The thing I like about Oreos is that they're black, well almost, black enough to satisfy me anyway. When I was a child for some unknown reason I was obsessed with the colour black, when given a picture to colour in I coloured it black. What this means psychologically I don't know, and I don't actually care. But I really like Oreos, yes they may taste like dirt and be expensive should you buy them from a place that doesn't sell cheap biscuits. But I like Oreos because when I was a child I really wanted there to be a black biscuit, darker than a Bourbon in colour because that just didn't cut it for me. However, Oreos fulfil my childhood need for a black biscuit and for that I am very happy. I'm Adam Lee Jones and that was my story.
Thursday, 11 April 2013
Don't Be A Tit.
In regards to the woman who had a breast enlargement operation on the NHS: For the people who moan and winge about how their taxes paid for the operation, that a little girl was denied cancer treatment because of it (which is of course bollocks, and the fact that the Sun ran both articles side-by-side is proof of how low and callous the paper is; cancer treatment is also a hell of a lot more expensive than a breast operation, and after all the NHS is there to be used by the public as it is public-funded), who think that this woman is nothing short of the second coming of Hitler and barrage her with abuse because she used a service which was there to be used, and insulting her appearance with jibes such as "slut", "tramp", "she should have sorted her nose out", "she looks like she's been hit by a tram", "I hope her breasts explode" and "Go die". In all honesty she hasn't done anything wrong, far from it.
The thing at fault is not the government (this time), the woman who had the operation or the doctor who allowed it. The thing at fault is the culture that bred the thinking that if you have small breasts there is something wrong with you and nobody will love you, and that large breasts are something to aspire to. It's rich of the Sun newspaper to run a story like this when it's they who are the ones who have an institution such as Page 3 and contribute to this ramshackled clown shoe way of thinking. If you have small breasts you're not less of a person, you're not going to be undervalued by society, you are perfectly normal and beautiful, people come in all shapes and sizes and this is to be embraced by society, our differences are what make us who we are. Whatever the size of your breasts or however you look there isn't anything wrong with you and if somebody or something tells you there is then that is the thing at fault.
This "LAD" culture and the sexploitation of women is really fucking ridiculous, the fact that a woman feels insecure about her breast size because of it is horrible and wrong. If you buy into this culture, aspire to be a "glamour model", buy the Sun, support the degradation and exploitation of women you are part of this machine. What I'm saying is you should question things a whole lot more, look closer at the facts and harder at the evidence, educate yourselves and change your way of thinking. Love yourselves and be proud of who you are.
The thing at fault is not the government (this time), the woman who had the operation or the doctor who allowed it. The thing at fault is the culture that bred the thinking that if you have small breasts there is something wrong with you and nobody will love you, and that large breasts are something to aspire to. It's rich of the Sun newspaper to run a story like this when it's they who are the ones who have an institution such as Page 3 and contribute to this ramshackled clown shoe way of thinking. If you have small breasts you're not less of a person, you're not going to be undervalued by society, you are perfectly normal and beautiful, people come in all shapes and sizes and this is to be embraced by society, our differences are what make us who we are. Whatever the size of your breasts or however you look there isn't anything wrong with you and if somebody or something tells you there is then that is the thing at fault.
This "LAD" culture and the sexploitation of women is really fucking ridiculous, the fact that a woman feels insecure about her breast size because of it is horrible and wrong. If you buy into this culture, aspire to be a "glamour model", buy the Sun, support the degradation and exploitation of women you are part of this machine. What I'm saying is you should question things a whole lot more, look closer at the facts and harder at the evidence, educate yourselves and change your way of thinking. Love yourselves and be proud of who you are.
Monday, 11 March 2013
The Search for Eggy Wallop (Days One to Five)
Day One
After a hearty breakfast of liver and onions it was full steam ahead as I marched towards the City Library wearing my cagoule and shorts combo. I had to wait outside for half an hour as I arrived there earlier than expected. I have long legs and the footstep ratio is 3:1 of an average sized human man and me; and 7:1 of a small human child and me.
A tall, skinny gentlemen opened up the library and showed me to the archives. He was the librarian, and if ever there was a competition for the World's Sexiest Librarian he would surely win.
The archives proved useful, it turns out Eggy Wallop was born Eggy Wallop on 26th December 1987. His father was a sailor in the Merchant Navy and his mother was a hairdresser and housewife. He was raised in a ramshackled barn house and always wanted more out of life. He was always searching for something, but what that something was wouldn't be made clear until 21st July 2012.
His father's name was Edward Jethro Dennis Wallop and his mother's name was Cassandra Fiona Bocelli Wallop (nee Costello). It seemed like humble beginnings for Eggy Wallop, but it wasn't until his first Christmas that things began to turn very strange indeed...
Day Two
25th December 1988, it began like any normal Christmas. Waking up to open presents and his parents being just as excited as him, but when they all went down stairs there were no presents. In fact, there wasn't anything, just a note that said "It's been a pleasure and a priviledge". The Wallop family were understandably upset, they were visibly shaken, they wanted answers.
This incident scarred Eggy Wallop for life, when he wasn't thinking of anything in particular it was this Christmas memory that replayed through his mind. Years went by like this, every Christmas the same note and the same thing happened, no explanation was found. I guess this is one of the reasons why his family turned from devout Santa worshipers into Jehovah's Witnesses.
The second day of the search has started out badly, I woke up late and missed the bus to my next contact. I've decided to ask passersby on the streets if they have heard of this elusive man.
Walking down past Wilkinsons I spot a mother and child, the mother tells the child to "get away from those rats," I think the mother is mistaken because the child is chasing pigeons, not rats. I ask her where she was on the evening of the 21st July. She tells me that it isn't any of my business and unless I want a fat lip I best move along. It seems that people are keeping Eggy Wallop's whereabouts hidden for some reason.
This may only be my second day at being a detective, but I haven't failed a case yet. If people think they can keep quiet and disrupt an investigation they have another thing coming.
I continue looking for information, but everyone is keeping tight-lipped. I decide that the best idea is to go home and get some rest, hopefully tomorrow will turn up more leads.
Upon opening my front door I spot an envelope on the floor, it's addressed to a "Mr. Adam Byrne", that's me. The letter reads:
Dear Mr. Adam Byrne,
I've been watching you. You may think this is one big game and that playing detectives is fun and a bit of a laugh, but I strongly advise you to give up this pathetic nonsense. It's in everybody's best interests that you forget about Eggy Wallop, he doesn't exist. I mean, can a man with such a name really be real? Have you actually thought about it? Who would name their child Eggy Wallop? It just doesn't make sense.
Stop your seraching at once, otherwise very untoward things will happen to you. Things that only you can dream of dreaming about. Heed my words.
Yours faithfully,
A friend.
It seems that someone's feathers have been ruffled, they don't want the world to know what happened on 21st July. There's only one man who knows and I will search every shore, look in every crack, and explore every hole until I find him.
Day Three
Eggy Wallop haunts my dreams, nightmares and every waking moment. I recieved a phone call earlier today from an anonymous source telling me they have information regarding the whereabouts of Eggy Wallop.
The drive to Brighton is long and treacherous, more than once I was stopped by highwaymen and vagabonds. The journey took me to an abandoned warehouse where I met with a contact named Francis, he told me he once had an affair with Eggy Wallop and that he was solely responsible for the downfall of his marriage.
It seems that whoever this Eggy Wallop fellow is he's upset and hurt a lot of people. There was me thinking he was a charming, sweet, and very well-to-do gentleman. I look into Francis' eyes and hope that this man stood in front of me isn't a sign of things to come for myself. I love my wife and children and my marriage is one of the only things I hold dear to me, that and my self-initiated quest for Eggy Wallop.
The sky begins to grow dark and the sun is starting to set. I tell Francis that if we want to live to see another day we best get to a hotel before it becomes impossible to see. These Winter nights are some of the worst I've ever encountered.
Francis and I check in to a B&B called The Lamb and Sausage. There's only one room left and it only has a double bed in it. I tell Francis I've been happily married for 21 years and if anybody is going to try any funny business it won't be me. We get under the covers as the cold begins to set in, we huddle up close for warmth, within 5 minutes everything goes blank. My wife flashes before my eyes, I really don't know how, if it all, I'll explain this to her. Three days as an independent investigator and my marriage is already being questioned. I'm starting to realise this isn't going to be a walk in the park...
Day Four
I wake up with a salty taste in my mouth, despite the incriminating evidence I hope and pray last night was just a dream. I turn over and Francis is gone, did I dream it? Does Francis really exist? Or like Gods and monsters is he a figment of my overactive imagination?
The door opens and there stands Francis holding a tray with breakfast on. I cannot bear to look at him, he's not only put my marriage in jeopardy but he's wasting my valuable time. I could be searching for Eggy Wallop right now.
We eat our breakfast in uncomfortable silence, my head is pounding and I want more than anything to be away from Francis. An hour goes by and I can stay no more, I tell Francis I think I left the bath running at home, and leave.
Out on the streets of Brighton I'm at a loss. With no leads to go on I head to the beach to gather my bearings. The beach is beautiful, the sky is blue and I begin to regain my composure. Out of the corner of my eye I spot a glimmering object...
A message in a bottle, I've always wanted to find one of these and I thought they only existed in films. Apparently, only in films and in Brighton it seems. I open the bottle and empty out the contents. The bottle contains a key and a note with a number and words written on. The note reads "24601 - Brighton train station", I figure it must be for a safety deposit box.
I whistled for a cab, I got in and told him my destination. The driver could probably smell the shame on me mingled with the salty sea air. I pay my fare and step out of the cab. Only when the driver drove away did I realise that the driver was in fact, Francis.
I could be imagining it, it wouldn't be the first time my mind has played tricks on me. Only last week did I think I'd won the Lottery, not until after I'd rang everybody in my phonebook did I realise that I hadn't even put the Lottery on. There were some very embarrasing phone calls that followed.
I step into the train station and find safety deposit box 24601, I open it to find another note, this time written in arabic. Nothing is ever easy in this life, you'd do well to remember that. It looks like whatever I decide to do next it will have to involve somebody who can read arabic. The only person I know who can read arabic is Francis. Oh, how I do love irony.
Day Four
It's been four tireless days of clutching at straws but I think I'm finally on to something. I pick up the phone, heave a heavy sigh and dial Francis' number. However awkward this may be it has to be done, I have no other choice or options.
Francis answers and I tell him I need his help. He laughs at me in a mocking tone, he has the upper hand and I'm far from happy about it. I tell him about the note written in arabic and plead for his help. Never in my life have I been more desperate, I tell him so and instantly regret it. We're now on his terms, your humble narrator is now at the mercy of Francis' every whim.
He tells me to meet him at the Labrador and Petticoat to show him the note and maybe something more. In an effort to regain some power I tell him, "Business first, pleasure later". He takes the bait, this may be easier than I thought. I mumble sweet nothings into the reciever just to make sure I have him on my side. I hang up the phone and head straight towards the Labrador and Petticoat.
The Labrador and Petticoat is one of Brighton's oldest pubs, opened in 1684 by Bernard Baker it has since earned the reputation of being the most unwelcome place in the South, especially for people who aren't natives of Brighton.
It takes me fifteen minutes to walk to the Labrador and Petticoat. The interior is dark, bleak and has a very musty odour; I couldn't imagine spitting in here, never mind drinking in here. There are three men huddled at the bar speaking in gruff voices. Francis is one of the men, I whistle and Francis spins around on his bar stool. I sit down in the driest corner and gesture for him to come over, like a dog coming to its master he makes his way over.
I lay the note on the table, I pull a torch out of my pocket and shine it on the note. Francis speaks in Arabic and then translates the words into English. "Eggy Wallop, or as he is more commonly known The Divine One, is the 7th God of Jupiter and came to this planet to be its saviour and protector. He found solace in and amongst the city of Brighton and its residents. After being estranged from Jupiter for 450 years he was chastised to spend all of eternity walking the Earth. As of 2012, he currently resides in the North Yorkshire town of Leyburn. He can usually be found tending to his garden or walking his dogs when the weather permits."
Francis places his hand on top of mine, it's cold and heavy, a bit like marble. I quickly stand up and run out of the door, I don't look back, I head straight back to the train station to catch the train to Leyburn. I'm so close to Eggy Wallop I can smell him. I buy my ticket and wait at the platform for the next train...
After a hearty breakfast of liver and onions it was full steam ahead as I marched towards the City Library wearing my cagoule and shorts combo. I had to wait outside for half an hour as I arrived there earlier than expected. I have long legs and the footstep ratio is 3:1 of an average sized human man and me; and 7:1 of a small human child and me.
A tall, skinny gentlemen opened up the library and showed me to the archives. He was the librarian, and if ever there was a competition for the World's Sexiest Librarian he would surely win.
The archives proved useful, it turns out Eggy Wallop was born Eggy Wallop on 26th December 1987. His father was a sailor in the Merchant Navy and his mother was a hairdresser and housewife. He was raised in a ramshackled barn house and always wanted more out of life. He was always searching for something, but what that something was wouldn't be made clear until 21st July 2012.
His father's name was Edward Jethro Dennis Wallop and his mother's name was Cassandra Fiona Bocelli Wallop (nee Costello). It seemed like humble beginnings for Eggy Wallop, but it wasn't until his first Christmas that things began to turn very strange indeed...
Day Two
25th December 1988, it began like any normal Christmas. Waking up to open presents and his parents being just as excited as him, but when they all went down stairs there were no presents. In fact, there wasn't anything, just a note that said "It's been a pleasure and a priviledge". The Wallop family were understandably upset, they were visibly shaken, they wanted answers.
This incident scarred Eggy Wallop for life, when he wasn't thinking of anything in particular it was this Christmas memory that replayed through his mind. Years went by like this, every Christmas the same note and the same thing happened, no explanation was found. I guess this is one of the reasons why his family turned from devout Santa worshipers into Jehovah's Witnesses.
The second day of the search has started out badly, I woke up late and missed the bus to my next contact. I've decided to ask passersby on the streets if they have heard of this elusive man.
Walking down past Wilkinsons I spot a mother and child, the mother tells the child to "get away from those rats," I think the mother is mistaken because the child is chasing pigeons, not rats. I ask her where she was on the evening of the 21st July. She tells me that it isn't any of my business and unless I want a fat lip I best move along. It seems that people are keeping Eggy Wallop's whereabouts hidden for some reason.
This may only be my second day at being a detective, but I haven't failed a case yet. If people think they can keep quiet and disrupt an investigation they have another thing coming.
I continue looking for information, but everyone is keeping tight-lipped. I decide that the best idea is to go home and get some rest, hopefully tomorrow will turn up more leads.
Upon opening my front door I spot an envelope on the floor, it's addressed to a "Mr. Adam Byrne", that's me. The letter reads:
Dear Mr. Adam Byrne,
I've been watching you. You may think this is one big game and that playing detectives is fun and a bit of a laugh, but I strongly advise you to give up this pathetic nonsense. It's in everybody's best interests that you forget about Eggy Wallop, he doesn't exist. I mean, can a man with such a name really be real? Have you actually thought about it? Who would name their child Eggy Wallop? It just doesn't make sense.
Stop your seraching at once, otherwise very untoward things will happen to you. Things that only you can dream of dreaming about. Heed my words.
Yours faithfully,
A friend.
It seems that someone's feathers have been ruffled, they don't want the world to know what happened on 21st July. There's only one man who knows and I will search every shore, look in every crack, and explore every hole until I find him.
Day Three
Eggy Wallop haunts my dreams, nightmares and every waking moment. I recieved a phone call earlier today from an anonymous source telling me they have information regarding the whereabouts of Eggy Wallop.
The drive to Brighton is long and treacherous, more than once I was stopped by highwaymen and vagabonds. The journey took me to an abandoned warehouse where I met with a contact named Francis, he told me he once had an affair with Eggy Wallop and that he was solely responsible for the downfall of his marriage.
It seems that whoever this Eggy Wallop fellow is he's upset and hurt a lot of people. There was me thinking he was a charming, sweet, and very well-to-do gentleman. I look into Francis' eyes and hope that this man stood in front of me isn't a sign of things to come for myself. I love my wife and children and my marriage is one of the only things I hold dear to me, that and my self-initiated quest for Eggy Wallop.
The sky begins to grow dark and the sun is starting to set. I tell Francis that if we want to live to see another day we best get to a hotel before it becomes impossible to see. These Winter nights are some of the worst I've ever encountered.
Francis and I check in to a B&B called The Lamb and Sausage. There's only one room left and it only has a double bed in it. I tell Francis I've been happily married for 21 years and if anybody is going to try any funny business it won't be me. We get under the covers as the cold begins to set in, we huddle up close for warmth, within 5 minutes everything goes blank. My wife flashes before my eyes, I really don't know how, if it all, I'll explain this to her. Three days as an independent investigator and my marriage is already being questioned. I'm starting to realise this isn't going to be a walk in the park...
Day Four
I wake up with a salty taste in my mouth, despite the incriminating evidence I hope and pray last night was just a dream. I turn over and Francis is gone, did I dream it? Does Francis really exist? Or like Gods and monsters is he a figment of my overactive imagination?
The door opens and there stands Francis holding a tray with breakfast on. I cannot bear to look at him, he's not only put my marriage in jeopardy but he's wasting my valuable time. I could be searching for Eggy Wallop right now.
We eat our breakfast in uncomfortable silence, my head is pounding and I want more than anything to be away from Francis. An hour goes by and I can stay no more, I tell Francis I think I left the bath running at home, and leave.
Out on the streets of Brighton I'm at a loss. With no leads to go on I head to the beach to gather my bearings. The beach is beautiful, the sky is blue and I begin to regain my composure. Out of the corner of my eye I spot a glimmering object...
A message in a bottle, I've always wanted to find one of these and I thought they only existed in films. Apparently, only in films and in Brighton it seems. I open the bottle and empty out the contents. The bottle contains a key and a note with a number and words written on. The note reads "24601 - Brighton train station", I figure it must be for a safety deposit box.
I whistled for a cab, I got in and told him my destination. The driver could probably smell the shame on me mingled with the salty sea air. I pay my fare and step out of the cab. Only when the driver drove away did I realise that the driver was in fact, Francis.
I could be imagining it, it wouldn't be the first time my mind has played tricks on me. Only last week did I think I'd won the Lottery, not until after I'd rang everybody in my phonebook did I realise that I hadn't even put the Lottery on. There were some very embarrasing phone calls that followed.
I step into the train station and find safety deposit box 24601, I open it to find another note, this time written in arabic. Nothing is ever easy in this life, you'd do well to remember that. It looks like whatever I decide to do next it will have to involve somebody who can read arabic. The only person I know who can read arabic is Francis. Oh, how I do love irony.
Day Four
It's been four tireless days of clutching at straws but I think I'm finally on to something. I pick up the phone, heave a heavy sigh and dial Francis' number. However awkward this may be it has to be done, I have no other choice or options.
Francis answers and I tell him I need his help. He laughs at me in a mocking tone, he has the upper hand and I'm far from happy about it. I tell him about the note written in arabic and plead for his help. Never in my life have I been more desperate, I tell him so and instantly regret it. We're now on his terms, your humble narrator is now at the mercy of Francis' every whim.
He tells me to meet him at the Labrador and Petticoat to show him the note and maybe something more. In an effort to regain some power I tell him, "Business first, pleasure later". He takes the bait, this may be easier than I thought. I mumble sweet nothings into the reciever just to make sure I have him on my side. I hang up the phone and head straight towards the Labrador and Petticoat.
The Labrador and Petticoat is one of Brighton's oldest pubs, opened in 1684 by Bernard Baker it has since earned the reputation of being the most unwelcome place in the South, especially for people who aren't natives of Brighton.
It takes me fifteen minutes to walk to the Labrador and Petticoat. The interior is dark, bleak and has a very musty odour; I couldn't imagine spitting in here, never mind drinking in here. There are three men huddled at the bar speaking in gruff voices. Francis is one of the men, I whistle and Francis spins around on his bar stool. I sit down in the driest corner and gesture for him to come over, like a dog coming to its master he makes his way over.
I lay the note on the table, I pull a torch out of my pocket and shine it on the note. Francis speaks in Arabic and then translates the words into English. "Eggy Wallop, or as he is more commonly known The Divine One, is the 7th God of Jupiter and came to this planet to be its saviour and protector. He found solace in and amongst the city of Brighton and its residents. After being estranged from Jupiter for 450 years he was chastised to spend all of eternity walking the Earth. As of 2012, he currently resides in the North Yorkshire town of Leyburn. He can usually be found tending to his garden or walking his dogs when the weather permits."
Francis places his hand on top of mine, it's cold and heavy, a bit like marble. I quickly stand up and run out of the door, I don't look back, I head straight back to the train station to catch the train to Leyburn. I'm so close to Eggy Wallop I can smell him. I buy my ticket and wait at the platform for the next train...
Monday, 4 March 2013
Dead Meat
Two zombies approach with feet
How do you like your spirits? I like mine neat
Twelve corpses groan and moan
Shuffle in time to my polyphonic ringtone
Eight ghouls dance to a deadly beat
Beneath the bright lights of Suburban Street
Five skeletons all made out of bone
All stop dead as I answer my phone
I say hello, I politely greet
Not knowing full well that I'm dead meat.
How do you like your spirits? I like mine neat
Twelve corpses groan and moan
Shuffle in time to my polyphonic ringtone
Eight ghouls dance to a deadly beat
Beneath the bright lights of Suburban Street
Five skeletons all made out of bone
All stop dead as I answer my phone
I say hello, I politely greet
Not knowing full well that I'm dead meat.
Fantasy Crystal Maze Team
We're talking about our fantasy Crystal Maze team, Simon said he'd have Stephen Hawking, a Transformer from the cartoon, a blade of grass, and Hitler. When Jamie explained that a man in a wheelchair and a cartoon robot wouldn't be very helpful on the Crystal Maze Simon got shirty.
Jamie Green's fantasy Crystal Maze team is him, Usain Bolt, Dhalsim from Street Fighter, Henry Hoover (battery operated), Benedict Cumberbatch's portrayal of Sherlock Holmes, and Tom Hanks.
Simon Wells' team comprises of himself, William Shakespeare, Q from Star Trek, Superman, Mr. Tickle from the Mr. Men books, and Michael Newman from the film Click.
My team includes myself, Charles Bronson, Nikola Tesla, Rincewind from the Discworld novels, Ash from Evil Dead II, and Michael Caine.
Jamie Green's fantasy Crystal Maze team is him, Usain Bolt, Dhalsim from Street Fighter, Henry Hoover (battery operated), Benedict Cumberbatch's portrayal of Sherlock Holmes, and Tom Hanks.
Simon Wells' team comprises of himself, William Shakespeare, Q from Star Trek, Superman, Mr. Tickle from the Mr. Men books, and Michael Newman from the film Click.
My team includes myself, Charles Bronson, Nikola Tesla, Rincewind from the Discworld novels, Ash from Evil Dead II, and Michael Caine.
Brave New World Illustration
I recently recieved an email back from House of Illustration in regards to my submitted illustrations for the Aldous Huxley novel 'Brave New World'. Unfortunately, my images weren't selected but in all honesty I really enjoyed created them and I feel that these have propelled my work into a different direction and for that I'm very pleased. Here are the three images I submitted based on scenes throughout the book that stood out to me so lucidly and vividly.
“‘Well, then they were the parents –
I
mean, not the babies, of course; the other ones.’”
“The lift was crowded with men from the
Alpha Changing Rooms,
and Lenina’s entry was greeted by many friendly nods and
smiles.
She was a popular girl.”
“The Savage pushed her away with such
force that she staggered and fell.
‘Go,’ he shouted, standing over her
menacingly, ‘get out of my sight or I’ll kill you.’
He clenched his fists.”
Thursday, 17 January 2013
Thursday, 4 October 2012
50 Shades of Stray by Adam Lee Jones Parts 1-6
Part One
Glancing up from my mid-morning coffee I saw him, his hair flapped in the wind like a pigeon's wing and his smile could break the hearts of a thousand virgins. Tom Howarth, the new guy in town and the object of my desires and affections strutted across the road like a catwalk model.
I'd been living in Dewsbury about 10 years having moved from Gibraltar. Throughout my time here many men had come and many men had gone but they didn't mean anything to me, I realise that now as I gazed at the face of this captivating man.
I was lost in the intense world of passion and daydreams and I very nearly forgot how to compose myself in public. When I came to and looked towards the door he was there, entering Chatter's cafe and ordering a cup of coffee and a bacon roll was Tom Howarth. Cleanly shaven and smelling of Old Spice and fine washing powder he sat across from me. I don't believe in love at first sight, but I've been known to be wrong on several occasions.
I caught him glance over at me more than once and I could have sworn I saw him lick his lips. It could have been because of the brown sauce, but I firmly believe it was because I was wearing what could only be described as a summer casual outfit that showed off my milky white thighs.
Part Two
I got up from my seat after finishing my spam and egg sandwich, my legs were like jelly and my heart beat as fast and as furious as a vibrator. I was struck dumb with love, the butterflies in my chest wouldn't abate and carnal thoughts filled my mind.
I'd been in this cafe many times, I remember having my fifth birthday party here when I got told off for bursting balloons. But somehow, all of a sudden everything was new to me, foreign even. I didn't know where I was. Once I regained my composure and caught sight of Tom Howarth I knew that I must have been in Paradise.
I staggered over to Tom Howarth's table, for anyone who saw me I must have looked an awful fright. I placed down a carefully folded handkerchief on which I'd written my phone number. I mumbled, "How about once this is over you take yourself to the nearest payphone and you call me, Sugar." It was the boldest move I'd ever made in my life, and believe me when I tell you, I've lived. I've seen some things that no human being should ever see, I've experienced things that very few will ever experience; hell, I've done things which haven't even been thought of yet.
I'm getting ahead of myself here, I need to calm down. But when you've been in the presence of Tom Howarth it's very hard to calm down. I'd describe it as reading all of Dante's works in one sitting, in short, it was a head fuck.
What did I do next? Well, I did what any other man would have done after being in that situation. I strolled down the road with my head in the clouds, a smile on my face, and something gradually stirring in the base of my crotch.
Part Three
Once I made it home I realised what had occured. I'd just met the man who I was going to marry, I'd fallen for Tom Howarth hook, line and sinker. But let's be fair here, what man wouldn't? He was living, breathing beauty. He was Mona Lisa come to life. He was something that transcends words. He was the hook on which I hung my hat.
I live in a dainty one bedroom apartment on the outskirts of town, it isn't much to look at but the rent is cheap and it keeps me dry. I have a housecat called Steve, but when he's being particularly naughty I call him Stephen! with an exclamation mark. I don't get many visitors, but when I do they all compliment me on how tidy I keep it. I like to keep myself busy, I think Steve appreciates it too.
There's a rule that circulates about how when someone gives you their number you're supposed to wait three days before calling them back. That's absolute tosh, I knew it and so did Tom Howarth. I like to imagine Tom Howarth is a man of the world, he's his own boss and he plays by his own rules.
It must have been about two hours after I left him in Chatter's cafe when he rang. I'd just got out of the shower and my mind was on getting dried and feeding Steve. The phone rang and instantly I knew who it must be, not because I'm psychic, but because I'd just recently changed my number and I'd only given it to one person.
We exchanged pleasantries before indulging in what we really wanted to talk about. He mentioned that he had the day off tomorrow and if I wasn't busy would I like to go for a drive with him. I couldn't believe it, there was me thinking I'd need to be the dominant one and do all of the work. I think Tom Howarth actually likes me, and what's more I like him too. I agree to the offer, barely managing to remain calm. I think he can tell how giddy I am at the prospect of being in a car with him, side by side, wind blowing through our hair. We make small talk, say goodbye to one another and hang up. It takes me a while to process what had just taken place.
I get dried and feed Steve, my head feels light due to the excitement of the day's events. Still naked and feeling tired I take a nap on my bed. Freshly washed linen and silky soft sheets make falling asleep instantaneous.
Part Four
Dallas, Texas, 1958. An office. A filing cabinet. A lamp. A chair. A man sits at a desk smoking a cigar. Tom Howarth, the richest oil tycoon the city has ever seen barks orders at his receptionist over the phone. "Get me more coffee, dammit! Where's my paper? What the hell do I pay you for? This isn't some damn square dance! I'm a busy man, I could ruin you if I wanted to." I sit in the lobby waiting patiently for my interview with the man himself. I was a reporter working for the Colorado Express. I was fresh out of college and this was my first big job. Nervous doesn't begin to describe how I was feeling.
Tom Howarth was the son of wealthy cattle farmers who struck oil is the spring of 42', ever since then his family have been big shots. His father entrusted him with the family business 8 years previous and ever since then they've only become richer.
I'd always dreamed of becoming a reporter, when my parents heard I was working for the Colorado Express they were overjoyed. I'd only written short articles, nothing too big so this was a huge deal to me. I was here to interview Tom Howarth about the new casino he was opening up, it was to be a 9-page feature covering his early life and how one little boy rose to be one of the richest men in the US. It was your standard "This is where it all began" affair. I'd also be asking him about his future ambitions and goals, his personal life, was he married? Had he fathered any children? Who's inspired and influenced him? Had he any plans to do any charity work? That sort of thing.
After waiting patiently for around 45 minutes the receptionist's phone rings and I am told to go through to Tom Howarth's office. This is it, my moment of truth, my chance to shine and prove my worth as a junior reporter.
Upon walking into Tom Howarth's office he stands up and walks towards me, with his head held high and a huge grin on his face he shakes my hand. It's a powerful handshake and I have trouble matching the strength of his vise-like grip. It's a warm hand and I feel a jolt throughout the core of my body. He's a shockingly handsome chap with beautiful straight teeth and an impressive chiseled jaw. We sit down opposite each other ready to commence the interview.
Me: Good afternoon. How are you?
Tom Howarth: I'm great, thanks. How are you? Did you have a safe trip?
Me: I'm very well, thank you. Yeah, it was a pleasant drive, this is my first time in Texas so it's quite an experience.
Tom Howarth: Ah, that's good to hear. Yeah, I hear everybody's first time is memorable. They say you never forget your first time. I was born here so I'm used to it, I'm an old pro shall we say?
Me: Ha. It's certainly very different from home. There's more happening here, it's much more exciting. Tell me about growing up, what was it like on the cattle farm?
Tom Howarth: Well, my mother and father worked long days in order to provide for me so I'm very grateful for that and I can't thank them enough. I think that's where I get my determination to succeed from, from my hard-working folks. It's in the genes. We always had money and I never did without, some people would say I was spoiled but I was just lucky I guess. I had no other siblings so they spent all of their free time looking after me, I kind of feel guilty about that but they never seemed put out. We've always been a happy family.
Me: It seems your parents have had a profound effect on your outlook on life. You certainly have come a long way, I don't doubt there's been a lot of blood, sweat, and tear along the way. Given your success, is there anybody you look up to or admire?
Tom Howarth: I do respect my parents and their support and encouragement has allowed me to get where I am today. Other than that, I can't really say I admire anybody. I believe we make our own paths in life, together with our choices it's us who are responsible for our decisions, achievements, and actions.
Me: Hmmm, that's interesting. Given your busy schedule, do you have time for relationships? Is there a Mrs. Tom Howarth? How about children?
Tom Howarth: Haha. Erm, not at the moment. I've never been married, sure there's been the odd woman here and there, I can't lie. Right now however, there isn't anybody. I'm far too busy with work to be juggling a love life. I do want children one day, I want to give them the upbringing I had and teach them the lessons my parents taught me. But I feel now just isn't the right time for a family.
Me: Wow, that's very admirable. I understand you're opening a new casino. How do you think this will affect the city?
Tom Howarth: Well, more jobs will be created for a start. More revenue will be brought into the city as well as tourism and trade. How this will differ from your average casino is that we will allow ordinary citizens to buy shares in the casino therefore benefiting us and them. It's a win-win situation you see.
Me: I see. Do you have any charity work in mind? Is that something you're interested in?
Tom Howarth: I really do want to get involved with charity work, I see it as a way of putting some of what I've earned back into the community. I want to help others and make their lives better in whatever way I can, I see myself in a position to do that.
Me: That sounds wonderful, and I wish you more continued success in the future. It really has been a pleasure talking with you. Thank you for your time.
Tom Howarth: Yeah, you too. I really enjoyed it and if there is anything else I can help you with please don't hesitate to get in touch.
Me: I'll be sure to do that. Thanks, again.
Tom Howarth shakes my hand one more time and shows me to the door. He's incredibly charismatic and his charm and wit show.
I walk back into the lobby, there is a grey haired man wearing a dark brown suit sat in the chair where I was sat half an hour previous. I say goodbye and thank you to the receptionist. As I am doing this the man with the grey hair walks into Tom Howarth's office. As I walk out of the main door I hear a gun shot.
I rush back into the lobby, the man with the grey hair barges past me and through the main door. I run into Tom Howarth's office to see him face down on his desk. Tears well up in my eyes as I realise that the man in front of me is gone and I will never get to tell him how I feel about him.
I jolt awake on my bed. I look at the clock and realise it's nearly time for my rendez-vous with Tom Howarth, I'd been asleep for 18 hours, I must have worn myself out the day before. I get changed into a white steam-pressed shirt, grey trousers and a lime green tie. I make a quick breakfast consisting of scrambled eggs and toast, I drain my glass of orange juice, and brush my teeth. I check my watch and head out of the door. Feeling considerably fresh I head towards the train station car park to meet Tom Howarth.
Part Five
He's there. Slouched back in his Lexus looking like a big juicy steak just waiting to have my lips wrapped around him. Tom Howarth, stylish and beautiful as ever sits up and waves at me. I'd been really eager for this meeting with the man of my dreams, truth be told I've been getting hot flushes just thinking about it.
I walk over to his car with what I'd describe as grace and elegance. I sit down and he pecks me on the cheek, I'm having an internal orgasm as his moist, wet lips depart from my face. We decide that judging by the splendid weather we're going to head out towards Rectory Park, his hands firmly grip the gear stick and my thoughts immediately jump towards another long and hard object I wouldn't mind his manly grasp taking control of. We drive off towards our secluded hot spot, the tepid air blows through our hair, we're not men of the road anymore, we're Gods. Not your average Gods, we're Greek Gods who are hungry for love, passion, and excitement wherever they can get it.
I'd been to Rectory Park once before, don't ask me why; I was young, some would say foolish. I was naive, I had no idea of how hard a man could love another man. Suffice to say Rectory Park holds only erotic memories for me and I'd very much like to keep it that way. Yes, even I, your humble narrator has had sexual relations in the deepest, darkest corners of West Yorkshire. I'm not ashamed to admit it, but I've been around a bit. I have a very insatiable appetite, but with me and Tom Howarth it's different, it's the real thing.
Tom Howarth had the foresight to pack a picnic and a blanket, I was in such a tizz this morning it's a miracle I remembered to put clothes on at all. We lie down and commence eating our sandwiches, I'll say this about Tom Howarth - "He certainly packs a lot of meat into these sandwiches." We chat about the usual stuff, the weather, the cricket, our favourite colours, star signs and cheese. We're having a wonderful time, the weather and the company are both great.
It's then that Tom Howarth says something that makes me cease chewing the last chunk of my chorizo and cheese sandwich. "I've never been with another man before, of course I've imagined what it would be like, but I've never had the gall to go through with it. Something about when I'm with you... It's just right." I and Tom Howarth lean towards each other as naturally as lovers do, we kiss, but it's then that we realise that we are being watched...
Part Six
The bushes rustle like crepe paper in the hands of a toddler, I'm not the sort of guy to be distracted by trivial things but this had me spooked. I yell "If you wanted a piece of the action you could have just said, I'm liberal-minded and can accommodate for every taste!" Out of the bushes walks Eggy Wallop, a man who I myself have been searching for for as long as I can remember. My quest for Eggy Wallop is legendary and so is that of his reputation. I'd never met this man, other than seeing his bizarre and frankly disturbing YouTube videos I was unaware of his undeniable aura. Stories of his life permeate the tomes of human existence.
I was startled, some would say shocked. How could this man disrupt such an or...gy-filled affair? How long is long? And why is the common denominator so common? For Eggy Wallop to find me defies the laws of physics; hell, it defies the very nature of defiance.
With all the bravado of a swimsuit model at a Led Zepellin convention, he walks over as cocky as can be and sits down on Tom Howarth's picnic blanket. Helping himself to the humous he states, "For a man who likes men you sure aren't much of a man, man." Eggy Wallop is playing games, mind games. He knows how long I've been searching, the streets I've prowled, the sewers I've delved and the files I've opened. Yet he has the cheek to insult me!?
I admit that romantic relationships seldom work out for me, I've never been able to establish why but that's just life I guess. Eggy Wallop seemed hellbent on destroying my only chance of everlasting happiness, after everything I've been through why should I give up on love so easily? I throw down the Viennese Whirl so aggressively that cream and jam spread out across the blanket. I stand up and declare that Eggy Wallop may be wise, he may have the gift of the gab and the body of a swan, he may be the 7th God of Jupiter, and he may know the entire script to Raiders of the Lost Ark, but I've made my choice to be with Tom Howarth and there ain't anyone who's going to come between us. Especially not Eggy Wallop who's as elusive and cowardly as a gambler when the chips are down.
It's then that Tom Howarth rises to his feet, grabs my hand and states, "Love is a wondrous thing that can take people a lifetime to find but when you find it you never want to let it go." We march hand in hand to the car, leaving the remains of the picnic, the blanket, the discarded Viennese Whirl and Eggy Wallop sitting there motionless and dumbstruck like a man who's just seen what really goes into McDonald's chicken nuggets.
Glancing up from my mid-morning coffee I saw him, his hair flapped in the wind like a pigeon's wing and his smile could break the hearts of a thousand virgins. Tom Howarth, the new guy in town and the object of my desires and affections strutted across the road like a catwalk model.
I'd been living in Dewsbury about 10 years having moved from Gibraltar. Throughout my time here many men had come and many men had gone but they didn't mean anything to me, I realise that now as I gazed at the face of this captivating man.
I was lost in the intense world of passion and daydreams and I very nearly forgot how to compose myself in public. When I came to and looked towards the door he was there, entering Chatter's cafe and ordering a cup of coffee and a bacon roll was Tom Howarth. Cleanly shaven and smelling of Old Spice and fine washing powder he sat across from me. I don't believe in love at first sight, but I've been known to be wrong on several occasions.
I caught him glance over at me more than once and I could have sworn I saw him lick his lips. It could have been because of the brown sauce, but I firmly believe it was because I was wearing what could only be described as a summer casual outfit that showed off my milky white thighs.
Part Two
I got up from my seat after finishing my spam and egg sandwich, my legs were like jelly and my heart beat as fast and as furious as a vibrator. I was struck dumb with love, the butterflies in my chest wouldn't abate and carnal thoughts filled my mind.
I'd been in this cafe many times, I remember having my fifth birthday party here when I got told off for bursting balloons. But somehow, all of a sudden everything was new to me, foreign even. I didn't know where I was. Once I regained my composure and caught sight of Tom Howarth I knew that I must have been in Paradise.
I staggered over to Tom Howarth's table, for anyone who saw me I must have looked an awful fright. I placed down a carefully folded handkerchief on which I'd written my phone number. I mumbled, "How about once this is over you take yourself to the nearest payphone and you call me, Sugar." It was the boldest move I'd ever made in my life, and believe me when I tell you, I've lived. I've seen some things that no human being should ever see, I've experienced things that very few will ever experience; hell, I've done things which haven't even been thought of yet.
I'm getting ahead of myself here, I need to calm down. But when you've been in the presence of Tom Howarth it's very hard to calm down. I'd describe it as reading all of Dante's works in one sitting, in short, it was a head fuck.
What did I do next? Well, I did what any other man would have done after being in that situation. I strolled down the road with my head in the clouds, a smile on my face, and something gradually stirring in the base of my crotch.
Part Three
Once I made it home I realised what had occured. I'd just met the man who I was going to marry, I'd fallen for Tom Howarth hook, line and sinker. But let's be fair here, what man wouldn't? He was living, breathing beauty. He was Mona Lisa come to life. He was something that transcends words. He was the hook on which I hung my hat.
I live in a dainty one bedroom apartment on the outskirts of town, it isn't much to look at but the rent is cheap and it keeps me dry. I have a housecat called Steve, but when he's being particularly naughty I call him Stephen! with an exclamation mark. I don't get many visitors, but when I do they all compliment me on how tidy I keep it. I like to keep myself busy, I think Steve appreciates it too.
There's a rule that circulates about how when someone gives you their number you're supposed to wait three days before calling them back. That's absolute tosh, I knew it and so did Tom Howarth. I like to imagine Tom Howarth is a man of the world, he's his own boss and he plays by his own rules.
It must have been about two hours after I left him in Chatter's cafe when he rang. I'd just got out of the shower and my mind was on getting dried and feeding Steve. The phone rang and instantly I knew who it must be, not because I'm psychic, but because I'd just recently changed my number and I'd only given it to one person.
We exchanged pleasantries before indulging in what we really wanted to talk about. He mentioned that he had the day off tomorrow and if I wasn't busy would I like to go for a drive with him. I couldn't believe it, there was me thinking I'd need to be the dominant one and do all of the work. I think Tom Howarth actually likes me, and what's more I like him too. I agree to the offer, barely managing to remain calm. I think he can tell how giddy I am at the prospect of being in a car with him, side by side, wind blowing through our hair. We make small talk, say goodbye to one another and hang up. It takes me a while to process what had just taken place.
I get dried and feed Steve, my head feels light due to the excitement of the day's events. Still naked and feeling tired I take a nap on my bed. Freshly washed linen and silky soft sheets make falling asleep instantaneous.
Part Four
Dallas, Texas, 1958. An office. A filing cabinet. A lamp. A chair. A man sits at a desk smoking a cigar. Tom Howarth, the richest oil tycoon the city has ever seen barks orders at his receptionist over the phone. "Get me more coffee, dammit! Where's my paper? What the hell do I pay you for? This isn't some damn square dance! I'm a busy man, I could ruin you if I wanted to." I sit in the lobby waiting patiently for my interview with the man himself. I was a reporter working for the Colorado Express. I was fresh out of college and this was my first big job. Nervous doesn't begin to describe how I was feeling.
Tom Howarth was the son of wealthy cattle farmers who struck oil is the spring of 42', ever since then his family have been big shots. His father entrusted him with the family business 8 years previous and ever since then they've only become richer.
I'd always dreamed of becoming a reporter, when my parents heard I was working for the Colorado Express they were overjoyed. I'd only written short articles, nothing too big so this was a huge deal to me. I was here to interview Tom Howarth about the new casino he was opening up, it was to be a 9-page feature covering his early life and how one little boy rose to be one of the richest men in the US. It was your standard "This is where it all began" affair. I'd also be asking him about his future ambitions and goals, his personal life, was he married? Had he fathered any children? Who's inspired and influenced him? Had he any plans to do any charity work? That sort of thing.
After waiting patiently for around 45 minutes the receptionist's phone rings and I am told to go through to Tom Howarth's office. This is it, my moment of truth, my chance to shine and prove my worth as a junior reporter.
Upon walking into Tom Howarth's office he stands up and walks towards me, with his head held high and a huge grin on his face he shakes my hand. It's a powerful handshake and I have trouble matching the strength of his vise-like grip. It's a warm hand and I feel a jolt throughout the core of my body. He's a shockingly handsome chap with beautiful straight teeth and an impressive chiseled jaw. We sit down opposite each other ready to commence the interview.
Me: Good afternoon. How are you?
Tom Howarth: I'm great, thanks. How are you? Did you have a safe trip?
Me: I'm very well, thank you. Yeah, it was a pleasant drive, this is my first time in Texas so it's quite an experience.
Tom Howarth: Ah, that's good to hear. Yeah, I hear everybody's first time is memorable. They say you never forget your first time. I was born here so I'm used to it, I'm an old pro shall we say?
Me: Ha. It's certainly very different from home. There's more happening here, it's much more exciting. Tell me about growing up, what was it like on the cattle farm?
Tom Howarth: Well, my mother and father worked long days in order to provide for me so I'm very grateful for that and I can't thank them enough. I think that's where I get my determination to succeed from, from my hard-working folks. It's in the genes. We always had money and I never did without, some people would say I was spoiled but I was just lucky I guess. I had no other siblings so they spent all of their free time looking after me, I kind of feel guilty about that but they never seemed put out. We've always been a happy family.
Me: It seems your parents have had a profound effect on your outlook on life. You certainly have come a long way, I don't doubt there's been a lot of blood, sweat, and tear along the way. Given your success, is there anybody you look up to or admire?
Tom Howarth: I do respect my parents and their support and encouragement has allowed me to get where I am today. Other than that, I can't really say I admire anybody. I believe we make our own paths in life, together with our choices it's us who are responsible for our decisions, achievements, and actions.
Me: Hmmm, that's interesting. Given your busy schedule, do you have time for relationships? Is there a Mrs. Tom Howarth? How about children?
Tom Howarth: Haha. Erm, not at the moment. I've never been married, sure there's been the odd woman here and there, I can't lie. Right now however, there isn't anybody. I'm far too busy with work to be juggling a love life. I do want children one day, I want to give them the upbringing I had and teach them the lessons my parents taught me. But I feel now just isn't the right time for a family.
Me: Wow, that's very admirable. I understand you're opening a new casino. How do you think this will affect the city?
Tom Howarth: Well, more jobs will be created for a start. More revenue will be brought into the city as well as tourism and trade. How this will differ from your average casino is that we will allow ordinary citizens to buy shares in the casino therefore benefiting us and them. It's a win-win situation you see.
Me: I see. Do you have any charity work in mind? Is that something you're interested in?
Tom Howarth: I really do want to get involved with charity work, I see it as a way of putting some of what I've earned back into the community. I want to help others and make their lives better in whatever way I can, I see myself in a position to do that.
Me: That sounds wonderful, and I wish you more continued success in the future. It really has been a pleasure talking with you. Thank you for your time.
Tom Howarth: Yeah, you too. I really enjoyed it and if there is anything else I can help you with please don't hesitate to get in touch.
Me: I'll be sure to do that. Thanks, again.
Tom Howarth shakes my hand one more time and shows me to the door. He's incredibly charismatic and his charm and wit show.
I walk back into the lobby, there is a grey haired man wearing a dark brown suit sat in the chair where I was sat half an hour previous. I say goodbye and thank you to the receptionist. As I am doing this the man with the grey hair walks into Tom Howarth's office. As I walk out of the main door I hear a gun shot.
I rush back into the lobby, the man with the grey hair barges past me and through the main door. I run into Tom Howarth's office to see him face down on his desk. Tears well up in my eyes as I realise that the man in front of me is gone and I will never get to tell him how I feel about him.
I jolt awake on my bed. I look at the clock and realise it's nearly time for my rendez-vous with Tom Howarth, I'd been asleep for 18 hours, I must have worn myself out the day before. I get changed into a white steam-pressed shirt, grey trousers and a lime green tie. I make a quick breakfast consisting of scrambled eggs and toast, I drain my glass of orange juice, and brush my teeth. I check my watch and head out of the door. Feeling considerably fresh I head towards the train station car park to meet Tom Howarth.
Part Five
He's there. Slouched back in his Lexus looking like a big juicy steak just waiting to have my lips wrapped around him. Tom Howarth, stylish and beautiful as ever sits up and waves at me. I'd been really eager for this meeting with the man of my dreams, truth be told I've been getting hot flushes just thinking about it.
I walk over to his car with what I'd describe as grace and elegance. I sit down and he pecks me on the cheek, I'm having an internal orgasm as his moist, wet lips depart from my face. We decide that judging by the splendid weather we're going to head out towards Rectory Park, his hands firmly grip the gear stick and my thoughts immediately jump towards another long and hard object I wouldn't mind his manly grasp taking control of. We drive off towards our secluded hot spot, the tepid air blows through our hair, we're not men of the road anymore, we're Gods. Not your average Gods, we're Greek Gods who are hungry for love, passion, and excitement wherever they can get it.
I'd been to Rectory Park once before, don't ask me why; I was young, some would say foolish. I was naive, I had no idea of how hard a man could love another man. Suffice to say Rectory Park holds only erotic memories for me and I'd very much like to keep it that way. Yes, even I, your humble narrator has had sexual relations in the deepest, darkest corners of West Yorkshire. I'm not ashamed to admit it, but I've been around a bit. I have a very insatiable appetite, but with me and Tom Howarth it's different, it's the real thing.
Tom Howarth had the foresight to pack a picnic and a blanket, I was in such a tizz this morning it's a miracle I remembered to put clothes on at all. We lie down and commence eating our sandwiches, I'll say this about Tom Howarth - "He certainly packs a lot of meat into these sandwiches." We chat about the usual stuff, the weather, the cricket, our favourite colours, star signs and cheese. We're having a wonderful time, the weather and the company are both great.
It's then that Tom Howarth says something that makes me cease chewing the last chunk of my chorizo and cheese sandwich. "I've never been with another man before, of course I've imagined what it would be like, but I've never had the gall to go through with it. Something about when I'm with you... It's just right." I and Tom Howarth lean towards each other as naturally as lovers do, we kiss, but it's then that we realise that we are being watched...
Part Six
The bushes rustle like crepe paper in the hands of a toddler, I'm not the sort of guy to be distracted by trivial things but this had me spooked. I yell "If you wanted a piece of the action you could have just said, I'm liberal-minded and can accommodate for every taste!" Out of the bushes walks Eggy Wallop, a man who I myself have been searching for for as long as I can remember. My quest for Eggy Wallop is legendary and so is that of his reputation. I'd never met this man, other than seeing his bizarre and frankly disturbing YouTube videos I was unaware of his undeniable aura. Stories of his life permeate the tomes of human existence.
I was startled, some would say shocked. How could this man disrupt such an or...gy-filled affair? How long is long? And why is the common denominator so common? For Eggy Wallop to find me defies the laws of physics; hell, it defies the very nature of defiance.
With all the bravado of a swimsuit model at a Led Zepellin convention, he walks over as cocky as can be and sits down on Tom Howarth's picnic blanket. Helping himself to the humous he states, "For a man who likes men you sure aren't much of a man, man." Eggy Wallop is playing games, mind games. He knows how long I've been searching, the streets I've prowled, the sewers I've delved and the files I've opened. Yet he has the cheek to insult me!?
I admit that romantic relationships seldom work out for me, I've never been able to establish why but that's just life I guess. Eggy Wallop seemed hellbent on destroying my only chance of everlasting happiness, after everything I've been through why should I give up on love so easily? I throw down the Viennese Whirl so aggressively that cream and jam spread out across the blanket. I stand up and declare that Eggy Wallop may be wise, he may have the gift of the gab and the body of a swan, he may be the 7th God of Jupiter, and he may know the entire script to Raiders of the Lost Ark, but I've made my choice to be with Tom Howarth and there ain't anyone who's going to come between us. Especially not Eggy Wallop who's as elusive and cowardly as a gambler when the chips are down.
It's then that Tom Howarth rises to his feet, grabs my hand and states, "Love is a wondrous thing that can take people a lifetime to find but when you find it you never want to let it go." We march hand in hand to the car, leaving the remains of the picnic, the blanket, the discarded Viennese Whirl and Eggy Wallop sitting there motionless and dumbstruck like a man who's just seen what really goes into McDonald's chicken nuggets.
Thursday, 6 September 2012
Our Frank
I'll admit I found the second year of my degree quite challenging, I had an extremely slow start and when I did begin to get going it was hard to muster creativity. To put it bluntly, I was a magician who had run out of tricks. Making work was a hard thing to do and concentrating and knuckling down was even harder.
However, once the Workshop Module started and we began to bring in ephemera I found that I could easily adapt on something already existing. Ephemera is something I love and have a considerable amount of, I'm not a hoarder but a lover of things, of objects. I'd bought some old books which were possibly worth a bit of money, but as I didn't care for selling them and felt that cutting them up might be of some benefit, I did exactly that.
The work I made with this ephemera was something very different and I really liked what I'd made, I was proud of it and I could see it going somewhere. I love words and I'm very fond of them so it seemed natural to combine both word and image to make work. The stuff I wrote as part of this investigative journey complimented the images I'd selected, I'd managed to impress myself. Not only was it using typography, collage and ephemera but it was incorporating my views on relationships and love - I'd not made work about these two subjects for some time.
So my Workshop Module and Studio Practice were working alongside one another and this was the whole point, to allow the two modules to intertwine. It was around this time that things got on top of me and everything just went by so fast, I didn't have time to catch up, all I could do was to stand there looking gormless, doing nothing.
At some point during the Exhibition Module I sorted myself out, I realised what needed to be done, what was important and how I could careen this sinking ship in a more stable direction. The stained glass windows proved to be somewhat of a saving grace. For all of the late nights and marker pens I plowed into them they were the one thing that managed to get me back on track.
When it came to report writing I found that I didn't struggle with this quite as much as others might have. I can write, and dealing with the facts and putting them in some form of logical order was something I didn't find hard to do. In fact, I thoroughly enjoyed the report writing and there's no doubt that it will come in handy in the future, for whatever career awaits me.
As I've wrote about the ephemera, it really did help me to vision things differently and allow me to be able to create work in a new way.
Another 'highlight' of my second year were my Jesus screenprints, these too were made with literally seconds to spare; I was fighting off deadlines with my limited kung fu knowledge. The outcome is one that I am incedibly happy with. By taking some engravings from my ever-growing collection of Bibles I was able to create some beautiful and very profound screenprints. The typography of which was influenced by the colours, decided through trial and error, and subject matter.
In conclusion, my second year is one of mixed emotions. In the end everything worked out and all of the worry really wasn't worth it. Overall I've learnt that finishing this degree and doing something I'm extremely fond of is what matters. Onwards and upwards, so they say
However, once the Workshop Module started and we began to bring in ephemera I found that I could easily adapt on something already existing. Ephemera is something I love and have a considerable amount of, I'm not a hoarder but a lover of things, of objects. I'd bought some old books which were possibly worth a bit of money, but as I didn't care for selling them and felt that cutting them up might be of some benefit, I did exactly that.
The work I made with this ephemera was something very different and I really liked what I'd made, I was proud of it and I could see it going somewhere. I love words and I'm very fond of them so it seemed natural to combine both word and image to make work. The stuff I wrote as part of this investigative journey complimented the images I'd selected, I'd managed to impress myself. Not only was it using typography, collage and ephemera but it was incorporating my views on relationships and love - I'd not made work about these two subjects for some time.
So my Workshop Module and Studio Practice were working alongside one another and this was the whole point, to allow the two modules to intertwine. It was around this time that things got on top of me and everything just went by so fast, I didn't have time to catch up, all I could do was to stand there looking gormless, doing nothing.
At some point during the Exhibition Module I sorted myself out, I realised what needed to be done, what was important and how I could careen this sinking ship in a more stable direction. The stained glass windows proved to be somewhat of a saving grace. For all of the late nights and marker pens I plowed into them they were the one thing that managed to get me back on track.
When it came to report writing I found that I didn't struggle with this quite as much as others might have. I can write, and dealing with the facts and putting them in some form of logical order was something I didn't find hard to do. In fact, I thoroughly enjoyed the report writing and there's no doubt that it will come in handy in the future, for whatever career awaits me.
As I've wrote about the ephemera, it really did help me to vision things differently and allow me to be able to create work in a new way.
Another 'highlight' of my second year were my Jesus screenprints, these too were made with literally seconds to spare; I was fighting off deadlines with my limited kung fu knowledge. The outcome is one that I am incedibly happy with. By taking some engravings from my ever-growing collection of Bibles I was able to create some beautiful and very profound screenprints. The typography of which was influenced by the colours, decided through trial and error, and subject matter.
In conclusion, my second year is one of mixed emotions. In the end everything worked out and all of the worry really wasn't worth it. Overall I've learnt that finishing this degree and doing something I'm extremely fond of is what matters. Onwards and upwards, so they say
Thursday, 23 August 2012
Susan Hiller
Monument by Susan Hiller
Not strictly printmaking, but interesting, inspiring and beautiful nonetheless. Susan Hiller’s work stood out to me on a recent visit to Leeds City Art Gallery. Her work seemed to have an assemblage quality to it, reminiscent to that of the art movement Fluxus.
The work was immediately eye-catching; it had what appeared to be a memorial bench inside a museum which completely threw me off guard. On closer inspection the inscription read ‘Susan Hiller, Monument, 1980-1’, it wasn’t dedicated to somebody who was deceased as I previously thought, but to the artist herself.
The wall on which the epitaphs were mounted attracted me, firstly because it made me question whether the curators had cut into it to display the pieces and secondly because of the hugeness and symmetrical presentation of the work. The whole installation seemed out of place, it was out of the ordinary and drew you in rather effortlessly. I was not the only one who was curious to see what this piece was all about and it struck a chord with others who were also admiring the work. Some of the epitaphs were funny, some were heart-wrenching, some spoke of heroic acts, and others of misfortunate incidents.
This work focuses on the dearly departed and does so with respect and dignity. I found the works compelling, moving and poetic; the work fitted into the environment and allowed you to be absorbed within it. Although I didn’t hear the audio that accompanied the piece, I enjoyed it greatly and will definitely be returning to hear it.
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