Thin Jacket

When pretending to read my work emails I mark a few as unread as if what with one thing and another I haven't had chance to catch up - people mate, yeah gone right off em, was experimentally enthused for ten years but lately it's been - the screen doesn't stare back and I move the cursor when I hear team player footsteps approach and recede. I maximise the ancient database thing and input one of the three reference numbers I've memorised. B2YG39X is my favourite.

w/r/t

These people have a David Foster Wallace special issue. I took his book about infinity and made it into a couple of babbling paragraphs. I was also asked if I wanted to write something about the man and his writing and how much of my clothing it's removed, throughout the years, as I kept going back for more. And I did but all I really should've written was: I enjoy his books because they seem like funny sacks of spikes.

Sufficient Clarity

What it is is it's a bewildering life-enhancement arrangement situation's totally re-booted my crikey unit and I haven't had a chance to re-register my interest in whatever it is this is until just now, hi. I filled out a spleenful of forms and sent them off to all three bureaucracy distribution capitals, which I needn't name for your benefit, thoroughly sick as I'm sure you are with the return addresses below the seals of the ogre-hair envelopes that contain the foghorning bold already-known unproofread news concerning whatever it is you've haemorrhaged this month. Come round for some cheesecake, is what I'm saying, and we'll bother ourselves senseless about nothing of any consequence and maybe I dunno touch each other on the upper arm once or twice, christ we can dream. Yeah, so yeah.

Associated Slice

(Stop going on about it). If you bought one thanks very much. I'm working on a downloadable version to appease our robot overlords and by working on I mean intending to work on, after the weekend, it's important to have something to dread while retching yourself awake at the stench of Monday's dawn-crevice and just because I'm between jobs doesn't mean I'll be going without, and by dread I mean pleasantly expect. If you'd like to borrow a physical one because you've run out of ways to get your hands filthy you can do so by moving to Bristol and visiting bloom & curll. It should be in the cupboard at the back where he keeps all the local things. Unless after reading it he decided to put it in some kind of capsule and bazooka it into the graveyard. I haven't checked. You might find James Collett's diaries there and that will be excellent also. Anyway go there and buy a book. And while you're at it stop being told what to do. Or don't, I'm not the leisure-sheriff, normal service will be exhumed when I remember where I've put it.

That's Nice Dear

A narcoleptic phone is barely any use. It won't be coming wih me to the land of the lunch break. I got back a week ago and go forward in two. I will be spending a lot of time in the cave and phones are inappropriate there. You can get right up to the bats while they sleep and they don't seem to mind but probably you shouldn't do this too often.
While I'm away there'll be a disastrous election. And the new government will not let me back in for being too foreign and I'll be forced back to the Calais roadside ditches trying to jump onto lorries bound for ferries like those people we saw when we went there. It looked slightly dangerous. It's a good thing I just learned first-aid in a day. Call me doctor. Get your finger off that 9, I can bandage your head wounds and leave you in a position ideal for both breathing and vomiting. If you're a bit dead I can cardio-wallop you until the electric pads arrive. Why they didn't drill this into us at school I do not know. They do in Seattle and now people go there just to have heart attacks.
I missed the deadline for the Bristol story prize, which is a shame because this year I was definately going to come first, second and third. I'd only written one thing though, about a man who thinks the newspaper is his life story, ish, and then I got called away to Phrance at very short notice, and writing in the outdoors is difficult, and where we were the outdoors featured heavily, so I didn't have a chance to write the one about the woman who can't control her own face or the one about the man with no genitals whatsoever.
I did have time to read the SAS handbook and Callgirl. Both were good.

Birds

I suggested someone draw a dodo and they did do. This is very pleasant.

Gamesmaster

For the last nine years I've kept a daily diary of my feelings. Here it is:

Nothing yet.

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Obviously it's quite small so I can take it with me everywhere. I don't go everywhere, though, ever. Usually I go here and there and somewhere else and the overall effect equals going nowhere fast.
Some people I know are going places. They tell me a monkey could do my job. I tell them a monkey does do my job. And he's my boss. And he uses his pointy Italian shoes to highlight my errors.

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Tarpaulin Sky are accepting submissions and I submitted a post-something bleaklarious joke/poem about a man who is held down by unknown hands whilst a caterpillar full of doom crawls up his arse and afterwards he finds living a normal life slightly difficult. This actually happened to me in a dream, [actually happened to me in a dream, know what I mean? Deeeep...] and it lent the following day an enjoyable heaviness, like being pregnant with a balloon full of black sick.
Soon I'll be able to show you two things I wrote for a niche online publication for specialists and enthusiasts of esoteric vigorous pursuits not suitable for everyone. In the meantime thanks for reading and do you like owls? Do you like Elvis? Then I'll meet you at the Hootbreak Hotel! Fuck!
[I was going to put in a picture of Owlvis, but I can't find the right one. It seems that just like The King, there are several.]