Blog, blog, blog.

It is an odd position to be finding yourself in, when your back’s no longer to the wall, and yet the day job is still meant to be in a state of panic. That said I’m utterly exhausted now, and yet its bonfire night. I should be wandering around in undknown muddy darkness with people I don’t know watching bits of cordite produce light in the sky above. It’s the bonfires that get me – fuck the twinkly fairy lights they chuck up – I want to be in wellies, knee deep in a field, eating some diseased bowel product of a long-dead animal (sausages) watching a fire the size of a house, and probably containing enough wildlife to maintain a petting zoo, incinerate the faces of the prats who press too close.

That’s the meaning of bonfire night to me – warm, broad, fiery alienation.



There are few harder things in life than introducing yourself, especially in print where mellifluous nuance can turn to indulgent wankery. So. I am definitely a 'writer'. You could also call me an 'artist'. I could probably put the words 'designer' and 'consultant' here too, but they feel crass.

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