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."

Advertising 2.0

You turn on the television. An advert is on. You put the television on mute.
You go on the internet. You see a banner advertising a free ipod if you can shoot three ducks. You ignore it.
You are walking around in a city. You see a perfume advert on the side of a bus. You can't remember what it's for.

Welcome to the modern world. Media has never been so prolific in everything we do. Your fridge can download bread, you can watch films on your trainers and stream music that hasn't been performed directly into your pillow. In theory the advertising revenue from these services should be in the billions, perhaps even the trillions. Yet day by day advertising firms are failing, the men and women who write slogans line the walls of job centres across the country thinking of ways to rebrand themselves. The jingle writers have switched to making dub-rave subtunes. Celebrities offered millions in endorsements quickly falter on their contracts, such as Tiger Woods having sexual intercourse or Brad Pitt having a facelift. The adverts are there but nobody is watching. Some say that advertising as we know it will cease to exist ten years from know. Others have slightly different ideas.

Enter Tukanov Imaging, the brain child of Wanda Bellahyde. Her PR company is just a few years old yet is quickly climbing up as being one of the big hitters in advertising.
"One of our bigger problems came from Mad Men. All of a sudden everyone wanted to be an advertising exec. You'd see all these bright-eyed kids come straight from college willing to do work for free. It fucked up the whole system." she says, drinking from a glass of wine. We are sat in her company headquarters, the London skyline beyond the window is blocked by a slightly larger building. Though at just the right angle you can see through the windows across the road at parts of the cityscape. I ask her what made Tukanov Imaging so successful.
"It's all in the advertising babe. Any five year old can install adblock on his dad's pc, half the people nowadays would rather look at youtube for a funny video than watch a lager advert. It's awful. Well, at least for the other dinosaurs. At Tukanov Imaging we're rebranding branding. We're looking into the future, y'know?" she says, leaning forward slightly. I ask her what that even means.
"Advertising 2.0. Though now I'm saying it out loud I'm wondering why the .0, it's not like there's going to be advertising 2.1 or 2.6 is there? Whatever babe, the point is...well it's people, right? You walk past a restaurant, you see a lot of people inside you think 'Oh, that's a good restaurant.', but it might not be, right? You don't know if the food's good or if the service is nice, you're only going because other people are there. People like conforming. So I'm thinking, what's the biggest window in the world?" she asks me. I think for a minute then say there's probably one in a cathedral somewhere. She shakes her head.
"No. Windows. Y'know, Bill Gates? Those are the biggest windows! And sitting at all those windows are people just like you and me, talking to each other on social media. So what we're offering to users is an interactive advertising opportunity. We pay people to say things for us." she says, leaning back and stretching her arms far apart. I nod in understandment.
"Why spend fifteen million on an advert with Clooney when I can pay one of your friends a dollar to say 'Oh I like this thingy-majig' or 'Hey I just saw the big summer blockbuster it was awesome!'." What she's saying is grounded in hard scientific fact. It has been proven that the number of tweets regarding a film before release is in exact correlation to it's box office success. I ask her if she thinks people would be willing to sell their personalities for such a small price. She laughs loudly.
"You remember that guy in America who had the casino brand tattooed onto his forehead? We organised that. We offered Felix Baumgartner the opportunity to fulfil his lifelong dream of breaking the world sky diving record as long as he would say 'Mmmm, red bull gives me wings.' just before jumping. We brought together Adidas and the United States Army so that every soldier is now required to wear Adidas footwear. Everything is advertising. People are going to be saying it anyway, why shouldn't they get paid for it? And chances are they're going to spend that payment on whatever we're advertising anyway. It's a win-win." she says. I look through the window, then another window and another window, at the London skyline. The sun is setting. I think it a worthy metaphor for something, though I'm not sure for what. I try to speak but for some reason my tongue feels bulbous and disproportioned suddenly. I merely make a sound. She continues anyway.
"We're working on text messaging in the next quarter. After that, who knows, maybe use alternative reality or something. Pay people to say things in real life. Current technology opens up new avenues for potential advertising opportunities as well as new challenges. You speaking my lingo?" I walk over to the window and open it, letting the stale London air enter the room.
"What are you doing?" she remarks incredulously. The wind blows through my hair and at my cheap suit. I turn to her and try to talk again, though all I seem to manage is a strange sort of groaning noise. I run over to her desk and throw her laptop out of the window before running out of the room, clutching at my mouth. I continue groaning as I stand in the lift and walk out through the reception. After walking just a few feet on the pavement I throw back my head and begin to shout.
"I just want to watch a funny advert with a catchphrase that everybody repeats like the one from the compare the market advert or perhaps even the go compare advert. But even those are changing and becoming more ironic, more self aware. Advertising companies know they are just making shit but they think that if they make fun of it it makes it okay! But it is not okay! It is all fucking bullshit and I am sick of it!" I say. By the time I have finished my voice has been reduced to a whisper. I continue walking, thinking about where film posters fit into the advertising landscape. Is a film an advertisement for itself? Are clothes real? Can I rest between the shelves of a supermarket, dreaming of my softs, fearing nothing?

Configuration

A man in six parts on a cube.

The Truth

The booster rocket divorced itself from the shuttle, flying backwards into space. It is briefly caught in the path of debris that the other booster gives off before spinning down to Earth. The camera lens in it's eye looks up at the sun and down at the ocean, again and again. Sometimes it caught a glimpse of the other rocket as it left a yellow trail whilst re-entering the atmosphere but otherwise it was the simple white and blacks of space and the occasional flick of the sea below. Down it went, faster and faster until it entered enough air to begin making sounds again. A series of planes below it pointed huge magnets upwards, catching the metal framework and guiding it towards land. The silver planes eventually side winded away to leave the huge rocket engine hurtling into the twin towers, destroying them both in an cataclysm of interstellar velocity. “The mission was a success.” said the president of the united states, drinking a glass of bourbon whilst watching New York be engulfed in a toxic smog.

Antihumanism

Parasites sharing diets, getting stoned. Take a time travel trip ride whit me.

£10,000,000

Electronics powered by blood.