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.