Monday, 27 January 2014


Well… ba ba da ba … pfffffffffffffff

The topic of … writing.

Well you see the problem here, is exactly that!

It is unpossible for me to write sensible about writing. (See?)

It’s all alright to think a thing and maybe get enraged about it or just become bewildered and have these fuming thoughts swelling in my brain and then they sort of burst onto the page, like lancing a boil. Although lancing seems like such a tame way of saying tearing open your flesh to release the pus and make it all gush out, but in a slow, drippy, oozy sort of way, until it… plonks.

I never said writing was a pretty business.

But it seems like it ought to be easy enough!

To just have a thought and then turn it into these strange symbols on the com-poo-ta (or, if I’m feeling really clever I can write the thoughts with a pen! All sort of copperplatey, only ‘sort of’ though, don’t get excited) seems like it ought to be remarkably straightforward!

But then to talk about it!

To explain what I have just done… in words. Well that is fracking madness! Apparently ‘I fawt it, so I wroted it’ won’t pass muster in the oony-ver-city, they want all the why’s and wherefores that they drone on and on and on and on and on about.

I hate them all and their irksome talky-ness!

But they know something I don’t.

At least I think they do (I bloody hope they do, I’m paying the buggers enough). They know the secret of taking the pus (I could change the metaphor if I wanted to, but I won’t) and moulding it into something interesting… even more interesting than fresh pus! (Did you giggle when I said 'taking the pus'? Did you? Did you? No? just me then...)

So I should listen to them, I should look at their faces and let their words sink into my brain of thoughts and let their thoughts mingle with my thoughts and then learn from their words of wisdom which had been hiding somewhere in their floaty brains and poured out of their faces in the form of long droning speeches about poetics.

That's what I should do... but ALL I can think of, all that consumes my brain, taking up all the places in my head which should be reserved for thinking about things like Margaret Atwood and Odysseys and Kafka turning into a lady bug, is the blinding, all-consuming thought, ‘I want jam sandwiches!’


Thursday, 23 January 2014

I had forgotten

I admit it! I was warned, in a vague, wishy-washy sort of way. Also there is a teeny tiny part of my brain that remembered from last time and whispered softly to me at night, telling my dreams to be fraught.


I continued, blindly plunging forth, like a rabbit going white water rafting, I was exhilarated, excited, but really should not have been there, somebody should have seen me and stopped me and put some sort of procedure in place to prevent it from happening again.

“What are you talking about, you idiot?”

I think your questions have gotten far too cheeky in recent months! But I digress.

I am talking about DEADLINES!

The word ‘dead’ is there for a reason! It is to invoke fear! Panic! Mild alarm!

I sailed along my sea of tranquillity in my coracle of calm quite happily, until! All of sudden! There it was! Staring me in the face like a bandersnatch leaping from the shadows and snapping its jaws at me in a sort of snappy snappy way but a bit too far out of reach, so it has to sort of lean forward and extend its neck a bit and even then it can’t really reach me to cause any damage, so its just sort of a threaty thing, like one of them dinosaurs that has a ruff that suddenly sticks out in ‘Jurassic Park’ and the guy is all like ‘oooh look at you, you’re all cute’ and then BAM it eats his face.


I was fine about this deadline, until I suddenly had this moment of realisation.

‘What the hell am I doing?’

I had no idea how to do the thing that I should be doing, I had read nothing, NOTHING! That I was supposed to – I had assumed that getting the books out would be enough, that being the presence of the books would allow me to absorb their knowledge through some sort of literary osmosis – and I was left feeling ashamed and frightened in a corner.

“What happened next?”

Oh, you’re interested now are you? Well the truth is I screamed and cried and shouted and threw a bit of a tantrum and it magically got done. Without any help or advice or support or anything from anyone, anywhere.

Now all I have to do is trudge through the rain to hand it in.


Tuesday, 21 January 2014

Sheer inadequacy.

That is how it is in my head. Why is it that people can’t seem to cope with the idea of being competent, is that such a hideous thought?

It is almost as though by becoming an intellectual, an academic, a wiffly, waffly, silly, sausage of an over-thinking, balloon, floating through life on the whims of a fairy-eaten, woolly, blanket-brain, damages all the parts of the mind that make normal, humdrum, get-up-go-to-work-people function.

What time is it? What day is it? Where am I? Is that what its like to be me?

These are all the difficult questions facing those that wander the halls of that 1960s concrete stain on the landscape, apparently modelled on an Italian hill-top village, clearly by someone who had never seen an Italian hill-top village and only knew one thing about an Italian hilltop village and that was that an Italian hilltop village is invariably on top of a hill.

So now these wiffle-waffles who bounce around their concrete cages imagining the world to be full of wonder but too afraid to come out and see the reality of mundanity are in charge of my life. Yup. IN CHARGE!

In charge is a very loose description. It inspires images of control, restraint, order, or at least a vague awareness of what’s going on. But alas, no.

The waffle waffles shoot off in all directions, as if their balloon heads have been let go and all their gassy imaginings are spurting out and sending them wandering off in a random and unrecognisable direction of thought.

A new term has started!

This matters not to the waffle waffles, who are all off wiffling somewhere. Snorting around patches of vague ideas like truffle hogs overturning bits of shitty old rotting bark in the tulgy woods of the French country-side.

Wednesday, 1pm: Lesson time!

This matters not to the wiffle waffles! Sod lessons! Let’s do them last week instead! Sod telling anyone! Why tell them? This would be sheer madness! It would give the illusion of adequacy! And we wouldn’t want that sort of nonsense fogging up our impeccable image of utter ineptitude would we?


Monday, 20 January 2014

I’m back

I am in a serene place of calm.

Floating on a peaceful sea of calmness, gently bobbing along on waves of tranquillity and staring up at a sky of stillness.

“Why?” I hear you ask, slightly perplexed and startled but with general overtones of apathy.

Because I have just eaten my lunch. Twas jam on toast (Gluten free bread of course, I’m utterly intolerant to proletariat food).

“Why the frick, after months of nothing, have you decided that now is a wonderful time to tell me about your lunch?”

Well, because I am simply writing myself back into this bloggy thing by setting the scene.

I have been away for months and months and months. Mostly because I have been too busy doing other things to waste my time on your faces, but I suppose that if this heaving corpse of a blog is to struggle to continue its sad and neglected life then I am forced to attend to it at least once a year, perhaps even twice! Lucky for you!

The reason, as I am sure many of you know, that I have been away is because I have been on the interweb in another form – a sort of video form in which I act and stuff in order to amuse the general public. CLICK HERE

I have also decided to go to oony-ver-city and learn how to write, they might even teach me to read while I’m at it!

And in order to pay for the privilege of someone telling me how to scrawl on bits of pulped wood with a crayon I have to pay out vast quantities of cash, which I have had to earn by… I can hardly say it… going to work.

ME?! Work! I know. I KNOW! It is a shock to the system. I was never built to work, I was built to be served, worshiped, brought things on golden platters (I know that comes under ‘served’ but still) and admired. Yet here I find myself, at work.

The word is still rather alien to me and I find myself choking on it slightly. Wretching up my lovely lunch onto the golden platter on which it was served to me. Like the hairball of a feline goddess.

And with that lovely image pushed into your faces, I shall leave you.

For now! Mwahahahaha etc