Another Victory

And if you want to get with that new shit, get yourself over to anothervictory.blogspot.com. Shit is banging.

SMASHED

The clay dragons have been smashed never to be reformed.

The Golden Age

Fresh for 88, YOU SUCKERS
And I wore logo emblazoned tracksuit bottoms
An Africa medallion bounced with ruckus
While headphones leaked beats hot from
Brooklyn bodegas to a newsagent in the shire
Where racks restrained the only black faces
In a jazzy magazine with no prior
Distribution in such places

Life ain’t nothing but bitches and money
And Treat her like a Prostitute
Were straight lines that cold done me
In. Pop-pop-dem-a-shoot
Silver shields wrapped aired hi-tops
A graffitied jumper cost mum fifty-five pounds
Cracking my neck to kill a cop
Safe rebellion sounds

Just like this. My sister grounded
She doesn’t give a bugger about
Us and left the top off the Head
And Shoulders. I stayed out
Of it, on the bed, music scratching loud
Studying Big Daddy Kane’s spray-on flat-top
And fat gold chains while downstairs were rows
Something about to drop

It’s…A Teenage Love
The movement set me apart
From the weevily push and shove
Of boys thirsty to leave their mark
As undisputed kings of the village
White Nigger, they shouted
Perched, smoking on the edge
Of the bars from which they led
One another on
Think you’re a fucking black man
Stupid rap songs
I ran from the brook to the dam
The other side of the tracks from me
Buzzing, The Hunted Child
My very own ghetto fantasy
Not just a style

The First Time

Could do with some proper coke
Right now, you know what I mean?
And she flashed her jaundiced grate
Like that pov on the school bus.
And I gestured to her Brillo crotch.
In there, I want to do. I have to.
No extra twenty for the other.
No, smiling an apology, shaking.

Still I don’t remember crying,
Her hold, her stroking words,
Or the parlour room décor.
Not even the child’s eye
That watched as I broke
Down into a man.

Fuck all

Of course I've done fuck all on the novel. What novel? Does it even exist? Only in my cunting mind, I suppose.

Instead I find myself addicted to Masterchef and organising my life around it like a middle aged loss. What a complete bender.

Well, that's enough self-flagellation for one day. Although, I'm up for you, dear one reader, to peep me on my blog, slip into your dominatrix avatar and cyber-attach pegs to my knackers and beat my ass with a bluderbuss rammed with anal beads. Go on, I dare you.

Please.

It's an update

I bought a new notebook the other day. It has a cartoon Oscar Wilde on the front. I think that it's bound to inspire me to further my creative endeavours. So, watch this space.

So far it's not had the desired effect.

The most creatively inspiring moment of the week came while watching a programme about 'extreme foods' on Sky Three. Check this footage of a man eating 'Baloot', a Filipino delicacy which consists of a hard boiled egg with a chick in it. It was fucking disgusting.

YUM YUM

I'm thinking of serving these up at my first book launch in 2019, to be held in the John Hampden Hall in my home village. And yes, the brass band will be playing.

Nothing new

Been scratching my sack recently,
really has been itchy.
Wrapped it up in fluffy cotton wool last night
and dabbed on some TCP.
Feels a lot better today.
But it did strip off a few pubes,
leaving me with blondies.
Once my man hair grows back I'll be all over this,
like fat man with big hands picking
flowers.
Until then, dear reader, forgive me.
I'm back to my lame old self.

A polymath with better parts

I've started the dreaded poetry component of my course. Years of hip-hop is bound to help out. Take this classic rhyme by AIDS victim Eazy-E,
'Ready to fuck until my dick is raw,
The motherfucking devil's son-in-law'
All the more poignant since the man's demise.

I think I'm going to go out all gangsta for the poetry assignment. I'm toying with the title 'Pussy Walls' as an ode to the 2-Live Crew.

Anyway, I went along to the poetry tutorial on Saturday. Held at Brighton Uni, it was all a bit confusing for me. All this stuff about rhyme and iambs and metre had me well confused. But it was a joy to listen to others on the course. My very favourite was some old dear with a bird's neck and an ice-cream hair-do who was compelled to comment or puff, or sigh, or laugh whenever anybody said something. The very best bit was when she asked the tutor what she thought about Stephen Fry's book on writing poetry. The tutor laughed and said that she hated it, 'who was he, this pompous fool, to tell us about poetry?' Old whippy head replied, 'Ha ha (seriously, she said 'ha ha', it wasn't a laugh), I thought you might say that,' before leaning back into her chair and saying wistfully, 'he is indeed a polymath with better parts.' If nothing else, the course has been worth it for that single comment. I wanted to get up on my chair and applaud. 'Polymath with better parts,' my fucking arse.

It was a good day though. Of course, it contributed little to the completion of the novel. But I did write a poem. Bit shit, only spent ten minutes on it, but thought I'd shove it up here anyway, right up here!

The Book of Massage Parlours

It was in a briefcase compartment
behind the Black and Red diary.
One of those hand-sized notebooks
Jerry sold for thirty-five pence.
Well travelled, its pages curled
and ink thumbed.
Chichester, Runcorn, Barrow-in-Furness,
St Ives, Felixstowe and Halifax.
Each entry detailed the décor, the
welcome, refreshments.
Videos playing?
Were the menus laminated?
Capitals and exclamation marks –
vulgarities as she saw them –
populated the dense one-entry pages.
Nine out of ten for French in Whitby
and a Birmingham half-and-half
with a squared ten.

Feeling good, Louis

I got the mark back for a short story I wrote for my course. It was a great mark. I was incredibly chuffed. I rode back from work blasting some tunes fizzing with excitement. It was particularly inspiring as the characters will hopefully figure in the novel. A good moment.
But apart from that, no further work accomplished. I ate an Indian. I don't want this blog to turn into an account of the minutae of my life - eats, shits, sleeps - but I'm compelled to talk about it. All was good except for the main course. I swear that the 'curry' was made with Baileys. I ain't kidding. Fucking Baileys. What's next? Fucking Cinzano bhajis. What a load of poop.
I blame the curry. If I hadn't had the Bailey's dish, I would have no doubt been inspired to complete a full first draft. Here's hoping there'll be no culinary disaster putting me off my stride this evening.

Are you ready to juice?

Nothing accomplished last night. More leftovers were consumed. I played New Super Mario Bros badly - 'fuck, fuck, fuck' - and watched some cookery programmes. Before going to bed I watched Bid TV and was transfixed by a delightful Tamzanite ring. The presenters were full of double entendres with regard to the ring - 'ring, not the one on your finger - ahahahaha.'
This morning I fed Artie his porridge while watching an infomercial. It was about the Jack LaLane Juicer. I must admit that I've seen this one about a hundred times. It's a classic of the genre. As for a favourite line, I'm torn between the narrator saying, 'Jack LaLane - he's 90!' and the one where his 'lovely' wife - Elaine LaLane - says to him 'But you don't drink milk,' and he responds, 'You're right! I'm not a suckling calf!' I've included a link to the advert. Sadly it's abridged. If you want the full juicing experience, I implore you to check out the shopping channels from about 2 in the morning until 8. It's playing on my mind. I feel the need to juice. I want 'legendary energy'.

Juice, Juice, Juice!

Oh! Update on the novel. I read a page of a book for research. It was useless though. Maybe later...

Paradise Lost

Last night I drove home listening to the poetry CD that Adele had bought me for Christmas. Found myself skipping past the Robert Burns, thanks to the incomprehensible reader, like Rab C Nesbitt on lighter fuel, utter rubbish. Anyway, ended up listening to excerpts from Milton's Paradise Lost delivered in the style of a spirited vicar. Couldn't make much sense of it. However, felt inspired to plough on with my course and dive into the poetry component when I got home.

Didn't quite go according to plan. Ended up tidying the kitchen and eating some of yesterday's pie. And then when Adele went to bed, I thought, right - this is it! - let's get in to it, get the creative juices flowing. Yeah, right.

Ended up watching the cheesy horror film, Paradise Lost. Set in Brazil, it's Hostel-lite without the retch-factor. Given that there was a quote on the cover from trash horror mag Gorezone saying that it was the best horror film of 2007, I had high hopes. But it was pretty average. The only highlights being the great locations and the kid from Grange Hill playing the same mockney plum he did in 'Go'. Oh, and Angel from Home & Away was in it. Not sure that my old friend Poofy Parsons would have screamed 'Fucking Ugly Bitch!' at the television, as he did whenever she popped up on the screen in Home & Away.

In short, the update is that I once again achieved fuck all and wrote nothing, preferring to eat leftovers and watch a mediocre horror movie. Maybe it's germinating in the back of mind ready to fly out later on today.

Got the blug

Welcome to the first entry in my soon to be out-of-date blog.

A friend of mine recently asked me whether I had ever thought about writing a blog. I said, 'Yes I have, but I don't want to turn into a bell-end waving tosspot.' But then it dawned on me, I'd been a bell-end waving tosspot since I proclaimed that I wanted to be a writer. How could I be more annoying? The answer was simple: blog, I must blog. So here I am, waffling about nothing and apologising for it at the same time. Making light of something profound in order to stem the tears when failure clips its gnashers to my piles. There I go again. You must forgive me, my one sweet reader. Perhaps you came across the site searching for fantasy pottery. Again, you must forgive me, there's little of that here.

In a bored moment at work, I thought I would blog to record my attempt at becoming a writer. My ambition for this year is to work my nut-sack to shreds and finally - finally! - get a first draft of 'the' novel done. So come join me as I charge forward.

'I believe that children are the future'