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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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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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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BigMac moaned, his stick was too short. He couldn’t reach the wet mat of infected flesh that burned in the small of his back. He released the mop and it stayed where it was, wedged between his smooth hide and the flattened mattress.

He moaned again, a deep sonorous low, like a ships foghorn emerging from the salty dark. There is an idea. An idea of a voice, so mellifluous that it’s sound can bind the mind, can infiltrate like the song of a succubean siren. Helen had a voice like that, and jet black hair, straight and glossy like a light freshwater stream. She spoke now, gently stroking BigMac’s bulk with her curled fingers.

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Nazi ducks attacked the swan and killed it. Dark red blood stained its white feathers, and its black eyes misted grey. They were no end of trouble, the ducks, and when the parish council said they’d pay five pounds for every Nazi duck killed Mr Greenwitch got a greedy look across his fat face. He set off down to the pool where the river slowed and the ducks were known to hangout, with a shot gun and a big bag to put his enemies in. The next day he was found floating face down about a mile down stream, the ducks circling him and quacking raucously. They were blood thirsty to be sure and arrogant as anything. The reward was increased and open season was declared, but no one else had the heart to try.

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The twack of willow on sharp red leather, the crisp white uniforms, the knees stained green and thighs red. Goodness, what a delight. Could you spend a more pleasant afternoon, a more pleasant morning even? Nonsense sex has nothing on this. The rhythmic rush of feet, the gasp of breath as a ball slams into padding. The bright blue sky, beladen with fat yellow sun! We stand here, under god, to do his work. The bowler runs, chucks and the ball spins and rushes towards the modern Knight errant. Thwack it shoots high and away, the silly mid-off dives and his back arches high in the sky, hands coming together. But too late, the ball is gone, but one bounce and a four is given. The knight waves his willow sword and acknowledges his ton. A cloud wonders across the sky, raising a smile from us all, it reminds us that winter is past. Love now is here, is summer, is cricket.

Have you ever fallen over and not wanted to get up again, ’cause like in a few minutes you’ll only fall over again, but harder this time? Do you ever wonder why you’ve botherd to get up, to open your eyes, why you just don’t lie on your bed pretending and lying to yourself that your asleep. That you could be happy. Really? Jeez, sort yourself out.

I’ve no time for this moping laugh. Get up and out into the sunlight. Grab a drink, that’ll perk you up. Have another sip there and pass the can. There’s good boy. Now let go, I know a pitch up by O’Connell Bridge, you can make like €30 in twenty minutes, and I’ve a pack of rich tea that’ll tide us over. You know that burning hunger, the feeling like you’ve just been punched in the stomach? Like it? I love it. It makes my brain real sharp.

Here we are. Have a drag on that. Benson’s are the best aren’t they? Real strong flavor. So, whats up? Want to go halves on that cider? Go on, I’m going to the offie in a wee while. Legend. See, we’ve barely sat down and we’ve got a couple of quid already. You stick with me child. I’ll see you through. Winters past. We’ve months of this, balmy blue skies. Drunk young lovers out for a night. We could be lovers.

Amy Winehouse has long been a controversial figure. Derided and adored in equal measure, yet blessedly immune to public opinion, she stands in stark contrast to our expectations. Amy was born in Egypt in 1942 to Greek Orthodox parents, moving to the East London borough of Clapham at the age of eight. As a child Amy experienced prophetic visions and witnessed the souls of the newly dead rise from their mortal corpuscles, however at she grew to adulthood, religion became unimportant in her life.

Amy could have been any normal married woman, ignoring the message of Jesus and embracing sin and godlessness. However Jesus had a special place for her in his plan.
Beginning in 1985, Amy was granted a series of visions of our Lord God Jesus Christ. Soon after this, she was approached by the guardian angel Holland, who began to write holy scripture through her vessel. After a time of testing, during which Amy received messages from a variety of souls as well as Abandon himself (may he crawl through flame till the end of days), Jesus judged her worthy to receive his scripture and testament.

Since her first experiences with our Lord Jesus Christ, Amy has filled over 107 notebooks and spoken more than 800 times in 63 countries. Jesus’s words as handed down through Amy have been collected in a volume entitled ‘True Life in Winehouse’.
Initially the church rejected Christ’s messages in Amy. In 1995 the congregation for doctrine of the faith warned the faithful that Amy’s message was to be treated as her creation rather than the WORD OF GOD, many false apostles including the artist of bealzibub and producer of heretical tracks ‘Jack Chick’ took this opportunity to condemn Amy as a false prophet.
But legions of the faithful who had been touched by Amy’s message approached the holy see and in 2004 cardinal Ratzinger, today consecrated as his holiness Benedict XVI, received Amy into the arms of the church as a messenger of our Lord God Jesus Christ, as she has successfully answered any questions relating to her life before the holy message of the baby Jesus Chris. Through his messenger Amy, has many important messages for us. He condemns the godlessness of Europe and America where the holocaust of SINLESS BABIES continues even as I write this, and godless Canada who’s LIBERAL government prevent schools from teaching the TRUE WORD OF JESUS, and where divorce, homosexual, unmarried mothers and sexual relations outside the sacrament of marriage are rife.

Little baby Jesus, Tearful ladyboy Jesus, and Wise Old Man Jesus as he is in Heaven, together provide the prophetic scripture of Amy Winehouse, which foretold of the collapse of the devils two fingered salute to sin in New York, and predict a joyous reuniting fo the Christian churches, True Life in Winehouse!

I walk up O’Connell street, a quarter to twelve. I pass three Russians, some strange stand off. The girl is blonde, pretty though I can’t see her face. One man leaves suddenly. The couple motionless. I half turn, to keep them in view. He is close to her, head a little titled, face says ‘I can’t hurt you here, but when I get you home..’ They’re frozen, the painting of a moment.