The life of a saint:

new

2005-11-01T14:04:06Z

I have a new blog here
http://thesvenhunter.blogspot.com/

I lay down my love for Bolivia

2005-10-31T10:49:06Z

Yesterday Ben cooked a enormous roast dinner and we ate it.

Later, we had a band practice. Actually it wasn't a band practice, it was a recording session. Which is great. Cut out that middle man!

We nailed Mexico! It's 55 seconds long. It's raucous and ace.

We got down the ukulele for Chile.

We got down the keyboard for Morocco.

We started on a song called Bolivia, where Ben played the ukulele (Soprano D as opposed to my soprano C) and guitar parts and clinked some bling that sounded like sleighbells, but less jolly. And me and bobby whistled in the chorus. We got the vocal harmonies down but they weren't that great as we were flagging by this point. Then I went home and went to bed and it was THREE O CLOCK! How time flies when you're crating masterworks of musical joy.

Today is Hallowe'en but I don't think I'll try to keep away the evil spirits because I can't afford to pay Ray Tanner's rent so maybe I'll let them take me away.

* * *

In other news it was really difficult to get the cat out of my room last night. I kept picking it up and throwing it (gently) outside, and it kept scampering back in again before I could shut the door. Why I ought to...

Not a bunny

2005-10-29T21:58:01Z

Yesterday the winchester crew arrived and we went to a hallowe'en party and ben was a monkey and laura was donny darko and bobby was similar and some other people dressed as stuff too.

I was trying to look like one of those weird transvestite peasant harelquins from brotherhood of the wolf. with a rat.

Then we went to an scary party which was ok.

Today we woke up quite late and just sat about for a while, then we went for a walk up to the cliff where is was windier than anything and it was difficult to walk and we practiced the extreme adrenalin sport of cliff smoking and it was a most beautiful cliff and the waves were huge.

and i wrote a new song on my ukulele with g minor, f and a minor, which is called 'chile'
and goes:

Chile, Chile, the longest, thinnest country.
Chile, Chile, the longest, thinnest country.
Oh I want to be in Chile.

It's quite dark.

I'm a very content bunny at the moment. But not a bunny.

My beards

2005-10-28T13:47:08Z

My beards

My life divides into beard shaped times,
Split sporadically by razor shaped lines,
Eraser shaped lines.

My life divides into beard shaped seasons.
Like a cancer charity calendar boy,
I have struck a thousand poses;
Paced the spectrum from sorrow to joy
With a beard.

I’ve leered, laughed, looked lost and loved,
I’ve scowled, frowned, looked scorned and sobbed.
I’ve sprouted sideburns like shoots from my soul,
Fresh and crispy.
I’ve stroked tufts of wisdom from my chin,
Sparse and wispy.

I’ve marched east with a feast of a beard,
Bristling with promise from ear to ear
A grimacing beard, trapping sparkles of snow,
A practical beard more for purpose than show.

I’ve marched west with a festival beard,
Ritualistically pampered and reared,
Twisted like tentacles tearing the surface,
A Tate modern beard more for show than purpose.

I’ve attempted beards.
Some beards I’ve feared.
Some I’ve neared then sheared.

My life divides into beard shaped memories,
What can the future hold for such as me?
I see...
I see a beard shaped future.

You love the fruit punch without any fruit

2005-10-28T13:46:52Z

I'm gonna write a poem about beards. I just wrote a speech about how we shouldn't waste money on space exploration. I agree with this, so it's not as good as the other speeches.

I'm hungover. Yester, some guy who wrote for smack the pony, bob the builder and the greeen wing came in and talked to us. he was good. He said 'if you're at a meeting, and someone says "what else are you working on at the moment" never say "nothing" make something up.' Good advice.

Gareth swore himself off ladies for a good two hours and I had a chat with Kian about how whenever people bump into him they're really, really sorry. Cos he looks a bit like ross kemp.

dot
dot
dot

hallowe'en dress rehearsal tonight... woohoo

This is my story from a few years ago: made better by editing power! But it's still not quite there. Needs some ground cumin or something...

The quarryman’s tale

You probably know that I am not a popular man. People say terrible things about me, but none of them know the truth. Many people say life is short, but I know differently. My life has been long and laborious and for all my pains I have only one story to tell. I have never told my story before. I was sure nobody would believe me. Now it does not matter.
As a boy I had no family, but was lucky enough to find work in the palace gardens. I became fascinated by all the particulars of gardening and I was in absolute awe of nature. Work was my only passion. I vowed that my love for Mother Nature would replace the love for a mother I never knew.
I became so esteemed there that the King himself bestowed on me the great responsibility of tending to the royal rose garden. The roses were the King’s pride and joy and people travelled from far away to marvel at their beauty. They grew in all the colours of the rainbow and towered proudly above all other flowers. I spent every moment striving to give them the love they needed. They were my sole concern.
One afternoon I saw a girl standing in the garden, staring up at my most handsome red roses. As I approached her she heard my footsteps on the gravel path and turned around, startled. She was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen.
“Are they not the finest roses in all the land?” I asked.
“They are pretty,” she said, “although they are slightly pale.”
I was taken aback by her response. I had always thought my roses were the deepest red that existed.
I contrived to learn more about this girl. Her name was Amaranta. She came to my garden regularly and I grew to love her very much over the following weeks. I clipped roses from the garden by night and left them on her windowsill with clumsy poems, comparing her beauty to theirs. When the time was right, I took her one evening into the garden and presented her with the reddest rose that I could find and asked her if she would be my wife.
She pricked her thumb on a thorn and the colour of her blood made the petals of my finest rose look like common clay. She could say nothing. I knew why. Love is a wild thing and only a wild flower can tame it.
I had heard of a rose that grew in the old forest: Whose petals were the colour of blood: Whose thorns were as fine as the hairs on a child’s arm. If I could find that flower, she would be mine
I did not hesitate. I took my sword into the forest, hacking at vines and creepers. The forest grew denser as I continued; eventually I was chopping my way through brambles as thick as tree trunks. I was just beginning to wonder if the forest even had a centre when my sword bit through a bramble with a sound like flesh tearing. There was a small clearing carpeted with soft grass, where a single, tiny flower stood alone in the centre. I staggered towards it, falling to my knees and dropping my sword. I grasped its stem eagerly, then cried out and recoiled. My hands were as red and sticky as a butcher’s. I lashed out in anger at the cause of the injury.
The blood that left a trail behind me as I left the forest was exactly the same colour as the petals of that wild rose.
When I returned to the garden I found my dear Amaranta sprawled beneath the roses, her clothes tattered and bloody, her body lifeless. My cries awoke half the palace. By the time they came the wild rose was already dead and I thought I should die too, but I had no such luck.
Of course, most people suspected that I was the guilty one and in the following week I was expelled from the gardens and made to work in the quarries as a common labourer. I have worked there ever since.

I bet it's because he's political and stuff...

2005-10-26T13:30:28Z

Neighbours doesn't get any worse does it? eh? eh?

I had to read out another sodding speech today, despite doing it last week. But, I do actually think esperanto is a good thing. In fact, if I ever make another good things tape...

Public apologies:

should be reserved for public transgressions.

The phrase 'we both had a bit too much to drink':

should be reserved for yourself, because who are you to tell me I'd had too much to drink. What if I think I hadn't had nearly enough to drink?

(You - being the hypothetical other.)

I've written a piece for bloc, our website. But it's not for bloc really. It's for my book. Check out my multitasking.

The art installation / private viewing / gallery party was good. It got Ray Tanner out the house, which is excellent as he doesn't usually bother due to self consciousness about being bald. He likes Al Stewart though.

At the art installation I drank wine and saw art. The art was like a tea shop, in the exhibition space, which used to be a tea shop. Palindromic! Tea shoperiffic!

Me and Bobby went to Remedies via Laura's where I "needed to talk" and did, to Bibiswan, who is ace. I asked him if his girlfriend in India would like me and he said "no" faster than a speeding lama.

In remedies I was arguably sick on my shoes. And had fun.

Live journal completely fucks up any text I copy into it.

***********
Smash it up
***********

“Do y’ deeee-aaar walk the open str-eeeeeeeets in the raaaaaaaiiiiiiiiiiiii…”
Guns of Bethesda closed the set. The last word of the chorus became a prolonged whine. Karl looked agonized as he exorcised himself of the word. His face contorted as though he was being violently sick. A tug of war between his mouth and the microphone sent shudders down the stand and into his arms. He fell into it, spilling himself like a drunken pole dancer.
“…iiiiiiii-nah!”
In his ears were explosions: Buildings crumbling, multitudes screaming. As the white noise dwindled around him the sound of a tentative, half-clap emerged from the crowd like an embarrassed uncle from a stinky toilet. Karl dared not open his eyes; he lay there in a heap, microphone in hand. Around him the band shook their respective instruments, squeezing out the dregs.
A low hum. A few more claps. Someone blowing bubblegum. And with that, something inside Karl snapped. They just weren’t getting it! They just weren’t fucking listening were they? Well they’d get this alright…
He pounced upon his acoustic, which had been innocently resting behind an amp, and raised it over his head.
‘Behold!’ Said his taut frame. ‘I offer up this sacrifice…’ His face was still as marble.
Henry eyed him suspiciously. Henry’s fingers curled around the top of his bass, tickling it.
Karl exhaled. With a satisfying crack, the wood splintered at the neck. As it did so the body bounced free, almost, but for the strings. Karl began stamping on it, his flimsy Converse trainers having difficulty doing the job.
With moist, red eyes, Henry wrestled himself free from his strap, roared, convincingly, and began beating the bass guitar against the floor.
Rob too, seeing Henry follow suite, took his electric and did the same. He had rather a placid, workmanlike air about him.
The two, either side of Karl, beating at the stage with these cumbersome axes, were the parentheses to his statement.
Ellie, looked ill prepared. She hesitated for a moment. When she picked up her keyboard, the stand came with it. She staggered a bit, and it slipped from her fingers and toppled over: An attempted suicide. Graham looked on, from behind his beloved drum kit and suppressed a yawn. Nobody noticed him quietly going about the business of disassembling his equipment. Unscrewing, lifting, and folding. Squirreling pieces away behind a conveniently placed curtain.
Karl’s long-suffering acoustic was relieved of its ignominious career, and lay centre-stage, displayed as a proud heap of kindling. Henry and Rob were having less luck. Sweat beads were appearing in the former’s beard and he hadn’t even broken a string. Rob was trying, with all four limbs, to lever the neck of his Fender. Finally, looking at Karl, smiling humbly, he balanced it on the toppled keyboard and jumped. It finally succumbed, and a white, plastic key, sprang from Ellie’s keyboard and escaped into the crowd.
The applause became more convincing. Henry looked furious. He threw the bass guitar at Karl, and it bounced off Rob and clattered onto the floor. Henry stormed off, stage left, tripping once over his straggling jeans. Ellie had already disappeared into the ether and Rob felt it was his turn to follow, nursing a fresh bruise on his thigh. Graham looked up at the crowd like a panda in the headlights, swept his greasy, black hair behind his ears, and crept away, leaving a snare drum and two cymbals.
Karl stood erect, centre stage, behind his pile of wood, his fists clenched at his sides. He glared down at the crowd, who were clapping with more enthusiasm now; the kind of enthusiasm reserved for a half century in a county cricket match. One of them was shouting ‘come on’. Some were whistling. A few were discussing how the price of vodka and coke depended on the day of the week.
“We are Split Lips, and we will never play this shit-hole again,” said Karl.
He kicked at the heap of wood. Some of it fell off the edge of the stage. Some of it didn’t. One person got a splinter, but didn’t notice until later. One person kept a piece of the machine head as a memento.
Karl stormed off, giving Graham’s snare a warning prod with his toe. As the murmur of conversation spread, Henry reappeared, shiftily rescuing his bass.

722

Alex, you're a twat

2005-10-23T10:22:45Z

Who do you think you are, Mr. Friday night?

Friday we went to Quench, where some average DJ set took place and a storm brewed in the shape of some alleged party on some alleged road.

Eventually we made it to the party, and there were many people, all dancing and making merry, and it was rubbish. Sometimes it just is isn't it?

Later in the evening I must have offended someone, though I'm not sure how, because abusive text messages prevented me from getting to sleep for a while. Mobile phones are rubbish. But then, so are people who call you a twat then slam the door, not leaving you enough time to say something like, "If I'm that what are you, eh?"

The oyster festival began on Saturday and we feasted upon luxurious pasties, fine pink champagne and oysters. Oysters are gross.

The beer festival also began, obviously before we got there because when we did, there were people being sick and flinging glasses around. Merriment! A ruddy ginger fellow came up to me at the bar to complement me on my gingerness and tell me he used to wear a rabbit's foot from his ear and look how big his lobes are and the ladies like that you know. I bet they do! Lauren told me not to worry about Laura, but someone should, she's a freaking psychopath. Various other people I didn't know had met her, told me various things, which was surprising. Not as surprising as how many free Nike puncture repair kits were going around.

Ale festivals are fine things, but very dangerous I'd say. Again, the pasty was luxurious.

God what a boring 2 days! It seemed fun at the time. I feel like I ought to add a surprise ending,

and then a burning wagon crashed into Bobby and he had to have 45 stitches.

There, that should do it.

I'm so good at speechwriting I'm beginning to convince myself I should learn Esperanto: Discuss

2005-10-21T14:37:15Z

Hello. Heló. Hallo. Hallá. Haluu. Hola. Olá. Hoi. Hei. Habari. Hajambo. Namaste. Marhaba. Merhaba. Nomoskaar. Nei Hou. Konnichi Wa. Ciao. Salut. Salam. Selamat. Sveiki. Sveikas. Sijambo. Tervist. Zdravo. Zdraveite. Zdravsvuite. Zhivjo. Geia sou. Jó napot. Tungjatjeta. Pryvit. Pryvitani. Buna. Dobry den. Dzien dobry. Bo. Oki. Oy. Aa.
Wouldn’t that have been much easier for everyone, if I’d just said “Saluton”?
There are over eight hundred languages in the world, and that’s over eight hundred too many. Language, they say, is what separates us from the beasts. Language, and a few other things, like opposable thumbs, germ warfare and the ability to make the perfect boiled egg.
Language is a gift. It is a beautiful thing. Language is the source of communication, cooperation, coordination, commerce and community. But, of course, this only works when people are speaking the same language. Remember the tower of Babel? I don’t, but I’ve heard it was pretty big. It was pretty big until the angry, old testament sky god noticed it and said something along the lines of:

“Behold, the people is one, and they have all one language; and this they begin to do: and now nothing will be restrained from them, which they have imagined to do.”

There was a time when we were capable of much. That tower really did exist. Now we don’t build towers together, we break them. We play a sorry game, called ‘my God is bigger than your God’. My God has a different name for your God. We bicker and brawl over the name of a country, even the name of a town. Like the Lilliputians, We cannot agree on the correct way to eat our boiled eggs.
Esperanto is easy to learn, and very versatile. L. L. Zamenhof, a.k.a. Dr. Esperanto, gave the language to the world as a gift. Esperanto itself means “one who hopes”. What better word could we choose to lead us into the foggy future of this failing world?
Esperanto is a neutral language; the most widely used neutral language. In these extreme times, we need to find a neutral place. We won’t be able to find it, unless the signposts are written in a neutral language.
We must lose the shackles of our old languages. We must take that difficult, drastic step. We must walk into the future, together. And then, nothing will be restrained from us.
One giant leap for mankind.
Oni vasta salti por homaro.

In other news, my 3 moods seem to be confused, accomplished and hungover. What a mish mash.

Club I

2005-10-21T12:45:08Z

last night I went to the club that Phil Mitchell owns. It smelled and had a sticky carpet.
At one point the 3 wide men waddled through carrying their gift of a flailing drunkard, but they had to put him down because he stopped moving, which is much more dangerous.

Drinks 1 quid! Woo-hoo!

But it was fun as us professional writers sat in a corner like the socially awkward types we're supposed to be and discussed books. Hah.

Well, a bit anyway.

My reading group is ace, compriséd of
Ruth (who is also on my magazine team thing and had to write a fairytale)
Gareth (who is basically Jim but much taller who had to write an historical novel)
Rosemary (who is married to someone like Heathcliffe and is a brummy and had to write a mystery)
Janicke (who is norweigan and had to write soft porn)
Anusia (who is a quarter polish and had to write gonzo)
Angus (who looks a bit like fran from travis and is descended from pirates and is well good and had to write an Aga saga, and probably had to spell it too)

as an whole is was pretty good we managed to start dissing each others work already!

Gareth siad he could have punched me in the face for "inhaled silence", but apparently that was a positive thing.

Blowing hot and cold

2005-10-19T18:29:15Z

Yesterday was a grand day. I had nik naks and "?petit fillous?" for lunch.

I learnt how to use the magazine designing program more and now I'm convinced I'm going to angle for the job of designing the magazine version of our writing website. I managed to pretty much guess how to do everything before the guy told me to. And my colour scheme was purpler than his green. And I had a picture of Cyclon, the librarian demon, not a woodpecker, as advised.

At lunch, after the nik naks, I was made to go and see a "space" being a small dusty area surrounded by thin hardboard and festooned with crabs, clay, plaster and feathers. One of which she (acting volunteer handler, myself the guide dog in training) insisted on attaching to my earring. Guess which one.

No, a feather, silly.

Last time I saw her, (well almost last time), in Remedies, her conversational serial killing, obstinate attention defecit projections and agressively defensive tobacco flaunting made me take the sharp exit up jacob's ladder. I thought I was being sexist, hypocritical and ignorant when the though "she needs to get laid" came into my head.

Then SHE said it. Hah.

She said people said I was the male version of her and I said they were wrong she was the female version of me and she didn't see what I meant and it was a stupid thing to mean anyway, but hten what DO you say to a thing like that?

"People say a lot of things" is what I should have said.

I realise I've come so far that all it takes for me to look at someone through pink sunglasses is for them to show a (singular) sign of being interested in me. Which could be catastrophous, if not cadaveric, if either of those were words.

This means I am too keen by half and also not half keen enough.

And ultimately lazy.

But NEighbours was really good yesterday wasn't it? I'm glad I Watched it alone. I nearly had a tear in my eye. That's like a tear from a moment of sadness, not falling off your bike onto the pavement.

"tear it up"

Today I had to read out my public execution speech and I nearly choked on a couple of words but my trusty a4 pad resisted my handshakery. It went really well. I was surprised that my cheap jokes and extended rug metaphor worked, and that my complete lack of research (highlighted by others' contrasting efforts) was overlooked.

A victory! Every day is a victory!

I am blood type O positive.

I am a rhetorician.

I blow neither hot nor cold, but a light westerly breeze, that never flirts with or without northern Irelnad.

HAH!

This is what I wrote after I compiled that list and before I read my book in the pub

2005-10-18T14:07:40Z

In the pub they played 16 horssepower and leonard cohen. woohoo!

The prodigal cowboy

The sad eyes of the gaudy Fiat Punto gazed on through the foggy dawn as he strode away. With a door left wide open, the car looked nervous.
He was not nervous. No worry lines had to fight for attention with the inner-city roadmap that was his face. He’d driven through the night and not seen a single car in the rear view mirror.
He mounted a mossy wall and stood erect, like a signpost. His eyes and lips tightened as he scrutinised the sluggish horizon, but he saw nothing but ash grey skies, soaking into the mouldy green hills like an amateur watercolour landscape. Only when he turned did he see what he had come for, and if it was not what he expected, he did not show it.
His boots hit the mud without a sound and he began pacing the tired grass, which, like everything else, was tarnished with that same charcoal dew. He stepped over the circular foundations of ancient walls, kicked at scabs of sickly lichen, and didn’t even notice the tourist information plaque.
“Looks like some freakin’ Aztec ruin, don’t it?” He hissed into a Dictaphone, which he cradled in his right hand.
Drawn like a magnet to the prospect view, he posed, hands on hips, inhaled the silence and surveyed the whole scene spread before him.
He nodded slowly.
“Must be… hundreds o’ years old,” he informed his right hand.
He scanned the perimeter of the outer wall, which contained the uneven grass and protruding growths of stony shapes.
“Bit… small though, ain’t it?” He added, quietly to himself.

At the heart of the settlement, hollow, repetitive clicks alerted him to the presence of water below. Going down into the ground, he found a stagnant puddle which the obliging drip had announced. He watched the tiny globe form and swell for a moment until the anticipation of its next move became laborious. As he crouched down to inspect the water, a tiny splash touched his toe. He filled a metallic flask with the dark liquid, and sealed it at once.
Around the corner he had to stoop to enter a dim chamber. A little natural light from a grill in the ceiling illuminated the room like a gas lamp. Around him was a dome of misshapen, dribbling, rocks. Opposite where he stood was a fireplace, or perhaps, he thought, an altar. The rocks on all sides seemed to be staring at him, waiting for his next move. He was beginning to raise a hand to his chest when, from the walls, a rattling sound shattered the musty peace of the room and with a sharp cry, he fell backwards.
Quick on the draw, his Dictaphone caught the dying flutter as the robin dipped the low doorway and left him there, arm raised accusingly, clutching the black plastic like a crucifix.
“What the hell am ah doin’ here?” He asked.
From somewhere above, the bobbing heads of fuchsias answered with dry, rustling laughter.

He was soon back in the car where the purr of the engine and the smell of rot welcomed him. He unscrewed the lid of the flask and frowned into a mirror, then set it aside suddenly, taking up his Dictaphone again.
“You know, mah ol’ Grandma said the fairies used t’ dance round circles o’ stone. She… She said they lahked nothin’ more than a good dance.”
Rain began to beat at the windows, leaving specks of black behind; gradually building itself up until static TV screens loomed around him. He placed the mirror on the dashboard and took out a small penknife. He whistled himself a cheery tune, and began to shave; a process which, given his weathered complexion and inadequate tools, always opened up old wounds.

So

2005-10-18T13:43:33Z

Ray Tanner, my landlord, came out with the best one liner of the day yesterday.

The news said that the public opinion poll said that nobody cared if the new tory leader was taking cocaine.

Ray Tanner, (who usually at this point would mention the unsuitability of tomatoes in the diet of someone of a common blood group) said:

"I took cocaine in number 11 downing street."

Ian came second, when we were watching the turner prize and the nominee, standing next to a shed, said:

"well I dismantled the shed and built a boat, then I dismantled the boat and built a shed, so it's a sort of palindrome."

Ian said:

"It's a shed."

Then later a weatherman said that a cold front was flirting with northern ireland. That's the bronze.

Tom Vek gig # 0

2005-10-17T13:19:46Z

(from Akira The Don site)

"January 1st: Stunners International New Year's Day Party, at the Great Eatsern Hotel, Liverpool St. Live on stage: Pete Doherty (Babyshambles), Tom Vek, Akira The Don, Cazals, Simon Bookish, Cibelle
ATD's verdict: Cibelle was amazing. Pete was a plonker, and failed to make it downstairs. The end result was me not playing. Weak.
BEST SONG: Everything Cibelle did..
MISSILES: 0"

So apparently I've been to a Tom Vek gig before Falmouth.

You'd think I'd learnt my funky lesson.

Apparently not!

I was probably busy drinking wine and watching the goonies in my fuhrer sized bed.

stupid public execution speech I had to write

2005-10-14T14:35:02Z

Public Execution speech – Alexander Narkiewicz

I’m sure we are all in agreement, that in a perfect world, we would not need to entertain the possibility of public execution. I’m sure we are all in agreement, that this is not a perfect world.
A convicted murderer, who is proven to be insane, can be in and out of institutions, and back into the free world as quickly as a postman through the revolving doors of an office building. They call this rehabilitation. They call this getting better. Of course, it’s a lot more difficult for the victims to ‘get better.’
Apart from those fortunate few who have a naively romantic view of the importance of human life, everyone has a hypothetic death sentence reserved in their minds for the nastiest of crimes.
I would suggest to those fortunate few, who simply can’t imagine a crime that deserves capital punishment, that somebody who does not recognise the right to live in another, should not have that right recognised for themselves. You get what you give. That’s karma. That’s justice.

Why did we stop publicly executing people in this country? Was it because of a misplaced sense of our own superiority to our barbaric past? Was it because a rowdy rabble chanted “down with this sort of thing” for long enough? No, it was because of the crime that built up around it. Prostitutes, pirates and pickpockets.
Now forgive me if I take a slightly simplistic viewpoint here: I suggest that the mass rallies of tomato chucking Joe publics would today be found chucking tomatoes at their 17 inch plasma screens, from the comfort of their own homes. I cannot imagine that our highly advanced security, coupled with our highly advanced laziness, could possibly give rise to the lawless free-for-alls that characterised the last days of public execution in England.
Televised execution. They are not happy words, either of them, let alone married together like this. In a perfect world, there would be no televised execution. In a perfect world, there would be no need.
But why? Why do we have to see it? Why does it have to be in our faces? Of course, it is a very British thing, to want to sweep it under the rug. We sweep dust under the rug. We sweep the crumbs from our rich tea biscuits under the rug. We sweep politics under the rug. We sweep poverty under the rug. We sweep sexism, racism, homophobia under the rug. We sweep sex, drugs, and occasionally even rock and roll under the rug. Yes, we like to avoid ‘nastiness’, because we’re not nasty people. We sweep rapists, paedophiles and serial killers, under the rug. If they creep out again while our backs are turned, we can hurriedly sweep them back under. I’m sick of sweeping things under my rug. There’s only so much room down there.
If we want a perfect world, or even, a world where people don’t kill each other, not quite so often, we can’t just hide our problems.
I’m not suggesting we erect a gallows in ‘your own back yard’. I’m suggesting, that we get rid of that rug, and we show people what happens, what you get, what you deserve for really, really, nasty, behaviour.

You are interminable too

2005-10-14T13:08:10Z

So, just the 8 pints for me last night then. Eh? Eh?

Earlier in the day, so much earlier it was the day before, I'd made some sort of agreement with myself to be sworn off women for the foreseeable future. I like the way I always manage to persuade myself that it's a matter of personal choice.

Later that day, so much later it was today, technically, being about half two, I found myself back in my room, very drunk, intent on casting a love spell.

My knowledge of love spells is second to none, so I made a circle of trago 3 for the price of 2 socks, lit some incense and listened to leonard cohen. I decided that the dog tag Tom Moore once gave me would be perfect for the job. All I had to do was roll up some ash in the piece of paper with the magic word, allow one drop of blood to soak it, then close it and continue wearing it around my neck as though I was some sort of lost pet.

Why, what could possibly be easier? I decided to do this whilst watching myself in the mirror, in case any demons possessed me and wanted to communicate. (They didn't.)

It's a shame I don't keep chickens. I don't like chickens. Maybe that's why I don't keep them. If I had chickens I'd have been able to get blood from them.

I think I'd find it easier to get blood from a stone than to get blood from me. I'd forgotten that to get one drop of blood from myself I would have to cause myself pain. I looked for implements with which to do this, and was horrified to find that the only things which might possiply perform the task successfully, were all pointy and sharp!

Eugh, the very thought of poking myself with a craft knife seemed unbearable. they're so horrible and flat and bendy and sharp so what if I slipped? What if I got MORE than one drop of blood? Would the spell work? Would I faint? Would I ruin Ray Tanner's lovely carpet? The more I thought about it the less sure I was that it was a good thing to do, 8 pints and a bottle of TCP to hand or no. The smell of TCP was nice though, it reminded me of piercing my ears. THAT had been easy, why was this so difficult?

Perhaps the notion of deliberately inflicting pain for the purpose of extracting the very life force from my body is just not very appealing.

Either way I got rather sidetracked by the smell of TCP and was soon pretty sure that I was piercing my ear, though not that sure WHICH ear. I heated a sterilised safety pin above a flame and tested it on my finger, and it was really hot! Rubbish! I don't remember pain being a part of ear piercing. As for this impending pain for the one drop of blood, I completely blanked it from my mind as even imagining it had become unbearable.

It obviously hadn't occurred to me that the kind of stabbing, invading sensation of pain, that makes you suddenly shiver all over just by imagining it, is usually part of love, brought about by spells OR otherwise, and why would I wish to inflict such a thing upon myself?

I don't think I'm destined to be gandalf or casanova.

Meanwhile back on the stereo Leonard was asking me where his gypsy wife was.

* * *

Have been reading other people's 'first week' pieces and it's really nice to get an idea of where everyone is coming from.

One girl basically wrote out a list of things she hates, including:

"Shop assistants that ask if you need help with the packing of your shopping, do I look like a retard with no hands"

Yow!

Upon my shoulder

2005-10-12T19:45:29Z

Upon my shoulder

Upon my shoulder, sits Big Yeller, the only fish I know to have been named after a toothbrush. Whichever way I turn he’s watching me; he is the Mona Lisa of fish.
He floats about in the garish, hangover-urine water like a cheap animation, suspended over a herd of half-empty teacups, who nightly huddle together for warmth around troughs, half-full of ash.
If I close my eyes, Big Yeller flips about in the ashtrays, basking in the filth, sharing it like a hippo does.
If Big Yeller could speak, he would say foreboding things, like; ‘the end is nigh’, or ‘turn back, you haven’t got a chance’, or ‘that tie doesn’t go with that shirt’. Fortunately he can’t, but he makes his opinion known none the less.
When I listen to Big Yeller, bad things happen.
Yesterday, my concerned mother asked me if I’d been watching Neighbours. I thought of D’arcy Tyler walking in slow motion towards a coach; a turn of the head revealing his devastating profile, as he said, simply; “she lied.” Back in Ramsay Street, Susan Kennedy gasped aloud at the words, unspoken for so long, finally unveiled in D’arcy’s extravagant script, italicised like a soon-to-be-victorious rowing team.
This image rekindled enough excitement for me to elbow an ashtray onto my pillow, where the contents spread out like a cremated starfish. That’s how my pillow smells now. It was Big Yeller who told me to balance the ashtray on the back of the sofa. He said it would conserve energy.
In my sleeping bag, I lie there until morning like a snake, struggling to slither into an old skin. Only by day am I free to dream…

Upon my shoulder, sits Barry, who is Welsh and works for the Inland Revenue.
Barry is more of a ball of energy than a person. If I look at him, the light burns my eyes, but I imagine he looks like a cross between Brian Blessed and a New Forest pony.
Sometimes Barry whispers sweet nothings into my ear, like; ‘could I have your national insurance number please?’ and ‘could you confirm your address and date of birth?’ Sometimes, for my own amusement, I imagine him singing that song from the advert:

“Thou shall have a fishy on a little dishy,
thou shall have a fishy when the boat comes in.”

But I always mess up his accent when I imagine this.
Barry sits there all day. On the bus to Tremough, he sings ‘Video killed the radio star’, ‘Mad world’ and ‘Enola Gay.’
He tells me where I’m meant to be at what time. He tells me who to talk to and what to say. If my voice quivers with uncertainty, he even helps me move my jaw.
It makes me sad to know that Barry will not be there forever. Soon, all I will have to remember him by will be a cheque for six hundred and seventy pounds. He is worth so much more.

At risk of rekindling

2005-10-04T15:09:41Z

Monday: Counted every toothe in my head.

Not really, woke up at 7:00 on the dot, on the sofa, not feeling too hot, got about two hours, was worried about a fish staring at me all night.

Got on a bus after nearly one hour's wait and sat and was gradually squashed by one million people who got on. The bus soared up vertical peaks and hung momentarily in the air over clifftops. It eventually ploughed through the cutting into Tremough carpark and vomited us onto the pavement.

I trundled up the hill with an Alph Luacra in my stomach, rummaging and grumbling at the scantiness of my yogurt and bran flakes breakfast, hardly enough to feed a family of five.

Reception told me I wasn't due till wednesday and nobody had told me. I knew the second part of this already. She (reception) told me to go and do some writing.

I got back on the bus after a few more loads spilled out over the pavement and up and down the hills and out of sight, bubbling away as they went.

The bus back was smaller and more fun.

I visited Woodlane campus later and stuck up pictures of ME with ALEX NARKIEWICZ needs a house (and a lot of other arguably useless information) written on them. I'm looking at one now.

Later I ate hash cake, finished The God of Small Things (an amazing book) and began reading a touching graphic novel of Bobby's about a young Christian boys's first love and his battle with his conscience.

I drank a lot of tea.

Later still, we went to the (not a) pub at the quay side, called The Quay Side. We drank fine Cornish ales and shivered our way up the road to REMEDIES, the (not a) club.

Rumours of Phil Mitchell sightings had spurred us on. He lives here. Imagine.

In Remedies, the cider and black flowed like beer. I put up a poster and two girls came up to me and took most of my clothes off, much to my puzzlement. I later accused them (falsely) of stealing my tobbacco in the process, not mentioning my dignity, which remaine unfazed.

Bobby and I stopped off at Laura's on the way back, because Bobby is addicted to every drug under the sun. And he kicked loads of cats on the way there, probably. I knocked, and hid, and her housemate boring Ben the boring bleached blonde burke answered the door and said 'everyone went to bed HOURS ago' . Bobby was furious with my courageous hiding act, which courageously put upon him the blame of waking up boring Ben the boring bleached blonde burke.

Today I havent been awake that long but I have started reading BATMAN THE DARK KNIGHT RETURNS and now I have some MORE numbers to call, and hope remains in this heavy heart, for it is heavy only with LIGHT.

to cut a long story short

2005-07-14T18:54:14Z

in case there's anybody who didn't know, I'm back in England now.

Moving pictures

2005-06-27T09:57:54Z

Marek left his terry pratchet book here. Now I am reading it. Mwahahaetc.

Birthday was cool. 2 X Brothers were there:

Adam left a grubby pink nike sweatband. It must be his.

No jobs for me yet. TEFL.com keep sending me stuff, I keep applying, no one gives me the jobs!

This job, finishes this week. And verily am I going for an all you can eat buffet Brazilienne with Virginia right now. All I can eat should be four days worth because I'm not getting money till Thursday!

Damn, the woman in the library is the one I fell over infront of. Does this mean I must carry my large load of books around ALL day??? Answers on a postcard.

Thanks paul and sam, Serious question,

You, you, me, my Canadian friend George,

Going to Cheddar Gorge, drinking cider

approximately 13th/14th July?

thesvenhunter @ 2005-06-23T12:09:00

2005-06-23T10:11:53Z

Last week Tomash tried to approach a village local to see if he culd buy the house from him.

He gave him 'a dressing down' which is unfortunate.

He said 'you are a bad man'
'go away'
'I will get knife and kill you.'

Correct me if you're wrong,

2005-06-20T09:16:08Z

* Today I got to thinking about wisdom. Sorry, last word aside that sounds like Carrie Bradshaw. I hate the phrase 'got to thinkin' 'bout'.

* So, who is the wisest of the following? Think you know already? Wait! See if you can identify those responsible for the following quotations - answers on a postcard!

Aristotle, Spiderman, Sigmund Freud, Leonardo Da Vinci, Charles Darwin, Oscar Wilde, Confucius, Albert Einstein, Mahatma Gandhi, Jesus Christ, George W Bush.

a) "We cannot learn without pain."

This is probably the ideal quotation for someone in my profession, although it completely goes against what we were taught in my TEFL course. Who said it? Was it someone in Oliver Twist, was it George Bush? Jesus perhaps - he was big on pain wasn't he?

b) "Only the wisest and stupidest of men never change."

I don't find this wise. It's the type of thing I would say if I was drunk, in an argument, without thinking about it first. Maybe that just means I am super wise. But In my opinion it's the type of thing where you could take out the word 'never' and people would consider it just as wise. Who knows who said it?

c) "Whenever you are confronted with an opponent, conquer him with love"

This reminds me of the 'when they want something in Taiwan they give something away' 'oh do they? That must be why they're such a dominant world power' routine. Probably not Spiderman or George Bush.

d) "The great question that has never been answered and which I have not been able to answer....is, What does a woman want?"

In my experience, nothing I have to offer! Hah! As all the wise people I chose were MEN it could be any of them couldn't it? The only ones that I know have stable relationships are Spiderman and George Bush.

e) "With great power comes great responsibility"

My students today assumed this was George Bush. It could be Jesus though, right? Or Arsistotle? Are any of these people really different in any way or does it jsut depend on who is choosing to write down select snippets of their conversation? Have I addressed the fundamental issue here too early? Is anybody reading this? Lubor very neatly pointed out that Gandhi was very much about marketing. Jesus was too, without question, he even gave free samples of miracles and suchlike. We don't even have HIS word about any of it! Anyway, carry on...

f) "I think that when God created man, he somewhat overestimated his ability."

So, presumably not a Christian, but that only rules out about three. Could it be Darwin? Surely Da Vinci would not be so cynical? Surely most people who aren't me are familiar enough with these quotations to not enjoy this game?

g) "The world is a dangerous place, not because of those who do evil, but because of those who look on and do nothing."

That's a good one isn't it. Must be Spiderman, right? Or George Bush? I swear, almost all of these sound like Spiderman and George Bush to me, am I just not well read enough? Not widely read enough certainly. Hah!

h) "Obstacles cannot crush me."

Bush, Schwarzenegger, The Incredible Hulk? I think this is the worst of them all. Of COURSE obstacles can crush you, if not Obstacle 1, what about Obstacle 2. What about A PIANO or AN ANVIL? Maybe it's einstein, he thwarted Newton right? Falling objects mean nothing to him.

i) "A mathematician is a blind man in a dark room looking for a black cat that doesn't exist."

This sounds like a lateral thinking puzzle in the making. Who is a lateral thinker? must be one of the clever ones surely?

j) "Why do you call me good ? No one is good but God alone."

Definitely George Bush.

k) "I have opinions of my own. Strong opinions. But I don’t always agree with them."

Definitely Oscar Wilde.

* Sorry, don't mean to answer them for you, just trying to toy with your minds.

* Milhouse was down lask weekend and we danced mediaevaly and he missed his plane home. Yikes.

* Tomash had a new baby! And he said he'd email me a picture but he hasn't! Tomash also said that after every lesson with me he has a good sensation/feeling, depending on the meaning of the translation. How nice! This was a rare moment of job satisfaction, a term I thought was certainly an oxymoron. However, teaching as a whole unless one makes the goal to entertain one's self is bound to be quite low in that area overall. If I wash a pot, I can see whether it's clean or not. I am constantly concerned about whether or not my students have ever learnt anything from/by/with me. The Caledonian School is a business though. Not a school. They call the students clients. As long as they are satisfied customers, technically, nobody cares what they learn. Yikes!

* Lubor pointed out today how India's economy could only have improved from further extension of Britain's rule, therefore technically, Gandhi did more harm than good. He just threw that out there, I'm never sure whether Lubor likes playing devil's advocate or the pantomime villain, but he has a knack of being right about stuff. I never realised Albert Einstein was (like Lubor) in favour of Hiroshima and Nagasaki being blown up, aparently it's a scale thing. You put the millions of dead bodies on one side of the scale, and calculate/guesstimate how many would be on the other side, had said blowing up not ocurred. I'm no mathematician. No black cats in my dark rooms, if there were, I'd stay the hell away.

* Apparently being stupid is a very important part of George Bush's marketing, and playing up his misquotes and blunders is part of that.

* Yesterday I was reminded of the lovely way Tom Petty pronounces 'mediocrity' on The Last DJ as I watched American Grafitti. So I wonder if that song was written about the wolf man or John Peel or perhaps even one of the other DJs who ever existed, none of whom I've heard of. I could be a DJ. I'd be great. I'd be the best DJ in the world. These are the songs I'd play:

* I'm reading White Oleander, which is as good as the film, better in that it has more in it, but the writing isn't particularly amazing. Particularly amazing writing, for those who care, can be found in a couple of TS Eliot poems (Lovesong, hollow men), a couple of Alkaline Trio songs(mr chainsaw, emma), and not many other places.

* Happy birthday mum last week, happy birthday both Sheila and Maurice (I think) this week, or at least this month, actually I think I missed Sheila's... and ben, who certainly doesn't read this, and maybe some other poeple, not that sure.

* Hang on a minute I just remembered Shakespeare, he was occasionally pretty good too. I saw Polanski's Macbeth on Sunday.

* In non-news, I was far too drunk to be around people I would see again on Friday. There was some sort of free drink barbeque end of season at the school. I met a guy called Colin from San Francisco who looked like a guy called Colin from Canada. I bought the football crowd drinks and went on about how much better at football they were than me and how that's why I've missed the last 3 weeks. This is a lie. I was simply lazy. At some point a bit later I recall wandering the courtyard complaining loudly about how all my friends had left me and what bastards they were and eventually I eneded up going to some bar with Wes, who I dont really know but is nice, and drinking Becherovka and dribbling and dancing on my own to the Killers amongst a herd of very uninteresting looking people.

* I stole five bolts from the table and stuck them in my jeans.

concern

2005-06-05T15:43:53Z

I wonder if milhouse is arriving AM or PM, I hope PM, because I wasn't at the airport this morning.

I finished reading Dracula, and it was very boring and all of the characters suck. Except Renfield.

This week:

Lubor: revealled his hatred for Miranda from 'Sex and the city', and team building days. He says they try to make you run through forests.

Tomash: revealled that when he first got together with his wife in England, they both had partners in Prague at the time. AND they had partners in Moravia. They are terrible people. Tomash also told me he has had sex on a bus in England. A moving bus, a 24 hour bus. He has also arranged to meet various rich czech women off the internet who are looking for sex. Apparently they want to buy him dinner and clothes.

Klara: revealled that toes and fingers are the same word in Czech, and she and her boyfriend have been redecorating their 2 room flat for over a year and are about half way through it.

I watched lots of films this week. Including

Cocktail, starring Tom Cruise, which is amazing. It's about a barman.

The saint, starring Val Kilmer, which is pretty lame. It's about a spy.

About a boy, starring Hugh Grant, which is great. It's about a guy.

The door in the floor, starring Kim Basinger, which is great. It's about a writer.

Office space, starring some americans, which is great. It's about an office worker.

More importantly than any of this, I have now watched every episode of sex and the city. This means I have watched about 110 episodes, about 50 hours worth. The best characters are Steve and Big. The worst characters are Skipper and the Russian artist guy. Charlotte is the most annoying of the four main characters with Carrie coming in a close second. Although, all four of the main characters are annoying.

Yesterday I drank lots of brandy and cleaned the kitchen. I wrote another poem this week. It is average.

too hot homies

2005-05-30T10:58:20Z

It's too hot in Prague right now. The temperature would be ideal but for the lack of breeze and the ever-high taste-it-in-your-mouth pollution.

Last week Andy and Paul visited and most of my classes cancelled. We sauntered around Prague and Celakovice and verily was I excited to see that Adam has been in the NME for what I believe is technically the second time, except this time there's a big naked picture of him where he looks taller than in real life.

Meanwhile back in I've made that joke too many times, we discovered a mediaeval resteraunt with a fire eating person, a mad dancer who hit her head on the ceiling, a hot waitress, and a troupe of drunken singing norwegians. If I was 'talkin' about' something, that would be it. We also went to an castle which was a nice pointy roof type castle, though not quite big enough to house all my demons. At this castle, you could buy T shirts advertising your affection for such Czech historical figures as Che Guevara and Korn. How I longed to jump in the river.

I got Andy and Paul to be interviewed by my Celakovician students, thus I had to do nothing, roll on more visits from people. My new student Klara is great and I would marry her at the drop of a hat.

I have amassed a portfolio of creative work which is difficult as I'm sure I have vast tomes filled with publishable gems at home, but not here. It struck me that I enjoy writing poems, but I write approximately one per year. After it struck me I wrote one and a half poems. They are not very good.

Last week I had 7 lessons. 3 of these lessons were with Tomas Talas, which is fortuante, because they were more entertaining than the others. I found out that Tomas donates sperm and blood on a monthly basis. I also found out that he converted to Catholicism so he could marry his wife in a church, and that his first confession took 2 hours and the priest was shocked and appalled by his youthful escapades. "When I was young I have many girls" he said. "I see" said I. "No, MANY girls. Something like different girl every week," said Tomas. He looks so innocent too! He invited me swimming with his 2 year old son and himself on Saturday but alas I couldn't make it, let alone swim.

Tomas has a daughter on the way this June which whould be interesting/dangerous as this one weighs 4 kilos, the last weighed 3.5 kilos and surgery (10 cms he kindly informed me) was necessary. "It was horrible" he said.

Tomas' wife is concerned about her health of course, but also about when their children grow up and the possibility of them mating with little donated Tomas's across the country. This is a danger I had never considered. Thank goodness I am yet to donate sperm.

Went to a festival on the weekend called MEzi Ploty whic is a bit like Larmertree but there's no camping. It's held in a Psychiatric nursing home with vast, beautiful grounds. And the bands were all very average.

ap

2005-05-16T08:58:13Z

plying for an MA is complicated and boring. Applying for funding is more of both, and I just found out I am too late anyway. DAMN.

Last week I injured myself playing football and went out with Jan and MArk and learnt how to seduce women in czech. yet to be practiced. Mark moved back in, Cristina bought a TV and DVD and I watched about 24 episodes of sex and the city. It suddenly struck me that Carrie Bradshaw is a lot like Adam Alphabet, or vice versa.

I say suddenly, but I did watch 24 episodes. 12 hours worth isnt really sudden is it?

Ivana finally stopped arranging lesson plan meetings with me and said that if my students didnt enjoy my crime lesson, they were morons.

Ive been emailing old lecturers for referrences, which is kind of fun.

I didnt play football this friday, due to injuredness. I read some czech fairytales and painted a picture of demons carrying away the dead body of a bearded man (me). its good. next im going to paint an accompanying picture of a baby in a glass tank (also me).

Visitors tomorrow.

Exciting.

Alwyn, I am coming home at the beginning of July, you filthy arab.

traded in my bible for a little black cat

2005-05-04T11:14:13Z

"And all they had to do was murder John Smith. Poor John Smith. "

Is this true? was John Smith murdered? Was it the same bastards that did in Kurt Cobain, Elvis Presley, The pope and John Lennon?

Someone please enlighten me. preferably Adam, as there was no link to a blogsite that details the assassination of John Smith.

Meanwhile back in Post Communist Europe, my train broke down on monday so I didn't make it to my lesson. First lateness. Also, Ivana is intent on ruining my fun and meeting me next Tuesday to plan lessons again. Goddammit I dont want to PLAN lessons!

My new student Tomash(sic) brought me a bottle of wine today, only 3rd lesson! Bonus! He also invited me to his cottage in September to ski, and offered to arrange mark george and I's wine trip to Moravia.

Oh yeah!

erm.

forgot what the point in this alleged update is or was.

see ya.