Archive for November, 2010

[The Writer]+[UV Ray]

Posted: November 22, 2010 in Anti-Art, Anti-Fame, UV Ray

It was a lonely life really. It only occurred to Geoff sometimes. Never at all when he was sat at his desk writing. This morning it occurred to him because it was cold in his kitchen and the rustling of the cling film as he wrapped the bacon back up and returned it to the fridge seemed so stark in the cold silence. The windows were frosted up, it was still quite dark and the light bulb had blown out when he flipped the switch. He suddenly saw an image of himself, as if watching himself on a television screen. Some character that a viewer, within the context of that scene alone, would perceive as sad and forlorn.

     He didn’t really feel lonely in his own company, though he realised he didn’t live a conventional life. The loneliness he referred to was the fact that ultimately even amidst millions; everyone is alone. It was just that certain random instances in life seemed to symbolically encapsulate the concept. Everyone has cataracts like frosted windows blocking the outside world from view. You know, rather than put their foot on the brake they’d mow you down in their cars on a supermarket car park and not give two shits. They’d feign remorse to get themselves off the hook. But in actuality they don’t give a fuck. This is the disparity between human nature and a politically correct society that forces us all to gloss over our less palatable traits. It’s a false society. Nothing but a fermenting bottle of piss waiting to explode over every one of us. Of course, people justify to themselves their every action. You were in their way or something. But as soon as the mental patient stops taking his medication the shit hits the fan. You can’t keep a lid on it indefinitely. Politics is just the bitter pill that one day the mental patients in this great fraternity will stop taking. It will be like a cleansing of sorts. What this world needs is a good cleansing. There are just too many people. What was it the Futurist Manifesto said: war is the world’s only hygiene? Yeah, those boys had it right.

     Geoff laughed. The only thing this sad and sorry scene needed was a little pet dog peering lovingly up at him to compound the impression that he hadn’t had a close human relationship in the last two years. He picked up his biro and wrote a little B on the back of his hand to remind him to buy some light bulbs from Wilko’s later that day. Christ only knew he could barely afford them.

      While he waited for the bacon to grill he wedged the fridge door open with an empty carton of milk and sat at the pine table, straining to read the newspaper by the light emitted from it. It was all ineffectual stuff that held little interest for him. Some woman killed in a minor earth tremor on the Italian Riviera. The rising cost of fuel; pensioners pegging it from cold in their own homes: an absolute national disgrace, the report claimed. Yesterday some twat overturned his petrol-tanker and spilled its load all over the M6, causing a 20 mile tailback.  It was all cat-stuck-up-a-tree shite. Who gives a fuck? What this country needed was a good war on its shores. Give us some real news to chew on. Conscription rather than constipation. That would put the steel back in the veins of the nation. A few of these foreigners would shit themselves; they’d soon fuck off back to their own neck of the woods pronto if war broke out. War would soon free up their constipation. But thinking about it, maybe he was wrong? More probably they’d just shit all over the place and we’d be left to clean up the mess.

    See, Geoff wasn’t one of those dirty tree-hugger types with matted hair and rings through their fucking eyebrows who go dancing about streams singing to the river gods; the same types who open a window to let a fly out of the house. All that peace and love and karma re-incarnation shit. He didn’t have the patience to wait around for an hour until his fucking grandfather or whoever it was supposed to be finally decided to vacate the premises. He kept a length of elastic with a knot tied in the end. The little bastards know better than to come around Geoff’s place looking to lay their fucking eggs on his butter dish.

   He folded the paper and slapped it back down on the table. He was waiting for a call from his publishers regarding his latest book. How much longer was it going to take them? Why did it take them so long? Jesus Christ. He’d be starving, dead in the gutter before they got their skates on. These editors. No cunting wonder literature was dying a death; if he could he’d strangle every last man jack of them. Line them up and neck them like geese; donate them to the old-cunts home for their Christmas dinner. Geoff was forty-seven. Wouldn’t be long before he was in an old-cunts home himself… prematurely at this rate.

He grabbed a fork out the sink and flipped the bacon over. He switched on the radio. They were playing that God-awful flibbertigibbet Cheryl Cole. Music was another thing that had gone right down the shitter these days. He turned the dial back to off.

7am and he poured himself gin in a jam jar.

The last of the bread had gone a bit mouldy, but Geoff reckoned it’d be alright toasted. He pinched off a few spots of green from the slice, sniffed it and tossed it under the grill.

He was standing with the fork still in his hand when there was a knock at the door. If this was the fuckers from television licensing hounding him again he’d stick it straight through the cunt with no questions asked.


[the]+[Karen Welsh]

Posted: November 17, 2010 in Anti-Art, Anti-Fame, Karen Welsh

Opium smoking
Crystal gazer
With mystical
Wishful thinking
Mumbles with a
Yen pox etiquette…
Immoderate words of
….piety….god fearing,
nauseating headaches….
Following the dark hack
From my inner self..
the anti-pathy of reality
the anti-pathy of life
the anti-pathy of love
the anti-pathy of peace
the anti-pathy of hope
the anti-pathy of hate


…whilst leaving the restaurant, somewhere near Battery Park, Zoe staggers off to the Selly Soak; I make my way towards the cemetery somewhere near a sixth form college to buy some dope. According to Joe a cemetery is the ideal place for a drug deal.

A peaceful and visually pleasing atmosphere

I’m waiting for Lloyd an ex-employee of the West Midlands anti-drug task force. Allegedly back in the 80s he led the task force that gained a bad name when it participated in the widely criticized drug raids in Handsworth. He miraculously escaped a prison sentence for shooting two students in a confrontation during a pre-dawn raid. The first kid he shot had no class drugs but had a concealed weapon.

Eventually he appears. He’s steely eyed & greasy looking. Don’t let his looks fool you; his father was a wealthy lap dancing club owner whose girlfriend, Lauren, dumped him after he lost his job to a recreational drug problem.

Feeling awkward I spark up a conversation.

“Have you any competition around here?”

Half stoned he replies, “Gangs can be a problem, they battle back and forth over their neighborhoods in an attempt to lay claim to larger and larger areas. A gang’s turf can be anything from a lousy alley behind a store to a graveyard. When they talk about controlling these areas, what they mean is controlling the narcotics sales in those areas.”

I thought a simple ‘yes’ or ‘no’ would suffice.

“Have I seen you around college?”

“I’m the campus drug dealer; I combine studies with the lucrative and at times dangerous job of supplying the vices of my fellow students, you see it’s a numbers game, the more street corners you control, the more transactions you can do. This results in turf wars, which are often the cause of drive-by shootings. Most of the guys you go up against somehow seem to get shot up to heck and back and they still survive, but the guy who drives around the street, sitting looking cool in his BMW gets hit by a stray round and that kills him. Luck of the draw I suppose.”

“So it’s all about luck, numbers and turf?”

“Yeah, luck, numbers and turf, at least 5 or 6 kids around here drink or buy some drugs on any given weekend. A number of their friends overdose on meth or ‘e’. A number of my top clients are those 18-year-old daddies’ girls on Valium, xanx, oxycontin and the classic methadone. Some kids can get a bit pushy.”

“What do you mean?”

“At any given moment they end up shooting at each other. I mean, one night I heard shots, then I heard one of them scream ‘I’ve been fucking it!’ so then of course I ran over and started immediately applying pressure.”

“So you tried to save a life.”

“Oh no! Not that kind of pressure, I told her she still owed me for some acid tabs, I helped myself to her purse and took what cash she had and threatened her for the extra £170. By one account, on that night 12 to 15 shots were fired. Fortunately only that one teen was hit. There were numerous eye witnesses to the shooting but they were all either armed or loaded up on crack, so you can understand why they didn’t volunteer any information.”

“So do you have people working for you?”

“Dealers can sell the drugs themselves, or they can hire local dealers and the carry out transactions on the main dealers’ street corners.”

“Who do you work for?”

“Fuck off man! I am the main dealer, people ask for my permission to sell on my corners, they come by every week and pay 70% of what they make. If they don’t like it or don’t pay well, we’d rough them up or clip ’em.”

“Why a grave yard?”

“I just like being in these weird, deathlike places, they’re kind of aesthetic looking and if in the event someone pulls a fast one, well, I’d simple ask where they’d like to be buried it pretty much freaks the fuck out of them.”

“Do you live around here?”

“I usually sleep in the car, I don’t sleep or eat all that well, now can we end this fucking interrogation? I mean, just because you know a few people I’m not telling you anymore shit.”

I’ve got my stash and heading towards the Soak. It’s one of those student haunts, where gaining entrance requires at least a bad haircut. Tonight it’s featuring a new band called Spastic Sound Wave a house/techno group.

I’m sat with some people who I vaguely know; some guy called Dan is talking to me. “So it was only yesterday I heard that Sean spent the evening here at this pub going on about his dead girlfriend. In the early hours of this morning, which is like today, he was rushed to the Queen Elizabeth, he was pronounced dead at 2.30am, I mean how fucking bad is that!”

He has this frozen traumatized look on his face, waiting for a reply.

I mumble something along the lines of “Yeah, that’s pretty fucked up.”

The Dead Beat

Posted: November 15, 2010 in Anti-Fame, Cody James, Dan Holloway, Sean McGahey
Dead Beat ~ Cody James

Cody James


The Dead Beat, by Cody James

Available as an ebook for £2 NOW

Available as a paperback for £6 NOW

Available in a one-off hand-numbered edition with extra material for £6 from 1 November 2010. This will also entitle you to free entry to all eight cuts live events. For life. E-mail to reserve a copy.

Read the Reviews!

“the dialog combines the exhausted humor of a night that never ends with the polish that a truly first rate writer brings” (read the full review by Marc Horne)

The Dead Beat is pitch-perfect in its portrayal of the frenetic aimlessness of restless minds for whom the most pressing issues are getting the laundry done and fretting over ‘trying to decide what to do…gives a voice to the dead-beat generation and, in juxtaposing abhorrent lifestyles with poignant introspection, evokes sympathy for the human tragedy that lies within its blackest heart.” (read the full review on Bookrambler)

The Dead Beat is darkly beautiful. Buy it. Read it. Read it again.” (read the full review on Decoding Static)

Employee number 714967. He stopped work on the production line and raised his hand, indicating to his line manager that he wanted to go for a piss. It was right hand for toilet leave, left hand for some other problem. In the designated area he removed his white paper suit and hair net. It was all marked down in the manager’s book. As he walked out into the corridor and down the long staircase with its black plastic banister and metal rails a recorded voice on the in-house radio that constantly echoed throughout the distribution centre told him: “we take pride in what we do. Every hour of every day – we put our customers first!”

     After he’d taken his slash the urinal flushed automatically and an electronic voice gently reminded him: “now wash your hands.” A printed sign taped on the mirrors above the ceramic basins read, STOP SPITTING AND BLOWING YOUR NOSES IN THE WASH BASINS – REMEMBER IT IS ONE OF YOUR COLLEAGUES THAT HAS TO CLEAN IT UP!

He squeezed one of his nostrils and with all his might blew a big green glob into the sink. Have some of that, you bastards. He laughed to himself as he trudged back up the stairs. Blondie’s Atomic was interspersed with the serene female monotone issuing more brainwashing dogma:

“We want to be the very best in every little task we undertake. We aim for 100% customer satisfaction and never deviate from this goal. That’s what makes us the number one choice for pharmaceuticals by customers all around the world.”

The voice was calm and methodical, with a hypnotic timbre and rhythm to it.

“What is the meaning of success? Our success is achieved through service to others. Every day in every way.”

Jesus H. Christ, he’d love to smash the speakers. On the wall there was a brightly decorated performance chart entitled Our Team Wheel of Fortune. It mapped out a long line starting from zero in the left hand corner of the graph, forming a steep upward sweep and peeking at a 94% success rate pinnacle. 714967 looked over his shoulder along the deserted corridor, took out a black marker pen from his breast pocket and continued the line into a jagged plummet right the way back down to 16%.

Through the window he saw one of his fellow workers, a curly haired man he’d never seen before, sitting on the bench in green over-alls having a cigarette outside in the neatly manicured garden. Their eyes met briefly through the glass as the man looked up at the window and they both nodded acknowledgement. The colleague bore the same look of utter resignation that everybody else in the place possessed. Maybe that was the cunt whose job it was to clean the mucus up out the sinks? All these pills churned off the production line. Pain killers this, pain killers that. But there was no cure for the real cancer in society. The cancer of endless drudgery for millions of us. Work is the cancer that eats away at a man’s soul until there is not an ounce of his own individual self left. We are absorbed into the morass of society, assimilated into it as a mass entity. People are not necessarily so bad. Their lives are just shit. That does something to you in the end. It’s the rats in a cage syndrome. Cram too many together and they will turn on each other.

“You are now entering a sterile environment.”

He got back to his station, set the lever and began again. The line manager shot him a glance over the rims of his glasses as he keenly logged the information down in the book. It was a look that suggested his piss had taken an unacceptable length of time. Well fuck that for a game of soldiers. Time is all any of us have. And there was no way he’d ever sell his soul to any company ethos. The manager was simply attempting to telegraph a warning that also conveyed a subtle but intentional message that he should be grateful; grateful for a line manager that didn’t vocally admonish him for taking such advantages. Someone who understood and quietly supported him. It was all bullshit. It was all a little game. Work was the line manager’s whole life. That overly fastidious little bastard aimed to be the very best he could be. Every fucking second, every fucking minute of every fucking day, 100% customer satisfaction was his singular, one life’s goal, complete with a piece of shit gold plated watch at the end. The fucking imbecile.

    Nobody in their little white hair nets looked up from the line as he settled back in.  How could they all just sit there so devoid of thought? Everything plodded on systematically. Everyone nothing more than components of the whole machine; unfeeling, unthinking, blind systematic churning homogeny.   

    Plastic cartons arrived on the conveyor belt to his left. Pills arrived on the belt on his right. Pink pills in white cartons. Blue pills in orange cartons. Twenty-four fucking pills per carton each.

On and on. This was no life. These are rough waters we sail, Captain Ahab. He felt like ringing someone’s neck. He’d stop on the way home later and get a bottle of Rum, get blasted out of his brains tonight. There was no other solution.