Happy Shandy for Andy

Myself and my friend christopher killing have created a new masterpiece.

You can hear this rare and seductive beauty right here.

Happy new year.

P.S I find myself increasingly proud of this. It makes me smile every day.

New Years Eve Treat

I made this video with Emma a while ago. I just watched it again and it made me laugh.

I hope you like it.

CHOO CHOO CHUGGA CHUGGA CHUGGA CHUGGA CHUGGA CHOO CHOO

I am on a train. The train is full of loud and rude people who are squeezed together so that some of their skin is touching. I am sitting next to an angry and fat man who is touching my skin with his skin. 

I can feel the bulge of his flesh beneath his skin against the bulge of my flesh beneath my skin. Our skins are getting acquainted.

There is a conductor on the train who is sweeping up and down very quickly saying tickets tickets any new tickets give me your ticket I need a ticket from you stop hiding in the toilet give me a ticket. The train is moving very fast through the country cutting its way very quickly.

The landscape is a dreadful blur. There is a man selling hot coffee from a trolley he is going past loudly and hissing and steaming all over the place. There are crisps and exciting snacks bursting out from his trolley waiting to be crunched away by snapping angry commuter's teeth.

A baby that is crying and crying carries on crying until its mother hits it on the head with her hand so that it stops crying. She is pumping it full of drugs to stop it crying.

An older man is sneezing his pus and infections all over his wife who thinks he is talking and says sorry dear what was that while his mobile phone rings a naval tune and he answers it screaming FUCK OFF.

Three grey suited businessmen laugh and laugh and laugh and laugh and I hate them. They are talking about Eric and how he is banned from trains because he is always farting.

The man next to me is looking at me and making an odd noise.

The man's face looks like a condom stuffed with minced meat.

The man is touching his chest where his nipple might be.

I am in some kind of hell.

Toil

I have written my 1500 word story for the hive magazine and sent it to the man who asked for it in the first place.

It is a story called "The Lady"

Here are some teaser taster sections for everyone to love and cherish forever.

"I am sitting at my pod.
I have been in work sitting at my pod for fifteen minutes.
I think I have wet myself."

And also -

"The beautiful lady. The wonderful boss lady. The lady that makes me feel special and happy.

She is looking at me with a look like she wants to give me a sweet kiss.

She opens her wonderful mouth.

"HENRY YOU PIECE OF SHIT" She says."

It is pretty weird. I wonder whether it will be OK?

I have been tagged

Sam Pink has tagged me. This means that I have to write seven things about myself and then nominate 7 seven to do the same thing.

1. I am on a train.
2. A hair fell out of my arm and landed on my laptop computer. It looks bad.
3. I don't know how long I am going to survive.
4. I live in Manchester.
5. I always have breakfast.
6. I am from Bath originally.
7. When I was growing up some bigger boys threw me into nettle bushes because my name was/is Socrates.

OK. So I have to tag seven people now. This is going to be fiddly.

1. Jenn Ashworth
2. Sally Cook
3. Jarvis Cocker
4. LVB
5. Judy Roo
6. Frank Morgan
7. DELETED DUE TO PORN WATCHERS ATTACKING MY BLOG

You should look at these people's blogs. Some of them are not real. If you can spot which ones are not real you will win 5 no prizes.

I am Reading and Laughing at This Tonight

http://nopointinnotbeingfriends.blogspot.com/

It is going to be "Oh such fun"

Hap-py christmas.

P.S no one in America has let me know whether the chap book has arrived which makes me worry. What if I didn't put enough postage on them? What if chap books aren't allowed in America?

Emergency.

The autumn sun has made the trees look old and sad. They seem to be good natured. The old trees are carefully watching me as I make my way between them, winding. I hear, every few seconds, the song of a bird that is lodging in the branches of the kindly and sad trees up above. I am not self centered.

Every sunday now this routine. No holidays or workdays, just a simple little sunday stroll with no one else. The main thing to do is to just have a lovely relax. Just let yourself sweetly relax and feel like a little piece of dew on a flower.

There is no trouble going on. There is no city and no people and nothing at all that I don't like. Quiet and alone and full of thoughts. There is no Gok Wan going mad around here. There are no phone in competitions. Is this a death? I think I can feel a hearbeat but it might not be mine.

I am going to carry on thinking about whether I might be dead.

The Brutal Silence of Falling Asleep

I am lying in my bed with my covers over my body. It has been a cold day and the night is also cold.

There is a tired and quiet silence in the room.

I have been trying to sleep now for one hour and forty five minutes. I cannot get to sleep.

My calf muscles are tingling. The tingling feeling means that I am going to get a cramp in my calf muscles if I move them only one milimeter minimum. I have been thinking about my calf muscles. They are willfully preventing me from falling asleep.

I am ringing NHS direct while standing, naked in the centre of my room. I do not give the nurse on the phone my real name in case of the government. I tell her I am called Marty Gunt. The nurse tells me to eat one teaspoon of salt. My calf muscles need salt to stop seizing up.

I have a teaspoon of salt in front of my face. It is a heaped teaspoon of salt. I carefully stand on my bed. I hold one hand aloft while tipping the salt into my mouth.

THE SALT IS DELICIOUS.

This is the most delicious teaspoon of salt I have ever tasted. The salt is absolutely delicious. My mouth feels wonderful.

I go to the kitchen.

Twenty minutes later I have no salt left. My mouth is dessicated. My body has too much salt in it. I feel anxious. I feel anxious because I have run out of salt.

I go to the supermarket. I buy £500 worth of salt. I lock myself in my room for two weeks.

I have now had three heart attacks.

Second Review

I have received a glowing review.

You can read it here

I am blushing.

ADDITION

Here is another review

I also like it very much.

First Review of Chapbook + Exciting News

Review

Received your chapbook in the post today, and have just finished reading it. I enjoyed it very much, thank you. the old man reminded me of an old man i used to work with. except he wasn't evil. he was odd though. during the sixties he used to join occult groups to meet chicks. i don't think he got to meet many. he was asked to leave, usually, for asking too many questions. he once brought in a newspaper cutting about a man who could bring women to orgasm using only the power of his mind, which he then tried to replicate for the rest of the day.

News

I have been asked to write a short piece for the new print edition of www.hivemagazine.co.uk

I don't know what to write about. I would like suggestions, in response to this post, of a title for the piece to inspire me. I would like the title to be 2 or 3 words long, preferably 2. I would like the title to be exciting.

The winner will receive no prize.

Half Asleep Treat

There is a delicious selection of biscuits for cheese spread across the plate in front of me. I have Jacob's Cream Crackers. I have a variety of cheeses.

I am being transported to a world in which anything that I can dream of can become my reality. The world is not quite right. I have asked the guardian of the world for a couple of chutneys to help the cheese and biscuits slip down easier.

There is no chutney forthcoming. I would like some chutney now please for god sake. Give me my chutney. Excuse me, I need some chutney from you. You know? Chutney.

I don't want any pickle thanks. Just chutney.

And then all of a sudden I am back in the room in which I was before being transported to the magnificent land where I was lord of everything it seems wrong to me to be forced back into being a less potent being.

I have written a list of things to ask for if I become lord of all things again.

1. Chutney
2. A pair of socks.
3. The body and face and personality of Gok Wan.
4. A special stone that sparkles in the light.
5. My lost and missed childhood.
6. Chalk.
7. Hair remover and muscle increaser.
8. A place to hide.
9. The only one I have ever loved.
10. Give me chutney.
11. I want some chutney.
12. Is it so hard to get some chutney?

Dispatches

Right.

The first 27 chapbooks have been sent - that's everyone who has ordered one so far.

20 are going to england.

7 are going to america.

There are 23 left.

If you want one, let me know. When you receive yours, please let me know. I feel happy.

Chapped Hands

My chapbook is now a physical entity. It has been printed and folded and torn. My hands are red and raw from folding and tearing and printing.

I am very happy with my chapbook. A copy of it will be winging its way to you if you have e-mailed me with your postal address.

It is not too late if you still want one.

Finally I have created something.

The Most Wonderful Thing Anyone Has Ever Done For Me

I received this in an e-mail. It is a picture of Simon Cowell's Brain.

Feeling down?

Check this new exciting self help site:

http://twelvefortyfive.blogspot.com/

They also do literature and stuff or whatever.

Get me out of here.

Someone get me out of here. Please help me to get out of here. I don't want to be here. My senses are shutting down slowly. My brain is in a state of panic. My body is slothful.

There is a yellow table in front of me and I am surrounded by chattering idiots. The computer screen is a special vortex that makes me feel like I am falling forever.

My colleagues hate and laugh all day long. I sit down and shove biscuits and coffee and tea and sandwiches into my face and mouth. I spill coffee all over my groin every day.

My keyboard is a moulding pit of flaked skin and grimy dirt paste. I wish that I was outside in the rain or in a sacred forest surrounded by elms.

Information

I am aiming for a print date of next Saturday or Sunday for Flesh Feast: The Human Brain. I am sorry about the additional waiting period. This is due to a mixture of technical difficulties and human difficulties. The human difficulties include me feeling scared and tired. The technical difficulties include having to print out many pages of paper on a printer that I do not own. But I will succeed.

Here is a sneak preview from Flesh Feast: The Human Brain.

"Are you thinking of me, my precious bone and marrow and flesh feast?"

I hope that tides you over. P.S I have now enhanced the cover artwork.

Exclusive Cover Artwork

I HAVE WRITTEN ALL OF THE TEXT OF MY CHAPBOOK

If you want a copy and haven't done so please e-mail me immediately with your postal address.

It is the best thing I have ever done.

Chap Book

It's nearly done.
Only 1.5 chapters remain.

Calm down

I think that there is too much stress and trouble in my life for me to be a healthy young man.

I am sitting as always alone on my sofa wondering about the intricacies and tribulations of my life and the lives of others. I feel as though a lot of people might have severe and enduring mental health problems that aren't being correctly treated by a qualified and caring mental health support worker/project worker.

I am looking at a picture of the human brain in a book entitled, "The Human Brain". The human brain is looking pretty good. I wonder if my human brain looks like the human brain in the picture in "The Human Brain". My human brain is grey and round like the human brain in "The Human Brain".

Gok Wan's human brain is positively beaming. Gok Wan's human brain is studded with diamonds and is decorated with lipstick and blusher. Gok Wan's skull is a Gucci handbag and his human brain is his money and personal belongings.

Simon Cowell's human brain is so god damn angry looking. It is black and bulbous and full of angry thoughts and evil desires. It is covered in the blood of his victims and is floating through mid air striking people down left right and centre.

I want to create a television programme. It is about The Human Brain. In the programme we get lots of celebrities' brains to fight amongst themselves in a small white cube. By the end of the programme the cube's insides are covered in the pulp of mashed up famous brains.

I am going to write a book on the human brain. The book will be called "Flesh Feast; The Human Brain".

Dancing Disco Dancing

Cream Soda

I am drinking the most delicious creamed soda I have ever laid my tongue on.

Creamy soda.

Thick, rich, creamed soda.

It is so god damn sweet and creamy.

Writing

It is late at night. I am in my bed writing my chapbook.

The computer is slowly and carefully humming. My chapbook is called "Flesh Feast". It is about a man who moves into the flat above me and slowly ruins my life.

My chapbook will be 10 chapters long. So far I have written four and a half chapters. My chapbook will be illustrated. The illustrations are going to be created by me on paint. I might do some of them on photoshop.

My chapbook is becoming one of the best things I have ever written. It is packed full of dread and disaster, as well as hilarious incidents and heart warming moments.

I hate my chapbook.

My chap book is better than me.

It is becoming the most delightful little chapbook you have ever set your eyes on.

So far only one person has said that they want my chapbook. I wish that this was one of the chapters in my chapbook.

Another Interview

Oh my god. I have been interviewed again. This is the best week of my life. This one has pictures.

My Interview

My dream has come true. I have been interviewed. Track the interview down.

Down down. Deeper and Down.

Special Place

I am a fancy girl.

I am a fancy dancing girl. I twirl and spin within veils and sparkles and perfume.

I am on a stage above you. You stare at me and my spinning and twirling. I expose skin to you. You drink the smooth patches in like wine. I expose more skin. You drink the touchable velvet expanse like it's water. When I expose all the skin, you vomit on your shoes.

You look into my eyes. My eyes kill your eyes.

You back away slowly. I continue to dance.

Rainy City Stories

Have accepted my short story about chinatown. See it in all of its glory here.

CHAAP BUCH

I am in the processing of writing and producing a Little Book. I haven't decided what's going to be in it. If you want a copy you have to write a short entry for my blog and send it to my e-mail address. I will post these entries on my blog. No one will know that anyone except me wrote it.

And you will get a book. (If you send me your address)

The book will be ready in one month.

Rich, tomato sauce.

I have just eaten the most deliciously rich tomato sauce I have ever tasted. The sauce was so delicious that it made me eat the entire plate of pasta in under 2 mins.

I washed it down with some sparkling mineral waterfalls.

I carefully asked the waiter whether I could watch the chef making the sauce so that I could learn how to make it in the comfort of my own home. The waiter said "Si".

The waiter guided me through the tables and children into the secret kitchen of the restaurant where the chef lives.

I am in the kitchen now.

The kitchen is dark. There are no lights in here. I can smell rich tomato sauce coming from all around me. I feel like maybe this is heaven. I feel like I am having sexual intercourse with the rich tomato sauce.

I am fumbling through the darkness of the kitchen. I can here some sort of frying in the distance. Maybe there is a light also from the frying. There is definitely a light source. I follow the light.

There it is. The secret of the sauce. There is a human sized bottle. Inside the bottle is a human surrounded by thick, rich, tomato sauce. The bottle is a filter. The human is Lloyd Grossman.

Feeling great.

I am feeling absolutely great. I have recovered from my horrific wasting disease.

I secretely wish that I was still ill. When I was ill I did lots of nice, secret things. I ate the most delicious of foods and threw them all up again. I lay in my bed hallucinating and shivering with a diabolic warmth. I felt seperate from the world in my small and comfortable coccoon.

I love feeling ill. I feel further away from life.

I have to call into work when I am not very well to update them on my status. I need to ring every five minutes and update my status.

I feel strange and different.

Number 2 Interview

I interviewed Jenn Asworth
I love doing interviews. I don't have to do very much and it makes my blog look big.

Why won't anyone interview me? Can't anyone tell that the only reason I am doing these is so that someone interviews me? WHAT THE HELL.


1. What is going on with your hair? It's like totally Outrageous.

Do you not ever have those days when you wish you could take a tablet that would stop your hair growing or changing in any way? I do. You just want to capture the perfect moment forever. But it fades. It fades and it dies. It dies. God, it's awful. I feel like crying right now. It goes like this. See, when it is going great guns, you want to look in the mirror all the time and touch it a lot, but you don't want anyone to see you touching it a lot and looking in the mirror while you touch, because you are supposed to be a writer and librarian and sort of scruffy and intellectual. Really, I would sell my brains to have beautiful hair. I would. Seriously. I would rather be stupid than bald. Mainly I feel a bit bad about being bothered about my hair. It is made out of the same thing as fingernails or antlers. So my scalp is covered in long dead antlerly fingernails. But I want the fingernails to be shiny and big and full of body, causing admirement, but not staring. I want to have antlers that made other people jealous. That has never happened. Do you have any hair tips for me?

2. Why should I hire you?

I can be sarcastic while making you feel respected. I can work for hours and hours at a task that holds no value whatsoever. I can wear suits and wave my hands about at meetings. I can use words like 'reader development' and 'evaluation' and 'local agenda' and 'test bed' and 'skills set'. Oh dear. Please don't print this. I mean, I like my job. I do my best. Even when I have doubts I do my best. The tax payer is paying me. I never forget that. I am servile and self loathing. I spend sunday nights ironing work trousers. I dish out books for cash. Doesn't matter which books. Reading is a valueless activity. We are all about the issue figures. Rising steadily forever. I can stand at the counter and scan all the books into and out of my own account for ten hours a day. Then our issue figures will be EXEMPLARY. (NB I don't do this. I am 'in character') Bloody Hell.3. Why have you changed so much?
See above. I sort of like being servile. It has affected my whole life. If my mum had let me have contact lenses at school I would have had a boyfriend. I would have done things. Then I would not have been a librarian. It all stems from there. Now I am going to spend my advance on having my eyes laser surgeried. True fact. I'm a bit drunk.

4. What is your favourite?

LITHOPS. And going to sleep with feet touching. I miss smoking.

5. Why won't you stop laughing at me?

I think its because you make me nervous. You are like a proper writer, with a FAN BASE. I feel a bit insipid and main stream beside you. If I was a man I would probably fight you. Because I am a girl I giggle.

6. Why do the bigger boys touch me in my private area?

It isn't your private area. It's your elbow. Go back to the manual. Look again. *That's* your private area. Please stop touching it now. Thank you. Good boy.

7. Is Halloween a con?

Yes, I think it is. Except this Halloween is the anniversary of me being friends with my best friend for ten years. Ten years! So we thought we would have a decade party. If you say decade a certain way it sounds like DECAYED. So we may dress as Zombies. So if we did that, Halloween would be personal and meaningful and special, and not a con. We would have replaced the 'hallowed' into Halloween.

8. Do you like the way I dance? Do you like my style?
Do you like my fancy steps? Do you like my smile?

Yes. No. Yes. Yes.

I am the editor of a new on-line blog review page.

http://twelvefortyfive.blogspot.com/

Degenerative Bone Disease

I am sick to my core. I have no symptoms except for feeling terrible. There are rings of pain around my eyes. I took days off work this week and got called sick note by someone in work.

I might never get any better and never get any worse. I think that I might be consistently below average for ever. I am a straight, non-sloping line on a graph, written in green ink. 

I am a set of data on excel. The data is slightly not quite good enough. 

I might have a wasting disease. I am wasting. There is nothing which is not wasting. Everything I do has been wasted. I am in a wasteland. A thinning, cold, anaemic wasteland. I am trapped in  my bed. I am on pills. 

Travesty

Shame
Anger
Pain
Misunderstanding
Failure
Tears
Sorrow
Disgrace
Worthlessness
Hunger
Disregard
Apathy
Smallness

Reminder

http://manchizzle.blogspot.com/2008/10/one-week-til-manchester-blog-awards.html



OH NO

I wrote this story

I submitted it to the Rainy City site (http://www.rainycitystories.com/)
I hope they accept it.


I live in chinatown.Every sunday there is a wedding and loads of fireworks go off on the pavement opposite my house. Every time I think that we are under attack by terrorists.The lights in china town are bright and of a number of different lurid colours. They make it look dangerous and seedy. Chinatown makes me feel sexy.There is a restaurant in Chinatown that I always go to. It is the Happy Emperor restaurant. There is a lovely lady in the Happy Emperor Restaurant who gives me free prawn crackers and beer when I go in.I am grotesquely fat due to all of the free beer and prawn crackers. I have started going to a therapist because I am so fat. I feel like a grease ball.My therapist is called "Arnold Phillips". He makes me feel better by forcing me to eat more chinese food. If I don't have something in my mouth I start crying.I spend all of my money on chinese food in chinatown. I go to all of the restaurants on a constant quest for chinese food. I love the smell of chinese food. I go into the bakeries and supermarkets, stuffing food into my gob, getting poorer and fatter.I cannot afford my rent.I now live in one of the gazebos in chinatown. I am homeless and fat. I am a drug addict.Leave me alone.

Young Hearts and Complications

I have a tender young heart that beats with a sad dull rythm.

I am sitting quietly on my bed in a trance, thinking about young ladies and forbidden dreams. I have been preparing for my award ceremony almost constantly since I found out that there was an award ceremony going on.

I have been practicising speeches.

Here is my speech so far,

" It's not every day that you get to go to an award ceremony."

I think it's a good start.

There is a little plate of ornamental cheeses on the edge of the bed. Creamy, rich blue cheese. Pungent goat cheese.

Cheese goes well with crackers and also other crunchy things, for example crunchy breads baked by artisan bakers with rare french flour, wheat and yeast.

I remember when I was young. I can't remember when I will be old.

When I was young I used to sit on the edge of the sofa with cheese and taramasalata in a trough and also various artisan loaves.

I used to make the taramasalata into shapes and then eat the shapes. I used to be a little boy in sweet short shorts. My fleshy legs were bare for the world to see. A small creature once got into my leg and buried itself under my skin.

It's still in there. It controls all of my thoughts and desires. It is a tiny man with a (relatively) large moustache. The hairs in the moustache control all of my movement by caressing my nerve endings.

It is making me write this post. Hang on, it is taking control.

Hello worms. My name is Pablo Rodriguez. I am in control of the pathetic meat collection that is typing this post. I am going to make him act like a fool at the award ceremony. I have been controlling his measly life since he was four years old. I have made him fail at everything for ever. There is no reason for this. I just think it is funny. It is a shame; if I wasn't here he would have done great things. It is a shame I am buried in his leg. HA HA HA. I just made him squeeze his penis thing. He is in pain. I am going to make him write something embaressing.......

I sometimes wish I was a different person.

THE INTERVIEW

http://www.impersonalelectroniccommunication.com/ (Sam Pink) answered my questions. I am training to be a journalist.

Question 1.

What the fuck is your problem?

my problem is that i want to climb a tree and sit on a branch until i die and i don't want anyone to touch me, i think starving to death would be the most painful way to die.


Question 2.

Why don't you leave me alone?

because i enjoy hugging your head to my chest until you pass out. you are my little lamb socrates. i want to walk around outside with you and do "science experiments" on birds and stuff.

Question 3.

Do you like it when I do this?

don't touch me

Question 4.

What rate of pay are you looking for per hour?

aside from whoever wrote "the indian in the cupboard" i am the best writer in the galaxy so i expect to be paid in gold, in diamonds and blood and bones and everything i deserve and i want to have at least ten kids with random women because i was destined by god to procreate and also to cut up little strips of the earth and throw them at the sun

Question 5.

Oh My God, You are Soooooooooooooooooo dreamy!!!

socrates, don't be cute with me. i will dedicate myself to ruining your life. you have no idea how fucking petty i am. i am the shittiest, most petty human, and i will dedicate myself to ruining your life if only to confuse you

Question 6.

How does it make you feel when you fail at something?

i always feel the same.

Question 7.

Why are you such a failure?

i always feel the same

Question 8.

Do you think you will ever succeed at anything?

maybe. right now, i am exercising a lot so i can just beat people up to reduce my anger rather than writing stupid "poems" and other shit to reduce it

Question 9.

Why am I such a failure?

because you forget to put your lips over your teeth while you are doing it

Question 10.

What are your influences?

hardcore drugs and cutting drugged people up in my basement with a box cutter and slayer and gummy worms and nice people and sitting on a couch in my quiet room with a big blanket wrapped around me and funneling a glass full of my own blood into my ass then jumping around until the blood foams and sometimes just having a hot cup of cocoa with some friends catching up on how much everyone hates me

Hands Off!

I nearly got mugged yesterday.
Two people from my work ran up behind me and grabbed me.
They were joking.
It was nightime and I got really scared.
I stabbed them with the fork I carry in case of actual mugging.
They are in intensive care.

Action 4

I sit with my arms in front of me and my legs crossed. I have a spike. I made the spike earlier. I ground a fork down until it became a lovely spike. I trace thin red cuts on my arms and let the exposed blood run gently down to my hands. The spike does not look bloody. At the end of my arms there is a bowl that I have filled with cream. My blood slowly and carefully pours into the cream. The white and red look good together. I wish that it was other parts of me with the cream. 

I don't lose much blood. A few grams. I can hear the sound of divine music washing over my head as I lose the weight. I touch rapture and transcendence. I am not often peaceful. This is not a pain. This is release. I do not hate myself. I am in love with my self. Only for an hour. 

Post Traumatic Stress Erectile Dysfuntion

Today I am in the middle of a week of training at work. Colleagues from the area offices take me and others into the small room and tell me about things that make me into a better worker and more kind person. 

I am in love with the people who train me.

I love you Trudy. 

Trudy is the most beautiful and clever woman I have ever met. She is tender and kind and sweet. Trudy, you will never know the secret and burning passion I have in my fragile heart for you. You will never understand the silent adulation which you cause.

When Trudy leans over the desk I do a small growing. 

I also love Mildred. Mildred does the morning training sometimes. I wrote a poem for Mildred:

Mildred,

Oh Mildred,

Mild Mildred,

When will we wed?

Mildred?

My Mildred

It is called Mildred.

I also love Rowena. Rowena is willowy and lithe like a silvery winter branch. She hands out all of the training booklets and it makes my heart pound to touch the pages she has touched. I wish that her glasses would fall off. There is nothing saucier than a ladies little spectacles falling all over the place. It is as though she is saying "For what I have planned, I would rather not be able to see."

I love you my three beauties.

My dream is that they are my wives and we live on a small canal barge somewhere inaccessible and private. In my dream they all have sex with me all of the time or rather whenever both parties agree in a loving and tender manner. 

I don't really love them I just want to have sex with them. 

I only ever had sex once and it didn't go very well.

I want to try it again some time in case I put it in the wrong bit or whatever.

OH NO

AWARD

I have been nominated for a prestigious and well-regarded award.

http://manchizzle.blogspot.com/2008/09/2008-manchester-blog-awards-shortlist.html

I want to win so badly it makes me want to cry.
I am going to ruthlessly bribe and coerce my way to the top.
I am going to bribe the judges with a saucy card with a photo of an area of my leg which I have shaved on it.
I am going to make a delicious feast of marinaded goat in moroccan spices.
I am going to win.
I have to win.
Winning is my destiny.
If I lose I will be crushed.
I have never been to an awards ceremony.
I will win.
What happens if I don't win?
I think I might get fired if I don't win.
I am going to check with my boss.





My boss says I can't go.

I just can't do my life any more

I don't mean that I am going to commit suicide; I just need to change everything in my life.
I feel constantly miserable. Everything is terrible. Don't force me to do it anymore.

The Police

A police man is looking at me.
He is wearing a reinforced hat.
He knows my secret.
I have a lobster thermidor down my pants.
The lobster is moist.
The police man is licking his lips.

Conference

I am lying in my bed and the fan is on making loads of noise and keeping me awake. The fan is making me cold but I don't want to turn it off because if I get out from underneath the covers then I will be vulnerable.

I am thinking about putting on a conference in an international convention centre. I will have delegates at my conference. There will be speakers giving talks on a wide range of topics. The first topic will be "Five pound notes: A guide to Etiquette." The talk will last 30 mins with 5 mins for q and a afterwards.

Everything will be smooth and quick at the conference. People will describe it as unmissable. There will be a talk about The Different Wind Models That Can Be Achieved By Opening Two Windows In The Same Room To Aid In The Dissapation Of Cigarette Smoke. There will be a talk on Muscular arms.

I will give a talk. It will be a clever talk. The talk is going to be daring and brilliant. It is going to be groundbreaking and will totally undermine all of the recieved wisdom. I don't know what it's on yet.

My conference will be in sweden and there will be a dress code. I will give people as much free ice as they want. The slogan for the guys who give out the free ice will be "After all, we are in Sweden"

There will be a man outside with a gun who looks seriously terrifying. I will remove all of the bins around the conference and tape up the post boxes. I will forget to empty one of the post boxes. The post will be trapped forever.

I love my successful conference.

Everything around me and in me is falling to pieces

I am staring at the space between my hands on my desk. I am feeling pretty low.

My boss is in his room. The computer is on. The phone is either ringing or connected. I am either speaking or breathing. I have a pain in my head and between each of my knuckles.

I feel isolated. There are people around me; I feel penned in by the people. They are my team. We do things together. They do funny voices and make jokes. Every time one of them makes a joke I do not laugh. In fact I do not laugh ever.

I go home and on the way home I by some chipped potatoes. I have gravy on my chipped potatoes. The gravy is rich and thick and tastes beefy. It is a glutinous beefy slop. It is a thick brown beefy paste. It is a beef slime. It is the tastiest, beefiest residue I know. It is full of dead beef. It is full of offal and bones and marrow. It is maybe made of kidney stew.

I finish my meal and sit on my sofa carefully. I listen to a song and do some naked dancing.

This is the song I dance to.

http://www.fileden.com/files/2008/1/6/1684211/bodies.mp3

The gravy has driven me into a frenzy.

Work

Oh my god I am back at work my face hurts and I am scared I am back at work I can see my boss and my team I wish I was in a brown room not out in the open I think there are african fighting bees on my penis it hurts it feels like my legs are going to explode and my eyes are crying I am back at work there is some coffee I am back at work.

My Holiday Diary

Day One

Arrived.

Didn't go anywhere.

Day Two

I am lost.

Day Three

Got attacked by a lizard. It came in through the window and then left. It took something but I don't know what.

Cut my foot on a piece of metal.

Day Four

Tried to access work e-mail.

Contracted an electronic virus.

Unplugged computer from wall, ripped socket out of the wall.

Fell backwards into a bin.

Had a rollmop.

Day Five - Seven

Sat down.

Day Eight

Got up.

Looked out of the window at the shutters.

Tried to open the shutters for some fresh air.

Dust from the shutters got into my nose.

Was sneezing for two minutes.

Tried to find my asthma inhaler.

I had forgotten my asthma inhaler.

Sucked on a pencil hoping for a placebo effect.

Had a mild asthma attack.

Day Nine

Too scared to move.

A man tried to breach the room/prison.

Day Ten

Did some exercises.

Looked at the place in the wall where the plug socket used to be.

Put my face in the place where the plug socket used to be.

Felt dangerous.

Day Eleven

Had some raisins.

Tried to invent a new language.

Made up a word "Polt"

"Polt" means "Oh Dear"

Some of the words in my new language can mean up to three of our words.

Made up a word "tunge".

"Tunge" means "Little Man With"

Day Twelve

Poured salt onto my tongue.

Vacation Situation

I have been counting the number of tiles in my bathroom. The tiles are very small maybe 1 cm x 1 cm or equivalent. There are hundreds of them. Back home, I don't have loads of tiles in my bathroom just six big ones. One on the floor. One on the ceiling, one on each wall.

I am not accustomed to my surroundings. I keep bumping my foot on the side of a table. The table is made out of a sharp metal. I keep bleeding over the floor.

I am not allowed to throw tissue paper down the toilet. It blocks up the system. There are many many tissues in the waste paper bin that are covered in blood from my foot. I feel as thought the tissues are going to spill out all over the place at any minute.

I am looking at the corners of my room. There is a cockroach in one of them. I spend one minute standing on my bed, holding a slipper in my hand in case it moves. It doesn't move.

The cockroach is a rich chocolate colour. It looks like a shining medjool date. The cockroach is glistening. It is a foreign cockroach. It can survive a nuclear blast and having it's head cut off. I look at my slipper.

The cockroach is gone.

I read in a magazine once that for every one cockroach you see there are at least five million hiding just out of eye sight. They know where you are looking and just keep out of your field of vision. If I could turn round quick enough I would be able to see a shifting brown mass of cockroaches behind me, falling off the furniture into a crunchy mess on the marble floor. I think the only way to combat this is with CCTV. I don't have any CCTV.

I spend an hour smashing up the mirror in the bathroom carefully into two evenly sized pieces. I take two forks and some sellotape as well as two little plates. I fix the mirrors onto the plates. I attach the forks on each side of my head so that they stick out past my ears. I attach the mirror/plates to the forks.

I've got wing mirrors now. I'm a foreign, cockroach detecting mancar.

I don't see any more cockroaches all day - even in my wing mirrors.

When I go to sleep I take off my underwear and a cockroach falls out. I think it was the cockroach from before. It was trying to make it with my penis.

Holiday. Holiday. Holiday

I have definitely learnt how to rest. I am so god damn rested. I have thought of nothing for nearly two weeks now. I am afraid of the face in the wood on the wall. The face looks like an old man with a beard. It looks like he is an angry man.

Someone knocks on my door. I have never spoken to anyone before.

I forget about it.

Someone else knocks on my door. It might be the same person. Who would knock twice.

I do not answer the knock.

But what if it is a nude lady? I think that there is a small chance that it is a nude lady at my door. She could be lost and maybe a sandstorm stripped all of her clothes off. 

No way is it a nude lady at my door. The knock sounds quite manly. 

Maybe it is a gruff man. I don't speak any of the local language but I can't think of anything I could have done to upset anyone enough for them to knock on my door, to knock on my door twice. 

I quickly adjust my hair and make my way to the door. I try to open the door. I almost open the door. The door is pretty much stuck now. I can hear someone outside saying things. It sounds like this 'hhuug yug slinkism goodfread kollinc'.

I am never coming on holiday again. This has been the worst two weeks of my life. I have done nothing for two weeks and now an angry man is trying to communicate with me in another language.

I quickly try and fall asleep while I am standing by the door. I can't do it. The man keeps talking for twenty minutes. 

I don't know why but I think this would somehow be a good time to masturbate.

Is it good to masturbate in a foreign country while a man is trying to get into your house and you have half opened your door and are scared and he is speaking a foreign language to you while you masturbate?

Will this holiday never end?

What do people do on holidays.

I received a message from my boss on my phone it says.

"You made a huge mistake at work. You didn't tell me. I'm not going to fire you but when you come back I'm going to make you feel dreadful. I'm not going to tell you what the mistake was because when you come back I'm going to ask you about it and you are going to tell me about another mistake you made that's worse and then you'll be in even worse trouble. You will tell me about all of the mistakes you have ever made and I'm going to write them up in my triplicate book and I'm going to distribute them to the office and then everyone will know how terrible you are at everything. Fuck you. I hate you. You are shit. I am the shitter. FUCK YOU"

Holiday

I am on Holiday. I have come away from the daily grind. I am in a wooden room. The walls are made of wood. It is a brown, wooden room. I think the room is infested with wood worm. I think they are eating away at the wood beneath my feet. I'm going to fall through the floor into a big cooking pot and get eaten by a cannibal. The scenery outside is lovely. I haven't left my room for the four days I have been here so far. 

I have not participated in watersports. I have not gone to the nightclubs. I have not eaten local produce. I have not had the sun shining on my face. I have not been to any ancient ruins. I have not been to the local shops. I have not gone swimming in the sea. I have not bought any miniature figurines. I have not had a romantic incident with any young ladies or a prostitute. I have not developed an unwell gastric system. 

My gastric system is just fine.

My dinner every night is a rollmop.

My breakfast in the mornings is some raisins.

My lunchtime is consist of eating one bread and maybe I also do a filling of creamy ham and butters. 

Everytime I always doing my toilet to the tick tock regular always I have the handsome deposit in the basin. 

My cameras is memory fullup with a brown square. Every picture a brown square I have many squares.

I am trying to speak like a local person trying to speak English.

I think this makes my racist. 

I am even less happy here than in the other place. 

Blow My Own Head Off

It is thursday and I am sitting in the bad room. I am looking at a thin black microphone. My boss is sitting in the room next to the room I am in. This is an inquest. I hear my bosses voice over the speakers. It is like a blanket. He is asking me a question about the incident. It happened so many months ago now it seems like a different life somehow. The microphone looks like an infected penis. It is a shining rod. All of a sudden I hear something that sounds like a gun shot go off. I let out a little scream. My ears are ringing from the pain. I cannot cover them with my hands as I am strapped onto the chair. The noise came from above me. I look at the window through to the room next to me. My boss isn't there any more.

I look up.

My boss floats serenely above me. He is trussed up and oiled, slowly rotating in a harness facing me. His body squeezes out between the thin straps holding him up. He looks like the sunday roast. Slime is dripping from him onto me. He is like a self basting turkey. He is naked. He has a gun. He is firing the gun at me. I'm in for it now.

Despondency

I am wiped out and tired. It has been one of those long days at home that I hate. There has been raining and sleeting. The patterns are squashed against my windows. One of those long days at home and alone that I hate. There is very little light now in my flat; my sofa feels dull, it supports my wait. There is no sound in my flat. I am feeling just awful. My nose is running. I hear a noise that sounds like a scratching. In the corner of my floor there is a black garden beetle. Why is it in my flat? My flat is on the sixth floor of a building. There are no gardens anywhere near my flat. The beetle is very big for a beetle, I have never seen a beetle as big as this beetle. Its back is shining. I feel as though the beetle is going to start speaking to me any second. One second later the beetle starts to speak to me. It has a high pitched voice and is terrifying. It says, "You are boring. Why are you so boring, little man? You have never done anything that is worthwhile. You are a lazy and fat little man of no worth." The beetle is right. That is one clever beetle. "You don't have any hope. I hate you little man. Nothing you do has ever been good. Why don't you say something back to me little man?" The beetle's words are seriously hurting my feelings. I feel animosity towards the beetle. I look at the window and the rain, and the grey light. "Waster. You are a waster." I tread on the beetle and sit back down.

Disco Dancing

Everybody loves disco dancing.

The song in this video is called "Disco Dancing". Do you think you can make a better music video for it? If you do please e-mail me and I will send you the song so that you can have a go.

Everybody loves disco dancing.

Stupid Idiot

I am looking at a crossword. I bought a newspaper to enjoy with my breakfast while the sun streams in and lights up the room. Eggs benedict this morning. The crossword is not going well, the clues don't seem to make sense. 1 Across - Not always - someone thinks backwards? That's all blokes. It seems to make no sense at all. I have always thought that I am good with words but I cannot solve these problems. I am still looking at the clue four minutes later. I remember someone telling me that a good trick is to leave the crossword for a bit and come back to it later. I put the crossword down and try not to think about the clue for twenty minutes. I keep thinking about the clue. When I pick up the crossword again it doesn't really seem to have helped. I don''t feel like I have had much of a break. I stare at the crossword for one hour. My eyes hurt. The small black and white squares are imprinted on my vision. Wherever I look I see the crossword. I imagine the composer of the crossword. I think about his fat smug body. He is wearing glasses. He is a big nerd. He had no friends in school, only letters, words and black squares. His name is Tom. I hate Tom. I think about kicking his head until he gives me the answer. He wears square glasses like the squares on a crossword. His eyes look like the letter Q. I really hate him.

I am jealous of him. I wish I was as clever as him. 

Banking Finance ISA Mortgage

I am running low on money. I feel a dangerous feeling - I am living on the edge. I have never checked my bank balance but I know that I am running low on money. I buy things in shops with my debit card and after I have put in my PIN I cross my fingers under the counter. This is creating a panic in me. Finally my card is declined. There are four days until pay day. If I don't have any money then I will probably die. I don't know what to do.

I put my DVDs in a bag and take them to the exchange place. They are worth two pounds each. I have four DVDS. That is eight pounds worth. I exchange them for the money. I am in the black. Eight pounds. This is the first time I have held physical money in my hands for over two years. I need to be careful with my money. My dad says "A fool and his money are easily parted."

I spend the money on 250g of expensive Bavarian ham.

It is the best ham I have ever eaten. It reminds my of a cold forest, a man with a feather in his cap and fluttering snowfall. It is delicious ham. It is succulent and full of earthy, evocative flavour. It is wonderfully silken and marbled with reams of fat. It is very fattening. It is so very very fattening.

I puke up my eight pounds. I am definitely going to die.

Atonal

I am remembering the nightmare of yesterday. Yesterday was our team bonding night at work. Our team needs to work on its integration- we are not close enough to each other - I do not feel at one with the rest of my colleagues. So we went to a karaoke bar. The man who selects the song was an ugly, angry man; ugly men are bald - they have a fixed stare; they look like they are smiling and frowning at the same time; ugly men hate me - they are aggresive men. I start to sing the song. I remember a time when I was younger. My father used to say that I have a lovely voice, he used to say do not sing into your hymn sheet, sing into the audience. I sing the song - it is "Freak Out" by chic. I am a disco diva. I have a spirit of deep and soulful funk inside of me. I am dancing like a dynamo. I am spinning out. I am in control of the room.

I have an erection,

I don't know why but I have an erection.

There is a lot of blood in my penis.

I ejaculate into my trousers.

Everyone knows what I have done.

I am banned from the night spot.

I hate myself.

That is the first time I have had an erection for four months.

Socialising

I lie sprawled on my bed. My body feels uncomfortable but I do not want to move it. My mind is trapped at the moment, I feel like I am in the centre of a venn diagram. My brain lies in the middle of a venn diagram. I am being hung drawn and quartered by the parts of the venn diagram. I have been socialising with my television. I have been watching a programme on the television about a group of people. When someone finishes a sentence I press the mute button. I then reply to them. After my reply I unmute the television. This is a conversation. I have been doing this for two hours. While I do it I have been crushing garlic. I have been rubbing the crushed garlic into my chest. This is an ancient remedy for a cold. The garlic is seriously hurting my skin - perhaps in the olden days people had thicker skin. I smell terrible. I think that I am wretched, I am fairly sure that you could definately call me a wretch. I think the garlic is giving me hallucinations. I am on a television panel comedy show. It is my turn to speak. Clement Freud is sardonic he is too sardonic for me. I am not sarcastic enough I laugh too easily there is no bite to my humour. The studio audience is looking at me with distaste. I feel like they might want to eat me. I see some one in the audience wink at me. It is Anthony Worrall Thompson. He holds up a card with a red pepper printed on it. He is having sex with Gok Wan. He is smacking Gok Wan on the bum with the card. Gok wan is smiling a lovely smile.

I think about my life and why this is happening. I don't know why this is happening.

Bile

I can see a road in front of me or a pavement. At the end of the road is a bakery which I want to get to. I feel as though I can't move though as I want to be powerfully sick. There is hot thick acid inside my gut. It feels like it is bubbling. The taste at the back of my throat is like rancid cottage cheese with pineapple. There are many colours to the throaty wash of vomit that I can feel inside me. Bread would be dissolved by the acid, there is no point in getting there. I crumple to the ground. On the ground my stomach feels even more full of frothy sickly congestant. My guts are a mesh of fibrous biliant. My mind is awash with a tide of stinking illness, putrid and pouring pulses of puke. Massive chunks of scalding vomit are pushing their horrific exit through my now infected throat and mouth. A pillar of shining vomit erupts powerfully from me, pushing me backward and caking the pavement with my organic filth.

Terror

I am lying inmy bed. I have finished my daily fitness routine. My daily fitness routine is a set of exercises that I do every day to make me feel great about myself. I feel great about myself. My arms feel strong. They are ropey and thick. I can do one hundred press ups. I am lying in my bed. I can feel my arm throbbing. I think my arm is pregnant. It is kicking. My arm might give birth. The creature my arm will give birth to is like my arm but with a human head where the shoulder should be. The creature is like a sperm with a head for the head and an arm and hand for the tail. My sperm is powerful. I am virile because of my press ups. I think the sperm arm head monster will be good at doing the shot put. It has its own language. It sounds like Clement Freud shouting. The arm sperm hates my weak body. It shouts at my legs, penis and chest. I am definately scared of it. I have post natal depression.

A very disturbing episode.

This reminds me of the time that I was a child. All those years ago before my transformation into a man I was definately a child. I lived with my mother and father and brother in a house in the country side on the slope of one of the sides of a valley. The air was sweet when I was a child. Everything is melancholic.

I had kites and a ball and I used to be an out doors kind of child. My brother and I used to roam in the garden. We would, from time to time cross the road in front of our house and lie in the field. At some times of the year the grass in the field was taller than my brother and I. I used to get scared that I would lose my brother. My brother is smaller and younger than me. If he gets lost in the grass it is definately my fault.

One day I thought I had lost my brother. I thought that someone had taken him away. I thought that a witch from the Roald Dahl book The Witches had tempted him away. I imagined my small brother in his grey jumper with his hand in the hand of a supernatural monster with burning eyes and ink for spit. This is my nightmare. A cold faced women ready to take my brother away. I am scared writing these innermost thoughts on to this website. I can definately feel a chill.

I hadn't lost my brother. He was nearer than I thought. That evening I had a nightmare. In my nightmare I was running from a monster. The monster was my brother - he was chasing me down the stairs. It was in black and white and slow motion. It was a terrifying dream. It recurs from time to time. At the end of it, my father appears. He has no eyes and covets mine. I cannot easily reconcile these feelings of terror with my contrasting feelings of affection.

This is what I am thinking of on my sofa. I look sometimes through an album of photographs. Memories are unreal. You can't identify with the photos in the book. They are private things; delicate. My television is talking to me. It is spewing on me. It offers me a release from my introspection. I seem to have a choice between pain and numbness. This is growing to be far too much. There is only one way for me to go.

I take a knife from the drawer. I sharpen the knife for thirty seconds. I place my hand on a chopping board. I slice my left hand's small finger off. There is an eruption of blood from My hand. I am screaming. I feel guilty, I feel tired, I think of my brother and family. I call an ambulance.

The ambulance men reattach my finger. I didn't know they could do that.

Deeper relax

The shrill voice of the singer is irritating. It is not often I get a chance to think of nothing, sit on my sofa and deeply relax. I am trying to empty my mind of everything but it is difficult. Sometimes I think of only an abstract thing, like a colour. The colour will change in my mind until it is no longer a colour, but something that is not a colour. I can draw nourishment from this new thing. It seems to funnel into me. It feels like a funnel of cobwebs and there is some liquid pouring down the funnel into me; this has come from colour; this is relaxing. The singer's voice is penetrating. Relaxing is sighing. The voice is not sighing, the voice is stabbing. I am trying to think of nothing. I am thinking of thinking - oh no! That's no good. If I were totally empty then I could do it. Thoughts of work are creeping around the edges of my unperception. I think about avoiding to think about my work training manual that sits in front of me. My boss says, read one page every day before you sleep. I turn to page one. It says "So, you want to make tubes?" Close the book. Shut your eyes. Deeper relax. You don't want your boss to die. That is myself, reassuring myself. That's fine. Nothing going on here. Definately completely relaxed. I am just great thanks. I wish I could dance. Oh no.

Sexual Problems

I found a new blog. It tells me what is wrong with my sexual technique.

Thisisit.

http://sexualproblemssolved.blogspot.com/

Tidy House

Today I have been tidying my house. I normally tidy my house once every two weeks. I like to get into a good old fashioned routine when tidying. I do things in this order. Moving everything into its rightful place; Dusting from top to bottom; Vacuum cleaning; Polishing wooden surfaces with a good quality beeswax polish; Tea break; Change the fishes water (the fish is dead); Change bed linen. The routine normally takes three hours or three and a quarter hours depending on length of tea break and amount of time spent smelling beeswax polish. When I was a child I used to eat beeswax polish and replace it with earwax. I once kept a bee in a tube for two two days to see if it would make any polish. In the end I got fed up and ate the bee. Bees are crunchy and taste of nothing. They are furry. Furry and crunchy - not a good combination. The next time I ate a bee I put it in some ketchup. My brother saw me doing it. I told him that the bee had stung me, the ketchup was my blood and I was eating the bee in order to exact revenge. Bee and ketchup is much better than bee with no enhancement. It tastes of furry, crunchy ketchup. I am sitting on my sofa and I am thinking about my childhood. In those days I didn't have to shave. It was much easier to keep the weight off when you are a child; no shaving and smaller penis. One day I am going to chop my penis off.

Isolation

You know the pain I get? The red pain, around and behind my eyes. The pain which makes me think it is time to close my eyes and go to sleep. The pain that burns as I look at a bright light; fire or the sun. This pain is not a normal pain. It seems to fade and regrow, pulsing in a way that is monstrous and selfish. Always slightly growing. This is the pain, a crisis. I think to myself about when the pain started and can't remember. And as the pain grows my silence and stupor also increases. My pain has become like paralysis. Your face is on the pillow and there is a wetness on it. This is what is called crying,or tears. My face is nothing except two ragged, abnormal sockets of pain - thrones/throes of incandescent and glorious suffering. This is what is lonely.

Feeling Great

I am quite the optimist. Some people say the glass is half full. I don't have any glasses. I always try and have a great time. Today I am in work - I am sitting at the pod. My team mates are all around me - they are on the pod. A phone rings. Team mate 1 answers the phone. He is the quickest team mate. His finger is thick and bulbous from always answering the phone first. Team mate 4 is making a tube while waiting for the phone to ring. He is the best at making tubes. His tubes are strong and long, longer than anyone elses. Team mate 1 and team mate 4 are going places. They are the quickest and most skillfull. My head is plugged into a phone. When I press the button on my phone it makes a noise in my head. The three button on the phone does not work. If I want the phone to dial three Ihave to press button 1 followed by button2 with an interval of exactly half a second between the presses. My boss calls me into the room. Between us on the table there is a cake. This cake represents you he says. You are the cake he says. Do you know what that means he says. No I say. He shits on the cake. Eat the cake he says. I can't do it I say. That's why you will never be a manager he says. I walk home from work and buy a cake. I'm at home with the cake. I do not want to shit on the cake. Idon't want to shit onthe cake. I am the cake?

Rewind

I have been banned from the internet for almost exactly a month. The internet made me a slave. I looked at my computer for ages and ages and ages and did the things it asked me to. I am looking at my computer. My computer is asking me to produce an excellent plate of food. My computer is aksing my to eat an exceptional plate of food. The two voices in my computer are telling me that if I want to get through to the quarter finals I need to get more flavour out of my ingredients. I have my ingredients in front of me. I have: Five squares of chocolate; an olive stuffed with pimiento; 30 grams of quorn; a sachet of my facial hair; a man from the west country called Dean; a squid that is alive and asking me all sorts of questions. I put my ingredients into an envelope marked "Ingredients". My face is red and blotchy. The man in my flat tells me that my cooking is otherworldy and exciting. I put the envelope in the baking heat of the red raw sun for 5 minutes. I have put my heart and soul into my dish. I have tried my hardest on the dish. I want to quit my job and cook and that passion has been put into the dish. I see the pile of salt. I see the knife. I slice the salt into my dish. There is too much salt in the dish. I am thrown out of the competition and all of the celebrity chefs puke on me.

Action 3

I have a gilette razor that I am holding in my hand. I take a very sharp butcher's knife and cut away the plastic that holds the razor blades in place on the razor. I am very careful not to damage the ultra fine blades. The blade is lighter than you could possibly imagine. I think that if I was holding the blade between my fingers and let it go it would not fall. The blade is clean and almost white in colour; it reflects things but is so thin you can never really see what it is that it is reflecting. But I know that it is reflecting my fingers. I delicately lay the blade to rest on my left forefinger, where I can see fourteen hairs. Slice is too heavy a word. Slip, now there are no hairs on the back of my finger. Saah. That is the noise that the razor makes as it saahs the hairs off the back of each of my fingers. Critch. That is the noise of the blade critching the hairs from the back of my hand. My hand is bald. There is a sort of halo of arm hair that stops suddenly at my bald hand. My hand looks like the hand of a montsrous child that is overly large. I place the arm and hand hair in a small plastic bag that used to hold the dice from my Monopoly set. I place the bag under my pillow.

I am about to go to bed. I stop. My arm starts twitching uncontrolably - I can feel blood pumping around it. Tonight I am not sleeping.


I look at the fridge.

Friday Night

I have finished my week of work. The place that I work in is the place that I love; my boss tells me that I have a special and unique talent. He tells me this in my monthly assessment which happens once a month in a sealed room. Although I sit on my sofa when at home, sometimes I think about the inside of the sealed room. There is a plant with large flat leaves that seem too big for their stalks, there is brown paint all over the walls, the room smells of subway sandwiches. It is always very very very warm in this room. I really cannot stress how warm it is. It is very important that you understand that it really is uncomfortably warm in the sealed room. The sealed room is simply too warm. I hope I am giving you the impression that the room is very warm. If there was one word I would have to use to describe the room it would be warm. The warmth makes the room stifling. I am not allowed to loosen my shirt. I always try and loosen my shirt in my assessment when my boss is not looking but he always catches me and looks dissaproving. I think that he thinks that loosening a shirt is definately a sign of weakness. My boss assesses me on a number of criteria. The number of criteria is two. 1.How many tubes have you made? 2.Do the tubes always look the same? Imaketubes. I think that my boss might have head lice. His hair is always meticulous - head lice love clean and tidy hair ergo he is infested/infected. Head lice are probably inedible. I wonder if my boss would mind if I tried to eat his lice. I think that I would probably catch four or five of them and then eat them in one go, one at a time would probably not be practical. I would need tweezers to catch them. My boss looks at me. He is terrified. I think that I may have just said that the reason I didn't hit my "Tubes Made" target is because I was too busy thinking about eating his lice. His face is sort of twitching. I think that if he saw my body naked on the side of Big Ben he wouldn't compliment me.

My brain cannot work after I have been at work.
My brain can notwork after I have been at work.

I think that I want to unleash the NOROVIRUS at work.