A writer should write what he has to say

W's have all the best words

2008-05-15T15:11:00.000-07:00

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

2008-04-21T04:09:00.000-07:00

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

2008-03-22T14:47:00.000-07:00

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.

2008-03-01T10:49:00.000-08:00

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

2008-02-28T15:13:00.000-08:00

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

2008-02-19T10:01:00.000-08:00

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

2008-02-13T12:34:00.000-08:00

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.

Musically challenged

2008-02-11T10:22:00.000-08:00

So i fell like writing about the music i'm listening to.

The Bad Robots
Dogs
Laura MArling
Dogs
The kings of leon
Biffy Clyro
Dogs
Fionn Regan
Hell is for heroes
And Dogs

All of these bands will make it big.
Trust me, i'm never wrong about these things

who would win in a fight?

2008-02-11T10:20:00.000-08:00

Me or the guy who gets eaten on the toilet in Jurassic Park

oscar

2008-01-26T12:05:00.000-08:00

last night a girl i was talking to (who it is worth noting was not fit) claimed that i was the epitome of someone who attempts to punch above his weight in terms of women.

I responded by agreeing, and drawing in an Oscar Wilde quote to back my argument, 'We are all in the gutter, but some of us are looking up at the stars.'

Thus winning the argument.

As promised, sexy fiction time

2008-01-26T10:17:00.000-08:00

My prick

I’d probably had too much to drink. She’d probably had too much to drink as well. Maybe it was that thought that comforted me as she spread her legs in front of me. She could only have been eighteen, and maybe it was that thought that excited me as she spread her legs in front of me.

It was late, it was a Tuesday, and we were the only two people left in the bar. She was the waitress, or bartender if you wish to remain politically correct.

“Do you mind if I have another drink,” I’d asked, and for some reason she’d agreed. I don’t know, maybe older guys were her thing; and maybe younger girls were my thing. That would explain how I could forget about my wife back home for the three hours it took me to jackhammer the bitch.

“Does it hurt?” I’d asked, in reference to the lip ring that she’d been tonguing since we were alone.

“Not really,” she’d replied, “Not as much as the one that’s tickling my minge right now.”

My prick leapt to attention, as she smiled at me in a practiced and seductive way.

“Is that one as big,” I asked.

“As big as what?”

“The one in your mouth.”

“Oh,” she leaned over and rubbed my knee, then my thigh, then my cock, “are you wondering which one is going to hurt your little friend here the most?”

“It had crossed my mind.”

“Well let’s find out,” she giggled immaturely, as someone inexperienced should be expected to do. But then she pulled my trousers down and revealed the monster beast, fast approaching full erection, and I could no longer consider her inexperienced at all.

This was the last time that I thought about my wife all night, apart from in comparison of course. My wife prefers a gentler approach to sucking a dick, while this slut couldn’t wait to test her deep throat technique, immediately force-feeding herself the 9 inch’s of dong. Not letting this distract me from my number one purpose of getting pissed I continued to drink the bottle of whisky she’d left on the bar, convincing myself that even if the sex was bad at least I got some free booze out of it. She didn’t react well to this at all though, and in the same way that watching Tv during oral pisses the wife off, apparently getting drunk on the job is also frowned upon. Pretty badly it seems, for the bitch had a little bite on my throbbing knob, and seemingly adamant to destroy the mood I slapped her in the face; first with my hand and then, when she got back on her knees and mouthed off at me, with my rapidly shrinking cock. After a few more bouts of cock tennis my dick rose again to it’s full reach, and she continued to suck on, after learning a little bit of respect and the rules of no biting.

Well, by this point my cock was throbbing at capacity, and the big pink vein in the middle looked like it was going to burst and splatter all over her face; not till later, I remember thinking, as I lifted her up off her knees and bent her over the bar, giving her the rowdiest butt-fucking that she could ever have had. Though tight at first, her ass soon became a gaping hole with which I could ease my cock into easily. She groaned with pleasure, or maybe pain, and in the indecision I decided to ride her harder, so I slipped my cock out of her as and into her minge, which was dripping wet from where she’d been fingering herself, or maybe from her last late night customer.

“You enjoying this?” I asked, whilst spitting on her like the trash she is.

“I’ve had better,” she smirked, spitting down on my cock to increase lubrication; not needed of course, as her fanny was as loose as Britney Spears on a hen weekend.

“Really,” I asked, and then decided that this silly bitch needed the special treatment, if only to prove her a lesson in good fucking.

So that was it, my dick was in her fanny, and I psyched myself up. And then it was jackhammer time.

“Qqqqqqqqqqqqqqqqqqqqqwwwwwwwwwwwwwaaaaaaaaaaaasssssssssssssssssssssdddddddddddddddddddddfxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvbvvyyyyyyyyyyyyyyjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhyyyyyyyuuuuuuuuu,” was the sound of her orgasm, started three minutes in and sustained for the next two hours and fifty-seven minutes, when she begged me to stop; which I did, deciding to be a gentleman.

Of course I needed to finish myself off, so I frantically wanked for forty seconds or so until, with the magic touch, my cock exploded with cum which, because of the specific aim and a relentless talent, covered both her tits and all of her face.

Then I went home and fucked my wife.

Douglas Cowie.

2008-01-17T16:41:00.000-08:00

So, as part of creative industries me and my fellow teammates have been placed in charge of the upcoming Runnymede literary festival, Or R-Fest if you wish. The first workshop on offer is one with Doug Cowie, Hemingway tutor and Writer galore. the information pack that we were given for this event reveals that the big Dougie C is releasing a new book in the near future, and while it is unlikely to be the literary moment of the year i do recommend that anyone reading this blog should buy it and also turn up to this event. His first novel, while far from groundbreaking, was a good read, and one that i managed to re-read in a day or so recently, (and i rarely re-read books) which reminded me of the steady pace that the novel moves forward at. You can probably get a copy of Owen No-one and the Marauder on Marketplace or ebay if you fancy putting my review to test, although Doug would probably prefer if you bought one direct from him.

P.S this time next year we should all be releasing our novels too. (Or Poems or plays)

Good Luck.

And we're back in the game

2008-01-17T16:09:00.000-08:00

hello, your saviour has returned. in the tradition of recap blogs i will give you a recap of the last month. It was Christmas and the new year. I played domino's with my grandmother and watched extra's on tv. I got drunk the week before Christmas and on New Year's. Some people say that drinking is neither big nor clever, but they are wrong. Happy New Year everyone, and thank you for the sausages.

Chain flic 11?

2007-12-12T13:42:00.000-08:00

Sitting there with a kid on his lap and a flute in his mouth, blowing the tune that all the kids are finding so enticing. I'd been outraged by the way, when the old man made pedophilia legal. It was all my fault of course, as everything always was in this fucked up little world. My father thought that it would stifle Neo's sexual interest in me if he was allowed to play with the other kids. It didn't of course, nothing could. But after the third time i stopped telling daddy, as the solutions he was coming up with became more extreme, and Pedophiles and rapists and dickheads were all allowed to run free. It was around about then that i first created my world of escape, and a little town i called London, and Gareth and Wil and Matt and Reda and Lucy and Luke. And i made them all write stories about me.

Traffic

2007-12-12T13:31:00.000-08:00

A number of you guys have introduced writing exercises in your blogs, with varying degrees of success. I was listening to The Stereophonics earlier on today and during Traffic (Track 5 on word gets around) i realised that the boys had written what could easily become a writing exercise. Listen to the song and the lyrics describe Kelly's opinions on a stranger he drives past but only sees for a second. Do the same.
But of course, this is very similar to what others have tried to implement on their blogs, so the spin is it needs to be written in lyric format, with the same pentameter scheme used in the song. i know that this is weird because it is more interesting for a poetry student but, who cares. Good luck.

And listen to Dogs- Turn against this land.

The number 23

2007-12-11T10:09:00.001-08:00

Also, while I'm posting, has anyone seen the recent Jim Carrey film The Number 23. If not, it basically tells the story of a guy(played by Carrey) who is obsessed with the number 23(as the title would suggest) after reading a book about it. And while the film itself peters out towards the end, as inevitable conclusions need to be made, Jim Carrey is on fine form as the obsessed dog catcher, and shows that he can actually act. (I should really point out that i hate slapstick, and slapsticky stuff, so films such as Liar Liar, The Mask and Ace Ventura are incredibly bad in my opinion. However, when he is actually acting and not prancing around like a twat he can be excellent- The Truman Show, Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind.)
Anyway, the point of this post is that the film struck up a bit of paranoia in myself, for example, my house number in wales is 23, The number 23 comes up in my phone number, and perhaps most strangely i watched the film late last night, just because i was bored in my house, and it was late enough to technically be today when i watched it.
The 11th of December.
11,12.
11 +12 =

Watch it, and the same will happen to you....

P.S Listen to a band called Dogs.

It's happened, and i am not ashamed of it.

2007-12-11T09:59:00.000-08:00

So, after exhausting the supply of Martin Amis novels, (M.A's the king) i found myself with a spare hour in the library with nothing to pick up off the coveted M.A shelf apart from a book of essays, which i unbelievably picked up and skimmed through. You know when we spend four days writing an essay, (Which I'm sure many of us will be doing over crimbo) and think it's something pretty fucking special?
Yeah, well it's not, this guy can not only write great short stories and novels, but he can write unbelievably good essays too, which sucks for me and you, but, credit where it's due. Kudos.

Also this week i branched into the world of the elderly Amis, reading one of Martin's father Kingsley Amis's novels Lucky Jim. And i must tell you, it's really good as well. i started reading it yesterday afternoon in order to put off starting one of the three essays i have to write, and by two o'clock today i was finished, and i thoroughly enjoyed it, and will start on another one of his novels in the next couple of weeks. Which raises the question, Who's better? Anyone who's read a book by either of them feel free to vouch an opinion.

Also, listen to a band called Dogs.

Ben Markovits and the jazz

2007-11-27T05:38:00.000-08:00

right, i haven't really done any work promoting the markovits project so the last couple of days i have got off my arse and done a couple of things. Firstly i made a bit of a speech about it my hemingway seminar, which seemed to go really well, and i think a couple of people showed some good interest. Secondly, i've sent a message request to message of the day about it which should be up in the next day or two. Also if anyone wants me to do any of the errandy stuff like handing leaflets out then i look really friendly with my new haircut so i'll do it.

p.s i've got a few action doll ideas in the planning but i don't know whether i've got enough production time so...

London's calling

2007-11-20T11:32:00.000-08:00

Free literary magazine for London
"December will see the launch of a London-based "creative writing tabloid", to be distributed for free to commuters and edited by two recent university graduates, Tristan Summerscale and Christopher Vernon. Notes from the Underground, a sixteen-page tabloid-format publication, will contain "a broad variety of high quality content, ranging from short stories to cartoons and stimulating non-fiction, from both up-and-coming young writers and more high-profile published authors". The pair received hundreds of submissions, and at least three household names are in talks to contribute short stories free of charge to the debut issue, out on 17 December. Thereafter the publication will be bi-weekly, with a print run of 100,000 copies printed on 100% recyclable paper that will be distributed for free at over 30 commuter locations"

This is something that i stumbled upon whilst searching for literary magaziness online and i think that it's great news, imagine appearing in a magazine that will be thrust into the arms of commuters in one of the busiest cities in the world. However, does anyone really think that anyone will take the time to read any of the magazine at the end of a busy day. I mean if most people can't be arsed to read the London lite after a hard days work then is something a little more intellectually challenging really what they want. Does anyone have any thoughts on the matter?

You lot should be ashamed of yourself.

2007-11-13T13:44:00.000-08:00

so the last time i was in we were set the task of thinking of a way to promote a book or to increase the sales of a book. i decided to perform a little experiment to support my idea, and insulted Luke on my blog. Now, i thought that the creative writing class would all rally behind our innocent victim and call me a wanker in repost. this was not really the case though, as, apart from an anon and to some extent Tom, no-one really stepped in to target me.
Anyway, i digress, the point is that in order to sell books or promote discussion and publicity it sometimes helps to be CONTROVERSIAL. look at some of the biggest books we know, 1984, Lolita, A Clockwork Orange; even the sodding Da-Vinci code relied on it's controversy for its publicity. Besides, you should have all known that nice ol' me couldn't be horrible even if i wanted to be. I'm just too much of a kind soul with big ideas.

P.S thanks for being an unknowing guinea pig Luke.

Shwmae.

chain flic, 8 i thinks

2007-11-11T09:39:00.000-08:00

The previous link is http://oxygenchameleon.wordpress.com/2007/11/10/chainfic-link-7/
The first link is http://matt-boothman.livejournal.com/8136.html#cutid2
The next link has a lot to live up to.
sirens

I'd always hated Neo's damn flute, but right now i think that it is the only think that is keeping me insane, which is what i want to be. The loopy ups and downs of the one awful song that he has ever learnt to play plague my mind, and i contemplate rolling sideways into the bog, to be forever engulfed with my beloved. But then what if The Book is wrong, what if this is it? Suicide is always riskier when the belief in an afterlife is tested, and i don't quite know what to believe any more. If there is a God then surely Jack's fall could have been avoided.
I was left lying breathlessly on my back with countless wonderings about my faith, the same ringing song from far away in my ears, the stench of the bog, and the question of why Neo didn't save Jack when he fell. I stood up and snatched the wondrous red flute from Neo's hands and tossed into the bog; after all, with a head like this, how can i bear to listen to Your misses is a nutter for the rest of the day.
Then the fox....

2007-11-09T11:49:00.000-08:00

Luke said, You should have seen Wil last week Gareth, he was inconsolable! You make a big difference to the class.

As for being single, try not to feel like the odd one out. We have all been single one time or another, and, unless you find the right person, being single is actually pretty awesome.

You only have to worry about yourself, you can do what you like, you can focus on your study and you can channel all your angst into a fantastic piece of fiction!

SO then i said, Thanks for being really patronizing Luke, i wasn't saying i don't want to be single i was just saying a night out is shit without a couple of lads out who can get pissed with you without wondering what the wife will say. On a connected note, if anyone does know any single ladies....

And one of my house mates said that i was a loser... but Luke was a wanker.

A review

2007-11-09T11:02:00.000-08:00

Now when we did the seminar on reviewing i saw a chance to do something very, very clever; i am going to review Yellow Dog by my boy Martin Amis.

Now i am a big Martin Amis fan, i have read all of his books apart from the newest one because i haven't got around to it and his autobiography cause that shit always bores me. Yellow dog may in fact be far from his best, and may be widely accredited as his worst novel, (though i think that it's a damn side better than night train) however, it is bottom of quite a formidable list, and had it been written by another writer it would not be so readily criticized. Okay, so there are parts which lack the usual Amis flair, and for one of the only times there is no stand out scene or character in the book. ANother of the criticisms of this book is that we don't get to sympathize with the change of Xan's character because we don't see enough of him pre-attack. however, there are some really nice moments in this novel, particularly towards the end, when the character of Joseph andrews is introduced.
A brief review there, but to summarize simply, don't go out and buy it if ur not a fan, and if u haven't read any AMis then you should start with Money or Time's arrow. Another book which deserves mention is Dead babies, another great book. If you haven't read any Amis then you really should.

catch up

2007-11-09T10:50:00.000-08:00

I just got back from Wales. That's not a story, it's just a boring pointless fact. So, i've now missed 2 of the last 3 seminars and was hungover in the other way. Apologies, apologies, glances and messed up chances. I'm now going to go on a blogging rampage, starting with the news that my story has in fact been accepted for the Jam, so if you see a copy lying around, pick it up and show it to all the publishing houses and agents you know.

Default deductions.

2007-10-30T11:18:00.001-07:00

It has been a couple of weeks since i last posted here so i thought i'd give you guys an update.
The more astute of you will have noticed that i didn't make it to the seminar last week, apologies, i know you all love my presence. our boiler had packed up so i couldn't have a shower and it was fucking freezing and my alarm didn't work cos it was on my phone and that kind of shit.
Life is not looking good in the ten larchwood house right now, as it seems that i could be the only single man left. Many of you will know Jordan and James who do the course, and be as shocked as i am that they have snared women, the elusive tim has been dating for over a year and crazylegs is chasing skirt all over the place. Which leaves me. And i don't know if you've ever gone out with a group of guys who have girlfriends. But it fucking sucks!!!
Maybe i'll be in a better mood tomorrow.

Default deductions.

2007-10-30T11:18:00.000-07:00

It means nothing

2007-10-17T14:51:00.000-07:00

Starting tomorrow I'm going to write 600 words a day of my first novel. Why 600 words?
Because I'd promised 1000 and it's gradually fallen down. All I've got so far is the title and a sketchy plot line. The title I'm very happy with, i can already picture it in the front of a bookshop with a sign saying _______ recommends and with a picture of a bullfighter and a writer on the front. Now if i sort the plot out and stick to the 600 i might actually see it happen. I'm listening to a combination of Damien Rice, Fightstar, the new Phonics album and Fionn Regan via you tube (whose album i need to get).
I am relaxed.

Put a penny in the slot.

P.S I will buy a drink for anyone who guesses my prospective title.
P.P.S would love to hear anyone else's ideas for titles so...

1984 and other adventures

2007-10-17T14:32:00.000-07:00

Somethings been bugging me recently. And by recently I mean something has been bugging me for the last 5 minutes. Maybe you can help me out?

Why is it always 2 + 2 that equals 4?

And before you think that i'm getting all 1984 on you, i'm not. Of course 2 + 2 equals 4, but the point is so does 3 +1. And why is the answer 4 anyway? Why not simplify the work down a little bit more? Why isn't the line 1 + 1 makes 2, or 2 + 1 makes 3? Hell, i think that the majority of the conscious world would even be able to sit down down and work out what i meant if i pushed the saying to 3 + 3 is 6 or, God forbid, 5 + 5 is ten. This is simple arithmetic after all. I even think my three year old sister could manage it, if I could drag her away from The Teletubbies, or the Tweenies, or what ever crap they play the leaders of tomorrow to turn their mind into mush.

So, to summarize, 'I'm the type of guy who can never make 2 + 2 equal 4, not if i can make 5 + 5 equal ten.

As tends to follow

2007-10-10T04:59:00.000-07:00

I have no idea how to post a link so here's the story i've sent to the jam. hopefully it'll be published but if not at least you lot can bask in it's brilliance.

I like Allie

I walked into my bedroom and sat down on the edge of my bed. It was night time and the lights were off. I was alone. I looked out of the window and into the darkness. There was a flickering of white light somewhere far away. I closed my eyes.

And then, as tends to follow, it was morning. And with morning came morning’s closest accomplice; my closest friend: nostalgic neuralgia, and hey, all that nostalgia can be a real headache. That morning I was remembering my little sister and the trips we used to take to the lake in the park.

“Ethan,” she’d say, for Ethan is my name.

“Yes Clare,” I’d say, for Clare is her name.

“My teacher told me that in every cloud there lives a thousand fairies.”

I looked out of the window and into the brightness. There were no fairies in the sky, just the sun and the sunshine. That was good. I liked it more when the sun was out. At least when the sun is out there is little risk of there being rain. When the sun is out everybody you see is walking around with a fake smile plastered on their stupid fucking faces. Everyone is smiling like something good is going on, like life isn’t shit and happening to us all. What really scares me though is when people walk around with a smile on their face in the rain; those bastards may actually be happy with their lives, and boy, that really is scary.

Anyway, back to the morning of which I tell my tale. I can’t remember accurately enough the date; but I do know that it was during the incomprehensible part of the year between summer and winter, when the weather has no direct affiliation with bitter cold or beaming sun. I remember needing to wear a thin sweater rather than a thick jumper. That is how I know it couldn’t have been cold that morning. After dressing I walked downstairs and ate toast for breakfast. I ate toast for breakfast every morning.

I sat down on the floor of my living room and reflexively turned on the television, in the same way that I reflexively go to the toilet when I need a piss and reflexively cry when I need to cry. There was a drama on channel 1 about guns and gun crime, or maybe it was the news; with a police officer grimly reporting on the death of a teenager in a quiet suburb, yet secretly smiling at his successful break into television and fame. I reflexively turned the television off, in the way I do whenever I think something painful could be real. After breakfast I left the house. After breakfast I always left the house.

I had been walking for five minutes before I realised just how quiet it was. I checked the time and I remember it being early, but not that early; not early enough for there to be no-one on the streets. There was no one on the streets but me. There was no one on the streets but her and me.

“Hello Ethan,” she smiled, for back then Ethan was my name.

“Who are you?”

“Don’t you remember me?”

“No. Who are you?”

“It’s me,” she said, “Clare,” she said, for her name was Clare back then.

“What?”

“Put the gun down Ethan.”

“What gun?” I looked down at my hand. I was holding a gun in my hand. Things were real. I was scared. I would’ve turned the television off but it wasn’t on the television. It was in my hand. I looked back up at Clare, for back then her name was Clare. My name was Ethan and her name was Clare. They made me change the names and the places and the time and the weather, but I promise you I’m not lying this time. My name was Ethan and her name was Clare. Her name is Chloe now. I like Chloe.

But Chloe is dead.

Paint Your Target

2007-10-09T13:05:00.000-07:00

When i first read we had to write a blog for Creative Industries I was not impressed. I thought no-one is going to care about the ramblings of an angry Welsh guy, and frankly (with searing and soon to be customary honesty) i didn't want to spend any of my time plodding through streams of other peoples thoughts, loves, ambitions, blah blah blah. But then i got to thinking. I can talk nonsense about myself and (if i was not too tired to misinterpret last Thursday) you guys have to read it. Which is great.
Having skimmed through the blogs already posted by other people in the class i have come to one over-riding conclusion; everything i have wanted to talk about has already been covered. Needless to say this has not put me off. So, in a similar vain to Boothman I would like to talk about Mitchell and The Jam Magazine. During the summer i read a number of excellent books, including David Mitchell's Black Swan Green, Ivan Denisovich by Solzhenitsyn and a number of Martin Amis novels (most notably Times Arrow- A great read). While all of these books were very good i am not going to chat balls like it will change your life because books very rarely do that. However, read The accidental by Ali Smith. That might just do it.
I have just finished writing a short story and sent it off to the jam. It is called 'I like Allie' and I will try to post a link up here.
Now, a quick biography for anyone who hasn't grown pissed off and given up yet. I am twenty and will be when i graduate from university. I have Siblings. I was born in Cwmdare, Wales. I am not from the north. i am not Irish. And I am not the drummer from The Subways. I have great faith in my writing, and like Matt, hope to have something published somewhere by the end of the year. Also like Matt i am having real trouble getting up off my arse and writing anything longer than this blog. Me and Matt are not the same person though we seem to have said the same things.
People generally seem to like me more when I'm being nice.