Almost 3 years after the suicide of Johnny Gloves whilst undertaking the creation for his last performance ('Statue Of Liberty', 2010) the first graduates from the art school set up in his name have now entered the galleries and public spaces of the art world. The money from his estate goes to fund this small university located just outside of Glasgow, teaching only one programme that specialises in the new Death Aesthetic movement that has been making waves on both sides of the pond (that's slang for the Atlantic Ocean for those readers not hip), with a spate of controversy and horseplay that seems to have infected every concept on the scene. I went to the university to find out more.
"This new Death Aesthetic you keep talking about doesn't exist, what we're doing is a logical extension of post-modernism. There's nothing else besides post-modernism, I'm sick of hearing people go on about the next big idea."
"But for the sake of the argument that post-modernism didn't exist...where would you put the graduates from this university, how would you class them."
"Classifications are for art historians. At the Gloves University we encourage each of our students to follow their individual paths in life." says the head tutor, Brandon Minnegan. I roll my eyes.
"Cut the BS Minnegan. You know as well as I do that your university only selects the most artistic students from around the country. What in god's name are you doing here?"
"Mind your own business!" he snarls, clearing all the papers off his desk in one dramatic sweep of his powerful arm. I nodded. Time to talk to some of the students, looks as if this pencil neck had finally snapped.
The studio spaces are large and dark, comforting almost. There is no work on the walls or in progress, no desks or lockers. Students in this studio are simply contemplating death. I go up to the nearest one and give him a shake.
"Is what you're doing art?" I demand.
"Dude...death is art...art is life. Sex is just escape from death. You ever think of that?"
"Of course I have. You ever think that there's more to life than sitting around in the dark, playing with yourself?"
"You just don't understand."
"You're right. I don't give a shit. But tell me this hot shot, you think it's clever that people buy art when they could donate that money to charity?"
"My work is about the human condition, it transcends the immediate now and goes onto-" he mumbles. I spit on the floor and walk out in disgust. Of course he's right. I was just in a bad mood. I sat outside for a while, admiring distant roads running perpendicular to myself. What was it exactly that drove Charles Saatchi to try and murder his wife in cold blood out in public? Were the deaths of Pollock, Miro, Freud, Giotto and many more the constantly chiming bell of mortality in which to remind us that those brave creative souls were the most at risk of dying? I shook my head slowly.
I bumped into a course tutor as I crept through the halls, catching him unaware as he photographed himself standing next to the window.
"Do you think this Death Aesthetic is somehow related to western guilt over the nuclear bombing of Japan?"
"We're forgetting a whole generation gilded in an atomic fire, with the baby boomers carrying on that self-flagellation through world war two re-enactments which further goes on to the next generation. Contemporary art has finally reached a point where it can say 'Look, I'm okay with it.' I like to think."
"So if Guernica marks the start of this era would you say the work of David Shrigley or Norman McLewan marks the end of it?"
"Precisely." he says. I disappear into the shadows once again to ponder his reponse. Precisely? What was precise about anything? I had to see this Death Aesthetic in the flesh. Or at least in the gallery.
I had to travel almost four hours down to Manchester to see for myself. The work was in situ at the Whitworth Art Gallery, which is to be closed for a year whilst refurbishments take place along it's outerments. The exhibition is to take place inside the shut gallery, only observable by those on a high class invitations only list. The exhibition, titled 'Grave', is a macabre affair. The death stench has been specially imported throughout the gallery with the opened coffins of the deceased from the last one hundred years, each casket containing an individual willing to donate their body to art yet not having the correct platform until now. There are no artists names, explanations or even a little booklet I could take away in my bag and show people later. I walked alone through the gallery observing the various work, letting it enter my pores, etch itself into my brain like a laser. Time lapse videos of funerals, mummified primates, rooms all velvet black and sound proof, an ongoing performance piece where I lay in a bed from a retirement home and stared at a clock, a set of jars each containing organs arranged into the shape where they would lay in the body and attached to each other through glass tubes filled with a murky gas, the cast faces of victims from a gas attack, furniture made from upcycled coffins, an audio recording of several different graveyards at midnight played at once and so on. Death pervades all. There was a room at the end to sit in quiet contemplation of death. Though it appeared to me as though there was such a focus on the after effect of death and not much in the act of dying. Death itself could only be recognized by the living, whilst dying was a private affair. Had the children of Johnny Gloves fudged it? The art world was in uproar when he kicked the bucket, and though there were some tasteful pieces in the gallery I couldn't help but feel there was a certain kind of tasteful Tim Burton minimalist Baroque theme running throughout. What about the anti-goths, dressed in yellow? What about the culture of the death tribes of the old world? What about the exploration of the afterlife as seen in the film 'Flatliners'? Of course, this was but the first in what I imagine to be a series of events focusing on the New Death Aesthetic. It's proponents said it was to celebrate the end, it's critics called it a hodge-podge of teenage angst and necrophobia. Were the artists scared of death? Or did they embrace God as their loving saviour in this life and the next, praise the Lord Jesus Christ and the Holy Spirit? I didn't know. As I picked the grave dirt from my hair later I couldn't help but think about my own death, yet I couldn't imagine it. Maybe that was the crux of the problem. I was an invincible human being living in a purgatory of half dreams. I needed to probe the inner palace of my skull shape. I needed to find the edge of civilization and wilderness. I needed to go to America.
27.8.13
26.8.13
Legalisation
In front of us were row after row of cannabis plant lit by yellow lights, casting harsh shadows onto the concrete floor. We are underground. Alvin Theodore turns to me and wipes at his brown moustache.
"What do you think?" he says, voice wavering in excitement. I turn back to the 'sea of green' and breathe in.
"Smells like...food."
"That's the trichomes." he utters before leading me through a gap in the field. Alvin Theodore is a business man, I could tell by his cheap suit and the way the skin sat on his face, like an ultra-real mask, all deep-pored and hairy up the nose. He looked like a wax work animated wet. We enter another room, this one contains seedlings on three rows of shelves. Botanists walk through the columns, administering a liquid vitamin solution into the growth matter.
"When they bred dogs for a certain kind of temperament, they noticed some physical features were shared with behaviour, like if a dog was good with people it might have had floppy ears. Or a curled tail. That kind of thing. With these plants we aren't really looking for a psychological behaviour but physical traits. But what if the exterior form is intrinsically linked in some way to the interior?"
"So what you're saying is that plants have a personality, like big leaves means...this plant is good to be around? Like...this plant is fucking sound."
"More or less. It took them about fifty years to breed a little terrier from a true dog, call it forty generations huh? Think how many generations you can have with plants. They reach reproductive maturity much earlier and can have potentially hundreds of children. Not only that, we can clone them. I think this is why we've seen such a significant increase in THC levels over the last fifty years or so. If you look at the buds we have now compared to your grandpa's weed, ours looks a lot more...Lovecraftian." he says, climbing a staircase. We're in his office, decorated in formica and residue. He makes a pot of coffee.
"Tell me about your cannabinols. Would you say what you have been growing was 'kush'? Or more similar to the variety of super skunk flooding the country from Amsterdam." I enquire nonchalantly, accepting the cup from Alvin.
"I'm running a business model that fits the high class stoner, providing the highest quality product on the market. I have a degree in Evolution from Oxford, I've travelled to the states to see how they do it. Recreational cannabis is going to be a huge cash crop, bigger than...wheat."
"Wheat?"
"Celiac's on the increase. Why not replace wheat with weed?" he said. I nodded encouragingly. I always enjoyed meeting a person willing to maximise their concept to it's fullest potential. It wasn't just a product with a single purpose, it was a multi-faceted money spinner that could enter various revenue streams. Food, clothes, medicine, building material, the potential was endless.
"It comes down to the waste product. Think about wood pulp, animal fats, plastic chips. We recycle all of these in pretty much everything, but we're going to have such an excess in marijuana related waste matter we can have weed in everything."
I left the meeting feeling puzzled. Was drugs okay now? I visited a juice bar to find out. Hundreds of these have popped up over the country, not selling alcohol but various juices that simply tasted nice. I ordered a virgin cranberry mojito and sat outside, digging the vibelicious music pouring out of the woofers, waiting to talk to someone. It didn't take long for a woman to ask me for a light. I passed her a box of matches I'd kept for such an occasion and watched her quietly, trying to smell her from across the table. I introduced myself and asked why she was smoking cannabis.
"It feels good, you know? I like it. Do you smoke?" she says, offering me the glass pipe stuffed with a well cornered bowl of Norwegian Haze. I breathe in the thick smoke and shut my eyes. I quoted Descartes: "I think, therefore I am."
We then get into a conversation about the fancy drinks that they had at the bar before I moved onto a more complex conversation.
"Why do you take drugs? Do you have no control over your life?"
"What do you mean?"
"Does your need to escape reality have anything to do with problems you experienced as a child?"
"Well, not really. I mean, I had a good childhood."
"I suppose you're imaginative?"
"Yes."
"Imagination is a defence mechanism for those that struggle with their own ego."
"That's ridiculous." she says, laughing.
"Let me tell you about a man who imagined the whole world was an orange. He tried to peel the whole world until they trapped him in a dungeon. Now was that because he was on drugs or was it all in his imagination?"
"I'm going inside." she says, leaving me alone. I think about the man who had tried to peel the world. What would happen if he had been successful? I look up and down the street, thankful for small favours. I think back on my experiences so far, still undecided if smoking weed was a morally safe decision. I needed to try for myself by visiting the Institute of Scientific Research in Durham.
I am strapped onto a bed, scientists move around me, though I'm unable to see them properly as a bright light shines overhead. There's so many electrodes attached to my scalp it looks like an orange plastic ponytail, my thoughts being played back to me as a wavering sine tone. A doctor administers 100 milligrams of pure cannabis via eye drops.
"Blink please." he says. I can feel the liquid drip down my temples.
"How long will it take for the weed to activate in my system?"
"Approximately four minutes." he says. I can feel hands touching at my arm and the sting of a needle.
"What are you doing?"
"Administering a saline drip in case you lose consciousness. Try to relax." says the doctor. I wait, watching the light. After a few minutes I mention I don't feel anything, so more eye drops are administered to me. There is somebody talking in the background, I think I recognise the voice.
"Who else is in the room?" I ask. There isn't a response for a while and I can't move my head.
"Myself and the nurse." says the doctor eventually.
"I think I am beginning to feel the...eye drops having an effect."
"How do you feel? Speak clearly into the microphone." he says, I can feel the foam top brushing against my lips.
"I am beginning to feel like Bob Marley." I say.
"Do you have the munchies?" he asks.
"Yes...yes, I think I can feel an increase in appetite. And a dry mouth, is that normal?" I ask. The doctor laughs.
"Just try to relax, we are moving onto the next stage of the procedure." he says.
"Okay." I say. The bed begins to tilt so I can see the whole room. In front of me are about fifty snakes inside a glass box.
"What are they there for?" I ask.
"This is an experiment." says the doctor, walking forward and smashing the box with a baseball bat before running out of the room.
"What do you think?" he says, voice wavering in excitement. I turn back to the 'sea of green' and breathe in.
"Smells like...food."
"That's the trichomes." he utters before leading me through a gap in the field. Alvin Theodore is a business man, I could tell by his cheap suit and the way the skin sat on his face, like an ultra-real mask, all deep-pored and hairy up the nose. He looked like a wax work animated wet. We enter another room, this one contains seedlings on three rows of shelves. Botanists walk through the columns, administering a liquid vitamin solution into the growth matter.
"When they bred dogs for a certain kind of temperament, they noticed some physical features were shared with behaviour, like if a dog was good with people it might have had floppy ears. Or a curled tail. That kind of thing. With these plants we aren't really looking for a psychological behaviour but physical traits. But what if the exterior form is intrinsically linked in some way to the interior?"
"So what you're saying is that plants have a personality, like big leaves means...this plant is good to be around? Like...this plant is fucking sound."
"More or less. It took them about fifty years to breed a little terrier from a true dog, call it forty generations huh? Think how many generations you can have with plants. They reach reproductive maturity much earlier and can have potentially hundreds of children. Not only that, we can clone them. I think this is why we've seen such a significant increase in THC levels over the last fifty years or so. If you look at the buds we have now compared to your grandpa's weed, ours looks a lot more...Lovecraftian." he says, climbing a staircase. We're in his office, decorated in formica and residue. He makes a pot of coffee.
"Tell me about your cannabinols. Would you say what you have been growing was 'kush'? Or more similar to the variety of super skunk flooding the country from Amsterdam." I enquire nonchalantly, accepting the cup from Alvin.
"I'm running a business model that fits the high class stoner, providing the highest quality product on the market. I have a degree in Evolution from Oxford, I've travelled to the states to see how they do it. Recreational cannabis is going to be a huge cash crop, bigger than...wheat."
"Wheat?"
"Celiac's on the increase. Why not replace wheat with weed?" he said. I nodded encouragingly. I always enjoyed meeting a person willing to maximise their concept to it's fullest potential. It wasn't just a product with a single purpose, it was a multi-faceted money spinner that could enter various revenue streams. Food, clothes, medicine, building material, the potential was endless.
"It comes down to the waste product. Think about wood pulp, animal fats, plastic chips. We recycle all of these in pretty much everything, but we're going to have such an excess in marijuana related waste matter we can have weed in everything."
I left the meeting feeling puzzled. Was drugs okay now? I visited a juice bar to find out. Hundreds of these have popped up over the country, not selling alcohol but various juices that simply tasted nice. I ordered a virgin cranberry mojito and sat outside, digging the vibelicious music pouring out of the woofers, waiting to talk to someone. It didn't take long for a woman to ask me for a light. I passed her a box of matches I'd kept for such an occasion and watched her quietly, trying to smell her from across the table. I introduced myself and asked why she was smoking cannabis.
"It feels good, you know? I like it. Do you smoke?" she says, offering me the glass pipe stuffed with a well cornered bowl of Norwegian Haze. I breathe in the thick smoke and shut my eyes. I quoted Descartes: "I think, therefore I am."
We then get into a conversation about the fancy drinks that they had at the bar before I moved onto a more complex conversation.
"Why do you take drugs? Do you have no control over your life?"
"What do you mean?"
"Does your need to escape reality have anything to do with problems you experienced as a child?"
"Well, not really. I mean, I had a good childhood."
"I suppose you're imaginative?"
"Yes."
"Imagination is a defence mechanism for those that struggle with their own ego."
"That's ridiculous." she says, laughing.
"Let me tell you about a man who imagined the whole world was an orange. He tried to peel the whole world until they trapped him in a dungeon. Now was that because he was on drugs or was it all in his imagination?"
"I'm going inside." she says, leaving me alone. I think about the man who had tried to peel the world. What would happen if he had been successful? I look up and down the street, thankful for small favours. I think back on my experiences so far, still undecided if smoking weed was a morally safe decision. I needed to try for myself by visiting the Institute of Scientific Research in Durham.
I am strapped onto a bed, scientists move around me, though I'm unable to see them properly as a bright light shines overhead. There's so many electrodes attached to my scalp it looks like an orange plastic ponytail, my thoughts being played back to me as a wavering sine tone. A doctor administers 100 milligrams of pure cannabis via eye drops.
"Blink please." he says. I can feel the liquid drip down my temples.
"How long will it take for the weed to activate in my system?"
"Approximately four minutes." he says. I can feel hands touching at my arm and the sting of a needle.
"What are you doing?"
"Administering a saline drip in case you lose consciousness. Try to relax." says the doctor. I wait, watching the light. After a few minutes I mention I don't feel anything, so more eye drops are administered to me. There is somebody talking in the background, I think I recognise the voice.
"Who else is in the room?" I ask. There isn't a response for a while and I can't move my head.
"Myself and the nurse." says the doctor eventually.
"I think I am beginning to feel the...eye drops having an effect."
"How do you feel? Speak clearly into the microphone." he says, I can feel the foam top brushing against my lips.
"I am beginning to feel like Bob Marley." I say.
"Do you have the munchies?" he asks.
"Yes...yes, I think I can feel an increase in appetite. And a dry mouth, is that normal?" I ask. The doctor laughs.
"Just try to relax, we are moving onto the next stage of the procedure." he says.
"Okay." I say. The bed begins to tilt so I can see the whole room. In front of me are about fifty snakes inside a glass box.
"What are they there for?" I ask.
"This is an experiment." says the doctor, walking forward and smashing the box with a baseball bat before running out of the room.
22.8.13
E-cig review
Like many other smokers I can't help but begin to feel the adverse effects smoking has had to my health. I struggle to run up the stairs, I cough in the morning, I sometimes don't like it and generally wonder what I'm trying to achieve in life. After trying to quit a handful of times with various methods in the style of Wile E. Coyote, I have decided that smoking is going to be a lifelong habit for me. But what if I could smoke a robot? Or maybe look like I was from the future? All of this could be achieved through smoking. But not in the sense of burning plants, but electricity and liquid. Smoking for the new millennium has arrived with the advent of electronic cigarette machines, or e-cigs for short.
The process of smoke delivery is quite simple. A lithium ion battery cylinder is attached to a short cartomiser in which a mixture of Propylene Glycol and flavouring is ignited through a heated lattice, vaporising the e-liquid and delivering a lungful of cloud gently into the body. This vapour is itself made up of hydrogen, oxygen and nicotine, a much more benign substance than the old fashioned cigarette or cigar. It dissipates quickly in the air and remains odourless, allowing e-smokers to puff away happily anywhere in the world. Now that sciencey bit is out of the way I'll get on with the reviews! I have chosen a collection of starter kits from a variety of suppliers and spent the afternoon trying them out.
JACVAPOUR V1P PCC STARTER KIT
This e-cig is a handy little device. It's just a little bigger than your average cigarette and when you puff away it feels like a genuine smoke! The end of mine has a blue LED in it, which is cool. Makes me feel like Harrison Ford in Blade Runner. I often smoke my V1P quite happily at work, at home or relaxing by the sea. The 'juice' or PPG liquid is quite tasty. I got watermelon, bubblegum and mocha flavour. I can mix and match the various liquid in the style of a kind of alchemist. This is more steam-punk than cyber-punk! I have tested this kit to great extent and highly recommend it to the casual e-smoker.
E-LITES E-PRO 4 E-CIGARETTE KIT
What more can I say, this is a fantastic starter kit. It comes with a USB charger, not one but two battery packs, 32MB of disk space and a special black cloth to clean your e-cig. Sadly the flavours I received turned out blank, so taking a hit was like washing my mouth with diluted milk. Still, this e-cig really packs a punch! It can deliver over 23mg of smoke in each puff, making this little thing into seeming like something better than it first appeared! I rate this kit 3/5.
APOLLO SMART LITES 4400 ELECTRO-CIG KIT
The 4400 is the ultimate in vapour tech, infusing each bauble of liquid with a tiny hint of flavour amongst the great lungfuls of black vapour. I tried making a cocaine tincture by dissolving 2g of the white stuff in a VG based liquid over a two day period. This thing was like smoking crack, and quickly ruined the small bauble that came with the kit. Still, I highly rate this experience.
NU-SMOKE 60/40: THE REVENGE STARTER KIT
Nu-smoke 60/40: The Revenge starter kit is a surprisingly unsatisfying piece of mechanical engineering. American boffins have been tinkering away at this new type of e-cig for the last few years, creating an energy efficient vape that delivers both satisfying hits and versatility. Customisation is key in the 60/40, with different cases coming with the kit as if they were important. It comes with several different mouth pieces, batteries and half a metre of ethernet cable, although I'm unsure why. I smoked this e-cig underwater whilst searching for scrap metal and found it held up, though didn't work after a major car accident. A poor show by the Nu-smoke team, though shows great promise. Might be worth purchasing this one for the ipadness of early adoption.
LIBERTY FLIGHT LITE XP PRO KIT
What more can I say, this is a fantastic starter kit. I took a toke of this sweet smoke and thought I had reached Nirvana. I imagined the great Ganesh covered from head to toe in the finest golden finery, his red skin seeming to glow from within like the underside of a finger covering the sun. With one tusk broken and the other proud, he speaks to me in Hindi.
"I don't understand." I say. The vision dissipates. I am alone.
I give this starter kit 5/5.
The process of smoke delivery is quite simple. A lithium ion battery cylinder is attached to a short cartomiser in which a mixture of Propylene Glycol and flavouring is ignited through a heated lattice, vaporising the e-liquid and delivering a lungful of cloud gently into the body. This vapour is itself made up of hydrogen, oxygen and nicotine, a much more benign substance than the old fashioned cigarette or cigar. It dissipates quickly in the air and remains odourless, allowing e-smokers to puff away happily anywhere in the world. Now that sciencey bit is out of the way I'll get on with the reviews! I have chosen a collection of starter kits from a variety of suppliers and spent the afternoon trying them out.
JACVAPOUR V1P PCC STARTER KIT
This e-cig is a handy little device. It's just a little bigger than your average cigarette and when you puff away it feels like a genuine smoke! The end of mine has a blue LED in it, which is cool. Makes me feel like Harrison Ford in Blade Runner. I often smoke my V1P quite happily at work, at home or relaxing by the sea. The 'juice' or PPG liquid is quite tasty. I got watermelon, bubblegum and mocha flavour. I can mix and match the various liquid in the style of a kind of alchemist. This is more steam-punk than cyber-punk! I have tested this kit to great extent and highly recommend it to the casual e-smoker.
E-LITES E-PRO 4 E-CIGARETTE KIT
What more can I say, this is a fantastic starter kit. It comes with a USB charger, not one but two battery packs, 32MB of disk space and a special black cloth to clean your e-cig. Sadly the flavours I received turned out blank, so taking a hit was like washing my mouth with diluted milk. Still, this e-cig really packs a punch! It can deliver over 23mg of smoke in each puff, making this little thing into seeming like something better than it first appeared! I rate this kit 3/5.
APOLLO SMART LITES 4400 ELECTRO-CIG KIT
The 4400 is the ultimate in vapour tech, infusing each bauble of liquid with a tiny hint of flavour amongst the great lungfuls of black vapour. I tried making a cocaine tincture by dissolving 2g of the white stuff in a VG based liquid over a two day period. This thing was like smoking crack, and quickly ruined the small bauble that came with the kit. Still, I highly rate this experience.
NU-SMOKE 60/40: THE REVENGE STARTER KIT
Nu-smoke 60/40: The Revenge starter kit is a surprisingly unsatisfying piece of mechanical engineering. American boffins have been tinkering away at this new type of e-cig for the last few years, creating an energy efficient vape that delivers both satisfying hits and versatility. Customisation is key in the 60/40, with different cases coming with the kit as if they were important. It comes with several different mouth pieces, batteries and half a metre of ethernet cable, although I'm unsure why. I smoked this e-cig underwater whilst searching for scrap metal and found it held up, though didn't work after a major car accident. A poor show by the Nu-smoke team, though shows great promise. Might be worth purchasing this one for the ipadness of early adoption.
LIBERTY FLIGHT LITE XP PRO KIT
What more can I say, this is a fantastic starter kit. I took a toke of this sweet smoke and thought I had reached Nirvana. I imagined the great Ganesh covered from head to toe in the finest golden finery, his red skin seeming to glow from within like the underside of a finger covering the sun. With one tusk broken and the other proud, he speaks to me in Hindi.
"I don't understand." I say. The vision dissipates. I am alone.
I give this starter kit 5/5.
21.8.13
Classical Music In Public
Women wearing yellow sit beneath the trees, they call out.
"Let me see your heart, show me your heart."
I take off my jacket and unbutton my shirt.
"Let us see it. We need to taste it. We see it."
"It is burning."
I pull at my sternum with my fingers, pulling apart the skin and bubbles of yellow fat.
"Show me your heart."
I unclick the ribs and part the lungs.
"I can see it. Your heart. Your heart."
"It is burning."
I reveal my heart, like the blooded head of an unborn, it moves inside of me, pumping the blood into my brain that is telling it to beat.
"Oh, your heart. Magnified in a lens made from the air, refracted in my mind. It is your heart and I can see it, burning. A burning heart pumping molten blood."
I reach inside my chest and pull out my heart slowly, being careful not to tear it from my body. I am holding it in my hands and I part the ventricles like the petals of a flower.
"This is my heart."
"Show me your heart."
A woman walks over to me and begins to caress is gently with her hands. It flutters like a bird. She bends down and begins to kiss it, licking at the thing which beats. She whispers something to it before handing it me back. I begin to sing in operatic fashion:
"I am but a man, holding out his heart. A clock that ticks. This is my heart.
See my heart.
It is burning."
A host of flies begin to swarm around the greying thing and I bow one knee, offering it up. She accepts and takes a bite.
"Let me see your heart, show me your heart."
I take off my jacket and unbutton my shirt.
"Let us see it. We need to taste it. We see it."
"It is burning."
I pull at my sternum with my fingers, pulling apart the skin and bubbles of yellow fat.
"Show me your heart."
I unclick the ribs and part the lungs.
"I can see it. Your heart. Your heart."
"It is burning."
I reveal my heart, like the blooded head of an unborn, it moves inside of me, pumping the blood into my brain that is telling it to beat.
"Oh, your heart. Magnified in a lens made from the air, refracted in my mind. It is your heart and I can see it, burning. A burning heart pumping molten blood."
I reach inside my chest and pull out my heart slowly, being careful not to tear it from my body. I am holding it in my hands and I part the ventricles like the petals of a flower.
"This is my heart."
"Show me your heart."
A woman walks over to me and begins to caress is gently with her hands. It flutters like a bird. She bends down and begins to kiss it, licking at the thing which beats. She whispers something to it before handing it me back. I begin to sing in operatic fashion:
"I am but a man, holding out his heart. A clock that ticks. This is my heart.
See my heart.
It is burning."
A host of flies begin to swarm around the greying thing and I bow one knee, offering it up. She accepts and takes a bite.
20.8.13
And A Bucket Of Vindaloo
I sat in the cafe by the train station, examining the promotional art materials on the walls, designs including ingredients, the Earth (as planet), smiling faces and differently sized serif fonts for ease of reading. My view was pointed towards the door, the cafe at a one hundred and ten degree angle to my right, a series of mirrored tiles (13*8) at a seventy degree angle to my left. The coffee was beginning to cool, it had painted the back of my mouth bitter, ran the night spit out from beneath my gums. I hadn't brushed my teeth for six days and could taste it. I checked my phone for a moment, played a bit of Candy Crush Saga and felt with my extra sense the person I was about to meet. I looked up and saw the back of the head of the most average man in England. I couldn't see his face but I could guess. An average sized mouth beneath an average looking nose flanked by a pair of average eyes, brown or possibly blue. He turned and I waved at him. After we had introduced ourselves he went to get a coffee whilst I considered him.
Michael Smith is married and has children. He is 5'9" and weighs just a little more than me. His IQ is 100. He earns £26,000 a year, doing averagely at his average job. His political views land him somewhere between the two main partys, he lives a lifestyle that is filled with activities but are also boring. His shelves are filled with best-selling books and the walls covered in prints of famous art or photographs. He has bought a cup of tea with half a sugar in.
"So, you're the most average man in England?" I ask him. He laughs.
"Almost. I have a thirty nine inch chest and lost one of my teeth in an accident, making me have a slight deviation from perfect average, which in itself is remarkable enough to make that person unaverage."
"What is it you do?"
"I am hired by think tanks to give my opinions on things. Politics, fashion, food, philosophy, current events, that kind of thing."
"For what purpose?"
"I am almost the most average man in England, so they think that the way I see the world is how it should be. Or at least a good marker as to how another individual deviates from the quo."
"Some would call you a Zeit Mensch, what do you think about this?"
"It's true. I am a man of the time. I know what happens in an average life, not to mention life expectancy, so my life has no surprises in store. There is a certain comfort in the fact that nothing remarkably bad will happen to me, combined with the grief that nothing exciting will either." he says, looking down at his tea. I am stunned. Even his outlook on life is entirely average. It is as if nature has provided a standard of which everything else can be measured against, like a one kilogram platinum cylinder at the Bureau International des Poids et Mesures.
"Tell me what you think about life in pre-Industrial Japan, with an emphasis on the social ramifications of mechanising the workforce contrasted with that of the history of agriculture and the 2014 World Cup tournament."
"What was that about the World Cup?"
"You tell me." I say. Questions like that were verbal Thematic Apperception Tests, I had invented a series of them though they had yet to be tested.
"Well it's football isn't it? Football. Footy."
"Footy footy footy, kick that ball in the back of the net."
"Rub the man's leg after he fell over."
"Ooh, ah, Cantona, your sister lost her knickers in my car."
"They are clearing out the slums in Rio de Janeiro, pushing all of the criminals into the stadiums, waiting to strike once David Beckham enters the pitch, holding him hostage, chased down by helicopter gunships, and tax fraud, and government corruption."
"Footy, footy, I love footy."
"The gorgeous players for a beautiful game, oh great and powerful sporting event in which gangs from different countries or cities get together and bring people together. Ah, footy."
"Kick it ref!"
"Football crazy, football mad, grab a power pod and stick it in your hand. Three lions."
Michael Smith is married and has children. He is 5'9" and weighs just a little more than me. His IQ is 100. He earns £26,000 a year, doing averagely at his average job. His political views land him somewhere between the two main partys, he lives a lifestyle that is filled with activities but are also boring. His shelves are filled with best-selling books and the walls covered in prints of famous art or photographs. He has bought a cup of tea with half a sugar in.
"So, you're the most average man in England?" I ask him. He laughs.
"Almost. I have a thirty nine inch chest and lost one of my teeth in an accident, making me have a slight deviation from perfect average, which in itself is remarkable enough to make that person unaverage."
"What is it you do?"
"I am hired by think tanks to give my opinions on things. Politics, fashion, food, philosophy, current events, that kind of thing."
"For what purpose?"
"I am almost the most average man in England, so they think that the way I see the world is how it should be. Or at least a good marker as to how another individual deviates from the quo."
"Some would call you a Zeit Mensch, what do you think about this?"
"It's true. I am a man of the time. I know what happens in an average life, not to mention life expectancy, so my life has no surprises in store. There is a certain comfort in the fact that nothing remarkably bad will happen to me, combined with the grief that nothing exciting will either." he says, looking down at his tea. I am stunned. Even his outlook on life is entirely average. It is as if nature has provided a standard of which everything else can be measured against, like a one kilogram platinum cylinder at the Bureau International des Poids et Mesures.
"Tell me what you think about life in pre-Industrial Japan, with an emphasis on the social ramifications of mechanising the workforce contrasted with that of the history of agriculture and the 2014 World Cup tournament."
"What was that about the World Cup?"
"You tell me." I say. Questions like that were verbal Thematic Apperception Tests, I had invented a series of them though they had yet to be tested.
"Well it's football isn't it? Football. Footy."
"Footy footy footy, kick that ball in the back of the net."
"Rub the man's leg after he fell over."
"Ooh, ah, Cantona, your sister lost her knickers in my car."
"They are clearing out the slums in Rio de Janeiro, pushing all of the criminals into the stadiums, waiting to strike once David Beckham enters the pitch, holding him hostage, chased down by helicopter gunships, and tax fraud, and government corruption."
"Footy, footy, I love footy."
"The gorgeous players for a beautiful game, oh great and powerful sporting event in which gangs from different countries or cities get together and bring people together. Ah, footy."
"Kick it ref!"
"Football crazy, football mad, grab a power pod and stick it in your hand. Three lions."
15.8.13
Organ Gorgon
I am riding in the back of a taxi with my assistant, Penny Naknamura. She's wearing a torn One Direction tee, orange zebra print spandex pants with a boot on one foot and a high heel on the other. I point at her feet.
"What's the deal with that then?"
"Asymmetries in babe, didn't you know?"
"I know everything, just not all the time. Doesn't it make you stand funny?"
"It's fash, saw it in New York last week. And New York last week is London next week, comprendez?"
"Yeah sure, looks stupid to me. How we doing for time?"
"We're ten minutes late." she says, taking her ipad out of her bag and looking at some nonsense site. It's what I have an assistant for, to check all the blossoming fat that is growing on the world wide web. I start to get a bit nostalgic for the glory days of the late nineties when my phone goes off. I pick up.
"Where are you?!"
"Relax, almost there."
"You're an hour and ten minutes late?"
"So? We're already late, stop worrying about it. Here, talk to my assistant." I say, handing my phone away. I've lost my train of thought. The taxi stops at some traffic lights and I get out, leaving Penny and the taxi driver shouting at me from the black cab. I pretend to have one of my episodes, though to be honest I feel much happier outside. I step in between the cars and make my way down the road, popping into a cafe, past the counter and kitchen and out into an alley, much to the chagrin of the staff there. The alley seems a lot more quieter though. I walk over to a bin and begin to practise my yoga.
I wake up a few hours later, I must have dozed off after finishing my asanas. I wonder if my assistant made it to the fashion show. Or was it a film premiere. It didn't matter. I had been pretending to be a journalist for GQ for the last few weeks and had found it all quite dull. They hadn't been interested in my stories about the snake infestation at a nearby orphanage or the series of grave robberies taking place in Yorkshire. It had all been style, surface, a thin veneer of lies masquerading as something of worth. I now felt foolish about getting all those tattoos, but still, 'yolo'. I walk out of the alley and back onto the street. This was where the action was, this was where the juice was at. I felt as though I could somehow read minds as I stared at people making their way up and down. Maybe that woman was trying to juggle a career and children whilst going through a rough divorce. Maybe that man was addicted to heroin. Maybe that group of teenagers were planning on murdering me. Variety is the spice of life, but what exactly is being spiced? They keep meat in the ceiling. I walk back around the corner and back into the cafe I had entered earlier, although this time the staff are shouting at me and blocking my way. I go back out onto the street and start to walk again, as if I am lost. I am lost in fact. I'm unsure of which city I'm in. I start shouting for help and for somebody to save me, but everyone walks past as if I smell of piss. I do this for a while then start walking again, but not before rooting through a bin to find a newspaper to stuff down the front of my trousers. I have always been hyper-sensitive to touch and the scratching and folding of the newspaper against my skin causes me a great deal of uncomfort. Somebody shouts my name and I look through the faces. It is my assistant.
"Where've you been?"
"I saw one of my friends I haven't seen for ages, I owed them some money."
"You missed the show. I took some notes for you, but you'll have to write the rest up yourself." she says.
"Thanks Penny. I love you." I say. I wince.
"What?"
"I said I love you by accident, on account of you resembling my departed wife."
"You're a widow?"
"It's widower. And yes. At least, I think so. She went missing a few weeks ago and I'm assuming she has died. Though now I come to think about it...maybe you're her?" I shout, pulling at her wig.
"Get off me!" she screams. It isn't a wig. And she's not my wife. I start to cry and run away again, ashamed of myself. How will I finish this story for GQ now?
It's several hours later and I'm frantically trying to guess what happened earlier. A film premiere? A fashion show? Maybe an art opening. I decide to mix them all together and have written about a film about art with models that are holograms or something. So far I have three thousand words and a few diagrams. I stuff it all in an envelope and post it off, not really giving a shit. I have some other stuff in the pipeline anyway, probably. I scratch at the tattoo of a monkey on my neck, wondering if it has become infected. I probably shouldn't have been climbing in and out of those graves in Yorkshire after all. I go to a petrol station to buy some flowers for Penny as an apology, then post those off as well. With all that done I decide to call it a day and head off towards a nightclub, ready to dance the night away and get powerfully drunk. Maybe I'm not cut out for a career as a journalist, at least in such an upmarket magazine. Better off to follow my own path. Maybe I could be like Hunter S. Thompson or something? I laugh at myself. How ridiculous and pathetic. The sudden urge to stab myself in the neck with my belt overwhelms me and it takes every ounce of willpower not to end my life right there on the pavement.
"Are you coming in mate?" says the bouncer. I look over and nod.
"I am."
"What's the deal with that then?"
"Asymmetries in babe, didn't you know?"
"I know everything, just not all the time. Doesn't it make you stand funny?"
"It's fash, saw it in New York last week. And New York last week is London next week, comprendez?"
"Yeah sure, looks stupid to me. How we doing for time?"
"We're ten minutes late." she says, taking her ipad out of her bag and looking at some nonsense site. It's what I have an assistant for, to check all the blossoming fat that is growing on the world wide web. I start to get a bit nostalgic for the glory days of the late nineties when my phone goes off. I pick up.
"Where are you?!"
"Relax, almost there."
"You're an hour and ten minutes late?"
"So? We're already late, stop worrying about it. Here, talk to my assistant." I say, handing my phone away. I've lost my train of thought. The taxi stops at some traffic lights and I get out, leaving Penny and the taxi driver shouting at me from the black cab. I pretend to have one of my episodes, though to be honest I feel much happier outside. I step in between the cars and make my way down the road, popping into a cafe, past the counter and kitchen and out into an alley, much to the chagrin of the staff there. The alley seems a lot more quieter though. I walk over to a bin and begin to practise my yoga.
I wake up a few hours later, I must have dozed off after finishing my asanas. I wonder if my assistant made it to the fashion show. Or was it a film premiere. It didn't matter. I had been pretending to be a journalist for GQ for the last few weeks and had found it all quite dull. They hadn't been interested in my stories about the snake infestation at a nearby orphanage or the series of grave robberies taking place in Yorkshire. It had all been style, surface, a thin veneer of lies masquerading as something of worth. I now felt foolish about getting all those tattoos, but still, 'yolo'. I walk out of the alley and back onto the street. This was where the action was, this was where the juice was at. I felt as though I could somehow read minds as I stared at people making their way up and down. Maybe that woman was trying to juggle a career and children whilst going through a rough divorce. Maybe that man was addicted to heroin. Maybe that group of teenagers were planning on murdering me. Variety is the spice of life, but what exactly is being spiced? They keep meat in the ceiling. I walk back around the corner and back into the cafe I had entered earlier, although this time the staff are shouting at me and blocking my way. I go back out onto the street and start to walk again, as if I am lost. I am lost in fact. I'm unsure of which city I'm in. I start shouting for help and for somebody to save me, but everyone walks past as if I smell of piss. I do this for a while then start walking again, but not before rooting through a bin to find a newspaper to stuff down the front of my trousers. I have always been hyper-sensitive to touch and the scratching and folding of the newspaper against my skin causes me a great deal of uncomfort. Somebody shouts my name and I look through the faces. It is my assistant.
"Where've you been?"
"I saw one of my friends I haven't seen for ages, I owed them some money."
"You missed the show. I took some notes for you, but you'll have to write the rest up yourself." she says.
"Thanks Penny. I love you." I say. I wince.
"What?"
"I said I love you by accident, on account of you resembling my departed wife."
"You're a widow?"
"It's widower. And yes. At least, I think so. She went missing a few weeks ago and I'm assuming she has died. Though now I come to think about it...maybe you're her?" I shout, pulling at her wig.
"Get off me!" she screams. It isn't a wig. And she's not my wife. I start to cry and run away again, ashamed of myself. How will I finish this story for GQ now?
It's several hours later and I'm frantically trying to guess what happened earlier. A film premiere? A fashion show? Maybe an art opening. I decide to mix them all together and have written about a film about art with models that are holograms or something. So far I have three thousand words and a few diagrams. I stuff it all in an envelope and post it off, not really giving a shit. I have some other stuff in the pipeline anyway, probably. I scratch at the tattoo of a monkey on my neck, wondering if it has become infected. I probably shouldn't have been climbing in and out of those graves in Yorkshire after all. I go to a petrol station to buy some flowers for Penny as an apology, then post those off as well. With all that done I decide to call it a day and head off towards a nightclub, ready to dance the night away and get powerfully drunk. Maybe I'm not cut out for a career as a journalist, at least in such an upmarket magazine. Better off to follow my own path. Maybe I could be like Hunter S. Thompson or something? I laugh at myself. How ridiculous and pathetic. The sudden urge to stab myself in the neck with my belt overwhelms me and it takes every ounce of willpower not to end my life right there on the pavement.
"Are you coming in mate?" says the bouncer. I look over and nod.
"I am."
13.8.13
Awaiting Hesped
I enter a darkened room in which a single comfy chair placed in the centre. I sit in it and look forwards. A few feet above me is a mirror so that I can see myself. Just as I wonder what is going to happen next I hear a quiet thumping begin. And a voice.
"Make yourself comfortable. Feel your knees, your back, your shoulders, against the softness of the chair you're sitting in. Take note of your breathing and then look forwards at your reflection in the dark glass ahead. Are you a person familiar with how they appear? Who do you most resemble physically, your mother or your father? Think of them. Think of your family. Let your breathing slow gradually, each breath longer than the last so that it fills your lungs, pushing your chest out and close your eyes. Think of yourself as a child. The house you grew up in, where you put the christmas tree, the view from your bedroom window. Think about your friends, still keeping your breathing controlled and slow, steady now. The people you know well and those that you don't. Maybe you met them at school or at work? These people like you. They value you and accept you. Think about who you love.
Now I'd like you to think of your home. The room where you sleep, the things that decorate it, the colours. You wake up one morning and start your routine, cleaning your body, putting on clothes, eating breakfast. It is a sunny day outside and you can hear birds. It's a little earlier than the time that you'd usually wake at. It looks so nice outside you decide to go for a walk. You put on your shoes and once you've found your keys you leave. It is quiet outside. Nobody is around. Off in the distance you can hear a car, though you're unsure if it's coming towards you or going away from you. The sun feels warm on your face and you begin to walk, your breathing nice and relaxed as you make your way down the road. But all of a sudden there is a wave of pain in your chest, like a warm caress coming up from inside. It doesn't hurt so much, but you stop and look down as if you could see the cause of this internal feeling. This time it hits you like a blow, directly in the centre of your body. The pain takes you by surprise and you make a noise, clutching at your chest, though you notice that you have pins and needles in your fingers. You try to take a breath inward but find that just increases the pain, it roars inside of you like a furnace. Staggering forward a step, you decide it best to try and sit down instead though before you're sure of what's happening your head is on the ground. You're not used to seeing the surface of the road from this angle. A thought flicks through your mind. 'Am I dying?' you wonder. Of course you're not, you can't die. Not like this. Somebody will come along and save you. There must be another explanation. Your vision begins to blur slightly. You realise that your body feels quiet. Your blood is still. But there was so much you haven't yet done. You didn't even get to say goodbye to anyone. That is, if you're dying at all. You try to think of alternatives as to what's happening, but find you can't. Your brain is shutting down, but not all at once. What is it people think about as they die? You picture in your head those that you love. But their faces are muddled. And you can't remember their names. Or anything else about them. They fade into other thoughts although these to begin to lose detail. You are just aware of your awareness and all that you have lost. Floating in the void, knowing that you once lived before returning to the nothingness before you were born. It is the end. You are dead."
The speech finishes. I open my eyes and look back at the mirror. It is my reflection floating above me. After a moment or so I become aware of my own breathing again and sit up, looking around at the darkness. Suddenly a black cat leaps out at me and I yell.
"Who let a cat in here?"
"Make yourself comfortable. Feel your knees, your back, your shoulders, against the softness of the chair you're sitting in. Take note of your breathing and then look forwards at your reflection in the dark glass ahead. Are you a person familiar with how they appear? Who do you most resemble physically, your mother or your father? Think of them. Think of your family. Let your breathing slow gradually, each breath longer than the last so that it fills your lungs, pushing your chest out and close your eyes. Think of yourself as a child. The house you grew up in, where you put the christmas tree, the view from your bedroom window. Think about your friends, still keeping your breathing controlled and slow, steady now. The people you know well and those that you don't. Maybe you met them at school or at work? These people like you. They value you and accept you. Think about who you love.
Now I'd like you to think of your home. The room where you sleep, the things that decorate it, the colours. You wake up one morning and start your routine, cleaning your body, putting on clothes, eating breakfast. It is a sunny day outside and you can hear birds. It's a little earlier than the time that you'd usually wake at. It looks so nice outside you decide to go for a walk. You put on your shoes and once you've found your keys you leave. It is quiet outside. Nobody is around. Off in the distance you can hear a car, though you're unsure if it's coming towards you or going away from you. The sun feels warm on your face and you begin to walk, your breathing nice and relaxed as you make your way down the road. But all of a sudden there is a wave of pain in your chest, like a warm caress coming up from inside. It doesn't hurt so much, but you stop and look down as if you could see the cause of this internal feeling. This time it hits you like a blow, directly in the centre of your body. The pain takes you by surprise and you make a noise, clutching at your chest, though you notice that you have pins and needles in your fingers. You try to take a breath inward but find that just increases the pain, it roars inside of you like a furnace. Staggering forward a step, you decide it best to try and sit down instead though before you're sure of what's happening your head is on the ground. You're not used to seeing the surface of the road from this angle. A thought flicks through your mind. 'Am I dying?' you wonder. Of course you're not, you can't die. Not like this. Somebody will come along and save you. There must be another explanation. Your vision begins to blur slightly. You realise that your body feels quiet. Your blood is still. But there was so much you haven't yet done. You didn't even get to say goodbye to anyone. That is, if you're dying at all. You try to think of alternatives as to what's happening, but find you can't. Your brain is shutting down, but not all at once. What is it people think about as they die? You picture in your head those that you love. But their faces are muddled. And you can't remember their names. Or anything else about them. They fade into other thoughts although these to begin to lose detail. You are just aware of your awareness and all that you have lost. Floating in the void, knowing that you once lived before returning to the nothingness before you were born. It is the end. You are dead."
The speech finishes. I open my eyes and look back at the mirror. It is my reflection floating above me. After a moment or so I become aware of my own breathing again and sit up, looking around at the darkness. Suddenly a black cat leaps out at me and I yell.
"Who let a cat in here?"
Festival Experience 2013
I was standing in a muddy field, tweeting, dressed from head to toe in leather. It's festival season in England and I have used this opportunity to meet the manager of Daughter, the indie-folk band from London. I had been listening to them before they were famous, but Daughter had played Glastonbury and were selling a personal record number of albums across the country, getting serious air time on all the big radio stations and podcast d'loads. Their manager, Ryan Riley approached me carefully. He looked like a bird or reptile, all dead in the eyes and thin in the face. I introduced myself and he lead me towards the stage that the trio were playing on.
"I'm the one with all the ideas you see. I came up with the name of the band even." he said.
"Really?"
"Yeah, I also did the cover art for their first album, but they ended up going with that photograph of them trees. Still, if you're interested I printed off a few copies with the original artwork on."
"So how did you meet the band?"
"Well I met them at a pub. They all played or sang so I said, you guys should be in a band. I had to help them a fair bit as they didn't know what to do at first, but I reckon they're getting better now."
"Yeah. They're really stupid."
"That's good right?" said Ryan. I nod and remove the leather cap from off my hair. We're backstage, fat men roll cigarettes in the dark. I trip over a crate of bottled water as we make our way to the green room.
"Hold on, can you take my picture? It's that one." he says, pointing at a button. I take his picture next to the door, it has a sheet of paper that says 'Daughter' stuck to it. We wait in the green room as the last few notes are played onstage and Elena Tondra thanks the audience. A few minutes later they appear, slightly ruffled after playing for the last eighty minutes. I introduce myself and rest my bag on the table, snapping it open and taking out a machine.
"What's that for?" says Igor Haefeli, the guitarist. I attach the lump of metal to the side of my head and begin to plug it into the power supply resting at the bottom of my bag.
"I'm experimenting with some new recording equipment." I say before turning the machine on. Magnets descend over my face and begin to hum. I have to grab onto the table quite tightly as the machine begins to vibrate my whole body as if I'm having a fit, though this is part of the process. The hum rises to a high tone before clicking off, the sounds of the fans and inner mechanisms running themselves still once more. The pieces of metal are drawn back into the machine and I set it down back onto the table. The four people sat around now look exactly like me. I have printed my face onto their heads.
"What just happened?" says Ryan Riley. It is odd to see myself speaking with someone else's voice, wearing somebody else's clothes. They look at one another and begin to shout, although they are confused which one is me. I run out of the room and out behind the stage, chased by my facial clones.
"I'm the one with all the ideas you see. I came up with the name of the band even." he said.
"Really?"
"Yeah, I also did the cover art for their first album, but they ended up going with that photograph of them trees. Still, if you're interested I printed off a few copies with the original artwork on."
"So how did you meet the band?"
"Well I met them at a pub. They all played or sang so I said, you guys should be in a band. I had to help them a fair bit as they didn't know what to do at first, but I reckon they're getting better now."
"Yeah. They're really stupid."
"That's good right?" said Ryan. I nod and remove the leather cap from off my hair. We're backstage, fat men roll cigarettes in the dark. I trip over a crate of bottled water as we make our way to the green room.
"Hold on, can you take my picture? It's that one." he says, pointing at a button. I take his picture next to the door, it has a sheet of paper that says 'Daughter' stuck to it. We wait in the green room as the last few notes are played onstage and Elena Tondra thanks the audience. A few minutes later they appear, slightly ruffled after playing for the last eighty minutes. I introduce myself and rest my bag on the table, snapping it open and taking out a machine.
"What's that for?" says Igor Haefeli, the guitarist. I attach the lump of metal to the side of my head and begin to plug it into the power supply resting at the bottom of my bag.
"I'm experimenting with some new recording equipment." I say before turning the machine on. Magnets descend over my face and begin to hum. I have to grab onto the table quite tightly as the machine begins to vibrate my whole body as if I'm having a fit, though this is part of the process. The hum rises to a high tone before clicking off, the sounds of the fans and inner mechanisms running themselves still once more. The pieces of metal are drawn back into the machine and I set it down back onto the table. The four people sat around now look exactly like me. I have printed my face onto their heads.
"What just happened?" says Ryan Riley. It is odd to see myself speaking with someone else's voice, wearing somebody else's clothes. They look at one another and begin to shout, although they are confused which one is me. I run out of the room and out behind the stage, chased by my facial clones.
9.8.13
Who Cares About Zombies Anyway
Have you ever wondered to yourself "What would I do if zombies were real?" or maybe even "I would like to kill hundreds of people with the excuse that they are zombies?"
Well wonder no longer! Ex-special forces soldier and entrepeneur Randy Shepard has combined zombies, paintballing, camping and a high ropes course to provide an action-packed weekend for anyone willing to shell out £200 for the privelidge of ambling through the ten acre estate home to 'Zombie Land', Britain's first zombie themed theme park.
"I had the idea whilst watching Dawn Of The Dead. Got me thinking, what would I do in case zombies attacked? Would I be prepared? What would it feel like? After looking round on the web for a while I found out there were a few other folk with the same idea as me. Hell, some had been thinking about it a lot!" says Randy as we drive in the jeep through Zombie Land. I nod. It has crossed my mind as to what I would do if zombies were real, though I admit on a more conceptual level. Randy Shepard had took the teenage fantasy of killing your friends and neighbours and turned it into a money spinner. We enter a forest and stop. I ask him what exactly people are paying for when they arrive at Zombie Land.
"Well, the two hundred gets you into Zombie Land. You bring your own kit, whatever that may be, and try to 'survive' the weekend. We've hired hundreds of actors to wander around in full costume to be zombies. They follow you round, moan a bit, if they catch you, you turn into a zombie. We have a couple of cabins spread out, even a little shopping mall I'm having built up by that hill over there."
"Isn't it dangerous for the actors?"
"Not at all. They have on some body armour, the guns we give visitors are just paintball guns with a little extra oomph if you know what I mean. More splatter effects."
"But what if any of them get punched, stabbed, have their heads cut off, that sort of thing?" I say, looking at the trees around us.
"We don't allow any blades, that's rule numero uno, okay? We have a full medical crew on site in case anyone gets hit with a bit of wood, but to be honest we encourage visitors to run rather than fight." shrugs Randy. He gets out to urinate against a plastic skeleton and we set off again.
"But surely the whole point of the weekend is that you can attack the zombies?"
"Well let me worry about the zombies, why don't you worry about the visitors?" laughs Randy. We are driving towards one of the cabins Randy has built. A few visitors are there at the moment, surrounded by a horde of zombies. I admit, it looks quite realistic! The zombies makeup has been done by Industrial Light and Magic, the studio responsible for bringing Yoda to life and making Jurassic Park a good memory for many children that currently exist. I walk through the moaning zombies and up towards the door.
"Hey! Get in here man!" says a visitor. His face is covered in muck and his clothes filthy. He reaches a hand out through the door and pulls me in before I have chance to respond.
"What are you doing out there? Damn walkers are going to get ya." he says in an American accent.
"I'm doing a story on Zombie Land, I wondered if I could ask you a few questions?"
"Not right now man, we need all the help we can get!" he shouts. A woman runs in.
"They've breached the windows! We gotta get out of here!"
"Quick, help me pull this bookcase!" says the man, running over to a large bookcase and struggling with it. I shake my head and leave through the door again, closing it behind me. One of the zombies mimes biting me and I nod at him, feeling slightly self-conscious.
"Thanks. Do you mind if I ask you a few questions about working as a zombie?"
"Urghhh." he moans in a Liverpudlian accent. I make my way back to Randy.
"I hope I didn't spoil the scene for them. They seem pretty in character."
"They love it! Get's the blood pumping. You know, every visitor we've had here so far has come back the week after? I'm thinking of building a hotel just outside the site so people can come from all over the world."
"Aren't you worried that this is just a passing fad? There were serial killers in the eighties, mutants in the nineties, zombies and spooky kids last decade. What if this time around it's giant mummy's or shape-shifters?" I ask.
"Zombies are here to stay man. As it's not just zombies you know? People can feel it. The world's coming to an end."
"People have been thinking the world's going to end for centuries though." I say. The jeep is now driving through the forest. Randy lights a cigar and looks at me through his aviator sunglasses.
"That they have. And people like you will be thinking that we're all talking a load of BS when the world actually does end."
"But look at the amount of times in history it appeared as if the world was ending, yet didn't. The amount of films and books in the last forty or so years about apocalypses is just a continuation of the belief system instilled throughout religions since the first people, that being it's a fascination of the end, of death, and how we come to terms with it. And if possible, survive it. Any post-apocalyptic fiction is the post-modern equivalent of an after life. They are but a series of limbos at varying degrees of a world without technology combined with justifiable violence. I imagine that when anyone talks about the world ending that they believe that they will survive somehow."
"But I am not talking about the end of the world in the sense of a post-apocalyptic fantasy, but the steady downfall of humans through environmental change over the next century. This park's existence, or rather, that of the zombie fantasy is a way of coming to terms with death, I agree. I am not suggesting that people will survive the oncoming apocalypse, quite the opposite. Most visitors don't survive this weekend. It allows them to perceive there own death in a much healthier manner than vague dreams of danger in which they themselves invariably survive." says Randy. The jeep has pulled to a stop in the middle of a field.
"My family is buried here. Somewhere, I'm not sure exactly. But in this field. As are the bones of a hundred other animals that I am distantly related to, all the way back to the dinosaurs. You think the dinosaurs worried about the end of the world? And when it came about, did they hope? Or did they breathe in the ashes?"
"Your family is buried here?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
"Well...in case the end of the world does happen to be zombies, I want to be the first to kill them." says Randy, pulling back his coat to reveal a pistol tucked into his trousers.
"You know what's better than regular zombies? Voodoo zombies. You should do a theme park based around that." I said, nodding at him as I get back into the jeep and drive away. All the talk about zombies and apocalypses has give me the urge to watch 'The Bridges Of Madison County', or perhaps 'Before Sunrise'. I hadn't yet decided, but I knew that I had both on blu-ray.
Well wonder no longer! Ex-special forces soldier and entrepeneur Randy Shepard has combined zombies, paintballing, camping and a high ropes course to provide an action-packed weekend for anyone willing to shell out £200 for the privelidge of ambling through the ten acre estate home to 'Zombie Land', Britain's first zombie themed theme park.
"I had the idea whilst watching Dawn Of The Dead. Got me thinking, what would I do in case zombies attacked? Would I be prepared? What would it feel like? After looking round on the web for a while I found out there were a few other folk with the same idea as me. Hell, some had been thinking about it a lot!" says Randy as we drive in the jeep through Zombie Land. I nod. It has crossed my mind as to what I would do if zombies were real, though I admit on a more conceptual level. Randy Shepard had took the teenage fantasy of killing your friends and neighbours and turned it into a money spinner. We enter a forest and stop. I ask him what exactly people are paying for when they arrive at Zombie Land.
"Well, the two hundred gets you into Zombie Land. You bring your own kit, whatever that may be, and try to 'survive' the weekend. We've hired hundreds of actors to wander around in full costume to be zombies. They follow you round, moan a bit, if they catch you, you turn into a zombie. We have a couple of cabins spread out, even a little shopping mall I'm having built up by that hill over there."
"Isn't it dangerous for the actors?"
"Not at all. They have on some body armour, the guns we give visitors are just paintball guns with a little extra oomph if you know what I mean. More splatter effects."
"But what if any of them get punched, stabbed, have their heads cut off, that sort of thing?" I say, looking at the trees around us.
"We don't allow any blades, that's rule numero uno, okay? We have a full medical crew on site in case anyone gets hit with a bit of wood, but to be honest we encourage visitors to run rather than fight." shrugs Randy. He gets out to urinate against a plastic skeleton and we set off again.
"But surely the whole point of the weekend is that you can attack the zombies?"
"Well let me worry about the zombies, why don't you worry about the visitors?" laughs Randy. We are driving towards one of the cabins Randy has built. A few visitors are there at the moment, surrounded by a horde of zombies. I admit, it looks quite realistic! The zombies makeup has been done by Industrial Light and Magic, the studio responsible for bringing Yoda to life and making Jurassic Park a good memory for many children that currently exist. I walk through the moaning zombies and up towards the door.
"Hey! Get in here man!" says a visitor. His face is covered in muck and his clothes filthy. He reaches a hand out through the door and pulls me in before I have chance to respond.
"What are you doing out there? Damn walkers are going to get ya." he says in an American accent.
"I'm doing a story on Zombie Land, I wondered if I could ask you a few questions?"
"Not right now man, we need all the help we can get!" he shouts. A woman runs in.
"They've breached the windows! We gotta get out of here!"
"Quick, help me pull this bookcase!" says the man, running over to a large bookcase and struggling with it. I shake my head and leave through the door again, closing it behind me. One of the zombies mimes biting me and I nod at him, feeling slightly self-conscious.
"Thanks. Do you mind if I ask you a few questions about working as a zombie?"
"Urghhh." he moans in a Liverpudlian accent. I make my way back to Randy.
"I hope I didn't spoil the scene for them. They seem pretty in character."
"They love it! Get's the blood pumping. You know, every visitor we've had here so far has come back the week after? I'm thinking of building a hotel just outside the site so people can come from all over the world."
"Aren't you worried that this is just a passing fad? There were serial killers in the eighties, mutants in the nineties, zombies and spooky kids last decade. What if this time around it's giant mummy's or shape-shifters?" I ask.
"Zombies are here to stay man. As it's not just zombies you know? People can feel it. The world's coming to an end."
"People have been thinking the world's going to end for centuries though." I say. The jeep is now driving through the forest. Randy lights a cigar and looks at me through his aviator sunglasses.
"That they have. And people like you will be thinking that we're all talking a load of BS when the world actually does end."
"But look at the amount of times in history it appeared as if the world was ending, yet didn't. The amount of films and books in the last forty or so years about apocalypses is just a continuation of the belief system instilled throughout religions since the first people, that being it's a fascination of the end, of death, and how we come to terms with it. And if possible, survive it. Any post-apocalyptic fiction is the post-modern equivalent of an after life. They are but a series of limbos at varying degrees of a world without technology combined with justifiable violence. I imagine that when anyone talks about the world ending that they believe that they will survive somehow."
"But I am not talking about the end of the world in the sense of a post-apocalyptic fantasy, but the steady downfall of humans through environmental change over the next century. This park's existence, or rather, that of the zombie fantasy is a way of coming to terms with death, I agree. I am not suggesting that people will survive the oncoming apocalypse, quite the opposite. Most visitors don't survive this weekend. It allows them to perceive there own death in a much healthier manner than vague dreams of danger in which they themselves invariably survive." says Randy. The jeep has pulled to a stop in the middle of a field.
"My family is buried here. Somewhere, I'm not sure exactly. But in this field. As are the bones of a hundred other animals that I am distantly related to, all the way back to the dinosaurs. You think the dinosaurs worried about the end of the world? And when it came about, did they hope? Or did they breathe in the ashes?"
"Your family is buried here?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
"Well...in case the end of the world does happen to be zombies, I want to be the first to kill them." says Randy, pulling back his coat to reveal a pistol tucked into his trousers.
"You know what's better than regular zombies? Voodoo zombies. You should do a theme park based around that." I said, nodding at him as I get back into the jeep and drive away. All the talk about zombies and apocalypses has give me the urge to watch 'The Bridges Of Madison County', or perhaps 'Before Sunrise'. I hadn't yet decided, but I knew that I had both on blu-ray.
7.8.13
The Sun Is Angry
With the recent trend in violence leaning towards the bizarre and mostly cruel, the government have launched a new task force in order to best deal with this 'Crime Heatwave'. The P.R.O.T.E.C.T.I.O.N. bureau is ran by Ian Newman, a head honcho with a heart of gold and a sly grin parked onto his face as he speaks in his relaxing West country accent of the strange spate of violence sweeping the countries streets. Dog attacks, funeral bombs, the case of the mad vicar, human arson, dental harm, hospital admission statistics, the missing helicopters and so on.
"On the surface it may look like the so called 'Summer of Death' is an anomaly, a phenomenon. As if all of this started out of nothing. But we at P.R.O.T.E.C.T.I.O.N. have been planning for this for years. We have a highly specialised team of experts willing to take on each case on a week by week basis."
"So it's based on television?" I ask, sweeping my arm across the room at the enormous television set against one wall. Newman shakes his head.
"No, people are beginning to base more and more of their behaviour on television. We are simply adopting a model that fits the socio-cultural background."
"So what you're proposing is that the world is becoming more fictional somehow? It's not as much you're copying the style of detective television shows but that as detectives you can't help but find yourself playing that role which mirrors this semi-fictional reality in some way?"
"I'm not saying that reality is fictional, just that human behaviour and perception is being altered by it's culture constantly. For instance if you hear a certain phrase in a film and repeat it in real life, and somebody hears you and repeats that. What if you come across a man needing insulin then plunged the syringe into his sternum because you saw it on Pulp Fiction? What if you just happen to be a criminal and kill a guy because television told you to?"
"I'm not sure if I follow." I say, glancing through the photos he has handed to me. Some are of celebrities, others are of crime scenes.
"The television is talking to me. It is showing me prophecies, strange visions...that of a perfect, set world. Can you imagine it? That alpha is followed by beta, celta, delta, omega. Maybe a world where we have televisions in our eyes, with all the wires sticking out of the front? How about we have film crews everywhere, filming everything, showing it to everyone, all at once, the cities and landscapes an endless labyrinth of televisions, broadcasting the pure, unending, my own shuddering and secret, most ultimately all encompassing and final, the power of god as he is man living forever, we are trapped amongst the forcefields, to follow the lines in between onwards and through into that of maximum television." he says, frothing at the mouth, ripping at his own face. I rest the ipad onto the desk and quickly make my way out of his office and down the empty corridor. I look over my shoulder, listening to his screaming getting louder. There's the feeling as through somebody has rubbed the back of my neck as I pace faster to the exit.
I drive home, wondering about what Newman was doing at that moment in time. Had he calmed down? I had hoped so. It was bad enough that I couldn't claim my travel expenses for the interview as I had lost my receipts. Now I had witnessed the birth of a maniac, emerging out from his unconscious like a thing without bones being pulled from the sea. My car begins to speed down the motorway, faster and faster. I look into the rear view mirror and notice something.
"On the surface it may look like the so called 'Summer of Death' is an anomaly, a phenomenon. As if all of this started out of nothing. But we at P.R.O.T.E.C.T.I.O.N. have been planning for this for years. We have a highly specialised team of experts willing to take on each case on a week by week basis."
"So it's based on television?" I ask, sweeping my arm across the room at the enormous television set against one wall. Newman shakes his head.
"No, people are beginning to base more and more of their behaviour on television. We are simply adopting a model that fits the socio-cultural background."
"So what you're proposing is that the world is becoming more fictional somehow? It's not as much you're copying the style of detective television shows but that as detectives you can't help but find yourself playing that role which mirrors this semi-fictional reality in some way?"
"I'm not saying that reality is fictional, just that human behaviour and perception is being altered by it's culture constantly. For instance if you hear a certain phrase in a film and repeat it in real life, and somebody hears you and repeats that. What if you come across a man needing insulin then plunged the syringe into his sternum because you saw it on Pulp Fiction? What if you just happen to be a criminal and kill a guy because television told you to?"
"I'm not sure if I follow." I say, glancing through the photos he has handed to me. Some are of celebrities, others are of crime scenes.
"The television is talking to me. It is showing me prophecies, strange visions...that of a perfect, set world. Can you imagine it? That alpha is followed by beta, celta, delta, omega. Maybe a world where we have televisions in our eyes, with all the wires sticking out of the front? How about we have film crews everywhere, filming everything, showing it to everyone, all at once, the cities and landscapes an endless labyrinth of televisions, broadcasting the pure, unending, my own shuddering and secret, most ultimately all encompassing and final, the power of god as he is man living forever, we are trapped amongst the forcefields, to follow the lines in between onwards and through into that of maximum television." he says, frothing at the mouth, ripping at his own face. I rest the ipad onto the desk and quickly make my way out of his office and down the empty corridor. I look over my shoulder, listening to his screaming getting louder. There's the feeling as through somebody has rubbed the back of my neck as I pace faster to the exit.
I drive home, wondering about what Newman was doing at that moment in time. Had he calmed down? I had hoped so. It was bad enough that I couldn't claim my travel expenses for the interview as I had lost my receipts. Now I had witnessed the birth of a maniac, emerging out from his unconscious like a thing without bones being pulled from the sea. My car begins to speed down the motorway, faster and faster. I look into the rear view mirror and notice something.
Hear My Shout
The last town before the sea, grey sand piled wetly around the drains as the beach folk made their ways hither and tother, feet squashing shell shards, complex abstract collages. Iron lattice work and the constant shrieking of gulls, each as big as dogs, overflowing bins with fanta cans as flowers, planners continued to make malleable the lines of the town, transforming it's utter filth into a utopic society through a series of street furniture matrices, special lighting, underground filth pits and an enormous road that would go from one end of the town to the other, fifty feet above street level. The huge teal bridge had been designed using a computer and it was night time.
"Good shout, major good shout." said Hortense, nodding sleepily.
"Look at this picture." said Ernesto. He pulled out a polaroid of himself and showed it to everyone. They all smiled and nodded.
"I was on bubble." said Ernesto nervously.
"Aww, bad shout, bad shout that man." said Hortense. They embraced each other and whispered. For a moment it looked as if they were going to kiss. Fake music off youtube played tinnily in the background, the table set with empty cans, bits of rubbish, ashtrays, a strawberry flavoured condom and a laptop. After a few minutes they had started to argue about which was the best operating systems on mobile phones, carrying on early into the morning. Top Cat played on the seventy five inch HD tv, the yellow cat closing it's eyes and tilting his head back, the sound off, Reginald glanced up through his clubbed fingers, eyeballs going all over the place. A chemical shiver ran through his body that could only be cured by lots of cider. Ernesto had finished arguing and was now asking for photos to be taken of himself.
"Let me have a look at them." said Ernesto.
"They're mad these are. Look at them. I look like some kind of...mad...psycho." he continued, offering the camera to Hortense. He snorted jubilantly.
"Fucking hell. Look at this picture of me and all." he said, passing the camera back.
"Ha ha. You look like...an Italian Russell Crowe."
"Seriously? Let's have another look." said Hortense, reaching for the camera. They kept passing the camera backwards and forwards. Speed garage came on.
"Who wants another line?" said Perceval, leaning forward. He ripped open a baggy onto a mirror then licked the torn plastic before setting to work racking up several chunky, short lines of cheap cocaine onto the ceiling's reflection. Reginald looked up groggily and gently leaned in to snort before sitting back down. His face was locked into a rigid tenseness, the hands turned into white claws as he watched the television.
"Good shout." said Hortense. They all had a go then began to roll a joint. Outside the sun was rising, making the puddle clouds illuminate a dreary grey that stretched on in every direction.
"It's cold man." said Perceval, leaning against the yard wall.
"Tasty spliff this." said Hortense.
"So what was I saying again? Fucking hell...what were we talking about?"
"Can't remember mate."
"Aghhh...what was it?"
"Something about a website?"
"Yeah...yeah that's it. I wanted to make a website, I wondered if you knew how to code or anything?"
"Well yeah, a bit. Why what's up?"
"I need someone to run the website for me and I do the content. I don't know how to program though."
"What would it be about?"
"I want to try and do something that's never been done before...I want to write down my thoughts, you know, write these really kinda edgy things, you know? I wouldn't say they are rants, but more...ramblings I suppose."
"What like?"
"Just write down some dark stuff man, see who vibes it and those who don't, whatever, I don't give a fuck. But if someone likes my shit then chances are they'll like me, so I think I could meet some really interesting people you know?"
"Who knows man, you could end up writing for Vice Magazine."
"Yeah...I was thinking of starting my own zine. Like just put it out there, see who vibes it. But I'd do it all anonymous at first, so nobody knows who I am. And I'd wear a mask and shit in all my photos so everyone would be like, who's this mad cunt? It'd be cool man."
"Have you thought of a numbering system for your zines?"
"Yeah man, like the first issue is going to be like S, H, treble zero one. Then I'm going to do a limited edition colour copy and that's like S, H, treble zero two."
"Like factory records?"
"No, different. My system's better, more clean. People would collect this kind of thing I reckon."
"Yeah, good shout."
"Fucking amazing shout mate." Ernesto and Hortense embraced and shook hands.
"What time is it?"
"Five."
"Fucking hell, I've been drinking for...hang on...eleven...twelve...fucking thirteen hours man."
"I haven't even had owt to eat."
"You should have said, I got a bit of quiche in the fridge."
"You know what? I wouldn't mind a bit of quiche."
"I can't eat."
"Smoke some weed man, here you are."
"Cheers man...fucking hell. Have you seen that video Boscoe showed me?"
"No, what is it?"
"Aww it's fucking mad mate. You've seen it haven't you Perceval?"
"What?"
"That video of that guy doing all them mad juggles in London. Have you not seen it?"
"No."
"Aww, come on. Let's go back inside, I'll show you this video."
They all went back inside. Hortense sat at the laptop and turned the music off whilst he tried to remember what the video was called. Top Cat had finished. The four sat around the table and listened to Hortense talking to himself, white spit gathering at the edges of his dry mouth. The video came on, played for thirty seconds then the internet went off.
"Hold on, let it refresh. It's worth it."
"I think I've heard about this..."
"It's class mate."
They watched most of the video before the internet went off again.
"Fuck it man. Let's watch some telly."
"Okay, we'll try again later."
"Yeah."
"It's a sick video. At the end he's juggling these swords and eggs, fucking well good."
"Yeah?" said Ernesto, laughing.
"Yeah, trust me. Fucking good shout."
"Fair play, good shout."
"Have I told you about my website idea?"
"What website?"
"I want to start writing a website. Well not exactly writing one, just writing articles you know?"
"Yeah?"
"Yeah man, like write down, like, what I think about people. And if they don't like it they can fuck off."
"You gonna write one about...Alan Carr or something?"
"No man, just more about targeting like certain sections of the public and saying these people are shit. Like I might say...chavs are dick heads. And here's why, fuck that they're poor or whatever, you know? All chavs are dickheads man, all chavs are dickheads. I just wanna stay stuff that everyone thinks but nobody says, you know?"
"What we talking about again?"
"My website."
"Oh yeah. That fucking...like magazine or something? Like Vice?"
"Yeah, like Vice in some ways but my ideas new. It's like I'm saying, here's what I think, I don't give a fuck if you don't like it, you know? But if you vibe it then that's a good way to meet new people. You know, I never wrote anything before, but I think this will be something good. I read loads of books that are just...just shit, basically. It's not about me, it doesn't speak to me in any way."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah mate...cus...y'know. I'm there for my mates. Fuck what anyone thinks about them. Like if you ever got in a fight I would jump in straight away no questions asked. I fucking love you mate."
"I love you too mate. Come here." he said, shaking hands whilst leaning into another embrace.
"Heh...heh, have you heard this about David Cameron? That he sold oil to muslims in the middle east, they used it to power tanks, artillery, attacking fucking palestinians."
"Fucking hell."
"David Cameron's a right cunt. I don't like him."
"If David Cameron was here right now I'd smack him." said Perceval, throwing a slow jab in the air.
"Yeah, I'd shove a fucking carrot up his arse and suck his dick."
"What?"
"I meant have him suck my dick."
"What you on about mate?"
"Fucking David Cameron. Blackmail him, yeah, say that we'll give this video to the North Koreans if you don't do what we say. Then have him give us a sick yacht."
"You know what I'd do? I'd just have everyone work ten hours a week. Then everyone can work."
"Good shout mate, they should also fucking get rid of the royal family."
"I fucking hate Prince Charles man. He's a dickhead."
"They should have David Cameron live in a council house for a year and only eat beans. Then he can see what it's like to be poor."
"Yeah, can you imagine? Having prime minister round for dinner and then when he gets there just knock his fucking teeth out."
"Harsh shout man."
"No man, fucking perfect shout." said Ernesto. He high fived Reginald and it sort of turned into a bent elbow arm shake. "Have David Cameron round on come dine with me and everyone just gives him shit sandwiches."
"What, like sandwiches with shit between the bread?"
"Yeah man, fucking wet turds soaking into Milk Roll, dribbling out as eats it." said Reginald, blowing a raspberry whilst miming something falling out of the bottom of a sandwich and splattering onto a plate.
"Grim mate."
"Have we got any weed left?"
"You wanna get some?"
"Yeah just a twenty bag or something, take the edge off."
"Good shout."
"Yeah a couple of spliffs would be sweet. We still need to watch the end of that video of that juggler."
"What?"
"You know, the juggler."
"Ah yeah. Would you mind if I played a song first?"
"No mate."
"It's this Daft Punk cover on acoustic. Pretty good."
"Yeah I like Daft Punk."
"Tremendously good shout that."
"Good shout, major good shout." said Hortense, nodding sleepily.
"Look at this picture." said Ernesto. He pulled out a polaroid of himself and showed it to everyone. They all smiled and nodded.
"I was on bubble." said Ernesto nervously.
"Aww, bad shout, bad shout that man." said Hortense. They embraced each other and whispered. For a moment it looked as if they were going to kiss. Fake music off youtube played tinnily in the background, the table set with empty cans, bits of rubbish, ashtrays, a strawberry flavoured condom and a laptop. After a few minutes they had started to argue about which was the best operating systems on mobile phones, carrying on early into the morning. Top Cat played on the seventy five inch HD tv, the yellow cat closing it's eyes and tilting his head back, the sound off, Reginald glanced up through his clubbed fingers, eyeballs going all over the place. A chemical shiver ran through his body that could only be cured by lots of cider. Ernesto had finished arguing and was now asking for photos to be taken of himself.
"Let me have a look at them." said Ernesto.
"They're mad these are. Look at them. I look like some kind of...mad...psycho." he continued, offering the camera to Hortense. He snorted jubilantly.
"Fucking hell. Look at this picture of me and all." he said, passing the camera back.
"Ha ha. You look like...an Italian Russell Crowe."
"Seriously? Let's have another look." said Hortense, reaching for the camera. They kept passing the camera backwards and forwards. Speed garage came on.
"Who wants another line?" said Perceval, leaning forward. He ripped open a baggy onto a mirror then licked the torn plastic before setting to work racking up several chunky, short lines of cheap cocaine onto the ceiling's reflection. Reginald looked up groggily and gently leaned in to snort before sitting back down. His face was locked into a rigid tenseness, the hands turned into white claws as he watched the television.
"Good shout." said Hortense. They all had a go then began to roll a joint. Outside the sun was rising, making the puddle clouds illuminate a dreary grey that stretched on in every direction.
"It's cold man." said Perceval, leaning against the yard wall.
"Tasty spliff this." said Hortense.
"So what was I saying again? Fucking hell...what were we talking about?"
"Can't remember mate."
"Aghhh...what was it?"
"Something about a website?"
"Yeah...yeah that's it. I wanted to make a website, I wondered if you knew how to code or anything?"
"Well yeah, a bit. Why what's up?"
"I need someone to run the website for me and I do the content. I don't know how to program though."
"What would it be about?"
"I want to try and do something that's never been done before...I want to write down my thoughts, you know, write these really kinda edgy things, you know? I wouldn't say they are rants, but more...ramblings I suppose."
"What like?"
"Just write down some dark stuff man, see who vibes it and those who don't, whatever, I don't give a fuck. But if someone likes my shit then chances are they'll like me, so I think I could meet some really interesting people you know?"
"Who knows man, you could end up writing for Vice Magazine."
"Yeah...I was thinking of starting my own zine. Like just put it out there, see who vibes it. But I'd do it all anonymous at first, so nobody knows who I am. And I'd wear a mask and shit in all my photos so everyone would be like, who's this mad cunt? It'd be cool man."
"Have you thought of a numbering system for your zines?"
"Yeah man, like the first issue is going to be like S, H, treble zero one. Then I'm going to do a limited edition colour copy and that's like S, H, treble zero two."
"Like factory records?"
"No, different. My system's better, more clean. People would collect this kind of thing I reckon."
"Yeah, good shout."
"Fucking amazing shout mate." Ernesto and Hortense embraced and shook hands.
"What time is it?"
"Five."
"Fucking hell, I've been drinking for...hang on...eleven...twelve...fucking thirteen hours man."
"I haven't even had owt to eat."
"You should have said, I got a bit of quiche in the fridge."
"You know what? I wouldn't mind a bit of quiche."
"I can't eat."
"Smoke some weed man, here you are."
"Cheers man...fucking hell. Have you seen that video Boscoe showed me?"
"No, what is it?"
"Aww it's fucking mad mate. You've seen it haven't you Perceval?"
"What?"
"That video of that guy doing all them mad juggles in London. Have you not seen it?"
"No."
"Aww, come on. Let's go back inside, I'll show you this video."
They all went back inside. Hortense sat at the laptop and turned the music off whilst he tried to remember what the video was called. Top Cat had finished. The four sat around the table and listened to Hortense talking to himself, white spit gathering at the edges of his dry mouth. The video came on, played for thirty seconds then the internet went off.
"Hold on, let it refresh. It's worth it."
"I think I've heard about this..."
"It's class mate."
They watched most of the video before the internet went off again.
"Fuck it man. Let's watch some telly."
"Okay, we'll try again later."
"Yeah."
"It's a sick video. At the end he's juggling these swords and eggs, fucking well good."
"Yeah?" said Ernesto, laughing.
"Yeah, trust me. Fucking good shout."
"Fair play, good shout."
"Have I told you about my website idea?"
"What website?"
"I want to start writing a website. Well not exactly writing one, just writing articles you know?"
"Yeah?"
"Yeah man, like write down, like, what I think about people. And if they don't like it they can fuck off."
"You gonna write one about...Alan Carr or something?"
"No man, just more about targeting like certain sections of the public and saying these people are shit. Like I might say...chavs are dick heads. And here's why, fuck that they're poor or whatever, you know? All chavs are dickheads man, all chavs are dickheads. I just wanna stay stuff that everyone thinks but nobody says, you know?"
"What we talking about again?"
"My website."
"Oh yeah. That fucking...like magazine or something? Like Vice?"
"Yeah, like Vice in some ways but my ideas new. It's like I'm saying, here's what I think, I don't give a fuck if you don't like it, you know? But if you vibe it then that's a good way to meet new people. You know, I never wrote anything before, but I think this will be something good. I read loads of books that are just...just shit, basically. It's not about me, it doesn't speak to me in any way."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah mate...cus...y'know. I'm there for my mates. Fuck what anyone thinks about them. Like if you ever got in a fight I would jump in straight away no questions asked. I fucking love you mate."
"I love you too mate. Come here." he said, shaking hands whilst leaning into another embrace.
"Heh...heh, have you heard this about David Cameron? That he sold oil to muslims in the middle east, they used it to power tanks, artillery, attacking fucking palestinians."
"Fucking hell."
"David Cameron's a right cunt. I don't like him."
"If David Cameron was here right now I'd smack him." said Perceval, throwing a slow jab in the air.
"Yeah, I'd shove a fucking carrot up his arse and suck his dick."
"What?"
"I meant have him suck my dick."
"What you on about mate?"
"Fucking David Cameron. Blackmail him, yeah, say that we'll give this video to the North Koreans if you don't do what we say. Then have him give us a sick yacht."
"You know what I'd do? I'd just have everyone work ten hours a week. Then everyone can work."
"Good shout mate, they should also fucking get rid of the royal family."
"I fucking hate Prince Charles man. He's a dickhead."
"They should have David Cameron live in a council house for a year and only eat beans. Then he can see what it's like to be poor."
"Yeah, can you imagine? Having prime minister round for dinner and then when he gets there just knock his fucking teeth out."
"Harsh shout man."
"No man, fucking perfect shout." said Ernesto. He high fived Reginald and it sort of turned into a bent elbow arm shake. "Have David Cameron round on come dine with me and everyone just gives him shit sandwiches."
"What, like sandwiches with shit between the bread?"
"Yeah man, fucking wet turds soaking into Milk Roll, dribbling out as eats it." said Reginald, blowing a raspberry whilst miming something falling out of the bottom of a sandwich and splattering onto a plate.
"Grim mate."
"Have we got any weed left?"
"You wanna get some?"
"Yeah just a twenty bag or something, take the edge off."
"Good shout."
"Yeah a couple of spliffs would be sweet. We still need to watch the end of that video of that juggler."
"What?"
"You know, the juggler."
"Ah yeah. Would you mind if I played a song first?"
"No mate."
"It's this Daft Punk cover on acoustic. Pretty good."
"Yeah I like Daft Punk."
"Tremendously good shout that."
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