Avatars and Barbers

We all know that Groening et al realise The Simpsons is now as ingenious and comedic as the Eastenders cast performing a musical for Children In Need every year. So as one last attempt to sap the milky money from the teat of its Cash Cow they made a movie. In my opinion this is a clear indication that things are coming to an end. I do not care much for the movie as I’m sure it’s no motion picture masterpiece but I will see it out of curiosity. I just can’t get it out of my head that I’m about to experience a two hour episode without any adverts and nothing more. But that’s not really the reason I’m writing about them.

Someone sent me an e-mail the other day entitled ‘If you want to time waste click here’ so I did and was sent to the Simpsons website where you have the ability to create your own Simpson avatar. I spent the next ten minutes building myself to fit in the world of Springfield (My results are pictured on the right or above). Anyway, check it out if you want to see what you’d look like if they ever approach you for a guest appearance (which is plausible as they’re running out of people to get on there). But you’ll probably do what I did and get stressed because you can’t save it unless you register and then think bollox to that and go back sipping your coffee and checking your mails whilst getting some else to register.

http://www.simpsonsmovie.com/

That same day I was due to get my haircut so headed down town for my appointment. I’ve been growing some sort of baby mullet and been calling it ‘the mud flap’ for the last four months. I sort of liked the feeling of the back of my hair wrapping around behind my ears as reassurance that I’m not going bald. Or when I go running and then stop, my whole body comes to a jolting stand still whilst the mud flap flaps that extra second. It’s like a sort of extensional limb only it doesn’t conform entirely with what my brain tells it to do. One problem with having the mud flap is when walking out in general public, people would look at me and snigger, even though it was in its infancy it was still open to ridicule. However, I persisted with it as I liked it until one day I realised that this extenuation was gradually starting to dictate my life. I’d have to get up 10 minutes earlier each morning just to comb it so I would avoid an Amy Winehouse-esque look. When it came to washing my hair I only used to squeeze the bottle once and one dollop of shampoo was more than sufficient. With this sprouting I had to squeeze it once to do the front bit and then again to cleanse the mud flap from all the dirt and muck it seemed to collect during the day. I just couldn’t be fucked with it in the end, it had to go.

So now I’m sporting a hair cut you could set your watch by. Yep, short and chopped. I guess I have to accept long hair will never suit me (even though it wasn’t very long) because I’ve got an odd shaped head.

Forgetfulness

I hate being forgetful, it really vexes me when I forget something relatively important. I feel a little embarrassed of my actions and then that feeling is quickly followed with one of being pissed off as to why I forgot in the first place.

Today at work I had just sat down with my coffee and was just checking my mails when my mobile buzzed in my pocket. “Hello Sir, I would just like to inform you that you have forgotten your dental appointment with Dr Ambrose at 9am. Can you be here in 15 minutes? He can just about fit you in.” Said the receptionist, or words to that effect. So I take a huge gulp of coffee and let it burn my throat as it goes down and dash over to my boss, tell her I’ve got dentist and won’t be back for half an hour and make my way down to the dental clinic.

I get there all hot and bothered, no one is impressed with me getting there super fast, especially not reception. I sit down in the waiting area and stare at all the other people who just look like they’re preparing for their auditions as manic depressives for the remake of One Flew Over The Cuckoo's Nest. At least Dr Ambrose is more joyful, in fact he always is, as he calls my name after a twenty minute wait. I always wonder why he can be so happy when he has to stick his hand in people’s mouths exposing himself to the threat of being nibbled at by an uncooperative patient. I conclude that he’s happy because he gets sadistic revenge by injecting people with needles the size of my hand, letting the local atheistic pump slowly. I’ve been his victim 4 times now and don’t fancy going there a fifth time. Luckily for me, I escape this as I’ve been brushing my teeth regularly so I get a pat on the shoulder instead for not getting any fillings.

On the way back I see Salmon (you may remember him from a previous entry). Turns out he’s quit that Internet game, World of Warcraft. I didn’t know whether to hug him or tell him I’m glad he’s re-plugged himself back to the real world. I ask him where he’s going and to my horror but not my surprise he’s going to the computer game shop to buy another online game called Guild Wars. Soon after this, I wish him luck on his quest with knights and head off to work thinking, shit I’m going to have to stay back late tonight.

I’ve written a bit more progressive prose to keep my mind on an active vibe.

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Two young women in their twenties are laughing and talking on the other side of the door. One has brown hair and is dressed in a red top with dark blue jeans, she’s talking rapidly and seems to be giggling at every other sentence she speaks, her head bouncing back and forth like Zebedee from the Magic Roundabout. She’s talking to a blond haired girl with a bobbed haircut who keeps playing with the strap on her black top by twirling it and then letting it go. She’s seems completely entranced at what the brown haired girl is saying, nodding her head every time there is a pause for a breath and laughs when a sentence finishes on an enthusiastic note. Even though, Yannish can’t hear what they are talking about he can tell just by his observation that the blond girl is faking her interest in the topic of conversation. In fact, it isn’t even a conversation, how can it be? The brown haired girl is just talking at the other girl while she politely responds accordingly at every cue given to her, nudging her along the conversation like a school teacher does to help the pupil get the answer in the end.

The area is brightly lit with huge halogen lights pouring down making them look like they are in a theatre performing on stage. They are on stage, Yannish’s stage in Yannish’s theatre. The room itself was full of clothes hanging on shelves at every level and in no apparent order, these must be the returns. On the left is the kitchen area with a sink, a table, three chairs and a microwave with the door swung open revealing various remnants of readymade meals splattered all over the inside and hanging from it’s ceiling. The right shows shelves upon shelves of shoe boxes, all neatly stacked up at the bottom but as the eye follows upwards the boxes become more ragged in appearance, until you get near the top and it becomes obvious someone just throws the boxes up in the air and if it manages to land on the shelf it is considered neatly stacked away. Just beyond the rows of shelves, Yannish spots a green light, it’s a familiar light that illuminates the word ‘Fire…’. He peers forward looking for the “…Exit” to confirm exactly what it is. Even though he knows what it is, it surely can’t be “Fire Hazard” or “Fire, Fire”. He gets the anxious feeling you get when you’re late and waiting for a train and you look at the Departures screen to see what time your train is and then you look 30 seconds later to see if it’s coming earlier. And then 1 minute later, even though you know the screen hasn’t changed you still look up and check. He can’t resist, he needs this confirmation so moves forward towards the crack opening the door a bit more so that the front part his hair flops out over on to the other side. He arcs his neck so that his eyes can see the “Exit” which settles any doubts he has. He quickly moves back into his space with a gleeful look spreading across his face. He knows now, his escape route. All that is left is to estimate how many people are in the building and how is he going to handle the two women on the other side of the door. They had now split from their conversation and moved to other ends of the room with one over by the kitchen looking into the cupboard. She pulls out a green mug and loosely places it on the table. The mug lands at an awkward angle and sways to the left, raising the right and then rocks back onto the right leaning so far forward it tips over the ledge heading towards the floor. The brown haired girl notices and dives forward cupping the mug with her hands as she crashes to the floor. She raises her head with a look of pleasure and looks around the room to see if anyone else had seen her catch. Her expression drops slightly as no one else had seen it, except of course for Yannish who dips his eyes to the ground just in case they catch hers.

Eventually, after a few seconds, he looks up to see the other woman on the right of the room, she isn’t in complete view because of the grey metal shelving interweaving with one another. Through the shelves and joints he makes out her head and a right arm and hand which is writing something down on a clip-board. “This could be a problem,” Yannish tells himself as he recoils his head from the door. He carefully shuts it and slides down the back of its wooden frame to fester in his own thoughts. If he had made his move just minutes earlier, he could have charged through that door made his way through the middle of the two women and be in between them and fire escape exit. He’d have both of them in his clear sight and be able to watch their every movement, twinge and expression. Behind them was only the wall so they’d have no where to turn making the situation all the more claustrophobic for them. He could have got them to barricade the door he came through earlier by pushing one of the shelves over the entrance. Then it would be just those three and he could get what he wanted and be out before they could sound any kind of alarm. But that was minutes ago. “Should I wait for a change, or just accept what I’ve been dealt with?” Thinks Yannish, whilst tapping the gun just above his temple to help ease the pressure that seems be concentrating there. Waiting for a change, was a gamble. If the women decided to stand close to each other and near the utility cupboard that would be an ideal occurrence for him and he could revert back to the way he had just imagined he’d do it. This of course was a definite possibility. However, by waiting might mean someone else from outside might enter the room. Ruining the plan, but also the dynamics of the group, the three of them, meaning the situation would need to be re-thought. This makes Yannish irate, his way was flawless, if only the two women would come closer again. Now if another or others enter the room, there will be more people to handle, more minds thinking how to undo him. Could he be undone? Yannish gets angry, angry enough to pull the trigger a little less guiltily?

Carrying On

Today, I'm actually feeling a lot better. The cold is evaporating now even though I am still really weak. In fact I'm sure Ian Hislop could swing a haymaker at me now and I'll crumble on the floor screaming for no more pain. After work I went into town and bought Kanye West's first album as I stumbled across Late Registration the other month and surprisingly thought it was excellent. He's definitely a lyricist who considers his words carefully and someone that has an ego but is fortunate and able enough to have talent to back up his bravura. College Dropout seems to be just as good even though I haven't heard it in it's entirety, it's actually playing as I'm scribbling this gibberish down. Any how, "We don't care" definitely stands out with its comedic theme and serious lyrics… Shit, I'm starting to sound like a critic so I'll stop.

Anyhow, I need to go get me some sleep as I've got to, like many tomorrow, hurdle the last day of the working week before I can rest up for two days at the finishing line. Here's a bit more progressive prose, although this contribution is a bit shorter because I'm knackered and towards the end what I was writing wasn't even legible.


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It’s the guilt that would gnaw away at his mind. Eating slowly at his thoughts, bit by bit seeping the remembrance of murder more and more into what he’s thinking and eventually taking over his head. He can’t comprehend killing someone, not like this, only if it was fully justified and Yannish couldn’t justify it to himself what he was considering doing. But he needs the pistol. It’s so powerful, visually, obviously for its ability to maim or end life but perhaps more because of its connotations. People who would see it cowl in terror knowing that a gun could mean death unless utter compliance was given. He wouldn’t have choose words to convey that he was serious, the gun would do it for him, no one was going to mess with him while he held it in his hands or at least showed it to people. He could really only choose this weapon because of the power, a baseball bat, although dangerous can still be over powered by more than one person. The thought of carrying a knife and stabbing someone made him queasy as he imaged the squelching sound as he pierced through skin. No, a pistol, was the best choice, he could show everyone what he’s carrying, wave it above his head or hold it out straight and his intentions will be obeyed. No one would dare try and stop him. No one. Or would they? It would be someone filled with the virtues of integrity and pride that might tackle him. They would see this man waving a gun in the air harshly as if it controlled him, not the other way round. He would gage the possibilities of any sign of weakness and measure them up with the risk of his own safety. And being someone so virtuous they would rather risk their own life to try and save someone else’s than stay still and watch someone get shot. Yannish didn’t want to kill anyone, let alone the person he imagined with integrity and pride, they would be the last type of person he would want to shoot. He didn’t want to murder someone he wanted to be himself. Killing someone who Yannish wanted to be, and briefly was in his early pre-pubescent years, would be like shooting the shadow he was chasing. How could he be possibly be a virtuous person after he’s just committed murder, a pointless murder and not some serial killer or rapist, no, someone who had enough guts to tackle the psychotic fool waving a gun over his head shouting at anyone within eye sight.

Yannish backs away from the door and scrunches his eyes. “I can’t kill. It’s too much.” The pistol slides along the floor as he tosses it away like an empty cigarette packet. In fact a fag was the exact thing he lusted for now, to help calm those twitching nerves from snapping but all he has is his thoughts to help or torment him. He kneels down and starts to think of what could happen. “No shots need to be fired, I can just stick it in peoples faces, get what I want and get out. No shots, nothing.” Thinks Yannish as he looks at the floor following the trail of where the gun slid. “Ok, ok, if someone does try it I’ll just shoot it in the air or above their heads.” But as soon as he thinks that, he considers the alternatives that could happen. He could miss and end up shooting someone in the head or the heart. “Fuck” whispers Yannish. He knows the risks and if it came down to it he’d consider killing himself if he was boxed into a choice of ending another’s life. He gets up and walks over and picks up then gun. He wipes the floor dust from his jacket and places the side of his head to the door, pushes the handle down and pushes the door forward very slowly so that if it began to creak he could immediately begin to retract it before anyone knew what was going on. He briefly feels like a boy creeping down the stairs at Christmas eve, opening the lounge door ever so slowly until a gap large enough appears to spy through. A small gap opens up now and Yannish brings his eyes towards it and looks through.

Difference Between Fatigue and Tiredness

This morning, I finally concluded to myself the difference between fatigue and tiredness. I've spent the last week going to bed late and falling asleep later. This is mainly due to having a cold that seems to block my nose only when my head hits the pillow forcing me to breath with my mouth open which means it gets dry and I wake up thirsty every other hour. However, even though I was falling asleep late I would wake up at 7am without fail for no apparent reason. I'm sure if I hit the sack at 6:49am I'd wake up at 7am like a switched on robot. So last night I decided that sleep had caught up with me, like a mobile phone bill forgotten underneath the bed. You think you can get away but it always gets you in the end. So I forced myself to go to bed at 8pm and was asleep by 9 I believe. When I woke up at 7am I was still tired, at first I thought it was because I slept for 10 hours but I didn't get that groggy feeling in my head that reminds me of an ever so slight hangover. I felt achy and still tired. At work I couldn't hold a conversation let alone lash out witty anecdotes that usually gain me kudos over by the water cooler. By 3pm today, I decided that I could only be suffering from fatigue and needed to rest up for a few days and not a few hours here and there. So I'm going to take it easy for a few days and chill out and hope I can get some zest back into my system. However, with the morsels of energy I have left I have written some more progressive prose. To be honest it wasn't tiring to write.

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His eyes notice what he’s holding. His neck cranes down as his interest is drawn to the pistol. The sight of the scratched weapon is the symbolic reminder that this is definitely reality and no dream. Yannish knows exactly where he is. He draws his head back quickly whacking the left side of it against the wall. His index finger runs along the gun feeling the cross stitch texture of the top leading all the way to the tip where curiosity overcomes him and sticks one of his digits into the hole of the gun just to make sure it feels real and to investigate the barrel that could quite easily end life. He feels the rush of anxiety pulsate through his body now like a roller coaster ride going along in his veins, making him question why he’s here. Is there an escape? Can I run now and all will be forgotten?

The room is dark with the light bulb in pieces on the floor with a broken vacuum cleaner lying over the metal railing, it hangs over like an unconscious drunk flopped over a park fence rail on a Saturday night. There are shelves to the right with bottles containing cleaning products. His body is still utterly still but inside the messages to his brain have doubled since he noticed what’s in his hands, the awareness of the situation only becoming more significant to him now. His breathing doubles in its heaviness and intensity panting like he’s just run a couple of miles and is taking some time to recuperate. He starts to walk up to the wall then turn around again, each time he exhales he puts a foot down, thinking what to do next. “Should I move out?” “Is it the right time?” He thinks to himself, running the pistol along the wall so a slight scraping sound could be heard by only the occupant of the utility cupboard. “I can’t run now, I’ve come too far. I’ll have to go through with it” comes the justification from his lips. But the thought of going through with it terrifies him, sure, the consequences of getting caught would ruin his life in a social sense.

Prison would be definite as he’d never plead innocent because he wasn’t and there would be no point trying to tell them the reasons why. They wouldn’t listen, even if they did there wouldn’t be enough time because time in court is precious as it tries to uphold the creaking social laws that are spread through out the country. He could start to explain his reasons, but someone would usher him along considering his point too time consuming and insignificant for the context of the case. In prison, he’d be treated badly, he’s not a fighter, even though he’s fought, he’d much rather live an anonymous life. Inmates would see this, not in the lack of battle scares on his body but by the lack of primal fighting instinct that floats around in the eyes of every brawler. The ones that look for fights, who don’t care who they fight as long as their craving is quenched, by impact or by the spill of blood. They’d see he didn’t have it and would go for him. Constant barrage of beatings and whippings from bars of soap put in pillow cases, his time there would be bloody and strenuous. Should he survive the physicality of what prison would bring he was sure he could endure the mental marathon as well, there was no way he’d accept any invitations from insanity’s open hand that seems to run frivolously through the corridors of her majesty’s many hotels. If he got bored, he’d try and remember the books he read during his lifetime and if he couldn’t remember all of them, then he’d splice another passage from another book to form his own tome made from all the different books that had passed under his nose during time. If he found his head submerged in the toilet water where he’d be forced to suck up the putrid brown liquid through his nostrils be the wing’s hard bastards. He wouldn’t spend the evening curled tightly together and sobbing profusely into his palms thinking why he hadn’t the fighter’s look. Why couldn’t he fight back? Why was he being bullied? No, his capacity for mental torture could endure this, he could survive this sort of mental aggression and come out of it with a slight smirk and a whimsical step in his walk.

Even as he whimsically walks out of prison with a defiant cock of the leg, as he lands he’ll be landing back into society, a society where now he was a criminal. Or by most of the consensus still a criminal. He’d never be able to get a job. He’d try, of course, but no one would employ him. He wouldn’t even be able to get a job in retail with the teenagers as no one would trust him behind a till. Could they be blamed with their suspicious minds about the young man who has just been released from prison? “We’ve got to protect the company’s image”, would be the diplomatic but hollow justification from the proprietors. Pressed a little harder the sympathetic theme would be adapted to justify their decision. “Come on, I’ve got a mortgage, a wife and children, I can’t afford money to go missing. I could get sacked!” So, Yannish wouldn’t be able to get a job and would have to revert to signing-on, receiving government income support. By some it is considered more criminal to stand in a queue and wait the cheque to be handed over to you, than actually walking into a bank and robbing it. Abuse would be hurled as he walked along the path as he held his cheque. “Why don’t you get a fucking job?” would come the bellows from the houses. But all this doesn’t bother him.

What Did Blair Do For Me?

2nd May 1997, Anthony Blair, a wily, charismatic, precarious looking fellow with big ears who has a tooth behind his front bottom two becomes leader of the United Kingdom. Big deal thought I, staring at the ceiling while lying in bed. The confirmation came around 5am in the morning, I couldn’t sleep so had BBC 5Live on to keep me company. I turned over cringing and threw the pillow over my face when I heard D-ream’s “Things can only get better” as he emerged on the podium victorious. I scrunched my eyes thinking “fuck off, this is shit. How can anyone lead a country with an anthem this crap”.

Now I’m sitting in a café mulling over Blair leaving office on the 27 June 2007. I shouldn’t really give a crap. But I do. Not on the heroic political level of his achievements and failings. No, I thought about what he done had affected me over time. Was there something he did that really helped me out? He’d been there for 10 years of my life, 10 good prime years of my being. In that time, I’ve become more educated, lost my virginity, drank Whisky and decided I liked it, drank Tequila and decided I didn’t. Worked in a plastic milk bottle factory and left, worked in an office, and left, worked in a sport shop, stayed there for a bit and then decided to go back to another office all under the regime of Monsieur Blair. In fact, it was when I worked in the sport shop that I became an advocate of one particular policy.

A rare day April 1 1999 was, as left wingers shouted aloud in the streets, when those from the wrong side of the status quo gained a valuable victory over the ‘oppressors’. The minimum wage was introduced. This affected me straight away in so many ways. Beforehand I was getting fucked over for £3.00 an hour in a sweaty sport shop, working ten hour days, which were really 11 if you take into account the half hour walk to and from work. I used to hate working those long hours running up and down those stairs, serving people who believed they were re-enacting a scene from the Dickensian time period, where they are the portly statesman in a top hat and I am the lowly servant in a rags with a black tooth who runs at their beckoning call. “Boy get me those trainers”. “I said now, boy”. So when the minimum wage of £4.10 was introduced a great elation spread through me and I remembered the scowled look of management as they begrudgingly had to inform us that we would all get pay rises but none of us deserved them. Even though this was a nationwide policy, they seemed to think (New) Labour had specifically targeted them, a pot bellied baldy and a scrawny crooked nosed arse. The effect of our new wage policy was almost instant, I was now able to work 8 hours a day and get the same amount of money if I was working 10. After 2 weeks I went back to 10 hours as I would get more money which would mean being able to spend more money on drinks when we went out. In fact had the minimum wage not been introduced I would never would have been able to go out on Thursday nights where on one particular Thursday I managed kiss the fit girl who worked on the tills. So Tony, I know you’ve done a lot of bad but you’ve also done some good, for me. Thank you.

On another note I haven’t written anymore on my progressive prose because I’m knackered after writing this and it’s 12:30am and I’ve got work in the morning.

Colds 'n Tales

A definite negative of working in an open plan office is that you are exposed to every viral, infectious bug currently terrorising the human body. And to my despair I've been infected! I don't know exactly when the infection happened or who is the carrier but I think it's when I let the IT man touch my keyboard as my computer claimed it had a virus too. I don't know if the computer and I share the same virus but if we do then it can be no other than that greasy haired monkey who fumbled with my mouse and probably wouldn't mind fumbling me.

So now I'm quarantined within the quarters of my room watching re-runs of Family Guy and listening to the exchange of leadership of the country I live in. In fact the coverage was so in depth and constant that it made me think that this is actually an important moment. I lay in my bed thinking, do I miss Blair? What did Blair do? And what has happened to me since the time Tony became Prime Minister to when he handed over the keys to number 10 to Gordon. Maybe I'll write on this a bit later as I do think it's quite significant to me.

Anyway, Coldbrain has requested I carry on and being bed bound means I've been able to rattle out some more of my progressive prose. What say you CB?

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A memory floats by and lands on the forefront of his thoughts and this time finds a spot to nestle down. He’s a young boy cycling along the path, trying to stay balanced and not topple over to one side. The rain patters against his face causing a slight stinging against his cheeks as the lashings of nature intensifies and the drops pour into his eyes skewering his vision. His left eye is shut as his right leg sticks out to maintain his balance, he rolls down the hill, he swerves past the dog shit and temporarily wobbles his front wheel which instinctively causes his left eye to open and let in the rain to complicate his vision further. The wheel wobbles more as Yannish blinks incessantly to get the water out of his eye. He can’t be late for dinner. No way. He promised he’d be back in time for dinner, and even though Mother Nature laid out an assault course of the elements he was still determined to get home on time. It wasn’t tardiness behaviour that was fuelling his mission, it wasn’t the fact he’d be grounded if he was late. No, it was because by being grounded would mean he wouldn’t be able to go to the park on Thursday evening where he’d agreed to meet Clara.

He retracts his right leg to get some stability and turns the peddle once to build up more speed. In front of him through the vision of his right eye he can only see the swirls of rain obscuring the pathway ahead, trees and bushes seem out of proportion and even though he knows he’s going down hill the path looks as if he is going up. He raises his left hand to wipe away the watery swirls and but as he does this nature introduces a new element to the assault course. A gust of wind crashes against his side rifling through the spokes of his wheels, causing them to twist sharply to the left and then to the right. Yannish’s clasped fingers unravel with the sudden movement and he finds his body launching in to the air like the birthday bump joke gone wrong. Legs and arms flap as he tries to fly or at least glide to the ground but no of these things happen as he lands on to the grass. A still silence erupts in his head as the rain carries on falling and the sound of his bike chain whirring to the right of him. He can smell the faeces around him, and on his finger tips as he touches his hair. A few blades of grass tickle his chin which breaks the silence in his head and takes his attention away from the stench emanating from his clothes and hair. He remembers his deadline and lifts himself up. The bike chain still whirs but the front wheel no longer turns, even after the hard desperate kicks at it Yannish makes. He wraps it next to a tree with his lock and begins to run towards his home. The leaves and grass fall off his jacket and trousers as he breaks into a pace but the mud and excrement remains all sloppy but still clinging to his clothes. The rain still continues to fall against him but there is no sign of the wind that toppled him over.

He turns the corner to his street and pulls his arm out to look at his watch. Before his eyes have time to focus on the time rain drops scatter on his watch’s face and he sort of makes out that its five to seven, leaving him with five minutes to get back. Yannish scampers down the road towards his house, his breathing intensifying as he forces his legs to hit the ground faster with each gallop. The thought of thieving a quick kiss with Clara increases his speed and the pain starts to filter through his body, but he doesn’t care, he wants to get back. He sees his house and his running starts to become ragged as he reaches the door, he sucks in huge gasps of air thinking this will give him more speed but instead only enables him to suck in vast quantities of rain water. He fuddles with the keys as he tries to insert the right one in the hole, his hand shaking like his dad coming back from a night out drinking. The fatigue catches up with him, as he loses the strength to breath and finds his limbs not responding and going soft. As he falls to the floor he flops his head against the front door causing a dull thudding sound and then he hits the ground. Before he closes his eye lids he looks up to see his mother staring with her mouth aghast at her son covered in mud and dog shit.

A smile erupts around Yannish’s face as he wipes his chin of the sweat.The memory now slowly fades away.

New Styles

I guess I haven't posted much for a while. This is down mainly to having things stolen, computers breaking and going to another continent. However, I always intended to write on here again as Coldbrain kept pestering me about it and to be honest I enjoy writing. The predicament I found myself in was that I'm not that bothered about writing about my life as it's pretty mundane, sprinkled with elements of disaster and comedy. I took pleasure about scribbling about certain subjects I used to think of but they were very insular and not very organic. Basically they don't continuing growing once I'd written them which frustrated me. So after a cup of tea and a glass of wine I've decided to write some open ended prose for people to check out. As Coldbrain is the only one who reads this, I'll leave it up to him as to whether I carry on with it. He can only be vetoed by my laziness which is always festering in the background. Anyway, here it is. What say you?

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Yannish feels himself clutching hard on the object, his breath heavy and laden with the gargling sound of phlegm as he exhales exposing his tobacco ingesting past time. Inside his body tiny blood vessels are delivering thousands of messages to his brain as each second ticks by causing him to get agitated and confused as each one clashes and contradicts the next. He strives for clarity but instead finds his mind awash with flickers of images of his past experiences intertwined with feelings of possible occurrences of the coming present. Images of dates with girls when he was 15, his driving test, his first pay packet from his first job spliced with trepidation, fear, success and relief. This cocktail swirling around his head makes his concentration slushy so lets his eyes help relive him. His eyes gaze straight ahead staring at the fag stained wall, noticing a spider’s web dangling from the top right hand corner, swaying with the rhythmic sounds of the air conditioning. The spider, hanging on the end battling against the wafts of air coming from above, desperately trying to climb up to the more intricate and stable parts of the web but each time progress is made it’s pushed back down with the current of the air con. Yannish notices the spider’s two front legs resiliently resisting the air to gain just millimetres while it’s other six mercifully flap around like streamers on a windy day. A smile spreads across his face as he begins to consider the spider a comrade of persistence. One of the entities that never give up, or so he thinks of himself and of the little money spider. Both of them are fighting against the things far more powerful than them but similarly they are fighting things above them, although the little spider is literally doing this while Yannish’s battle is far more complex, layered and only figuratively looking down at him. He begins to look beyond the wall, straight through it, squinting his eyes as he searches for something further afield. The images come rolling out of his head like slides from a projector. He looks down to see his legs apart but remain solid to the ground, he raises his right hand and touches his cheek. Feeling the perspiration slowly trickling down and hanging from his chin where one by one they fall down and seep deep into the fabric of his clothes...