We can’t trust mainstream media but the alternative can get real batshit real quick.
Category Archives: Rants and Tirades
What We Can and Can’t Say – A Drunken Rant
I thought I’d record some thoughts rather than write them for a change. Thinking about finishing off my degree so need some up-to-date material. I might do more or I might just do some audiobook stuff. Thanks for stopping by. Have a great fucking day xX
More Goddamn Books
Hey, remember me? Yeah, I’m that fat facetious piece of shit who once wrote popular articles, both of them around the starts of ’12 and ’13 (and by ‘popular’ I mean more than thirty Facebook likes; and by ‘articles’ I mean social media toss but who are you to judge—if you can bare to look at yourself in the mirror for long enough to brush your teeth without poking out one or both eyes with your Oral-B then you’re clearly delusional anyway and we have much in common so let’s continue, you daft twat.
Christ, I forgot, there was that one about the Pope as well. Some liked it, some prefer living out their life as an indentured servant to a make-believe tyrant and counter ferociously any attempt to make them, you know, read what even the Tory rags of this rag-tag island of toe-rag proles can hardly deny. Need a final clue? Really? It’s child rape, my dear, and I’m never playing charades with you at Christmas. Continue reading More Goddamn Books
Words from a writer too stubborn to fail
…would make for a great epitaph, no?
Anyway, and stop me if you’ve heard this one before, but a few years ago, when I’d moved back to the UK, I started sending out copies of my second book to literary agents (it was smaller, so cheaper to post) with nothing to signify who it was from or why but for “Please HELP me!” scrawled with a black Sharpie on the stark white of the cover.
My website was printed small by the barcode on the back at right angles to the jacket text and such was my naive, unfucked brain still fresh back in the fire that I felt anyone reading this GENIUS would want to seek him out and anyone WORTHY of representing him would be both able and willing, nay delighted to work their way through these cunning yet intriguing layers of mystery. Continue reading Words from a writer too stubborn to fail
I’m not dead; but I was there
My closest friend is writing a book – and by closest I mean the one that is physically the furthest away – so I’m reading the drafts as he believes I’ll be cruel but constructive though unavoidably gushing in my feedback because he is obviously a far better writer than me.
I’ll get it set out in carbon for the tattooist but at the moment I’m still wrecking my idiot brain with the script I stupidly jumped at the opportunity to write, and by wrecking I mean coming off the codeine with Captain America and Valerian tea. Continue reading I’m not dead; but I was there
The love of my life; with name-dropping of philosophers, fugitive policemen and others
Childless women in their thirties staying in bed until the mid-afternoon, reading their first book by Schopenhauer, Seneca or Montaigne – contemplating the apathy with which they regard their own mortality over the first gin of the afternoon and rubbing one out before the news kills the passion – these are the kinds of women you don’t seem to meet dating online.
I just read the manifesto of the vengeful L.A. Cop-Killing Killer-Cop who is currently running rings around his former colleagues after swearing to take the corrupt all to hell with their loved ones for a lack of honour, honesty and common decency. Continue reading The love of my life; with name-dropping of philosophers, fugitive policemen and others
Hard times on the High Street and A Tale of Two Sarahs
The minute you no longer feel unabashed, childlike joy as you crunch across a blanket of fresh snow, I say go ahead and drink a cup of crushed hemlock; because this world has nothing more to offer you. An old friend of mine once told me that the act tapped into my destructive nature and if I would only accept my inherent regressive character traits then shame alone would quicken a better Parlett. Even to this day I regret not striking him with the back of my glove and calling him a scoundrel. Continue reading Hard times on the High Street and A Tale of Two Sarahs
