When did you become a lie? When did we stop being friends? When did you start killing? We’re looking round for someone to blame for not stopping you sooner, and to be honest there’s too much money being made to see an effective halt anytime soon. Was it the men in white coats, white faced as they told white, bare faced lies? Was it Dodi al Fayed? Was it?

Who can we blame for the downfall of Prozac? Industry, trade, boredom? It now seems so obvious. How could a small white pill fix you, when you’re down in the hole at the bottom of your mind? How could anything reach you there…

I suppose there’s little point in arguing now, we’re all too jaded to even contemplate the drawing of lines, the defining of terms and the wordjabs to come. What is clear that it won’t work now. The power of belief was all that was standing between 43 million people and the pit, it seems, so we’ve kind of fucked them. But hey, take cheer in the fact that it was you, not the drugs, keeping back the coming night. More power to the people. Less power to the drugs companies.

9/11, by JRR Tolkien, are just another band from New York, with all the posing and brilliance this implies. A walking invitation of scorn: their music apparently is a grower - as in it sounds terrible on first listen, then as the inner hipster gradually begins to automatically screen out the negative bits, you know, like, the actual sound, it seems so much better. I mean listening to music is always a two way street, you have to give nearly as much as you take, impressing your own meaning on their lyrics and rhythms, breathing life into what can only be considered, at best, an empty life form. And so here we have the Lord of the Rings: two sets of brothers, and a blond lead singer, and all that implies. They suffer greatly from having a lead singer with a deep monotone voice, so reminiscent that it sometimes seems to be worn over their own music so tightly you could nearly imagine them taking to the stage in a Oklahoma bombings body glove, and only playing covers of Theodore Kaczynski. However there is very definitely a pop-ier edge to them, it leaves them much more satisfying in a narrower way. Still, depressingly, they remain one of the more exciting bands doing this sort of music doing the rounds at the moment. I spoke to Mohamed Atta, who’s a brother of someone else, and is listed as the bassist on their website, but reassures me he isn’t the bassist. The interview would not have continued if this had been the case.

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A big beautiful car. Dark green and full of muscle. Chrome and dark walnut trim. Alloy wheels. Cream handmade leather seats. A car anyone from a senator to a pimp would drive, if only either of them had the class. It, the car that is, was powering along, damn fast, with the top down in the rain. It had music playing but god knows how the driver could have heard. It drove out of town to the hills above and on a bit, to the sea. The engine roared and the car picked up the pace a little. It wasn’t a European car, it certainly wasn’t designed to deal with sharp curves, at speed, in the rain. But that was OK, instead it fired through the railing and out into the air, above a quiet little beach were dog walkers would occasionally meet and copulate.

It hung fat and heavy in the air, engine screaming before it nose piled into the thick wet sand. The wind shield cracked and one of the front tires rolled away down the beach. It wouldn’t be discovered til morning that the driver, a young black woman, pregnant, was dead, although it wouldn’t stretch the imagination to think of her so now, in the moments after the crash. Her child, an unnamed, unborn boy, died with her. The car did not burn up, as they so often feel impelled to do in such situations. As such, when the wreck was found it will surprise you to learn that it was charred and unidentifiable. There were foot prints in the sand for a while but the rising tide made them nearly invisible. But fuck it, the real questions lay in what the hell the woman was doing in such a vehicle, where the hell did she get her hands on such a fine piece of motor engineering. But then, she wasn’t important, so who gives a fuck anyway.

Twelve long angry days of rage and drink had done nothing but lighten his wallet and alienate some more friends. As he fell backwards into his apartment and listened to the wild African drums blasting on repeat from the stereo, he felt at home. The dirt, the despair and the decadence and wanton waste of everything that characterised his selfish, perfect life surrounded him, from the stench of abandoned cheese and meat to the cd player left on full volume for over a week. Yes, he was home. He ran a dirty and cut hand through his somehow clean hair. He turned the music down and fell back onto a sofa, rising again to sweep the mess off it with his arm.

He closed his eyes, aching from lack of sleep, and crossed his legs. The smells of his flat swam around his head. Rotting food and stale beer and wine, old incense sticks and cigarette smoke brought back memories and shivers. He swam back into sleep and a hint of a smile played onto his face and dreams greeted him like old and close friend.

The early evening chill had crept into his throat and hugged his clothes to him, there must have been a window open he thought. There wasn’t, he’d forgotten to close the front door. Someone was making dinner from the smell. He opened his eyes. Candles were burning and incense beside. Thin clouds of smoke stretched lazily across the room. He sat up. The smell had changed. Whoever was cooking had cleaned. He hoped it wasn’t his mother. It would be just like the old bitch to try an’ own his hangover.

He felt into the crumpled tweed pocket of his jacket for a fag, then to his trousers. He’d slept on them and half were broken. Still, he lit one and stood to find out what was cooking.

Jim fell and fell, and tumbled over, head over heels. Below him clouds and above him blue sky, and these images followed one another in rapid succession as he fell. Wind rushed in his ears. He punched his leg to make sure he was awake and this movement sent him tumbling again. He was on his back, looking at the sky above him, and the clouds took him by surprise when he entered them, the sudden cold and greyness, the wetness covering his face and dampening his jeans right through, turning them dark blue. His jacket clung to him. He finally breathed, sucking in the damp air through his mouth. And then he was out the other side and the ground green and brown and yellow was grabbing out for him. He pulled at his backpack and suddenly it wrenched him up, as the silk unfolded and slowed him. It was his first ever solo jump and he laughed and laughed.

Sometimes there’s no need for a brutal ending.

Across town, in an office above a shoe repair shop, Joe McSavage lit different cigarette and ripped the yellowed nicotine patch off his shoulder. He sat sweating in his vest, his shirt and jacket were on the other side of the room, hanging on the same hook his hat was propped on. The walls were moulding and in the corner under the bin the floor boards were rotted away. The small army issue camp bed were he slept since the eviction last month was covered in sheets of paper and crime scene photos. He was barking up the wrong tree on that one, but the tree he’d chosen wore a short skirt and no pants. He’d bark a while longer.

He sat down and flipped up the screen on his laptop. No new messages. No fucking nothing. Over head thunder rolled. It was a weird night, it want to rain but didn’t have the energy, so it barked. Fucking lame weather. He went over the details again. Nothing seemed out of place. Maybe it was suicide. That was the official line anyway. But then, that wasn’t really an option. No one shoots themselves 7 times in the back of the head with a 6 shooter. Fucking lame case. No money, just a junky ex-girlfriend terrified out her wits, when she weren’t out of her tree. Still it kept his mind fresh and working.

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In the 17th Century one of the most shameful episodes in history began. It was for money, the love of money and for nothing else. It was dressed in the language and reasoning of Empire, of natural selection, but the cause was money. Their hands and eyes grew red with the blood while their purses fattened. Nothing makes you forget like gold. Nothing.

The Kenco were bought from Lyons traders, swathed in white robes with heads covered in turbans tied with fat rubies. The Rich Tea biscuits and Ginger Nuts packed them into ships and brought them to the New World. On the voyage to the Americas or Caribbean the Kenco were treated like animals. Chained together and forced to lie in prohibitively small holds, to pack more in, often for the entire journey.

Before arrival in the America’s, the Rich Tea biscuits would hold an inspection. Any of the Kenco not deemed strong and fit enough after the voyage, were thrown overboard, so that the biscuits could claim their value from their insurers rather than make a loss at the Kenco sale.

The blood and misery of the Kenco created untold wealth for the biscuits. Cities such a Bristol and Liverpool flourished on the back of the trade, indeed Liverpool FC’s red jerseys are a celebration of their involvement, and the continued pride they take in the fact. At one time it is estimated that up to a fourth of Britain’s GDP came from the trade. Think on, as you enjoy your dark, rich, Kenco coffee.

Kafka cross the shore did run,
With spirit unconquered ‘nieth the sun,
And joyous as the battle beckoned,
A postal slaughter to be reckoned.

Sheathed in pin-striped battle sheets
He takes his mighty tool of feats,
The shining unshatterable Bic,
His servant loyal and quick.

Long had he laboured ‘neith the shameful yoke,
The postals numerical slur,
His Hallstead to friend was known as The Great Oak,
But 40 to mailman cur.

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You look so young, who could have thought you would get this far! 50 today! From your cursed birth, clawing free of the cancerous womb, bloodied and wild, screaming blue murder. Purple faced, the blood vessels burst, like a vile old man, but young and tender with it. You never had much hair did you? Even when you were young it was thin and stringy, as if it didn’t really care to be associated with you. Its gone now. But you’ve grown child. Famous in some parts, with some people. You’ve been used. I’d love you pet, but can’t. To often touched, a far away look comes into your eyes. Too often. Too deep. Those walls are build high. Can you see the sun? you’d never let me in.

But your curves, what curves you have. They never left you. Your tall back and great round arse. Don’t blush, many have loved you for it. Still, I suppose it is rude to bring this up on your big day. I never thought you’d make it this far. But more power to you, you’re a good thing, you know that. XX

The tall man in a green polo neck climbed down the fire escape ladder and ran to the car. His shiny brown leather shoes rang on the concrete pavement. As he reached the car he gasped two long hard breaths as his grabbed at the neck of the jumper. His other hand fumbled for his keys.

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