speak up, baby!

Amy Winehouse

2011-07-25T01:58:00.009+02:00

Armed with a voice that knew no bounds, she also possessed the fragility and the longing of wanting to be loved, which is something that each and every one of us can relate to. Her delivery of unashamed and brutal honesty within her music was her tool which she had truly mastered like no one else.

Rest in peace Amy. You will be missed terribly.

Super 8

2011-06-16T19:54:00.001+02:00

Written for Thirst For Vision.

There’s something about super 8 film that seems to capture a moment in time almost as if it was a memory cut straight from our brains and directly transpired into film. It’s within those often grainy frames that an ever-present charm is found, this is something that remains unmatched within other motion picture film formats.

Initially Super 8 was prevalent within silent cinema. Its lo-fi quality gave a new dimension to film as well as well as complimenting the actions that took place upon the silent screen. The development in electronics meant that in the 1970s Super 8 could be used with sound which strengthened the films popularity. This improvement rapidly gained interest, and much later was most notably championed by the likes of Derek Jarman and Harmony Korine. This then went on to spark wide spread interest amongst more amateur circles.

The unique approach of Super 8’s film has often been used to capture cherished moments within their memorable environments. It offers a distinct portrayal of hazy scenarios that mirror our recollection of yesteryear that lurk around the back of our minds. When watching the film it’s sometimes hard to focus solely on the scene that’s being played out, our attention is frequently diverted to the background and the way in which the colours and light shape the scene. Bursting shafts of light are transformed into vivid glows which can sometimes aid the foreground to merge into the background. In other instances a sharp grainy exposure is present which saturates the more prominent colours that ultimately offer the viewer a more gritty insight.

Super 8 not only gives the user a one of a kind way to portray the past, but it also provides a layer of candid rawness to depict even the most mundane day to day scenarios. It’s that very raw quality that has youthful connotations. These days it acts as a nod to the past during a period long before the digital age. It was a time in which people rejected state of the art mechanics, whether it was through lack of funds or otherwise, which inevitably paved the way for a blossoming lo-fi culture. The key factor in what makes Super 8 so special is that it gives us the perfect escape from the complexities of state of the art photography.

My Best Friend

2011-05-24T10:30:00.002+02:00

A few words about my best friend published on Thought Catalog.

My Addiction To Celebrity Gossip

2011-05-17T16:49:00.005+02:00

It was in the summer of 2006 that my interest in celebrity gossip transcended from a brief flirtation to a full on obsession. It was a time like no other. It became increasingly apparent that no amount of PR training or product endorsement could hide the cracks appearing amongst the young stars of cinema, music or otherwise. It was approximately ten months before Britney Spears would shave all her hair off. If anything the events amongst her peers prior to Britney’s very public breakdown acted as trail which lead to the train wreck blazing on the horizon.

It seemed as though almost overnight the faces that had governed the glossy pages became less known for their talents and more for their extracurricular activities. The age of the DUI had quickly dawned and the emaciated faces of Lindsay Lohan and Nicole Richie were encapsulated in mug shots for all to see. Interest in promiscuity, drug abuse, eating disorders and the age old question ‘Who will be in rehab first?’ eclipsed all talk of their careers. So much so, that a new generation of people arrived, who were famous just for having used the platform of their parents, porn or money. Hello, Paris Hilton! Hiya, Kim Kardashian! As long as the salacious scandal was being delivered what did it matter that their careers remained somewhat ambiguous? It sure didn’t matter to me.

It wasn’t just the increasing reckless acts alone that helped gain public interest, but it was also the surge in celebrity gossip blogs that helped document such behaviour to the eager masses. Perez Hilton, TMZ, Oh No They Didn’t, DListed and so forth all became integral parts in profiling the downward spirals of America’s Sweethearts. They would each offer paparazzi shots of Lindsay Lohan falling out of a club, followed by yet more snap shots of her less than 12 hours later doing yoga with a cigarette dangling from her mouth. It’s that very content that has made such websites so alluring. Not content with seeing images of Britney grocery shopping at 2am in a pink wig? Why not watch a video in which you can witness her talking nonsense in an English accent, which adds a whole new dimension to the insanity.

The decaying world of celebrity didn’t just manifest in Hollywood with the likes of Mary-Kate Olsen’s apparent insatiable appetite for drugs and penchant for skipping meals. It was in the UK that the new poster girl for self destruction quickly evolved in the form of Amy Winehouse. With the aid of the public’s rather sick obsession with misfortune, Amy’s nocturnal activities quickly overshadowed her undeniable talent as a singer. Almost instantly we became fed a never ending series of images and footage of Amy bruised and bloodied, strung out and rail thin and looking somewhat subhuman whilst wondering the streets of London in her underwear. Her turbulent relationship with her husband Blake Fielder-Civil propelled the couple into Sid and Nancy status for the internet generation.

That’s not to say that I am some sort of self hating internet troll that’s prone to bouts of schadenfreude. I greet all paparazzi shots with the same sickening amount of inquisitiveness and delight, whether it’s Lady Gaga getting into a car or Lily Allen going for a run. The fact remains that unlike us mere mortals, celebrities can often make the most mundane thing look far more appealing than we ever possibly could. Granted their livelihoods are a lot more dependent on their looks than perhaps ours actually are, which is also why so many of us revel at the photographic evidence of stars without make up. Aesthetics aside, it’s also the often sordid details that make up the celebrity world the perfect escapism from our own lives. I know that I would much rather hear tales of backstabbing and broken hearts amongst the A list rather than hearing about how a colleague had sex in the toilets of a pub during a work night out. I recently announced to a friend that if I was able to retain as many facts about things that matter as I do with celebrity gossip I would probably be dangerous. But since that is not going to happen any time soon I will continue to unashamedly revel in my addiction.

Buffy The Vampire Slayer Was My Life Coach

2011-05-16T21:27:00.005+02:00

Dysfunctional relationships are inevitable

My fourteen year old self had a hankering for an idyllic romance with someone resembling David Boreanaz. This notion was rather short lived as I quickly learnt that if that if he’s tall, dark and handsome he’s also probably sadistic, psychopathic and dangerous. Buffy’s teenage dream romance was swiftly shattered due to Angel’s penchant for blood and destruction. Their turbulent relationship kept viewers gripped, however, our hopes of them ending up happily ever after were short lived due Angel bagging himself his very own spin-off show. Much later Buffy found herself pursuing Angel’s former partner in crime Spike, also known as William the Bloody. The name alone offers some insight into how that romance developed and if anything they became nothing more than a walking advertisement for domestic violence.

The first time is usually the worst time

Do you remember the first time? I certainly do. It was on a lumpy mattress whilst ‘You Spin Me Right Round’ by Dead or Alive played on repeat in the background. Buffy herself had taught me to expect the worst, because if anything, she should know. After falling head over heels in love with the vampire Angel, who happened to have a soul, they inevitably took their relationship to the next level. Unfortunately for Buffy all it took was a good hearty orgasm for Angel’s soul to be removed. Soon after their embrace Angel spent the rest of year inflicting emotional and physical abuse on Buffy and her loved ones, which really cemented his position as the one night stand from hell.

Do not under estimate anyone or anything

People change, a lot of the time without any prior warning. Just because one person appears to be unassuming, polite, in a butter wouldn’t melt sort of way doesn’t necessarily mean they’re the real deal. Step forward Buffy's sidekick Willow. Early on she started out as the unconfident bookish geek with cutesy quirks and puppy dog eyes. Fast forward six seasons later and she had evolved into a crazed and rather scorned satanic lesbian with an appetite for the apocalypse. Granted her journey down the path of vengeance was short lived, one season to be exact, but who knew the little Jewish bookworm was capable of such destruction. It’s always the quiet ones and Willow’s venture to the dark side proves that very theory.

Karma is a bitch

Sometimes when certain people are placed in a position of power it can often get the better of them. These people are called assholes. However that being said, assholes always get what’s coming to them. Step forward Faith. Introduced in season three as the fun, rebellious and laid back vampire slayer, she rapidly became the anti-Buffy. She too had recognised this and after accidently killing an innocent man she embarked on a journey down the path of vice. In the climax of season three and after having spent months mercilessly terrorising the town of Sunnydale, Faith lost a battle with Buffy and ended up in a coma. A year flew by and she eventually woke up, having still not learnt her lesson she went in pursuit of Buffy once again. Along the way she dabbled in a bit of magic which lead to Faith torturing those closest to Buffy as well as sleeping with her current boyfriend. But it wasn’t too long until good prevailed evil and Faith found herself banged up in a women’s prison, which only highlighted the message furthermore that if you play with fire you’re going to get burnt.

“The hardest thing to do in this world is live in it.”

As said by Buffy shortly before plunging to her demise, despite being swiftly resurrected for the final two seasons, never has a sentence rang so true.

Mad Tracey From Margate

2011-04-27T12:03:00.002+02:00

I was weighed down with Ikea bags whilst staggering along the pavement. She was swiftly marching in my direction whilst sucking on a Marlboro Light. Still to this day I like to think an exchange of glances was made no matter how brief. As she promptly passed me by I clenched my shopping bags tightly as I refrained from calling out ‘I LOVE YOU, I LOVE YOU, I LOVE YOU, I LOVE YOU!’ I quickly turned on my heels and watched her walk into the fleeting pack of pedestrians in the distance. Days later I recalled that very afternoon and I envisioned myself in her sightline in the hope she had noticed me and the manic grin etched across my face. That was the first time I saw Tracey Emin.

Over the coming years our casual encounters increased. I found myself frequently observing her as she walked by. Ritually I would bite down hard on my bottom lip to hold back the exclamations of praise that bubbled in the back of my throat. It was only when I relocated to a more undesirable neighbourhood that I found out she had lived close by to where I was originally dwelling. Part of me still wonders if I had known that bit of information at the time perhaps I wouldn’t have been so eager to change my living conditions.

I was eighteen when I first read Tracey’s book ‘Strangeland’. I had recently moved to London and I was severely lacking in money and creature comforts so I spent most of my evenings reading. Upon completing her book for the first time I went on to read it at least once a week for the following four months. Despite knowing the book almost word for word, still to this day I can happily skim through several pages and digest the text as if it was brand new information. Regardless of my fickle and somewhat short lived fascinations, even now I still find myself in the grasp of an unbreakable affinity with both Tracey and her work.

Several years later I attended a talk she did in conjunction with an exhibition at Tate Modern. It was the first time I had been in her company for more than several fleeting seconds and it was everything and more I had hoped it to be. She rolled in forty five minutes late slightly inebriated and announced to the audience that she had just come from the GQ Christmas party. She then took a sip from the freshly poured glass of wine which was waiting for her and sat firmly in her seat. With no further hesitation she instantly began discussing with the interviewer her time with Sarah Lucas in the shop that they briefly owned in East London.

The candid way in which she divulged information mirrored the articulate and almost romantic way in which she often describes her past. It became apparent that it’s the unashamed and brutally honest way in which she expresses herself which has kept me returning to the pages of her book so frequently. As well as her unique capability of conveying her message by taking the listener or reader with her to that specific moment in time she refers to. Despite reminiscing memories from fifteen something years ago her words were delivered with the same passion and enthusiasm that she evidently felt back then. It’s that same raw emotion that has become her tool and that’s why I find Tracey Emin so enthralling.

I Sold My Soul To The Devil

2011-03-24T18:12:00.007+01:00

Recently my friend and I found ourselves drunkenly discussing supernatural stories in the early hours of the morning. She recalled a tale that she had heard several years ago about a distant family member who had been supposedly raped by a ghost. In the midst of our nonsensical drunken banter I began to recollect an urban legend that spread around my school. Apparently someone’s best friend’s cousin’s aunt twice removed had wrote 666 on a mirror and found themselves possessed by the devil which lead to their untimely demise. Despite our stories lacking in any elements of truth they still commanded us to Google witchcraft at 3am.

“Did you know you can make a pact with the devil to achieve infinite person gain?” My friend announced informatively, as she studied the screen of the computer. I lifted my head from the mound of pillows that I had burrowed my face into and I starred at her blankly.

“Oh, I’m sure!” I replied sarcastically.

“I’m being serious. There’s a spell here. You cast it to sell your soul to the devil. Apparently loads of celebrities have done it to become successful!” She shrieked.

“Are you reading Wikipedia? So who are the supposed ambassadors for Satanism then?”

“According to this, Lady Gaga, Rhianna and Katy Perry have all done it!”

“Last last week you told me not to listen to Lady Gaga because her music is a form of mind control orchestrated the Illuminati. Now you’re saying she’s jumped ship and converted to Satanism?”

“I don’t know, isn’t it all the same thing?” She said as a cigarette dangled from the side of her mouth. “If it works for her, it could work for me. Let’s do it together! It’ll be fun!”

I finished my glass of wine and nonchalantly agreed to take part. I realised I was at that point of being drunk where I was too inebriated to care. Not to mention the fact that I was slightly intrigued to see what would happen if the spell did work. We studied the instructions and it all seemed relatively simple. We were to each write our declaration to Satan, sign it, mark it in our own blood and then burn it in candle light. Despite my knowledge of the black arts being somewhat minimal, it seemed like standard practice to me. We both sat down on the cold surface of the floor and scribbled our incantations on separate pieces of paper. The wine I had consumed quickly began to take effect, I struggled to stay between the lines of the page, and the more I squinted at what I had written the more illegible it appeared to be.

“Right, now we need to sign our names in blood.”

“Huh? What?” I responded as my eyes rolled into the back of my head. The minor detail of my own blood being part of the ritual had temporarily escaped me.

“I don’t mean your signature, just a dot is sufficient to mark what you have written, look, come here...”

Before I even had chance to respond to my friends ludicrous instruction, she tightly grabbed hold of the palm of my hand and swiftly plunged a pin into my index finger.

“What the fuck?!” I cried out.

“Quick, now wipe your finger across the bottom of page where you signed your name.”

The sharp jab of the pin quickly caused my eyes to well up. My eyelashes had stuck together causing my sight to become somewhat bleary. I could vaguely make out several red dots that had begun to form along the pale blue lines of the note pad. I gently swirled my finger in a clock-wise motion as I waited for my vision to return. Eventually I pulled my finger away and placed it into my mouth as I looked at the faint circles of crimson that I had drawn. We then took it in turns to read aloud what we had written. In an attempt to get it over and done with I took it upon myself to go first. It was only when I heard my friend call out “So mote it be, hail Satan!” that I realised the full extent of how surreal the situation was.

To close the ceremony we each folded up our pacts and burnt them in the flame of the candle. As the smoke of the burning paper wafted through the air and clogged up each of my nostrils, a feeling of nausea quickly swelled in the pit of my stomach. I began to panic as I wondered if it was a sign that I was now in Satan’s almighty evil clutches, or was it more to do with having drunk my bodyweight in wine. It was only when I woke up the following day that the later seemed to be the most rational explanation. However, I’m forever the optimist and so I live in the hope that at least something remains to be seen.

I Still Love The Spice Girls

2011-03-10T03:14:00.006+01:00

I was standing in the queue at the supermarket whilst casually eyeing up what the person in front of me was purchasing, before I had chance to begin my character judgement I was interrupted by a recognisable burst of sound. In an instant I was transported back seventeen years in time. I found myself sat cross legged on the living room floor in front a pile of newspapers and magazines with a pair of scissors in my right hand. In sheer concentration I bit down hard on my bottom lip as I carefully cut out anything I saw in reference to the five key words. ‘Scary’, ‘Baby’, ‘Ginger’, ‘Posh’ and last but by no means least ‘Sporty’. Fast forward seventeen years later and I’m back at the supermarket checkout riding high on a wave of nostalgia, which was immediately bought on by the sound of the Spice Girls debut single ‘Wannabe’.

My frequent Spice-regression is an all too common experience that I have encountered over the years. All it takes is a few bars of their songs or the sheer mention of Geri Halliwell and my longstanding love affair with the group is rapidly rekindled. I may not hold them in such high regard as I used, mostly because I’m not a twelve year old boy anymore with a penchant for bad dye jobs, however the fact remains that they still have the power to make me reminisce wistfully at times gone by, or rather ‘The Golden Years’ as I like to call it. This was a period, albeit somewhat brief between the years of 1996 and 1998, where times were much different. It was back when not only five girls dominated the charts, but it was also a much simpler time. Life was light and breezy and my only worry was that the corner shop had stocked enough issues of Smash Hits so that I was able to purchase multiple copies.

As I approach the ripe old age of 24 all evidence of my Spicemania has long gone, that is unless you look under the bed in the spare room of my Mother’s house. However what does remain are the lyrics to every one of their singles, album tracks and b-sides which are indelibly etched into my mind. Perhaps my frequent flirtations with the past stem from growing up as the only gay in the village. I would study the back story of each band member which inevitably fuelled my prepubescent naivety. Given the fact there are limitations to what you can do when you live in the arse end of nowhere, I set my sights on getting as far away from my hometown as soon as possible. I not only took solace in the Spice Girls’ music, but they also became my own personal embodiment of everything I wanted my future to be, that alone mixed with a dash of teenage innocence had me believing that absolutely anything was possible. These days my expectations are far more attainable and my longing for international stardom faded fast, but it still doesn’t change the fact that even to this day their songs never fail to put a smile on my face.

Modern life can be tough at the best of times and so it’s no wonder that millions upon millions of people are seeking escapism in one form or another. For some it may be drugs and alcohol, there’s nothing like getting shitfaced to escape the perils of the modern world. For others its sex, there’s a great deal of appeal found in the embrace of another person to shake off the worthlessness that we all feel on occasion. For me however, my preferred method of beating the blues and getting away from it all is simply done by paying the Spice Girls debut album ‘Spice’ in its entirety. I truly wish that everyone else did the same, because the forty minutes and seven seconds of music that the album has to offer certainly makes the world a better place.

Baby On Board

2011-03-09T16:58:00.001+01:00

It was a morning just like any other, as the train passed through each station my face grew increasingly closer to the sweaty arm pit of a portly and polyester clad businessman. I looked around the tube and saw a sea of disjointed bodies that littered the carriage as well as countless protruding elbows and craned necks that seemed to interlink with each other. For each person that exited the train another four people promptly crammed themselves on board. In an attempt to stop myself falling head first into the perspiring crevice I lowered my head and examined a selection of questionable footwear beneath me. I felt the heavy breath of a pedestrian or two emit a dampness that began to swell in the bottom of my neck.

In an effort to alleviate the boredom I began to count the dirt filled lines that ran horizontally across the floor of the train, however my clammy hands and the build up of sweat in the small of my back caused me to lose concentration and I restarted the counting process several times over. The train pulled into a station and through the gaps of the shoulders that surrounded me, I was able to make out the station sign which signalled that my journey had reached the half way mark. Out from the bustling crowd which was awkwardly making its onto the train I heard a shrill voice calling out which became increasingly louder once the doors had closed.

“Good morning! Could anyone spare some change?” A husky voice called out from within a circle of suits that were huddled together in the door way. “My baby is hungry, we are both very tired, could anyone spare any change?” The voice enquired once again. One by one the huddle formation broke away and out from the centre a bedraggled figure appeared. Nervous glances were exchanged amongst the passengers, a fury of eyeballs swirled around in unison looking at everything but the person in question. A stench began to linger throughout the carriage, which had caused everyone including myself to back away as much as possible. The figure stepped out into full view and began to take advantage of the sudden influx of space by staggering around and calling out her plea once again.

She held a black shroud of material close to the left side of her chest as she feverishly scratched away at her scalp. Her cheeks were tear stained and her complexion was weathered and worn. The sockets of her eyes were so dark and sunken I struggled to see the whites of her eyes. After several minutes the nauseating shriek of her begging had taken full effect as the sound of coins jangling could be heard from all around. I watched the veins in her arms pulsate as she reached out to collect the change from the pitying pedestrians, the combination of her throbbing arteries, charcoal nails and putrid aroma stirred a sickness in the pit of my stomach. I noticed that several passengers carefully eyed her shrouded baby. For a new born it certainly was abnormally muted and still for quite some time, so much so that when the tube came to a sudden stop, the baby tore itself away from her breast and tumbled to the ground.

“That aint no fucking baby!” Cried out one of the observers. A chorus of gasps echoed around the carriage and all eyes darted to the mound of cloth that had landed on the floor. At a second glance it became apparent that her supposed starving child was nothing more than a child’s toy baby which seemed to be of African origin. The woman burst into tears and began to pace the floor erratically. I watched her bare feet march along the horizontal lines that I had previously been counting. Just as a voice from overhead began to heckle the woman, the train doors opened and she bolted through a crowd of disgruntled commuters that were waiting at the platform. As the crowed outside heaved its way towards me, she disappeared quickly out of view, and I felt a new batch of foreign limbs press themselves against me. It was only when I attempted to retrieve my hand out of the ass of the guy in front of me the doll rolled into view and stopped at my feet. Its huge elliptical eyes battered innocently as the train left the station and I thought about how I couldn’t arrive at my destination quick enough.

Supermarket Sweep

2010-11-26T14:54:00.001+01:00

For Ponytail.

It’s high time that I came clean. I think the world should know that I’m completely obsessed with supermarkets. That’s right; I’m one of those lonesome weirdoes that wonder slowly up and down the aisles. I’m that person who narrows their eyes and who peers inquisitively into your basket whilst silently judging you. I’m that guy who glances at you that little bit longer than I should do as I scour your trolley in dismay as I notice its contents reflect your ignorance towards a balanced diet. Not only that, but I’m also that person who stands at the checkout whilst my eyes roll around in my head frantically, as I catch sight of the two bottles of wine that you have placed on the conveyer belt, and I try to determine whether or not you’ll be drinking the contents alone.

It all started many years ago when I first moved to London. Times were hard and I barely had a penny to my name. I had no choice other than to be creative with how I spent my time, and through lack of funds I quickly learnt that there was no better place than a supermarket for a spot of people watching as well as the unlimited helping of food. Slowly but surely throughout time I had grown accustomed to the ritual of heading down to my local supermarket and killing a few hours during an otherwise uneventful evening. Initially it started as the occasional visit which occurred no more than a few times a month, but rapidly evolved into a much favoured pastime. I frequently found myself telling my housemates about how I was simply popping out for milk and bread only to return two hours later, with a full belly and my mind racing with all mental snaps shots that I’d taken of the people I had seen.

Upon entering the supermarket I would take on an unassuming role, my camp mannerisms and expressive nature were traits that I would leave at the door in an attempt to become another face in the crowd. Armed with nothing more than my newfound inconspicuous persona as well as a watchful eye I would take to the aisles. Despite my lack of money and ravenous hunger being the initial commander, it was also my fickle fascination with human behaviour that was primarily the driving force behind such an activity. For example, I know that I run the risk of painting myself as someone of a socially dysfunctional nature, and that may be true. But what has always been beyond my comprehension, is the ability of the general masses to openly fill up their baskets with items of a more personal nature, whether its underwear, toilet paper or even condoms.

Nothing fills me with fear quite like being faced with the possibility of standing face to face with the checkout clerk as they scan my contraception, only for them to shout out ‘Have fun tonight!’ as I make my way out of the building looking rather red faced. Even though the reality of that particular scenario is rather slim, also what troubles me is what could be going inside the mind of the clerk. If I stock up on toilet paper will they think I have a freak medical condition? Or if I buy a multipack of condoms will they think that I am a slut? As a result of the ridiculous questions I allow myself to be plagued with, I simply withdraw myself from the situation and it’s through the hundreds of shoppers that I am able to live out my retail experience at its fullest.

Supermarkets are home to all the daily essentials that a human being needs to survive. Upon entry each shopper’s interests, background and opinions become irrelevant and so the only common ground required is that each person is in the building for the same reason which is the desire to spend money. This also means that there is no other place in the world that you would find such a vast selection of people from the frightfully mundane to the more colourful of characters. It’s always when I have been doing the rounds across the shop floor that I have been reminded of the diversity. Whether I’ve been observing the woman sporting work attire whilst looking forlorn as she places a meal for one in her trolley, or even the indecisive bickering couple who can’t agree on how much meat that they need, it simply offers far more entertainment than a night at home in front of the television ever could.

Despite my love for the supermarket remaining alive and well over the years, it’s my penchant for a five finger discount that has subsided slightly. However, the fact remains when I’m faced with the laborious task of doing the weekly shop, I still can’t help but pry and poke around in the lives of complete strangers, even just for a minute or two with no reason other than to satisfy my own nosy nature. I feel that by sharing this little hobby of mine with the world, I hope to encourage others to become more observant like me. After all, I shouldn’t be the one that is noticing your partners roving eye, nor is it my responsibility to warn you of the consequences of the all too frequent trips to the free samples in the deli section.

Break The Cycle

2010-11-12T14:36:00.008+01:00

I used to sit on the carpet and watch my Mother shake white powder all over its matted surface. She would enter each room and quickly scatter the dust across all the available space of the floor. Even now when I think about its aroma I feel like I can almost taste it. While she retrieved the hoover from the cupboard I would attempt to pick out several grains of the white substance from between the strands of the living room rug. Being the heavy handed child that I was, I would accidently lodge a clump of the granules behind my finger nails, and only later when I chewed my on my hand whilst concentrating on Sesame Street would the smell of the cleaning material engulf my brain. Even though I had learned early on that the powder was nothing more than Shake n’ Vac, it did not deter my continual need to inspect it each time my Mother did the housework, despite the discomfort I inevitably felt by doing so.

I had lost count of the amount of times I found myself at 6am bathing my face in the luminescent glow of the computer screen. Lack of sleep always commanded my eyelids to droop lower with each passing minute. I’d hear stirring coming from the room next to my bedroom and eventually someone would get up to use the bathroom. I would bolt up out the chair, switch the monitor off and leap into bed with the covers secured firmly over my face. As I waited I would feel my breath travel back and forth between the duvet and my mouth. Eventually my skin would become warm and flustered, but my rhythmic breathing acted a metronome that got me swiftly off to sleep. Every night I told myself ‘just five more minutes’ as I sat at my desk whilst starring into cyberspace. Despite the extreme lethargy I experienced the following day at school, my obsessive internet usage did not subside, even though I knew it was subsequently responsible for my fading interest in all things educational.

It’s those flashes of conversation that I’m plagued with when I open my eyes that I hate the most. The words that I spoke the night before are instantly the things I want to retrieve. I lie in fear of moving my booze soaked carcass from the mattress, in case I surface anymore unwanted memories. Normally in that frame of mind, I find it increasingly hard to swallow. My tongue often feels like it’s made of leather, and I taste thirty or so Marlboro Light stubs mixed in with the aftertaste of cheap red wine that inevitably irritates my throat and causes me to gag. I will often sit up and hunch myself over my knees, in an attempt to keep the feelings of self pity and embarrassment to a minimum that seem to flutter around in the pit of my stomach. Ritually as the nausea takes hold of my brain, I become increasingly frustrated with my inability to have a quiet night. Once I’ve resigned to the fact that the day has been written off before it’s started, I eventually return to lying horizontally. Frequently within the midst of my last act of desperation, I will resort to placing a pillow over my face to block out the light. However it’s never enough to obstruct the realisation that as ever my actions are merely nothing more than a force of habit.

Back In London

2010-10-26T16:58:00.007+02:00

I was unsteady when I finally made my way off the Eurostar. The mixture of cheap gin and champagne had quickly caused Paris to be nothing more than a distant memory. I dragged my luggage across the platform and heard unfamiliar voices surround me. Much to the confusion of the of the unsuspecting pedestrians that I accidently swerved my suitcases into, I found myself crying out “Excusez-moi, je suis désolé!” It was only afterwards that I realised I was once again in the company of English people. Eventually after taking several wrong turnings I was able to locate the exit of the station. As soon as I reached the outside world, I collapsed onto my suitcase and lit a cigarette. I exhaled heavily and watched my smoke disappear into the rolling smog above Kings Cross.

One drunken evening followed another very drunken day, which inevitably became an even drunker week. Frequently in the early hours of the morning I found myself wondering the streets of London with the people I had missed, whilst squawking obnoxiously about my homecoming. Whenever I was faced with the morning after the night before in Paris, I was always panic stricken, wallowing in self pity and craving the familiar. So it came as a pleasant surprise that the hangovers I experienced during the week after my return, left me feeling nothing more than a little dazed and confused, due to the realisation that I was back home.

Despite making the decision to move back to London four hours before I caught the train, it became apparent that it was a better time than any to leave. I had been homeless and relying on the good nature of several friends, who in turn had offered me various couches, beds and floors to sleep on. However, there were only so many sleepless nights due to hard surfaces and people snoring that I could tolerate before I started questioning my own sanity. It was in the spur of the moment and an attempt to lighten the load that I decided to throw away all items of clothing that I owed which weren’t black, to make my journey to the train station that little bit easier. Due to everything happening so fast, the memory of writing a list of reasons why I would miss Paris in my notebook completely escaped me, however it was something that I found in the bottom of my bag a week later. It’s only now when I reread the list that I can’t help but wonder if the points I had jotted down were really the only things I had grown to appreciate in six months, perhaps it wasn’t such a bad idea to depart after all.

Why I will miss Paris:

1. I won't be able to call someone a cunt and have them not know what it means.
2. Having an English accent has had certain advantages.
3. Good wine.
4. Good bread.
5. Good cheese.
6. Science geeks studying in the bibliotheque at the Pompidou.
7. I’ll forget how to speak French.
8. The hot guy that works at the boulangerie in Le Marais.

Three weeks have now passed and I realise that I’m no longer able to mutter the phrase, ‘But I’ve only just come back from Paris’ as an excuse to delay looking for a job, a flat, or deal with any real life things. A few days ago a friend asked me how it felt to be back, and I shrugged my shoulders and responded with ‘I dunno.’ I realise now that it may not have been the most concise summarisation of my feelings, but it was certainly better than most thoughts running through my head. By remaining so nondescript, I’m simply highlighting furthermore the lack of direction I have for the journey I set out on earlier this year. I’m both determined and optimistic that I’ll be able to elaborate on it more positively in the not too distant future. Because after all the fact remains that I have no idea what is around the corner.

Michel Gondry

2010-10-13T19:01:00.003+02:00

Written for Ribbed Magazine.

In Versailles in the late Sixties lived a boy with an overactive imagination and undeniable amount of creative energy. By taking inspiration from his childhood, as well as his family, most notably his Aunt Suzette, he would grow up to become not only a critically acclaimed director, but someone who blurred the lines between art and cinema, both independent and mainstream. His one of a kind vision, and unprecedented work ethos would be the driving force that would ultimately make him an asset, as well as an innovator to international cinema.

The young boy’s vivid imagination meant that he would spend his days thinking up inventions and creating prototypes of them out of Meccano. He also developed a keen interest in drawing and so he would occupy countless flip books with his carefully sketched sequences. Later in his teenage years he acquired a drum kit through his Father who owned a musical instrument store, which was put to use when he left his hometown and enrolled in Art College in Paris. It was there he went on to join a band filling the role of the drummer, as well directing several of the band’s music videos. This was to become start of Michel Gondry’s unparalleled journey into directing.

It was one of Michel’s videos that he had directed which caught the attention of Bjork. She contacted him proposing that they work together, and this would rapidly evolve into a long lasting creative partnership that is still active today. His skills became quickly in demand within the realms of music television and then later advertising campaigns, due to Michel pioneering the way in which film was directed. He championed the digital enhancement of speed, as well as establishing morphing techniques, so much so that both innovative methods became widely used by other directors throughout the 90s. Despite making a name for himself commercially, Michel did not shy away from returning to his roots by directing several short films in his native language. It was within those productions he would utilise his abstract thinking and unmatched craftsmanship that had been with him since childhood, as well as paving the way for his debut film ‘Human Nature’.

Michel’s level of artistry has often meant that he has taken specific elements of his film work and elaborated on them further. Several years ago I went to an installation he had put on in conjunction with his film ‘Eternal Sunshine of a Spotless Mind’ which was entitled ‘The All Seeing Eye’. I made my way into a room where a camera projected an image of a typical Parisian apartment and its entire contents on to the walls. The image slowly revolved around the room whilst pieces of the furniture began to disappear. In the background Jim Carey’s voice could be heard repeating ‘I don’t understand what I am looking at. Why am I standing here?’ Which inevitably became a somewhat ironic message, as once all the furniture and foundations of the apartment had completely disappeared I was left starring at four white walls.

His third film entitled ‘The Science of Sleep’ was significantly less commercial. This is a prime example of Michel completely unrestrained, due to him being the sole writer, which gives the viewer a greater insight into his inspirited imagination. Within the film he frequently references events of his own childhood to depict the story of a man trying to escape a dead end job. The dialogue of the film is spoken in English, French and Spanish, this multilingual usage becomes important in defining the key characters. The film embarks on an astounding visual journey which often acts as a reminder to Michel’s ever present attention to detail.

In more recent years Michel returned to working with additional script writers to produce work of a more commercial nature. When Michel was asked if it bothered him that some of his work may be perceived to be considerably more commercial than other bodies of his work he responded ‘When people are very original, sometimes they are original as a way to resist the mainstream.’ It’s that sentiment which highlights his ability to work within various fields of film, whilst constantly raising the bar of what can be achieved regardless of the audience. It’s his outstanding directional capabilities that enable him to convey his vision within the work of his films, documentaries, advertisements and music videos.

It’s Michel’s unique approach to storytelling that makes his work so predominant. He reinforces the manner in which they are told by often referencing his own life, particularly his childhood which adds a lay of honesty to the theme of his work. This also casts a rather childlike outlook on day to day situations, such as trouble at work or unrequited love. It’s this new perspective that adds a whole new dimension to what is happening onscreen. A lot of the characters that Michel creates are often looking for guidance or insight into their purpose in life. He conducts them in such a way that it challenges both the character and the viewer’s perception of reality, which is fundamentally why Michel Gondry always offers the perfect form of escapism.

Dinner Date

2010-10-08T14:22:00.003+02:00

I’ve often considered that seeing people eat is rather a lot like watching them take a shit in reverse. I grew up within a somewhat unconventional family, and one of the many things I was allowed to do was eat my dinner alone. Once the evening meal had been served in our house, I would take my dinner and eat it in front of the television within the privacy of my own bedroom. This was a ritual I carried out over many years, which eventually lead me to becoming fully accustomed to the intimacy of eating. Those years that I spent tucked away in my bed whilst chomping feverishly on a burger have long gone, and since entering adulthood I’m frequently filled with dread at the prospect of eating amongst company in various social situations. This certainly is not down to the fact that I have the table manners of a pot bellied pig, but more to the with the possibility of being somewhat socially retarded and unable to accept the fact that it’s a part of daily life, no matter how disgusting I find the whole process to be.

It’s true that food is fuel, and we need fuel to survive, but as far as I know there are no added benefits to the human body if the eating process is carried out in front of other people. Society accepts and embraces food at such a length that it is nearly always the focus point of social situations. But if we’re going to be social butterflies can’t we utilize the original intentions of bars, pubs and clubs? At least within those establishments the possibility of encountering someone launching into conversation with a mouth full of food is reduced considerably. More than often it is beyond my comprehension as to what exactly people define as fun. If it involves being sat amongst a group at a table, whilst multiple people make a selection of bizarre facial expressions whilst repeatedly announcing what it is that they taste, then by all means count me out.

Often when I walk past the window of a restaurant, I’ll observe a family tucking into their meal. I always instantly catch sight of that one person at the table that has their greedy mouth stuffed full of food whilst still talking at 100 miles per hour, despite struggling to swallow their over indulgent portion. It’s that same person who will continue to keep talking throughout the entirety of the meal, whilst the debris splatters from their mouth and across the table, which inevitably leaves them scoffing loudly at their own clumsiness. After seeing such a blatant display of vulgarity, I will look at the oldest person at the table, who has been sat quietly nursing the pile of vegetables on his plate, and I can’t help but wonder why he doesn’t he take his dick out of his pants and jerk off over Grandma’s mashed potatoes? After all he would only be paying the same amount of neglect to etiquette as his fellow boisterous diners.

Even though my stance on eating in public has been long standing, it has not meant that I have abstained from all social activities involving food, because if anything I have only ever indulged in a few avoidance tactics from time to time. However, at the end of the day everybody fucks, farts and shits, yet none of these daily occurrences are carried out publicly, despite them all being as personal as the habit of eating. So, whilst billions of people around the world embark on their daily routines whilst vulgarly consuming vast amounts of food for all to see, I’ll remain eternally socially inept, as I live in fear of the fast approaching Christmas dinner that I share with my family each year.

Je reste à Paris

2010-10-07T22:29:00.004+02:00

Some people are full of shit. I’m most definitely one of those people. From the moment I was born I was cursed with a somewhat fickle nature which has caused me to invariably make decisions which I often find myself never fully committing to. My short attention span often gets the better of me and then I am inevitably faced with all the various loose ends attached to the things that I have started. Around midnight last Wednesday I was packing all my worldly possessions once again for the following day when I would catch the Eurostar back to London. After having spent six months in Paris I had decided that I’d had enough. The pangs for my creature comforts would not subside, nor did the burning desire to be with familiar folk. Despite being extremely adamant with towards my decision to depart, it wasn’t until the final 24 hours of living in Paris that I quickly changed my mind. It dawned on me that the comfort that I craved would not be nurtured by returning to where I had started. If anything it would be nothing more than a temporary fix for my longstanding outlook of uncertainty. The following day at 4pm I didn’t make my way to the station to catch my train; instead I decided to stick around in the city I had attempted to make a life in six months ago, remaining as clueless as ever, but that little more driven to push things forward.

My French has vastly improved since coming to Paris, however more than often I still feel a little out of my depth when I’m in situations lacking the social lubricant that is alcohol. Up until last week I had spent six months avoiding hair salons, due to the fear of leaving an establishment twenty minutes later with a short back and sides, purely down to the fact that I would not have the correct vocabulary to state what was I wanted. Luckily, I found an English salon via Google which I went to during the evening that was supposed to be my first back in London. After reaching the salon and specifying to the stylist which style I wanted, it quickly dawned on me that it was the first time in six months that I had been in the company of people who, like me, had English as their mother tongue. In what had started as mandatory banter about the whys and what for regarding my relocation to Paris as well as the shared observations of Parisians, eventually became an affirmation towards my decision to stay. Despite the salon staff and I regaling the difficulties of French people, it still was not enough to deter us from staying in the city. Once I’d left the salon I felt almost as if the isolation that I had frequently experienced was to become a thing of the past, as I took solace in the reassurance that I was not as alone as I had originally thought.

I know that it is only a matter of time until I have yet another impromptu meltdown and decide to return home, after all it was only the London cravings that the salon had managed to sooth and not my erratic and somewhat indecisive nature. Until that moment arrives I’m going to continue the adventure, it’s high time that I finish the things that I start, which means that I have to refrain from giving up on things that haven’t come full circle. As I admired my new hair cut in the window of the metro on my journey home, I found a rare moment of clarity in the eyes of the person starring back at me. I saw that there was no point in travelling backwards when there is always an infinite space to move forward into. It’s in the present where I should remain, because what excites me the most is that my destination is still very much unknown. Whilst I spend my days searching for a new apartment, and spend my evenings crashing out on my friends coach, I know that it’s the appointment at the hairdressers I have to thank for a much needed push back on track, because after all, I’ve never been the sort of person to take the easy route.

I Heart London

2010-09-15T15:15:00.003+02:00

A few years ago I was walking along Westminster Bridge late at night. The streets were sparsely populated, and the only inhabitants of the highway were night buses and humming taxes transporting the drunken home. I stopped at Big Ben and saw that it disappeared into the night sky. I tried to gauge more of it by tilting my head back as much as I could without falling over. I had stood in that same spot countless times before and often felt overcome with a surge of energy that seemed to emit from its luminous glow. At that very moment I felt the embrace of its electricity once again, and I said to myself that if I ever grew tired of such landmarks then it was time for me to leave London.

Six months ago I left London for Paris and in the process I had completely forgotten the impromptu promise that I had made to myself that night. It was only recently, in the midst of a ritual to rid myself of homesickness that I recalled that night and the impact it had on me. I walked along the bank of the Seine as I felt the breeze from ferries loaded with tourists part the water. I ventured further along the river and saw the flashlight on the needle of the Eifel Tower inject its beams of light into the rolling clouds above. I laughed callously as I thought of the amount of money the tourists had paid for their experience. Back then my time in Paris had been far too short for me to take such monuments for granted, it was then that I realised I was lamenting the loss of my London relics.

Several months later, once again in an attempt to extinguish my overhanging pangs for London, I made my way to Montmartre, which was where I first visited soon after my arrival in Paris. I scanned the buildings and boulevards on the horizon and instantly felt that they had all become familiar far too soon. I recalled being stood in exactly the same place six months previously with an outlook that was considerably different. The magnetism that once drew me to the landscape had faded as well as my childlike intrigue, and in the distance I saw the city disappear into the suburbs taking with it the enchantment that it once held. It was through no particular fault that Paris had fallen out of my favour, I simply felt that nature had run its course.

I spent the following week trying to put the notions I had conceived that day to the back of my mind. I’ve always had the firm belief that if you are good to something, then in return it will be good to you, and both Paris and I had done exactly that. However I realised that it was not enough to subside the yearning that I had for the place that I once called home. Soon after, I made the decision to return to that place, and reacquaint myself with the environment that has often been so limitless. I understood that it was there that I had spent my adolescence growing, but it was also where I wanted to continue to grow, because there is no other place I would rather be right now. My love for Paris still remains, but my love of London is significantly stronger, and so I take solace in the words of Earnest Hemmingway when he said, ‘If you are lucky enough to have lived in Paris as a young man, then wherever you go for the rest of your life it stays with you, for Paris is a moveable feast.’

Freak Fetish

2010-09-12T13:53:00.004+02:00

Growing up as the only gay in the village was often a segregating experience. It seemed as though like minded guys with a penchant for the male form seemed to be a universe away. That all quickly changed in the form of the internet. Soon enough I was able to interact with similar souls, who like me, ventured into the online world armed with nothing more than teenage naivety and uncontrollable sexual desires. However I felt that what made me different from my fellow homosexuals was that I had a longstanding fascination with the more freakish folk of cyberspace. Rather early on I had unearthed several not so desirable types from the dark corners of the internet. Through this I learnt that not everything was always as it seemed, and so found myself marvelling at the multitude of misfits that were on offer.

My first few years in London were a bit of a blur, purely for the reason I favoured the nightlife far more than pursuing any sort of career. One may have thought that my frequent ventures out would have meant that I was in no danger of being approached by men. However the reality was far from that, due the fact that more than often I was sporting some ridiculous ensemble, as well as being so inebriated that I was barely coherent at the best of times. It was then in the harsh light of day I decided to rectify this and took to the internet, it was there that I discovered, much to my delight, the gene pool of freaks was marginally wider that what was on offer in my home town.

One of the first virtual acquaintances that spring to mind goes by the name of Richard. When we first started talking he came across as rather average, if anything too average by my standards, but it wasn’t until that he told me that he was in the police that I took an interest. After we exchanged several emails we decided to meet for a drink. I was rather excited as I was under the impression that I was going to be regaled with tales of armed robbery and shoot outs. However, that couldn’t be further from the truth, if anything at first I watched him grow increasingly annoyed by my probing questions. It wasn’t until he’d loosened up after two bottles of wine that he started telling me what I wanted to hear. By the end of the evening we were both mildly merry and we decided to call it a night. It wasn’t until I walked with him to his car that I realised that he wasn’t as law abiding as he appeared to be. After making several sweeping statements about how sober he was I reluctantly accepted his offer of a lift home. Before he started the car he rolled himself a joint, whilst I contemplated getting out because I had seen my life flash before my eyes. The journey home was a lot less hazardous than I had anticipated, so much so that each time we stopped at a traffic light he slurred facts about the Highway Code. Eventually we pulled up outside my house, and as I got out of the car I asked him if he would be alright driving home, to which he replied ‘Yeah, I’m a fucking policeman!’

When my laptop broke I developed a habit of wasting whole afternoons in the internet cafes of central London. It was during one of those occasions that I started talking to John. Even though I knew very little about him, I was so bored that I felt if even if he was a serial killer at least he would be some alleviation to a boring afternoon, and so I agreed to meet him. We met outside of Tate Modern, and the first thing I noticed was that he had an uncanny resemblance to Jesus. We took a seat on one of the benches that overlooked the Thames, and he pulled out several small bottles of beer from his bag as he began to tell me about his life. I wasn’t particularly in the mood for idle chit chat and so I was happy for him to do the talking. I zoned in and out of what he was saying, until the dynamics of the conversation took a sudden twist. He began to tell me about the time he went on coke binge with Jay Jopling and Courtney Love, which then unexplainably resulted in the three ending up backstage at a Rolling Stones concert. As he continued to talk, it became apparent that the details of his administration job were far from enthralling, and so he’d decided to up his game with a little fabrication. He continued to tell me about his nights out with Kate Moss, but I couldn’t help but wonder that if he really was the age he claimed to be, then he would have been no older than twelve years old during his nightclub heyday. Rather than pointing out such errors, I continued to listen intently as he divulged yet more details of excess with the rich and famous, until I found it hard to keep up. Eventually I concocted a half hearted excuse as to why I had to leave and quickly made an exit. During the walk home I was thankful that he wasn’t boring, but if anything I was grateful for the free beer.

From the moment Jack told me he was 6 ft 7, I knew that I had to meet him. Nothing turns me on more than a good old fashioned weirdo but it’s an added bonus if they are freakishly tall. After a week or so of email banter we eventually decided to meet. As soon as we met in the bar that he suggested he began to talk about football. I found it to be somewhat strange as I hadn’t given him the impression that it was a shared interest, nor did I look like a football fan. The conversation turned to music and in a rather defensive manner he told me that he only ever listened to Oasis as they were ‘proper mans rock and roll, none of that pansy shit.’ Several hours passed during which he constantly referred to his own masculinity, whilst scoffing at anything that wouldn’t get the seal of approval from a northern miner. I began to wonder if I had been speaking to someone else completely different online. As the night progressed I noticed that the more beer he consumed the less inclined he was to sit on his hands in fear of appearing to be the slightest bit effeminate. That still didn’t stop him from ranting about his intense hatred of being associated with gay people, so much so, that his views were reminiscent of someone who gets their kicks from hate crimes. I was equally aroused and scared by his downright bizarre behaviour and I contemplated leaving. He returned from the toilet and asked if he could come back to my flat. I was only too happy to accept his proposal, although I never did hear from him again after that night. During the awkwardness of the morning, I couldn’t help but feel that homophobic assaults were suddenly about to increase.

Out of another random of act of boredom spawned my encounter with Bert. He was from Germany and seemed to dislike everything in the world. So of course it was his hostile nature and his disinterest in the world meant that I had to meet him. We arranged to meet at a restaurant of his choice, mostly because everything I suggested he disliked for various reasons. Instantly I noticed how robotic he moved, I greeted him with a hug which he immediately reversed out of. We sat down at the table of the restaurant and I couldn’t take my eyes off of his mechanical movements. He awkwardly struck up a conversation about his dislike for English weather, which then lead him to discussing his hatred for England in general at great length. After what felt like an agonising eternity the food finally arrived at our table. As I immediately started eating, and he began to root around his back whilst muttering various German words under his breath. I had one eye on my food and the other on him as I saw him retrieve a knife and fork that he had wrapped tightly in tissue from his bag. I tried to look as unperturbed as possible as he began to inform me of the risks of restaurant germs, followed by a blow by blow account of all bacteria types. By this point I had completely lost my appetite and spent the remainder of my time at the table picking at my food, and wishing the ground would open up and swallow me whole. After an hour of watching him dissect his food, he finally finished and we made our way out of the restaurant and onto the street where I lit a cigarette. Just as I was about to make an excuse to leave he cleared his throat and said “I will not sleep with you, I do not like smokers.” I quickly turned on my heels and walked down the street in the opposite direction. As I made my way to the tube station I started to think that maybe out of all my encounters, perhaps I was the biggest freak. Because after all it had been me who had sourced such peculiar people, with no reason other than for my own entertainment.

Summer In Paris

2010-08-31T16:15:00.004+02:00

If I have learnt anything from spending my first summer in Paris, then it is to never spend summer in Paris. I figured that by now I had learnt all there was to know about European customs. It turns out I was wrong. A key trend amongst Parisians is that they up and leave their home for the month of August, leaving Paris in a state of something that resembles 28 Days Later, only with less zombies and more Chinese tourists. The majority of my friends had all disbanded to either the south of France or various places around Europe. I had rather foolishly decided to stay put which resulted in August becoming one of the longest months of my life.

Two weeks into my month of solitude I had grown restless of my newfound lifestyle, which consisted of sleeping all day and going out at night. One day, I had woken up at a reasonable hour and decided that I was going throw myself in the river Seine if I had sit in my flat a moment longer. I walked down to the metro station and boarded a waiting train at the platform. I counted twenty six stops between where I was and the terminus and so I decided to get off whenever the mood took me.

I leaned back in my seat and counted down each stop the train passed through. The carriage was sparsely populated but I noticed the inquisitive glances coming from a man sat directly in front of me. I pensively bit down on my thumb sharp enough that it started to throb as I contemplated getting off at the next stop. I attempted to reject the man’s advances despite him appearing to be quite adamant on catching my attention. The train stopped and waited several minutes in a tunnel as the man’s mouth began to move in my direction. At first it was blindingly obvious that I was trying to ignore him, but then it became increasingly hard to overlook his animated face and so I removed my headphones from my ears. Usually my trick to getting out of an undesired conversation is by pretending that I don’t speak French. Unfortunately when I informed the man of my supposed inability to communicate in French, he quickly switched to English.

“I asked you if you are okay, you look like something is on your mind.” He said.

“Yes, I am fine. I just couldn’t remember which stop I am supposed to meet my friends at.” I lied.

“Ok. Try not to look so troubled. As for me, I’m troubled. I made a party with a few friends last night and I am returning home now. I do not feel so good. What have you been doing today?” He said. I observed the way he swayed back and forth in his seat. He ran his fingers back through his gelled hair and a few strands of his fringe escaped and rested on his forehead. Some may have said if he had a good night sleep and a shower he’d be rather attractive. I couldn’t help but think the lack of sleep gave him that haggard look that I often find all too alluring.

“I just went for lunch with a friend.” I lied, again. He probably didn’t want to hear that really I had spent the morning masturbating over Alexander Skarsgard and watching daytime television, so I spared the details.

“So do you like Paris? What brings you here?” He asked.

I drew my breath and began to concoct a vague back-story as to why I was in Paris. I kept it brief as I didn’t want him to start questioning why I wasn’t speaking French, when the truth was I didn’t want to be having the conversation regardless of the language. I struggled to bring my story to a coherent close as I slowly became distracted by his eyes. They were so dark they were almost black and despite his nocturnal activities the night before his skin had remained in a porcelain-like condition which gave me the impression that he wasn’t much older than me. His prominent nose was covered in faint freckles that creased slightly at each side each time that he spoke.

“So you’re not sure what you’re doing here?” He enquired. “I never said that!”

“I know you didn’t. I was simply asking...” As annoying as he was, I realised my story was sketchy at best. If anything I’d invited yet more intrusion. Instead of answering his question I began to dwell on how I felt when I had got out of bed earlier that day. I had woken alone as well as early, when there was no reason to, due to having no one available to make plans with. I had managed to forge a small amount of optimism in an attempt to drag myself out of the house. I had boarded a train with no specific destination, because ultimately my journey was pointless, which then had me questioning what I was doing in Paris on my own in the middle of summer, cue the existential crisis brought on by the presumptuous yet irritatingly attractive Parisian.

“You ask too many questions.” I said. “Well, perhaps you do not ask enough questions. After all I’m not the one who is telling a stranger about my life.” He replied. I watched a sly smirk spread across his face which caused me to contemplate jumping out of my seat and onto his lap. I wanted to wrap my hand tightly around his throat while I tasted the stale cigarettes and alcohol on his tongue. I imagined myself tugging at his hair each time he attempted to pull away from my mouth to speak. I didn’t want to hear his voice. Instead I wanted to feel his breath on my face, and the smell the faint scent of his night out, which lingered on the t shirt that was stuck in damp patches to his broad chest.

It became apparent that the feeling wasn’t mutual as when I broke my trail of thought I noticed his head hanging heavy towards his lap, it lowered furthermore as his deep grunts echoed throughout the train. I tapped his foot slightly in an attempt to arouse movement but only his head bobbed up and down slightly and then it returned to its original position. Despite my newfound and somewhat odd lust for the stranger, I did not want him getting off at the stop I had finally chosen, and so I kicked him in the shin. His immediately stopped snoring and he bolted up right like a rabbit caught in headlights.

“So which stop are you getting off at?” I asked. “This one, this is my stop.” He said in a monotone manner as the train pulled into a dimly lit station. He stood up and walked towards the door, as he stepped on to the platform he turned back. “You know, August is always very quiet in Paris...” Before he had chance to finish his sentence the train doors closed and he began to wave goodbye. As I watched him fade out of view, I found myself once again overcome with the urge to wrap my hands around his neck for reminding me of my summer of solitude.

Soundtrack To My Life

2010-08-25T16:55:00.005+02:00

The The - This Is The Day (Listen)

Still to this day whenever I go back and visit my Mother we have a ritual that involves staying up until the early hours, gossiping, chain smoking and ploughing through her vast music collection. During one such occasion a few weeks before I was to leave home and move to London she played me several records from her youth. This song in particular stuck with me and it became in constant rotation up until I left home.

Just before I left my Mom bought me a copy of the record so that I could take it to London. During the first few weeks of living away from home I found it difficult to adjust, so during those moments when I wanted to pack it all in and go back home I would put this record on. I would recall the times when we would be sat on the living room floor cross legged and talking one hundred miles an hour as we listened to music and it always made me feel not so far away.

Hole – Violet (Listen)

When I was ten years old I became utterly obsessed with Courtney Love. So much so for a period of about two years they were the only band I would ever listen to. The beginning chords are what inspired me to learn to play guitar. Despite my passion for musical instruments being short lived as I simply did not have the patience, still to this day it is the only song I can play on a guitar.

I was fifteen when I started to sample the nightlife of Birmingham, my friends and I would put what little money we had together and end up getting wasted in various rock clubs. This song quickly became an anthem amongst friends as we would take it in turns pestering the DJ to play the song until he finally gave in. This resulted in each of us storming the dance floor, we would throw ourselves around and scream the lyrics much to the amusement of onlookers.

Smashing Pumpkins – Tonight Tonight (Listen)

I first discovered this song back in the day when I came leaping out of the closet with a mission to find a boyfriend. As luck would have it I found it in the form of a six foot four malnourished musician, which is still a type I favour to this day. I spent many evenings at his house watching him play bass in time to a selection of Smashing Pumpkins tracks as I sickeningly swooned over him.

Several years on and despite being considerably more cynical the string accompaniment at the beginning never fails to reminiscence the innocence of an early romance. Rather tainted memories also stir of a time when I’d get stoned with friends in the park. Purely for the reason that after having smoked a bit too much, I could never do anything else other than listen to this song on repeat as I envisioned myself in the video, floating on a cloud not far behind D’arcy Wretzky.

Patrick Wolf – Lycanthropy (Listen)

I really hated high school and so more than often I bunked off and took the train to Birmingham. I’d conduct my usual routine of trawling through various record shops. It was during one of these occasions that I found a copy of Patrick Wolf’s debut album. As usual my obsessive nature had gotten the better of me and I found myself listening to the album no matter where I went.

The lyrics to this song at the time spoke more to me than any song I had ever heard. Even though I was in the final few months of secondary education my optimism had begun to dwindle as I failed to see my time there ever ending. It was in the positive nature of the song that I found assurance and essentially aided me in seeing the light at the end of the tunnel, still to this day the song carries a stigma of triumph that I hope I will never forget.

Siouxsie and The Banshees – Dazzle (Listen)

For as long as I can remember I have been fascinated with Siouxsie Sioux. So much so that when I was about three years old my Mother recorded several of The Banshee’s music videos on to tape for me. I would sit for hours watching them perform only to then ask my Mother to rewind the tape so I could watch it all over again.

For me this has never been just a song but something more of a three minute symphony. No matter how many time I listen to this song I’m still completely shaken up and taken away by contrasting instruments throughout. Siouxsie’s soothing drawl over an emotional racket of sounds has always been the perfect tonic for a hangover, so frequently I have listened to this song on long journeys home the morning after the night before.

Primal Scream feat. Kate Moss – Some Velvet Morning (Listen)

Several years ago I found a 12”version of this at a stall on Brick Lane, which then meant every time my housemate and I would throw a party I would demand control of the music and play it at least six times in a row. Not to mention the fact that I would drunkenly attempt to imitate Kate Moss’ dance moves from the video. It was obviously not to everybody’s taste as during a party it got misplaced and I was never able to find it.

The song itself makes me reminisce my first summer in London. Granted I can’t remember all that much but it will always symbolise the excitement and over enthusiasm that I had for my new home. It also became the song that I was guaranteed to drunkenly sing along to at the back of the night bus much to the delight of my fellow passengers.

David Bowie – Dance Magic Dance (Listen)

David Bowie was the first man that I ever felt attracted to. Well, actually it was more so his character Jareth the Goblin King in the film Labyrinth. One of my earliest memories ever involves being in the house I grew up in and bouncing around in my seat along to the music. My memory goes so far back that I can’t actually remember what I could see around me, all I recall is the sound and the uncontrollable urge to move.

It still has that effect on me still to this day. It was played frequently at a club night my friend I used to go to. Granted these days when I have heard it I’ve been a little more intoxicated as I was back then as a child. But it’s still a good feeling to have elsewhere to bounce around other than just the sofa or my bedroom.

Soft Cell – Tainted Love/Where Did Our Love Go? (Listen)

When I was at college I read Marc Almond’s autobiography. As soon as I had finished the book I quickly accumulated all of Soft Cell’s albums along with various remixes, one of which is this song. If there was ever a way to make Tainted Love sound more amazing than it already is, then I never thought it would be by attaching a Diana Ross cover version to it.

Still with his autobiography fresh in my mind, which detailed his somewhat seedy existence in London, I felt it very fitting to construct my own soundtrack using Soft Cell’s music when I arrived in the city. One of the tracks was this song that which became an integral track for part my getting ready routine before going out. I’d play it at maximum volume and on repeat as I posed in the mirror and deliberated what to wear that evening.

Walk Like An Egyptian

2010-08-25T16:53:00.001+02:00

Isis was the ancient Egyptian goddess of protection. In her heyday she would cast magic spells to aid people that were in need. She was married to Osiris; who was god of the dead and also had the job of being ruler of the underworld. Some would describe them as quite the power couple as together they went on to have a son called Horus. Unfortunately Osiris was later killed by his brother Seth, which then spawned a battle between him and Horus for the title of ruler of the world of the living. Despite losing one of his eyes in the battle, Horus championed Seth and claimed the title and his eye was restored which became a symbol of protection for the ancient Egyptians.

Very few people know of my long running fascination with Egyptology. In fact, the only people that could verify my interest would be my Mother and my Grandparents. This is because when I was growing up they saw me devote my time to studying various books on the subject that I had spent my pocket money on. While most people my age were outside climbing trees and getting their knees dirty, I favoured spending my time by transcribing hieroglyphics, fawning over various artefact replicas and drawing life size images of my favourite gods and goddesses to pin to my bedroom wall.

My initial attraction to ancient Egypt began in primary school. Each term we were assigned various points of history that we had to study. My lack of interest in all things academic started at a young age and so as everyone in the classroom embarked on their fact finding mission, I would take a back seat and spend my time daydreaming out of the window. That was until one term a supply teacher named Miss Cartwright was introduced. I instantly found myself attracted to her, albeit somewhat bizarre at the time, in hindsight I realise that her mannish features and masculine stance at the front of the classroom were going to shape the things to come.

Originally what had been a forged interest in an attempt impress the new teacher eventually evolved into genuine enthusiasm. While my classmates looked on in horror as the embalming process of the mummies was described to us, I couldn’t help but marvel at such facts and I began my own quest in finding out as much as I could. By the time the school term had come to an end, as did my infatuation with Miss Cartwright, I had successfully accumulated an assortment of Egyptian fact sheets and books which I had stolen from my classroom.

Across the hallway in the block of flats that my Father used to live in also lived a rather peculiar woman. She was prone spouts of bizarre behaviour, the sort that you would expect from an overweight manic depressive social recluse. One day my Father was invited into her flat and I reluctantly agreed to join him. She was a woman of very few words, and my only knowledge of her existence was when I would see her manic eyes staring at me through the letter box whenever I left my Fathers flat. When I took her personality into consideration I had envisioned her flat to be dark, dank and resembling a crypt, however the reality of it was something entirely different.

I entered her living room and immediately noticed a large replica of Tutankhamun’s death mask in the centre of the room. As I scanned the room I instantly became transfixed with the abundance of Egyptian trinkets and artefacts that littered all of the shelves and surfaces. My eyeballs rolled furiously around in my head when I noticed the walls were mounted with countless papyrus pictures that all had intricate drawings of hieroglyphics etched across them. I felt my face turn red as I became overcome with an uncontrollable amount of jealousy. I also felt that the exclusivity that I had found in my extracurricular activity had been tarnished. Suffice to say, I had no choice other than to covertly place one of the figurines in my coat pocket, which instantly alleviated my annoyance when I eventually left the flat.

One

2010-08-25T16:50:00.000+02:00

Last year I went through what can only be described as a pretty rough breakup. For several weeks I relied on the kindness of friends and stayed on various sofas until eventually I found a room of my own. If the break up had made me realise anything, it was that I had penchant for spending money on the impractical. When I unloaded all of my worldly possessions in my new bedroom I discovered that rather owning anything electrical or remotely technological that could keep me occupied, what I did have was countless bin bags full of clothes and a vast collection of photography and fashion books. Long gone were the creature comforts that came in the form of music, television and internet, it dawned on me that I would have to go back to basics. Given my brief melancholy state of mind at the time I opted to utilise what I had as I embarked on a temporary vow of solitude. What had originally started as a painful process resulted in the self satisfaction of channelling my energy productive. In due course armed with nothing but my thoughts, pen and paper as well as copious amounts of comfort food, I realised that all it took was my own company to find the much needed consolation which enabled me to relocate my misplaced optimism.

Several weeks later along with my new lease of life, I ended up in the all too familiar situation of being broke. I’d opted to spend my weekly salary from my mind numbing nine to five job on going out. One of the consequences of doing so meant that I often found myself walking home for an hour and a half in minus zero temperatures due not being able to afford the travel fare home. The nature of my work left me feeling less than inspired at the end of the day, and so despite initially loathing the journey it grew to be much needed stimulation. I’d brave the cold and venture down Fleet Street until I reached the corner of St Paul’s cathedral. Along my way I would see swarming masses of commuters striding in the same direction, all of which were dressed identically in black with matching stern expressions that suggested that they were the only ones in the world trying to make their way home. When I reached Bank station I would see yet more lemmings following each other down the steps of the tube station. I couldn’t help but feel slightly depressed as I continued to walk whilst observing the brigade of soullessness that marched amongst the historical buildings of the city. It was never until I stood at the traffic lights that I was thankful for the ache of the cold, and the power it had to shake every bone in my body, ultimately it gave me reassurance that unlike them I felt very much alive.

I often find that it’s in the early hours of the morning I am able to concentrate the most. Due to not having what you might call a real job over the past couple of months, it has given me the opportunity to develop nocturnal activities. It’s always in the small hours that I am able to apply myself with ease due to there being fewer distractions at hand, so it’s no wonder that I feel at my most inspired when I haven’t got an over active Facebook newsfeed to divert my attention. I enjoy the silence of the early morning, as well as the faint stirring that can be heard from the world outside. Whether it is the next door neighbour turning the light out to go to sleep, or a drunken pack of pedestrians out on the street making their way home, it’s always reminds me that human behaviour is often one of my biggest inspirations when I write. I remember when I first moved to London and during my frequent insomnia ridden nights I’d often take the bus into the city so that I could spend an hour or two wondering aimlessly around the streets in an attempt to tire myself out. The combination of cold morning air, the faint hum of distant buses and a navy blue sky became the perfect medicine in aiding me to relax.

When I arrived in Paris four months ago I could count the amount of people I knew in the city on one hand. This meant that I spent a lot of time on my own. What originally seemed like such an isolating experience became something of an unimaginable amount of freedom which I did not realise was on offer. Day after day I got to explore the city on my own terms. I would walk the streets for hours on end trawling through various shops, cafes and historical points of interest, I may have looked like that annoying tourist but because I was alone and in the company of strangers, I simply didn’t care. It was far from being some whimsical adventure as a great amount of confusion came with being exposed to a culture I had no familiarity with. More than often if I wasn’t lost physically after having followed the wrong directions then I certainly was lost in translation. Several months on and after a lot of trial and error, it has become progressively easier and I realise that by going it alone gave me the biggest push I needed. I think back to when I arrived in Paris, it was a time when I did not speak the language nor did I have any idea of the longevity of my stay, however, I can now safely say that now I am making myself feel quite at home. Perhaps my fondness for solitude stems from being an only child as I learnt to entertain myself from an early age, or perhaps it’s my selfish nature that enjoys only ever having to answer to myself. Whatever the cause, it’s in those moments of solitude that I have often found the greatest comfort.

Hangover Cure

2010-08-25T16:49:00.001+02:00

The light that always creeps in from beyond the curtains never fails to make me stir apprehensively amongst my bed sheets. Those familiar sharp shoots of pain surge around my brain and then I’m always overcome with an indescribable amount of sorrow. I’ll often lay rigid across the mattress in fear that any sudden movement will conjure yet more unwanted feelings. I’ll usually then taste the alcohol fermenting on the back of my throat, which makes me begin to regret the last drink of the evening. That very routine never fails to remind me of how much I hate waking up hung over in a foreign country.

It’s only after much deliberation that I am able to raise my wine soaked carcass up off the mattress into an upright position and start to piece together the events of the previous evening. I often try and delve into the corners of my mind to recall the conversations I shouldn’t have had, and the things that I shouldn’t have done, or even the places I shouldn’t have been. However, more than often when trying to fathom the silhouettes that hold the memory of my recent actions, nausea greets me by gripping me tightly in a headlock.

I’m still yet to find the remedy for those uncontrollable cravings that I get for the familiar. It’s in that moment where I’m overcome with the combination of lethargy, nausea and total embarrassment that I long to be in the company of a familiar friend or sat amongst an environment that I know only too well. I’ll then find myself plagued with images and reminders of what used to alleviate my fragile state back in London, no matter how small the detail, even if it was just the familiar smell of the London Underground, that I would frequently get a whiff of during my journey of shame home.

One of the biggest contributing factors to my ailment is the hankering for my preferred comfort food which is never readily available in Paris. So when I substitute them with bread and cheese my mind automatically envisions the isles that I used to frequent the most in my local Tesco. That thought alone often makes me reminisce furthermore, the uncomfortable but somewhat satisfying feeling of a food coma bought on by one too many biscuits, which used to inevitably leave me feeling dazed as I would watch mindless afternoon television through half open eyelids.

So by being as resourceful as I can to supplement what I am lacking, I’m finding myself becoming marginally better at lamenting the loss of full English breakfasts and dingy pubs for hair of the dog. I also know that those I often miss are only an email of telephone call away; however I find both to be rather impersonal when in the midst of my gueule de bois. It’s those methods of communication that I’ll end up using later on in the evening to arrange yet another venture out.

Once Upon A Time In Birmingham

2010-08-25T16:47:00.001+02:00

I was stood at the side of the stairs in a hallway of one of the many generic rock clubs my friends and I would frequent when we were sixteen. From the top of the stairs I heard an almighty yelp as I felt warm beer splatter against my back. I looked down and saw a body gambol past me down the stairs and landing at the bottom into a heap on the floor. The congregating crowds rolled their eyes as looks of disdain were exchanged around the room. The body bolted up right and began flailing around in the open space before jumping to its feet. The somewhat bedraggled figure looked confused as it gauged the room, and then came walking in my direction.

“Do you mind if I have a sip of your drink? I’m so thirsty!” Before I even had chance to reply he snatched the pint glass from out of my hand and continued to talk. “The music is shit here. It’s the same every week, same old songs... Do you have a cigarette?” He asked. I handed him a pack of rolling tobacco and watched him shakily construct a rather obscure looking cigarette. His thin fingers seemed to tremor as he rolled the paper. I observed the dirt lodged between his nails and I marvelled at how prominent his protruding wrist bones were.

Despite his meticulous nature the outcome of his cigarette appeared to be rather disjointed. He leaned in towards me, close enough so our noses were just barely touching. I felt almost hypnotised by the thin circle of dark brown that was coveted by the dilated pupils in his eyes. He placed his hand on the lower part of my thigh, applying pressure with his finger tips they began to creep up into the inside of my leg, his hand then delved deep into my pocket to retrieve a lighter. He lit his cigarette and as soon I had pulled myself out his trance, he walked back into the crowd that he had originally fallen from.

The following week my friends I found ourselves in the same club. Once again we congregated in the corridor as we did not favour the song that was currently being played on the dance floor. The bottle of vodka that I had snuck into the club was beckoning me so I went to the bar to request several pints of diet coke. As I leaned across the bar to shout my order I felt a warm sigh resound at the back of my ear. “Would you mind getting me one of those?” I turned to see that it was the guy who had fallen down the stairs the week before. I acknowledged his request by nodding and I then placed the pint into his open hand.

As we walked together across the dance floor his wiry frame seemed to sway ever-so-slightly to the music in such a way that it didn’t seem that he was in control of such an action. His sharp hips poked and swaggered through slashed denim and a tight white t shirt crept up his back exposing the jagged ridge of his spine. I lead him to the sofa that I had stashed a bottle of vodka inside of, and I obscured the view as much as I could by crouching behind it to pour the alcohol into our glasses. When I returned to the sofa I saw my newfound friend hovering his nose over the arm of the chair. I cleared my throat and he looked up from the frosting of white powder. “Shit. Don’t do that. Do you want some?” He asked. I declined and shook my head as he finished snorting the debris.

“So, my name is Taylor.” He announced. I watched his plump lips form his words before he had even spoken them. I then observed the way he clenched his jaw and gritted his teeth each time he finished a sentence. His eyelids flickered uncontrollably and he frequently threw his head back in a fit of laughter. Eventually he tilted his head to the back of the sofa and closed his eyes whilst humming the tune of the music being played. I found it almost impossible to not study him as he lay back. For someone with such theatrical characteristics and energetic banter it came as a surprise that he could look so vulnerable whilst laying still.

Throughout the course of the evening I noticed people edging closer to where we were seated. In turn they would study Taylor with quizzical expressions on their faces. Some would try and get his attention subtly and those that were a little more blasé, and were able to catch his eye, would then walk with him across the club to a darkened corner, and upon his return I’d notice him stuffing money into his pockets. Several times that evening, he gave me an expression that seemed to welcome any questions that I had, but I remained silent, due to the obviousness of the situation and the fact it was none of my business.

As the weeks progressed Taylor quickly became a regular fixture in my Saturday evening ritual. Routinely we would stow ourselves away in one of the dim corners of the club, and talk and consume whatever alcohol we managed to sneak in. After some time I began to suspect that his over enthusiastic nature may have been something of a cover up, as quite often a melancholy haze occupied his eyes. I wanted to know more about him. But he never spoke about the past, let alone what he had been doing that week. Instead he kept himself guarded in such a manner that I often wondered it was probably for the best that I knew very little about him.

Towards the end of one of our nights out, my friend invited Taylor and I as well as several others back to her house to continue the party. Rather than accepting my friend’s proposal, Taylor remained quiet as he paced the floor hesitantly, until eventually declining the offer. Soon after he left saying very few words and I watched him walk up the street and disappear into the fleeting taxis that were in the distance. I rejoined my friends and we made our way to the party, while I tried to put Taylor’s elusive behaviour to the back of my mind, not to mention the fact that I would probably have to wait another week to see him again.

I left the party as soon as the sun came up so that I could catch the first morning train home. A lack of sleep and too much vodka made me feel as if gravity was pulling at my limbs. Eventually I boarded the train, took my seat and stared blankly at the morning commuters outside the window, as I felt my eyelids begin to close. I rubbed my eyes in an attempt to stay awake so that I wouldn’t miss my stop, and I noticed Taylor perching on the edge of a bench on the opposite platform. He had his head in his hands and when he raised himself back up a look of complete disassociation spread across his face. Before I had chance to bang on the glass window to get his attention the train started up and he quickly faded out of view.

Courtney Love Is Amazing

2010-07-30T19:30:00.001+02:00

When I was growing up I read an interview with Courtney Love and she said, “I might lie a lot, but never in my lyrics.” At the time it stuck with me because I was a typical lonesome teenager, an angst ridden faggot with a chip on my shoulder. I’d spend my days wallowing in self pity and wondering why the world wasn’t working in my favour. I was so disillusioned that I decided to fabricate my own one, constructed completely out of lies and the truths of others. Despite my penchant for creating elaborate stories to make myself sound far more interesting than I thought I was, the only time that I refrained from falsehood was when pen came to paper and it was within my writing where I did not lie. The only place that the truth could be found was within the contents of all the journals, diaries and notebooks that I had filled from the age of eight. Of course, as I got older and abandoned my negative outlook my bad habits eventually broke too, but the fact remained that the quote I had read struck a chord with me. I felt almost as if it was the first time that could relate to what another person was saying. So, from that moment on, I found a connection in the music that Courtney Love had made.

I was four years old when Hole released their debut album ‘Pretty On The Inside’ and I was six years old when they released the follow up album ‘Live Through This’. Obviously at those points in time I was far too young to take note of the impact that both of these critically acclaimed albums had made on the music scene. It wasn’t until several years later, when I was somewhat insomnia stricken and channel hopping, she appeared before me on the television and I found myself instantly transfixed. In the video to Miss World, Courtney can be seen taking part at a beauty pageant. During several of the scenes she can be seen looking overjoyed as she is congratulated by onlookers, however, when she takes centre stage she appears to be possessed by a force that’s commanding her to not go unnoticed, both on the set of the music video and to the viewer at home.

Throughout time I grew to learn that the polished image that she projected in the music video was a far cry from her primal presence, and the raw energy that emitted from her when on stage. It was her ability to channel such spirits that caused me to become completely infatuated with her. As usual my obsessive compulsive nature demanded that I ingest as much knowledge about her music and her life as I possibly could. Despite the mechanics of the media, in which her music was often overshadowed by her personal life, I felt that no matter what the details, it was never going to be enough to deter me from the music she was making. Much to my delight, in the late 90s my Mother agreed to get the internet installed into our house, this eventually became an essential tool in fuelling my obsession.

From then on, my newfound propellant, as also known as the internet, enabled me to obtain as much music and information as possible. It became apparent that my intrigue was genuine and not just another part of my fickle framework. I also recognised that I had found a new pastime to occupy my usually solitary summer holidays. I would stow myself away in my room and listen to the increasing collection of Hole songs that I had acquired. I favoured spending my time alone because often I found myself identifying with certain songs to such an extent that I felt that my voice could be heard within the music. It wasn’t that I was an unconfident or shy child, I just felt that she had something to say and she didn’t care who she pissed off in the process, just as long as people were listening, and that was trait I longed to have.

Despite my increasing knowledge of all things Courtney Love and Hole related the one thing that I had wanted more than anything was to see them live. I can recall the day when I saw the footage of their show at Glastonbury in 1999. I was too young at the time to go and so I had to make do with random recorded snippets that I had found on the internet. Courtney took to the stage in a pastel pink ensemble; she wore a pale pink bra with sequined fuchsia hot pants that had a trail of slashed netting at the rear, topped off with a baby blue Fender that hung from one shoulder. She looked polished and on form, as she occasionally she cocked her leg up against the speaker and screamed into the crowd. The trademark baby doll dresses and ripped tights may have been a thing of the past, but she showed the crowd that what still remained was the undeniable talent which enabled her to engage the audience completely.

After the demise of Hole, Courtney quickly became less known for her music and more for her personal life, however, this did not interfere with my admiration. After a brief hiatus she returned to the studio to follow up her previous solo attempt. As soon as I heard several leaked demos of the new material, I found myself riding high on a wave of anticipation that had I had not felt before, as most of her previous work had been released at a time when I was too young. After a string of public appearances and interviews, all of which I watched wistfully, I became increasingly excited at the prospect of seeing her live in concert for the first time in my life.

Several years later in February 2010, I found myself standing in a crowd rather apprehensively as I waited for the newly reformed Hole to take the stage at Shepherds Bush Empire. If tabloid speculation was anything to go by, Courtney wasn’t going to be there and if the past thirteen years of my obsession were anything to go by, I couldn’t believe that I was there. I began to scan the crowd in an attempt to pass the time as one by one the band began to assemble on stage, then finally out walked Courtney. Familiar guitar chords began to stir which triggered her to start snarling the opening lyrics to ‘Pretty on the inside’. Several songs in and my apprehension had subsided, instead I spent the remainder of the concert feeling somewhat elated, as I listened to the words of the songs that I had been playing for as long as I could remember.

My initial connection with Courtney Love and her music may have been something of an angst ridden association that was inevitable during my early stages of puberty. However, as soon as my hormones had balanced and I’d adjusted fully to the real world, I still managed to maintain a connection that throughout time has become something rather long standing. Back when I was ten years old and even now at twenty three, the word that I have always associated with Courtney has been ‘empowering’. I have felt that her life’s work has been the embodiment of that very word, which still rings true for me today. Her dedication and determination in times of hardship and chaos are not only utterly inspiring, but it’s those traits alone that have transcended her into a force of nature, rather than just another rock star, and that is why I am thankful that Courtney Love is in the world.

Sex Pests

2010-07-20T19:30:00.002+02:00

In recent years I have I have found myself in rather awkward situations with several London taxi drivers. It would be all too easy to put it down to the numerous unlicensed cabs I’ve taken on a journey back home from a club. Because that hasn’t always been the case, during times when I have had my scruples very much with me at the end of a night out, I have taken black cabs and I’ve ended up in the same scenario, which has involved the driver requesting my ass or a blow job in exchange for a free journey. It’s not every single taxi that I have stepped foot in, but it has happened more times than you would expect, especially for a guy like me in my early twenties.

I can recall the first time it ever happened. It wasn’t particularly late in the evening but I was feeling lazy and somewhat drunk, and so I had decided to hop into a black cab on Tottenham Court Road to my friend’s house in Whitechapel. Along the way small talk was exchanged, the sort of banter you would expect from any London cabbie. The more questions he asked, the more I tried to look as disinterested as possible, so he would take the hint and shut up. In my drunken haze I placed my head against the window and looked out. I struggled to see a familiar street as my alcohol soaked breath had steamed up the window. However, my attention was quickly diverted from the world outside, to the eyes that were burning into me, reflected in the rear view mirror.

“Are you okay?” I asked. “Yes. Sorry. I was just looking at your hair. You have very nice hair... for a boy.” He replied. I gave half smile and stared blankly out of the window. “So are you gay?” He asked. I responded and wondered why he would ask such a question, wasn’t it already blindingly obvious? “If I stop the car do you fancy getting out and coming to sit with me at the front?” He asked. “Why?” I enquired. “I just thought a student like you could probably benefit from getting a free cab now and then. That’s if you’re willing to help me out?” He said. I wiped the condensation from the window and saw that I was only a five minute walk away from where I needed to go. “I think I’ll get out here, how much do I owe you?” I asked. “Like I said, you don’t have to pay anything if you come and sit here with me.”I handed him twenty pounds, got out the car and walked up the road as I saw him quickly drive off.

A more bizarre instance was when I hailed down a presumably unlicensed taxi, to make my way home from Soho several years ago. Once again the obligatory chit chat started up as the driver asked me how my night had been. I was beyond tired and so I could barely keep up the niceties until he asked me my sexuality, “What does it matter?” I replied sharply. “I like to know. Please.” He asked again in broken English. “It’s none of your business.” I said sternly. “Tell me. Please. I want you to fuck with my wife!” He pleaded. Suddenly the drunken lethargy had worn off and I bolted up right in my seat. “I take you in my home. You fuck my wife and I watch. You like?” Before I even had chance to respond, he proceeded to give me in depth instructions of what it was he wanted me to do to his wife. I demanded he let me out, but still he persistently repeated his request. Luckily, he eventually gave up and pulled over to the side of the road. I jumped out the taxi without handing him any money and as I walked up the road, I started to think how getting home from a night out had started to become something of a chore.

Yet another occasion I can remember was when after a particularly non-eventful journey home in a cab, the driver pulled into the car park at the back of my flat and stopped me as I went to get out. “Wait. I’ve finished working. I do not need to drive now.” He said informatively. “Great. Well, have a good night!” I replied. “I have no work, so can I come with you now?” He asked. I took a deep sigh and rolled my eyes. “No, you can’t. But you can let me out of this car.” I demanded. “You can go, I’ll let you go, but please, can I come with you for a while. Not long. But now, let’s go!” He pleaded once again. His desperate request seemed far from threatening, however, I began to wonder how I was going to get in the flat without him following me in. Before he even gave me chance to muster up a sentence he began to plead again, so I quickly interjected, “I’m very sorry, you can’t come in. I live with my Dad and he has to wake up early, he’s a policeman, you see...” Without another word spoken he quickly started his car engine. I climbed out of the cab and watched him drive off at such a speed I was convinced he was going to hit the wall on the corner.

There have also been other various occasions in which I have found myself being refused a journey in a taxi because I was not prepared to orally relieve the driver in return for a discount. Or even other instances, when I have had to turn down the proposal of ‘going somewhere quiet for some fun’. I’ve been lucky enough to not find these situations uncomfortable or dangerous, because if anything, I’ve found them mildly inconvenient, especially when all I have wanted to do is go home. Sometimes I often think if I had really been short of cash, perhaps I would have accepted an offer. However, I’m not the sort of person that relays on my oral skills to get home, or at least not just yet. They are the ones that have simply taken a chance on me in my inebriated state, because without a doubt, the day or week before some drunken faggot, very much like myself, had taken them up on their offer.