Friday, 24 December 2010

Grist for my Will. (Accept - I'm A Rebel)

During the long and moribund process of writing the play I did find my willpower quaking on more than one occasion; as if it wasn't bad enough repeatedly staring at this infernal acreage of LCD screen, my very own mind frequently turned traitor, insisting that all my hardy travails were a fruitless labour and would prove to be of little value or interest outside of my own giddy psyche. But fortunately I have a secret arsenal on which to call upon when my swine ID is being mutinous...and that is: HEAVY FUCKING METAL! Yes, this unfairly maligned genre (Amusingly it's most vociferous detractors are generally by those who wouldn't know a quality riff from a lanced bunion!) I can remember watching the legendary BBC Arena heavy metal docco, where a misguided, carrot-topped, arrogant Axel Rose made snarky, disparaging remarks about the headliners Iron Maiden (not only is this heretical it's also utter idiocy!) so clearly this febrile musical idiom isn't even safe from internecine power / Ego struggles; which is probably why its true fans are so obsessively loyal. (To the point of mania in some cases!) My lifelong fealty to metal is primarily due to it's power to motivate me during times of emotional / spiritual weakness; very little charges my body & soul than a flurry of over-zealous power chord, especially one that is amplified through a skyscraper-sized stack of Marshall amps. (Certainly helps if it's Michael Schenker doing the  fret histrionics!) 

Another brief peek into my riff-saturated mind: (Below was a spontaneous addition to this post)

  (With both The early Scorpions, UFO & MSG albums Schenker was unequivocally the little boy guitarist who could!)

Insecurity and paranoia are, of course, a writer's constant companion and any process, alchemical or otherwise that can stem these corrupting influences should be given the respect it deserves. Accept, one of Germany's finest Hard Rock / Metal exports are a band that have remained a resolute fixture in my play list for over two decades, and this is unlikely to change in the near future.  For some singular reason Europe has produced many of the most enduring and influential metal acts since its genesis in the late 70's early 80's; why this should be is, frankly, a mystery; but I, for one, welcome it unreservedly. Whilst writing the play I found myself repeatedly listening to their 'I'm A Rebel' album far more than my default setting of 'Restless & Wild' or 'Breaker'. 'I'm A Rebel' is clearly more a product of the groove-based, anthemic hard rock-era of the 70's than the burnished, proto-thrash of 'Fast As A Shark' (the latter proving to be of great influence to a legion of future US fret shredders) So enough fanboy blether...ACCEPT I SALUTE YOU FOR SERVICES RENDERED!  

(Udo is rocking a fine mane of flaxen barnetry there!) 

Wednesday, 22 December 2010

Love, The Most Important Thing (1975)

I only recently discovered this masterclass of emotional terrorism and it swiftly became one of my all-time favourites. Granted the odds were stacked pretty favourably that 'Love, The Most Important Thing' would in all probability be an absolute keeper as 1) It was directed by Andrej Zulawski (Possession 1981) 2) It co-starred the delicious, hazel-eyed dreamboat FABIO TESTI! 3) His screen partner being the equally edible Romy Schneider; and if that wasn't enough to give over-zealous europhiles a cinematic aneurysm, Klaus Kinski delivers one of his more nuanced and committed performances here as well. It also must be said that Jacques Du Tronc (an actor I am, sadly, not that familiar with) delivers an utterly spellbinding performance as Schneider's tormented Husband, and he is equally beautiful. To whit there is one particularly potent  sequence with him nonchalantly clumping around his detritus strewn apartment whilst delivering reams of oblique dialogue, dressed solely in a grimy mac and leaden, ill-fitting shoes which is an absolute masterclass of eccentric screen acting, easily rivalling the best of fellow Frenchman Patrick Dawaere. So, as you can see 'Love, The Most Important Thing' (aka) 'L'important C'est D'aimer had the potential to be a most exhilarating experience indeed! One could draw glib parallels to Truffaut (especially the stark early 70's existentialist drama's with Jean-Pierre Leaud), Bunuel or the mighty Rainer Werner Fassbinder; but I feel that Zulawksi is a primal force all to himself; and should really be recognised as one of the all-time great iconoclast film-makers; and I add credence to my bold claim by mentioning the film's utterly devastating and  heart-wrenching opening gambit which concerns an emotional (almost to the point of deathly inertia) actress (Romy Schneider) dressed in a flimsy slip, sitting astride a blood-soaked actor who is feigning some agonizing death throes; while poor, distressed Romy is being repeatedly yelled at by a ruthless female director who barks in great irritation that she must fuck her soon-to-be dead beau with greater conviction; words are impotent here; these are the grim, unsparing visions of a living hell; a disinterested crew glares on in with a collective ennui, as a tear-strewn and profoundly harried Romy reluctantly grinds her hips in a lackluster travesty of lovemaking against the by now inert, crimson corpse; her tatty negligee now be-spoiled with his blood; all the while she intones a dispicable mantra of "I Love you" in a cracked, unpleasant monotone. As she nears a palpable, inexorable breakdown, her harridan director continually screams out a blunt, heartless credo of "more emotion, I don't believe you" "Act! This is why we are paying you!" The irony being, for this viewer at least, I am hard pressed to recollect a sequence so riven with bare, naked potency, and while this grotesque pantomime plays out in the foreground, just off-set we can see a rumpled-looking paparazzi (Fabio Testi) becoming utterly beguiled by the fragile, luminous vision of Romy Schneider; yet he is also visibly repulsed by her plight, since she appears to be mere seconds away from a complete psychological meltdown.  Now I should remind you that this is merely the film's opening gambit, and the density of pathos created is enough to choke a charging Bison!  'Love, The Most Important Thing' is a work of emotional genius and total integrity and I, for one, am all the better for having these beguiling images in my soul.  (If not also a little haunted!)

(I have included a link for those who wish to see this fine film.  Enjoy!)

(A brief glimpse into the tumultuous world of Testi & Schneider)

(Germany's finest!)

(Doomed lovers never looked so beautiful)

(Now one of my favourite sequences, while it is very, very funny it is also loaded with a heady pathos)

(To be honest I don't actually know who I would like to kiss more)

(A wonderfully stark graphic for an equally uncompromising film)

(Hello? Are you aware that I am dashed handsome?) 

(The breath-taking Romy S. #SWOON!#)

(Wonderful still of Romy & Jacques - such power and bitter-sweet sensuality between the both of them both here)

(A still from the film's devastating opening sequence - extraordinary stuff indeed!)

(Testi arrives to photograph an initially playful Romy and ultimately gets far more than he bargained for!)

(The charming rogue Testi enters a maelstrom of marital chaos from which he is unable to leave)

(Romy's world is one of pain)

(Love is the most important thing...Indeed it is!) 

(Beautiful, potent image)

(Sublimely erotic)

Icons of my mind 1# (PECKINPAH)

(I like this picture as he looks quite benign here; not the bravura maverick, just some tired, wizened old boy contemplating the beckoning void)

There have been very few pleasant, let alone reliable constants in my life thus far and one of my most beloved and rewarding obsessions remains a zealous appreciation of the gonzoid cinematic genius of Sam Peckinpah. My love and profound admiration of this iconoclast's work came about at quite a tender age; long before I seriously began to half-understand over-written, convoluted articles on film theory, or rabidly consuming all the myriad Faber & Faber film director biographies; it was, fortuitously, far less labour intensive, all it took was a furtive, late-night viewing of 'The Wild Bunch' and I suddenly had (or I felt I had) some celestial purpose in life. The initial problem was how to see more of his films, no mean feat considering these were the near-barren days before the proliferation, nay, invention of the Betamax recorder or its cumbersome, larger-gauge VHS sibling. In addition this was also a decade before I had ever heard, or let alone understood the ubiquitous auteur moniker; I was simply a tremulous, impressionable boy responding to all the blazing, macho, visceral intensity of Peckinpah's compulsive narrative, coupled with the heady, palpable reek of "Alpha" maleness on display; which a lonely young knave couldn't help but respond to and, naturally, Peckinpah's deranged, giddy tumult of kinetic, sanguinary violence was also duly noted! Well, this was one alienated prepubescent who suddenly and demonstratively felt a intangible connection to something powerful and hypnotic far outside of himself; needless to say this was the very first (And best) of my many cinematic obsessions that began long before my round, cherubic visage succumbed to the harsh rigors of a man's beard.

(Neat-o still of Peckinpah and walkie-talkie, a veritable Boy's own fantasy!)

(Appears to be a flyer for a screening of Straw Dogs. I like the 6th form art student feel of this)

(The Getaway Triumvirate. Gotta love McQueen's macho arm splay, he is quite the peacock here!) 

(A wonderful picture of a pensive-looking Sam, in colour no less!)

(Two wayfarer-clad icons having a welcome respite from the relentless gun-play of 'The Getaway', or it might actually be Junior Bonner, not too sure.)

(The classic Peckinpah auteur dust jacket still)

(Looking at this I can hear Holden's low, Marlboro Man baritone, and it is a most comforting recollection!)

(The mighty Coburn awaits an "action" from friend and mentor Peckinpah)

(Nice Sunday supplement shot of Sam; never once seen without his pre - requisite bandanna!)

(Sans beard here, a hirsute sartorial misstep perhaps!)

(Holden & Peckinpah deep in thought, or deep in smoke; possibly both)

(One of my favorite pictures from this brief collection; Lettieri emphatically owns this still, McQueen's charisma appears considerably distilled here!)

(Splendid shot of the great man at work)

(Looking almost suave here, which is miraculous as he is, again, foolishly, sans beard!)

(Contrived publicity still, but the camera in the foreground looks ace!)
(Nice image from a recent Peckinpah retrospective)
(There is simply too much visual goodness here for one modest B/W photo: Peckinpah replete in groovy, slimline slacks advising the world's greatest male how to blow motherfuckers away!)

(Frankly the genius of this image speaks for itself!)

Monday, 20 December 2010

This Cat looks like he can throw a robust Xmas party!

(I just hope I'm on the list!)

Monday Ambers!

Couldn't make it to a chum's Xmas din-dins due to sketchy weather so I decided to hunker down and get some work done instead, admittedly not very festive, but quite necessary. Finished the first sketch with my new degenerate characters which, unlike my recent re-writes was a fun thing to do; so this will hopefully be the first of many unpleasant adventures. This sobriety business is quite "interesting", there are a few notable pluses but the one area that I wanted to improve (Sleep) remains a thorny issue; from what I've read, alcohol is meant to be an irritant; viz a viz keeping regular sleep patterns; yet unfortunately, in my case, the negation of alcohol plays no dominant role, as this weekend, again, I slept very poorly...I'm slowly coming to the horrible realisation that it might be the writing that is causing all the restless nights; one can't spend all day thinking and expect the churning brain rig to simmer down at night; those bastard coils continue to broil ideas all night long. I think I'll have a couple of beers this week, frankly, if it isn't gonna help me sleep any better then it's a pointless sacrifice; besides I miss the malty goodness in my life!   

(My friend I have missed thine frothy sanctuary!)
After three dry weeks that heavenly image contains a most powerful mojo indeed! (Said vision is so enticing it's almost pornographic) To look at that beverage's sublime green & red symmetry it seems entirely inconceivable that it is the root cause of so much of life's miseries; if only it didn't taste so bastard delicious!  (Christ! got to stop lusting after those shapely dispensers of liquid bliss!)

Will make a concerted effort to work on the script later, but now the very idea has scant appeal. Did wake up with a powerful yen to listen to some Ministry; I've always been willing to appease my whims, so I dug some out, still sounds peachy to me! (No doubt it is the preferred listening for insomniacs across the globe)

Sunday, 19 December 2010

Bathroom musings.

The powerful need to sing / emote in the shower has always been of interest to me. Why do we do it? No one feels the need to project loud sonorities when handling ripe yams (That said, I would personally applaud anyone who did) Post-work out, mere tinkle-seconds into the wretched shower dousing me in a searing swathe of searing hot water, I immediately affected the obligatory lower register key and made with the ubiquitous pub singer version of whatever I was listening to previously. Tonight it was the stylish & sophisticated 'Hot Blooded' by those meek-rock overlords 'Foreigner'.   I never do the whole song mind you, just the chorus and some staccato "I don't know the lyrics" bass-laden humming, possibly in a lower key than "Hot Blooded" M-M-M, with of course the personalized lyrical embellishment..."Hot Belnade; suck it and see! M-M-M....Hot Belnade, suck it and see" (Suck it and see is in keeping with the song's libidinous overtones) From my understanding 'Hot Blood' is in fact an ancient Greek medical term for the rush of burning plasma that is swiftly pumped into the spongy tissue of an aroused penis; so as you can see I always keep my musical embellishments within the song's milieu; this particular track being that of a glib, burnished ode to successful erectile function and praising the fine personage (Man or Lady) that generated said pleasure swelling. Occasionally I might burst into song whilst cooking; but that really is a more percussive arena...I'm not entirely sure you can be a truly heterosexual male animal and not bang pots & pans with arrhythmic rigor whilst waiting for your stew to mash.

Wake In Fright (1970)

Active Hotfile links below. No P/W.

This has recently become one of my all-time favourite films, and arguably Donald Pleasence's finest hour. (See below images if any proof were needed!) 

(This picture alone is reason enough for me to fall in love with Pleasence all over again!)

I have also included the teaser trailer of this magnificent film!

A Culture in the shitter!

Have you noticed that the people who repeatedly claim 'Oh, I don't have time to cook!" DO nonetheless find the time to watch hours of arse-brained television? You can prepare a really tasty and nutritious meal of oven cooked chicken thighs / drumsticks in about 25 mins, but they'd rather watch an oily clutch of monosyllabic oaf-lords moan about the inconceivable notion of using tinned pineapples as an ingredient! The world is spiralling with alarming speed to a era of total imbecility. If not how do you explain Simon Cowell? I accept that we as humans don't have to make a contribution for the betterment of mankind, it's possible to exist as merely a consumer, but to regularly rape so many hearts minds with impunity surely must be called to account at some point? I'd like to put myself forward, I will gladly spread his odious chest giblets across the wall like a crimson Rorschach test, remember Saddam Hussein was put to death for crimes far less insidious than Cowell and yet, I can barely bring myself to say it; Cowell still lives!  Can I be the only one that finds his flaccid chest and cloying smugness to be a true vision of hell? All reality television is base and  mediocre, that is its modus operandi; so why would you need a so called "expert", and what is Cowell actually an expert of? (Certainly not trousers) Biscuit-jawed morons stand in front of him with absolutely no self-awareness and even less talent; where's the fucking entertainment here? (A rare performance by The Move', yes, get that on the telly and i'll watch it, yaroo!) It never strays beyond a repetitive aria of "you are shit!" "you started out shit,but you're less shit than before" That's it, that's the level of insight Cowell brings...He stands before a reeking pig sty of human ordure and discerns which excrement is less shitty than the other? Magnificent. (We have evolved from creating rudimentary cave etchings to jeering at barely ambulatory poo people!) It is actually insane, we are still unable to see adults make love / fuck, bring torrents of pleasure to each other's aroused, sensual naked bodies in adult cinema;  but Cowell is somehow encouraged to assail the world with hours of immoral profanity of the highest calibre. Ergo his shit is apparently better than the other manufactures of shit...But that is, in fact, shit reasoning. Why not simply REMOVE THE SHIT from the screen???????   Human manure belongs in the sea not in our livingrooms. (And for fuck's sake flush all that CSI-related kaka an'all!) What kind of mono-celled scud pump can watch that donkey doodle? You might as well stare at used dental floss spinning in the shitter. (Intoning with faux gravitas) "Previously on dental floss in the shitter...Dental floss in the shitter! The same dental floss in the shitter every week. (Sometimes you might actually see a shred of masticated banana on the floss rather than Tuna Salad...Oh! How Wizard)   

I think Lemmy put it best "Killed by Death!" (He was of course talking about Bono, Cowell and Noel Edmonds & Shit TV)

Adequate reason to be sidetracked!

After watching Ralph Thomas's wonderful 'Deadlier Than The Male' I found myself more than a little preoccupied by one of its stars, the delightful Elke Sommer. I feel the portrait below proves beyond any reasonable doubt that I made a valid decision. Aesthetics and skimpy bikini's aside, Elke proved herself to be a very capable comedy actress, and more than a match for the suave Richard Johnson (Portrait below Elke's).  The world might well prove to be a far calmer place if we all just took a little time and care to regularly look at pictures of Elke Sommer. I surely cannot be alone in suddenly finding myself emphatically at peace with all who share this minuscule orb we call earth. 

(A quite sublime cinematic pairing)

(Opening credit sequence to 'Deadlier Than The Male' (1967) music: The Walker Bros)

Born under a bad sign

I awoke after yet another sleepless night, and there’s little more dreary and disheartening than having to face the world and its relentless inequities with a sluggish, cotton-laden mind. What is doubly frustrating is that the night before I had a reasonable night’s sleep (4 hours or so) Anything more that that is a bloody miracle, and I’m not the only poor twonker still waiting for one of those elusive beauties. This glorious 4 hours of untrammelled bliss was then interrupted by an unbidden phone call, rudely censoring my zesty sex dream into illegible shreds, and hurled me screaming into a most unwelcome wakefulness. Yet today when I would actually welcome the distraction of a spontaneous call to ease the suffering insomnia affords, none is forthcoming. Am I to understand that this is to be my lot, 4 hours of uninterrupted sleep every 2 weeks? My cup do indeed runneth over!  Much of the last 8 months has been me starring at this wretched screen and writing under the mischievous influence of sleep deprivation; the perverse thing about all this is that I am close to completing my very best work thus far, but the herculean effort it took makes me sick to the stomach to think about it.   Where’s the cheery call today? How are ya, mate? Never happens. Doesn’t work that way, but those cunts from Virgin are bound to call (again!) desperate to sign me up to something I already have. “You can see by my fucking direct debit’s what monies I’m giving to you capitalist arse-smears; if I wanted anything else I’d ask for it....FUCK OFF & CHOKE IN TOXIC SLURRY YOU INVASIVE SHIT-FLAKES!”  Ditto when I go into a shop and some wan-faced cretin slimes up to you like an odious tapeworm... “I don’t need any fucking assistance, shit-neck, I’ve been buying underpants for over 30 fucking years! I know the fucking drill,colon-breath; those underpants over there in a garishly coloured bag clearly marked underpants, see them, well do you, cunt?  yes. So can I, fuck off! The next time that plastic-chinned, corporate drone assails me in the aisle I will repeatedly slam my elbow into his throat; and I can do 250 push ups without crying, dingle-chest; so it’s gonna’ fucking hurt you far more than me, piss-house!    


I have to complete the final re-writes today and it appears that my anonymous, creaky chair has now unhappily turned into a malevolent, De Sardian contraption; making my current writing jag seem like a particularly piquant torture that I would gladly avoid. (The irony being I’ve just spent 45 minutes writing this bloody thing!) But scribbling sleep-deprived, stream of consciousness guffnal is quite healing; which is quite indicative of the initial stage of prose writing itself, the first swathe can almost appear to be automatic; writing as creative delirium, the graft is honing it; which by its very nature is wholly unpleasant as you have to accept that much of your ‘creative delirium’ is little more than an ill-shaped heft of ungainly granite; like a sculptor extracting beauty from the craggy rock; the dedicated writer has to hack and slash at all the self-generated narrative detritus with all the unsparing rigor of Chuck Norris in his brother’s ‘Missing in Action’ opus.  So you wake up (Hopefully after at least  2 hours sleep) turn your computer on and dread the discovery of all the glaring errors of syntax, repetition, lack of spontaneity etc; so your first clarion call to your working day is always “You’re shit! Why the fuck would you write that, WANKER!” this is, naturally, followed by a coruscating, derisory laugh. I understand that some individuals awake to the unctuous smell of coffee and toast made by loved ones; clearly your own mean-spirited ego calling you a pigeon-clawed wanker is a poor replacement for said cup of tea/coffee and a hug. (I actually feel misty-eyed as I write this as tomorrow will  commence with yet another Robert Plant-ian bray of “CALL THIS A RE-WRITE? CUNT!  Maybe you should’ve have concentrated a bit more, rather than replayed the sequences with Elke Sommer in ‘Dealier than the Male’. You’re emphatically not a suave Richard Johnson type, you are merely: "Jason" an alienated, opinionated, follically-needly, over-muscled, cave-dwelling scrivener with a hopelessly unfashionable appreciation of Stacy Keach films....CUNT! (It’s the final contemptuous cunt that always get’s to me; I appear to be quite the cruel taskmaster) That wretched phase ‘Your own worst enemy’ is most apropos in my case;  but how on gedrills earth do you usurp yourself?  I was boggin' myself aht so I chopped myself in the fucking neck; knocked me spark out! (You can see the flaws for yourself)
There has, unhappily, been some psychic legislation in place for some considerable time now : ‘Sod’s Law’; our American cousins might be more familiar with its transatlantic bedfellow: ‘Murphy’s Law’. Since much of my life has been blighted by said philosophical algorithm it has become a tiresome bane, coming to the point where I am loathe accepting that anything nice could ever happen to me, since I know it simply won’t last. Like so many sensitive, creative individuals I am a product of a profoundly disharmonious childhood. People repeatedly say ‘Sod’s Law’ as if it contained no more malice than a prosaic nose-sniffle, but it’s truly a vicious motherfucker and it has made a blight of much of my life thus far (again, I can imagine I am not alone in this realisation) What might be more spontaneous and agreeable would be this amusing little variable: All within my life’s delicate schematic is currently dogshit and this stifling ordure is swiftly leavened by something beautiful, sublime, and agenda free...Nil fucking points there, chief; what actually happens is: ‘Everything is currently dog shit and the celestial, guardian hound of all things faecal still manages to squeeze out yet another fragrant turd of oily despair: Magic!  I am entirely reconciled by the equation of joy being regularly interrupted by unpleasantness; without this we would have no valid perception of joy itself; but what concerns me is this repetitive corrosive syndrome of misery stoked upon misery.  What am I supposed to glean from this hateful formula?


Everyfuckingtime I listen to Albert King’s Immortal ‘Born Under a Bad Sign’ album I always get an emotive frisson on hearing the bitter-sweet line....”If if wasn’t for bad luck I’d have no luck at all” This legendary Bluesman/epic guitarist manages to capture all the grotesque travails of life in one haymaker line.   The best those fatuous Zeppelin bloaters could come up with is ...”Squeeze my Lemon”  Squeeze your own fucking lemon you vitamin-crazed, braying oaf! Or I’ll give you every inch of my knee into your coke-addled, pussy-stinkin’ face. There is something wildly cathartic about hating on Zeppelin as it cheers my febrile soul (Excluding Zep III, naturally, really bloody annoying that; for once Page stops being a sausage-fingered hack and goes all nimble and Bert Jansch-afied, so I can’t actually bring myself to hate on it, it’s actually rather splendid; Plant miraculously becomes self-aware and tones his wretched screech down to a more melodious timbre) 

Still, I’d rather be listening to Black Sabbath...Should have that put on my fucking headstone. 

Saturday, 18 December 2010

New Characters

Whilst walking down to the supermarket t'other day I happened to spy upon two rather unfortunate-looking fellows; this crumpled individual before me was particularly crazed and soiled-looking, as he trundled away in his knackered trainers, heavily soiled slacks and threadbare Jumper circa '86' (either Primark or Debenhams? sadly, even brand new it would remain a profoundly unsightly garment) But what really struck me were his intense staring eyes and the way his long, unlit cigarette just bobbed in his mouth as he traversed speedily, with such resolute purpose up the road. This cat's image stayed with me for the rest of my walk. Then, moments before wending my way into the supermarket this tall, gaunt, almost Dario Argento-looking knave caught my eye. Fortunately it was a brisk afternoon so all his nefarious stenches were wafted away from mine oh so sensitive, button nose; again, this wan-misfit, with his oily visage and ill-fitting toupee remained with me all during my brief shopping excursion. (I never realised you could also buy wigs replete with such a greasy veneer?) When I returned home I rapidly wrote about them only to discover to my joy that I now had two brand new characters which was, of course, entirely splendid; especially since I had only popped out for three tins of boneless & skinless sardines and 200g of Mature Cheddar Cheese. These new characters will be, of course, quite disgusting, and their mis-adventures shall be profane, expletive-ridden, or even possibly obscene, depending on one's sensibilities (Ha! Ha!). 

Bastard re-write!

After 8 long, sleep-deprived, booze-addled months I am nearing the final draft of my new (and first!) play. Even though I have been a writer for over 20 years I was wholly unprepared for how fucking intense and angst-inducing this project would be. It now seems somewhat naive of me to think that I would be finished by my birthday (August); even working 7-days a week it seemed to be a task with no visible end: re-write, re-write, re-write; endlessly chiseling away until each monologue, joke, rant, philosophical tangent was perfect. Primarily being a screenwriter, gag-meister and music writer I am still dazed by the degree of insane detail that goes into constructing a play! (Some of the monologues took weeks to perfect) The truth (always an unpleasant taskmaster) is that regularly writing for prolonged periods about something so personal, and so mind-scrafingly deranged demonstratively took it's toll on me emotionally and physically. Spending hours, upon hours creating yet-more obscenity for this main character to indulge in, ultimately became entirely wearing. Misogynist, cannibal killers think bad thoughts; all the bloody time! There's no break in their routine of filth and degraded perception. Incorrigible swine, they are. While this piece is ostensibly a black comedy, the black; goat of mendes! The black began oozing out of my pores like rotten Indian ink. Can't even write about it anymore, no catharsis to be found in wordplay; no cure for alienation; I clearly cannot write my way out of soul-withering loneliness; it's like having icy deposits permanently and incessantly grinding away in your delicate bone marrow; going to bed each night alone has it's very own singular coda of misery; with no one to mop your sweaty brow, or coo soothing words of encouragement into your exhausted ears, one seeks a fools solace in alcohol (abject lunacy!) and guess what? Sobriety isn't much better either. To paraphrase a friend of mine ..."Sobriety is overrated" Indeed; but yet again it's another case of damned if you do, damned if you don't.   If this is the kind of head-fuck shit Hemmingway went through each day, it's somewhat miraculous that he didn't exit sooner than he did. 


Oh leaf tea, how I love thee! (Fucking Rhymes innit!) A creature of habit, none more rigorous than my morning tea.  Yorkshire Tea, just merely mentioning it brings on a sweet pungent reverie. Anyhoo, the point being is in the labeling, not the leaf tea itself (Which is truly sublime) It claims "Makes a lovely cup of tea' Now this surely implies that it is a foolproof product; you're never going to have to deal with a sketchy cuppa; not so. The legend should read 'makes a lovely cup of tea; as long as you're not a twat-hole who's going to pour tepid water over merely one meagre spoonful of tea. But it doesn't say that; hence my incredulity at its bold claim. (I've actually seen this happen #shudder# this being one of my most indelible scars) A "lovely cup of Tea" is as subjective an experience as say being a Quo fan; as some fellow's will be equally as vociferous in negating our nation's premier boogie darling's musical merit, ditto with tea. I take tea strong to the point of it taking on astringent properties; but some #eek# take it milky with NO SUGAR! What kind of human grotesque doesn't put sugar in their tea? Again, as much as I appreciate the twee succour of their comforting claim 'Makes a lovely cup of Tea' it's high time this erroneous implication was amended. But incredulity aside, doesn't the image below make you feel all yummy inside!