Monday, 20 August 2012

Dumping Ground

A "Vice style" picture of urban decay. Dundee 2011.

The internet is a tremendously good place for dumping trash, so i am going to use this modern privilege to take a massive metaphorical dump on this blog. This following piece of writing sucks. I wrote it in December 2011 to impress a girl. Reading over it makes me wince and want to be swallowed up in an elephant's asshole. However, in the interest of artistic clarity and expressing the right to post tedious dogshit on the internet, I present you with a short work of fiction about being on the dole for so long the world ends. Fuck this bullshit and fuck the dole!

P.S. I am currently planning a new issue of Lucida Console which should hopefully be out early next year, it'll contain lots of joyous appreciation of the grotty things in life. I love a bit of muck me.

The Derelict
A post-apocalyptic dole drama in one act
By Slater Wilcox

Scene one

A shabby looking young man walks through some nuclear wastelands looking rather bemused by everything around him. This was obviously the town he lived in but it’s completely fucking destroyed and melted. He pauses for a moment and looks fondly at the smouldering remains of a chip shop, and wistfully mutters to himself “…chippy tea…” It’s hard to tell if he’s heartbroken or really, really stupid.

He stands there lost in thought for far longer than necessary. He looks from side to side, up and down the remains of the street “umming” and “ahhing” to himself. He is obviously a dreadfully confused young man. He turns and starts to walk in one direction. As soon as he has taken his first step he decides against it and turns to walk back where he came from. After walking for a short distance he abruptly turns to walk back the other way again. His face bears the signs of great mental anguish; of all his own doing, of course. He is wasting valuable time and the audience resents him already.

There is dry, bitter wind which bites at his face and eyes. It blows about the nuclear ash, dust and grit of razed buildings and cremated humans. The odd young man flips his collar up, stuffs his hands deeper into his pockets, puts his head down and strides along at a spanking rate through the derelict wastelands. From his stern countenance and determined pace it’s obvious he has somewhere fairly important to be. He draws out one hand and checks his watch. 11:20AM. He pulls out his JSA log book and double checks it. His name is David and he is due to sign on in five minutes.

“Fuck!” He yelps, like a spanked terrier. The skeleton of the town hall crumbles away to his left. He barely notices. There is a gnawing hunger in the pit of his stomach which has been there for several days.

He slips off the street and down a narrow alleyway between the remains of two houses. His strides are long and impressive, but his resemblance of a two legged spider gives him a sad air of absurdity. Suddenly a thunderous “WOOF!” cuts through the silence startling David to a halt. It’s obvious to him that this was not a friendly woof as it sounded rather like some mean CANINE FUCKERS. The terrifying “WOOF!” sounds again. Strangely, David doesn’t look scared but more like he has suffered some minor inconvenience.

Through the fence on his left we see two large, all-white dogs patrolling a dirt yard, walking in large, sweeping circles. Each of their paws rise and fall in magnificent synchronicity, not one second out of time. Their breed is quite difficult to identify but they are most certainly some well trained man-maulers whose beauty is only equalled by their blood lust. The viewer assumes them to be some freaky post-apocalyptic crossbreed with the IQ of a human. The recent nuclear fall out has scrambled their beastly dogbrains and they would like nothing more than to gnash and gnaw upon young David, reducing him to a sloppy pile of giblets. They are sadistic hounds, and in their eyes he looks like one big juicy sausage. They shoot at him piercingly cruel glances, chops salivating, and continue to march around the yard in perfect formation.

Pausing for a moment and bravely peering thru the fence, David studies them closely. Down the side of one of the hounds someone has crudely spray painted “FUK OFF” and upon the other one “HARDCORE”. The handwriting is large and uneven and David looks at them rather disapprovingly. He stares at them going around in circles for far long than he should. Have the hounds put him into an oscillating dog trance?

A noise behind him snaps him out of his canine captivation. “Fuck a horseshit!” he exclaims loudly. “Damn dogs, I’m going to miss my appointment!”

David makes the movements to leave but a man in a dirty, torn suit is blocking his way. He has also been ensnared by the terrible white dogs and stands there with his mouth open watching the hounds go round and round and round.

Slightly pissed off with the whole business, David clears his throat and asks the man to move out of the way. He doesn’t respond.

“Ahem, excuse me… I don’t suppose you could let me by. I’m late for a meeting and it’s quite essential I, ahh, get there sharpish. Now if you wouldn’t mind.”

David brushes past the man, who falls to the ground like a withered old bag of fuck. David stops and profusely apologises until he realises the poor fellow has only just regained consciousness. He stands above him and casts his eye upon this curious person. The businessman looks rather preposterous - laid down in the mud in his crumpled suit, bald head, groaning to himself about some old “end of the world” rubbish.

David looks up and sighs. “Lost his marbles…” He hastily turns to leave.

All of a sudden the man leaps up and grasps David by the collar. He has a wild look in his eye and his bald head shines in a most eye-pleasing way. His lips are trembling and his mouth is open expectantly.

“What the hell do you want?! I’m going to be late, let me go!” Gasps David, his voice full of panic.

The man lets him go and looks horrified.

“Where do you have to be?!” he asks David in wide eyed terror.

“I have to go and sign on! I won’t get my dole money if I’m late again!” All the while David gestures frantically with his hands, his face growing red. He takes a pause and speaks with a new air of resigned despair. “I’m absolutely broke, hungry, and thoroughly pissed off with all this nonsense. I just want my dole money.”

The air is still and everyone feels utter sympathy for David.

“HAHAHA!” The bald businessman’s hearty laughter shatters the sympathetic silence. He stands there holding his stomach, having a wonderful time at David’s expense. David looks rather put out and dejected.

“Oh piss off you fruitcake! Can a fellow not keep his dignity while on JSA? Why should I have to endure being laughed at by some fatcat business bastard with too much money and a fucking bald head?! Go to hell!” He starts to walk away more determined than ever.

The businessman suppresses his laughter for a moment and stops him. “Haha, hold on, wait! Are you serious?! Haha! The job centre isn’t there anymore!”

This takes David by surprise but he obviously believes the business man is insane. “What? Well, where’s it gone then?”    

“Look around you!” The business man makes a wide sweep of his arm, highlighting the nuclear devastation wrought upon the city that David had been so unaware of for the past 20 minutes.

David stands there gawping at his surrounding for a while, before attempting to construct some words that made sense in this ludicrous situation. “Does this mean I’m not getting my dole money?” he whispered feebly.

The Businessman let out another hearty laugh. “Young man, are you absolutely mental? Jobseekers allowance doesn’t exist anymore! Nothing does! You can’t receive your dole money because society has been reduced to a radioactive dust carried on a toxic wind. If you don’t believe me, how do you explain that?” With one of his fat fingers he points to a haggard old woman further down the alley. She is busying herself arranging several sheets of seethru material out on a table in front of her. A spraypainted sign hangs limply above her, “HUMAN SKIN JACKETS!” The handwriting is large and uneven.

Thursday, 9 August 2012

Locals Only! Croyde Bay Surf Report

"I wanna get high and strong"

Part One: The road to the Boneyard

"Croyde Bay has to be one of the finest surfing beaches in the U.K. producing high quality barrels throughout the tide, low tide being the best and the most powerful and dangerous. Low tide is definitely not for beginners or intermediates! Even medium size low tide will break boards and bones." - Some bullshit surfer website or something.

Bleary eyed and stinkin of shit, I rushed from the house across town towards the train station. I was a man possessed, I needed a HOT SCOOP and I needed it quick. I wanted a juicy story full of the most derelict and dirty characters. I was a master journalist on a quest for truth, justice, and perhaps...romance? I already knew where my fucking red hot scoop was to be uncovered - Croyde Bay, North Devon. Surfers paradise or locals-only boneyard? Beautiful Devonshire holiday destination or drug-fuelled coastal town full of the worst whores? To get to the bottom of this mystery I boarded a train up to Barnstaple, where my contact for this investigation would pick me up and take me to Croyde. I sat on the train and stared out of the window, a million thoughts rushed through my mind, how was I going to get to the bottom of this without dying? Had I gone too far this time in the name of journalism? Was I going to kill myself for THE TRUTH?! If that's what it takes...YES. I thought about Croyde's reputation as being the heaviest surf in the UK. Those heavy motherfucker waves will pummel you into a mush formerly known as human. I thought about the end of Point Break where Bodhi kills himself in the surf. It was his life, his passion.

"come on man, it's the storm of the century!"

Patrick Swayze's noble face flashed through my mind and I knew I had to do this or forever be a second rate master journalist.

"You want the ultimate thrill? You gotta be willing to pay the ultimate price."

Patrick's face faded from my thoughts and I suddenly felt alone. I hadn't gotten a piece of tail in over five months. I have forgotten what it's like to touch another human being. Grow up man,  love is dead to you, all that matters now is ice cold investigative journalism. Fuck love, it's for sentimental slopsters. Save it for the life stories in the tabloids; I walk this path alone.

My contact picked me up from the train station, by way of greeting he stuck his middle finger up at me out of his window. His van was a trashed old Renault with "KOOK" crudely spray painted down the side panel. Goddamn surf punks, I knew this was only going to get tougher and weirder.

We drove for twenty minutes along the Devon coast towards Croyde. Real fuckin' pretty area with loads of great looking people milling about like there ain't any corrupt mysterious shit going on whatsoever. Infact, these motherfuckers look like they're on their summer holidays! We get back to my contact's house where I am to stay overnight. From here on I whipped out my trusty note pad and scribbled down notes trying to catch any tasty journalistic morsel that might drip out of these wild guy's mouths.

Arrived five twenty five. This place seems nice. Too nice.

The accommodation is very interesting indeed - and old barn with a side that bulges out into the road. It's soon to be demolished. My contact sleeps in here underneath a swallows nest - they shit on him and he loves it. It's dusty and there's woodlouse assholes on my mattress in the corner. Fuckers.

The main house - owned by the local pot dealer's parents and inhabited by nine of his friends who pay £20 a week to live there. One guy sleeps in the bath tub.

My buddy senses I am nervous and he pulls out a peace pipe and packs it with homegrown weed. We smoke it in his barn. Amongst his meagre possessions are a massive set of barbells. He tells me that he wants to "get high and strong". I laugh. The weed is second to none. Delicious.

We sit around smoking more pipes and talking about drugs. The other housemate who lives in the bathtub comes outside to join us - it's immediately obvious that this guy doesn't trust me. He makes snide comments and treats me with an icy contempt. One to watch out for. 

Part 2: Cowabunga Dude.

 We walk down to the beach for a surf. I am high as fuck. Everybody is leaving the beach. The mist shrouds the bay making it impossible to see out there. What's happening? We ask a couple of little Fido-Dido surf fucks what the hell is up - they tell us someone drowned, the beach had been evacuated because the rip currents were too strong and the fog was making it hard to rescue people. I get a case of WEED PARANOIA    my friend reassures me, "If you drown I'll personally come and save you."
I am given a 9ft foam long board  - the tool with which to prove myself amongst these fat dudes, once they see me carve the waves they'll spill the beans. I paddle out into the water at Croyde at low tide, its fuck-heavy reputation doesn't scare me and I shred effortlessly. However, none of the locals warm to me. I am spat on three times and told to go home back to Cornwall. Even my host becomes embarrassed of this journalist he has bought out with him and tries to hold my head under to drown me!

The session ends, it's dark, night has fallen I am still alive and I have uncovered the truth: Surfing Croyde is for sissies.

We go back to the house and get really really high, I travel time and space. Somewhere through the weed haze I know that tomorrow I will wake up a master journalist again.

Part 3: Romance? 

I wake up in the barn with a woodlouse on my pillow, my brain feels fluffy and I need to fuckin skeedaddle out of here before I loose my mind. I say good by to my friend and thank him for a nice time, a delicious dinner, a fun surf, and a fantastic all night pot party. I say good bye to the housemate who hated me and he displays the up most indifference to my departure.

One the bus back to Barnstaple I meet an amazing redhead head on the back of the bus. She is dressed like a hippy and she looks like she can read a crystal ball, I imagine her to have a most fantastic ginger bush. I sit in my seat and fantasise about running away and joining a carnival with her, our travels would take us all over the world but our hearts would always remain in Croyde with the pussy surfers. When I came to from my reverie she was gone and I was at the train station, alone again. If it's one thing I know for sure, it's this - I smoked way too much yesterday.

Monday, 6 August 2012

The path less shat on

Human beings are able to live in temperatures between -30oc and +50oc. They can live through the cruelest dictators, harshest famines, venereal disease and economic slumps. Their instinct to survive is second to none. Perhaps it's this in-built survival instinct that makes us able to endure shitty, fucking jobs for months, years, and lifetimes on end.

Last night, a sunday night, one of the drug dealer next door's friends woke me up revving his engine at 3am. It sounded like he was parked up at the foot of my bed. The car drove off, I got up and looked out my window into the gloom to survey matters on my street; I vaguely saw the drug dealing neighbour come out of his gate and skulk off into the night. Urgh. I lay back on my matress and couldn't fall asleep. A wide-awake-night-anxiety gripped me but it had nothing to do with my drug dealing neighbour nor his lower back tattoo of a gun poking down his trousers - it was about the future! What the fuck am I doing here? Why do I stay at this shitty job getting bullied by teenagers? Why do I wake up at 6am to cycle across town to get a lift to a job 40 miles away for minimum wage? Am I a fucking moron?! I lay there squirming, resolving to change my life as soon as I'd had a good night's sleep. After finishing my book I gradually fell asleep, only to hear my housemate getting up for work.

I woke up at 11 and started the sluggish motions towards a better lifestyle, no more minesweeping drinks for me! My bedroom window is right opposite the drug dealer's front door and gate. Today I watched a hoarde of people stop at his house, go in for 30 seconds and then leave. Meanwhile I wrote futile emails to further education colleges and tried to renew my decrepid CV featuring ludicrous jobs such as "fish monger" and "beer delivery driver". Whilst writing this I've watched him take four fucking big black bin bags out to someone's car. I can barely afford to pay my rent each month and pay a wham of tax on a crappy job. Tell me, who's the sucker?
My bail notice from 2008, when I was arrested for a rather laughable knife crime
(Answer: The drug dealer is the sucker cuz I'm on a six week holiday from work and he's got crackheads knocking on his window 24/7. None the less, he freaks me out.)