That squib with the hair products is regional manager now. And he needs me to sharpen up.
He was born eighteen months after I was. And the cast of the film of his life is small. But their roles are rigid.
The soundtrack is jangy-jangy la-la shit-foam. And there is little scope for DVD extras.


For the last nine years I've kept a daily diary of my feelings. Here it is:

Nothing yet.


Obviously it's quite small so I can take it with me everywhere. I don't go everywhere, though, ever. Usually I go here and there and somewhere else and the overall effect equals going nowhere fast.
Some people I know are going places. They tell me a monkey could do my job. I tell them a monkey does do my job. And he's my boss. And he uses his pointy Italian shoes to highlight my errors.


Tarpaulin Sky are accepting submissions and I submitted a post-something bleaklarious joke/poem about a man who is held down by unknown hands whilst a caterpillar full of doom crawls up his arse and afterwards he finds living a normal life slightly difficult. This actually happened to me in a dream, [actually happened to me in a dream, know what I mean? Deeeep...] and it lent the following day an enjoyable heaviness, like being pregnant with a balloon full of black sick.
Soon I'll be able to show you two things I wrote for a niche online publication for specialists and enthusiasts of esoteric vigorous pursuits not suitable for everyone. In the meantime thanks for reading and do you like owls? Do you like Elvis? Then I'll meet you at the Hootbreak Hotel! Fuck!
[I was going to put in a picture of Owlvis, but I can't find the right one. It seems that just like The King, there are several.]

Or Ignore It

I went south on a train recently. I wanted to see the sun. I hear it's nice. I spotted it after the train left Stoke. It was in the sky, doing what I believe is called "shining down". The journey was from then on very agreeable, except that every train station displayed pictures of Iggy Pop, selling insurance against a purple background, everywhere. And they made me wish for a national insurance policy that prevents your icons appearing on TV and on poster and in paper to sell you something. It could be called The National Whip-Round For Pioneers, or something snappier, and nobody would object, because we can now use The Iggies as an example of the preventable horrors.
Written next to his face in yellow is a slogan, different depending on the poster. I've forgotten what they are and am unwilling to look them up. But I was disappointed to not see one that'd been corrected with things he actually said in a good year, like 1977. I'm pretty sure most Iggy fans don't own cans of spray paint. I don't but it might be worth getting one to write the following next to his face:

I'm not sorry I was ill. Everyone gets ill sometimes and I was ill one evening and as I felt I was going to vomit anyway I thought I may as well do it with some style.

What sounds to you like a big load of trashy old noise is in fact the brilliant music of a genius...myself.

Have you ever felt like that? When you just couldn't feel anything and you didn't want to either?

I feel very strongly about what I do...and it's not all that good.

What did Christ really do? He hung out with hard-drinking fishermen.

What do we do with a life of work? Face it in the morning.

We Are Very Happy

If it was puzzling you, we are sorry. It wasn't meant to go on so long. It was meant to display courtesy, sympathy and taste. Like in the song. We didn't want to get it all over your t-shirt. But if you're going to insist on parading it around, the least you could is shut up about it.


While I wake up there's a voice in my head speaking a language I don't understand. Every morning so far this year it has said the same thing. It wants me to learn what it is saying and say it. It knows my life would be pineapples and thunder if I could say this thing. Then I wake up fully and it goes away.

On the news today underneath a picture of a grey-haired man feeding a dog were the words EXAM CHEATING.