Trial by Combat

Hello.

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.

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.

Been sleeping in my sleeping bag a lot.

Plenty of touring too with many people i love making excellent music.

But now I am going to WRITE!!!!

Check it out mothers.

Here's the first piece, a reworking of the ancient greek story of Icarus, his Dad - Daladeaus is a weird lorry driver.

He Melted

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.

“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?”

“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.

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.’”

“What do you think I did?” He says and looks over at me. His head is nearly perfectly spherical, like a marble.

“I don’t know,” I say. I think about my wife at home.

“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 great.”

“This is why you became a lorry driver, right?” I ask.

“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.  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.’

“You know how hot they get?” He says.

I shake my head “No” and check the time again.

“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.

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.”

I turn my head, “What happened after that?”

“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.”

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.

Lucida Console #10!

Hi.

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.

The zine is made up of three main diaries:

1. Diary from the school I worked in as a learning support assistant 2011-2014
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.
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. :)

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.

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.

Women in Love

DH Lawrence

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.   

Here:

LUCIDA CONSOLE ISSUE 10

Donate if you want. I can't figure out a donations button so click the link:
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Ghost

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.

Supernatural Big Hitters

By Slater Wilcox

Fuck that shitty TV show “SUPERNATURAL”, to me supernatural means DEMONS flying into your bedroom at midnight 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 completely fucked. So leave your skepticism and scientific rationale at the door, here’s my all time favourite supernatural bullshittery: X files up your ASS.

Black Mass

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 After Eights? 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.

Dance of Death

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.

Crowley, Aleister

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: “She called his bluff and demanded the ‘Eucharist’ – that Crowley should eat her excrement which lay on the consecrated plate on the altar. Crowley 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.” Later in the chapter you learn that Crowley and his High Priestess have a child on the Island and call it “Poupee”.

Demonology

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.

Deja Vu

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.

Vampires

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.

Nymph

From Wikipedia: A nymph in Greek mythology and in Latin mythology 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 nubile maidens who love to dance and sing and threaten men with nunchucks. They are believed to dwell in mountains and groves, by springs and rivers, and also in trees and in valleys and cool grottoes where 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!

Necrophilia

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?

Urology

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.

Desperate Living

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.

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.

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

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?

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."

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.

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.

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.

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.

I've walked down here hundreds of times but I've never been happy.

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.

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.

The train ride back to Exeter. My favourite view in Plymouth - the Plym Estuary at twilight. Lovely.

Bill and Ted were having an excellent adventure

Keanu Reeves 

Actor, Producer, Nymphomaniac
1961 - 2008

The Bi-o:
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 bona fide 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." 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.

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.

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 My Own Private Idaho 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."

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 Point Break there came a cinematic shitstorm like Johnny Mnemonic. 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 The Matrix.

The Romance and further bio.
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 Bill and Ted's Excellent Adventure. Alex Winters (Bill) and Reeves were literally seeing double 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 fucking kidnap them! Not before singing them Poison's Every Rose Has It's Thorn 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 Point Break and Carrie-Anne Moss from The Matrix 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.

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 Klaatu. In turn, another Keanu Reeves documentary was born - The Day the Earth Stood Still. 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.

The Films
Bill and Teds's Excellent Fucking Adventure (1989)
Bill and Teds's Bogus Fucking Journey (1991)
Much Ado About Fucking Nothing (1993)
My Own Private Fucking Idaho (1993)
Johnny Mnenofuckingmonic (1997)
The Fucking Matrix (1999)
The Day The Fucking Earth Stood Still (2008)

The Trademarks

Sexy face
Nice voice
Cool Hair
Big, Hairy Balls

HELL

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.

Dumping Ground

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

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

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

The Derelict

A post-apocalyptic dole drama in one act

By Slater Wilcox

Scene one

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The man lets him go and looks horrified.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Locals Only! Croyde Bay Surf Report

"I wanna get high and strong"

Part One: The road to the Boneyard

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Part 2: Cowabunga Dude.

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

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

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

Part 3: Romance? 

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

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

The path less shat on

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

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

I woke up at 11 and started the sluggish motions towards a better lifestyle, no more minesweeping drinks for me! My bedroom window is right opposite the drug dealer's front door and gate. Today I watched a hoarde of people stop at his house, go in for 30 seconds and then leave. Meanwhile I wrote futile emails to further education colleges and tried to renew my decrepid CV featuring ludicrous jobs such as "fish monger" and "beer delivery driver". Whilst writing this I've watched him take four fucking big black bin bags out to someone's car. I can barely afford to pay my rent each month and pay a wham of tax on a crappy job. Tell me, who's the sucker?

My bail notice from 2008, when I was arrested for a rather laughable knife crime

(Answer: The drug dealer is the sucker cuz I'm on a six week holiday from work and he's got crackheads knocking on his window 24/7. None the less, he freaks me out.)

Energy drink is street legal crystal meth for crybaby teenage wimp assholes

shit drink

good drink

shit drink

good drink

shit drink

good drink

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).

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.

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.

"They taste nice."
They taste like sweets. Grow up.

"They help me concentrate."
No they don't.

"They give me energy."
Food and sleep gives you energy, dipshit.

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.

Angsty Geyser

Dog 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.

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!

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.

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.

If you fancy reading any other grim stories from the school I work in or the much more positive tour diary order one HERE. 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!

Woof!

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.

Friday 13^th April

AJZ, Bieldefeld, Germany

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.

The show tonight is in Germany’s oldest squat with one of Germany’s biggest bands – Turbostaat. It’s the squat’s 39^th 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 5:30am 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.

Saturday 14^th April

JK Zomar, Dilbeek, Belgium

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 Belgium 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 Belgium, the drive was very frightening and quite the mental endurance test.     

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?”

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?”

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 hangover³.