The Better News

I was born long ago in the 1980s.  A time of coal and lizards.  I was yellow when I was born and at school they called me radioactive: The joke was on them becasue in 2009 I worked with radioactive amino acids.   I was put into an oxgygen tent which sounds like a festival but is not.  It’s a tent for sick babies.

Then my sister was born and it was good.  Then my next sister was born and she was and is a small tigress.  Then my brother was born and he is wise like an owl.  My father was angry and sad and happy and made money while my mother made lasagne which my best friend devoured.

At primary school I was the best but then I moved to a special bully school and it was shit for two years until I met the soon to be named Shaolin Monkey Crew.  Big L, Little D, Liono, B-Lime and Feeling with my little brother and Pedro.

I took some acid and watched L’s face fall off.

I went to study Pharmacy and mixed dangerous chemicals together.

I smoked on a plane and went to jail.

I studied Biology and got a first.  I became defacto leader of the W Massive.

I fell in love twice and lust infinitely.

I did a PhD and went crazy.  I became friends with superdave.

I went to Asia.

I fell out of love and into Buddha.

I came home and cried.

I became God realised and Chrisitian.

The End.

Any Questions?



Like a poisonous badge of honour.  I’m having chemo.  Fuck your chemo.  Fuck your key-whole.  Fuck your side effects.  Your unexplained cheques from slimy medical sales reps.  Fuck your student nurse with a hangover.  It’s the chemo.  That’s why my hair has fallen out.  That’s why I’m nearly dying.  Fuck your privatised meal people who don’t speak English when you ask them to take away the overflowing rubbish bags of medical waste but do at all other times. Fuck your smoking policy which you are not enforcing because you are spineless starbucks sucking management moulds.

Fuck your opiate based pain medication that you don’t quite give enough of because you are worried about addiction and in the same paragraph of words you tell my dad to eat burger king to get his bowel moving after he is recovering from bowel surgery.

Fuck your insistence on us wearing gowns to protect who from an unknown unverified probably harmless infection while at the same times there are brown stains on the toilet floor.  I don’t care what they are.  Clean them up.

Fuck your agency rates of pay for nurses which are ridiculously high considering what NHS nurses get but probably fair for the amount of shit literal verbal and physical you have to put up with by people like me but I’d never hit you or shit on you.

Fuck this and all fucking governments who seem determined to wreck the NHS in a myriad of ways because I love it and we need it but they employ too many pencil pushing fanny faces and not enough doctors and nurses and it’s evidently, obviously really difficult for them and they’re tired and I’m tired and the chemo makes you tired and nobody is really sure if it works because its only ever tested against other chemo, when was the last time they tested it against nothing or eating fruit or going on holiday and I hate it.  It’s vile in vials and the ones who make it and get the all clear look like they’e been in a concentration camp so what was the point anyway and all that money all those NICE accreditations and all the running in 5K runs to raise money.  STOP FUCKING SMOKING.  STOP EATING JUNK.

junk means rubbish.  Stop drinking alcohol causes cancer.  Look it up.  Take some responsibility for your life if you want it.  If you want to live then you can live longer and not get cancer if you just do some exercise.  Go for a fucking walk.  I know a lot of people do and I’m only really angry with one person because I don’t want him to die.  But he will we all die and why would you want to live.  What is so good about life and I look at a bird in a tree and I say my mantra and I thank God that I am alive and at least I can be of some help to my family in these dark, long times.

It literally goes on forever through a jungle of appointments, diagnosis, follow ups, medications, visits and counselling and I want it to stop now.  I’m done, I’m tired and nobody should have to go through this process of hope and shock and hope and we think you’ve got lung cancer, you’ve definitely got bowel cancer and we need to operate before it explodes and what about the lung cancer oh that’s not lung cancer and you’ll recover quickly no you wont, you’ll spend three weeks tripping on morphine with bile coming out of a tube into a bucket and Buddha was right your bodies are disgusting biley messes.

Disgusting and you can come home and you’ve lost weight and oh oh oh now you need to start chemo and we found it in your liver and the operation could have caused that but at least you dont have a colostomy bag and what? you want to go to thailand for 10 days are you mad OK but when you get back more chemo which is essentially platinum poisoning and then another operation and then more chemo and if you’re not dead and the cancer is dead great.  But if the cancer is still alive then you can stop with the treatments then and only if we say and you are free to do what you want but really you’ll do what we say and we will experiment on you forever.


I saw I mouse.  I’d heard a family rumour we had mice and I wondered and waited at what that actually meant.  Then I saw him.  My first wild animal.  Moving like a mouse on wheels.  A clockwork mouse. Faster than normal.  Faster than me.  A petrol steam mouse.  A hairy bullet.  The dimensions of our yard were uncompromising.  Suddenly the finickity rodent found himself on the concrete prairie, exposed to the freezing micro gusts of Longsight.  Mammalian evolution was crystallised in that moment.  Mammal speed.  My heart started that day.  I tracked him, as if a cat but not with my primate binocular vision.  Locking on like a torpedo but then he was gone, leaving a trail of shit behind him.

intra view

Go to interview with bosa nova fusion freeform jazz synth booming in your ears. In a cafe. Panel orders flat white.  The oldest most boring coffee idea.  That’s what everyone used to get from the little chippy van at dickenson rd market in the 80s.  No.  it wasn’t cool then.

green tea while desperately clinging towards the sinking wood of wakefulness (oh yeah meditation, is that like mindfulness?), drowning in a teacup sea of google analytics which I don’t care about and last night’s rajasic curry which I do and cannot possibly be in my rectum.

I am tamasic, lethargic.  Hits, clients, staff bonding, a yoga teacher who was too stoned.  Get another one.  Longing to leave.  Longing to play in the leaves.  I was a leaf when you met me.

I was a thief locked away with the lovable petty criminals apart from the one who wanted to stab my neck with a pool cue or the one who was in for murder.  His mum probably loves him or did and I shudder to think of her and his probable current freedom and prospects or lack of.

These messages are too lazy to be called subliminal.  The planet’s most powerful creations are running sub-optimally, eating waste products.  Tapping, screening, screaming. Drinking bubbly, acidic, black syrup.  Boob lay.

I have awoken for a five sense door championship.  Constantly ignited, firing pistons on an ever ready, ever present battery of electrochemical potential blurring auras and burning chi.  Nothing can be destroyed.  I am nihilistic, narcissistic.  Wheetabix shit.  Staring at my own body looking for changes, I am still a man.  Look at my muscles.  Due to cycling and being thin and a low calorific intake.

Angry scallie screams wildly at middle class woman who keeps her composure and stares her down.  Are you OK?  She is.

Market street is dead and people are catching what it had.  X-factor crud control the cobbles.  Their voices wobble.  Desperation riddles them like digital AIDS.  Hearing aids allow old people, who know a thing or too about unexplained mutations and crystallised ginger, hear us.  Sometimes they switch them off for a bit of peace without ever really striving for it.  Yes, we know there was a war.  You didn’t stop it.

People march to the beach but it’s always to  someone else’s drum, not quite in time.  Everyone was leaving when you arrived. They got cold.  Their feelings changed.  No, I don’t want to go in the sea.  I’m getting cold.  It’s dark. It’s not the same as before.  We were happy then.

Time is wasted dipping into television.  The neon disaster.  Controlled plasma explosions.  Blues in the sky are an unexplained orange.  It’s the street lights.  It’s people’s houses.  None of them are orange.  Do you think you can trick me like I’m a child? Well you can.

converstation eel

conversations reel around, revolve I mean, like those annoying doors nobody needs or likes.  These confuse idiots.  We discuss politics.  The polite tricks of fiendish, selfish, parasitic humanoids.  Homo sexus.  Homo parasiticus.  Stare into peoples’ eyes, talking about the dumbing down of education or pollution or some other banal, self righteous slurry words.  Occasionally make eye contact with someone and see right into something real and then it’s gone.  A momentary sight of clarity.  It’s always a stranger but not always a girl.  That’s the truth and it walked away again.

Drone persons project their fake, saccharin mood on you like cheap wall paper paste that’s gone off and doesn’t work.  The paper slides down, involved in a council estate ritual and slowly degrades as pages of a wood chip book. Emotional residue remains and goes hard.  Spend the rest of the day picking it off like a scab.  Pray for rain.  Pray for scars so you have a story to tell yourself of another you can cover in paste.

Eels are not disgusting but your culture informs you otherwise.  It has a lot to answer for.  Get excited about your ability to grow a baby inside your body, then pay a teenager to look after it.  Your job makes you feel more important and useful.  You are not an identification.

I’m doing a studying for a moment in the future.  I’m revising for a moment in the future where I will be happy.  Right now I need to be unhappy.  I need to push myself further into nothing to get something later.  Then I will have it all and the little people will make me coffee and I will buy things and enjoy this brief happening of decadence.

I will eat things that make me feel sleepy and sick.

Ideas on how to trick people into clicking on a thing.  Don’t ever say hashtag to me.