A month since I last posted. Shocking. I didn't get the job, but the feedback was good; it was a close thing between me and the person that got it as they had a bit more experience in the higher education sector.

Things I have done in the last month:

- Hot Chip @ Cardiff Uni (can't remember most of their set / calls to Yani etc)
- Giorgia's 30th (hammered / Yani / bed at 7.30am)
- Website launch @ Clwb (success, although comedy and live music don't mix)
- Motorhead & Saxon @ Cardiff Uni (alone, but bumped into Mikey Bell & Paul)
- Swn Festival (Future of the Left / Evils / Tubelord / Right Hand Left Hand)
- Sub 29 Launch (Sicknote)
- Howard Marks @ Sub 29 (review to follow)
- Interviewed Jonathan Pryce for cardiff Living mag (£150!)
- Stayed off the Butros for three weeks to date
- Drunk more as a result
- Crept more into the red
- Not written much
- Got fatter

The Soundtrack film & music festival starts tonight with a Danny Boyle masterclass in Cineworld followed by his film, Slumdog Millionnaire. I'm also going to see I Know You Know on Saturday and Jonathan Pryce Q&A & film. Tomorrow is also the Buzz Americana fancy dress party in Pica Pica. I'm going as Travis Bickle. Real guns would be good.

No News

No news on the job - which means I haven't got it. Instead, I'll try pasting a YouTube video here.

Interview

Just a quickie - it's 7.43am and I have an interview at 9 at the University of Glamorgan for the position of Web Content Production Officer (£25k). The interview is in two parts: a work based exercise then a face to face at 12. I wish myself luck...

Insufficient Funds

For the first time in ages yesterday I tried to draw money out to be told that I didn't have any in there. I'm overdrawn by £1,600. Also, last week my credit card minimum payment direct debit was refused, and the Indian woman that rang to tell me also informed me that I'd gone over the agreed limit and needed to pay that amount back immediately. I've had to borrow £200 off the bread knife to sort it out. I don't mind telling you that I shed a few tears and considered disappearing. I have no choice but to go back to doing wake-ins. Not ideal, but as they're on the weekend it means I'll be earning money instead of pissing it up the wall.

Made a chicken and spinach curry last night and my folks came over. I drank way too much:

7 330ml bottles Tiger Beer
1 large glass red wine
1 tumbler Pimms (neat)
6 330ml bottles Kronenbourg (I sneaked over the shop to get these when other booze ran out)

Needless to say I was shitfaced and can't remember going to bed. Whether this level of drinking constitutes alcoholism I don't know, but it certainly makes me a pisshead. I wonder if I'll ever stop drinking. I tell myself I will, but I can't just have one beer, it has to be a bucket load. Same with the Butros, I can't go for a night out without it. Saying that, I survived this weekend without... but then I didn't go out.

Anyway, it's a new day and there are things need doing; money needs earning and words need writing. Actually, first things first. Kettle needs boiling.

Rain And Edginess

It's pissing down, and has been all day. It reflects my current frame of mind fairly well. I had a better night's sleep but woke up with a racing heart regarding the amount of debt and extent to which we live beyond our means. Even if I started a £50k job tomorrow, I'd still be struggling for the foreseeable future. That's probably not strictly true, but I'm going to need to start doing wake-ins again if I stand a chance of clawing back into the black.

My tenant moves out of my flat tomorrow, and the new guy moves in on the 7th. I'll be sorry to see him go, as he paid on time and kept the place tip top. I get the feeling the new guy - who fruitlessly requested new carpets and a washer drier upon paying his bond - will be on the phone more.

Picked ma and pa up from the airport last night. Their flight from Dalaman arrived the same time as another. Some of the troglodytes coming through arrivals at Cardiff would make Estonian peasants feel classy. The lads have all got blond highlights / tips / patches and fucking meaningless rectangular celtic blobs that are excuses for tattoos on their forearms, and everyone wears those three-quarter length light grey shiny sports trousers with white patent trainers. Mum and Dad eventually came through in summer clothing, only to be faced with Welsh winter weather from the doors to the car. I got back just after midnight and was glad I'd changed the bedding yesterday and put the winter duvet in the cover.

Tonight I'm off to see the compere for the launch at a comedy night in Buffalo. I could do without it but only plan to stay an hour or so.

Another Wasted Sunday

By rights I should be just arriving in Dundee sans footwear with a Darby full of Swiss chocolate (see Saturday's post), because once again a Saturday night's socialising became an expensive blizzard (£100 approx). We were home by 2am but I was wired until 5, when half a bottle of wine and a tumbler of neat Pimms finally put me the right side of consciousness. Sunday - once again - was a write-off, save for a trip to Spar via the pub, and a diet of pizza, Pepsi and TV in bed. I had the worst nights' sleep in years last night, I kept thinking someone was breaking in the house during semi-consciousness and bouts of sleep paralysis, and when I did sleep I dreamt of zombie carnage and gruesome, violent attacks. I can feel wrongness coursing through my veins like narcotic slugde; a bile of fat, salt, sugar and booze. My attempts at a 24hr detox involving consuming no more than a pint of water every hour fell down at 10.45am when I finished off the pizza.

I've come to accept the fact that I can no longer socialise in a drinking environment without involving hchello mate, but that doesn't make it all right. When the people you're with are of the some ilk, willpower plays second fiddle to the effects of ones first few beers. But, today is a new day, and what can I do accept regret my actions once again and promise myself that things will change?

I pick my folks up from the airport at 11pm tonight, than tomorrow I'm going to a comedy night to sound out a compere for the website launch, so it's not even like I have an early night to look forward to. But I did tidy the bedroom and change our bedding earlier, so at least the room no longer gives Tracy Emin's exhibit a run for its money.

Mods (A Haiku Poem)

From the South Lanes come
An army of parka coats;
Brighton beach at dawn.

Must Write Right

All is now well following the Oz debacle. The breadknife and I eventually broke the wall of silence during the evening of her birthday, but not before many tears had been shed on her part and I had resorted to necking Kalms by the handful. She liked her presents, including the wild card cardigan I picked, so some Brownie points were clawed back. She also loved the herb chopping set. It turns out we can still go to Australia, but due to her having exceeded the 35 age mark the only areas we are now eligible for are Victoria and the Northern Territories. Darwin? Don't think so. Melbourne it is. I've been scouting for work and the media situation is on a par with Sydney which is good news. She, on the other hand, is adamant that "It's over, we blew it, I don't want to hear any more about it." To be continued...

I've been reading my Writing, Culture & Society folder that I collected from Rob Middlehurst on Tuesday. I'd forgotton how good Fuck, Tits & Blow My trumpet, You Beauty actually was, and reading over it also sparked a feeling of joy becasue it was indeed such fun to write. So now I have a dilemma: to continue with Anatomy and keep Fuck, Tits on a side burner as a short story or shelve Anatomy and push forward with Fuck, Tits, which I'm not sure how far I can take as a full novel. My heart tells me to continue with Anatomy and have both that and Fuck, Tits ready as a short story. There is also Nails to consider, my novel for young adults. Oh, the torment of having the ideas but not enough mojo to execute them.

It is Saturday morning, and I'm working with both Sam's today, then going to a 30th house party tonight. I'm driving and therefore not drinking. If I have to suffer another Sunday in bed having consumed my own weight in alcohol and Butros - thereby losing a day's writing - I'm likely to drive barefoot ro Dundee on Monday morning armed only with Toblerone.

Oz Application In Tatters

Our inability to organise a wank in a porno has meant the missus' 35th birthday has arrived and we have been too slack to get all the paperwork necessary together in time for our Australian emigration application. This is despite having shelled out nearly £2000 in fees, which of course is all non refundable.

What is wrong with me? Am I so laid back that I just don't give a fuck? Is it my genes to always just coast along and let life ping me around like a pinball? The woman from the emigration agency says we've lost five points and therefore are illegible for the under 35 visa so will now have to apply for a different one.

The application began with the missus going at it like a mad woman, obsessing over emigrating to Oz until it made her ill. After a stint on beta blockers she washed her hands of the whole thing and announced that I would be the one to do all the groundwork from now on. Me being the colander-brained half of the relationship, for every two steps forward I took one back, and now we're fucked. Her birthday is tomorrow, and she isn't speaking to me.

So, as well as the money, all the photocopying, hunting for ten-year-old certificates in attics, IELTS tests (two at £100 a pop), journeys to Tewkesbury / Bath / Brighton, stamping and certifying by our solicitor friend and evenings spent stressing over the computer and then rowing and not talking have amounted to fuck all.

Am I to blame? Is she to blame? Are we equally to blame? I don't know, because as usual I'm too fucking indecisive to do anything other than let feelings of guilt and disappointment wash over me and hope everything works out all right.

Glasvegas Review

Barfly, Cardiff
Mon 23 Sept 2008

I used to relish ripping the piss out of my older brother’s taste in music during his student days, circa mid-eighties. His Bauhaus / Siouxie / Cocteau Twins t-shirts, winklepickers and bouffant hairdo were a constant source of amusement to me, a 13-year-old Beastie Boys fan. Now, as I find myself shoulder-to-shoulder in a sold-out Barfly with fellow thirtysomethings tentatively awaiting new gloomsters on the block, Glasvegas, I wonder if I’ll finally get the joke.
The sharp shoes and big hair may be absent from the audience, but as Glaswegians James Allen and co amble onto the stage in black to a deafening hum of muted feedback and build into Flowers And Football Tops, you’d be hard pressed to find a more iconic tribute to dark romanticism on a Monday night.
You’d also be forgiven for sneering that Glasvegas’s image is the result of blending the most successful conglomerate of said genre, and indeed the boxes are ticked in terms of fuzzy samples, soaring guitars and thin, barely audible beats, but the haunting result capped with sunglass-donning frontman Allen’s monotone chants is something to behold.
Most of the tracks from their debut album get a deserved airing, against blinding, pulsing lights and terrace pogoing. It’s My Own Cheating Heart That Makes Me Cry and Geraldine are obvious highlights, but after some minor PA trouble is sorted and a few pissed punters get dealt with, set closer Daddy’s Gone sums up the Glasvegas experience: stories from street level told with utter believability and inviting you – yes, you – to sing as if it’s your last night on Earth.
My apologies, big brother, it appears you may have been on to something.

To be published in the October 2008 issue of Buzz Magazine

Suicide & Public Speaking

The last 24 hours has been a rollercoaster ride for my guts and nerves, and no mistake. The apprehension of Ian's funeral has been at the front of this rise and fall of adrenelin or whatever the fuck it is that gives you that fight or flight feeling in your stomach.

Reviewing Glasvegas in Barfly on Monday night was a nice aside from the other stuff, and pulled me in somewhat in reminding me that there is plenty out there to be discovered and enjoyed, and things are never bad enough for you to swing from a tree in a graveyard in fucking Newport.

Yesterday I commanded myself to remain composed for my talk to the creative writing freshers at the Uni of Glamorgan, and I was fine until I was introduced by CM and stood up to address the 100 or so pairs of eyes that had already been talked at for half an hour by lecturers. I went from confident and funny to quivvering mess in the space of a minute. I cut it short sat down and sweated it out with a twitching beamer; a fucking horrible feeling. A few came and took my card at the end though, so I must have made some impression.

From there down to Thornhill Crem for Ian's funeral. Fuck me, what a turnout. Faces I hadn't seen since the Emporium days in 99 were out in force, although at the service the last thing I wanted to do was speak to anyone. Choking back tears is something I've always been good at, but when that curtain closd and Ian's Mum started wailing it took every ounce of restraint I had to stop me doing the same. 30 years old. A talented, loved and respected DJ. Why, mate?

Talking to Spud, Jon and Swiss in the Vic Park pub afterwards, and it turns out Ian left Move at whatever time then went home to Fairwater where he lived with his parents - who were on holiday - and his brother. At around 6am he texted(?) his best mate in Porth saying "Thanks for being such a top mate, please take care of all my vinyl and CDs." His mate who is in bed shows his missus, who immediately thinks something is up and they call him. No answer. They drive down to Ian's house by 7.30am, wake Paul who tells them he came in at 3am but then went back out. They found his body at around 9am in the graveyard behind his on / off girlfriend's house.

At the wake I kept getting and ignoring calls from work, which stressed me out further, then on my arrival home another three 500+ word emails about the website launch and other shite that's not helping with my current mindset. An early night was essential, and I feel refreshed and ready this morning. That's how it is. Tomorrow is another day. The first day of the rest of your life. Now I just need to sort out those credit cards, backlog of work, Glasvegas review, meeting agenda and my missus' main birthday present. By tomorrow.