Stupid Fucking Wednesday

I was in a good mood this morning. I woke up and thought “Fuck it, I may be still feeling a bit sick, but I’m gonna go to work, and work my butt off, that’ll be satisfying”. So I did. It wasn’t exactly satisfying, but its always better than sitting around wishing I wasn’t there. Still it was kinda ruined by my discover that a) I’m pretty much broke for the month and b) I’m probably not gonna get the pittance I thought my father had accidentally left me. So I’m a bit fucked off, but I thought “Can’t stumble at the first hurdle Justin”. So I carried on.

So then I thought, “I’ll rush home, do some shopping, do some cleaning, do some cooking, do some work on Magnus, then have an early night as any wholesome young man should”. Except the fucking bus didn’t come for an hour and a half. So I got home angry and deranged from hunger, and of course I have no money to buy food (or medicine for my lingering cold) and it turns out no food. Well no food that i can be bothered to use to make up a meal. And that was it. No more good mood.

It's funny how little things can fuck you up. Especially when you're a bit sick.

And then Nick let me have some of his dinner. Grated cheese on curry is alllllllllllllright. Nice one bruva!

Hello

So it’s been a while and I thought that maybe I should write something. Something free-style. So I’m just gonna write and see what comes out.

Once upon a time I was a frog and when I was a frog I was happy. Because I like jumping and eating flies and being put in jars, looked at and subsequently released. I was in the woods one day eating something crunchy, when this really ugly fatso came along and picked me up.

“Hello Fattie” I thought “I wonder if I’m going to have to kill you”. Because sometimes fatsos tried to eat me see. But she didn’t. Instead she kissed me and I became a prince. She thought that meant that I had to marry her as she had released me, but hell no. I gave her a good talking to about her excessive weight, tried eating a spider and then sat down to ponder my new non froggy life. After a while I got eaten by an army of flies, who were sick of my shit.

The end.

I think my subconscious is getting smarter.

When I’m working, the way I gauge whether or not I’m good at a task, is if I can do it while daydreaming. I’ll sit down, stare at the screen, start daydreaming about metal spiders or something, and expect my body to get busy doing my job. Sometimes part of my mind will have to join in too. And my voice. But my thoughts keep whiling away the time, pondering over an unrelated set of ideas in my head.

Because of this, my subconscious must be learning things. Like how to use Excel. The other night I had a dream in which I worked out how to do something for work which I had promised I would do, but had given no waking thought as to how yet. And when I woke I realised how genius an idea it was.

Now that’s not right is it. I mean it’s pretty fucking messed up really isn’t it? How can my mind work out how to better use a spreadsheet when it’s asleep? It just doesn’t make any fucking sense!

And how about this: the other night I had a dream which James Earl Jones narrated, and he used the phrase, “And although others might not have understood, for these four, things were quite as they should” which may not quite make sense, but as a poetic turn in a dream, I think it’s quite impressive. It’s like a dream I had long ago in which I was robbing someone’s flat and then planning on blowing it up, and the whole thing had Miss Dynamite-tee-hee (the song by the lady of the same name) as the soundtrack but with comedy words my subconscious brain had made up.

And for the clincher, something my subconscious did while I was awake; the other day I was in a shop and after having spent too long choosing my products, then spending too long deciding how to pay, and then too long packing, I decided for some reason to buy a scratch card. The second scratch card I have ever bought (I got my first on my 16th birthday), and the second and last scratch card I ever intend to buy (as I don’t like gambling much, but I like to try everything twice). And it won! £6. When I bought it, I was all like “I been intending on doing that for ages”, but in reality, it was something that just occurred to me. And as it was at such an awkward stage in my shopping experience (after all my time wasting, the guy behind the counter entirely ignored me for a good few minutes before acknowledging my desire to buy something else) that it seems strange that I would bother to go through the minor social embarrassment to get this thing that I didn’t even really want.

But it won. And I only bought it coz the part of my brain which I don’t control is a friggin’ genius.

Sophie

I didn't know her that well, but I would have once called her friend. She died last night, after battling with cancer from before I ever met her. I remember her as being pretty, enthusiastic, a bit crazy and completely cool. The world is worse off without her. Rest in Peace Sophie.

Fuck Yeah

I, like most people, am not that comfortable with praise. I don’t know what to say or how to act when it comes, and too much is embarrassing for me. Which is lucky, I suppose, as I’ve never really had that much praise. I haven’t really ever earned it see. I used to work hard when I was young, but never my hardest, and even that mostly faded out when I got to about 16.

And whether in my home, with my friends, at uni or at work, I have always been treated as an entry level fool. You know, just not quite on the same level as everyone else. Which is sad, but then as I said, I don’t exactly generally do anything to elicit respect. Often I’ll make myself the butt of a joke, just to make others laugh, so I have learnt to forgive easily people who look at me and think that they can treat me as they wish, because I really don’t matter that much.

It’s been a bit of a depressing life at times, trying to justify in my mind why some of the people I respect most don’t respect me, but overall I think it’s made me who I am. Which I am glad to say, for once, is a good thing. A fucking good thing. See, because for the first time ever, I have been promoted. For the first time ever, someone has looked at me and seen that I am better that some people. That I perhaps could be someone. That perhaps I am someone. And that is just the best fucking feeling of all. Even if it is uncomfortably like praise.

So here’s to me. Here’s to all the sleeping and swearing and rebelling I did to try and stop myself from having an office job. Here’s to not trying hard at pretty much everything. Here’s to not respecting myself, my image, my life, my health or my career. Here’s to finding something I finally like doing. And here’s to doing it motherfucking well.

Thank god, I finally made something of myself. I know it’s not much, but it’s a start.

Silence is easy

I guess that’s why they call it morning. Because you wake up and you see the death of night. The death of all that potential fun. In the darkest dark you can see yourself, all fucked up in a mirror, swaying and not puking in the sink you hold onto. In the blackest black you can drink til you pee down an alley, you can swear as loud as you want, you can scream and cry and laugh and everyone knows how you’re feeling. But in the day you quiet yourself down. You try not to laugh too loud or swear too much. You die a little just by being alive. You speak properly and get things done. You live a life more ordinary so that when it gets dark, or at least when you can’t hold out no more, you have the bucks to go have fun. You know that you can blow all the money in your pocket coz there is more coming next month. So you blow it. And it blows back.

But is it worth it? The little death you feel every day when someone asks you what you got up to last night, and you know you can’t tell them? When someone says “How’s it going?” everyday, and everyday you say “yeah yeah alright” because neither of you actually gives a fuck about your present state and you know if you thought about how you actually were, you might have more than 3 words to say, and that would be a fucking repetitive waste of time. Is it worth being so quiet so that you can afford to be so goddamn motherfucking loud?

I think it might be. I been broke all my life and now I’m not. But I do have a fucking stupid hair cut so who knows.

Fishy died. He just wanted to live life to the max and he died. He lived life in a little glass bowl and he died. He had absolutely nothing to do every single day and he died. He killed himself trying to escape. I think there is a lesson in that, but I don’t know what it is, and I’m pretty certain that he didn’t either. I’ll miss him, even though he was a bastard.

I'll be gone

for a week. When I get back, be nice to me please.

I can’t be bothered to explain why I like Big Brother right now, I just do

Last week did you watch the Big Brother n-word incident? I did, and let me tell you, I thought it was the most offensive piece of television I have ever seen.

Not offensive due to the word. I do find that offensive, but the way she used it, it was obviously not intended for offence but instead as a stupid white posh girls attempt at bonding with her new black friends. What I did find offensive was the Big Brother contestants talking about the issue. Offensive to my ears and brain.

They are all so fucking annoying that when Emily, Charlie and Shabnam all went into the garden to discuss it, and all three talked continuously for 5 minutes, I literally felt a little sick. It was the most annoying conversation I have ever heard. And then at the end Emily kept saying “Now we’ve discussed it, it’s fine, it’s over”. They didn’t discuss anything. They didn’t get near to discussing anything. Unless you count getting some old newspapers, shredding them and throwing them in the air so that it rains news the same as being up to date on current events.

I have never felt that one moment of TV has damaged both my brain and society a little bit all at once before, but this did. The ad break immediately after she said it was probably the most the n-word has been used in casual conversation throughout Britain all at once for 50 years. If you’ve seen the South Park episode “It Hits the Fan” you may see that there are other hidden consequences of such an event too.

Anyway, even if the nation did join together for such an awful uttering during that ad break, I hope that they also joined me after the ad break in giving Emily the finger when she appeared in the diary room. I think she deserved it. Not for being a racist, but for being a moron, and a posh one at that.

Stupid bitch, fuck off our TV screens. Oh you have already? Nice one bruv, I knew you wouldn’t let me down.

Flying Bastard

“Get away from me. I don’t want to cut you” I say to my love as I manically wave my 6 inch blade around. I’m panicking, and sweating, and almost naked, but I know that worse times are soon to come. A beast has invaded my home. It has terrified my woman. It has left me with a life or death decision. I open the door and face my enemy.

I can’t see it
But I can feel it
I can hear it
I can fear it

It flies at me and I scream with all the horror and rage I can muster. I sound like a little girl. The girl cowering behind me strengthens my resolve to not be defeated. To not let this mythical enemy get the upper hand. So I re-enter the room and search so I can destroy. It is not there. Not gone but hidden.

I hear the buzz
I feel the fear
It must be here
It must be near

In the light it stands. It burns. It dies. So drawn to the holy bright that it fears not for its own safety until it is too late. It gets trapped by the light and melts away its fear and flesh until it moves no more. All that is left for me to do it stab it and claim its death as my own. So I do and scream and laugh and shake until we have disposed of its body and are safe once more.

Just before midnight, when you’re a bit mashed, sleepy and relaxed, the last thing you want is for a Maybug to fly into your room and freak out you and your girlfriend.

Party Animals

So I’ve had a lot of fun recently. And this week I’ve been seeing lots of people I haven’t seen in a while. I unfortunately didn’t take any pictures of them. Instead, here are some animals. The fake antelope head is my favourite.

Spiderman, Spiderman, does whatever... he's paid to do

I just saw Spiderman 3 and it has made me ask the question: why can’t Hollywood make third films? I don’t wanna go historical or nothing (what with Godfather 3 and probably lots of others sucking), but last year both X-Men 3 and Mission Impossible 3 sucked ass to an incredible level after the first 2 of both had been alright or quite good. And the thing is, this year is gonna be filled with number 3s so I’m pretty fucking worried that they will all suck too.

I know this is gonna look like geek rage (I am not a Spiderman geek by the way – yes I watched the cartoon when I was little and yes I own a Spiderman plastic cup – but my brother gave it to me ok!), but I have made a list of questions you should ask yourself after having seen Spiderman 3. They don’t probe many of the main problems with this film, but they are what confused the fuck out of me as I left the cinema. And please don’t answer these questions with comic book answers, because this is not the comic book Spiderman. All I am asking for is some consistency within this multi-million pound Hollywood film. All I am asking for is it not to suck. But it did.

Anyway, don’t read this if you haven’t seen the movie, as it will ruin it:

- Why wasn’t Mary Jane wearing her waitressing outfit at the end of the movie?
- Why did she stop her job when her boyfriend came in (who she must see every fucking day)?
- Why did the Goblin guy only fire two rockets at the fucking huge Sandman, when he happily fired loads at tiny little Spiderman?
- Why didn’t the Green Goblin lay a trap for Spiderman when he clearly knew he was coming (coz he had the suit on under his clothes)?
- Why did Spiderman try to take his black suit off at that church? Why not at home?
- Why couldn’t he get that suit off when he had been taking it off and on previously with ease?
- Why did Spiderman keep taking his mask off at random in the street? Does he not understand the concept of a secret identity?
- Why were there little kids up at the end of the film, when it was just before dawn?
- Why didn’t the explosion next to the Green Goblins head blow his head clean off?
- What happened to all the falling debris in the film?
- Why did those metal poles make so much noise at the end of the film?
- Why did he not try to capture the Sandman at the end, just because he had apologised?
- Why didn’t Spiderman try use a hose on the Sandman as water had worked before?
- Why did Spiderman not question at all where the black suit came from?
- Why did the black suit hang out in his flat for a few weeks before enveloping him?
- Why didn’t the black suit go on Mary Jane when it was on the back of the moped?
- Why were there so many single tears in the film? Seriously, there were more single tears than hand severings in Star Wars 3 (which was the exception to the rule about the third film sucking)
- Why did Spiderman forget he could make webbing for a few seconds when he was strung up at the end by Venom?
- Why did the Green Goblin jump in the way of his snowboard thingy instead of wacking Venom with any of the building materials lying around like Spiderman eventually did?
- Why did Venom mention he had spidey sense but then not have it seconds later when Mary Jane blapped him with that cinder block (which by the way was a fucking wicked shot)
- Why did all the child actors in that movie suck?

It’s late and I can’t be bothered to continue. This list of questions probably only scratches the surface, but I’ll let the millions of other disgruntled spidey fans pose the others to each other.

In conclusion this film sucked. I am upset I gave it my opening weekend bucks. At least Bruce Campbell was in it anyway hey.

Gotta keep moving

So with everyone perpetually talking about house prices being on the up and up, I thought it was finally time to move. I have been stuck in this little cell in my momma’s house for way to long, and much as I love the home cooking, I think it is finally time for me to spread my wings and feed myself.

We started looking in Clapham two weeks ago on a sunny Saturday afternoon. Having been out all night, and having dressed appropriately for the cold of night time, I was wearing my duvet sized parka and my not-so-tough hoodie. Which meant that I was sweating. A lot. And of course being out all night doesn’t stop you from getting a hangover, no matter what your friends say. In fact quite the opposite. It’s like when you start drinking early in the day and you get hungover before dinner time without ever having gone to sleep.

So anyway, there we were, the 5 of us, wondering up Clapham High Street (I assume that’s what that road is called anyway – I never pay attention to where I am in London thanks to the wonders of the tube being able to get me home no matter how lost I am). It was hot, I felt sick and we had estate agents to see. When we had met up in the McDonalds (for a bit of childish dutch courage) we all tried to conjure up places where we thought estate agents were. We could only think of one between us, so that is what we headed for.

More fool us. There were dozens. Hundreds. Thousands even. Every few yards was another glass window filled with pictures of other peoples homes, and just behind them were the best paid salespeople around. Estate Agents. Now I’m not one to judge (well I am, but I try not to be), but it is the general consensus that these people are scum. They make you rent somewhere just a bit worse that you want, so they can get the commission, and so that they can rent a place that you would have liked to someone who is slightly more snobby than you (so that its just a bit worse than they would have wanted too). And how do they do this? By making you feel like your house hunt is hopeless. Yes, despite the fact that the property market is booming, there is in fact nowhere to live. Nowhere reasonable priced anyway. So after going in a million or so Estate Agents, and being told a million or so times that there was just nowhere suitable at the moment, we gave in and decided to go to Foxtons.

Now personally I don’t have anything against Foxtons. I think their use of Mini’s is good idea, but that probably only stems from the fact that the number 256 (yes they all have a number if you look) works the Richmond area, and for one reason or another, that is my lucky number. But anyway, all my future live-in-friends hate Foxtons. HATE THEM. They all have stories about being supposedly ripped off by this firm, although I suspect that they actually just don’t like the new Mini’s (“It’s just not the same”) and take it out on these home sellers.

We went in anyway, because the least hungover of our group proclaimed “Well at least we’ll get free beer”. And free beer is, of course, always awesome. I had seen those little fridges stacked with them time after time, and I had always wanted a piece of the action. Oh yeah baby. So we went in, we filled in our details, we looked at the boards, we told them what we wanted… and they told us they had nothing for us. We dejectedly sat around in their air conditioning for a minute wondering where to go from here. The least hungover of us finally (and boldly) went to the reception and talked in general about properties in the area until at last… drinks were offered! Hallelujah!

Except that they only gave us two bottles. Of coke. Between five of us. Estate agents really are scum.

New Millenium Man

So I've been thinking about this on and off recently, and I've come up with a brief criteria for what makes a new millenium man (or woman). So far I have come up with the following ten:

- You have bought something on ebay and then sold it again without ever having used/wanted it
- You have lied on wikipedia while drunk
- You have emailed someone who is in the same room as you (not including while at work of course)
- You have given something a bad rating online in the hope that it will teach the author a much needed lesson despite the fact that you quite liked whatever it was you were rating
- You have used an internet phone to demonstrate to someone something that you both already knew, just to prove it works
- You have many more friends on Facebook than you do in real life
- While watching TV you wikipedia anything you don't believe and tell everyone you are with the truth behind the show
- You have gone to a website that you know will infuriate you just so that you can swear at all its users in the forum
- You have found random pictures of yourself on a strangers websites
- You have been turned down for a job because your potential employer found out so much awful shit about you online

I only qualify for less than half which makes me still a bit old school. Fuck yeah.

Oh and look - I'm moving:

What goes up, must come down

So it's been like a month since I last posted, and a fuck load more than a months worth of living has gone on since then. Woo-motherfucking-hoo! There has been a whole shit load of smiles being passed around recently...

Although there was also a Friday the 13th and a whole incident with the Police so things have been a bit fucked too...
But whatever else may have happened, at least I took the best ever picture of Nick. He apparently felt much worse than he looked at this time. Ha ha.

And I got a real job! Fuck yeah!

Allergic to work

I have a job starting tomorrow. Woo! Back in the rat race it is for me. Which makes me think – how come I don’t get sick when I’m not working? I don’t mean pulling a sickie sick, I mean actually ill? Because it seems to me that after about 2 weeks in every job I get I get sick for a few days. And I mean sick sick. I think it may be to do with the Underground and how dirty the air is in the trains, but I somehow doubt that’s actually true. Well we’ll see how that works out this time anyway.

Oh and here’s a picture of some jelly babies enjoying a Jacuzzi in a chocolate pie.

Signs

There are signs everywhere. Most of them are informative, but others meanings are a bit veiled.
Like these. Why are they there? What are they a reflection of? Not windows that's for damn sure. Their meaning is a mystery that I have pondered all my life, every time I go into my back garden on a sunny day for a ... cigarette...

This sign at Richmond Station is a bit easier to miss but a little more clear in its meaning. No parking at any time in bus lanes - unless you are Batman.

This sign was virtually unmissable though. It clearly indicates that Dave is Jewish. He was forced to wear it for three months by these Nazi's who convinced him they were in charge. I thought it was over the top, but he apparently quite liked it.

Oh what a night

So it was the much beloved Emma Chandlers birthday on Friday and despite having a great time, I can barely remember it. Funnily the photos that I appear to have taken of it barely seem to remember it either...so I'm going to 'improvise' the story they tell"Hello and welcome to the Chancellors birthday bash. I am your host Boggly Eyed Man, and this is my sidekick VeryShortButStandingOnAChair Girl. We hope you have very nice time this evening" Said Boggly Eyed Man
"Yes I hope you do. Now bugger off, me and Boggly Eyed Man have to get it on, and I can't do that whilst standing on a chair now can I?" said VeryShortButStandingOnAChair Girl
"But wait, what do they call you when you're not standing on a chair VeryShortButStandingOnAChair Girl?" I naively asked
"Lisa" She replied
So I gave Lisa a hug and all was well. I soon convinced her that Boggly Eyed Man wasn't the guy for her and she repented her previous love and wandered off in look of booze and the Chancellor.
Meanwhile someone had glued Joe's tongue to his chin, and after trying to pull it off I had accidentally stuck my hand to my chin also. We were in dire straights but eventually we convinced the DJ to let us use his decks as a kind of make-shift saw and cut my hand free, and Joe's tongue ... off
Which he clearly wasn't too pleased about. Still it meant that I could spend a couple quiet minutes talking about myself in an animated fashion. Which was nice. Joe left after a while to find a deaf lady who would complete him now he was mute, so I continued my tirade of self approval to Scott.
Who it turns out wasn't that interested. I let him sleep though as it was just nice to have someone to talk to who hadn't been paying attention to the whole turntable blood bath that I had convinced Joe to take part in. Saul on the other hand had seen the whole thing and couldn't stop smiling about it.
"Dude, that was awesome. I never knew you could spin a record so fast. And when Joe's tongue just went flying into the crowd that was the grossest thing ever. Dave said he saw it fly into someones drink. That is fucked up man, just imagine eating a tongue by accident!"
"Actually" Lydia chirped up "Human tongue is quite delicious. Scott cooked me some while we were in South Africa. Didn't you darling? Scott? Scott? Wake up!" But alas, I had bored the poor man into a coma. At least now I could steal his beer.
"Hey fella" said Glenn at the crucial moment of my booze theft "You'll never believe what just happened".
"A tongue landed in your drink" Saul said and laughed heartily
"How the fuck did you know that?" He asked Saul but he was laughing so much by now that he was hiccuping and no good to anyone.
"Can I...err see it" I asked quietly thinking that perhaps it would be best if I gave Joe his tongue back. For his birthday or Christmas or something.
"Nah mate sorry, it's always been a Devine family tradition that we eat all tongues we find. It's for good luck with the....
"Was it nice?" Lydia swiftly interrupted, looking to prove a point that she hadn't really made
"No" said Glenn. "It was fucking disgusting". Lydia was sad as not only was she wrong, but also as Scott's hand seemed to be dissolving slightly in his sleep.
"And a bit halluuuuciiiiinaaaaageeeeniiiic.... I thiiiiiiink...." Said Glenn as he started massaging the table. "I feel alllllllllllllll blluuuuuuurrrrrryyyyyy"
"HALLUCINGENS" Scott said as he snapped awake. "What the fuck happened to my hand?", he said as he quickly hid it under the table. Lydia looked pleased as a plum that her man was finally awake again. And that we were leaving. Little did she know that I had glued his other hand to his ear while he was sleeping. For safe keeping and that.
And that was the end of our wonderful evening. I went home and was apparently very drunk and happy, as is demonstrated by this photo taken by Kathy.
Of course in the morning I wasn't so drunk or happy. In fact I was so hungover that I needed to wear sunglasses. Indoors.
But at least the nice bacon people had decided that today was indeed the day to screw all the rules and fill my belly with pork goodness with a ridiculous offer.

The end.
PS Happy Birthday Emma!

Happy Happy Sad

If you could read tea leafs you would see that this means I'm happy. And perhaps slightly evil...

If you look very carefully, you can see a smiley face randomly made from hair on my bathroom floor

This building reminds me of Freddy's tattoo

Something old, something new, something fucked...

This is me after my first ever actual (illegal in a warehouse) rave.

This is me just before my first ever ("Fuck it, I need a..") pint on my own

This was funny at 4:30am on Jims birthday

A guy comes over from America to visit London and see the sights. He arrives on a Friday night, so it doesn’t take him long to realise that to experience British culture he really needs to experience British beverages. So he goes to a bar and has a couple London Prides, chases them down with a couple scotch whiskeys. He carries on and drinks a couple Guinness’, a couple ales and a couple bitters. He even has a few ciders.

Unaware of our drinking customs, when closing time comes it hits him as a total surprise and he stumbles out into the street not sure what to do next. He tries to go into a couple clubs but is refused due to his massively drunk state. After a while he realises that his biggest worry isn’t where he is going to go next, but where he is going to pee. He looks and looks and can’t find a public urinal, or even someplace quiet and secluded. He finally gives up and just stops and pees against the wall he is nearest to.

“Ahhhhhhhh” he says as he starts to go. He is interrupted almost immediately however by a firm tap on the shoulder.

“Excuse me sir, what do you think you are doing” a rather large policeman says to him. The American tries his hardest and stops what he is doing and zips up his flies. He explains the best he can in his state that he is on holiday and he has been caught short and that he is really sorry etc etc.

Suprisingly the policeman takes pity on the man and tells him that he too has been caught short on holiday and a friendly policeman took pity on him too. So he tells the American to follow him, takes him round the corner, unlocks a gate and lets the yanky in. “Go ahead son, pee here all you like”.

The American is astounded, he has been led to a beautiful garden filled with perfectly cut grass and an array of every beautiful flower under the sun. He pees and pees and pees, covering everything in sight, and when he is finally done he turns and asks the policeman “What is this place? Paradise?”

The policeman replies with a smile “Nah mate, it’s the French embassy”

I'm busy

So this is gonna be some week. I gotta finish this issue of Magnus, work out what needs to be done next with Magnus, make space for Kathy to move in for a bit, help her move, work out what stuff to throw away, sell stuff on ebay, save a friendship, work out stuff about moving out, finish my first part of my book, work on my momma’s book and write a blog entry. Well at least this is one off the list. I’m so motherfucking efficient.

Sometimes it's hard to get started

When I think about writing these days, I feel a bit sick. I’m not sure why that is. Maybe it’s my version of writers block, maybe it’s because the last thing I wrote was about my dad, maybe it’s because I was out drinking last night. Who fucking knows. Who fucking cares.

Well I do obviously, otherwise I wouldn’t be writing through the nausea.

So what to write about… hmmm… well the sun is shining and it’s a new year. I feel worried and afraid of what the future holds but also confident that it will be pretty good. Well vaguely confident.

I know, how about a joke… Two chickens walk into a bar and the barman says “FUCK OFF! NO FUCKING CHICKENS ALLOWED! THIS IS THE LAST TIME I’M FUCKING TELLING YOU!”

And the chickens said “What do we care? We’re chickens and therefore lack the ability to lift and drink from glasses so cannot join in the general merriment of your establishment anyway”

The barman was in a rage by then so he was like “THAT’S FUCKING IT! CHICKEN PIES FOR LUNCH” and he grabbed his cleaver and went after them.

The chickens just sat there and said “You will not have chicken pies for lunch as it is already dinner time”

But he killed them anyway.

Moral of the story: If you’re a chicken, don’t talk back to the man with the cleaver. Or perhaps it should be if you find talking chickens in your pub, don’t kill them as they are motherfucking rare.

Either way I don’t feel so nauseous anymore. Woo!

A Retraction

So most of you must have heard by now that my trip to Yankyville wasn’t nearly as depressing as it should have been. Turns out a social worker bitch is either incompetent or just mean and wanted my Dad turned off as he is a ‘drain on the community’. To be fair if you had met my dad you would know that is praise compared to what most people think of him, but still it wasn’t an opinion that his doctors shared so we didn’t have to switch him off. Phew.

While I’m retracting things, I got some post from the tax office telling me that I wouldn’t have to fill out a return next year. Thank fuck for that.

So in other news it was Christmas yesterday and my mega generous brother got me a 360! Woo motherfucking hoo!

Merry Christmas everyone. I hope all is well.

PS It occurred to me the other night that with all the physical activity that Wii users will go through, we might be about to enter a new rebalanced era of super strong nerds. Something to think about during the holiday season.

My 100th post is about ... you

When I was growing up, I didn’t really have a family, not like other people anyway. I don’t mean I was an orphan or any really tragic shit like that, I just mean… I was alone. An alcoholic father coupled with an over bearing mother and an older brother who was getting more fucked up by our situation that I was, but who was still trying to keep me in line was my lot. TV was my parents. It taught me love and life and right and wrong. But it never said my name, and it rarely listened.

So when I was 16 and I realised that this group of misfits I had been seeing a lot of actually meant something to me, it was a freaky fucking hallelujah moment. I mean, maybe you guys pick on me a little, because I seem like a victim. Maybe you laugh at me when you should be laughing with me, because you don’t get that I use myself as a joke. Maybe you don’t listen to me because you think I’m being ridiculous. Maybe you dismiss me because you don’t believe in me.

But when you see me you seem glad
And you give me a hug or shake my hand.
You buy me a beer or two when I’m broke.
You laugh even when you don’t get the joke.
You love the people I love, if I ask you to.
You smile at me, when I’m smiling at you.
You want me to get better when I’m sick.
You don’t stop talking to me when I’m being a prick.
You put my trousers over my shoes when I can’t move.
You aren’t freaked out when I tell you too much truth.
You listen to me even when I’m being boring.
You find me tea and aspirin when I’m hungover in the morning.
You call me even though I don’t call you.
You don’t abandon me when you meet someone new.
You don’t look away when you see me cry.
You’ll be at my funeral when I die.

That wasn’t supposed to rhyme, but you guys put poetry in my heart. Thanks.

Last Chance

I’ve just got home and I have to write this right now. I have to get it out of me before I puke it out. I need this moment to mean something because it just doesn’t mean enough to me.

My dad is dying. He has been dying for about 3 months now. He didn’t turn up to work for a couple days and one of his work friends stopped by to see how he was doing. It always amazes me that he has any friends considering what a bastard he is, but anyway, his friend found him in bed unable to move, so called an ambulance. The first I heard was a few days later, and it was that he was having his foot amputated because of his diabetes. I felt no sympathy or surprise at this as he had been a diabetic for a long time and he still drinks a lotta beer and eats a lot of ice cream. He has already lost a fair few toes to that half assed disease.

I ignored the email that told me - I didn’t think there was much I could do. But then a month or so ago, I got another one telling me that he was fucked. I mean really fucked. His organs were failing, he had water in his lungs and there was a lot of other shit I can’t remember. He was so fucked that they still hadn’t taken his foot as he wouldn’t have survived it. I went home from work the second I read that email after I left my boss a note. Kathy came and met and comforted me for a while, but it was only when my boss called to check if I was ok that I broke down. He was meant to have only a 15 percent chance of survival at that point, but that wasn’t even taking all of his ailments into account. It really cut me down. I’ve cried too much this year already.

Speaking of which, it just so happened that it was at exactly the time that I was having my final fight with Fred and Dee that I found this out. I had been waiting until I was entirely calm to email them and try to fix or end things and this news just made me not give so much of a fuck anymore so I just said what I had to say and boom it was over with them. Now that’s a fucking shame, but it is unrelated.

Anyway, my sister had asked me if I had anything to say to him, as it may be my last chance as he had an op in the morning. Fuck was that hard to come up with. Those last words. That summary of his life and what it meant to me. So I told her then held my breath until morning.

He survived and got moved to the long term ICU, which is where they put patients they don’t expect to get better. So we waited. And looked for a will. And waited.

And then he got better! All of a sudden he was a bit more coherent, and he was recovering from some of the many things killing him. I had made my peace with it, so when this news came it blew my motherfucking mind. Woo!

But then he got worse again. Awful in fact. Dying. My sister is all alone out there and the doctors make her make all the decisions, but there was one which she couldn’t make alone. Should we sign a Do Not Resuscitate order?

Thinking about this killed me. Well it should have, but in all honesty, I feel so removed from the man that I just didn’t want to make the decision. I mean who am I to decide the length of his life?

I’m his son. And that’s why the decision has got worse as he has. We’re past DNRs now. We have to decide if we should pull the plug. He’s in so much pain and there is so little of his mind left that its not a question really.

So back to today and this moment. Back to why it should be important. Today is the day that I have to phone my brother so that we can arrange a date to go half way round the world to help my sister kill my father. Today’s the day I have to agree to watch him die. I have no last words for him, no conversation that I wish we had. I just don’t think my sister should go through this alone, and I’m fairly sure my brother needs to have a few more moments with that old man.

So I have to watch my dad die.

I really don’t think that he deserves to have his kids around him weeping when he passes, but I also know that Gerry needs to see him one more time. He needs to say goodbye. again. He needs another chance.

Why I've got a cold heart

It’s cold outside, and I’m smiling. Maybe it’s my infinite love of Christmas that makes me think the air is all sparkly and magical as soon as it chills your bones.

I never liked that film The Snowman. Maybe it’s because I have never seen it, but something about it bothers me. I only saw It’s a Wonderful Life a few years ago, long after I began feeling the holiday spirit deep inside me every year. To me Christmas is more about the nice feeling you get in the air. The feeling that permeates everything because of the growing number of people who have spent their day buying things for other people.

I know lots of people find the process of Christmas shopping a chore, perhaps even most people, but they are still thinking of others when they buy all that stuff. Even the most mean spirited people must have a nice few moments thinking of how their friends will react to the shit they have bought them. It’s nice, and it’s everywhere all at once.

I don’t mind that the Christmas stock comes out earlier every year in shops. I don’t get sick of Christmas songs clogging the airwaves in every shop, pub and home. I have no problem with carollers. I can even forgive Neighbours being cancelled for a few days.

I love snow.

I love turkey.

I love presents.

And I love that it’s all on it’s way.

The Penthouse Blues

It’s dark and the night sky is glittering with stars and street lights, but I can’t see it because the wind keeps me blind.. I’m on top of a block of flats in front of London’s biggest police station and I’m not quite sober. My bones are creaking, my hands and muscles ache, and I’m shouting “We’re not going to be able to do it. I’m not joking. We’re going to drop it. Please listen to me”. Tiny amounts of rain speckle the air and I fear the worst, having realised that those below don’t care what I have to say anymore. I look at Kathy and shout over the short distance “You’re going to have to help too. Just try your hardest”. She nods gravely. I look at Saul. He is staring over the edge with exhausted determination.

And then the waiting is over and we hear them countdown. Saul reaches over the top trying to grab a rope and not be pulled over. Trying to be the hero, for he is trying to save all of those below. He gets it and pulls. Pulls like a buffalo pulling a train. Like a bear fishing for a pool table. I lunge over and get a grip. We pull. It comes up. “Stop” they cry. We are hooked on something. Those at the bottom rush up to help us. We lift it into the warmth and celebrate. There is still more work to do, but after the great battle of the stairs, this final victory feels like the sweetest and greatest.

When we’re done a few hours later, the champagne drowns out real pains and we settle down to a night of partying. We are no soldiers, but we feel like we had been in a war. If any of us had tried a bit less hard throughout that day, that pool table could have dropped and killed any of us. The movers even said it couldn’t be done, but we got it into that roof top sactuary for Mark. We saved each others lives that day. And for that, we get to play pool. Maybe now’s the time to get good.

TUNE!

Don’t you just love it how a single tune can just make you one happy motherfucker even if you is feeling like one big pile of crap? Maybe I’m more susceptible than most to this as apparently I am emotionally explosive, but I find more often than not, no matter how sorry I am feeling for myself, if I put on some funky shit I get all excited real easy.

It used to be TV that would be my crutch in times of not-so-great sorrow, but there is so much shit on these days that it’s often hard to find that smile from channel hopping. Flicking between tunes or listening to Radio 6 (which fucking rocks) though can just change my whole day. Hell yeah.

Or sometimes I’ll hear some song lyrics that I’ve heard a million times before and it’ll just be like “Woah! That is motherfucking profound. I’ve never thought of life like that before.” Or some similarly melodic eureka. This is typically from when you are newly in love, or newly fucked over by love and finally all the cheesy shit on the radio which you have ignored all your life makes sense. But it can be from other things too. Such as the Oasis pointless classic Wonderwall

“And all the roads we have to walk along are winding / And all the lights that lead us there are blinding / There are many things that I would / Like to say to you / I don't know how / Because maybe / You're gonna be the one who saves me ? / And after all / You're my wonderwall”

I used to think that this was a poignant yet vaguely meaningless ballad about how hard life is to get right, but now I realise that it’s just about being really mega fucked and not being able to walk straight, see straight (coz your pupils are dilated so the lights blind you) or really talk, so you need someone to direct you home. And how do you thank this saviour of yours? With meaningless gibberish (“Hey….. you know I fucking love you right…. You fucking saved my ass…. Thank you…. I would never have got home without you…. you’re my fucking saviour… my fucking wonder…wall…. bleugh”). Good old Gallagaher brothers. Go straight to the heart of the matter.

Post Boozing Depression

I don’t know why but recently, I can’t shake the feeling that I’m being an asshole. I try to be nice all the time, but it just doesn’t seem to work. I keep finding myself giving me pep talks. Telling myself that I just need to get back to who I am. Who I really am. Or at least who I was. The guy who had a lot of friends. The guy who everyone thought was funny, and very few disliked. That guy went away a along time ago, but I remember being him, because he’s me.

Things have shaken me up recently. I’ve been a mess trying to get my head around all the little bits of shit that have been flung at me. So I try and go back to who I want to be, and sometimes I think I’m there, but then I talk to someone and almost instantly I think “Why the fuck did I say that?” and clam up. It may just be confidence based paranoia but often it is fully justified, as I say some mean motherfucking shit sometimes. So I guess maybe I am a bastard. Maybe. I hope not. I keep trying not to be.

I miss my friends. I can’t seem to connect with them anymore and I think that’s my main problem. I keep so much stuff inside these days that I feel a need to deflect all the time, so if someone asks me about something I don’t want to talk about, I just say something mean. And often I don’t even mind talking about it, it’s just because I haven’t up til now so I have subconsciously assigned it as a secret and so try to defend it, often by being a dickhead about someone else. And it makes me feel sick.

Bleugh. That’s me. Bleugh. And I don’t know how to get better. But I suppose tomorrow is another day, Nurofen Plus is on its way, and soon I probably won’t be so goddamned hungover.

I quit smoking a year ago today

With furious impertinence a man who looks just like me threw his girlfriends food on the floor and stormed out of the restaurant. “I’m sick of all you hypocrites” he screamed through the glass at the rest of the diners who were chewing on their grisly goods with glee. He dropped the Happy Meal box he still clutched and stomped it flat until it could be stomped no more. A small piece of plastic rolled out of the box corpse and a tear rolled down the man’s face. “You poor little toys. You’ll never know the evil this Clown puts you in the service of”.

The man had not been happy with his happy meal you see, because the McStaff had given him carrot sticks instead of chips. And I think we can all agree that for this they truly are bastards.

Death and ...

I just had to do my taxes. Man did that ever suck. Especially considering that the only reason I had to do them was due to a month long accidental stint of being self-employed brought upon me by the ‘benevolent’ creators of Teachers TV. Those self righteous bastards couldn’t be bothered to do the little bit of extra paperwork necessary to put me on PAYE so instead I am going to be quizzed about my financial habits yearly for the rest of my life.

Luckily I don’t really have any financial habits. I only had to fill in about 20 of the 2,000 questions so that was nice (well I haven’t heard back from them yet, so I assume I only had to fill in 20 of the 2,000). The thing is that even though I had to fill in only 20 questions, I still had to read the other 1,980 questions to check if I had to answer them. And oh boy is that a motherfucking chore. If you have ever done your own taxes then you’ll know. It basically involves trying to concentrate really hard, and then screaming “BUT WHAT THE FUCK DOES THAT MEAN YOU BASTARDS?” every 20-30 seconds.

And they give you this booklet to help you fill in the form. Now, I don’t know if it’s just me, but every question I looked up in the booklet for some help was even worse than the question itself. At one point, when I was particularly frustrated, I found that the booklets helpful answer was “It’s not too late to do your taxes online”. Those bastards. Those evil son’s of bitches. If I was going to do it online, why the hell would I read all this shit? What if I didn’t want to do it online? What if I hated computers as much as taxes themselves? Why would they say that? Why won’t they just help me? WHY? YOU BASTARDS WHY? ALL I WANT IS TO GIVE YOU MONEY? WHY WON’T YOU HELP ME? WHY WON’T YOU LET ME GIVE YOU MONEY? WHY ARE YOU DOING THIS? WHAT ARE YOU GETTING OUT OF IT? CERTAINLY NOT MONEY AS I’M TRYING TO GIVE YOU SOME AND YOU’RE JUST MESSING WITH MY FUCKING BRAIN. TAKE IT YOU FUCKING BITCHES, JUST TAKE IT. AAAAAAAAGGGGHHHHHHH. I HATE ALL YOU INLAND REVENUE BASTARDS. ALL OF YOU!

So you see, doing taxes is quite stressful. Try to avoid it if you can.

Terror

I was involved in a serious spider attack last night. It came out of nowhere and made me remember all my fears again. Once the screaming had died down I still felt freaked out. Stupid spiders.

I was sitting at my computer, reading an email when suddenly this little spider slowly lowered itself on its web right in front of me onto my keyboard. As it was only small, I didn't panic, but said "Hey little dude, I don't know where you think you are, but right here is death for you". I got up and walked calmly over to the tissue box and got one out, ready for the big squidge. The spider was still ambling about on my desk. I just happened to be watching Dominic Diamonds Channel 5 programme about religion, and all this talk of God made me stop for a second and think. "I shouldn't kill you little one." I said "you're quite pretty I suppose, with those black and yellow stripes, and that huge ass of yours sticking up in the air..." I paused for a second with the tissue (which of course I had kept poised over the thing this whole time) and slowly moved back. THEN IT FUCKING LEPT ONTO ME. It was a good foot that it jumped, right onto my trousers. All calmness left the room at that point. I ran out of the room, batting my legs with my hands as much as I could. I dashed into the bathroom and tore off my trousers and socks and kept batting myself at any tingle I felt, and checking for a spider in the mirror. I wanted to take a shower just to make sure, but I couldn't stop wriggling and screaming like a girl. After what felt like about 10 minutes I left the bathroom and my trousers and crept back into my room. I kicked anything it could be hiding under then leapt back. I kept looking around my computer, even though I knew that it had left with me. I couldn't go near my computer for the rest of the night for fear. I'm not sure when I'm next gonna wear those trousers.

Stupid spiders. Stupid Justin.

Happy Birthday

Dear Lady Batchelor,

I am very sorry for missing your birthday this weekend. If you recall, I came to your other birthday last weekend and had a really splendid time, so I am very sorry that I missed this second soiree. Your first birthday bash was such a delight, that I have no doubt that your second bash was an equally stunning success. Without the ducks I would suppose, but a delight nonetheless I must presume.

I hope that fun was had by all, and that there was a whole lot less feeling poorly than the previous week. It is such a shame when the youth of today lets themselves down by over indulging in beverages and then proclaiming things they would otherwise not proclaim, and regurgitating things they would otherwise not regurgitate.

Enough of this nasty chit chat, and back to the main. Katy, you are a year older, wiser and prettier now. I hope that you are also a year happier too.

Best wishes

Sir Justin Scraggybottom

What goes on tour, stays on tour

A few months ago, James came up to me and said “So man, you still up for that lads night out then?” and I was like “What lads night out?” And he said “On the 2^nd of September we’re having a lads night out. We’ve never had one before. Come on, it’ll be a laugh”. Of course I was up for it, but at the same time immediately suspicious, as I had heard nothing of this before that moment, and because it was so far in the future it felt like something must have been being planned. And of course because prankster Whiteboy was saying it to me.

Then a couple of weeks ago, a very drunken Nick let slip that it was going to be my stag do, and that I was supposed to be marrying “some chick named Belinda”. After we had had the “but Belinda’s my sister you sick fuck” conversation, I started to get worried. Even more so when it turned out to be true by all accounts. We were gonna have my stag do, even though I wasn’t getting married. A day that I had always feared coming of it’s own accord and for no reason. Oh shit.

I kept on whining to Kathy about it. I was afraid what they might do to me. That if they had just planned a day to pick on me, that was tantamount to bullying wasn’t it? She said “If you are so worried about it, then why don’t you just not go”.

Once when I was out of my mind many years ago, I came home at like 6 am and thought all I wanted to do was to watch cartoons. But it was fucking early and I didn’t want to wake anyone up, so I put the subtitles on and the volume down. It was some action cartoon or another, but I remember clearly the subtitles getting stuck after a while, but I kept watching for hours anyway. The thing is the subtitles got stuck on the line “What’s the point in a booby trap if you don’t set it off”. And to me at that time, that was the most profound thing I had ever heard.

And that’s why I had to go despite my massively unjustified fears. And it was a great day. Oh yes.

I was so drunk that day

I live a very insular life right now. What with Magnus and my new/old job, I spend a lot of time on my own staring at this screen. So it was a beautiful thing on Sunday to go to the Carnival for the first time. Not least of all because it was Tom’s birthday on the day after (HAPPY BIRTHDAY MAN!). It was great though, not because I hung out with thousands of people in a street party (I’m still too afraid to talk to strangers) but because I saw most of my friends smile that day and there were no bad feelings afterwards.

Dave wasn’t too happy. He doesn’t like strangers any more than me. Probably less. And it didn’t help that I treated him like a girl who I was trying to get to have a good time (I enlisted a drunken Nick’s help to grab Dave’s arms and make him dance down the street a little). I only stopped when he reminded me that I hated it when people did that to me. I’m sorry for that Dave. I’m especially sorry I tried to pinch your cheeks to force a smile. No man has the right to touch another’s beard growth area.

Apart from that though, it was great. I mean frickin’ awesome. I’m upset that I have never been before because it makes me see the magic in this city that I feel I have been missing all my life. So viva la carnival. And viva Mr Thomas William Excelsior Inwood. They both rock.

yeah.

Pacman

The King of Bad Ideas grew a little older on Friday. That’s right, it was Sauls 24^th Birthday. And a rave up time it was.

I have to be honest, I can’t remember much. I remember dancing for a long time, which means that I must have been exceptionally fucked, and I remember people giving me odd looks, but that’s about it. Oh except for all the people coming up to me and asking for drugs (that always happens to me though. I must be one drug dealing looking motherfucker). Kathy says that when we came and woke her up at 5 am, we all seemed pretty happy though, so I’m assuming it was a good night.

I’m still afraid though. I haven’t been out of the house in four days, except in my garden. I’ve got this feeling that something happened. That I did something. And although I can’t remember much about that night, I’m afraid that if I’m allowed to be around too many people too soon, that I might just do it again!

But anyway, enough about me. Let us all join together in praising the man of the week, Mr Saul Graff. A guy who has been there for me every time I’ve needed him to be. A man who makes me laugh every time I meet up with him. A legend.

Saul man, happy birthday. And many motherfucking happy returns.

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.