WRITER | DINOSAUR | LOON
It was the D-Day 80th Commemoration down in Portsmouth on the 5th June. The news would report the world watching a glorious ceremony, but for most of us behind the fifteen-foot walls, we had no idea what the veterans and dignitaries were up to. The handful of tickets for us plebs had been quickly snatched up and we’d been told the best place to watch was on the BBC so to stay away.
Being British, we didn’t listen. Continue reading “D-Day 80th Anniversary Fenced Off from Peasants”
The afternoon began with supporters at The Froddington Arms, so by the time my comrade and I reached the stadium, we had a decent buzz going – which was useful when I had to charm security about the knife I’d forgotten I was carrying. Continue reading “Keener than Quinoa: Pompey vs Forest Green Rovers”
We’ve been asked to write about racism in the UK. Are we covertly racist or genuinely inclusive? I immediately sat and hammered away a draft, thinking I had a pretty good sense of things; subjectively, of course. Waking up the next day, I sat for my morning movements while doom-scrolling the news, as is tradition – and oh my good Lord in hell. Continue reading “What Rhymes with UK Racism?”
Once upon a time, I started a music degree. That was during a Labour government when tuition was free and banks would throw money at you.
Due to less than stellar book sales – which I’m going to attribute to the effect on the markets of Brexit, Covid and Putin – I’ve gone back to school.
Like an addict mistaking sobriety for enlightenment only to return to the bottle, I’ve decided to hobble around Portsmouth University on a bad knee like a fat ghost, hoping against hope that Student Finance England will get their act together before all my credit cards are maxed out. Continue reading “Notes From an Elderly Schoolboy: Part 1”
My God, how is it almost May?
Well, a lot’s happened since I last posted here. The Omicron variant kicked our booster shots in the teeth, then all the armchair epidemiologists became experts in Russian/Ukrainian relations and the Tories ramped their brand up to 11, lying under oath and smirking at our grief.
Keep it light, Parlett. This is supposed to be an advertisement.
When the future Mrs Parlett rocks up on her motorcycle, looks me up and down with a sneer and asks me where the fuck I’m from, I’m going to suggest she watch this before we get too involved.
Here’s the second and final part of Chapter One of ‘The Monsters We Became or Fell For.’ Chapter Two on the way. Thanks for listening. Do please like and share and all that.
Here’s the final part of the prologue to ‘The Monsters We Became or Fell For.’ The story begins next time. Thanks for listening.
CHRIS PARLETT 