The mixcloud version is a bit distorted but you can click the link below to download a 320 better version of "Down with the Kias" for your iPods and whatnots
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Friday 29 March 2013
Tuesday 12 February 2013
The Picture
"Well, given the choice, I'd choose Chaos... Everytime."
"I mean, everything has a cause and an effect, right? And Nature has a way of balancing itself out... So why choose order? Chaos is a lot more fun; let Nature do all the hard work..."
Sylvie had a pink crayola firmly clamped in the palm of her right hand, and with the tip of her tongue ever so slightly protruding out of her mouth's left corner, was drawing on the bleached colourless picture like a biker etching his name into a table. It was as if the the empty dolphin outline wasn't even there.
Mrs Goddard quietly watched her as she paused and tilted her head to the right to evaluate her handy work. Sylvie hadn't been asked a question, and had been sat on her own for the last twenty minutes.
Her flippant remarked still hanged in the air, as she picked up a orange crayon in her left hand and started to draw a circle, the pink still in her right.
"But i wouldn't want to be the direct cause of someone else's pain. Motive goes a long way in chaos..." Sylvie said in a self knowing tone that only a 5 year old girl could.
"Of course, I'd never knowingly hurt someone. And I'd never willingly put someone in danger. I'm just saying that given the choice between an action with a highly likely outcome and one where the resulting outcomes' probabilities are more evenly split. I'd always opt for the latter."
Sylvie paused again, tilting her head this time to the other side.
Mrs Goddard was still.
Mrs Goddard felt very uneasy.
Sylvie placed the pink in her left hand along with the orange and reached out and picked up the red, her eyes not once leaving the page.
"It's all about risk.."
Sylvie cleared her throat. Then, for the first time time, looked up at Mrs Goddard, her right hand starts moving across the dolphin's face.
"On the ridge where the great artist moves forward, every step is an adventure, an extreme risk. In that risk however, and only there, lies the freedom of art. Like all freedom, it is a perpetual risk, an exhausting adventure, and this is why people avoid the risk today, as they avoid liberty with its exacting demands in order to accept any kind of bondage and achieve at least comfort of soul."
The crayon stops scratching the paper as Sylvie uttered the last word of her quote.
"Here", Sylvie says softly as she hands over her picture to Mrs Goddard.
Mrs Goddard tries to make something out of the pink, orange and red drawing but fails.
Sylvie sees Mrs Goddard struggle to make sense of her art.
"It's Katie Price... She's my favourite."
"I mean, everything has a cause and an effect, right? And Nature has a way of balancing itself out... So why choose order? Chaos is a lot more fun; let Nature do all the hard work..."
Sylvie had a pink crayola firmly clamped in the palm of her right hand, and with the tip of her tongue ever so slightly protruding out of her mouth's left corner, was drawing on the bleached colourless picture like a biker etching his name into a table. It was as if the the empty dolphin outline wasn't even there.
Mrs Goddard quietly watched her as she paused and tilted her head to the right to evaluate her handy work. Sylvie hadn't been asked a question, and had been sat on her own for the last twenty minutes.
Her flippant remarked still hanged in the air, as she picked up a orange crayon in her left hand and started to draw a circle, the pink still in her right.
"But i wouldn't want to be the direct cause of someone else's pain. Motive goes a long way in chaos..." Sylvie said in a self knowing tone that only a 5 year old girl could.
"Of course, I'd never knowingly hurt someone. And I'd never willingly put someone in danger. I'm just saying that given the choice between an action with a highly likely outcome and one where the resulting outcomes' probabilities are more evenly split. I'd always opt for the latter."
Sylvie paused again, tilting her head this time to the other side.
Mrs Goddard was still.
Mrs Goddard felt very uneasy.
Sylvie placed the pink in her left hand along with the orange and reached out and picked up the red, her eyes not once leaving the page.
"It's all about risk.."
Sylvie cleared her throat. Then, for the first time time, looked up at Mrs Goddard, her right hand starts moving across the dolphin's face.
"On the ridge where the great artist moves forward, every step is an adventure, an extreme risk. In that risk however, and only there, lies the freedom of art. Like all freedom, it is a perpetual risk, an exhausting adventure, and this is why people avoid the risk today, as they avoid liberty with its exacting demands in order to accept any kind of bondage and achieve at least comfort of soul."
The crayon stops scratching the paper as Sylvie uttered the last word of her quote.
"Here", Sylvie says softly as she hands over her picture to Mrs Goddard.
Mrs Goddard tries to make something out of the pink, orange and red drawing but fails.
Sylvie sees Mrs Goddard struggle to make sense of her art.
"It's Katie Price... She's my favourite."
Monday 12 November 2012
"Real Geezers Don't Trip"
Day one of this new writing experiment.
The page is blank and this frightens me.
But then I think of the walk home from Angel...
I was approaching Essex Road Station, when this man caught my eye: long brown hair tied in a pony tail, gold hoop earing in the left ear; but it was the cockney walk that held it all together, that made him stand out from the crowd.
I had had a really positive day at work.It was my first day back - I had been ill for the entire week previous, during which a fever enduced epiphany briefly shone a torch onto my destiny's path.The experience left me feeling calm and centered, and I made the most of this zen like state, all too aware of the looming return to work's ability to strip me of it.
But then something wonderful happened. Monday came and went, and the calmness stayed. My epiphany had seemed to have empowered me with what can only be called an "indifference" to my current job. Yes, there were moments of stress and tension, but on the whole my inner voice's soothing scream of "I REALLY DON'T GIVE A FUCK!" was sufficient to keep me balanced.
This warrior chant has been echoing in my head all day long.
And so on the walk back from Tesco's, listening to some Joey Bada$$ '1999', with the self satifisfied smirk of a day at work and food shop well done, I seemed to be bopping with some swag of my own. It was akin to the aformentioned geezer's cockney walk, however was more of an evolution of the "Kevs 'Classics' walk" which had just come on from the Ravey Daves 'Champions' sounds.
The Geezer, obviously recognising the pedigree of my South West London walk, cranked his up to 11, but in doing so made a fatal error. The sudden increase in pace did not give him sufficient time to recalculate his stride in order to avoid the dreaded "heel-curb" situation. You see there are three main things you need to keep in mind when walking like a geezer, 1. the stride, 2. the rhythm (a geezer stops for no man - and must therefore keep the appearance of constant motion by changing the stride of the steps and not the pace and most importantly 3. heels down first with toes pointing out.
Having clunkily stepped into the street, the geezer's rhythm is now all fucked up. He tries to regain his composure by doing the boxer's right handed nose thumb sniff combo...
But our eyes meet and it's too late.
He can see it in my eyes that I have lost all respect for him.
He jogs on, less of a fanning high street peacock.
There was a a time when I believed that all that fanfare was necessary, that "Real Geezer's Don't Trip".
I wish I had spoken to him, explained to him that in light of my newly discovered epiphany, unless you're main drive in life is to be seen as a geezer solely by the way you strut around the high street, change you're ethos:
"Real Geezers don't give a Fuck".
The page is blank and this frightens me.
But then I think of the walk home from Angel...
I was approaching Essex Road Station, when this man caught my eye: long brown hair tied in a pony tail, gold hoop earing in the left ear; but it was the cockney walk that held it all together, that made him stand out from the crowd.
I had had a really positive day at work.It was my first day back - I had been ill for the entire week previous, during which a fever enduced epiphany briefly shone a torch onto my destiny's path.The experience left me feeling calm and centered, and I made the most of this zen like state, all too aware of the looming return to work's ability to strip me of it.
But then something wonderful happened. Monday came and went, and the calmness stayed. My epiphany had seemed to have empowered me with what can only be called an "indifference" to my current job. Yes, there were moments of stress and tension, but on the whole my inner voice's soothing scream of "I REALLY DON'T GIVE A FUCK!" was sufficient to keep me balanced.
This warrior chant has been echoing in my head all day long.
And so on the walk back from Tesco's, listening to some Joey Bada$$ '1999', with the self satifisfied smirk of a day at work and food shop well done, I seemed to be bopping with some swag of my own. It was akin to the aformentioned geezer's cockney walk, however was more of an evolution of the "Kevs 'Classics' walk" which had just come on from the Ravey Daves 'Champions' sounds.
The Geezer, obviously recognising the pedigree of my South West London walk, cranked his up to 11, but in doing so made a fatal error. The sudden increase in pace did not give him sufficient time to recalculate his stride in order to avoid the dreaded "heel-curb" situation. You see there are three main things you need to keep in mind when walking like a geezer, 1. the stride, 2. the rhythm (a geezer stops for no man - and must therefore keep the appearance of constant motion by changing the stride of the steps and not the pace and most importantly 3. heels down first with toes pointing out.
Having clunkily stepped into the street, the geezer's rhythm is now all fucked up. He tries to regain his composure by doing the boxer's right handed nose thumb sniff combo...
But our eyes meet and it's too late.
He can see it in my eyes that I have lost all respect for him.
He jogs on, less of a fanning high street peacock.
There was a a time when I believed that all that fanfare was necessary, that "Real Geezer's Don't Trip".
I wish I had spoken to him, explained to him that in light of my newly discovered epiphany, unless you're main drive in life is to be seen as a geezer solely by the way you strut around the high street, change you're ethos:
"Real Geezers don't give a Fuck".
Sunday 11 November 2012
The Fraud.
It's been two years since my last blog.
Each day of which, I have looked at myself in the mirror and loathed myself a little bit more, and edged myself a little further away from the people around me.
You can't call it "writer's block" if you've never really written anything - that's like calling yourself an international playboy sex machine whilst you're still a virgin - that spunk doesn't stick - yet here I am pompously parading around parties, introducing myself as a writer/comedian to anyone who'd give me the time of night.
I'm a fraud.
A loveable one, who tries too hard, so I'm told.
Time for me to turn this round.
From this point on, I write.
Each day of which, I have looked at myself in the mirror and loathed myself a little bit more, and edged myself a little further away from the people around me.
You can't call it "writer's block" if you've never really written anything - that's like calling yourself an international playboy sex machine whilst you're still a virgin - that spunk doesn't stick - yet here I am pompously parading around parties, introducing myself as a writer/comedian to anyone who'd give me the time of night.
I'm a fraud.
A loveable one, who tries too hard, so I'm told.
Time for me to turn this round.
From this point on, I write.
Thursday 8 July 2010
The Doodle
If life were a sheet of narrow ruled A4 paper, I’d be the doodle
in the margin. The one you start ten minutes into a lecture or a staff
meeting. At first you’re not thinking, just moving the pen, tracing
anything that comes to you, just to cut out the monotonous drone of the
speaker.
The doodle starts to take shape, you take a breather to admire your handy work, and you give yourself a little pat on the back. The ghost of Picasso appears beside you and tips his cap, “Not bad, love, not bad…” and all of a sudden you’re caught up in a doodle frenzy. The lines that once separated art from the artist become blurred and neither one is in control, all that remains is a chaotic symbiotic synergism of the moment, its environment and your unconscious mind.
The moment seems to be over 'as soon as it has begun. The frantic penmanship ends abruptly and the flow of ink has been broken...
It takes more than a few seconds for you to centre yourself and get back into the room….
You’re breathing heavily, sweating, unsure of the time passed and the moments that have preceded the one you’re in now…
The orator, has paused, puzzled by your state. Eyes meet and confusion is felt on both sides...
As the orator sluggishly starts a new sentence like a vintage turntable, leaving a trail of dead syllables hanging in the air; you slowly gaze down onto what can only be described as the retarded scribblings of an infirm orang-utang that refuses to eat anything but his own shit.
You expel the last bit of air out your lungs with a faint “What the fuck is that?”….
That’s me. I’m that doodle.
The doodle starts to take shape, you take a breather to admire your handy work, and you give yourself a little pat on the back. The ghost of Picasso appears beside you and tips his cap, “Not bad, love, not bad…” and all of a sudden you’re caught up in a doodle frenzy. The lines that once separated art from the artist become blurred and neither one is in control, all that remains is a chaotic symbiotic synergism of the moment, its environment and your unconscious mind.
The moment seems to be over 'as soon as it has begun. The frantic penmanship ends abruptly and the flow of ink has been broken...
It takes more than a few seconds for you to centre yourself and get back into the room….
You’re breathing heavily, sweating, unsure of the time passed and the moments that have preceded the one you’re in now…
The orator, has paused, puzzled by your state. Eyes meet and confusion is felt on both sides...
As the orator sluggishly starts a new sentence like a vintage turntable, leaving a trail of dead syllables hanging in the air; you slowly gaze down onto what can only be described as the retarded scribblings of an infirm orang-utang that refuses to eat anything but his own shit.
You expel the last bit of air out your lungs with a faint “What the fuck is that?”….
That’s me. I’m that doodle.
Tuesday 23 November 1993
The better the devil you know...
EVERYTHING is in constant state flux.
NOTHING in this world is static and unaffected by time.
Weathered by past failures and haunted by 'what might have been's, we often settle for what we perceive to be the safer option. We tell ourselves that if we to stick to the routine and never cross the line, all will be well... However, to stay cocooned in familiarity is to find comfort in fear. A fear of change that'll keep you trapped where you stand, in a futile attempt to hold on to what you can; because the "better the devil you know".
The "better the devil you know" message was very popular in the Nineties propagated by Sonia, Kylie Minogue and Steps. There's no denying it - these lot are all fascist cunts.
NOTHING in this world is static and unaffected by time.
Weathered by past failures and haunted by 'what might have been's, we often settle for what we perceive to be the safer option. We tell ourselves that if we to stick to the routine and never cross the line, all will be well... However, to stay cocooned in familiarity is to find comfort in fear. A fear of change that'll keep you trapped where you stand, in a futile attempt to hold on to what you can; because the "better the devil you know".
The "better the devil you know" message was very popular in the Nineties propagated by Sonia, Kylie Minogue and Steps. There's no denying it - these lot are all fascist cunts.
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