The cat's rough tongue caressed her eyeball, pulling skin from flesh, flesh from bone. The cat seemed surprised as Natasha's broken eyelid flickered open and her peepers rolled back to face the world. Angry and a little confused cat leapt down from the table and out of the room. Back to the dried food and dreams of human meat, in the game of cat Top Trumps human meat spanks Kitty Cat.
Waking up was hard to do. The delete key pressed against her eyeball, squeezing goo into the workings of the elderly computer. Soon it would commune with the crumbs of a thousand slices of toast and form an army to charge the inner workings of the machine.
Lemsip and Whiskey? She should have googled it first. But it had seemed so appropriate. Ironic death, death to interject a rye smile in between the tumultuous tears of the parade of bereft but beautiful mourners. Unfortunately it turned out to be rubbish at killing, but good at making you seem more blitzed than a child star by their fourth album. This must be how Joey Lawrence felt every morning.
The stereo was blaring and the TV was on as feeling came back. She leaped up to make the music go away, the hidden Kylie album was playing, she never played the Kylie album unless…...
Nausea kicked in as she looked around the flat - something had gone on here, something bad. Her kitchen had been ravaged by the cake monster - every saucepan she owned was filled with congealing crap. Crumbs coated the floor.
Her telly blared in the corner, a vacuous Z lister interviewing an emaciated stripling who had found fame through the internet. Her computer was on as well and it screamed at her angrily that she had 595 new emails to read. 595 emails? How had that happened? Only her mum, Pizza Hut and the Viagra guy ever emailed her.
Natasha loathed the internet more than she loathed fancy dress parties, posters of puppies and middle aged women who wore clothing with Disney's Winnie the Pooh on it.
She pulled herself dizzily up and stumbled to the sink in order to lose some of the stomach sludge that was drowning her innards. The TV continued to blare - the pointless pop tart's latest offering. It sounded like Phil Spector beating one of his children with a shoe and then eating it.
She shut the laptop in disgust and threw a book at the television. Only cunts got famous on the internet.
There was a knock at the door.
Tuesday, 21 June 2011
Monday, 20 June 2011
Chapter Two
I don't believe in an afterlife. Religion causes war, Jerry Fallwell, venereal disease and the Jonas Brothers. It complicates uncomplicated sex.
I don't believe in an afterlife.
But sometimes I get the feeling that something believes in me.
She was awake. Sort of. Her stomach dropped out like waking up next to a corpse with a shattered tequila bottle in your hand.
Clarity, like strip lighting, left her with nowhere to hide. Her brain was screaming at her like Ike Turner. She was a dick. A stupid, ungrateful dick who had pissed away ten years in a haze of half started projects. Drunken rants which had led nowhere. Half finished friendships forsaken for nights on the sofa watching Greys Anatomy. Relationships with half dreamed out dreams, ending when reality proved too real. Novels, screenplays, revolutions chucked aside at the planning stage - abandoned for a can of cider and a curry. Every time opportunity had knocked she had pretended not to hear the door - fucking off to a big duvet and the numbing power of negative thought.
Until this moment she had never seen herself as an adult. The previous week she had seen a ten year old child on the bus, well dressed in a blazer, hair combed, shoes shiny. He had carefully removed his rucksack before climbing on board the bus.
"He's older than me" she had thought, as she squeezed past angry commuters and yelping tourists with her oversized bag. A bag full of writing that would never see a full stop.
She had read Shakespeare. She had read Dickens, grown adult teeth and grey hairs. She paid income tax, rented property and bought lacy underwear. She stayed up late and paid using a card. But she still believed that one day the authorities would realise their mistake and send someone to pick her up, wrap her in a fluffy blanket and return her to the nursery.
She had never thought to accept emotional maturity as a positive thing. It was always too closely linked in her mind to mortgages, suburbia, breeding and going to see The Lighthouse Family.
But she'd been wrong. She'd been so wrong. Whether or not she climbed Kilimanjaro and raised orphans or stayed indoors in a foil hat with a shot gun she was an adult, and her life was dripping away.
The surface of the planet was punctuated with amazingness. From the giant redwoods to the quote of the day at Clapham North tube. Humanity was infinitely capable.
Floating above the ether in a brightly lit haze Natasha made herself a promise. "Send me back" she whispered. "Send me back" she screamed inside. "I know what I need to do."
I don't believe in an afterlife.
But sometimes I get the feeling that something believes in me.
She was awake. Sort of. Her stomach dropped out like waking up next to a corpse with a shattered tequila bottle in your hand.
Clarity, like strip lighting, left her with nowhere to hide. Her brain was screaming at her like Ike Turner. She was a dick. A stupid, ungrateful dick who had pissed away ten years in a haze of half started projects. Drunken rants which had led nowhere. Half finished friendships forsaken for nights on the sofa watching Greys Anatomy. Relationships with half dreamed out dreams, ending when reality proved too real. Novels, screenplays, revolutions chucked aside at the planning stage - abandoned for a can of cider and a curry. Every time opportunity had knocked she had pretended not to hear the door - fucking off to a big duvet and the numbing power of negative thought.
Until this moment she had never seen herself as an adult. The previous week she had seen a ten year old child on the bus, well dressed in a blazer, hair combed, shoes shiny. He had carefully removed his rucksack before climbing on board the bus.
"He's older than me" she had thought, as she squeezed past angry commuters and yelping tourists with her oversized bag. A bag full of writing that would never see a full stop.
She had read Shakespeare. She had read Dickens, grown adult teeth and grey hairs. She paid income tax, rented property and bought lacy underwear. She stayed up late and paid using a card. But she still believed that one day the authorities would realise their mistake and send someone to pick her up, wrap her in a fluffy blanket and return her to the nursery.
She had never thought to accept emotional maturity as a positive thing. It was always too closely linked in her mind to mortgages, suburbia, breeding and going to see The Lighthouse Family.
But she'd been wrong. She'd been so wrong. Whether or not she climbed Kilimanjaro and raised orphans or stayed indoors in a foil hat with a shot gun she was an adult, and her life was dripping away.
The surface of the planet was punctuated with amazingness. From the giant redwoods to the quote of the day at Clapham North tube. Humanity was infinitely capable.
Floating above the ether in a brightly lit haze Natasha made herself a promise. "Send me back" she whispered. "Send me back" she screamed inside. "I know what I need to do."
Friday, 17 June 2011
Chapter One
Cake - a novel in bits
When I was a child my ideal of adulthood was to be able to eat six doughnuts in a row without anyone telling me off. When I left home at eighteen I ate six doughnuts in a row and promptly threw up. This must be how Brittany Spears feels every day, choked on the fumes of the fairy pink childhood, gagging on candyfloss. Adulthood is a bad thing. A very bad thing.
Chapter One:
It was a property show that did it. A smug show where smartly dressed people moved out of London to build an eco house out of cat shit in the Chiltern Hills in order to raise Poppy, Ophelia and Boudicca, far away from the corrupting influences of the city they had gentrified to death. It made her want to kill herself. It seemed like as good a time as any.
She'd threaten to kill herself with frightening regularity from the age of nine, mostly due to an obsession with Marilyn Monroe and a distinct lack of knowledge about what killing herself would actually be like. It was a fashion thing and, like the shell suits, bum bags and perms she'd mocked her generation for, a terrible mistake.
She hadn't resurrected those most self centred of plans until six months ago during the moment when he'd separated out all their cd's but left her most of his, as if he didn't need the first Rage Against the Machine album in his new perfect life. She'd been distracted, however, when someone had started re-running Dallas. She couldn't kill herself during Dallas, it would be disrespectful. Plus they might take the hint and re-run Dynasty if enough people didn't kill themselves and instead kept watching.
But they hadn't re-run Dynasty, they'd abandoned Dallas and Natasha became aware that the rest of the world was a fucked up place. Finally her death would have a mean. A final protest against dropping standards in UK broadcast media. "Dear BBC oh why oh why oh why have you driven me to kill myself?"
She updated Facebook: "Natasha is killing herself to protest against the dropping standards in UK broadcast media" before mixing a bottle of very cheap whisky and six lemsips.
When I was a child my ideal of adulthood was to be able to eat six doughnuts in a row without anyone telling me off. When I left home at eighteen I ate six doughnuts in a row and promptly threw up. This must be how Brittany Spears feels every day, choked on the fumes of the fairy pink childhood, gagging on candyfloss. Adulthood is a bad thing. A very bad thing.
Chapter One:
It was a property show that did it. A smug show where smartly dressed people moved out of London to build an eco house out of cat shit in the Chiltern Hills in order to raise Poppy, Ophelia and Boudicca, far away from the corrupting influences of the city they had gentrified to death. It made her want to kill herself. It seemed like as good a time as any.
She'd threaten to kill herself with frightening regularity from the age of nine, mostly due to an obsession with Marilyn Monroe and a distinct lack of knowledge about what killing herself would actually be like. It was a fashion thing and, like the shell suits, bum bags and perms she'd mocked her generation for, a terrible mistake.
She hadn't resurrected those most self centred of plans until six months ago during the moment when he'd separated out all their cd's but left her most of his, as if he didn't need the first Rage Against the Machine album in his new perfect life. She'd been distracted, however, when someone had started re-running Dallas. She couldn't kill herself during Dallas, it would be disrespectful. Plus they might take the hint and re-run Dynasty if enough people didn't kill themselves and instead kept watching.
But they hadn't re-run Dynasty, they'd abandoned Dallas and Natasha became aware that the rest of the world was a fucked up place. Finally her death would have a mean. A final protest against dropping standards in UK broadcast media. "Dear BBC oh why oh why oh why have you driven me to kill myself?"
She updated Facebook: "Natasha is killing herself to protest against the dropping standards in UK broadcast media" before mixing a bottle of very cheap whisky and six lemsips.
Thursday, 16 June 2011
And another thing......
Yes I haven't blogged in ages. Let's call it a mental block. Or possibly an explosion of having too many damn ideas and dismissing any kind of exercise in cutting them down to one, followable idea as self help bollocks.
I've made a decision dear friends. I am going to focus on one thing and one thing alone. I'm going to write it in little bits, live, right here on this blog. Will it - I hear you cry, allow me to stop faffing around and finally reach my goal of taking over the world, making it a better place, for you and for me and the entire human race? Well probably not, as I'm also planning a wedding and trying to learn the saxophone, but hey, a girl can dream.
I'm also responding to both Phil and Alex T who asked when I was going to blog again. (Sob) I love you guys.
So I'm going to go away and plan something - in the meantime, I feel a little rant coming on. Here we go:
1. The Royal Wedding
Woopy doo. Some rich, inbred idiots got married. They spent a lot of money. But that's okay because she's SOOOOO down to earth. In fact she's SOOOO fucking down to earth that her parents are millionaires and she went to St Andrews University - where all the down to earth people go. It's like Suffolk College isn't it, you can do a GNVQ in Leisure and Tourism, you can leave there and go on the dole like the other graduates.
But it's okay because it's EVERY girl's dream. Seriously ladies - it's sooooo true. All we've ever wanted to do was marry a prince. I know it's all I've ever wanted to do. Every evening, lying in bed after my dad had sang me "I'm the man the very fat man who waters the workers beer" I would dream about Prince Phillip being related to me. I would dream about being pursued by the Daily Express and for every day to be judged entirely by what I was wearing as I visited a middle school in Hertfordshire to politely nod at a pile of strangers. I would dream about my status in life being dictated by who I was married to, not what I had learned or who I was. Yes world - ALL WOMEN WANT TO DO IS BECOME PRINCESSES. They do get given a flying horse when they become them don't they?
Not to mention the fact that we've now got a very neat distraction from the government fucking over the most vulnerable members of our society. Forget the cuts kids - look at the shiny inbreds.
2. Pippa Middleton's arse
Why is it necessary to live in a society where the Rear of the Year exists? Why? WHY????? I want one actual justification for this blatant objectification, patronising sleaze fest set up for Daily Telegraph readers to rub their fat little knees and watch the sweat drip from their shiny tory heads onto their grubby evening wear in the private members clubs. Otherwise the puppy is going to get it.
3. Talk Sport
As much as I love my future husband, his incessant listening to of TalkSport is making me develop an ulcer. Why is it okay for a national media outlet to hate women quite so openly? Not only were they gleefully there to immediately offer jobs to Andy Gray and Richard Keys after their celebration of the language of rapists, but they give all kinds of time to a lovely wife beater in the name of punditry (Collimore anyone?)
Yesterday their discussion of women's issued centred around the blaming of feminism for men not being able to be chivalrous anymore. Now call me easily distracted - but my feminist views tend to focus more on the low rate of rape convictions, the horrible pay gap, body image, rape culture and workplace discrimination - so there isn't much room for me to get angry about people opening doors for me. I quite like people opening doors for me, and in return I open doors for them as well. Unless they work for Talk Sport, in which case I would open the door and then let it slam right into their smug, shitty little faces.
Wow.
I feel better now.
I've made a decision dear friends. I am going to focus on one thing and one thing alone. I'm going to write it in little bits, live, right here on this blog. Will it - I hear you cry, allow me to stop faffing around and finally reach my goal of taking over the world, making it a better place, for you and for me and the entire human race? Well probably not, as I'm also planning a wedding and trying to learn the saxophone, but hey, a girl can dream.
I'm also responding to both Phil and Alex T who asked when I was going to blog again. (Sob) I love you guys.
So I'm going to go away and plan something - in the meantime, I feel a little rant coming on. Here we go:
1. The Royal Wedding
Woopy doo. Some rich, inbred idiots got married. They spent a lot of money. But that's okay because she's SOOOOO down to earth. In fact she's SOOOO fucking down to earth that her parents are millionaires and she went to St Andrews University - where all the down to earth people go. It's like Suffolk College isn't it, you can do a GNVQ in Leisure and Tourism, you can leave there and go on the dole like the other graduates.
But it's okay because it's EVERY girl's dream. Seriously ladies - it's sooooo true. All we've ever wanted to do was marry a prince. I know it's all I've ever wanted to do. Every evening, lying in bed after my dad had sang me "I'm the man the very fat man who waters the workers beer" I would dream about Prince Phillip being related to me. I would dream about being pursued by the Daily Express and for every day to be judged entirely by what I was wearing as I visited a middle school in Hertfordshire to politely nod at a pile of strangers. I would dream about my status in life being dictated by who I was married to, not what I had learned or who I was. Yes world - ALL WOMEN WANT TO DO IS BECOME PRINCESSES. They do get given a flying horse when they become them don't they?
Not to mention the fact that we've now got a very neat distraction from the government fucking over the most vulnerable members of our society. Forget the cuts kids - look at the shiny inbreds.
2. Pippa Middleton's arse
Why is it necessary to live in a society where the Rear of the Year exists? Why? WHY????? I want one actual justification for this blatant objectification, patronising sleaze fest set up for Daily Telegraph readers to rub their fat little knees and watch the sweat drip from their shiny tory heads onto their grubby evening wear in the private members clubs. Otherwise the puppy is going to get it.
3. Talk Sport
As much as I love my future husband, his incessant listening to of TalkSport is making me develop an ulcer. Why is it okay for a national media outlet to hate women quite so openly? Not only were they gleefully there to immediately offer jobs to Andy Gray and Richard Keys after their celebration of the language of rapists, but they give all kinds of time to a lovely wife beater in the name of punditry (Collimore anyone?)
Yesterday their discussion of women's issued centred around the blaming of feminism for men not being able to be chivalrous anymore. Now call me easily distracted - but my feminist views tend to focus more on the low rate of rape convictions, the horrible pay gap, body image, rape culture and workplace discrimination - so there isn't much room for me to get angry about people opening doors for me. I quite like people opening doors for me, and in return I open doors for them as well. Unless they work for Talk Sport, in which case I would open the door and then let it slam right into their smug, shitty little faces.
Wow.
I feel better now.
Saturday, 12 March 2011
Today William Hague looks at us in a confused way - he's only a tiny baby......
Find more artists like Tommy Lassoo at Myspace Music
Watch as i continue to not write screenplays - I'm like a not writing screenplays machine!
But I am working on that idea about writing songs about the government.
Today William Hague looks at us in a confused way - he's only a tiny baby......
Wednesday, 9 March 2011
Something in the way
Okay so I was at home, feeling really ill and grumpy and i'd watched so much Grey's Anatomy that my brain felt like it was going to implode - and I still haven't written my goddamn screenplay that will allow me to take over the world of cinema and make it a better place for all sarcastic, dumpy women.......
So I made this.
It's a load of footage I filmed from Felixstowe and a ropey Nirvana cover that I recorded several months ago when I had a child's glockenspiel to play with.
Enjoy!
And tell me to get on with my proper work xxx
Friday, 4 March 2011
songy songy song.....
Okay so I'm still pootling around writing about robots and the like. I'm letting my dreams take over and I'm quite tempted to make an internet sitcom in five delicious fifteen minute slices, but let's wait and see.
For now I've written a murder and redemption ballad about George Osborne accidentally shooting himself in the head whilst hunting poor people.
What can I say? It keeps the wolf from the door.
Enjoy xxx
For now I've written a murder and redemption ballad about George Osborne accidentally shooting himself in the head whilst hunting poor people.
What can I say? It keeps the wolf from the door.
Enjoy xxx
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