Better in Profile

There's been a lot happening in the past month. The News of the World phone hacking scandal has shaken the foundations of Murdoch's global news empire. The massacre in Norway has left a nation in mourning and highlighted the threat of fascism. The death of Amy Winehouse has cloven a hole in a music industry dominated by synthetic and cynically produced acts. Harry Potter has ended*. Morrissey is still a bellend. But all this is as mud in the eyes of my Facebook friends, to whom the only topic worthy of consideration over the past few weeks has been the unearthing of my old profile pictures.

I was at first glad of their rediscovery - without wishing to sound too presumptuous, they rank amongst the most profound and nuanced examples of self-portrait photography of the 21st century, and seemed to me long overdue critical re-evaluation and recognition. Imagine my dismay, however, when it transpired that their genius had been entirely misinterpreted; the pictures themselves being received as the mere awkward and embarrassing attempts of a 14-15 year old to appear cool and interesting. In order to correct this, I'm providing you all with a once in a lifetime insight into my creative process ;a detailed commentary of the photos in question. May you enjoy, and be thankful.

Exhibit A - "Influences"

Here I've attempted to represent the varied musical influences of a modern day teenager, and the way that the contemporary appetite for nostalgia essentially erodes the earlier cultural hierarchies of the age in which they were conceived. In this case, the symbol of high-culture, the John Lennon sunglasses, is combined with the comparatively low-brow symbol of the hard rock band AC/DC, creating a cultural synthesis that defies narrow minded attempts at categorisation that social consensus attempts to impose. The clumsy background choice of my little brothers wardrobe only adds complexity to this vision.

Exhibit B - "Appetite for Destruction"

I really think I've captured the intensity of the average teenager here - the brow-furrowed stare directly into the camera lens seems almost to see through the monitor and into the viewers soul. The raised hood symbolises my innate rebelliousness - despite being an item designed to protect the head from the affects of adverse weather conditions, I've chosen to have it on indoors, defying accepted attitudes to clothing - as does the background poster of Guns 'N' Roses' 'Appetite for Destruction'. I felt this album uniquely represented me, for in many ways I too had an 'appetite for destruction'. I never actually destroyed anything, of course, but my bedroom could get pretty messy sometimes, and on occasion did a decidedly half-hearted job on the washing up.

Exhibit C - 'The Point'

'What is "The Point"?', this picture seems to ask. Is he being ironic, or genuine? Indeed, would he be more hateful if he was trying to be ironic, or genuine? With the cowprint beanbag acting as a Rorschach blot test, the pointed finger seems to switch the agency of interpretation onto the viewer - they much project their own selves onto the photo, and discover what it truly represents. And it's in black and white, which makes it all profound 'n' shit.

Exhibit D - 'Pipe Dreams'

Seemingly innocuous, closer examination reveals this to be a biting satire on the pervasiveness of drug culture upon the modern youth. Note the subtle inclusion of the plastic 'Young Sherlock Homes' pipe from the dress-up box, and the 'mushroom' haircut. The brow-furrowed stare here conveys an accusation - how have you, the viewer, allowed society to become so debauched? The raising of social issue has always been an important aspect of my work. And the pipe makes me look like a badass.

Exhibit E - The Sunday Supplement/Book Jacket Photo

In many ways this is the most radical of my works and the one that best demonstrates my uncompromising vision. It amounts to a total subversion of the purpose of a profile picture, which is supposed to show you in as likeable and attractive light as possible, by depicting me in a pose so supercilious and hateful it makes you want to tear my kneecaps off and slowly feed them to me whilst listening to Cliff Richard's 'Millennium Prayer' on repeat and giggling. It's also my mother's favourite one. She must really hate me.

*

I hope you found this insightful. Up next; all my old statuses, or why I explained my life using My Chemical Romance lyrics.

*More on this coming soon

Condomnation

Last week I went out and bought a pack of condoms. Not because I was in any increased danger of getting sex, but because I was off to an eastern european country for a week and didn't want to find myself forced to use a bit of stapled pig intestine, or whatever the local variant might have been.

Xenophobia aside, I was also a little curious. I hadn't bought any since being at Uni - walk into any student nurses office scratching your crotch and wearing the expression of a man who can't cope with child benefit payments and you'll be pelted with free packets by the fistful - and at this juncture felt it my journalistic duty to document the process. I was the Walter Kronkite of male contraception. So, coming from the gym appropriately dressed in shorts and a Batman t-shirt, I entered my local Boots and got to work.

There's a lot to appreciate about condom purchasing. It's the only item of sexual health apparatus men have to buy, and thus the marketing remains attractively simple. Whereas women have to worry about absorbency and applicators and pleated wings (I know, I've no idea either) condom marketing hasn't advanced far past the stage of STOPS SPERM to STOPS SPERM, BUT BETTER, and thus choiceaphobes like are unburdened. A spade is a spade, and a rubber fun tube is a rubber fun tube.

Brand variance is a different matter. Arriving at the relevant shelf (in the act of which the shop emptied of everyone except disapproving-looking old women) I was met with a choice between a named brand like Durex and Trojan, and the store's own brand, which was significantly cheaper.This raised the possibility of a difference in quality, which wasn't necessarily what I was after. If I by own brand cornflakes, I'm prepared to accept that they'll be just a little bit less tasty, but if buying own brand condoms means getting someone just a little bit more pregnant I might not be so prepared to fly economy. Do they work differently? Perhaps the expensive ones stop all the sperm, and the cheaper brands simply shout demotivational slogans at them as they swim through. "Call that a tail?", "You couldn't reach the uterus with a Sat-Nav", and so on.

It's the same with variety of type. All the brands offered an 'extra safe' option, which necessitates the fact that all manufacturers accept that the majority of their products could be safer, which struck me as a little unnerving, since their principal function is the provision of safety. Such knowledge makes the purchase of the 'featherlite' varieties seem not so much risky as actively flagrant. I'm surprised they don't offer one with holes in it for extra breathe-ability.

I scanned the shelf and saw that Durex offered an 'extra large' variety, demarked by a fucking massive 'XL' on the front of the packet, which seemed kind of tactless, since it meant that anyone buying them would look like a similarly gigantic tosser. I couldn't, however, see any 'XS' ones, which made sense; but then I couldn't see any on the Durex website either (this is all for research, by the way). They seemed only to be available by special order, with patronising names (it's for research, honestly) like 'Little Tiger'. All this gave the impression that having a smaller than average dick is a physical deformity requiring specialist prescription, rather than a simple fact that just under half of the male populace are faced with. Not me though, because mine can been seen from fucking space.

Finally, I observed with some bemusement the flavoured and coloured varieties. I still fail to get these on any level. For starters, I can't see any reason why someone would need to taste the condom, unless they were worried about getting pregnant from oral sex, in which case they aren't the sort of person sex was intended for in the first place. As for coloured, I've absolutely no clue. If I had to compile a list of ridiculous and humiliating-looking things I've encountered in my lifetime, both cocks and condoms would make it into the top ten. Throwing a bright, garish colour into the mix seems like the worst idea in history. You may as well scrawl a pair of school-boy cartoon tits on it while you're at it.

Anyway, after much deliberation, I made my selection (Boots own, if you're interested, but I went with the extra safe as a happy compromise), took them to the counter, and tried to look neutral and aloof as they were scanned through. At the conclusion of the purchase all the disapproving woman left to harass a fourteen year old trying to buy a porn mag at W. H. Smith's next door, and I left, glad that I wouldn't have to repeat the experience for the next six years, until moths eat through the ones in my wallet and I have to buy another packet.

A Northern Rail

Typical Northerner

I've learnt one thing since being at Uni; apparently, I'm from The North.

You see, before, I thought I came from the north - an informal and vague term describing the most northerly quarter-to-a-third of the land-area of England.

But no. According to the revised consensus, the place I actually hail from is 'The North' - a kind of turgid, boggy mass, a rugged, scuffed, anarchic post-industrial wasteland populated by slack-mouthed drooling Les Dawsons and Ken Dodds who veer between bacchanalian drunken revelry and bovine, atonal grunting. Where the air is pipe and pit-smoke, where it rains gravy, where the kids eat coal and the dogs shit barm cakes.

'Coming' from the North is akin to a kind of survival - as though you were lucky not to be picked off by spear-wielding pie-enthusiasts as you hiked over the Watford Gap. The re-patriated northerner is a civilised savage; to be commended and interacted with, but warily, in case the old instincts kick in and he lashes out after confusing you for a dollop of instant mash. If you think I'm overusing the pie and mining references, there's not much I can do. It's as deep as the stereotype goes.

Although it does have another side; 'cool, edgy North'. A fallout from it's 'Merseybeat' and subsequently 'Madchester' heydays, it's a grungy, dingy haven of intense, soulful, challenging music, haunted by the ghost of it's working class, industrialist roots. Heaven with ashtrays and Johnny Marr riffs. 'Coming' from this North is akin to spilling from the lap of Shaun Ryder himself.

Both are patently bollocks. Not so much in that they describe something that doesn't exist - but I'll tell you now, southern readers, they really fucking don't - , but in the sense that they describe something that I didn't exist in. I grew up in the one Conservative constituency in Greater Manchester, amongst private, tree-lined driveways and hockey mums in Range Rovers. Ian Brown and Johnny Marr both turned up to my parents evenings, but only because their kids went to the same treacherously affluent schools that I did. You've so much to answer for, guys.

Which means that I constantly feel guilty about saying where I come from. I have to follow it up with 'but South Manchester, posh Manchester, Cheshire, really, if I'm honest'. And then people nod, and let their faces fall. They're disappointed. I had them going for a second.

At college, I veer between having my actions explained as a result of my Northern-ness ('God, he's gone quiet again. He's so northern!' 'God, he's being surly again. He's so northern!' 'God, he's looking at us with barely suppressed loathing. He's so northern!') and being accused of 'not really being that northern'. It's like I'm an imposter. Like I've been trying to deceive them. I've failed to live up to a stereotype that doesn't really exist and have thus disappointed people. Again, the fucking temerity of me.

At the same time, there's part of me that desperately wants to be part of this stereotype, and fights desperately against any further distance placed between me and it. Last week I did a play that required me to speak in RP. After a couple of rehearsals doing the voice and hearing it used all around me, a terrible thing happened. I began using the 'ar' pronunciation. Grass became gr'ar'ss. Laugh became 'l'ar'ugh'. Past became 'p'ar'st. I was frantic. Desperate to reclaimed that shortened, heavenly 'a', I began running over the proper inflection in my head...and couldn't remember where it belonged. What about half? Did I ever say 'haff'? Or 'caff'? Shit, how do you even say barm cake? What if it's supposed to be 'baam' cake? How do I even speak?

Luckily the play ended and the 'a's returned. But the point stands. The burden of stereotype is too much. Is it too much to ask just to be able to say where I'm from, and not be patronised or accused of artifice in the process? You know who's to blame. Those fucking southerners.

(Although as t turns out I'm actually Australian. So forget all that.)

This will be the last entry until at least June the 25th. Platt has exams. Pray for him.

Life Before I.D.

Let me tell you about what happened the other night. A bunch of my friends and I gathered in a mutually-agreed upon place and consumed various kinds of legally-acquired alcohol. From there we then moved on to a local club, danced and sweated for a few hours, and unless any of us had ensnared another inhabitant, we walked home, sat around for a bit, and went to bed.

Which is funny actually because it sort of reminds me of a time a couple of nights prior to that, where a bunch of my friends and I gathered in a mutually-agreed upon place and consumed various kinds of legally-acquired alcohol. From there we then moved on to a local club, danced and sweated for a few hours, and unless any of us had ensnared another inhabitant, we walked home, sat around for a bit, and went to bed.

Which makes the previous night look all the more out of character, because that night some of us went out for a meal and discussed interesting topics of the moment, and afterwards we gathered in a mutually-agreed upon place and consumed various kinds of legally-acquired alcohol. From there we then moved on to a local club, danced and sweated for a few hours, and unless any of us had ensnared another inhabitant, we walked home, sat around for a bit, and went to bed.

I'm being cattivo, of course. None of this is meant to disparage the individuals involved, all of whom are peerlessly interesting and enlightening people compared to whom I am an amoeba squirming in their wake, and any one of whom I would give my right arm to spend time with. It's not like I'm any less accountable, anyway. Sure, I might chip in with the odd cynical remark to make the night interesting, and I always make a point of never getting with anyone as a form of protest against the whole standard nightlife experience (yes, I am that dedicated) but when it comes to actually suggesting anything different I give nothing. I'm a clueless pawn, like the rest of them. I even enjoy myself, occasionally. At least for the five minutes when Flo Rida's 'Low' comes on, because I enjoy nothing more than the feeling of encroaching premature arthritis in the knees.

But I am trying to raise a point. It's a suggestion, really; one that's been niggling and growing in the back of my head for a few months now, slowly gnawing at my subconscious and filling me with a cold, clammy dread.

Was life better before I.D?

The years I spent in secondary education were, as were everybody's, defined entirely by a search for sex and fake identification. Well, maybe this is more true of men than it is of women. Not in the respect that they are less pursuing of sex, a view my reconstruction as an enlighted 21st century being has proven pretty much false; but more in the respect that the moment they become conscious of the light cleft that runs down the middle of their chests, bouncers and checkout clerks cease to be any sort of issue. They may as well have a signs declaring them as 'Pope Jesus Superman' for the ease with which they enter clubs and acquire booze.

The I.D problem was an especially pressing one for me, since I was a summer baby and thus didn't come of age until after my school career was over. One top of that I looked like a foetus in a David Cassidy wig, and had a brother who considered borrowing trainers to take the garbage out with an offence deserving of capital punishment, so borrowing his and getting away with it to boot were both remote possibilities.

So I was reduced to, variously, petty thievery (for which I was caught and very nearly executed by both parents and brother) begging and borrowing, (trying to enter 'Zoo' on a trip to London with an I.D declaring me to be 'Daniel Thomas' from 'East Lanarkshire University' whilst standing behind Daniel Thomas was a particular highlight) doctoring, (my friend Edan did a mean trade in sellotaped '1's for the troublesome 1992 birthdate) breaking and entering (badly-cordoned smoking areas; a godsend) dodgy internet ordered licenses, blind chance, and a whole lot of pouting ("Hold on...wait, are those cheekbones I can see on you sire? Go right ahead"). If you want to see how much dignity man is prepared to sacrifice for the chance of a Vodka Red-Bull and a bit of tonsil-hockey with a 3 out of 10, an hour stood outside Sankey's on a Saturday night should provide as many examples as you'll ever need.

But after almost a year spent over the legal age-limit, I'm re-assessing. Sure, the years from 14-17 were frustrating, aimless and took me to the brink of almost total self-pity and unmerited, solipsistic angst. But we'rent they, at the end of it all, just a little more fun?

Alcohol; I can get my hands on a cornucopia of the stuff in under five minutes, drink myself into a puking, weeping oblivion in a good half-hour, and for what? I have to max out my bank account to do so, am largely forced to drink ludicrous quantities of stuff that tastes like a battery that's learnt to piss , and all so I can become the tool I've always feared I am on the inside for maybe 20 minutes before I begin to sober up and feel awful again. Not so when you're 14, when alcohol's rarity imbibes every drop with a delicious thrill, when the sheer novelty of intoxication fills you with a sense of the utmost well-being, convinces you of a deep inner harmony with the rest of the world, and, when you inevitably throw up all over yourself, it's accepted as a reasonable conclusion to the night rather than a source of crippling embarrassment.

Clubbing; an activity only really appreciated by people who shouldn't be there in the first place. I go now and all I can think about is how long the queue is, how shit and familiar the music is, how sweaty and awful the rooms are, how disgusting and fetid the people are, how tempted I am to shove a clawed hand deep into my anus, withdraw a coiled, steaming mass of bowel and run around in circles screaming, just to provide some semblance of novelty. When you're 14, 15, 16, it's a paradise. High on the adrenaline of a successful entry, you're charmed by the music, numbed by the alcohol, entranced by the possibility of coitus; and you leave thinking you've seen humanity at it's apex, have met with something large and profound that has changed your life forever. Or maybe that was just me.

But above all...if I look back over the handful I've years I've spent pursuing nightlife...I don't remember the clubs. I don't remember the bars, or the drinks, or the music. I remember the night where I skipped the length of the Millennium Bridge. I remember the night I threw a can of beans through a window, and was driven through Manchester in search of prostitutes and ended up with a broken office chair. I remember the night we renamed our school ALTRINCHAM GRAMMAR SCHOOL FOR BENDERS using white paint, and pissed on the flagpole. I remember being tied to a chair and eating sausage rolls in the A&E car park. I remember sitting around in someone's back-garden singing 'Walk on the Wild Side' and having an utterly pretentious but satisfying conversation about love and poetry. I remember being dragged at 30 miles an hour down the middle of the road on a sled tied to a car. I remember sitting on walls and pissing on doorhandles and thinking I was cool.

I would trade any amount of Jaeger-bombs and Half-Price Tuesdays for one of those moments. I was naive and stupid and never accomplished anything. But I jived, man.

And after you've jived, what more can you say?

Overarsing Pride: An Abridgment of Ulysses

Once upon a time and a very mixed time it was there was a writer coming down along the road and this writer that was coming down along the road had a strangeuns little idea named Ulysses...

This idea grew and grew and grew until it was no longer very little but still very strangeuns. It was unloved by most and loved very much too much by others because when it was good it was very very good and when it was bad it was horrid. And one day in Easter the strangeuns little book for a book and a big book it was met me.

And I had a strangeuns little idea of my own. Perhaps thought I I would take the strangeuns book and make it into a not so strangeuns blog post so people wouldn't think it was so strangeuns. So I did.

Yes. I'm condensing Ulysses. I've been as faithful as my patience will allow.

* * *

ONE

Smarmy fat-man Buck Mulligan stood at the top of the stairs with a shaving bowl and some Catholic symbolism. “Come up Kinch, you scary celebrant!" he cried. Sleepy Stephen came up the stairs and got an eyeful of gold teeth. Ludacris. "How long is Haines going to be here?" he asked."He keeps having wet dreams about panthers." "Look at the sea!" cried Mulligan, ignoring him, "Doesn't it make you feel all insensitive about the death of your friend's mother?" Stephen thought about that for a bile. "Mate, you were well out of line there," he said. "Oh get over yourself" said Mulligan, advice Stephen rather spectacularly failed to heed. They went down to breakfast. A milkmaid arrived at the door with a pair of heaving jugs but sadly the oppertunity to become a bad porn film was missed. They went for a walk instead. "I heard you've got a jolly interesting theory about Hamlet," said Haines. "I'll tell you about it sometime," said Stephen. Mulligan hurried along, singing about Jesus. "Boy, this is awkward," said Haines, after a while. "You can say that again," said Stephen. Eventually they reached the water. "Fancy a swim?" asked Buck. "Nah, I think that'd make things more awkward, to be honest. I'll see you guys later." Stephen walked off, looking back only to see Mulligan pulling off a knarly longdrop. Usurfer.

TWO

"Oi, Cochran, what city sent for him?" "Tarentum, sir, but aren't you supposed to be teaching us?" But Stephen would rather have a good old think. It was kind of his thing. "Do we have to sit here, sir, or do you mind if we go and play some hockey?" "No, fine. But before you go, has anyone heard the one about the fox who buried his own grandmother?" No one had. "Pwease siw, I need help wiv my algebwa!" says Sargant. "Jesus Christ Sargant, aren't there supposed to be different schools specifically for people like you?" asked Stephen, "Run along and play some hockey." He wandered off to find Mr. Deasy, the schoolmaster. "Ay, it's payin' ye be wanting? Here's three shillings. Isn't money great?" Stephen, inevitably, was thinking about something else. "Do you mind taking this letter to be printed? I've got a theory that foot and mouth disease is caused by women and jews. I think it'll go down well." "I disagree," said Stephen, "Y'see (For Academy Consideration Quotation:) HISTORY IS A NIGHTMARE FROM WHICH I AM TRYING TO AWAKE." "You really are a pretentious arse, aren't you Stephen?" said Deasy. "Be off with you."

THREE

Stephen had a bit of a think. Stephen saw some women. Stephen had a bit of a think. Stephen had a bit of a think. Stephen had a bit of a think. Stephen saw a dead dog. Stephen saw a living dog. Stephen had a bit of a think. Stephen had a piss. Stephen picked his nose. Stephen had a bit of a think.

FOUR

Leopold Bloom loved to eat out birds. In both ways. He made breakfast. "Alright pussens!" he said to his cat. "Meccano!" said the cat. Bloom was a bit afraid of his cat. Upstairs his wife turned over in bed. He decided to go out for some breakfast. He bought a kidney, read some adverts, and thought about Jewishness. Coming back, he put his kidney on to fry and brought some tea up and a letter for his wife. "Poldy, what does metempsychosis mean?" she asked. "Well it means - my kidney!" Bloom cried, running downstairs to save it. He read a letter from his daughter, and though about his son instead. This sort of thing tended to happen a lot. He took the paper and went outside for a shit. It was a pleasing shit.

FIVE

Bloom went to the post office and picked up a letter addressed to Henry Flower (Geddit? Bloom? Flower? Clever). "Hello Bloom!" said M'Coy, accosting him. M'Coy really was an irritating shit. "You hear Paddy Dignam's dead?" he asked. "Mmm," said Bloom, reading an advert to distract him. "Put my name down for the funeral, would you?" asked M'Coy, finally getting the hint and buggering off. Maybe he's a keys in a bowl kind of guy, wondered Bloom. He opened his letter. It had a flower in it. It's contents were saucy to say the least. He went and sat down in a church and thought about some bloke called Carey. He headed out and bought himself a bar of soap. He bumped into Bantam Lyons on the way out. "Have it, I was just going to throw it away," said Bloom, giving him the paper and a whole lot else whose significance wouldn't be revealed until much later. Joyce, you sly dog. Then Bloom headed for a bath. He imagined his penis floating on the surface like a flower. If you've never seen one before, don't assume this is an accurate comparison.

SIX

Bloom sat in a carriage with a bunch of other people, including our boy Stephen's father, Simon. They were part of the funeral procession. Bloom checked his soap and was just about to cut his teeth on some serious conversation when all of a sudden Reality burst open the door and sat down in the cab. Reality was a hard-looking kid with eyes that had seen too much trouble and a face that had seen too few razors. "Listen Bloom," he said, "Hate to interrupt, but do you mind if we speed things up a little?" "How come," asked Bloom. "Well, see, thing is," says Reality, "We're almost a hundred pages in and if I'm gonna be honest, not much has really happened yet. I mean, they make students read this book. They've got essays to write on it. Some might even be summarising it for a humourous blog. We all love the wordplay and the naughty letters and the shitting and things, we really do, but you're gonna have to throw us a bone here. Can we have a bit of action?" At that moment the carriage was thrown onto its side by a huge explosion. "Will that do?" asked Bloom. "Perfect," said Reality, "Let' go."

SEVEN

IN THE HEART OF THE HIBERNIAN METROPOLIS

Bloom and Reality stumbled out from the broken wreckage of the funeral carriage and glanced down the street. At the end of it stood a tankful of I.R.A members. Spotting them, the turret began to swivel in their direction. "GET DOWN!" cried Reality, pulling Bloom by his cuffs behind an overturned vegetable cart just as the section of street they'd been standing on blew to pieces.

THRILLING! BUT PRESSING QUESTIONS NEED ANSWERING

"Hang on," asked Bloom, "What's with all these floating sentences?" "I've no idea," said Reality, "I assume it's some sort of laboured literary device. Now come on, we need to find Stephen. Last I heard he was at the beach." Checking that the coast was clear, he ran out from behind his cover to pick up a discarded Harley Davidson that was lying by the water pump.

NON-TANGENTIAL BUT SOMEHOW APT

"But they haven't been invented yet!" cried Bloom. Reality scowled at him. "Listen mate, it is possible to do this thing without you. I've had to fly out specially from a cushy job in rural 19th century England sexing up Middlemarch. I've got a splitting headache and three hungry mouths to feed back home. Just get on the fucking motorcycle."

NO MORE THE MELANCHOLY LONG WITHDRAWING ROAR

They sped off toward the beach. Bloom could see people running from the volley of explosions coming from behind them. He held on tightly to Reality's waist. Arriving at the shore Reality halted the motorcycle and looked around. It was deserted. "Shit," he said. "CWAACK! You've just missed him, CWAACK! He's gone to the library! CWAAACK!" said a nearby seagull.

SOME THINGS ARE JUST PUSHING IT

Reality looked at Bloom. "You were gonna say something about the talking seagull, weren't you?" he said. "No, I swear," said Bloom.

EIGHT

They sped through the streets of Dublin, Reality's hair whipping Bloom's face. "Jesus, this city," said Reality. "Inpenetrable. Still, could be worse. I was in Moscow last Summer doing War and Peace. Didn't even have a Nando's." "Speaking of Nando's," Bloom piped up, "Do you mind if we grab a bite to eat? My stomach's killing me." "You and your stomach," said Reality. "You'd need a sodding chart to sort out your urges." He swerved to avoid a blind man in the middle of the road "Try Weightwatchers. Worked wonders for the missus. She's got an arse like toddler's nut-sack now."

NINE

"The time has come," said Stephen, "For Stephen Dedalus' Big Theory of Hamlet." "This better be good," said the famous poet, A&E. "We've waited eight bloody chapters for it." "Okay," said Stephen, clambering up upon one of the stepladders in front of Sci-Fi and Fantasy, "Here goes. You know how everyone thinks Hamlet is Shakespeare, right? Well, it's my opinion that in actual fact, Shakespeare's pet Beagle Chumly-;" "EVERYONE GET DOWN. I'VE GORRA BOMB!" shouted a voice from the entrance. It was another I.R.A man, wrapped in layers of plastic explosive. "WHICH ONEAYEA CUNTS IS STEPHEN DEDALUS?" "Well see, what you're really questioning there is the fallacy of identity," replied Stephen. "Yes, my name is Stephen Dedalus, but am I my name? Am I this phonetic mass, this lexical substance? As Shakespeare wrote, what's in a name? I believe it was Nietzsche who wrote-;" "Oh, pipe down you speccy tit!" called a voice, and they all looked around to see Reality and Bloom speeding up the aisle on the Harley in a whirl of loosened pages. "Get on the bike. I'll explain later." Bloom pulled Stephen onto the seat behind him and they made it through the back exit just as the I.R.A man detonated himself, pulping the works of a thousand dead arses with a single push on the detonator.

TEN

A priest was on a train. He got off. He saw a couple coming out of the bushes. He wished them well

*

Corney Kellner had a goosey at a coffin lid. He chatted to a policeman.

*

A sailor with one leg was walking down the-; "WOW WOW WOW, what is this shit!" cried Reality. "We're having enough trouble with just two characters! I mean, really! They sound like the set-ups to bad jokes. Without the jokes. Get back to the story."

ELEVEN

called Reality to Bloom and

tarpaulin they walked into the

Juice," he said, turning to the barmaid. "I've

this bloke, and why are the I.R.A

here to keep things moving" "It does

like plot intrigue. Gets the ball

EXECUTE EVERY MOTHERFUCKING

"Sorry about that," called Reality to Bloom and Stephen, skidding to a halt outside of a bar. "We have to ditch the bike. They might be tailing us." After stowing it in an alleyway under a bit of tarpaulin they walked into the bar. "Act natural," said Reality, crossing over to the bar. "It's Guinness you guys drink isn't it? I'll have two pints of Guinness and a Cranberry Juice," he said, turning to the barmaid. "I've got an ulcer." "So, why are we here?" asked Stephen, once they'd all settling into a little booth. "Whose this bloke, and why are the I.R.A after us?" "Bloom? He's the protagonist," Reality told him. "But, I thought-;" began Stephen, but he cut him off. "We'll have none of that. You've had one sodding book already. Look it up. As for the I.R.A, I don't know why their after you. I'm just here to keep things moving" "It does seem odd," said Bloom. "Dublin's strongly Fenian. Why would they attack it? Plus there's the fact they don't exist yet." "Ah, see, a bit of plot intrigue," said Reality. "We like plot intrigue. Gets the ball rolling." At that point the piano cut out. They turned around to see Simon Dedalus standing up from the keys, brandishing a tommy-gun at them. "NONE OF YOU PRICKS MOVE," he yelled, "OR I'LL EXECUTE EVERY MOTHERFUCKING LAST ONE OF YEH!"

TWELVE

I was just passing the time of the day with the aid of a frosty cold one when all of a sudden old Simon the piano player got up and let forth a volley of swearing the likes of which you never did see. He was brandishing a gun as big as yer arm in the face of his boy, Stephen, who was flanked by that filthy kike Leopold Bloom and another bloke who looked like he'd dressed for the wrong century. "Father?...Why?" asked Stephen. "Don't ask questions," growled Simon, "What is it with you and your fecking questions?" "But, I don't...why?" Stephen stammered. "Be more direct. Ask him who he's working for," Reality piped up from the back, "Remember, condensed dialogue adds tension." "Who the feck is this?" Simon asked. "There's no time to explain," Reality snapped. "We've overrun as it is. Either throw down the gun and embrace him or shoot someone." After a moments hesitation, Simon fired, throwing Reality into the wall of the bar in a spray of crimson. "REALITY!" cried Bloom, running over to him, as Simon threw the gun down and ran out into the street. Reality's eyes struggled to fix on Bloom's face. "Do...one thing for me?" he asked, blood trickling out the corner of his mouth. "Kill the...inconsequential first-person narrator. "Whoa, hang on a bit!" I cried, but it was too late; Bloom had picked the gun up from the floor and sheared my face away with a single squeeze of the trigger.

THIRTEEN

The lovely luscious summer evening was spreading its sundown beauty on the sandy beach. Three young girls were enjoying the reddish rays when all of a sudden they spotted two darkly handsome but bloodstained individuals coming toward them across the sand. "Hellooo ladies!" said Bloom. Stephen cut him off. "Have any of you seen an erroneous talking seagull who provides exposition?" he asked. "We've lost our plot impetus and we need to keep moving." The girls looked at him sympathetically. "Well, there was a beached kipper who offered sound financial planning but to be honest I'm not sure he's really the sort of thing you're after," one of them replied. "I could be your beached kipper," Bloom told her, raising his eyebrows and twiddling his moustache, but Stephen grabbed him by the shoulder and frogmarched him off. There was an explosion heard from far off. "That'll be the tower. They must be trying to destroy possible hideouts. Why would-; oh LEOPOLD!" he shouted, spotting Bloom sheepishly mopping himself up with his shirt tail. "You are truly disgusting. You just couldn't contain yourself, could you. Now come on, I think I've found us somewhere we can both hide and seek our adversaries," he went on, pulling Bloom down the beach toward where a nicely convenient hot-air balloon was tethered. Woohoo, woohoo, woohoo.

FOURTEEN

[NOTE TO READERS: This section attempts to embody the entire gestation of the English Language. No attempt to incorporate or emulate it has been made. I hope you don't mind.]

After quickly dispatching of the attendant they were up in the air within fifteen minutes. They drifted silently over the streets and buildings of Dublin. Stephen scanned below him with a pair of binoculars. "Hmm. It seems the street are clear. The I.R.A have just left. I wonder if..." But he trailed off. He could hear a terrible sound from behind him. He turned to see a fleet of WW1 era biplanes bearing down on them. "Get behind me!" yelled Bloom, pulling out the tommy-gun and returning fire. The first one tore past, puncturing the wicker basket in a volley of fire. The second attempted a direct collision but Bloom managed to get a round inside the engine and it disappeared in a billow of flame just inches beyond the basket. Stephen cried in triumph, but at that moment the third plane sent a barrage of bullets into the canvas bag, and it ignited. Bloom, Stephen and the basket were thrust downwards, spinning into space, hurtling towards Dublin below them, crying out, thrashing, the basket whirling, whirling...

FIFTEEN

(Midnight. A brothel. The patrons are quietly enjoying their money's worth when a large basket crashes through the roof and deposits two men onto the floor)

BLOOM

Urgh...where are we? Oh, wait, I know.

STEPHEN

Oh, not these. I had enough trouble with these in Portrait.

BLOOM

In what?

STEPHEN

Never mind. We have to get out of here.

(There comes a loud banging on the door.)

I.R.A CRONIES

Open up! We know you're in here!

BLOOM

We need to hide! Quickly! Stephen, you play the piano, I'll dress up as a girl and pretend to get buggered by one of the clients!

STEPHEN

Why?

BLOOM

I might not get another chance.

STEPHEN

Fair enough.

(They get into position.)

BLOOM

(In falsetto:) Come iiiiin!

(Enter the I.R.A Cronies.)

I.R.A. CRONIES

Oh, sorry to disturb. We thought you were housing some undesirables.

BLOOM

Oh, that's quite alright. Why don't you stay and have a go on me for your trouble? On the house?

(Suddenly, Stephen's mother' ghost rises up from the floor in front of him.)

STEPHEN'S MOTHER'S GHOST

Stephen! Why didn't you love me?

STEPHEN

Oh, christ!

(Picking up his walking stick, he crashes it into the chandelier)

I.R.A. CRONIES

Oh, wait a moment! It is you! Grab 'em boys!

BLOOM

Oh Stephen, you collosal tit. I was in there.

SIXTEEN

Bloom and Stephen, blindfolded and handcuffed, were stuffed into a back of a van and driven in silence for almost an hour. When they stopped and the blindfolds were taken off, they were inside a cabman's shelter. Sitting around them almost a hundred I.R.A. men, stony faced and impassive. Simon Dedalus was there too, trying not to make eye-contact. The two who had escorted them walked to the end of the shelter and knocked on a door set into wall. After a moment, Buck Mulligan came out. "You?" choked Stephen. Mulligan smiled. "Yes, Stephen I see your power of perception have not yet deserted you. It is indeed, Senor Mulligano." "What do you want with us?" Bloom spat. "Manners, Leopold, please. We're not savages here are we?" He dragged a chair over to where they were sitting and placed himself astride it, staring down at him. "Well, what I want with you in the long run is for you both to be dead and in at least sixteen different pieces at the bottom of the Liffey, but we can save the unpleasantries for dessert. No, what I really wanted to ask you, Bloom, is how you came to know about the Throwaway project."

SEVENTEEN

The what?

"Don't play coy with me, Leopold!" cried Mulligan. "M'Coy told me all about your little coded reference. You thought you were being mighty smart didn't you?" He kicked the chair away in a fury and thrust his face into Bloom's, his lips brushing his moustache. "Listen, I don't know how you got wind of our group's mutual fetish for sodomising family pets and dumping them in the ocean, but you're not going to use it to destroy our professional careers!" "So that was where that dead dog on the beach came from!" called Stephen. "Yes, we had to get you out of the picture as well, you nosey little deviant!" Mulligan snapped at him, his eyes bulging. "But now you've seen through our patriotic guise, I'm afraid we can suffer your existence no longer. Simon, you can do the honours!" Simon nodded, and took the tommy-gun he'd retrieved from Bloom after his capture from the back of the van. "Look like this is it, pal," said Bloom, his eyes filling with tears. "You fancy one last piss to play us out by?" "You've got it, old friend," said Stephen. So together, they unclenched their bladders and embraced themselves in a final patch of urine, as Simon Dedalus raised the gun and fixed his finger around the trigger

• 
  

EIGHTEEN

But all was not lost because at that moment I Harpington Brierson the infamous talking seagull from section seven came swooping in through the window clutching a large golden box in my claws and crying for Bloom and Stephen to close their eyes which they did and crashing the box against the wall which burst open and melted everyones faces like in Raiders of the Lost Ark and dropping it I wheeled around to face Bloom and Stephen whose handcuffs had melted away and who said thanks for saving us you came in the nick of time and I said that's my specialty did Reality make it and they shook their heads and I said well you can make a good modernist epic without breaking a few eggs before turning and flying toward the window and they called after me saying where are you going and I said I have a bit of business to attend to and I flew out over the houses and the streets and across the seas and centuries until I came to the window of a room where inside a student was slumped over his laptop and flew in and seeing me he clasped his bludgeoned fingers together and said please can I stop now oh please and yes I said yes you can Yes.

My Bedroom

2011

Kidshit: I Pointed, I Clicked, I Conquered

I remember nothing of my life aged five.

Which is a little sad, because five was the last full year of my life spent in Australia. I should have a clutch of memories unfuzzied by the fronds of infancy and unsullied by the sordid fetters of adolescence. Memories of gum trees and ice cream and other fine th’angs.

Alas. Leave that to the boring, normal kids. When I was five my life was made up of 16 bit pixels. Five was the year I discovered video games.

Or more accurately, five was the year I discovered video games from over my brother’s shoulder. He controlled the consoles like a benevolent dictator. I was the gratefully oppressed citizen. I loved Big Brother.

But I loved the games more.

And aged five, the apex of my love was The Secret of Monkey Island.

The Secret of Monkey Island is a point ‘n’ click adventure game. Point ‘n’ click adventure games, you’ll be pleased to hear, mainly involve a lot of pointing and clicking. Already the genre is expressing a refreshing honesty about its content that distinguishes it from its peers, such as the ‘football spreadsheet’ game and the ‘build-an-armory-and-drag-a-box-to-highlight-the-20-little-men-that-come-out-then-click-on-someone-elses-armory-and-watch-as-they-have-all-the-fun-instead’ game, which tend to go by other, more elusive names.

In practice, they are games where you play as a person stranded in some sort of strange land. The ‘playing’ part involves walking around clicking on the scenery. And picking things up. And clicking these things onto other things. And desperately praying something will happen. Very occasionally, something does.

An example; you might walk into a dungeon and find a skeleton. Clicking on the skeleton means you pick up a bone. Later on, a large dog blocks your path. At which point, recognising the puzzle you click the bone on the dog, and are allowed to proceed. Simple.

We played Monkey Island for six months and we never got past the first island.

Let me put that into context; to get off the first island you have to complete ‘The Three Tasks’ set to you by a gang of Important-Looking Pirates. We never completed a single task.

In retrospect, it’s hard to see why it was our favourite game.

Although maybe it was because you played as a character called Guybrush Threepwood. And maybe it was because characters like the important-looking pirates were called the Important-Looking Pirates. And maybe it was because you always got several optional sentences to say when you spoke, and at least one of which would have you rolling around on the floor with Icy-pole juice coming out your nose. And maybe it was because sword-fighting involved trading hilarious insults with other pirates, and victory would depend on how good you were (answer; never as good as the game). And maybe it was because one of the pirates in the bar had a badge that said ‘Ask Me About LOOM’ and would do nothing other than delivering an extended sales pitch for the company’s previous point ‘n’ click game, LOOM. And maybe it was because the bad-guy was a ghost pirate named Le Chuck. And maybe it was because the town sherriff was called Fester Shinetop. And maybe it was because you could speak to the dog by woofing. And maybe it was because you could get shot through cannon with a pot on your head. And maybe because it deserved to be loved.

Later on in life, when the internet stopped being the deformed, genetically deficient child of the house and became a fully-fledged member of the family, I discovered walkthroughs and was finally able to see the 97% of the game I hadn't seen before. My pre-pubescent heart-fluttering matured into a oak-y, fermented love that I harbour to this day. They deserve more recognition.

I can understand their slow slide into obscurity. The games industry has changed so much in the last 20 years that they don't even look like games anymore. For one thing, they are startlingly slow to modern eyes. In an age where you can be on another planet in 2 seconds with a casual flick of an 'A' button, taking at least half-a-minute to get from one side of the screen to the other can seem a difficult transition to make. A bit like graduating to a 750 page modernist novel after an easter spent reading nothing but your Facebook wall and any comical graffiti left on the inside of pub toilets (which might go a little way to explaining the current state of my grades).

And they are quite staggeringly hard. I can't really underestimate it. I'd say about half of you reading this have played video games before, and you probably think you've experienced hard. At the risk of sounding like a swaggering tool, I'm going to say it. You haven't seen anything yet.

An example, from the game King's Quest VI. You have to solve the puzzle of the Cliffs of Logic. You aren't told why. Solving it involves diligently working out clues buried in the game's manual and clicking on each individual foothold, in order. If you've lost the manual, you'll never finish the game. If you click the wrong, or even around the right foothold, you fall to your death. Arriving at the top of the cliff, you're thrown almost immediately into a labyrinth and told to vanquish a minotaur. There's no way out of the labyrinth unless by reverting to an earlier save game. The labyrinth is full of traps. You avoid them, literally, by just guessing. In order to progress, you'll have to make, in all, forty-eight correct directional guesses in a row. You'll also need a lamp, a brick, and a red rag, in order to solve further puzzles. These are items placed casually all over the rest of the game. There is no one telling you to find them. There is no one telling you you need them. If you want to get them, you have to revert to an earlier save, solve the cliffs again and find your way back through the labyrinth. If you're missing even one of them, you'll never leave the labyrinth. Inside the labyrinth there are also three more items you need later in the game. There is no one telling you to find them. There is no one telling you you need them. If you're missing even one of them, you'll never finish the game.

Incidentally, the target market was 8-15 year olds.

But you should still play them,despite all of this. Because they are some of the most lovingly designed, detailed, immersive, challenging, rewarding and just plain bloody spectacular things ever to have existed. So next time you're thinking of going for some exercise or having a bit of sex, say, no: today I shall play video games. But for God's sake, pack a walkthrough.

And thank you to anyone still indulging me in these little digressions. For fans of the 'early, funny ones' I've got some more lowbrow subject matter for you next time - a 750 page modernist novel. Yes I am that much of a tool.

Faux-Folk

Up and down the land, people are rejoicing. The sandals are coming out again. The beards are blossoming on the chins. The smell of incense and herbal tea and loamy, unwashed kaftans is in the air.

Folk is back.

Folk is back! Hear the cry ringing in the street! Hear it in the newspapers! Hear it on the radiowaves! Hear it on the lips of the fresh-faced flower braided beautiful ones, my dear brothers, because the dam has broken, the rain has come, the prodigal sound has returned! Folk is back!

Mumford and Sons! Laura Marling! Noah and the Whale! Villagers! More Fleet Foxes! That second album from Bombay Bicycle Club!

Folk is back! Long live fooooooolk!

...to which I say, bollocks. Folk is dead.

No, that’s not quite right. To be exact; folk has died, and come back as a sputtering, barely sentient embryo.

Folk is not back. Not yet.

The actual value of these acts is nothing compared to the praise and benediction heaped upon them by the press. When Sigh No More was released journalists climbed over each other to see which of them could blow its virtues the furthest out of proportion. When I Speak Because I Can followed it, they went a step further and tried to actually blow it; sucking on the corners of the CD sleeve to see if they could somehow give it oral pleasure. I’m sure there’s a video of it somewhere online.

About a month back, the review supplement of the Telegraph stuck Marling on the front cover (pictured in front of a field of wheat because, hey! Wheat is organic! And folk is acoustic! And acoustic is sort of like...organic music! Yeah! It’ll go well with your organic marmalade and your pomegranate juice! Look at you, saving the planet from the comfort of your Aga heated kitchen! You little Trojan you!) and announced that she heralded ‘The Return of Folk’. Accompanying the article itself was a picture chart, detailing ‘The Highs and Lows of British Folk’, showing the fluctuating quality of famous folk acts before finishing up with Marling achieving a high not seen since the likes of Nick Drake.

I’ll sidestep the issue of how patronising this must be to all the other folk artists operating in Britain over the last 40 years (being based on the assumption that it is quality, rather than public taste, which changes over time) and get right to the point.

Now I like Marling. A lot. I think she’s talented and interesting and when she looks directly into the camera when performing she makes me feel a bit gooey. I also, begrudgingly, like Mumford. Begrudgingly because their proliferation of major chords and lilting voices makes them impossible not to like, regardless of quality. It’s aural pancake batter.

But my God, they are far too fucking cosy.

Like me you probably haven’t paid much attention to Mumford’s lyrics, nullified into a happy stupor by their fluffy-butter sound. But take a look.

Love that will not betray you,
dismay or enslave you,
It will set you free
Be more like the man
you were made to be.

In these bodies we will live, in these bodies we will die
Where you invest your love, you invest your life.

And I'll find strength in pain
And I will change my ways

Cause I need freedom now
And I need to know how
To live my life as it's meant to be.

Christ. They sound like they’re singing the words of Chicken Soup for the Soul

Here’s my issue. Folk isn’t supposed to be cosy. Though the term is vague, in its current incarnation it basically applies to a strand of popular music that is based, both musically and lyrically, upon traditional acoustic music. Folk is usually a mash up of several of these – it might incorporate aspects of Delta blues, Irish ditties, English ballads, or anything that pre-dates rock and is not descended from the classical or jazz traditions. The strongest, most unified Folk movement in recent memory ran from the 1930’s to the early 1970’s– from Woodie Guthrie and Pete Seeger up until folk bands of the late 60’s began experimenting and became psychedelic, progressive or just popular rock.

But the crucial thing about folk music is that it comes from the people. That’s what folk means (it’s an Anglo-Saxon word actually, folc. Look at me being all smug. Ho Ho). And it is not cosy music, It’s angry music. English and Irish ballads are all about people sleeping with each other’s wives and getting stabbed to death. Blues is all about how shit it is to live in a world controlled by rich white guys. 1930’s-60’s folk was protest music, against first the anti-unionists, then the HUAC, then nuclear war, then Vietnam. When folk fell out of popular favour the spirit it incorporated surfaced in genres such as punk, grunge and rap.

But now folk is coming back into popular favour. And we are badly in need of music that says something about the times we live in; about a world in the midst of financial recession, religious fundamentalism, environmental abuse and pointless war. Something to counter all the years of hipster-naval gazing that has made up most of the 21st century.

Folk doesn’t need to be cosy. It needs to grow some teeth.

It has potential. Mumford just need to get some new lyricists. Laura Marling needs about two or three years to get really good. I think she’ll do it. I have faith.

Plus it’ll mean I get to wear my kaftan again. Huzzah!