Thursday, 1 March 2012
Tuesday, 14 February 2012
Wednesday, 25 January 2012
thanks very much all of the wonderful people of PLANET EARTH
Friday, 13 January 2012
Here is an early (now changed) draft of a bit of my new book - entitled Greece. I have only really started recently. But I feel good about it, or something. Also you can get my first one, Everything's fine either from the transmission print website, or amazon, or by going into a bookshop and asking for it. OK. Here is the bit of GREECE:
In an area of countryside in Greece, a young olive tree becomes self-aware. It has two branches. Each branch has two small silver leaves growing from its tip. The tree is beautiful. The wind tenderly moves the branches. As they move, the tree is aware of their tiny weight, and the sensation of its bark slowly shifting, opening pores and involuntarily contracting.
Hot, dry wind. The sky is clear. A small bush near the tree becomes self aware. The bush is sexually attracted the tree. It is standard, shrubby, thorny bush, dry and dusty, not really green, just the colour of the ground. The bush wants to wrap itself around the tree.
I feel sexually inadequate, thinks the bush. The wind blows the bush, and it frumpishly rustles. Could I be any less attractive, thinks the bush.
PS if you want to review everything's fine please send me an email thankyou
Saturday, 1 October 2011
Saturday, 27 August 2011
He rounds a corner. Bits of road surface spray away under the force of his wheels. He rounds another corner. He accelerates, wildly thinking about vaginas and wives and the texture of various vaginas of different ages, eyes bulging out of his head and silver hair streaming like a unicorn's mane behind him in the hot Serbian wind and feeling on the rim of something he can't understand, something like madness, or the absence of madness and the absence of everything or some rabbit, wild eyed, scratching for sanity in the dark in a warren being filled with cement.
Friday, 26 August 2011
Monday, 22 August 2011
Monday, 18 July 2011
a bit later you are asleep. i write about it in my notebook and move your hand around without waking you. when you wake up i ask you what it's like to be asleep. you say, 'i can't remember.'
the next day you come home from work. you are wearing a grey skirt and a grey jacket and a white shirt. i say, 'what is work like?' you say, 'it's the same as not working.'
we look at each other over dinner. you look at me and i look at you. i say, 'what am i like?' you say, 'the same as me.' i say, 'what are you like?' you turn and look at the wall for four hours.
Monday, 23 May 2011
hope you are looking forward to it ;) ;0 ;)))))))
it has loads of sex and drugs guys and murder and horrifying situations and also sexiness and famous people.
preorder it (not yet available or finished ;)))))) )
Saturday, 16 April 2011
Thursday, 14 April 2011
Friday, 11 March 2011
Saturday, 26 February 2011
I used to be just an average guy, going to work in an office.
Then I became the stoat.
I was hit by a ray of radiation that turned me into the stoat.
My super-power is being called the stoat.
I swim into canal barges and steal seasoning. I go home into my nest and eat the seasoning and then use the packets to decorate my home. My wife doesn't know anything about my new life. Glass seasoning bottles dangle from strings made from my own head hair and they tinkle politely in the breeze. Plastic seasoning pouches are pasted with my saliva to the earth walls of the nest. They keep it water proof.
I curl up every night after my day and sleep in the nest.
It is a bright summer's day. I can hear the succulent lapping of the canal outside my nest. I can hear little birds singing everywhere, talking about their mornings and the gossip from last night out on the piss.
I hear a person walk past, whistling.
A man's head appears, upside down, at the entrance to my nest. The man is holding tightly onto a postman's hat, in order to stop it from falling into the canal. He says,
'Got some post for you.'
He pokes his hand into my nest. It's full of letters - junk mail mostly.
I say thanks to him and then look through the morning post. I drink some water that I have dissolved pepper in while I think about the post. A couple of bills, something from reader's digest, letter from the bank.
I am so lonely.
Friday, 26 November 2010
Monday, 22 November 2010
although I don't know
who am I
i have no idea
who I am
what is life
is it anything
why do i
do the things i do
i don't know
She buys notebooks in packs of three from a local newsagent and fills them up with poems and short stories. Her dad worries about her from time to time because she is so introverted. Sometimes she writes poems about hating her father because he spends so little time with her. There are paintings from her very early childhood in which her depiction of her father is a scrawled black angry scribble, compared to a smiling mother, happy house and rolling younger brother. She would always draw herself holding a book.
Ellen is checking her email. As she checks it, one of her friends sends her a message through gmail chat. They have this conversation:
tracy: hi ellen - your dad's on tv. the other two presenters r so fucking hot. can your dad get me to meet them?
ellen: haha that is sick.
he can't get you to meet them.
you are a slut, tracy.
tracy: haha i would like to have sex with the small one
he looks like a rat
like a man-sized rat
that is hot
your dad is hot
ellen: fuck you
tracy: fuck you
Monday, 15 November 2010
Sunday, 17 October 2010
Wednesday, 25 August 2010
Wednesday, 18 August 2010
Tuesday, 17 August 2010
Thursday, 12 August 2010
John is talking about drinking in a pub.
'Drinking is OK, but I will never do it again because I am so drunk that it feels uncomfortable.'
Processing these words, bored. There is a pint of Guinness on the table. There is a glass of Bailey's next to the Guinness. The Bailey's is there as a joke.
'Drinking is making me feel so drunk.'
Smelling fried food. The smell of fried food. The smell of Guinness. The taste of Guinness. Swallowing Guinness. Can't be bothered. Bothereding. Bothering. Not bothering. Not being bothereding. Impossible to be bothereding. It is not possible to be being botheredering.
Speech: Can't be bothered.
John has finished his drink and is looking like he wants to drink some more.
'I feel so drunk that if I drink anything else I will be so drunk that I may get sick. I am going to buy another drink. Do you want another drink?
Nodding head. Finishing Guinness. Looking at the women in this bar. None of the women are a woman that used to live with someone who didn't call the landlord when he was meant to.
There are women here with the same parts as that particular woman. They wear the same clothes. They seem to not speak an identifiable language. They feel perfumed. Feelings of physical lust intensified by alcohol. Women torment man by their existence and his inability to understand or speak to them. Legs not trembling. There is a hand resting on the table and lightly stuck to it. The table surface is covered in a thin layer of ash, from many years ago, when smoking was allowed in here. The ash is covered with fluids. There is no Bailey's or Guinness left in the glasses on the table. More Bailey's and Guinness arrives as John sits down.
'This drink is going to push me over the edge. I am thinking about propositioning a woman this evening. I find it easier to that when I have had a drink.'
Boredom. Thinking about scrapheap challenge. Thinking about the female presenter of scrapheap challenge.
Speech: I miss my ex-girlfriend.
'Time heals everything,' Says John. 'Time heals all wounds.'
Speech: Time doesn't heal cancer.
Wednesday, 11 August 2010
Tuesday, 10 August 2010
Monday, 9 August 2010
i hate fosters
my favourite drink is 'woman's milk' and vodka
me: a call it
the 'extra white russian'
me: human milk + vodka
DJ: oh my god Soc
me: it's common to drink woman's milk in england
DJ: shut up
me: do you not do it in the states?
DJ: you lie
me: much sweeter than cow's milk
DJ: such a liar
I'm asking Ani
me: look it up
DJ: I don't believe you
me: it's true
you should try it sometime
it's really delicious
and good for you
this is insane
my mind is blown
me: most restaurants have like a 'milk section' on the menu
i can't believe you didn't know this
DJ: I'm shocked
you drink milk that comes from a person?
Thursday, 22 July 2010
11:32 PM DJ: super powers
I'll go try to acquire them, I have to run for a bit anyway
be back in like 25 minutes
me: let's have a conversation
and then i will post it on my blog
ok let's go
DJ: oh no
you are going
DJ: can we do it in 25 minutes?
me: no way
time is money, babe
11:33 PM DJ: I will hurry
me: no way
me: this is going up
you 'bailing' on me
when i needed you most
in my hour of need
i hate you
DJ: ok, you've convinced me to stay
Monday, 19 July 2010
Friday, 16 July 2010
i am really happy with the way the story looks.
i am waiting for a printer to arrive. i am sitting by my window, eyeing up every roughly van shaped vehicle that goes by, thinking, this could be it.
they have all driven by.
a really large lorry stopped in front of the row of houses that i live in. a man got out and started unstrapping the thick fasteners on the side of the canvas of the container.
i thought, 'this can't be it, coming in such a big lorry.'
the man got out a parcel that was the right size to contain a printer. i kept thinking 'this isn't happening'.
he took the parcel down the road to somewhere else, fastened up the clips again, and drove off into the rest of his life.
i am still waiting.
i was hoping that at the end of this blog post i could say, 'i know it seems crazy, but the parcel came while i was typing the post up.'
going to stop now.
Thursday, 1 July 2010
Wednesday, 23 June 2010
Friday, 18 June 2010
Friday, 11 June 2010
On the other side of the village it was the day of the fête. The day when the villagers got together each year and admired each others endeavours. Large vegetables, plump chickens and show gardens. Everyone could smell Jasmine and everyone could see the sun shining down heartily from above.
Mrs. Williams was pushing her pram rustically along the meandering paths into the centre of the fête. It was a twin pram, but she only had one baby! She used the other part of the pram to put her groceries in sometimes, or whatever it was that she needed to carry. It was practical. Once, Mr. Renfield, an old gentleman who was losing his sight, had patted a sack of potatoes in the pram and said 'They grow up so quickly, don't they?' to Mrs. Williams. She hadn't had the heart to tell him that he thought a sack of potatoes were a baby!
Little Willie Williams was crying in his pram. He needed some milk from his mummy, but she was too concerned looking at all of the market produce to notice his lovely shrieking and whining. He took in large gulps of air between each yell but was too young to appreciate the sweet scent of jasmine and roasting chickens. He just wanted his mummy's milk.
Mr. Fox the grocer had noticed Willie William's whining. He had really excellent hearing and a good ear for a tune. For a second, he thought that wee Willie William's whining sounded like a section from Mozart's Overture from Don Giovanni. He chuckled in his head at the thought that a baby might accidentally replicate the work of a genius, then stopped himself as he thought 'But Mozart was a child prodigy, wasn't he?' Rather than think too hard about this, he went back to chopping up the pork in front of him. A pig's head grinned up at him from his refrigerated counter. The pig's head was oddly attractive, even though a grim muslin of death was draped across it. With an almost silent thud, a bullet smacked into the forehead of the dead pig. No human noticed.
It was a good year for vegetables.
A few people commented that they had never seen leeks as big as the ones on Mr. Lewis' table. Some were nearly two feet long and as green as emeralds. Mr. Lewis used a special fertiliser for the leeks. No one knew, but the secret ingredient was chicken beaks. This meant, he often thought, that he might be tricking vegetarians into eating food that was raised on meat. He had once thought about running in a local election. His slogan would have been 'Raised on meat.' Even though he was a vegetable farmer, he made sure that he ate meat with every meal. He had a strange belief that the meat would make him more potent sexually, and he often imagined his sperm to be made from the ripped tendons and muscles of the animals that he had devoured. He thought sometimes that he would break into a church and change 'The meek shall inherit the earth' to 'The meat shall inherit the earth' in all of the bibles. No one in town knew about these weird quirks of his character.
Mr. Renfield was tottering through the fête, not recognising anyone until they spoke to him. His eyesight had become very bad in the past two years. There was a tiny noise and Mr. Renfield was shot through the head by the sniper on the other side of the village. He fell to the ground. Blood came out of him and he was dead. No one noticed from the fête and children and parents skipped around him like he wasn't there.
Two children, Martin Blossom and Emmy Large were holding slingshots and aiming at targets at a stall at the fête. The targets were shaped and coloured like the faces of clowns. Little Emmy Large fired off a shot at one of the clowns and hit him, square in the forehead. 'I got him!' she cried out in delight. The owner of the stall, Mrs. Peters leant over from behind the counter and gave Emmy a prize. The prize was a lovely cuddly bear. As she leant over, she was shot between the eyes by the sniper. The shot went straight through the bear's head and into Mrs. Peter's head. The bear fell into little Emmy's arms and she skipped off with delight. Little Martin Blossom looked up at Mrs. Peters slumped across the counter for a second, smiled and turned and skipped after his little friend.
'We are so lucky with the weather today. Do you remember last year it was raining and we had to do most of it inside the church?' said Mrs. Williams.
Mrs. Williams was talking to Mr. Lewis, the vegetable grower. They were having a passionate extra-marital affair that no-one in the village knew about. They met each Thursday to have passionate intercourse behind Mr. Lewis' shed. It was the day of the week when wee Willie Williams was at play group all day, Mr. Williams was in London for his weekly meetings, and Mrs. Lewis was doing her hiking club. The sex was so passionate that occasionally the next door neighbour, Miss. Pond, thought that foxes were fighting, making a sound like possessed babies, crying with voices like the devil. Miss. Pond was a Christian.
Miss. Pond would masturbate and then feel guilty about it. She was a Christian. She was a lonely lady. No-one in the village knew quite how lonely and guilty and horny Miss. Pond was. She was not at the fête, she was at home masturbating and saying her prayers. She was the only resident of the village who would survive that day.
A bullet flew from the barrel of the sniper rifle and swerved slightly in a breeze to strike Mrs. Williams temple to the left of its intended target. Her head exploded. Parts of her skull and brain flew apart and got stuck to Mr. Lewis, her lover. Mr. Lewis carried on talking to Mrs. Williams' body as it fell dramatically down on top of her baby in the pram. Wee Willie Williams was crushed and then suffocated by his mother's dead breasts. He was a happy baby until he died. He never became a professional footballer. Mr. Lewis was, shortly after this, shot through the head by the sniper. His body landed on top of Mrs. Williams, making it look like they might be having sex, or kissing.
Martin Blossom was with little Emmy Large round the back of one of the stalls at the fête. He was trying to steal her cuddly bear. The bear had a hole in its head. 'Give me the bear!' said Martin. 'No, it's my bear!' said Emmy. Martin jumped at Emmy, scratching and biting her and trying to kick her. Emmy ripped away from Martin and started to run. They were both killed by the same bullet; it flew through the air and ruptured their skulls one after the other. They were two young people, spread-eagled gracelessly on gravel ground. Their blood stained the bear. It was the colour of a rose.
One by one, the rest of the inhabitants of the village were shot by the sniper. Three hundred human beings were shot and killed. They were all shot through the head, in the most humane way possible.
A lark rose from a bush and beat its way upwards into the sky, emotionless. The lark did craps all over the bodies. The sniper turned his gun on himself and shot himself into a million pieces.
Saturday, 15 May 2010
Sunday, 9 May 2010
Monday, 3 May 2010
he is scottish which is pretty exotic!
i also recommend just reading his website and then linking to it and then sending him a load of money although i am not sure in scotland whether they use money or if they just trade in rancid batter that has fallen off a fish or whatever (joking!)
Monday, 26 April 2010
there is air exiting my body
i am aware of the air
i am breathing in and out and pressing the buttons on my keyboard with my chest
i am writing rpenapeoaonenpoaeir with my chest
someone comes into the room
the person says something to me
i carry on sighing quickly in and out
the person puts their hand on my shoulder
i sigh and sigh and sigh spofijoweijgoiejodsigj
my head is polishing the table by moving around on it
my arms are lying on the table beside my computer
i am moving up and down in a way on the table
the person is watching me and saying
you can't carry on like this
it is later and i am downstairs eating my food
i am holding a spoon up to my mouth and letting the food drop down back onto the plate
the person watching has their head in their hands
i am looking at my reflection in a pool of water and i say
i just don't know what to do
Thursday, 22 April 2010
Monday, 19 April 2010
'i am afraid of dying'
here is a description of my second novel:
'i am afraid of dying' is a novel about a great guy living the kind of life everyone would love to live. he meets loads of other great guys and has ten million incredible experiences along the way. everything he does is wonderful and every moment of his life is a primal and uncontrollable split second of ecstatic existence.'
here is what i think about my second novel:
my second novel is either a lot better than my first novel or totally unreadable. this is really what i think. it feels a lot more ambitious than my first one.
i am about to create some artwork for 'i am afraid of dying'.
'i am afraid of dying' is currently around 10,000 words long - i imagine it being around 60,000 words when it is finished. maybe 70,000. it might be a lot longer also.
Saturday, 10 April 2010
Monday, 5 April 2010
me: i am about to start the interview
Crispin: hi there
me: so what's your philosophy on life?
Crispin: my philosophy on life is 'everyone is a person and in some way they are trying their hardest'
my philosophy changes every single day, this morning i went to the shop for milk and i said 'this is amazing'
yesterday i sat on a swivel chair and tried to make myself as small as possible and felt disappointed with myself
isn't that great?
me: how do you cope with feelings of inadequacy and despair? (a lot of people suffer from these feelings)
Crispin: i don't suppose i cope with them. generally i think 'it would be nice to have something to look forward to' and i envisage something i might be able to look forward to. for this reason i am glad i like sports, even though i know it is a waste of my life to watch sports
me: what's better, football or cricket? and why?
Crispin: i think football is better. the reason for this is that football is mroe of a 'soap opera' and a soap opera is a good thing because of something to do with narrative tropes and early experience of time passing, urgency, and death (also: pets). also the acrobatic and physical feats of football seem, on the face of it at least, more impressive than those of cricket. although i do enjoy cricket
me: did you know that the shuttlecock is the fastest hit projectile of any racquet sport?
Crispin: i had no idea. that is very interesting. what is 'jal-alai'? i think that is home to the fastest projectile in all sports.
"Unfortunately for Jai-Alai, Badminton has taken over the title, a shuttlecock has been recently clocked at 332 KM/H or 206 MPH."
that's a quote from an internet source
that i just found, after i tried to 'prove you wrong'
me: tell me a bit about wewillallgosimultaneous. e.g - why you started it? why you keep it going? what you have on it etc
Crispin: it's a blog. i started it because i got my first ever story accepted by an online publication, eyeshot, and i thought i should have a link to which people could be directed from that. i only realised much later on that eyeshot was actually quite a prestigious place to be published, and it's still one of the main places from which traffic comes to my site
i started out putting writing and things on there, but i don't do that much any more, for no apparent reason. i feel bewildered answering this question. i don't know why i have a blog
me: sorry - i am trying to ask 'difficult questions'
i don't know why i have my blog
maybe i do know, but i am embarrassed, scared to admit it
what sort of music do you like, crisp?
Crispin: oh - what would be embarrassing?
me: oh dear - looks like this is being turned back on me, the 'anonymous interviewer'
Crispin: i don't want to do that, i am sorry
me: well - i just want everyone to tell me how good everything i write is and that i am a great guy
that's mainly why i have the blog
Crispin: oh right, i see. it would be a good idea for you to get that great novel of yours published, though
me: and that seems embarrassing for me
Crispin: that's not embarrassing, at all. everyone puts pictures of themself on the internet and wants to be called 'very handsome' etc
it's ~better than that, for sure
me: i feel that maybe it's something that shouldn't be admitted though?
don't know why
it's not ok to admit that you want people to love you in a straightforward way?
Crispin: i think everyone admits that
Crispin: i mean i am surprised you think it's embarrassing
me: maybe i am behind the times or something
Crispin: i thought you woere going to say something about teenage girls
me: i am maybe a little oddly sensitive or austere
Crispin: you are austere
me: i am easily embarrassed i think
so what sort of writing do you like to read?
Crispin: you are not austere
there isn't a sort
Crispin: i am thinking very hard
me: what's your favourite book of all time
Crispin: sorry - i was thinking, that seemed dismissive
i am thinking very hard about what i like
i'll stop asking silly questions
i will qait
Crispin: i don't have a favourite book
everything i want to say sounds utterly ridiculous: "i like things that seem themselves"
just as an example: your writing is good because i can't compare it to something else
and also it seems 'in line' with what i imagine to be important in writing
which is to do with newness and not being a scaredycat
i think that seems like a good answer
Crispin: also it's to do with engaging with what is happening somewhere recognisably 'irl'
well that's good - i am glad. i am reading lydia davis' collected stories currently and she seems really excellent
'incredibly strong writing' or whatever
what are you reading recently?
me: oh man
i just read the easter parade
Crispin: i haven't read that
me: by richard yates and then i read dazed and aroused by gavin james bower
the easter parade is among the best books i think i have written
Crispin: oh he is your pal
me: i mean
me: i didn't write it
Crispin: i was trying to figure out how to mention that
Crispin: i think you didn't write the easter parade
me: i think i know which books i have/haven't written crispin
Crispin: i am glad you have written a book
i am looking forward to the 'great british novel'
me: oh dear
it's not going so well
Crispin: 'great britain'
i am sure it will go fine
me: let's get this interview back on track
Crispin: ok sorry
i am worried that i am in a dour mood
do you want to stop
Crispin: so my answers are not fit for publication
me: i am really enjoying it
me: it seems excellent
Crispin: i am very happy, i just feel like a sourpuss
me: we are having an odd, 'academic discussion' of sorts
instead of saying
great guy, babes, etc
i like it
when did books stop looking like that?
me: seems like a nice break every now and then
Crispin: bloody photography
me: i know
Crispin: 'the bird room' i kept thinking "WHICH ONE IS THIS GIRL ON THE COVER MEANT TO BE?!?!?"
me: i totally agree
Crispin: wouldn't have happened to yatesy
me: the edition i have has a picture of two girls on it
I DON'T WANT YOU TO TELL ME WHAT YOU THINK THE CHARACTERS LOOK LIKE COVER DESIGNER
Crispin: cover designers are imagination perverts
me: how do you feel rejection digest (your great new collection of incredible fiction) is going?
Crispin: ahhh. close to our hearts. at first it seemed like a really brilliant idea, and i was so happy that we decided to do it.
'almost immediately' there were some comments on htmlgiant which seemed to totally dismiss the idea as being unoriginal, although there were some supportive comments too
after that, i felt unsure of 'ourself' for a while
then we got into a good rhythm. it seems ok at the moment. i wish we had more submissions.
me: i have felt oddly 'unstoppably positive' about the whole thing
Crispin: feel like i didn't need to say anything before the last line
i have noticed your unstoppable positivity
it's really good to see
i think i am feeling a bit 'down' with writing in general. i feel unable to achieve anything i am proud of currently.
me: that's a real shame
Crispin: it's ok - it's my fault
me: it's odd, it feels like your website is an incredibly exuberant celebration of culture and oddness, and it makes me feel as though the sensibilities you have indicate that you are a creative force that is 'inextinguishable'?
Crispin: that's nice of you to say. i think ... actually what i was about to say starts to become hamfisted pop psychology very quickly...
the important thing is i really do think everything is great, and that's why i can't write at the moment
i don't have any idea of what language can convey the thing i am trying to say
me: do you want to go away somewhere on a writing retreat where we discover a new way of writing?
Crispin: i like exuberance and effort and hope but i don't feel like 'hyperexuberant' language is right
haha - but i think you are able to write well with the style you have
do you think you are 'ripping anyone off' ever?
is that a dangerous question/
me: no it's not dangerous
but the answer is going to be a bit 'poncy'
when i write, i do it very quickly and it comes very naturally (if it's any good). i don't think about ripping anyone off. i don't think i am ripping anyone off. it feels like it is the only way i can write - it feels like it is just me and no-one else. i often feel like i am completely lost in a trance when i write the things that i am happiest with.
that is a terrible, garbled answer
Crispin: that doesn't seem garbled at all
i wonder why you think that... that seems like a very true and enviable answer
me: i just worry about everything
Crispin: haha - you shouldn't worry about that
like i said before, i think your writing seems to come from a recognisable but not obvious place, and that is one of the reasons i like it
that answer is 'in line' with how i feel about it
so that's important.
when you said poncey i thought you were going to talk about ALL WRITING IS A TISSUE OF QUOTATIONS
i'm glad you didn't say that
me: oh god
i don't know enough to quote fro anything
Crispin: fro comb
me: way to 'ruin the interview' crisp
me: it's quite hard work, thinking hard about yourself
Crispin: yes. i wonder if i should do it more. or less. or if i do it the correct amount
it is 'not answerable'
me: i think that's right
Crispin: i ruined the interview again
i think it's going 'exquisitely well'
Crispin: are you going to buy an 'ipad'?
me: i think maybe i wish i was obsessed with wanting to do something that doesn't require any introspection. like winning masterchef or something
no - i am not going to buy an ipad
i don't have any money
me: do you want to get one?
i wish i had one
Crispin: not at all
one of my main failings is that i basically 'hate' that sort of thing
everything that makes me think i am being encouraged to spend money
me: p.s this interview is going to cost you $300-$400
Crispin: that's ok - i am charging it rejection digest's company card
me: on a serious note, shall we get a credit card for rejection digest?
i think we need one
Crispin: we do need an ipad actually
for 'market credibility'
no-one will submit to us unless we have an ipad
me: if we had an ipad i think steve jobs might probably promote the website to everyone who wears black polo-necks and skinny jeans.
Crispin: 'target audience'
whenever i select a story i think about black polo-necks and skinny jeans
Crispin: have you ever worn a poloneck?
my dad bought me one when i was young
it looked ridiculous
it was a black polo neck
they are the "worst item of clothing anyone can wear"
Crispin: i think certain kinds of 'puffy waistcoat' might be worse
i have a vivid image of someone in a poloneck and puffy wasitcoat now
Crispin: intense douche
he looks a lot like you, crisp
Crispin: oh wow - and the photographer definitely doesn't want anyone using any part of that picture without permission
me: i know
it's worth a huge amount of money, that photo
Crispin: i have a pricey face
me: do you think that that is enough interview now?
be back in 2 - 3 - 5 mins
Crispin: 4 hours!
if you haven't won i am really sorry. the overall standard of the entries was (as far as i know) very good. i did a lot of laughing and thinking, 'wow, that's great' while i was reading them.
also please remember i have never run/judged a competition before. so i have probably made a terrible mistake. there were many more entries into the negative review section of the competition, which makes me think that all of the readers of this blog are 'haters' and only want to wish never-ending doom on the rest of the universe.
anyway, here are the winning entries.
When I first imagined Chris Killen's novel The Bird Room, I have to admit I was a little cautious. It brings to mind a bird being trapped in a room doesn't it? Flying around like a mad thing all over the place. This scared me. Plus i'm allergic to paper. Nevertheless I bravely donned my reading gloves and began to preconceive the words.
First things first, this is an incredibly powerful book. I vomited all over page one, by the second chapter i'd begun to ejaculate uncontrollably from the penis and during the final chapter I was weeping from the mouth whilst my Grandad slipped in and out of his beloved coma, his frail being only being able to mouth the word 'kipper' at passers by.
As I pulled myself together I started to ponder what i'd just imagined to read. Suddenly words meant nothing to me. What's a bird?
Some may say it sticks a bit too closely to the plot of Mighty Ducks but for my money there's a new Bible in town. It'll be a long time before i'm able to eat toast on my own again (you'll know what I mean after you've read it). Huge recommendation.
By Alex J. Nuttall
‘the bird room’: oh no you di-ent!
This is a review of ‘the bird room’ by ‘chris killen’. Seems like a book aimed mainly at whiny douchebags.
When I say ‘mainly’, I mean ‘90% entirely’.
Also lacks urban (i.e. black) characters
Disappointment re lack of urban people offset somewhat by promise of detailed descriptions of birds.
*drawing of something*
Obvious racist overtones of not having any urban people is ‘getting me down’.
I physically stop reading this book as I suspect that if there aren’t any birds in it by now, there probably will not be any birds in it by now. Ditto: urban peoples.
This book is clearly autobiographical to the max, and on this basis, ‘chris killen’ seems to be mentally ill with sadness and inherent racism.
By Richard Owain Roberts
congratulations to the winners and i am sorry to all of the other entrants. the stress of running this competition means that i am probably never going to run a competition ever again.