haters gonna hate – even the shit i be proud of, yeah?


January 2014

let’s stick together – bryan ferry

I’ve started mapping out April’s NaNoCamp novel. So far, it’s set in the same world as dreich NOiR and I have a list of characters, which I’m adding attributes to as they unveil themselves to me. (and I’m still adding to that list, as of this morning!)
They say, you should always build from the characters up and that’s a model that’s always worked for me.
I’m also recycling one or two characters from earlier works. Since I already have a bit of their background, it gives me a bit more skeleton to hang other characters (and plot) on.
Through no fault of my own, I attended an ice hockey match recently. Interested parties might like to check my twitter feed from the evening of 25 i 14. I imagine this will feed into this as yet untitled novel in some way, shape or form.
The rules of ice hockey are simple: a dozen padded maniacs, half in one costume, half in another, beat the living shit out of each other. The audience, dressed either one way or the other, cheer and laugh when someone dressed like them hurts someone dressed differently. Conversely, when someone dressed in the other colours kills or maims someone in the same colour scheme as yourself, the idea is to take great umbrage at this.
Basically, apart from the overcooked veggie-burger that gets flailed around in the melee, it’s a string of hate-crimes – with applause.
Sort of like the rape scene from ‘The accused’, except with more people cheering.


no pity – 999

I’ve watched three episodes of Channel Four’s ‘Benefits Street’ now and I’m still nonplussed how anyone can feel anything but compassion for these individuals.
Over the years, i’ve watched sit-coms getting crueler and less funny (stand up, Ricky Gervaise) and during the same era, the rise of the poke-fun-umentary. Booze Britain, Britain’s toughest boozers, Arseholes under arrest, Look who’s on the sex offenders’ register, the list is endless. as a culture, we like to relax and watch those with less choices than we have, suffer.
Organised television has turned into the Circus Maximus only without the quick bloody death. Same baying crowds, but now we get to watch the drawn-out struggles of people trying to survive.
I wonder how far we can take this – what about replacing the calm, knowledgable newsreaders of yore with yoof-friendly haircuts to rip the piss out of families undergoing tragedy? We’re almost there. A gloating, smug populace laughing at the misfortunes of others.
This shit makes David Camerons of us all.

dead end street – the kinks

There seems to be a massive effort among those who believe themselves to be in charge to destroy everything that originally made the masturbation superhighway interesting around twenty years ago. Remember the early nineties? When the world wide web was fresh and exciting and nut-cases pointed webcams at their worm ranches and invited the world to watch? When people still posted white pages with blue links to their favourite Nine Inch Nails or Kraftwerk bootlegs?
Then, within about five years, the web became the domain of businesses – a pornocracy where suits whored their commerce to the exclusion of everything else.
And so, surprise surprise, the internet continues its inexorable drift into greater and greater monotony. More and more adverts. It’s as if the powers that be have no experience of the downside of commerce. 4OD already runs clunkily enough, but the programmes are interrupted by adverts, too. If I didn’t have a remote control that let me mute all this telly selly time, I probably wouldn’t even bother watching any of their output. When I put on this week’s ‘Benefits Street’, I do so to experience compassion for the subjects and disbelief that others could consider hating such vulnerable people, not to experience the 2014 equivalent of spam e-mails offering A BIGGER PENIS NOW!!! and THE YOUNGEST BITCHES EVER SEEN ON THE NET!!!

breathe – pink floyd

By the time you read this, I’ll have been off the fags a week. Or perished in the attempt.
DAY ONE: No urge-to-smoke on waking. Didn’t even bother using the e-cig until i’d been up almost four hours. After finally using it, wrote scathing, sarcastic attack on the rebranding of the August bank holiday as Thatcher day. Pretty sure if George Osborne was available, I would’ve stamped on the cunt’s face by now. Patience might be a little short at this time. The next day or two might be a good time for people to try not crossing or disappointing me in any way, shape or form. Unless they genuinely want to walk with a limp, that is.
Later, walking from Queen Street to Central Station, whilst using my e-cig, I’m aware that these glaswegians probably think I’m a bounty hunter from the future, which is charming.
DAY TWO: this is seriously bizarre. I’m coughing up rainbows due to not having had a cigarette in around thirty-six hours – but I don’t feel any nicotine withdrawal. In my experience these go hand in hand. What *is* the world coming to?
Owner’s son-in-law and I compare our respective e-cigs and the price of ciggy juice in Fife and Ayrshire. This feels like being part of a secret society. I wonder if there are jazz clubs rendered smoky by lots of e-cig enthusiasts? I do hope so.
DAY THREE: Ah! Figured out which hole the liquid nicotine is meant to go into – this is much better. Of course, the tragedy here is, if you light a cigarette at a bus stop, the bus comes. Since there’s no waste or inconvenience in shoving an e-cig into your pocket, this spell no longer works. Curses!
That said, this is a brilliant system for delivering nicotine, without all that annoying cancer, heart disease and emphysema.
DAY FOUR: I bought some strawberry and some grape flavoured nicotine just for a change from the apple. One wonders how long I’ll have to wait for flavours like ‘high grade middle-eastern weed’ and ‘Bootle anti-personnel skunk’ to be made available. And, would it be possible to deliver THC through one of these?
DAY FIVE: Offspring informs me that liquid cannabis was available through silkroad, the much-mourned marketplace. He can’t remember the price, but it was presumably a little more than the three quid I’m paying for fag juice.
DAY SIX: Writing my daily journal this morning with a cup of tea and my e-cig – this is civilised.
DAY SEVEN: This feels like not smoking – without all that pent-up rage one gets when going cold turkey from tobacco.

baby milk snatcher – a.r. kane (an open letter to prime monster david cameron)

I just heard this morning that some maniacs somewhere have decided that the August bank holiday is to be rebranded as Margaret Thatcher day. This is easily the best news I’ve had since given up smoking. And about as much fun.
Considering  multiple rapist Jimmy Saville spent eleven Christmases at Chequers with that nice Mrs Thatcher, this should be commemorated the way the Iron Lady would have wanted. That said, ‘gang rape’ has had a pretty bad name in the left-wing press, so perhaps ‘democracy in action’ would be a nicer way of putting it.
What about a trip to a former mining community, Mr Cameron? I’m personally going to The Old Goth on Cowdenbeath High Street, which is populated almost entirely by former miners. There, I plan to let them re-experience the magic of thirty years ago by beating the shit out of them with truncheons and then taking everything they have in their pockets
Later, I plan to desecrate Nelson Mandela’s grave while my children attempt to overthrow a democratically-elected government or two.
In the evening, let’s come together to commemorate clause 28 – which uses the same wording as Uganda’s anti-gay life imprisonment law – with one of those traditional candlelit queer-bashings.

here’s the petition to consign this ridiculous notion to the dustbin of history:

And, if this crap IS actually imposed on us from above, who’s with me in celebrating it as Myra Hindley day? After all, compared to Thatcher’s body count, she’s like Florence Nightingale AND she always tidied up after herself instead of simply leaving them scattered all over the Falklands.

smoke on the water – deep purple

At fifteen, I addicted myself to nicotine. If I’d got a tattoo at that age, I could apply to have it removed on grounds of diminished responsibility. Last year, I had three relapses with regard to nicotine. I stopped smoking in 2001 and since then, have had the occasional relapse. I hadn’t had one in three years when I broke last summer.
So, for the last couple of weeks, I’ve again been punctuating my life with roll-ups, objecting to the jones within my body that clamours for a maintenance dose of the drug.
Traditionally, I don’t *do* addictions. My pride is sufficiently strong that any attempt to force me to carry out any actions, purely for the sake of a temporary comfort, is anathema to me. For years, I’ve been able to start and stop smoking as I see fit. And now, part of the aging process seems to be my losing the drive to defeat these impositions on myself.
So I bought an e-cig system. And charged it. And even figured out how to use it without filling my mouth with a lethal dose of pure nicotine each time. Of course, there are roughly as many restrictions on using e-cigs as there are on smoking actual cancer-sticks nowadays.
Has anyone else noticed how badly smokers are thought of these days? We’re probably only a couple of years away from smokers not being allowed to marry and having to sit at the back of the bus.
My last-but-one relapse brought me face to face with modern thinking on this. The final solution to the smoker problem, as that nice Mr Hitler might have put it. It’s no longer enough to stand a few feet away from those not smoking, nowadays one’s expected to fuck off to the next town at least.
And what’s the most important factor in stopping smoking? Strangely, it isn’t public castigation, autos-da-fe and Warsaw pact era show-trials. It’s optimism. Which most people don’t get when they’re the subject of a daily two minutes’ hate.
Funny, that.

in the greylight – virgin prunes

I contacted a couple of artists last night about covers for ‘1919’, ‘the C-word’ and ‘person-hair’. Then, to stop myself being bored, I exported the whole of ‘dreich NOiR’ from WordPress and started ripping out all the extraneous characters.
I also watched ‘benefits street’ on 4OD, since people were still arguing about it on Twitter and Facebook. For anyone who’s had their head stuck in the ground all week, it breaks down like this: a poke-fun-umentary about people with, quite literally, nothing. Like Scotland’s ‘the scheme’ a couple of years ago, ‘benefits street’ points the camera (and the waggy finger) at a group of people who live near each other, the bastards. People under intense financial (and social) pressures, people forced to break the law in order to survive. What’s next? Videotaping a group of working class primary fives in a gas chamber, watching them claw their way over their dead and dying peers for the last crumbs of air? With points deducted for anyone not having very good manners?
According to Twitter, the company responsible for this latest Circus Maximus have previously been investigated for exposing children to risk in some other ‘documentary’. And people who appeared in the programme have been subjected to death threats and baseball bat offers.
This is propaganda for that Bullingdon view of the world: a world where anyone without the common decency to have enough disposable income to insulate themselves against the present economic disaster is, at best a cartoon character, with no function other than to entertain those of us with televisions and couches.
Watching it, I was incensed that these levels of poverty and desperation are still with us in 2014, disgusted that people can see people fighting to survive and hate them for it. So much for that ‘big society’ the prime monster seems to have shut up about recently.
The United Kingdom is breaking down into those with too much (how much did IDS pay for his breakfast this morning?) and those living from day-to-day, with no real hope of anything other than battling the symptoms of their poverty.

compulsion – test dept

Friday saw the first intense play of this year. I still feel new year hasn’t really been celebrated until there’s been a whole day of pain, terror and bloodshed – just ask Tony Blair. Or the population of Afghanistan.
It wasn’t great forward planning – She-Who-Reckons-She-Ought-to-be-Obeyed was driving home the following day and I had to go back to work. And playing, when it goes right, leaves one or more participants a bit stunned afterwards – the brutality hangover, if you will.
I believe it’s the endorphins that flood the body during play that leave the receiver half-in-half-out of a mild subspace for a day or two afterwards. Not great if you work as a watchmaker or a bomb disposal operative, I have to say.
Left to my own devices, I’d happily scene to abstract instrumental music – Throbbing gristle, Miles Davis, Navicon torture technologies and so on. So, it’s a bit of a head trip, being folded, spindled and mutilated to Journey. And T.Rex.
That aside, She-Who-Reckons-She-Ought-to-be-Obeyed lights up like a Christmas tree with an erection when she has the music she loves surrounding her and some sort of hitty thing to hand. Which makes it all worthwhile. So much so, in fact, that I’m still slightly spacey, writing this, days later.

don’t look back in anger – oasis

My Owner and Goddess is going over ‘1919 (outside)’, so it’s starting to look as if it’ll be out there where people can touch it, in the next month or two. It’s been a long enough wait.
The original plan was to have it out by the end of 2012, but reality was waiting to ambush me. And, if anything, my confidence has dropped regarding this project.
So, come next month, I’ll have to give it a final once over and try to sort out the cover.
I’ve been cobbling together all the drafts I have, backing them up on the cloud (which I should’ve done before) and passing them along to She-Who-Reckons-She-Ought-to-be-Obeyed. once ‘outside’ is under way, next up is ‘Person Hair’ from last spring.
It’s been about a year-and-a-half since ‘1919 (inside)’ came out. The time since has been devoid to working too much, playing too hard and resting when I collapse from all the above.
I originally wrote ‘1919’ in 2007-08. It’s strange going back to it all these years later when (I hope) my writing’s improved in so many ways. It’s been a fantastic festive period and, I’m pretty much sober now. Hopefully 2014 will be the year this stuff sees the light of day.

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