A few words on 2009
A few words on the subject
A few words on the subject
The collected
ill-informed drivel
of
Richard Asplin
A few words on 2010
A few words on 2011
A few words on trenches, Austen, buses and your appalling taste in music
Wednesday 1st Feb 2012
A Few Words On January 2012
Hello all. It’s me again.
Crikey moses, I’ve been bothering you a lot this year. Noticed that? After 6 months of complete radio silence - (“Trust the captain, trust the crew.” – West Wing reference about submarines for about 5 of you) – this is now 2012's sixth post of ill-informed drivel. How can this be?
Well the only explanations I can find (an expression that now has me humming “top of the world” by, I think, The Carpenters? Is it The Carpenters? I don’t know. Or is it from the musical HAIR? I don’t know. I’m sure someone out there will tell me). Anyway, the only explanations I can find are:
a. I now have fumfty more hours in the day since I’ve stopped going out for coffee and a Lucky Strike Blue every 15 minutes.
b. I now have my mornings and afternoons back since I’ve stopped pouring criminally large amounts of Rioja and/or Fosters into my face
c. Continued absence of emails from the producers of “The Fixer” mean I have considerably less to do in my free time
d. I still can’t to grips with my new novel idea
e. I started reading Pride & Prejudice and am therefore less likely to be scurrying back to reading every five minutes the way I usually do with gripping thrillers of the Robert Ludlum / Ira Levin mould.
Only a few bits of twaddle to irritate you with today.
Birdsong, Sebastian Faulks (1993 Hutchinson)
This was one of those books that seemed to forever be on the bestselling lists, author backlist, staff-pick, book group list when I was in the book trade way back in ooooh I don’t know. It also appears on the BBC Big Read Top 200 and is fresh in everyone’s mind as Auntie Beebular has funded a big old period Sunday Evening weepathon telly version.
Anyway, I finished it last week.
Well. What to say. Firstly, I guess, it taught me I have a frankly pitiful knowledge of the first world war, a fact I am no small part ashamed of as I sit here in the freedom and luxury it provided.
Secondly it taught me that I don’t understand trench warfare. Okay? I don’t. I’m sure if I watched the BBC adaptation it would make the physics of the thing clearer. But I didn’t watch it last weekend due to the thrilling, edge of my toilet action of the Masters World Snooker Final on BBC2.
I don’t get trench warfare. I don’t. It makes no sense to me. Whatsoever. Do you get it? I mean, the physics of it? So you dig a trench. Which is a huge long narrow valley across a field, and you sit in it and fire pot shots over the top. Then you irrigate it and put in electricity and lamps and radios and rooms. And you dig tunnels from the trench under the field to beneath the enemy trench? And on days off, it seems you can all just go to the local village for a pint? I have questions:
1. Who digs this trench? And while it’s being dug, what stops everyone with a spade being mown down by machine gun fire while they fanny about with planks and wheelbarrows? (Of course the answer might be “nothing stops it, you dick. Which is why we lost nearly 900,000 British soldiers and the war claimed 15million lives.”
2. How does the trench end? Does it just stop, like an end of terrace house?
3. Why not just all creep out of the trench and run around a wide circle and attack the opposing trench from behind when no one is looking?
4. Why am I being so fucking thick?
Anyway, I should find this shit out. And about 5 mins on the net would do it. But what Birdsong taught me is that I am woefully ill-informed.
Other things I learned:
1. “Literary” fiction is no great shakes. I mean, the writing is fine. (By fine, I mean fine as in “fine bone china”, not as in “that’ll do I suppose.” But it’s not startling. And I tell you, Seb Faulks could learn a fuck of a lot about writing compelling, vivid and brutal action sequences from folk like Lee Child and Robert Ludlum. That may sound trite, but trust me, it isn’t.
Lee Child once went on telly and said that the reason literary authors poo-poo commercial thrillers is that commerical thriller writers like him could knock out a “literary” book if they wanted, but literary writers couldn’t pen a page-turner if their Kindle depended on it so it’s all just snarky jealousy.
Birdsong does nothing to refute this rather inflammatory remark.
I’ll say this, it does show claustrophobia and the frankly blackly comic and absurd plight of the British Tommy and the tragic wrenching futility of an exercise that rid a world of an entire generation. So it has increased my respect for the whole part of history.
So thanks to Seb for that.
On a final note, I didn’t buy the love story for one minute. Which, for all it’s so called “passion”, appeared to be a posh bit getting fingered by an English tourist while her husband was out. And – SPOILER ALERT – the English fellow pissing off with her sister when she snubbed him later. Nope. I’ve been in love. And Seb doesn’t go anywhere near what it’s actually like.
And on an ACTUAL final note, I found the BBC TV version largely distracting as they appear to have cast, in the lead role, "The Lizard" from The Amazing Spiderman comics, as drawn by Steve Ditko in the 1960s:
Which isn’t actually what I wanted to talk about.
I had the most extraordinary bus ride this week. It was on Tuesday night after my Lindyhop class with my pal Sharon.
Oh yes, I am still Lindyhopping (not “Lindybopping” as Claire at work seems to insist on calling it until I drive a stapler into my skull). Call me Lindy Calrissian if you will. (Which you won’t). Or “Martin Lindau” if you prefer. Which, again....
NOTE: I watched one of the earliest episodes of The Twilight Zone over Christmas as I was lucky enough to receive the boxed-set of series one. And I watched some early Mission Impossible TV shows for the same reason. Blimey, Landau was all over them. Gotta love the Landau. (If you don’t know who I mean, it’s this guy)
I only knew him from Space 1999, which oddly now is a historical period drama. Weird that. Anyway, he’s great. And he totally makes “Crimes & Misdemeanours” as well.
I was talking about buses. Or specifically, a bus journey upon which
a. some but truths were discussed
b. some odd things happened
Let’s do the odd things.
First, Sharon got a text from a female work colleague to say she wouldn;t be in the office the following day and the reason she gave was “ I won’t be in for work, my catflap’s broken.”
At this, I wondered if this was some odd female euphemism for needing to go for a smear test or get thrush treatment.
“How are you, luv?”
“Oooh, not so great. Some problems...ahem...downstairs.”
“Broken catflap?”
“Exactly.”
“You wanna put some cream on that.”
But no, it turns out this person’s ACTUAL catflap was broken which meant, I think, some security risk or some such so a locksmith was required. Which was a shame I think.
(This is my second favourite female-euphemism story, my favourite still being the time my wife went to the lavatory at the Curzon Cinema and was a suspiciously long time and, the explanation she gave upon returning was “Sorry I was so long, I was stroking the werewolf.” By which she meant ACTUALLY stroking an ACTUAL werewolf, as it was an anniversary screening of An American Werewolf In London and there were people in fancy dress).
Okay, thing number two on the bus (which sounds like a line from The Cat In The Hat, but isn’t):
There were 2 young women sat infront of us, discussing something. But we couldn’t work out what it was. I though perhaps Tai Chi or Yoga? M’colleague thought it might be a bit of dance choreography. Anyway their conversation went like this
“I think it should go eagle eagle dragon eagle dragon cat.”
“Yeah, eagle eagle dragon eagle...”
“Unless we do eagle eagle dragon cat cat dragon cat eagle?”
“I like the cat.”
“I think I’m gonna do eagle dragon eagle dragon cat cat cat dragon cat eagle eagle dragon cat cat dragon cat eagle dragon.”
“Yeah.”
Any ideas, people? The only possible other explanation is they were getting married in the world's most limitedly ranged zoo and wanted to arrange the seating plan.
But this lead us to a discussion of bus etiquette and I would like to posit the following ideas:
1. Why can’t there be a system of letting folk who are getting on a bus know whether or not there are seats upstairs available?
Now I know sometimes that friendly female voice says “seats available on the upper deck” if it’s getting crowded downstairs. But the amount of times I’ve climbed the stairs and stood at the top staring at everyone in their cosy full top deck as they think “a-ha sucker! No seats for you!” and had to do the embarrassed bashful clomp back down the stairs to the crowded lower deck.
All I want is an illuminated sign that says “FULL” or “VACANT” at the bottom of the stairs to let me know if it’s worth traipsing up there or not. I mean if we can fake a man on the moon, surely we can do this?
2. Bags on seats
Okay. Everyone who puts their bag on the seat next to them on a commuter train is a cunt.
There. I said it.
I don’t mean daytime trains. Oh no, that’s fine. If it’s a route that doesn’t have people standing and is nice and quiet, then why not rest one’s shopping or satchel at one’s side. I’m fine with that.
But. If it’s a route, and I’m think about shopping times and morning/evening commutes, where seats are going to be scarce, get your FUCKING BAG ON YOUR LAP, ON THE FLOOR OR ON THE HANDY BAG RACK ABOVE YOUR HEAD, YOU SELFISH SONS OF BITCHES.
Oh, and the “reading” or “looking out of the window” routine you pull when folks get on the bus or train and are heading down the aisle looking for somewhere to sit and you “don’t notice?” Fuck that as well.
What is the etiquette here though? This is my question.
Is one obliged to occupy every single empty seat – even the crappy up-the-back bench ones with the school girls before one is ALLOWED to say “excuse me” to someone with their bag on the seat? Can I ask someone to move their bag so I can sit down if there are other empty un-bagged seats available? What is the rule?
If I was braver, and tougher, and stronger and more confident and less of a speccy nerdlinger, I would make the point EVERY FUCKING DAY of asking people to move their bags so I could sit down, even if other seats were available.
But I’m not.
But man, it’s the LOOK you get. The tut or the eye-roll or the big sigh or the teeth kiss or whatever when the person is SO INCONVENIENCED by the fact a FELLOW HUMAN would like to take the seat that THEIR SPORTS BAG has marked out for itself.
And finally on buses, here is a FACT. And I don’t care, frankly, how this makes me sound. Old fashioned, grumpy, racist, grouchy, mean-spirited, stuck in a rut, anachronistic or what. I don’t care. This is a FACT. Pay attention:
“The quality of your taste in music is inversely proportionate to the volume at which you play it.”
Okay? It is. Don’t argue, it fucking is. If you want to know if you have good taste in music, look at the volume control on your ipod, home audio unit or car stereo.
The higher it is, the crappier your taste. Simple as that.
When, people, was the last time you were on the street and a car went by that appeared to be just a club on wheels, massive speakers, windows down, with music and beats and bass notes you could feel in your chest and you thought to yourself, “oooh, I like this one.”
Right. Never.
And when did you ever knock on the walls of your neighbour because they were playing “Nice & Easy” by Frank Sinatra at full volume?
Quite.
And if you can tell me that you have EVER been bothered by someone on public transport with a set of headphones and an ipod that was hissing out Bach’s Brandenburg Concertos at a distracting volume, then I will dance a fucking jig, I swear to god.
Another thought. (Had a few of these, this week): Style is marvellous. Fashion is for dicks.
How to tell if you’re stylish (good) or fashionable (a dick):
Are you wearing anything (a cut, a colour, a fabric, a combination, a shape, a texture, whatever) that, 2 years ago, you wouldn’t have been seen dead in? Guys, I’m looking at you. Jeans that taper to very skinny ankles that you TUCK IN to half-laced up “pre-water damaged” brown leather ankle boots. You look like a fucking Dandy Highwaymen.
Two years ago, if your jeans had got caught in your boots (not that you were wearing boots, you were wearing excessively pointy shoes then) your mates would have pointed and laughed and made “arghhhhh” piratey noises.
Oh and ladies? Knitted Uggs. For fuck’s sake. Imagine your mum had come home with those when you were 14 and said you had to wear wellington boots your nan had crocheted? You’d have locked yourself in your room and cried for a year.
Okay, this has gone on too long, I know.
Before I go though, I wanted to talk quickly about the book I’m reading.
Pride & Prejudice, Jane Austen, (1813, J Egerton, Whitehall)
Man oh man. I’m on page 303 so just 70 pages to go. I may try and finish it this afternoon actually. If I’m honest, just to get it done.
Am I enjoying it? I can’t really say I am. The dialogue is good and frothy and the characters are marvellous and it’s got some genuinely funny exchanges and it’s light and whips along and whatnot. And I can see why it’s been made into a movie a dozen times.
But man. The style? I’ve been rather spoilt, I know, by my lazy reading habits. I grew up on Spiderman comics and The Beano, then Doug Adams and Ben Elton. I haven’t exactly been pushed. Oh I tried Balzac and Amis and those types when I was a poncey 20something, but I was skimming them. So I never got into good reading habits. Habits like “reading slowly” or “understanding every word” or “thinking about what things mean.” I just sort of plough on through looking for the next bit of dialogue or action.
Which is fine when books are like Jeffery Archer’s:
“A few days later, Matthew Lester arrived in Boston to take up his position as manager of the bank’s investment portfolio.” (Kane & Able, J. Archer, pp.290)
But when one comes along a sentence like this:
“This part of his intelligence, though unheard by Lydia, was caught by Elizabeth, and as it assured her that Darcy was not less answerable for Wickham’s absence than if her first surmise had been just, every feeling of displeasure against the former was so sharpened by immediate disappointment, that she could hardly reply with tolerable civility to the polite enquiries which he directly afterwards approached to make.”
(Pride & Prejudice. J.Austen. pp86-87)
is it wrong for a migraine to emerge and for blood to come out of my eyes and for me to suddenly require a nap? I mean, Jesus H Corbett, Austen. A car chase wouldn't kill you.Or an active verb, for that matter.
If I make through to the end, I’ll let you know my thoughts. (I think it’s about a man called Darcy and a girl called Elizabeth who don’t snog for 303 pages, but at this stage who the fuck knows).
Love to all
The guy out of Birdsong
The Lizard
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Hello all, good people that you are.
(I have scoured the mailing list for “a-f-w-o-t-s” and can be assured of everyone’s goodness).
So how the devil have you been? Tremendous and splendid I would imagine. (About 20 years ago Stephen Fry made almost an entire career out of saying “twinkling and moist” or “pert and creamy” in such situations. I may tune in to the BAFTAs this evening to see if he’s still peddling such precocious public-school camp guff).
Anyhap – onwards. Yet again, I don’t really have anything spectacular to bother you with. It’s Sunday here in “afewwords” towers, at – let me check my charming retro chrome clock – eleven minutes past twelve in the afternoon. So far I have
Got up(Oi!)Had a banaaaana!And some All BranWashed up last night’s smeary platesOpened the pedal bin in the kitchen, seen it’s overflowing and full, decided I will empty it at some point today and refill the bin with a fresh black polythene bag. But decided to postpone doing this until I have some shoes on.Made a big cup of PG TipsRead the Guardian Guide telly pages to see if there is any kind of 3.40pm ITV Sunday afternoon movie that would be a lark to watch. There isn’t.Done a very big poo (during which I wondered the following:a. Why I was doing such a big poo – too early for the All Bran to be working?b. Likely to be due to the takeaway and 3 alcohol-free beers I had last night infront of Series 8 of Seinfeld.c. What’s the betting that at somepoint in the next 3 hours my lovely wife asks me why I haven’t emptied the kitchen bin and I will say “I was going to...” like an adolescent.d. If I walk into the lounge and say “I can see the bin is full, I have every intention of emptying it and topping up the bin bag with all the other smaller bins in the flat leaving us with a lovely empty bin feeling of all round freshness. But I’m not going to do it now because I am barefoot so please believe me when, in about an hour, you say “why do you never notice the bin needs emptying” and I say “I did notice” – will I get a justified withering look of “oh what the fuck are you on about now-ness”? Yes I will.Infact, this is getting ridiculous. Stand by all. I’m going to go and empty the kitchen bin. Back soon...
Okay. Done it. Didn’t take that long. Oh but look..in doing so, my tea has gone cold. Arses.
If you co-habit, you might find yourself having thoughts like this. If you are a man. If you are a woman, I expect through decades of social conditioning, you merely empty the kitchen bin.
Perhaps you sigh a little internally that it’s presumed to be your job as it takes place in the domestic kitchen-area? But inevitably you just get the fuck on with it while your loving partner farts and watches Football Focus in the other room.
(Which – before we go on - actually is a rather tired bit of 80s sexism in reverse, as if dames never sit about surrounded by magazines, picking their feet and watching re-runs of Dawson’s Creek while men bleed the radiators or lag the loft. Which they clearly do).
Okay. Deep breath.
Calm calm calm.
That all ran away with itself rather.
Sorry.
Anyway, that’s what I’ve done this morning. A little glimpse into my diseased noggin there. I have Alan Silvestri’s Motion Picture Score to “Forrest Gump” on my little ipod-dock thing which is being all sentimental and syrupy as background to this. Not that you care.
As I was saying, only a couple of things to say a few words on today.
Refrigerator Moments II – The Return Of The Killer Refrigerator Moments
Yeah, I got another one of these. You may recall I was talking about ludicrous plot holes that exist in David Koepp’s otherwise perfectly workman-like script for “Mission: Impossible”? Well for reasons passing mortal understanding, I found myself watching “Back To The Future Part 2” ever-so recently. Don’t know why. I had 108 minutes to fill I expect and a desire to watch a young man spend a sequel creeping around the original movie not trying to get caught. It really is a fantastic premise. I recommend you go and watch it now. (At one point however, Marty McFly does sport a grey snap-brimmed Fedora with a biker jacket. Not a combo you think would work. And frankly, you’d be right).
On this viewing I noticed that Doc Brown’s shirt goes from red to yellow for no explained reason. And also, throughout the movie Doc frequently tells Marty he must not run into his past or future self as it would either cause the two people to pass out or cause a paradox which would unravel the space-time continuum and destroys the entire universe – neither of which appear to happen when 2015 Biff hangs out with 1955 Biff for an entire afternoon.
But the thing that really got me (and yes I know, I know, I know, leave me alone) was that Doc decides to drag Marty to the Future:
“It’s your kids, Marty! Something’s gotta be done about your kids!”
to stop Marty’s kid getting arrested doing a robbery with Griff. Why? Well Doc backtracked the unravelling of Marty’s family to this one event that caused a chain reaction the destroyed him. If they can stop this, then Marty’s future will be fine.
Oh? Oh REALLY?
I think you’ll find that the reason Marty spends 30 years feeling sorry for himself and giving up on his music was because someone calls him chicken, he gets into a race, crashes into a Rolls Royce, argues with the driver and breaks his hand in a fight.
Hey Doc, why not go back THEN and stop the crash into Rolls Royce? His life was already miserable long before the Griff robbery.
Tch. Screenwriters.
That would have been tediously uninteresting for anyone not obsessed by that movie. But then, as the editors of Empire magazine once said (I’m paraphrasing): “Anyone who doesn’t love Back To The Future really doesn’t like cinema at all.” Or something like that.
Great Scott.Etc.
Talking of movies, according to recent reviews and such, there are a number of Blu-ray style DVD special commemorative editions of movies coming out that are celebrating some kind of anniversary. Now where I come from, the “anniversary” edition is normally something like “It’s A Wonderful Life” or “Casablanca” or “Way Out West” or “Citizen Kane” or somesuch. Some old Tuner Classic Movies classic in a slipcase with interviews and postcards and a retrospective documentary and whatnot.
However, for those of my generation, the following movies are celebrating their 25th Silver Anniversary this year and being heralded as past bygone silver-screen flickering classics from the golden age of cinema:
3 Men and BabyBeverly Hills Cop 2Blind DateDirty DancingInnerspaceJaws The RevengeMannequinMasters Of The UniversePolice Academy 4Superman IV - The Quest For PeaceTeen Wolf TooOh for Chrissakes, this makes me feel old.
Other things:
Pride & Prejudice, Jane Austen, (1813, J Egerton, Whitehall)
Well I finished it. And what can I say that I haven’t said already? Not much, frankly. I can’t say I ploughed through it. It didn’t pass the toilet-test:
(If I need to do a poo, do I take the book I’m reading with me? Or pick up something less consequential such as a book of TV scripts or Seinfeld / Ray Romano stand-up material).
So, yes, it ended and took a bloody long time to do so. I’ll reiterate what I said a few weeks ago, that 19th Century classics are a very different fish-kettle writing-wise and take a hell of a lot of effort to get through. And similarly, when you know from page 1 that Elizabeth and Mr Darcy are destined to get together at the end because Austen pretty much invented the standard 3 act
girl-meets-boy-who’s-grumpy-and-unsuitable-yet-undeniably-sexygirl-loses-boy-in-a-huff-due-to-a-misunderstanding-about-his-behaviour-that-makes-him-look-like-a-bit-of-cuntgirl-gets-boy-back-becuase-he-was-actually-doing-something-lovelyromcom structure, it does rather beg the question about the amount of effort the reader it putting in.
Imagine you had to watch a straight to video Jennifer Aniston comedy in Japanese without subtitles. Are you really going to sit there with a pause button and a Japanese dictionary?
Precisely.
So I think it’s fair to say I’m glad I experienced it, but was glad it was over. Mainly because I could move on to...
One Flew Over The Cuckoo’s Nest, Ken Kasey (Viking, 1962)
Holy crap, what a novel. Have you read it? I expect, like me, you’re very familiar with the movie version directed by Milos Foreman starring Jack Nicholson. (I just spent a few minutes on YouTube looking for the footage of the cast – in character – giving some kind of speech thanking someone for an award. I can find no reference to it but am pretty sure I didn’t make it up. A little help here from someone? Was it a trailer? Help.)
Well I don’t want to say too much about the book, apart from the fact it’s a fucking masterpiece. It’s the kind of book that makes someone like me, who has written a book or two in his time, not sure whether to run to
a. the typewriter and begin work, full of inspiration and admiration and renewed vigour for the art formb. the shelf and burn everything I ever wrote and throw away the typewriter and give up ever trying to do anything, basking as I ever will, in the shadow of true greatness.Still haven’t made up my mind.
But I will say this:
I’ve been reading some books this year that are kind of out of my wheel-house, as they say. Not my usual bedtime or commuter fare. By and large, as some of you may know and none of you will care, I like a fast paced page-turney thriller of the Lee Child, Robert Ludlum, Harlan Coben, Ira Levin sort of mould. If it has a renegade broad-shouldered maverick and a panel van and a fist-fight and a rooftop chase and a twist where the good guy’s wife turns out to be a bad guy then all the better.
But this year, as I say, I’ve tried something different. To date we’ve had:
War Of The Worlds
Kane & Abel
Pride & Prejudice
Birdsong
One Flew Over The Cuckoo’s Nest
and right now I’m about a quarter of the way into John Steinbeck’s The Grapes Of Wrath.
All of these I’ve read in my armchair in the lounge, on trains to and from work, in the canteen or sat up in bed at night. Which is an alarming and unexpected way to experience high art.
Look, here’s what I’m saying. If I said you were going to see one of the most epic, life-changing and spectacular awe-inspiring movies ever, you’d prepare for it. You’d go to the British Film Institue on the South Bank or to the Odeon Leicester Square and take your seat and be all excited. And the lights would go down and you’d hold your breath and your friends might be there too so you’d look at them with wide eyes and let’s go and the place would hush and the curtains open and the fanfare would begin and you’d sit back and let the thing happen to you. Absorb the whole overwhelming sensory experience. Drown in it, swim in it, let it transport you.
And afterwards, the lights come up and we stretch and stand and wow and blimey and that-was-amazing and everyone’s chattering and we’re out in the lobby still talking and then we’re drinking coffee or wine and sharing our best bits and theories and still exclaiming wow and blimey.
The same is true for theatre. We prepare for these experiences. We dress up and go out and go to a place where it’ll happen – away from the outside world - and we share the event.
Live music is the same. A Beethoven Symphony, a choral masterpiece, Pink Floyd’s lights and lasers, Elvis’s four-piece slapping and howling. It’s an event.
Art, too. The Sistine Chapel. You prepare for it. Make the journey, buy the guide book, get the map, queue up, get your ticket. You shuffle in, hold your breath, palms a little warm and wet, maybe holding hands with your loved one. And you look up and you gasp and swallow and let it overwhelm you, head swimming and dizzied.
But books? Every bit as overwhelming, every bit as powerful, as breathtaking. They can knock you about and leave you reeling and breathless and weary and washed out. Tearful, excited, nervous, terrified, moved.
But when? Sat on a Southwest Train between New Malden and Norbiton. Perched on a wooden chair, slurping take-out tea and munching a prawn sandwich. Sat in the lounge with Newsnight burbling in the background.
Imagine if you were at a drizzly bus-stop in the freezing cold, hands bitten by the cheese-wire of two heavy carrier-bags of shopping. And all of a sudden someone tapped you on the shoulder, out of nowhere, said “look at this mate” and showed you the ceiling of the Sistene Chapel? Or played you for the first time, without warning, Hey Jude. Or Jailhouse Rock. Or Handel’s Messiah? Or you’re sat on the loo taking your time on a long morning poo, minding your own business, when without warning you suddenly experience the shark from Jaws leaping up behind Roy Scheider.
This is what novels are doing to me right now. What’s weird is that it’ taken me nearly 40 years to realise this. I look up after a particularly extraordinary moment, or passage, or sentence, or chapter and . . . there I am. Back in the world that’s going on around me like nothing’s happened. And I want to grab people and shake them and say “LOOK AT THIS! READ THIS! FEEL THIS! HAVE THIS EXPERIENCE WITH ME!”
Which isn’t something most people on the 185 bus to Vauxhall at 7.45am want you to do.
Just wanted to mention it.
Take care kids
Rx
A few words on Osama Bin-Liners, crashed Rolls Royces and being mugged by art
Sunday 12th Feb 2012
