March 16, 2009


I can hear your breakfast.

I sculpt my last anus at 6pm. See you then?

Vacav Havel.

So fussy.

Your miniature elephant has eaten all the peanuts.

Your face, my ass.

I bought you a helicopter with a wolf pilot. That’s how much I love you.

I put a slug on teacher’s chair.

I want to be Keith Richards when I grow up. Only without the heroin and coconuts.

That was an unacceptable display of textspeak. Please try harder.

I like facts.

Your figurines are exquisite.

I have listened to your message four times and still can’t understand it! But I still like you.

I’ve got Hitler in a bamboo cage. Want to poke him with a stick?




Ok! (champagne charlie)

Hangin tuff obv.

How did edwyn slag off lloyd cole?  Something about penguin classics?

I actually want a rabbnn pilot but thanks



Yay! Wayne!

I’ve missed the first half of ghost busters 2. It hardly seems worth it now.

What about potato Mary?

Quit your jibber jabber sucker

I loom!

No a panda


Old skool.

January 22, 2009

There’s a big hayfield up near Buxton – one in particular.   It’s got a long rock wall, a big oak tree at the north end.   It’s like something out of a Robert Frost poem.   It’s where I asked my wife to marry me: we went there for a picnic and made love under that oak and I asked and she said yes.

Promise me, Red: if you ever get out, find that spot.   In the base of that wall, you’ll find a rock that has no earthly business in a Maine hayfield.   A piece of black, volcanic glass.   There’s something buried under it I want you to have.

This is my favourite example of old-school geocaching.


Nucular Christmas.

December 16, 2008

Yesterday – twenty-four years too late – I finally got around to watching Threads, the 1984 UK docudrama about the aftermath of nuclear war.  Man alive; that was one harrowing televisual experience and no mistake.  It put me in a deep funk that could not be assuaged even with chocolate biscuits. There are only so many charred accountants and melted housewives you can stomach on a Sunday afternoon.

Luckily for me, three hours later I had an appointment to see Wayne Coyne introduce his film Christmas on Mars at the Barbican.  I was hoping for an antidote of sorts, but in fact it was suprisingly boring (imagine a student film aiming for “Plan 9 meets Dead Man meets Eraserhead” but ending up instead as a tedious semiotic montage of Nude Baby meets Giant Vagina meets Santa Claus).

Still: great nap.  Best cinema nap ever!  (Well, second best, after the one I had in 1997 during the re-released Return of the Jedi.  That high-quality hour of REM sleep – accompanied as it was by the roaring surround sound of speeder bikes zooming through the forests of Endor – remains one of my life’s high points.)

It must be said, however, that Christmas on Mars’s dullness was tempered by Coyne introducing it in person.  He’s such a jaunty, life-affirming presence I’ll forgive him almost any transgression.

So at least I wasn’t thinking about nuclear winter when I left.

Which was nice.


Village Idiot.

July 31, 2008

I rather enjoyed these final two paragraphs of Roger Ebert’s review of Shyamalan’s universally reviled film The Village:

Eventually the secret of [The Village] is revealed. To call it an anticlimax would be an insult not only to climaxes but to prefixes. It’s a crummy secret, about one step up the ladder of narrative originality from It Was All a Dream. It’s so witless, in fact, that when we do discover the secret, we want to rewind the film so we don’t know the secret anymore.

And then keep on rewinding, and rewinding, until we’re back at the beginning, and can get up from our seats and walk backward out of the theater and go down the up escalator and watch the money spring from the cash register into our pockets.




March 24, 2008

I am generally ambivalent about Dave Eggers, but this eighteen minute speed-talk regarding the great work being done by 826Valencia and its various chapters is really inspiring.



March 9, 2008

To celebrate Fidel Castro’s announcement of retirement, here’s a picture of him with his shirt off, playing table tennis. That is all.



December 13, 2007

1. The robot announcer on the Stanstead Express is an almost perfect fascimile of Michael Caine. ‘Ullo, Sweden.

2. Copenhagen airport has a lit, decorated xmas tree on the grassed no-mans-land between the runways. The plane taxis past it and little apple red lights cut through a sheet of mist.

3. Train from Malmo to Gothenburg. Copses of ghost trees, a red crust of fallen leaves, ploughed wet earth. Sloped copper roofs. Sky of blemished steel. You know, shit like that.

4. Some guy with a piano accordion, on a street corner, playing the best “faux-authentic peak holiday experience music” I’ve heard all evening.

5. A junk shop hat made from a grey poodle. Not purchased. I now regret this.

6. There was stage-diving at a Harvey Williams gig and I missed it. I will never forgive myself.

7. Souvenirs from past trips include: a centipede in resin, a Sherlock Holmes magnifying glass, a striped tie. But nothing this time.