Tuesday, 21 October 2014

Dry Cleaners

Here's a pretty dry video of a lion mauling a man.

Then again when somebody a dry as this guy tells you to watch it, it should probably occur to you to not watch it. Especially not first thing on a tuesday morning.

No just kidding pal, you're not dry. You're clean.

But whilst we're on the subject of animals doing weird shit here's an ad i made for the Discovery Channel. I wrote a whole bogus front page for the Times with weird stories of alien landings and human shark hybrids and primordial tribes addicted to Pret A Manger wraps fighting riot police in the London sewers. It was a hell of a lot more interesting than Ukip's policies on immigration. 

Shit is dry.

Friday, 17 October 2014

Land Of Milk And Almond

This is a tale of addiction and loss. Of decline and fall.  

But also of redemption, of growth, of wisdom accrued through suffering.

It all started one Sunday afternoon little over a month ago, when I got back from a long weekend away and opening the fridge in that half-arsed perfunctory manner of a half-breed who hadn’t done a shop in recent memory, spied a glowing sun nestling behind a couple of non-alcoholic beers and a Jazz apple, imbuing its cold environs with a golden warmth.

Almond milk was a mystery to me. The dregs of this carton formed part of my smug flatmate’s even smugger plans to make the ultimate bircher muesli. He wasn’t around, and last time I checked he was off some place smug, the kind of place that almond milk flows untapped from bountiful almond springs, so I thought fuck it.

I took a sip. And as the liquid washed over my tongue, past my palate and cliff-dropped into my stomach, something happened. Sadly all three drops in there meant that not enough of it happened. I binned the fucker, thinking not much more of it. But that night, vivid dreams of diving Scrooge McDuck style into pools of golden almonds and torrents of milky rivers flooded my somnolent brain.

I woke up in the morning sodden, and wandering over to the kitchen, froze, mid nut-scratch, as the carton of Almond Milk sat there staring back at me from the kitchen counter.

Weird, I thought. Shit was about to get a whole lot weirder.

These motherfuckers aren’t easy to locate. But the following Wednesday I went into my local Health Shop, the kind of place that you have to stumble over two crates of chia seeds just to get through the door. Browsing a million and one products I’d never even seen before I finally located the right shelf, and with the self-satisfied grin of a man just texted back by his dealer, took the over-priced plunge. 

I brought one back home, locked the door, stripped down into something more comfortable, took it, shook it, twisted the cap and long-armed half the carton.

Most people describe their first heroin experience as nothing particularly incredible. No obvious upper like coke, no love-surge like pills or God-delusion like meth. Just a mellow life is okay after all moment. I wouldn’t know, but having taken my first hit of almond milk I’d say scratch that I definitely do.

Shit was realI hit it again. And again. And before I knew it the carton was done, and i was legging it down the road in my Y-fronts to score some more.

When it comes to drugs there are gateway theories. The idea is that weed leads to coke, then onto pills, LSD, acid, crack and then heroin. Something like that.

But my own personal descent into hell went something like this.

Almond milk

Worrying amounts of almond milk

At around three quid a pop my new habit didn't come cheap and greenbacks don’t grow on trees, so like all men who love a bargain but refuse to compromise on quality, I hit up M&SI scoured the shelves, but no almond milk was to be found.

I did find… Oat Drink.

Shit was raw. I real lingering semi-sweet but not quite aftertaste, and with it the delusion it was a little bit good for you. What drug does that.

M&S Oat Drink was good. So i decided to sample more of their shit.

Coconut Drink

Like the two dickheads below and every other fool I’ve fallen foul of the allure of Coconut water. 

Could coconut milk do the same? I had to say i was worried about the coke to crack effect.

My fears were unfounded, Coconut milk is fucking disgusting. It’s an embarrassment to the whole non-milk milk scene. I'm not sure i took more than one sip before head-butting the carton in a show of raw uncut contempt. It exploded all over my face and dripped down into a huge puddle of shit coconut milk on the floor. I cleared it all up like it wasn't even a ting.

But M&S did have… Rice Drink.

That’s when shit got really weird.

That’s when I stopped seeing people. 

I took Keith Richard's advice about the purity of the drugs you take, sacked off the M&S vibe and went back to the real shit. Rude Health. Accept no substitutes. As fiercely addictive as Brown Rice drink is, it's more of a party drug rather than an every day tip. And so I kept coming back to almond. On heavier sessions i'd hit the almond for hours, and then straight arm a Brown Rice to take the edge off.

Once I'd bought out the entire stock of E8, I picked up some pokey shit from a joint in E5.

Don't ever fuck with a milk product that has both arabic and chinese on it and expires in December 2017.

I even thought about dealing to even up the books. But without Biggie's discipline i spent the next 18 hours getting dangerously high on my own supply. The next four days passed by in a blur. Until finally, i came to, buttnaked, on the floor of my own bathroom, squealing like a newborn.

I was 4 stone heavier. I mean, last time i checked i wasn't drinking 3 litres of full-fat milk a day.

I got my shit together and checked myself into the nearest meeting of AA. Almond Milks Anonymous.


This is as much a warning to others, as a sorry tale of loss of personal wealth and dignity. Steer well clear of these non-dairy milk substitutes. We've been milking cows for millennia, stick to the classics. Besides, i missed the most glaringly obvious point of all. They're far too sweet anyway.

Hey, at least i can say i finally understand all of Pulp Fiction.

That shit right there, seeping out of the left-hand corner of her mouth, i always wondered what that was.

Tuesday, 14 October 2014

Limp Dick

If each day of the week was a different kind of steamy sex session, take a bow tuesday.

Friday, 10 October 2014

A Squeal Of Pain

If you back your Don Juan credentials or you're just a cheeseball, you should get your nan to get medieval on the Amazon app and 1-click you this little book for Christmas.

It's not really my bag. But it landed in my lap the other day and i had a reluctant browse. 

This one's cool. It's some girl-on-girl ting

Vita Sackville-West addressing the object of her affection Virginia Wolf.

Milan, January 1927

I am reduced to a thing that wants Virginia. I composed a beautiful letter to you in the sleepless nightmare hours of the night, and it has all gone: I just miss you, in a quite desperate human way. You, with all your undumb letters, would never write so elementary a phrase as that; perhaps you wouldn't even feel it. 

And yet I believe you'll be sensible of a little gap. But you'd clothe it in so exquisite a phrase that it would lose a little of its reality. Whereas with me it is quite stark: I miss you even more than I could have believed; and I was prepared to miss you a good deal. So this letter is really just a squeal of pain. 

It is incredible how essential to me you have become. I suppose you are accustomed to people saying these things. Damn you, spoilt creature; I shan't make you love me any the more by giving myself away like this - But oh my dear, I can't be clever and stand-offish with you: I love you too much for that. Too truly. 

You have no idea how stand-offish i can be with people I don't love. I have brought it down to a fine art. But you have broken down my defences. And i don't really resent it.


Right, more posts about kicks and hip hop and homicide and shit.

Thursday, 9 October 2014

Sensor Excel

I've busted a beard now for three years with mad flex and full flavour, and as the subject of much female attention i've grown fond of it. But as one season drifts into another and the leaves of change coat the wet pavements, the Gillette grows ever tetchier in the toothbrush mug by the bathroom sink.

 The philosophical quandary of the beard conundrum is perfectly illustrated below.

The one glaring exception to this quandary being the absolute joke of a beard below.

Here, there is no quandary. In this instance it's a complete no-brainer. As mentioned to its owner on numerous occasions, a room of even slightly low light renders the non-existant moustache barely seen above completely invisible, the overall effect being indistinguishable from the look so coveted by the Amish community.

Could the jury still be out on this one?

Unlikely. I just busted into the court house,  AK'd the fuck out of the anti-chamber, moonwalked into the court room, did a 58-step hand shake with the judge, and as the paparazzi madly screwed in their flash bulbs, a unanimous verdict based on irrefutable circumstantial evidence was read out to the baying gallery.

Wednesday, 8 October 2014

Ragged Claws

There's a coffee shop on Leather Lane in Clerkenwell called Prufrock. It's run by a guy who won fifteen straight world barrista championships back before anyone knew they existed, which doesn't come as that much of a surprise seeing as it takes them 23 minutes to make you a latte. In a good way. It's a sweet place, but this isn't about the coffee shop. It's about its name.

In 1915 T S Eliot wrote a poem called The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock. Which now most know simply as Prufrock. I tweeted them to ask if there's a link between the two, but they didn't seem overly interested in getting back to me. The above twitter stream is verging on the pathetic.

Last time i checked this blog wasn't called dropthepoemonit but it's not like i put any music up here anyway, so please indulge me cos this shit is gangsta. It's an unforgettable poem because all of life is in it. In the same way this San Miguel advert is weirdly good, because it's about an old man looking back on the life he has lived.

That advert is good because it reminds us of the sacred nature of old age. We will all be that old man. And although the old biddy causing havoc in the supermarket queue can be a real ball-breaker, she demands respect because she has seen the whole of life. The fact she might not have all her brain cells in tact mustn't change that.

There's something hypnotic and incredibly moving about Prufrock. Its rhythm. It's about a young man mapping out the whole of his life before him, and simultaneously looking back on it. I'd be lying if i said i understood all of it. But poetry isn't just about its meaning, it's about what you take from it. It's pretty long, and today's sorry state of affairs that leaves us all with the attention span of hamsters means i wonder if any of you will actually read it. But save it for a rainy day - not unlike motherfucking today - when you have the time.

Also.. Eliot wrote it when he was 22

I had about three pubes when i was 22.

The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock

Let us go then, you and I,
When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherized upon a table;
Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,
The muttering retreats
Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels
And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:
Streets that follow like a tedious argument
Of insidious intent
To lead you to an overwhelming question ...
Oh, do not ask, “What is it?”
Let us go and make our visit.

    In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.

The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes,
The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes,
Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening,
Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains,
Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys,
Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap,
And seeing that it was a soft October night,
Curled once about the house, and fell asleep.

    And indeed there will be time
For the yellow smoke that slides along the street,
Rubbing its back upon the window-panes;
There will be time, there will be time
To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;
There will be time to murder and create,
And time for all the works and days of hands
That lift and drop a question on your plate;
Time for you and time for me,
And time yet for a hundred indecisions,
And for a hundred visions and revisions,
Before the taking of a toast and tea.

    In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.

    And indeed there will be time
To wonder, “Do I dare?” and, “Do I dare?”
Time to turn back and descend the stair,
With a bald spot in the middle of my hair —
(They will say: “How his hair is growing thin!”)
My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin,
My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin —
(They will say: “But how his arms and legs are thin!”)
Do I dare
Disturb the universe?
In a minute there is time
For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.

    For I have known them all already, known them all:
Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,
I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;
I know the voices dying with a dying fall
Beneath the music from a farther room.
    So how should I presume?

    And I have known the eyes already, known them all—
The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase,
And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin,
When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall,
Then how should I begin
To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways?
    And how should I presume?

    And I have known the arms already, known them all—
Arms that are braceleted and white and bare
(But in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!)
Is it perfume from a dress
That makes me so digress?
Arms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl.
    And should I then presume?
    And how should I begin?

Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets
And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes
Of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows? ...

    I should have been a pair of ragged claws
Scuttling across the floors of silent seas.

And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully!
Smoothed by long fingers,
Asleep ... tired ... or it malingers,
Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me.
Should I, after tea and cakes and ices,
Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?
But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed,
Though I have seen my head (grown slightly bald) brought in upon a platter,
I am no prophet — and here’s no great matter;
I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,
And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,
        And in short, I was afraid.

    And would it have been worth it, after all,
After the cups, the marmalade, the tea,
Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me,
Would it have been worth while,
To have bitten off the matter with a smile,
To have squeezed the universe into a ball
To roll it towards some overwhelming question,
To say: “I am Lazarus, come from the dead,
Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all”—
If one, settling a pillow by her head
    Should say: 'That is not what I meant at all;
    That is not it, at all.'

    And would it have been worth it, after all,
Would it have been worth while,
After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets,
After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along the floor—
And this, and so much more?—
It is impossible to say just what I mean!
But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen:
Would it have been worth while
If one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl,
And turning toward the window, should say:
    'That is not it at all,
     That is not what I meant, at all.'

No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;
Am an attendant lord, one that will do
To swell a progress, start a scene or two,
Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,
Deferential, glad to be of use,
Politic, cautious, and meticulous;
Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;
At times, indeed, almost ridiculous—
Almost, at times, the Fool.

    I grow old ... I grow old ...
I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.

    Shall I part my hair behind?   Do I dare to eat a peach?
I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.
I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.

    I do not think that they will sing to me.

    I have seen them riding seaward on the waves
Combing the white hair of the waves blown back
When the wind blows the water white and black.

    We have lingered in the chambers of the sea
By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown
Till human voices wake us, and we drown.