gchat with my mum (using my dad's name)

Ron:do you remember when you were at primary school you were fascinated with jokes coming home everyday with new jokes?

me: really?

no

Ron: tea time was joke time

me: i don't remember

Ron: oh, yes

me: that's true, is it?

8:32 PM Ron: a lot of them - sure true

me: haha

great writing (should i shut this blog down?)

Here is a series of haiku poems written by Ellen, the daughter of the television presenter. She is sixteen years old and loves writing poetry. It helps her relax. She always leaves the first letters of her sentences in the lower case. She does it because she thinks that it makes all of the words as important as each other, in some way.

feeling young
although I don't know
nothing else

who am I
i have no idea
who I am

what is life
is it anything
or nothing

why do i
do the things i do
i don't know

She buys notebooks in packs of three from a local newsagent and fills them up with poems and short stories. Her dad worries about her from time to time because she is so introverted. Sometimes she writes poems about hating her father because he spends so little time with her. There are paintings from her very early childhood in which her depiction of her father is a scrawled black angry scribble, compared to a smiling mother, happy house and rolling younger brother. She would always draw herself holding a book.

Ellen is checking her email. As she checks it, one of her friends sends her a message through gmail chat. They have this conversation:

tracy: hi ellen - your dad's on tv. the other two presenters r so fucking hot. can your dad get me to meet them?

ellen: haha that is sick.
no.
he can't get you to meet them.
you are a slut, tracy.

tracy: haha i would like to have sex with the small one
he looks like a rat
like a man-sized rat
that is hot
your dad is hot

ellen: fuck you

tracy: fuck you

hot interview with gavin bower

Gavin James Bower is an average guy with a huge amount to give. He has already had a novel published by Quartet, and loves living the high life. Here is an interview between him and I. I think that we both come across as great guys.

1. You are so dreamy. How do you keep your complexion as peachy and dreamy and silky as you do?

i stay dreamy by writing in lower case. i don't have time for upper case or a complicated moisturising routine. i've got things to do.

2. Explain why it is important to carry on breathing in the context of contemporary culture, and also in the wider context of consciousness.

being determines consciousness, but being also determines breathing. consider this. if you think about breathing, a vague sense of suffocation ensues. 'i am therefore i think' should, therefore, really be 'i am therefore i breathe therefore i think (i am suffocating)'. you can have that.

3. You are so brainy. What food do you love to eat to stay so brainy?

i'm on the anti-raw vegan diet, and have a particular aversion to inverted commas. they give me the meta-runs.

4. Explain the relationship between the mind and the body in the context of the following questions - What is the mind? What is the body? (Please answer these questions with reference to the idea that there may be no difference between the mind and the body).

my answer to question 2 presupposes the supposition that there is no difference between the mind and the body but, as a nobody, i really have no idea.

5. Who are your dream dinner party guests?

you, obvs. a guest of your choosing - a stranger, preferably. and my girlfriend, because she's hot. that would be a sexy and awkward dinner party; in short, dreamy.

6. Please explain the irrelvance of 'heavy-weight' British literature due to it's insistence on dealing with unimportant plots and twisting 'interesting' narrative, in contrast to a more primal, 'experiential' level of existence concerned with raw and unprocessed experience and sensory information in the context of human consciousness.

i had to vomit because of all the inverted commas. what was the question? ok, my answer is: tom mccarthy's c.

7. Are you a dog lover or a cat lover? Why? Which would win in a fight?

i'm human-pet-culture-ambivalent. if there is such a thing. which, of course, there isn't. my mum loves cats. so does my girlfriend. i quite like dogs, but i couldn't eat a whole one. am i right? hello? is this thing on...?

8. God?

does not follow you on twitter.

9. Which mobile phone operator do you use? What is your ringtone? What is the coolest music and sexiest woman ever?

orange. i've been with them since my first contract, about ten years ago, which shows you how old / loyal i am (28 and very). my ringtone is the iphone standard one. it's called 'old phone' but i have the new phone. the iphone 4. did i say i have an iphone? i do.

10. ._____________. ?

a neutral facial expression. if there is such a thing. which, of course, there isn't.

you can find more about gavin here:

http://www.independent.co.uk/arts-entertainment/books/reviews/dazed--aroused-by-gavin-james-bower-1766403.html

has this ever happened to you?

I look at my friend. His head is a toaster. Toast flops out of his mouth. His head is a fan. He blows air at me. His head is chair. He sits on top of his own head. His head is a printer. Paper curls out of him. His head is someone else's head. He looks at himself. His head is a whale. His head is a fly. His head is a roast chicken, rotating on a spit, dripping animal fat over his suit. His head is his body, sitting upside down on its own neck.

advert for lovely and fresh marmite

marmite company, you owe me some money. please send it to me. i kept my end of the bargain.

advert for 'rancid vinegar flavoured yellow paste' French's Mustard

i am waiting for my cheque, French's

advert for 'delicious' evian mineral water

could someone who works at evian send me some money, please?

if you have a product you would like me to advertise, please let me know.

i am afraid of dying

just hit 30,000 words.

here is a sneak peak, to get everyone interested. if anyone wants to give me some money for it, now would be a great time!

------------------------------------

John is talking about drinking in a pub.

'Drinking is OK, but I will never do it again because I am so drunk that it feels uncomfortable.'

Processing these words, bored. There is a pint of Guinness on the table. There is a glass of Bailey's next to the Guinness. The Bailey's is there as a joke.

'Drinking is making me feel so drunk.'

Smelling fried food. The smell of fried food. The smell of Guinness. The taste of Guinness. Swallowing Guinness. Can't be bothered. Bothereding. Bothering. Not bothering. Not being bothereding. Impossible to be bothereding. It is not possible to be being botheredering.

Speech: Can't be bothered.

John has finished his drink and is looking like he wants to drink some more.

'I feel so drunk that if I drink anything else I will be so drunk that I may get sick. I am going to buy another drink. Do you want another drink?

Nodding head. Finishing Guinness. Looking at the women in this bar. None of the women are a woman that used to live with someone who didn't call the landlord when he was meant to.

There are women here with the same parts as that particular woman. They wear the same clothes. They seem to not speak an identifiable language. They feel perfumed. Feelings of physical lust intensified by alcohol. Women torment man by their existence and his inability to understand or speak to them. Legs not trembling. There is a hand resting on the table and lightly stuck to it. The table surface is covered in a thin layer of ash, from many years ago, when smoking was allowed in here. The ash is covered with fluids. There is no Bailey's or Guinness left in the glasses on the table. More Bailey's and Guinness arrives as John sits down.

'This drink is going to push me over the edge. I am thinking about propositioning a woman this evening. I find it easier to that when I have had a drink.'

Boredom. Thinking about scrapheap challenge. Thinking about the female presenter of scrapheap challenge.

Speech: I miss my ex-girlfriend.

'Time heals everything,' Says John. 'Time heals all wounds.'

Speech: Time doesn't heal cancer.

concept artwork for 'i am afraid of dying'

my penis is a book, etc

this is a direct response to/copy of this - sorry kendra

this blog will be from now on a collection of either gchats with DJ Berndt, or mildly pornographic images of me. i am trying to increase my hits. i want to make £1,000,000.

up for it?

the book is 'sherlock holmes'

gchat #2 with DJ Berndt

me: i hate it

i hate fosters
12:14 AM
my favourite drink is 'woman's milk' and vodka

DJ: wtf

me: a call it

the 'extra white russian'

it's delicious

DJ: hahahaha

woman's milk?

me: human milk + vodka

so delicious

DJ: oh my god Soc

me: it's common to drink woman's milk in england

DJ: shut up

me: do you not do it in the states?
12:15 AM
really!

it's delicious

DJ: you lie

me: much sweeter than cow's milk

i'm serious

DJ: such a liar

I'm asking Ani

me: look it up

ask away
12:16 AM
DJ: I don't believe you

me: it's true

ok

you should try it sometime

it's really delicious

and good for you

DJ: Whaaaat

this is insane

my mind is blown
12:17 AM
me: most restaurants have like a 'milk section' on the menu

i can't believe you didn't know this

DJ: I'm shocked

you drink milk that comes from a person?

me: yeah

gchat with DJ berndt

me: how can we make this happen?
11:32 PM DJ: super powers
I'll go try to acquire them, I have to run for a bit anyway
be back in like 25 minutes
me: let's have a conversation
and then i will post it on my blog
ok let's go
DJ: oh no
me: oh
ok
you are going
no probs
fuck you
DJ: can we do it in 25 minutes?
hahaha
me: no way
time is money, babe
11:33 PM DJ: I will hurry
me: no way
DJ: xoxo
me: this is going up
you 'bailing' on me
when i needed you most
in my hour of need
i hate you
DJ: ok, you've convinced me to stay
me: brb

desktop battle

i have become obsessed with winning this desktop battle.

please look at the site and if you feel as though i deserve to win, vote for me.

i feel as though i am fighting an behalf of 'all humanity'

hairdressing tips for guys or girls

short story

is now up at 'beat the dust'

i am really happy with the way the story looks.

i am waiting for a printer to arrive. i am sitting by my window, eyeing up every roughly van shaped vehicle that goes by, thinking, this could be it.

they have all driven by.

a really large lorry stopped in front of the row of houses that i live in. a man got out and started unstrapping the thick fasteners on the side of the canvas of the container.

i thought, 'this can't be it, coming in such a big lorry.'

the man got out a parcel that was the right size to contain a printer. i kept thinking 'this isn't happening'.

he took the parcel down the road to somewhere else, fastened up the clips again, and drove off into the rest of his life.

i am still waiting.

i was hoping that at the end of this blog post i could say, 'i know it seems crazy, but the parcel came while i was typing the post up.'

no way.

come on.

keep typing.

going to stop now.

2 haikus

a tired driver driving
wishing that he was at home
hoping the lights are green

a tired cyclist cycling
wishing that he was at home
hoping the lights are red

long reading

here is me doing a long reading in preston. it was overly long and too serious!

really exciting

this is the first time my writing has been projected onto a building. i found it very, very exciting. i keep looking at the pictures thinking 'oh wow'.

the reason for this projection is this

if you are near or in preston on the 22nd of june, please come and hear me read and buy a copy of the book. it'll be the first time a piece of my writing appears in a 'correctly bound and published' book. feels good, right?

Extract from 2nd novel: I am afraid of dying.

“It was a cool spring morning in the village and the sun was rising heartily over the hills. The sniper was setting up his gun. He screwed the parts into each other and looked at the gleaming babe. He kissed the gun. The sun winked at him.

On the other side of the village it was the day of the fête. The day when the villagers got together each year and admired each others endeavours. Large vegetables, plump chickens and show gardens. Everyone could smell Jasmine and everyone could see the sun shining down heartily from above.

Mrs. Williams was pushing her pram rustically along the meandering paths into the centre of the fête. It was a twin pram, but she only had one baby! She used the other part of the pram to put her groceries in sometimes, or whatever it was that she needed to carry. It was practical. Once, Mr. Renfield, an old gentleman who was losing his sight, had patted a sack of potatoes in the pram and said 'They grow up so quickly, don't they?' to Mrs. Williams. She hadn't had the heart to tell him that he thought a sack of potatoes were a baby!

Little Willie Williams was crying in his pram. He needed some milk from his mummy, but she was too concerned looking at all of the market produce to notice his lovely shrieking and whining. He took in large gulps of air between each yell but was too young to appreciate the sweet scent of jasmine and roasting chickens. He just wanted his mummy's milk.

Mr. Fox the grocer had noticed Willie William's whining. He had really excellent hearing and a good ear for a tune. For a second, he thought that wee Willie William's whining sounded like a section from Mozart's Overture from Don Giovanni. He chuckled in his head at the thought that a baby might accidentally replicate the work of a genius, then stopped himself as he thought 'But Mozart was a child prodigy, wasn't he?' Rather than think too hard about this, he went back to chopping up the pork in front of him. A pig's head grinned up at him from his refrigerated counter. The pig's head was oddly attractive, even though a grim muslin of death was draped across it. With an almost silent thud, a bullet smacked into the forehead of the dead pig. No human noticed.

It was a good year for vegetables.

A few people commented that they had never seen leeks as big as the ones on Mr. Lewis' table. Some were nearly two feet long and as green as emeralds. Mr. Lewis used a special fertiliser for the leeks. No one knew, but the secret ingredient was chicken beaks. This meant, he often thought, that he might be tricking vegetarians into eating food that was raised on meat. He had once thought about running in a local election. His slogan would have been 'Raised on meat.' Even though he was a vegetable farmer, he made sure that he ate meat with every meal. He had a strange belief that the meat would make him more potent sexually, and he often imagined his sperm to be made from the ripped tendons and muscles of the animals that he had devoured. He thought sometimes that he would break into a church and change 'The meek shall inherit the earth' to 'The meat shall inherit the earth' in all of the bibles. No one in town knew about these weird quirks of his character.

Mr. Renfield was tottering through the fête, not recognising anyone until they spoke to him. His eyesight had become very bad in the past two years. There was a tiny noise and Mr. Renfield was shot through the head by the sniper on the other side of the village. He fell to the ground. Blood came out of him and he was dead. No one noticed from the fête and children and parents skipped around him like he wasn't there.

Two children, Martin Blossom and Emmy Large were holding slingshots and aiming at targets at a stall at the fête. The targets were shaped and coloured like the faces of clowns. Little Emmy Large fired off a shot at one of the clowns and hit him, square in the forehead. 'I got him!' she cried out in delight. The owner of the stall, Mrs. Peters leant over from behind the counter and gave Emmy a prize. The prize was a lovely cuddly bear. As she leant over, she was shot between the eyes by the sniper. The shot went straight through the bear's head and into Mrs. Peter's head. The bear fell into little Emmy's arms and she skipped off with delight. Little Martin Blossom looked up at Mrs. Peters slumped across the counter for a second, smiled and turned and skipped after his little friend.

'We are so lucky with the weather today. Do you remember last year it was raining and we had to do most of it inside the church?' said Mrs. Williams.

Mrs. Williams was talking to Mr. Lewis, the vegetable grower. They were having a passionate extra-marital affair that no-one in the village knew about. They met each Thursday to have passionate intercourse behind Mr. Lewis' shed. It was the day of the week when wee Willie Williams was at play group all day, Mr. Williams was in London for his weekly meetings, and Mrs. Lewis was doing her hiking club. The sex was so passionate that occasionally the next door neighbour, Miss. Pond, thought that foxes were fighting, making a sound like possessed babies, crying with voices like the devil. Miss. Pond was a Christian.

Miss. Pond would masturbate and then feel guilty about it. She was a Christian. She was a lonely lady. No-one in the village knew quite how lonely and guilty and horny Miss. Pond was. She was not at the fête, she was at home masturbating and saying her prayers. She was the only resident of the village who would survive that day.

A bullet flew from the barrel of the sniper rifle and swerved slightly in a breeze to strike Mrs. Williams temple to the left of its intended target. Her head exploded. Parts of her skull and brain flew apart and got stuck to Mr. Lewis, her lover. Mr. Lewis carried on talking to Mrs. Williams' body as it fell dramatically down on top of her baby in the pram. Wee Willie Williams was crushed and then suffocated by his mother's dead breasts. He was a happy baby until he died. He never became a professional footballer. Mr. Lewis was, shortly after this, shot through the head by the sniper. His body landed on top of Mrs. Williams, making it look like they might be having sex, or kissing.

Martin Blossom was with little Emmy Large round the back of one of the stalls at the fête. He was trying to steal her cuddly bear. The bear had a hole in its head. 'Give me the bear!' said Martin. 'No, it's my bear!' said Emmy. Martin jumped at Emmy, scratching and biting her and trying to kick her. Emmy ripped away from Martin and started to run. They were both killed by the same bullet; it flew through the air and ruptured their skulls one after the other. They were two young people, spread-eagled gracelessly on gravel ground. Their blood stained the bear. It was the colour of a rose.

One by one, the rest of the inhabitants of the village were shot by the sniper. Three hundred human beings were shot and killed. They were all shot through the head, in the most humane way possible.

A lark rose from a bush and beat its way upwards into the sky, emotionless. The lark did craps all over the bodies. The sniper turned his gun on himself and shot himself into a million pieces.

general

you are looking tenderly at me, thinking about where we live and the light that is falling on to the two of us from the window. you are thinking about intimacy in the context of all of our experiences together. you are thinking about anything to make you understand the things that we do. you are desperately thinking over and over again that you don't understand. you are grasping at anything nearby and stuffing it into your mind, trying to understand it. you are trying to understand anything. you are rubbing yourself on the carpet trying to understand anything that you feel. i watch you rubbing yourself into the carpet. you are rubbing faster and faster and harder. you are generating heat from the carpet. you are moaning. i am wrapping myself in the blanket from the bed and pressing my face up against the window to try and feel it. i tie the blanket to you and i tie it to me. i am tying the blanket tighter and tighter. i am trying to understand anything about physical sensation. you throw yourself into the bricks of the wall and i smash into the glass. i am trying to understand anything about the world, physical sensation, the relationship between physical and non-physical things, my mind, memory, the passing of time, transience and permanence.

other magazine

i am involved in a new community/website that has just been launched. the website is www.otherother.org

i hope you all love it forever.

personal recommendation

there is this guy, called Stephen O'Toole, who is really exciting me very much with the things that he is writing. he has a chapbook out which i believe you can get for free (which is a very good price) from his website here. if you have, at any point, enjoyed anything i have written, then you should definitely get a copy of his chapbook.

he is scottish which is pretty exotic!

i also recommend just reading his website and then linking to it and then sending him a load of money although i am not sure in scotland whether they use money or if they just trade in rancid batter that has fallen off a fish or whatever (joking!)

thanks

poem 1

i am sighing
there is air exiting my body
i am aware of the air
i am breathing in and out and pressing the buttons on my keyboard with my chest
i am writing rpenapeoaonenpoaeir with my chest

someone comes into the room
the person says something to me
i carry on sighing quickly in and out
the person puts their hand on my shoulder
i sigh and sigh and sigh spofijoweijgoiejodsigj

my head is polishing the table by moving around on it
my arms are lying on the table beside my computer
i am moving up and down in a way on the table
the person is watching me and saying
you can't carry on like this

it is later and i am downstairs eating my food
i am holding a spoon up to my mouth and letting the food drop down back onto the plate
the person watching has their head in their hands
i am looking at my reflection in a pool of water and i say
i just don't know what to do

i am checking my e-mail

I am checking my e-mail. I am checking my twitter. I am checking my facebook. I am checking my e-mail. I am checking my twitter. I am checking my e-mail. I am checking my facebook. I am checking my e-mail. I am checking my e-mail. I am checking my e-mail. I am remembering about childhood. I am imagining growing old. I am checking my e-mail. I am checking my e-mail. I am checking my twitter. I am updating my twitter status to 'I am checking my twitter'. I am checking my e-mail. I am watering a plant. I am checking my e-mail. I am moving out of the light. I am writing 459 words of my novel. I am checking my e-mail. I am checking my twitter. I am checking my blog for comments. I am eating lunch. I am writing 234 words of my novel. I am looking at a painting on the wall. I am cleaning a section of the wall. I am checking my twitter. I am gchatting with crispin. I am updating my twitter status to 'WTF?' I am updating my twitter status to 'Whoops – wrong window, that was meant to be in a gchat'. I am living a modern life. I am listening to 'telephone' by 'lada gaga and beyonce' and writing the 'great british novel' (GBN). I am looking out of the window. I am checking my facebook. I am checking my twitter. I am checking my e-mail. I am writing an e-mail to an estate agent, complaining about the service I have received. I am not receiving a reply from the estate agent. I am looking at a mutated pigeon. I am throwing bread at a mutated pigeon. I am hiding from a man who saw me throw the bread. I am checking my twitter. I am worrying about the mutated pigeon. I am checking my facebook. I am checking my e-mail. I am checking my e-mail. I am checking my e-mail.

story at newwavevomit

it also has an illustration that i did.

when i read it, it seems maybe a little rushed and obvious. did i make it too obvious?

it still seems ok.

news about my second novel

here is the title of my second novel:

'i am afraid of dying'

here is a description of my second novel:

'i am afraid of dying' is a novel about a great guy living the kind of life everyone would love to live. he meets loads of other great guys and has ten million incredible experiences along the way. everything he does is wonderful and every moment of his life is a primal and uncontrollable split second of ecstatic existence.'

here is what i think about my second novel:

my second novel is either a lot better than my first novel or totally unreadable. this is really what i think. it feels a lot more ambitious than my first one.

i am about to create some artwork for 'i am afraid of dying'.

'i am afraid of dying' is currently around 10,000 words long - i imagine it being around 60,000 words when it is finished. maybe 70,000. it might be a lot longer also.

stand up comedy

i don't like it

interview with crispin best, carried out in gchat

here is an 'interview' of crispin best. at times he asked me questions and i answered them. is it interesting?

me: i am about to start the interview

ok

hi crispin

Crispin: hi there
8:43 PM
hi socrates

me: so what's your philosophy on life?

Crispin: my philosophy on life is 'everyone is a person and in some way they are trying their hardest'
8:44 PM
my philosophy changes every single day, this morning i went to the shop for milk and i said 'this is amazing'

yesterday i sat on a swivel chair and tried to make myself as small as possible and felt disappointed with myself
8:45 PM
isn't that great?

me: how do you cope with feelings of inadequacy and despair? (a lot of people suffer from these feelings)
8:46 PM
Crispin: i don't suppose i cope with them. generally i think 'it would be nice to have something to look forward to' and i envisage something i might be able to look forward to. for this reason i am glad i like sports, even though i know it is a waste of my life to watch sports
8:47 PM
me: what's better, football or cricket? and why?
8:48 PM
Crispin: i think football is better. the reason for this is that football is mroe of a 'soap opera' and a soap opera is a good thing because of something to do with narrative tropes and early experience of time passing, urgency, and death (also: pets). also the acrobatic and physical feats of football seem, on the face of it at least, more impressive than those of cricket. although i do enjoy cricket
8:49 PM
me: did you know that the shuttlecock is the fastest hit projectile of any racquet sport?
8:50 PM
Crispin: i had no idea. that is very interesting. what is 'jal-alai'? i think that is home to the fastest projectile in all sports.

"Unfortunately for Jai-Alai, Badminton has taken over the title, a shuttlecock has been recently clocked at 332 KM/H or 206 MPH."

that's a quote from an internet source

that i just found, after i tried to 'prove you wrong'
8:51 PM
me: tell me a bit about wewillallgosimultaneous. e.g - why you started it? why you keep it going? what you have on it etc
8:52 PM
Crispin: it's a blog. i started it because i got my first ever story accepted by an online publication, eyeshot, and i thought i should have a link to which people could be directed from that. i only realised much later on that eyeshot was actually quite a prestigious place to be published, and it's still one of the main places from which traffic comes to my site
8:53 PM
i started out putting writing and things on there, but i don't do that much any more, for no apparent reason. i feel bewildered answering this question. i don't know why i have a blog

me: sorry - i am trying to ask 'difficult questions'
8:54 PM
it's difficult

i don't know why i have my blog

maybe i do know, but i am embarrassed, scared to admit it

anyway

what sort of music do you like, crisp?
8:55 PM
Crispin: oh - what would be embarrassing?
8:56 PM
me: oh dear - looks like this is being turned back on me, the 'anonymous interviewer'

Crispin: i don't want to do that, i am sorry

me: well - i just want everyone to tell me how good everything i write is and that i am a great guy

that's mainly why i have the blog

Crispin: oh right, i see. it would be a good idea for you to get that great novel of yours published, though

me: and that seems embarrassing for me
8:57 PM
Crispin: that's not embarrassing, at all. everyone puts pictures of themself on the internet and wants to be called 'very handsome' etc

it's ~better than that, for sure

me: i feel that maybe it's something that shouldn't be admitted though?

don't know why
8:58 PM
it's not ok to admit that you want people to love you in a straightforward way?

Crispin: i think everyone admits that

me: oh

Crispin: i mean i am surprised you think it's embarrassing

me: maybe i am behind the times or something

Crispin: i thought you woere going to say something about teenage girls
8:59 PM
me: i am maybe a little oddly sensitive or austere

Crispin: you are austere

me: i am easily embarrassed i think

so what sort of writing do you like to read?

Crispin: you are not austere
9:00 PM
there isn't a sort

me: oh

Crispin: i am thinking very hard

me: what's your favourite book of all time

?

Crispin: sorry - i was thinking, that seemed dismissive

i am thinking very hard about what i like
9:01 PM
me: ok

i'll stop asking silly questions

i will qait

(wait)

Crispin: i don't have a favourite book
9:02 PM
everything i want to say sounds utterly ridiculous: "i like things that seem themselves"

just as an example: your writing is good because i can't compare it to something else

and also it seems 'in line' with what i imagine to be important in writing

which is to do with newness and not being a scaredycat
9:03 PM
me: ha

i think that seems like a good answer

Crispin: also it's to do with engaging with what is happening somewhere recognisably 'irl'

well that's good - i am glad. i am reading lydia davis' collected stories currently and she seems really excellent

'incredibly strong writing' or whatever
9:04 PM
what are you reading recently?

me: oh man

i just read the easter parade

Crispin: i haven't read that
9:05 PM
me: by richard yates and then i read dazed and aroused by gavin james bower

the easter parade is among the best books i think i have written

Crispin: oh he is your pal

me: i mean

read

haha

Crispin: yes

me: i didn't write it

did i?

Crispin: i was trying to figure out how to mention that

me: haha

Crispin: i think you didn't write the easter parade
9:06 PM
me: i think i know which books i have/haven't written crispin

Crispin: i am glad you have written a book

i am looking forward to the 'great british novel'

me: oh dear

it's not going so well

Crispin: 'great britain'

etc

i am sure it will go fine
9:07 PM
me: let's get this interview back on track

Crispin: ok sorry

i am worried that i am in a dour mood

me: oh

do you want to stop

Crispin: so my answers are not fit for publication

me: i am really enjoying it

Crispin: haha

me: it seems excellent

Crispin: i am very happy, i just feel like a sourpuss

me: we are having an odd, 'academic discussion' of sorts

instead of saying
9:08 PM
great guy, babes, etc

Crispin: hah

yes

i like it

http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/en/1/19/Easter_parade_yates.jpg

when did books stop looking like that?

me: seems like a nice break every now and then

Crispin: bloody photography

ruined bookcovers

me: i know

Crispin: 'the bird room' i kept thinking "WHICH ONE IS THIS GIRL ON THE COVER MEANT TO BE?!?!?"

me: i totally agree
9:09 PM
Crispin: wouldn't have happened to yatesy

me: the edition i have has a picture of two girls on it

i mean

I DON'T WANT YOU TO TELL ME WHAT YOU THINK THE CHARACTERS LOOK LIKE COVER DESIGNER

Crispin: cover designers are imagination perverts
9:10 PM
me: how do you feel rejection digest (your great new collection of incredible fiction) is going?
9:11 PM
Crispin: ahhh. close to our hearts. at first it seemed like a really brilliant idea, and i was so happy that we decided to do it.

'almost immediately' there were some comments on htmlgiant which seemed to totally dismiss the idea as being unoriginal, although there were some supportive comments too
9:12 PM
after that, i felt unsure of 'ourself' for a while

then we got into a good rhythm. it seems ok at the moment. i wish we had more submissions.
9:13 PM
me: i have felt oddly 'unstoppably positive' about the whole thing

Crispin: feel like i didn't need to say anything before the last line

i have noticed your unstoppable positivity

it's really good to see
9:14 PM
i think i am feeling a bit 'down' with writing in general. i feel unable to achieve anything i am proud of currently.

me: that's a real shame

Crispin: it's ok - it's my fault
9:15 PM
me: it's odd, it feels like your website is an incredibly exuberant celebration of culture and oddness, and it makes me feel as though the sensibilities you have indicate that you are a creative force that is 'inextinguishable'?
9:16 PM
Crispin: that's nice of you to say. i think ... actually what i was about to say starts to become hamfisted pop psychology very quickly...
9:17 PM
the important thing is i really do think everything is great, and that's why i can't write at the moment

i don't have any idea of what language can convey the thing i am trying to say

me: do you want to go away somewhere on a writing retreat where we discover a new way of writing?

Crispin: i like exuberance and effort and hope but i don't feel like 'hyperexuberant' language is right
9:18 PM
haha - but i think you are able to write well with the style you have

do you think you are 'ripping anyone off' ever?

is that a dangerous question/

?

me: no it's not dangerous

but the answer is going to be a bit 'poncy'
9:21 PM
when i write, i do it very quickly and it comes very naturally (if it's any good). i don't think about ripping anyone off. i don't think i am ripping anyone off. it feels like it is the only way i can write - it feels like it is just me and no-one else. i often feel like i am completely lost in a trance when i write the things that i am happiest with.

that is a terrible, garbled answer
9:22 PM
Crispin: that doesn't seem garbled at all

i wonder why you think that... that seems like a very true and enviable answer
9:23 PM
me: i just worry about everything

Crispin: haha - you shouldn't worry about that

like i said before, i think your writing seems to come from a recognisable but not obvious place, and that is one of the reasons i like it
9:24 PM
that answer is 'in line' with how i feel about it

so that's important.

when you said poncey i thought you were going to talk about ALL WRITING IS A TISSUE OF QUOTATIONS

or someshit

i'm glad you didn't say that

me: oh god
9:25 PM
i don't know enough to quote fro anything

(afro?)

Crispin: fro comb

me: way to 'ruin the interview' crisp

JOKES!
9:26 PM
Crispin: sorrry

me: it's quite hard work, thinking hard about yourself
9:27 PM
Crispin: yes. i wonder if i should do it more. or less. or if i do it the correct amount

it is 'not answerable'

sorry

me: i think that's right

Crispin: i ruined the interview again

me: nah

i think it's going 'exquisitely well'

Crispin: are you going to buy an 'ipad'?
9:28 PM
me: i think maybe i wish i was obsessed with wanting to do something that doesn't require any introspection. like winning masterchef or something

no - i am not going to buy an ipad

i don't have any money

Crispin: ok
9:29 PM
me: do you want to get one?

i wish i had one

Crispin: not at all

one of my main failings is that i basically 'hate' that sort of thing

everything that makes me think i am being encouraged to spend money

me: p.s this interview is going to cost you $300-$400
9:30 PM
Crispin: that's ok - i am charging it rejection digest's company card

me: on a serious note, shall we get a credit card for rejection digest?

i think we need one

Crispin: we do need an ipad actually

for 'market credibility'
9:31 PM
no-one will submit to us unless we have an ipad

me: if we had an ipad i think steve jobs might probably promote the website to everyone who wears black polo-necks and skinny jeans.
9:32 PM
Crispin: 'target audience'

me: haha

whenever i select a story i think about black polo-necks and skinny jeans

Crispin: have you ever worn a poloneck?
9:33 PM
me: yes

my dad bought me one when i was young

it looked ridiculous

it was a black polo neck

they are the "worst item of clothing anyone can wear"
9:34 PM
Crispin: i think certain kinds of 'puffy waistcoat' might be worse

i have a vivid image of someone in a poloneck and puffy wasitcoat now

oops

me: http://imagecache.asos.com/inv/V/15/92/797392/Black/image1xl.jpg
9:35 PM
Crispin: intense douche

me: http://static-p4.fotolia.com/jpg/00/06/78/19/400_F_6781969_W1T0lEdMurBOQdUTRcMxRSSr3zWkzkrL.jpg
9:36 PM
he looks a lot like you, crisp

Crispin: oh wow - and the photographer definitely doesn't want anyone using any part of that picture without permission

me: i know

it's worth a huge amount of money, that photo
9:37 PM
Crispin: i have a pricey face

me: do you think that that is enough interview now?
9:38 PM
be back in 2 - 3 - 5 mins

Crispin: 4 hours!

ok

competition results

there were a lot of entries to the bird room review competition. i found it very hard to decide on the winners of the competition. i am going to print the winning positive and negative review here and will e-mail the winners.

if you haven't won i am really sorry. the overall standard of the entries was (as far as i know) very good. i did a lot of laughing and thinking, 'wow, that's great' while i was reading them.

also please remember i have never run/judged a competition before. so i have probably made a terrible mistake. there were many more entries into the negative review section of the competition, which makes me think that all of the readers of this blog are 'haters' and only want to wish never-ending doom on the rest of the universe.

anyway, here are the winning entries.

POSITIVE

When I first imagined Chris Killen's novel The Bird Room, I have to admit I was a little cautious. It brings to mind a bird being trapped in a room doesn't it? Flying around like a mad thing all over the place. This scared me. Plus i'm allergic to paper. Nevertheless I bravely donned my reading gloves and began to preconceive the words.

First things first, this is an incredibly powerful book. I vomited all over page one, by the second chapter i'd begun to ejaculate uncontrollably from the penis and during the final chapter I was weeping from the mouth whilst my Grandad slipped in and out of his beloved coma, his frail being only being able to mouth the word 'kipper' at passers by.

As I pulled myself together I started to ponder what i'd just imagined to read. Suddenly words meant nothing to me. What's a bird?

Some may say it sticks a bit too closely to the plot of Mighty Ducks but for my money there's a new Bible in town. It'll be a long time before i'm able to eat toast on my own again (you'll know what I mean after you've read it). Huge recommendation.

By Alex J. Nuttall

NEGATIVE

‘the bird room’: oh no you di-ent!


Chapter one:
This is a review of ‘the bird room’ by ‘chris killen’. Seems like a book aimed mainly at whiny douchebags.

Chapter two:
When I say ‘mainly’, I mean ‘90% entirely’.

Also lacks urban (i.e. black) characters

Disappointment re lack of urban people offset somewhat by promise of detailed descriptions of birds.

Chapter three:
*drawing of something*

Chapter four:
Obvious racist overtones of not having any urban people is ‘getting me down’.

Chapter five:
I physically stop reading this book as I suspect that if there aren’t any birds in it by now, there probably will not be any birds in it by now. Ditto: urban peoples.

Conclusion:
This book is clearly autobiographical to the max, and on this basis, ‘chris killen’ seems to be mentally ill with sadness and inherent racism.

By Richard Owain Roberts

congratulations to the winners and i am sorry to all of the other entrants. the stress of running this competition means that i am probably never going to run a competition ever again.

happy easter.

INCREDIBLE COMPETITION!!!

i recently went to america accidentally, and, in a trance, bought two american copies of chris killen's novel, the bird room.

i want to give away these two copies, as i already own a copy of the book. they are no different to the english version except they have a completely different nationality.

there are some things about these two copies that are very special.

1. They are signed by Chris. They are the only American versions that he will sign because he is unlikely to go to America to sign any more of them.

2. They are annotated by Chris. In one copy the annotations are about the sections of the book that Chris is most happy with. In the other copy, the annotations are about the sections of the book that Chris is least happy with.

here is what you have to do to win this 'unique' prize.

1. Decide which book you would like to win.

2. Write a fictional review of the book, without having first read it. If you would like to win the 'happy' book, write a glowing review. If you would like to win the 'least happy' book, write a 'scathing/blisteringly devastating' review. Keep the review under 500 words.

3. Send the review to socratesadams at gmail dot com by Friday the 2nd of April.

4. Wait until the the following Monday for the result.

these copies are excellent, premium-grade copies of 'the bird room' which is, in itself, a premium-grade novel.

lovely story

i wrote a little story about Steve Stiffler. you can find it here, along with other stories about great fictional guys.

current thoughts/aims

writing the great british novel. writing an excellent novel. my aim is to write the one unifying novel that will unify and inspire the great british public. giving the great british public something to believe in. trying to make the great british public see for once and for all just how pathetic/wonderful everything/everyone is. trying so hard to write with character and my own voice. trying to enunciate effectively using my own voice which i haven't borrowed from any other great british novelists who already wrote the great british novel. trying to write a novel that makes every person in the world join forces like the music from bill and ted wyld stallyons. trying to think of how i can make a band that is as good as wyld stallyons. playing my ukulele and hoping that someone outside will hear and think that wyld stallyons are a real band and that person will somehow help me to unite the world in appreciation of wyld stallyons and humanity. trying to dress and act like rufus from bill and ted to try and create the band wyld stallyons by going back in time to find the constituent members. trying to write my novel with the story from bill and ted but more ironic and deadpan. i am so keen on making everything just so god damn ironic and deadpan, like the music of wyld stallyons, but more ironic. typing and imagining that my hands are doing the 'special sign' that means wyld stallyons.

200th post

i thought this was the start of a new novel and then realised that it definitely wasn't

(i am very interested in fear of death)

I am afraid of dying.

I am sitting and looking out of the window. I think that a sniper is going to shoot me at any second. There are football fans staying in a hotel over the road. They are whistling out of their window at a Chinese tourist at ground level and then getting their knobs out and laughing at the Chinese tourist. Their knobs are flailing about all over the place. The Chinese tourist is looking at the knobs waving about and thinking, 'What a dreadful place.' I feel sorry that he is being treated like this. Who wants to have a football fan's knob flailing about near them? The football fans are both pissing out of the window all over the place. The piss is landing near the Chinese tourist and he is moving back and thinking, 'I don't want this piss to land on me.' The knobs look like little fleshy tumours. The football fans are jumping up and down and hugging each other and pissing on each other and they are singing great football songs to each other. They have put on some music and are prancing about. The Chinese tourist is looking up at the prancing football fans and thinking, 'I wonder how long it is before anyone realises that I am lost.' The traffic is getting quite a bit thicker. There are people getting out of their cars and getting into fights with each other because they are in such a bad mood at the end of their day. A man in a Mercedes Benz car is assaulting the bonnet of a man's Audi car. He has ripped his shirt off and he is jumping up and down on top of the car. He has taken his tie off and is erotically asphyxiating himself on top of the car as he jumps up and down. His penis bursts out of his trousers and then it ejaculates all over the windscreen. He is still jumping. The football fans look at the man and start jumping more. They piss and piss all over the ejaculating man. The man in the Audi car gets out and starts having sex with the man who has been bouncing up and down on his car. There is a crowd of people watching. The Chinese tourist is taking pictures and thinking, 'These pictures are not for my personal sexual use.' Two students are walking next to the cars and they are carrying guitar cases and singing to each other while taking drugs. The students are saying about the fact that they are independent thinkers. The two car owners are lying tenderly in each others arms. They are curled up like wonderful life partners always loving each other. A man walks by in a suit. He is smoking ten cigarettes. He takes one puff from each cigarette and then drops it on the ground. A tramp is following him and picking up every cigarette that he drops. The tramp puts the cigarettes out by carefully grinding the end of the cigarette into the pavement. He is moving more slowly than the man. The suit man occasionally looks behind himself and shakes his head. I look back at the Chinese tourist. He is lying on the floor and the two football fans are pissing into his mouth. There is a small flood beneath the football fans balcony. The streets are filling up with their piss.

I turn away from the window and walk into the kitchen. I am going to make a cup of coffee. I take the coffee from the pouch in the cupboard and pour it into the correct part of the coffee machine. I put the machine onto the hob, after filling it up with water. I wait. I am drinking a delicious cup of coffee. I check my e-mail. There is an e-mail from one of my friends who is trying to persuade me to invest money into a scheme. The scheme is something about money being easy to make. You just put all of your money into something and then you get more money. Everyone is doing it these days. It is so god damn easy to make a load of money. All you need is a load of money to begin with and a great friend to make all of your money with.

I take a trip down to street level. I bob between arguing and fucking people and make my way to a café. Inside the café is the barista. Barista is what you call the man who makes you a coffee. I order a coffee. The barista quickly makes me a cup of coffee. I have a sip and then let the coffee fall out of my mouth onto the saucer of the cup. The coffee is a joke. I say to him, this coffee is a fucking joke. He looks taken aback. I say, I just made a coffee that was one hundred times better than this. I made it with a domestic coffee machine. I don't even have a gaggia brand coffee machine. Then I chill out and say, don't worry I know you tried your best. I don't pay and then I get out of there.

I go back home and reply to my friend saying that I don't have money to invest in his idea but that he should get in touch with some other people because even though I don't have much money there is a chance that other people might have some money. I try and make it as clear as possible that I am not exactly the same as everybody else. It's difficult.

For dinner I eat a huge amount of food while watching a variety of televised events.

trying to sleep

all i can do is listen to my heart beating and think about whether it will be beating in the morning. it's just fear i suppose.

expertly written short story

I sit in bright sunlight on a bench in a park and I wait for a man in an attic to shoot me through the head with a bullet from a sniper rifle. My hands rest on my knees and I am thinking about all the events that have happened in my life. I think that I won't be aware of the shot when it comes. Everything will quietly stop. I wonder if there is any way for me to know whether everything has already quietly stopped. I think that there isn't.

People walk past and some teenagers are playing music on a mobile phone. There's the sun. It's not a warm day. A breeze makes it colder every now and then.

The teenagers are laughing and joking together. I think about what the teenagers are made of.

The teenagers are strutting around and smoking joints and cigarettes. They are wearing hooded tops and are having a great time all together. The male teenagers are looking at the female teenagers and vice-versa. All of the teenagers want to have violent and passionate intercourse with each other. Seconds and minutes pass by at the normal speed.

I am part of a rambunctious and vibrant scene that is typical of life. The park is bisected by a concrete path. I think about lying down on the concrete path and pressing my face up against the path to make myself warmer. Concrete is usually warmer than the air that surrounds it.

It is dark and rich and thick and wonderful. It smells wonderful.

Human beings love concrete and everything else that is like concrete. They like tarmac more than anything else. All human beings wish that their entire house was made of lovely rich and thick dark tarmac. All human beings want to have sexual intercourse with warm and lubricated tarmac.

The bullet hasn't come yet. It is a matter of time before the bullet comes and knocks my skull apart and my brain falls out. I look straight ahead and try to do an impression of someone who's brain has been blown out of their head. I don't move my face at all and look straight ahead. I think about my brain flopping around on the floor like a fish. I think about my brains gills being useless outside my head. My head is full of blood, by the way.

When it finally gets shot apart the blood will fly all over the place and splash all around.

There is a small chance that the blood from my brain will drown some kind of insect, maybe a low crawling insect. Stupid insects I think. I wonder what kind of insects eat blood. Probably snails. A group of snails will eat all of the blood and move towards my brain. My brain will become their leader and make all of the decisions for all of the snails from now on. They will carry it around everywhere and it will get to make out with all of the hot female snails. My brain is a snail.

After a long time waiting I begin to get restless. I think that maybe I should go back to the office.

It is one thirty and my lunch break is over.

entertainment

even more rejection

check this week's out.

it's the 'best ever' edition.

here

favourite tv shows

privileged
ugly betty
how to look good naked: disabled edition
gok wan's fashion fix
gossip girl
the gilmore girls
everwood
will and grace

my ten rules for writing fiction

1. if you haven't read 3,000 books you are not allowed to write anything
2. you have to buy a country cottage worth £450,000 before you are allowed to write anything
3. you have to have an IQ of 140 before you are allowed to write anything
4. you're going to be miserable and lonely and self critical and just suck it up ok and get on with it and get used to thinking constantly about yourself and making other people want to love you it's just who you are and you can't change it and it's part of your creative juices ok god
5. keep writing no matter how bad what you are writing is. keep writing forever and then fall over dead
6. whatever you do don't connect to the internet it is just soooooooo distracting
7. 2 hours work, 2 hours sleep, 2 hours work, 2 hours sleep, 2 hours work, 2 hours sleep, 2 hours work, 2 hours sleep, 2 hours work, 2 hours sleep, 2 hours work, 2 hours sleep, 2 hours work, 2 hours sleep, repeat 3000x
8. never break your routine
9. be flexible routine
10. above all else be a great guy and go to loads of keg parties. don't forget you're alive!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

miserable rejection

the new rejection digest is up. it's a good'un.

experimental writing

David's flat isn't a great place to relax. He is tired after the day. He is emotionally and physically tired after a long and tiring day which involved a lot of thinking about his methods as an artist. He thought a lot about the way he has developed over the years.

He thinks that he has not developed over the years.

David walks from one side of his modern kitchen to another and then he walks back to the other side.

He walks back and forth many times.

He is thinking about the past. These thoughts were provoked by his experiences on this day, with Susan, in the corner of the studio.

David moves into his bedroom. He lies down for a second. He lets his hand drop down beside the bed and then he hauls his whole body over the side of his bed so that he is lying on the floor. The floor is wooden.

He reaches under his bed and fumbles around for a while, trying to find something. He carries on fumbling. He can't find what he is looking for so he begins to crawl under his bed, head first. He thinks, 'God.'

It must be dusty under that bed. It never gets moved and nothing ever moves inside it.

After around twenty seconds of commitment David emerges from the bed. He is holding a tray of what look to be tiny cassette tapes. He moves around so that he is sitting with his back to the bed.

The tapes are all marked. They each have a date on them as well as a few words of description. The descriptions are things like, David and Norman on Women, David and Norman on Tourism, David and Norman on Beauty, etc. The descriptions are written in small, scratchy, black, upper-case handwriting. The tapes are carefully stored in historical order. The dates on the tapes are all over ten years old.

David looks through the tapes until he finds a tape that's description says 'David and Norman – Smoking'. He takes the tape out of the tray and ejects it from its container. There is a small voice recorder in David's bed side table which he puts the tape into.

David sits still at his desk and presses the play button on the voice recorder. The sound of almost silence plays from the small speakers of the recorder. It sounds like someone breathing out softly, forever.

David sits at the desk and removes a large cigar from his pocket. There is the sound of a lighter clicking into flame on the recording. David echoes the recorded action in real time. He smokes. He tries to breathe in and out very quietly so that he can hear the recording as clearly as possible. He wants to hear every tiny nuance and fold in the sound. He feels like a detective, pouring over case notes. Every now and then, he feels like he hears someone inhaling particularly ferociously and he feels happy. He feels like with the aid of this recording he can remember each individual breath and sucking in of smoke. He is thinking that he can remember exactly how it felt to breathe the smoke in on that particular day and how his body felt and where he was sitting in the hut and exactly what he could see from his eyes and the tiny subtle sounds he could hear with his ears. His memory of that time feels so utterly complete. He thinks that the memory of that time is the most important thing in his life. He thinks about Norman.

REJECT X 1,000,000

hey great guys. Please have a look at Rejection Digest. the first edition is on-line now and i am very pleased with it. i hope you all like it.

don't be ashamed of yourselves/me.

even more activity

i have a story here

sorry for doing all this stuff recently guys, i know it's tiring.

rejection digest

this is an experiment i am undertaking with crispin. have a look here and let me know what you think. please submit as much as you like.

i wonder whether this will take off.

x x x

threat

There are two people sitting under the gazebo next to the car park. They are both drunk. I am walking back from the supermarket and I have two bags with me. They are full of booze, crisps, chocolate, dipping sauces, cured meat and French cheese.

As I approach the two people I think, 'Please don't say anything to me.'

One of the two drunk people burps and then sneezes. He burps again. He drinks more of his strong beer and then burps.

I am very near them now.

The man who was burping slowly turns around. He is looking at me and standing aggressively.

He says to me, 'Party in number 41 tonight?'

I live at number 41. I try and smile at the man, but it is difficult when I am so scared.

As I walk into my home, I can feel the blood pulsing around my body.

I pace around for a while, thinking about the people.

For the whole night I sit up in my bed, unable to sleep. I think about the two people waiting outside my home. Waiting to follow my every move.

My groceries remain, uneaten, on the kitchen table.

hi

short story

i have a very smart looking short story up at pangur ban party.

you can find the story here.

hope you like it.

for every year

hi massive collection of doting and loving fans and great guys who love everything i have ever done and will ever do regardless of how good it is because it's me who made it!

i have something up at 'for every year', crispin best's insane collection of stories.

you can easily check it out by clicking here

i hope you like it!!!!!!!! x 100000000

another thing i made

sorry everyone i just can't stop it

click here

i made this

most powerful and primal post of all time

he romantically kissed her tender and female mouth with incredible and non-ironic passion. he expertly unbuttoned her soft and feminine cardigan with his extremely rough and masterful masculine male hands. she endearingly submitted to his bestial and increasingly manic lust. he used his large and hairy hands to rip apart every remaining piece of clothing that used to be on her body but now, slightly later on in time, lay on the floor in front of her. he forcefully pushed her entire physical being onto a bed that belongs to him it is his bed. she fell like a sweet and magical maiden onto the bed and got ready to meet and match his earthy and all conquering carnal desire with an equal quantity of sexual and physically appropriate love making moves.

when i get that feeling i want sexual healing
when i get that feeling i want sexual healing
when i get that feeling i want sexual healing

new content

do you love the sound of my voice?

if you do, you can hear it saying words that i wrote here

thank you

please look at these

this one

and

this one

please write some great comments, and make them into internet megamemes.

please

i can't stand it

when i die

i want the entire population of the earth to grieve for ten years. i want people to build statues of me.

is that so much to ask?

ok i understand

i am lying in my bed awake. i am trying to get to sleep and i can't get to sleep.

i am thinking about all of the things in my life. i am thinking about all of the things that are connected together and make up my life. i am the connection between all of these things and they are all important to me.

i think i can see swirling grey in the shadows at the end of my bed.

i am thinking about every event that has ever happened in my entire life. starting with birth. when i was born i couldn't go to the toilet for three days and i nearly died.

every time i go to a party i tell this story about being a constipated baby and everyone laughs. i say 'i could have died.' they say, 'that's why it's funny.'

i wonder if i had died then whether on my tombstone it would have said 'unnamed: crapped and pissed himself to death'

thinking about events in my life is a good and healthy thing. it means i have perspective on my situation. i haven't not been able to sleep like this for a very long time. i like it. i think it means that i am definitely alive 100%.

art

best news headline of all time finally discovered

click for larger image

the most terrifying story about vampires ever written

everyone you know is a vampire.

there was a special chemical that was put into the water system that affected every tap in the world except the ones that you drink from. every person in the world became a vampire.

were you the lucky one or the unlucky one?

it depends on whether you value your humanity or whether you value fitting in with everyone else.

as soon as you leave your house you are going to be sucked to death by a million vampires. maybe the best thing to do is suicide? don't do it! there is still a chance. maybe if you lock yourself in a small room you will never be found.

a small room like a........................................................

........................................

..........................................

.........................................

........COFFIN!?!?!?!?!

the implication is that you will be acting like a vampire anyway.

what a ridiculous and non-terrifying awful story about vampires.

the ring-leader of the vampires is still at large or is he yes he is.

mysterious goings on at the local school

no one could work out what was going on at the local school. it was a mystery. the children were acting out of character. the staff of the school were scared of the students.

it was satanism.

but no one knew that.

except for the children who were major-league satanists.

it started with simple things: Crucifixes being turned upside down. Pictures of goats being scrawled all over everything that wasn't a picture of a goat. Five pointed stars being painted on the wall in arcane fluids.

no one could work it out so they called in the police. the police were stumped. they called for the best investigator in the whole country, inspector gorth. gorth was a very old man who was close to death. he always wears the same coat. it is a grey trenchcoat that he has owned for around 50 years. it has a patina of grease and grime and wax. it is indestructible.

gorth is destructible. when he arrived he paced around the school for five days and then said, 'this is way bigger than any of us.'

then he died from dramatic feeling. he was overcome with a tense and dramatic feeling and it clogged up his veins and made his heart explode! his second in command was so upset that he started crying.

the fbi came over from america and couldn't work out was going on at the satanist school. the children all wore moustaches and rich red velvet robes. it was 100% satanic. eventually everyone lost interest because it was just too mysterious. what a boring and long-winded story about satanic children!

one of the children was the ring leader but he was never caught. he is still at large today or is he?

my dad, kenny and cotton stones

i really liked reading this

everyone who reads what's on my blog should read what's on this one

in case of confusion i had better say right now that both of those links lead to the same place so stop your god damn whining

addendum:

one of my friends who i haven't seen for a long time has made this short film. i thought it was very good so here is a link to it. it is a very direct and economical film. it has a very good 'length:emotional impact' ratio.

in case of confusion i had better say right now that all of those links lead to the same place so stop your god damn whining

supermarket

doing my shopping is the most fun thing that i can do in my life. i am pulsing down the aisles of the supermarket. i am the blood in the veins of the supermarket. i am the shaving foam pumping around the chin of the supermarket. i am the battery being slotted into the spring ended slot of the supermarket. i am the sunlight caught by the leaves of the supermarket. i am the tree supporting the eco-system of the supermarket. i am the chair under the buttocks of the supermarket. i am the bird cleaning the supermarket's teeth. i am the stork delivering the babies of the supermarket. i am the beard scratching the face of the supermarket. i am the muscles ripping the shirt of the supermarket. i am the stalker following the footsteps of the supermarket. i am the cornership being consumed by the supermarket. i am the minority being persecuted by the supermarket. i am the pilot made automatic by the supermarket. i am the chef cooking the kidneys of the supermarket. i am the drummer beating the skin of the supermarket. i am the worm crapping out the silk of the supermarket. i am the finger picking the nose of the supermarket. i am the iron flattening the creases of the supermarket. i am the vampire draining the veins of the supermarket. i am the shepherd guiding the flock of the supermarket. etc.