LE MONDE D'ANZ

Pat Butcher

2011-12-27T00:13:00.000Z

merry xmas + a happy new year everyone

LATELY

2011-11-15T20:49:00.003Z

you can always tell how much of a life i'm having from how much i'm updating my blog.

i have got a whole bunch of short stories to upload and a couple of illustrations as well as soon as i hit a scanner

PRETTY GIRLS LOOKING OVER THERE

2011-08-28T20:14:00.004+01:00

I drew some pretty girls with fun hair looking over there (apart from one, she's not looking anywhere. Her eyes are closed.)

crushin on the last one with the pink hair too, don't care if its weird

THINK ABOUT KITTEN HEELS

2011-08-28T20:08:00.002+01:00

Imagine if someone forced you to wear a pair of baby pink kitten heels every day of your life and you couldn’t tell anyone about it, or about the person forcing you to do it otherwise you’d meet a fate worse than death, all of your nightmares combined, and everyone/anyone you’d ever loved would die. Imagine if they made you strut up a famous high street every day for 10 minutes in the pink kitten heels, preening your hair as if you were famous. Imagine if they made you go to parties and college, or work, or university always wearing the pink kitten heels. You would have to wear them when you were sleeping, or having sex or gardening. They would have a fluffy small bow on the front, and if anyone asked you about them (which they would, you’re wearing kitten heels) you’d have to convince them that you loved the pink kitten heels, and genuinely thought they were a good idea. They’d be a perfect and comfortable fit so you couldn’t complain about size, and you’d have several pairs in case any of them broke (the enforcer’s rules). Everyone would call you ‘the freak with the kitten heels’. That would be so crap.

YES I'M TALKING TO YOU

2011-08-28T20:00:00.003+01:00

GD 1

2011-08-28T17:14:00.000+01:00

P s OR e TR l AI f T

2011-08-28T17:09:00.002+01:00

2011-08-28T17:05:00.001+01:00

TELL ME ABOUT IT, STUD

2011-08-27T22:55:00.004+01:00

A short story for bubblegum zine by me about summer lovin' (had me a blast)
p.s. i feel weird about posting the same picture twice in very small space but this picture is mainly relevant to this.

He squinted at me as he inhaled and passed over a hefty joint, wonky in the middle. I pursed my mouth and looked up from beneath my eyelashes as I accepted it between my expectant finger and thumb. I stretched coyly, and let me make this clear, I am not coy. With an ever paranoid eye on the security guards sat by the paddling pool, I took an indulgent toke and leaned back against the plant pot behind my head, before turning right to study him. Unreal, with perfect shallow green puddles where mere mortals had eyes, set above strong angular cheekbones. I know, soppy as fuck; I promise you I’m not usually like this. His skin was the bronze that comes of travelling and being at a certain type of comfortable understanding with the sun that I knew many coveted, thinking fondly back to some friends at university and their horribly sullied brown tanning mitts. I thought of their hurried haplessly scrubbing, with their legs at the most awkward angles propped over the bathroom sink, polishing for an appearance that’d never be existent.

He outstretched his arm once more, his limbs a toned extension of this impeccable golden flesh. As he grinned, he unveiled sharp canines and teeth set into precision. The rest of him melted into the charming background with its palatial columns and flawless heat. With my mouth agape I tilted upwards to survey the curved red bricks towering over us before lowering my head to eye level, watching all the children and their parents as they paddled in the large fountains. I felt him staring at me with hazy eyes and I didn’t meet his gaze, in favour of the coy persona I’d adopted for reasons I wasn’t quite sure of. We’d finished smoking and he stood up, holding his hand out to mine. We remained wordless as we walked slowly out of the garden and back into the museum. The overwhelming silence sent us into fits of giggles as we traipsed around with fingers locked, pausing several times to kiss briefly with minimal tongue.

You see, a summer love affair was the desired effect, less of the communicational difficulties of Danny and Sandy but not quite as revoltingly saccharine as Noah and Allie. Something do-able, a functional fuck. We got to the children’s area of the museum and I picked up a devastatingly expensive pot of sweets. ‘I reckon you should buy me this,’ I laughed in a tone that couldn’t be read as serious. ‘You,’ he said as he cupped my face in a gesture far too intimate for how little we knew each other, before tugging me over to the till and paying for it. I tied the ribbon from the lid around my wrist in a vague sentimental act and ate some jellybeans from the clear plastic tub. They made me feel sick and I told him so, through cackles and chewed up jellybean.

We clambered up endless flights of stairs until we got to the highest place we could in the museum. There we sat very still and very close, looking out over London and saying nothing much with our fingers still entwined. The area around us was littered with small polystyrene shapes and I tried to count them over and over again, getting distracted by funny thoughts of pilot pigs and ridiculously long slippers. He parted his full lips and spoke in a voice so soft and deep that it was disarming. It was almost poetic to hear, such a smooth and earnest lilt. As he spoke for a while I sat up and pushed aside the aeronautical ham I had darting through my mind, started really listening. I watched his mouth gently tense and expand as he moved through the motions of words. I heard him, I truly heard him. And it was at that very moment, the moment I heard everything, in which I realised; he really was the most boring boy I’d ever encountered in my life.

GREASE IS THE WORD

2011-08-27T22:33:00.007+01:00

I did an illustration for the short story I wrote for Sophie's new zine (buy it when it comes out!!) and got a bit carried away drawing Grease

p.s. I know Jan says what I've written over the one of Rizzo but Rizzo's better than Jan. I also know that Rizzo looks a bit like Kelly Osbourne in the midst of her weight loss but watevr

~2011 IN MOBILE UPLOADS~

2011-08-27T15:04:00.006+01:00

2011 so far in phone pictures taken by me. I know this is going to be a really uncomfortably long post but ~~enjoy~~

JANUARY

FEBRUARY

MARCH

APRIL

MAY

JUNE

JULY

(i lost my phone)

AUGUST

Pervy Tramp

2011-08-27T14:56:00.006+01:00

A gross short story by me about a pervy tramp at a bus stop

‘Faaacking ‘ell,’ a voice garbled into the side my face, coating my cheek with flecks of thick white spittle. I pivoted quickly to see a small haggard man leering with a sloppy grin, his watery eyes focused on the area between my neck and my midriff. I couldn’t decide whether to administer him directly with a look of disgust, or turn haughtily with my nose wrinkled in repulsion. I chose the latter, rotating myself away from him with my head held almost comically high. The heat was stifling as we all stood waiting for the bus. A middle aged, overweight black woman with poorly stitched on blonde hair fanned herself languorously with all the vigour of a camel. Two elderly Asian shopkeepers marched over from where they had closed the shutters and stood close, chattering in hushed ambiguous tones. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed the man shifting from foot to foot, sluggishly nodding at me with his tongue sliding onto his lower lip. I stayed in the same position of fake nonchalance, internally shuddering. Not more than 30 seconds passed before I felt a clammy hand on my elbow. ‘Oi love,’ He was almost pressed against my side, with his face nuzzling into my hair. ‘Urgh fuck off,’ I involuntarily yelled as I yanked my arm away from him and stepped backwards. He smelled like acerbic body odour and piss.

I had come to the bus stop at the transitional point in time where late evening transcends into night and the sky blue is replaced by a deeper purple peppered with unnatural pink. We were now coated in this twilight, broken by triangular slivers of orange light, where the streetlights managed to get past the high angular fixtures. The bus still wasn’t here. At the sound of my shriek, the woman with the terrible hair paused her fanning for a moment and turned slowly towards me, before blinking and turning back whilst blowing a lacklustre bubble of greyish gum. ‘Don’ be like that babe,’ he approached me once more and I saw the cavernous gaps where his teeth had once been. ‘Ah jus’ wanna talk t’ya,’ he offered with a slur. He sniffed and drew up enough mucus to quickly spit on the floor, then waveringly advanced towards me still smiling with a slight underbite. I looked around me once more at our oblivious audience, all doing a stellar job of ignoring us both. I thought realistically. I had no clue where I was. I smelled like sweat and someone unfamiliar, and I had my clothes from the night before on with the welcome addition of a loose jumper that wasn’t mine. As I’d clambered out of the bed I didn’t know, I’d been directed to get the 162 from bus stop J on the high street; ‘Just by McDonalds, can’t miss it’. I couldn’t miss it. But my bus hadn’t appeared for long enough to prompt doubt about if it would ever come. Even if I knew where I was, if I started walking, the bus – my bus - would drive past me within my first few steps. Nevertheless a worse fate of the ever charming spittle Casanova would await me if I stayed.

I rapidly considered which would be the best of two terrible situations as he staggered, holding onto the information pole that graced the bus stop. He was having troubles on his route. ‘Y-‘ he began, lifting his arm towards me, before what I conjectured was a wave of alcohol hit him. He retracted his arm and retreated back to the safe place of the pole before swaying with his head hanging forward, eyes closed in a search for clarity. I sighed a sigh of safety and repulsion as a thin trail of dribble leaked from his sagging mouth and he stood on slightly bent knees with both hands now clutching the pole. His eyes flickered as they stayed closed and I waited a minute before accepting the shelter of the bus stop bench. A few more forsaken looking people had joined us and we all lingered in British silence as the man wafted backwards and forwards, clinging to the pole like a nervous stripper. From my seat I sought the eyes of the woman with the wide arse and grey gum, so I could give her a ‘thanks for nothing’ look, but as she peered back at me, she countered my glower with a ‘you’re a slut’ scowl. Great.

Just as I began to hope that the drunken dribbler had given up on me, he opened his bleary eyes and decisively wiped his mouth with the grey sleeve of his hoodie. His hands released the pole and I turned to develop extreme interest in bus route 68. I heard his heavy uncertain steps lumbering over until the weight of the bench increased, and I sank as I inhaled his pungent fragrance. ‘Llllissten..’ He elongated the ‘L’ and ‘S’ long enough to deposit a spatter of spittle on my nose once more. I was incensed. I was tired, I felt dirty, and my eyelashes were encrusted with brittle mascara remnants. My hair was matted and sticky, my nose was shiny and my fingertips were grubby. My thighs were sore, my feet ached and my heels were tattered, breaking off at the sides and leaving a trail of cheap rubbery fibre wherever I walked. My bed was so far away and I- ‘Wa’s yer name thhhen?’ No. He had interrupted my livid thoughts of self-pity and I’d fucking had enough.

As I slowly turned towards him with my shoulders hunched high in irritation, I contemplated everything I could possibly do in a roulette of outrageous ideas. I considered screaming in gibberish resembling tongues. I thought about punching him in the face. I deliberated just pushing him off the bench like a child. Then I thought about the unthinkable. Possessed, I grabbed his wretched face with might and I held it for a millisecond, before drawing in his stinking toothless mouth and pressing my mouth onto it. I tasted the white ace and faint vomit residue coating his lips. I released him with force and as I softly gagged once I stared defiantly into his groggy eyes. His head lulled back in potent confusion and with a parting ‘fucking ‘ell’ he leant back against the bus shelter wall, his eyes squinting lazily at me, and then the floor. He opened his mouth to say something else but stopped, still unsure about what had happened. I quickly spat on the floor next to me, before heaving and finally puking, an amalgamation of repugnance laced with the brandy from last night. I cared for the opinions of the other people waiting at the bus stop just as much as they cared for what happened to me, neither party could give a fuck. We’d all been waiting together for 14 minutes, and we were no more united than we were before. I pulled out some tattered tissue from my bag and mopped the corner of my mouth, cradling my face with my other hand. I heard a bus leaving a stop up the road, and as it sped past I caught a glimpse of the numbers etched onto the back. 162. I reared my head and looked up high, towards the top of the information pole of my bus stop, where I beheld a modest sign that merely read ‘Bus Stop K’.

FIELD DAY

2011-08-07T17:53:00.004+01:00

We went to Field Day in Victoria Park yesterday and it was ace. There were a fair amount of crap people who had too much money and drugs and thought they were lady gaga but it was really very nice to see friends and bands.

lots of bands were good, caught some of Jamie XX and it was excellent as usual as was the bit of Kieran Hebden's B2B set with James Holden I saw. i also really enjoyed Omar Souleyman and SBTRKT so here are some songs and a bit of Four Tet in praise of Kieran Hebden's set

SBTRKT - Wildfire

Four Tet - Angel Echoes

Omar Souleyman - Leh Jani

July 2011 mix

2011-07-30T14:56:00.001+01:00

Nau wale no

2011-07-28T20:09:00.003+01:00

second picture is from this flickr

The Mail House

2011-07-28T17:38:00.008+01:00

A short story that doesn't look very short on blogspot at all, so just scroll past it til you get to some drawings if you don't wanna read this, promise there is other stuff. I also have two more stories to finish and put up but have this for now.

She was tall, much taller than me, and ugly as sin. She moved like the grim reaper, swiftly and smoothly, keeping her bony body upright and her skeletal neck outstretched. Her skin was almost the same milk chocolate shade as mine except hers was marred by dark blotches, indented acne scars and hardship of sorts. Her facial features were parodies of themselves, all excessively large and jostling for attention. Protruding teeth like oversized square plates jutted out of her mouth and her lower jaw projected outwards in a permanent frown of judgement. Chasmal barren eyes inspected proceedings with a blank glacial stare, embedded above cheekbones far too wide set to be beautiful. I couldn't stand her.

I walked over to where she was. 'Hey, do you have any clue where Andrea is or what I need to be doing?' I asked, contorting my face into a smile and adopting a nauseous tone. A friendlier voice than I'd have liked, and a higher pitch than my own; telephone voice. She studied me for a while with no change in her deadpan face. Her mouth was slightly parted exposing the cartoonish teeth and I was too polite or fearful to meet her gaze, I wasn't sure which. The way she stared at me was both demanding and moronic, and I felt I owed her everything, whilst being in full knowledge that I owed her nothing. I felt others staring gormlessly. The moment lasted too long before she scanned me from my toes up with her horrible eyes, and she spoke. 'No.' she spat briefly with as much innocence as venom. Even in the monosyllabic resonance of her singular word, her strong Jamaican accent rang in my ears. I instinctively backed away a step, before muttering a half-hearted 'oh right then,' and wandering away towards the door I'd come in from.

It was only my second shift at the Mail House. The Mail House was in a large unit in a business estate bathed with the stench of defeat. It had dirty corners and grey walls, and trolleys full of dull trays littered the space, each tray lined with stacks of envelopes. Bored and pathetic faces stood behind rows of long desks carrying out menial tasks; putting letters into bags and sealing leaflets. The work was more than mind-numbing, it was heart-breaking. The large majority of the staff were too old to be carrying out such work, with their weathered faces and delphic accents, thicker than pulp. They spoke sparsely to each other in furtive individual dialects, pausing only to chuckle guiltily and emit the parting sigh that comes with all indulgent laughter.

As I loitered by the doorway feeling as useless as the very place I was in, I couldn't figure out if I'd conceded too easily or not. I mean there was very little I could have done, once more she had simultaneously done everything and absolutely nothing. It had been the same last time on my first shift, always a certain innocence heavily laced with malice. She'd knocked over my day's work but apologised with a blank stare before doing it. I fucking hated her. My body throbbed with scorn as I reeled from the meaningless public battle.

After a while of standing by the entrance feeling incompetent, one of the supervisors came through and piteously gave me instructions with a pleading smile. I clutched the envelopes as if he had given me gold and positively rimmed him as we walked towards a desk; full of 'yes sir thank you sir' bullshit. You should have seen me. He placed my name tag on the end of the terrible girl's desk. 'You can work here with Georgia, she's been here for a while and she's just about your age,' the man smiled with a strong Bangladeshi accent, as he peered over his square framed glasses. He stood too close and his breath smelt strange and yeasty, like stale beer and Wotsits. I turned and looked towards this girl that I despised, Georgia. I stared at her long and hard in a bid for some worthless rematch but she didn't give me the pitiful satisfaction I wanted. After attempting my deplorable aim I stood in mild shame at the edge of the desk and began sealing poorly designed corporate leaflets into polythene bags.

We all had to stand for hours on end as we did the gruesome work, making the duty take on an awful semblance of a sweatshop. My right hip creaked and prickled with pain from an unexplained drunken injury two nights previous, yielding at no point. The envelopes sapped all of the moisture from my hands leaving my fingertips agonisingly dry. My fingernails were too long so I had to scratch and scrabble for the tops of envelopes. A cringe inducing grind of abrasion against the paper on the table came each time I scraped my nail across the casing, missing the opening of the letter. I knew I had a nail clipper in my bag, but it was holed up in a locker on the opposite side of the room. The room was too warm to wear a cardigan, too cold to take it off. I would glance over at Georgia and she'd be away from her work post, conferring with another woman in the corner in broken English and pointing periodically at me. It was hellish.

I looked up and directly opposite me was a boy of about 20. He was pale and he reeked of idiocy, the perfect distraction. I smiled as I looked back down at the polythene bags I was fiddling with and sighed out loud, signalling the start. Through a mild spasm he looked up as I met his stare with a deliberate concentration. He was dopey as fuck, I could spot it from a mile. He was chewing gum like a camel and he had white earphones dangling from the top of his black polo shirt. Aesthetically he was perfectly acceptable, maybe even more than that, however I was merely looking for something to pass the day, I told myself as I ended our spell of eye contact with a wink and a smile. A wink, as if I’d just winked. Tacky bitch. It was almost annoying how easy it was being a girl sometimes, I considered. As long as you had a body you could certainly use it in a way boys could never do with theirs. You want something done and you push out your chest and pout, if a boy thrusted his cock and pouted as a form of bribery it’d be harassment. I labelled a few more envelopes, thoroughly aware of him gawking stupidly at my every move. Leon was his name, I remembered from my first shift. I took off my cardigan and allowed my baggy t shirt to slip down my right shoulder, exposing a red and white polka dotted bra strap. With a slow lean across the table I placed my cardigan at the top left corner of the desk and flicked my tongue across my pout in an action that could easily have been mistaken as moistening my top lip. I turned around and leant back in a masquerade of tying my hair. I lifted my arms, exposing the top of my black leggings and allowed my hair to dangle by my upper thighs, framing my bum. Halfway through the display I was offering, I paused and conceded defeat once more, this time to my better sense of judgement. I sped up the hair tying and turned around to the work, avoiding the eyes of the now lecherous Leon.

The whole process was a speedy one, but Georgia took note. When I’d finished tying up my hair, I grasped a group of leaflets from the pile we were sharing. She sensed my movement and clawed at my hand, producing 3 thin diagonal scratches across my right hand. I yelped in pain, to which she administered the same impassive ‘sorry,’ and began working on the leaflets I’d dropped on the desk in distress. I stood with my mouth indignantly open like the baby that the candy was stolen from. I searched the room for moral assistance but all I received were derisive shrugs at best, and a strange increase in confidence from Leon who now insisted upon winking and wiggling his tongue like a mentally limited snake. I stood silently seething. She’d done it. She’d made me pathetic too. She’d lowered me to the level of pettiness that I was now wedged into. My hand stung with the same resentful hurt that my eyes did, and it was all I could do not to burst into tears, floor her and claw at her face with the letter knives we were using, shredding her skin to perverse confetti.

‘Come here baby hey be my baby,’ the radio whinged. My hand was striped with the three slivers of cracking dried up blood. Georgia took to warbling along to the radio with as much emotion as she had over her awful heartless face. She sang with the volume and assurance of a virtuoso singer, but reality begged to differ. I bitterly stamped the letters I was assigned with and slid them over to the stack on my right. It puzzled me that she could grate on me so much, and manifestly vice versa. ‘Put your hands on my body, oh, oh oh!’ We all trudged around, placing boxes and trays into different boxes and trays and she wouldn’t stop her hollow chorus. My arms, my back, my hip, all of me was in agony. I kept cramping up at the joint of my shoulder and my upper arm, contorting sporadically to try and reduce the searing pain shooting through it. ‘Kiss me k-k-kiss me’. She had spent most of the afternoon on her phone, staring at the screen with her lips dangling in concentration, or scrutinising me in meetings with who I tragically gathered could be her mother. She stalked back over to the desk we were sharing and threw a handful of rubber bands in front of me, allowing them to bound across and off the surface. ‘Stop and tie those up,’ she barked at me as she pointed to her work, before smoothing back her thin black hair and seating herself on one of the supervisor’s chairs. I bent over, straining my sore back, and picked up the elastic bands from the floor, counting to 20 as I did so.

By our break, every piece of resentment I had for the job was patterned over her face, like a mosaic of hatred. I looked at her and I saw piles of nameless envelopes. I saw directionless catalogues. I saw someone so commanding and hapless that it killed me, she was ridiculous. We were dismissed for lunch and Georgia and I both attempted to get to the lockers, but with a defensive push, she sent me forwards, and into the corner of a table. My head rocked forward as I was winded by the impact. She drifted ahead with nothing to say and unlocked her locker. I stood and caught my breath. ‘Ya alright?’ a man with grey dreadlocks perfunctorily inquired as he walked past me. I mumbled something unconvincing and nodded my head, but he didn’t hear.

Georgia was already out of the side door when I got to my bag. I turned from where everyone else was walking and paced hurriedly to the same exit, picking up one of the knives we’d been using that day. The side exit of the Mail House led to a narrow road with the back of a council estate on the right, and an expansive bingo car park on the left. She was at the back entrance of the car park, sashaying along by the hedges. I increased my speed, breathing heavily with each step until I could almost overtake her. She gave me a sidelong squint with no expression, and turned her head dismissively. That destroyed me.

I stepped in front of her, lunged forwards with force and blindly sliced her neck twice. I didn’t have a fucking clue what I was doing but I felt the blade plunge into her flesh and snap on the second impact. A heavy flow of blood immediately began coursing down her collar but she didn’t make a sound aside from a small choke of surprise. Not one sound. I retreated a step, pausing to survey the horror, before keeling over as a violent trajectory of bile surged from my mouth and all over the lower half of her trembling body that had slid down the hedges to the floor. The translucent yellowish liquid mingled with her blood on her lap, diluting the crimson. My eyes flickered from her neck to her legs to the tarmac and back, following the stream. She was weeping but her eyes were glazed and her congested features remained void, swathed in the same moronic and condescending cling film that made me hate her from the beginning. I closed my mouth and let the remaining phlegm of my vomit swim in my mouth, now blending with the tears and snot running into the crease of my lips. Hysteria threatened but I was beyond it. My body vibrated as I stood over her with my face covered in puke and tears and her blood. I was intimidating, still on guard; that’s not very me, I thought frantically as I towered over her shrinking form and attempted to wipe my face with my sleeve, only spreading the fluid further. I sat very quickly next to her, too close, allowing her blood and my bile to seep into my clothing. We both quivered and wept silently. I fumbled around in my bag with unsteady hands until I found the nail clipper, and began cutting my nails down so that they all stung with raw tenderness. I took off my socks and my brown desert boots, and cut my toenails too. I picked up her limp hand and cut down her fingernails, before taking off her pumps and doing the same. Then together we sat wordlessly, and we waited.

FOREVER 27

2011-07-25T04:34:00.008+01:00

With the death of Amy Winehouse on the 23rd July comes a new addition to the 27 Club, also known as 'Forever 27' or 'Club 27'. The club is a group of influential musicians who all died at the age of 27, many through mysterious circumstances. I've mentioned how my blog's been sucking loads and I haven't been doing much drawing or writing, but I finally got round to sorting that out and did some drawings of the 27 Club, and I have some short stories to post too once I've finished them all. Also these drawings looked lots classier when they were just pencil drawings but I reckon these are more interesting and less morbid.

BRIAN JONES

'Rolling Stones founder and guitarist/multi-instrumentalist. Official cause of death: Drowned in a swimming pool. The coroner's report stated "death by misadventure".'

JIMI HENDRIX

'Pioneering electric guitarist, singer and songwriter for The Jimi Hendrix Experience and Band of Gypsys. Official cause of death: Autopsy showed he asphyxiated on vomit after combining sleeping pills with wine.'

JANIS JOPLIN

'Lead vocalist and songwriter for Big Brother and the Holding Company, The Kozmic Blues Band and Full Tilt Boogie Band. Official cause of death: Probable heroin overdose.'

JIM MORRISON

'Lead singer, songwriter and video director for The Doors. Official cause of death: Cause of death listed as "heart failure"; however, no autopsy was performed.'

KURT COBAIN

'Founding member, lead singer, guitarist and songwriter for Nirvana. Official cause of death: Ruled as suicide by shotgun.'

AMY WINEHOUSE

'British singer/songwriter. Official cause of death: To be determined.'

You can read about reading about a non-fiction narrative that explores the conspiracy side of Club 27 a bit more here. Also there's a whole list of others on the Wikipedia page I've cited most of the information from, however some I wanted to give a special mention to were Jean Michel Basquiat, Kristen Pfaff and although only officially announced dead in November 2008, Richey Edwards who, if you've read this blog for ages (pfft) you'll know I adore. So here is a shit rushed painting of him done out of love.

RIP Amy Winehouse, you were ace.

'I REALLY LIKE YOUR HAIR'

2011-07-25T04:21:00.008+01:00

i forget about most things i do

2011-04-29T13:18:00.002+01:00

i can't even remember when i took this

2011-04-29T13:11:00.003+01:00

this blog has been sucking so hard for a while because i haven't been doing anything on it. im real sorry i have a lot of drawings and paintings to scan in and stuff so i will do that ASAP on the double post haste quick time.
please accept these dancing dogs as an apology.
love always, anz

i didn't take this recently

2011-01-31T09:00:00.005Z

SLUTS ON T SHIRTS

2011-01-13T23:40:00.009Z

Some of the work of Eric Foss, a bar/gallery owner and artist based in New York. He's created a line of T-shirts depicting vintage porn. There is nothing about this that isn't right. Who doesn't wanna go for the weekly shop wearing the tits and ass of a woman who would probably socialise with your grandma?? Noone, thats who.
Read an interview with him HERE

TISSUES 4 ISSUES

2011-01-11T22:24:00.010Z

i have so much to say and right at this moment i don't want to say anything. really nothing needs to be said, but i feel like i need to, which essentially is what tora and i were discussing earlier. it often becomes a case of having no problems thus feeling the need to create them, for interest or for distraction or whatever purpose that you feel needs to be served. in the most basic of terms, such a percentage of western problems within a certain age range are simply not problems, and although there's no way of avoiding reference to the ~real problems~ of third world countries i don't wish to discuss them right now, mainly in congruence with the removal most of us feel from these things. it's not like we don't care but on a day to day basis we don't care, because we all have our own problems to deal with, right?

EXTRAVAGANT POODLES

2011-01-07T00:40:00.004Z

I got dressed up and then realised i didn't have enough money to go out. Now I'm collecting pictures and looking at extravagant poodles, and it just makes me think how much time people have on their hands, time like you wouldn't even believe, filling in this fucking horrible void with stuff like poodle grooming. and the worst thing is, i know I'm just feeling bitter about it now, I'll come back to this in a few days and all the first thing I'll think in my desperately shallow mind is 'look how nice the colours are'.

No Doubt, First Ever TV Performance 1990

2011-01-02T22:45:00.006Z

On tv show The Gig

p.s. happy new year everyone !!

BYE 2010

2010-12-31T05:26:00.002Z

**gif*s**andason*g**o*r2

2010-12-30T16:03:00.009Z

I feel really bad because recently i've not done very much writing or drawing, and this blog is primarily about both. I am really sorry i promise there'll be better stuff soon and photographs and drawings of weird stuff, for now have a bunch of shoddy gifs of me on christmas when i was too full to be sociable. (you're welcome..)

❣♡❤MERRY CHRISTMAS EVERYONE❤♡❣

2010-12-25T04:45:00.006Z

Reasons to Smile

2010-12-24T21:10:00.007Z

For years I hated my teeth more than many things. I hated smiling, I hated the way that I could flit my tongue between them and I hated the way that they instantly differentiated my set of incisors from anyone elses. Its only in the past few years that I've become happy with my gaps, transitioning my teeth from my least favourite to my favourite feature of myself.

p.s. totally would have put in a picture of Jane Birkin as well but I couldn't find any of her looking ~toothy~ enough

I haven't done any drawing in ages under the guise of not having a scanner at uni. This is bad and i intend to rectify this situation. that is all.

2010-12-24T19:01:00.005Z

DAFT PUNK LYRICS

2010-12-18T17:36:00.003Z

I love Daft Punk

2010-12-15T16:21:00.004Z

someone else

2010-12-15T16:19:00.007Z

We lay back on my dry sheets and flaccid pillows
I felt beneath me the crisp crackle of someone else;
The emission of last night’s lover spread into the sheets.
I looked up at him as he worked, relentlessly working
I watched as beads of sweat formed by his hairline
melting into his hair
Tiny glass beads.
I used to make shitty friendship bracelets with those types of beads
They’d always break because I’d pull the elastic too taut
or stretched them too far for my undeveloped little wrists.
Sparse beads digging into my flesh leaving
semi circular dents, irregularly placed.
That doesn’t mean anything though, none of this does.
I blurred back into focus with a rocking thrust
Staring at his face, a perfectly formed face
Contorting and panting, travelling to the place
I wasn’t going with him
A well timed reverberation and a tacky moan suggested otherwise
Well I suppose I was with him.
We were there, together
In my room and in my bed and in me
His hair flopped forwards, moulded by perspiration
Good hair, curly the way I liked it
His mouth formed an impeccable pout
Strong cheekbones and slender shoulders
Attractive Boy.
He began convulsing, pressing close, shuddering
Hands desperately groping for my flesh
Coveting my being
The height of intimacy
I stared at his eyes glazed over with lust
and I tried to remember his name.
A loud groan.
Mark? No, not Mark
He held my hands above my head and
a droplet of sweat splattered onto my cheek
Thom...? Yes, Thom.
Same name as the one from yesterday
I considered the coincidence as he pulled out
and spilled onto my navel
It was all a bit of a mess.

~photobooth~

2010-11-14T23:26:00.011Z

It got to me a bit going onto my blog and seeing something so stressful and annoying so this is a pretty much pointless self indulgent post of pictures from my photobooth intersected with 2 pictures of nice things.

FAB

x-treme

2010-11-11T20:53:00.009Z

Rarely does my blog cover any issues of great meaning further than the approximate curliness of my hair, endearing animals or t0t4l h0tt13s but having just read and seen a few things it seems appropriate to have a moment of examination, of both the relationship between religious extremism and our culture and what is ultimately the fuel for racial conflict.

Upon moving to university halls, my lack of both a television and money for daily newspapers indicates that current affairs are escaping me at an alarming rate. However after one of my flatmates joined a group encouraging us all to 'show these poppy burning bastards how many people want them deported', my ears pricked up. Even if my vested interest was whether or not I should start packing my bags and avoiding her in fear of being terrorised from now on (what with being of ethnic minority and all) what I learnt was shocking on all levels.

This extract taken from The Telegraph;
'Muslims clash with police after burning poppy in anti-Armistice Day protest'
Muslims clashed with police yesterday after burning a large poppy in protest at Britain's wars in Iraq and Afghanistan which was timed to coincide with Armistice Day's two-minute silence.

About 35 Islamic protesters, dressed in dark clothes and with many masking their faces, carried banners and chanted slogans such as "British soldiers: terrorists".
The group confronted police officers and briefly fought with them, leaving one officer with a head injury requiring hospital treatment, and three arrests were made.
Around 50 counter demonstrators from the far-right English Defence League gathered nearby but officers kept the two sides apart.

The protesters said they were from a group called Muslims Against Crusades.
They gathered near Hyde Park in London before burning a model of a poppy on the stroke of 11am then marching along Exhibition Road.

Asad Ullah, 23, a spokesman for the group who would only say he was from London, said: "We will do this again. Until the British people condemn the British Government for these illegal wars, we will not stop protesting."'

(read the full article here - http://www.telegraph.co.uk/news/uknews/law-and-order/8126357/Muslims-clash-with-police-after-burning-poppy-in-anti-Armistice-Day-protest.html)

Now this is awful in itself. Since 9/11, religious extremism is rightfully becoming one of the banes of British society, and this protest is one of the most inappropriate occurrences I've heard of in a while. Of course it was done to create the highest impact possible or there'd simply be no point in doing something so contemptuous. However by burning a poppy on Armistice Day, it's not dissimilar to walking into a room of your worst enemies who ardently despise you, raising your arse and systematically shitting on every single one of them twice; the hatred accelerates, incited by your actions and a side helping of both prejudice and cheap cider.

But we have a different problem. The initial wrong, carried out by said extremists is now being countered by wrong #2; discrimination and no, I'm afraid those two wrongs together just won't make the right we were all aiming for. Hence, back to the wonderful 'Let's show these poppy burning bastards how many people want them deported' group, we see the emergence of the 1980s original National Fronters creeping out of their Aryan woodwork and hey presto, we're all in Bradford circa July 2001. Fabulous.

A particular favourite comment of mine was submitted by a delightful chappie who we shall call M. Fielding;

and this is another gem from A. Wiseman

now I don't care what anyone says, british ladz are the most charming of all!!

and K. Brown's got an excellent idea;

I bet its a tea party!! I hope I get an invite.

The group has turned from one denoting anger at the actions of one group of religious extremists to a racist's jamboree. Sensible comments are few and far between and the worrying issue is with every refresh of the page, the group's numbers multiply and the cringeworthy comments thrive. Instead of any focus on the incident that has actually taken place, we have pages of racial slurs, the intention of P. Flip-Flop Jones' local who are 'duin a bonfire special......... U get 2 beers, a muslim, a can of petrol & a box of matches. Its called ' two pints of lager and a paki to crisp ' ! ahahh kakakakakakakakakaka' (hilarious right) and what I actually thought was a pretty thorough plan in which we 'fukin ship them out on a fukin dingy and wen they get 2 the middle of the ocean drive by on a boat and shoot the fukin dinghy!!!!' (rad concept Joe!!)

I wish to reiterate the fact that I do not in any way condone the actions of these Islamic extremists, and I agree with the next person about the disgusting level of disrespect displayed by burning poppies on remembrance day. Similarly, I will never encourage the sectarian hoopla I've witnessed on this page alone, as far as I've seen Adolf's out back pinning the tail on the fucking donkey and the last one to the pool's a dirty (insert any colour of the rainbow)!!1!1

It's shameful and nothing more, and I'm disappointed more than anything about all that I've seen in reading both the news story and the facebook group. I think I'll just stop reading the news and remain in my happy uni bubble contemplating how much cheese you need in a toastie for it to be sufficiently cheesy.

Great People; Volume 2

2010-11-07T19:31:00.005Z

Volume 2 of my Great People series. Read Volume 1 HERE

Barney

This is Barney. Barney is a Great Person. I met Barney about 3-4 years ago when he had long hair like THIS and I had short hair like THIS. Weird huh. Barney takes some fresh pictures which you can see HERE and you can also harass him a bit through that if you'd like. One time Barney, Izzy and I went to an underage festival organised gig to feel mildly superior but we only spent a few minutes inside before we left and went to brick lane and made a scene in a small corner shop because I couldn't find my purse in my bag (it was in my hand). I don't see Barney enough but that's alright because I'll always consider him a good friend and an irreplaceable one at that, with whom I can spend a long time and not want to tear my eyes out. I reckon Barney'd get along really well with my other friend called Alex and I intend to introduce them one day soon and watch as they enjoy each other's company, or alternatively try and kill each other. Either way it'd be fun. Barney is Great.

Emily

This is Emily. Emily is a Great Person. One of the many excellent people on my corridor in halls, Emily is a constant for when we want either THIS or THIS. One day Emily will invite us to her wedding, and her groom will be a spring roll with a top hat on. She does g e o g r a p h y but she still can't get us to Carlito's any faster. Once Emily and I were dancing in her room and while she was trying to wile out to THIS she injured her head, proving that dutty wining is in fact DANGEROUS. We often play in boxes and mattress covers like THIS and THIS and tried to make a slide down the stairs but we just fell. We also frequent the bottom floor of our block, terrorising/losing dignity in front of several people and she doesn't mind if i choose to dribble in front of her (i rarely do..). Emily is Great.

Kim

This is Kim. Kim is a Great Person. Kim works HERE deflecting/welcoming riff raff etc but he also does a bit of THIS and THIS. Good eh. Besides these things, Kim is rad for conversation and general ridiculousness. Once, on our good friend Grace's birthday (another person of greatness, consigned to another volume) we had this DEEP AND MEANINGFUL CONVERSATION in which I discovered how good at reading characters Kim is, how black men on vyner street will vigorously adhere to stereotypes about a love of watermelons/hatred of wasting said melons and that melons also stick very well into door knobs.
On top of this we also had time to conjure a ditty which goes as follows;
A little bit of this
A little bit of that
What you doing in my flat?
I'm grating some gravel
You can't grate gravel
Because gravel's already grat-ed
(beatdown section followed by a well timed 'gravel' which everyone will know when to say in the same way everyone knows when to say 'fack' in THIS)
He also has several good ideas for adverts including cats with beards, the nokia chicken advert and the fare evasion crow. Also he climbed into a cage on the streets of Soho. Kim's one of the many I miss the presence of being in uni, not because of how frequently I saw him but the quality of those times and the unadulterated weirdness. Its OK though, soon I will find someone in Liverpool who walks like a crab unprompted. Kim is Great.

Glasgow v2.0

2010-10-18T01:35:00.006+01:00

Back from Glasgow today; met a bunch of people who I really quite enjoyed the company of and I only have 2 pictures on my camera from said excursion. Also improved my shoddy Glaswegian accent limitless amounts (.......), gave Alex a headache, read half of Trainspotting (keepin it relevant yo) and stacked it down some stairs at Waterstones. Aye anyway a need tae go tae bed and haggis and kilts and all that.

UGLY OLD PEOPLE

2010-10-15T16:57:00.004+01:00

Peter Pan most definitely had the right idea about the whole ageing process.

Axl Rose

I almost feel like I should get a refund from the experience of looking at Axl Rose's pictures throughout time. Recently in the limelight for blasting Reading and Leeds organisers about cutting his time short (aka adhering to punctuality whilst the band arrived late), Rose tweeted "u deserved better!!" and reportedly bellowed from the stage at Leeds "The cops and the promoters wanna fuck us in the ass! Fuck you!" Now I don't know anything about an organised ass-fucking but that ain't no way to talk to a crowd especially when you have aesthetically become what Rose has become. I'd be thankful I haven't been shunned to a garage in Texas with a honky-tonk and some kicking boots.
But then I see this face

and I think 'how could I be mad at you??'
Soon afterwards I see this face

and I want to have my every single one of my organs removed with a staple gun, some hubba bubba and a pizza cutter
FOR GODS SAKE WHO TOLD HIM THAT BRAIDS WERE A GOOD IDEA??
The meaning of letting oneself go has never been so severely represented.

THEN

NOW

Brigitte Bardot

I'm going to be entirely less scathing about Bardot because she seems nice n' all. So this is THEN;

and sadly this is NOW

Le sigh. I'm moving to Neverland.

NEVER SAY NO TO PANDA

2010-10-15T16:17:00.000+01:00

SLACK

2010-10-15T14:57:00.007+01:00

photograph by Olivia-Chlöe Lewis
A P O L O J E E Z
I've been so slack with the updates because moving to uni has hindered my blogging focus entirely, but wassup rockers anyhow. Totally back in the game and whatnot; essays are not gonna avoid themselves.

:'(

2010-09-13T17:52:00.002+01:00

i drew this in the hospital today and nearly cried
p r e m e n s t r u a l t e n s i o n

GRAND

2010-09-08T13:20:00.005+01:00

ass related post

2010-09-06T19:19:00.008+01:00

AGH

2010-09-05T21:56:00.007+01:00

sometimes i do paintings i guess.

click through for website blah blah blah blah blah

exasperation hasn't disintegrated but apathy's returning.

e x a s p e r a t e d

2010-09-04T19:14:00.005+01:00

EL BALCON by Federico García Lorca

Si muero
Dejad el balcón abierto

El niño come naranjas
(Desde mi balcón lo veo)

El segador siega el trigo
(Desde mi balcón lo siento)

Si muero
Dejad el balcón abierto

TURNING INTO SUCH A GIRL ERGH

2010-09-02T17:28:00.005+01:00

WIKIPEDIA EXPLAINS RAP

2010-09-02T15:36:00.010+01:00

I was staring at the facebook homepage letting my brain cells seep out of my ears as 'Facebook Espanol' updated the screen with las noticias mas recientes when suddenly, in between the vastly shit people joining shit groups about how 'u lads can never fool a woman', a wikipedia link was posted by a lovely lad named Tiarnan on Wikipedia's summary to ODB's 'Got Your Money'; thus something beautiful was born. Also this just confirms my theory; Wikipedia knows everything*.

WIKIPEDIA EXPLAINS 'GOT YOUR MONEY' BY OLD DIRTY BASTARD

The song is initially dedicated exclusively to the world's population of attractive females, until ODB seems to have pangs of guilt for not including ladies who might be considered 'homely' or 'ugly,' so he decides to include them, with the encouraging words, 'to me, you pretty anyway, baby.' The artist begins the song by expressing his harsh disdain for women whom he meets, who initially appear to be interested in him, yet later express a reversal of opinion. He then transitions into a discussion about how women sometimes imply they are carrying one's child, although the DNA tests may not yet have come back conclusively.
ODB then expresses some confusion with respect to the morality of the situation, but he is able to remedy this by presenting his Cristal brand of champagne, and urging the patrons to disarm themselves, because ODB does not approve of such violence. Continuing, it appears at first that there is some mutual attraction between “Dirty” (ODB) and the female patrons in the establishment; however, it soon becomes apparent to Dirty that the females only wish to use him for a shot at music video stardom. Despite his knowledge of their ulterior motives, ODB’s primary interest remains focused on dancing, and he tries to perpetuate his image as one who should not be taken lightly. He acknowledges a lack of intellectualism, although he claims that this is superseded by his natural charisma.
The females in the establishment start admiring Dirty for his assets, which just causes Dirty to return to the situation at hand: his money. He asks for the females’ assistance in rectifying the situation, and subsequently asks them to expose their nether regions. Dirty finishes off the song with some nonsensical lyrics, that clearly imply his rising anger for the missing money.

WIKIPEDIA EXPLAINS 'HOW LOW' BY LUDACRIS

The video begins with three girls in a bedroom for a sleepover. They begin by talking directly into a camcorder, in which they reveal that there is a rumor that if you "go low" enough in front of a mirror, Ludacris will appear. They begin dancing to the song in front of a mirror, and Ludacris' face appears in the reflection and starts rapping. The girls are visibly excited at the sight and continue dancing. The video progresses with shots of Ludacris in a club with a blacklight. Back in the bedroom, Ludacris, backup dancers and masked men burst out of the mirror and into the room. The girls, scared, run downstairs and into another room to hide. Ludacris and his dancers come down the stairs and eventually find the girls. Ludacris magically tears off the girls' clothing and changes them into erotic dancers. More people begin to appear and throw a party in the house as all of the girls dance. The video then changes over to different girls, changing in a locker room. Similarly to the original girls, the girls in the locker room also state the rumor and decide to test it by dancing low in front of the mirror in the same hopes of seeing Ludacris. The following scene shows Ludacris at the original party, rapping in front of the dancing girls outside of the house. However, because the girls in the locker room have started to "go low", Ludacris begins to fade, while giving off some type of electrostatic discharge. He then appears in the mirror inside the locker room and the whole concept of the video apparently restarts. The video features a cameo from Disturbing tha Peace artist Lil Fate.

WIKIPEDIA EXPLAINS 'BUTTONS' BY PUSSYCAT DOLLS

The song has a strong sexual undertone; a lady teases her intended male subject to help her take her clothes off (hence the main chorus line "I'm telling you to loosen up my buttons"). However, she accuses him of being intimidated, leading her to believe he's "all talk and no show". She claims that she's "heard what he's sayin' what he was going to do to her, but she's seen nothing". There is a presence of sexual frustration because the male involved refuses to unbutton the female's clothes, despite his verbal teasing. She seems frustrated because she is aware she's attractive but for some reason her men have not wanted to undergo sexual intercourse with her. The sexual frustration is embodied from her male partners' inability to have sex with her, and most probably causes the female's ever so slightly weakened - yet still large - ego. However, where most listeners would assume that the protagonist has finally lost interest, the song ends with the impression that she's still teasing the man to unbutton her clothes.
The lyrics were slightly altered after the final release in the rap verse performed by Snoop Dogg. The lyric "Yeah, I thought I saw a puddycat" (catchphrase of the Looney Tunes character Tweety) was changed to "Yeah, I thought I saw a pussycat". This version was not used due to copy right issues with Warner.

WIKIPEDIA EXPLAINS 'TEMPERATURE' BY SEAN PAUL

In this video Sean Paul is seen dancing quite close with female dancers. The first dance sequence was with blowing leaves, centered in autumn. Then as weather gets colder, he is in the snow with the thermometer frozen, centered in winter. The third sequence is in the rain, centered around spring. Finally he's at a tanning salon squirting sunscreen, centered around summer. There is evident sexual innuendo in the squirting of the lotion from the sunscreen bottles. At the end he raps and is in a club while performing to the song "Breakout."

n.b. click HERE if the video to Temperature doesn't work, it keeps telling me funny things about embedding.

WIKIPEDIA EXPLAINS 'JUICY' BY NOTORIOUS B.I.G.

The song begins with the artist, Biggie, dedicating the song to people who disparaged him by telling him that he would not amount to anything in life. He also dedicates the song to those who attempted to thwart his attempts to distribute narcotics, not realizing that his sole intent was to provide food for his infant daughter. He then concludes his opening monologue by dedicating the song to those who were dealing with despair and struggle in their lives. In a moment of affirmation, he tells them that everything is "all good", affectionately referring to them as "baby", twice.
The first verse starts with Biggie reminiscing upon his dream of being a famous rapper, during which time he regularly read a monthly publication by the name of Word Up. In that magazine, he would see such popular artists as Salt-n-Pepa and Heavy D, who would be pictured inside of limousines. He would take these pictures and put them on his bedroom wall, while listening to a weekly radio program named Rap Attack, hosted by Mr. Magic and Marley Marl. Sometimes, he would record these programs and play the cassettes on his stereo until the tape would pop, rendering it unable to be played again. Occasionally, he would smoke marijuana rolled in bamboo paper while sipping an alcoholic beverage of the Private Stock brand. During these times, he would also wear a red and black lumberjack-style jacket, with a matching hat. Still in reminiscent mode, he recalls a song entitled "Rappin' Duke", in which the artist says "da ha, da ha". He marvels that in the time that has elapsed since the release of that song, hip-hop music has made many creative and commercial strides. Referring to the present day, he cites that it is now him in the limelight, due to his lyrical abilities. He intends to acquire money and become popular, or "blow up". In emphasizing his "blowing up", he makes an allusion to the World Trade Center 1993 bombings. He switches back to reminiscing upon the days when he was not as successful, and occasionally had to eat canned sardines for dinner. He then discards that memory and takes time to say hello to disc jockeys whom he has befriended- namely Ron G, Brucie B, Kid Capri, Funkmaster Flex, and Lovebug Starski. He assures them that as they suspected he would, he is indeed "blowing up". He implores them to give him a phone call, as he has not moved away from his original residence, and still has the same phone number. In case the listener previously had no knowledge of his perspective or upbringing, he insures them that now, they will know.
The chorus begins with fellow Bad Boy Records artists Total harmonizing, encouraging Biggie to be sure of who he is, and not to let others hold him down. During this, Sean "Puffy" Combs reiterates Biggie's "it's all good", by repeating it numerous times.
The second verse begins with Biggie still marveling at the changes his life has taken, from being a petty thief to granting interviews to Robin Leach. He then cites that because of his fortune, he is not afraid to spend money and share marijuana with his friends. He explains that spreading love in such a manner is the way things are done in his hometown of Brooklyn, New York. He speaks of how he consumes Moët et Chandon and Alizé to the point of drunkenness, and possibly to the point of urinating on himself. He laments the fact that females used to disrespect and reject him, but finds solace in the fact that they now miss his presence and write letters to him. He continues to be in disbelief that his dream of rapping has come true, as he was previously immersed in a life of crime. Then, he reverts to the topic of female attention, which now stretches from Mississippi to various cities on the East Coast. He refers to his other achievements: a condominium in Queens, New York, unlimited amounts of marijuana, and concerts that are often sold-out. He now lives his life without fear, and can afford to purchase 5 karat earrings for his daughter. He also engages in lunch, brunch, and poolside interviews. He cites that he has never completed high school, so many considered him to be somewhat of a miscreant. However, he regards those thoughts as stereotypical, as he was simply a misunderstood African-American youth. He reaffirms the listener that things are still all good, and that if they didn't know of his life before, now they do.
The chorus repeats, as do Puffy's repetitious affirmations of everything being all good.
Biggie begins the final verse by mentioning the various video game systems that he enjoys in his spare time, including but not limited to the *Super Nintendo Entertainment System and Sega Genesis. He plays these on a 50-inch television set, while sitting on a green leather sofa. He also wears a Rolex watch and is transported by a chauffeur-driven limousine, similar to the rap stars he once idolized. Occasionally, he runs into billing troubles, such as a $2000 phone bill, but he is not worried, because he has an accountant to handle such a thing. Not only is he indulging in these luxuries, but so is his crew, the Junior M.A.F.I.A.. They no longer have to deal with public housing systems. At the mention of that predicament, he remembers the times during which he resided in a one-room apartment. Now, he is proud to announce that he is able to provide his mother with an Acura vehicle and mink stole. She is now proud of him, especially when she sees him in the pages of the then-popular hip-hop magazine, The Source. He continues reminiscing on numerous verbal disputes with their landlord, lack of a heating system, and uneventful Christmas holidays and birthdays. Still, he is happy to say that they can now enjoy simple pleasures such as drinking champagne to quench their thirst. He really loves the life that he has now earned, because he has made positive changes. It is indeed "all good", as he has said before, and says yet again. He concludes the final verse by once again assuring the listener that they now know his perspective.
The chorus repeats to close the song, as Biggie gives a "shoutout" to Brooklyn and the Junior M.A.F.I.A. Puffy ends things by repeatedly stating "it's all good, nigga".

*apart from the things it does not know.

Hey there Gordy, why so happy??

2010-09-01T21:07:00.000+01:00

BEYON-SAY WHA??

2010-09-01T19:03:00.005+01:00

4:05 - 4:15

Why am I on the floor

2010-08-31T20:45:00.007+01:00

stephanie got her film developed so here are my favourites from her pictures of berlin
all photographs by stephanie richardson

Dorothy as a Flirty Girl

2010-08-31T10:50:00.005+01:00

This is a painting I did early this year of Dorothy from the Wizard of Oz as a 19 year old promiscuous flirty girl for my book 'Wonderland'*. I shoddily animated it later.

*more about Wonderland v. soon!!

Great People; Volume 1

2010-08-30T17:03:00.015+01:00

I meet a lot of people a lot of the time. Athough a vast amount are sleazy late 20-somethings from dalston with penchants for holding your hand with their sweaty drug addled ones/blearily staring at your cleavage, I do meet some people who are really very nice. So here is the first in a series of blog posts about some people I know or have met who are Great People, some things about them and a short (probably boring) story involving them.

Ciaran

This is Ciaran. Ciaran is a Great Person. Ciaran is planning on moving to London but I think this is a shit idea because London will ruin him. The first time I spoke to Ciaran was when we were in Glasgow, and it was light outside. I can't tell you what day or time it was, but it was light outside and I was wearing a cardigan and tights, and holding a something - juice or a pencil or a calendar or a fish, I don't know. He was sitting in a chair in the centre of the room and I think some other people were in the room as well but I don't remember.
"Do you like Pimms?" he asked earnestly in a soft Glasweigan lilt.
I stopped walking, confused. "Pimps??" I asked, like the filthy minded weirdo I am.
"No, Pimms!" He asserted
"OH! Yeah, Pimms is alright! (insert some boring story about how my mother got a cheap bottle and how in my head its actually more expensive because of the garnishing and lemonade)"
"Its just I heard people from London like Pimms," he smiled. "And it is quite cheap. I'll get it more often"
That was the first conversation I ever had with Ciaran, and I wish more first conversations were like this, rather than the people I meet who are always so eager to impress or distress with their sharp ready quips and keep-up-with-me-if-you-can conversation. I can keep up or overtake with ease but sometimes I don't want to. Anyway I made a dictonary of London words and phrases for Ciaran and he constructed some rad nonsensical sentences out of them, providing me with vast entertainment. HERE is a sentence he made with the aforementioned phrases. Ciaran and I are writing each other letters of something (complaint/devotion/love - delete as appropriate) and I've used blue glitter glue on his. Ciaran is Great.

Alice

This is Alice. I've known Alice for a while, but she is a Great Person. Alice does photography which you can see HERE and she also does art which you cannot see HERE. Also her dad does some great prize winning photography which you have probably seen but you can see HERE. Once we had a midnight feast and it was rad. Boys tend to fall in love with Alice to the point of obsession before it all comes to a high pressure end with Ali being a bit freaked out. Its only because she's wonderful though so its ok. About a year ago, we were round central London and thereabouts, and we'd bought some lemon ice lollies. We were enthusing about how lemon ice lollies are so very deliciously multipurpose - like a refreshing drink that you eat - and generally enjoying the principal licks of said refreshing items. But then my ice lolly fell on the floor and suddenly things weren't so fun. However Alice encouraged me to adhere by the 10 second rule by shouting 'pickitupitsstillfineitsstillok' and I did. After brushing off the invisible dirt with a piece of tissue, I continued eating the lolly and it was one of the best things that have ever happened to me. I turned around on the spot that I'd picked it up and looked at the large glass window next to me. Beyond the window was a restaurant full of diners all suspended in disgust at the fact that they'd witnessed me eating the ice lolly from the floor. Ali and I fled the scene. Alice is Great.

Lewis

This is Lewis. More spcifically this is Lewis eating a chocolate mousse. Lewis is a Great Person. Lewis dyed his hair turquoise and I peer pressured him to do it a wee bit but now his hair is brown and he may lose his tumblr followers who thought he was super edgy because he had blue hair but thats ok because hes a NICE GUY. I have a letter for Lewis that has gone somewhere and then come back to my house but thats ok too because I'll just give it to him. Lewis does some RAD ART and sometimes I send him videos of women who are pregnant and dancing with enthusiasm. You should know that Lewis is both wild and untamed. Once we had a 13 minute conversation which neither of us remember but I really hope it was about porcupines. Lewis is Great.

"If you ever get tempted by a hot guy just imagine he has a bucket of eels on his head"

2010-08-29T20:46:00.003+01:00

"ahaha ok,"
"...like this really big bucket just full of eels.."
"nah i don't think i will be, it'll be fine"
"..like this fishy mass of fish guts just on his head.."

Thank you Mimi.

The Libertines

2010-08-29T13:52:00.011+01:00

Well this is a bait post, but come on.

Vertigo by The Libertines

"'The Libertines' set was halted during their appearance at the Reading Festival tonight (August 28).

The band were half way into ‘Time For Heroes’ when the main sound system cut out, leaving only the group’s monitor speakers working.

Carl Barat, Pete Doherty and John Hassall briefly left the stage, with only drummer Gary Powell remaining to entertain the crowd.

But the problem was quickly rectified and the rest of the band returned to complete the set.

As with their warm-up gigs in London last week, The Libertines arrived on stage to the sound of Vera Lynn's 'We'll Meet Again'.

The performance also followed a similar set, starting with ‘Horrorshow’ and including the tracks ‘Vertigo’, ‘Tell The King’ and ‘What Katie Did’.

Both Doherty and Barat spoke rarely to the crowd, except to wish them a good evening.

Doherty also warned festival-goers to stop pushing forward before ‘Last Post On The Bugle’.

The Libertines ended their set with ‘Up The Bracket’, ‘What A Waster’ and ‘I Get Along’, after which the four band members embraced each other on stage."

Setlist;

‘Horrorshow’
‘The Delaney’
‘Vertigo’
‘Last Post On The Bugle’
‘Tell The King’
‘Boys In The Band’
‘Music When The Lights Go Out’
‘What Katie Did’
‘What Became Of The Likely Lads’
‘Can’t Stand Me Now’
‘Death On The Stairs’
‘Time For Heroes’
‘Good Old Days’
‘Radio America / Up The Bracket’
‘What A Waster’
‘I Get Along’
text from http://www.gigwise.com

What Became Of The Likely Lads by The Libertines

Someone asked me why I like the Libertines so much, why they made such an impact on me and why so many people cared, and I answered the same as almost every other fan would. The skill of Gary and John in their level headed assurance but to a lesser extent than the obvious partnership that defined an era. The success of the Libertines largely lies with the volatile nature of Pete and Carl's relationship, the fragility of their bond, the fact that there was a strong possibility that at one point, one of them would just erupt with their love and their dependance on the other, the emotional conviction applied to every song, the affection displayed throughout in a borderline homoerotic manner, to the point where Pete and Carl would stand staring into each others eyes face to face, lip to lip singing into a microphone on the verge of making out or spitting at each other - rarely emulated by many other bands, the mastery of instruments without effort, the way that you knew that towards the later stages it wasn't all alright but when they were performing they needed each other and they demanded your love and attention and devotion in the most endearing manner possible; A Paul and John for a floundering generation with few heroes and fewer principles. PLUS they're all t0t4l h0tt13s!!!!!!! h0ll4 b4ck l4d13s!!!!!!

What did become of the Likely Lads; Post Libertines

Pete Doherty's Babyshambles

Killamangiro by Babyshambles - n.b. drums on this track are by Gemma Clarke before she left in 2005 'citing disagreements with the management, whom she blamed for failing to address Doherty's obvious drug problem' wikipedia

John Hassall's Yeti

Midnight Flight by Yeti

Carl Barat + Gary Powell's Dirty Pretty Things

You Fucking Love It by Dirty Pretty Things

I really need the reunion to go well and hopefully reform WILL go splendidly and Pete and Carl will turn gay for each other. Just an idea.

things sometimes

2010-08-29T13:48:00.003+01:00

ABSOLUTELY FABULOUS

2010-08-29T00:39:00.004+01:00

click on any to make them bigger

A Typical Episode of Loose Women

2010-08-29T00:34:00.003+01:00

click to make it bigger

THE QUEEN HAS SOME STUFF TO SAY

2010-08-29T00:21:00.004+01:00

Sketchbook Scans v3.0

2010-08-29T00:15:00.001+01:00

these days i just sit at home cracking myself up

click on any to make them bigger

2010-08-29T00:13:00.001+01:00

Suidical Rodents

2010-08-28T16:12:00.003+01:00

"Lemmings are small rodents, usually found in or near the Arctic, in tundra biomes.

Lemmings became notorious in popular culture because of a myth that they commit mass suicide when they migrate. Driven by strong biological urges, some species of lemmings may migrate in large groups when population density becomes too great. Lemmings can swim and may choose to cross a body of water in search of a new habitat. In such cases, many may drown if the body of water is so wide as to stretch their physical capability to the limit. This fact combined with the unexplained fluctuations in the population of Norwegian lemmings gave rise to the development of the myth.

The myth of lemming "mass suicide" is long-standing and has been popularized by a number of factors. In 1955, Disney Studio illustrator Carl Barks drew an Uncle Scrooge adventure comic with the title "The Lemming with the Locket". This comic, which was inspired by a 1954 American Mercury article, showed massive numbers of lemmings jumping over Norwegian cliffs. Even more influential was the 1958 Disney film White Wilderness, which won an Academy Award for Documentary Feature, in which staged footage was shown with lemmings jumping into sure death after faked scenes of mass migration. A Canadian Broadcasting Corporation documentary, Cruel Camera, found that the lemmings used for White Wilderness were flown from Hudson Bay to Calgary, Alberta, Canada, where they did not jump off the cliff, but in fact were launched off the cliff using a turntable.

In more recent times, the myth is well-known as the basis for the failed Apple Computer 1985 Super Bowl commercial "Lemmings" and the popular 1991 video game Lemmings, in which the player must stop the lemmings from mindlessly marching over cliffs or into traps.

Because of their association with this odd behavior, lemming suicide is a frequently used metaphor in reference to people who go along unquestioningly with popular opinion, with potentially dangerous or fatal consequences. This metaphor is seen many times in popular culture, such as in the video game Lemmings, and in episodes of Red Dwarf and Adult Swim's show Robot Chicken. In the online game Urban Terror, falling to one's death is called doing the lemming thing."
cited from wikipedia

Sketchbook Scans v2.0

2010-08-27T17:41:00.001+01:00

click on any to make them bigger

2010-08-27T17:36:00.001+01:00

things sometimes

2010-08-27T17:10:00.004+01:00

hobbycraft

2010-08-27T16:23:00.004+01:00

I'm spending copious amounts of time drying roses and sewing. Transition into OAP creepster with phenomenal craft skills almost complete. Wisdom of age and various cats needed; email me at anzsucks@hotmail.com if you have either of these things.

In the Mood by Glenn Miller, 1939

§§§§§§§§§§§§

2010-08-25T21:55:00.005+01:00

2010-08-24T14:35:00.004+01:00

2010-08-24T14:06:00.005+01:00

Valentine by Carol Ann Duffy
Not a red rose or a satin heart.

I give you an onion.
It is a moon wrapped in brown paper.
It promises light
like the careful undressing of love.

Here.
It will blind you with tears
like a lover.
It will make your reflection
a wobbling photo of grief.

I am trying to be truthful.

Not a cute card or a kissogram.

I give you an onion.
Its fierce kiss will stay on your lips,
possessive and faithful
as we are,
for as long as we are.

Take it.
Its platinum loops shrink to a wedding-ring,
if you like.

Lethal.
Its scent will cling to your fingers,
cling to your knife.

JUNKIE

2010-08-24T14:04:00.007+01:00

Every day I get at least 3 new messages from someone called Rose Smith or Farah Ali (thank you political correctness) with the subject line 'Hello friend.' or 'Urgent help needed', and these messages brighten up my junk box. Almost every fibre of my body requires me to click delete and chuckle at their audacity, but recently theres been a tiny voice, a voice that says 'Hey there friend. You need my bank account to transfer the money to your ill grandfather? No problem Rose. You asked so nicely.'
But then I realise thats just me and my imagination being bored and I delete them bitches one time.

I really wish I was working on this for some magazine with a massive budget (or just any budget - enough for a train fare there and back) so I could go find the people who send these things. In my mind its either a 30-something failure called Alan emailing from his mum's house in Clacton, a large Bangladeshi collective functioning in the continent, a group of young immigrants named Ntembe, Ikwo and Nngongo from a flat in Peckham ordered around by their Senior, a man called Ade who wears y fronts and a jacket in all weather or a solitary computer in eastern Japan. I haven't decided which story I like best yet.

Maybe one day I really will win the Ugandan lottery that I didn't participate in, inherit money from the Mexican grandmother that I don't have, or gain the compensation for an unknown incident that I wasn't present at, but I just won't know because of MICROSOFT HOTMAIL FILTERING.

Sending these IMPORTANT and VALUABLE emails to junk is just an attempt to keep the poor poor and the rich richer. that's all it is.

so F U BILL GATES I WANT MY 45,000 PESOS FROM ABUELA DE SANTOS

treats

2010-08-24T12:39:00.005+01:00

bloggings taking the backseat it really always should have, but paved the way for a brand new online addiction; playlists. significant portions of time are now spent crafting internet radio for anonymous people who should not and will not care. fresh.
i dont see any reason why you shouldn't have a bit of music, treats for the followers and all.

ANZ'S FRENCH KISS MIX

click for anz's french kiss mix
Eleven tracks by french bands mostly in french including music by Yelle, Camille and Carla Bruni.

ANZ'S PRETEND ITS THE 60S MIX

click for anz's pretend its the 60s mix
Nineteen tracks from the 1960s including music by Aretha Franklin, Beach Boys and The Velvet Underground.

ANZ'S KLEENEX MIX

click for anz's kleenex mix
Nine tracks for moping and weeping including music by Blur, Radiohead and Hot Chip.

ANZ'S OUCH MIX

click for anz's ouch mix
Ten tracks for agression including music by Buraka Som Sistema, Caspa & Rusko and Death From Above 1979.

ANZ'S HAPPY GO LUCKY MIX

click for anz's happy go lucky mix
Eight electro tracks that don't mean much but are good for doing nothing to. Including music by Crystal Fighters, Cut Copy and Daft Punk.

ANZ'S CHICK MIX

click for anz's chick mix
Nine tracks with female vocals including music by Be Your Own Pet, Crystal Castles and Heartsrevolution.

ANZ'S BOAT SHOES MIX

click for anz's boat shoes mix
Ten indie tracks including music by Bombay Bicycle Club, The Drums and Foals.

ANZ'S BADMAN MIX

click for anz's badman mix
Twelve badman tracks including music by Akala, Tempa T and Wu Tang Clan.

ANZ'S SLUT MIX

click for anz's slut mix
Nine tracks for hoes including music by Hudson Mohawke, Soulwax, No Doubt and Peaches.

ANZ'S AUGUST 2010 MIX

click for anz's August 2010 mix
Ten tracks including music by Hurts, Diplo and Crystal Fighters.

Michelangelo's a Party Dude

2010-08-06T11:40:00.004+01:00

Perpetual State of Trouble

2010-08-05T12:47:00.004+01:00

good words are an impossibility and construction is tainted with a noxious tar that feeds your indignance and smothers me in blame. time to give up.

Breaking into the Foray of Uncomfortable Videos

2010-08-04T21:41:00.006+01:00

its not just 'cat rapes dog' videos on youtube that can be uncomfortable and a bit unnerving. This makes feel a bit wrong in the best way, good music combined with the riverdance; awkward and wonderful.

that is all.

p.s. is it just me or does the title of this post sound like a the title of a Fall Out Boy song; you know the C major-D major-A major-F major prepubescent wank-rock 'I slept with someones mum and i got a T-shirt from her husband and I didn't like the T-shirt very much so now its under my bed somewhere oh by the way there is a band called Fall Out Boy and here is a song they have written describing my ordeal' type ones??

Moderat

2010-08-04T19:44:00.007+01:00

see here for pronunciation of Moderat - funnily enough not Mode-Rat as my younger brother spluttered in mockery.

Comprised of Sebastian Szary, Gernot Bronsert, Sascha Ring + Pfadfinderei and doubtlessly one of my favourite discoveries of Melt Festival, Moderat are a glitchy minimal techno digression into something sublime.

It was 4am and we were front right of the main stage waiting for Moderat. I'd heard of both Modeselektor and to a lesser extent Apparat, and though the hybrid was mildly anticipated, I've never truly appreciated minimal techno (in favour of Bloody Beetroots -esque pounding house music that in all honestly generally generates social abrasiveness - in the best way possible?). Hence as we stood chatting about whatever seems good to chat about in an open air 'city of steel' at 3.00 in the morning, I was less than ecstatic, more than content and less than apprehensive; just happy to be there. It was an oddly spacious set up (more space than we were used to at any English festival; minimal amounts of time were spent pressed against a sweaty man's back) and there we were, clinging to the barriers for no apparent reason as the crowd pulsated to this rhythm, the type of rhythm borrowed from Radiohead's Idioteque and processed backwards through Aphex Twin's Windowlicker. I turned to one of my friends and the most apt 3 words flowed through her lips as she pointed to the stage and shouted. 'A youthful Kraftwerk'. And I saw it. The electronic sensibilities of Kraftwerk transferred into a curly haired skinny man in a trench coat in the centre of the stage. I saw everything. I saw anything. I stared at the blackened sky, as lasers and strobe lights distorted my vision and real lightning coursed through the grey clouds, man vs nature. I didn't know how far nature and reality stretched and I loved it. Even in hindsight, I have a distinct recollection of something close to euphoria as we all throbbed to this progressive beat, smiling at each other for reasons unknown and giggling about whatever we wanted, the last time I felt truly content.

my funny valentine

2010-08-03T17:37:00.008+01:00

photograph by Rose Power. l-r stephanie, me, rose.

I haven't felt this awful in a long time. so dependant. so stagnant in this blanket, everyones blanket
all i get is a corner, and i'm sliding off the edge; comfort is so distant.
but i turn around and i can see someone clinging to a stitch, a bile of guilt congeals in my stomach. so we can talk about something else, about a girl. read her as easily as 12 down on the cryptic crossword, about a rake or another garden tool, and the queen, and a sardine. blah blah blah.
con-stant syll-a-bles and ter-min-o-lo-gy like rain.
don't worry. i'll drench you with hea-vi-ly loa-ded ver-na-cu-lar
maybe you'll drown.
And we can talk about a boy, the boy. the theif of time, of mind. here it is. the pressure of impracticality, the stench of improbability, distance is a cheshire cat. and it is almost funny, in fact its almost hilarious. almost.

Suicide is Painless

2010-07-29T13:22:00.008+01:00

MSP post Richey;

When I was younger, I had this desperate, heartfelt secret crush on Richey Edwards and the whole concept of him. It was a few years after he disappeared that he came into my conscience, and though premature - I was about 9 years old - through my uneducated eyes so far from maturity or even puberty, I'd never understood the plight of a person as well as I genuinely believed I understood his. In hindsight, even though I know its so ridiculous it doesn't bear thought, my heart still did an involuntary little sinking thing as I typed his name into google; I'm still crushin on a man who is either missing or dead. Reason why I love life no. 490.

"On 15 May 1991, he gained notoriety following an argument with NME journalist Steve Lamacq, who questioned the band's authenticity and values, keen to ensure the punk ethic was not abused, after a gig at the Norwich Arts Centre. Lamacq asked of Edwards' seriousness towards his art, and Edwards responded by carving the words "4 Real" into his forearm with a razor blade he was carrying. The injury required hospitalisation and seventeen stitches."

All I want to do is slaughter Rhona Cameron, over and over again, for shoving a mangy puppet into their faces.

Rhona - 'What do you really hate about your life most?'
Richey - 'Myself I think, probably.'

Richard (Richey) James Edwards, born December 22 1967; declared dead November 23 2008

GOD HATES LADY GAGA

2010-07-26T15:44:00.007+01:00

excerpt taken directly from Westboro Baptist Church; the aforementioned church/fountain of hatred can be found at http:www.godhatesfags.com, yes GOD HATES FAGS DOT COM.

"“Art”and “fashion” are the euphemisms, the guise under which proud whore Lady Gaga teaches rebellion against God (incidentally, her claim to the title of“Lady” is sound only if she tacks on“of the night,” thereby alluding to another euphemism for what she is). As much as she’d like to pretend otherwise, there’s nothing new or different about this particular hussy’s pretentious prancing. Does the simple slut truly think that she can change God’s standards by seducing a generation of rebels into joining her in fist-raised, stiff- necked, hard-hearted rebellion against Him? Get real!
Even as she gives lip service to“liberating” her young fans, Lady Gaga brings them into slavery to their own corruption, teaching them to glory in their shame. She hates you!“For when they speak great swelling words of vanity, they allure through the lusts of the flesh, through much wantonness…While they promise them liberty, they themselves are the servants of corruption.” 2 Pet. 2:18-19. "

I'm not the biggest fan of Lady Gaga, she makes me cringe most of the time and her lyrics give me the most irrepressible urge to cry and cry and then cry a bit more about the state of music, but i'm making a list of people who need to chill the fuck out and WBC is going at the top. Never has the word 'jam' been so applicable, jeeez.

sketchbook scans

2010-07-25T14:15:00.005+01:00

i took a sketchbook to berlin. mostly highly pointless.

Melt Festival

2010-07-23T14:50:00.007+01:00

All photographs by Emily Finch

Upon returning from the 5 day unadulterated sweat-fest that was Melt Festival, its all I can do not to spend every waking hour (which are few and far between - I'm sleepy) lamenting about a) Melt b) Berlin c) Melt and Berlin and d) Being back at Melt and Berlin. These lovely photographs by Miss Finch encapsulate the slightly blurred excursion to one of the most efficient cities and festivals I've ever attended. (THE ESCALATORS IN BERLIN STOP AND START WHEN YOU'RE NEAR THEM!! YES YOU HEARD ME RIGHT!! NONE OF THAT WASTEFUL 'FOREVER MOVING' ENGLISH RUBBISH!! EFFICIENT. AS. FUCK.)

The pictures below are a collection depicting a few of the charming folk in our 30ish-strong camping group; I met a lot of people whose company I enjoyed a lot, but I have no idea how to go about expressing this without becoming Supreme Begfriend of All Begfriends. So I guess I'll do nothing apart from fawning over how nice I thought they all were on my blog, like a creep. Excellent. Who said social awkwardness isn't a fresh, powerful look for the summer time?

i'm watching an albatross being hosed down to the soundtrack of 'Survivor' by Destiny's Child as John Borrowman's voiceover scolds said bird

2010-07-22T16:27:00.006+01:00

for being 'sassy' and 'taking its own sweet time'. Now Gangstas Paradise is the chosen music for the happenings of a herd of llamas.
CBBC you have outdone yourself.

back from berlin

2010-07-21T20:30:00.003+01:00

Just back from the sweatiest, most nude excursion of my life and i'm lapping up the certain disconnection from the world i'm currently in the midst of. I saw the facebook logo and freaked out, started rocking and giggling, it was ridiculous.
highlights of melt festival do not even include being penetrated by and subsequently falling off a stationary bike, crying whilst scratching my upper thighs in a toilet for reasons unknown to anyone and a lot of speculation about a distinct lack of cheese in a can.
more later, i'm going to go have a little sleepy.

2010-07-13T15:09:00.004+01:00

i have a feeling this is going to post in a really obnoxiously, intrusively big photo
and i'm quite happy about that?

SURPRISE MUSIC

2010-07-13T14:59:00.009+01:00

because everyone likes a good nostalgic surprise about being elevated in some manner.

not a surprise but y'know

- you have to kinda jump to get to heaven i guess?? i dunno man fuck the jumping theme

I THINK I HATE TUMBLR

2010-07-13T14:30:00.008+01:00

Why am I so angry on tumblr?? Its not like a harbour the same hatred that many do over the least exclusive, most shit-filled blogging service on the internet. In fact I quite enjoy it as an unproductive, slightly nauseating pastime. But I just revisited a few tumblr posts and almost every post written by me is a reflection of rage, most of which don't even make sense.
What is it about tumblr that brings out the horrible annoyed neurotic nut-job inside me? I become the most intolerant asshole in the world as soon as I set my sights on the dashboard. I cant think why either. Surely the inspiring and original photography of kittens, glitter text, olsen twin gifs and skinny legs would be ideal calming material? Right?

Le Sigh.

2010-07-13T12:59:00.004+01:00

AMERICAN FOOD

2010-07-09T21:14:00.009+01:00

i never ever wanted to be in any way responsible for one of those blogs that have pictures of food in extreme detail, created by skinny girls with no sense who sit around making shit tumblr pictures with horrific your-you're grammatical mishaps and licking the screen instead of - god forbid - eating (IM GOING TO COME BACK TO THAT IN A WHOLE DIFFERENT BLOG POST VERY SOON, HOLD TITE..)
and im not gonna be, i just occasionally like pictures of food and how its weird you can almost gauge a certain Americanism from the photographs without any further basis; the glorious size of the over-generous glistening layered burger in comparison to the modest, slimey and frankly flaccid meat-with-bread combos that we are accustomed to calling by the same name.
Maybe we just need better food photographers.

CHIX

2010-07-07T18:37:00.009+01:00

2010-07-07T18:37:00.008+01:00

2010-07-07T18:27:00.007+01:00

2010-07-06T18:31:00.002+01:00

cutesy shit from my tumblr

2010-07-06T18:19:00.005+01:00

GUTTED 2 NOT BE IN GLASGOW RIGHT NOW SO IM JUST GONNA LOOK AT STUFF

depressed little sod

2010-07-05T16:06:00.006+01:00

Returned from Glasgow yesterday night and got far too used to nice company all the time and now, well, you get the title and stuff. I'll write a bit about it when I can get some lovely (ahem) pictures from my camera and think enough to write nicely. in the meantime, /wrists.

*
*sometimes this song is really hard to be sad to because he genuinely sounds like he's lamenting about salty beef

ACTUALLY W8 SADNESS IS BORING AND WE'RE GOING BACK SOON

PARTY UP

GO HARD OR GO HOME

2010-06-26T15:03:00.008+01:00

I always saw 'going hard or going home' as a sort of rappers/artist's guideline, or at least a reference to poorly timed erections. But what happens when those who did indeed perform with effort, force and vigor turn into, well quite frankly, nancy-boys?

Here are the artists who used to go hard, and are now travelling extremely quickly to their homes.
Roll Deep
Here's Badman by Roll deep, circa 2006 - going hard

Feasibly 'hard', no?
now, Roll Deep's latest single, Good Times - going home, and staying home

I don't think i really need to say anything?
also, on the Roll Deep note, remember when Wiley was asking wot u call it not talking about l8 nite shoppin champagne poppin?

Dizzee Rascal
going hard

going to an admittedly big home

I'm gonna resist making a poor joke about fixing up and looking sharp, and instead call your attention to the excellent bars of 'disco disco disco discoo'

Plan B
going harder than most

going home and watching television with his nan

I do understand the wish for artists to commercialize and gain a wider audience, it makes me wonder if to do so, its a necessity to compromise the your style, or whatever it was that gave you credibility in the first place.

Its only a matter of time before Tempz starts singing in falsetto about nights out with the girls.

i like flowers really

2010-06-24T22:13:00.003+01:00

intense habitual hayfever? what intense habitual hayfever?

Pussycats

2010-06-24T17:57:00.003+01:00

i used to love deluding myself that my life would somehow culminate in being a member of Josie and the Pussycats (the comic, not even the film adaptation)

Havin' a butchers

2010-06-24T14:57:00.011+01:00

Recently I've stopped eating meat. As much as I'd love to feign that it's a moral decision and I'm thoroughly conscious of the Plight of a Modern Day Animal, its not that at all. And its not like if some sort of tasty meat is available and ready for my consumption, i'd turn it down. I think its because i've discovered the not-so-tasty-but-terrifically-low-cal phenomenon of ***QUORN***.

Quorn fillets are my cardboard flavoured saviours, and once you get used to it, they become, well, less cardboard flavoured. Also without meat I kinda feel a bit less weighed down? I'm not going to be hasty and say that i don't enjoy the cadaver of a well seasoned farmyard animal rolling around my tongue, and bacon is a bit too live for me to quit, but the necessity has diminished entirely; meat is a 'when i want', not an 'i must have'.

also I DON'T LIKE THE BUTCHERS. Even the word conjures the copperish stench of blood mingled with dirt, and images of lecherous men staring at my mother whilst handling giant hunks of bloodied animal carcass. Fair enough, if we go to a shop and pick up a wholly 'sanitised' and aesthetically pleasing stereotypical chicken (pre seasoned and with stuffing, and probably 100% grottier than the butchers i know and hate), it goes without saying that all images of said stench and leering swoop out of the window.

Sucks that genuine, 'real' and probably well sourced meat is presented so grossly. Sucks that my perception of nutriment as a modern youth is based so heavily on aesthetics.
oh well i'm just a fussy eater.

in other news, i just got these shoes*

(flashing not inc)

@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@

2010-06-24T13:50:00.010+01:00

Advice to writers by Kurt Vonnegut

2010-06-24T01:53:00.002+01:00

1. Find a subject you care about
Find a subject you care about and which you in your heart feel others should care about. It is this genuine caring, and not your games with language, which will be the most compelling and seductive element in your style. I am not urging you to write a novel, by the way —- although I would not be sorry if you wrote one, provided you genuinely cared about something. A petition to the mayor about a pothole in front of your house or a love letter to the girl next door will do.

2. Do not ramble, though
I won’t ramble on about that.

3. Keep it simple
As for your use of language: Remember that two great masters of language, William Shakespeare and James Joyce, wrote sentences which were almost childlike when their subjects were most profound. “To be or not to be?” asks Shakespeare’s Hamlet. The longest word is three letters long. Joyce, when he was frisky, could put together a sentence as intricate and as glittering as a necklace for Cleopatra, but my favorite sentence in his short story “Eveline” is this one: “She was tired.” At that point in the story, no other words could break the heart of a reader as those three words do. Simplicity of language is not only reputable, but perhaps even sacred. The Bible opens with a sentence well within the writing skills of a lively fourteen-year-old: “In the beginning God created the heaven and the earth.”

4. Have guts to cut
It may be that you, too, are capable of making necklaces for Cleopatra, so to speak. But your eloquence should be the servant of the ideas in your head. Your rule might be this: If a sentence, no matter how excellent, does not illuminate your subject in some new and useful way, scratch it out.

5. Sound like yourself
The writing style which is most natural for you is bound to echo the speech you heard when a child. English was Conrad’s third language, and much that seems piquant in his use of English was no doubt colored by his first language, which was Polish. And lucky indeed is the writer who has grown up in Ireland, for the English spoken there is so amusing and musical. I myself grew up in Indianapolis, where common speech sounds like a band saw cutting galvanized tin, and employs a vocabulary as unornamental as a monkey wrench. All these varieties of speech are beautiful, just as the varieties of butterflies are beautiful. No matter what your first language, you should treasure it all your life. If it happens to not be standard English, and if it shows itself when your write standard English, the result is usually delightful, like a very pretty girl with one eye that is green and one that is blue. I myself find that I trust my own writing most, and others seem to trust it most, too, when I sound most like a person from Indianapolis, which is what I am. What alternatives do I have? The one most vehemently recommended by teachers has no doubt been pressed on you, as well: to write like cultivated Englishmen of a century or more ago.

6. Say what you mean
I used to be exasperated by such teachers, but am no more. I understand now that all those antique essays and stories with which I was to compare my own work were not magnificent for their datedness or foreignness, but for saying precisely what their authors meant them to say. My teachers wished me to write accurately, always selecting the most effective words, and relating the words to one another unambiguously, rigidly, like parts of a machine. The teachers did not want to turn me into an Englishman after all. They hoped that I would become understandable —- and therefore understood. And there went my dream of doing with words what Pablo Picasso did with paint or what any number of jazz idols did with music. If I broke all the rules of punctuation, had words mean whatever I wanted them to mean, and strung them together higgledy-piggledy, I would simply not be understood. So you, too, had better avoid Picasso-style or jazz-style writing, if you have something worth saying and wish to be understood.

7. Pity the readers
They have to identify thousands of little marks on paper, and make sense of them immediately. They have to read, an art so difficult that most people don’t really master it even after having studied it all through grade school and high school —- twelve long years. So this discussion must finally acknowledge that our stylistic options as writers are neither numerous nor glamorous, since our readers are bound to be such imperfect artists. Our audience requires us to be sympathetic and patient readers, ever willing to simplify and clarify — whereas we would rather soar high above the crowd, singing like nightingales.

Concerns

2010-06-24T00:50:00.011+01:00

I'm slowly realising I might be becoming a worrier. And I'm not declaring my capability in engaging in combat and/or warfare, with vowel related spelling errors, I do mean W o r r i e r.

I've reached a certain level of hypochondria that's only available to the worrier; y'see recently, i basically snapped my knee and so it's all good and stuff, I'm not forever wheelchair bound and destined to never ever play hockey or skip through meadows. It just kinda swells up occasionally, leaving me with a puffy knee that I feel inclined to show everyone (random homeless men from the Clapham Junction vicinity included), and pops out of place in a hideously painful manner from time to time - and frankly at the most inappropriate times. You know when you're walking down the street alone, you have bags in tow and and your knee mildly dislocates, leaving you unable to walk? (I'm sure you do.) That is until you have put absolutely everything down - yes everything, or you simply cannot get the right grip - grasped your knee and bent/clicked it back into place as passers by wonder what the fuck you're doing bending your knee like an excitable flamingo? You know the feeling right?

Anyway initially this was not so much of a problem. Knee clicks out? I simply stumble down the road in intense agony with a contorted face trying to click it back in, then regain swagger and stroll down the road. No biggie. (I daresay i enjoy the public attention; lapping it up as I singlehandedly resurrect the playground exercise of hopscotch amongst the business people of Liverpool Street....)

But the more it happens, the harder swagger is to regain. The more old people with walking difficulties i see, the easier I find it to envision a prematurely aged version of myself carrying out the same task of throwing out rubbish with a similar lack pace and vigour. Not that disposal is a vigorous exercise but you get me.

Then it starts. What if my knee just never calms down? What if it keeps on doing this? Will I have to go back to that doctor who waves my legs in the air when I'm clearly wearing no tights and a stretchy skirt with a habit of riding up? I don't like it there. If this clicking doesn't stop I'll never stop going there. And what was that he said about putting a needle in my knee? That doesn't sound appealing. What if they get it wrong? What if they put the needle in and reach a wall of bone, and keep on poking until they have broken it forever? What if I'm wheelchair bound forever, WHAT IF I NEVER GET TO SKIP THROUGH A MEADOW OR PLAY HOCKEY? HOW CAN THEY DEPRIVE ME OF HOCKEY? Sure I never played past running up and down a cold pitch hacking at the ground as a prepubescent young'un but I COULDA GONE PRO MAN, I COULDA GONE PRO.

I think college things probably didn't help. The main reason this is all so alien to me is because I'm usually the Calmer. The Calmer to the Worrier is the water, fuel extinguisher and oxygen limiter to the fire. The one who tells everyone to 'just chill the fuck out and go swimming or something ok?' So when college plopped a couple of deadlines in front of me, initially it was not a thang. Hmm art deadline, yeah I'll get it done. Hm English coursework, due? Maybe I should get started. Yeah that's a good plan. Starting and everything.

And everything was groooovin. Some music on, a bit of painting, write a few paragraphs - ooh i don't like that bit but HEY ITS OK I GOT A BIT OF TIME!! I CAN AFFORD TO EDIT, CHOP AND CHANGE!!! Life is good.

Then comes the horrible introduction of the shit to the industrial sized fan. Its 2 days before the deadline and i get the Worries*. My palms are sweaty, knees weak (duh), arms are heavy, and i start unwittingly quoting Eminem. The shit is seating itself in a grand catapult; preparation to launch into the aforementioned fan. Suddenly every mistake becomes glaringly obvious, worryingly so. I bite my nails to a perverse skin confetti, my stomach turns, my knee twitches with a wary creak. I'm gonna be in trouble. Lots of trouble. I feel the weight of the world just chilling on my collarbones. After a while of silence punctuated by my sighs, it's a bit uncomfortable. Partially through boredom of worrying and also at the fact that the weight of the world and I are in such close proximity and we have not even introduced ourselves, I address it directly. 'Weight? Hi there, how are you? Look I know this is rude of me, seeing as we've only just encountered, and I don't quite know how to say this, but can you erm kind of slightly fuck off and never return?'

Of course, the weight does as its told. I mean why wouldn't it, its just a figment of my imagination I've personified to make this a more interesting read, really. And then its all over. I get on with it as I usually do, pull a few all nighters (complementary to my nocturnal attitude) and the cheeky lil things are usually done to my best standard/quality.

Then i can go back to my usual so-laid-back-i'm-permanently-horizontal-or-at-least-leaning-back-a-bit self. At the moment, I've got an impending examination, looming over my life like, well a lot like the weight. Hence, riiight about now, just like Dr. Robert Bruce Banner transformed into the hulking great green character, i switch. Admittedly less destruction of perfectly good clothing when transforming (YOU WOULD THINK THE HULK WOULD INVEST IN SOME CLOTHES THAT FIT HIM RIGHT FOR WHEN HE'S GETTING HIS HULK ON.)

I try to begin with a relaxing bath, and go downstairs for a cup of tea. Half a minute later i'm practically hyperventilating, from here until my exam its OH HOLY SHIT I'VE BEEN DOWNSTAIRS FOR 4 MINUTES I HAVEN'T TURNED THE BLOODY TAP OFF NOW THE WATER'S GONNA RUN EVERYWHERE AND GET ALL IN EVERYTHING AND WHAT IF IT GETS INTO MY ROOM I CANT HAVE IT GET INTO MY ROOM I HAVE STUFF IN MY ROOM WHAT IF MY THINGS DROWN ALL MY THINGS ARE GONNA DROWN THEN I'LL HAVE NO THINGS AND I'LL HAVE TO REBUILD MY LIFE FROM SCRATCH I DONT WANNA REBUILD MY LIFE FROM SCRATCH MEMORIES TAKE A LONG TIME TO ACCUMULATE FUCK MY MEMORIES ARE GONNA BE DESTROYED NOW ITS ALL OVER WITHOUT MEMORIES I HAVE NOTHING I AM NOONE I'M GOING TO BECOME AN EMPTY SHELL OF A PERSON AND NOONE LIKES A SHELL APART FROM HERMIT CRABS SO NOW A HERMIT CRAB IS GONNA LIVE INSIDE ME AND ITS A SMALL CREATURE OF THE SEA SO IT CAN'T EVEN SHOW GRATITUDE FOR ME PROVIDING A HOME I CANT BELIEVE MY LIFE IS GOING TO END HOUSING AN UNGRATEFUL CRUSTACEAN**.

WORRIERS UNITE;
If YOU are a part-time worrier then..well don't email me or anything I have enough worrying of my own to do.

* Like the shakes but more nervous glancing and/or frowning.
** Rationality is not a facet of being a worrier.

B1TCHES R BETT3R

2010-06-20T19:57:00.006+01:00

Everyone's always going on about how much nicer and easier and better the world would be if we were all friends. If its not a cake of sunshine and smiles or whatever the Mean Girls quote is, its about 'HOW SICK I AM OF ALL THIS DRAMA, LIKE I JUST CANT TAKE IT ANYMORE' (thanks Lauren Conrad).

But lets be realistic, for a moment please. If you're one of the delicately balanced beings on this planet with that touch more oestrogen than testosterone, chances are you thrive on the delicious malignity of bitching, you feed on the audacity of the hellion, you L I K E it when there's something to contest; because if there was no scheming bitch there would be noone to hate.
And isn't it a bit shit when there's noone to hate?
Its zzzz-inducingly boring, we start turning on each other, creating havoc amongst our social standings and ruining friendships.

Long live the bitch we adore to abhor.

Here are some female dogs;

Olivia Palermo, The Hills - The City.

Wasn't it horrible when we saw poor Whitney working so hard and choosing the best stuff only to have Olivia step in and claim the credit?? UGH DUMB BITCH I H8 HER

Cruella Deville, 101 Dalmations

Admittedly one of the more fabulous on screen bitches, Cruella was still evil to the core, and that's why she was so much better than the hapless characters of which i can't even remember the names (see, you play nice, your name gets forgotten)

Wiched Witch of the West, The Wizard of Oz

Come on, she made the Munchkins' lives a misery.

Lord Voldemort, Harry Potter

QUEEN BITCH

LE MONDE D'ANZ

Pat Butcher

LATELY

PRETTY GIRLS LOOKING OVER THERE

THINK ABOUT KITTEN HEELS

YES I'M TALKING TO YOU

GD 1

P s OR e TR l AI f T

TELL ME ABOUT IT, STUD

GREASE IS THE WORD

~*2011 IN MOBILE UPLOADS*~

Pervy Tramp

FIELD DAY

July 2011 mix

Nau wale no

The Mail House

FOREVER 27

'I REALLY LIKE YOUR HAIR'

i forget about most things i do

i didn't take this recently

SLUTS ON T SHIRTS

TISSUES 4 ISSUES

EXTRAVAGANT POODLES

No Doubt, First Ever TV Performance 1990

BYE 2010

**g*i*f*s**a*n*d**a**s*o*n*g**o*r**2**

❣♡❤MERRY CHRISTMAS EVERYONE❤♡❣

Reasons to Smile

I haven't done any drawing in ages under the guise of not having a scanner at uni. This is bad and i intend to rectify this situation. that is all.

DAFT PUNK LYRICS

someone else

~*photobooth*~

x-treme

Great People; Volume 2

Glasgow v2.0

UGLY OLD PEOPLE

NEVER SAY NO TO PANDA

SLACK

:'(

GRAND

ass related post

AGH

e x a s p e r a t e d

TURNING INTO SUCH A GIRL ERGH

WIKIPEDIA EXPLAINS RAP

Hey there Gordy, why so happy??

BEYON-SAY WHA??

Why am I on the floor

Dorothy as a Flirty Girl

Great People; Volume 1

"If you ever get tempted by a hot guy just imagine he has a bucket of eels on his head"

The Libertines

things sometimes

ABSOLUTELY FABULOUS

A Typical Episode of Loose Women

THE QUEEN HAS SOME STUFF TO SAY

Sketchbook Scans v3.0

Suidical Rodents

Sketchbook Scans v2.0

things sometimes

hobbycraft

§§§§§§§§§§§§

JUNKIE

treats

Michelangelo's a Party Dude

Perpetual State of Trouble

Breaking into the Foray of Uncomfortable Videos

Moderat

my funny valentine

Suicide is Painless

GOD HATES LADY GAGA

sketchbook scans

Melt Festival

i'm watching an albatross being hosed down to the soundtrack of 'Survivor' by Destiny's Child as John Borrowman's voiceover scolds said bird

back from berlin

SURPRISE MUSIC

I THINK I HATE TUMBLR

AMERICAN FOOD

CHIX

cutesy shit from my tumblr

~2011 IN MOBILE UPLOADS~

**gif*s**andason*g**o*r2

~photobooth~