Writer Christopher A. Simpson

Fancy Reading a Good Book of Short Stories...This One Includes One Of Mine

2011-10-11T19:14:00.002+01:00

http://www.lulu.com/product/paperback/showtime-4/17146698?productTrackingContext=search_results/search_shelf/center/1

Go and buy (if you want to).

Chris

Second book. First draft. Done.

2011-04-04T21:51:00.004+01:00

It took just less than nine months when I felt I could have done it in just less than six, but the first draft of "Ineffable" is done. Seeing that I thought it was going to be a novella it has taken me by surprise. Now I'm off to work on it to do a second draft, pass it around for criticism, get to work on editing the first novel again and then back to another rewrite of this. I have an idea for a third book, but I must promise myself not to get started until I've done more drafts of the two I've written. I don't like to talk too much about the work, so excuse this slim, hastily written, paragraph.

Chris

Odds & Sods of 2010

2010-12-31T15:03:00.003Z

A lot happened this year, but I'll start with the books that I've read (placing titles in italics the ones that you should read straight away):

“Netherlands” - Joseph O’Neill

“Envy” - Kathryn Harrison

“An Education” - Lynn Barber

“The Diving-Bell & The Butterfly” - Jean-Dominique Bauby

“The Dying Animal” - Philip Roth

“Strangers” - Anita Brookner

“We Don’t Live Here Anymore” - Andre Dubus

“The Garden Of Last Days” - Andre Dubus III

“On Chesil Beach” - Ian McEwan

“The Humbling” - Philip Roth

“Must You Go?: My Life With Harold Pinter” - Antonia Fraser

“The Kiss” - Kathryn Harrison

“The Buddha Of Suburbia” - Hanif Kureishi

“The Spend Less Handbook” - Rebecca Ash

“The Reluctant Fundamentalist” - Moshin Hamid

“Death Of A Lady’s Man” - Leonard Cohen

“The Postman Always Rings Twice” - James M. Cain

“The Bridges Of Madison County” - Robert James Waller

“Homage To Catalonia” - George Orwell

“The Monk” - Matthew Lewis

“Apples” - Richard Milward

“Indignation” - Philip Roth

“Wetlands” - Charlotte Roche

“The God Delusion” - Richard Dawkins

“Exit Ghost” - Philip Roth

“A Jew Must Die” - Jacques Chessex

“The Finkler Question” - Howard Jacobson

“In Praise of Older Women” - Stephen Vizinczey

“Invisible” - Paul Auster

“Black Coffee Blues” - Henry Rollins

“American Pastoral” - Philip Roth

“No More Mr Nice Guy” - Howard Jacobson

“Intimacy” - Hanif Kureishi

“The Act of Love” - Howard Jacobson

“Room” - Emma Donoghue

“The Dwarfs” - Harold Pinter

“The Taxi Queue” - Janet Davey

“The Breast” - Philip Roth

“Becoming Strangers” - Louise Dean

“The Easter Parade” - Richard Yates

“Nemesis” - Philip Roth

“Young Hearts Crying” - Richard Yates

"The Fifth Child” - Doris Lessing

“The Prague Orgy” - Philip Roth

“Push” - Sapphire

Apart from these books read, cultural discoveries of the year included:

- Henry Rollins spoken word shows.

- Gil Scott-Heron's brilliant album "I'm New Here" which became my favourite record of the year.

- Visiting Ronnie Scott's to see Natalie Williams Soul Family, Georgie Fame and Liane Carroll

- Seeing "Manhattan" at Somerset House

- Good films: Whatever Works, Inception, Up In The Air

- TV had extremely little to offer other than a new series of "Curb Your Enthusiasm" and Jimmy McGovern's "Accussed". This year also introduced us to leadership TV debates which acted as more of a warning than a chance to experience something new. The riots and commotion on the streets of London were fine but not prolonged and so the turncoats helped the ubiquitious dark lords of conservatism to introduce higher rates for all. There is nothing new in any of this.

As for myself, I finished my first novel and over two thirds completed on my second. Next year and the work will start its journey to the publishers as I think of ideas and research for a third book.

All the good luck in the world for 2011 (we're all going to need it) and thank you for following this blog.

Life In 100 Words Or Less

2010-12-13T16:57:00.000Z

The good people at http://lifein100wordsorless.wordpress.com/ have published one of my works. Go and have a look at it and the other fine work up there.

A Small Extract From My First Book

2010-12-02T12:19:00.002Z

Lydia had got through the rest of her shift blocking out her husband and thinking of the three M’s, thinking of ways she could spend more time with them. She thought about hosting a party at her home, asking them to bring their husbands. The idea lasted a brief moment and then was discarded. She thought about hosting a party where it was girls only. She scrapped the idea faster than the first. She needed an entrance to her home for the three M’s, a reason to get them in, a reason for them to be in her home that she wouldn’t classify as ‘creepy’. She thought of a business venture she could hold at home, a reason to get people in on the pretext that it would be good for all involved. That it would furnish them with something that was beyond friendship, a legitimate twenty-first century reason to enter someone’s home. She took a post-it note and wrote down some suggestions, crossing them out at the instant they had been written; ‘sex toys’, ‘Tupperware’, ‘pyramid schemes’. The only suggestion she left intact was ‘candles’. She looked at the word. She stared at it, put the post-it note on her screen and continued with her work. The word seemed to be imbedded on the screen like a famous blue plaque on a house. After half-an-hour of trying to work past it, she took the post-it note from the screen, screwed it up into a ball, threw it across the room, hitting a pane of glass, the window into her office, at the exact moment that Michele was passing by. Michele looked at Lydia for a brief moment, before she started laughing.
“Work shouldn’t get you so stressed.”
“Not work, just wondering what shoes to buy.”
“Now, that I can understand.”
Michele walked off to Lydia’s laughter. Lydia stopped laughing, looked at her watch and was relieved that she only had a quarter of an hour to go.

Copyright of Christopher Alexander Simpson

Thought # Seven

2010-11-01T12:20:00.003Z

Those without manners are the dullest of the dull. Criminals in bad clothes. Readers of "The Da Vinci Code" who then go off to masturbate to images of Jordan and bad soap-operas.

Copyright of Christopher Alexander Simpson

And If You're Not On Twitter

2010-10-25T22:55:00.001+01:00

http://twitter.com/search?q=dandsplay

Open the link and scroll down and press the "more" button. Continue to do this until you reach the beginning and then scroll up to read.

Chris

New Play On Twitter - "Dad & Son"

2010-10-25T22:48:00.001+01:00

Hello. I've written a play which I am now in the process of putting on twitter. To follow the play, the hashtag for it on twitter is: #dandsplay

I hope you enjoy.

Chris

Thought # Six

2010-10-12T10:36:00.001+01:00

The businessmen are already inheriting the world.

Copyright of Christopher Alexander Simpson

Thought # Five

2010-10-09T11:22:00.002+01:00

The happy checkout assistant is working. I walk to the next available till which has a queue that is as long as the Tower of Babel (as reported by those in the know) was high. The assistant at this till has a voice like Andy Kaufman performing as Foreign Man. As my bagged goods are passed to me all I can say is, “Thank you very much.” Outside now and the sky is a perfect grey.

Copyright of Christopher Alexander Simpson

Thought # Four

2010-10-08T23:23:00.001+01:00

Why is it called the walk of shame? Why is it not the walk of beatitude? That reference to Christ is too strong. The call from the Mount too suppressing. I accept this synonym for happiness is wrong, but the others. The walk of euphoria, the walk of gaiety, the walk of delight, the walk of vivacity - yes. Despite the eyes wanting to shut and the body wanting respite from ache brought on by tiredness, it’s the walk of vivacity, where the mind triumphs the body and a skip comes upon one when recalling last night. St. Vitus jumps in and you can do nothing but surrender. There is no walk of shame. It is a lie born by magazine editors and sold to consuming full-time, constant workers. No wonder that it is believed.

Copyright of Christopher Alexander Simpson

Thought # Three

2010-10-06T18:13:00.005+01:00

- What did you do in the war Grandad?

- Well, I'll tell ya. First off I shagged a lot. Anything I could get a hold of for longer than a minute, I shagged. I done loads of DNA tests and I fathered a bunch of sprogs. Next, I smoked aload of dope. Skunk mostly. Top drawer stuff, excuse the pun. Now, when I wasn't shagging or smoking, I stayed in, watched the telly and stroked my dick.

- Why'd you do that Grandad?

- I did it cause some Etonian told us all that our country needed us. So, I just gave the best I could. I've done my time. I've served my country.

- I'm so proud of you Grandad.

- So you should be.

Copyright of Christopher Alexander Simpson

Thought # Two

2010-10-05T21:16:00.002+01:00

I died last week. It was only for a couple of minutes, no brain damage, so not worth mentioning. Anyway, turns out when you die you get inside a black taxi. It's like that sketch in "The Mighty Boosh" but Death isn't a skeleton in a cloak. He's more of an old man who smells of scotch. He looks a cross between a fisherman and Santa Claus on crystal meth. Turns out he drives you down an extremely long road with sleeping policeman every twenty yards. Don't ask me how long it is, I never got to the end. "Oh fuck me. There's a turning up here. I can't remember if its left or right. Look, can we do this another time?" I thought about it. "Yep, sounds fine by me."

Copyright of Christopher Alexander Simpson

Thoughts Are Here Again

2010-10-04T19:00:00.001+01:00

Invade Iran Now...and get a cool t-shirt for your help!

Copyright of Christopher Alexander Simpson

Still Beats The Day Job

2010-07-06T20:07:00.003+01:00

10:30
Get up.

11:30
Get up again. Stumble downstairs and head straight to the computer with a direct purpose. I switch it on.

11:31
Take a Bukowski into the toilet and take a shit.

11:48
Leave the bathroom.

11:50
Check emails. Nothing. From no one.

11:51
Check junk mail.

11:52
Reply to “Liz”; “Nicole”; “Rachel” and inform them that while their photos may induce a “raging hard-on of epic proportions” I am not inspired enough by their pathetic grammar and poor syntax to spend twenty-four ninety-nine to see their “gaping wide pussies”.

11:56
I log onto youporn.

11:58
I reach for the tissues.

12:10
I walk into the kitchen and heat up some croissants and begin to make coffee.

12:11
Where are the Cheerio’s?

12:37
Open up the future best-seller, “Rolling Fields”.

12:38
Tools; Word Count; 72, 378

12:39
Smile and pat myself on the back.

13:42
Tools; Word Count; 72, 423

13:47
Log onto youporn.

14:08
Read an article on the escalating situation in Afghanistan. Realise that the determination to rule over the country on/off for over two hundred years is more insidious and dangerous than the IED's. Feel compelled to write a devastatingly insightful piece that will change the West's direction.

14:10
Log onto youporn.

14:25
Mentally lock my eyes onto the screen of my work.

14:26
Open up the nearest book to me. Amis. Junior. Read.

14:37
Start writing once more.

15:21
Tools; Word Count; 72, 713

15:22
Go to bed.

17:18
Wake up.

17:19
Back on computer.

17:21
In the kitchen. More coffee.

17:34
Go to the Guardian online.

17:56
Do a Google image search on; “Elizabeth Wurtzel nude”.

18:07
Realise that the Internet is not helping with the writing and I should never have unlocked the parental controls.

18:09
Reach for tissues.

18:11
Disconnect the Internet and put on the television. Must have white noise.

18:21
Make some quick pasta dish.

18:31
Watch Television. The local news. Nah, not enough catastrophe. National news instead. My eyes glaze over. Its only for a couple of minutes anyway.

22:04
Shit!

22:05
Back on the computer.

22:45
Tools; Word Count; 72, 917

22:46
Reconnect the Internet.

22:48
Check emails. Nothing.

22:50
Log onto youporn.

23:05
Newsnight.

23:31
Masturbate.

23:45
Bed.

Copyright of Christopher Alexander Simpson

Confessions Of A Failed Catholic

2010-05-25T13:38:00.007+01:00

I'm invoking the spirits
I'm wishing them well
I'm doing a charismatic dance
I'm singing dour hymns
And asking what's the true cost of hell
I'm holding choirs for rehabilitation
I'm trying to do my best
I'd like to say the man on the cross was right
Its the book that's always wrong

What little men have knelt before
Watch what this one does now
Could be Yahweh, could be a whore
That's the culture in me
I've put a flower in a button hole
I've sleeked my hair back for a while
I can't picture where faith's gone
Or how it even started
Doubt has crept in now
I'll try my best to fight it
It started as a chant in my room
To fight the "Just War" theory
That's all it is for powers though
Just, another thing to get on with
Just, and ever so sweetly

I will tell all the bishops
Even the vicar of Christ
Of how a woman lifted her skirt for me
How I enjoyed everything that was on offer
How celibacy is not a practise for me
How it shouldn't be a gig for some of you guys either
The priest looked at me as I spoke
Like an old fighter, twelfth round and still up
I tell him to bless all the women I've met
Even the ones whose lessons I didn't get
They've kept me young and strong
They shouldn't be in frocks of black and white
But out here, disrobed and comforting
To keep a man warm in Winter
And bless his Summer days with fruit
I changed tact at this

I told him to not love the next Nazis
Try your best to not burn those who like sex
Forgive the divorced, the ones who aborted, the ones who simply try their best
The ingenuousness ones who ache for a rest
The ones who sheathed on a condom or two
Forgive them - they know what they do
His ears were shut, I changed again

I thanked him for those hard floors and pews
Simplicity is now a friend
The old guilt saved me from a couple scenarios
That free funeral you gave my father was handy
I believe you thought he was Irish
I apologise for accepting your gift
For not setting you straight
"There's nothing like optimism", he said
"There's nothing like dreaming your days away."
With that he anointed my forehead
And sent me on my way

Copyright of Christopher Alexander Simpson

Rigidity

2010-05-17T19:59:00.001+01:00

Prostrated on the floor
Or delve in equations and swim
Rigidity is the weapon of mass destruction
Like an iron will that authority wraps
Its calloused hands around
To get the youth to bend to its will
Youth has energy and determination
It has hopes and dreams too
What it lacks is wisdom
And an open heart with eyes
That kind of heart that can distinguish when
You take two steps forward
When you take twenty steps back
If the heart opens for anything
It will kill and bleed for anything too
It will be a fatal lover
It will kiss a tower with a plane
Or caress some Iraqi town with bombs
Its lions for lambs
Over and over and over again
Repeat
Over and over and over again
Repeat
Over and over and over again
Repeat
Repeat
Repeat

Copyright of Christopher Alexander Simpson

Books Read In 2009

2010-01-12T18:10:00.006Z

Not as many as the previous year, but that may have had something to do with the fact that I was writing one. Some good stuff never the less.

“Notes Of A Dirty Old Man” - Charles Bukowski

Brilliant and inspired.

“Slaughterhouse Five” - Kurt Vonnegut

“Revolutionary Road” - Richard Yates

One of the best books I’ve read.

“The Reader” - Bernard Schlink

“Blind Faith” - Ben Elton

“The Witch Of Portobello” - Paulo Coelho

“Midnight All Day” - Hanif Kureishi

Fantastic collection of short stories.

“South Of The Border, West Of The Sun” - Haraki Murakami

Wonderful.

“Confessions Of A Pilgrim” - Juan Arias

“Factotum” - Charles Bukowski

“Gods Behaving Badly” - Marie Philips

“Songs Of Innocence, Songs Of Experience” - William Blake

“Hardcore Zen” - Brad Warner

One of the best books to pick up if you want to know more about Buddhism from a man who demystifies many misconceptions.

“Zen Wrapped Up In Karma Dipped In Chocolate” - Brad Warner

“Utopian Dreams” - Tobias Jones

“Women” - Charles Bukowski

Fantastic. Takes you on a narrative that has as much cohesion as it does nonsense.

“Success” - Martin Amis

“A Heart Shaped Bullet” - Kathryn Flett

“In Between The Sheets” - Ian McEwan

“Lolita” - Vladimir Nabokov

Creepier than I thought possible.

“Palm Sunday” - Kurt Vonnegut

Good for Vonnegut fans.

“The Death Of Bunny Munro” - Nick Cave

Well written and gripping.

As for films, the best new film I saw was either "Up" or "Antichrist". Oh, and this music video didn't get nearly enough attention...

Some Beginning

2010-01-12T17:57:00.004Z

They had always just missed the big bands, or at least that was what they testified to themselves in youthful “Pity me” arrogance. In reality, they’d only missed out on Nirvana by two years when they finally had enough money to buy “Nevermind” which became a central staple of their stereo’s diet. Sonic Youth and My Bloody Valentine had slipped them by over five years, when they were still listening to the Top 40. Suede, who they were currently listening too, had been a favourite of theirs in the right time. They got it right with them. Philip and Gareth had met in year eight and had been close not only because of music - but films, books and girls uniting them. Now in the winter of their final year, they were sitting on Philip’s single bed facing each other, listening passively to the music, after they had just kissed for the first time. It was a strange kiss that Gareth had fallen into and had indirectly silently agreed too over a year ago, when Philip had asked him to suck his right index finger. The right index finger had just been inside Polly Sidwell’s vagina to which its smell attested too. Gareth had punched him, and had walked away in a swagger of defiance you can only pull off in teenage years - in years where friendships could be made and lost in a mere matter of months. But, they went against the grain and had remained friends. Close. Tonight over Hooch bottles and PlayStation games and long, long glances over an A3 poster of Gillian Anderson the two had locked lips and had continued to lock and un-lock for a number of minutes. They moved from the bed and began to smoke silently next to each other by the window. Their silence was interrupted by spitting large globs of yellow into the faint snow that rested in the back garden. Their cigarettes were coming to an end. Gareth was about to flick his.
“Oi. Aim for my Dad’s shed.” Philip spoke.
Gareth tried, but didn’t even get close.
“You fucking fag.”
“Fuck you Jimmy Sommerville”, Gareth laughed. “Don’t your Dad mind all the butts out there?”
“Nah. Probably think their his the old cunt.”

After their smoking interlude, Philip was laid out on the bed reading an issue of The Face. At the foot of the bed Gareth sat with a CD case open, in between his feet, as he played on the PlayStation. The room was swamped with titbits and pieces of a dedication to “what was in” and slob like behaviour. Clothes on the floor sprawled up and into the plastic laundry bin. The faux pine desk with small hi-fi atop surrounded by discs and cups and a dirty plate or two. On the walls, joining Gillian Anderson, was a poster for “Trainspotting”, a folded-gate poster of Kate Moss clutching a teddy bear, a postcard of Kurt Cobain holding up a handgun, a poster of “Apocalypse Now” tacked to the ceiling above the bed, small posters of Denise Van Outen, Jayne Middlemiss and Zoë Ball. Newspaper cuttings of Stewart Lee and Marilyn Manson were tacked inside Philip’s wardrobe. A couple of X-Men comics and a football sticker book were somewhere here, lost in growing up. Yesterday’s game was then. In a small gap between Philip’s bed and the adjacent wall were a clutter of tissues. Under the bed was a rumpled up copy of Escort that Philip had found in the bottom of his Dad’s wardrobe. Amongst all these testaments of culture and teenage libido was a gaudy painting of The Last Supper. This was placed above the small television and stood out like a Faberge egg in a pig sty. The school that they attended was a Catholic one and for awhile Philip had dabbled with it. He gave up in year nine after stealing a bottle of Communion wine and getting quietly drunk at home. His fake guilt couldn’t take the schism. In the same year he’d lost his virginity and his desire for the white collar and celibacy. Gareth wasn’t in the slightest bit interested in any of it.

“This Life” had just began. Philip watched attentively as Gareth flopped backwards and then straightened up to let his back rest against the wall. Philip moved his gaze back to the screen.
“Y’know I tried for a whole episode to get off to this.” Philip spoke.
“Why couldn’t you make it?”
“Dunno. Too much beforehand.”
They both laughed at this pun. Forty minutes later, before the show had finished, they’d both came and Gareth had collected his bag and was on his way home.

The walk was a thirty minute affair past suburban dulling houses, up hills and down. The tops of houses had a sheen of white as heat battled out. Gareth looked at the snow falling, contrasting against the white sky to make it look like a detuned television screen. The cats scurried away, his breath hung in the air as an occasional car dwindled down and off. The bungalows he passed had shut up for the night and he saw no one else walking on his trip home. He thought about the night and how easy it had all been. It was bizarre and simple. Equals through it all. It was like making a cup of tea. He tried to keep his back straight, his core tight, as he thought of this while walking. Despite the cold, a film of sweat lay on his forehead that he wiped back and into his hair. He spat out the gathering phlegm onto a freezing puddle. It settled. He got in and grunted a good evening to his parents through a crack in the living room door. He wasn’t sure, but he thought they grunted back. He went into his room and got a packet of cigs from his bottom desk drawer hiding place. He smoked into the pages of a book he was reading. He believed that years later the smell would stay. A smoked cardboard sandwich.

Now, before he was due to meet Philip for the first time in eight years, Gareth smelt the book but only got a whiff of aged paper. Agreeing to meet up in a restaurant they had wanted to go to when they were teenagers but had neither the money nor the grace to enter, was a pure accident. They hadn’t moved from the suburban cul-de-sac that they grew up in and had simply bumped into one another at the bus station. Gareth was now running late after smelling the book and had entered the restaurant with his familiar film of sweat on him. The headphones from his mp3 player were still firmly in his ears. Nothing of any consequence was playing. He saw the back of a thin man’s head, black hair - gelled back- black leather jacket, sat down with a child in front of him. The child was beaming, playful, and pointed towards Gareth who couldn’t resist to wave which the child reciprocated to. The black haired man turned round. Philip waved to Gareth, smiling widely with all traces of adolescent awkwardness and fake cold detachment removed.

“Did you think I was a fag the last time you saw me?”, Philip laughed. Gareth was now sitting in front of him. The child, and the high-chair, moved next to daddy.
“So, when did you have a kid?”, Gareth parried the question.
“Jake is two, ain’t you Jake?” The child laughed as his father looked at him.
“Who would have thought it?”
“Only the poets and day dreamers, right?”
“You’ve grown up.”
“Nah. Not really. I’m the only Dad in the playground with a leather jacket, checking out the yummy Mummies and then driving the kid home while we listen to The Dead Kennedy‘s.”
They both laughed at this.
“So nope. I ain’t grown up. Just had a kid, that’s all.”
“Hey, you remember Jane Roberts?”
“Vaguely.”
“She’s got seven kids.”
“Seven?”
“Yep.”
“God. It must be like a tunnel by now.”
They laughed again at words that wouldn‘t have been out of place in their adolescent life, but felt slightly awkward in the light of adulthood - in light of the usual polite company they kept. From this promising start, the conversation would fade from here.

The child was off the highchair now and was throwing his toys on the floor. Constructing some war on linoleum. The conversation was strained and unusual. Neither wanted to delve into a Q & A session, but it was the only route left.
“How’s music journalism going?”, Gareth asked while pointing out the crème brulee to the waitress stood behind him.
“Great. I get to see bands who can’t piss on the old ones and I get to keep their CD’s to boot.”
“There must be some things you like?”
“You get to see a lot of women you can’t sleep with, but at least you can see them. Store ‘em away.”
“Pay good?”
“Nah. Reasonable. The wife has a good job, so y’know, we ain’t gonna go hungry any day soon. What about you? Advertising right?”
“Yep. Until my karma is re-aligned. My job’s too boring to mention. What about you though man? Being around music and writing about it. Its like a teenage dream come true. You talked about it enough.”
“Yeah, but when you grow up and get it, its not what you thought. Its only a black and white version of the colour you dreamt.”
“That’s a good line. Jot it down.”
“Nah. It’s a line I perfected long ago. Goes down great at parties. Makes you look sophisticated and humble to those who don’t know you.”
There was a pause again as Philip smiled. Gareth tried once more.
“C’mon. You telling me that there is nothing you don’t like about your job?”
“Well, it gets me out the house. You know, away from the old mother hen.”
Gareth in-voluntarily laughed.
“Is that really good?”
“Of course it is. You know Gareth, between you and me, I fucking hate women.”
The pause now was longer. Exaggerated.
“But, when you find the right one - you just know.”
Philip theatrically winked. With that, it was over before it re-started.
“But hey, have you got a little lady?”, Philip spoke everything calmly. Never any anger. Gareth was unsure, reticent, to say that he was gay and all this, the child, the wife, his words, were all a shock.
“Nope, not at the moment. Work takes its toil.”
“Hey, remember that line we had growing up. ‘Cunt for all, all for cunt’.”
Philip laughed violently at this. Gareth tried harder than to just smile politely, but it was the best he could muster. Philip was slapping the table, pounding his right foot on the floor, inches away from his child’s battle. After moments he stopped, wiping tears from his eyes.
“I haven’t thought of that in years.”
“Same here.”
“Hey, what were you listening too?”
“When?”
“When you came in.”
“I’m not sure, nothing memorable.”
“So, no Rufus Wainwright?”
The pause this time was over before it started.
“Check please.” Philip inquired to a waitress before running his eyes to Gareth and smiling that wide smile. That wide arsehole smile.

The two musketeers and child were stood outside the restaurant.
“We should do this again.” Philip lied.
“Definitely.” Gareth nodded into the conspiracy.
“Remember to call.”
“Likewise.”
“Take care.”
“You too. See you Jake.”
The child was oblivious to this goodbye, starring at his father as the two grown men lied to one another.

On the bus Gareth retrieved his mp3 player and listened to a mix he created of music they used to listen too. He was lucky to be able to sit alone and hoped for this miracle to sustain for the rest of the journey. He stared out at the crowds of people, pondering what secrets they held. The dilemma of the day - not wanting to know people, but wanting to know everything about them. He thought back to that night, to every detail of the room, to the soft drink alcohol on their breaths, to the imperfections of their skin and whiteheads on their chins and blackheads on their noses, to the faint wisps of music and the nicotine coloured orange on their first-finger and index finger fingertips. He thought of other times when they inched closer, made other mergers amongst themselves. Nothing was as susceptible to happiness as that night. Thinking about his past wouldn’t do much for his present. Produce an advert from it but nothing more. Some advert for condoms or a social networking site. Make it pastiche, add in some aspiration element, throw in some irony and mix into a banal cocktail. He had to cheapen it and throw it away. Some beginning. Some beginning for him alone. In reflection, that was all the night had been.

Copyright of Christopher Alexander Simpson

And here's some music that was swimming around in my head when I wrote the story above...

The Puking Avenger

2009-10-03T14:41:00.001+01:00

I was drunk again. That ain’t no crime as long as you’re not flying a Boeing while your pissed. Some do though. Fly that is. Drunk flying. Dlying. Druflying…yep, I’m drunk. I think I must have been a teacher at some stage. A professor of something or another. I don’t talk like everyone else in here. I think I don’t think like anyone thinks in here. I haven’t got a lost love and I don’t have too many regrets. A tweed jacket, white shirt, tie and jeans lay on my body like a fallen mess. Everyone else here wears jogging trousers and football shirts and jumpers with holes in them. They talk incessantly about their lives and about their lack of drive. That isn’t a problem. Not when you want to get drunk. I need another pint. I only have enough for a half (maybe I am a teacher of Mathematics…or was…or am). I regret. Even in this place I only have enough for a half. Deeper regret still. I buy a half. I sit. I drink. It goes. I can’t stay for much longer now. Get up. Get up you drunk bastard. Oh, there we go. Time for grace. A little dance past the fruit machine, a careful nod and a wink to the barmaid currently picking out a packet of nuts and one step, two step, three step - four. How am I going to get to the door? I burst into laughter at the little rhyme that played in my head. People look at me as I dance like a pygmy with machine gun laughter. Is this my local? I recognise the dull brass door handles with black smudges smeared on them. Yes, this must be my local.

Out. About. No. Just out. Its dark but I feel that it must only be around seven. In the evening that is. Watch. My watch. Yes. It’s a quarter past seven. You can tell a drunk y’know. You can tell straight off. They have dead crystals in sockets where once lay eyes. Maybe I’m a professor of English. Stranger things have happened. Stranger things have yet to materialise too. I needed home. I knew. I knew little but I knew where I lived. I dreamed of the white porcelain that would soon be home to my impending bile. Was the bed made? I try too. Try to have it made so I can writher into it. I have a TV, no? Yes. That’ll go on and drown out anything that may be happening in this cranial rock that sits atop my head. Professor profess. Teacher teach. Speaker speak. Tonight drown and drink.

I turn a corner and make my way down an alleyway to my home. Home. H-o-m-e. Yes. Home. Three feet behind me walk some women. No need to turn around and notice this. There voices are loud and obnoxious and annoying and all sound die to their voices.
“Oh fuck. Look at this old piss head.”
“And look at that fat arse.”
“I’d do him. Give him a right seeing too.”
I want to turn round and ask if it is to me that they are not subtly addressing their neuroses and boredom upon. Their self-imposed captive minds that couldn’t see the light of day. Stunted by television and bad parenting, they knew nothing more than this - let’s take the piss. Of course I’m assuming that they haven’t read any Dickens nor that their parents never gave them nutritious food, a warm bath and a roof over their heads. I try and assume these things so that I can feel pity. Maybe they have good lives and their just pure arseholes. This ain’t true though. No ones a real sinner and no ones a real saint.
“Oi, pisshead!”
I instantly felt sorry that they could only go for this. I knew I had many faults, but they only saw this. They could only know this. If I was fat they would have commented on that. If I was a redhead they would have commented on that. They couldn’t work with anything else apart from my poor drunken stupor. They had nothing.
“Oi! We’re taking the piss out of you! Look at us!”
I want to tell them to give up and to cry out to heavens that they have done so. There’s nothing you can do bar this. Give up and renounce that you care that you have given up. The least of the least of the least. No need to worry and just denounce you’ve ever worried.
“I couldn’t fuck him. I bet his knobs like a two pence piece.”

As their comments get more personal and more absurd, I stop and turn to them. They stop walking. They stop talking. They stop giggling. I puke all over three pairs of high heels. Bile, alcohol and residues of food freshly reside on bare, toe-nail painted tootsies. When their eyes look up at the puking avenger, they see me grinning. I am grinning like a fucking Cheshire cat. I am grinning for all the drunks who have been talked about. I am grinning for all the fat little girls and boys who have been picked on. I am grinning for alopecia women and redheaded men. I am grinning for me. Already yellow-toothed, my nashers are now multi-coloured. For the first time in a long time I have done a service to the good spirited drunk. God bless alcohol. God bless drunks. God bless my puke and all the damned who have to walk in it, on it and with it.

When I woke in the morning there were five answer phone messages. I was a teacher…no, I am a teacher (Anthropology as it goes). Guts and entrails of a fag packet were in the centre of the living room. I spotted this because I had slept on the sofa. I picked up the dead packet and examined what drunk mad men had written in a grip of an alcohol episode. This is what one such as me wrote:

Don’t look at my stare
Know that I can’t care
For your laughs at me
For your time of times
Of when you fucked up
Big time

What had I done the night before?

Copyright of Christopher Alexander Simpson

Kill Your Ego

2009-07-21T19:20:00.003+01:00

I took my ego into the woods where I was going to kill it once and for all. My Buddhist instrument of a .12 barrel shotgun was ready. As my eyes diverted from my ego to loading the gun, my ego ran and hid where it has always played. It is now writing this. It wont stop until its been fed.

Copyright of my ego

Some Bloody Mantra

2009-07-17T16:09:00.001+01:00

Just keep repeating...

Tomorrow I could be dead,
Tomorrow I could be dead,
Tomorrow I could be dead

...and you'll soon start living life.

Copyright of Christopher Alexander Simpson

Tel Patel The Artist

2009-07-12T19:04:00.003+01:00

Tel (Terry) Patel was a struggling artist who finally made it big last week. He made it big with his first ever work that he bothered to commit to photography. The work was a photograph of one of his shits. He entitled it: "McDonald's # 1."

Copyright of Christopher Alexander Simpson

Lazy TV Boy

2009-07-11T21:53:00.001+01:00

I haven't walked under the stars in years.
I'm immune to TVs gossip and tears.
Err...this poem can end here.

Copyright of Christopher Alexander Simpson

The Old Man

2009-07-11T21:29:00.001+01:00

The old man smiled at the young women around him.
He casually remarked, giggled and exaggerated how many had visited him inside his bathrobe.
In truth, his penis was currently being exhibited in the local museum.

Copyright of Christopher Alexander Simpson

Some Good Lines For Writers

2009-06-03T16:03:00.001+01:00

"If you're going to try, go all the way. Otherwise don't even start. This could mean losing girlfriends, wives, relatives, jobs. And maybe your mind. It could mean not eating for three or four days. It could mean freezing on a park bench. It could mean jail. It could mean derision. It could mean mockery, isolation. Isolation is the gift. All the others are a test of your endurance. Of how much you really want to do it. And you'll do it, despite rejection in the worst odds. And it will be better than anything else you can imagine. If you're going to try, go all the way. There is no other feeling like that. You will be alone with the gods. And the nights will flame with fire. You will ride life straight to perfect laughter. It's the only good fight there is."

-Charles Bukowski

Been Busy

2009-05-06T19:09:00.002+01:00

Hey. I'm working on several screenplays at the moment, so the posts will be a bit more sporadic from here on in. Keep well and busy fans, friends and folks who've stumbled on.

Chris

Daily Thought # 55

2009-04-30T16:27:00.000+01:00

If you're going to be against injustice you can't pick and choose. You have to be against them all.

Copyright of Christopher Alexander Simpson

Daily Thought # 54

2009-04-29T18:59:00.001+01:00

If Jesus knew that the "GOD" television channel would one day sprout up, he would've called it a day.

Copyright of Christopher Alexander Simpson

Daily Thought # 53

2009-04-28T15:32:00.000+01:00

Two blokes were in a pub in a race to get drunk. One bloke got to the finish line first. You knew he passed the rope by the fact that he couldn't stop crying. The loser, the sober gentleman, looked at him and spoke.

"Hey, we've all been there."

Truly, most of us haven't.

Copyright of Christopher Alexander Simpson

Delayed Daily Thought # 52

2009-04-28T15:31:00.001+01:00

Like you, I've seen homeless people all my life. I once saw a homeless guy at the bottom of a garden. I'd like to say my first thought wasn't that of calling the police. I'd like to say that. I'd also like to say that my last thought wasn't that it would make a good blog post. I'd like to say that too. I once played a homeless guy on the stage when I was six...it was that kind of school.

Copyright of Christopher Alexander Simpson

Daily Thought # 51

2009-04-26T14:59:00.000+01:00

A fantasist never turns the light out.

Copyright of Christopher Alexander Simpson

Daily Thought # 50

2009-04-25T10:48:00.001+01:00

This planet needs help - immediately!

Or more t-shirts. Whatever comes first.

Copyright of Christopher Alexander Simpson

Daily Thought # 49

2009-04-24T10:15:00.000+01:00

Politics can be most eloquently explained in four words.

Same shit, different day.

Copyright of Christopher Alexander Simpson

Daily Thought # 48

2009-04-23T10:09:00.005+01:00

I left my wife-to-be at the altar
I have this small unforgiven tray following me
Paper hearts cover up shaving cuts
Shook the tumblers from the dresser drawer
Counted the loose fragments off the floor
Like a star smashed on to old brown oak
These things don't make me forget old scores
Although I can't recall what I was fighting for

I bought some candles and made a frame
Create an altar for some distant refrain
This silver tie pin in the case remains the same
Its those treasures I still seem to find
But that's just some person's goods
Vanquished from another person's party
To paraphrase Neil Young
Even this old man has got soul

Copyright of Christopher Alexander Simpson

Daily Thought # 47

2009-04-22T10:16:00.001+01:00

Theoretically, we're all linguists. Just thought you'd like to know.

Copyright of Christopher Alexander Simpson

Daily Thought # 46

2009-04-21T10:36:00.002+01:00

What's in attrition now will be conquered tomorrow.

What's conquered tomorrow will usually be in a second-hand shop waiting for you to part with it before you part from this realm.

That's the way of the world.

Copyright by Christopher Alexander Simpson

Daily Thought # 45

2009-04-20T10:11:00.002+01:00

The patient thought about death. It was approaching, but hey, it always had been. As they thought more and more and how this thinking wasn't particularly conducive, they came to terms with it, sat back, relaxed, opened a bag of peanuts and went on waiting for it to happen. A joyful mastery had swept over them. They spoke aloud to no one.

"I wont be bashful if you call me a master. For years I was a mere fuck-up."

Copyright by Christopher Alexander Simpson

Daily Thought # 44

2009-04-19T11:22:00.000+01:00

Give yourself to a cheap book
Soon the pages will fall

Copyright of Christopher Alexander Simpson

Daily Thought # 43

2009-04-18T11:43:00.002+01:00

A guru was selling wisdom at fifty quid a pop. Someone bought me a gift voucher for this experience. I went to the guru, exchanged the voucher to hear him speak and sat down, ready to receive some wisdom. He paused and finally, when he was aligned, spoke.

"Don't ever vomit on your shirt. It causes more creases than you care to have."

Copyright of Christopher Alexander Simpson

Daily Thought # 42

2009-04-17T15:22:00.001+01:00

The poet has the elated position
Of making you taste something in your mouth
Without the aid of food, drink or a slap
We also bring a little balance
To this place we casually inhabit
The comic is the poet
The poet is the comic
Terrible days continue

Copyright of Christopher Alexander Simpson

Daily Thought # 41

2009-04-16T09:59:00.000+01:00

Do you like to buy things? Do you like to discover things through the medium of television commercials? Do you like to own stuff? Then you just may fit in with THE HUMAN RACE! Yes! Join today without delay and receive a free, luxury designed, custom made for you pen when you join THE HUMAN RACE! We hope to see you soon.

Copyright by Christopher Alexander Simpson

Daily Thought # 40

2009-04-15T10:42:00.002+01:00

When the whole world stopped communicating with me, all I could do was laugh. Not because it had happened, but because of all the little imperfections that were left intact.

Copyright by Christopher Alexander Simpson

Daily Thought # 39

2009-04-14T09:58:00.001+01:00

Good dreams are like good refuge centres.

Copyright by Christopher Alexander Simpson

Daily Thought # 38

2009-04-13T12:04:00.001+01:00

No ones really different
Not the priests or the artists
People do the same everyday
Its what unites us
While our continuing struggle
To be seperate
Continues

Copyright of Christopher Alexander Simpson

Daily Thought # 37

2009-04-12T10:07:00.001+01:00

The patient got up, made breakfast and ate. After a cup of tea washed the food down, the patient spoke.

"Fuck me. This is one of the best days of my life."

Later on that day the patient realised what genius is. Genius is the ability to merge the macro and the micro, the sacred and the profane. With this in mind, the patient found the nearest church, stripped off and ran naked through it.

Copyright of Christopher Alexander Simpson

Daily Thought # 36

2009-04-11T10:34:00.001+01:00

The patient jumped into a swimming pool still dressed in pyjamas. They swam a length underwater, reached the other side and gasped for air. After a moment they spoke.

"Fuck me. This is one of the best days of my life."

Copyright of Christopher Alexander Simpson

Daily Thought # 35

2009-04-10T10:26:00.000+01:00

After the news of the robbery spread into people's homes via the nation's favourite drug, TV producers clamoured over the patient to get their perspective. The media followed the patient. As the patient sat down to read and drink coffee, a highly successful chat-show host sat in front of him. There were no cameras, no lighting and the host had no secret microphone. The host said he wanted to come person-to-person and speak with the patient to "...hear your story." The patient didn't have time for such crassness and so to leave gracefully, with dignity, the patient expressed that the only interview he would give would be to this host on two conditions.

One. There was to be no payment to the patient.
Two. The interview would be done here and now and the patient would choose to express themselves in any manner they saw befitting.

The successful chat-show host tried to talk the patient round, before he could the patient stood up, retrieved a napkin and wrote. After the words had been written, the patient slid the napkin to the successful chat-show host and told him that you could film this napkin and it would express more than a cheap ratings bonanza half-an-hour of insipid tedium filming could ever do. The patient left. The chat-show host read the words...

Copyright of Christopher Alexander Simpson

Daily Thought # 34

2009-04-10T10:25:00.000+01:00

Patient is in the bank to withdraw all their money. Robbery begins. Masked guys and gals with guns frighten all around. Everyone hits the deck. They're told too. The patient doesn't. The patient begins to speak. The patient is told, in no uncertain words, to keep quiet. The patient continues with their life story. By the end, the robbers put down their guns and leave. The patient lives.

Copyright of Christopher Alexander Simpson

Daily Thought # 33

2009-04-08T11:08:00.001+01:00

Doctor enters the room and tells the patient that they have exactly one year to live. Patient listens. Patient begins to finally live.

Copyright of Christopher Alexander Simpson

Daily Thought # 32

2009-04-07T11:05:00.000+01:00

During the inquisition they asked me what I thought of him. I said I thought he was full of shit. Several thousand lashes later, I probably should have given a better answer.

Copyright of Christopher Alexander Simpson

Daily Thought # 31

2009-04-06T10:21:00.000+01:00

Like all lusted figures I've met you once or twice
But I swear to the bastardised bible
And any form of god
That I know you better than I know myself
Maybe that's a little perverse
We only spoke for an hour or two
To thine own self be true
When discovered - I'll be true
The confidence of discovering myself
Has been diminished with you
Do I be an aging pick-up artist
To woo you into my bedsheets?
Or be honest with you
And what I wish to do
I could ask you tips for
Your own seduction
Instruct me
I'm willing to try anything for this
My perfect line I've thought of finally
You're not here to receive it
"I wish you to be over me,
like the wind through the trees."
Oh, its hit me and its true
Your my new addiction and I...
...am your faithful, jittery, humble servant
I'm itching at my skin in tears for you to rub it
Touch my skin under sweat-stickied clothes
No meal eaten without the thought
Of your possible taste
If I will it
Will I see you due to psychic yearnings?
Like I said - I'm up for anything
Lo and behold
Its finally happened
You're lurking in a dark oak bar
You look at me as if you know me
As if we have spoken once or twice
Your lips part
You address me royally
"I'm out of money. Buy me a drink."
There's nothing like the pain
Of falling in love with a drunkard
Luckily,
I'm a drunkard too

Copyright of Christopher Alexander Simpson

Daily Thought # 30

2009-04-05T10:53:00.002+01:00

Catholics have mixed feelings over guilt. They want it and they don't. They can see the beauty, but the hopelessness to it too. I'm lapsed, but these terrible sentences make me feel guilty. Although I'm not that kind of Catholic, I'm not any kind, I can't help it when she comes to me with a belt and a car battery. I assume the position.

Daily Thought # 29

2009-04-04T13:02:00.001+01:00

When seducing loses its grip on you
Its time to call it quits

Copyright of Christopher Alexander Simpson

Daily Thought # 28

2009-04-03T15:55:00.001+01:00

I've always had a feeling I'm going to die early
So that's why I had my mid-life crisis at twenty
Went to all the strip clubs I could afford
And drank down a couple of pubs while I was at it

I couldn't splash out on a green jaguar
And I didn't have a blond secretary down on her knees
But the local green bus got me from A - B
And the blond bird from the chipie gave me a BJ

I wasn't losing my hair or getting a paunch
A hat and some sit-ups can always cover that
The things I wanted had increasingly changed
Seventies punk t-shirt tucked in Armani jeans

I started to watch a lot of Top Gear
Richard Littlejohn was the voice in my ears
Reading the Daily Mail was now common practise
I was starting to look like Rory McGrath

It was all about me-me-me
Me-me-me-me-me-me-me-me-me-me-me
And some of myself and a little of I
My ego had become my sine quo non

I'm now twenty-seven and gladly over it
I hope my early prediction is right
I don't want to go over all that again
I still haven't the money for a green jaguar

Copyright of Christopher Alexander Simpson

Daily Thought # 27

2009-04-02T10:02:00.000+01:00

On my birthday I sat with an old man in a pub. He had long broken hair and a salt 'n' pepper beard. Acne scars marred his cheekbones and tobacco came off his breath. He looked at me long and hard. After awhile he spoke.

"The older you get, the more fuck ups you'll make. Just remember one thing. Life - its always the sweetest fruit."

Copyright of Christopher Alexander Simspon

Daily Thought # 26

2009-04-01T16:17:00.001+01:00

"Dad, do I have to compromise in life to survive?"
Dad sat, pondered, inhaled on his pipe then spoke.
"Yes. Yes son. You will have to compromise."

Copyright of Christopher Alexander Simpson

Daily Thought # 25

2009-03-31T19:43:00.001+01:00

The ritual of cleaning dishes
Of dressing in the morning
Of washing the sleep face
Of walking
Of excreting
Of talking
Of sex
Necessities of life
Where arguments and conversations
Conclude
Exclude
Diminish
Redeem
That spirituality is a necessity too
No longer for explaining
But for the comfort of all
And the continued hope
Of ending petty rituals

Copyright of Christopher Alexander Simpson

Daily Thought # 24

2009-03-30T10:10:00.003+01:00

We have the greatest minds in history at the moment. Exponentially we are increasing our knowledge and ANYONE can now access this information, access to great minds so that they can un-lock their own and become great too. But, evolution is a slow process. That's why we still have EastEnders and fast-food. When we finally do achieve telekinesis it'll only be because we're too lazy to switch on the TV.

Copyright of Christopher Alexander Simpson

Daily Thought # 23

2009-03-29T11:20:00.000+01:00

I once saw a man laugh himself to death. Its not as pleasant a way to go as you may think. I mean its up there, but its not the best. I kind of feel guilty at this man's death seeing it was a joke I told him that lead to his demise. The joke wasn't even that funny.

What has four legs and cries? A cat with cataracts.

Copyright of Christopher Alexander Simpson

Daily Thought # 22

2009-03-28T10:30:00.001Z

My fantasies are more important
Than my 9 - 5
I know which is real
It isn't the 8 hours

Copyright of Christopher Alexander Simpson

Daily Thought # 21

2009-03-27T10:14:00.001Z

No one retires anymore.

Copyright of Christopher Alexander Simpson

Daily Thought # 20

2009-03-26T10:46:00.004Z

Hello. You've reached Gary's phone. I'm sorry I can't take your call but I'm on either Facebook, MySpace or Twitter and I'll be there for the next forty -to- fifty years. If you need to contact me then please do so through those relevant channels and not some terrible medium like the telephone, the antiquated letter and god forbid actually meeting up. Don't bother leaving your name and number after the beep, just send me a nudge instead. Beep.

Copyright of Christopher Alexander Simpson

Daily Thought # 19

2009-03-25T15:29:00.000Z

The wickedness of humanity can happen at any time
The civilised like to practise this at night
Orgies in Rome
Lynching in Alabama
Shock and awe in Bhagdad
I can take or leave civility

Copyright of Christopher Alexander Simpson

Daily Thought # 18

2009-03-24T10:23:00.003Z

The cities
Are those special places
Where manners have gone
You're an alien when you hold open a door
Let someone go ahead
Or even utter "thank-you"
Suburbs and towns are cities now
Manners have gone

Copyright of Christopher Alexander Simpson

Daily Thought # 17

2009-03-23T10:01:00.002Z

The man who can recite Shakespeare, and the man who can quote Hollyoaks verbatim, have the same degree of intellect.

Copyright of Christopher Alexander Simpson

Daily Thought # 16

2009-03-22T11:15:00.000Z

HD TV is here! See life in HD, see death on HD, see a man with a bow and arrow up his arse on HD, see the Holy Grail on HD, see a blood soaked hand on HD, see a pastiche greeting card on HD, see a failed prophet advertising a car insurance comparison website on HD, see you on HD!

Copyright of Christopher Alexander Simpson

Daily Thought # 15

2009-03-21T10:59:00.000Z

This year I'll be going on "Britain's Got Talent" where I'll be juggling three chainsaws with my penis while singing "Ole Sole Mio". Last year, Health & Safety officials wouldn't let me unless I wore a helmet. This year I've relented. As I juggle, I'll be wearing a tampon on my forehead stuck there with sticky tape.

Copyright of Christopher Alexander Simpson

Daily Thought # 14

2009-03-20T10:21:00.002Z

Two blokes were sitting in a pub. One bloke turns to the other.
"Oi. Question. Hitler. Worst bloke who ever lived?"
Other bloke sank his pint then answered.
"Well. Way I see it, Hitler was the conductor. But he had a willing orchestra. Same again?"

Copyright of Christopher Alexander Simpson

Daily Thought # 13

2009-03-19T10:19:00.002Z

Atheism didn't work out for me. I became to much of a zealot. Spirituality might not work out either. It just happens to be my favourite game in town.

Copyright of Christopher Alexander Simpson

Daily Thought # 12

2009-03-18T10:39:00.001Z

Life moves too fast when you have a TV in your home.

Copyright of Christopher Alexander Simpson

Daily Thought # 11

2009-03-17T10:06:00.001Z

A Buddhist monk - a Bhikshu - spoke to me electronically. He told me that you can not have world peace. Its impossible. You can't cover the world with leather, but you can wear shoes.

Copyright of Christopher Alexander Simpson

Daily Thought # 10

2009-03-16T10:23:00.001Z

Daily Thought # 9

2009-03-15T12:14:00.001Z

I got masochistic the other day and hit myself in the head with a book. Luckily I picked the Highway Code and not the Torah.

Copyright of Christopher Alexander Simpson

Daily Thought # 8

2009-03-14T10:46:00.002Z

So now its here, come what may
Seek that's what they say
Hold up your bones, skin and heart
To the winds of dismay
Nothings vanquished, nothings changed
My desk and mind are on repeat
I take the streets, my feet do move
To the banquet of silence

And now I'm here, this golden sullen room
Blow my trumpet loud and proud
There's nothing else to deliberate
No koans, questions or polemics
I listened quietly, I spoke with haste
Words that should have been on mute
And those instructions, I dread to recoil
To the banquet of silence

The hollow mess of every sorrow
Bears no fruit in its decent
Bury them all sixty foot deep
Even though I meant every one
I uttered and spluttered the equalness
Of a captured teardrop in flight
For all those words I have wrote
To capture this banquet of silence

So speak forth now, don't pretend
That this chamber is anything pure
The holiness of solitude
Is not what you'd wish for
Your silenced tongue has captured me
In reveries of shouts
A river wide full of words
Flows round this banquet of silence

Copyright of Christopher Alexander Simpson

Daily Thought # 7

2009-03-13T10:29:00.002Z

I found my wife in bed with a man. I would say another man but I've never really been a man. I once was a boy but now I'm in limbo. I know, however, that I am not a man as can be testified by my wife cheating on me.

Copyright of Christopher Alexander Simpson

Delayed Daily Thought # 6

2009-03-13T10:28:00.002Z

Wars are always being thought. They always will be. Currently there is a war against frizzy hair.

Copyright of Christopher Alexander Simpson

Daily Thought # 5

2009-03-11T21:59:00.002Z

The greatest act you can do for a loved one is to bake bread for them. Unless they have a gluten problem that is.

Copyright of Christopher Alexander Simpson

Daily Thought # 4

2009-03-10T10:56:00.003Z

Jazz has no time. Do not use it as a wake-up call.

Copyright of Christopher Alexander Simpson

Daily Thought # 3

2009-03-09T10:56:00.002Z

I've recently started taking heroin. Its a bit addictive I must say. A couple of fixes and one gets slightly peckish for it. I've asked Gordon Brown for advice on quiting. He told me all about quantitative easing. I'm now doing a bin bag full of heroin a day to junk me out of my addiction. Fingers crossed.

Copyright of Christopher Alexander Simpson

Daily Thought # 2

2009-03-08T11:07:00.001Z

Adults go out of their way to wave to kids they don't know. They also go out of their way to avoid one another. You find all this out when you sit on a train.

Copyright of Christopher Alexander Simpson

Daily Thought # 1

2009-03-07T10:29:00.003Z

After an unexplainable mood swing I went to the doctor's for a diabetes test. While I was there I thought I'd get an arsehole test too. Y'know, just to see if I was one. I took the diabetes test, and then the doctor asked me if I liked his tie. I said I didn't. He told me the test was positive and I could eat as much sugar as I liked. I'm still not sure to what test he was referring to.

Copyright of Christopher Alexander Simpson

Books Read In 2008

2009-01-30T16:45:00.002Z

Here’s a list of the books I read last year. I’ve only highlighted the ones I really enjoyed. Also because I write fiction, I’m only really listing the fiction books I’ve read.

Although there was some great non-fiction which I’ll mention here briefly:

“How To Be Idle” - Tom Hodgkinson;
“How To Be Free” - Tom Hodgkinson;
“Buddhism: Plain and Simple” - Steve Hagen;
“What I Talk About When I Talk About Running” - Haruki Murakami;
“Get A Life! The Little Red Book of White Dot” - David Burke/Jean Lotus;
“The Idler” magazine Issues 38 - 41.

“The Pilgrimage” - Paulo Coelho
Loved it.

“The Favourite Game” - Leonard Cohen
Great book. Going into a beat style of writing, as well as rising above it.

“Eleven Minutes” - Paulo Coelho

“Like A Flowing River” - Paulo Coelho

“Before Night Falls” - Reinaldo Arenas
Great work. Just magnificent. Shows Fidel for what he is. Defiant to a superpower, but the same as all the rest. His treatment of homosexuals, artists and dissidents (to which Arenas was all three) is deplorable and this book is not only a testament to that but to a life well lived and joyously so.

“The Road” - Cormac McCarthy

“Breakfast Of Champions” - Kurt Vonnegut
A book that is extremely rare for being truly original and worthwhile. The more I ponder, the more I enjoy. Easily one of the best books I’ve read.

“After Dark” - Haraki Murakami
The originality bubbles through. Wish to read it again.

“The Zahir” - Paulo Coelho
Email me if you’ve read this. I need to discuss the ending with you. Overall a very great book, apart from some niggling feelings over the ending. However, it is a great book.

“The Fifth Mountain” - Paulo Coelho

“Brida” - Paulo Coelho

“The Valkyries” - Paulo Coelho
A pleasure to read in the sun.

“The Man In The High Castle” - Philip K. Dick
Good stuff, the multiple plotlines are handled well.

“Flashman: Papers One” - George MacDonald Fraser

“Wilt” - Tom Sharpe

“A Clockwork Apple” - Belinda Webb
Essentially, but much more, a female version of “A Clockwork Orange”. Fusing that modern classic with Manchester’s music scene, modern art and culture it works extremely well. Look forward to more from the author.

“Are You Experienced?” - William Sutcliffe

“God Is Dead” - Ron Currie Jr.
Great book. Really enjoyed this. Read it now.

“Cake” - Sandra Newman

“Ham On Rye” - Charles Bukowski
First book I’ve read of Bukowski’s…won’t be my last.

“Who Moved My Blackberry?” - Lucy Kellaway
Very, very funny book. The main character is extremely well-written and defined.

“The Average American Male” - Chad Kuttgen

“Armageddon In Retrospect” - Kurt Vonnegut
An enjoyable collection of short stories on the theme of war.

“Bluebeard” - Kurt Vonnegut

“Memories Of My Melancholy Whores” - Gabriel Garcia Marquez
Good stuff, need to think about it more. Think it’ll be good to re-read in a decade or so.

“Queer” - William Burroughs

“The Most Beautiful Woman In Town” - Charles Bukowski
Fabulous collection of short stories. My brain would be on a really bad diet if I hadn’t read any Bukowski.

“Post Office” - Charles Bukowski

“Hocus Pocus” - Kurt Vonnegut
Fantastic.

“Kasamakura” - Natsume Sasaki

My Life And Times In Word Brevity

2009-01-17T22:41:00.003Z

The government got me when they found out that I had a speciality in word brevity. I wrote some pieces for a middle-brow art supplement magazine where I described the world’s events as succinctly as I could.

9/11 - awful.
Iraq War - confusing.
Obama elected - change.
Economic downfall - completely fiscally un-hinged as the world plummets into a Dante inferno of gigantic proportions that will inevitably bring about a demise of the power of a machine that by its very own nature would sell the rope to hang itself as it shakes hands with the Devil but cries for Christ (this was changed to - “scary”).

It was because of this and people’s lack of dictionaries and thesauruses that lead me to step past the black door and into Gordon’s waiting arms.

“You see Alex”, the slack jawed Presbyterian said to me, “We love the British people. I should know. I am one. But the problem lies in words, in crosswords. You do know that they are very difficult. When was the last time you completed one?”
This morning I had done one in fifteen with a pen.
“Ohh…a long, long time ago.”
“And did you complete it?”
“Barely.”
“I think you’ll fit in just fine. Your probably like me. A suduko man. We need a man who can get big information out of here”, he pointed to his head, “…to small words out of”, he pointed to his mouth, “…here.”
“I believe that the British people need an economy of words more now than ever before. We’ve tried bombarding them with words and all it got us was they voted for morons in a house rather than morons in the house.”
He laughed hard at his own joke. I was surprised he could make one. I rather thought of him before as a man who was about as humorous as one of his stools.
“So Alex, will you get on board?”
There wasn’t much I could say. Which rather fitted in with my new position.

My first day on the job as leader on the taskforce for W. O. R. D (Words Ordered Rather Dully) and I had to re-translate “King Lear” for the new world that was a’ comin’. After four hours off thinking I got the play down to six words.

“Old man, three daughters - poor guy.”

I then thought I could squeeze it down even more. Why spell a number? Gordon would not approve of this, so I changed it again to 5 words 1 number.

“Old man, 3 daughters - poor guy.”

“Hmm…surely you could get it down further Alex, think you fucker!”, was the hymn I sang to myself.

“Father, 3 daughters - poor guy.”4 words, 1 number.

Gordon I knew would be a task-master. Why go in with copy to only disappoint him. It could be downscaled more. Downscale the words and the people wont mind tightening their belts. This was the whole raison d’etre for my job at W. O. R. D. I took another stab at it.

“Father, 3 daughters - shit.”

This was the best I could get too. 3 words, 1 number. Yep, this would be good for Gordon. A+ for effort at least.

“Hmm…I don’t like the expletive Alex.”
“Well Mr. Brown. An expletive is exactly what we want on our vocabulary downscaling project. A good use of an expletive can do in one word what it may take twenty to usually do. In our times to come, I would say that the use of the expletive in this project is…good.”
“Okay. I can see your point. Let me think about this.”
I knew there was another team out there who would be in the business of vocabulary downscaling advisors that Gordon had and that he would turn too. Other guys like me who were on the payroll. I’m sure that they thought they would be the only ones too, but only after a day I could see the cogs of this machine. I could deduce all this by Gordon saying, “…Let me think about this.” Politicians don’t think, they’ve got others for that purpose.

In any case Gordon’s secretary came back to me and said that Gordon had tweaked with the copy, just slightly, and could I take a look at it. I opened the email and read the new copy.

“Dad, 3 daughters - shit.”

Father was taken out in case of any religious connotations people may bring to it. Fair enough. Knowing Gordon he probably actually did make this change to the copy himself. And so it was that the new addition of “King Lear” was made. The first edition was sent to every secondary school and college in the country. The PR campaign went like a dream. I helped run it and did the work for it which earned me a nice little bonus, a couple of suits and a nicer apartment. The PR campaign was built around a slogan that I wrote while I was eating a chicken mayonnaise sandwich.

“Less Is Best”

Unfortunately while I was eating my chicken mayonnaise sandwich some mayonnaise went onto the copy and we had to recall half-a-million leaflets that said…

“Lez Is Best”

Still, the response to the “Less Is Best” campaign went so well that the only consequences were a fired secretary, a change of printers and my bonus, suits and posh pad. It was rather nice being in charge of W. O. R. D. and the healing benefits that we were making to the literary world. For once, kids could read the works of Shakespeare, Dostoyevsky, Plato, Aesop, Melville, Twain, Dickens, Wordsworth, Bukowski, Burroughs and other notables all in one afternoon. Think of the possibilities of all this and the league tables. The league tables had never looked better. The worlds greatest works compiled into a filofax could only improve how much a kid can learn, and the greater the number the better the stats. The kids were doing well.

Copyright by Christopher Alexander Simpson

Walking To The Station (a.k.a A Story Written While Mobile On A Mobile)

2008-08-23T18:10:00.004+01:00

I'm going to be late again. Got to get on time, got to leave earlier. Its too late for either option. Gonna rush there like an idiot. I'm doing a ralk. Half run, half walk. I look like I've wet myself. Typical. And now I'm sweating. I just left. How can I be sweating so soon? I've put on weight. Only explanation. Or I'm having a heart attack. My right shoulder's sore. Or should it be my left? Glad I'm not a doctor. Do doctor's have company cars? Probably still wouldn't get there on time even if I had a car. Those people on "Dragon's Den" get to places early. Does that mean I want to be one of them? Better to be late afterall. My flies??? Have I done them up? For fuck sake. Got to check. No I can't, there are people around. They'll think I'm touching myself. Okay, pull down my shirt. Better...Why's my shirt riding up? How can it be riding up? I'm a portly man. How can this fucking gingham shirt be riding up now? I thought my carriage would make it snug. Bollocks. If my shirt's riding up and my flies are undone then someone's going to see my dick - end of. I'm going to have to check my flies. Wait...
Where the fuck did these kids come from? Oh Catch-fucking-Twenty-Two. I'm fucked. No way out. Can't go checking now, just going to have to keep pulling down my shirt like I've got St. Vitus' dance. FOR FUCK SAKE. hOLD oN!
My jacket!
Its just long enough. I'll do that up and cover my groin with it. No more St. Vitus' dance for me. Aha! Ohh...its not long enough.
Wait, where did that come from? The fucking sun was hiding. Now I'm squinting. The mother probably thinks I'm eyeing up her children as I continue to fiddle with my shirt. Great. She's been watching GMTV all fucking morning and seen Gary Glitter about ten thousand times over the past week and is pissed off to the brim and now she thinks I'm one of them. I do not fucking believe this day. Fuck it. Cross the street.
The station's just ahead. No more pushing down of cotton for me. Soon I'll be on the train, go to the toilet that will smell like death but at least give me security to see if my flies are done up or whether my dick's been hanging out like a kipper tie. Again- wait! Is that my train leaving?

Copyright of Christopher Alexander Simpson

I Didn't Recognise You (a.k.a I Listened To Alot of Jeff Buckley When I Wrote This)

2008-08-19T19:04:00.004+01:00

Red, purple, magenta, green from the pub’s disco area lights flashed over Henry's face. He had no reason why he was at this pub. The people who were here for the party (what was the occasion?) were people he once knew but had no inclination to know now. They’d all changed, for a start. Even if they hadn’t he didn’t keep in contact so that’s a pretty good estimation of where his thoughts lay. He was still in the same job where they all had original met. He was now a manager, albeit in the same place. Still there to see employees come in from the ground floor, at the same time, and to see them build the same kind of relationships that he and the people at this party had made. Those intense ones that would last at least half-a-lifetime, whether you liked it or not. No one, however, stayed in the job. Career wise – it was verboten. His kinds, the stay-till-you-die kind, were, in all senses, a dying breed. Now, at this party where he had listened to his old friends explain to him the changes in their lives, he was desperate to leave and get back to his. He knew why he came despite all reservations and mental protests - why he stayed at the party. Alice was here and that was that.

Apparently she had “changed” into some blossoming beauty, but all he could see was that she looked the same. Not that there was anything wrong with that, there wasn’t, and that was why he came. When they knew each other, years ago, she was stuck with a guy in a dead relationship that Alice remained committed too and that Henry had abided too not complicating further, disabling any move he wanted to make. Unrequited stalemate. She was with someone new now, he wasn’t there, but she told everyone and Henry had checked her relationship status on Facebook where this dreaded party had been planned. Everything and everyone happened online now. He went on her profile and checked out her pictures. Henry found a picture of himself in an album titled: OLD WORK DAYS. The photograph wasn’t too bad. Henry’s hair was long back then with a five-day growth on his face, facial aesthetics that managers weren’t allowed to have. They pulled stern and menacing faces while holding two price-guns at one another like a Western showdown. Taken with an old camera she must have scanned these pictures in. This required more work than most people usually put in. Did she ever have any feelings for him other than friendship? Maybe this was proof. Although it was the only photo of Henry in her various photo albums. Henry had spent the best part of an afternoon looking through her photos and comments on her profile trying to discern whether hope was fact. He knew that it was a problem. His problem. Too much thinking. Too much thinking.

Henry spent the morning of the party reading old letters the two of them sent to each other trying to dissect a missed opportunity, some indirect message hidden in those letters that he never picked out and could tonight use as his entrance. Alice went to university and Henry stayed at work. Henry wrote straight away, Alice wrote straight back. Too much spying, too much detecting, any old signal-any old signal-any old signal. The letters weren’t too helpful in the long run. Just a good indication of how some of us can grow. The fact that she wasn’t in bed with him as he read the letters was proof enough. How much more would a masochist want?

‘Oh. Hello. I didn't recognise you’, the last words he wanted to say, words he didn’t believe, were spoken first.
‘Not many people do’, shuffling her feet, words tumbling, familiar smile in place, Alice had it all un-changed.
Conservation ensued that lasted for all of ten sentences. She parted as more guests came. Henry wondered on what to do and settled at the bar. It was the biggest cliché he could imagine. Lone man, spurned by love created in his own head, crumpled in one of the bar's chair's sipping his beer and marking time with not a burning cigarette, but by playing on his mobile. If Frank Sinatra were alive you could forget about seeing any of his shows with the smoking ban in place. Watching him croon while holding a mobile phone, an object in his hands to occupy his time and heart, wouldn’t convey the subtleties of it all. Henry began deleting old texts, mostly from his work. Old friends, acquaintances, of Henry came over, and as he talked and laughed they didn't see his pain. The night for them was early. The night for him was over. Reluctance kept him on his seat. He’d have to get to romance rehab. When you can’t eat breakfast without thinking of her face, then you got to be committed. He knew he should have acted long ago, and the best course now was the remedy he used before. Avoid it. It worked up until this party, it would sustain. It was like having a dead relative whose grave you never visited.

‘Too many damned old messages.’

Looking around he noticed the various guests with various digital cameras taking pictures that would be added digitally on for all to see. A lot of people would be smiling in those photographs. Many electronic photo albums would be created tonight and Henry would be in some of them whether he wanted it or not. He drank another pint as he took his phone out, again, then back into his pocket and then back out again. His comfort blanket, continually transferring to his hands or right trouser pocket, never further than his hip.

‘He doesn't give me time.’
Alice had said this one night, when she and Henry were out. And as her face lent on his shoulder and her forehead buried itself into his neck, his head - that niggling ever-present jail, told him he should say something. He should have spoken. Instead he accepted her face on him and sipped his pint. He should have closed the door after that night. That was five years ago. Her boyfriend who didn't give her time was now gone. Alice was gone too. Henry wasn’t gone. Despite having the occasional woman who he was interested in but doing nothing about it, battle-plan kept in tact, the intensity he felt at this party was unchangeable like Alice. For all of that intensity and heat, it was redundant and un-special. As she danced, he looked on, caught her eye for a moment, raised his eyebrows and smiled. She reciprocated. He left. With seven years on your hand for a friend who doesn’t love you, that, was long enough.

Henry was close to being sick in the taxi. It rained. The taxi driver said the same words to Henry that he said when Henry first got into the car,
‘If you’re sick you clean it and you pay for it. Understand?’
Henry nodded, just as he did when he first got in. The taxi driver’s mantra was to be repeated a couple more times. Henry was fine at the party. Outside and the air had changed him from a man who had drunk fifteen pints to a man who had drunk fifteen pints. The rocking back-and-two, side-to-side, up-and-down didn’t help. In the taxi he lamented in his head the lack of drinking friends he had. Those people who would be at the pub whenever you rang them and who you could drink with, but that was about it. You would never invite them into your house. In his drunken frame he thought that it was better to be dismissed by someone when sober and loved when drunk rather than vice-versa. Drinking gives you away and lets the truth get out. You got to keep that fucker under lock and key. Chain that fucker to a tree. Only the strong prevail. Why do you think there are so many alcoholics and body-builders in the world?

Twelve hour shift yesterday.

Twelve hour shift tomorrow.

Twelve hour shift most days…it don’t bother me none.

‘Oh, this taxi, this taxi. My Lords and gents this taxi will kill me!’ Henry mumbled this as the taxi driver shook his head.

Pay-pay-pay-pay-pay-pay-pay-pay-pay…

‘That’s eleven-fifty mate.’

Henry got to his house, opened the door and went in.

Living room. Walk. Sofa. Walk. Record player. Walk. Sofa. Walk. Drink.

The record playing was one he played when he obsessed over her. The vinyl reminder. He glared at a framed reproduction postcard that John Lennon drew of himself with Yoko Ono.

‘If we were with our first loves, half of our pain would be gone’, drunk thought. Morning he’d discard it.

He remembered a quote by William James that he recently tried to live by.

"If you care enough for the result, you will almost always attain it."

Henry did care enough.

Follow

through

follow through you drunk bastard

Copyright of Christopher Alexander Simpson

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LQJFunXnz4o

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=noQH6lyu0sA

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GrtqWZRjG8g

Why Are You Single?

2008-08-02T09:59:00.002+01:00

Int. Cafe - Afternoon

[A SON approaching thirty in a long brown jacket sits opposite his MOTHER, a rather plain but highly sociable and hard-working woman with a great job, great friends, great house. The SON has none of these things.]

MOTHER
Son, I was wondering. Why are you single?

[The SON pauses and stares into his paid for cappuccino. He breathes out hard.]

SON
Ever since I was little I was told never to talk to strangers, never to accept sweets, always run away from the stranger, the unknown. I was told my penis was wrong, well it never was my penis was it, it was my pee-pee. I couldn't look at my pee-pee Mother. Whenever I tried to look up girl's skirts I was clipped round the ear, I was shoved in the corner and I felt odd for even thinking what was up Joanna's skirt. For ten years, a decade, I lived in constant guilt. Whenever I got an erection I thought I'd have to go in the corner. Throughout secondary school I couldn't even talk to women. I made my own corner. I would go to church and all I would think of was that Christ never looked at tits. That's what I remember from mass, the Holy abstain able one. As soon as I could crawl I was stuck in clothes, whenever I have sex now I still have to wear my socks. I was told not to touch my private parts. As I grew older I could look at it, study it, examine it and know every angle, but if I was to touch my own property I was stuck in the corner again. So I couldn't look at the women, touch the women, touch myself and all I could do was look at my balls. I couldn't experiment, I couldn't feel, I couldn't look up and wander what colour her nipples were. And guess what? All the little girls were told the same as me. Now we're all depressed, all single, and we're all searching for someone who will get us. But no one will ever get us. Ever. My last girlfriend was a catatonic. My girlfriend before that was a whore. All my life I have dated catatonics and whores. People don't talk to each other Mother. Do you realise that? Do you realise that no one speaks to one another? People actively go out and avoid each other. People with their i-Pods and books and game consoles. Why do we go on game consoles? Because it consoles us Mother. We have nothing else to turn too. We're all fucked but we're not getting fucked. We go on speed-dating because we're looking for a quick fix, for our quick lives, only to have quick sex that ends all too quickly. We’re the impotent generation who can’t cum, who can’t fuck, who can’t hug, who can’t even talk to one another. We try and escape at every turn not to have sex, just like we escape conversations and interactions, because we're afraid we'll do it wrong, but we never got taught. We weren't told to ask for advice. We we're told not to think about it, to put a psychological barrier around our penis's and vagina's. For years Mother, for years, I only lost my virginity at twenty...and now you are asking me why I am single? FUUUUUUUUUUUUCK YOU! YOU FUCKING CUNT! YOU TOLD ME NOT TO FUCK AND NOW YOU WANT ME TO GET A GIRLFRIEND...SO YOU CAN HAVE A GRANDCHILD? HOW AM I GONNA ACHIEVE THAT WITH MY PEE-PEE? FUCK YOU, YOU FUCKING WHORE! IT'S WRONG TO GET MY WILLY OUT? WELL HERE IT IS MOTHER!

[The SON takes out his penis and starts flailing it around.]

SON
LOOK MOTHER! LOOK AT MY PEE-PEE!!! WHAT'S WRONG WITH IT? WHAT'S WRONG WITH GOD'S CREATION? WOMEN THINK I'M ODD MOTHER!!!

Copyright of Christopher Alexander Simpson

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4Ok9Z0ISngA

Ode To A Woman With Dark Hair

2008-06-13T14:37:00.002+01:00

He studied at her dark hair, pale complexion and clothes. He was sure he could sum her up easily. Reduction was a necessity for today. He knew that she had spent an entire summer reading Emily Dickinson, the Bronte sisters and the love letters between Elizabeth Barrett Browning and Robert Browning. He knew that she spent one summer doing coke, charlie, C...whatever her tribe at the time called it. She had lived in both Brighton and London and she had a degree in some form of Humanities. She had slept with at least two women, one for experimentation, the other out of love and had kissed many more but was now exclusively for the boys. She looked twnety-one but was in her late twenties. She had various disastrous relationships but was always in control. Her parents’ money helped her but she resented them both equally. Her iPod top twenty five most played were…

Suzanne – Nina Simone
Heaven – Talking Heads
Satisfied Mind – Jeff Buckley
Everybody Knows – Leonard Cohen
A Man Needs A Maid – Neil Young
Dreaming – Loudon Wainwright III
Straight To You – Nick Cave & The Bad Seeds
So Here We Are – Bloc Party
More, More, More – Andrea True Connection
Modern Art – Art Brut
The Weight – The Band
Swastika Eyes – Primal Scream
I Put A Spell On You – Screaming Jay Hawkins
Trash – Suede
Here, There & Everywhere – The Beatles
Alone Again Or – Love
What Goes On? – The Velvet Underground
Wherever I Lay My Hat (That’s My Home) – Marvin Gaye
I Go Walking After Midnight – Patsy Cline
Yes – Mc Almont & Butler
The Whole Of The Moon – The Waterboys
Bastards Of Young – The Replacements
Luckenback Texas (Back To Basics) – Waylon Jennings
The Cutter – Echo & The Bunnymen
(What’s So Funny ‘Bout) Peace, Love & Understanding – Elvis Costello

The list could say more about her than anything else. She once wore a Che Guivera t-shirt and believed in the words of Marx but now referred to herself as a “realistic liberal”. She worked part-time handing out leaflets while her day-time free-time was spent writing, painting, creating, observing. She tried to live out Gandhi’s message of “Create and preserve your own image.” She knew who John Cale was at fourteen. Her favourite painters were Jackson Pollock, Frank Stella and Joan Miro. She was drawn to men who were dark and brooding, prefrerably a Reinassance man. Eddie Vedder would be her perfect date. He knew that ninety percent of what he thought was true. He wanted to talk to her. He didn’t. He finished his drink. He left.

Copyright of Christopher Alexander Simpson