AUTHOR | ELDERLY SCHOOLBOY | IDIOT
Eleven years ago, I created a Facebook group called ‘Parlett’ in the hope, partly, of filling the massive gaps in my ancestry, but also of meeting some distant family who weren’t as distant as my close one. Continue reading “Whiter Than the Very Cliffs of Dover”
I guess after thirty-three years without a filling and around twenty without anything being pulled out of my jaw I’d grown complacent in the face of tooth decay – arrogant even. Then early last week I took my last bite as a complete human – the tooth fairy had found me, and we had some catching up to do. The pain started slight and became an agony that spread around my face like a burning hedgehog that existed partially in another dimension but flickered in and out of it as it rolled through me, pausing only to kick my tooth in the balls when it got tired of this pan-dimensional torment. Continue reading “Failed Toothache Remedies and This Brave Soldier’s First Filling”
Sat there on the hospital bed, trousers round my ankles and tally whacker in my hand, I turned the glossy pages of one of the hundred or so pornos that had been left in the bedside cabinet for this very purpose. I kept glancing at the clock on the wall, nervous that I shouldn’t be too quick, nor should I take forever, but the thing was stuck at 11.57 and remained so during the course of my visits. My own hands were equally as ineffective as those of that clock; try as I might, Reader’s Wife after Asian Babe after Girl Next Door, I beat my semi like a naughty puppy that had chewed its master’s furniture for the last time; and yet the cup remained mockingly empty. Continue reading “1 Boy 16 Cups or: Getting to Grips With Scotland’s Sperm Shortage”
Good evening friends, it’s been an age; how’ve you been? Your hair looks nice and you smell delightful. Sorry to hear about that thing that made you sad but congratulations on the thing that made you happy – I hope the things happened in that order. No, I didn’t kill myself, and thanks for asking; although of course those of you that know me are often subjected to regular mind-deterioration updates via facebook and those that don’t may imagine me to be sipping whisky in the lowlands, writing the Great American Novel the way it was always meant to be – by an Englishman in Scotland – so I shouldn’t judge. Continue reading “Previously On Battlestar Galactica”
Day Eight.
Tuesday 12th June seems a world away. I’d been on a two day bender around the city; walking here and there; taking the odd photo; talking to people almost as much as I spoke to myself; and crawling in and out of pubs along the way. I woke up the next day fully dressed with all the lights still on, Bowie still stuck on his Berlin Trilogy and cold chips too close not to be breakfast. I clawed at recollection more smoke and dust than memory and came to the conclusion that it’d been fun; but what now? I need a dog, not another hangover. Continue reading “One Week Without Alcohol or Coffee: A Psychonaut’s Cautionary Tale”
A few weeks ago I decided to get a haircut but for once do something with all that dead protein. I had an abundance of it: thick, luxurious locks, tumbling down from my weird head in earthy ringlets; the hair of a Princess, in fact.
I can’t remember if I read about The Little Princess Trust first or if I had the idea of making a wig for myself out of my own hair and found out about them by accident; but put simply, chemotherapy can cause hair loss and this charity helps many young cancer sufferers by fitting them with wigs. Continue reading “Hair Today, Gone Tomorrow: A Sponsored Shearing”
I read an interesting article the other day in which Stewart Lee raises a terrifying argument about Scottish Independence; a point summed up succinctly in the sub heading: The loss of 5.5 million Scots would mean 5.5 million fewer voices to say no to Cameron’s cronies. As you may know, there are more pandas in Scotland than Tory MPs.
Now I was living in Glasgow last year and I voted for Alex Salmond’s SNP, thinking it a good thing as I’d recently walked up the Wallace Monument and had rekindled a healthy sense of colonial guilt; instead, it turns out I was shooting myself and every other red-blooded English liberal in the foot. Continue reading “Magnetic Gandhi”
CHRIS PARLETT 