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

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relationships

Ah want ti be – Sandie Craigie

I’m planning out a follow-up novel. When I wrote ‘1919’, it was all one story, it was just too fat so I split it in half before shoving it out. For July’s NaNoCamp, I wrote the draft of a novel set in Edinburgh in the 1990s and now I’m extending it, picking up some loose ends and, hopefully, developing them.
In some ways, I’m feeling a bit painted into a corner, I can’t just let my imagination run wild, as I could with the first part (working title: ‘Wifies’). This time, everybody’s already got their hair-colour, eyes, jobs and sexual preferences. Everything has to grow out of what came before, all those set-in-stone factoids I had so much fun dreaming up last time. So I’m approaching this one, baw-deep in limitations already.
That said, I’m genuinely fond of several of my characters. The ‘shite friend but a great fuck’ and the battered wife, for starters. Since about June, they’ve been talking to me, hanging around my house pished, bitching about each other – and they’re almost all smokers, the bastards. Much more of this and I’ll start casting the movie in my head, the way normal people do with ‘American tabloid’!
Before I started’ Wifies’, I created dossiers for my six main characters. So far, I’ve spotted four I’ll need to create for this one. Should take me about a week.

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jim murphy thought to be ‘the last of his kind’

An anonymous spokesperson for the Royal Society for the Protection of Ridiculous Organisms claims that Scottish Labour may well be extinct in the next couple of years.
Although one small specimen had been sighted in southern Edinburgh last week, the cock, known affectionately as ‘Jim Murphy’ has not been seen in days.
Scientists across the UK have been considering the possibility that the entire genus may be on the edge of extinction, due to shrinking of their traditional expenses fields, where they come to feed and being picked off by natural predators.
Since 2010, not a single Scottish Labour breeding pair has successfully mated.

fade to grey – visage

So, the film of ‘fifty sheds of shite’ is now with us. Early reports indicate that groups of pissed-up women are attending showings of the film and generally acting like embarrassed schoolgirls.

In Glasgow, to celebrate a Valentine’s Day showing of the alleged film, three inebriated women attacked a male who’d asked them to keep it down so that he and his partner could watch it.

According to the media, couples are going to see it and in some cases it’s broadening and expanding their love lives. Presumably the sort of couples who’d been blissfully unaware of BDSM until they saw the film.

Of course, if you’re one of the people inspired to experiment in the bedroom, it’s important that you remember that SADO-MASOCHISTIC SEX IS ILLEGAL IN THE UK. Yep, that’s right. Ever since March 10th, 1993, when the spanner trial ended, a mark that lasts til morning is verboten and can have you sent to the naughty step. And, the presiding judge did say, “this is not a witch-hunt against homosexuals; if heterosexuals or bisexuals were in this court today, they would be treated in the same manner.” So there.

Of course, BDSM becomes fashionable every few years. Or, at least, tight shiny clothes do. So for the next few months, all sorts of people are going to be claiming that they’re really into BDSM and always have been (although they’ll probably call it ‘S&M’, because that Rhianna song, yeah?)

I thought for a while that the sales of the book would be a positive. Although most males start out either submissive or dominant and stay put, many women start as sub and later, discover their dominant side. I thought that some women would try out BDSM, like it and then realise there were benefits in Female-Led Relationships – or at least in never having to give another blow-job for as long as they lived.

I don’t know why I keep over-estimating the human race. I’m invariably disappointed. This film – just like the book – will do about as much to disseminate understanding of power exchange relationships as Fred West did for childcare.

someone like you – adele

I don’t know about you, but with the government’s new anti porn law, I’ve completely forgotten that the economy’s arsed and sexual abuse of children has been endemic throughout our entire system for decades.

So now, in a dazzling and inspired celebration of world AIDS day, our beloved coalition government have decided to put a whole bunch of activities that don’t lead to the transmission of disease on the naughty step.

Bondage. Spanking. Hitting or whipping. Strangulation. Face-sitting. Well, I think that’s the whole of my sex life covered. So, obviously, I’ll just not have any sexual feelings from now on. Which may or may not cheer up my long-suffering Domme. And she’d better not get attitudey about it either, as abusive language during sex is also now verboten.

In my first two novels, I covered impact play, waste play and bondage. With my non-contentious and totally vanilla novel, ‘Ladies and gentleman’ about to be published, I thought I’d avoided getting on the wrong side of anyone this time, but no. Female ejaculation’s now up there with the Yorkshire ripper and defrauding an innkeeper. The next one’s all just racism and violence – I promise – surely that can’t offend anyone? Maybe I should do it as a pop-up book.

The UK economy’s in shreds. Borrowing’s through the roof and with the price of oil bobbing around $70 a barrel (and Osborne’s promise to oil companies that he’ll intervene with a tax cut for them) there’s no end in sight. New legislation that’ll drive more UK businesses to the wall – or abroad – makes superb economic sense. After all, anyone who loses their job’s a diabolical scrounger – and foodbanks are the new ‘spirit of the blitz’, innit?

With the UN looking hard at the UK’s human rights record with regard to women, children, the poor and the disabled, what better time to be seen to be doing something about those dreadful perverts? And, best of all, most if not all of the blacklisted activities seem to be things that women enjoy. Win-win. Certainly, I’m looking forward stiffer penalties for the possession, distribution or consumption of the work of Adele early in the next parliament.

When John Major’s government were on the ropes, rocked with sex scandals, the tories had the brilliant idea of targeting the BDSM community. Operation Spanner cost a paltry three million britquids and secured convictions against sixteen men for taking part in consensual sexual activities. Now contrast and compare with the present.

The spanner ruling of March 10th 1993 made real life BDSM illegal. And now that representations of it are tantamount to blasphemy too, I look forward to the special UK cut of ‘Fifty shades of shite’ when it’s released. After all, if that book sold thirty two million copies in English alone, it’s not like there’ll be any market for it.

And we can all take comfort from the fact that fucking kids and then strangling them afterwards will still be mandatory for Westminster MPs and light entertainers.

autoimmune – pharmakon

No entry last week as the (virtually) impossible has happened. Although I pride myself on my overall health and take enough minerals and vitamins every morning to count as a superhero, one got through. While all around me were collapsing with the sabre-toothed stomach bug and updating their Facebook status from a miasma of diarrhoea and projectile vomiting and, frankly, I was chortling at their puny mortal weaknesses, somehow I caught a cold.

From my point of view, I was so protected that no germs would fuckin’ dare. And yet they got through. Still, I took comfort from the fact that, although I was producing more runny snot than any medium-sized European nation, that was all it was. No squitting and puking for me – that’s just for poor people.

So. A cold. Implausible, but effective. Sunday, I took steps, phoned work to let them know I’d be having Monday and Tuesday off. I had Wednesday and Thursday as days off, so I’d be up for revile first thing Friday lunchtime, I told them. “Hah!” I whispered to my puking, squitting partner. “And a bit more work on this year’s NaNoWriMo, too.” I smiled, undead and ghastly. “I shall use this time wisely.”

It turned out that Sunday, Monday and Tuesday, I was stuck. Blocked. Staring at a blank screen. My mind wouldn’t form coherent sentences, let alone communicate important thoughts, wrapped in my usual attractive prose. Bastard.

Wednesday, I got up early and wrote around twenty-five hundred words. And I did the dishes that had piled up around us while we were sneezing (me) and squirting from both ends (her). We ate well, snuggled up and watched some TV. “I shall do the same tomorrow,” I told her, as sleep gathered us up in his warm embrace. “Just you watch.”

Thursday morning, I felt like shit. I stared at the blank screen, shook my head at it, typed a couple of words and stared at them, daring them to mean something. Around lunchtime, feeling even worse, I caved in and phoned work.

“Teensy wee problem, I’m afraid.” The entity at the other end grunted something. “Not convinced I’m going to make it in tomorrow, either. If I was anyone else, I’d think this was getting worse.” The entity nodded its great shaggy head (probably) and agreed that if I took Friday and Saturday off, Sunday was a day off and I’d be bright eyed and bushy tailed for Monday. I came off the phone and told my partner I was feeling shit but that I would try the lovely bacon roll she’d made me, perhaps washed down with a small glass of dark cola – because that’s good for settling the stomach.

The squits started around two. Stomach agony, sprinting up the stairs before all was washed away in the monsoon of arse weather. It was surprising – all the more so because I do not get ill. Diseases wouldny fuckin’ dare.

That passed and I went back to bed, partly to keep warm, partly to stay as near as the toilet as humanly possible. I was starting to feel a little sick now, too. My partner pronounced the final part of the curse. “Yeah,” she shared a sickly grin with me. “That’s how mine started, too.”

I was nonplussed. Hadn’t the disease come at me already and been found wanting on the field of combat? I’d had cold symptoms, which was, for me, tantamount to the black death. I’d fought this bastard off. Mastered the fucker. I was starting to feel nauseous and lay very still.

Around six in the p.m, I realised I was going to hurl. My partner brought me a bowl, which I accepted graciously, knowing that since I didn’t get ill, it could lie there, a stark reminder of just how hard I was – until I felt a bit better, perhaps the following day.

You know the bit in ‘An American werewolf in London’ where he changes? Gut slamming in, chest expanding, that. I grabbed the bowl and revisited the roll and the cola I’d trusted earlier. The smell was ferocious. You know how veggie bacon repeats on you? That. Pouring out of my face in what looked like a couple of pints of fairy Guinness that I had no memory of drinking at any point. The liquid stopped but my body kept on heaving, just to make sure. The smell was utterly vile. The pain was awful and my throat burned. Tears ran down both sides of my face.

When it was finally over, I placed the bowl that I probably wasn’t going to need back on the floor, lay back, and thought “oh well, at least that’s it out now. Better an empty hoose than a filthy, stinking tenant.” My partner emptied the bowl and for some reason brought it back. I shook what was left of my head. “That’s me emptied now,” I told her. “I’ll be fine in a minute.”

For the next six hours, I hung between horrific dreams and a damaged semi-wakefulness. Occasionally, I would hurl even more of the bacony hell-Guinness into the bowl. My guts hurt like drunk fairies had performed unnecessary surgery. By midnight, my failing body had one final surprise. More squits.

I staggered to the toilet (not having had sufficient warning before) and dropped onto the plastic. It was then I realised that the exertion was too much and I was going to throw up again. Since I was completely empty – and had been for hours – this filthy muck had to be coming from some parallel universe, these bastards were fly-tipping their runny garbage across dimensions, to my private guts, where I had to expel it when it turned up in me. I would phone the council in the morning. Or hunt them down myself. Make an example of the swine. It was then I began throwing up.

The experience of expelling waste from either end simultaneously was a new one for me but I was in no mood whatsoever to appreciate the novelty. However, I was able to make it downstairs and fill a small glass with ice water. Over the next five-and-a-half, six hours, I was able to either rinse my mouth with it or at points, even drink a sip or two of it. I hung in the limbo between half-awake and miserable, broken sleep, my mind regurgitating a smeared collage of ‘Buffy the vampire slayer’, various political figures and just plain darkness. From time to time, I’d check my phone, work out how long I’d been like this and, from that, figure out how much more of it there was to go. My partner had described it as a ‘twenty-four hour bug’ before heading off to the spare room, so I was at least half way through it. I would prevail. The fucker would rue the day.

All day Friday, I lay, like a half-shut knife. No energy, absolutely no appetite and every time I remembered the smell-taste of the used veggie bacon, I swore on the lives of my children never to eat again. I sipped water, I huddled under a duvet on the living room floor, I prayed for death to wrap me in its arms and to bastard well hurry up about it.

Saturday wasn’t much better. My partner, a picture of rosy-cheeked and sparkly-eyed health, the cunt, suggested a trip to Tesco. Thirty minutes of wandering aisles, toying with the thought of digesting something and I was exhausted. Weakening, I ate a small banana and it damn near killed me. I couldn’t understand this. I’ve always had a good relationship with bananas.

Sunday, I rang work and got the same entity. “No way I’m gonny be in one piece tomorrow. Sorry.”

The entity concurred and I said I’d phone back after I’d consulted a medic.

Turns out it was the cold that got me first, weakening me as foreplay for this stomach bug to come and rip my lungs out for me. Signed off work for a fortnight and I’m too bastard ill to even enjoy it. There ought to be a law!

go your own way – fleetwood mac

This week, I’ve mostly been writing towards the novel scheduled for October this year – and planning next month’s first draft frenzy. I’ve been using Scrivener for this. Which, when one actually sits down and devotes a couple of days to the tutorials provided, really is a spectacular bit of software. As others have said, it’s as far above a common or garden word processor as MS Word is above writing on shop windows with shite on a stick.
Don’t believe me? Try the demo, do the tutorials and if that doesn’t increase your workflow, you’re already dead.
There are only four major characters in next month’s novel, with an assortment of walk-ons and part-timers. I can get through these pretty quick, I reckon.
Dreich NOiR’s a whole different kettle of pish. This was all written in various different software, across a variety of machines (desktop PC/llaptops/netbooks/handheld/smartphones) so being able to pull it all together in scrivener’s an absolute joy.
I’ve also been spending time with an ex from way-back-when. The relationship went on for about a year, back in the early eighties and revolved around her hedonism and my own nihilism – a folie au deux, as the French would say. Fun at first, it all went a bit ‘Requiem for a dream’ towards the end and we parted on very bad terms indeed. Fast forward thirty or so years and she’s grown up a lot and I’m a bit less caught up in my own inner arsehole, so it’s been very rewarding, getting to know her as a pretty nice adult.
Getting drunk with her has been fun and there’s a great ‘zero bullshit’ vibe to it all. Which is pretty good going from someone who said, at our first meeting in thirty years, “a year with you was enough to convince me I have absolutely no interest in either sado-masochistic sex or psychedelic drugs.”

obsession – punishment of luxury

One thing about planning any book is the research I’m hurled into. For the last couple of months or so, I’ve been delving into the lives of famous rapists, sadists, mass-slayers and dictators. I’m coming to understand a lot more about a subject I’ve known about for years, yet never gone this deeply into before.

I’ve already worked out the skeleton of my plot, this is just filling in the blanks, building the framework that overlays said skeleton. I’m even re-reading Elliott Leyton’s ‘Hunting humans’ which I’m pretty sure I haven’t read since the late eighties.

One book that’s really grabbed me is Helen Morrison’s ‘My life among the serial killers’, a brilliantly researched work, written after a lifetime of interviewing people who hurt other people – and who seem, in most cases, to be unable to prevent themselves from doing so. In many cases, the emotional understanding of a serial killer appears to be stunted at around what we’d expect from a two-year-old.

I’m finding all this fascinating, looking at the society that the killer finds him-or-herself in. How they relate to that society or fail to. How that sense of alienation can trigger the most horrific of crime sprees. From Edmund Kemper (“I just wondered what it would be like to shoot grandma”) to the Yorkshire Ripper. Their expectations before and during their reign of terror. Their relationship with the police – and the publicity that grows up around their work.

To the serial killer, other people are no more than objects – either something to use in the quest for fulfilment or as obstacles between the serial killer and that fulfilment. There’s no empathy, no sense that they’re violating their victims.

However, once the bodies start piling up, many of them seem shocked by the feelings that explode inside them. Guilt or fear of punishment hit them suddenly, as if it took committing the acts to realise the trouble they were in. Prior to embarking on the murders, most seem to have had no real conception that this might cause problems for themselves.

I don’t think there’s any way to recognise a serial killer. There are no physical or psychological signs that we can point to before they start making the world a worse place than it is already. In tests, most serial killers aren’t intellectually incompetent. If anything, most serial killers are of above average intelligence, although falling somewhere short of geniuses. It’s as if, all that intellect had to get out somehow.

I’m still planning to (one day) write a novel about the care industry and another about psychedelic drugs. From this ‘pre-production’ point in my studies for this book, I can see that researching either is going to change me; my outlook and how I understand my interactions with the world.

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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