Art and Business School graduate buffoon with a background in music, writing and journalism – but I’ve also worked many years as a chef, so you can say I’ve contributed something to society.
In my attempts to set the literary world on fire, I’ve managed only to light my own farts; and even my tremendous failures are so underwhelming as to produce no warmth at all. I’m an artist so inconsequential that I’m worth not even the effort of a bad review or beating.
So, having failed at life and love abroad, and with a rotten knee that hates me like a drunken stepfather, I’ve dragged my bloated nonsense back to Journalism School to salvage something and reinvent the rest. Here, back in my hometown of all places, I continue to attempt to make art of catastrophic ruin, laughing in its mocking face while fashioning decorations from the wreckage. Meanwhile, though something of an odd duck, I’m invariably reliable, good-natured and chaotically honest.
I possess a clean UK driving licence, ranged weapon competency for the coming tribulation, and a thick head of luxurious dark hair. I enjoy midnight strolls in unfamiliar territory, the laughter of dogs, and South Korean revenge cinema.
In this ongoing portfolio that I’ve sunk too much into to abandon, I’ll continue to try to make sense of the world while having as much fun as I can doing it. I remain forever yours, open to collaboration, criticism and cheque. Clinging on, not checking out. My proviso is to adapt or die. I am not dead yet.
Expect films and farce and defamation as I explore this elderly chapter of my schooldays, a third book, and maybe even a song or two.
I didn’t want to write any of this but they make us. Send help.
CHRIS PARLETT 