tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-49617109903655006452024-03-13T11:10:05.999-07:00Urgent Avenue/Lucida Console Fanzineexistentialist bummer zineThe Shit Wizardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06943620282151715406noreply@blogger.comBlogger41125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4961710990365500645.post-54586294221745029052016-10-12T16:29:00.003-07:002016-10-12T16:31:06.692-07:00Trial by Combat<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-0wS41bvjUyQ/V_7FsPkgc_I/AAAAAAAAASo/5PbfjVRcBlwghJfmCJ0itt6LmKTgYYSfgCLcB/s1600/IMG_4020.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-0wS41bvjUyQ/V_7FsPkgc_I/AAAAAAAAASo/5PbfjVRcBlwghJfmCJ0itt6LmKTgYYSfgCLcB/s400/IMG_4020.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
Hello.<br />
<br />
I am going to keep this updated from now on. I am writing a lot more at the moment so I'll post stuff up every week. I am no longer a drip. As i read on a toilet door earlier - I fuck everything I kill.<br />
<br />
I have been very elusive this past 18 months doing many jobs and living everywhere - sheep farm, tractor parts warehouse, cleaning, building playgrounds, working with racists at B and Q...I forget the rest.<br />
<br />
Been sleeping in my sleeping bag a lot.<br />
<br />
Plenty of touring too with many people i love making excellent music.<br />
<br />
But now I am going to WRITE!!!!<br />
<br />
Check it out mothers.<br />
<br />
Here's the first piece, a reworking of the ancient greek story of Icarus, his Dad - Daladeaus is a weird lorry driver.<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span lang="EN-US">He Melted</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">It started when I
asked him why he decided to become a lorry driver and for the last fifteen
minutes he’s been giving me his life story. He must be working his way up to a
grand finale. I yawn and look around the cab of the lorry, then back at the
man. He’s red, almost sunburnt, and I wonder how he got like that if he spends
all day inside.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">“So there was this
fancy dress party at the school,” he says. “My son’s school. He was nine. All I
had to do was help him make this costume. He says he wants to go as a big bird
and I say ‘what about a little pig?’ Cuz I don’t want to make this costume. I
wanna go to the pub. A pig you can wear pink and put a plant pot on your nose,
whereas a bird costume takes some effort, right?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">“Yeah, they have
feathers.” I say. The clock on the dashboard says 21:15. I should be home but I
missed the last bus and my phone is dead.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">He carries on
talking. “But I think, fuck it, I’ll make some effort - be a good dad for once.
So we go to the craft shop before it closes to buy the things for the bird
costume. Wood, fabric, card for the beak, even a bag full of feathers.
Everything. We get back home and start making it. It’s going great, except,
I’ve forgotten to buy glue for the feathers and there’s none in the house. I make
a joke - ‘looks like you’re gonna be a bald eagle’. He runs upstairs crying,
saying that I’ve messed everything up again. I start feelin’ bad and shout ‘don’t
worry, I’ll fix everything by tomorrow.’”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">“What do you think
I did?” He says and looks over at me. His head is nearly perfectly spherical,
like a marble. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">“I don’t know,” I
say. I think about my wife at home.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">“I went through
all the drawers in the house until I found these four big church candles. I put
‘em in an old pot and melted them down. Now don’t ask me how I did it but I got
all these feathers stuck to the wings with that wax, and they’re looking <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">great</i>.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">“This is why you
became a lorry driver, right?” I ask.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">“Yeah. I’m getting
there,” he says and looks irritated. “So the next night we’re at the party, my
son’s over the moon in this bird costume, the tantrum about the glue all
forgotten. Then he gets picked to be a contestant for best fancy dress. I start
to tear up as he runs up on to the stage to join the other kids. He’s stood
there next to this one kid dressed as a black bull. It’s weird looking, not
really right for a kid at fancy dress.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>But anyhow, my son’s up there with everyone else, except they’ve put him
right underneath this big stage light and I’m thinking ‘oh Christ.’ <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">“You know how hot
they get?” He says.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">I shake my head “No”
and check the time again.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">“Well… you could
probably cook an egg under one. He’s been up there for about five minutes when
I see the first feather fall to the floor. The contest’s only just beginning
and the wax has already started to melt. Feathers start dropping off and people
are starting to whisper. My son’s looking mortified. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">I think the last
straw was when that black bull starts laughing. It’s muffled by the mask, like
canned laughter. My son looks crushed. He’s off the stage in a flash - a pile
of feathers lies in a heap where he was standing.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">I turn my head,
“What happened after that?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">“I walked out to
the car. He’s sat there staring straight ahead. I got in and tried to talk but
he didn’t say a thing. He just went cold on me. Went to live with his mum after
that. That’s when I thought about becoming a lorry driver. I thought, if I’m
alone I won’t have to let anyone down ever again.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">We sit in silence
for rest of the journey until he drops me off at the supermarket carpark near
my house. I get out and say thanks. I want to say something else but it’s too
late. I shut the cab door and walk home, leaving the man in his exile.<span style="font-size: x-small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
The Shit Wizardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06943620282151715406noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4961710990365500645.post-29691095572469792592015-03-18T09:40:00.000-07:002015-03-31T05:06:03.914-07:00Lucida Console #10!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Zac1XOcwAl8/VQmp1Ooz4gI/AAAAAAAAARM/o7TKilveg6Q/s1600/Actual%2BCover.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Zac1XOcwAl8/VQmp1Ooz4gI/AAAAAAAAARM/o7TKilveg6Q/s1600/Actual%2BCover.jpg" height="640" width="476" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
Hi.<br />
<br />
It's been a while but here's Lucida Console 10. It took me three years. I wrote all the parts for it not knowing what for cuz I didn't really wanna make a zine. I was embarrased. Whatever, here it is and I'm pleased. I gave up using publisher 98 as a way of making zines, used word instead and made an easily downloadable PDF you can print off yourself. There's a donations button if you wanna pay like 50 pence. Or pay nothing. I don't mind. Have as many copies as you want.<br />
<br />
The zine is made up of three main diaries:<br />
<br />
1. Diary from the school I worked in as a learning support assistant 2011-2014<br />
2. Work diary from last year when I worked every shitty job available thru temp agencies in Exeter and hated everything. Insightful if you're planning a career change.<br />
3. A brief journal from this year working in the Midlands building a slide with some friends. I have accepted what life is and am happy now. :)<br />
<br />
The other parts were written around those three times. Maybe you can see when they were written by syncing them up with the vibes of the diaries. Or maybe not.<br />
<br />
Here's a snippet from it if you need a taster. It's a review of D H Lawrence's Women in Love and it's probably the best thing I have ever written.<br />
<br />
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<b><span style="font-size: 14pt;">Women in Love<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="font-size: 14pt;">DH Lawrence<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<span style="font-size: 14pt;">It was with a faint flash of flirtatious
recklessness that Hubert passed the diamonte salt shaker to Tilda Grimpoke -
the youngest and brightest daughter of the local offal and slop magnate. As
Hubert’s moustache quivered mischievously in her direction, he suddenly caught
her eye and instantly regretted his licentious behavior. Her dark, violent eyes
pierced him through the heart like an ice cold dagger. He loved her. He hated
her. He hated love and humanity but he loved her none-the-less and she felt
exactly the same, in a fashion. Tilda gently passed her fingers over the salt
shaker in a delicate movement that broke the terrible impasse between the two
lovers. She seemed in no haste to season her fishy supper which sat before her
in stifling indignation. Her subtle reassurances electrified Hubert’s entire
being onto a mystical plane where the very concept of love became meaningless.
It was something beyond love. In this wonderous plane he could tenderly kiss a
tree as if it were a human. In this perfect vision he would marry a blackbird.
The thought of human marriage became hateful to him. Men and women stagnated by
their little insular lives, where no one else was allowed to enter and their
pointless possessions blinded them to their own pointless existences. How was
he to convince Tilda that together they should move beyond love? Even the
thought of explaining the concept to her seemed quite impossible – he didn’t
really know what he meant by it himself. Even if he were to have about 400
pages of novel to express himself, he still wouldn’t be able provide a
satisfactory answer. Suddenly he was bought back to reality by the sing-song
voice of Miss Miffy Pifflewhiff, “Hubert my dear little metaphysical chap, how
is work at the new phosphorescent pigshit power station?” He groaned inwardly,
nauseated to the core by such banal, “rank and file” questions. “The sheer
mechanized horror of it all makes my soul puke, you insufferable trout!” he thought
to himself. “Oh, you know...” he replied noncommittally. He turned back to
Tilda, he knew his future lay with her... She seemed to emit a life-sustaining
light from behind her burning black eyes. He became aware of the rude blood
carousing about his veins like a drunken sailor on shore leave. She sensed the
sensual change in his person and became extremely sensuous. She did a big
swoon, possibly the biggest swoon she’d ever done. It was as if their beautiful
crystalline minds were bound by an esoteric tether and simultaneously they
screamed “FUCK MANKIND!” And that dear reader is Women in Love in a
nutshell. </span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14pt;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: 18.6666660308838px;">Here:</span></div>
<a href="https://drive.google.com/file/d/0B1Qdxs1waz8VbGxxQTV1amRIV2M/view?usp=sharing" target="_blank"><b><span style="font-size: large;">LUCIDA CONSOLE ISSUE 10</span></b></a><br />
<br />
<b>Donate if you want. I can't figure out a donations button so click the link:</b><br />
<a href="https://www.paypal.com/cgi-bin/webscr?cmd=_donations&business=hamishadams%40hotmail%2eco%2euk&lc=US&item_name=Lucida%20Console&no_note=0&currency_code=GBP&bn=PP%2dDonationsBF%3abtn_donateCC_LG%2egif%3aNonHostedGuest" target="_blank">https://www.paypal.com/cgi-bin/webscr?cmd=_donations&business=hamishadams%40hotmail%2eco%2euk&lc=US&item_name=Lucida%20Console&no_note=0&currency_code=GBP&bn=PP%2dDonationsBF%3abtn_donateCC_LG%2egif%3aNonHostedGuest</a><br />
<img alt="" border="0" height="1" src="https://www.paypalobjects.com/en_GB/i/scr/pixel.gif" width="1" /><br />
<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
The Shit Wizardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06943620282151715406noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4961710990365500645.post-78963954175244853462013-10-26T07:11:00.002-07:002013-10-26T07:11:18.601-07:00Ghost<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-size: 15px;">Hello? I have been having some time off. I have been concentrating more on my addiction to booze and killing my brain. Writing is hard when you feel like 100 pounds of shit. I have nothing to say any more. The times between being hungover, being at work and being drunk again are a very narrow window with which to write anything. Plus...plus nothing. Issue 10 of Lucida Console will be out by the end of the year. Live free cunts.</span></span></div>
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<b><u><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11.0pt;"><br /></span></u></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><u><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11.0pt;"><br /></span></u></b></div>
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<b><u><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11.0pt;">Supernatural Big Hitters <o:p></o:p></span></u></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><u><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11.0pt;">By Slater Wilcox<o:p></o:p></span></u></b></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11.0pt;">Fuck that shitty TV show
“SUPERNATURAL”, to me supernatural means DEMONS flying into your bedroom at </span></i><st1:time hour="0" minute="0"><i><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11.0pt;">midnight</span></i></st1:time><i><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11.0pt;"> to TOUCH YOU UP and make you scream for MORE. To me, supernatural means
sitting in a graveyard until a HELLHOUND humps your FACE and shoots ectoplasmic
dog spunk out your EYEBALLS. To me, supernatural means becoming so fed up with
real life that only make believe can take your mind off of the ambivalence you
feel towards mankind. People can find out just about anything with the touch of
a few buttons, the world is being narrowed down and condensed. However,
sometimes…weird thoughts come creeping into your mind when you’re all by
yourself in the middle of a dark forest with no motherfuckin’ 3G. You start to panic.
“What if The X Files was right all along?! Is The Truth out here?! I fuckin’
hope not!” You close your eyes but your thoughts are much darker than the
night could ever be. Screaming Skulls, Egyptian Curses, the beady eye of a
Crow, Death cults, Psychic Visions of Doom…Is that a common elder tree you’re
leaning against, trying to get your breath back? The same common elder that
Judas hanged himself on? The same common elder associated with devil worship
and witchcraft? God’s sake don’t burn it for warmth – Satan will appear! Is
that a man pouding his way towards you through the murkiness? Or is it a
hallucination? Bite the bullet, baby, this shit’s all in your mind. Mystery is
cool. Sometimes the World is too real for me, at least back in the day we had
Satan to blame, nowadays we all know that it’s human beings that are <b>completely fucked</b>. So leave your skepticism
and scientific rationale at the door, here’s my all time favourite supernatural
bullshittery: X files up your ASS.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11.0pt;">Black Mass<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11.0pt;">A magical ceremony,
an inversion or parody of the Catholic Mass for the purpose of making fun of
God and worshipping the Devil; a rite that was said to involve human sacrifice
as well as blasphemy and obscenity of horrific proportions. You won’t be eating
bread and drinking wine at this fucked up Eucharist; instead how about a cum-covered
wafer washed down with a skullful of virgin’s piss? Sounds fun? Then stick
around for the roasted flesh canapés and frenzied buggery orgy. Like after
dinner games, do you like fucking <i>After
Eights</i>? Then try reading the Bible backwards with a mouthful of burnt baby
mixed with the priest’s poo. Feeling a little woozy, too much partying? Pussy.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11.0pt;">Dance of Death<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11.0pt;">An
allegorical attitude to the final crisis in human life – Death as a grotesque
skeleton leading all men and women to the inevitable grave, a theme popular in
Medieval art. Death is having the best dance party and you’re all invited –
even the dickheads and racists. Tough shit if you don’t wanna go to Death’s
party – you’re all coming along whether you like dancing or not, and tomorrow,
for once, we won’t be hungover – we’ll be dead.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<st1:city><st1:place><b><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11.0pt;">Crowley</span></b></st1:place></st1:city><b><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11.0pt;">, Aleister<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11.0pt;">Magician,
occult practitioner, author and poet, mountaineer, drug addict, ambisexual athlete,
and devout POOMAN. A guy after my own heart – the guy was obsessed with shit.
At his Abbey of Thelema on Sicily he set up a place to practice his love of
pooh, thinly disguised as a centre for occultist study. While there, he and his
followers got up to all sorts of rotten business, here’s little extract from
his biography recounting a normal evening in the abbey: “<i>She called his bluff and demanded the ‘Eucharist’ – that </i></span><st1:city><st1:place><i><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11.0pt;">Crowley</span></i></st1:place></st1:city><i><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11.0pt;"> should eat her
excrement which lay on the consecrated plate on the altar. </span></i><st1:city><st1:place><i><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11.0pt;">Crowley</span></i></st1:place></st1:city><i><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11.0pt;"> finally obeyed: “My
mouth burned, my throat choked, my belly retched, my blood fled wither who
knows and my skin sweated. She stood above me hideous in contempt…” All this,
in a word, I am a coward and a liar</span></i><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11.0pt;">.” Later in the chapter you learn that </span><st1:city><st1:place><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11.0pt;">Crowley</span></st1:place></st1:city><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11.0pt;"> and his High Priestess have a child
on the </span><st1:place><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11.0pt;">Island</span></st1:place><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11.0pt;"> and call it “Poupee”.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11.0pt;">Demonology<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11.0pt;">I have
decided to name my niece and nephew Ashtaroth and Baphomet. My neice, Ashtaroth
is the great nature Goddess of love and fruitfulness, also the “most impure and
revolting being that can be imagined”. My nephew Baphomet AKA pooh boy, is the
source and creator of evil; the satanic billy goat – he likes to wipe his ditry
pooh bum on sofas. Truly demonic. Demons don’t exist but humans do.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11.0pt;">Deja Vu<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11.0pt;">I feel like
I’ve been living the same life for 28 years now. Shit upon shit upon shit upon
shit. Déjà vu’s aren’t “out of the ordinary” it’s just the way life is – a snake
made of turds eating itself endlessly. Where does it begin? Where does it end?
Who cares – it’s all made of shit.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11.0pt;">Vampires<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11.0pt;">Bram
Stoker’s Dracula was THE SHIT. I remember I kept having nightmares after
reading it and I’d quite often waking up screaming in the night. It got inside
my psyche and made my brain squirm like a toad all night long. I truly believe
it to be a powerful book. I liked the Francis Ford Copolla film version of the
book when that girl puked about 20 pints of blood into a man’s face but it was
slightly over the top and disgusting. Other than that they’re pretty goofy. They
remind me of cats because they’re self centered and don’t give a shit about
anything and I think they are vain poo-poo heads. Don’t suck my blood,suck my
dick. However, Buffy the Vampire Slayer entertained me through those bleak teen
years and kept my mind off suicide. I appreciate vampires for that, thanks
suckers.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11.0pt;">Nymph<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11.0pt;">From Wikipedia: A<span class="apple-converted-space"> nymph </span>in<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span></span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11.0pt;"><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Greek_mythology" title="Greek mythology"><span style="background: white; color: windowtext; text-decoration: none; text-underline: none;">Greek mythology</span></a><span class="apple-converted-space"><span style="background: white;"> </span></span><span style="background: white;">and in<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span></span><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Latin_mythology" title="Latin mythology"><span style="background: white; color: windowtext; text-decoration: none; text-underline: none;">Latin mythology</span></a><span class="apple-converted-space"><span style="background: white;"> </span></span><span style="background: white;">is
a minor female nature deity babe typically associated with a particular
location or landform, they are double barreled fuck shotguns ready to blow your
face off with pump-action sexiness. There are 5 different types of nymphs,
Celestial Nymphs (far-out space nymphs), Water Nymphs (splashy splashy cum
guzzlers), Land Nymphs, Plant Nymphs and Underworld Nymphs and I’d fuck ‘em all.
Different from goddesses, nymphs are generally regarded as divine spirits who
animate nature by giving it an uncontrollable hard on, and are usually depicted
as beautiful, young<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span></span><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Nubile" title="Nubile"><span style="background: white; color: windowtext; text-decoration: none; text-underline: none;">nubile</span></a><span class="apple-converted-space"><span style="background: white;"> </span></span><span style="background: white;">maidens who love to dance and sing and threaten men
with nunchucks. They are believed to dwell in mountains and<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span></span><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Grove_(nature)" title="Grove (nature)"><span style="background: white; color: windowtext; text-decoration: none; text-underline: none;">groves</span></a><span style="background: white;">, by springs and rivers,
and also in trees and in valleys and cool<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span></span><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Grotto" title="Grotto"><span style="background: white; color: windowtext; text-decoration: none; text-underline: none;">grottoes</span></a>
where<span style="background: white;"> they are almost always totally nude and
have excellently trimmed bushes. Definitely an old world myth made up by some
randy Greek but I still hold out hope that one day, one glorious day in the
dreamy future, I’ll meet a nymph and It’ll be magNYMPHicent. Ha!<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11.0pt;">Necrophilia<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11.0pt;">Face it,
humans will try to fuck you until you die, so if they try to fuck you after you
die, who gives a fuck?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11.0pt;">Urology<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11.0pt;">Now, I
don’t know much about urology other than that it’s a sick and sordid black art
practiced by perverted professors of piss-drinking. Not really sure what goes
on in the urology wings of hospitals but I am willing to hazard a guess as to
what it’s all about – trying to predict the future by studying a person’s piss.
Piss divination if you will.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
The Shit Wizardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06943620282151715406noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4961710990365500645.post-66052347110086598232013-02-14T08:24:00.000-08:002013-02-23T08:00:32.313-08:00Desperate Living<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
Every time I go back home I have a sense of having not done anything with my life, which is partially true. Like Henry Miller once said, we'd all be better off if home just existed like a picture postcard in the back of our minds which we shouldn't be tempted to go back to. I regularly go back to Plymouth and the area of North Cornwall I grew up in. I normally end up walking around by myself and every corner I turn invokes a different memory and an awful feeling. A feeling of regret and emptiness. I need to move on. Anyway, I did one last trip around Plymouth on a wretchedly hungover Sunday morning in January and visited all the places around Plymouth Hoe which ever meant anything to me in years gone by. I took a "trip down memory lane" and ended up feeling suicidal. It was horrible.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-PH3WWbksKeA/UR0F2YY7ifI/AAAAAAAAAOg/QiebSfcSGxE/s400/IMAG0039(2).jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="266" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Plymouth Hoe: An empty carrier bag blowing towards the camera. No one else is around and there was a fierce wind.. Sir Frances Drake was bowling up here when the Spanish Armada invaded in the 1600's. I learnt to Rollerblade up here in the early 90's. My mum bought me my Rollerblades from the free ads; they were white leather with green wheels, they were obviously made for girls and I don't want to think about it any more.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-jIdv_GwjDAw/UR0F2xGbriI/AAAAAAAAAOo/K1-A4iQHaRs/s1600/IMAG0042.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-jIdv_GwjDAw/UR0F2xGbriI/AAAAAAAAAOo/K1-A4iQHaRs/s400/IMAG0042.jpg" width="266" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Plymouth Dome: I never knew what was in here and then it shut down. It's been shut down since about 2000 and nothings been done with it. Every time I look it I feel like it's 1993 and I've just gone to see Jurassic Park with my dad and sister. I guess it reminds me of the foyer in Jurassic park where the skeletons of the dinosaurs are hanging from the ceiling. I hate this place. It makes me feel old and sad, like my youth is dead and the future is a derelict building with no plans of regeneration </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-tksS2S_m8SI/UR0F-e4C8fI/AAAAAAAAAO0/4NY1N6xQqjU/s1600/IMAG0047.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-tksS2S_m8SI/UR0F-e4C8fI/AAAAAAAAAO0/4NY1N6xQqjU/s400/IMAG0047.jpg" width="266" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">War memorial: Skated here when I was 15. I remember a scene in Flatspot skate video happening here. An old Plymouthian lady, a relic from WWII Plymouth tells the guys skating, "I used to be a nurse...one little slip and you'll be paralysed for life...silly...silly boys". That was filmed about 1995. Why am I here thinking about it?</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-iOLpYXvrIus/UR0F_FJgE8I/AAAAAAAAAO8/kd1CaxOjr90/s1600/IMAG0044(2).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-iOLpYXvrIus/UR0F_FJgE8I/AAAAAAAAAO8/kd1CaxOjr90/s400/IMAG0044(2).jpg" width="266" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I met a girl on a date here last year. We sat in that shelter for about two hours and talked. The view overlooks Plymouth Sound. We had a two hour conversation and I think I was in love. I hold this shelter in fond memory. Later on we walked along the Hoe in the dark, there was no one around, it was windy as it always is, but we felt safe. The romance was doomed but sometimes I walk past here and think, "things happen in places that no one will ever know."</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-NBd_cbj_hCc/UR0F_JM1PtI/AAAAAAAAAPA/DyfB614LG_M/s1600/IMAG0048.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-NBd_cbj_hCc/UR0F_JM1PtI/AAAAAAAAAPA/DyfB614LG_M/s400/IMAG0048.jpg" width="266" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I had never seen this before but I like it. It's Poseidon stabbing some wretched sea beast with the blunt end of his trident. What a horrid way to die.</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-7l21PSVuskM/UR0GDJhV60I/AAAAAAAAAPM/MxpvIlRX6Cg/s1600/IMAG0050(2).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-7l21PSVuskM/UR0GDJhV60I/AAAAAAAAAPM/MxpvIlRX6Cg/s400/IMAG0050(2).jpg" width="266" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I once spent a night with a girl in the block of housing at the end of the Holiday Inn. She occupied the top floor window. She's gone back to Sweden now. Nothing happened that night I spent with her. I didn't feel in a sexual mood and instead we played crystal healing with her vast crystal collection. In the morning I woke up with an erection but quickly dismissed it. I gave her my tie-dyed shirt and we spent the day drinking on the hoe. I never saw her again.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-YDSurv9nXl4/UR0GDY3jmMI/AAAAAAAAAPQ/4GDpwio3QsU/s1600/IMAG0052(2).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-YDSurv9nXl4/UR0GDY3jmMI/AAAAAAAAAPQ/4GDpwio3QsU/s400/IMAG0052(2).jpg" width="266" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I hate looking up this street in this direction. The hollow white light at the brow of the hill makes me think it's 1999. People are into nu-metal and I am trying to skate, but I suck. But if I look for long enough I realise that everyone I grew up with has moved away and probably never even listen to Limp Bizkit anymore and I'm here by myself.</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-yGmI54X1MQc/UR0GFPNLUAI/AAAAAAAAAPc/4UaGYoGSIWw/s1600/IMAG0051(2).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-yGmI54X1MQc/UR0GFPNLUAI/AAAAAAAAAPc/4UaGYoGSIWw/s400/IMAG0051(2).jpg" width="266" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">For me this sums up Plymouth: a cracked pavement of faded pink and grey paving slabs from the post war reconstruction of the city. It's sad and endearing. It makes me want to drink and see my firends. I used to skate down these pavements and slam on my face every time I reached a section like this. So many pointless memories. I wish I could erase them.</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-rP3mLjrLB58/UR0GGNTdTDI/AAAAAAAAAPk/qSqr6A41kG4/s1600/IMAG0053(2).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="266" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-rP3mLjrLB58/UR0GGNTdTDI/AAAAAAAAAPk/qSqr6A41kG4/s400/IMAG0053(2).jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I've walked down here hundreds of times but I've never been happy.</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-yTwnSV7V0SA/UR0GH1hh7DI/AAAAAAAAAPs/1lgzm9CVW3M/s1600/IMAG0056(2).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-yTwnSV7V0SA/UR0GH1hh7DI/AAAAAAAAAPs/1lgzm9CVW3M/s400/IMAG0056(2).jpg" width="266" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A reflection of the Civic Centre. Lots of this that I don't wish to recall happened in the shadow of this buildng. How morose.</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-C0-iZcH48mY/UR0GIFv8KgI/AAAAAAAAAP0/NoJME_dbZhY/s1600/IMAG0057(2).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="266" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-C0-iZcH48mY/UR0GIFv8KgI/AAAAAAAAAP0/NoJME_dbZhY/s400/IMAG0057(2).jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I used to skate here all the time. A set of two steps outside the magistrates court. Where's everybody now? Dead? No, shopping in Drake's Circus shopping centre or at home. The play grounds of my youth are desolate wastelands and I'm hungover.</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-pJym09RVeXU/UR0GIRFtiFI/AAAAAAAAAP4/bQwD1kdIjtw/s1600/IMAG0060(2).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-pJym09RVeXU/UR0GIRFtiFI/AAAAAAAAAP4/bQwD1kdIjtw/s400/IMAG0060(2).jpg" width="266" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The train ride back to Exeter. My favourite view in Plymouth - the Plym Estuary at twilight. Lovely.</td></tr>
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<br />The Shit Wizardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06943620282151715406noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4961710990365500645.post-40435118451589075332013-01-23T05:43:00.001-08:002013-01-23T06:53:16.845-08:00Bill and Ted were having an excellent adventure<b>Keanu Reeves </b><br />
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-xA1xvy4ZpFY/UP_opLPFSdI/AAAAAAAAAOQ/ZCuakb4w4g0/s1600/keanu.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-xA1xvy4ZpFY/UP_opLPFSdI/AAAAAAAAAOQ/ZCuakb4w4g0/s320/keanu.jpg" width="234" /></a></div>
<b>Actor, Producer, Nymphomaniac </b><br />
<b>1961 - 2008 </b><br />
<br />
<b>The Bi-o:</b><br />
Keanu Fizzy Prince Reeves was born in 1969, just off the side of the main stage at Woodstock where his parents were working as full-time crusty fuck-ups. At the time his mother, Wizardsleeves Reeves, was experiencing a hellfire trip on brown acid and wasn't sure if she'd just given birth or if she'd just hallucinated it. She was later quoted saying, "Just as Jimi Hendrox started jamming out some <i>bona fide</i> riffage I had the unpleasant sensation that I'd just dropped my guts but then I felt something clawing at my leg...I slowly looked down and there was a fuckin' blood soaked gremlin shrieking at my feet! I nearly lost my shit...I had no idea that I was pregnant with Keanu."<b> </b>Many have speculated that it was this early rocking and rolling experience that had a major impact on Keanu, who later went on to play bass guitar in a band very few people cared about.<br />
<br />
His childhood years were a whirlwind of glue-sniffing and cheap pussy. At his kindergarden in Toronto he would often be seen doing chin-ups on the monkey bars whilst the rest of his classmates drank warm milk and played stink finger. Many of his teachers struggled with his rockstar persona and letters home would become a normal part of the Reeves household. In the final year of junior high he would keep his Ray-Bans on in the classroom and would proclaim education to be "jerk-off bullshit for dorks". It was this appetite for drama that inspired him thumb it down to California and "make it big" in Hollywood aged only 12. He vowed never to go back to Toronto, saying he'd wasted too much time there already.<br />
<br />
However, life in Hollywood wasn't easy for Reeves and he quickly learnt that in order to make it BIG, first you had to make it BI. Amazingly it was his natural skill at turning tricks that led to his first big break: a lead role along side Rivers Phoenix in the movie <i>My Own Private Idaho</i> which documented the lives of two young hustlers in LA, gettin' laid just to survive -a theme prevalent in almost all of Reeves' films to date. This lucky break, which came off the back of a chance meeting in a bathroom stall, led to Reeves coining the well known Hollywood phrase, "It's not who you know, it's who you blow."<br />
<b></b><br />
After this surprising smash hit, box-office-big-boy Keanu's life became a non-stop roller coaster ride of "excellent adventures" and "bogus journeys". For every crowd pleasing <i>Point Break</i> there came a cinematic shitstorm like <i>Johnny Mnemonic</i>. Disillusioned with show business Reeves decided to become your "Average Joe"; much to the disarray of his loyal fans who were craving more of his studly manner. Not to be dissuaded by any man, he got an office job, a small apartment and shed his most famous asset - that rock star ego. He settled his new life but soon enough he was back at his weird old way, getting up to no-good punk-rock shit. Growing tired with his 9-5 life he soon found escape in the internet and developed an unhealthy interest in hacking. Before long he was rubbing people up the wrong way and eventually got involved in some fuckin' crazy computer bullshit which lead to his biggest box office hit to date - a documentary of his attempts to lead the life of an "Average Joe" between the years 1999 and 2003 called <i>The Matrix</i>.<br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>The Romance and further bio.</b><br />
Reeves is a unashamed whore and has had an incredible amount of relationships, been linked to bizarre occultist sex orgies and has had more STDs than James Bond and Jim Morrison combined. However, the most shockingly fact about Reeves' love-life is the brevity of his relationships - most lasting for just an hour and a half. His longest and most memorable relationship occurred in 1989 on the set of <i>Bill and Ted's Excellent Adventure</i>. Alex Winters (Bill) and Reeves were literally <i>seeing double</i> when they met up with "the babes" in Ye Olde England whilst on their famous time-travelling pussy binge. Reeves and Winters were so taken with the pair of princesses that they by-passed all formalities and decided to<i> fucking kidnap them</i>! Not before singing them Poison's <i>Every Rose Has It's Thorn</i> of course ...and who says romance is dead! Sadly for Reeves, the pair only stuck together until 1991, when Bill and Ted's Bogus Journey was filmed. The "babe" Fraizer Bane, later claimed that Keanu had never actually bothered to learn her real name, and moreover she was becoming increasingly uncomfortable with her role in Wlyd Stallyns as "keyboard babe". The relationship was doomed and they split up just after post production. The wild plains of romance were desolate for many years, with only Lori Petty from <i>Point Break</i> and Carrie-Anne Moss from <i>The Matrix</i> to satiate Reeves' thirst for hard fucking. It was during this bleak time in his life when he was snapped by paparazzi mongoloids trying to enjoy a sandwich on a park bench by himself which led to an internet meme called "Sad Keanu" which poked fun of his inability to sustain a long and meaningful relationships. Many people ignored the fact that Reeves had revolutionised the internet during the Average Joe period (1999-2003) of his life and used the medium to repeatedly stab him in the back...and in the heart.<br />
<br />
Fed up with the persona he had created for himself, he decided to time travel back to India, 1928 in search of some class A, untainted pussy. Whilst trekking though the mountains of Karakoram he touched some fragments of ancient Alien shit and was reborn <i>Klaatu</i>. In turn, another Keanu Reeves documentary was born - <i>The Day the Earth Stood Still. </i>It was during this time that he met his true love - Jennifer Connelly. The documentary culminated with Reeves' making the biggest decision of his life - eat Jennifer Connnelly's pussy, or die. Luckily for us, Reeves chose to die. He saved mankind from itself and now exists as a thin layer of gas surrounding Planet Earth.<br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>The Films</b><br />
Bill and Teds's Excellent Fucking Adventure (1989)<br />
Bill and Teds's Bogus Fucking Journey (1991)<br />
Much Ado About Fucking Nothing (1993)<br />
My Own Private Fucking Idaho (1993)<br />
Johnny Mnenofuckingmonic (1997)<br />
The Fucking Matrix (1999)<br />
The Day The Fucking Earth Stood Still (2008)<br />
<br />
<b>The Trademarks</b><br />
<b> </b><br />
Sexy face<br />
Nice voice<br />
Cool Hair<br />
Big, Hairy Balls<b><br /></b>The Shit Wizardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06943620282151715406noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4961710990365500645.post-40154501128896297482013-01-15T13:38:00.002-08:002013-02-23T08:04:31.980-08:00HELL<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/--7sxVBkkYso/UPXH2ZMrdYI/AAAAAAAAAOA/tGCoiEQkVpg/s1600/anne+hathaway.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/--7sxVBkkYso/UPXH2ZMrdYI/AAAAAAAAAOA/tGCoiEQkVpg/s1600/anne+hathaway.jpg" /></a></div>
Standing in a blackened forest which stretches for as far as the eye can see, I have the strange sensation that I'm suddenly going to fly off somewhere and do something awful. Next thing I've shot off across the dark tree tops at a terrible speed. Taking an abrupt dive straight into the jagged mouth of a cave and winding far down deep into the Earth I swiftly arrive at the gates of hell. Once there, I know what I have to do - open these Gaddamned gates and release something good and shitty on the generation of swine inhabiting the Planet. I am a little apprehensive and decide to only open them for an hour. Using my incredibly powerful psychic brain I manage to open the hell portal; I feel horrified and excited and I know this is very naughty. Out of the reddish brown rock a grim little demon face appears and I start to feel like shitting myself - there is the sense of something unfeeling and massively violent behind me. Whipping around like maddened dog, I am faced with a naked Anne Hathaway with a ugly looking strap-on dildo dangling between her legs. She has mean, sexy eyes but I feel no fear; just a sexually confused awkwardness, like a dumb teenager. Those mean, sexy eyes shoot straight past me and fix upon the half-crazed, fully nude demon-girl who has also appeared in the hot, dusty cave. Demon Anne Hathaway wastes no time and is soon pumping the Demon girl senseless with her swarthy strap-on and although the sex is vicious and Satanic, the tenderness between the two is obvious. The Demon girl asks to reduce the size of the strap-on and Anne does so immediately, psychotelekenetically. The two writhe on the ground in ecstasy and the cave becomes unbearably hot with sticky heat, sweat and pure Satanic lust - salt stings my eyes but I can't turn away, yet at no point do I feel I can join in. I stand there awkwardly aware of the fact that Demon Anne Hathaway is doing a far better job than I ever could in twenty thousand life times of sexual experience. I am small in both mind and penis. The two Demons pay me no heed, their screams of pleasure of deafening and shrinking me mentally and physically. The strap-on plunges in and out non-stop and it has started glowing red with a furious heat - the Demon girl's orgasm is powerful: a torrent of Demonic juices. They have finished and lay in a panting pile. I start to realise how inconsequential my every action is, life is worthless and I am less than a fart. They start to laugh and vapourise - the portal has been open for an hour and they are vanishing back to their own dimension. I turn away, rest my forehead against the cave wall and start to cry. No one is here now and I am despondent and desperately alone. I paid the price for opening the gates of hell, I have been made to feel utterly non-existent by Anne Hathaway and her strap-on. I have experienced Hell and now I have a long walk home.The Shit Wizardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06943620282151715406noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4961710990365500645.post-63501186182601090842012-08-20T23:19:00.002-07:002012-08-20T23:19:46.816-07:00Dumping Ground<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-IwdgURsLcWs/UDMmWjze94I/AAAAAAAAANo/gLdk7xFX2iA/s1600/IMAG0052.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-IwdgURsLcWs/UDMmWjze94I/AAAAAAAAANo/gLdk7xFX2iA/s640/IMAG0052.jpg" width="425" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A "Vice style" picture of urban decay. Dundee 2011.</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">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!</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">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.</span><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><u><span style="font-family: Arial;"> </span></u></b></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><u><span style="font-family: Arial;">The Derelict </span></u></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">A post-apocalyptic dole
drama in one act</span></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">By Slater Wilcox</span></i></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">Scene one</span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">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. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">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 “<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">umming</i>” and “<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">ahhing</i>” 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.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">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. </span><span style="font-family: Arial;">11:20AM.</span><span style="font-family: Arial;"> 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.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">“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.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">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.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">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.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">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?</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">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!”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">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.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">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.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">“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.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">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.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">David looks up and sighs.
“Lost his marbles…” He hastily turns to leave.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">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.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">“What the hell do you want?!
I’m going to be late, let me go!” Gasps David, his voice full of panic.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">The man lets him go and
looks horrified. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">“Where do you have to be?!”
he asks David in wide eyed terror.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">“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.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">The air is still and
everyone feels utter sympathy for David.</span></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">“HAHAHA!”</span></b><span style="font-family: Arial;"> 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.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">“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.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">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!”</span></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">This takes David by surprise
but he obviously believes the business man is insane. “What? Well, where’s it
gone then?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">“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.</span></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">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.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">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. </span></div>
The Shit Wizardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06943620282151715406noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4961710990365500645.post-78094727700780836532012-08-09T15:36:00.000-07:002012-08-14T10:02:36.531-07:00Locals Only! Croyde Bay Surf Report<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-OUGBuKqoneQ/UCQf_45hTAI/AAAAAAAAAMw/f9Vnimfmo7M/s1600/IMAG0378.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-OUGBuKqoneQ/UCQf_45hTAI/AAAAAAAAAMw/f9Vnimfmo7M/s640/IMAG0378.jpg" width="425" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"I wanna get high and strong"</td></tr>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, san-serif; font-size: small;"><u><b>Part One: The road to the Boneyard</b></u> </span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, san-serif; font-size: small;">"<i>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</i>." - Some bullshit surfer website www.pussywimpsurfer.co.uk or something.</span><br />
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<span style="color: black; font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, san-serif; font-size: small;">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.</span><br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-0PfY9xdlm6k/UCQnsfzJTYI/AAAAAAAAANA/yXAYQpLtDnA/s1600/991POB_Patrick_Swayze_026.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="180" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-0PfY9xdlm6k/UCQnsfzJTYI/AAAAAAAAANA/yXAYQpLtDnA/s320/991POB_Patrick_Swayze_026.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"come on man, it's the storm of the century!"</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">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.</span><br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-tKsKrrry5Qg/UCQn9conAdI/AAAAAAAAANI/ZsUZAyWzJzk/s1600/point-break.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="256" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-tKsKrrry5Qg/UCQn9conAdI/AAAAAAAAANI/ZsUZAyWzJzk/s320/point-break.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"You want the ultimate thrill? You gotta be willing to pay the ultimate price."</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">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.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">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.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">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.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Arrived five twenty five. This place seems nice. Too nice.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">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.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">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.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">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.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">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. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-36xEEqGIP7A/UCQx3ppoZ9I/AAAAAAAAANY/7yb8rW9D7YU/s1600/fido+2.gif" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="299" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-36xEEqGIP7A/UCQx3ppoZ9I/AAAAAAAAANY/7yb8rW9D7YU/s320/fido+2.gif" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b><u>Part 2: Cowabunga Dude.</u></b> </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> 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 <span style="background-color: white;">a case of <b><span style="background-color: magenta; color: blue;">WEED PARANOIA <span style="background-color: white; color: black;"> </span></span></b><span style="background-color: magenta; color: blue;"><span style="background-color: white; color: black;">my friend reassures me, "If you drown I'll personally come and save you."</span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="background-color: magenta; color: blue;"><span style="background-color: white; color: black;">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!</span></span></span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="background-color: magenta; color: blue;"><span style="background-color: white; color: black;">The session ends, it's dark, night has fallen I am still alive and I have uncovered the truth: Surfing Croyde is for sissies.</span></span></span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="background-color: magenta; color: blue;"><span style="background-color: white; color: black;">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 <span style="font-size: large;"><b><u><span style="font-size: small;">master journalist</span></u> </b></span>again.</span></span></span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="background-color: magenta; color: blue;"><span style="background-color: white; color: black;"><u><b>Part 3: Romance?</b></u> </span></span></span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="background-color: magenta; color: blue;"><span style="background-color: white; color: black;">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.</span></span></span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="background-color: magenta; color: blue;"><span style="background-color: white; color: black;">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. </span></span></span></span>The Shit Wizardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06943620282151715406noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4961710990365500645.post-24096808477204423132012-08-06T13:26:00.001-07:002012-08-07T03:24:02.017-07:00The path less shat onHuman beings are able to live in temperatures between -30<sup>o</sup>c and +50<sup>o</sup>c. 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.<br />
<br />
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<i> the future</i>! 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.<br />
<br />
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?<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-t-EoPK0Z1M8/UCAlxYCpvjI/AAAAAAAAAMg/A0JGdQhmcp0/s1600/street+bail.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-t-EoPK0Z1M8/UCAlxYCpvjI/AAAAAAAAAMg/A0JGdQhmcp0/s1600/street+bail.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My bail notice from 2008, when I was arrested for a rather laughable knife crime</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
(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.)The Shit Wizardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06943620282151715406noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4961710990365500645.post-82131494634753649752012-07-30T10:27:00.001-07:002012-07-30T14:29:08.808-07:00Energy drink is street legal crystal meth for crybaby teenage wimp assholes<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-YaruT0cvbKo/UBasqA1t1EI/AAAAAAAAALo/CeJ3OhTPhKM/s1600/valentino-rossi-promotes-monster-energy-drinks-4124_1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320px" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-YaruT0cvbKo/UBasqA1t1EI/AAAAAAAAALo/CeJ3OhTPhKM/s320/valentino-rossi-promotes-monster-energy-drinks-4124_1.jpg" width="248px" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">shit drink</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-uTjqBqMfJi0/UBasu6D4W6I/AAAAAAAAALw/-qhGXSt0Nsc/s1600/PlymouthGinBottles2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240px" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-uTjqBqMfJi0/UBasu6D4W6I/AAAAAAAAALw/-qhGXSt0Nsc/s320/PlymouthGinBottles2.jpg" width="320px" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">good drink</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-_QYI6vXhu7g/UBas0S6yvwI/AAAAAAAAAL4/DA2E7uQhweA/s1600/rockstar.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-_QYI6vXhu7g/UBas0S6yvwI/AAAAAAAAAL4/DA2E7uQhweA/s1600/rockstar.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">shit drink</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-lqWySWbVuVo/UBas4bnindI/AAAAAAAAAMA/Ypq9FWPKnZw/s1600/cup+of+joe.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-lqWySWbVuVo/UBas4bnindI/AAAAAAAAAMA/Ypq9FWPKnZw/s1600/cup+of+joe.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">good drink</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-2FFlQHHHSqM/UBas9Xs03TI/AAAAAAAAAMI/hQ3THz5M_uc/s1600/relentless.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-2FFlQHHHSqM/UBas9Xs03TI/AAAAAAAAAMI/hQ3THz5M_uc/s1600/relentless.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">shit drink</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-gOXV8umMYNI/UBatCfWQcbI/AAAAAAAAAMQ/gQxRW-oy7iQ/s1600/ginger-beer-old-jam.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320px" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-gOXV8umMYNI/UBatCfWQcbI/AAAAAAAAAMQ/gQxRW-oy7iQ/s320/ginger-beer-old-jam.gif" width="212px" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">good drink</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
Nu metal, neck tattoos on hardcore posers, Front magazine, Formula 1, Call of Duty, people having babies, littering, internet pornography, bad manners and bad diets - all of these things I detest and they all float about on a luminous sea of shitty energy drinks like Relentless, Monster, Rockstar, and Pussy. Everything wrong with the World today can probably be traced to back to an X-treme asshole drinking a massive can of energy drink with a flat billed cap on. They really burn my shit and they seriously need to get the fuck out of my face. I have no need for energy drinks in my life: if you're tired whilst sober, drink coffee. If you're tired whilst drunk, drink gin. If your tired and not thirsty; go to fucking bed. If you want to feel insane, like lightning bolts will shoot out of your eyes and kill someone, then drink a larger amount of gin - there is no need for any other drink besides water. Drinking energy drinks turns you into a complete, 100%, bone fide, top shelf, grade A* ugly wimp (and you probably smell bad too).<br />
<br />
Most mornings on my way to work I pass a line of teenagers walking to school in their stupid, despondent teenage way. More often than not I'll see a couple of them avin' a little swig on a pint can of grim energy drink at eight in the morning. When I see this, a feeling of dread overcomes me and I know that as soon as I step into a classroom with those energy filled psychopaths my day will turn into a blinding shitstorm real fuckin' quick. If they're not on the edge of some some sugar induced seizure with super dilated pupils then they're slouching on their desk on a massive, soul-destroying sugar come down. I love to spot the kids who've OD'd, are face down on their textbooks, and are feeling the energy drink woe. I love to nag and torment them when they are in this fragile state, after all they've been making life miserable whilst high on their vile energy drink for the last few hours. "Sit up, pick up your pen and do some work....NOW!" Or I like sitting down next to them talking through the work so they have to come up with something good before I'll leave them alone, until then I sit there and watch them squirm with embarrassment in front of their friends. Haha, Sir's a dick. <br />
<br />
I have tried to conduct some serious research with teenagers about the appeals of energy drinks and have discovered there is no good reason for swallowing that corporate, poisonous diarrhoea shit-swill. Here is my conclusive evidence based on the three most popular answers to my question, "Why are you drinking that disgusting crap?" followed by the deconstruction of the rubbish answers with my deeply smart and informed science brain.<br />
<br />
"<em>They taste nice</em>."<br />
They taste like sweets. Grow up.<br />
<br />
"<em>They help me concentrate</em>."<br />
No they don't.<br />
<br />
"<em>They give me energy</em>."<br />
Food and sleep gives you energy, dipshit.<br />
<br />
I hope this in-depth study has left you without a shred of doubt that energy drinks are the spunk of Satan exclusively drank by little wieners and several other fine examples of human colostomy bags. Rise above this nonsense trend and achieve your inner potential as an excellent human being who doesn't need "a big bad buzz" to get through the day. If you loose the way just remember: gin and coffee, brothers and sisters, gin and coffee.The Shit Wizardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06943620282151715406noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4961710990365500645.post-9030532286024284272012-07-10T13:27:00.002-07:002012-07-10T13:49:04.437-07:00Angsty GeyserDog Days Three came out about three weeks ago to little fanfare. Barely a parp has been heard in response to such a ground-breaking piece of shit. Perhaps it's the fact I haven't been selling it or mentioning it to anyone. One fellow came up to me at a show last week and asked if I was the guy "who wrote the zines". I prepared my self for some flattery but instead he told me that I shouldn't be mean about a guy I had mentioned in it."He worships you guys," he said rather curtly, "he'd be crushed if he found out you were making fun of him. All I ask is that you just be nice to him." Then he turned around and walked off. Hmph.<br />
<br />
If you're like that sensitive fellow and have read Dog Days Three, you'll have discovered that the first half of the zine is a diary of my job as a teaching assistant whereby I recount the woe of being a sponge for teenage angst in a secondary school. I can't believe some of the shit I hear. Last week I had two real fucked up and stupid encounters in one lesson: one kid asked me what was so bad about Nazis and I had to tell him that they were insane racist, homophobic mass murderers and that's just for starters. Then this part-animal girl threw a bottle across the room and wouldn't stop shouting and banging the table, so I told her not to be so rude and disrespectful to everyone else in that room trying to learn. At lunch time she asked me, "How was I being disrespectful? It's not like I raped you." What the fuck?! She's twelve years old and this is how she talks to adults. Fuck a shit! I tried to explain the implications of what she had just said to me but it was no use, she was surrounded by her group of loud, giggly friends and told me "You can't get me into trouble." I can goddamn try my hardest you little wretch!<br />
<br />
Yesterday one of the other teaching assistants told me she overheard the same girl in a lesson saying, "Mr Adams has got a girlfriend...I saw him get out of the RE teacher's car and do up his trousers!" Then went back on this notion of me being straight (not that it fucking matters or is any of her fucking fat-bod business) by saying, "Mr Adams is gay. That's why he has a beard and wears tight trousers!" This friday she is being suspended and next year she's being moved away from her annoying friends, so hopefully in the future she might learn some manners and shut her big poopy whore mouth. It scares me when people that young act so vulgarly towards other people. I've met farm animals with better manners. <br />
<br />
So, in terms of meaness I am quite familiar with how mean people can be to one another but I'd rather not be. This world is slowly being fucked by mindless, hateful and selfish people. I may be shit at my job but I am not an advocate of meanness, racism, homophobia, or pollution/waste. I'm trying to teach kids how to be socially acceptable crust punks. But this shit just ain't flying. I was so annoyed by this girl that I drew this picture of her for my housemates, so that when they got up for work they'd be greeted by her cheery personalilty. <br />
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If you fancy reading any other grim stories from the school I work in or the much more positive tour diary order one <a href="http://specialistsubject.limitedrun.com/categories/zines" target="_blank">HERE.</a> If I'm still at this job after the summer holidays expect this to become a full time school diary blog. I can believe I've wasted such a golden opportunity!The Shit Wizardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06943620282151715406noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4961710990365500645.post-20585303162193413622012-06-09T12:25:00.000-07:002012-06-09T12:26:26.815-07:00Woof!<br />
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial;">Instead of spending my half term cycling to Penzance and going surfing, I spent it sat in my dingy bedroom typing up the notes from the Bangers/Sam Russo European tour that we endeavoured upon in March/April 2012. As I sat at my desk writing I also discovered that my neighbour is a fully blown drug dealer! I hope everytime he saw me writing he didn't think I was writing about all the shady business he gets up to. I am not the cops! Anwyay, the zine is done now, so expect the full thing for sale soon at gigs and thru the Specialist Subject webstore. The current edition of the zine is in the editing process of "sexing down" by Andrew and Russo. Hopefully the fact that Sam Russo is the filthiest man alive will shine through even after the editing. God knows where he gets off singing such beautiful and sensitive songs when in actual fact he's an absolutely filthy rotter! Here's two extract from a later point in the tour where we all didn't feel very well from drinking too much champagne. Tour lifestyle, ya know. </span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial;">Friday 13<sup>th</sup> April</span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial;">AJZ, </span><span style="font-family: Arial;">Bieldefeld</span><span style="font-family: Arial;">, </span><span style="font-family: Arial;">Germany</span></b><span style="font-family: Arial;"></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">On an arid quest for the
ultimate dryness, today’s diet contained no moisture whatsoever! Three pieces
of bread and cheese, two rusks, a portion of fries, and a handful of pretzel
sticks. Added to this we are all starting to resemble four freakish Californian
Raisin mutations through the disgusting hangovers and spending the next eight
hours stewing in our very own micro climate (the van). Sitting there, one can
hear our dry eyeballs creak as we watch landscapes blur into one, it’s hard to
remember life outside van. I know it existed once, but I don’t think I enjoyed it.
As we near the squat we are playing tonight, I start to tremble at the thought
of leaving the van. Luckily Russo fixed my ass up with three pipettes of rescue
remedy. I reacquaint myself with the outside world and decide its ok here.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">The show tonight is in </span><span style="font-family: Arial;">Germany</span><span style="font-family: Arial;">’s oldest squat with one of </span><span style="font-family: Arial;">Germany</span><span style="font-family: Arial;">’s biggest bands – Turbostaat. It’s the squat’s 39<sup>th</sup>
anniversary, the show is sold out to 500 people, and there’s a massive rave
afterwards. I am excited and the queue for the show stretches around the
corner. Everything goes smoothly music-wise and afterwards I even try to talk
to a girl; what a waste of time. She is a florist. Finally it’s </span><span style="font-family: Arial;">5:30am</span><span style="font-family: Arial;"> and she’s tired but doesn’t want to walk home. I
offer her a bed upstairs which she turns down because she “doesn’t want to be a
groupie.” I tell her that I’m the least sexual person she could meet and that
she can have her own bed, I don’t care. She follows me up the 10 flights of
stairs to the band room, I go to the bathroom and take a piss. I come out into
the dark corridor and can hear her sobbing. I find her almost in tears, saying
that she doesn’t want to stay. Fine, whatever. I walk her back downstairs, she
thanks me and walks home. The end.</span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial;">Saturday 14<sup>th</sup>
April</span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial;">JK Zomar, </span><span style="font-family: Arial;">Dilbeek</span><span style="font-family: Arial;">, </span><span style="font-family: Arial;">Belgium</span></b><span style="font-family: Arial;"></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">I slip back into consciousness,
am I a poltergeist? Russo returns from another of his romantic forays and hops
into my bed, I hop out and naked elbow drop him, I jump out of bed and punch a
wall, I look to the window and want to jump out of it. Downstairs at breakfast,
the promoter Marten tells me I look like shit. Man, I am all encompassing shit.
I am a shit. I AM SHIT. Three more pipettes of rescue remedy and a hungover
heart attack. For the sheer love of energy drink, I began to cry. I put my
hands on my haunches and began a slow, obscene grind. I want to destroy myself
today and </span><span style="font-family: Arial;">Belgium</span><span style="font-family: Arial;"> is the right place for it – the bleakest pit of
despair on the face of the Earth! From the back of the van Russo says the most rock
star thing I have ever heard, “All I can taste is champagne!” Last night we
were drinking a vile drink called Turbomate, a mixture of Club Mate and
champagne, it has fucked me up entirely. Last night we got paid as much as I
make in a month and it feels like I earned it: I am a human dishrag that’s
never been up from the basement, a real baby eater. I am experiencing auditory
and visual hallucinations and the beat up sat nav is spinning us every which
direction except for the right one. For a while I doze to the Black Flag song
“Obliteration”. I wake up. I don’t want to be in the van anymore. For once in
my putrid life I am pleased when we arrive in </span><span style="font-family: Arial;">Belgium</span><span style="font-family: Arial;">, the drive was very frightening and quite the mental
endurance test. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">The venue is a dusty little
youth club with no sink. I take a life altering shit and have to ask the
barmaid if I can wash my hands in the sink behind the bar. I can remember
looking into her frightened little eyes and thinking “WHAT?! I AM NOT A FREAK.”
Another degrading experience, I honestly love being on tour and the complete
loss of self you experience, nothing is ever certain. Petit feeds us a tasty
bit of pasta and I hit a trough, nothing feels good at this moment in time,
especially the first band who I can only describe as “tedious”. Russo leaves
the room and goes to the toilet. Later he tells me he sat there on the toilet
and fantasized about taking a shit on the guitarist’s face. Whilst they
continue to play their dire gruff punk I can smell how clean they are which
makes me hate them even more. They finish and leave the stage; I can’t even
bear to look them in the eye. Fuckin’ Silver and Gold – check ‘em out, the most
uninspired band I ever heard. Another forgettable band and then we play a
slightly awkward set to a crowd of teenagers, last nights booze intake makes its
way out of my battered pores and by the end of the set I am sticky with energy
drink sweats. I smell like shit. Like Marten said this morning, “Is it not
enough for you to look like shit?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">After a half an hour break
Sam finally plays to a room of drunken, obnoxious jerks. Before he starts playing,
he addresses his audience. “You’re all dicks.” Petit, the promoter is so drunk
that he drops a full glass of beer next to Sam’s feet as he’s playing. It
smashes loudly on the floor. Petit twists Sam’s nipple and puts his finger in
his mouth whilst he is trying to play. At one point he shouts “Play some
Lagwagon!” The reaction to Sam’s set is tepid, the best reaction comes to an
impromptu song about Andrew, I can only remember the line “Drive, a crazy
motherfucker straight outta the beehive.” People love this song but are
indifferent to his normal songs, which are incredible as per normal. Belgium is
the most fucked up place ever. Roo gets weird on a kid that looks like a
younger version of himself. Whilst standing at the urinal, Roo looks over the
little divider and then says to the kid, “Is this barrier supposed to stop me
looking at your cock?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">I drink disgustingly sweet
Belgian beer and talk to the prettiest Spanish/Belgian girl I have ever met.
Slender nose, big brown eyes, jet black hair. Ellien, she stands close to me
and I feel my legs wobble, I could drop to her feet and start barking, WOOF!
WOOF! WOOF! I pause for thought - she’s only half Belgian, only half insane…I
could live with that. Alas, I suddenly loose all desires and I just wanna go to
sleep. I pass out on a dusty floor knowing I am in for the bad shit tomorrow. I
haven’t showered for several days and I’m in for a hangover<sup>3</sup>.</span></div>The Shit Wizardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06943620282151715406noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4961710990365500645.post-32913689180375578152011-11-04T17:06:00.000-07:002011-11-04T17:14:01.514-07:00Screenplay #6<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:worddocument> <w:view>Normal</w:View> <w:zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:compatibility> <w:breakwrappedtables/> <w:snaptogridincell/> <w:wraptextwithpunct/> <w:useasianbreakrules/> <w:usefelayout/> </w:Compatibility> <w:browserlevel>MicrosoftInternetExplorer4</w:BrowserLevel> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 10]> <style> /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0cm 5.4pt 0cm 5.4pt; mso-para-margin:0cm; mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:10.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman";} </style> <![endif]--> <p class="MsoNormal"><b style=""><u>Fat Shifters</u></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight:normal"><u>Slater Wilcox</u></b></p> <p class="MsoNormal">High paid jobs and get fit regimes are the new cocaine for yuppie pussies. Bums are trampled to death by joggers, stray dogs are hideously scalded by steaming cappuccinos, and loners experience major social suspension. In this cruel world of the have and have nots who can cut the mustard and who’s just cuttin’ the cheese?</p> <p class="MsoNormal"> <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight:normal">SCENE ONE</b></p> <p class="MsoNormal"> <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight:normal"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal">Jon and Julia jog down the street in jogging tights, talking about the latest episode of THE BIG BANG THEORY.</i></b></p> <p class="MsoNormal"> Jon: Did you see it last night? It was hysterical! There was a bit where Jared nearly got laid but he didn’t cuz he’s too annoying and socially awkward to get any of the pussy that’s banging. But it is funny right? HA!</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">They neatly side step a lonely looking fellow with no friends</i>.<br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Julia: Eurgh, did you see that guy? I think he was checking out my camel toe. Pervert.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Jon: <i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">Your </i>camel toe? No way Jules, he was checking out <i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">my</i> M-C-T.<br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Julia: MCT?</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Jon: Yeah, Male Camel Toe. And my camel toe is way bigger than yours.<br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Julia: Nuh-uh! [Hoiks her jogging bottoms up to accentuate her camel toe]</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">Jon slows his jogging pace, looks down at the contours of Julia’s newly configured camel toe and nods in an impressed manner. They then continue to jog in silence for a minute or two.<br /></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Jon: Where shall we eat tonight? Or do you wanna get something easy from Waitrose? I kind of fancy getting something from Waitrose, work today was so boring and I need something delicious to perk me up. Karen at work has such an attitude problem, she bosses everyone around and she’s not even senior management! I mean where the hell does she get off on that?</p> <p class="MsoNormal">[They start to cross a high bridge which runs over a murky, sinister looking river]</p> <p class="MsoNormal"> Julia: Yeah, that is kind of weird and Jesus Jon, FUCKING BORING. I can’t live in a world when I have to start competing with you over camel toes! Go to hell MOTHERFUCKERRRRRR...... </p> <p class="MsoNormal"> <i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">Julia abruptly cuts away from Jon and takes a running leap over the barrier, headfirst off the bridge.</i></p>The Shit Wizardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06943620282151715406noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4961710990365500645.post-41511734688382029502011-08-29T03:13:00.000-07:002015-03-21T15:12:48.693-07:00Crime of Passion<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-1KXjB1hlUNs/Tltsr09suDI/AAAAAAAAAKU/Ic4_CYsYgKQ/s1600/Kendra%2BGaeta.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-1KXjB1hlUNs/Tltsr09suDI/AAAAAAAAAKU/Ic4_CYsYgKQ/s400/Kendra%2BGaeta.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5646226058046650418" border="0"></a>
<br>I have become obsessed with Big Brother Skateboarding magazine again. It always happens when I <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">ebay</span> my possessions - I sell them, then a few weeks later want my shit back plus more. It happened when my mum threw away my Smurf collection when I was 20 years old. For years I had these eight smurf figures on the <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">windowsill</span> in my room; I thought they looked cool but it may explain why I so rarely went on any dates- guys with interesting personalities don't have Smurf collections. One day I returned home to find my mum had thrown away my motherfucking smurfs. It wasn't a big deal but over time I couldn't stop thinking about what happened to them. Where had they gone? On some crazy <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">fuckin</span>' <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">smurfin</span>' adventures no doubt. Then I started to miss them and one night shortly afterwards I freaked out and bought 10 smurfs off <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">ebay</span>. I felt very smug and I knew treacherous mother wouldn't dare throw these away <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">cuz</span> then I'd hit her back with 20 more smurfs. When they came in the post the reality of smurfs wasn't as exciting as the prospect and I remembered all the times those little <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">fuckin</span>' smurfs hadn't got me laid. What the fuck does a 20 year old man do with 10 plastic smurf figures? I hid them in shame.
<br>
<br>Right now I am selling off my Big Brother collection but it has made me nostalgic. Big Brother went far beyond skateboarding and it was what got me into writing nonsense in the first place. I have also rediscovered my first crush on a completely unattainable celebrity - Kendra <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">Gaeta</span>. She wrote for Big Brother from about 1993 to 1999. She was cute, could write better than most of the other staff and made fun out of <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">a lot</span> of serious <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">skateboarders</span>. Last night I couldn't stop thinking about her and in the morning found her <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10">myspace</span> page so I could get the picture which appears at the top of this page. I also found a crazy song Wesley Willis sung about her in 1994:
<br>
<br><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1ebVX17u844">http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1ebVX17u844</a>
<br>
<br>I have also uploaded a page from <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11">Lucida</span> Console #7 about a real life crush that happened in 2007 that involved neither Smurfs or Kendra. Reading it again makes me cringe. <br>
<br><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-sXvwsikfjRU/Tlttrb3X5vI/AAAAAAAAAKc/L1NbaIG8pak/s1600/internet%2Bstalking.gif"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 276px; height: 400px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-sXvwsikfjRU/Tlttrb3X5vI/AAAAAAAAAKc/L1NbaIG8pak/s400/internet%2Bstalking.gif" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5646227150820861682" border="0"></a>
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<br>The Shit Wizardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06943620282151715406noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4961710990365500645.post-37962973335108778502011-07-21T11:37:00.000-07:002011-08-25T10:40:52.213-07:00Suck my DickensBack off tour, feeling downbeat and miserable. This last tour was amazing. El Morgan and The State Lottery made me like I had reached the pinnacle of human happiness. I don't think I could have had a better time. I got home and hit a trough of dispair. I feel like everything is tiresome dogshit but I have no reason. Anyway, enough of the moping; here's the first draft of an idea I had whilst reading Roger Mellie's Profanisaurus Rex. I wanted to make a dictionary of touring band slang and here's my first attempt. Fuck on brothers and sisters.
<br />
<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Charles Dickens</span>
<br />A promoter who puts on a shit show in a shit venue. As in "Fucking hell this promoter looks like a right Charles Dickens" Meaning you may have "Great Expectations" but you're in for "Hard Times" in a "Bleak House".
<br />
<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Early Bird Special</span>
<br />When you're the first person to wake up and you get to shit before anyone else.
<br />
<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Party Blanket</span>
<br />When you sleep on the same floor that you partied on.
<br />
<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Punk Pasta</span>
<br />The famous promoter pasta dish which is prepared hours before the show and left to cool. Compromising of ice cold pasta and a thin film of Tesco value tomato sauce. Especially delicious when it's the only thing you've eaten all day.
<br />
<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Terminal Vanlocity</span>
<br />The point in a van journey where you absolutely can't take anymore and flip the fuck out.
<br />
<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Chunky Drive-by</span>
<br />When someone pukes out of the van window whilst in transit, and the vomit hits a pedestrian or the car behind.
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<br />I'm done. This is terrible.The Shit Wizardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06943620282151715406noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4961710990365500645.post-56732651269553964932011-06-24T05:35:00.000-07:002011-06-27T08:14:31.241-07:00BAM! POW! While you're waiting to hear mortar fire, check this out.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-ctZOOmzAgU8/TgSFmtJp69I/AAAAAAAAAJ8/ukzAYj4moyM/s1600/SP_A0572.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-ctZOOmzAgU8/TgSFmtJp69I/AAAAAAAAAJ8/ukzAYj4moyM/s400/SP_A0572.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5621765134866836434" border="0" /></a> <span style="font-style: italic;">Attack! Vipers! Promo shot August 2010</span><br /><br />This week has seen a splodge of activity on the blog because I feel so goddamn creative and inspired at the moment. This current spell on the dole (my fourth so far) is the best yet. My JSA Personal Advisers should be promoted to SUPERvisers. I mean, they are just THE SHIT. Giving out indespensible advice about starting a career in the local bacon factory and helping me with my fashion dillemas (how didn't I know that Tesco sold cheap clothes?!). I always come away from the jobcentre feeling as sharp as a thumbtack and as charming as George Clooney in a sexy rom com.<br /><br />I am less than excited about employment and all the bullshit surrounding it but I am excited about having some zines to sell next week. They are being printed in Andrew and Kay's flat right now! In the meantime here's some more stuff to browse over.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-R_FfEs2_Vmk/TgSFnp1TKaI/AAAAAAAAAKE/2WI4AgTQlm0/s1600/29-30.gif"><br /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-R_FfEs2_Vmk/TgSFnp1TKaI/AAAAAAAAAKE/2WI4AgTQlm0/s1600/29-30.gif"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 291px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-R_FfEs2_Vmk/TgSFnp1TKaI/AAAAAAAAAKE/2WI4AgTQlm0/s400/29-30.gif" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5621765151156021666" border="0" /></a><br /> <span style="font-style: italic;"> A rather bizarre piece from Urgent Avenue #1</span>The Shit Wizardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06943620282151715406noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4961710990365500645.post-20178880478282850442011-06-22T09:20:00.000-07:002011-06-22T09:26:57.777-07:00It looks like someone puked on a pile of shit!""I'm experimenting with a new lay out for my blog which invokes the spirit of Clip Art and Microsoft Publisher 98 - the program I use to make all my zines. I will continue to be willfully horrendous with my design and layout until the style becomes hip and I get famous.The Shit Wizardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06943620282151715406noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4961710990365500645.post-1833586316512566562011-06-21T10:32:00.000-07:002011-06-21T10:53:13.322-07:0030 Days of Hangover: Europe 2011<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:worddocument> <w:view>Normal</w:View> <w:zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:compatibility> <w:breakwrappedtables/> <w:snaptogridincell/> <w:wraptextwithpunct/> <w:useasianbreakrules/> <w:usefelayout/> </w:Compatibility> <w:browserlevel>MicrosoftInternetExplorer4</w:BrowserLevel> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if !mso]><object classid="clsid:38481807-CA0E-42D2-BF39-B33AF135CC4D" id="ieooui"></object> <style> st1\:*{behavior:url(#ieooui) } </style> <![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 10]> <style> /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0cm 5.4pt 0cm 5.4pt; mso-para-margin:0cm; mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:10.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman";} </style> <![endif]--> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Arial;"><span><span><span>Hello my musical munchers, here is a tasty bit of Dog Days Volume Two for you to browse over. Chew it, nibble it, consume, CONSUME! I'll be selling the full thing on the State Lottery tour next month for £1. Come to one of these shows:</span></span></span></span></p><p style="font-weight: bold;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-weight: normal;">UK TOUR with THE STATE LOTTERY & EL MORGAN & BANGERS</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: normal;">SAT 2ND JUL - THE JAM, BRIGHTON</span><br /><span style="font-weight: normal;">SUN 3RD JUL - EDGE OF THE WEDGE, PORTSMOUTH</span><br /><span style="font-weight: normal;">MON 4TH JUL - THE CRICKETERS, KINGSTON</span><br /><span style="font-weight: normal;">TUE 5TH JUL - PORTLAND ARMS, CAMBRIDGE</span><br /><span style="font-weight: normal;">WED 6th JUL - PRINCE OF WALES, LEAMINGTON</span><br /><span style="font-weight: normal;">THU 7TH JUL - THE VICTORIA INN, DERBY</span><br /><span style="font-weight: normal;">FRI 8TH JUL - ROYAL PARK CELLARS, LEEDS</span><br /><span style="font-weight: normal;">SAT 9TH JUL - PLUGGED INN, SUNDERLAND</span><br /><span style="font-weight: normal;">SUN 10TH JUL - THE BANSHEE LABYRINTH, EDINBURGH</span><br /><span style="font-weight: normal;">MON 11TH JUL - RETRO BAR, MANCHESTER</span><br /><span style="font-weight: normal;">TUE 12TH JUL - THE CROFT, BRISTOL</span><br /><span style="font-weight: normal;">WED 13TH JUL - MOZARTS, SWANSEA</span><br /><span style="font-weight: normal;">THU 14TH JUL - CAVERN, EXETER</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span><span>I'll be attempting to mill about the shows like a social fairy. You see I have entered a new phase of my life, that of the "great crust romantic". I am trying to force myself into enjoying being social,</span></span></span><span style="font-weight: normal;"> sexy in a non-creepy way, and crusty. It's a damn hard juggling act. Hope you like these two entries!</span><br /></span></p><p style="font-weight: bold;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Arial;">Thursday 26<sup>th</sup> May</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:Arial;" >Budapest, Hungary</span><span style="font-family:Arial;"></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Arial;">There are days on tour where you could happily stay in one place for ever and said a fond farewell to your previous existence. I didn’t want to leave </span><span style="font-family:Arial;">Zagreb</span><span style="font-family:Arial;">. Iva is a fine human being to spend time with and Croatia still has so much to offer but we’ve got other more pressing priorities – like driving all day long in Nibbler. Tonight we’re playing underneath “The Party Hostel” in </span><span style="font-family:Arial;">Budapest</span><span style="font-family:Arial;"> which is a pretty exciting prospect. I imagine loads of sexy tourists going wild all night long with little or no morals.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Arial;"> I can’t remember the drive to </span><span style="font-family:Arial;">Budapest</span><span style="font-family:Arial;"> so let’s assume it wasn’t any fun at all. Crossing the throbbing </span><span style="font-family:Arial;">Danube</span><span style="font-family:Arial;"> at </span><span style="font-family:Arial;">6pm</span><span style="font-family:Arial;"> was euphoric. I think Bram Stoker summed it up nicely in Dracula that crossing that banging river feels like you’re crossing a border between the east and west. Things seem slightly spicier and more erotic across that body of water. I also love that feeling whilst on tour that nothing else in the world matters – the feeling of being free and punk, if that makes any sense. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Arial;"> After idling around the party hostel courtyard for a couple of hours drinking beers and smoking cigarettes (courtesy of Papa Roo), the rest of the bands turn up and we begin the proceedings. Tonight we have the displeasure of playing with some sexist Brazilian cunts called Strip No Altar. They are complete turkeys. Before one song their bassist announces, </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Arial;"> “This song is about guns, violence, and drugs!”</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Arial;"> They have Strip No Altar panties for sale and their album cover is two scantily clad women getting up to some typical “hetro fantasy” lesbian nonsense. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Arial;"> They have dubious lyrics such as:</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Arial;"> “I just wanna smoke some crack, I just wanna find a big bed, so I can take my bitch there.”</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Arial;"> When they sing the line about smoking crack their drummer pretends to smoke his drumstick...my God. I was a bit drunk and found them completely laughable so shouted for an encore, they didn’t need much encouragement and quickly played one of the sexist humdingers they played earlier in the set. Fuck! Andrew rightfully got really mad at me for spurring them on.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Arial;"> I forget the name of the other band, but I liked them. They sounded like ALL. Anyway, no food or no place to stay tonight and paid very little money. We organised to stay in this guy Peter’s spare apartment in the Gypsy district of town, so no erotic party hostel fantasy tonight. Peter makes sure that we understand it’s very basic accommodation – no shower, toilet flushed with a bucket of water, odd Gypsy neighbours etc. The building itself is incredible, it looks like something out of a WW2 movie – it’s so old and battered. There’s bullet holes in the front of the building from the 1956 Hungarian Revolution and you can see a line where a bomb hit it. Despite its raggedy looks I thought it was quite charming. I sleep in the van for security. A poor choice – our parking space is right next to the hottest back alley piss spot in town and throughout the night I am rudely awoken by men relieving themselves against the wall. Haha, grim. </span></p> <p style="font-weight: bold;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Arial;">Friday 27<sup>th</sup> May</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:Arial;" >Cluj-Napoca, Romania</span><span style="font-family:Arial;"></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Arial;"> Before leaving the UK Andrew and I blacked out Nibbler’s windows with this stick on film. A tricky procedure that we messed up a couple of times before getting it stuck on bubble free. This morning I utilised these blacked out windows by jerking off in peace, knowing that the people who walked past Nibbler wouldn’t see lil’ monkey playing with himself. Haha, how pathetic (and creepy and illegal).</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Arial;"> Micah the Finnish dude who played drums in the ALL band came and got the apartment keys from us as we sat in Nibbler finishing off our nutritious breakfast of crisps, cheese, horseradish sauce, bread and a suspiciously named “Orange Drink”. This meal doesn’t help the fact that we’re all greasy as fuck today and have got to spend the next eight hours making our slimy way to </span><span style="font-family:Arial;">Romania</span><span style="font-family:Arial;">. After sleeping in the van and eating breakfast in the van there’s nothing I like to do more than to spend all day in the van. 30<sup>0</sup>c and Romanian roads, what a fiendish combination! Once we cross the border it doesn’t take long for the Romanian road celebrities to make an appearance – Gypsies on horse and carts, stray dogs, storks in massive nests atop of telegraph pole, fucked up old men who look like Super Mario bumbling about the pavements, half built Gypsy mansions with metallic oriental style roofs, and roadsides littered with people selling bowls of berries.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Arial;"> To see us through this marathon journey we take sustenance from crisps and warm water served at van-temperature. I feel myself turning see thru. Once we arrive in Cluj there is an onslaught of beautiful girls roaming the streets, “full on, non-stop” as the popular phrase says on all the Romanian shop fronts. As we enter into a pesky traffic jam we see the prettiest girl we have collectively seen sat in the back seat of a taxi. Oh Taxi-Girl……your name doesn’t really do you any justice. Sorry for staring.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Arial;"> There’s a festival happening in Cluj to celebrate 800 years of the city so the whole place is rammed with people. This city is something else…so amazing. At the venue we meet the promoter Paul and Schlitz, a band we played several dates with in </span><span style="font-family:Arial;">Romania</span><span style="font-family:Arial;"> last year. It’s nice to be so far from home and in the company of friends, plus Schlitz are a totally kick-ass punk rock band! For dinner we are brought a bag full of cheese and radish toasties, argh! They are pretty tasty but the bread and cheese diet is leaving me feeling like a human wreck hanging from a meat hook, I’ve gotta eat some vegetables. Roo and I venture out into the city and come across a green grocer which is still open at </span><span style="font-family:Arial;">9.30pm</span><span style="font-family:Arial;">. A bit of greenery perks me up and we go and check out the festival which is happening in the square. Up on stage is a terrible Euro-pop duo singing a twatish song with lyrics that Roo interprets as “I’m so greasy all the time, I’m so greasy I want to cry.” They’re singing about being on tour! Once again the show is packed out with about 150 people and some very desirous girls are in attendance, if only I wasn’t so greasy that I want to cry!</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Arial;"> The first band “Sk. Ank” (yes, you read that right) play for nearly an hour and cover Jimmy Eat World and Blink 182 in a horrible ska fashion. People go completely apeshit for them. Strip No Altar have followed us like a horrible eggy fart and are playing tonight as well. For fuck sake. They get up on stage and perform their worn out hedonistic diatribe. Grow up and fuck off. They sing about drinking loads of booze too but I have yet to see them drink anything besides water. They are the worst kind of sexist pussies who should be flogged and driven across the land. They perform their hit song “Boomerang”, the general gist of which is “women always return no matter how much of a prick you are”. Urgh. There is a little break in the music and their singer announces “Now I will show you why the ladies ALWAYS come back…” For a moment we all thought he was going to flop out his humongous wanger but no, he just played an uninspired guitar solo. Come on, get your dick out for the lads mate.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Arial;">I start to feel pretty nauseous and physically broken shortly before we go onstage at </span><span style="font-family:Arial;">1AM</span><span style="font-family:Arial;"> and struggle my way through our set all higledy pigeldy. I am disappointed in my performance and feel annoyed at driving all this way only to suck. Andrew has enjoyed a bit of booze before playing and tells me that he thought I played pretty good, which is ok by me. Much merriment is had after the show and sure enough the 60% Romanian moonshine makes a welcomed appearance but I won’t be enjoying it as I’m driving tonight, alright! Seeing Schlitz again was so good, really friendly guys too. Their punk rock deliciousness is easily better than 90% of the bands we play with but of course they don’t get the recognition they deserve cuz they’re from the ass end of no where. Their bassist Dan was pretty drunk and he jokingly asked, “You’ve been here once before, so why the fuck have you come back? Didn’t you learn?!” Being a young person living in </span><span style="font-family:Arial;">Romania</span><span style="font-family:Arial;"> must be pretty difficult, unemployment is rife and it’s difficult to get out. Gotta roll with the punches I guess. But what the fuck do I know? It might rule. Anyway, in my opinion Schlitz were the best band that played this night and I wish them all the best in the future.</span></p>The Shit Wizardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06943620282151715406noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4961710990365500645.post-54743851891331540852011-06-15T11:07:00.000-07:002011-06-22T09:46:23.258-07:00Mass Fanzine Alert!HAIL PUSSIES! Next month I am on tour with the State Lottery for two weeks. Currently I am on the dole and have 15 pence to my name. I am fucked. However I have reason to be very cheerful indeed - I have made two fanzines in time for the tour - Slime Capsule #1 and Dog Days #2. I'll be selling them from the merch stand in the hopes of having enough money to afford breakfast the next day. Here's a snippet from Slime Capsule called "The Beers in My Life". I assure you there more exciting things going on in the fanzine than this article, such as the Heavy Mental screenplay, Attack Vipers interview, a guide to stalking telepathically, reviews of music and books, plus some sweet comics from Oliver John Ward. In the mean time check out this turgid bullshit. Smell ya soon, humpers.<br /><br />(Here's a picture of my Master Journalist Apprentice Wesley Moon who also features heavily in Slime Capsule. I hope you look forward to hearing of our CONSPIRACY BUSTING ADVENTURES!)<br /><br /><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:worddocument> <w:view>Normal</w:View> <w:zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:compatibility> <w:breakwrappedtables/> <w:snaptogridincell/> <w:wraptextwithpunct/> <w:useasianbreakrules/> <w:usefelayout/> </w:Compatibility> <w:browserlevel>MicrosoftInternetExplorer4</w:BrowserLevel> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if !mso]><object classid="clsid:38481807-CA0E-42D2-BF39-B33AF135CC4D" id="ieooui"></object> <style> st1\:*{behavior:url(#ieooui) } </style> <![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 10]> <style> /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0cm 5.4pt 0cm 5.4pt; mso-para-margin:0cm; mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:10.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman";} </style> <![endif]--> <h3><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-PftQAWDiwds/TgIbDRIH24I/AAAAAAAAAJ0/NN3JhDUuoPs/s1600/SP_A0627.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-PftQAWDiwds/TgIbDRIH24I/AAAAAAAAAJ0/NN3JhDUuoPs/s400/SP_A0627.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5621085027862829954" border="0" /></a></h3> -----------------------------------------------------------------------<br /><h3>The Beers in my Life</h3> <h3>By Slater Wilcox</h3> <p class="MsoNormal"><b style=""><i style=""><span style="font-size:12pt;"> </span></i></b></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><i style="">Like most people I thought beer was pretty disgusting when I first drank it, but I guess Courage Light 2.3% ale wasn’t a great starting point for a young boozer. I remember drinking a can of Stella in the top bunk at my friend Toby’s house when I was 15, it made me feel very sick indeed. In the night I heard that motherfucker drinking a pint of blackcurrant squash really loudly, taking massive audible gulps - “GRULP-GRULP”- and my stomach churned. I thought I might puke on him, luckily I kept it down and I guess I’ve been keeping it down ever since. I have had friends and relatives succumb to alcoholism but the good times with beers outweighs the negative. Henry Miller once wrote a book called “The Books in my Life” which documented every book which meant something to him or provided him with inspiration, following this highly intelligent and informative vein, Slater Wilcox documents…“The Beers in my Life”.</i></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><i style=""> </i></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><b style="">FIREBRAND Czech Lager, Cans (2004)</b></p> <p class="MsoNormal">My first love. It bit me like a snake then left my life like a ghostly lover. I used to sit in my room in my first year with a twelve pack (if I was feeling wealthy) put on Alkaline Trio and sing at the top of my lungs. One night I cheated on Firebrand with white wine and ended up puking off the pier into the sea, then falling asleep on a bench. I stumbled home and did some synchronized puking with Roo into my toilet. That was probably my first case of “wine after beer, Oh dear”. Around 2004/2005 Firebrand became the choice beerdrink of my contemporaries on many a wild and lonely night. Sadly it went the way of the dinosaurs and became part of boozy myth and legend. I’ll never forget Castle Rock in 2006 when we bought the last out of date 24 pack of Firebrand ever from Threshers. It was one of the hottest days of the summer, I turned down a girl I should have passionately embraced cuz my mind was all fuckin’ twisted up over the last ever Firebrands. Firebrand was discontinued and I was heartbroken. The first time is the deepest, as those sentimental slopsters say.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><b style="">Groschl 24 Pack, Bottles (2005)</b></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Roo and I made literally no friends in our second year of university. I was 21 and a fucking social recluse. However we did drink ice cold bottles of grolsch every night whilst watching Dawson’s Creek and Scrubs. I can remember dangling empty bottles on strings out of our window and clinking them against the flat below’s windowpanes, just to piss them off. In a similarly daring “in-flat” adventure we even tried to drink 24 beers over the course of 24 episodes of Dawson’s Creek series 2 in one sitting. Of course, we ended up drinking about 12 beers in the course of two episodes and falling asleep on the sofa. Interesting fact: During the three years of university education, I had no sexual experiences at all.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><b style="">Red Stripe, Six Pack of Cans (2006)</b></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Roo and I lived in a shop during our third year. We moved in with two hedgers who loved drugs. Before getting involved with any of that nonsense I used to frequent the corner shop two hundred yards from my house and buy six packs of Red Stripe for £5.99. I’d buy one at about 2pm then go back at 6pm feeling buzzed on beer and guilty that I was buying another one. I’m sure the clerk didn’t give a flying fuck. One day I drank a bunch of beers and jumped off the pier at 1pm then fell asleep on the beach. Another time I got wasted and on my nightly stroll invited six homeless people sleeping outside the Salvation Army back to my house to sleep in the warm. I was deeply hurt when they said no, but in hindsight I just probably looked like a twat. I stopped drinking Red Stripe when I ran out of money and started drinking Barn Stormer cider instead. A bad time in my life which shan’t be documented here.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><b style=""> </b></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><b style="">Carlsberg Export (2009)</b></p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal">During my first tenure on the dole (which lasted 6 months) I developed a fixation with eight packs of Carlsberg export. Four deliciously brewed chums sitting there in Spar shop, tightly knit, shoulder to shoulder and ice cold! If I had one in my possession it meant the day was assured, everything would fall into place right up until I fell asleep. If not, the day might be a whirligig of disparity dipshitiness. Greg, the ex singer of Crocus, once came round to my house on one of the latter misery days when I couldn’t afford anything – I was playing Lego Batman in my dressing gown at 2.30pm in the dark when he gently knocked on the window. In a lugubrious movement, I drew the blinds and solemnly greeted him. The first thing he said as he looked about the room was “depression chamber”. You don’t know who’s been swimming naked until the tide goes out, and I definitely had my balls out at that time in my life.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><b style="">Tuborg Bottled Lager (2010 – 2011)</b></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><b style=""> </b></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Probably the reason I have such a bad attitude to work is because I have only ever worked fucking shit jobs. Beer delivery bitch, fishmonger, greengrocer/cardboard box crusher. It seems like I’m on a personal quest to get the most obscurely rubbish job possible. I first started getting into Tuborg whilst working at the fishmongers. It was so horrid there that I developed quite the drinking habit. After a long day of marine death mongering I would drive to the Texaco and buy 8 ice cold Tuborgs for £5. The best part about Tuborg is the ring pull tops which eliminate the tricky problem of opening beers whilst driving. So confident I became with my in-transit beer drinking skills that I even used to smash ‘em down when I started cycling back from work<b style="">.</b></p>The Shit Wizardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06943620282151715406noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4961710990365500645.post-53232078690316309632011-03-15T03:34:00.000-07:002011-03-15T03:50:08.457-07:00Battlefield: Los Angeles [non spoiler alert]The hangover ran it's course. I felt insane. Where better to get some reconcilliation than another pit of despair Plymouth cinema sunday!<br /><br />This time I had spent the day playing football and drinking beers on the steps of my friend's house. He had broken his collar bone at football but didn't want to go to the hospital for some odd reason. We came up with a plan to see True Grit without paying. We were going to check all the fire escapes and failing that - bum rush the entrance. It was sure fire and half cocked.<br /><br />At that moment as we were just about to leave, my friend's step dad came and picked him up and carted him off to hospital at such a spanking pace that I hardly had time to realise I was alone again. Nevermind, I thought. I still wanted to go to the cinema.<br /><br />By the time I got there I had sobered up a little and felt exhausted, I knew how this was going to turn out. True Grit wasn't on so I asked the kid on the desk about sci fi; he recommended Battlefield: Los Angeles. I paid my £8 and entered the screen, I had tried in vain to get in through the back of the cinema but only managed to get into the bowling alley next door, so gave up.<br /><br />I watched 10 minutes of the most generic alien invasion bullshit and then fell asleep for the rest of the film. I awoke with a wet crotch and heard someone behind me say, "Well I guess that was the Alien's Achillies Heel." I can explain the wet crotch as I had dropped my drink in my lap whilst I slept, but for the life of me I don't know what the heck happened in that film.The Shit Wizardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06943620282151715406noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4961710990365500645.post-23239500169604107102011-02-20T10:09:00.000-08:002011-02-20T10:36:44.328-08:00Groundbreaking Feminist Sci Fi Weed Theory<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://www.scifi-movies.com/images/data/0000108/image3.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 322px; height: 255px;" src="http://www.scifi-movies.com/images/data/0000108/image3.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br />Last night was to supposed be "Telepathic Date Night". It's an idea I had for SlimeCapsule. I figured that in times of great desperation it isn't entirely impossible to go in through the back door of a girl's mind to win her over. I bought a ten bag of weed, some atmospheric candles, printed out a 6X10 picture of my "date", and put on some binaural music. After the first joint I remembered Aliens was on TV at 9. I stood my date up. Sorry. Instead I watched Aliens stoned and came to the conclusion that it was the most radical feminist film ever made. I even wrote a review whilst high. Check it out! Spelling mistakes and poor grammar from the original note are included.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">SCI FEM FI</span><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Aliens - ultimate female empowerment</span><br /><br />Men "discover" Ripley in cryo gen. Adam and Eve?<br /><br />With great mistrust she helps men to fight Aliens. She gradually builds respect in male dominated environment. Turning point when face hugger is put in her bedroom. She refuses to "get pregnant". Leads to M/F contention. How will she come out of this?<br /><br />GENDER EMPOWERMENT RIPLEY/ WORLD MOTHER/ HUMAN MOTHER<br /><br />Effemination of Hicks after his injury. He looses his role of male protector to Ripley. He turns to drugs [he injects painkiller after he gets acid blood on his chest]. Doesn't speak for the rest of the film. MOTHER SUPERIOR.<br /><br />RIPLEY VS QUEEN ALIEN - GENDER BETRAYAL. Mistrust of foreigners (aliens) indicitive of human beings?<br /><br />LAYERS AND LAYERS OF DESTRUCTION. Alien>human>robot>alien. Very good theory.<br /><br /><br />So there you are: the worst piece of writing i've done for a while, and I even skipped out on a hot telepathic date for it. Idiot. SlimeCapsule is coming along marvellously by the way. Should be done in the next month!The Shit Wizardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06943620282151715406noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4961710990365500645.post-22374733497709377942011-02-04T13:21:00.000-08:002011-02-04T13:36:51.647-08:00Reality is Trivivial<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:worddocument> <w:view>Normal</w:View> <w:zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:compatibility> <w:breakwrappedtables/> <w:snaptogridincell/> <w:wraptextwithpunct/> <w:useasianbreakrules/> <w:usefelayout/> </w:Compatibility> <w:browserlevel>MicrosoftInternetExplorer4</w:BrowserLevel> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 10]> <style> /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0cm 5.4pt 0cm 5.4pt; mso-para-margin:0cm; mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:10.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman";} </style> <![endif]--> <p class="MsoNormal"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/__wNb5B8UUw4/TUxuwt9EgwI/AAAAAAAAAJo/HzTwMgV36yo/s1600/zaphands2.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 302px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/__wNb5B8UUw4/TUxuwt9EgwI/AAAAAAAAAJo/HzTwMgV36yo/s400/zaphands2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5569948622398980866" border="0" /></a></p><p style="font-style: italic;" class="MsoNormal"><b style="">Trying to get my mind round making another fanzine at the moment. It's not hard: filling fanzines with middle of the road crud is the standard. At the moment I'm trying to let go of my inhibitions and write what I really think about. It's a cleasing process I think. Once I get rid of the weirdness running thru my mind maybe I can lead a normal life. Maybe when I stop fantasising about the mean spirited Chinese lady at work, maybe when I stop going to watch rom coms by myself, maybe when I stop walking for miles into the middle of nowhere by myself because I can't wait for the end of the world. These feelings come and go.</b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">Right now I've got a whole bunch of shit being typed but it's all thoroughly MIDDLE OF THE FLIPPIN' ROAD. A couple of years ago I briefly fell in love with a girl who worked in a butchers. She stunk.</span><br /></p><p style="font-weight: bold;" class="MsoNormal">The Pork Queen</p><p style="font-weight: bold;" class="MsoNormal">Slater Wilcox</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><b style=""> </b>I have worked with some total shitheads in the past, real horrid cunts. The guy in the bakery with no front teeth and a moustache who used to mutter “kinky” every time a major babe walked past in boots. Then there was the guy in the warehouse who preferred to sleep with women on their periods as it “felt better”. The guy in the pub with a penchant for the “suck it and see” t shirts. And the guy in the lorry who yelled “NICE NIPPPLES” at a 50 year old lady on a cold day in St Austell. </p> <p class="MsoNormal">I trollied the 20 cases of wine round the back of the butcher's shop. The door opened to the scent of raw meat and a very attractive Irish girl. It stank, but she was beautiful. I became delirious. I imagined her black hair smelling of pork as I spanked her with a 10oz rib eye steak. If she'd have taken her clothes off, I would have eaten them. However, my nose was dripping and the guy I worked with kept insisting that I was gay; I felt like I had the charisma of a clogged toilet. Nothing happened between me and the Pork Queen.<br /></p>The Shit Wizardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06943620282151715406noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4961710990365500645.post-60703782870296703292011-02-03T11:19:00.000-08:002011-02-03T11:51:32.798-08:00When did your name change from a noun into a charm?Anyone seen "How do you know" the new Paul Rudd film? I did last Sunday night. Hungover and grotesque, feeling like a middle of the road rom com would be the only thing that would pull me through the grimy dullness, I decided to take the plunge and attend a slushy romantic film all on my lonesome. Sure enough the only other people there were new couples and fat, lonesome nerds who also loved Paul Rudd. It made me feel better, like I wasn't kook. The cinema is free from judgement and I find it immensely relaxing; a dark room where you can fullfil your darkest desires by watching a rom com by yourself. In watching this Paul Rudd film I finally understood why they chose to name another of his films "I love you, man." I goddamn love him, man.<br /><br />I sat there soothing my dry, hungover mouth with ice cold fanta. Drinking 8.2% cider the night before had annihilated my brain and I had puked, been sick as a dog; my mind felt like a clogged gutter in Autumn, full of stinkin' brown slime. At first I couldn't get my head around what was actually happening in "How do you know". Nothing had made sense all day so how was I to understand the purest and simplest thing of them all - trashy american love [starring Paul Rudd]. The title of the movie reassured me that there was no simple answer to this fuckin' shit rom com.<br /><br />It was only after 2/3 f my fanta that everything started to fall into place. That bitch [Reese Whitherspoon] loved that bitch [Paul Rudd]. Owen Wilson was there as just humorous filler, like a nervous fart in an exam; funny but distracting. Jack Nicholson shouted at Paul Rudd for a while, then Paul and Reese got on a bus, destination: Forever Love.<br /><br />I left the cinema on that sub zero evening feeling like true love might exsist somewhere in this cruel world and that it wasn't just a construct of a multimillion dollar film industry made to pacify suckers for Paul Rudd. Never the less: I love you, man.The Shit Wizardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06943620282151715406noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4961710990365500645.post-22452657227343907482010-08-21T10:18:00.000-07:002010-08-21T10:31:44.447-07:00Bangers/Dirty Tactics Mordtour 2010 Titbit<span style="font-style: italic;font-size:85%;" >This is a little snippet from the 15,000 word tour diary which I've been typing up since getting back from Europe. I've been writing it on floors, in beds, at desks, hungover, starving, coffee delirious and diarhhea stricken. Yet all this is nothing in comparison to the pain of recalling this bizarre tour. It was delightful in places, but alot of the time it was weird. I'll publish the whole thing in a zine soon, but until then check out these three days for a little taster, a little mouthful of poopie for ya. Sorry it's been a while by the way, I've been far too much of a professional vagrant for a blog. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Sunday 6th June</span><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Hertsel, Dutch Belgium (De Choke Youth Centre)</span><br /><br />Four hour drive to this venue in the middle of fucking no where seemed to take forever. There is a slow moving Sunday vibe in the air. The venue looks like a building out of Fight Club and my drums are set up underneath a drip, we are fed cheese salad sandwiches for dinner and instinct suggests tonight will suck a damp dogdong. About four people turn up and I get pretty loose on 8% beers. After the show I try to be polite to the strangely attractive androgynous promoter girl by kissing her on the cheeky, but they don’t do the kissing thing in the Dutch part of Belgium, so it became awkward and weird. She gets flustered and asks “What is happening here?!” Loosen up lady I’m just digging on your androgynous style.<br /><br />We drive to Antwerp to sleep above a metal club called DE ROT. As soon as well pull up to the venue a cute, spacey girl called Flo comes and speaks to me. Something sexual was in the air and she asked if she could come up to the metal club. Before I could get to know her better, the van had to be moved. I did this then hurried back to De Rot to find Gary had stolen Flo away from me on his never ending quest to buy weed. I walked back to the van, slept in the van, and stayed mad at Gary until jerking off in the van.<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Monday 7th June</span><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Bremen, Germany</span><br /><br />Awoke in a damp van next to a body of water in Antwerp. Some asshole on a tuba was jamming just outside the van and some freaky bitch was cruising around the waterfront on a pennyfarthing ringing a stupid little bell. Fucking Belgians. Antwerp looked exciting last night but no time to see the place or even take a piss – off to Bremen to play on a boat. Feeling haggard and delirious. Roo sits in the back playing pokemon for the duration of the ride, “De Choke would be a pokemon which shoots rotten beer out it’s dick.” Everyone’s feeling a little grizzled from the night before. The van ride extends to six hours. A lot of this time is dedicated to lewd fictious chat about what everyone did with Flo after I went back to the van including a “Jackson Pollock” an “Abraham Lincoln” and an impressive squirt off the balcony into Roo’s mouth, 40ft below. Chris attempted to justify this talk, “I’m only saying all this about her because…it’s all true.”<br /><br />80% of Bremen was destroyed in WW2, prior to this it was one of the most prosperous cities in Germany. Thru solid bombing of the place we managed to transform it into one of the most porous cities. Now it’s an industrial diarrhea mess. Opposite the boat we’re playing is the Beck’s Brewery, just up from that is the Craft Cheese factory, and off in the red sunset is the outline of the Kellogg’s cereal plant. Two people are in the crowd, no one is feeling particularly inspired to play, so we make no effort and passively suck. Stayed at a hostel paid for by the venue and a man who looks like a genie buys me a beer.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Tuesday 8th/ Wednesday 9th June </span><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Hamburg, Germany/Oskarshamn, Sweden</span><br /><br />Left the hostel at 8AM feeling that kind of stupid tired where you just wanna cry at being awake. Arrived in Hamburg which is the first city I’ve encountered in Europe which has that hot dust and seedy smell of kebab shops and vice in the streets. The air poisons my mind and I split away from the pack to buy a handjob off a 60 year old hooker at three in the afternoon. I liked the way she held herself, she looked homely and sexual to a degree I’ll never comprehend. The likelihood of a woman like this giving me a bucks fizzy in the “real world” was nigh on impossible. Alas, her sultry, erotic countess looks placed her far out of my bracket, so I left her in her window to finish reading her copy of Good Homes magazine. As I walked out of the red light district I bumped into the drummer of Pantera who was taking pictures of the outside of the hooker alley. It added to that surreal feeling of having gone up to a woman and asking “How much for a handjob?” Whilst making a wanking gesture. I felt like a real tool for about 2 hours after this.<br /><br />Morale is low today and the thought of driving 12 hours to Sweden straight after the show makes it hard to enjoy tonight. No one comes to the show again, so that’s three in a row. I don’t wanna go home, but I would like to feel that what I’m doing is worth something to someone. Feeling bleak and despairing. 10pm, two people there – the show gets cancelled so we bail to Sweden. The venue is sympathetic and pays us 100 euros and gives everyone all the sauce they can drink. I sit in the van and wait to leave. It starts to pour down with rain. Carlin comes up to the van with vomit on his face; I refuse to let him in till he’s wiped it off. He doesn’t seem to care. We have a stockpile of whiskey, beers, and energy drinks to get us to Sweden. Everyone is loose and splashy. At the first services everyone needs to pee, but go thru the wrong door. An angry Indian man shouts at Chris, and then leads him down a back alley. I watched, intrigued as to what was happening. The man unlocks the door and enters; Chris holds back, shuts the doors and pisses all over it. What?<br /><br />Overnight delirium drive up out of Germany, thru Denmark across 25 mile long bridges spanning vast grey stretches of water and across barren Sweden in the pale and milky early morning light. We get pulled over at the Malmo border. We look disheveled and insane. The van smells like pee, Gary’s asleep on the shelf, and there is booze all over the place. We try and hold it together.<br /><br />“How many of you are there in the van?”<br /><br />“Seven.”<br /><br />“Seven? So why is there 120 empty beer bottles on the floor?!”<br /><br />Drove another four hard hours along one straight road which is flanked on both sides by chilly looking lakes, desolate pine forests, and moose crossing signs. Bored and out of my mind tired, I stayed up the whole drive to keep Andrew, then Roo company whilst they drove. Arrived at Kalle’s house, drank a beer, and passed out. For some reason almost everyone in our troupe experiences sexy/aggressive dreams during the four hour nap before the show. Oskarshamn is in the middle of fucking nowhere, like most places in Sweden it takes hours to get between towns. Maybe this Scandinavian isolation would go someway to explaining the local girls nose for new blood. We go back to this guy’s house after the show and roll some of the most highly prized figures of Western sexual commerce - SWEDISH GIRLS. I met a cute blonde girl (of course) who smelt like wood and chewing tobacco. We chatted casually whilst she gradually backed me into a corner. Sensing I was an awkward nerd, she moved onto someone else. I met another one who was like a beautiful wild animal – spitting, burping, and crushing cans into her delicate forehead. We moved onto a bar and whilst I whittled the hours away talking to two boring dorks from a nuclear power plant, one of our party received footsy banana massage from Chewing Tobacco underneath the table. Back at the house I stood on the balcony looking out towards Finland feeling strange that we were in the artic circle, and we’ve still yet to go to Eastern Europe and the Balkans.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/__wNb5B8UUw4/THAK02Oe6MI/AAAAAAAAAJA/H-bZ1elexbc/s1600/Toilet.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/__wNb5B8UUw4/THAK02Oe6MI/AAAAAAAAAJA/H-bZ1elexbc/s400/Toilet.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5507914247299852482" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;font-size:85%;" ><br /></span><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;font-size:100%;" >In the next part of the tour diary we encounter a Polish toilet so</span><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;font-size:100%;" >damned vile that the stench of it broke my camera!</span><br /></div>The Shit Wizardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06943620282151715406noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4961710990365500645.post-86850373116708022482010-02-13T13:11:00.001-08:002010-02-13T13:34:23.236-08:00Just pour it out nice and easy, like you were talking to a friend.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/__wNb5B8UUw4/S3cVpdSrrlI/AAAAAAAAAIY/UhU1d2W6wxY/s1600-h/SP_A0507.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 353px; height: 400px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/__wNb5B8UUw4/S3cVpdSrrlI/AAAAAAAAAIY/UhU1d2W6wxY/s400/SP_A0507.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5437838877054971474" border="0" /></a>This'll be my second saturday in a row when I haven't been out and been liberally social. Rather than watch reruns of come dine with me with my dad I decided to make some books. So I checked out DIY binding, bought the shit to do it, printed off issues 7, 8, and 9, bought 10 beers, got home, put on Piebald and got to it. There's only been 5 made cuz they take ages to make and I was unsure of how they'd turn out, but I like 'em and I'll try to make more. Plus, making books at home makes me feel better about being drunk with my parents at home on a saturday night.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/__wNb5B8UUw4/S3cVjncLXRI/AAAAAAAAAIQ/Atzu59fK1-U/s1600-h/SP_A0509.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 338px; height: 400px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/__wNb5B8UUw4/S3cVjncLXRI/AAAAAAAAAIQ/Atzu59fK1-U/s400/SP_A0509.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5437838776699936018" border="0" /></a>The Shit Wizardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06943620282151715406noreply@blogger.com0