The importance of Hildebrand to his children was negligible. They barely noticed him at all, nor should they, he hadn’t seen them since he’d left to open a beach bar, back when they were three and four, and the last thing he ever said to them was not to trust their mother, ’she’s a bitch’ and to ‘keep an eye on your money ‘round her’.

No, they had never really thought of him at all, except when their mom cried or shouted. They associated that with him. Not that it was related to him at all, she hardly thought of him either, but she was rather free with her emotions. Her own mother had told her that if you felt like crying you should, or it would twist your head, and as such she cried when she felt at all sad and laughed when happy. It made people wary around her, she appeared volatile but was really just honest.

Indeed Hildebrand barely remembered he was ever married, or that twice he had tried to persuade his wife that they weren’t ready for a child and twice she had quietly said it was her decision, and loved him a little less. But then this story isn’t about them next door, and him what used to live there. But it is about their garden.

Read the rest of this entry »

What are you listening to this week?

Muhammad (Momo) Al Bakiri Zawerrk, Suicide bomber, Iraq

Mr Bombastic, Shaggy
This was my nickname at the camps. I got all the steps to it down. You gotta love the beats. Classic

Boom shake the room, Fresh Prince and Jazzy Jeff
Obvious innit? Its me job

Two tickets to Paradise, Eddie Money
That’s where I’m headed. Palm trees and blowjobs all the way.

Highway to Hell, AC/DC
Great track. Me and the lads psyche up before a blast by listening to this in the dressing room. ‘Cause its were we’re sending the infidel like.

Bootilicious, Destiny’s Child
These girls are what I’m hoping my virgins look like. Bootilicious for me babe!

Muhammad has successfully completed 17 suicide bombings and recently bettered his personal best of 121 people killed in one blast. He is currently in training for this summers Jihad Olympics. Good luck Momo!

I smiled and pointed toward the salads.

‘I’m sorry sir, this is a vegetarian restaurant.’

‘Meeeat.’

‘We do have a fine selection of cheese steaks.’

‘Meeeat.’

This guy was serious, he wanted his meat.

Read the rest of this entry »

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.

Gerry Anderson’s latest creation takes the string puppet genre to new heights. Each of Galatica’s intricate 1/14th scale marionettes is lovingly crafted from a silicate compound, developed during the creation of the infamous Flange In A Can, adult toy. Each characters emotional performance is handled by a dedicated crew of classically trained puppeteers.

Read the rest of this entry »

His story was made up in 1995 by a crack team of liars. All that great old-timey soap opera, all those gallant deeds and winsome lasses, global pandemics and military conflicts, dark ages, renaissances, and imperial allegiances. All faked photos and tall tales; and what a dream, so black as to occlude your entire life.

Ah, what times we didn’t have. What actualised rationality. Imagine all the sheeple, living free from herds. Imagine feeling real.

Mere echoes of the lost unpast remain. Movie titles – ‘the land before time’; aesthetics -the whirligig foamtopia of Mallets Mallet, Klaus Nomi’s pantomimed historia; sweet diaries agape - American Psycho.

Butter me slippery, it seems that only I remember, here in my invisible Zeppelin, afloat the tufty castles of the air, my vision quenched in Lady Sutra’s delirium, my skin tattooed mnemonic of the wake time. Now down I come, face burnt by pavement and the mocking quim cleave of a sergeants klosh.

They drag me, Romans, to the iron prison. They hook my smock and drench me till I float. They stance me on the wood in hooded veil. They paste me with their hoofey glugs of scat. Their wolfen cleave my mandible like chum. Then last as l’ectric joost slugs to the crisp, I cry ‘Tis ‘nuff, I love the lie’.

It’s hard to remember quite who you are. All the air has been forced out of you, and somehow you can’t quite fill your lungs again. The first thing you properly feel, other than confusion and panic, is the particular weird pain of a grazed chin. Its strange that this is the first thing to wonder through the mists of your head, as you try to work out what you’re looking at, is it grey bread? But then, other things start to become clear, you know, for instance, that movement is not your friend right now, but that if you don’t move, you might not ever again. There’s a feeling of being drained, as if you knees are shitting. Its your blood seeping out. You can still feel, like the cliche goes, your feet, but then, they still exist. You can see them, over there. But whatever, you’ll soon realize there’s no getting over this one, and if you survive it, you’re fucked for life anyway. Your into one of those ’sipping shepards pie through a straw’ gigs.

You knew what you were doing, too. You walked out there, between to the two earth banks and listened to the quiet squeal of the metal planks that pass either side of you. You know that the light in the distance is some sort of terrible doom, but you have to bare witness to it as well. Perhaps it was worth it. You won’t write again anyway. But thats ok, because you’ve seen and felt just about the best there is.

In the latest Richard Curtis jape, Freddie Murcury must pull the little princes (adorably portrayed by Mary Kate & Ashley Olsen in full clown makeup) through the brutal death of their mother.
Helen Mirren makes a triumphant return in a double role, as the mutilated corpses of Dodi and Diana.
But it’s the epic final confrontation between Queen and Tony Blair, in a star turn by the reproductive organs of a turnip, that makes this oscar winning comedy a must see.

As the Jackdaw Fool Learjet coasts over Tarantino’s exclusive Maldivian getaway, El Duceador, I load my shotgun and Pi straps on his rocket belt. We look at one another, beweaponed mercenaries, hired guns in the war of review, and our fists meet with an explosive slap.

‘A Good, death’, he tells me.
‘Dine in Metnal’, I reply.

As Pi turns and kicks out the flimsy cabin door, a searing wind tugs us both toward the sky. We bolster ourselves until the pressure equalizes, and the plane begins to lurch into a death dive. The roar is deafening. We exchange nods, and cast ourselves into the roiling sky.

Read the rest of this entry »

I met Ronan outside the Savoy at half ten, and since Mark wasn’t answering his phone, we headed on in, giddily anticipating the epic to come. We signed the board proffered by a tall, ball and almost invisibly incidental marketing man, taking our seats in the darkened theater.
Consumed by hunger, Ronan soon left for the confectionary counter, returning minutes later with an epic seven euro popcorn. It was too early for me to be eating solids, but I took some anyway, enjoying it all the more for being his. That sounds a little gay, ignore it.

Ronan said something like ‘This is going to be deadly, I can’t wait to tell everyone in college’, his schadenfreude a bleak postmodern reflection of our inability to existentially inhabit extant reality.
The lights dimmed, the film began, no trailers ruining this pure theatrical experience.

Read the rest of this entry »