various apologies

STEPHEN O'TOOLE TUMBLR PRESENCE

2011-05-04T19:44:00.004Z

I think I might have 'jumped ship.' Or 'the shark.' Or I've 'walked the plank.'

I'm mainly here now: http://harrisonsfords.tumblr.com/ living my lief etc

copies of kleinzeit now available

2011-04-07T16:21:00.000Z

stephen.otoole@gmail.com

Kleinzeit

2011-04-06T22:39:00.005Z

I made a print magazine. I have copies of it sitting here on the table next to me. It has stuff in it from me, Crispin, Socrates, Kirsty Turkington.

Every issue (projected number of issues: one million) will have a theme. This issue the theme is 'The Weather'.

Here is a video I made to promote it:

Please watch the video. You can order copies from me, if you like: stephen.otoole@gmail.com

lorrie moore paris review

2011-04-06T12:07:00.002Z

INTERVIEWER

Do you begin in longhand? What about typewriting versus word processing?

MOORE

Gee, people are still asking these questions about longhand versus typing versus computer. That’s good, I guess.

(link)

problems of eggsistence

2011-04-05T10:07:00.003Z

THE KING'S PEACH

2011-02-28T00:15:00.004Z

this

2011-02-21T23:40:00.002Z

is how i am beginning to feel when i think of myself writing/as a writer/as a neurotic human man

struggling writers

2010-10-31T13:46:00.003Z

My new thing to do is to read interviews with writings feeling worn down and depressed. Here's Italo Calvino, from this Paris Review interview

Thoughts Before an Interview

Every morning I tell myself, Today has to be productive—and then something happens that prevents me from writing. Today . . . what is there that I have to do today? Oh yes, they are supposed to come interview me. I am afraid my novel will not move one single step forward. Something always happens. Each morning I already know I will be able to waste the whole day. There is always something to do: go to the bank, the post office, pay some bills . . . always some bureaucratic tangle I have to deal with. While I am out I also do errands such as the daily shopping: buying bread, meat, or fruit. First thing, I buy newspapers. Once one has bought them, one starts reading as soon as one is back home—or at least looking at the headlines to persuade oneself that there is nothing worth reading. Every day I tell myself that reading newspapers is a waste of time, but then . . . I cannot do without them. They are like a drug. In short, only in the afternoon do I sit at my desk, which is always submerged in letters that have been awaiting answers for I do not even know how long, and that is another obstacle to be overcome.

Eventually I get down to writing and then the real problems begin. If I start something from scratch, that is the most difficult moment, but even if it is something I started the day before, I always reach an impasse where a new obstacle needs to be overcome. And it is only in the late afternoon that I finally begin to write sentences, correct them, cover them with erasures, fill them with incidental clauses, and rewrite. At that very moment the telephone or doorbell usually rings and a friend, translator, or interviewer arrives. Speaking of which . . . this afternoon . . . the interviewers . . . I do not know if I will have the time to prepare. I could try to improvise but I believe an interview needs to be prepared ahead of time to sound spontaneous. Rarely does an interviewer ask questions you did not expect. I have given a lot of interviews and I have concluded that the questions always look alike. I could always give the same answers. But I believe I have to change my answers because with each interview something has changed either inside myself or in the world. An answer that was right the first time may not be right again the second. This could be the basis of a book. I am given a list of questions, always the same; every chapter would contain the answers I would give at different times. The changes would contain the answers I would give at different times. The changes would then become the itinerary, the story that the protagonist lives. Perhaps in this way I could discover some truths about myself.

But I must go home—the time approaches for the interviewers to arrive.

God help me!

—Italo Calvino

one oh nine a.m.

2010-10-30T00:42:00.001Z

feeling okay

the falls

2010-10-20T12:02:00.000Z

Happy Birthday

2010-10-09T15:07:00.003Z

Happy Birthday Shiona,
Love Stephen

great life

2010-10-02T13:07:00.001Z

syllabus

2010-10-01T14:31:00.006Z

chilly scenes of winter, ann beattie
sombrero fallout/the abortion/in watermelon sugar, richard brautigan
collected stories, lydia davis
three blondes and death, yuriy tarnawsky
a crack up at the race riots, harmony korine
the ballad of peckham rye, muriel spark
kleinzeit, russell hoban
lanark, alasdair gray
the bathroom, jean-phillipe toussaint
the castafiore emerald, herge
u and i, nicholson baker

robert redford's 'a river runs through it'

2010-09-30T12:48:00.004Z

if i tell you a film was 'beautifully shot'
it probably means it was boring
if i tell you my mother was 'beautifully shot'
it probably means something else
though she may have been boring too

people like us

2010-09-30T11:18:00.003Z

Listening to lots of People Like Us currently. Their entire discography is here.

People Like Us is artist Vicki Bennett.

Here is an example of one type of thing that People Like Us do: a sort of aural collage thing. A-side of that single is here, by the way, and is also terrific.

Here is something that is similar that they do, but to my mind slightly different. Lyrics, singing, etc. This is from her recent album with Ergo Phizmiz. Sorry this isn't particularly helpful. This track reminded me a bit of the Shortwave Set, if anyone remembers that album, that band. I liked that first album that they did.

Anyway, really like you People Like Us.

BUS TICKET IN MAN'S EAR

2010-09-28T12:42:00.004Z

keep getting google referrals for 'bus ticket in man's ear'.

really don't want to disappoint anyone

echo/pre-echo

2010-09-24T13:04:00.004Z

Following this award winning blogpost by Shiona, about echo, pre-echo, and the hauntological canon, I couldn't resist wasting my life doing this:

Echo Very Slowly by user6046203

and then this:

advice

2010-09-20T12:02:00.003Z

school

2010-09-14T12:47:00.002Z

Feeling good about being able to use the University library again, from tomorrow.

'Every human creature needed a home, not a home of the kind understood by crude knock-you-down patriots, not a religion either, a mere insipid foretaste of a heavenly home: no, a real home, in which space, work, friends, recreation, and the scope of a man's ideas came together into an orderly whole, into--so to speak--a personal cosmos. The best definition of a home was a library.'

Canetti, 'Auto da fe'

really good extract from novel

2010-09-11T09:44:00.001Z

here is an extract from just over halfway into this thing i'm writing:

Sun comes through the train windows. There is no intention involved. It just happens. The seats are arranged against the windows, so that the sun comes onto them, onto Stephen.

The train moves down into a tunnel, and then underground. It is warmer now than it was before. The heat fills the train like a solid thing; a thing the exact shape and size of the train itself. It makes it more difficult to move.

Stephen feels it push down on top of him. There is no way to stop it from touching him. Why can there not be some sort of a choice involved? He tries to remember the last thing that he chose. This seat? He looks around the carriage. It had been full when he got on. He had not chosen to sit here; it had been the only seat free. He leans his left elbow on the window, bites the skin on his knuckles. A seat, then. He had chosen not to stand. And before that? To get on the train? It was there; what else could he have done? He could have paid to stand on the platform all afternoon. But no one does that. He looks down at his thighs again. He is sweating. He is trying.

He leans his head back. It brushes the ear of the man sitting behind him. Both men lean forward, away, and then turn their heads.

'Sorry', Stephen says.

The man stands and walks to the other end of the carriage.

Stephen stares at the floor. He had had no intention to touch the man's ear, but he had done it anyway, and the man had chosen to stand and walk away.

No, not that.

By touching his ear, he had limited that man's options. By accident, he had made moving necessary.

The train moves on the track. He sees people sway with the movement of the train. They leave when they need to, through doors that open automatically for them. There is only ever accident and need. There is no room for a real choice anywhere.

There is a girl standing facing the door. The next stop is hers. She has somewhere that she needs to be. She is waiting to feel the train slow; a comforting, reliable feeling. It is the middle of the afternoon. It was, at least, when the train went into the tunnel. So she is a shift worker, just starting for the day. Or she is meeting some friends for lunch; a light lunch, as she has someone at home who cooks for her, loves her. Or inside her bag there is a shoe with a broken heel. There is a shop near here that will fix it for her. Or she has been out all night and all morning. Her heels are all attached. She is heading home alone to her single bed, to put her wet face into a pillow, leave a small red smear in the centre. She would never pay to stand on the platform all afternoon. There is always too much happening to her.

She looks over her shoulder and then back again. She brings her bag up to her lips very carefully. Stephen shifts in his seat to see better. He can't understand what she's doing, and this makes him feel even warmer. She spits what is left of a boiled sweet into her bag. Her tongue is a dirty blackcurrant colour. Her tongue is neither accident nor need.

No one else seems to have noticed. The train has slowed and stopped. Her bag is closed and hanging over her shoulder The thought of the sweet inside—small and wet and smooth—makes Stephen's heart beat faster. He wants to close his palm around it. He stands and the doors of the train open, as if it was his standing that had pulled them apart. He manoeuvres himself behind her. Her bag juts out and into his chest. He follows her from the train.

She is pushing against the movement of the crowd and he pushes with her. He is pushing very hard. He is pushing harder than her. He half closes his eyes. He feels the bag twist against his chest. She is trying to turn, but the crowd is stopping her from turning. He is stopping her from turning.

He lets the bag—pressed hard now, a corner for it, into the centre of his chest—go slack. She moves to one side and then the other. The bag is pulled across him, and back, like a bow across some strings. It makes the whole of him hum.

The sound gets gradually louder. He has an image of the crowd turning towards the source of it. The crowd are sharing a single facial expression. The facial expression is confused. It looks as though they recognise the sound, but not the way that it makes them feel. The crowd are no longer moving. They have all turned into glass. The glass is like the glass of a mirror. The sound gets louder still. It moves through the glass at a certain sort of angle. Cracks move through the glass. Stephen can see that the glass is going to break. He reaches down to move the bag away, but the bag is not there. He has no way now to make the sound stop. He lifts his arms in front of his face. He will stop the glass from touching his face instead. The crowd pushes into him. The sound stops. The crowd is still pushing. The crowd feels warmer and softer than glass. He lowers his arms. The girl is facing him. He is facing her. He is facing away from the crowd. Her lips are slightly parted. She looks bold but uncertain, as if she has just been caught about to bite him. The bag is behind her now. He can no longer see it.

'Sorry', Stephens says.

He turns his back to her. He tries to keep an image of her fixed in his mind. He tries to imagine that she is the one still pushing into him. He knows that if he tries hard enough, the thought will keep her fixed there behind him. He knows that that pressure there could be anyone; that it could just be the heat.

People slow for the ticket barriers. There is nothing they can do to make it quicker. It is important to stay patient, so that the rest of their lives can carry on. He steps to one side to look for her. The crowds fill the space that he has left, as if he had never been there at all. The heat fills the space that he has left, as if he had never been there at all. She is not part of the crowd, though by now she should be. He wonders if he has already missed her. He feels his throat tighten. He cannot remember the colour of her clothes and hair. He looks through the crowds for a dirty blackcurrant colour.

He sees her pass through a barrier to his right, her bag held out in front of her. She starts up a short tunnel towards some sunlight. Stephen makes himself patient. He queues quietly behind a young couple, both of whom have cameras around their necks. Just one would immediately halve all their memories. The man lets the woman walk through first. The woman turns and holds the camera in front of her face. The man stops halfway through the barrier. Stephen walks into the man's back. Stephen's head stick's out over the man's right shoulder, which is now pointed sharply at the ground. There is a flash. The man moves unsteadily through the turnstile.

'Sorry', Stephen says.

The man has a French expression on his face. He points at his camera, which he holds as though it is a sensitive animal or the sensitive part of a man-eating animal. He sighs on it. Stephen is swept past him in a new, sudden crowd. The crowd moves off towards the sunlight, the girl. He feels strong and fortunate. He pushes himself to the front of the crowd, which is itself just the end of another crowd. He sees the girl standing staring at her phone. He stands by a bin just behind her, leans his hand on it casually. No one would ever lean on a bin, unless they were leaning casually. The top of it makes his hand sticky. It makes him feel more casual.

The girl walks off still staring at her phone. Stephen walks off after her, keeping far enough away that he can still see the side of her face. He watches her jaw clench and unclench. He wonders what is he doing. They are coming to the end of the street. It has become clear that she is going to turn to her left. She has started to move out to her right slightly in preparation for a swing in the other direction, around a wall at the corner of the street. She puts her phone into her bag with an awkward looking bend at the elbow. He imagines he can he hear it hit the sweet, and crush it. She moves her body in and around the corner.

Stephen reaches out and taps her shoulder.

She looks startled and stops, puts both hands onto her bag.

'Sorry', Stephen says.

She mouth falls open, just enough to see the colour inside, half hidden amongst the heat there.

He laughs, almost, and sticks his tongue out at her. He turns and runs away, in the direction that he had just came from. The afternoon has started to cool.

KIRSTY TURKINGTON

2010-09-05T12:24:00.002Z

Best Kirsty Turkington in life, Kirsty Turkington, has started a blog for her, so-called, 'novelty poems'.

There is nothing novel about having a poetry blog (many tiered pun), but never mind. You should read it, she has a 'voice unique in literature' (Kirsty Turkington).

most important poll in life

2010-09-01T13:10:00.004Z

really just want everyone in the world to try their best and be happy and vote in my poll:

What is the best lyric in R Kelly's 'Echo'?

super update

2010-08-26T15:59:00.003Z

been visiting london sometimes, recently. did something like went to the natural history museum. which reminds me to remind you about these poems by shiona, which i think are really terrific and funny and lovely.

also want to say that crispin's blog is always epic, every time, whenever he can be bothered to do it. he should do it. he should do it right now.

also, hi ben brooks, who thinks i don't like anyone or something? ben?

am reading yuriy tarnawsky. this one.

also just finished reading 'the bathroom' by jean-philippe toussaint.

seem like the two best novels ever, maybe.

feeling like my novel will be an amazing combination of both of these.

maybe you would like to follow me on twitter?

also, yeah, that's right. i have a new e-book which i am proud of on the very excellent PANGUR BAN PARTY. feel like i've finally 'made it'. thanks, DJ.

four poems for my darling wife, shiona tregaskis

2010-08-10T15:14:00.001Z

1. Something Old

The bristlecone pine tree cuts himself shaving. He is standing fully clothed at the sink with top shirt button undone. The right arm and shoulder of his suit jacket is dangling down his back to the to the floor, like something saved from a house fire. The bristlecone pine tree feels an ache at his jaw. The ache at his jaw feels a lot like the thought that he is going to be late. He catches the thought in some tissue paper. The thought is the size and colour of some small jewel. He smiles and thinks that an honest excuse can be a gift too if it is said when two people are together and in love.

2. Something New

The cyborg is sad. The light on his left hand chest plate is lit up. The 'sad' light. It is the year in the future in which cyborgs have happened. The cyborg is like an answering machine with an organ or two; some brain bits. They have gone too far in one direction with him, scientifically speaking. Everyone has agreed. He has a little box in his throat that crackles. He asks if he can sound like her instead. He has a little photograph in his hand. What does she sound like?, says the man. That's why I asked you, says the cyborg. That's what I want to know.

3. Something Borrowed

The library book is reading itself. It is 'The Observer's Book of Birds'. In the middle, a piece of paper, a bus ticket, carrying on like a bookmark. It wants to touch its feet with its head. The library book thinks, 'I'm staring at an old bus ticket you left. I'm going to collect all your old bus tickets and make a sheet. I'll glue them all together and put them over my head and turn up at your house at night and haunt you.'

4. Something Blue

The Estonian cornflower adds an extra 'X' at the end of the email. He moves his cursor to the start of the row and moves it along, counting them. He has given her eleven 'x's. He scrolls up to her last email. She had given him one; in her first email, two rows of nine. This doesn't mean anything, he thinks, and doesn't mean it. He feels calmly, unhysterically, but crushingly alone. He shuts his eyes and imagines his mattress stretching for miles in every direction. He rolls over onto his face. He wonders how long it would take to roll to London. He is glad his mattress is memory foam; sad that it has no mouth.

words by jethro, poem by stephen o'toole

2010-07-26T17:16:00.005Z

i was too late to enter the 'other' found poetry contest, but here is my entry anyway:

lots of breadcrumbs
falling on the floor
mauled her to death once a year:
my bloody wife,
the biggest alsatian dog you've ever seen.

ICYBT day

2010-07-26T16:41:00.003Z

today i took part in International Change Your Blog Template Day

please see chris killen's BLOG for more details. he will being giving a 'rundown' of the blog template changing action from across the globe at some point. there is a drawing of my old blog template there currently, and, i imagine, for as long as the internet.

i am really happy with my new blog template.

i may never change it.

i wonder, two or three people who read this a day, should it stay this way? i think it accurately reflects 'who' i am.

thanks everyone

chloe's controlled diet

2010-07-25T01:43:00.003Z

did a reading today here. if you could somehow go back in time and see me, that would be nice. although maybe if you appeared in a flash or however, while i was reading, i might feel ill and eerie. i'm not sure.
hello, anyway, if you saw me read and came here somehow.
i love you.

i interviewed myself on 'other'. i really went for it. i tore me to shreds. i hate myself

also had a story i wrote a while ago published here. i was 'trying something out'. hope it worked.

im currently looking at photos of obese cats on the sspca website and feeling depressed. really want to adopt this big girl. what do you think?

description of some people who might be sitting in a café

2010-07-14T19:46:00.002Z

three grown men in the far corner; black trousers, ties; white shirts with the sleeves rolled up. their suit jackets are over their chairs, as if the chairs are wearing their jackets. they have, quite clearly, been crying. one of them has a dribbling nose even. a woman (around 45) is with them, wearing a pink velour tracksuit with 'QUEEN BITCH' in sequins across the cheeks. they are all tucking into fun size Snickers from a small plastic bag with balloons and little candles drawn on.

in front of them, on his own, in a pair of knee length 'camouflage patterned' shorts and nothing else, a man rubbing his right nipple furiously. he is staring at his nipple, and then at his full english, which has apparently just plastered him with grease.

by the door is a very severe looking old man, cutting the fat off of his bacon and sticking it into a napkin which he is then stuffing into his breast pocket. each of his legs, inside blue cords, are covered in shit across the calves.

some doggerel about a cat

2010-07-05T12:26:00.008Z

it's genuinely upsetting
to come home and not find
a feline for petting,
just a few fine lines of fur that he's shedded
on the laptop, the lino, the place where we bedded
down for the night
(no wait, that's no right,
it sounds like i might've
fiddled with the critter).

it's just that all that i've left
are few stray bits of grit
from his soiled cat litter
and the sense that i was nothing more
than an unpaid babysitter
for an eighteen year old infant
who'd eat raw mice if i'd let it;
who wouldn't play nice if pet it
who'd give me a bite if i wet it;
who, try as might, just wouldn't get
that i'd've laid down my life for it,
if it'd just taken that bow tie and worn it
so i could've taken a photo and shown it
to people i met in the street.

oh Bill, i don't how to end this.
i'd read you these words
and tell you i love you
but you'd just look at me as if was crazy.
it's better to say it with chicken in gravy.

a poem called 'terrific dancing' written by me, stephen o'toole

2010-07-03T23:22:00.004Z

darren roared, and downed his pint of carlsberg.
he stuck his glass up, in the air above carla's head,
and his subbuteo t-shirt strained across his pauch.
he paused, and then made his left hand into the shape of a gun.
he cocked his thumb, and fired his finger at her face
over and over again.
he fucking loved 'bootylicious'.

vaguely political poem

2010-06-25T11:57:00.002Z

"WELL IF YOU LOVE OIL SO MUCH",
screamed barbara,
"WHY DON'T YOU JUST MARRY SOME?"
so he did,
though his local vicar was reluctant
and the honeymoon in the gulf of mexico was ill judged
to say the least

recent keyword activity part two

2010-06-22T13:30:00.003Z

just got a google referral for 'close up urinating penis'

sorry to disappoint you. i've let you down and i've let myself down.

currently job hunting: might try this one.

shame it's just a one off.

currently far too hot. kept up all night by cat banging things, being sick/a right 'charlie'.

(hope 'charlie' isn't an offensive word)

got a text from a friend abroad: 'at leaning tower of pisa taking generic 'holding it up' photos.

if anyone can guess where she is, i will write you a poem with your name as the title

would like to meet (WLTM)

2010-06-21T11:28:00.006Z

hey guys. it's the longest day. 24 hours, i hear.

just watching wimbeldon. have a doctor's appointment later. (<------ real blogging content. 100%)

channel 4 seems to be showing random episodes from various points in the 'friends' universe. thought this morning i'd maybe slept for a month: chandler was suddenly fat

i hope you cats know you can still get copies of my FREE chapbook.
here are some things people have said about it:

ana c: yes yes yes <3
ani smith: i must have 'stockholm syndrome' because i really enjoyed this chapbook
ryan: can be be held between thumb and index finger

List of animals with fradulent diplomas

OK ENOUGH

some dating adverts the dishy kirsty t and i found (wrote)
one of them is about a cat, one about a neutered horse, and one about a pile of wood:

long haired, bearded lothario seeks twelve like minded souls to change the world. pay reasonable, rewards eternal.

shy male, 47, good listener, enjoys long walks in rural areas WLTM young female, preferably drunk, to remain twelve feet ahead at all times. you wear heels, i'll wear the night vision goggles.

female, lonely, pile of wood, seeks ideal match. all the rest have been a bit wet. will you be my bright spark? let's get ignited!

desperately seeking: blonde, beautiful female, wearing velour tracksuit. i saw you on the subway last week, after midnight. i thought we really had a connection. i don't think you heard my number over the screams of your personal alarm device. please get in touch: i still have a lock of your hair.

male, 34, lazy, WLT...

sinister mouth breather, m, 27, WLTM bed ridden widow. must own own airing cupboard, preferably with a duvet view. no timewasters please!

knife WLTM fork. for fucking.

curvaceous male seeks understanding female for daily moisturising.

flame haired bore, enjoys racial slurs and cross stitch seeks overweight, bearded male for mutual silence.

female, 64, widowed WLTM hirsute, whiskered gent for evenings in, heavy petting, and rubs behind the ears.

strapping young gelding (beefy, ballless) seeks plucky young mare to come first in his race.

BEARDS

2010-06-09T11:29:00.016Z

A faceful of poems by Kirsty Turkington (female, cat lover) and Stephen O'Toole (25, clean shaven)

if i could crawl into your beard and make a nest,
i would

if only you'd get rid of the these bloody harvest mice

i wiped some homous off your moustache, gus
gosh you're delicious

i went into the bathroom after you and covered my face in your beard clippings

you looked at me in disgust and told me that you'd trimmed some other part of your body

my goatee entered into an arm wrestle with
cavendish's mutton chops
my goatee was completely overwhelmed. hair everywhere. surrounded.
it could barely hang on.
the chops got it in a clamp, while cavendish sat back in his deckchair,
with a pimms in his crotch, rubbing the blankness around his ears
and blowing kisses at my wife

i have two lesbian mothers. i never really learned how to shave properly. i sported henious facial hair for over a decade.

handlebar moustaches
soul patches
mutton chops
and sideburns that covered my entire face

i wore your beard as my wedding dress.
nice for you to know, i thought, that i'd

married the wrong man.

it's shame you went grey so early
after i'd left you.

I knew a bearded collie who,
after his mother died,
was never the same again.

he shaved off his thick fur
and children refused to pat his
razor nicked, toilet paper daubed
skin

a beard seems inevitable
if i stay in this cave
but then maybe you'd like that?

a week after you left, i started to go deaf

eventually, i went to the doctors.
he stared into my right ear, inserted his tweezers,
and pulled out one of your beard hairs

my eyes welled up as dropped it in
the 'human waste' bin

From afar, your beard looks soft and strokeable

Up close it's wiry, prickly, and leaves rashes on my face

This says a lot about you (i.e. you have a beard)

Things that can't grow a beard:

drawings of beards
a 40th birthday party
a warm trouser press
toffee
you

Things that I love:
All of the above, except you

thisismethisisyou

2010-06-08T15:30:00.001Z

Kirsty Turkington (again)

Amazing educational poem about a bird by a bird

2010-06-08T15:13:00.002Z

Please click on it to make it readable (size-wise, not necessarily prose or content-wise)
This poem is by 'budding young poet' Kirsty Turkington.
She does not believe in the internet and lives in a hovel with a cat.
She is happy to answer any questions you might have about birds, hovels, or cats, but please shout VERY LOUD.

'other'/greggs realism

2010-05-13T16:48:00.002Z

please everyone reading this, go and read 'other' instead. if you find everything i write here brilliant and sad and funny and so on, go and read 'other' instead. if you want me to like you, go and read 'other' instead.

'other' is the new sexy clubhouse for all of the best british young writers that i am aware of that exist.

i have a story on 'other'. this story is spearheading the exciting new style of british writing called 'greggs realism'.

got to get to greggs. got to get to 'other'

my shopping list on election night (a poem) (why not)

2010-05-09T16:54:00.002Z

diet lemonade £0.18
special gin £7.99
grafenwalder pils £0.75
energy drink light £0.29
energy drink £0.29
grafenwalder pils £0.75
energy drink £0.29
energy drink £0.29
energy drink light £0.29
granfenwalder pils £0.75
grafenwalder pils £0.75
energy drink light £0.29
energy drink £0.29
energy drink £0.29
energy drink light £0.29
coloured cheddar £1.89
walkers sensations thai £1.00

large carrier £0.09

emotional

2010-05-08T19:51:00.007Z

feel in no fit state to blog today.
feel like i am typing this from beyond the grave.
feel like wet paint.
feel like a difficult second album.
feel like a ladder in the tights of life.

bought two fantails yesterday (see above). currently i would describe their mood as 'medium annoyed'. i picked the two most boisterous looking ones in the shop. i anticipated hours of watching them zip around the bowl. so far they have just sat at the bottom, near the fake yellow coral, pouting repeatedly.

oddly though, because of this, i suddenly feel 200% affinity with these fish.

here is a story i wrote today. it sums up my feelings on many things including my failures with woman, the hung parliament in westminster and the current lack of interest in my chapbook. It is called,

Stephen O'Toole

Stephen O'Toole kicked the dragon in the nuts, and then made love to the beautiful woman.

'Thanks', said the beautiful women. 'Thank you, Stephen'. She hauled her tongue out his head and said 'Thanks', to show her gratitude.

The dragon on the ground agreed. 'I asked for that', he said, but it all just sounded like flames. The beautiful woman leaned over and lit a cigarette off them.

The beautiful woman hid a lung sized amount of smoke inside of her and hoped that Stephen O'Toole would find it. Stephen O'Toole winked and wrote a rude word on her stomach with his finger, wrote it again, and then again. The beautiful woman laughed, and smoke poured out of her. The dragon watched the smoke and felt emasculated, and cried five tears of lava.

read today that the female hyena has a 'penis type organ' through which it mates, urinates and gives birth. the vagina of the female hyena is fused shut. one in ten female hyenas are killed by the tearing involved in giving birth.

last night i watched 'four lions', and enjoyed it lots, but found the comedy 'slightly too broad' e.g. one too many comedy deaths. my favourite part involved a wookie.

further, non-female hyena fact: i wrote this blog post while watching 'transporter 2' on channel 4, and drinking sparkling water and wondering where it all went wrong

this blog post is dedicated to jason statham's first girlfriend, wherever she is.

(copies of chapbook still available for 'pre-order'. tell me if you want one and where i should send it to, thanks)

TUSK

2010-05-02T22:08:00.003Z

Wrote a chapbook. It is something like 20 connected stories,detailing the relationship between a man and woman. The man spends most of the book wearing an elephant mask; the woman is Finnish.

Each of the stories are named after a song on the Fleetwood Mac album, 'Tusk', for no good reason.

I will post a few of the (very short) stories on here for a while.

Please look at them, and, if you like them, and would like a personalised, physical copy of the WHOLE CHAPBOOK, please leave a comment, or email me.

I already have a request for one.

OK. Here are the first few stories. There are 16 more, if you like these! Think of it!:

EDIT: THIS CHAPBOOK WILL BE RELEASED IN A LIMITED RUN OF 40 COPIES ON 24TH MAY

Over and Over

The Stevie Nicks Pervert has made some mistakes.

The Ledge

The Stevie Nicks Pervert has stopped brushing his teeth. He knows because his breath told him.

It's gotten inside the mask with him somehow, and is hovering next to his head, telling him that he hasn't brushed his teeth in weeks.

His breath is a bastard. He's sick of listening to it. It is a parasite, and he doesn't want anything else to do with it.

It should have just left with the Finnish girl.

She'd been moving things out quietly for weeks—shifting boxes at night, then shrugging about it in the morning. Every day his flat got lighter and lighter, until he almost passed out from altitude sickness.

On the last night all she had left was her toothbrush, and her Top Shop summer dress. He begged her to take his breath too.

'I've no use for it now', he said.

'But you've got plenty of room', she said, blinking. She'd always had trouble with his accents.

For a second at the shut door, it seemed like she'd taken it, but then he sighed with relief and realised that it hadn't gone anywhere.

He's decided to stick his breath in a bin bag; give it to the charity shop. It is a useless thing and it belongs with all the other useless things.

His breath is a colour by numbers of a kitten, that someone's done entirely in black. His breath is Madonna's Sex book, with sunglasses drawn all over the tits. His breath is a carriage clock, with all the balls removed.

Think About Me

Here are a few facts about the mask:

It belongs to the Finnish girl. The Stevie Nicks Pervert was with her when she bought it. It is in the shape of an African elephant's head. The heat inside of it, under the duvet, is unbearable.

It has been unbearable for so long that the word 'unbearable' has stopped having any fixed meaning. It means yellow, now, or chair, or something. Everything. It means bearable and unbearable simultaneously. It is ridiculous, a nonsense word. Saying it makes people laugh, and shrug.

The Stevie Nicks Pervert isn't sure what he feels. He never thought it would be as chair as this. It has even gone beyond yellow. It is something. Everything.

He feels far away from his face. He is starting to have doubts about it. It is a hollow doubt, cool and useful as a basement. He keeps things inside of his doubt. Things like this:

Maybe when I take the mask off, my face will be something else entirely.

Maybe it will be her.

Save Me A Place

The Stevie Nicks Pervert has stopped brushing his teeth, but he has stopped eating too, so it all balances out.

He has become so used to not doing these things that he can not do them in his sleep. For a challenge, he has stopped sleeping.

He uses all the free time to think about the Finnish girl. He has put on the mask to help him think. He is thinking so hard about her that he is making a noise. The noise is halfway between a fridge and a whimper. It is starting to hurt.

He thinks a bit harder. About there being nothing but his breath left inside him. His breath and a person shaped space, on the other side of his skin.

He is thinking about his breath swapping places with the Finnish girl.

He will start with his lips at her forehead. Just before her hair. Have a few practice goes. Then, finally, he will pull her deep inside him. They will both be surprised at how easy it is, how natural. He will feel her laughing where his lungs used to be. There will be nothing inside him that is not her, and he will not want her to leave.

She will have a taste that his breath did not have.

There will be sixty, maybe eighty, seconds where they are together. After this he will have no choice. He will have to let her go to keep them both alive. This is what she will tell him; spelling it out on his insides with a finger. He will not listen and the spelling will become more insistent. It will become somehow more and yet less intelligible. It will become a tapping, then a stabbing. The message will make him ache, and he will have no choice because he loves her. He will open his mouth, and she will go.

He wonders how far she could go from him, and still keep him alive.

The noise is halfway between dust and a hurt dog.

recent keyword activity

2010-04-25T22:15:00.003Z

'as told by ginger characters'

i hope you found them.

would anyone like to read/for me to publish this chapbook? if you draw me a picture of a naked man in an elephant mask, i will give you a copy. if you tell me the name of your favourite fleetwood mac song, i will give you a copy. the chapbook is about a naked man in an elephant mask. i like fleetwood mac.

i have now moved house. i am living beyond my means. it's nice. fuck my means.

i am going to manchester on tuesday. possibly going for a swim tomorrow.

i hope you all read my new story. it's linked over there-----> and is short enough

does anyone else like waylon jennings? i love him a lot

i am thinking of writing a story exclusively in cryptic crossword clues.

feeling good.

letter to the chancellor

2010-04-12T21:55:00.005Z

Another extract from the 'long story' I'm still writing. In it, our hero devises a way to end the recession. I hope that you like this and don't 'choke on whimsy' or something. Thanks:

"Dear Mr Chancellor,

I've been thinking a lot about you lately. I've heard that things aren't going so well, and I'm sorry. I'm sorry because I wouldn't even know if this is true. I don't get out much anymore: I've stopped wearing clothes.

I'm writing to you today to tell you that I've had an idea, and that I think it's going to save us all.

By now, you'll have seen the picture I enclosed. I'm sorry that it's drawn in gravy, but I was too frightened to leave and buy paint. It's not much of a sketch either, I know, but you will have guessed that it'sa girl. A real one, too! I hope that you've had a good look at her, because this is the face that is going to end your recession.

The Queen, we can all agree, has limited appeal. Sexually speaking. But this girl could make concrete nouns weep, begging to have arms and penises.

Now I'm not saying that the Queen hasn't done a fine job on our currency so far. I'm not blaming her for anything. She's done the best with what she has, and the crown adds a lot. But just look at this girl's face! I'd take those eyes alone out to dinner, if I thought they'd be able to eat something, hold cutlery and so on. Eyes like those are miraculous: they make metaphors seem literal. They drive grown men out in downpours, with buckets in their hands for all the falling greyhounds.

Put this face on your currency, sir, and I assure you: your economic problems will disappear overnight.

I know what you're thinking. I've thought it too: that sticking a face this lovely on every coin and banknote in the country might make people less keen to part with their money; that they'd sleep for the rest of their lives with a £20 note on their lips. I'm sure you won't be offended when I tell in reply that you've obviously never been in love. Why would anyone settle for a single £20 note, when they could walkinto a shop and break it, and stroll off with a £10, a £5 and a hand full of change? With those eyes on every one. Every note another pose--they'd have to have them all!

To spend money, you have to earn money. I had to check this, but it's true. And what better incentive to earn money could there be than the aim to have whole fistfuls of her, bathtubs and beds and wallets full!

And the more people there are out there spending money, the more goods and services they'll need to spend it on and the more jobs we'll create, as a result, to supply these services. Her face will be everywhere. We'll all have been saved.

I suppose my own motives are clear. I am a selfish man, and I love this girl.That's all. I expect you guessed immediately what was up, from one quick look at the face I've drawn. From the fact that there are no features on it; not even ears. Just a brown oval, with the word 'beautiful' drawn inside. It's been six weeks since I saw her, and every day there's less. I struggled, even, to remember if her face was face shaped.

I need to get what's left of her out there, before I forget altogether. If I can help you too, all the better.

I haven't even seen my own face in days. I'm wearing this awful elephant mask.

I thank you in advance for your help.

Yours faithfully,

The Stevie Nicks Pervert

PS: She is Finnish, will this be a problem?"

Billy

2010-04-12T12:31:00.002Z

Billy visits the vet.

'I don’t think I can go on anymore.’

‘It’s your knees’, said the vet, leaning back in his chair.

No. I can still walk.’

The vet put his hands together, placed them on his head like a cap. ‘I don’t follow’, he said.

I mean emotionally,’ said Billy, dropping to the floor. ‘You’ve misunderstood me.’

‘I completely agree’, said the vet.

‘Well what am I going to do about it?’

‘Speak more clearly? Use less clichés?’

I meant about my depression.’

‘Oh, yes. Right.’ The vet opened a drawer, reached inside, then closed it over again. ‘Group therapy, of course, is impossible. It’s never worked for cats. Far too territorial. Incredibly selfish.’ He put a small bottle onto the floor. ‘Try these twice a day.’

Billy padded over, and around them. ‘These are worming tablets’, he said.

The vet shrugged and rubbed him behind the ears.

'evil' 'dramatic' bird room review

2010-04-06T12:14:00.003Z

Here is my entry for Socrates's competition for which i was loser/runner-up/not a winner.

No walls can hold me. Or something.

Though the winners are fine too, especially, I think, the 'positive one'.

"Chris Killen Must Die

The title of this book is misleading. The title of this book is 'The Bird Room'. I was expecting a book of babies' names.

I know what you're thinking. I've thought it too. 'Stephen, you're an illiterate fool'. It's only when I try to read that statement back that I realise how true it is. It makes sense. It also, of course, makes no sense to me. In my eyes, it makes as much sense as the statement: " 'The Bird Room' by Chris Killen is an excellent book. It fathered my first son and gave me more orgasms than a wealthy, well endowed tsar", which, I can assure you, is a statement that is as far from the truth as the word 'unicorn.'

But then, I am illiterate.

Allow me to explain: I was at, one point, the father of a girl who had yet to 'get born'. I am one of those men who has had sex with women. "A woman", anyway.

All I ever wanted when I went to the library that day was a book of babies' names. Instead, I met my future wife; my daughter's mother. This is beside the point. I just felt that it was worth saying. The point is, really, that some months after I'd made love to that fine woman--buxom and blonde and sticky on the tile floors of the Mitchell Library toilets-- I found a copy of this 'burnt anus of a novel' lying sprawled in a gutter. I was squatting to urinate, but, instead, stopped, and stuck the tome in my pocket.

"The Bird Room", I thought. Or, more accurately, 'I think I'm going to die in this shit smear of town', I thought. 'At least my child will have a name', I thought. 'ZZZqwqgwehejueriri', I thought, as illiterate folk undoubtedly do.

One of those, anyway.

I waddled home to find my wife throat deep in the throes of labour. It wasn't pretty. I was sick at least fourteen times. On her stomach, and eyebrows. She was crying, unhelpfully. 'Relax', I told her, tapping her forehead with the book. 'I've got a name for the thing.'

She stopped shoving and looked up. 'What is it?', she said.

Half thinking, I flicked pages in front of my eyes. 'She doesn't wake up', I said. 'She doesn't mind. In fact, she probably likes it quite it a lot'

My wonderful wife whimpered. 'You want to call her that?', she said.

She divorced me on the spot.

She signed the papers in umbilical blood. The same blood I write this review in. It's all that I have left.

And if I ever catch you, Killen, I'll write it in yours

*1/2 out of 5"

my two favourite things to have ever happened in literature

2010-04-02T00:16:00.009Z

(ALISTAIR 'asked' for me to 'reinstate' this 'blog'.

nervous. feel like it's too 'personal' or something.

oh well:)

this blog has a 'fancy dress' theme. it is replacing the previous 'smart/casual' theme. i have come dressed as harvey keitel in 'bad lieutentant' dressed as charlie chaplin. what have you come as?

feeling full and the effects of a minor head injury.

feel like a 'bad' blogger but not in a michael jackson way. not in that michael jackson way.

im sorry about that/this. i really am

(feel like even the story of my minor head injury is probably dull (i hit it on the bottom of the bathroom cabinet while picking up some underwear from the floor))

i'm sorry about all this (^^^) parenthesis but not about that (<<<) parenthesis (if that makes sense?)

yesterday was the first time i have seen my own blood this year. was good to know it's still there.

ANYWAY. wanted to say this: my point: am reading "the mezzanine" by nicholson baker. it is a book that i will finish 'eventually'. there is a part near the beginning (say, page 30 or so; it's far away from me) where the 'hero' stamps the palm of his hand with a date stamp, while waiting for someone to finish a phone conversation. i felt like this was a very 'honest' thing for baker to have this fellow do. it is a scene/emotion i find very recognisable, to the point that it made me stop reading, put the book down, and stare at the other wall for ca. 30 seconds. it reminded me of some sentence in "hunger" (or "victoria", i forget) in which the 'hero' pulls the hands from the clock and uses them to stuff his pipe.

these are two of my favourite things to have ever happened in literature.

i think that 'consciously reckless vandalism' is very human. or something?

is that a 'point'?

last night i sat under a bridge with cat whiskers drawn on my nose, burning paper logs and shouting. felt terrific. maybe this is my point

weedy kafkaesque parable

2010-03-30T16:02:00.004Z

this is part of a longer thing i am writing/have wrote (a bit of). it stands on its own, but in a weedy way, like an old man, or a weed. Works okay out of context (which is 'relationship between man in elephant mask and finnish girl, somehow')

It is is one fifth of a second since the start of the universe. The Big Bang is googling himself. Nothing yet, he notes. He is starting to feel unsung and sweaty.

It is seven seconds since the start of the universe. The Big Bang has decided to get drunk. He gets up from the sofa and walks into the the kitchen. He makes himself the strongest gin and ginger beer in existence; downs it.

It is ten seconds since the start of the universe. The Big Bang has wet himself, blacked out. It's hard to know your limits in infinite space and he's actually very small.

It is four million years since the start of the universe. The Big Bang has his hand down his trousers. He is typing 'lady big bang naked' into Google with his free hand, pressing enter.

It is four million years since the start of the universe and half of a second since the Big Bang typed 'lady big bang naked' into Google. There are plenty of results, but nothing to his taste. He decides to have a wank over a nova again.

It is thirteen billion years since the start of the universe. The Big Bang is listening to Radio 4. Two men are discussing the Large Hadron Collider. The Big Bang feels very warm. He feels as if his heart has been yawning, and that someone's just crammed a cake inside it.

It is thirteen billion years and a bit since the start of the universe. The Big Bang is on the phone. The man at CERN is asking him to come again. The man at CERN is asking if this is a joke.

'Just make me another one of me. But sexier', the Big Bang is saying.

'Impossible', says the man at CERN, in Swiss. 'It might end up destroying the universe.'

'And you can piss off with that, right now', says the Big Bang. 'You owe me.'

Internet Anxieties of Fictional Characters part SIX

2010-03-24T12:32:00.007Z

APOLOGIES if this TL. give it a go ANYWAY?

Ace Ventura is typing 'buy plant food' into Google. He is coping quite well with this, though his eagle took four of his fingers.

The page loads. Ace Ventura is the master of Google. Ace Ventura thinks, 'yeah yeah yeah' and with his arms and groin mimes the sexual act of having sex with woman from behind and possibly up the bum, where the woman is Google and he is Ace Ventura. He makes a motion with his hand across his lap and in his mind his hand connects with Google's bum.

Ace Ventura's heart feels out of place and tasteless. It is a pair of novelty sunglases in the tomb of a dead pharaoh. He is not happy with how this has gone. He makes a motion with his hand across his lap and in his mind his hand connects with Google's bum. He makes the sound 'THWACK' with his mouth, and immediately feels better.

'Oh yeah' he says.

His spanking arm aches in the sling, where the bear slashed it.

Ace Ventura makes a mental note to rethink the spanking arm situation.

Ace Ventura decides that asking the bear to leave was 110% the right thing to do.
.
Ace Ventura stares at Google. He is about to crack the case of 'Buying Ace Ventura Mephedrone', but he is finding it hard to focus. Everything is the colour of newspapers.

He lost a lot of blood from his dick yesterday, after the whole 'walrus thing'.

He knows for a fact that that monkey can't stitch, despite what it says.

Ace Ventura's quiff lies long and limp across his face. He could touch it with his tongue if he wanted. It is dripping with bat shit. He parts it with his fingers, to get a better look at Google. He uses every part of his still sharp detective brain to find what he is looking for. It is the fourth result down. Ace Ventura is going to get fucked up.

'Case closed', he thinks.

He reaches for the wheels of his wheelchair. He is going to do it. He is going to pop a radical wheelie. 'Yeah', he starts to think, biting his lip.

Ace Ventura falls, crushing his kitten. Some birds come through from the kitchen, stand on his back, give him a bit of a groom. The giraffe puts its tongue in his ear.

Internet Anxieties of Fictional Characters part V

2010-03-24T11:00:00.009Z

Another good one by another good writer. Crispin, this one:

Bluto thinks "I am using my computer to access the internet to surf the world wide web!!!!" and feels quiet and completely alone.

On the screen there is an advert for an online roleplaying game featuring an undressed, seductive woman. Bluto knows the advert is aimed at lonely men and he nods his head.

He is looking at pictures of Olive Oyl. In this picture she is wearing sports clothes. Bluto thinks about a particular moment in a dark bedroom: tiny sparks of static as Olive Oyl took off her tracksuit bottoms to get into bed.

Bluto thinks "I am using the internet to surf the world wide web and navigate to my email account!!". He wants to email Olive Oyl that he is going to commit suicide using a pineapple.

He wants to break his neck by jumping off the top diving board into a swimming pool of kidneys.

There is music playing. The song is "Jesus He Knows Me" by Genesis. Bluto starts to do a little chairdance to make himself better. After a short while chairdancing he remembers that the thing with the static was a different girl, not Olive Oyl. He stops dancing.

He wants to email Olive Oyl and tell her he is going fire himself out a cannon into a cliff face, high above a beach where she is slowly building an excellent sandcastle and where Popeye is trying to learn to boogieboard like some sort of bloody idiot.

"don cherries"

2010-03-22T00:24:00.009Z

hope everyone's had a lovely sunday.

had a 'fishcakes-for-tea' sunday.

had a 'wore-a-tea-shirt-for-a-day-longer-than-i-should-have' sunday

had a 'four-text-message-no-email' sunday.

not a bad yield.

still working on long thing.

first chapter: "The Stevie Nicks Pervert has made some mistakes"

think i've had two stories rejected. it's been many months. one was about the queen. portrayed her in a whole new light, sort of thing. like a burnt fiver. the rejection (imagined/otherwise) is disappointing. like a burnt tenner.

had a 'made-an-ambition-to-be-the-top-hit-on-google-when-you-type-in-stephen-otoole-then-thought-about-writing-a-post-with-nothing-but-my-name-in-it-then-realised-wasnt--entirely-sure-that's-how-google-works' sunday

had a 'stayed-up-later-than-i-should-have' sunday

had a 'posted-an-odd-obliquely-personal-blogpost' sunday

had a 'sorry' sunday

Internet Anxieties of Fictional Characters part four

2010-03-19T16:14:00.003Z

Socrates has done this one. I like it lots. It is inspirationally good, as is his blog:

I am Steven Stiffler. I am about to press 'enter' on my keyboard. I have typed www.chatroulette.com into the google search of my web-browser internet. My web-browser is Internet Explorer. I press the 'enter' key. There are about 14 million results. The number one result is 'Chatroulette! - Chatroulette is a brand new service for one-on-one text-, webcam- and microphone-based chat with people around the world.

I double click the hyper-link, because you need to double click them to activate them. A page loads. It is a white page. In the middle of the page is a bar which is slowly filling up. Underneath the bar it says 'Loading'. I wait by the bar and start to think about myself in the third person. Steven Stiffler is a great guy with a lot to give. I decide to call myself only by my surname, so that the babes that I meet on www.chatroulette.com can't track me down and get serious with me after I do my business with them.

Stiffler is a stud. Stiffler is an all-american great guy with a really big amount to give.

Steven Stiffler is getting annoyed because the chat is still loading.

Steven Stiffler is getting a beer because he wants to get wasted because talking to hot incredible babes feels better when you're wasted. The loading bar is maybe three quarters loaded.

Steven Stiffler leans back in his chair and puts one hand down his jeans and the other holds his ice-cold can of ice-cold Coors beer. Steven Stiffler can't wait to get talking to the babes on chatroulette and definitely not get into a long term relationship with any of them because you can't tame the Stifflermeister. I am the Stiffmeister General. I am definitely not nervous about talking to anyone over the internet. Stiffler is incredible.

Stiffler is thinking about the last girl that he did the dirty with. She tried to get to heavy and make me become not single. There's a time and a place for Stiffmeister to settle down. Stiffler is way too young to settle down with just one babe. I think about all of the women I have known. I think about the fact that each one makes me so happy. I feel so happy to have known all of the women. I probably couldn't get any happier. I think that one more babe on chatroulette won't make me any happier. What's the point.

I click the cross box in the top right hand corner of the screen. I turn off the computer and down my beer. I accidentally knock over a card from the top of the table. It says, 'To Dad, Happy 55th birthday.' I pick up the card and throw it across the room. I quickly open the fridge and try and find something to have sex with.

five unconnected sentences from my new 'long thing' (story), followed by a bonus question

2010-03-16T22:48:00.002Z

He's decided to stick his breath in a binbag; give it to the charity shop.

It is in the shape of an African elephant's head.

He never thought it would be as chair as this.

The noise is halfway between dust and a hurt dog.

He has just spent five minutes scrolling through the inbox on a urinal cake.

(what am i doing?)

shitloads

2010-03-06T16:40:00.000Z

i love you shitloads.

it's a boy shitloads.

i'm afraid we're going to have let you go shitloads.

there's shitloads of leftovers in the fridge.

your wife has been having an affair shitloads.

that wig suits you shitloads.

your son has just had shitloads of strokes.

i shitloads did not touch your cat in that way.

i do. shitloads.

Internet Anxieties of Fictional Characters part three

2010-03-04T16:48:00.003Z

Ryan Vance did this one, the good man. Thanks,Ryan!:

“Stop looking,” Ripley says, stubbing out a cigarette, “over my shoulder,”

“I’m not looking over your shoulder,” says Ash. He is standing directly behind her, having just woken her up at 0300 hours.

“I can’t work with you watching me.”

“Fine. Fine. I’m just curious.”

“I know you’re curious, Ash.”

The cursor hovers over Kane’s attachment. She doesn’t recognise the file extension, but these days that’s nothing new. Ripley remembers when you could just ask a computer a straight question and get a straight answer. Then things changed. TIFFs, PDFs, JPGs, OPTs. At some point her healthy cynicism towards technology budded into a fully fledged luddism, and now she can’t tell trojans from lolcats. The cursor hovers.

“Oh, Christ, look,” Ash presses down on Ripley’s hand, the mouse clicks. “There. See? What’s the problem?”

Norton Antivirus runs red.

“You can’t keep it,” Ripley is standing in a room too white to trust, talking to a corporate shill too stupid to know any better. “Are you listening? I said, you can’t keep it. You’ve seen what it can do.”

It hid in the directories, popping out unexpectedly to eat up her music, her photos of Newt’s graduation, that novel she’d been working on. And now they want to study it. She slaps the table, hard.

“You listen here. I want you to reformat the entire drive remotely. It’s the only way to be sure.”

The grunt shrugs and walks away with her laptop.

God, she thinks, what I'd give right now for an airlock.

Internet Anxieties of Fictional Characters

2010-03-03T13:07:00.002Z

decided to catalogue online anxieties of fictional characters.

couple below to get you started.

would like to hear yours though.

send me them and i'll post them on here.

if you don't nothing will happen, but i'll feel a bit sad and silly secretly

stephen.otoole@gmail.com

Internet Anxieties of Fictional Characters part two

2010-03-03T12:38:00.003Z

Dr Ian Malcolm will not join Guardian Soulmates. He thinks Guardian Soulmates is for pussies. Dr Ian Malcolm has used up nine of his free profile views on Guardian Soulmates, and is sneering. The sneer on his face and the bag of cocaine on the coffee table are making him not a pussy.

He moves his cursor over 'Next' and clicks. Usual spread of plain faces, chops covered in slap. Good God, he thinks.

Like to chat and just go with the flow, one face tells him. Would you like to drift with me?, it asks, very genuine. Dr Ian Malcolm sticks his sneer in the cocaine. This is all too much, he thinks.

He scrolls down further and stops. His sneer sinks to his shrunken penis. He has stopped at a picture of his ex girlfriend. She's wearing the blue keffiyeh he bought her. She looks more beautiful than ever.

He thinks about the chances of finding her here. He forgets that she is a single woman, and slightly insufferable, and thinks about a butterfly in Singapore flapping its wings. A beautiful young Welsh girl in keffiyeh, back packing through Asia, has stopped to stroke a butterfly. The butterfly's back ripples, its back being more or less wings. A breeze starts, not even enough to move the girls eyelashes, but it keeps going, pushing out across some ocean or two oceans or various countries possibly (Dr Ian Malcolm is poor on geography) until it arrives at the french windows of his penthouse apartment as a storm.

The storm rattles the glass and he gets up to let it in. It picks him up and sits him down, sits him down at this cocaine and his laptop, unbuttoning his leather trousers as it does so. The breeze punches in the URL for Guardian Soulmates. After a few fingerless goes, it gets there--all this way to bring her face back to him.

That is chaos, he thinks. He feels a thesis as a twitch in his groin. He can get tenure again, he thinks. Yes, he says out loud.

He moves the cursor across her face and clicks.

I'm sorry, Guardian Soulmates says, you have viewed ten profiles. To see more please sign up for as little as £9.99 a month.

Dr Ian Malcolm shakes his head. He will never be a pussy.

Internet Anxieties of Fictional Characters part one

2010-03-03T12:09:00.004Z

the guy from total recall with the mutant baby on his torso is taking photos of himself for his facebook. he has just made himself a very strong vodka and orange, and his shirt is unbuttoned to his belt. he is aiming his eyes hard at his laptop, which seems to be running away from him.

he wants to upload the photo of his naked torso. the one with one where it starts with his face, on his neck, pouting, and leads down to his naked torso. but he is the guy from total recall with the mutant baby on his torso and he doesn't want to scare girls away.

he's sure that if they saw it, the girls, the mutant baby there, they'd just click 'report this image', and his account would be deactivated. he's sure that if they saw it, their lovely curranty eyes would swell and drop off their soft, cakey faces. like pasta shells off a child's collage of the universe (where the pasta shells are planets full of people dying, and the atmosphere is the texture of crayon).

the guy from total recall with the mutant baby on his torso is hungry. he thinks about making a pot noodle. he thinks, is this it? and makes himself another drink. he thinks he hears his stomach disagree but it's just the mutant baby on his torso, crying.

he runs his cursor across the photo. he traces the outline of the mutant baby on his torso with his cursor. he is giving himself a tattoo of a mutant baby on his torso on the mutant baby on his torso. he does this until he has given himself forty seven tattoos, the same tattoo, one on top of another, and clicks 'upload picture'.

in which i review films i have not seen on the basis of their posters

2010-03-02T11:58:00.011Z

Using New Orleans voodoo and The Power of the Leap Year, a bitter frog possesses the body of a young woman's unsuspecting boyfriend in order to experience human marital pleasures of breakfast, tv, and proper sex with penises.

Woman suspects nothing until a small newt, claiming to be her boyfriend (he is!!!!) crawls up the toilet to speak to her. Hilarious scene then where newt-b/f pervs on her in the shower!!!

The climactic battle in a Cajun swamp, between man and woman, with man riding standing up on two alligators, is bloody and ends in tragedy. Frog-man wasn't bad, just misunderstood and was actually an excellent and considerate lover.
8/10

In which Morgan-Freeman-IS-Nelson-Mandela grows to the size of the Ponte City Apartments in Johannesberg through prayer and exposure to nuclear waste and crushes apartheid between his hands.

Matt Damon is a scientist who is 'coaxed' out of rugby shirt wearing retirement to restore the 'natural balance' of racism

Crass and insulting. A misfire.

2/10

Harrison Ford is God.

Brendan Fraser is The Devil.

After a particularly 'wild' night, God and The Devil forget where they parked the car. They have also forgotten that they are God and The Devil, LOL! Spend the next 70-odd minutes wandering around in real time musing about sushi and Krispy Kreme donuts and which is their favourite porn star.

Sasha Grey makes an appearance as herself at this point in what is one of the film's many 'knowing winks' at the camera. Ford and Fraser see her, high five, and say 'Dude' and so on.

It is after a naive young boy attempts to sell his soul to The Devil by sacrificing his own beloved family dog, that our two 'heroes' are reminded of their true purpose.

As the boy's screams of eternal damnation fade, there is much back slapping and reminiscing, during which Ford/God sticks his hand in his pocket and finds the keys were there all along!!!!!

A 'caustic triumph'

10/10

78% successful poached egg

2010-02-23T12:53:00.007Z

i just made a 78% successful poached egg.

this is real blogging content.

you are looking through a window and watching my life and my life is a 78% successful poached egg.

i have a bit of a headache, and i'm worrying about regretting telling you. you might make a loud noise or think that i'm pathetic.

i'm about to drop a poem into this mix. like i am a 'superstar dj'. there will be no joins. listen:

my face feels like a frying pan hitting me repeatedly in the face

i made you a boat made out of water, so that it would never sink

i keep it in a glass on the floor by my bed

one day i roll over and the boat's evaporated

it hadn't even occurred to me, that that would happen

i put it an envelope and post it to your dad's house

my face feels like a wedding speech i stole from the internet

a real 'superstar dj' wouldn't have to let you know, i know. i'm a terrible fraud.

i've been writing other things recently, neglecting this already

recently i have been writing things like:

a personal statement
an observation of a man's mental health (for money, at work)
text messages e.g. 'am keeping two tables'
online council tax payment form
a story that will appear somewhere--here if nowhere else
words during game of 'boggle'

my 'new shit' is going to be heavily influenced by 'boggle'. (regretting saying 'new shit' already).

'boggle' is a game that can be played by one person, but i do not recommend this. maybe you think you've been waiting for ever for life with the competition removed but it is not very nice, really

Chapter five: Desk

2010-02-20T19:18:00.006Z

Here are a list of things that Malcolm's ghost could keep on his desk that aren't a photo of Diane:

a suspicious looking tea towel
a piece of apple stuck between someone's teeth
Goldie Hawn
an incredulous Vatican scientist
a pun that doesn't quite work i.e. is technically briliant, worthy of Stephen Fry, etc but perhaps displays a hitherto hidden racism re: South Americans
a metronome in the shape of a hand and fingers, such that a single finger thereon keeps the time, waggling as e.g. a 'sassy' guest on 'human interest' chat show might waggle hers when challenged
a pyramid of oranges
the threat of sexual violence, tinned.
an electric razor with the words 'World's Greatest Lover' written on it
a signed photo of the cast of 'This Life' on which 'Egg' has written "This Life? This Life!!!!" and done a drawing of a naked man's bottom half, dribbling and on which 'Anna' has written her home (?) address
a series of 'socially conscious' cocktails with names like e.g. 'Crusty Protest', 'Delayed Runway' or 'The Troubles' (Baileys/Guinness-based)
an i-phone app that lets you look as if you are using your phone to make a phone call i.e. pushing buttons, saying 'hello' etc when in fact there is no one there and never is and though you did push buttons you did not push them 'in that way'

Chapter four: Shades

2010-02-18T16:53:00.005Z

Malcolm's ghost's face is fading. It is like the face on a foreign banknote that has passed through the inside of a dog.

'It's frightening the customers', the new boss says.

'I'm a ghost', explains Malcolm's ghost.

'Nevertheless', the news boss says.

'This is a call centre', says Malcolm's ghost. 'I work alone. In a booth.'

'Just sort it', the new boss says. 'Or you're out.'

Malcolm's ghost nods. It looks like dust sneezing.

He starts to keep a chart. It is a Dulux wall chart. He is measuring the shade of his face; making a real effort.

He worries all weekend and on Monday his face is 'Urban Obsession'. The new boss is satisfied. This is a substantial shade indeed. It is the shade of a real go-getter. There are hints of raise in it, in certain lights.

'Everything's going to be fine', says Malcolm's ghost, at dinner.

'This is all so sudden', says Diane, shifting in her chair.

In the morning, his face has faded again. 'Pacific Breeze'. Malcolm's ghost feels calm and remote, but the new boss is angry. A breeze is not executive material. Malcolm's ghost thinks of Diane. She is waving her finger at him but her hands are on her hips, and her arms are folded across her chest. Malcolm's ghost starts to worry. He must never underestimate her, or her limbs.

At the thought his face darkens to 'Lost Lake'.

'Very vibrant.' The new boss nods. 'Keep it up', he says.

Malcolm's ghost brings a photo of Diane to work. He puts it on his desk and worries at it, keeping his shade under control.

The customers, quite quickly, have something else to complain about.

'If you feel you really need to', says the news boss, 'just glance at it in the toilets. No one needs to see that.'

Malcolm's ghost agrees, but there's a hint of 'Roasted Red' to his cheeks.

Chapter three: Chairs

2010-02-17T16:48:00.011Z

They have given Malcolm's ghost a chair to put together.

He is not sure if it will be always be his job to put the chairs together. The new boss hadn't mentioned it, during the interview. Though there had been lots of chairs in the room, none of them had been in bits.

Maybe tomorrow there will be another chair, or more. Maybe the same one, taken apart or broken.

Malcolm's ghost kneels down, on the carpet tiles, to think. He does this because he has nowhere to sit and knows very little about chairs. Is it ok, he thinks, to call it a 'chair' when it's just a bunch of bits on the floor?

'That's a chair', the new boss had said, pointing at a box. He had been quite emphatic with his finger.

Maybe, thinks Malcolm's ghost, the new boss had meant the box after all. Maybe there will be a scene when the new boss comes back, and he sees that it's been opened up, and all the bits are laid out on the floor. And Malcolm's ghost there, on the carpet tiles and his knees, when he could have been sitting happily on a box.

He decides that if this happens, he will take the initiative. Just like he promised in the interview.

He will point to the bits on the floor and say 'That's a chair'.

But the new boss won't agree. He will think that Malcolm's ghost is pointing at one bit of plastic in particular, and he will wonder how someone could have got it so wrong. He will take the bit of plastic from the floor and ask no one in particular, in a very loud voice, if it looks at all comfortable.

He will expect Malcolm's ghost to laugh.

He will expect him to never stop laughing.

'A chair indeed', he will say.

The new boss will hold him to ransom with it, this little bit of plastic, as if it was the ear or arm or fingernail of a kidnapped daughter.

He will start to stir his tea every morning with a little bit of plastic. He will start to pick his teeth with it, every day, after lunch. He will use it to type his emails; to choose his floor in the lift; to punch in his clock in code.

Every month, with Malcolm's ghost's wage slip, there will be an envelope with a little bit of plastic in.

Malcolm's ghost will laugh every day, or there will be consequences.

One afternoon, Malcolm's ghost will frown, and refuse to find it funny anymore. The next morning he will open his eyes and see the bent spine of a chair lying next to him on the pillow, all slick with oil.

The phone will be ringing, and he will be late for work.

Chapter two: Hands

2010-02-16T15:57:00.010Z

Malcolm's ghost is sitting in a chair in the job centre.

He is trying to keep control of his hands. He is trying to keep them steady. His hands are two kites, and they are pulling away from him. He has been left to look after them, and he can't get rid of them.

They are far too frivolous for this.

He just has to keep them from touching his face, or the man will stop amd ask him if he knows what he is doing. The man will say this in his raised, airy voice. It will lift all the hands up from off the desk, and wrap them around one another. It will take two large dads with scissors to prise them apart.

'I'll need to ask you a few questions', says the man.

Malcolm's ghost's face is a long, lonely pylon. It is important that his hands don't touch it. It is connected by wires to countless other pylons, in bed rooms and waiting rooms and public toilets. Waves of stress travel along the wires. Sometimes there will be enough stress to power a cup of tea or suicide note by lamplight, but this is generally quite expensive.

Malcolm's ghost watches his hands. If they touch his face now, the man will get a shock. Stress will scorch his face and hair. He will be bald suddenly, and sweatier.

'First, I'll need to know what sort of benefit it was you felt you were entitled to. I don't seem to have any record of that.'

Malcolm's ghost feels his hands flutter. He picks them both up and hides them, one under each thigh.

'Oh no', says the man. 'Here we are.' He is waving a piece of paper in the air, wildly, like a last minute pardon.

To celebrate, Malcolm's ghost lets a hand float free.

'No', says the man, pulling the paper back. 'I'll hold onto this.' The man's voice catches the hand, blows it halfway around the world. It gets caught high in the branches of a tree in Honolulu. It is warm spring day, and a young girl breaks her neck trying to reach it.

The man shakes his head with his lips tight, as if he has just eaten a lemon with some particularly bad news inside.

'Disability living allowance?', he asks Malcolm's ghost.

'Yes', says Malcolm's ghost

I don't have any record of a recognised disability on here', says the man. The man is not pointing at anything.

'I'm a ghost', says Malcolm's ghost. 'I'm not alive'.

'But', says the man, 'apart from that, you're in perfect health.'

'Apart from being not alive', asks Malcolm's ghost.

'Yes', says the man.

'Yes', says Malcolm's ghost

'Yes', says the man. 'Well, I'm afraid that the DWP don't see you as having any barrier to work.' The man wipes the dust off his keyboard.'Would you consider working in retail?'

Malcolm's ghost thinks a bit about mentioning his hands.

Chapter one: Goldie Hawn

2010-02-15T12:48:00.004Z

Malcolm is picking up hair from the bathroom floor when his ears start to bleed.

'Diane', he says.

'I think it's Dennis Quaid', she says, from the other room.

They have just started watching 'Innerspace' halfway through. Neither of them have seen it before.

Blood runs down his cheeks and chin. His head feels as if he has left it on the stove, and forgotten it was there.

'Fuck me', she says. 'Meg Ryan now too', she says. 'What is this?'

'I think they used to be married', says Malcolm, very pale, apart from the blood.

'No', she says, 'You're thinking of Kurt Russell.'

He is dead before he has the chance to correct her. His final thoughts are the words 'Goldie Hawn', and then a sort of bubbling feeling, as if someone has stuck a straw in his head and blew.

Macolm's ghost gets up and looks around. He is in a fine marble bathroom, with golden taps and many other modern features. By the bidet, there is a small puddle of blood with hair and a dead body in it.

'Hello', he says.'Could someone come in here a minute?'

'What is it?', Diane says.

He decides not to say what it is. He decides that it is better to wait. Diane makes lots of loud walking sounds across the hall.

'The marble', she says. 'The new marble!'

Malcolm's ghost has an overwhelming sensation of desperately needing the toilet, but being unable to go. This sensation is common to all restless spirits who walk the earth. It is because of their not having a bladder.

Diane has been thinking. 'We're going to have to move this', she says, meaning the body.

'I can't move that!', Malcolm's ghost says. 'I have a bad back.'

Diane's eyebrows narrow. 'Don't think you're getting out of this', she says, 'with excuses like that. There's still ten years left on the mortgage, and there's no way I'm going back to Au Naturale now.'

Malcolm's ghost feels embarrassed and very unthreatening.

'He promised me a conservatory', she says, and I intend to have it.'

'Yes, dear', says Malcolm's ghost.

Goldie Hawn comes and stands between them. She is a vision. She is wearing deja vu like a dress. She winks, and laughs.

ghost story

2010-02-15T12:45:00.003Z

I will be writing a ghost story over the next week or so, and posting it here. Hopefully a chapter a day.

I am hoping to reinvent ghosts as 'sexy' and 'cool' in the manner of the 'sexy' and 'cool' vampires in 'True Blood' and 'Twilight' and 'Coronation Street' and so on.

Please comment if it is too sexy or not sexy enough

two love poems

2010-02-14T13:33:00.004Z

I'm staring at an old bus ticket you left

I'm going to collect all your bus tickets and make a sheet

I'll glue them all together and put them over my head

and turn up at your house at night

and haunt you

**************************

****

We are texting each other

We are texting each other without stopping

Our phones are white hot in our hands

We are not agonising over what to say

We are addressing everything that we have done

and everything that we are going to do

Our phones are melting in our hands

They are dribbling down our hands like an ice cream cone

I am trying to text you

to tell you not to lick your phone

I am trying to text you

to tell you you will get brain cancer

but my phone is a puddle on the floor

getting to know me

2010-02-13T14:19:00.002Z

Extract from semi-autobiographical first novel:

Chapter 1; page 79; paragraph 23: ‘Stephen O’Toole dribbled wetly from his mouth. At that time Stephen O’Toole’s mouth was also the mouth of a baby, and would remain so for some time. It was quite wet. Stephen O’Toole was lying on a carpet and, although he wouldn’t be truly aware of this fact for many years, and, even then, only on the basis of hearsay and a few nude photographs, he appeared to enjoy lying on this carpet very much. It has been suggested that he conveyed this enjoyment by moving his legs around in the air. However, if you were to dip his legs in some cream at that point, he would also begin to churn butter, so it’s hard to say what his intentions were, really.’

moving things, sitting in bed

2010-02-13T14:01:00.006Z

My short story, 'Moving Things' won a competition at The Beat.

I won a copy of 'The Bird Room' by Chris Killen. And another book. I can recommend 'The Bird Room' but not the other one as I have not read it and have forgotten what it's called. Some dramatic sounding 'blurbs' on cover, though, I recall.

My story is on front page just now. It is archived here.

I have started this blog to capitalise on my new found internet infamy. I am capitalising on my new found internet infamy while sitting in bed with a cup of hot liquid leaning against my exposed thigh.*

*nudity here used as 'hook' for new fans.