Hell Maybe

I'm growing extra heads. They're very small and pink and never say a word. I try to scrub them out and collar them off. They're bald and prone to weeping and huddling. I'd rather they shared some knowledge or went elsewhere. Maybe there's a pill. If not I'll have to get a neck transplant. Like some kind of guitar. And then there'll be talk, and constant jokes about fretting.
My thumbs aren't mutating and because of this I have been preparing food in quiet kitchens. The first pay packet will arrive just as I set off for a selection weekend elsewhere. If after the selection weekend I am selected then there'll be an evaluation week. If I'm of any value I'll be going back to France in January.
If after the selection weekend I'm not selected then I'm coming to stay at your house.

Glass Hammers

There was a kitchen that didn't have a tin opener, and a kitchen that didn't have a tea towel.
The kitchen that didn't have the tin opener had no tin-opener for at least six months.
The kitchen that didn't have the tea towel had no tea towel for apparently a year.
I worked one day in both of them. They had a lot of tins and things that get wet.
No one knew where the one without the tea towel was. I'd been given directions to where it wasn't. There'd been some sort of google map postcode-coding error or GMPTE journey search function spasm, but I only realised when instead of arriving at the offices of a company, I arrived at nowhere in particular, and it was a large circle of townhouses probably all with a decent amount of tea towels in them.
People came out of the houses one at a time and I asked them where these offices might be, and none of them knew. And the woman in Londis didn't know, and the three girls at the hotel didn't know, and my bosses on the phone didn't know, and the guy in Topps Tiles didn't know.
The taxi driver knew, and he let me know too, and also let me know that traffic lights on roundabouts is a ridiculous idea.

Next week there will be a kitchen with no knives and a menu with no food. I will turn up in glasses with no lenses and a shirt with no buttons.
I tried to get a job with no pay. I think they call it "volunteering". There was a form. I filled it in and out. They said thanks, and then nothing happened.


I used to think a lot of things were going to be fun, especially when drinking. The Pigpark is a prime example. Who wants to see that many pigs in a day? Performing such senseless dances? The mind clenches. That was what made me stop eating meat. Can't believe it's been ten years. I used to love your outrage and how it turned into fascination.
It might be nice to escape the hot rains and the fish at the portholes. Get my landlegs back. Feel like I'm in a cauldron sometimes. Good to have a house to visit, even if the beach is trying to eat it and the gulls burgle us blind. I'll let you know yes. I'm busy trying to switch jobs and get rid of the boat, I mean sell it, if you know anyone, I'll deliver.

Seasonal Illumination Jamboree

Every day I wonder why half of all job adverts are written by people who can't spell, then proof-read by bats. If you didn't know what a spelling mistake was, and were wondering where to find one, they're all at the Job Centre, having an orgy, shoving unlubed apostrophes in places conservatives say they shouldn't. Then you have to beg the person who made them for a job.
The thirty-something potential employers I've applied to are all waiting for someone who isn't me. Their signs and adverts say wanted, in capital letters usually, and I meet all the criteria and am available now, right now, and I've even had a wash and my knees both point in the same direction and I can go all day without despairing. I'm a modern human and here's my CV. But no matter how many times an hour I phone them sobbing why not me, why not me, why why why why why not me, nothing changes. I've had more success with companies who haven't seen my face or heard my voice. "More Success" means one interview in six weeks.
There is a local monster and it knows exactly what to say and how to act and speak and dress and move in order to extract all the vacancies from the small cloud of hope that sometimes drifts through town in daylight. I've never seen the monster, but I think when I do I might have to break its fucking femurs.

Dimly Remembered Kitchens

It's a new thing in the Sunday fluff-and-horror supplements. Always feel disgusted after reading a Sunday paper but still do it once or twice a month.

It had a hard wooden bench and the back door had a seven-foot drop outside it, probably, and I rode my trike off it once and that's my first memory. I peeled potatoes for the first time ever and sliced into my thumb but instead of going to hospital I had a Barney Rubble yoghurt.

two or three:
Peanut butter on toast with extra salt, why not, let's go nuts. Dry spaghetti from a jar on top of the fridge-freezer.

six or seven:
One hand in my pocket and cooking pancakes with the other, spectators deemed it a bit casual. Can't remember if they were any good.

four or five years later:
It had two ovens and twelve cupboards and one morning it was entirely covered in flour.

twenty something:
The ceiling fell in and it was appropriate. A bit of sweeping and carry on. Once and once only a poker night. A lot of drunken afternoons with whatever's left for lunch.

nearly thirty:
Freezing and narrow with the toilet at one end and a fridge full of guidelines. Separate vegetarian cutlery, fags on the back step, cheese on toast.

In work fifteen minutes early because the bastard never behaved. Very long matches and ninety nine for breakfast and on a Sunday they all turn up at eight fifty five expecting two sausages each.

Impossible to sleep while there's an oven in the same room. I was only visiting.

tennis tournament:
Sky sports eat heartily. We should've given them a trough. Washing up and a skin condition.


Other one-page features to look out for in the coming months (not the ones that've just passed) include: My Marmite Face, Tragedies That Didn't Bother Me, What I Think About The Moon, The Longest I Have Gone Without Washing, and My Favourite Grey Things.

Re: 19:30 - 22:45

You always put your art in rectangles and I don't like it. Why can't it be more like a firework in the guts? Why do you stand next to it looking bereaved? Get out of its way.
Your mind's too wide. You'll let the flies in. Why can't you point yourself at something and go off? And your clothes are all magaziney and it doesn't suit you. And your numerous other faults are flapping around everywhere like a tree of crippled tongues on a blustery night and they keep touching people and it's creepy. Apart from that I enjoyed myself and would like to meet again soon. Text me.

Your Massive Horrible Face

I've got to have a word with you about...you know. It's bothering the community. I bet you didn't know there was a community. There wasn't, before you arrived. Then: my god. They saw me with you a few times and one night demanded answers. Why does it drip? Why does it swivel and hiss? Who is responsible? They were all worked up and talked very quickly. I said I know who it belongs to, but I don't know who controls it. Maybe nobody. Mirrors and windows only reflect about half of it, so how is he supposed to know of the revulsion? And he doesn't have a radio, so he won't've heard the songs.

Briefly Very Excited

People came to the opening night. This was pleasant. There were a lot of them. I mainly sat behind the table of free stuff and gave out the free stuff and talked to strange faces. None of these faces said "it was all great except the writing" so I got away with it and that was a relief. People must like mesmeric horrible things as much as we do. Pumpkin and popcorn soup was served in shot glasses and Demdike Stare played uneasy goodness. None of the locals came in demanding the free booze.
It's open til the fifth but I had to leave to spend more time with the Job Centre in Rusholme. I'd been neglecting it in favour of working on things I actually want to work on. But when I went there today it didn't seem angry. Just disappointed. I think that's why it kept recommending jobs in faraway places.
On my crawl towards the Job Centre I went into Oxfam with my copy of Roberto Bolannnnnyo's 2666 and informed the nice girl behind the counter, when she looked up from her book, that instead of catapulting it into Blackpool Tower I've decided to give it away so that someone else might squirm through its stunningly tedious first half before doing something better, like eating a pot of Copydex. Perhaps she could put it next to Junot Diaz's The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao on a special shelf labelled "The Latest Disappointments". I'm reading Richard Brautigan instead. Much better. And looking at a deeply unsettling but beautifully illustrated calendar. Approach with caution if you are under the age of eighty five or are on anything hallucinogenic, or plan to be during the next six weeks.