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."

Home-made 3D Microscope

Here is a design for a three dimensional stereoscopic microscope I have just invented. Many people, including scientists, think that bacteria and such only exists in two dimensions when in fact there are at least three. By attaching a microscope at a ninety degree angle and having a cube slide rather than a flat one, viewers can see microscopic objects in three dimensions! Amateur scientists can now see the smiling faces of tape worm as they move in the x, y, z directions we are all accustomed to. To not have a 3D microscope is similar to trying to study sea creatures by looking at them from above. This breakthrough will increase scientific output by a factor of four.

Turbo Bully And The Infinite Sadness

I am sitting in the back seat of a stolen car, on both sides of me sit teenagers smoking spliffs. The driver, who says his name is Mike, is also smoking a spliff, though I would consider it to be more of a 'blunt' or 'doob'. The air in the car is thick with delicious smelling smoke, my head is becoming heavy with the illegal atmosphere. Hard techno music is thumping the subwoofers behind my seat as the car zips along the M25, I do not know the precise location of our destination though I can hazard a guess that there will be no wi-fi hotspots. The conversation in the car is minimal. I can't help but be reminded of the beach landings on Normandy in 1942, the sense of ritual quiet as each soldier prepares for the coming onslaught. Not that I was there, but I have seen Saving Private Ryan which I was told by film-makers to have been an accurate representation of the event. The lads in the car smoking cannabis could have potentially fought on those lousy beaches themselves had they had the poor luck to be born eighty years earlier. Instead it was the twenty first century and the war being fought was to get out of your head at the weekend. Are these drug taking youths any less brave than the soldiers of world war two? I was about to find out.

The car rolls to a stop in the darkness. Mike and his friends get out, I follow a few steps behind, not used to tracking across the slippery night soil in my Armani shoes. We are heading towards a forest. Up ahead I can hear crazy music and the laughter of young people. I ask Mike how often he comes to these parties.
"All the time, yeah? Even when I'm not here, I'm still here. Just in my imagination, yeah?" He says, offering me the drug spliff. I take a few drags and pass it back, holding the smoke in until we reach the edge of the clearing. In front of us are perhaps a hundred or so teenagers dancing in the darkness whilst a DJ plays white label bootlegs from the back of the van. The only lighting emanates from mobile phones and cigarettes. I ask Mike what happens now.
"We go find the man." He says, leading the way through the throng of people. It isn't long before we find a drug dealer. I stand awkwardly a few feet away, I am at least ten years older than most people here. Mike returns with a smile on his face and small bags of powder in his hand.
"Let's get stupid." He hands me a gram of the new drug that is popular with teenagers nowadays. I lick the back of my hand, gently tap out some powder and proceed to snort it up my nose. I have just taken about a third of a gram of 6-2sb monosulphoboridium diemthlamide. Otherwise known as 'turbo bully', or 'turbs' for short.

Turbo Bully was first synthesized in 1996 by scientists in Botswana in order to try and increase libido for animals in captivity. The drug itself didn't have this affect, though it did make the animals act strangely. It wasn't until Turbo Bully was accidentally taken by humans that scientists knew exactly what it did. The drug first dilates the central nervous system, engorging areas of the brain that lie beneath the neocortex. It quickly increases libido and relaxes the muscles, whilst inhibiting emotion and cognitive functioning. As well as this are feelings of euphoria, dipsomania and mild panic. All of these combined have made Turbo Bully into the ideal drug for partying youths trying to get high on their own supply! The thing that seperates Turbo Bully from cocaine, ecstasy, methadrone and other amphetamines is that it's effects last for four days, making it an extremely cost effective way to get off out of your head for a bank holiday weekend. I can already feel the effects of the drug taking hold as I wade into the crowd.

Bodies, faces, light, music. My own body and mind is rolling along at a frantic pace, as if fat snakes have replaced my skeletal structure so that I writhe like some subterranean thing burning in the sunlight. My awareness is fleeting, sometimes moment of extreme lucidity take over only for my consciousness to return into the drug fuelled nightmare of the night. I find Mike again at some point and ask him how much I was meant to take. He laughs when I say I have took the whole gram, which begins to send me into a kind of panic. By that point I had been trying to dance for a while and failing miserably, barely aware at the disgusted looks of the teenage faces that surrounded me as I rolled in the dead leaves and mud, groaning. I black out. It is morning and I am walking alone down a country road, unable to remember how I got there. The drugs effects are still powerful, my brain feels as if it has a direct connection to the internet, but the internet of the late nineties. Things take on a slight 'geocities' aesthetic, all I can think about are gifs of screaming skulls and wireframe models. I try to rest in a field but find that sleep is impossible. I am more wired out of my mind than I have ever been and only eight hours have passed.

I find myself at a motorway service station, I must have walked it. In my hands I am holding a copy of the radio times. I open it up and see doctor who smiling at me from the glossy page. I tear his face out and stuff it in my pocket. It may be useful later. There is a loud ringing in my ears.

Somehow I have gotten onto a coach. I do not know it's destination and feel too scared to ask anybody. I push myself as close as I can into the chair I am sitting in and look in awe at the traffic speeding past, unsure as to what I was doing. It is too much for me and so I go and sit in the toilet located at the rear of the bus. I look in the plastic mirror and see myself, pale, gurning, pupils dilated, a cut above my eyebrow. The visage of a rave maniac. I decide the best thing for me to do is to try and get home.

I'm unsure of the next sequence of events exactly, but I have tried to piece it together from various notes I had made on both my arms, answer phone messages to my friends and family and my credit card statement. Somehow I had ended up in Glasgow and decided to get a train back home. I must have gotten on the wrong train or forgotten where I had lived as I ended up in Blackpool. From here I travelled down the coast until reaching Wales, where things get strange. Though I do not remember what happened to me in Wales, I have the feeling I may have engaged in some sort of animal combat, perhaps against pigs or cows, though I'm unsure exactly. By the time I got back to England I was dressed in some clothes I had found in a bin bag outside a charity shop doorway. Using a combination of taxis, public transport and a rented motorbike I finally reached my house. After checking the date I had found only two days had passed, I still had another 48 hours left in the narcotic adventure. I cannot properly convey the feeling of dismay I felt at that moment, though it seemed to me that the effects were less strong and at least I was home. I had also gone deaf in one ear. I spent the next two days between my bed and my bath, listening to radio four and drinking herbal tea. There were occasions where I wondered if I had gone insane and that maybe there was no such drug as Turbo Bully, though I dismissed these ideas as ridiculous. Of course it existed. How else could I explain the nose bleeds, the tinnitus, the fidgeting, the jaw clenching, the constant sweating, the hallucinations, the discolouration of my glans? As the fourth day started to end I reflected on the question I had posed earlier, if taking drugs in modern Britain was in any way similar to WW2. And I can safely say after my experiences that not only is taking drugs more challenging, it is also more worthwhile.

Information Light

The executives waited in the foyer, mouths open, eyes vacant. They appeared to be subintellectuals and in fact they were, except when it came to business. A sort of capitalist autism had set into each of them, smashing down the labyrinth walls of the mind to make way for the monothought.

Stellar

A neutron star landed in London the other day, causing major traffic disturbances. The super heavy mass has also caused our solar system to rotate around Earth. A government spokesperson when asked about the neutron star said it was 'fantastic' and hoped that they could build a themed science park around the crash site that would 'be better than the millenium dome'.