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.

Musically challenged

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?

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

oscar

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

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.

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

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.