Ok, I’m lazy. I’m gonna rip Kevin Crew‘s words, seeing as this is all his fault:
“Many of you will have realised by now that wherever the hint of a challenge lies, there also lies my interest in getting involved. So this weeks award for Fortuitously Timed Writers-Block Beating Inspiration falls squarely at the feet of Misty from Misty’s Laws, who has slapped me across the stubbly chops with the gauntlet of the Tag, You’re It challenge. The simple premise here is that the blogger answers a set of questions, then tags other bloggers in the hope they will take the challenge and pass it on to others themselves. As one of the list of bloggers victimised chosen lovingly by Misty, here follows that set of questions, and my own personal carefully considered responses….”
Onward and downwards:
1. Book or movie and why?
I’m a writer, so I am an avid reader… but I am also a massive film buff. However, when I do put films on these days, I’m still either reading or writing while the bloody thing is on the screen!
So, I’m going with book… no… movie… no.. no… book.
2. Real book or e-book?
Ahhh… now, 99% of the world will say paper book but if I didn’t have the Kindle on my iPhone I would read less than I do (which is a LOT, by the way). The beauty of having books in my pocket means that if a customer is held up on me (I’m a taxi-bus driver), then instead of sitting there with my dick in my hands, I can read instead.
Dick in my hands, eh…? Might start leaving my phone at home.
3. Funniest thing you’ve done in the last 5 years?
4. Do you put yourself into the books you read/write or the movies you watch?
Y’know what… I don’t. I don’t think I ever have. I become so engrossed, at times, with what I’m watching/reading that I can see it from the perspective of the lead character.
Which is the whole point, right?
I wouldn’t want to write a story about a brow-beaten cop, struggling against zombies, and if a 19 year old girl picked it up, I’d hope she wasn’t reading it from her point of view!
Nb: I am writing a story about a brow-beaten cop fighting zombies. And I do condone 19 year old girls. Heartily.
5. How would your best friend describe you?
Well, seeing as my own 16 year old daughter called me a ‘cunt’ on the phone yesterday I don’t even wanna know what my fucking friends think of me. We could always ask Lee Richards. He’s one of those ‘friends’ who doesn’t let my head drop and tells me exactly how it is.
Painfully, at times.
6. Favorite kind of car and why?
Yes. This be she.
Kev wrote about an E-Type Jaguar, and it is a gem. I used to have a 4 litre V8 S-Type which was a fucking rocket. I now have a Ford Focus ST in Ludicrous Orange (it is a colour… now). I like it because it is discrete.
Otherwise, I’ve always wanted a pimped out Range Rover… or a Dodge Charger. Or a decent Mustang muscle car.
7. Would your choice of party be a catered meal or barbecue out back?
Load it up with sluts and cocaine and I’ll have a party in a fucking broom cupboard.
8. What’s your favorite season and why?
Easy. Football season – either soccer or NFL. If we’re taking seasonal-season (?) then I’ve always been a bit partial to winter. I love how snow makes everything look much better. On the downside, all of the good-looking girls hibernate.
9. What specific lesson have you learned – Spiritual, educational, occupational?
Fuck off. The only lessons I am learning are piano lessons. I’m not spiritual, but I am nearing the end of an Open University course, so the educational one is in there somewhere.
I have learnt to not believe my own hype (seriously) as I walked into the Creative Writing
Idiots.
course thinking I’d smash it like a desperate housewife on a Wednesday morning. I was DESTROYED in one of my essays, and rightly so. Since then, I’ve upped my game and I concentrate on my writing and prose so much more.
As you can probably tell from this blog.
Right, fuckers?
10. Besides writing, what’s your favorite thing to do when you get some extra time?
I’d say ‘have sex’, but it’s been so long since I last did it that I think they might have changed it. Is it still as much fun?
Otherwise, it would be my playstation or hanging out with my five year-old boy as much as I can. In true Jode-style, he even tried to help me pick up a lady at a play park last week.
He kind of ruined it when he got fed up of me talking to her and snapped; “Dad, are you gonna ask her for her phone number or not, cos I wanna go to MacDonalds?”
I didn’t get the phone number.
But he did get his MacDonalds.
11. What’s one place you can be found at least one time every week?
In my bus, every day, writing those infamous facebook statuses. If you are one of the rare few who don’t know what I’m talking about, click the link down the right hand side and add me.
Ok, I’m done. That clearly spiraled way out of control, but then Mr Crew knew it would happen which is why he recommended me.
Now, imma tag some folks. The first is Marni Mann – if only to completely counteract my stupidity. And also because I love her and she’s great.
The other is John Hardy Bell. We’re still on our race to see who gets their book published first.
Fuck it, anyone else that wants to join in, feel free. And if you’re one of the 100s of my readers who have never started a blog, then consider this your invite. Take the questions above, and colour me prose-ful.
It was April 5th, my son’s 5th birthday, and I’d spent all morning with him opening presents and spoiling him rotten. Then came the evening, and a party.
Although this was no party for my son, this was an event that Erik Bruce and I went and got completely destroyed at the XOYO club in London. And what a night it was… I’d just dropped my boy, Bam, home, and was sat around at my place getting impatient and waiting for Erik to come pick me up.
However, impatience and I don’t get on at all, so I did what I do best – I got on it. Beer and bag flowed, and by the time Erik arrived I was practically dancing around my front room to one of Erik’s own mixes (as linked above, and which you should be listening to now!)
Erik Bruce and Scott Andrews
We hit the train to Waterloo, getting more and more tanked, and talking to Erik about music is like talking to me about being an idiot – it’s something we’re both experts on. I could grill the man over music and mixes for hours, and his knowledge of all things musical is something to behold. By the time we get to Waterloo, Scott Andrews - an ‘old’ friend from my days in Norwich – is already in the (infamous from lots of my other blogs) Wellesley pub.
Beers and talk flow, and again I’m being baffled by the musical knowledge of my peers. Still, the company is good, and Scott is a very articulate and passionate talker when it comes to music; and combined with Erik’s vast knowledge I’m drowning in a sea of musical bliss. And beer.
It’s time to go, and I suddenly realise that drinking/etc for the last six hours has left me three sheets to the wind, so I allow the guys to take point and follow them in a style akin to a slalom skier; desperately trying to keep his zig-zagging as organised as possible.
We get to a restaurant (I forget it’s name) where we sit down to eat. I say ‘eat’, but I’m rattling like an illegal doctor’s prescription-pill box, so I order a vodka. Yeah, that will sober me up. Erik and Scott order food. Scott eats. Erik looks at his food, and then looks at me with a face that asks; ‘What the fuck was I thinking?’ The moment is made even more poignant when a waitress picks up a rolled-up £5 by Erik’s foot and waves it under his nose (ironically).
Now, this is where shit gets hazy for Jode. I remember drinking more with Scott and Erik, before Robin Thurston (another fine DJ) turned up. We had some photos taken, and I was then accosted by a bald Asian man, who proclaimed himself to be my ethnic twin.
It was all good fun, and we met several more people in here who we would then bump into while in XOYO. The place is pretty big, and the state that Erik and I are in (full of Mandy-liscious goodness and beanos) means we’re straight on the dance floor, and busting out shapes like we’re Diversity on crack. Actually, the state I’m in involves me stumbling around a lot with Erik constantly nudging me this way and that, trying to keep me upright and out of other people’s way… but at least I’m having fun.
Suddenly, the nudging and guiding stops, and I’m at risk of losing myself in a sea of strangers. In the mess I’m in, this would not be good. I realise that I need to maintain a maximum distance of two metres away from Erik, simply to ensure my safe return home to Mama Ruth. However, I hadn’t counted on Nick Muir turning up – John Digweed‘s partner in Bedrock. He stole Erik from me like candy from a drug-induced baby, and the two of them were locked deep in conversation with Scotty. I did what I do best. I staggered, made an idiot of myself, and took pictures.
Nick Muir in a Bruce-Andrews sandwich. Photo courtesy of 'dogshit in the dark iPhone cameras'.
Releasing Nick Muir from his grasps, Erik and I started cutting some rug again. The night flies by; I vaguely remember meeting a guy called George Barnes (very friendly, and turns out we have a common friend in Brighton of all places!), and then I was introduced to Claire Yarranton and her boyfriend/husband/partner/I-forget-which – who also turn out to have multiple friends with myself and Erik. I’m introducing you to all the above people as I have a feeling they’ll all be turning up in future blogs; especially as we all seem destined for the Ministry Of Sound on May 26th for Sasha. If you fancy it yourselves, then simply let me know. It will be biblical.
Digweed keeps rolling, and the sounds are phenomenal; bringing me down from my cloud but keeping me euphoric. He plays until time, the last three tracks he plays batter us with his unique sound… and we love him for it; soaking up the beats and the vibes as the room of people bop and dance as one.
This is the shit that I live for. Some people think that I go to these events to pull women, and rubbish like that. If I wanted to, I could pick up my phone, call some girl up, and do it without all the hassle and fun of a night out in London.
Guys like me… people like us, we look at our calendars and count the days until the next musical event is on that we can plan our lives around. I/we might be smashed, but even in our states the music moves us, flows through us. Cliches or not, it’s true.
We live for the music.
Scott, Idiot, Erik, and Robin.
I can honestly say that I spend most of my waking day listening to music. I was once a massive film buff – a movie nerd – but now, as a writer, it’s no longer films that play on in the background of my life. It’s always music. Mostly mixes.
But I digress. The music finishes, the lights go on, and Erik has since informed me that we stood in line for the cloakroom for three-quarters of an hour. I remember hardly anything, except for Claire talking to me. About something. I think.
Goodbyes all round, and apologies to Robin, who I have been really horrible to. I think I did it in jest, and he’s still speaking to me. Plus he’s invited me to a boat party on the Thames before the aforementioned Sasha gig next month, so I figure he’s forgiven me. Or he’s gonna push me off the fucking boat. Either way, it will be another good story to tell.
Erik then makes me walk for miles and miles and miles. We try hailing a cab, but they are all busy. Erik has since informed me that the Bedrock forums told him that no taxis turned up for a very, very long time.
So we were right to walk. However, I stub my toe, walking in a straight line (!) as we march, and it hurts like hell. Erik tells me to man up, and I limp on. I’ll post a picture of the toe that led to epic Facebook statuses at the end of this blog.
We hit Waterloo again, thanking whoever it is watching over us (Saint Marx, Patron Lord of Drug Fiends?) that the train is almost in. Now this is where I pretty much lose my mind. We fall asleep in our seats, before I roll off, laying in the middle of the floor on the 8am train during rush hour. I was completely unconscious, and Lord Marx knows how many people must have stepped over me. Or avoided our carriage completely.
In the end a woman conductor wakes me and makes me move. So I skip the seats again and lie against the wall. On the heater. And burn myself. Erik wakes me in Portsmouth, and as we leave the train, asks me if maybe I should put my other trainer back on.
I’d taken it off because of my bad toe.
Wanna see it?
And try on a little mix from Scott Andrews while you’re surfing the net afterwards. I was going to throw a Robin Thurston mix in, but it looks like he’ll be the main feature of the forthcoming Sasha blog, so I’ll get him to make me a special mix just for that one!
Hey, remember me? I’m the guy who last year attempted to write a blog every week, as per the WordPress challenge. I failed. I missed it by one.
So this year I decided that I was only going to write a blog about things that mattered to me; important things, as well as cataloging my adventures… and I’ve got some absolute gems coming up.
But, back to this blog. I’ve never blogged a book review before, despite being tempted many a time; but this time I have to. I want to. I need to. If you know anything about me, you’ll know that Marni Mann is one of my tightest friends in the world of writing – as well as being a good personal friend of mine. And if you know anything about her, you’ll know that she has written a book:
Memoirs Aren’t Fairytales.
Ok, wait wait wait… yes she is one of my best friends, but don’t go expecting me to pull my old chap out and start gushing about how great the book is. You’re gonna read an honest review… a review with a little bit of a difference.
Because, y’see, the world that her book is set in, is the real world.
Nicole Brown is a young girl, heading for Boston with her friend Eric as they leave Bangor behind them. Now, I’m not sure if Marni intended for the surname ‘Brown’ for her leading character, but ‘brown’ is also a nickname for heroin here in the UK, so it’s a nice touch either way.
Nicole is running from her her home, AKA The Hole, and trying to erase the memory of a drug-rape she endured at the hands of two men. Many a user ingests drugs to escape from Real Life. I’ve been there, done it, worn the t-shirt, and kept on wearing it until it become so faded and worn that I had to buy myself another one. And matching pants.
They reach Boston, and have soon stepped up from weed and pills to the old Marching Powder, aka cocaine. The duo and their work colleague, Renee, are soon playing more bugle than a brass section (oh boy, you Americans are gonna really struggle with some of my English-isms!) (but I’m sure you’ll get the gist).
Nicole’s life rolls spectacularly downhill after this, but I’m not in the business of ruining peoples’ enjoyment of reading the book, so you’ll have to buy it yourself from here (if you live in the US) or from here (if you live in the UK/Europe). Those of us this side of the pond are in for a treat at that ridiculously low price! You can also grab it on Kindle, and Amazon will even send you the first chapter free for you to try, on your phone or PC.
One of my favourite aspects of the book, is how realistis the depiction of drug-taking is. I remember the first time I did drugs; mushrooms with a guy older than me who I used to skip school and hang out with. He got me into pills, weed, and acid, and my late-teen years were one great big fucking mess.
But going back to the mushrooms; I dropped them, walked up the high street marveling at all the bright, fantastic colours… and then bumped into my mum. Heck, my mum’s been involved before. Once I got smashed on vodka and valium and drove my car around the local canoe lake…not around the outside, but the inside of it where people walked! And then I parked my car right outside the swimming pool doors… and locked myself out. And my mum had to come rescue my ass.
Marni’s depth on what effects drugs have are honest, sincere, and very well researched. It’s not my place to ask her how far she ‘went’ in her quest for true-effectiveness, but – as a dabbler in narcotics over the years – I can honestly attest that every reaction to the drugs in the book is true. At least in my own experience.
From the ants crawling under Nicole’s skin while on ecstasy, to the wired-buzz on coke, to the comatose-effect of weed, I’ve been there and experienced it all, as I’m sure many, many of us have. Everyone experiments…
…but Nicole’s is a story of someone – like myself – who succumbs to peer-pressure and finds herself spiraling downward; being dragged under by others and her own weak-willed inability to find help for herself, despite her family’s attempted interventions.
The journey she takes is both harrowing and uneasy to read at times; with the people in her life using her as they wish, and more than once she finds herself selling her body on the streets to raise enough money just to buy enough drugs to straighten herself out.
And the end, when it arrives, is strong, powerful, and heart-rending.
If you’ve ever done any sort of drugs then I urge you to read this, and see if the tale resonates somewhere inside of you.
If you have never done drugs, then read this, and know that you were right to have never touched them.
And read it soon, as the sequel is already underway…
I’m sat here trying to desperately remember what happened just over 24 hours ago and I’m struggling. New Years was a mess for myself and Becki Beavis. I would ask her to fill in the blanks but she was as much of a state as I was. Let me unscramble my brain cells and see what I can do about it…
It all started at 5pm New Years Eve after I’d dropped Bam home and cracked open the vodka back at mine… *cue hazy flashback scene*
If you’ve read my blogs then you’ll know that my journeys always start boat, train, underground when we hit London and this time was no different. However, I managed to spice the journey up a little this time by receiving a challenge from Darren Boynton and Erik Bruce. The dipshits challenged me to write ‘Happy New Year Darren Boynton (and Erik Bruce)’ on a piece of paper and get my photo taken with a policeman. I thought I’d shake things up slightly, and get photos with everyone. Here’s the first: Hitting Waterloo Station in London was surreal. Everytime I have ever been here it’s been rammed full of people going to work, and while there were still many people here, there were no where near the numbers to which I was used to.
Hitting the Wellesley as is our tradition when we hit London, we’d got our drinks and sat down for 30 seconds before the lady sitting next to me asked me to look after her bags and coat. I shrugged and said ‘sure’. Well, she didn’t look like a Muslim extremist so I figured we were safe. She returned and I went to the loo.
While I managed to ‘bag’ one cubicle THREE lads went into the one next to me. I’m sure it was so they could carry on their discussion about local politics, but there was a lot of giggling and nose-blowing while they were in there. I came out of my cubicle and was stunned to see the place full of men waiting to use the facilities. I cleared my throat loudly and gave it a real panto-cry of ‘boy, there sure are a lot of people in here now‘, trying to give the cubicle kids a heads up. One of them then called out, in a posh old ladies voice; “Er… I’m awfully sorry but I’ve run out of tissue paper! Could you please all fuck off and find me some?”
I was laughing as I left. Not sure about the others though.
Drinks drunk, tube taken and we’re in the Barbican area of London, heading for Fabric. The area seemed pretty sparse so I asked a nearby doorman if there was anywhere nearby where we could get a drink, ie, down the stairs into the club/bar behind him. He pointed at a pub behind me that had more lights gleaming than a Christmas tree. I’ve no idea how I missed it! Drinks drunk, again, and I went back to the doorman for… If you read the ‘legendary’ blog that was Fear and Loathing In Los London you’ll recall that I got searched by a man on the door of Fabric who found what he was looking for down my shorts.
No, not my cock.
This time we came prepared. We did our drugs in a phone box before we went in and then stuffed the rest in Becki’s phone case and down her bra. It ain’t pretty, but it’s effective. Alas, it also proved a touch too sweaty when we tried to perk up later that night…
I got such a half-arsed searching at the door I felt offended and almost went looking for my tormentor from last time, but we were in and that was all that mattered. Now, I don’t
Room Two
know about anyone else, but we got lost in Fabric last time… and we got lost in Fabric this time. I had to ask a fucking steward where Room Two was… …as this was where the man I had come to see was playing. Alan Fitzpatrick. He started at 9pm and we got there roughly twenty minutes afterwards, and as we entered he was dropping Adam Beyer’s ‘Twist’ track, which I love love love. I thought it would make a good first video so I started filming it… which resulted in an impromptu dance-off between two lads:
Being early it wasn’t quite full up, which gave us the freedom of the dance floor. We spent pretty much the next 11 hours here just tearing the place up. More and more people flocked to the room and soon we were rammed in the corner right under the DJ booth, as Fitzpatrick played a set so formidable the room was soon packed and the crowd were yelling and cheering at every drop. The man has come so far in the last year its phenomenal.
A steward called ‘Rich’ was stationed at the bottom of the stairs between us and Alan Fitzpatrick and I can’t remember how or why but me and Beavis kept plying him with vodka for the rest of the night and got him pissed! In fact, so pissed I managed to squeeze this in: After a while, Beavis thought it would be funny to tell Rich that I was friends with Alan Fitzpatrick. Rich then asked me; “Do you want me to go and tell him you’re here?” Now me, being three sheets to the wind, agreed. Rich ran up the stairs, asked, Fitzpatrick refused (saying he’d only ever spoke to me online) so I did what I do best. I carried on being smashed out of my face and danced.
Fag break and we ventured outside. Now, I told you things were hazy, and I can’t remember who, but someone sold me a couple of pills. £10 a pop these bad boys, and they were better than the shit back home on the Isle of Wight. It took a good half hour to come up but soon we were back in Room Two throwing shapes as AF played on. His set was fantastic, and he cemented himself as my favourite DJ around. Once he’d finished his set I accosted him and apologised for drunkenly trying to visit him in the booth but he was cool. I think. I was space-monkeyed, remember.
I also then got a photo of him and reminded him that he’d promised me an MP3 of his SW4 set back in August!
Our dancers-in-crime for the rest of the night we’re two lads and they’re girlfriends… I think. The two guys were very friendly and chatted away with us the whole time. Then I mentioned I’d been to SW4 and one of them shouted: “I knew I knew you from somewhere!” he shouted and gave me a big hug. He then spoke to the other friend and he was soon laughing and hugging me and patting me on the back. I swear I had never seem these guys before in my life, so I did what amused me most… and went along with them.
We carried on partying, the pills doing their job, but they seemed to bring us down a lot quicker than we expected. Fitzpatrick had finished his set, so while Slam was just taking over we ventured back out to the smoking area, or ‘Drug Central’ as it shall now forever be known. I’m not sure if it was because we were running out of drugs, or if everyone just wanted to do my head in, but Drug Central was really fucking with me. Firstly Beavis decided that the hedge behind me was the biggest thing in the world she’d ever seen and kept trying to get me to look. Ok, it might not sound like it was funny, but the severe state I was in and the fact that every drug-riddled ape that walked past and heard our conversation decided to stare at the bastard shrubbery as well. But I would not turn. I didn’t at all for the rest of the night.
Suddenly, after spending the last 7 hours on a solid intake of vodka, I desperately needed water. And I mean fucking needed water more than I ever have in my life. I started asking random people but they all had the tiniest dribble in their bottles or countered my offer by asking me for drugs! Apparently I have ‘one of those faces’. Seriously. I get asked all the damn time. We befriended an Irishman and his girlfriend. I say ‘befriended’ but he was an absolute cunt to me, although we solidly agreed on the fact that everyone hates the English. I pushed this a touch further and mentioned that I find the Welsh to be the biggest racists on the planet (it’s true, suck it up) and I paused after saying it and asked Irish’s girlfriend if she was Welsh. His very pretty, very black girlfriend responded ‘do I look like I’m fuckin’ Welsh?’ in the same Laaandan accent that she’d been talking to me in for the last ten minutes. Told you I was struggling. Irish said goodbye, shook my hand, called me a cunt and disappeared into the night. thus the hunt was back on.
It was now at the stage where I stood in the middle of Drug Central and starting asking in a loud voice:
“People, look at me! Don’t I look desperate enough for some drugs?”
Beavis then shut me up. It was probably a good idea as the doormen were removing various people being sick around us, and I had PRIME CANDIDATE written all over me.
Still…
A small, thin, shaking Ukranian/Russian/whatever shuffled on over to me and said
What a night...
‘drrrugzz’ in his eastern European lilt; although, to be fair, the state I was in he was probably English and my brain translator was on the fritz.
I nodded and I recall telling him that I loved him and that he was a lovely man.
And then he started taking off his belt.
It’s not an uncommon thing to happen around me, and if you check out my last blog I actually made this move myself… again in Fabric…
The foreigner took his belt off and held it towards me.
“Oh man,” I said, “Look, I wanted drugs, not cock… no matter how desperate I look…”
But then he revealed the back of his belt, and snapped it open like an old Kit Kat. The interior leather of the belt split open and revealed HUNDREDS of orange pills, all nestled in a poly lining. It was fucking genius and something that Beavis and I talked about often throughout the night!
At least when I was able to talk, cos those little orange pills fuuuucked us up. You’ve heard the conversations where people bemoan that pills were ‘so much better back in the day’? Well, this pills should’ve been called ‘Back In The Day’ pills. They were fucking immense and one little beano each took us to the fucking moon and back. I didn’t think I was overly bad, but Beavis took some photos of me that shocked even myself!
Oh, and in case you were wondering, these pills pissed all over the MDMA in our last excursion.
Back on the dance floor and we’re back in the groove until one massive wave of pill-power wipes me out in one crushing move; and then I suddenly become that which I had always ridiculed – a dirty little pill head who can barely breathe let alone open my eyes. At one point Beavis and I were both in heavy conversation… with the wall right in front of us.
Luckily I’ve managed to gather my marbles back into their sack by the time Adam Beyer hits the decks around half 3, and his set is tremendous. The battery on my iPhone had died and I will always, ALWAYS regret not filming him playing a dirty, dark version of Joy Division’s ‘Love Will Tear Us Apart’. I remember stopping dancing once I realised what it was… and once I realised just how good it was… and I can still hear it ringing in my ears now. It was an amazing moment in an amazing night.
If anyone reading this can tell me what it’s called or where I can find it will love you forever. [step forward Shadey Collins and Dean Foster (the latter my dance partner in Fabric!)!! Here's a snippet:
Fabric was open 9pm till 9am, and we left just after 8am and caught a taxi to Waterloo with our last £20. While sat in the train station I discovered a craving for a strawberry milkshake that was almost as bad as my earlier want of water.
It took my five minutes to get out my seat, three minutes to find the MacDonalds’ downstairs, and another 1 minute to get into an argument and be asked to leave. Apparently they don’t do milkshakes in Maccy D’s at that time of the morning, to which I replied loudly:
“Look, you can clearly see that I’m off my face and really need a fucking milkshake!”
I’m not big on poetry… when I was at school it was used as a punishment. Probably not the best way to get kids into the subject, and hey, it put me off for most of my life.
However, there are two poems that I find I absolutely love, and thought I would share them with you… and from a guy who writes the kinda shit I usually write, I’m not sure what that says about me.
However, both poems are from wars… so maybe that does say something about me.
“If you are able, save for them a place inside of you and save one backward glance when you are leaving for the places they can no longer go. Be not ashamed to say you loved them, though you may or may not have always. Take what they have left and what they have taught you with their dying and keep it with your own. And in that time when men decide and feel safe to call the war insane, take one moment to embrace those gentle heroes you left behind.”
Major Michael Davis O’Donnell
1 January 1970
Dak To, Vietnam
“In Flanders fields the poppies blow Between the crosses, row on row, That mark our place; and in the sky The larks, still bravely singing, fly Scarce heard amid the guns below.
We are the Dead. Short days ago We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow, Loved and were loved, and now we lie, In Flanders fields.
Take up our quarrel with the foe: To you from failing hands we throw The torch; be yours to hold it high. If ye break faith with us who die We shall not sleep, though poppies grow In Flanders fields.”
Canadian physician and Lieutenant Colonel John McCrae wrote it on 3 May 1915 after he witnessed the death of his friend, Lieutenant Alexis Helmer, 22 years old, the day before.
So, there you go. Maybe I do have a little ‘art’ in me.
Yep, that’s it. That’s all this blog is about, but I can finally stop calling The Book, ‘The Book’, and now say ‘this is how far I’ve got with The Dead Outside’.
That is all.
[Quick update: Look what my glorious compadre Jason Tabrys just knocked up for me:]
