W's have all the best words

I am assuming due to the incredible halt in blog activity that something is changing, and that something has changed. In the corner of the room, hiding beneath the jacket that hasn't been worn for months, and slowly creeping into view, is the official end of the degree. Obviously such wonderful news has one specifically significant reprecussion as i write, as it means that the creative industries blog project that i have toiled over, yet in no no way understoood for the best part of the year, is over, and the safe first that i am expecting (but not anticipating) is already there.
This is good news, for everyone bar the faithful readers who listen to this blog; and bad news to everyone apart from the faithful listeners who read this blog.
While the rest of my class seem happy to let this occasion pass without notice, and focus on the far more frivilous activities like finding jobs and eating worms, i have decided that i could not do this, and have set aside several minutes of my life to put on papa roach on random and sign off with a bang. so, are you ready? Are you sitting comfortably on a comfortable chair? Are you ready for the end? Timmy, come out from beneath that cupboard, this is important. something is about to end. Something is about to die. Along with several people sitting around the world right now eating pasta and watching reality TV, something is about to die. And with all the natural disastors and human timebombs disrubting everyday life it is hard to imagine the real point of things like Big Brother, The Da Vinci Code, (Cod) Jim Davidson, and this blog.

What do you call a pencil without a tip?

Broken.

The begininingning

so i haven't written on this for just under a month. And I am just one week away from finishing my degree. That'll be fun.

saturday

So, in an attempt to do all the work needed i am staying at Holloway for Easter, which, though probably a good idea in the long run, is very boring. i have been alone in the house for but one day, and already i am starved of human contact. Anyway, to the point. i have just written the first draft of the beginning of my chapter 3. the problem is i think it works quite well as the beginning to a novel but can't be arsed to cut the first two chapters or somehow reshape it. who knows? Anyway here it is, any thoughts would be welcome.

When there’s an accident in London the ambulance takes an average of nine minutes to reach the scene, which is four minutes more than it takes a news crew to reach a hotel near Madrid. In London people don’t call an ambulance if they think that the person will be dead in nine minutes. Busy workers don’t care who’s face down in front of a Barclays bank with blood pouring from the self inflicted bullet wound in their chest. Even off duty ambulance drivers feel hate for on duty ambulance drivers, who weave through traffic likely to delay every driver by the ten seconds that would inevitably cause them to be late. In a busy city a lot of photographs can be taken in nine minutes.

Two days after my wife jumped I was having her funeral alone in a cemetery a mile from the hotel. I was speaking to an unmarked grave with nothing inside. The police still had my wife but I needed to do something before I left her alone. I couldn’t even afford a proper headstone so I may as well have held a ceremony in a park or by a lake. I could have taken the small wooden cross and buried her somewhere more exclusive than a cemetery. But I didn’t. She was religious and deserved a proper burial, even if it was just me speaking to a wooden cross in the middle of a cemetery thousands of miles from home. There was no vicar or priest or point. But I needed to do something.

The spot I had taken for her grave was in the corner of the cemetery, eight or so feet from the surrounding fence. The cemetery was pretty full. A lot of inconsiderate people had been dying. When the cemetery run out of space they would need to open up another cemetery, and the first person to be buried there would have an entire field to themselves for a while. But I don’t suppose you get lonely when you’re dead. It’s the ones left alive who are alone.



Oh yeah, any random people reading this be warned. i will sue if any of it is stolen. Happy Easter.

A Poem.

The Palace is a pseudonym of God’s

The sky is clear, but there is a cold wind

That cools me too much, and I struggle to keep warm.

In front of me is a man pushing a trolley down the pavement,

And I follow him, like I have always done before.

The more I follow him, the more I trust him.

But today the trust is gone, and I walk

From behind Him, past Him, to in front of Him.

I no longer follow Him, and He is now behind me.

I walk on with frantic pace, faster, forward, faster, forward, and faster.

And the man pushing the trolley is now far behind me.

And if I was to turn around now he would be too far back for me too see

Him. And I can no longer hear the wheels of his trolley

Clatter as they ricochet off the clunky pavement.

A girl waves at me from a passing car, but I don’t recognize her

Because she is in a car, which is moving fast.

I wave back anyway, and the memory of the girl morphs until

It is someone that I wanted to wave at me.

And I pretend it is her that waved.

I stop on the bridge that crosses the Road, and I watch,

As the cars flash by with people inside of them.

People with places to see and people to go, and though I don’t know them

I imagine for a second that I do, and that they are all friends of mine.

I wonder whether any of them would ever talk to me if they weren’t my friends,

I wonder whether any of them would touch me, laugh at my jokes, kiss me or

Fuck me.

I used to be so innocent.

I look up at the sky that was so clear and is now so dark,

I have been standing on the bridge for too long now and

I must go back to the palace.

But in all the thrill and fun I have forgotten where the palace is,

And I wonder whether I will ever re-remember it.

I am lost in the night and I want to go home.

But in all the thrill and fun of the day I have changed where home is.

I know that everything will be okay because I am comforted

by the sound of music, and by the streetlights that I will now use to guide me.

But now The Music has stopped and The Lights have gone out.

I am in the dark and the cold and I want to hear some music to comfort me.

But The Music has stopped.

A man sits on a bus behind a woman

The woman in front of me doesn't know what I'm about to do. I've caught the same bus as her every week-day for the last six weeks. That's thirty six days that I've caught the same bus as her, and she's never even looked at me. When i first saw her i found her distinctly unattractive, unfashionable, unwanted. Now she's the girl of my dreams. Now she is the girl i dream about. In a nut-shell; you always want what you can't have. But i can have anything i want, and when she steps out at the next stop, I'll prove it.

When the waiting watch met his maker

It’s not that much fun being a watch. Strapped to the wrist of an insolent fool who only brings you out from under his sleeve when he cares to know what time it is. It’s better in the summer; not that many people where long sleeves in the summer. But then, some days, it apparently becomes too hot to wear a watch, as if it is my fault that I heat up a little when the sun is glaring down on me. I am made of metal you know. I had an owner once who complained about me after returning from holiday, as she had an uneven tan line on her left hand, with a white strip in amongst the bronze glory.

“You put me on,” I told her, or I would have done if I had a mouth. Three hands and a face but no mouth was what I had, which I considered to be somewhat of a raw deal.

Another problem with being a watch is all the work. I’m constantly moving my hands about the place, swinging then around like a drunken lollipop lady. This one hand in particular is crazy; I’m telling you, it never stops, around and around and around. I get tired sometimes too, but I don’t even get to stop during the night. You see, it’s commonly known, that stopping is the one thing that no watch can allow themselves to do. I knew this one watch back when I was a kid, Jeff Banks, who, after being cast aside for years in a jewellery box (he swears it was years, and you can’t really argue with a watch over time) decided to take a rest from all the hard work and pointless swinging. He says that he did nothing for a few days then, fully rested, began the arduous task once more. When his owner finally decided he needed to wear his watch again Jeff was ecstatic, but when his owner pulled him out of the box of trinkets he realised that the time was wrong.

“This watch is broken,” he said, and rested it on the side of the table.

“No,” Jeff screamed at him, wanting to explain what happened, “I’m not broken, I just took a rest that’s all.”

But of course Jeff had three hands and a face but no mouth, and no amount of frantic hand swinging was enough to convince his owner that he worked. I met Jeff soon after I was made, and just before he was broken for good.

Happy Love day

So attention is turned, from the dizzying heights of Christmas and the new year, to the wondrous occasion of Valentines day. You know the thing i hate most about Valentines day isn't the loved up couples getting down with each other in public, it's the people who complain about these people. In my opinion love should be celebrated, especially when a guy can ply a girl full of fancy presents in the hope of getting laid.
Also, i'd like to quash the rumor that at this time of year women suddenly become incredibly self conscious if they are single and jump on any guy that talks to them, to make sure they are NOT ALONE on Valentines. this is not true, as the last couple of years i've tried this technique and all i've ever gotten for my efforts is a slap. SO, onto this year, where i'm... in between girlfriends. Well, this year i will be doing what any honorable single dude would do on valentines day, and that's get absolutely shitfaced in my room whilst listening to heavy metal.


Ahhhhhhh good times.