Friday, September 16, 2005


Well, a 'new' PC has arrived courtesy of Johnny Farr's scrapyard, Yeovil, but I haven't bothered rivetting it together and stoking it up w/ pig-compost yet, as I'm still trying to retrieve 6 year's worth of self-produced Occult Booty-Beats, Punk-Concrete and Acid Chamber-Folk from the smouldering crater that used to be my old hard-drive. No surprises, then, that I found a negative image of Van Morrison's bloated features etched, Turin Shroud-like, into its surface.

Thanks to CyRus Da VyRus for help and advice beyond the call of duty and for providing me w/ that weird glowing disk chocful of Ukrainian Black-Ops ZombieWare. If that don't retrieve the broken shards of my totally-cult Pop-Art Snuff-Novel, then nuffink will.

In the absence of a PC, I have been amusing myself by shooting a hi-calibre rifle at various toffs and aspirational class-traitors too stupid or arrogant to heed the UK hunting ban. Ha! How I laugh as aristocratic 'brain' tissue sprays over the red tunics of their fellow huntsmen! Horses buck, shedding their riders into gorse-bushes where they become helplessly entangled and are savaged by their own hounds. I throw my calling-card onto their ruined chest-cavities: a small white square of card embossed with the image of a snarling attack-dog. Catch me, if you can, you toffee-nosed twits!

Also been working on some prose stuff, dusting off and redrafting a half-forgotten 10-year old short-story originally written for a Small Press Slipstream magazine that went belly-up in the Mid-90s. Doing this Old Skool Stlyee using a biro and note-pad. Boy, that brings back memories. It's a nasty piece of Existential Neo-Pulp Neuro-Noir... an unsettling piece of retro body-horror that reads like an episode of The Outer Limits scripted by Bill Burrough. Commercial, but cool.

Tonight, I'm crossing the Somerset/Dorset border undercover of darkness and hitting Sherborne with a black-clad IT-Anarkist known only by the code-name of Spike who is wanted by the secret police of a dozen governments. His true name and identity are unknown. Officially, he does not exist. No photographs or biometrics of him are available. He has deleted himself from every single computer network in the world. Our mission, Jim, is to get completely pissed and burn the fucking place to the ground.

See you in the funny papers.