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


May 2014

i travel – simple minds

Trying to get to work these days is getting progressively more repulsive and terrifying. Waiting at a bus stop’s like a scratchcard – only, you’ve a far better chance of winning when the odds are only a million or so to one against you.
Essentially, while I still have a job, I have a couple of choices facing me: either I leave with plenty of time to get to work (and arrive half an hour late), or I leave thirty-to-sixty minutes earlier. Either way, I have to spend a lengthy period of time sitting like Robinson fucking Crusoe at the brand new Halbeath park ‘n’ ride.
Halbeath park ‘n’ ride is truly one of the seven wonders of Fife. Quaint tearooms, second hand bookshops and some of the finest restaurants known to man. By night, the sky is ablaze with the most expensive laser lightshow in Scotland awhile top European DJs vie for the attention of the swarms of tourists from all over the globe. I’ve personally had the best sex in my life in a few of the many cheap ‘n’ cheerful hotels dotted around the area.
The above, as regular visitors to this top-flight entertainment complex will know, refers to a parallel universe. One where I’m not stuck in the middle of nowhere, day after day, praying a bus will one day come for me – and burning leaves and newspaper as I attempt to keep myself above the ambient temperature.
In the reality you and I inhabit, Halbeath park ‘n’ ride is a bit like Las Vegas – as it was before Moe Green turned it from an army truck stop into something the Corleone family might want.
Stagecoach East Scotland have managed to perfect a timetable that works on the principle that the bus you need to complete your journey should *just* be leaving as you pull in. They’re not perfect and on occasion, I’ve been obliged to dart from one bus straight into the maw of another and complete my journey home without a Ballardian imprisonment in concrete nothingness. But the service is so good that this is a problem I’m rarely faced with.
The entertainment consists of a snacks machine and a television, hard-wired to mind-crushing rubbish, presented by people no jury on earth would convict someone for killing. There are staff on hand, but they are, as I’ve learned, purely for decoration.
Bored? Then why not sit below the overhead board, where your bus will slowly move up the list until it winks out, never to be seen again. When pressed, the staff will insist it never existed, that perhaps wolves have carried it off and that Eurasia are our friends and we have always been at war with Oceana.
Coming home after a day at the coalface, while exhausted, rather than staring into the face of unemployment, sanctions and extinction, feels equally like not actually moving.
Sitting (if you can call it that) on their so-called chairs, eyes buried in a book and with my headphones on, for long periods, dreaming of my bed and the warmth of a human hand. It’s enough to make you misty-eyed. Or to go on a killing spree.
Still, I suppose this is what I get for living indoors AND trying to have a job.


the hammer song – nick cave and the bad seeds

I’ve been reading up on rapists, sadists, mass-slayers and dictators for the last couple of weeks. August’s novel will be a serial killer book, which I’ve probably been putting off for a while.
It must be thirty years, give or take, since it was last fashionable to bone up on this sort of stuff. Back then, most of my favourite bands made reference to this sort of thing in song titles, in lyrics and on album covers.
And ever since then, people have been advising me to read ‘Somebody’s husband, somebody’s son’ and ‘The streetcleaner’, supposed to be the best books on Peter Sutcliffe.
So I finally got around to reading ‘Somebody’s husband, somebody’s son’, which is an excellent/disturbing book, focusing on Sutcliffe’s family and the police operation to catch him.
What I took away from the book (quite early on, if I’m honest) was the macho – and misogynist – culture that Sutcliffe lived and breathed, the backdrop against which he operated.
Wife battering was prevalent (although Sutcliffe seems not to have been a practitioner). If kicking fuck out of a woman who belongs to you is okay, then it’s not a huge leap to smashing women you don’t know over the head with a hammer.
I don’t intend to write a book about Sutcliffe. As one of his psychiatrists said, if you take away his crimes, he’s a pretty boring individual.
I do, however, want to look at what drives us to kill and mutilate. one of the books I’ve been looking into is ‘Worse than war’, a study of the philosophy of exterminationism – the mindset that completely justifies writing off part of the human race – and after that, as Sade said, “no torture is too great for them”.
From the Amin’s Ugandan secret police to the Balkan rapes via that nice Mr. Cameron’s (and that nice Mr. Hitler’s) attacks on the disabled, there are no shortage of philosophies where diffrunt peepil don’t count and don’t matter.

girls – the beastie boys

I’ve recently watched all of ‘Cracker’, featuring a whole host of before-they-were-famouses; Robert Carlyle, Samantha Morton, Ruth Sheen and several other half-remembered faces.
It’s one of those things I’ve been putting off watching for years and now I can’t remember for the life of me, why.
It didn’t take long to spot the formula: brutal murder/Robbie Coltrane obnoxious to someone/”ooh! What was he in again?”/police follow dead end/Coltrane chucked off case – usually rudely/Coltrane says something probing to someone when they least expect it/Coltrane brought back into fold/perpetrator caught/Coltrane shouting at them in cell or small room/confession/credits/glance at clock/”time for another one?”/bed.
Which probably sounds like I didn’t actually enjoy it that much!
I’m still wrestling with the novel I’ve penciled in to write in august. July’s out as Mistress is whisking me away to an out-of-the-way cottage for a week of beatings, humiliation and general up-to-no-good then.
I’m about halfway through Irvine Welsh’s ‘Sex secrets of Siamese twins’. And the fucker’s used a ‘folie a deux’ as his main plot, so I’ll not get away with basing August’s one around that.
C’est le guerre.
So I’ve had to find a different link for my central character and partner.
The book (Siamese twins) starts off not too bad, (although I’m not as fond of his American novels as I am of the Scottish ones.)
The central characters, Lucy and Lena are a well-drawn and fascinating mis-matched couple. Lucy Brennan, in particular grabbed me, although her voice reminded me of someone else’s from the kickoff. It took me a couple of chapters to realise it was Little Alex in ‘A clockwork orange’.
Then, when it gets going, it’s pretty good. Not as great as ‘Skagboys’. But definitely not going into the ‘I can’t finish this shite’ list (Stand up Sylvia Day, EL James, Stephanie Meyer).
Mibby I just hate women. Although, in all seriousness, I never kill any unless God specifically tells me to.

the time is now – moloko

First of all, beloved readers, sorry about the recent radio silence. A whole swarm of personal pish-demons, with April’s NaNo hot on their wee heels led to me having to batten down the hatches for a few weeks. Anyway, those days are gone and the time is now. And this blog should be a weekly event from now on. Or at least until Scotland gets independence and the entire nation is rat-arsed starting on my birthday and continuing until Cameron is thrown to the piranhas, following his 2015 election defeat. Like SPECTRE, the tories normally make their minions walk the plank after they lose an election and Cameron’s the one who’ll preside over them losing 37% of ‘their’ subjects and about 10% of ‘their’ revenue. He’d be safer working for Gru, he really would. But try telling him that.
April’s NaNo shot past surprisingly quickly. As usual, I was the only one in my ‘cabin’ who actually finished their draft, but hey ho. Anyway, that’s done and I’m already gnawing on the research for August’s draft. I won’t be doing NaNo in July as I have holidays booked and how can I be expected to concentrate on the tapping out of violent pornography with that damn woman being all fascinating and delightful at me all the time?
I’ve also finished the polish-job on ‘1919 outside’, the follow-up to 2012’s ‘1919 inside’. I know I’ve been using the expression “almost finished” since around the end of 2012, but it actually *is* finished now and I’ll fight any ten Venusians in here who say different, yeah?
I’ve also managed to blackmail a pretty good artist into coming up with new covers for both ‘inside’ and ‘outside’. Design continuity. That’s pretty grown-up, isn’t it?
A few weeks back, I got back in touch with a Domme I used to know when I lived down south, who told me ‘inside’ took her “right back to what it was like in 2007”. Best compliment I’ve had in a while.

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