| All my wrongs |
[18 Jan 2007|05:21pm] |
You lucky people
Overhearing the radio in the background i tune in and out as it proclaims
An orgy of self- pity
followed by
dangerous ecstacy.
|
|
play me a song
|
|
|
[18 Jan 2007|03:42pm] |
I want to save someones life.
I want to stop someone jumping off a building.
|
|
play me a song
|
|
| Leave before the lights come on |
[12 Jan 2007|09:35pm] |
Sorry I've not been about in a while. I literally haven't had time. I get up at six a.m. and get back from college at half five. Home by six and then tuesdays i have work from six, wednesdays its evening class, every other night its drinking heavily or taking class a's because you can give someone a new life but they'll never change. Not really. You can take the girl out of slough but she'll still be a messy cunt. I'm seeing a guy called danny at the moment and its good, because i'm pretty detached from it, which means I wont get hurt. Erring on the side of caution. He's how I see me being in six years- a fucking mess. He has serious fucking head problems due to stuffing himself with drugs for a very long time. He's a coke head, but of course he is since thats the type i attract. I havent written anything creative in a really long time. Real life gets in the way of dreams, isnt it always the way. And lets face it, i've never been known to stick at anything before in my life. I'd have to give up the writing sometime.
Been falling back in love with the monkeys.
Well this is a good idea,
He wouldn't do it if it wasn't,
He wouldn't do it if it wasn't one.
Well my friend fancies you,
Oh what a way to begin it all,
You said it's always exciting words to hear
And we woke up together not quite realising how,
Oh when your stretching and yawning,
Its always hard in the morning,
And I suppose that's the price you pay,
Oh it isn't what it was,
She's thinking he looks different today,
And oh there's nothing left to guess now,
You left before the lights came on,
Because you didn't want to ruin,
All the lust that was brewing,
Before he absolutely had to,
And how can you wake up,
With someone you don't love?
And not feel slightly fazed by it,
Oh, he had a struggle,
And you woke up together not quite realising how,
Oh but he's stretching and yawning,
It's always hard in the morning,
And I suppose that's the price you pay,
Oh it isn't what it was,
She's thinking he looks different today,
And oh there's nothing left to guess now,
Quick, let's leave, before the lights come on,
'Cos then you don't have to see,
'Cos then you don't have to see,
What you've done,
Quick, let's leave, before the lights come on,
'Cos then you don't have to see,
'Cos then you don't have to see,
What you've done,
Until tomorrow comes,
I'll walk you up, what time's the bus come?
I'll walk you up, what time's the bus come?
I'll walk you up, what time's the bus come?
I'll walk you up, what time's the bus come?
|
|
play me a song
|
|
|
[03 Nov 2006|05:01pm] |
He thought about alone in constantinople that time, having quarrelled in paris before he had gone out. He had whored the whole time and then, when it was over, he had failed to kill his loneliness, but only made it worse, he had written to her, the first one, the one who had left him, a letter telling her how he had never been able to kill it... How when he thought he saw her outside the Regence one time, it had made him go all faint and sick inside, and that he would follow a woman who looked like her in some way, along the Boulevard, afraid to see it was not she, afraid to lose the feeling it gave him. How everyone he had slept with had only made him miss her more. How what she had done could never matter as he knew he could not cure himself of loving her. He wrote this letter at the Club, cold sober, and mailed it to New York asking her to write him at the office in Paris. That seemed safe. And that night missing her so much it made him feel hollow sick inside, he wandered up past Taxim's, picked a girl up and took her out to supper. He had gone to a place to dance with her afterwards, she danced badly, and left her for a hot Armenian slut, that swung her belly against him so that it almost scalded.
Ernest Hemmingway, the snows of Kilimanjaro. Sums it up, beautifully.
|
|
play me a song
|
|
|
[30 Oct 2006|02:08pm] |
"Deny Knowledge to make room for Faith."
-- Kant
Yeah, to me that's always sounded about right. And I have no problem with people having faith, its just this request of denying knowledge thats got to me ever since I was old enough to begin questioning things.
I guess you could call me a reverse Kantian.
I guess you could call me a lot of things.
If you're a getaway driver, is that complicity?
|
|
play me a song
|
|
|
[13 Sep 2006|11:34pm] |
i needed something to keep me away from the pub this evening. theres a thunder storm outside, the kind thats all beautiful to watch inside all wrapped in a blanket with some hot chocolate, and lock stock is on film four; best night in EVER. <3 Quality lamby. The only thing that could make it better would be someone perfect to watch it with. And if my computer would stop crashing.
If anyone wants to buy me/ steal me/ illegally download and rip me the lock stock soundtrack for my birthday on the 26th I'd be dead chuffed.
I'm gonna make a list of cds i want on lj, and if anyone has them they should comment and I'll give them a blank cd to copy them for me? Pwwease?
|
|
play me a song
|
|
|
[06 Jun 2006|09:51pm] |
I just walked in on my dad watching none other than my hero DANNY WALLACE on some history programme on sky three, a channel i didnt even know we had. I think its that conspiracy programme i heard he was gonna do. HOW FUCKING EXCITING.
Sorry im such a loser, i get excited about this stuff.
NOTE: My hero Danny Wallace, with books Join Me and Yes Man currently available, also co-wrote Are You Dave Gorman? with none other than Dave Gorman, and featured in the televisual creations of How to build your own country and that other shit baby programme with davina mcslag. Not to be mistaken with my OTHER hero, William Wallace.
|
|
4 play happy little tunes play me a song
|
|
|
[23 May 2006|10:04am] |
This month, I will do anything for money. No, Not that. No funny business.
But if you want to buy anything I own, or get me to do menial tasks for you, i will.
I really really really want to go to T in the Park. I know, I know, how greedy, I'm already going to two festivals, but Reading's been booked for ages and V festival is for my brother. He's the one who wants to go, I'm just accompanying him. Which is not me saying i dont want to go, before he reads this and gets all annoyed, it'll be a laugh, but my hearts with T in The Park this year and I cant blag the money off my mother since I pretended I was desperate to go to V so she'd buy me and jon tickets. Ohfuckit.
Comment me telling me what you want me to do for how much or what you want to buy or just plain send me some money, PLEASE.
|
|
4 play happy little tunes play me a song
|
|
| Quick Reviews |
[08 May 2006|10:58pm] |
| [ |
mood |
| |
 content |
] |
Ferris Bueller's Day Off
Film Available on Video or DVD
Director: John Hughes
Pinacle of 80's
______________________________________________________
Bradford Riots
Television drama
writer-director Neil Biswas
Music from Asian Dub Foundation, made me cry.
_________________________________________________________
Starship Troopers
Film Available on Video and DVD
EVERYTHING looked like a vagina. Including the brain bug and the cave they are in. Boy- film.
|
|
play me a song
|
|
| Reviews: Scotland's For Me! |
[06 May 2006|09:07pm] |
| [ |
mood |
| |
 chipper |
] |
SWEET SIXTEEN
Director: Ken Loach
Out on DVD; Available to rent or buy.
This is, in short, the most well acted, well- written and emotive drama I have seen in a very long time. The dialogue is heartwarming and realistic, the plot at times hilariously funny and at times gutwrenchingly sad, but always adept at striking a chord with the viewer. The protagonist, Liam, is a 15 year old boy growing up in Greenock, an impoverished town in Scotland. His mother is in prison, with her impending release set to be the day of his sixteenth birthday, and he's determined to make enough money to buy her, his sister, his nephew and himself a place to stay away from his abusive step-dad and his uncaring grandfather. He begins selling heroin and before long finds himself "in with the big boys," over his head and out of his depth as he sinks deeper into a murky world of crime. Watching this film, I found myself really feeling for Liam's plight, faced with an endless list of unbelievably difficult decisions and only really wanting what anyone his age wants: the love of a supportive family, friends, a place to stay, a bit of money and a mum who isn't a smackhead. The ending is unexpected and poignant, adding more bleak and gritty truth to an already spectacular film.
Everyone should see this film. Its definitely made a latest new entry in my top 10.
___________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
MARABOU STORK NIGHTMARES
Author: Irvine Welsh
Book
Welsh is the author of two of my favourite books of all time, Trainspotting and Glue. Having just finished this novel, and thus having just completed all of Welsh's works of fiction, I must say I liked this least; although, that is not to say I disliked it, I just favour his other novels more highly. Welsh sticks to his usual themes of sex, drugs, violence, death and growing up in Edinburgh, but with this novel also throws in a bit of paedophilia, rape, comas, growing up in South Africa, racism, and the surreal nature of reality. It slips a few sneaky philosophical points in between all the casuals "swedgin'" at the football matches and bad experiences with psychadelic drugs. This book is truly profound in places, making the reader ponder the recesses of the human psyche and the dark things that lurk there, what happens when the id takes over, and one I mulled over for hours; could you actually bring yourself to hurt or rape someone whilst on ecstacy? There are shafts of light within which I can truly identify with the main character, despite how removed he is from myself (he's a rapist who is stubbornly refusing to come out of his coma, the novel is told from his point of view) and in my opinion, this is a surefire sign of a good book. However, I also found this novel the most painful of all of his fiction to get through, including the story in ecstasy about the philidamide girl who gets revenge on the chemists by hacking their arms off. The passages depicting graphic gang rape and the uneasy references to the protagonist's uncle's sexual molestation of him as a young boy, as well as the violent cruelty and abuse committed against both animals and humans made this book a somewhat tough read, even actually making it quite hard for me to have sex for a few days afterwards. However Welsh still writes with a gritty beauty and unrivaled social realism that keep me hooked, unable to put it down (even whilst reading through the cracks in my fingers and stopping briefly to throw up at the end when it all got too much for me and justice took its gruesome revenge-- no, really) and I cannot wait for Irvine Welsh to write something new.
|
|
1 play happy little tune play me a song
|
|
|
[09 Apr 2006|10:31am] |
|
Against allegations of sexism Tucker writes: "Sexism is treating one sex differently from the other(s). I treat men and women equally: just like shit."
|
|
play me a song
|
|
| I enjoy sneezing a little too much |
[25 Jan 2006|02:35pm] |
| [ |
mood |
| |
 bored |
] |
| [ |
music |
| |
the strokes |
] |
I could have so many principles if I just had the time/money.
The Dirty Secrets Everyone Knows But No- one Will Admit:
Shoes that werent made in slave labour camps are ugly.
Unethically Sourced Bananas somehow taste better.
Macdonalds is so much cheaper than anything I would feel at ease eating.
I wish I was more political.
|
|
play me a song
|
|
| NAME MY CAT, BITCH |
[17 Jan 2006|01:47pm] |
| [ |
mood |
| |
 okay |
] |
I was supposed to be getting a male silver tabby, to be named Lord Illingworth, the famous womanising cat.
No boys though, so now it will be a girl silver tabby. I need a name.
I pick it up tomorrow.
So far the winning name is Leila, (from chris, after our big butch lesbian pill dealer)
Other suggestions include:
Miss Kitty Fantastico (from Kate) (Just... no)
Tabby Cat (from chris)
Dog (from nina)
Chlaymidia (from scarlett)
Tabitha (from rachel)
Tora (from drunk chris)
rachel (from rachel)
Please leave some suggestions, i am not clever or original enough to think for myself.
If you win the name-a-cat game, you win a prize!!!
(the prize is naming my cat)
|
|
1 play happy little tune play me a song
|
|
| Every Year Roughly 2 Billion Pounds Is Wasted on Unwanted Presents In England |
[22 Dec 2005|07:50pm] |
I was hit by the christmas blues for the first time this year today. Serves me right for stupidly venturing into town, which was a frenzy of last minute christmas shoppers, carol singers and the infectious buy or die mentality of the holiday season. Its the same story every year for everyone, everywhere. You end up resenting the people you love the most because you have to spend money you dont have on stuff they probably wont want or enjoy. As a member of the recently unemployed (well, actually, its no longer that recent- gone two months now) it hit me hardest this year- last year i was newly employed at svengali and relishing being "rich" on twenty quid a week out of marco's back pocket, and in the years before I'd never had a job so I'd never realised the VALUE of money. It was a commodity, not a necessity.
I'm well aware that I could probably get a job at Ben and Jerrys if I continued to hassle them. But I dont want to just wander dumbly into another dead end mindless shop job that I dont enjoy, that takes up all of my time and makes me want to kill the general public for bothering me with petty purchase enquiries at the ungodly hour of 10 AM. "If Only," I say to myself, "If only there was another way. If only I could get paid to write. I wish I could be paid to make observations about everyday life. I wish I could be paid to watch films and give my unabashedly biased opinion on them. If only such a job existed!" I cry quietly. It does, of course, but not for people like me. You would need at least an a- level in english and a talent for meeting deadlines to get such a career, and I am being removed from my a- level english course due to a total and utter inability to even come close to meeting my coursework deadlines. If only there was a career in sitting around on my arse eating biscuits and scratching my metaphorical nuts, I'd be set. But I checked and I'm currently too young to go on the Dole.
Everyone would love to be paid simply for living life; going to clubs and going to pubs and meeting people and having a chat and having a drink and taking drugs and going out with friends and sitting around with friends and going on holiday and suffering through family holidays, and sleeping and staying up.
Sadly only a very small number of us actually get paid to do any of these things.
Still; I long to be discovered supermodel style, for a magazine editor or a publisher to stumble across this humdrum little journal and realise this is what he's been looking for; that the world needs my funny little insights into the human psyche to get by in the modern world. Dont worry; I know I'm deluding myself. There is nothing special about the way I write or my life, and no one would pay to read it. Any given weekend for me is the same as anyone elses; a montage of clubbing, drugs, parties, friends, tv, cheeseburgers, coffee, hmv, lack of sleep and loud music. Its mundane and it gets old. Fast. If society wanted to read the self- obsessed ramblings of a complaniative teenage girl, they'd just log on to livejournal and read thousands of entries for free. Besides; I've got no idea how to get my stuff out there; how to go about getting some media attention or publising interest. The worst thing, in my opinion, second only to the whining emo ghost that lurks deep in the heart of all livejournals, is when teenage girl's entries trail off into a glorified shopping list.
My new years resolution every year is to stop spending money I dont have on stuff I dont need. This year I will be supplememnting the word "stuff" with the word "drugs". The worst habit I've ever picked up is just getting silly now; I find myself weighing up whether I'd rather eat or get some K, or Charlie, or save my money for pills and clubbing. Chris and I find ourselves frequently wandering around slough or windsor, needing to get somewhere that we're not, and having literally not even a penny between us. And we bitch and gripe about being poor (heaven forbid we should do anything as drastic as to go out and actually get jobs!) and then, our parents go away for a few days and leave us with some money for food. Christmas is days away and we havent even thought about purchasing gifts for people. The first words out of chris's mouth are, "lets go buy a gramme off Dorian!!!" This time, our heroine manages to roll her eyes and resist; but really, how long until we're living in a squat smoking copious amounts of crack?
I did most of my christmas shopping in charity shops this year, and actually managed to get better things than I usually get people. Both of my parents gifts cost under a fiver; my mum's from marks and spencers and my father's from oxfam and cancer research. My mother recieved bath stuff and my father recieved three mugs and a large hardback book of photos of Britain 100 years ago and Britain now. It was in the cancer research shop that I bought the book that my money making scheme came to me; I would buy all the old LPs in the charity shops of Windsor and then sell them to Marko at Svengali. I should make roughly 7p profit.
I have this friend; well, he used to be my friend, for a short time. We'd go clubbing together. He goes out clubbing every single night. And he's got lots of money, and he's generous with it, and he wastes lots of it on drugs, and yet he never runs out of money. When we were friends he would give me ketamine and pay for my train ticket, and then the next morning he'd buy me coffee and comfort me on my comedown. He thought I was really funny and clever. He told me once, in a twenty four hour cafe near Kings Cross Station; we were drinking coffee he'd paid for, the four of us (Chris, who would, unbeknowest to me then, become my boyfriend, Alicia, who, with her mousy brown hair, massive chest and infectious giggle was swiftly becoming my best friend and hunting partner, myself and the Constant Clubber), and I was telling anecdotes, and they were laughing, and he looked to Chris and said, "She's really funny. She's really clever." Chris just nodded, looking dumbfounded, and I blushed quietly. He was only eighteen or nineteen; but he'd done it all. He'd gone backpacking through Peru and India and North America. He'd lived, alone, in his own flat, paid for by himself, in LONDON. The big city. He'd dropped out of school after GCSE's and it seemed nothing but good fortune had befallen him ever since. He wasn't rich, but he always had money. He'd seen the world. He read massively long and intellectual books on philosophy and the world; books I would have killed to read if I had the time. His name was James but we all called him Woody. He HATED being called Woody. He complained that he wasnt a child anymore. Complaints like this made him sound very grown up. He works at bar 4 in windsor and he'd always turn up at Harpoon Louies really late when his shift ended, and pick me up and spin me round, dance and sing with me and buy me drinks. I met him through Chris, who had been friends with him for years. The closer Woody and I grew, the colder Chris acted towards him. Chris began to dislike him; the way he looked at me and danced with me and bought me drinks and took me to see bands. The way I'd go see him at work and sit there with a glass of tap water for three hours just to chat to him for fifteen minutes. Chris was jealous of every second I spent with Woody. Woody had done more at our age than we would do in a lifetime. He did everything right, and I... I fucking HATED him. I could NOT stand him. He drove me mad because I was insanely jealous of everything he'd ever done.
|
|
play me a song
|
|
|
[03 Dec 2005|09:32pm] |
...and so here we are, footprints on the ceiling and screaming the words in each others faces, sharing in it like a party we might have hoped it could have been had we closed our eyes and dreamed hard enough on the bus on the way into town. An Arctic Monkey or four screaming at I the Rev Rarsclart, eyes bulging, faces red with the joy of it all. London, Glasgow, Wakefield wherever...
And the people who have shared it. Those who felt some connection with getting on their Dancing Shoes, a Mardy Bum or Scummy Man or something. There's these moments on which it all turns. I have two or three, London, a French Kiss in the Chaos. Maybe even a full house and not Al, as lead singer. You might have others where you first felt something stir in your belly. Or you might be reading all this and this is your first taste if the whole thing. Not that it should ever be exclusive, like a club or anything nasty like that, or a commodity. Like a big mac meal or something. It‚s more. Its everyman and for I, that is the point of it all, the message and the romance. For as we approach yet more forks in the road, bear left or turn right I hope that may continue.
Cos‚ after all what is it if not an adventure? Like getting on a bus to the other end of town and your not really sure where it goes but you get on anyway. As I started out the Arctic's four screaming faces, spoke to the people who had traveled for eight hours in a micra, or as I tried to sleep, listening out of the window at some drunken lads singing dancing shoes at four in the morning, it dawned on me that there are no leaders in all this or no plan or scheme, other than what's unfolding. People understanding it, relating to it, not relating to it but dancing to it, whatever. Everythings happened yet nothings really happened at all. Why set flags in the sand, it could all end tomorrow and it be back to the local and the chippy afterwards, or it could run and run and run to places unknown. Dreams and schemes and bla bla bla. But the reasons it started are as pure today as they ever were and that's gotta be a damm sight better then formed a band, drank some JD, took some drugs, had some birds or whatevers cool these days. All thats left to say is, welcome to anyone and long live it all say...
Ta for reading
The Rev Jon Rarsclart
-- From Arctic Monkeys website
FRIENDS ONLY
|
|
7 play happy little tunes play me a song
|
|
|
[29 Nov 2005|06:43pm] |
| [ |
mood |
| |
 ill |
] |
You are the generation that bought more shoes
and you get
what you
deserve
Turn on the bright lights.
Alex turner won nme's 50's coolest people list. Oh yes.
We're bringing back the mod scene. If you would like to join my mod gang comment and i will decide if you are mod enough. Chris and i stayed up all night on saturday watching quadrophenia on repeat six times, so its attacked our subconscious.
-"why did you watch it six times?!"
-"well... it was on loop. And we lost the remote..."
-"you could have just TURNED THE TV OFF!"
-"...oh yeah"
Anyway, yes. There is going to be a gang war in windsor. Mods vs. rockers. If youre not with us youre against us, and we will be forced to headbutt you off your scooters like violent dwarves. We are the mods. We are the mods. We are, we are, etc.
Chris is buying a vespa or a lambretta and our mod kings shall be alex turner and vince noir (obviously).
And no one mention that chris owns an iron maiden poster.
|
|
10 play happy little tunes play me a song
|
|
| navigation |
| [ |
viewing |
| |
most recent entries |
] |
| [ |
go |
| |
earlier |
] |
|
|
|
|
![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small}
djdavemarwood's journal