Hello you. If you’re interested, here is a continuation of the new book I am writing. I’m still rather proud, and would like to continue to share bits and pieces. This particular section follows on immediately after the one I published here.
Yan Poisson was, objectively, a buffoon. Yan Poisson was, in my opinion, very attractive. His glossy hair fell in waves to his shoulders, dyed blonde at the tips. He wore dark eyeliner, deftly applied with a well-practised hand. He had abs that could grind flour. One smouldering glance from Yan Poisson could calm a yapping puppy, ease off the rain, and sweeten a cup of tea. He was, undoubtedly, very beautiful. And he had all the mental dexterity of an udder. Continue reading
I finished my last (and first!) book a few months back – it’s not published or anything, but I’m pretty fuckin’ proud of it. Anyway I was in Goa back in March and was slapped by an idea for a new story that I’m really excited about. I’ve been trying to write it while travelling, but between writing my travel diaries and doing a bit of freelance work and being drunk all the time, I’ve written about a thousand words in three months. It’ll get done eventually. But I just finished the first few pages and I’d like to share them, because I feel giddy and proud. It’s a first draft, so of course I will loathe it entirely in a day or two’s time, but for now I’m quite happy with it. Have a gander, if you fancy x
I am reluctant to publish too much of my book-in-waiting for fear that it would spoil the twists and turns of the story, but at the same time… fuck it. Continue reading
I’m reading Tender is the Night by F. Scott Fitzgerald. Every single line in the book is worthy of being typed out and framed in a gallery. It’s absolutely gorgeous and tragic and wonderful. I read the quote below this morning, near the end of the book. This one really struck out at me.
“You know, you’re a little complicated after all.”
“Oh no,” she assured him hastily. “No, I’m not really – I’m just a – I’m just a whole lot of different simple people.”
Oi, you. Yeah you. You with the nose. Stop what you’re doing right now. Stop it. Put down whatever you’re holding and back away from it, unless all you are holding is your mobile phone or laptop, in which case absolutely do not put it down and back away; instead widen your eyes and press your nose up against the screen, because I have something truly wonderful to show you, you lucky sod.
I’ve written some 6,000 words of my novella, which should be near enough 20,000 when I finish it in around six weeks. That’s right – I am almost a third of the way through. You know why? Because I am just bloody marvellous. No, it’s no use arguing. Hush. I am a marvel.
Because I have not posted anything on here for a little while, and I hate seeing my beloved blog sit empty, I’ve decided to publish the first 1000 words or so. It’s a work in progress, ‘aiight? So if you read it and think it’s about as witty and interesting as a steaming keg of ox vomit, I’d like to offer you a preemptive ‘fuck off’.
Enjoy! Continue reading
The world outside was black and sodden when the sombre clock struck midnight, and concurrent with the last vibrato of the pendulum, there was an almighty bang at my front door. I lowered my book, listening. A silent flash lit the room as I sat, and moments later a slow thunder rolled and belched in the distance. Perhaps I had imagined it. Continue reading
Let me see now, if I can recall correctly, it was about quarter past four on a bright but slightly blustery Tuesday afternoon in May when the whale swallowed me whole. Continue reading
Blackness and swirling drunk dreams of sex with people I’ve not seen or even thought about in ten years. The Mind works in mysterious ways. So does the Dick, apparently. Continue reading
Do you think you could beat your father in a fight? What about when he was in his prime? My uncle asked this very question at my father’s birthday dinner last weekend, and my father, without a hint of irony or humour, gazed straight into my eyes and told me he would ‘massacre’ me, even now. He’s 59 years old with a hernia and a beer gut, I am 25. The hubris. This simply won’t stand. Something must be done.
I am going to break your nose, old man. Not now, not today, while you’re old and feeble and your best years are behind you. There’d be no satisfaction in that, there’d be no challenge. No, father, I’m going to go back to the 1980’s, I’m going to find you, and I’m going to make you wish I’d never been born. Continue reading
I did my fly up and rinsed my hands in the sink. My paper hat was skew-whiff in the mirror. I took it off, parted my hair, repositioned it, then for the fifteenth time checked I hadn’t got any sauce on my shirt. I shook my hands dry as I turned, and through my own interminable bad luck I found myself flicking water over James Dean’s groin.
“Shit, sorry man,” I murmured as I bustled past.
“Ah, it’s nothin’,” he shrugged, undoing his belt and slinking past me into a cubicle. Continue reading