Douglas habour resembles the streak of a teardrop on somebody’s face.
Douglas harbour looks like a lozenge in a picnmix.
Douglas harbour looks like a pear hanging from a grey unfruitful tree.
That’s where I stood - there! and that poor bastard’s me!
empty freighter gliding out of harbour, countless beige catkins hanging motionless, tick of clock, bare feet
to my “no blogging from work” regimen, and I’m suffering from mood swings, headaches, stomach aches, nausea, sweating, sexual dysfunction, shortness of breath, chest pains, the works. How can they claim that “not blogging from work” is a balanced diet in itself?!
Have you ever been sitting at your desk, reading blogs, and thought, why am I doing this? Yesterday I decided not to blog at work any more. It’s liberating, as people say when they do something that isn’t much fun but is supposedly good for them. Then they say, “you should try it some time,” because misery is like a pyramid scheme: the more you share it, the better it gets for you and the worse it gets for everyone else.
Now I’ve heard i tall. Comically-named beanpole frontman Peter Crouch scores a few shinners for Southampton and 90’s underachiever Jamie Redknapp tells us he might just be world class. Now I don’t want to knock the lad Crouch - he must have taken some serious abuse on his rise to the, erm, top - but if he gets picked for England I’m launching a “bring back Michael Ricketts” campaign. And Jamie, you soft lad - remember 1995? Of course you do, that was your most successful year as a footballer. You won the league cup.
For a little while I forgot what letters were,
or what letter was what. I found my hand
a tomcat, visiting feral neighbourhoods
and then one afternoon coming home
covered in bruises and dried blood,
or an astronaut on a spacewalk, the line
writhing like a ribbon of DNA before him,
spooling his life away into the ether,
and the line was the word. I felt,
you could say, ill at ease with the world,
and so I asked myself what letters aren’t,
hoping to eliminate up an answer.
They aren’t ideas; that much is true -
I can imagine things I can’t describe
without being there, seeing those things,
like That Vase, like that Urn, like Change.
Letters aren’t refugees in a camp
or shooting stars or on The News. And I knew
then what they were, or rather where:
roaming the back-alleys, tasting the air
like predators or cats or lust-struck teenagers,
barely able to connect with anything,
yet with each other connecting
and writing the future down
out of our control. Out of our hands. Out there.
“Make like a tree and fuck off!”
- Ricky, Trailer Park Boys
Apparently the exclamation “huzzah” has been around since the C15 or C16. I don’t know if it sounded as twattish then as it does today, but it seems to be making an inexplicable comeback after a century or three in the shadows of the almost-as-bad “hurrah” and “hooray,” which is a shame because it makes me fucking seethe. I don’t know what it is - there’s just something foul about “huzzah” and the people who say it that gives me toothache and makes me want to hurl.
Good film: Twelve Angry Men
Bad film: Intacto
But I could just be saying that because I look so much alike to Henry Fonda.