Archive for January, 2012

Your mind is like a motorway

Text taken from ‘The Little Book of Complete Bollocks.”

Check out Chicuero’s post on the amazing Korean artist Choi Xooang



Choi Xooang is a Seoul based artist who sculpts concrete bodies. This may sound kinda “whatever” at first, but we come to be surprised at his ability to grasp the world in a pathological way. Choi’s understanding of the world began with his 10-20 cm miniature figures suffering from an expansive delusion, do not realize their relative diminutiveness and tend to overstate their ability and situation.
He visualizes the properties of each individual through one spreading rumor, one who has a huge head too heavy to stand up, one who begs for money with huge hands, one who has an extraordinary sense of smell, and one who has huge feet. Also, he  employs a partly hyper-realistic technique as well as other methods of exaggeration, abbreviation, and modification, using his own formative language. It’s very disturbing, it freaks me out but his acute sense of detail and realistic rendering is…

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Be happy? F*ck that!

Today someone sent me this delightful video clip:

I wrote down all the points.
be happy – show up – follow your heart – find a new perspective – have a sense of wonder – find people you love – set goals – help others – dance – pamper yourself – face your fears – go to a museum – exercise – limit television – get in touch with nature – lighten up – get a good night’s sleep – read books – buy yourself flowers – don’t compare yourself with others – don’t beat yourself up – be open to new ideas – don’t focus on negative thoughts – focus on creating what you desire – make time just to have fun – keep the romance in your life – make a gratitude list – love your mother earth – want what you have – be true to yourself

It all sounds very nice, particularly set to Pasquale Catalano’s Cuore di sabbia (Heart of Sand) but when you think about it; if you ever met someone that did all those things and had all those qualities… they’d be an unbearable dickhead.

Something sad

Something sad happened Yesterday. Later I found this quote:

We always thought we’d look back on our tears and laugh, but we never thought we’d look back on our laughter and cry.


1,000th visitor competition – results

I had imagined that people would clamber to own another’s soul, but it seems not. I am not disappointed though, not at all – the sheer quality of those of you who entered made my heart glow.

Here are the results:

The winner, and now owner of my immortal soul is now Pete Denton. Try not to be too careful with it Pete and let me know what kind of sick things you do to it please. Here is the official certificate of ownership.

Runners up prizes go to:

Take your pick please and congratulations to you all.

Of course, now I’ve given away my soul, I am struggling to think what to give away as my next prize – any ideas on a postacard please?

~ k )

Be my thousandth visitor and win my soul

Very soon now I will get my 1,000th visitor to this blog – i know that’s not very many but its not a very good blog. I am currently on 986 so there are only 14 to go and that should happen sometime later today I would reckon .

I would like to offer a prize to visitor number 1,000 but I am a poor writer and have nothing to give except my soul, so I am offering that as a prize.


To qualify to win my everlasting soul simply leave a comment on this or any other post and I will keep an eye on my stats and if you are the visitor with the comment soonest after the clock ticks over to 1,000 you will win my everlasting soul to do with whatever you please. Hopefully you will trample on it and abuse it but it is entirely up to you: plant it in the garden or keep it in a cupboard, hang it on a wall, whatever you want.

There will also be two runners up prizes for the 999th visitor and the 1,001st visitor plus one for the best comment. A choice between, having me writing a blog post on any subject they choose or, me being their online slave for a day.

A LITTLE ABOUT THE PRIZE: An eternal soul, with one, not very careful, owner – rather stained but sturdy and still in one piece.

NOTE: This competition is only open to those that follow this blog.

People ain’t no good

These Nick Cave lyrics make me  cry and cry and cry.

People just ain’t no good
But I think that’s welll understood
You can see it everywhere you look
People just ain’t no good

We were married under cherry trees
Under blossom we made our vows
All the blossoms come sailing down
Through the streets and through the playgrounds

The sun would stream on the sheets
Awoken by the morning bird
We’d buy the Sunday newspapers
And never read a single word

People they ain’t no good
People they ain’t no good
People they ain’t no good

Seasons came, Seasons went
The winter stripped the blossom bare
A different tree now lines the streets
Shaking its fists in the air
The winter slammed us like a fist
The windows rattling in the gales
To which she drew the curtains now
Made out of her wedding veils

People they ain’t no good
People they ain’t no good
People they ain’t no good at all

To our love send a dozen white lilies
To our love send a coffin of wood
To our love let all the pink-eyed pigeons coo
That people they just ain’t no good
To our love send back all of our letters
To our love a valentine of blood
To our love let all the jilted lovers cry
That people they just ain’t no good

It ain’t that in their hearts they’re bad
They can comfort you, some even try
They’ll nurse you when you’re ill of health
And they’ll bury you when you go and die
But in their hearts they’re bad
They’d stick by you if they could
But that’s just bullshit baby
People just ain’t no good

People they ain’t no good
People they ain’t no good
People they ain’t no good
People they ain’t no good at all

thought this was very good and well worth reblogging

I want to make things and break things


Why we don’t need Facebook, but why I do

I spend most of my life on Farcebook, and being banned, even for a short time, prevented me from playing with a lot of my friends.

In a tiny way, I went through ‘the five stages of grief’:

  • denial: I tried instantly to message someone – the result was an automated message from fb threatening to bar me for longer if i tried it again
  • Anger: I decided never to go on Fartbook again
  • Bargaining: I tried to mail them – but you cannot
  • Depression: I really missed some of my friends and sulked around the house – I ended up doing the washing up and the hoovering
  • Acceptance: I finally understood that Facebook is not a piece of holy scripture, it is not the bloody constitution: its a social networking website – and nothing more

go get yourself banned from Fuckbook… I dare you.

Top Ten Status Updates

I was looking through my old Farcebook status updates – these were my top ten, in no particular order. Please help yourselves, and feel free to add some of your own in the comments section, I am sure to use them:

  • “will be as faithful to you as a dog and come every time you whistle”
  • “is bigger on the inside”
  • “remembers the time you ate his goldfish”
  • “wanted to unleash a deadly computer virus on you all but couldn’t master the technology – would you mind manually deleting all the important files from your hard drive please and pass this on to fifty of your friends?”
  • “is why they put a warning on the box”
  • “knows where you live”
  • “doesn’t understand why the cat was in the bag in the first place”
  • “says the first law of thermodynamics is that we don’t talk about thermodynamics”
  • “is proof that ancient man mated with neanderthals”
  • “bought some batteries, but they weren’t included”

The real world vs Farcebook

A little while back, I was temporarily barred from Farcebook. It was a very strange experience, as I generally spend most of my life there. The way it works is quite strange – you can still access your account, whilst barred, and see what all your friends are up to but you cannot join in – any attempt to post or comment is met with a swift rebuke from the Fartbook police and a threat of an extended ban. I felt like a naughty child, forced to stand in a corner whilst everybody else played.

Anyway I decided, that, rather than sit there and sulk, I would go and see if there was still such a thing as the real world… and guess what? There is: it is called Twitter.

A pan – another attempt at poetry

Think of youself – as a pan of water,
And me as the fire – of the stove underneath.
Softly I lick you – slowly, you feel
Little ripples of heat – scampering through you.

The window wide open – and cold morning air
Wafts gently across you – in icy contrasts.
The heat growing stronger – rising up through you,
You roll like an ocean – in long slow convulsions.

Bubbles now swarming – through you and up you
Stinging and bursting – on your surface in gasps.
The bubbles now grow – in size and in number,
You pop and you fizzle – and writhe and spit steam

You rise up again – you have no control
And you spill and you burst – out of the pan
In long, thick cascades – screaming my name,
You fizz and you gurgle – and froth down the sides.

We lie there quite still – just trembling slightly,
I am extinguished – and you are quite empty.
Somebody calls – from a kitchen somewhere,
“Mum has forgotten – to turn the stove off again!”

Your god is too small for my universe

I was looking this  great post,  Why wearing glasses on For your amusement when i came across this wonderful picture:

Thanks Kim.

Seven more things

  • i am a writer and a designer and a developer and a layabout
  • i have been a cartoonist and a soldier and a web designer
  • i have been a teacher, an addict and a street fundraiser
  • i live in london but spend most of my time in facebook
  • i like to do voluntary work and australian women
  • i have had radio plays broadcast and a book on programming published
  • i like to type in lower case because it is easier to masturbate when you don’t have to use the ‘shift’ key

Versatile Blogger Awards

It seems I missed the point of the versatile blogger award thingy… I need to write seven things about myself and nominate 15-20 other bloggers. This will be difficult as there are only six things I know about myself and every blog I follow is too good not to nominate.

Ok, seven things about me:

  1. I have a tiny penis.
  2. I have not had a drink in nearly five years.
  3. I do not support Arsenal.
  4. I have a thing for Australian women.
  5. They do not have a thing for me.
  6. I like sad stories
  7. I do not know seven things about myself

Here are my nominees for the versatile blogger award – in no particular order .

This century will belong to women

It struck me today, a rather sad little conclusion… men are not very good at a lot of things. We are good at beating our chests and scaring off demons, but that is about it. You got a demon you want scaring off?  Call a bloke.

This century will belong to women, at least I hope it will. There will be fewer wars and fewer unnecessary deaths. Men have had their time, and in my opinion, have done a good job of it all but now it should be the girl’s turn. In my experience, women make better bosses than men, they understand people better.

to becontinued…

The future of love

It is the year 2132 and in a quiet suburban classroom a teacher gves an old lecture to some new students. “A hundred years ago”, she explains “people used to think that being in love was perfectly normal, in fact, society even celebrated it and held ceremonies called ‘marriages’ in its honour”. She writes some of these words on the board, to emphasise them and the children giggle and whisper amongst themselves at words like ‘love’ and ‘marriage’. Love is such a ridiculous concept in the 22nd century. The teacher drones on about how love clouded the judgement of those caught in its grasp, about how it deluded those that it consumed and about how, today, drugs were put in the water supply to prevent such afflictions, how, today, everyone could be free of such nonsense. Danny looks across at Suzie, he thinks she is sweet, he should probably tell someone about how he is feeling, it cannot possibly be normal. She looks back at him and smiles. “In the past”, explains the teacher, “people would decide who they wanted to spend their lives with, based on their feelings.” the class erupts with laughter at this. He sends her a txt, “i<3u”, knowing full well he could be expelled for such an act. She sends one back, “u2x”, something happens in his pants that he is certain he should report to the school nurse. “Romance needs to be calculated to be productive,” explains the teacher, and the class nod in undivided agreement. “Imagine,” says the teacher, “if everyone just went off with someone because they thought they fancied them.” Everyone smiles and nods again, except for Danny and Suzie, who are just looking at each other. He wants to press his mouth against hers without understanding why and despite what he has learnt in hygiene class. He wants to press his mouth against far less hygienic parts of her than her mouth. Later he tries to explain all this to the nurse. She is old and kind and very sweet, she explains the solution to his troubles, it is called castration, it is a very simple procedure and she can perform it now if he agrees. She smiles, he smiles back and nods.

Thank you

I would like to thank Eric for nominating me for the versatile blogger award.

Mind Over Matter

Phil Miller’s In Cahoots’s latest album, Mind Over Matter, has now been released and can be found on Phil’s site. There are samples of every track, so give it a whirl, I’m sure you’ll like.

Album cover and site by yours truly.


i am in love with a woman on the other side of the planet, literally, and although there are the obvious physical frustrations, it is wonderful and perhaps the most beautiful romance i have ever known. her evenings are my mornings and my evenings, her mornings: i call it morvening. sometimes i forget what time of day it is completely, i even forget what day it is at times. here it is winter, there it is summer. here it is light and there, dark. time and season evaporate and mean nothing. i get two mornings and two evenings every day, i am so lucky. we talk via satellites, our words travel through space, isn’t that magnificent?

No-one believes in fairies

He tries to convince himself again that he doesn’t believe in this sort of thing. He says it out loud “You do not believe in this kind of shit.” and looks back. Its still there, perched on the edge of his oak desk. He has a degree in physics, he is a professor of it and has spent his life fighting against such nonsense, but its still there. He is overworked, that’s all it is, its stress, he needs a break. Still there. He doesn’t even believe in God, never mind this crap. “I’m a fucking atheist!” he shouts at it. The tiny little girl flutters her wings and smiles at him in response. She waves a wand, sparkles jumping from it, tracing its movements. ‘A wand!’ he thinks ‘It has a fucking wand?’ “Jesus Christ!” he mutters “if I am gonna have hallucinations can I at least have one’s that are not so bloody corny?”

“Fuck!” he screams and brings his hand down on the fairy girl, feeling her tiny, fragile bones crack and splinter under his palm, feeling her pathetic little struggles. For a second he even imagines he can hear her cries. There will be more though, he knows this, there always are. He watches the twisted, broken body twitch, its life fade away. He should phone his shrink, its what she said he should do when this happened and he should stop thinking of her as a shrink; she is a doctor he reminds himself and well qualified and he is clearly not well and she is trying to help him. “It happened again” he tells her when she answers.
“And did you engage? she asks,
“No.” he says but the pause that follows shows he is lying and he knows that she knows this.
“Ok.” he confesses. There is another pause but this time it is more like the doctor is thinking.
“Can i ask you to do something?” she says,
“An exercise”, pause, “think of it like an exercise.”
“Go on.”
“Imagine they are real.”
“Ok?” he replies but feeling angry, of course fairies are not real but he wants help, knows that he needs it, this doctor is his lifeline back to reality.
“Would you still kill them if they were real?”
“Well of course not!” he snaps, as though this were a dumb question and for him it is. He tries to explain the biology of it, how for a creature to fly there has to be a certain proportion between body mass and chest cavity size, that these things, these damn hallucinations do not follow known laws of physics. There is another one now, was bound to be, a male, weeping over the dead one. He lifts the coffee cup, ready to crush his hallucination’s skull.

Yesterday his cleaner had mentioned some stains that she could not remove. He’d told her that there had been a bug or two that he had squashed and she had looked at him strangely, said something in Spanish and crossed herself and he had decided that it was probably worth paying out another quid an hour to get a decent cleaner. Should probably report the bitch to immigration too. There had been no bugs.

Now he looks at the boy fairy weeping over his lost love. It looks up at him, sees the mug hovering there and shrugs. It is a shrug that says ‘I have nothing left to live for anyway,’ that says ‘go on then, do it.’ How many has he killed this week? 17? 18? something like that. No, not killed, they’re not real. it is all in his mind.
“There’s another one,” he tells his doctor.
“Listen to it.” she says. Shit is he going to have to find another shrink too? Listen to it?

Then comes the noise, the crash. He has never had his door kicked in before, never been the victim of a home invasion, but there is no mistaking the sound, no misunderstanding what is happening. Brash, violent young voices rage in the hall below him and he hears his old grandfather clock crash to the floor. His first thought is to hide, but where? Under the desk? Ridiculous. In the cupboard? Shit, no. He has never thought about this before, has nothing he can use as a weapon and he cannot fight even if he did. They burst into the room, spitting loud, ugly words. There are three of them, one has a bat. They laugh at his obvious fear and weakness. This will be fun they think, they intend to take their time with him. Then they stop and freeze, staring at him, or rather around him. Terror runs across their faces like water down a window pane and they turn and flee. the bat is dropped and they scramble in panic over each other to get down the stairs and out of the flat.

There is silence again and he sits puzzled beyond explanation, still shaking. Something gentle lands on his shoulder. He turns and looks, it is a fairy and it is smiling at him. He smiles back.
“We were seriously considering giving up on you.” it says.

Picture taken from Terry Jones’ Lady Cottington’s Pressed Fairy Book

Balance your happiness with your sadness

be friends with sadness
enjoy your tears
crying is like laughing but for deep people
crying is like pooing, its only painfull if you don’t do it regularly
i love sad stories, like romeo and whatsherface. somehow sad stories
say more about us
fiction should move us and change us and sad endings affect us more
deeply than happy ones, somehow they are just bigger stories that

when i write, i try to kill as many characters as possible (buggers you
up for the possibilty of a sequel though)
stories are symbols and fictional violence and death symbolise our
own everyday hurts and endings
embrace your sadness, it makes us as human as our happiness does,
maybe more so.
what other animal laughs or cries?
cry as much as you laugh – balance your soul that way

lee hall had this beautiful thing to say about it in the opening of  ‘spoonface steinberg’

Wonders of the Universe

“ooh, look at the stars!” said brian cox as he was led away by the cops for the murder of patrick moore. “ooh!” he said as he tried to explain why. “ooh, i’ve always wanted to do drawings on t’telly,  bollocks to all this CGI stuff!”
“ooh!” he said as two burley coppers beat the living shit out of him.
“kill paddy moore would ya?” they screamed as they battered him.
“use magnificent backdrops would ya?”
“be all pretty and make women interested in astronomy? Eh?”
“fuck you cox!” they screamed as they stamped on him ’til he pooed himself.
“ooh!” said brian cox, “look at the stars.”

wonders of the universe – BBC2 – brilliant stuff – the sky at night is still the sky at night though