bee feast

P has gone to stick it up the G8 forgetting to drop off her keys. A spare set is apparently on its way. Otherwise she'll come back to emaciated cat, rather than just pissed-off cat which is inevitable. Pissy puss. Suspect sauna keys won't be included. Blast blast blast.

Tempted to cheer myself up by playing with camera, but I still haven't decided whether or not to keep it. Woe. So I've been cheering myself up finding people who hate the NME, childish as it may be and ridiculous to define yourself by the things you don't like instead of by the things you do. Mostly. Anyway, Thee Headcoatees hate the NME. The 'fucking' NME, no less. They have also been fucking your daughters and pissing on your lawn. Bless them.

I rather hate the Website, too. All that money floating around and the design and content are worse than ever. Just sounds like a bunch of mates arsing about. Acknowledging sources as 'our mate Ted'. That was cute for a while but now it's just indolence and arrogance. Sniff.

I hate the photo software which doesn't enable me to post pictures inbetween text. Or does it? I'll try my very best. (NB the only way it seems is to post them up, then faff with cut and paste and delete. Bloody technology.)

I hate the Inland Revenue.

I hate that I'm going to get over-familiar with 'X&Y' very, very soon and will have to stop myself listening to it for a while.

I hate all the non-food in my cupboards and fridge with the possible exception of that sherry trifle which is good until the 5th, supposedly.

I hate the horrible graveyard of back issues of magazines I wrote for that no longer exist all getting curly-edged and dismal in heaps in here.

I hate the one speaker that keeps spluttering and dying.

I hate the stupid weather.

I hate all these idiots who keep emailing me. If it was about my writing, it wouldn't be a problem. Disingenous fucks, though, saying how 'inspired' they are by my site - it's supposed to be a means to an end, there's nothing inspirational about it, they just want to know how they can make easy money and think that I'll tell them how if they butter me up a bit. Not that all of them do. Most are just like a dob in the back of the head; oi, gis yer business plan mate. Maybe they're impressed because they can't believe such a small-time operation would make money. Hur, hur. What am I, a schmuck on cross-country skis?

The next one that makes no attempt to be courteous and has at least one glaring error will get it in the neck.

Perhaps some cinematics. And some sherry trifle. Isn't this scary for a 12A?


That is genuinely fucking horrible.


That's better. She's faking it. Or is overwhelmed by psuedo-scientific bullshit.


It's the rope that does it. American Psycho was still crap, though. But not as bad as Reign of Fire. My God, that film blew. How can you go wrong with dragons? Fools.

I could really do with getting dressed up for something. Sadly my PVC trousers no longer fit. I had to get rid of my silver ones after I lost some weight - yes, there is a downside, and I was very sad. But no, not that kind of dressing up. Dressing up in a dress type dressing up. Actual lipstick type dressing up. Someone, please, gimme an occasion.

Sensible is in Perth. The Brief is readying herself to haul me out for another evening of humiliation. I must move to fucking London, sign up with some agencies, get some proper work and celebrate by purchasing some disgraceful boots for pole-dancing.

But first, soup. Nasty soup from a microwaveable pot. But with a smile. Really.

Pumpkins full of owl shit.








That's better.