Thursday, 17 December 2009
Thursday 17/12/09
If you've just bought a book and read it (whether finished it all or left it halfway), but you thought very little of it and the author, in fact a) you wish you hadn't wasted your time in the first place and b) you keep wondering how such a talentless bore as him got published at all...do you put it on your bookshelves to keep or do you throw it in the bin? Note: you have VERY extensive empty bookshelves
Sunday, 13 December 2009
Sunday 13/12/09
There is a lot of competition for sure, but I decided long ago that that three saddest words in the English language are, “don’t let go”.
It first dawned on me when I read them in that scene in Bright Lights Big City where the main character’s Mother uses them, and since then I’ve been unable to find a situation where these words can be said, that’s not associated with despair, fear, anguish, neediness. Maybe I’m not thinking hard enough; maybe I’m thinking too much. I just can’t see what good can come if anyone, anywhere, at any point actually lets go.
This is a song that uses “don’t let go” as the driving force of its chorus. Frankly, it’s immense. The words, the music, the guy’s voice, everything.
I can’t remember the last time I liked a song from a new band so much. Right at this point, and I know I’ll regret this, I’m drawing insane parallels between this and Depeche Mode and, sorry, The Smiths. I listened to it on my iPod walking around the city last night and it was freezing cold and it was around midnight and there was a river there, and it took all the strength that I had not jump right in, because life just couldn’t get any better. Or worse. I’m not sure which.
In any case, HURTS (or is it hurts?) is my favourite new band at the moment, based on this one song. They haven’t actually released anything yet, they will do in the new year, but until then I have this to rest all my hopes on.
Am I building myself up for disappointment? Will this only end in tears? Am I opening myself up only to be left broken, shattered, alone? Probably. I don't care. Let me be destroyed.
Oh. And I fancy the guy that plays the keyboard.
It first dawned on me when I read them in that scene in Bright Lights Big City where the main character’s Mother uses them, and since then I’ve been unable to find a situation where these words can be said, that’s not associated with despair, fear, anguish, neediness. Maybe I’m not thinking hard enough; maybe I’m thinking too much. I just can’t see what good can come if anyone, anywhere, at any point actually lets go.
This is a song that uses “don’t let go” as the driving force of its chorus. Frankly, it’s immense. The words, the music, the guy’s voice, everything.
I can’t remember the last time I liked a song from a new band so much. Right at this point, and I know I’ll regret this, I’m drawing insane parallels between this and Depeche Mode and, sorry, The Smiths. I listened to it on my iPod walking around the city last night and it was freezing cold and it was around midnight and there was a river there, and it took all the strength that I had not jump right in, because life just couldn’t get any better. Or worse. I’m not sure which.
In any case, HURTS (or is it hurts?) is my favourite new band at the moment, based on this one song. They haven’t actually released anything yet, they will do in the new year, but until then I have this to rest all my hopes on.
Am I building myself up for disappointment? Will this only end in tears? Am I opening myself up only to be left broken, shattered, alone? Probably. I don't care. Let me be destroyed.
Oh. And I fancy the guy that plays the keyboard.
Wednesday, 9 December 2009
Wednesday 09/12/09
This is for you, it's for you only.
And this is not about some silly blog spat, this isn't London Preppy linked.
I want you to know this, I think it's fair that you do. When you're looking back at all the things that you've said and done, when you're going through any type of life assessment, whether this happens now, or next week, or in fifty years' time, I want you know that there's someone out there who thought very little of you. There's someone out there that you disgusted with the person you were and the things you believed and thought and acted upon. And I want you to know that there's someone out there that had faith in people before you came along though he never showed it because he wanted to appear hardened and cynical, but you stripped his double bluff away and left him wounded and mistrustful. And above all, when you're looking back, I want you to know that at some point in your life, for what it's worth, you were truly hated.
Back to London Preppy business now though.
And here's a question. My brother wants to buy me an aftershave. I don't know what to tell him. I kinda want it to be Ralph Lauren because it goes with my bathroom walls, but I already have Polo Blue and Polo Sport in abundance and, to be honest, I don't like the way they smell. Any suggestions on that front?
Oh and thanks to all the people that left a comment with their location in the last post. I'm reading all the cities and thinking: Fuck, look at all the places where I could be right now. (Well, some of them more than others). I'll let you stay at mine for a week if I can stay at yours. Holiday swap. How about that?
And this is not about some silly blog spat, this isn't London Preppy linked.
I want you to know this, I think it's fair that you do. When you're looking back at all the things that you've said and done, when you're going through any type of life assessment, whether this happens now, or next week, or in fifty years' time, I want you know that there's someone out there who thought very little of you. There's someone out there that you disgusted with the person you were and the things you believed and thought and acted upon. And I want you to know that there's someone out there that had faith in people before you came along though he never showed it because he wanted to appear hardened and cynical, but you stripped his double bluff away and left him wounded and mistrustful. And above all, when you're looking back, I want you to know that at some point in your life, for what it's worth, you were truly hated.
Back to London Preppy business now though.
And here's a question. My brother wants to buy me an aftershave. I don't know what to tell him. I kinda want it to be Ralph Lauren because it goes with my bathroom walls, but I already have Polo Blue and Polo Sport in abundance and, to be honest, I don't like the way they smell. Any suggestions on that front?
Oh and thanks to all the people that left a comment with their location in the last post. I'm reading all the cities and thinking: Fuck, look at all the places where I could be right now. (Well, some of them more than others). I'll let you stay at mine for a week if I can stay at yours. Holiday swap. How about that?
Friday, 4 December 2009
Friday 04/12/09
I know I've done this before, but it was years ago. Could you do me a favour and leave a comment with the city / country where you're reading this from? Just that, nothing else. I'd find it very interesting, thank you.
The comments are open for everyone at the moment, you don't have to sign in or anything.
The comments are open for everyone at the moment, you don't have to sign in or anything.
Tuesday, 1 December 2009
Tuesday 01/12/09
I’m eating a Double Decadence Domino’s pizza with mushrooms and pepperoni and watching endless episodes of Miami Ink, because this is what I must do, and this kid walks in and this is a kid that looks like this…
…and wants to get SURVIVOR tattooed across his stomach, because he had testicular cancer when he was 16 and this spread up to his lungs and to cut a long story short this kid is a fucking hero and I love him so.
And I can’t imagine when I last had an original thought by myself, so following on this pattern, I decide on the spot that I want to get a similar tattoo, a tattoo that says that I’m straight, I don’t think on multiple levels, I’ve got a story to tell and I’ll shove it in your face.
And my shortlist of words is: SURVIVOR or STRONG or STRONGER
So I run this idea past Nathan, because you have to have at least a second opinion which you’re going to ignore when you come up with something ridiculous, and Nathan tells me the following:
“I’m sorry but ‘Survivor’ is a Destiny’s Child song.
And ‘Stronger’ is a Britney song.
Unless you want people singing these songs to you, I would refrain”
And then I say to Nathan that I did think of the Britney and Beyonce associations for my words, but then I decided to kid myself that I live in a world where people either don’t remember these things, or were never aware of them. For example, the guy above, does Nathan think that he has any friends who know that Britney Spears released a song called Stronger? And no, Nathan doesn’t.
Then of course, it hits me that I live in a world that revolves around Sydney Mardi Gras, Madrid Pride and Kelly Rowland vs David Guetta, but I decide to have my motivational word tattoo nonetheless, and on top of it I’m going to stick another wild animal there and make my legs look like a zoo decorated by a self-help therapy group.
When I next look at the time it’s 0630 and I’ve stayed up all night in this trance, eating and watching and talking to people in different time zones, but that’s OK, because the people in the shop where I work are pretty chilled and they don’t mind what time I turn up, so I go to bed and lie there for a bit
thinking that I want Ami from Miami Ink to tattoo me, Ami being the badass “dangerous” tattoo artist who has some serious issues and does kick-boxing and fires other artists when they become more prominent than him, and so yes I want him to tattoo me giving me the usual aggro and then when I make a move on him, not because I fancy him necessarily but because I just want a reaction, and he realises that I’m a faggot, he jumps me and the guy in the picture above is also in the shop and tries to stop him, but uh oh, I’m already bleeding.
…and wants to get SURVIVOR tattooed across his stomach, because he had testicular cancer when he was 16 and this spread up to his lungs and to cut a long story short this kid is a fucking hero and I love him so.
And I can’t imagine when I last had an original thought by myself, so following on this pattern, I decide on the spot that I want to get a similar tattoo, a tattoo that says that I’m straight, I don’t think on multiple levels, I’ve got a story to tell and I’ll shove it in your face.
And my shortlist of words is: SURVIVOR or STRONG or STRONGER
So I run this idea past Nathan, because you have to have at least a second opinion which you’re going to ignore when you come up with something ridiculous, and Nathan tells me the following:
“I’m sorry but ‘Survivor’ is a Destiny’s Child song.
And ‘Stronger’ is a Britney song.
Unless you want people singing these songs to you, I would refrain”
And then I say to Nathan that I did think of the Britney and Beyonce associations for my words, but then I decided to kid myself that I live in a world where people either don’t remember these things, or were never aware of them. For example, the guy above, does Nathan think that he has any friends who know that Britney Spears released a song called Stronger? And no, Nathan doesn’t.
Then of course, it hits me that I live in a world that revolves around Sydney Mardi Gras, Madrid Pride and Kelly Rowland vs David Guetta, but I decide to have my motivational word tattoo nonetheless, and on top of it I’m going to stick another wild animal there and make my legs look like a zoo decorated by a self-help therapy group.
When I next look at the time it’s 0630 and I’ve stayed up all night in this trance, eating and watching and talking to people in different time zones, but that’s OK, because the people in the shop where I work are pretty chilled and they don’t mind what time I turn up, so I go to bed and lie there for a bit
thinking that I want Ami from Miami Ink to tattoo me, Ami being the badass “dangerous” tattoo artist who has some serious issues and does kick-boxing and fires other artists when they become more prominent than him, and so yes I want him to tattoo me giving me the usual aggro and then when I make a move on him, not because I fancy him necessarily but because I just want a reaction, and he realises that I’m a faggot, he jumps me and the guy in the picture above is also in the shop and tries to stop him, but uh oh, I’m already bleeding.
Thursday, 26 November 2009
Friday 26/11/09
I was reading Marcel Proust's The Captive and The Fugitive but this was one big fuck-off volume of 900 pages and I got tired of carrying it around all day long either in my carrier bag which it made too heavy, or in my backpack where it took up all the space and I couldn't even take food with me (and in the question Proust or food? the answer should always be Proust, but I'm susceptible to making the wrong choices as we know), so after 150 pages I gave up, decided to continue reading this during the Christmas holiday when I won't have to travel around during the day and I'm now reading How It Ended by Jay McInerney, who's in my top 3 writers, well modern day writers anyway and I'm kinda hoping that it doesn't disappoint, but oh who am I kidding of course it will.
You?
Also: http://abristolnovella.blogspot.com/
You?
Also: http://abristolnovella.blogspot.com/
Wednesday, 25 November 2009
Wednesday 25/11/09
It’s a Monday evening two weeks ago and I’ve just left the shop where I now work because I’m dumb and that’s when I get a message from Mean who says that the drugs have arrived and these drugs are the 5 grams of mephedrone he ordered a few days back. From then on, this is a conversation that goes like this.
Mean: I might have a little go now. Hey, there’s fuck all else better to do
Me: Beats Eastenders
Mean: I’ll report back
Me: Whilst still UI please
Mean: Never any other way
Mean: Nothing yet +20 minutes
Me: Up dosage
Mean: Wait…
Mean: Here it comes
Mean: FUCK ME
On Wednesday morning I’m on my way to the shop where I now work because I’m not very smart and that’s when I pick up a newspaper and see a story plastered all over the front page about a teenage death from this killer new drug, mephedrone, so I place an order for 3 grams immediately and go to work.
On Thursday morning, my day off from the shop where I now work because I’m just not that competent, I’m killing time on facebook and see that this guy who I unfortunately happen to know has uploaded a picture of Pamela Anderson and he’s written a silly joke, and this other guy who I fortunately happen to not know has left a comment that says “She has big boopies LOL”. So I forward this to Nathan without any comment, and Nathan replies with “None of this makes sense”.
And then I reply:
“Let me help and explain this for you. I will use a series of conclusive statements that lead up to the whole truth.
• EW is a 42-year-old man, who doesn’t have anything more substantial to post in his social networking site than mindless celebrity “jokes”, mostly concerning easy-target female divas but not exclusively
• This is due to a combination of some, perhaps all, of the following aspects of him as a person: low intelligence (above and beyond some wit of the catty bitchiness variety anyway) + a lifetime dedicated to drug-fuelled hedonism, casual sex with people who are generations younger than him and not finding the time to develop any other interests + surrounding himself exclusively with people who are as destroyed as he is
• His friends on facebook are not only unable to use the English language correctly (fair enough – it’s not their first language after all), but worst of all, they think it’s acceptable, intelligent and witty to mention the bloody obvious, rub our face in the banal, predictable and cringe-worthy, and exist in a world where nothing has any subtlety or multiple levels and every humorous reference comes back to boobs, willies and sex
I hope it’s clearer now”
On Friday morning my methedrone order arrives and having not learnt my lesson from what I wrote to Nathan, I choose to ignore the fact that I’m heading straight down that territory myself, so I skip work, stay in, watch eight episodes of Miami Ink and LA Ink back to back and slowly destroy my septum.
I’ve always been impressionable and have never been able to think for myself, but my resistances are particularly low this Friday afternoon and watching eight hours of lower class Americans with sob stories getting tattoos of dead relatives on their backs enthuses me no end and I can’t help but think that it’s too late: my mind is set, there’s no going back, I’ve already called and made an appointment for a regrettable eighth tattoo on Saturday at 1700 and I couldn’t stop myself if I wanted.
On Saturday midday when I finally wake up I’ve already changed my mind, so I take 15mg of Valium that I’ve left in my bedside drawer, finish off the small bag of ketamine that I keep in my sunglasses case, forget my inhibitions and head to the tattoo place.
It’s eleven days since I had this elk outline drawn on the outside of my left thigh, and twelve since I first regretted it.
Mean: I might have a little go now. Hey, there’s fuck all else better to do
Me: Beats Eastenders
Mean: I’ll report back
Me: Whilst still UI please
Mean: Never any other way
Mean: Nothing yet +20 minutes
Me: Up dosage
Mean: Wait…
Mean: Here it comes
Mean: FUCK ME
On Wednesday morning I’m on my way to the shop where I now work because I’m not very smart and that’s when I pick up a newspaper and see a story plastered all over the front page about a teenage death from this killer new drug, mephedrone, so I place an order for 3 grams immediately and go to work.
On Thursday morning, my day off from the shop where I now work because I’m just not that competent, I’m killing time on facebook and see that this guy who I unfortunately happen to know has uploaded a picture of Pamela Anderson and he’s written a silly joke, and this other guy who I fortunately happen to not know has left a comment that says “She has big boopies LOL”. So I forward this to Nathan without any comment, and Nathan replies with “None of this makes sense”.
And then I reply:
“Let me help and explain this for you. I will use a series of conclusive statements that lead up to the whole truth.
• EW is a 42-year-old man, who doesn’t have anything more substantial to post in his social networking site than mindless celebrity “jokes”, mostly concerning easy-target female divas but not exclusively
• This is due to a combination of some, perhaps all, of the following aspects of him as a person: low intelligence (above and beyond some wit of the catty bitchiness variety anyway) + a lifetime dedicated to drug-fuelled hedonism, casual sex with people who are generations younger than him and not finding the time to develop any other interests + surrounding himself exclusively with people who are as destroyed as he is
• His friends on facebook are not only unable to use the English language correctly (fair enough – it’s not their first language after all), but worst of all, they think it’s acceptable, intelligent and witty to mention the bloody obvious, rub our face in the banal, predictable and cringe-worthy, and exist in a world where nothing has any subtlety or multiple levels and every humorous reference comes back to boobs, willies and sex
I hope it’s clearer now”
On Friday morning my methedrone order arrives and having not learnt my lesson from what I wrote to Nathan, I choose to ignore the fact that I’m heading straight down that territory myself, so I skip work, stay in, watch eight episodes of Miami Ink and LA Ink back to back and slowly destroy my septum.
I’ve always been impressionable and have never been able to think for myself, but my resistances are particularly low this Friday afternoon and watching eight hours of lower class Americans with sob stories getting tattoos of dead relatives on their backs enthuses me no end and I can’t help but think that it’s too late: my mind is set, there’s no going back, I’ve already called and made an appointment for a regrettable eighth tattoo on Saturday at 1700 and I couldn’t stop myself if I wanted.
On Saturday midday when I finally wake up I’ve already changed my mind, so I take 15mg of Valium that I’ve left in my bedside drawer, finish off the small bag of ketamine that I keep in my sunglasses case, forget my inhibitions and head to the tattoo place.
It’s eleven days since I had this elk outline drawn on the outside of my left thigh, and twelve since I first regretted it.
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