PSA

Take from this what you will. One of the things I’ve found most beneficial for my mental health is not looking at the news. Some people may say you need to know what's going on in the world, you don't. You can call this selfish, you can call it ignorance, but why continue to look at something that upsets you. Yes, the news has a place and a purpose, but it isn’t useful or helpful to consume it constantly. You can call me crazy, but I think it would be nice to live in a world where someone losing weight is not front page news.

What I've found helpful is only taking a quick glimpse at the news, sort of getting what you want and need from it. For me it’s seeing if things have sorted out, me looking at news is becoming less of a thing by the day and it honestly is making such a positive difference. As soon as I begin to feel angry, agitated, sad, depressed, or confused I immediately stop and look away. Maybe this is a defence mechanism, but it’s a very helpful one. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not detached from reality, no matter how appealing that may be - I still have a need to care and love. I just find the constant confusion and contradicting headlines to be too much. Why add confusion into the mix if you’re already feeling sad, anxious, and depressed?
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In regards to the recent events that being the murder of George Floyd. Everybody is now devoting their time to combating racism and the movement that is Black Lives Matter, whilst also damning every person who chimes in with "...but all lives matter." So many people are approaching this whole thing in such a wrong way, being dismissive and confrontational. Rather than saying they acknowledge the fact all people do matter, but the thing is we live in a world where black people are still being oppressed, persecuted, killed, and judged purely on the colour of their skin. Until we show that black lives matter, we are far from being able to state all lives matter and for it to actually mean anything. All lives do matter, of course they do, but at the moment in our current system it is shown that they don't.

It's lovely that so many people are now all of a sudden enthused with destroying racism, and the eradication of police brutality. It's great they can just muster up this energy, activism, and passion when it's in the news - didn't see it before, it was nowhere to be found. Well, it did make an appearance in 2015 when Michael Brown was killed by a police officer. Before dwindling away to wherever it goes only to resurface once it's back in the news. It was only last year that it was climate changes turn in the spotlight with Extinction Rebellion championing the cause, who used sticking themselves to things with super glue in order to be heard.

Another thing people like to do is when you point out that the riots and looting aren't the best way to go about doing things, they take umbridge with it. Because to me burning buildings, smashing things, and endangering countless lives is violence. Adding violence to violence amplifies violence, and that isn't productive. People will hark back to the Stonewall Riots, but here's the thing they didn't have the technology we had back then. In order to spread awareness, and draw attention perhaps riots were needed? Now we have the internet and the spread of information has never been easier. Because look how effective and useful the riots and looting were last time - spoiler alert, they weren't. Hence we have the same thing happening again, you need to adapt and change if you want to see any progress. Don't do the same things as before if they didn't work, it doesn't make any sense.

Also in terms of looting, people will argue the fact you're more outraged about objects and buildings than the murder of a man, as if you can't be angry about two things at once. They'll say "They're only things, they can be replaced." Okay, so the next time a house is robbed shall we tell the victims "They're only things, they can be replaced." What people aren't seeing is the fact that people have no doubt spent a lot of time, effort, money, blood, sweat, and tears to create their businesses in order for it all to be taken away from them.

I have never done groups or movements, I'm more concerned with my own limitations, and what I can do as a human being - the difference I can make and the impact I can have. These past few days I have glanced a bit more frequently at the news and found my mood has plummeted, so it's time to take a break from that.

Hashtag

I've been thinking about this today. I read a post this morning which I found interesting, that the black squares under the #BlackLivesMatter is erasing the space used for organisers to share resources. I'm always looking at these social media movements more closely because I remember Kony 2012 and how it struck me as off from the get go. I think in place of the black square should be some research that that person has done or learnt for themselves, after all we are doing this in order to resonate the message that Black Lives Matter. We need to stand together as one, because after all racism has no place in our society or anywhere. We should embrace, respect, and celebrate each another.

Looking on Instagram under the hashtags #blacklivesmatter and #blackouttuesday has now become a sea of blackness without context or meaning. Obviously it meant well, we are all upset and angry over the death of George Floyd and we want justice to be served. Police brutality and racism still exist, and it needs to end. The most effective way to combat and challenge racism is through education, racism is a learned behaviour and it can be unlearned. None of us are born racist, or hating and judging another human being. These behaviours are passed on, maybe it's through ignorance, perhaps it's the fact nobody has ever questioned that person's views.

We are all beautiful and unique in our own individual way. We are diverse and interesting and we should celebrate the things that make us, us.

As wonderful as it is that so many people are a part of this social media movement, and it's amazing how much awareness it has spread. I feel all of those black squares are a missed opportunity to showcase and really hammer home the point that racism should absolutely not be tolerated.

A Sobering Thought

I gave up drinking alcohol on 29th February this year. It had nothing to do with it being a leap year, and without really knowing it I'd been massively cutting down for a while - if not, trying to give up entirely without actually acknowledging it. This isn't a post telling people what to do, because I seem to have a problem with people being told what to do and that's something I'd never do.

Anyway, all I really wanted to share was the benefits I've seen and experienced as I really didn't expect anything to come from this. I've come to realise that emotions are somewhat repressed when it comes to alcohol - we drink when we're happy, we drink when we're sad, we drink to celebrate, we drink to commiserate, we drink to forget, we drink to cope. However, when we drink it makes us not fully experience the emotions we're feeling and we turn to alcohol whenever we begin to feel these emotions.

Since giving up I've become a lot more focused, I've started making art again which for the past four years I haven't drawn anything. I've begun eating much better and looking after my body. I feel a hell of a lot less stress, I'm not angry or anxious, I feel a lot more positive, I can think with clarity, and process my feelings, and I genuinely feel happy. I'm not saying it's solved everything, but it's solved a lot - enough for me to notice a difference.

I wasn't an alcoholic, but it was something I didn't have control over. I've experienced the damage alcohol can cause, and can still see how problematic it is and can be for people. When I reflect on my upbringing I can see where alcoholism can lead, and seeing those same traits in myself makes me wonder. When I drank it was a case of not drinking at all, or drinking a ridiculous amount - there was no inbetween or compromise. I also know if I began drinking because of what is going on in the world, I wouldn't stop.

Ways of coping without alcohol that help me are making art, talking, reading, listening to music, cooking, watching films or a series, learning, walking, excercise, thinking, and writing. Now I know a lot of people can drink in moderation and responsibly and that is brilliant, but if you can't I'd just like you to know there is help, things to do, alternatives, resources, and people to talk to.

As a means of coping and a bit of an aside, I have found when it comes to social media and the news the most benefitial thing you can possibly do for yourself is, as soon as you feel a negative emotion (anger, sadness, frustration, low self-worth, etc.) is immediately stop what you're reading, or watching. The news and social media can be a horrible trigger and being aware of your own limitations as a human being and knowing what is worth worrying about can really work wonders.

Spirited Away

I began this blog nine years ago. It was made to fill a certain criteria for the course I was studying at the time. Very soon after creating it I realised that I really enjoyed having an outlet for my creativity, whatever it was I was thinking or doing at the time always had a home in this blog.

It must have been as I was coming to the end of my degree, three years after starting this that I just stopped updating it. Perhaps it had just run its course, maybe having an underactive thyroid that was undiagnosed at the time had just taken the motivation out of me, it could have been that I simply didn't feel creative anymore, regardless of the reason this blog became neglected and forgotten for six years.

When I think about what has happened in the last six years it's a hell of a lot, far too much to write in this one post. I've still wrote, taken pictures, and had my hand in creating things, it just never made its way here where it belonged.

The reason I'm writing this on here now is in some way an attempt to get me to write more for a purpose, to motivate me and inspire me to get back to being the person who loved to create these posts no matter what they were, or if anybody saw them at all. The truth is I love writing and I feel I have something to say, and the ability to say it in such a way that people enjoy reading it. I may not draw, illustrate, or paint as much as I used to but there is still a part of me that needs to express what I'm feeling, thinking, and experiencing.

It's the first of January 2019, I've drank a really strong coffee and I'm finding it difficult to get to sleep. I've just moved into a new house and at present the only bedding I have is a fitted sheet, a crochet blanket, and two jackets which are my pillows for this evening. In no way am I complaining, I've slept in slight variations of this in the Summer. However, moving house on New Year's Day when the shops close early and you could do with buying bedding is probably something I'll pass on in the future.

This also seems like as good a time as any to bring back this blog and get me to write again. I have no idea what's going to follow, but let's just see what happens.

I'm On A Bus

Here are 13 rough pages of text for the book I'm currently working on about buses. To make the text I looked through old newspapers and when I saw a word I needed I cut it out and stuck it down, it's a very time consuming process but one I feel suits the content well. Given that many commuters and bus passengers read daily newspapers such as the METRO, I feel this is keeping of the everydayness and banality of bus journeys.

Meal For One

I've bought a pretty cheap ready meal from Heron Foods. I'm really looking forward to it because you seem to get a lot in it, you even get a free naan! On the back it says, "Joe hates to be hungry. His spicy chicken tikka balti is packed full of flavour & is sure to feed your hunger." As you'll agree this Joe fella is promising a lot, and that's exactly what I'm expecting after tucking into 'hungry Joe's Chicken Tikka Balti with Rice & Naan', a lot. To illustrate who Joe is and to prove that these people aren't fooling with you, you actually get to see Joe. Unlike Mr. Kipling, I've never seen his face. But we can see Joe on the back, with an apron with "Joe" written on it to show who he is, a man with an apron on that says "Joe" on it so we know he's Joe. He's also cooking a meal which doesn't look like the frozen one I've taken out of the packet. But as I said, I'm really looking forward to this and expected a lot from it so we won't hold that against him. Joe's never let me down and judging by his very tired face he looks as if he's made it a point in life not to let anybody else down either.

For The Love Of Oreos

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.

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 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...

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.