A land frozen out, people left in isolation and plotting to kill their neighbours for food and shelter, planning to burn all our books (except the Bible) and homosexuals for heat. Hoarding canned goods and wondering how long until it will be acceptable to form roving death gangs.
No I’m not talking about Brexit Britain, I’m talking about the cold snap we’re currently enduring in NI. Of course right now you’re probably thinking ‘A land frozen out… sure they’ve always been frozen forty years in the past over there.’
To that I would say, 'ha, up yours'. We actually have at least FOUR different time zones over here, duh: 1970’s, 1916’s, 1690’s and the dystopian future era of a DUP dominated Stormont that allows us to film Game of Thrones because they didn’t read the books in time to realise that there was a witch in it. And lots and lots of sex. Although the Bible is full of begetting so maybe they’re dead on with that sort of thing.
I’d predict however that as the DUP continues to cosy up to the Tories that it is only a matter of time until the Malleus Maleficarum is introduced to the curriculum in place of A Midsummer Night’s Dream, ‘science’ will be renamed ‘heretic studies’, and PE will be replaced with bonfire building. Letters in Irish to your gran in the Gaeltacht will first have to be coded through an Enigma machine to fool the purity monitors lest the Ministry of Thought drag you off to a nondescript concrete building on Rathlin Island to find out what you really meant by “I hope granda’s piles are better”. Meanwhile business studies will be irrelevant as you won’t need that kind of education to work in the dozen or so companies that bought the economy during the Brexit uncertainty. University placements will be determined by where your skin tone falls on UKIP sponsored colour cards.
That’s as political I’m getting as I haven’t been on Twitter in a few hours so I’m missing the latest reactions to the Irish Border Question as addressed by the EU draft Brexit document published today. I could probably guess: the Tories have no real solution that they can propose, the DUP are doing all the talking in the media, Jeremy Corbyn is trying to work out what he’s going to be accused of doing next, and the Liberal Democrats are sticking pins into a Nick Clegg voodoo doll.
Getting back to the cold snap Twitter has proved to be invaluable as receiving a reply from adult actress Nicole Aniston has effectively turned my bedroom into some kind of masturbation-powered reactor. Quantum particles have been popping into existence around my bedsheets so often that the Large Hadron Collider is now essentially an oversize Scalextric set that could be packed away into the Swiss secret mountain chamber with all the gold that mysteriously appeared in 1945.
Remember when they thought that the LHC would create a black hole that could swallow the Earth? Those were good times, and we basically decided we’d just turn it on for the craic. Then Dan Brown decided that he was going to educate everyone about anti-matter and threaten to destroy the Vatican. I’m not mocking… well, not really mocking. I’d rate Angels & Demons the second best of his books (Digital Fortress is my number one), I just felt he wasn’t giving people enough credit on the subject of anti-matter.
But then what would I know about what people really know about these concepts? Whilst my classmates were getting their first awkward fumbles in supermarket car parks I was at home watching Star Trek: The Next Generation and fantasising about an awkward fumble with Counsellor Troi. Probably why I sported a Commander Riker beard for two years.
Of course by now the call has went out to stock up on tea and biscuits as Barra Best wraps himself in a white sheet and stands atop BBC Broadcasting House chanting 'Hi ho hi ho, BBC weather yo' abuse at RTE across the road. He accepts that he's not impressive, hairy, or Australian enough to be Thor but Saruman is pretty badass too. And every man secretly wants to be as metal as Christopher Lee. I won't be making any other jokes about the white sheet because I’m giving American politics a rest.
Well, this post took a bit of a rambling journey, guess that’s me earning the name of the website. I’m off now to watch the survivalist documentary ‘The Empire Strikes Back’ so I’ll know what to do with my neighbours if the heat goes out.
I'm worried that I might have hit the end of the internet and all that remains is the dark net, but I'm alright for hitmen and white-slaves at the moment.
That's my opening line to hide the fact that trawling Twitter today didn't really give me any ideas for trying to write a comedy post. It's all Trump, Brexit, and our own shambles of a government on the feed right now and that just gets tiring after a while. I think that means they've finally won. Good for you, you bastards.
So whilst I go off to slave over a few dick jokes for Wednesday's upcoming post I've uploaded a picture of the latest charcoal project I'm working on for my Crap Artwork page. It's not done yet, despite the signature (I just like signing my name to things).
Oh, and Tootiepie who sent me the hate (as seen on my Home page) never got back to me, which was a real disappointment since he was able to express himself so passionately yet remained self aware enough to ensure he put a signature on it. Liking my own comment was maybe a bit on the nose for him. Ah well, as the poet Taylor Swift said, "Haters gonna hate hate hate hate hate... now please stop writing to me Kyle, you are incredibly far down the list of guys I'd ever go out with."
Never shared this one publicly. Wrote this for the 2017 Costa Short Story Awards, wanted to do something different to the violence, swearing and cosmic horror that appears to varying degrees in my other stuff. It's a bit talky and doesn't really go anywhere but it was fun to explore something with a bit more heart.
- - - - - - - -
‘Marie, time to get your arse out of the office.’
That’s how my editor put the story to me, fed up with watching me stare out the broad second floor window into the great horizon beyond the Bay. Time to focus on a story because I wasn’t being paid to mope around like a lonely city girl assembling fluff articles from the internet, so I was given a human interest piece for the Sunday edition that I was promised would put a smile back on my face if no one else.
In the afternoon I met the old man by an abandoned piece of railway line outside of Galway. True to legend he was living in an ancient boxcar that looked as though it had not moved from this spot since Ireland was ruled by the English.
No one could say how long he had lived here and he did not record the time, a waste counting away the past and putting a limit on the future he had said. Green fields and grey mountains, what did the hours mean to them? Little more than it meant to the stars in the sky.
Papa Joe was known as the Last King of the Boxcars, an American originally, Tennessee or Louisiana perhaps but through sheer desire or force of will had become a citizen of the world. A man with no means who had took himself around the globe on a shoestring, and who had come to our rugged West Coast to see out his days.
The newspaper had heard of the arrival of this urban legend and had sent me to get the story, time for the Dublin girl to see what the Irish countryside really looked like. So I put on my wellies, parked my car at a farm and hiked my way across three fields of grass in the Galway hills to reach the abandoned line.
Rusted tracks that led to nowhere across an old stone bridge were the final home to the creaking railcar of bygone days, its paint long since faded and peeled leaving exposed wooden panels that had seen too many winters. The side door was pulled open slightly revealing a deep darkness inside, not an imposing black but an inviting dark like it would be home to a crackling fire.
And sitting with his feet over the edge was the venerable Papa Joe, long grey beard and equally long grey hair, neither of which were unkempt; he wore simple clothes that looked as if he had made them himself and a robe that doubled as a blanket on the cold nights. His piercing blue eyes followed me as I climbed the grass verge to the bridge, a small smile on his weathered but strangely compassionate face that was all at once warming and disarming.
“It has been many a year since I have had the company of a young lady,” he said, his voice confident but kind, and just a little bit tired, “what can this old man do for you, my dear?”
“There are stories that you have seen the world,” I said as I reached the old sentinel on the bridge, “I would like to hear the story from you, my paper would like to print your tale. We’ll pay you of course.”
“I have no interest in money, child,” he said, and with a bit of force pushed his door open wider, the rusted runners groaning, “however if you would care to sit and hear the ramblings of an old wanderer I will happily talk to you, something people don’t do often enough, don’t you think?”
Accepting his offer I gave a small jump to sit up next to him in the old carriage, uncertain of what to expect as I landed on the ancient wood. Truth be told I probably expected there to be a smell, there can’t have been many showers on the long road from the American South to Galway. To my surprise the only scent was that of old, weather-beaten wood, the aroma of a long history coming near its end.
“There are all sorts of social media these days,” I said as I sought out my notepad in the confines of the overlarge bag I had carried with me as a memento mori from Dublin, “people have more opportunity to talk and engage than ever before.”
“It’s not really talking though, is it? Peoples’ faces constantly in their phones, carefully editing what they say and mounting any soapbox because it’s so easy to be angry now, I’ve seen a lot of that on my travels. They are marketing a brand of Self,” he summed up his opinions of our Information Age culture, then his square shoulders slouched and he leaned toward me, “but you didn’t come here to listen to an old fool rant about how things were better when people had to make an effort to build relationships.”
“I’m here to listen to you talk about whatever you want to talk about,” I crossed my legs and gave what I hope was an honest smile, “legend says you’ve seen most of this world, anything you say is of interest to the paper.”
“You have very pretty eyes,” he said and I blushed, “but sad. Would you care to talk to me about it?”
“Just a bit tired,” I looked down at the blank page before me, “how about the story of what set you on the road?”
“Love,” he said with a smile, “the most powerful force in the universe. You see, I love people, but I just don’t understand them.”
Papa Joe told me of how he was outside a black church in Memphis one Sunday morning in June, a glorious day and the singing inside made his heart soar. The day could not be more perfect he said, everything was right about this day.
The Klan had a rally planned for the day; they were marching up the street in their hoods and robes, paint in hand to daub the church with their slogans and pickets of hatred ready to plant in the grounds. The perfect day was so close to being awful.
Hell’s Angels have a reputation ranging anywhere from fearsome to terrifying, so when the local chapter set up a blockade in the street with their motorcycles the Klan was stopped in their tracks, they knew better than to touch the bikes. A huge man hidden under tattoos and beard approached the church as the congregation began to file out, he removed his leather hat and held it to his heart as he spoke to the pastor, who embraced the man as his brother.
“Understand that this was during the Civil Rights Marches and I was a much younger man,” Papa Joe said, “but that one act of love told me that there was so much more than the apathy and wickedness that I had come to associate with the world. That inspired me; I wanted to see more small acts of kindness making better a world fast becoming indifferent.”
Furiously scribbling every word he said, trying to capture the tone and emotion of what he was saying so that his tale would ring true on paper, to weave the nuance that would capture the heart.
“On this quest I have seen much love, and much bitterness, anger, and sorrow, like the loss I see in you.”
“It’s nothing,” I said, my pen hovered over the page as if the words had suddenly drained from my mind, “um, where did you visit after Memphis?”
My sins were not something that I wanted to talk about, was not ready to talk about not with a complete stranger. I understand the hypocrisy in that, but this hurt was my own cross to bear.
“I brushed floor and cleaned dishes across the US until I found myself unpacking ships at the docks in San Francisco,” he smiled and closed his sharp eyes, turning his face to the sun as if remembering better days, “tough work with tough men, but they were kind. The fishermen let me work with them to earn a wage; they let me sleep on the boats so I could save my money. I had decided to cross the Great Ocean, to give myself as huge a culture shock as possible.”
Fiji was where Papa Joe next found himself, a tear forming in his eye as he told me of the poverty in the villages there, simple huts without even running water. But the tear was not one of sorrow, no matter where he went he saw generosity and compassion, they had nothing but in their hearts they had everything.
The people there were so full of joy, so open and welcoming; he said he never ate so well with nothing asked in return, so he put his skill as a fisherman to work to ensure that he could provide his fair share. Language was not a barrier when a gesture such as the offering of a fish in friendship could speak a thousand words.
Sometime later when his feet got restless he crossed to Australia and was met immediately with a return to Western arrogance; less compassion, more distrust, fewer smiles.
Papa Joe panned for gold in Victoria, took his time, was patient, lived in an old shed in a dusty field, and over a few years he amassed enough to continue his journey. He watched the cost of living rise in Australia and laughed at the irony of it all: life was a gift but to keep living came at a cost.
“So, was it a boyfriend that has darkened your eyes?”
“No, it’s something more than that,” his own eyes took on an almost fatherly concern, “something far deeper.”
“Papa Joe, please,” I swallowed back a wave of emotion and thought about cutting short the interview, “this isn’t something that I want to talk about.”
He touched my arm with a hand calloused and strong, but the touch was gentle, meant to soothe my discomfort. I could see it in his penetrating eyes and feel it in my heart that he did not want to see me upset; I don’t know why I felt that way.
When the Wall that split the world in two came down he had decided to go north and see a nation where everyone in theory was equal, and said it horrified him to see that when a State sets the value of life that value is not high. There were so many good people he said, proud of their land because it was their land, it belonged to the people. Most simply chose not to see that the people in turn belonged to the State, and sometimes the State could be brutal, but in that time of upheaval it became more ambivalent, neglectful even. So the people did what they always did, they went about their work and did their best to look after their own.
It was on an old steam train crossing from Asia to Europe that a young soldier gave up his overcoat for an old man shivering on the carriage. An old man with no money, and the soldier probably not paid in months was unlikely to be able to replace the coat, and such a warm coat it looked to be on that cold and rickety train. The old man immediately got up and draped it over a young woman already wrapped in a shawl and heavily pregnant, he said something with a smile and placed a kindly hand on her face.
“I asked the soldier what he had said to her,” Papa Joe had tears welling in his eyes now, “the young man said ‘In my twilight I have God for warmth, in you there is the future’, I never forgot that.”
The tears, the river of emotion swelled up in me, I could no longer hold it back, the valley ran low and my defences were gone. Papa Joe put his arms around me and made soothing sounds; he squeezed me tight and told me to let the river flow.
“I was pregnant,” I sobbed, the words no longer would be held back, “but not to my boyfriend. I broke his heart, I broke our love. I lost him, I loved him so much. I still love him.”
“It’s ok,” he said, gently patting my back, “it’s ok.”
“No it’s not,” I pulled back, I knew my makeup was running down my face with my tears, I hugged my tummy, “not long after we separated I lost the baby. I lost everything, my child, the man I loved.”
Papa Joe hugged me.
He didn’t do anything else; he just held me as the tears ran down my cheeks and stained my blouse. He let me pour my heart out. He let me expel the dark cloud that had been in my head and heart and had driven me from Dublin. I had run away from the city lights to Galway to try and find peace or a new start but it had followed me here.
“I ruined everything, and my child was taken from me for it.”
“God would never punish your child because of a mistake,” Papa Joe stroked my hair, “you know your mistake and the hurt in your heart, but in time that hurt will fade if you let it. God does not want you to live filled with pain and anger; such a life would make you miss all that is good and beautiful in this world. Your child was blessed with a spark of life, but some sparks simply fade quicker than others and are all the more beautiful for it. These things are not for us to know why.”
“The Divine Plan,” a childhood of sitting in the back of Church terrified of these all-powerful men in white who held the destiny of my soul in their hands came flooding back, “God’s ineffable will?”
“There can’t be a plan and also free will, people see things and record things and do things and the interpretation of these can vary from person to person,” he was still holding me, but softer now, “I once saw a Rabbi intercede in an armed robbery right outside a mosque in Vienna, the Samaritan ended up taking a bullet for his trouble. The young Muslim man who was the intended victim held his hand whilst I fetched the ambulance; he stayed with the Rabbi all the way to the hospital.
“Some might interpret that as ‘no good deed goes unpunished’, others might see two enemies finding common cause,” Papa Joe sat back, he was looking tired now and I came to realise that we had been talking for hours and the evening had long since drawn in, “others will see simple charity between one human being and another.”
“And what do you believe you saw,” I wiped my tears and held my pen ready again, “how did you interpret it?”
“I saw compassion,” he said, his voice breaking slightly, “and all hurts no matter how old or deep can be forgiven. Sometimes it takes pain, and sometimes it just takes the courage to ask.”
I couldn’t help feel deep inside that somehow he had been speaking to me this entire time, that there was some destiny or providence at play that had brought us together in this old wooden car on broken tracks laid over an abandoned bridge.
“For someone who set out to understand the human condition it sounds to me like you have found the answers you were seeking.”
“If only, my dear, I can bring comfort with my words,” the first stars were appearing in the sky, “but there is so much I don’t understand. So many terrible acts committed in this world and all for the wrong reasons. Land, dogma, money, to feel stronger than others, to have control over others. And yet all to come to the very same ending after so much life and time invested.”
“We are flawed, but I think if we were able to work it all out then a lifetime would be too long.”
Papa Joe looked at me then with eyes suddenly understanding something that was beyond me, and then he smiled, just a soft smile.
“I hope that I have been able to help you.”
“Oh yes,” I had filled pages of the notebook, the day had hardly seemed to have passed, and my heart felt lighter now than it had in a long, long time, “the story will be fantastic, you have led an amazing life.”
Saying nothing he gave me another smile and leaned back against the doorframe, staring across the darkened countryside, not a cloud in the sky and the Heavens opening in all their majestic splendour above us.
“Your next step after Galway,” I said, “your next journey would be a nice way to finish the story.”
“My journey is finished,” Papa Joe smiled, “so tonight, at last, I am going home.”
“Tonight? Can I take you somewhere?”
“You already have, my dear,” he placed his hand on mine, the rough skin warm, “you’ve taken me over a lifetime.”
A shooting star streaked across the sky momentarily above us, burning out in the cosmos under a twinkling sheet of stars all watching us. And I came to realise with horror that he was becoming physically drained and my heart told me what he had meant about going home.
“Papa Joe,” I tapped at his hands trying to keep his eyes open, didn’t know what else to do, my own heart was racing, “stay with me, I’ll phone for help, just stay with me.”
“I always will be,” he smiled, and then the Last King of the Boxcars closed his eyes, “finish your story with what the old man said on the train, in my twilight I have God for warmth, in you there is the future.”
I kinda set a bar on Monday writing poetry about the antics of an amorous drunk so this post is going to have to take one for the team by existing more or less as a placeholder.
Was out questing today to level up my stamina...that's the nerdy way to say that I went for a walk. The really nerdy way would be to say that I was out grinding, but I think you need an app for that.
Was getting my Photo Gimp on because it had been a while since I've posted anything to Instagram and it's nice to remind people that you exist, and to make me feel like having Insta isn't a complete waste of memory that could be replaced with cat memes.
After getting my retinas seared with the sun reflecting off the stupidly calm lake I found a nice spot where I could catch a nice, fun shot. Inverting it I figured that it kind of looked like something out of Zelda: Breath of the Wild, or maybe a Dark Souls that didn't hate you. If I hadn't been listening to a podcast about Jack the Ripper at the time I might have had a few adventurer fantasies... and looked like a bit of a tit.
So, sometimes I've other things to write or people don't bother my friends in ways that inspire me so I figured I'll share this image with you. No filter, and turn your monitor upside down if you want to see the original.
(Oh, and don't bother my friends, that's just odd).
A bit of exposition first about this post: I have a colleague in the creative industry (I am in it, shut up) who had a slightly creepy experience this weekend. She's a single mother, hard working, putting herself through Uni whilst maintaining her family and career, and is exactly what you'd picture if I was to say 'Irish beauty'... no, not the tracksuit, cigarettes and large bottle of cider along the Lagan towpath kind, that's only around a very specific part of Belfast.
So anyway, on Sunday morning a neighbour to whom she has never spoken landed drunk at her door at 4:30am hoping to make a call, because that's what ladies love, awakened from bed by a drunk guy who doesn't even know your name. Eventually after pissing off he came back at 5am to ask if she would like him if he was sober. God does love a trier.
After being my usual helpful self on Facebook (read that as 'not at all') I was inspired to write a poem in his honour:
I am in a boat lost far out at sea,
Surrounded by water yet there is none for me.
The sun rising on another dawn,
The fever of the night has not yet gone.
I need something to taste,
From this thirst to be set free,
And awake my soul from this melancholy dream.
Over there on yonder shore,
Is it a trick, mirage or something more?
Some fool of the light or maybe the brain,
A promise that I might be fulfilled again.
Streams of fire, sands so pale,
and cool waters pure for my thirst to sate,
To find this land could be nothing but fate.
Crashing on rocks and thrown asunder,
A hidden reef and waves booming thunder,
This haven of passion is not as expected,
my ardor, my thirst to be somehow rejected.
Yet maybe still the fates have conspired,
For hope there is in the waters below,
The fingers of the mermaid beckon me so.
Reaching out for that warm embrace,
I find myself now in another place,
A desert, alone, a shore with no name,
having lost my way to a growing shame.
Not merely for my journey
for I realise this land it belongs to me,
I have passed out at home, in a puddle of wee.
I did promise some dick jokes in my last post and this guy was being a pure dick, I like to be a man of my word.
I love you, I really do. Most of the coolest stuff comes from you, you have that endearing 'can do' attitude, and you really do try to always do the right thing even if it doesn't work out that way for the rest of the world.
And you, you've had your tits done and your teeth done, your hair has seen more chemicals than a BP oil spill and you've had so much laser eye surgery I'm afraid that you could melt me like Superman. And you've done that all because you think that's what it will take for me to love you back.
You don't need to do that, America, that's nothing but self-harm in another form. Just be the homely, straight talking country girl who could melt the hearts of us stodgy European cynics with our 'could do' attitude and history of making our problems everyone else's.
I want to help you break this cycle of self-harm that you're locked into, and I think we should start with maybe getting your toys under control. Now don't be getting upset thinking that I want to take your toys away, I don't want to do that. I like guns, I have two myself.
All I'd like to suggest is maybe a single page questionnaire before someone can get licensed; it only needs to have a couple of questions like 'Do you have a manifesto?', or 'do the words "kill the bitch" have a warm place in your heart?'.
I know that's easy for me to say, I live in that peaceful little backwater called Northern Ireland. We only had about 30 years and change of terrorism/conflict that more or less ended a decade ago. With that lack of commitment on our part what could I possibly know about the need to own an assault rifle in case Russia decides to invade through somewhere other than the White House?
There are a wealth of statistics freely available online proving that violent crime outside of actual war zones has been decreasing globally over the last 20 years despite the best efforts of the gun lobby. I'd post the facts myself but unfortunately I think that I had those files stored on the same server as Hilary's emails.
There, I picked on both sides, now we can maybe sit down and talk about how controlling guns just means a slight inconvenience for the majority in order to keep firearms out of the hands of the lunatic fringe? I'll even let you pick the coffee shop, so long as it isn't near a book store in Dallas.
Don't think that I'm some cheeky upstart lecturing you, it's not exactly like we have our shit together in Northern Ireland. We've got the largest party in the country who are so anti-gay that they wouldn't watch Star Trek because a fencing foil isn't the only sword that Sulu has had in his hand. And the second largest party are brought to us by the manufacturers of mercury tilt switches.
I hope that this little note hasn't damaged our friendship, America, I just don't like to see the one that I love hurt. But if things are going to go on the way that they are could you let the rest of us know if there is a 'safe word', just so that we know you are working on the global equivalent of a Red Room?
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That was a bit of a more serious post, but then I still haven't figured out what I'm going to do with this blog yet, though I'm expecting my first bit of hate-mail shortly. I like trying to make people laugh though, or smirk at the very least so I promise the next post will have a few dick jokes. Not about my own though, that would just make people sad.
Ah, St Valentine's Day.
I've had so much love this morning that I had to register my phone on a telephone preference service just so that I could take five minutes to pleasure myself and have a wash. I've had calls coming all the way from Massachusetts to India, which tells me that rumours of my sexual prowess have got out and masochism is on the rise.
That's not to say that I'm into chains and leather, but if someone makes the right offer it would give me pause for thought. At present though I'm more about disappointment followed by a cuddle.
As a single man you might expect a rant from me about St Valentines but that's not the case, I like that there's a designated day when people are supposed to at least pretend that they still love each other. And when that is the case, hate-sex is great.
Like most people I fancy myself as being great at spotting when someone likes another person but short of a dead rabbit showing up in a pot on my stove I couldn't tell the difference between someone being interested in me and them having bad gas. I've got crap sinuses too so the smell isn't even a hint.
Then there's that one thing I always forget: The Barmaid Rule.
If you aren't familiar, this is when guys think they can pull the attractive barmaid because she smiles at him because they forget that it's her job to be nice and tips are nice. Consequently I'm known as a good tipper. Although I do try to tip fellas as well, I don't know if that means I'm naturally flirtatious or if I'm just trying to give them hope.
The same rule applies to baristas, waitresses, and pretty much everyone in the service industry, although you don't see as many people going on the pull in Tesco. Round my way though if you want a classy bird you go to Lidl, nothing says romance like standing in a queue in your slippers with 3 litres of own brand vodka and a crushed soul.
I will admit that I have been caught out by the Barmaid Rule myself, I think it's something of a rite of passage for every growing boy to have that little bit of humiliation, although I maintain the last time it happened wasn't entirely my fault.
Elsewhere butchers will be rubbing their palms together today because they can get rid of all that fillet steak that has been building up in their fridges since Christmas. And off licenses will be setting up romantic displays of prosecco, sauvignon blanc, and Buckfast. And don't forget to stop in the garage for the chocolates and condoms.
You'd nearly think that St Valentine had planned his martyrdom to coincide with the January credit card bills being cleared. Maybe that's the case, he was a prophet for profits?
Oh I'm being wilfully facetious, I know personally tonight I'll be settling down to a nice steak and a bottle of wine, and staring lovingly across the room at my freshly lubed Fleshlight.
So I decided to finally bite the bullet and make a website. I've no idea what I'm actually going to do with it at the moment but much like gender identity these things are fluid. Maybe I'll stick up a page with a load of really crappy memes and funny posts by other people, that seems to be what works for Facebook if my news feed is anything to go by.
I think first and foremost I should give a shout out to a mister Butch Mellom who gave 'When the Man Comes Around' one star on Goodreads. I didn't even know any of my books were listed on it, let alone that someone really didn't like it. Sorry that you didn't like the book Butch, can't please everyone but thank you for taking the time to read it.
I'm not going to do that for everybody, Butch got in there first. And with a name like Butch you know not to mess with him. I will add a caveat though, if someone gives a really creatively awful review for one of my books I will go out of my way to publish it here in it's entirety. Gotta support creativity and all that.
I'm probably going to get myself into real trouble at some point blogging, but a 15 minute social media outcry followed by my subsequent shame and spiral into depression will be a bit of fun. Lets make it an adventure together, shall we?
Views expressed may not be representative of reality.