Having made the most of the electric wheelchair he was given by his Grandmother, John had subconsciously elected to burn it along with himself in the woods on Sunday. Before that though, he needed to find
a way to get there.
You make no sense. I have raped a pig but did not eat it. I think you ate that one.
Sat on my soft and luxurious toadstool among the phosphorescent glow of the forest at twilight contemplating my evening’s sustenance, I caught glimpse of a shadow amongst the dappled shades thrust upon me by the trees above. It was a beautiful and damp autumnal evening, up until a certain point I felt serene and secure within my sanctuary.
“Hello.” A deep velvety voice.
The hairs on the back of my legs jumped from my skin and fell to the floor like saturated sycamore seeds; I stayed motionless. I gingerly turned left and right, I looked above me to the branches of trees that appeared to be fingers, lovingly trying to clasp one another. Nothing.
“What?” I whispered out loud.
There’s no one here I thought, there’s been no one for many moons. It’s the wind dancing in my ears. The wind likes to do that from time to time. On occasion we converse but it didn’t feel as though this was a two-way interaction this time. This felt nefarious. Was it?
“Hello I said.”
There it is again. At this point I began to suspect that my toadstool was gaining some psilocybic advantage over my cerebrum. Naturally, living amongst toadstools you can be prone to this side effect but I was safe in the knowledge that I was wearing my porcelain clogs and red liquorice boiler suit which is almost completely impervious to most substances. Almost.
I fluidly slid from my colourful perch like a snake smoothly cascading down a lubricious tree and silently dropped my little form into the glistening wet moss beneath my toadstool - as I landed the fireflies throbbed their luminous forms and faded quickly like belisha beacons. I backed up to the stalk of my toadstool warily and lent against it with the palms of my hands which were tucked neatly behind my back. All seemed quiet.
I could see a vast silhouette looming my way, the light flickering across my face as it moved slowly through the night. As the sun hides beneath the horizon, the shadows come dancing forth, playing and moulding in to one another - this was nothing extraordinary, the beauty of the evening, it’s always a privilege to see the purple and deep red hues transform the forest into magic. I closed my eyes and listened to the tranquil earthy sounds that emanate from the undergrowth and smiled, I felt settled and at one.
“Excuse me.” Louder this time.
My eyes thrust open, I lurched away from the stalk, fell to the ground and hastened backward on my hands like a twisted crab scurrying towards the safety of the ocean. Then stopped.
An abundance of prism-shaped lime green eyes peered at me, eyelids sliding back and forth over them, playing hide and seek.
“Excuse me, can you help me?”
I slanted to my left to brave a greater visual advantage at what was before me.
A hairy leg, another hairy leg – another, that’s four, another, and so they kept coming. Like elegant trunks of silver birch they rose from the ground. Each had spectacular markings of neon yellow and pink, glistening. My eyes traced upward to find a large diaphanous cubed abdomen. To my astonishment, within this cube was a free-floating mouth, moving gently from side to side, as if contemplating something. Large soft turquoise lips like sea sponge and big white-rounded teeth smiled at me.
At this moment my entire universe stalled. Hurtled into stasis. I heard nothing, felt nothing. I could but stare at this oddly radiant vision.
To be continued…
Not really. But carnage it was. It’s a bit like a faux glam middleclass music festival.
Actually, that’s a lie, it’s not thinking about it; It’s as diametrically opposed as a small blissfully eyed Labrador pup with an amorous nature and the cold calculated machinations of a chomping spunky lawnmower wearing a hairy but the wanton recklessness of those who participate is the common ground.
I’ll be honest with you, I don’t remember everything about it, in-fact if you were to imagine colourful oil spiralling upward and out of a bath plughole you’d be close to my vague recollections. So, with that in my masticated brain tank I thought it’d more fitting to write about stuff that may have happened.
I arrived on Wednesday morning after a refreshing if not slightly bumpy journey by land porpoise. Typically, as humans are wont to do I’d been out the previous night and smashed my tiny brain to little pieces. It was thirty-one degrees when I arrived, I didn’t feel so good. I booked in to my charming French quarters which had a rather calming aesthetic that looked like Picasso had been fighting with Pollock and they had both simultaneously vomited wildly over everything in sight – a post-art-fight-face ejaculation of sorts.
I cleaned my already sweating physical form and headed to a spot known as the Carlton Hotel with the sadistic sun laughing and hammering at my Rocky-Dennis-like face. It was around midday.
Already, the Rose was flowing and the place was busy with chatter and “Ya-ya-ya’s,” “You look amaaaaazing’s”…and “So great to see you’s!…shriek”! Etc. Etc.
There were a fair few eyeballs rolling around the shiny tiled floor followed by their sweaty, twisted owners from the night before, snarling and trying to smile as they did so.
Glamorous French humans were parading La Croissette like mannequins dancing beautifully to Serge Gainsbourg amongst the sweaty, pasty advertising fraternity – the contrast was the archetypal difference in cultures.
I ate some food, kind of – it entered my mouth in the same way a fly does before it realises that it’s wondered into something so incredibly grotesque it promptly commits suicide by flying into your stomach or escapes and makes its way back to the same pile of excrement from whence it came – not ideal when you feel like a windsock but sustenance is all-important here, a lesson learnt everyday irrespective of the knowledge to do so. After picking at the rich food, it became apparent that the only way to get on with anything was to throw various drinks into my hollow body at a rate that Kriss Akabusi would marvel at. The evening consisted merely of getting carried away like a wild boar in a festival toilet and drinking my merry way around La Croissette.
Needless to say on waking up after the previous nights debauchery in The Gutter Bar I was to find myself back on La Croissette in a hazy, ethereal state. I had but two memories:
1. That of a girl impressing a baying, dribbling hoard of Israeli creatives by exercising some serious elasticity by wrapping her leg behind her head while wearing a skirt the size of a Geckos toenail.
2. A TV Producer walking home with deux dames de la nuit (you know who you are).
At this point, I should tell you that the purpose of this article was to loosely talk about work; ups, downs and anything spectacular or slag-worthy that graced the eyes of judges and the wobbling advertising community alike. The point is, and I’ll be honest, I didn’t see any. No seminars, no showcases, no screenings. I managed a few parties and saw a frictionless blurry swath of apparent humanoid forms, lens flares and the same bar staff (who incidentally kept swapping their faces to make life difficult for everyone), and behemoth like eyeballs floating in mid air, all very odd really.
Lunch at the Carlton beach restaurant with people I’d never met. An initial paranoia inducing episode but it turned out that they were a lovely bunch of arachnids that serenaded my pain with fruity rose and laughing juice. The rest of the afternoon consisted of quaffing various colourful drink substances and spewing smoke from my jabbering mouth preparing for the shots party that evening.
The Shots party was the only event that night and tickets were like gold dust – people pimping themselves and swirling around like rattlesnakes on acid trying to find the golden ticket, but alas, Willy Wonka was being a stingy bastard and many had nowhere to go.
The party itself was a pumping mass of gurning madness; people painting shapes of happiness in the sand with their feet and grinning so hard the moon became ashamed and hid behind some clouds. Kaftans and hairy chests were a feature here. I spoke to many people and remember dwarves were a constant subject of the night, for me anyway.
So that was day two. Similar to day one and I’ll be honest, day three isn’t much different really so if you’ve any shred of decency and self-worth you’ll stop here.
Erm… I woke up on the beach. Alone. Thankfully – apart from the sand flies who had come alive around my gritty ears and appeared to be saying the word “spaz” as they buzzed past them. Sloping off to my hotel feeling completely disgusted by myself I was pleased to remember that I was leaving on Saturday. It was seemingly Friday and I knew there were just two parties for today, the Finger music party and the Bacon party. I’ll just take it easy I said to myself as I glided upward in the lift toward my freezing cold room where I showered, or rather, cowered underneath the showerhead that spat droplets of frozen love ice at my skin.
I had a meeting this day. One in which I should have been fairly sharp. I wasn’t. It was refreshing to see that the rest of the table was muttering incoherently to itself when I arrived, obviously in the same state as me, resembling an animated Ralph Steadman painting – thank god, normality.
Lunch was better today, I swallowed some food and laughed manically at things that I’m not sure were intended to have that kind of reaction and kept my hat and sunglasses firmly in position so as not to give away the fact that my face had begun slipping downward like a beige-red avalanche. Having a beard at moments like these has its advantages outside of clandestine bush lurking and pensioner worrying. They were good people, all was fine.
Mojitos at the Martinez followed by a free massage at the Plage Courage which was to me what Savlon would be to Jesus. It helped, a lot. The familiar sound of Talking Heads – Once in a lifetime emanated from my pocket, I didn’t remember smuggling David Byrne through customs. Ah, phone, yes. “Finger party, let’s go”…ummm, ok.
Now. This party has a reputation for being rather cheeky. Walking through the gates to the Villa into what can only be described (given the edgy state of mind) as either the most intimidating party in the world ever or the best party in the world ever. Three hundred people bouncing off one another in a two-tier villa garden around a pool listening to dubstep in the sunshine – a backdrop of mountains being hugged by a blue mist, it was surreal and everything had taken a bright hue, like someone had photo-shopped the marvellous scene.
Clearly, everyone was enjoying themselves – the pool was full of sloshing skin, the water was static and every one of these delicious ape creatures were seemingly reminiscing their neon rave days with much gusto – M&C were there, VCCP, AMV, AKQA, Pubilcis, Weidens, many others too. It was a debauched occasion and one into which I slipped without hesitation having levelled my anxiety with syrupy booze.
By the end of the party I would estimate that at least 30% of the revellers were in the pool drowning on the air of stupidity and moulding into Matisse-like sculptures of themselves. All the alcohol was consumed quickly and all that was left was red wine, in thirty plus degrees, ow. It didn’t matter. Wow. Hats off to Finger.
I never made it to the Bacon party. I had not a chance given that my mind had pushed me roughly against the wall by my shirt collar and told me that it would shut my body down or consume it if I didn’t stop behaving like an idiot. We’ve all been there haven’t we?
I heard however that the Bacon party was filthy, not quite as depraved as the year before when it turned itself into an orgy (thanks to Sweden/Holland) but certainly had its fill of people being carried out on stretchers and collapsing like mannequins in a storm.
I’m glad I didn’t make it. That would have been me on that stretcher, deliriously trying to grab hold of the medic’s transparent and non-tangible arm and asking him for a cuddle. Instead I propped myself securely in a soft chair in a terrace bar with fellows who understood, where we spoke of a distant memory called sanity and the fact the each of us was eager to be teleported there on the instant, only to then realise that this was very very improbable.
I’m sorry that I’ve reviewed no work or even mentioned any in fact but these things happen you know, like missing a bus, burning cheese on toast or bursting crabs.
When it comes down to it, you make choices. You can have it all, or part of it, it’s entirely up to you – It’s what you make of it, like anything. On this occasion I chose chaos. It seemed the right thing to do at the time.
Most of his life, the Red Mischief has lived in the clouds, woo-ing the rays of sun and frolicking with the high-soaring birds and sprites that dwell therein. Since he was young, he has been obsessed with catching rainbows. He now has a collection of thousands of rainbows which he keeps as pets, feeding them on pure thoughts and smiles which keep them happy.
He has many different types of rainbows from all walks of life and cultural diversity.
In order to catch them he has to first mesmerise them with his eyeball wonder manoeuvre and then hypnotise them with fluid movements and eccentric coo-ing while perched on a slim stool made of silver birch measuring 35,000 feet in height.
When he has them rocking in ecstasy, he cuddles them and places them gently in a velvet box for their trip home.
It’s a little known fact that rainbows also love Don Johnson, of Miami Vice fame. The Red Mischief has adapted to this by using a shiny two-tone suit and rolled-up sleeves as bait to attract and placate these colourful, lively little beasts.
As if by a shear fluke in the planetary alignment, a slight shift in the atmospheric pressure, the manifestation of another wormhole in space, or simply because two people had sinful and unhealthy sex, Mr Chadney Twatter was born. Actually, it wasn’t this at all. Mr Chadney Twatter was born of sheep. It was around the year 1873 although no-one can verify the actual date. A slimy slippery little hermaphrodite baby was loudly burped into existence.
Arriving in London after a break-neck journey from the under-belly of Ulaan Baatur inside the stomach of a young princess, he found his home by the river in old London town. The first few years were quite normal for him apart from the unusually high oral consumption of swans beaks and asbestos flakes. He grew, how he grew, by the age of four he was the size of a marzipan wheelchair.
Mr Chadney Twatter was put to work in a factory that made pins. He was the only tester within the company and was employed to use his over-inflated and swollen child-skin like a pin cushion. The pins that didn’t pierce the skin were to be eaten by him and turned into essential fossil fuels by one of his 36 stomachs. Mr Chadney Twatter was unstoppable within his company remit and soon rose through the ranks to become chief pin. He quickly tired of this role and wanted to start his own venture prosecuting sheep for denying aristocrats the right to sodomise them.
This was a very lucrative business for Mr Chadney Twatter and soon he found himself driving around in a converted submarine and wearing perfectly tailored and very colourful animal skins on his face and neck area. Again, this lasted a short time until one day after having consumed much excrement based vodka he realised that he needed to become his own brothel. He built a burlesque flavoured boudoir within his body and invited a select elite male audience to enroll in his new members club. It was a private club and he could only admit one member at at time. Each member would supply him with their own funds as they entered him.
Unfortunately Mr Chadney Twatter signed up far too many members far too quickly and he soon started filling up with all the delicious funds he craved for. One day there was one member inside him, the next there was two, then three until it came to such a point that he could not take another member. The club was so filled with funds that he almost burst. It was then that he realised that he needed to go home. He called his friend and told him his story of the last few years. It had been many years now and his friend was a little dis-pleased to hear from him after all this time without so much of a sound from Mr Chadney Twatter. His friend had become set in his ways since Mr Chadney Twatter’s departure, hoovering the faces of the ill and chomping on the very dust particles that inhabited them.
Still, he was his friend. Mr Chadney Twatter arrived back in Mongolia and preceded to walk the many miles to his friends modest prism-shaped home. “Knock knock…knock knock.” The door opened and he was greeted by a volley of spit from his his friends oscillating mouth. It saturated his face, dripped into his eyes and mouth and matted his hair. He’d missed this indigenous greeting that only exists in Mongolia. Mr Chadney Twatter spat back at him with much gusto and they hugged one another. After several minutes of catching up, his invited him to climb into into the womb of his sheep, the sheep that was in fact Mr Chadney Twatters original vaginal conduit. He climbed in, wrapped himself in a red woollen glove and fell asleep. And that is where he remains until this day, safe and sleepy. They will never have to say goodbye to one another ever again.
The fetid hole from which the mustard yellow frown appeared from has also housed a giant house spider called Mr. Johnson who, as legend has it could predict the dreams of human children many hours before they fell asleep. He would then whisper into their ear as they dozed and fill their heads full of drizzly nonsense. He wore a silk paisley robe and was partial to a cigar and brandy. He is dead now.
I’ve often thought that if you were able to see inside a salmon that you’d find the workings of a clock, a sophisticated and intricate cog system that enables the fish to relentlessly power itself upstream. At the forefront there is a tiny little salmon driving via telepathy, captured by an improvised helmet that transmits its thoughts. The cogs are made from the bones of ancestral salmon and are therefore impermeable. It is an infinite salmony regime, the Russian doll effect, a perpetual journey through the very fabric of their time. All of the salmon, every single one is called Ricky; the first salmon was created by Patrick Moore while he was eating a glass newspaper.
There is a place I know where the earth is made from hardened candy floss, the trees taste like nougat and the rivers flow with rich neon coloured love. The inhabitants are edible although not particularly nourishing and too small to fill you up anyway. The clouds are made from your laughter, they are also bi-sexual and the sky is a shade of pinky russett. The warm air cuddles you while prism-shaped creatures warble soothing harmonies - time does not exist. I feel happy here, when i visit.
And then the lonely mouth with translucent teeth and grade ‘A’ dental records slipped down the alley like mercury into the night. it wasn’t his fault, he was misunderstood. Catapulted into solitude by the very faces that once understood the need for a perfect mouth; his cherry red lips flapping slightly in the wind he contemplated his own existence.
“One day,” he whispered, “one day, i shall have my revenge.”