Don't Panic

This world’s full of crooked arse little bastards.

Horrible, rotten people with fuck-ugly souls. Cowards, people afraid to go for what they really love because if it fails they’ll know they’ve failed and die failures. So instead they live and die as cowards, make excuses for the pathetic lives they lead. I understand that, I really do. I get that.

But some of these people for happiness in bringing people whohaven’tgiven up yet, who haven’t thrown in the towel, down to their disgusting level. There’s also the people who haven’t given up, yet still get their kicks from making others feel insignificant.

Which is the main problem with society, and no pseudo-political, economic, philosophical bullshit is ever gonna change that. There’s only one thing that can.

When people begin to do the things that make them happywithoutderiving pleasure from other peoples misery, then we might at least be on the right path to some sort of world peace, doubtful, but it’s a good starting point.

But, fuck, as much as IthinkI’m some sort of moral messiah and I have the right to bring tonnes of fury down on any one who preaches one thing yet does another (and I will continue to do so) the difference is when I bring people down to my low mood, the after effect is a much lower mood and a deep feeling of resentment.

It might be time to go all My Name is Earl all over again.

Stephen Fry is Bi-Polar

Ahhh, back to the grind it seems. It’s been two days sober as I try to recover from one of the most brutal hangovers of my life. Literally shaking for the first half of the first day, holding down the vomit for the second half and spending the most part of today far too terrified to leave the house, watching a documentary on mental health hosted by a man I admire to try and find comfort in other’s sorrow (not so much a case of schadenfreude, but there’s solace in knowing there’s other people out there who suffer as you do).

One woman in the documentary admitted to once trying to kill herself by boring a hole in her head with a power drill, so there are people out there a lot worse than me.

I eventually got out briefly and sat in the woods on a log, re-reading Cormac McCarthy’s The Road, until the anxiety shot back through me again and I dashed home. This is when the feelings of grandeur kicked in, as the second I entered my house a storm broke and torrential rain poured down like giant a-bombs of deluge. I tried to rescue a cat which had made home in the back garden but after scooping him up and plopping him inside my home he shot back out again, not even attempting to shield himself for the wet.

Which seemed a good idea, so I got a chair, left the door open, and allowed my feet to dangle in the rain with the droplets beating at my feet like some kind of bastardised massage. It felt good. I switched books to something more factual based and worked through some chapters.

I had a trench-load of work to get through, but none of it was going to get done today. I would put on the kettle tomorrow morning, drink strong coffee, and work my way through it. In the interest of putting my work load into the public light so as to feel impelled to finish it for fear of failure, here is what I need to work on.

Arrange e-mail interview as failed to shop up to gig due to crippling anxiety/depression.

Write interview questions x2

Upload filmed interviews x2

Write piece to coincide with interviews x2 (x5 when email interviews are returned as I am already waiting on one reply)

Write album review x1

Write ‘Songs to Cure Depression’ feature for publishing on Monday x1

Finish novel x1

Finish short story x1

Edit previous pieces of fiction x∞

Find money to visit Bangor for next political piece x1

I doubt I’ll get through all of this, but if I can stay focused and the low mood as subsided, I’ll be able to make at least some headway.

My world smells good enough to eat

Which is, in fact, a very misleading title that gives off the impression that things are just peachy. Which they’re not. But life has been a lot worse, which I think is the main point. Even though it isn’t raining whiskey, and I’m not shitting rainbows, things could be a lot worse.

The main problem at the moment is the damn drinking. I just can’t seem to nip it in the bud and I can feel myself slowly edging towards the gravitational pull of the black-hole known as depression.N So I’ve come up with a plan. Luckily, I have no money so I can’t really spend it on booze, but there is some money in my back account (this is for rent) and I’m scared I’ll get cocky and slowly begin to chew into it (more than I already have) to an extent where I can’t make up the right amount at the end of the month, but who knows? I’ve come back from worse.

This appears to meandering into a direction I’m unsure of and if we don’t turn back now it could end up getting so far out into absolute gibberish that we won’t be able to find our way back (I sure as hell didn’t leave a trail of breadcrumbs) so lets turn back now while we can still see where we started.

THE PLAN! Of course, it’s a very simple plan. I have no work/plans that involve me leaving this tiny little coffin of a flat for the next few days so I’m going to bolt the door, lock the windows, draw the curtains, and hide from the world in an attempt to sober up, get some form of actual sleep pattern going and, whilst doing those things, I’ll exercise until my muscles bleed to sweat out all the bad vibes.

I am the butterfly. Heed these words. This caterpillar is entering the cocoon. When he returns he’ll be faster, stronger, and far more focused then ever before…

Or dead (I don’t think there’s enough tins of 6 pence mushy peas to survive).

You’ve got your knife up to my throat

Not again.

I thought this was done with.

Just before I decided to hit the hay last night I was electrified via means of ‘fork in the plug socket’ of mass anxiety. This feeling escalated when I backed up into a damp puddle of depression which cause the entire room to spark, fizzle, and eventually set alight with negativity.

So I curled up in bed. Closed my eyes. And spent the night screaming in my head,

“LEAVE ME ALONE, YOU BASTARD!! JUST LET ME SLEEP!!”

But I didn’t and spent the entire 7(, 8, 9?) hours in a hot sweat, foetal position in full swing, just wanting to get some rest and wake feeling fresher than this wilting daisy that had rooted itself in my psyche.

I eventually gotsomesleep but this was interrupted almost immediately by early morning woodpeckers. Or so I thought. In my semi-conscious state I imagined the little bastards rapping on the door but as reality seeped back into play I realised it was, again, some cruel bastards knocking on the door of my once neighbour, unaware the fuck had flown the coop just the other week.

I should give some background here, I lived next to a guy who was either a heavy weed dealer, or was locked into a 24/7 game of monopoly with Bob Marley’s ghost with no foreseeable end in the near future. The place stunk so bad of green that it found a way to permeate the boundaries of the walls between our two abodes and intoxicate my living space also. Which was fine, I didn’t mind the smell.

Anyway, this drug-fiend left last week or sometime around last week, having been on a four day straight booze binge (sothat’swhere this lack of sleep and sanity had come from…possibly) days had merged together, or simply been forgotten. But he’d gone, and ever since he had there’d been a plethora of police, men in black suits, and general rough looking mother fuckers trying to contact him by way of his front door (which, with the age of this dilapidated building, rattled the very core of my segment of the shack). I’d wondered why he’d left in such a hurry, and now it all seemed so obvious.

But we’ve strayed again, though by now it should be commonplace that these things will happen, my point is this: Today I should be heading towards Leeds for interviews, music, and drinking, yet I’m stillhereand I’m here with no intention of moving. I’ve locked the door, bolted all the…bolts (shit) and now I have Ween oozing from the speakers.

This is my haven.

I am on a tiny island with one coconut tree, surrounded by ocean and I have no other land in sight. There is not chance of rescue, but as long as I stay here on my coconut island…

I’m safe.

…like an umbrella forced open in my chest

Sometimes it’s the hardest thing to do, sticking to your guns, especially when it feels like your back is against the wall and your ambushed by an entire city of monsters who want nothing more than to rip out your soul.

But, fuck, as long as I keep busy I’m sure I can slalom through the mine field of conflict, so lets keep the work load high.

Which is exactly what I’ve been doing, and even though the work has increased, or at least maintained a healthy level of action, the anxiety and depression are at an all time peak.

Perhaps it’s exhaustion, I’m burning myself faster and harder than a tea-light doused in kerosene, or maybe it’s the fact that no matter what I do, I cannot prevent my mind from skirting back into the current of a spirit shattering whirlpool of negativity.

But this all sounds a little bleak and I’m sure there’s a light at the end of the tunnel. In fact, I’m pretty sure there is.

Dark Times in the U.K. Scene

This was originally meant to be published on Moon and Back Music but they weren’t prepared to publish it, so I quit. Unfortunately I have only just begun to apply for a new zine to write for and by the time that is sorted this article might be out-dated and may not have the same impact (if any).

“But when no one ever smiles or ever helps a stranger,
Is it any fucking wonder our society’s in danger of collapse?” – Frank Turner

“In fact, punk rock means exemplary manners to your fellow human being” - Joe Strummer

Have you ever felt bad about how little you do for charity/the community? Perhaps you really want to be ‘part of the solution’ and ‘join the revolution’ that so many of your punk rock heroes promote in their music? Whatever the reason is, you feel highly inadequate at the fact that the musicians of the world have so much dedication to their beliefs, and how much this shows in their music, while all you can do is sit there and listen, wishing you had the gusto to ‘take the bull by the horns’. Don’t worry, really, its okay. Because judging by the actions that occurred at a Manchester free show, a lot of these people are merely wearing morals as a badge of honour.

Or, at least, the people involved with the following incident are. So perhaps the opening statement is a bit of an over exaggeration. Regardless, the following fiasco has disgusted me right to my core.

Before we get to these damn specifics I have to make one thing clear, I will not mention any names, for one main reason. These snakes in the grass should out themselves and apologise in full for their actions. I am not trying be some ‘angel of death’, I am merely trying to draw attention to where it may not have been drawn without this post.

So let’s get to the dirt and (well aware that  by making these following statements I might as well name these heartless bastards, and that by doing this I’m making the crucial decision of choosing my morals over friendship, but I made a pact with myself that I’d put information I thought was important over grasping for niceties from people who probably wouldn’t even lose a single wink of sleep if I got hit by the Manchester to London Virgin Express, so let’s return) take our minds back to an acoustic show that occurred only a few days ago (at the time of writing). The point I’d like to make is that, as is common knowledge and the general consensus of all punk rock, musicians are meant to be good people. How many punk rockers write songs that are anti-war, anti-poverty, anti-anything that might suck a little bit or bum someone out even in the slightest? Too many to note, right? But not this time, because these righteous, moralistic freaks who spend six days a week preaching equality for all were willing to leave a venue mid-show (this includes the artist midway through his set) to go out into the street and ridicule some poor drunken lunatic who had passed out in a doorway by flashing cameras in his face, playing music in his ears, and generally laughing at his existence. So what happened to love for the common man? The common man was right on your doorstep and you not only shunned him, you (metaphorically) pissed in his face. I’m quite sure the common man gets down and out, low on his luck, (and deals with this by getting a bit too shit-faced) once in a while and doesn’t need a bunch of falsely idealistic maniacs getting some half-arsed attempt at kicks by bullying this poor soul (and I wouldn’t be surprised if these were the kids who got beat up at school, but it’s funny when you’re on the higher step of the food-chain how your morals seem to disintegrate, isn’t it?).

Perhaps my comments are extreme (extreme is definitely the best word to use) but I stand by my point. It seems pretty obvious the guy harassed wasn’t just ‘some drunk passed out guy’, he had half a bottle of cheap wine in his hand, was completely alone, looked worse for wear, and was out of his head. The video that has been shot of this travesty (shot by one of the people involved with the ridicule) shows clearly that the guy isn’t finding it funny and he looks confused, and frankly, terrified by the abundance of people flashing cameras in his face and laughing at his misfortune.

Having personally suffered a long time with mental health issues and often (though by no means the best way to deal with it) have turned like many other sufferers of depression, anxiety, etc. to hard boozing. That’s not to say that this guy is definitely a sufferer, but to be that drunk, alone, and passed out in the street are calling cards of someone that may have some issues in their life. This wasn’t taken into consideration and the argument that the people involved ‘wouldn’t mind’ being woken up to music is null, I personally wouldn’t want twenty plus stranger standing around me while I was in such a state, being nothing more than school yard bullies. It’s a little something called schadenfreude, and it isn’t in the slightest bit big or clever.

Also, how does it look for the bar when everyone goes out (many with alcohol bought from the establishment) into the street and mocks this guy? It shows a lack of respect for the place that not only put the show on, but paid the acts, out of its own funds, as it was a free show.

Regardless of whether the guy was eventually okay with it, or it was done without direct malice, (or whatever excuses will/have been used) no one had prior knowledge of who this guy was, how he would take it, etc. It wasn’t in an environment such as a house party where there’d be at least some feeling of familiarity with the people involved, or at a large venue concert where if the guy was in a real bad way there’d be medical staff at hand, etc. Supposing the guy had lashed out, what then? If he would of got up and acted aggressively, what then? There’d be a conflict entirely of their own making. Just because your “9 - 5” is admirable (as is the case with at least one of the people involved) it doesn’t give you an excuse to be, frankly, a bully which, in my opinion, is exactly what this entire thing was, bullying, and this ‘9 - 5 good deed occupation, if anything, clarifies my point of hypocrisy.

The main point of this was that it shouldn’t have happened, I expected the people involved to be far more considerate and to have dealt with the guy in a way that shows “sharing caring values”, not low brow bullying. Even if it was done without malice, without bad intentions, it’s irrelevant. You didn’t know the guy, who he was, what was up with him, or anything of that sort.

I think it very flippant that in this ‘scene’ it seems pretty damn apparent that you can be out of order, moralistically wrong, but if someone calls you out on that then they are the bad guy, not the people who committed the act (as has happened with the publication of this). It wasn’t a funny thing to do, it was just damn cruel and the fact that no one seems to be truly be acknowledging that just proves the point all the more, with exception to one of the individuals involved not one has even shown a shred of remorse about their acts.

To stand on a stage and act like you’re the queen fucking bee, the high and mighty of the moral world, and then do a potential ten car pile-up causing U-turn of what are apparently your ‘beliefs’ then, Chuckles, you’re no better than Stalin, Lenin, or any of those peace promoting maniacs who murder the masses the second they get hold of the reigns. I thought punk-rock was meant to be the one place that still had good souls, but by looking at this event it’s clear that punk rock no longer breeds the harbingers of peace; instead being filled with people acting like nothing but Nazis in sheep’s clothing.

This article has been said to be poorly written, hyperbolic, and probably a whole load of other negative things. Maybe they’re right. But WHAT I wrote doesn’t really matter. What matters is that this HAPPENED and the people involved refuse to show any guilt or regret for actions that match that of a high-school bully mocking the weaker kid at break time because he knows his victim can’t defend himself.

So as not to completely lose anyone who reads this and wasn’t involved, here’s the footage of the incident.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qnU8GJ98Ccc

I’d also like to note that due to this I have lost a large chunk of my friends, my security of a site to write for (I’ve found another now) and the ability to watch some of my favourite bands as the people within the scene have made it clear that I’m ‘a wanker they can’t stand to be in the same room as’. So I hope that after reading this statement you can appreciate what I’ve sacrificed, and that this isn’t just some petty kind of attack, these were the people whose music I admired and I looked up to in terms of morality. It seems I was wrong.

I’m waking up in night terror

I can’t go on.

It has to stop now, otherwise I’ll go over the edge and either kill a bunch of people, or myself (well probably not, I have a lot of guts but not that much). Either way, I need to stop this boozing, it is killing my will. Along with my ability to sleep soundly.

Along with this giant welts are starting to appear across my face and back again. I feel like my fifteen year old self struggling with the embarrassment of acne in the changing rooms but with the added kick of heavy depression. These giant red-sore, puss-filled growths, the calling card of a man falling apart due to stress, booze, and the deterioration of body and mind, are dotted across my abdomen like an astrologist chart of infection. They were all there, The Big Dipper, Orion’s Belt, the whole damn lot.

The sun is beaming today and while I’d usually find some kind of huge mound of earth to climb up, today I just cannot face the outside world.

“HA! SUNSHINE, YOU BASTARD! YOU WONT EVEN GRACE MY FLESH TODAY! I AM A FUCKING VAMPIRE TO YOU!”

So I plan to spend the day reading for as long as my vision holds out whilst this grim decadence consumes me, and staring out the window as a swarm of giant bees frolic just outside, thinking just how terrified I am of bees.

Are the windows locked?

Oh thank God, or Buddha, or even Satan (I’m sure he owes me a favour or two) it’s closed.

Now sit back, relax, and try not to slip into a deep black goddamn oblivion.

Because of the shame

“And in those days shall men seek death, and shall not find it; and shall desire to die, and death shall flee from them.”
Revelation, 9. 6

Peculiar, to start with a quote from the most famous work of fiction known to man, but it seems apt any how. It’s 11:00 (exactly) and my head is a giant axe wound of blurred memories, booze, and insanity.

But where did it all go wrong?

Was it the £3.80 shots of Glenfiddich? Probably.

Regardless, speculating on the cause is quite irrelevant (and almost always is) so we should just consume the black coffee and work out what the hell is to be done with today. Fuck yesterday, it has happened and there is no a goddamn thing any of you maggots can do about it. Myself included.

It appears this is in fact just ramble (it always is but I try and bring the tangent into some kind of point by the end of it) and a ramble with no plot or course is nothing worth reading. But, hell, how much does this reflect our lives? Mine at least. I’m sure they’re are some demi-deity creatures out there with clear goals and a step by step on how to achieve them (bullet points included) but these people, successful as they are, seem to be missing a certain spark, that strange look in the eye of a stranger that says

“HOLY SHIT! THIS MAN IS INSANE!”

it’s that magic that makes the world what it is. So you can keep your plans, your life goals, your step by step action plans because even though 99.7% of the maniacal breed of humans that are living on nothing but guts and instincts will die at the curb-side, every now and again one of them will be John fucking Lennon.

I’m sick of yer mouth and yer two percent milk

I poured myself a hot bath until it reached the point where that weird circle full of holes (what the hell is that called?) starts to drain the water.

The water was almost scalding but I lay there in it and realised that if I kept still it didn’t burn as much (and why was that?)

Bath time was a curious time.

Half-way through I got out, the heat getting too intense, splashed my face with cold water in the sink, sat naked on the toilet (not using it for anything other than a seat) and treated the steam filled bathroom like some kind of bastardised sauna.

I got back in again and allowed the water to, eventually, cool to what I guess some people may call lukewarm.

This went on for over an hour and when I finally got out (don’t worry, this will have a point to it…I hope) I performed a slalom around the giant puddles of water, attempting to mop but realising the damn thing was already soaked and I didn’t have a bucket.

As I did this, I got to thinking about how different my life could be (the most trite of clichés, I know, but let me run with this for the moment), if I mounted the nearest damn beast that would have me and stuck with her/it. I see many instances of couples bitching and moaning or, even worse, living very dull lives of stoic contentment, living in melancholy routines and convincing themselves they’re happy (that’s not to say some of these bastards haven’t found true love but I find it tough to swallow that they all have and their true love, conveniently, lives up the street/works at the same place/goes in the same damn bar you frequent every miserable weekend after working a job you absolutely despise. And I think we’ve found the cause/answer.

I’m lucky, in a sense that I have nothing but my own damn guts to live on and this gives me some kind of weird special power or, perhaps a better phrase, train of thought where I question every thing I lay my eyes on and don’t settle for anything that I don’t see as absolutely perfect for me in that particular moment. It’s also a curse as I become so wrapped up in my own shit I let the people who are actually perfect for me in that particular moment (and perhaps many more moments to follow) fall by the wayside, they get bored, or pissed off, and move on to find someone who doesn’t have such an over inflated sense of themselves that they have a medium where they write about nothing but themselves and don’t refer to the fact of them having an over inflated sense of themselves as a “special power.”

Anyway, I’m off on another tangent and I could do with pulling this in to some kind of close so I can actually sleep for the first time in what feels like weeks.

I spend most, if not practically all, nights sat in the goddamn tomb of a flat entirely solitary and feeling strangely comfortable having absolutely no one to talk to or bother. I communicate, mostly, in a way that I can get my point across and if someone doesn’t like it, or doesn’t agree with it, I simply don’t have to listen to their bullshit.

I’m probably going to die alone by reasons/faults wholly of my own design. But the more I think about it, the more I feel it’s probably going to be a damn lot more peaceful going out that way.

Stinking like the breath of Beelzebub

It’s probably a good idea to do this while the adrenaline is still flowing through my body. I’m back off the drink again after falling back into it over the past week due to (or perhaps resulting in) finding myself in quite a dark place again.

But the adrenaline helps.

Even if all I want to do is sleep.

I guess I should make some kind of actual point here.

For the past few years I’ve spent my time honing a skill that has helped me throughout my days. This metaphorical tough skin that allows me to detach myself from any negative situation and just carry on with things. It prevented me from being getting bit in the arse by bad people, bad women, pretty much anything (the day I learn to use this technique to the same effect but for the bad feelings coming from within, shit, well that’ll be the day the apocalypse rears it’s slimy head and blows us all the fucking smithereens).

So who would have thought that my special ability would, in fact, bite me in the arse? Sometimes being an emotionally handicapped, socially inept, closed off freak isn’t a good thing. Especially when something (someone) good comes along and you find yourself going through the old routines of alienation and complacency instead of tearing down the self-constructed walls of reclusion and allowing yourself to be an actual damn human being and stop pretending you don’t give a crap.

It’s a scary prospect, this reintroduction into the wild.

To admit to caring.

To realise you’ll probably get broken down all over again, but giving it a shot anyway.

I’m a real fuck up and I’ll make a plethora of mistakes along the way.

But I’m willing to give it a shot.

Just gotta keep those digits crossed in hope this irrational fear of attachment hasn’t fucked it when it being fucked is the worst possible outcome.

Mermaid

QUICK! Get that Goddamn medication!

My mood was plummeting like a lead shit in a bucket and I needed the drugs to bring it back. I’d missed a day of taking them and that day (which was yesterday) was filled with grief, anguish, and booze. But hell, aren’t they all? Well, no. Because I’d be doing fantastically with the less drinking scheme I’d created, sticking to only weekends (though the weekends had become a 72 hours slug-fest of beer, spirits, cider, wine, and whatever cheap bleach was on offer and the nearest Aldi store.

But, we’re straying away from the central plot now (don’t we always?), I’d drank the past two night and even though it wasn’t a great amount it was still consistent, and I’d be drinking tonight (I had been invited to dance with the gays and lesbians in that curious section of Manchester, Canal Street).

My mood hadn’t been terrible this entire day and this, finally, is the central point.

I believe I am part fish. Or turtle perhaps. I’m not sure. Though I’m not the greatest of swimmers I love being in water. As soon as I touch liquid, everything negative dissipates. It feels like I’d never had a bad thought in my entire life. Like heroin for the soul (though I’m sure heroin effects your soul a damn good amount anyway).

So now I’m beat, defeated again, having been away from the water for over an hour now. But the taste of 1 part baby piss and 4 parts chlorine (or whatever ration is used these days to give the pool that bizarre taste and smell) is still fresh in my mouth and is still filling my lungs (if only a little).

So I guess it isn’t all bad.

Marlon Brando’s eyes

My mind is a tiger, but my body is a sloth.

“Do you want some gloves?”

“No, thanks.”

This was my response to the man I was working for today. Why the hell would I want gloves why I was gardening? There is nothing more pleasing then sticking fingers into soft, moist, soil. Well maybe there is,but there aren’t many.

Gardening is an art, much like the painter who begins with a blank canvass and creates something beautiful. I was met by a jungle of sorts, and created beauty.

“Why don’t you have a break?”

“I’m okay.”

“But you haven’t stopped all day.”

“I’d rather just work.”

That was something. 99% of the time I’d simply sit around and drink and do nothing more than write ugly stories but when I actually did work, I poured my being into it and was unstoppable. The same can be said for the sitting, drinking, and writing, but apart from the latter, they aren’t constructive or beneficial (and the latter isn’t that much either.)

It was good to be in the earth again, and to be paid to do so. The smell and feel of the ground was invigorating and gave me a, though short lived, sense of purpose.

So what have I learnt today?

• I can push through an entire day of physical exertion on nothing but a banana.
• Sobriety isn’t so bad (as long as you keep constantly busy.)
• Anxiety is my bitch.

I still haven’t drank and even though I really want to tonight (a man deserves a drink after a hard days work) I don’t think I will. I’ll save myself for tomorrow and attempt to drown my lungs in malt and hops with a good full day.

Now pray to Ra for tomorrows sun.

Ramblin’ Revisited

HEAT! Finally. I had been sat on the freezing train platform for what seemed like a month but now, after cramming into the train like cows to the slaughter (and in many ways we all were,) I was sat in the heat of the carriage with Rochelle’s Will o’ the Wisp on my lap. I wouldn’t read it for long, as soon as I left the dank pit of Bolton, I’d take in the sights.

I had no purpose for this journey, other than attempting to shake off the cobwebs of sobriety, it had been four days now, (I was attempting a routine of ‘weekend only’ boozing) and the strange urge to fill my lungs with the salt of the sea that hit me like a K.O. punch every so often. But, regardless of the reasons or lack thereof, I was heading to Blackpool on nothing but a spontaneous energy.

When I arrived I was enveloped in pleasant heat and a breeze that was eerily calm for a seaside town. The icy winds of Bolton were long gone and this filled me with positivity. That said, the lack of alcohol had affected my sleep and I was already burning out, I needed caffeine. I headed down to the first pier, paid for a £1.00 black coffee at a stall, sat on a bench, and faced the water. This is it, I thought, with my back to the people, to the tacky amusements, to the entire damn world. It was just me and the sea. I felt like Hemingway. I basked in the sun, drank the coffee, listened to the 60’s love songs played over the tannoy and allowed myself a brief moment of relaxation.

After the coffee, and with the smell of fresh doughnuts invading my nostrils, I walked down the promenade, glancing towards the water.But what the hell was I doing?There was a beach right in front of me and here I was wasting time on concrete. I walked as far out as I could, walking through the shallows of surf and cutting through the plethora of seagulls. Only one other person was brave, or stupid enough, to come out this far and, even though I respected her guts, she was the only creature other than myself and the gulls who was drawn in by the hypnotism of the water. I wanted no other human around so I increased my pace and left her to stroll slowly.

I could die here, I thought as I sat on a step by the sand. This was in no way a depressing thought. The coffee, the salt air, and the overall tranquillity of my current situation gave me a sense of peace, much like the stories of people on their death beds.

Proceeding further down the beach I saw a seagull pluck a fish from the water and take to the skies. I wasn’t the sole observer of this feat, two other gulls had noticed this and a dogfight ensued. It was a beautiful show, even if it was morally unjust (no man should be robbed of his dinner,) and each twist, dive, and pirouette was matched by the gulls in pursuit. With a hard right turn the lead gull lost his grip of the fish and within and inch or two, not even far enough to justify calling it a fall, one of the other gulls snatched the meal and flew towards the horizon, leaving the other two combatants to shriek in dismay.

Civilization can only be avoided for so long and eventually I had to return to the concrete jungle. The only way out was a massive construct, a seawall of sorts, so I scaled the Goliath only momentarily losing my balance throughout the entire climb. I perched on top of this man-made mountain being greeted by the call of a passing cyclist…

“DON’T DO IT!”

…but I had no intention of plummeting to my doom, instead I scrawled some words, took in the last views of the sea, and prepared myself for a reintroduction into the chaos of society.

I decided to see how far out of the town I could go, heading away from the tower until I reached a fork in the road. One direction lead to the airport, the other read “tourist attractions.” Having always had a place in my heart for airports, and nothing but disdain for most things “tourist,” I decided on the former but on arrival was unable to find a good spot to watch the take-offs and landings. Perhaps the pub would have a place, I thought, but the temptation to drink would have been too much so I tried to leave, unfortunately finding myself trapped by the auto-mobile labyrinth of the car park. I wasn’t a man of retracing steps so I climbed atop an electricity box and vaulted over the fence to freedom.

I’d heard stories of a vicious, drug-fuelled, underworld operating in Blackpool and knew any turd could be polished, I’d have to dig deep into the nutty centre of the faecal matter to see what the real shit of this town was about. I avoided main streets, darted down alleys and tried to lose myself in the varicose veins of back streets but, apart from a thug-looking girl with a skinhead on a BmX, saw no evidence of violent slums, only well kept gardens, estate agents, takeaways and a nameless bookshop with a great selection of the classics (none of which I bought.) It was common that crime worked better at night, and the day was still young, so perhaps that was the reason for these apparently picturesque streets. The freaks only came out after nightfall. I wasn’t planning on waiting around long enough to find out.

I delved back into the hustle, cutting through the now dispersed crowds of pensioners and families, and weighed up the prices of seafront hotels in case I ever decided to spend some real time here. I slipped into one of the arcades with a single intention, to ride the Ghost Train. Even though it was “tourist” as shit, I fucking loved the Ghost Train. But the damn thing was closed for repairs so I got the hell out of Blackpool.

Tiger in My Tank

I was awoken about 35 minutes ago by the phone ringing. It was the dentist,

“Mr. Critchley. Your dental check up is now due. Can we please make an appointment?”

I hung up. What kind of sick, twisted bastards would call a man before midday? I usually woke quite early, either eight or nine in the morning. But recently I’d been lying in my single bed until about midday, and I contemplated why this might be and came up with this.

First theory. Even though I’d been getting into bed at the same time it had been taking me a much longer time to actually lose consciousness. Probably due to the re-emergence of heavy depression (it was impossible to pass out in this state. Not unless you were REAL drunk, and sometimes even that didn’t do the trick)

Second theory. I didn’t want to wake up. Again, this is due to my broken soul, it had become ugly and sick. It was puking itself into my body and mind at regular intervals. So when I did wake I’d just roll back over and lose it again, the dreams were fucked up (and they too had become filled with negativity and melancholy) but at least they offered the glory of “reality detachment” (though as soon as the illusion is realized in a dream, you wake up) so it was catch-22. The waking world was killing me and now not even my own defense mechanism, my inner ability of escapism, could save me. I had become doomed.

Third third. Both of the above.

I’d wake every morning in this tiny little flat, in my tiny little bed, with my tiny bits of money (which right now, was none,) my tiny amounts of love (which, again, was none,) and all I had was these stupid fucking words that weren’t do anything to save, or finally finish, me. I’d get into bed every night in this tiny flat, in my tiny bed and not a lot changed. Perhaps I was lonely? But I’d been lonely for the most part of my life and it never got me down like this. Maybe it was the lack of money. but the same rule applies.

I’d decided a long time ago to not taken anyone’s word for anything. If someone promised me something I’d take with the whole damn salt shaker and just make my own plans. The magic of it was that it worked. Fuck, I can’t remember exactly, but I think it had worked every damn time since I had the epiphany all that time ago.

People are ugly, unreliable, and selfish. Myself included. I’m in no way trying to place myself on a pedestal, to elevate myself to a heavenly status (fuck, I’m probably worse than most) but I do have this to say for myself. I was honest. And not honest in a clean, wholesome way. Not honest in the way the parents and teachers used to tell you to be. I was gut honest and even though it would probably be the death of me, it was all I had.

I got up after the phone call, wrote this, took a shit and then got right back into bed. I wasn’t ready for this goddamn ugly day just yet.

Try Not To Breathe

Where the fuck are we, right now? I mean, really, right now? I’m at this desk, yes. We’re all at some fucking desk of some sort if this is being read, and if it isn’t, then at least I’m still here and, hopefully, I always will be. I want to churn words out until my goddamn last breath, regardless if it is in 60 seconds or 60 years.

We live in a world of a dead art, and (believe me I know) I said that it had merely changed format, the written word, but has it? Has it really? Because this goddamn world wide web seems to be filled with nothing but inane rubbish about absolutely fuck all (Idorealize the hypocrisy, I’m talking nothing but balls too.)

But perhaps the written word has changed format. But to not the digital medium (though even my argument is changing to that and, arguably, already has) but to an more audio medium. I mean, shit, think about it. Hasn’t music just been a another form of story telling for goddamn aeons? Only now it seems more prominent, and, in some respects, more brilliant. But maybe I’m talking from the perspective of someone who has only been alive the past (just under) quarter of a century. Though I do consider myself a switched on person when it comes to music. Fuck, how many people know that classical musicisn’t the same as as all orchestral pieces or, for that matter, Classical was against featuring emotion and it was only when Beethoven started to go deaf he started toreally put his own heart and soul into it. Before that he just change the same old shitty fables into compositions. But, fuck, once again, we seem to be straying from whatever point I was originally making, and I’m not gonna give myself the glory of looking back on what has already been wrote, so we might JUST jump away from the original point.

But that was it. The story tellers of our day, and I’d happily agree that in the past decade (or maybe two depending when you start counting from) it has declined into a moronic abundance of shite, okay, music in the charts today MOSTLY sucks. But, if you’re looking at the direct charts, you’re a fucking dope to start with.

We had a decade (or so) back, artists like R.E.M., Nirvana, etc. (you know the drill. Oh, and by the way, I do NOT include the Red Hot Chilli Peppers in any of this. Though, musically, they’re hot shit. Lyrically, that guy can take a turd in the mouth any day and it wouldn’t change a damn thing) and if ya wanted to go furtherback we have Dylan, The Beatles, the list and the timeline regresses more. But today, there is good. It’s just a little more underneath the surface of the “day to day” media. We have our Frank Turner’s (perhaps the biggest U.K. song writer who canactually write,) there’s the Chuck Ragan’s, the Austin Lucas’, and an insane amount ofjust as good songwriters who just haven’t had any form of “big break” yet.

So, and Ithinkthis was my main point, turn off your fucking radio (unless you’ve got on some old orchestral or Motown) and get involved in that goddamn twat of a medium which is the internet. That horrible nerdy, either fat or spotty or socially retarded (or all three,) kid who you used to try and throw tuna sandwiches at on your dinner hour, yeah? Well that kind knows more shit about REAL music than you EVER will. Oh, shit, don’t get me wrong. You’re uncle did take you to the pub when you were 17 and a half and hedidtell you who “The Smiths” are and since then you think you know music and have binned the Wigan Pier tapes in exchange for Coldplay albums, and think that’s cool, but really, I have some news. Your uncle is a twat who is living in some bullshit time-warp where, with fingers crossed, he hopes (no, hebelieves) that the Hacienda days will re-ignite (regardless of the fact they’re a bunch of flats now,) and Coldplay have NEVERwrote a good song….ever.

Punk rock might be played, mostly, with acoustic guitars now. But the soul is still there. Therealsoul. Not some fucking Sex Pistols wannabe fashion icon horse-shit. The realpunk. I’m talking the Black Flag, the Husker Du, and (the U.K. based) Lurkers, Vibrators, and the Damned. For as much as the latter dressed like twats, they kicked more arse than 99.9% of the fakers, these days, I can think of.