Monday, 27 April 2009

'....we're responsible for our own happiness'


Natascha McElhone on her lovers death.

Now, I never read the Mail but here is her obituary for her husband, written days after he died. It's moving, raw and ultimately beautiful.


Friday, 17 April 2009

Credit Munch

April 17th 2009.


Today I will join the other 2 million or so unfortunate/lazy/scrounging/incapacitated individuals and become unemployed.

Redundancy has its perks. Namely a large pay off for the life stealing service you’ve given. But because I've been strung along like a dumb carrot drugged donkey for the past 14 months on measly monthly contracts, I will receive zero dolla’.

Thankfully, I'm a fairly laid back individual, but when every single day I hear that this 'recession' is only akin to one last seen when Hitler and his crew were bombing the existence out of ‘good ol’Landaan's apple and pear’ racketing businesses, I slightly sigh.

'My god,' I think. 'Am I really going to have to get a job picking up glasses at the Hawley Arms?' (This is what a friend had to do. After numerous unpaid overtime lock-ins listening to toothless indie cunts in straw hats, he became an IT consultant).


Although I'm generally deficient of plans in my life, I feel I need to come up with some. Not plans that involve emailing wide, young professionals in some parallel recruitment centre hell, but budgeting for my unemployed, bum like existence.


Everybody likes food. Even homeless people like food. Even though they look like Skeletor and spend the change they magnet on smack, they sometimes eat. So, on a budget that may consist of a few coppers and one big shiny gold coin, what can you get? Well, the Great Irish Famine might have been over 270 years ago but it doesn't stop my mate dishing out suitably impoverished meals for the sake of breaking a fiver. Soup and potatoes might sound like something Heston Blumenthal might only come up with in his dreams, right next to his bacon flavoured ice-cream, but it does exactly what it says on the tin. Literally.

It's a tin of soup, with some (tinned!!) new potatoes plopped in it like drowning bald heart attack victims.


That guy on the bus hiding a can of alcohol in a blue plastic bag at 8.30am as you go to work might be slightly ashamed that he has to get lashed before he inputs data into his giant spreadsheet, but I don't have to be. I now don't have a job. True he's probably drinking lager that could rip the fur off a cat, but he is no mug. It only cosy him 10p.


Coke is too expensive. So go to the forest and pick some mushrooms. They might give you diarrhoea and might not be halluciagenic in the slightest, but if you become ill it means less money on food. Win win.

Or just stop doing them.


Add boy to the end of this word and you might not have to pay any at all. Works even better if you know your landlord is susceptible to you cupping his balls instead of receiving your standing orders.

Mine isn’t.

Thursday, 16 April 2009

One Sonic Ritual