AUTHOR | ELDERLY SCHOOLBOY | IDIOT
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 “Diary of 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.
I’ve ummed and ahhed about whether or not to upload this as is or to just re-record it, but I’m thinking I’m happy with what this is – my first attempt at a reading from ‘Monsters.’
My concerns are that it’s rough as all fuck and hardly up to the quality of an audiobook, but then even the act of doing something – even if it may be futile – is still very good for your mental health.
Continue reading “Monsters #1 | Prologue. Part One. | Eighties racist hatred.”I asked friends to give me a word each so I could build a story from three. It just seemed like a good idea because wine and I’m not saying these wee tales are any good but they made me feel good writing them and that was lovely, thank you. Written in six hours or so, so go easy.
They called it a slug, you know, that round that goes in the gun or whatever. I called it a bullet and they all sniggered, sniggered at how I held it, how the sweat poured down my face as I aimed the cursed thing.
One thing’s for damned sure – ain’t no one gonna be callin’ me sugar no more.
The photo showed a woman whose make-up struggled to cover the years, let alone the rest. She clung proudly to a rough looking teen I assumed was her son. The little treasure himself wore a glare that said, ‘Don’t you dare even think about fucking my mum.’
I swiped right.
Game on, ladies.
CHRIS PARLETT 