jew once….niss fellow but I fucking tol him, I said to him once…..thas no fucking yours! Asianns…who do they think they’re foolind….they want to kill us….kill you…..the poor babies. And those other asianssss…..they kill their own babies….why…fucking foreigners…..fucking glasses wearing freaks fucking ginger glass wearing looking down your nose at me pricks who come from other fucking cities. Not English cities. Not English. I’m English. ENGLISH. I wanna keep England clean. I mean pure…fucking pure…b…n…p. B fucking NP. BNP BNP BNP!”.

Still no reaction came from Hobo Jim’s chosen audience. “Got to make it worse. You bastards why are you making me do this” his thoughts indicated but his words were “Hitler, Hitler Hitler was fuckin…” he hesitated before he could actually say it “….right. He was a clever man. Not a little fucking arsehole no. He thought of some things which should have been thought of. Fucking lazy bastard killing himself. Fucking cunts. Fucking KKK. I love the klan. I would have my own outfit if I could keep it clean”. At this Hobo Jim fell down in apparent pain but was actually a fit of drunken laughter trying to fight through his cough reflex whilst not disturbing his agitated puke reflex. Sitting on the floor he stared up at his companions on the bus and cursed their names silently, as he didn’t know what they were.

He got slowly to his feet with the same repetitive beat in his head “Look at me. Look at me you pricks. You fucking pricks. If I was you and I was hearing all this shit I would look at me. I would beat the life out of me for being such an arsehole. So look at me. LOOK AT ME. FUCKING LOOK AT ME, THEN YOU’LL SEE….” But his thoughts were stopped as he saw the restrained look of terror on the faces of the white late nighters as a young black kid got on the bus, said a friendly “hi” to him. The other passengers were looking at him now, but in the reflection in the windows or out of the corners of their eyes, their unwillingness to be involved in an ugly scene stopping their direct attention being given. The kid put on his headphones and stood right next to Hobo Jim swaying side by side with him to the rhythms of the night bus. “You might look at me” he thought as the bus ambled along through seemingly ridiculous side streets “that was the nicest hi I have heard since I was last sober…and who knows when that was. But I can almost feel all of those people’s attention right on me. And then they’ll all see. I’m too far along to stop now. I’m really sorry…..”. Once more his actual thought was more like that of a terrifying wordless flashback in a rubbish movie, but the ideas were always there.

“Oompa loompas” Hobo Jim said to the headphone noise next to him “ummm…I mean umbongo loompas”. He tried once more to say something racist but without the dumb feelings behind it he was unsure how to show his apparent disgust. Dancing around him might help in a kind of tribal mocking way, but as luck would have it the kid got off the bus. Whether he knew what Hobo Jim was doing or not, the whole scene smelled more disgusting than Hobo Jim himself.

“I’m special” Jim thought as he got off the bus. He had already shouted abuse at the passengers for being too pathetic to intervene, but they just ignored his abuse just like the rest of his words. You see hobo Jim was special and he knew that he had something amazing within him that he could never just show people. After a long hobo type life he had drunk enough to flood an apartment complex so his memories were thin on the ground. He could clearly remember more than once in his life looking up at someone and them telling him he was special. They were just random glimpses of his life though, many of which were clearly when he was young as they would add the word “boy” to their declaration of his specialness.

It was definitely more than one person who had told him this. That’s why he wanted people to look at him. Maybe if they just looked at him as those in his past had, they would see his specialness too. Then they wouldn’t ignore him. Then they would at least look and give that little nod that they seem to afford each other but not him. Hobo Jim fell into the gutter and stared up at the stars and for the first time in years he remembered why he was special just like everyone else.

When he was 14, he was in the upper classes for Science and Maths so he was taught Upper Level Gravity Abuse at a young age. The teacher had the largest mouth that he had ever seen. He began the very first lesson by opening up his gigantic gob and pointing with a very satisfied look to a glob of spit of above average size and telling the students that it was the most amazing thing they’d ever seen. Ever since mouth gravity had been realised, everything had ultimately been about spit.

See a science guy whilst taking pills once realised that within his mouth he could control the position of everything in it without using seemingly sufficient muscle movement to cause it. It was on this day that the idea of mouth gravity was created. Further study into the mouth showed that in fact millions of particles were kept floating within peoples mouths due to subconscious control of what was named the super eating gland. Whilst eating you see, the subconscious uses your control of gravity within your mouth to stop you from choking. However as there are very few people in the world who could claim that their subconscious is not without its hiccups, the subconscious also seemingly accidentally collects and stores particles in a random order within your mouth. It was discovered, after the craziest set of experiments took place, that with a little bit of mental discipline the matter stored in ones mouth could be manipulated. These are tiny little bitch particles and the manipulation is barely noticeable even under intense magnification, but it was still crazy shit.

Hobo Jim knew all this at 14, and this class was to take him into a weird elite which had sprung up since these discoveries. “This spit is amazing” the giant jawed freak barked “not because I can move it, but because of what that movement means”. The dull expression on Hobo Jim’s face would have been comparable to any of those at church, and he sat there waiting for a penny anywhere to drop. “You see the particles in our mouths it seems according to eminent astrologers are generally arranged like a miniature universe. By moving different parts astrophysicists can study our own universe in amazing ways. By simply opening and closing our mouths we move the whole thing except for the centre, but it is the centre which is the most amazing. By making it spin, we can bring the whole universe in our mouths alive as the smallest amount of energy to us provides abundant heat and light on their microcosmic scale. My spit is alive. Isn’t that the most amazing thing you’ve ever seen?” The teachers previously monsterific face somehow seemed softer and less repugnant after he made this last statement. It was that statement that made Hobo Jim special. Not because he spun the middle of his own universe, as he had given up long ago and there was life inside him no-more. It was because he had a whole universe inside him. And one day he would bring it to life again. But probably not today. “If only someone would look at me” he thought “then they’d see. Just look at me…”

Don't miss out

The beautiful thing about London is that there is always a million things to do. I know that this can be said of many capital cities, but London is my Capital, so I’m saying it.

Anytime of day or night, you can basically do whatever you want, if you just know how to find it. This is great for visitors, as they can come with their travel guides, find out where their preferential fun spots are and go. While they are here they can be entertained endlessly.

For people who come stay live here for a portion of a greater travelling experience however it seems to be a different matter. Even for people who just move here for a job, London becomes too much. It’s addictive, or so I hear. Every night that you stay at home for a quiet evening, it preys on your mind that you could (or even should) be doing a whole variety of unique events. Every night that you go out, you could be doing a whole load of other, possibly more exciting, things. And even if you do have a gap in your calendar and you stay in through choice, surely the number of friends you have made in London mean that you will be inundated with stress about who to see and who to ditch. I’ve been told that it’s just too much to take, but that’s it’s also too much too leave.

It’s different for Londoners though. I once went to a random house party whilst I was at university with my flatmates. All of my flatmates happened to be from London, but none of us knew each other before we went to Uni, so I found it very strange when a girl at this party asked us as soon as we sat down “Are you guys from London?” Now as I said, we all were, but all from different parts. When I asked her how she knew, she said “It’s just something in the way you move and present yourselves”. Now this was doubly strange, as apart from coming from different areas of London, my flatmates and I were all incredibly different types of people.

I think I understand now though. As much as all the events to attend in London freak out non locals, it builds a certain sense of fatalism into Londoners. We all know that there is a million things we could be doing each night, so we’re not worried about missing them. Because there will be a million more tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow.

A plea to a hero

There is a man. A man of danger and intrigue. A man of chalk. And he’s terrorising Richmond as we speak.

The man, who for arguments sake we’ll call Sir Chalkalot, has been waging a war of amusing chalky terror against the citizens of Richmond for about a week now, and I say God bless him. Although God himself probably won’t because one of Sir Chalkalot’s writing clearly designates a local church as a pub.

You see this man, well to be honest I assume it’s just a boy, has been labelling all sorts of minor landmarks throughout Richmond, as well as occasionally simply leaving his own point of view around. This point of view is generally about penguins or smurfs or somesuch frivolous matter, but I like it.

By a paper recycling bin it says “We like bikes. We cycle.” Genius.

He appears to have avoided any attention from local authorities, or anyone, so far as none of his scrawlings have been wiped off except by the scuffling of feet. Not even the one of his illustrated writings which proscribes the proprieter of a shop as a ‘nob’. He has not however avoided the evils of alcohol (or perhaps drugs) it seems as everyday his writings make less and less sense.

So my plea is this, Sir Chalkalot if you are reading this, please don’t give up. Sure some of the stuff you write is drivel, and sure a lot of it doesn’t make sense, but the people of Richmond need fucking with and I just can’t be bothered to go buy some chalk. Also, it seems fairly unlikely what you are doing is illegal due to the removable nature of chalk, so you may as well keep going until that packet of chalk I assume you found runs out.

Terrible Lizards

I had the most terrifying nightmare of my life last night. No giant or metal spiders this time though. No Freddy Krueger.

It was set in the future. We were doing some sort of experiment in my house, nothing major, just an experiment. When it suddenly blew up. Everyone else was wearing protective gear but me, so I had to run and wash off the stuff we were working on, but it was such dangerous stuff that I flushed the toilet and used that to wash my head instead of the sink.

Pretty scary huh. But wait, there’s more.

All the little bits of goop which had been flung around from the explosion were gone when I left the bathroom. No-one else had noticed but I started looking around for an explanation. After awhile I saw this little lizard. So I squished it. Then I saw some other little lizards. Except they weren’t so little. They grew pretty fucking quickly to small dog size. And they had razor fucking sharp teeth. And the clincher was that they could go through walls and whatnot (in a kinda osmosis kinda way), and they only ate human food. Also, when they got big enough they split into two tiny ones and then grew again.

I spent all night running around my house in hysterics trying to avoid these beasts. Also because they only ate human food, they were constantly after me, as for some reason I was serving up delicacies to everyone from our futuristic oven. No-one else was afraid of them. I think they only hated me because I squished one of them. It was fucking terrifying.

When I woke up this morning, it took me a good ten minutes to get out of bed. I was paralysed by fear, and only part of that fear was that I must have wet the bed after such a nightmare. Luckily I hadn’t, but I’m still feeling a bit on edge about those terrible lizards.

I hate bigots

What is the female version of misogynist? If you type misogynist into google the first answer is that exact question. And the answer is The equivalent is misandrist (a person who hates persons of the male sex), a rare word but seemingly much sought-after.

A rare word but much sought-after. That just demonstrates the whole point I’m about to make. Sexism is a two way street.

Now before I start complaining, don’t get me wrong, I know that men are sexist. In fact I think it would shock most women how sexist most men are, even the nice ones. But the thing is, the men who aren’t dickheads keep it to themselves. The thing about women is, they are proud. Hating men is like a higher calling for them. Feminism is like sainthood. I can’t be bothered to look up the male equivalent, but I’m sure it will be an equally rare word as misandrist.

And men, we’re afraid to stick up for ourselves. Women get badly treated in lots of places by lots of people, and that’s a bad thing. But I don’t do it personally, and neither does anyone (well pretty much anyone) who I choose to call my friend. So why then do we have to put up with women having a free reign in advertising and on television to slag us off as much as they want without anyone batting an eye-lid. In this day and age, if men on TV made such wide sweeping and frankly stupid comments about women, as women do about men in Sex and the City and other shit, then the shows would be banned. Women feel it is fine to call any man who stands up for themselves a misogynist whereas men don’t even know the retaliatory word.

Ann Summers is my case and point. I often say to my girlfriend that if I could be bothered I’d picket that place. Not because I think it’s wrong or dirty or whatnot, but just because it is porn. It sells dildos. A comparative shop for men would have to be behind closed doors and all hidden away, but Ann Summers just motherfucking flaunts it. And the desperate argument I have heard against this often is, “you love it really”. I fucking hate that. It’s the same as a women thinking that you will give her special treatment just because she’s pretty. I know that statistically men do do that, but still, pretty women should at least try to develop personalities. My girlfriend has.

Anyway to sum up, I want to say again that I realise that men are generally more sexist than women, and that men give women a lot more shit than women in a sexist way. I just am sick of the double standard which is in effect which makes nice guys have to apologise for dickheads, whereas bitches are publicly celebrated by women.

Pepe le peu

I would like to talk to you today about something which has annoyed me for a long time. Something which would have annoyed me for a much longer time, had I been older, as it happened long before I was born. Well I say happened, but it wasn’t an event really, just some stuff. I’m starting to annoy me with all this digression now.

I want to complain about Samuel Pepys. Now if you don’t know who I’m talking about then I’m not surprised, as I barely know. He was some guy who wrote a diary which survived the great fire of London. I think. I am no historian and know almost nothing about this man, except that in some circles his name has lasted through history. And it’s his name that annoys me.

Pepys. To start with it’s a plural, which is just stupid. But again I digress, as I really care not about that. Pepys. Should be pronounced pep – ees right? Would make sense. But no, it’s pronounced peeps. PEEPS! Who the fuck did this man think he was?

I can just imagine him now, swaggering through ye olde London with the plague, pulling a cart or persecuting someone for religious reasons when he see’s ye olde tavern and thinks “I’ll stop for ye olde ale”. He walks through the door and before you know it he’s like “PEEPS IS IN THE HOUSE” and everyone gives off a yanky “woo woo”. That damn bastard, who did he think he was? The father of hip hop? He had a pathetic girly name, and he tried to act all cool about it. And somehow it worked as his name lives on and on.

Some people have all the luck. History lesson over.

Should have been a yes man

I don’t say yes anymore, I just say maybe.

Like maybe I am crazy. Maybe I do hate you. Maybe those are my drugs, and maybe I did take some.

Or maybe I’ll come out tonight. Maybe I’ll see you later. Maybe I’ll give you a call sometime. Maybe I do like you.

It’s an impractical way to live. People say

“Do you want some of this?”

and I say “maybe”

and they say “well which is it? Yes or no”

so I say “well it’s not no”

so they say “so it’s yes then”

so I say “maybe”

Then usually the violence starts.

And then the police come. And the paramedics.

“Can you hear me?”

“Maybe”

“Do you know what year it is?”

“Maybe”

“Are these your drugs”

“Maybe”

“Do you understand your rights as I have read them to you?”

“Maybe”

Then contempt of court. Then jail.

Then maybe just maybe, when I get out, I can have some of whatever I was offered which caused all this trouble in the first place. Maybe.

A Fools Game

I played poker last night again and after 6 hours of intensity, I came second. Second! It’s a shame it wasn’t for money otherwise…. well I still would have gone home broke I suppose. But then at least when I told other people of my first loser status, I would have been able to embellish with the amount of money which I almost won. Maybe even I would have been able to talk about what I would have done with the money. Probably something concerned the eating of some sorta pie.

But pie’s aside, gambling really is fun. I mean in Australia they have a cuss word for a non-gambler as 70% of the population gamble regularly. That’s a fucking lot of aussies ready to kick the crap out of you for using their fruit machine when they’ve just gone to get some change.

So a life of chance it is for me then. I’m going to spend all my spare time gambling on the internet and seeing what comes of it. I made $3,600 into $3,600,000 on GTA on my x-box so clearly I have the gene. If I just give it 10 hours a day everyday then I’ll be rich within the month.

Although I suppose 10 hours a day is longer than a working day. It hardly seems worth it in terms of sleep…

I'm not growing up, I'm just burning out

So it’s the middle of Earth’s lifespan. That’s what I heard on TV today. 5 billion years gone, 5 billion to go. Somehow that makes a lot of sense to me.

We are all like Earth’s midlife crisis. Half way through sitting around, just being a big ball of mud, it thought

“Shit! I have to do something with my life. I've been wasting away just staring at the sun for too fucking long. I know, I’m gonna create life. Millions of types of life. And they're gonna be all interesting and pretty and clever and stuff. Yeah.”. And so here we are. Living away and fucking up this ball of mud. It doesn’t notice anyway. It’s too busy checkin out mars’ butt.

So what’s my point? I feel old I guess. I’ve said it many many times, but this last week I was working on a TV film set and I really noticed it more. All the people at an equivalent level of employment were years younger than me. All the actors were younger than me. Even the lady who owned the club we filmed in was younger than me. Doh. Maybe it’s time to grow up hey.

But probably not. What do you call an African American flying a plane?

A pilot you stupid racist.

I got that directly from the OC. Maybe I’m not as old as I look. Or maybe I’ve just got bad taste in TV. Hmm. Whatever. At least I’m not younger than I look. Being young sucked. I just remember all those sweeties to buy, and no money.

Crumbling into the ashtray

So there I was. Fucked off my nuts in a penthouse in Putney playing poker and winning. And spinning around on my chair as the room gets smokier and smokier. Pretty soon I start asking myself “How the fuck am I winning?”

I clearly have no idea, so I begin asking other people. Seems they don’t know either. But now they’ve all spotted that I’m wrecked, it becomes unlikely that I’ll be winning for long. Because then of course my next move did have to be the only thing that I never do, and that’s bluff. But when you’re in my state, you don’t exactly bluff, you kinda just give your money away. As I was thinking “Now these guys think I’m wrecked so I can do clever stuff and they’ll never guess it was intentional!” But of course I was discounting the fact I really was wrecked. So one ‘all in –> me out’ later, I started making like a ringmaster.

Now rolling takes me a really long time, so if I really was making like a ringmaster, the lions would have eaten me a long time ago for wasting their time. But anyway, while I was doing that, smoke was flying everywhere, so I continuously had to switch between multi-tasking rolling and dealing poker, and smoking and dealing poker. The thing is, I’ve never really had much of an attention span. Remembering what I’m doing one minute to the next seems like a novel waste of brain power to me, so of course eventually, I found myself crumbling straight into the ashtray. ‘Son of a bitch’ I thought, ‘Seems like such a waste’. Yet in the state I was in, the profound logic of what I was doing kept me doing it for a second longer.

The moral of the story is this: people aren’t gonna necessarily scream “stop you idiot” to stop you when you’re wasting an opportunity.

Ask me no questions….

Being unemployed sucks. I mean, don’t get me wrong, it has its high points such as the sleeping in and the playing of computer games when you want. Ok so I don’t play computer games during the day anyway, but I like the sleep.

Anyway, the worst bit about being unemployed is the looking for a job. The destruction of one’s own current state is always going to be arduous, but more so when you have to convince the destructor that you really want it to be done. I’m talking about job interviews.

Like the one I had yesterday. A group interview in which no questions were asked. We introduced ourselves, then they said any questions? And surprisingly for a dominantly British group, people were ready to just jump in. The problem was that they were intensely irrelevant questions which would obviously have really fucking long answers. So after about an hour of that, we were given a 5 minutes math test and then told we could leave.

I asked no questions as I wanted to get to the interview. So basically I wasn’t there as far as the interviewers would be concerned as they had to see dozens of people, and one guy sitting in the corner not saying anything isn’t really going to stick out. Doh. So I did something that I’ve never done before, and I’ll never do again. I complained to the interviewer by email about the interview.

Today I got a reply. You were the strongest candidate for one of the positions, we are sorry that you do not want to continue with the interview process. I protested my interest in the interview protest, but to no avail. Stupid interviews.

Stupid unemployment.

Stupid me.

Again!

I lost my ring last night. I was a little tipsy after watching "the big game" in the pub, so decided a bacon sandwich would be the best thing for my very slightly hungry stomach. My mum and step dad were up so after taking a bacon poll, I cooked some for them too. After I had made my mini feast I looked down at my hand and realised that my thumb was missing it's most important component - the ring! So I freaked out and looked through my pockets, through my jacket, through the fridge, through the bushes outside. And nothing. I decided that maybe I should wait til the cold light of day to look again. Depressed but full I went to bed.

The next day, well today I suppose, I rumbled out of bed and went straight to work. I searched and searched inside and out. No joy. And it was fucking cold outside in just my dressing gown and novelty shaped slippers. But damn it no ring. I’ve lost that little circular bastard too many times to just put it down to c'est la vie as it keeps coming back and then disappearing again to piss me off. It's like the one true ring in that gay midget film, except that it's got nowhere better to be, and nothing better to do than mess with me. Unless of course it considers me the giant eye, always looking for it, but in that case where are my armies, and why do I have eye-lids?

But anyway, today to cheer myself up I made another bacon sandwich. And guess what? When I unwrapped the cheese it was sitting there all cold and shit. That little bastard. I’m gonna throw it into a volcano one of these days.

The ugly potato

Once upon a time there was a little potato. He was so small in fact that the other potatoes used to bully him all the time and call him a potatini. He would jump up and down and say “I’m not a potatini, I’m a potato just like you” but the big potato’s would just laugh. “Potatoes are at least as big as us. You’re not a potato, you’re just a little potatini”. And the little potato would cry and scream and complain, but of course this only made the big potatoes laugh at him more and tease him harder. One day though, they pushed him too hard and he flew into a rage and attacked them all. He was so angry that he mashed them all into a fine paste, even though they were not boiled, as is traditional with such a venture. The next day was picking day and the farmer came along to inspect his crop. Although the little potato had felt bad about his actions almost as soon as he had committed them, he was happy now as he was the only potato left, so the farmer was sure to love him. But lo, when the farmer came over to him, he just picked him and kicked him into the distance, and then cried for his mashed potato crop. For you see, the little potato was not a potato at all, but a rock.

What does prego mean anyway?

I went to the Pope’s house this weekend. Ok, maybe not his actual house, but his office at least. In his very own city. It was beautiful.

But not as beautiful as my lovely lady. She took me to Rome for the weekend. Never has such a nice thing been done for me, it’s just a shame that we can never return. Not because of legal reasons or what not, but simply for fear of getting fat.

Unsurprisingly, almost everything we ate in Rome was the tastiest motherfucking shit ever. But vaguely surprisingly, the pistachio ice-cream had a strangely amazingly addictiveness about it, that meant we ate it twice daily. And an ice-cream based diet on top of the four or so courses that you are expected to eat for each meal does not equate to healthy bunnies. In fact, I have no-idea whatsoever how all Italians aren’t immobilised by their gigantic fat asses. If I lived there, I know I would be.

But anyway, it was amazing and pretty and warm (in February). And somewhat sad. I don’t know about anyone else, but I have never thought of the Colloseum as a depressing place before. I mean, I know that life was different then, so fighting to the death wouldn’t be so strange, but when we were there I couldn’t help imagining all of the people who had fought and died for no reason. Not even entertainment. Those who had cried, or run, or just wet their pants. Those poor bastards. A tour guide we were eaves dropping on said that they used to employ little kids to aggravate the animals with big sticks, as otherwise they wouldn’t put up a good fight. Just think how many of those kids would have died for just not running away quick enough.

Ok it wasn’t sad at all apart from that. I bought a snow globe from a nun on top of the Vatican. I ran around the chariot course pretending to ram into Kathy. And we got very, very drunk. Mamma mia.

Lobster rocks, oysters suck

I ate lobster and oysters for dinner the other night. Not bad for an un/self-employed bum like me. Just so you know, lobster rocks, and oysters suck.

I was having dinner with my estranged father in a fairly swanky restaurant in London, and call me petty if you will, but I thought the man owed me a lobster dinner. I was gonna get a steak too, but I was afraid that the old bastard might have been making my brother pay, so I held back. No champagne either. Doh. Shoulda gone with my first instincts.

The only question which I asked the old man of any personal nature was whether or not he supported George Bush Jnr. I assumed that no-one with any brains did, but my Dad is a Texan oil man so I thought I’d check. And he said he did. And then I asked him how he could considering how stupid George is, and listed dozens of stupid things he had said and done. And my dad said, “You have to consider that he makes at least three speeches a day, so of course sometimes he’s going to make mistakes”. Hmm. I would like to think that if I made 3 speeches a day, my stupid mistakes wouldn’t be as frequent and apparent as his.

Anyway, I was talking to my mum the other day, and she told me that her sister in Iran was being forced to demonstrate in favour of nuclear power. Now up to this point I had kinda believed that the images of Iranians on TV supporting their president had been true. It’s funny how badly I can misjudge the two nations that I am from. Or at least their support for their leaders.

I kinda wish that in this case I was right. Being forced to protest is terrible. Believing a moron is a good man is worse.

Easy thoughts

I always find it annoying when my best thoughts come to me in bed. Not when I’m in my own bed, as I have surrounded it with pens and paper for exactly such an occasion, but when I’m sleeping elsewhere. It really gets to me. Not the least because usually with one good thought, comes another, and the joy of the good thinking means that you don’t want to stop and save it for later. Because you know that it doesn’t work like that. If you stop thinking the good thought, and then miraculously somehow later remember what the hell you were thinking about, you are never able to regain the original good thought cycle. Like if you were thinking of new flavours for jelly beans, you may later be able to think of other good flavours, but the original possible good flavours you were inventing in your head are lost forever.

And to be clear, I’m not talking about morally good thoughts. I’m talking about brain waves. Eureka moments. The times when things become clear. Although I suppose the jelly beans example doesn’t exactly demonstrate that too well, as they are generally opaque.

But anyway, I suppose we can all take solace in the fact that with so many people on the planet, it is quite likely that someone else is having the same thoughts as you somewhere else, and for them it might be daytime. And they may have a pen.

So if you ever realise something vital and want to write it down but can’t for some reason, just say to yourself “Fuck it, someone else probably will”.

Vive la France

A great friend of mine once said “What you’re crying about this? There are people dying in Bosnia”. I was 17 years old and another friend of mine had allegedly just thrown me down some concrete stairs. Amidst all the blood and booze pouring out of my head, and the bloody hand prints that I spread liberally around, a girl was crying.

I was her first boyfriend. And she was watching me die. I don’t remember the incident. I don’t remember the paramedics. I don’t remember telling half the hospital ward and my mother what I wanted to do to my girlfriend. And I don’t remember how she was while this was all going on. But Anthony does, because he was looking after her. Or at least comparing my drunken fall to the deadly bullets fired in a far away land.

That’s what I love about that boy. He was always prepared to say the most offensive thing in a situation, just for a laugh. He didn’t mind how it reflected on him, as long as it was funny. He would make racist jokes all the time, because he knew that no-one else in England would, even though he hated La Penn and racists in general. That’s why I was so happy when I heard that he was moving here looking for a job. But today he told me that he’s going back to Paris for a fourth interview for a job which he never thought he’d get. It’s sad that he’s leaving, but good luck to the boy.

In honour of his brief life in England, here is a joke he once made up to offend me. “What do you do if you see 5 black guys in Harlem harassing a young girl?” “Throw them a basketball”.

Dog Days

So I woke up today and I was hungover. Again. Because I went to the Racing Page and then O’Neils. Again. And then I came home and ate haggis. Again. My life is getting strangely repetitive. Or at least strange and repetitive. Except that today was different than yesterday. Because it was a good hangover. Not the kind of hangover when you can barely move for fear of puke. Not the kind where you search the bed continuously for the cold spot to put your head on. Not the kind where you can’t face the prospect of eating, but you know that until you eat you are going to feel more and more fucked. Not the kind where the dread seeps through slowly from your subconscious and you know, you just know that you did something to regret the night before.

It was the kind where you wake up and everything feels beautiful. The kind where you want to get up because you’re happy to be alive and you want to see the world. I mean I still felt sick. And pretty stupid. In fact really fucking stupid. But when I opened my eyes this morning, I kept them open. And not to stop the world from spinning when I closed them. And it was nice. I even walked from my house to my girlfriends, which is something I have never even considered before. I even had a shower before anyone else in my house, which is something I have never bothered to attempt before.

I was confused why I felt this painful joy. But then I remembered (via someone on TV telling me). It’s Chinese New Year. It’s now the year of the Dog. My year. Our year. And it’s going to be fucking great. It’s just a shame I’m more of a cat person.

Sven

I’ve got this swan on my chest which will never go away. It’s made up of three numbers which have many meanings but which mean nothing. I can’t get rid of these things, and nor would I want to, but the way people talk to me about it I have to get rid of its meaning, because people don’t get why I did it.

It’s not for comedy. The reason I give for 256 being my lucky number is funny, but I didn’t get ink in my skin for a funny reason. It’s not because I think it’s a mystical symbol. True, when I thought of the number I was all fucked up and I was like “woah man, what does that mean?!”, but even when I’m fucked out of my skull I don’t really believe the shit that falls out of my mouth. I got it because I’m an idiot.

I don’t mean I’m stupid. Because maybe I am and maybe I’m not, but that’s what not what I mean. I mean that it reminds me that I’m an idiot. It reminds me of the things I’ve done. The really stupid, dangerous, unrepeatable, unforgettable yet forgotten things which make me who I am. And I’m not saying that I’m a stunt man or that my scarred skin is a sign of humility to remember that I’ve been a fool. It’s a mark of stupidity to remind me that I am a fool. That I don’t care about the worlds troubles and rules. That I’m not going to just give in and live an ordinary life. That I’ve chosen to be a fool, because it’s more fun. That I’m not going to go gentle into that good night. Because if I did, then I really would be an idiot, and the worst physical pain I’ve ever felt in my life would have been for nothing.

Teleholic

I wake up and something’s wrong. I feel funny. I open my eyes but my eyelids won’t go all the way up. I’m really fucking hot even though I’m fairly certain it’s really cold outside of my body. I hear the longest weirdest gurgling sound that has ever entered my ears and I look around for the freak that must have made it. The movement hurts my head. Shit I was drunk last night wasn’t I?

But I didn’t even drink that much. Maybe I’m just becoming a lightweight. Wait, think back, what’s the last thing you remember? Picking on some kids wearing stupid outfits because they claim that they’re classical music scholars. And then getting my ass kicked my Gene Simmons. Wait that can’t have really happened. Must have been a dream. Which must mean that I was asleep at some point. Well that explains why I’m in bed. Hangover. Hungover. Can’t think fully, so will have to make do with the brain of a monkey. Check my phone. Ok so I didn’t send any miscellaneous messages, that’s always nice to now. Here comes that gurgling again and this time I’m sure it’s from my belly. And it feels good. Oh yeah. Oh wait it feels like I’m gonna be sick. Ok, so that’s passed. Hmm. Gotta find some water. And a way out of this bed. Fuck it, I’m going back to sleep.

Headache. Can’t sleep. It’s too early to get up though. Maybe I’m still drunk. Maybe I’m still asleep. Maybe I should stop drinking. Nah. Just watch the TV. That can become my reality. Ahh that’s better.

My name is Justin

I was like 14 when I had my first encounter with karma. I didn’t realise it at the time, but in retrospect it was there staring me in the eye, plain as Michael Jacksons face after I’d hit him with a shovel. Tom found £40 on the street, and due to his good nature he handed it into the police. The only times where I got close to finding serious cash had been in conjunction with my brother, so I never got to spend any of that lucky loot. Months after Tom had been given the money back by the police, he found another £40. That jammy bastard. I remember him finding other notes now and then, but those two stuck in my mind, because the second time again he handed them into the police and got them back. No wonder he leads a semi-charmed kinda life.

But yesterday, yesterday it came back to me. My little business venture is altruistic in spirit, and yesterday I was discussing the finer points of how I would not give that up for any amount of money. And on the way to the ‘meeting’ with one of my ‘business partners’ I found £10. After I had fought my ‘I’m gonna help people’ corner for a few hours, I went home and then found £20. Hot diggity! The first two notes I find, and both on the same day. I was wondering what the third lucky thing would be to happen to me, and then I bumped into Lydia on a road which I imagine bumping into her on every time I walk down it. Luck is one mysterious bitch, just like Lydia, so this all made sense.

Yesterday topped the time I found 20 unopened Marlboro lights and then 18 later in the same day. I don’t remember what I did to deserve that, but it seems clear to me now as old peoples skin, that if you try to do good things, good things will happen to you.

That's when good neighbours become...

Neighbours made me cry this week. I never thought it would happen but it did. When I was younger than I am now, there was always the rumour going around that one day neighbours would end, and that a plane would crash on Ramsay Street and that everyone would die except Helen Daniels. Well that old bitch died years ago, so I thought it was safe to assume that was a crock of shit. That was until this week came along and Paul Robinson chartered an old school plane with all the characters on it and some motherfucker put a bomb on it. I thought it would be cheesy and an anti-climax in the traditional Australian style, but no. It was more epic than a sumo wrestler fighting a bear. And I thought they were all dead. And even when it turned out they weren’t it was so well done that I shed a tear for the pain my fake friends were feeling.

Maybe that’s what happens when you spend enough time on your own in your room. Your fake friends become a bit too important to you. But at least for half an hour everyday I’m not alone. Like I am on this blog. I asked if anyone was reading this to sign. And you didn’t. So now I’m back to screaming into a plastic bag. I don’t mind though, it means I can talk more shit than ever, if my only audience is me. Any old crap holds my attention. That’s why neighbours made me cry this week. I never thought it would happen but it did.

I'm not saying you don't have a brain

Sometimes when I look at people I swear I can see right through their eyes, through their brains and right to the back of their heads. I speak to these people, but somehow my voice just echoes in their head and comes back out their mouth. It freaks me out. I feel like I must be missing something, or else they must be, because how can people actually be like that? Hmm. Is there anybody really out there?

That’s why I’m doing what I’m doing. I can’t be bothered to explain here, but I’m working on an art related magazine. To me, I’ve always found it an amazing thought that all the shit that goes on in my head, the millions of unstoppable thoughts about everything and nothing are replicated in every head on the planet. And there are more than 6 billion of them now. I don’t mean that everyone thinks the same as me (because that really would be weird), but that everyone has there own whole world built into their head, their own worries, their own thoughts, their own point of view. As complicated as I feel life is for me, it is for everyone else too. When I walk down the street, I sometimes just look at all the windows on the top floors of houses, because most of them are bedrooms, and every bedroom implies a whole world. A whole life which is running on the same planet as me, but which I’ll never see. Hey that rhymes.

Anyway, my point is, that I’m doing what I’m doing because as far as I’m concerned art (in all it’s forms) is the only way that you can really be sure that other people really exist. I have no evidence that other people think except that they can express their thoughts, and that I can understand these expressions of thoughts makes me realise that other people see the world in their own way too. Not to be trite, but without art, how the fuck could I really know that the whole world isn’t just a figment of my imagination, and that people are just facets of that?

I once had a dream that I woke up one day and my whole life had been a massive hallucination and that everything I thought was wrong. Maths, physics, philosophy, everything I had just made up. In my dream when I woke up I was eating a dead rabbit and staring at a tree, which had been an ice cream and a tv respectively before I woke up. Does this make sense? No? Well it didn’t at the time either.

I digress. My point is (and this has been a really fucking roundabout way of getting there) that as much as art is the only way in which I can know people really exist, the comments on this thing are the only way I can know that anyone reads it. So please, leave comments, I don’t care in the slightest what they say, because otherwise this is like screaming into a plastic bag – almost like communication, but also quite like suffocation.

I’m gonna try write at least once a week now. I hope that’s enough for you to be bothered to check this thing. Whoever you are.

Religious Intolerance

Did anyone watch that “Root of all evil” show last night? I caught a bit of it, and I have to say I was extremely disappointed. I was intending on not watching it simply because I assumed that it would make the trite point that religious wars are all stupid, but instead it made the stupider point that people should look at the evidence for god then decide whether to be religious.

This was because the presenter was trying to say that science is better than religion as science doesn’t breed hate or intolerance. What he entirely missed, was that science is basically its own religion in that it breeds hate of things that it can’t explain and intolerance of religion and faith in general.

Believing in something itself isn’t a bad thing. To be a scientist you have to believe in many things, such as that without proof, something can’t be true. Believing in any god isn’t neccesaily a bad thing. What I think is a bad thing is believing in people.

The bible is 2000 years old roughly and people see it as the gospel truth. I believe in god, but I don’t believe in the bible. One reason why is that at the beginning of the 2000 years, most people couldn’t read, and so the bible would be told to them. If only a few people knew what it said, then what would stop them from changing it? I mean, even if it were the word of God to start with, if along the way someone or some people decided to use it for their own gain then what is to say that didn’t happen? The Romans, the Spanish inquisition, the Vatican, and many other powerful forces have had the Bible as their focus point for loyalty throughout this time, so as much I think believing in God is fair enough, believing in the people who claim to work for God is not.

This is of course not only true for Christianity. What about Mohammed? He went to Allah and asked for men to be able to pray less times a day as it was interfering with daily life. What if he was just a guy who didn’t want to pray so many times a day? I’m not saying he wasn’t holy, but no-one is perfect.

And what bothers me most about all religions, is the fact that most people believe in a stupid god. They say that god is omnipotent and all knowing and everywhere and in everything. Well if that was true, what would make Him angry? If He knew every side of the story, then why would anything we ever did bother Him? Why would He ever think violence was the answer, because if He is all powerful and He wanted one of us dead then He could make it happen in a million different ways.

One last thing. Science is a religion. It is religion for people who won’t admit to having faith. But there is no reason to believe that science and God are mutually exclusive. If I was God, and I wanted to make the universe and everything, I wouldn’t create things one by one, I’d just do one thing which started everything off. Just one. If He knows everything, then he knows the results of everything, so just one tiny event would be enough to make everything happen. Because if you knew everything, then wouldn’t everything be boring to you? So it wouldn’t be the doing of things which you would find interesting, it would be watching the action unfold.

Evolution! The most exciting and long running TV show ever invented.

If I had a point I'd be dangerous

Do you think if you lived forever that eventually everything you owned would be a Christmas present? Looking around my room now, there is a high proportion of regular items which have been replaced with novelty counterparts by people short of present ideas. Maybe it’s just the people who buy me presents, but my room is starting to look a bit like Robin Williams sisters room in Toys. If only I had his smoking jacket.

Not that I’m complaining of course (I would never complain about anything!), but drinking tea out of Darth Vaders head, or tapping off into an antique bed pan are not everyday events. Or at least not in most people’s lives. But I am blessed by randomness. Variety is of course the spice of life, and luckily I like it spicy. Despite being addicted to sleep.

That’s a nice way of putting it hey. Addicted to sleep. Instead of being tired, I get withdrawal symptoms. When I’m yawning, I’m craving a fix. When I sleep too much, I’m overdosing. When I dream, I’m tripping. Sleep really is the best drug, as it’s never killed anyone. Except maybe that guy in Se7en, but I’m fairly sure that Morgan Freeman was responsible for that due to his shoddy detective work.

I feel like this blog entry has no point at all. But then when do they ever? Hmm. So I guess I’ll quit while I ahead. Actually nah fuck it, I’ll say one more thing…. swearing is the poetry of the illiterate. So fuck you.

Dancing? No Fucking Way?!

So new years was fun hey. Motherfucking fun. Or so I hear. To be honest I can remember pretty much fuck all about it. I have been told that I was very happy and amusing most of the night and ended it with dancing, pretending to be sick and abusing strangers on the train while sitting on the floor. Sounds like me when I’m drunk. But you know what sounds more like me when I’m drunk? The recordings I made on my Dictaphone (a Christmas present for my beezneez) throughout the evening.

That’s right, New Years Eve, live and in audio effect. So if you are interested in me asking everyone the same question over and over again, or maybe hearing increasingly drunken philosophical debates with dave, or perhaps even my lame attempt at tricking Marta into admitting she’s a lesbian then I’ve got it all digitally recorded. If you are interested in anything that makes sense however, I’m really not your man.

I mean there is a recording of me singing happy birthday to the new year. And discussing how many puppies I had bought the preceding years. What the fuck happened? I have no memory of these events or many others. So if anyone out there can tell me what the fuck happened that evening, I would be grateful.

If I offended anyone, I am very sorry. If I was overly nice to anyone, then I’m not quite so sorry. But honestly, if anyone knows what I did the whole evening, then tell me. The black spots in my memories aren’t that funny anymore, just frightening little patches of *shit what the fuck did I do* stuck in my head.

But anyway, all in all it was a good night. I woke up with maraca’s (is that what they’re called?) in my pocket and a smile on my face. So I assume all’s well that ends well. Happy new year. 2006 is gonna kick ass. Hell yeah.

Monkey Christmas

Three monkeys fighting in the playground. Blood and fur going everywhere, when one stops and shouts

“Hey stop. STOP! What the fuck were we fighting for anyway?”

and one of the other two cries

“All the BANANAS!”

So they start again and fight and fight and bite and bite until one of them pull’s off another ones tail and says

“Hey stop. STOP! Doesn’t this look like a hairy banana?!”

and pretends to start eating it as if it were a banana. The other two monkeys roll around laughing until the first monkey has just about imaginarily peeled his hairy banana.

“Hey stop. STOP!” cries one of the other two monkeys. “Who’s tail is that anyway?”

So they all stop and start looking at their own butts, but as is traditional in the animal world, they can’t quite see, so soon enough they are all just spinning around on the spot trying to see their rears. This goes on for much longer than it should as they each occasionally catch a glimpse of one of the other two’s tail so panic and spin even faster.

After a while a nearby child takes pity on the monkeys as he sees they have started throwing up on themselves and all around them but still continue to spin. The child takes up a small collection from the other children and he goes over to the monkeys and says

“Please stop spinning. That’s not a tail, that’s an unconscious ferret who got caught up in your scuffle. I’ve brought you some bananas”.

Now of course monkeys can’t understand humans, but the word bananas transcends species and race, so within 5 seconds all three of the monkeys had jumped on the boy and were tearing the bananas out of his hand and eating them. These weren’t the smartest monkey’s in the world though, and as he said ‘bananas’ (plural) and yet they had only had one banana each they kept searching the boy until they accidentally on purpose killed him. Then in a blood curdling monkey scream one of the monkeys cried

“THE CHILDREN. THEY HAVE THE BANANA’S”

and the monkeys charged the children and killed them all in search of their yellow gold.

And that is why they don’t send monkeys to school anymore.

Merry Christmas.

Even when the world is dark, the sun can still shine

I love it when a single shaft of sunlight hits my face. Like when you’re sitting there without any natural light, be it because of blinds or clouds, and then suddenly a ray of light comes through and makes you smile. And feel all warm inside even though that massive ball of fire is only actually heating a small part of you. It’s frickin awesome.

I remember long ago when I used to work at Barclays I used to take daily breaks sitting in the sun. By this I just mean that in the 15 minutes or so each day that the sun could get through the neighbouring buildings (and if I was lucky the clouds), I would just roll back my chair and sit and close my eyes and forget that I was at work. Was a beautiful thing. But then I’d open them again and see the hustle and bustle around me. And some people staring at me usually as I had my eyes closed and looked like a freak. But anyway, good times, good times.

Strangely one of my favourite things about shaft’s of sunlight is that you can see all the dust in the air within them. I always think it’s pretty amazing when you are in a room and it seems all nice and clean and still, until a sunbeam bursts in and shows the intensity of the filth and movement in the very air you are breathing in. The filth doesn’t bother me, but the idea that there is such an incredible amount of stuff floating around us all the time, and we just can’t see it unless it’s illuminated by our star is indicative of all life. And it’s pretty cool to look at too.

I used edible glitter on a cake once, and as I was just experimenting, I guess I used a shit load more than I should have, as the next day when that beam of light came through the window the whole room looked like it was sparkling. It was intense. It was beautiful. King Kong would have appreciated it.

Even on a cold day you can still find warmth. Even in an ice cube, you can freeze a chilli. Even a bathroom floor can be heated. Even ice cream can have hot fudge sauce on it. I may hate the sun, but I appreciate everything in it’s right place.

Or is that everything all of the time? Damn confusing Radiohead

We only come out at night

I love the night time. It’s not just because I hate the fucking sun so much, it’s just because to me everything at night just seems right. The best feeling in London is at 4 or 5 am when there is no-one about and the city just seems amazing. During the day there are so many people about that everything is just buzzing and busy and used up so that you can’t really see the wood for the trees. At night time though you feel like a king as you travel through those amazing city streets that you belong to and that belong to you. You just want to touch everything. And even the air tastes different. During the day there are wafts of food and smoke and fumes and sweat, but at night, at night time it’s different. It’s pure. And not just because it’s cold and I love the fucking cold so much, but because it is actually a beautiful thing. If only there were stars to see. And no bit of weird sky an inch tall all around the horizon.

My beautiful girlfriend and I once came back from someplace absolutely fucked sometime in some early morning. And I got my duvet and we sat outside in the garden on the floor just looking at the sky having a smoke break. Huddling from the cold and love, we just sat and whispered and looked up. There were no stars, but it was beautiful. The hour and the peaceful quiet made that more true. The world felt so empty and quiet. And somehow right.

Damn I miss smoking. It’s been 50 days or some shit now. No wait I don’t miss smoking. It was a bad thing. A bad thing.

Anyway, night time offers other benefits to us regular folk like improved TV, no working, possibilities for drinking, for shagging, for smoking and of course for wondrous sleep. So in general, night time is a good time.

Good night.

To Sleep

I really wish I was dead right now. I could do with a rest. If I only I would be conscious to enjoy it, that coffin would be a joy to live in. Well die in. Or be dead in. Whatever.

But I can’t put my faith in death being like sleep, so I gotta keep going. I said from before the start that 2005 was gonna suck. And it has. Really really badly. Been a surprisingly good year for films though. Swings and roundabouts I suppose.

Doesn’t life suck when stuff happens to you that you have no control over. I mean you’re carrying on with your life and then suddenly something happens and everything is fucked for some period of time. And sometimes you can’t tell people about it, so then you start acting weird. And that effects them and the ripples spread.

Or sometimes you do something and to you it means nothing, but to the person you do it to it means a lot. And you change something in them forever, without spending a single thought on it. This is ok when you change them for the better, but it’s frickin terrible when you change them for the worse. Or they ask you about something that you know that you’re in no position to talk about, but you do anyway and you somehow make things worse. When all you really wanted was to stay the same.

The same. Or to change but keep parts of yourself. Or to change entirely. All of these roads are fucking hard to walk down. Sometimes reputations outlive their applications. Sometimes they underlive them. Sometimes you do stuff over and over again and think that people will have noticed or that it will have mattered, but in actuality it’s only you. So you might as well stop. But if you stop then you’ve given in. And you should never give in.

Except when you’re wrong. And who really knows when they are wrong? I love being proved wrong, but at the same time I know I’m pretty condescending so I must seem like I always think I’m right. But I don’t. I know I’m as fallible as everyone else. Everyone else doesn’t seem to think they’re as fallible as me though. I take time to stop and think what in my life I’m wrong about often. It seems to me that other people don’t like to do this. And if I tell them to, they get angry. I suppose it’s a case of arrogance. Probably my arrogance. I’d like to think everyone’s. But if I say that, you’ll get mad. Because no-one likes to think they’re wrong about how they are acting in general.

Which is why no-one will ever think of themselves as the bad guy. In films it’s so black and white usually. But in real life we have to wait for history to judge, and as it’s written by the winner, we really are fucked for the truth. When it comes down to people though, we just each have to think if we’re doing what we think is right. And it’s hard. If you always try to be nice, and other people aren’t nice to you, should you be mean back? If you do something to someone, should you consider their feelings before or after or at all? If you have done something unrelated to someone, yet they seem upset by it, should you dismiss them for interfering or listen for next time?

But there won’t be a next time. Because every moment is different. You just have to choose what it is you want to do, and who it is you want to be in each of them. I just have to choose what it is I want to do, and who it is I want to be in each of them.

And right now, I wish I was dead.

Breathe

1: “So have you heard that Justin’s not smoking anymore?”
2: “Not smoking? What do you mean by that?”
1: “Well he doesn’t smoke anymore”
2: “Really? Justin? How the hell does he do that?”
1: “I don’t know man. It’s weird when you see him now. No smoke coming out of his mouth. No cigarette in his hand”
2: “No cigarette in his hand?! I suppose that would be a good way of getting around it. Where does he get his smoke from then”
1: “Nowhere, he just doesn’t smoke.”
2: “That’s unfuckingbelievable. What about when he’s got a cigarette in his hand, what the fuck does he do then?”
3: “What the fuck does who do when?”
1: “Hey alright man, we were just talking about Justin not smoking”
3: “Yeah I heard about that. He told me that the trick is to not buy any cigarettes”
1: “I guess, but what about if he gets one off of someone else?”
2: “Or if he’s already got one in his hand?”
3: “Well he also said the trick is to not put any cigarettes in his mouth, and to not light them”
2: “Yes but what if he’s already got one”
1: “Yeah like if someone had given him one?”
3: “I don’t know, I guess he just doesn’t ask for one. Or if he does by accident then he doesn’t smoke it. I was out with him the other night in the pub and he wasn’t smoking”
1: “NO! In the pub! I thought that he just wasn’t smoking at reasonable times. How do you go to the pub and not smoke? I mean you’ve got your pint in one hand and your fag in the other. If he doesn’t smoke it then what does he do with it?”
3: “He just didn’t have one in his hand. He was just drinking.”
2: “Without smoking? That’s just fucking strange”
1: “Yeah what does he do when he moves his hand to his mouth to take a drag if there’s no cigarette there?”
3: “Umm.. I don’t know. I didn’t see him do that. I suppose he just doesn’t do that”
2: “And what about all the fag machines in the pub? How did he not use them?”
3: “I DON’T KNOW! I’m just telling you what I saw alright. He just somehow didn’t. I even offered him a cig and he turned it down”
1: “That’s amazing. He turned it down? No fucking way. That's not possible is it?”
2: “Yeah i suppose it is. But I can’t even imagine someone doing that. Let alone Justin.”
4: “Hey guys, let alone Justin what?”
3 “Have you heard Justin’s not smoking anymore”
4: “Yeah I was on pills with him the other night and he didn’t smoke a single one”
3: "Really!”
2: “That’s just fucking incredible!”
1: “Are you sure? Because I don’t see how that’s possible”
4: “Yeah I’m sure. He’s such a fucking quitter”

Claustrophobia

It’s so bright outside I can’t see. It makes me afraid. And not just of the monsters and the bad people, but of the light. Of seeing and being able to be seen. Even in a mirror I can’t see myself that clearly, so what will I see when I’m out there? I could be a monster myself by now, it’s been so long since I’ve seen myself properly. I haven’t been out since I had a choice. But fear has never kept me afraid, so one day I open the door and step out into the light.

It’s cold and still. The sun is shining, but not on me yet, so I start to walk. Out of the shadow of my home. And it’s easy. I start to whistle a few notes. I pick up my feet and glide through the world, comparing it to how it was last I saw it. It’s all brand new, yet somehow dirtier. I don’t mind at all. Before I know it I’m running. The feeling of the world flying beneath my feet is joyous. Even the bright sun burning the back of my eyes just gives energy to my smile. I grow bolder and stop and scream “What’s there to be afraid of anyway?”. But then I see them. And hear them. And smell them. They’re here. “Usssssss” they say. Monsters. Everywhere. I knew it would be like this, but I came anyway.

I am surrounded, but I have a way out. I choose not to take it. “I’m not afraid” I say, half to myself. The other half makes them laugh. “That’ll sssssoon change” they say. And I think ‘Fuck them. I’m so fucking sick of this’ even though it’s all pretty much new to me. I spit at them. And just stand there. I hit one in the face with a giant glob of snot and saliva gloriously mixed. I wish I had used my fist for a second. But only for a second, because then I give them the finger, and everything before becomes nothing. “You’ll wisssssh you hadn’t done that” they say. But I regret nothing but the things I didn’t do, so their words mean nothing to me. I wait for the violence, the attack. It doesn’t come. They just circle menacingly. I get bored.

So my eyes start to wonder. I look at my hands. In the bright sunlight, I can see the blemishes better. They don’t bother me. I see a puddle within the imaginary circle they are going around, and I look at my reflection. It’s still me. Well the back to front version of me which I always see. I’m no monster. But these guys are. So I kill them. I kill them all. The monster motto is of course, if you’re not with us then you’re against us, and who am I to redefine their rules.

I go home. It’s dark in there. I turn on the light, and look out the window.

Quitter

So you may say I have given up. My job. Smoking. Having a regular life. But I haven’t. I’ve just started.

See all my life I’ve kind of thought of the world as one big computer game. It’s not my fault really – I was brought up by TV and played a lot of them when I was young. To this day I can’t take my eyes off any sort of moving image behind a glass screen. Gambling machines in pubs. Windows out of trains and cars. Any old crap on any old TV. So not surprisingly my identification with life and reality has always been a bit hazy. Of course the things which I consume for fun hasn’t helped me either.

But my point is I realised that sometime in my teens I had been just waiting around for my life to finally start. That I’d fucked up so much so far, that I was just pissing around as I knew that eventually I would get fed up and quit and start a new game. Begin again at the beginning and get it all right. But of course along with this realisation came the fact that I knew that this would never happen. That no matter what I did, I would never get the time back which I had used up. That I had wasted. That I had been wasted during.

So I became a bit of a nihilist. Nothing mattered. Everything was about having fun. Which is fair enough I think in retrospect. I mean they were my formative years and taking it too seriously would have been just as regrettable at a later stage in life as not taking it seriously enough. But at least my way was fun.

And then I slowly by slowly began to betray myself. As I gave up on fun and tried to sort my life out, I started to listen to all the crap that I had sworn to myself that I would never listen to. To conform. And I wasn’t happy. I just thought that if I kept going for long enough that I would desensitize myself to it all, just like everyone else had. But then I remembered… I was going to do something different. I don’t need to be like everyone else. No-one does. It’s just easier to give in. So I stopped. And restarted.

As a mash-up fool once said, Suddenly I am Aware. Aware that life is big. It’s bigger than you, and you are not me. Ok, enough of the quotes. Well maybe not quite. As my point is, this isn’t the end, it’s just the beginning.

Dam

6/10 10:46 English Time
I burn my candle at both ends
It will not last the night
But ah my foes
But oh my friends
We’ll be in Amsterdam tomorrow night!

7/10 6.57 English Time
Couldn’t sleep. Kept thinking about that ad for Disney world.

7.48 English Time
Friends! Friends! I’m sick of this country. Let’s go dutch.

Fre: It’s too early man, I can’t think straight

8.14 English Time
12 Million in cannabis is seized. The stole our stash! Oh well, we’re gonna get some more.

Pop quiz 8.14 English time
What’s your favourite flavour of pancake?
F: Bannana and nutella and whipped cream
D: Mayple Syrup
S: Hash
K: Chocolate

9.54 English Time
Aeroporto. Free booze and the psp is brought out. Fear and loathing? No! And Freddy says? Nothing you idiot, Freddy’s dead.

Between England and Holland
K: Is that a cat hair on your head or are you going grey?
F: Is that a dog hair on your head or are you a bitch?

1.55 dutchy time
We’re here. It was foggy, and we’re late, but we’re smoking in the train station. It say no smoking, but we don’t understand anyway. And they have BK here!

2.10 dutchy
Tiny train stations! Dee speaks dutch! No more mention of Anne Frank. Saul detects traces of shit and Marlboro lights. Ooh.

3.06 dutchy
Ajax! We have a tv, but cannot smoke between 8 and 10 am. It’s gonna be a struggle.

5.23 dutchy
Kandinski was tiny. Nice start but not great. Food from shop was nicer than Chinese whispers.
Abraxus is sweet and cold. Not so comfy. Played Chinese whispers. Woah!
Pop Quiz: what’s your favourite thing in the world?
(Saul – Justin’s handwriting makes me question his sanity)
S: Gadgets man. No that’s not true. Right now I’d have to say my flat.
J: Yorkshire pudding.
D: Freddy
(Freddy, you better say Dee)
F: DEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE
K: Your punches (she’s afraid of me)
T: Literature
Me: My psp.
I can’t believe no-one said Amsterdam. I can’t believe I didn’t say Amsterdam.

8.31 dutchy
anotheronebitesthedust
tsudehtsetibenorehtona
itsfuntosmokemarijuana
hmm maybe

We me a genetic phd student from Cambridge. From china. We drove them out and dee broke a drink.

F: I like bongs.

K: fools! I ain’s stoned motherfucker. Oh wait I am

10pm dutchy
Chinese whispers has turned into a monster. We is fucked up. Stressed out from not remembering.
Boo ya
Justin is begging for mercy

2pm 10/10 dutchy
on the plane home. Fuck know what happened here. There was a giant alligator, that I can be sure of, but otherwise who knows.

Feels like it was fun though.