On Wednesday afternoon I go to the tanning place and stand inside a tanning bed for nine minutes, during which I listen to Debaser by the Pixies, followed by You're Not Good Enough by Blood Orange, followed by Would I Lie To You by Charles & Eddie, followed by Debaser by the Pixies again, then I walk out and shout, "thank you" to the girl at reception (19, tan, bored, too disinterested to ever make eye contact) who's standing there talking to a friend on the phone and that last thing I hear when the front door is closing behind me, is: "Is he still seeing Krystal?"
Wednesday, 24 June 2015
I haven't updated the blog for a while and it's not that you're checking, but at the off-chance that you are, here's the reason. The reason is two reasons. Firstly, I'm trying to finish my next book. The gay book. This has a title and a publishing date and it's all getting there slowly but steadily, but I'll say more nearer the time. The other reason is that I've now started writing a column for Details magazine. The first one of these just went online and there's a link below. So between the book and the column, etc, I've kinda abandoned the blog a little bit. I'm sorry. But there's things coming, so.
Wednesday, 17 December 2014
Here is a list of my top 30 favourite songs of the year:
Here is a list of my top 30 favourite songs of the year:
(oh and here's a Spotify playlist for them, but they are in ranked order, so it plays quite schizophrenic)
This is a song about pretending to be into somebody, because you want, say, to really take advantage of them, and you emotionally abuse them because that is the only way you know how to behave through the immense self-loathing that your own refusal to accept your sexuality has caused you, leaving you terminally and irreversibly damaged and unable ever to connect with another human being or let anyone in.
This is a song about breaking up with your partner while still staying at their place, then seeing them out and refusing to acknowledge them even by saying hello, but then suddenly becoming very, very friendly towards the end of the night, because you’re realising that the only way to get back home for free is by faking an interest in them all of a sudden, despite having spent the evening making out with random people in different areas of the bar/club, since you’ve still got your partner wrapped around your finger and they will pay the fare for the taxi home you have manipulated them into sharing with you, then getting home and stopping to talk to them again, because you’ve broken up, all right, which part of this don’t they get?
This is a song about pretending to be a masc musc bro by wearing Nike and backward hats exclusively, so much so that they seem glued to your stupid forehead, but in fact treating life and everyone around you with such cowardice, callousness and lack of respect that your objectively formidable physical presence becomes a parody of masculinity, not to mention the most ironic physical vs. spiritual juxtaposition the planet has seen since the diminutive Napoleon Bonaparte decided to take over the world (but in reverse)
This is a song about lemonade luh luh lemonade
This is a song about getting some sort of weird pleasure from always pursuing relationships that can only end in disappointment, which can range from just minor heartache to life-crushing devastation that leaves you on your knees unable to face the world around you, because you exclusively focus on dumb, hollow criteria in choosing your partners, like the colour of their eyes, circumference of ass, height in centimetres because inches don’t provide the level of detail you require and you are very specific about height, and you are using those criteria presumably to cover for your own unsurpassable insecurities and lack of self-esteem, which must stem from never receiving the love you needed as a child, even though looking back it seemed like a decent enough upbringing, but what do you possibly know about the beatings your poor subconscious was taking in that affluent suburb of Athens in 1989?
6. Go – Grimes
18. Alliyah – Katy B
22. Doubt - Kele
23. Hard – Sophie
27. Thievery – Arca
As you may notice this is just a remix of the number 1 song above (which is, in fact, the best song of the year) and this remix takes one key line of the original song (I'm not going to tell you what it is, you have to listen to it) and repeats it on a loop TWENTY TIMES at some point until you nearly get a headache, which now makes this a song about moving on and being happy and leading your fortunate, blessed little life where you don't have any real problems and everything goes your way and you'd really have to be a little bitch to keep complaining, so in fact you don't, and you admit that you're actually happy and content and looking forward to everything that 2015 has to offer.
Here is a list of my top 15 favourite albums of the year:
1. Caribou – Our Love
2. Chet Faker – Built On Glass
3. Lykke Li – I Never Learn
4. Lana Del Rey – Ultraviolence
5. Royksopp – The Inevitable End
6. Morrissey – World Peace Is None Of Your Business
7. Sophie Ellis-Bextor – Wanderlust
8. Jessie Ware – Tough Love
9. How To Dress Well – What Is This Heart?
10. GusGus – Mexico
11. Sam Hunt – Montevallo
12. Kele – Trick
13. First Aid Kit – Stay Gold
14. SBTRKT – Wonder Where We Land
15. Ryan Hemsworth – Walk Me Home
And there we have it, the (musical) review of the year.
And there we have it, the (musical) review of the year.
Wednesday, 29 October 2014
You know when you’re born in a certain country and for some reason you have a massive issue with it and your only saving grace is that you don’t look typically like the rest of the population and you spend your early years, from ages six onwards, really, fantasising that you’re from somewhere else and were kidnapped as a young child and were brought there, then try to culturally appropriate other nations, starting with France, then the UK, then America, until you find yourself at 34 living 7,000 miles away from where you were brought up, with a different passport, a different name, a fake accent and not having spoken to person who grew up with the same mother tongue as you since 1997?
I have now received the results of the DNA test I recently did to discover my genetic / national ancestry. If we remember, I just wanted to have some Northern European DNA in me. I wanted to have some proof that I’d been adopted, and I wanted some explanation as to why I have blue eyes and pale skin and I’m not hirsute in a Middle Eastern way. I’m afraid I aimed too high. I’m afraid that I am, genetically speaking, the most Greek person that has ever lived on the planet. I’m afraid that my results are these:
I am only 0.5% “Broadly Northern European”. I am ready to die.
I am 74.3% Balkan (the peninsula where Greece is located) which is a pretty massive percentage, really fucking homogeneous, and a real shock result in a day and age where everyone is a mix of something. Not I. My ancestors appear to have only fucked people within a 10-mile radius and that’s about it. A further 12.9% of me is “Broadly Southern European” (which really means that they couldn’t identify which part of Greece that 12.9% comes from, let’s be honest) and there is also a 10.9% Italian, which I’m choosing to ignore because it’s only causing me to vomit uncontrollably.
Now, of course if I have to try to find a way to spin this, and I’m gonna, I can latch on to the modern Greek delusion that Ancient Greeks were fair, blond, and blue-eyed, and that the reason why Greeks look like they do now is a result of ethnic mixing with other (inferior) populations, and in particular Turks, who occupied Greece for 400 years, after all, and we’re pretty sure were fucking everyone left, right, and centre during that time. (I wouldn’t, because I’d rather die celibate than have sex with a Greek person, but those guys were weird).
Now, following on from this completely flawed logic (why would a population located in such a warm, Mediterranean climate be “fair”, for what is skin colour genetically, really, other than a reaction to the elements where the population is based?) and in coordination with my DNA results above (where I have 0% ancestry in the Middle East [Turkey], or any other ethnic population whatsoever, for that matter) there is just one conclusion I can reach. I am a purebred great descendent of Alexander The Great. The imaginary, blond one.
Is this better than being Northern European as I was desperately hoping? Definitely not. Is it better than being a genetic outcome of half a millennium of Turkish occupation? Probably yes. Will I use the sperm of whatever 6’1”+, blond, blue eyed partner I eventually get married to instead of mine to impregnate our surrogate, in order to forever banish my Greek DNA and avoid playing lottery with the eye colour of our children? Yes, yes, I will.
Thursday, 16 October 2014
The Independent did publish a review of my book in the end. Do you think they will mind if I copy the review here? Who can tell.
Will this make you buy the book? Probably not. It did make my Mum really happy and really proud though. Thanks, Independent.
And it made me happy, because it called me both highly intelligent and psychologically damaged in the same sentence. Who doesn't want that?
It also prompted my main boy TN to advise me that unfortunately if I want to sell any books, I probably have to write a novel filled with gay sex. Maybe he’s right. Maybe I will.
In the meantime here’s the review online and here it is copied and pasted below if clicking on that link is too much hard work.
Highlights of My Last Regret by North Morgan, book review: A Romeo and Juliet for the 21st century
The author has revealed that Parke is Maine’s son, though this works emotionally rather than temporally. It is business as usual in Morganland: high intelligence, deep self-loathing, and psychic damage combine in a dark morality tale.
Like Maine, Parke holds down a job though he doesn’t need the money. A freelance games designer, he mainly sends clever emails to similarly embittered members of staff, and conducts low-level warfare against the new boss. “Oh how we loathe this guy. Theo Rothchild. No, not Rothschild, like the banking family … Never has a glorified middle manager originally from fucking Minnesota carried oneself [sic] around with such ceremony before.”
A series of wonderfully funny and appalling characters wander through this short novel. There’s Parke’s best friend Markus, who “looks like a crazed Nazi homosexual”. “Moneyed apathetic sociopaths … Markus has been my case study for that demographic throughout my life.” Perennially drug-addled, Markus’s attempts to look after Frost, his new pedigree kitten, are as alarming as they are funny.
Dumping Ryan, Parke decamps to Coachella (deliciously described). Ryan’s pathetic attempts to monitor him via social media and texting make painful reading; I can’t recall a more devastating account of female neediness. For Ryan no capitulation is abject enough in return for male attention. But does she deserve rapey Parke? The story lurches to a halt with a shock ending which underlines the idea that Parke and Ryan are a Romeo and Juliet for the 21st century, where narcissism, solipsism and self-delusion have eroded the romantic ideal of love.
Despite being cold, snobbish and softly cruel, somehow, through his witty narration, Parke remains likeable. His vicious dismissals of Ryan’s family are hilarious, but the true satiric bite occurs when her brother turns on him. For once we get a glimpse of Parke from the outside, and it’s not pretty. This feels slightly less worked-out than his fine debut, Exit Through the Wound, but Morgan’s prose is as glitteringly alluring as before.
You can buy the book here
Kindle in the US (out now)
Kindle in the UK (out now)
Physical copy in the US (out 15th November)
Physical copy in the UK (out now)