Updated Journal Entries.

Thursday 27^th of Janurary, 2011. 13:08pm. ECA studio

Can’t pinpoint the reason but God I’m fed up with Edinburgh! It feels smaller every day, where the same people just walk and meet in circuits.. I want to go visit Rory and Mairi and drink with them- I think the grass is greener in Glasgow. It’s weird how much my enthusiasm has shifted over the Christmas period. Last night I was half set to go to the Grassmarket for this college ‘Painter’s Pub’ thing, but sent a few texts and found there was no one I could really go along with. Met Sarah outside the Black Bull on her way back from Princess Street and we looked in, but it was just this single table in the middle, where extra seating looked like hassle. Sarah got a little impatient . It was kind of cold. There was probably a lot more to it that id like to admit. But when we decided to go home, watch TV and put the heating on, it was with both a mixture of relief and regret.

Friday, March 4^th, 12:49pm. Studio C7. ECA

Not sleeping much at all. Too busy to write this actually. Listening to The Offspring, all very fast paced- major nostalgia kick. Really takes you back to the excitement of being about 15. Doing a drawing- where’s it going? Worried about the exhibition. Waiting for texts. Can tend to do a lot of waiting these days. Annoyed at myself for even recording this, like somehow this red bok is bored of my obsessions.

Is this something I’ll regret? Do I want what I can’t get?

I'd play with fire to break the ice.

Wednesday 6^th of April, 2011. Studio C7 , 20:42pm.

Things are on the slow again. Procrastination is here and journal is back in full swing.

Not sure if college is even open 24 hours, no doubt be gone before I have to find out. Someone is playing Leonard Cohen and ominous Eastern European is in.

All my linseed oil has turned from white to yellow- like all my drawings are dying or something. The summer is approaching, strange but nice as the days get longer and the nights lighter. But things are still so fucking slow. I’m predictably restless and largely directionless despite looming deadlines. Hopefully get a few shifts at Avalanche, but generally the hours are long and dull! Kevin the boss, is alarmingly passive aggressive and listens to dwindly acoustic Scottish Bands. It’s nothing High Fidelity.

Monday 23^rd of May, 2011, 23:16pm. Mairi’s bedroom.

( Day and night for Art School Degree Show in Dundee)

After dinner we went to an exhibition at a warehouse thing scattered with some ex- eca names and trendy (?) Dundee types. Some work was quite interesting but may have been given the sheer length of time I spent staring at it ( we were there for hours). Met the artist later however and felt differently.

We met up with Martyn’s friend who lead us to a party at a mystery flat owned by an eccentric, acrobatic type with an imaginative moustache and a tendency to cartwheel. He said he was a photographer but apparently only took terrible pictures. The cornicing on the ceiling was listed and the flat was very nice. Martyn became pre-occupied with a drum kit and I wandered around a little ( occasionally outside for a change of scenery). Met a guy who knew Catriona from Avalanche. Felt like a very small world. I smoked a little weed but didn’t feel much. I nursed two glasses of whiskey and watched the clock. The party numbers died down around half 3 leaving only the acrobat, Martyn’s friend, strange John Fruscainte like flatmate, Martyn and myself. Around 5ish, Martyn played a beautiful rendition of Damien Rice’s Cannonball ( which given the context melted me). Felt like a puddle of something on the floor. When the sun came up fully around 6, a group of the acrobats shoolfriends arrived- raising the question- how old was the acrobat? The individuals in question looked like they spanned the ages of mid-twenties to early 40’s?. They took lines of a brown (?) substance, politely offered to everyone on a glass tray. The acrobat was feverishly keen to entertain, offering an endless supply of tequila in expensive bottles, thus raising further questions . With the sun fully up at half six, the day shed light on the situation, in manner of revelationary point in novel.

Martyn and I walked to the bus stop shortly after, but got lost, mis-judged the bus times and had to wait for the train station to open around 7:15am. Dundee as a city has very little to offer, and looks like a badly put together extended Biggar high street. All nighters in unknown cities with your new boyfriend could probably be wonderfully exciting but not in Dundee. We just stared at a roundabout for a while, sitting against a wall while he savoured an orange. Occassionaly everything was hilariouisly funny. Hadn’t eaten for about 13 hours. Hadn’t slept in 22.

Sunday 5^th of June, 2011. 12:22pm. Living Room, Home.

Love may not produce happiness; whether or not it does in the end is of little relevance. It’s primary effect is to energize. Have you ever talked as much, needed less sleep, returned to sex so eagerly as when you fall in love? The anaemic begin to glow, while the normally healthy become intolerable. Next it gives spine stretching confidence. You feel like you are standing up straight again or perhaps for the first time. You feel you can do anything while this feeling lasts. You can take on the world. I could make this distinction – love enhances confidence whereas sexual conquest merely develops the ego.

Do you know you love someone when you love them more than yourself?

Friday 10^th of June, 2011, 11:23am. Avalanche Records.

Kevin is a bitter old bastard and am I fuck working for him all summer. “ The greatest way to learn is by other people’s idiotic mistakes’. He sucks the life and joy out of music. John is in. He used to work for Kevin for a few years but then told him he needed a break and went to work in Fopp five days a week. I’m not sure if he knows. Kevin says only stupid people work in live CD shops.

Wednesday 29^th of June, 15:49pm. Bedroom, France.

In bedroom listening to In Rainbows. Stole an adaptor from the toaster in the kitchen. Feels so good to be able to listen to music again. I need it.

A nice day at the lake yesterday. We went to this bridge and watched Tom, Martyn , Josh and latterly Stephen jump in below. It looked terrifying. Martyn picked me flowers. Afterwards we sat by the river and waited for Dan to pick us up. We drew the storm coming. When we got back to the house it started to thunder and lightening and pour down. We stood outside in the garden and watched the flashes. The raindrops were huge. Martyn and I played cards for hours and Stephen dealt. It was Josh’s last night and I drank the best of a bottle of wine at the table. I laughed so much I was crying.

Thursday 7^th of July, 2011, 11:47am, Avalanche Records.

Kevin just bad mouthed me to a customer. . . again! I am fed up with this. Continual urge to give him the finger and just walk out. It could be like a film where a great triumphant song plays as I turn the corner. I could even make a terrific speech with a great closing line. . . . Someone from Red Dog Music brought their soya latte back this morning because the milk was off, but Kevin bought the milk so I wasn’t sure what to do. He then insisted on phoning the other girl Catriona on her day off to ask what could have possibly gone wrong. Since when did she become a dairy expert on top of everything else? I think he thinks he is one of the few sane people in the world, when in fact he is fucking mental. He even rolled his eyes when I suggested I wasn’t quite sure what I was to ask her. But what was up for debate?? THE MILK WAS JUST OFF!?

15:58pm

Losing the plot. This really is Hell. Very occasionally Kevin asks me questions as if remotely interested in my life, but by the time I take breath to answer he has lost interest and is no longer listening. How will I fill the final hour before I can tidy up? Check train times. Check facebook. Re-read the Skinny, maybe from back to front this time?

16:08pm

Nothing on Facebook. Trains come every hour. This is intolerable! Should I steal a millionaire shortbread or would he notice? I don’t even want it, I’m just so fucking bored! Oh my God, Bright Eyes AGAIN. I swear that voice has become something dark in my head. I haven’t spoken out loud in almost 2 hours. This is death by Indie pop.

16:37pm

Have a sudden urge to get horrendiously pissed. Seriously considering picking up a bottle of gin on the milk run. Would need mints to mask the smell of booze.

Saturday 9^th of July, 2011. 15:02pm. The Gladstone, Gallery Biggar.

(New Gallery job )

If Avalanche has taught me anything ( besides that intolerably rude people do exist), then it’s how to effectively pass time. This gallery job is a breeze. No boss breathing down your neck, run of the CD player ( New Order). And I could sell a painting for sure. 2 hours till close is nothing in the great scheme of things, particularly if you break time up into units of 15 minutes. Checking your facebook, scrolling through pictures of people you kind of know, writing in your journal, re-applying all your make-up, eating, drinking and making and tidying up numerous hot beverages- all these activities take time.

I could easily do another hour or so here without too much boredom. Probably.

16:11pm

Hardly any time left at all. Why would anyone buy these paintings? They are awful on the most part. Getting a bit tired now.

16:40pm

About to leave. Sold a bad painting and pretty offensive drawing of a horse. The general public have really no taste. I don’t hate horses I just bloody hate that drawing.

Wednesday 13^th of July 2011, 12:47pm, Bedroom, Flat Lauriston Gardens.

It will always feel strange when people step out of your life. When you walk past places you associate them with and feel a blank space. Just picturing them there and then disappearing. I don’t know if its sad. I can’t decide. People keep telling me to address problems head on and not ignore them. Not just hope they disappear. A major mistake I made was thinking that if he wasn’t listening,didn’t try to help me or didn’t especially care then I thought nothing was real . Like a sort of warped escapism. That doesn’t happen anymore.

Excerpt from a Short Story.

It was about lunchtime when I got to Savannah’s flat. She wasn’t in. At a tutorial. However, a languorous youth named Julian was in. We shook hands. I’ve grasped firmer rubber gloves.

To make conversation I asked him what he was studying at Cambridge. “Russian and Chinese”, he replied, ‘But I’m just messing around really. I shan’t sit my finals. Im not looking for a bloody job!”

He offered me a coffee with an Italian name and not wanting to sound provincial I accepted. As he pottered in the kitchen with shots and expensive looking beans I regretted my inferiority complex. I asked him if he shared a flat with Savannah.

“I’m married to Sav” he said, “She’s Mrs Pemberton-Fife. Did it as a favour last week. She’s got this great little theory that first marriages should just get over and done with quickly, so we intend to divorce quite soon. We don’t love each other”, he added. Then , “In fact I prefer my own sex”.

“Good”, I said, “Because I intend to be Savannah’s second husband”

“Lovely!”, he grinned, and shot back his expensive coffee.

I did the same, though with a little too much gumption. The concoction was thick like tar and boiling hot. It slid through my lips and down my chin.

Savannah came in. She looked clever and lovely. I grimaced and wiped the brown liquid from my mouth.

“Hello Mrs Perberton-Fife”

“Oh you know then?”

“Can I stay here?”, I asked.

“Yes”, she said.

And so it was.

****

Savannah is textbook beautiful. Her hair is like spun gold and bounces around her shoulders in thick, luxurious waves. She’s got deep blue eyes and an incredible milky complexion like some sort of Slavic goddess, lost and wasted on mere mortals. Her money-creamed lifestyle and wonderful mind only contributes to her brilliance. I’ve been utterly excited by her presence since I was 13-years old and have never quite decided whether I’m in love with this girl, or am simply infatuated by her sheer being. In our youth we dabbled in romance, a beautiful time cut short when I requested putting my hand inside her Marks and Spencers training bra. Afterwards we retreated back to friends, an exercise in both frustration and heartache for me. Being around her again after such a long time turns something on inside me. I can only imagine what developed wonders lie behind her under garments now. Utter torture.

The next day , Savannah and I went shopping for the dinner party she was having later that night. Julian Pemberton-Fife was lying in bed reading a Rupert the Bear annual. He shouted, “Don’t forget the honey Darling’s!”, as we left. He was too homosexual for words and subsequently I knew we would be friends.

Once we got outside onto the street, I told Savannah that she must start divorce proceedings at once as she buttoned up her coat. “Right now, this minute . .these things can take forever”. I offered to accompany her to a solicitor’s office.

“They don’t work on Saturday afternoons”, she said, “They play golf all afternoon”.

“Monday morning?”, I said.

“I’ve got a tutorial”, she added feebly.

“Monday afternoon?!”, I pressed.

“I’m going for lunch with my friends . .”

We went through the whole week and the following. Savannah’s every waking moment seemed to be accounted for. Eventually I foolishly exploded.

“Look Savannah, if you don’t get divorced then we can never get married!”

Savannah stroked a courgette with her lovely fingers.

“Well actually Bryan darling, I don’t intend to get married until I’m at least thirty-six .”

“Thirty-six!”, I screeched, “By then I could be fat, toothless . .or dead!”

She sighed and widened her eyes. “Well”, she said raising her eyebrows, “You’re not exactly dripping with charisma right now are you?”

In my hurry to leave the shop I knocked over a pile of Outspan oranges onto the floor. In the resulting confusion (Which saw several old ladies reacting to the oranges as though they were hand grenades rather than fruit rolling towards them), I failed to see Savannah hurriedly depart.

I ran after her. When I paused for breath at the corner I felt a heavy hand on my shoulder, then a growling voice.

“Runnin’ off without payin’ eh? Well, I’m sick of you students nickin’ my stuff, this time I’m prosecutin’. You’ll be in a police cell tonight my lad’.

It was with horror that I realised I had an Outspan orange in each hand.

****

I have been charged with shoplifting, the evidence against me was too strong. My life is ruined. I’ll have a criminal record. Now I will never get a job in the Civil Service.

The night in the cells was cut short because Savannah’s Father pulled some strings. I suppose I should feel grateful but I can’t feel bitter that these sort of things can only achieved by Affluent bastards like Mr Collins. Savannah is standing by me so to speak. She feels guilty because when she ran out the shop to rid of me she forgot to pay for a pound of courgettes, two grapefruits and a box of cress.

Nothing has changed. It’s still the rich who get the gravy and the poor who get the blame. Still, she feels bad enough to let me lodge in her flat for a while sans rent, and I’ll be taking it for all it’s worth.

****

The following evening, Savannah and Julian resumed the dinner party they had put on hold given my jail circumstances. Cambridge students are obviously different to your run-of-the mill University hooligans, slicing up a single potato garnished with margarine to share with their equally starving flatmates before putting on all the clothes they own and retiring to bed in the hope that the many layers of material will get them through the night. Savannah cooked shellfish in garlic butter and selected specific chardonnay to complement the dish. She lit candles and set the table with decent silver, burned incense sticks and played obscure Jazz on the CD Player. For all I wished I could hate what was happening around me I secretly loved it. This was it. This was the way it should be.

Julian and Savannah had invited both their friends. Julian’s were all just taller, dimmer or gayer versions of himself. Savannah on the other hand had successfully managed to invite a group of the most beautiful creatures I had ever encountered. Floaty, expensive, lovely people, both men and women, radiating grandeur. Savannah looked magnificent dressed in some chiffon dream with beading laced around her breasts and exquisite tailoring perfectly silhouetting her hourglass frame.

I drank too much wine and watched her from across the table, mentally undressing her. WHEN WAS THIS TO HAPPEN FOR ME!? I thought about the last time I had sex and remembered Mandy’s ample bosom. And then I rememberd her thighs. And the rolls of fat. And that utterly enourmous arse. And the dream. WHAT WAS I THINKING!? And as it all went blurry I retreated to my bedroom in a hurry. Collapsing on my bed clothes, rising only to vomit on the window sill. I fell asleep.

****

I awake about two to the noise of the dinnerparty leaving the flat and returning to their own luxury pads, perfect lifestyles in hand. I’m embarrassed by the situation around me. I never got to tell them how I could have joined them in this idyllic lifestyle had my parents not been victims of Thatcherism, given up on work and thus never really cared about my education. I lie back. What could have been . .

I hear Julian kiss Savannah on the cheek like he does every evening and skip along to his parlour. I can’t help but feel fond of Julian now, I think its just the novelty of a male being in such close conditions with Savannah and me not seeming to care.

I’m just about to dose off again when I hear a strange muffled noise outside my door, like the scratching of a cat . . or mice!? Surely not. But we are by the river. WHAT ABOUT RATS? I curl further beneath my covers, but then think twice and get up to shut the door that leads to the hall. As I reach for the handle I see that mauve chiffon dress through a chink in the door and as I open it I realise its Savannah . .crying.

“OHHH BRYAN DARLING ITS YOU!!!!”

Drunk? Is she drunk? Oh God yes. OH JESUS YES!!!!!!!

“Savannah why aren’t you in bed? Why are you crying?!”

“Oh just feeling a little but lost darling . .just lost”, she replies, smiling.

That voice. Even in its slurred manner still so warm I want to take a bath in it.

“Listen Bryan darling I just want to make love . . .will you make love to me?!”

Make love? Who says that? SHE DOES! She wants it! I feel cheated and sick but too excited to think. I play the chivalric card to be on the safe side to start.

“Sav, let me take you to bed. Don’t worry . .”

AND SHE’S KISSING ME! I mean really kissing!

We stumble onto my bed attached by the tongue, clothes clumsily removed along the way. I can’t believe my luck but at the same time suspect this could end poorly for me with Savannah in a sober state. I try to relax and grab her breasts like I’m holding on for dear life. She gasps.

Oh God. She’s just realised what she’s doing.

“Sorry?” I insist.

“That’s ok”, she says, “I LIKE IT!”, and digs her fingernails into my back throwing me back against the window sill.

I can’t believe her sexual appetite. I always remember her as such a reserved type. She could have easily been entirely sexually inexperienced to my knowledge.

And then she says, “Bryan, have we any protection?”.

Christ. It’s over. I have nothing and I know given our obsessive, verging on the frightening sexual education at school it’s going to happen no other way.

“No Sav, I didn’t anticipate. .”

“No worries darling, I’m taking the pill”

Oh God. The pill. I have been too naive to believe that University life was purely an academic exercise for Savannah. This sexual appetite was by far the result of a sexually deprived being. She was an angel. An upper class angel. They’d be queuing at the door.

And then I feel it. A thick, wet liquid falling down my back. The sick. THE FUCKING SICK!. In her rush to bed I had been thrown against the window and thus been covered in the consistency. This was a nightmare. A dreamlike situation with what I was sure to be nightmare consequences.

I give her a disgusting, tonsil-licking kiss to create a diversion and started to plan a way to clean myself up. But I can’t leave her. She’ll lose interest. Or maybe pass out.

I lie on my back to dwell for a minute but she pulls at my undergarments and climbs on top of me. OH GOD! I hadn’t even started to consider the pressure of this scenario! THIS WAS SAVANNAH. I started rocking like a madman until the fear got too much and I started losing it. I feel a flush of panic, try desperately to convince myself that it’s a momentary lapse, awkwardly remove myself from inside her and flip her onto the bed with all the strength I can muster, distractingly groping her so hard its like I’m performing CPR.

It’s really gone now. Nothing. Nothing at all.

What in God’s Name is wrong with me? She grinds her hips against and I bump a little to try and get something to happen. But nothing. My penis is simply not a member in good standing.

The thought of Savannah reaching down ,expecting a Hot Dog and finding a Cocktail sausage is all too much for me. I do what any sensible person would do: I go down on her.

Now I’ve never done this before, with my situation surrounding Mandy’s thighs I always remain at her upper body, amercing myself in the only feature of her biological make-up that makes me forget what I’m doing. I start to believe my timing is a little off as when I’m about to dive in so-to-speak Savannah moans “Oh yes. TALK TO ME!”

Like I don’t have enough on my mind, now I’m to provide a multaneous running commentary. This is all too much. She was always the girl that thought conversation was of prime in importance in a relationship.

“What do you want me to . .?”

“Don’t Stop!”, she says, mashing my face into her crotch.

“I dnt thnk I sn tlk lik ths”, I say into her pelvis.

“Oh yes! That’s it”, she purrs.

“I CNT BRTH!”

She shivers and her pale skin turns to goose bumps. I’m glad to see one of is having a good time.

“Yu dnt ndstand!”

“More”, she says.

I have no idea what to talk about having never given thought to conversing with a vagina before. I say the first thing that comes to me head. : :Listen my children, and you shall hear/Of the midnight ride of Paul Revere.

I’m not sure this is what Mrs Sudgen had in mind when she assigned it to our English class in our first year of High School, but I am here to tell you that Longfellow’s famous poem and a supple tongue make an effective substitute if you do not have a Long Fellow of your own available. I remember enjoying this poem very much in class but Savannah having mixed views about it. OH HOW THE TABLE’S HAVE TURNED! “I am the very model of a major general” sends her into fits of pleasure and for all I should feel triumphant for making this happen all I can think about is my flaccid penis .At one point she tries to curve her body around like maybe she should reciprocate, but I stop her by springing my head up and whispering in my best sensitive, new-age-pro-feminist-like way, “Let’s just focus on you, ok?”.

Savannah lies back, relieved more than likely in not having to bother and stretches out like a cat wanting it’s belly scratched, or in this case her cat scratched I suppose. I try to cup her in my hands as I reach deeper inside her with my tongue and start reciting all the various Shakespeare monologues I’ve memorised. She gasps and grinds her hips as if trying to swallow her whole, which given the circumstance would probably suit me fine. I’m so upset that I can’t get hard even in this dream-like scenario that I’d like nothing more than to peel back the layers of her and crawl inside, feeling my way along the dark, moist walls of her vagina until I’ve disappeared completely, leaving the world-Mandy, The Library, My flaccid dick behind me. Then I could just curl up like a baby inside her womb, all quiet, warm and peaceful.

It occurs to me that these sort of thoughts are probably what contribute to my penis problems. After a short passage from the aptly titled ‘Much Ado About Nothing”, she purrs with contentment and curls up smiling, her hair in drunken disarray and red wine stains all around her rosebud lips. I go to the bathroom to wipe the sick from my back and review the situation with my cock. I urinate before retiring to bed and feel the thick, acidic, burning sensation that I encountered at the Richard’s abode. WHAT IS GOING ON! I’m a biological disaster.

The good news is that my strategy worked: for those of you who aspire to be cunning linguists, you should know that rapid iambic pentameter drives Savannah so wild that she almost broke my jaw with her thighs when she came.

The bad news is, I can’t help but think this may turn out to be awkward come the morning.

Happy Monday

Would of course to be the first to admit that Valentines expectations have been coloured by slideshow of memorable moments and characters in books and films. The scene in Love Actually will never happen.

Nevertheless, a very considered playlist for all your romantic needs or otherwise:

Into something Good- 5 Ultimate Love Songs.

5. Sweet Thing- Van Morrison

4. Light My Fire- Jose Felicanio

3. Fell In Love With a Girl- The White Stripes.

2. I’ve Been Loving You Too Long- Otis Redding.

1. Layla- Eric Clapton.

Love Will Tear Us Apart- 5 Anti-Lovesongs

5. Drown- Smashing Pumpkins.

4. New Romantic- Laura Marling

3. Heard It Through the Grapevine- Marvin Gaye

2. Who Is He and What Is He to You?- Bill Withers

1. Can’t Stand Me Now- The Libertines.

Don’t Stop- 5 Songs of Blissful Infatuation

5. Sexy Boy- Air

4. Crazy On You- Heart

3. You Really Got Me- The Kinks

2. Add It Up- The Violent Femmes

1. Since I’ve Been Loving You- Led Zeppelin

Cream of the Crop

Re-reading some old journal entries the other day and thought they would make for an amusing post. Some of the better extracts but unfortunately not the best. My dairies can often range from mildly offensive to down right awful so had to be selective.

Friday 1st of January 2010, 9:17pm
‘The world if full of people trying to convince other people to dance-I REALLY don’t want to dance’
Thank you David Mitchell.

Sunday 3rd of January 2010, 10:40pm
The fact that I am consecutively recording in this ( and that tonight I’ve taken to bed to write it just shy of 11pm) is testament to the fact that that absolutely NOTHING is going on in my life- yet to make it over the front door.

Wednesday 6th of January, 2010, 10:20pm
Was doing some drawing today and was burning a candle on the table so I could use the wax. I was leaning right over my sketchbook and heard and smelt burning only to look up at the mirror in front of me and notice an ignited flame on my head. Mairi had to put it out with her bare hands. I just screamed. If straighteners haven't damaged my hair enough this should do the trick.

Thursday 14th of January 2010, 1:12pm
Writing with my new pen, the last in eca shop. The word must have spread of their smooth rolling. . .
Made this morning’s lecture at ten past eleven. The weather is so miserable –sleet snow and dull-completely shitty and mood destroying. We are learning about ‘celtic’ art now, though we’re not supposed to label it that academically. What we’re actually meant to call it however escapes me now.
Asked Mark to ring me but said he wouldn’t pause the film he was watching, assured me he’d ring at one. Just checked his phone and it’s off. Going to send a semi-abusive text before bed.

Friday 15th of Janurary 2010, 3:00pm, Starbucks, Forrest Road.
In Starbucks having lunch, drinking one of their sickening luke-warm lattes instead of their fag-ash Americano’s. Still, at least its close by.
There was a nice looking boy behind the counter a while back. I swear we had a connection. Spent a long time sitting wondering how you act on these things and whether you just spend your whole life watching nice boys who work in coffee shops hoping they’ll say something. I think people only talk to each other in films.

Thursday 21st of January, 2010. 1:12pm
Is there any room for creative little dwindlers in today’s financial climate? I’m such a scrape through I’ll never shine- absolutely dreading Classics results and seriously considering just never picking up my essay. Didn’t pick up my Architecture one last year having lost ten marks referencing Wikipedia. Fuck. It’s at best heavy plagiarized or at worst just a bloody fail. Trying very hard not to think about it.

Sunday 24th of January 2010, 00:51am
Got in and spoke to my Father who had enjoyed his night in Town and had even liked the company of Neil and his friend Hugh who was in a relatively acclaimed Velvet Underground tribute band in the 80’s ( Hugh Reid and the Velvet Underpants). Didn’t bother trying to stifle a laugh.

Tuesday 26th of January 2010, 00:25 am
Feedback from Colin. Said I need to start habitually recording things in my sketchbook but then got on to talking about John Martyn and disappeared to burn me a CD . Maybe I should re-think all this stuff. I remember the most trivial facts about songs but nothing whatsoever about The Book Of Kells.

Sunday 15th of August, 2010 23:50pm.
Bedroom, Aix en Provence.
This place is really amazing. The people are different here- effortless, cool. Watched some Mark Ronson look a like in the flat across earlier. We heard him frolicking with his girlfriend on the sofa.They were tickling and wrestling in their perfect Mezzanine apartment in only their underwear. Watched him smoke a cigarette at the window for ages. Id like a mezzanine.

Tuesday 27th if Sepetember 2010, 01:12am, Flat Bedroom
My Father took Hamish on walk up the hill this morning, but Hamish, afraid of the prospect of returning to the car hid meaning he had to rapidly run through and across fields trying to find him. He apparently got too ambitious and tried to leap over an electric fence only to get caught mid way and shock himself. My Mother said Hamish ran home but that she heard my Father cursing from the hills. His relationship with Hamish remains largely ambiguous.

Friday 24th December, 2010, Christmas Eve, 18:33pm, Mairi’s Bedroom.
Listening to John Martyn, admittedly a little drink and feeling a bit weird.
My Father picked me up at 12 and we went to Waitrose to experience what can only be described as polite, middle class hysteria. Everyone was doing little shuffle runs to grab the last of the Brandy cream. Meant to be going to the crown with Samantha in an hour. Can’t be bothered with Biggar and all it brings.

Wednesday 5th of January 2011, 2:23pm, The Henderson Gallery, Hanover Street
Ended up going to visit John last night. His flat is huge with the faint odor of weed. His flatmates worry and argue about who’s had sex in who’s bed and haven’t managed to change the sheets. A far cry from the milk politics of my own domain. Good night though. I drank a bottle of wine and listened to Rory Gallagher, The White Stripes and Van Morrisson amongst others while John smoked three joints and then insisted on driving me home. His music knowledge shows no limits. It was refreshing. Stopped drinking when I started sounding like some unappreciated scholar.

Tuesday 31st of January 2011, 14:23pm, Studio C7
Tried to look nonchalant and casual, avoiding any direct contact, scribbling details in my notebook. He probably saw me looking shifty though. Could have smiled or made eye contact in a very mature way as i walked by but instead resigned to an awkward ground stare, going back to my desk like an embarrassed child. I’m a social cripple.
College has turned into the feeling of going to a party in the hope of seeing someone only to realize upon arrival that they definitely aren’t coming. And this is everyday. Need to focus.

Saturday 8th of January, 2011, 23:27pm, Bedroom
Text from Rory, he's just back from Arizona.-' Yeah woke up at dusk today, which I've got to say is a real downer- I'm sleeping like 18 hours a day . . . It's ridiculous. I think i read Matthew Perry was on painkillers and then he got fat when he came off them. Ha. One exam on Friday, so can't be bothered. You're right, January is shit. I look forward to hearing you're new stories though, I'm going to go ahead and assume you've self-sabotaged again? '. Own social slip-ups have become predictable.

Music Does it Better

I’ve spent alot of time getting to know my iTunes. Scrolling through old playlists is like replaying poignant moments in your head to the appropriate soundtrack you deemed fitting at the time. When things get bad, we can find comfort in angry anthems of love and loss; misanthropic love songs for the shunted. Alternatively, we rejoice over climactic anthems of happiness or brood over crippling ballads of angst- soaking up our self-indulgent misery like a long deep bath.
I’ve kept countless half finished diaries over the years but nothing quite gets me like an old aptly named playlist or scratched CD crafted by a now old acquaintance . A friend of mine tells me songs ARE times and people; romanticizing a past- provoking you in the heat of the moment to abandon all misgivings and do something questionable. Not unlike the very specific moment following three glasses of wine, slightly giddy with promise, leaving only the morning to regret the now embarrassing, often slightly ridiculous text you sent to said friend the night before.
Naturally, we’ve all got problems with certain artists or songs which for some reason offend us. Another friend of mine has difficulty with the relatively middle-of - road-haven’t-really-affected-anyone band The Feeling and in particular their 2008 hit ‘I Love It When You Call’. Having considered her reasoning, siting the song as thoughtless with ‘nothing of note to say’, it becomes clear to me that Tricia has never fallen asleep in the small hours clutching her phone awaiting some happy vibrations. I don’t need searing guitar solos and layered crescendo's to get me going.’ I love it when you call but you never call but you never call at all.’ Christ, this song is almost biblical.
On a more serious note, the song ‘Back To The Old House’, by The Smiths really gets me. When Johnny Marr plucks the first few notes I couldn't describe it if i tried. Why can songs make us happy and sad and thoughtful and dangerous sometimes all at once- the idea that something has that power is frankly frightening. They can get you wound up or cut you down, transcend intellectual and cultural barriers. A girl I knew broke up with her boyfriend with Rage Against the Machine blaring on her headphones- the apt soundtrack to her anger. Bastard. That same girl took the idiot back when he left Al Green’s ‘Let’s Stay Together’ on her answering machine, having sickened herself on ballads of regret during the three week interim. ‘ What came first the music or the misery?’ said once a great fictional hero. And wasn’t he right.
Because as I move towards the end of my degree I wonder why art can scare me in such a worrying way, but music never can. Why a Damien Hurst definitely won’t sway me, but a particularly effective chord change might. Or why I question the integrity behind Post-Mordernism , but never the unadulterated beauty of an acoustic guitar. It raises some questions . Research suggests that the a best loved guitar riff can trigger the same chemical reaction as great food, feelings of love or even sex. ( I’ve personally always found the blues infinitely erotic). I think about Van Morrison playing ‘T.B Sheets’ and I know that feeling. I replay the intro and I get that shiver. It attacks me from all angles with words and melodies and memories. I turn the White Stripes up and I am 15 again mesmerized in the Carling Academy. So maybe I just stay in with a great playlist this valentines day? Forget 12 rose pipe-dreams, this is the next best thing. I’ll be falling in love with Jack White all over again. So what else is new?

Sound And Visions: The Bandicoots on their Way to the Top

Sound and Visions: The Bandicoots on their way to the top.

“Crash and the Bandicoot’s” demo CD is blaring in the as I write this. The song is “ Cactus shop”, maybe the most debased, misanthropic love song I’ve ever heard; a cursing, venomous ode to the kind of girl you love to hate and equally hate yourself for doing so.
Greig Taylor’s vocals, haunted with equal measures of love and despair throb menacingly from the speakers as I recall my discussion with the two-man band the previous day. Not to be labelled as any sort of Simon and Garfunkel accolade, both young men have something profound to say.
Dressed casually when I meet them at a local café that day; jeans, shirts and sweatshirts, floppy hair on Greig Taylor which he majestically sweeps to the side occasionally. Rory Milligan, tall and dark gives off a sense of cleanliness and unrumpled freshness, his legs crossed smarty, his hands tapping his lap.
The first question asked discusses the bands sound, a question designed to satisfy our own need for comparison. I figure all new bands suffer from this questionable need for contrast-only yesterday someone asked me what “Crash and the Bandicoots” played and naturally I replied by means of association. I answered, in Milligan’s own words; “They sound like David Bowie beating a good tune out of Donovan.“ Beautifully articulated, but Milligan’s tongue is firmly in his cheek.
“ Well its something we’ve never been compared to before and it sounded suitably shit”.
Both members are understandably uncomfortable with such comparisons, leaving it entirely up to me to pigeonhole their art. Only the most foolish musicians would do so to themselves. Greig Taylor when asked the same question replies “Pigeons are dirty, dove wannabes and holes are for hiding things in”, a predictably cryptic reference to the dilemma of being branded one thing early in your career,unable to escape the shackles forever more. But “CATB” are not the new anyone.
Variously their sound has been described as similar to the acoustic dwindlings of 60’s psychedelic folk rocker Donovan, whilst Taylor’s lyrics seem to mirror the sort of cryptic poetry identified in the ramblings of Peter Doherty, or perhaps the Herald crossword.. But the diversity of many of the bands they are compared to measure the fact that they don’t actually sound like anyone, despite being influenced by everyone.
Q: So who would you say you have been most influenced by?
Rory: I don’t know. Probably early Clapton and John Cale. I like Paul Simonon from the Clash, he couldn’t really play either when he first joined that band. I also really liked my old English teacher for reasons i can't even really explain. Then there are other people and other things . ..
Greig: Personally Pete Doherty and The Stone Roses and I’m pretty inspired by lying on the floor at parties or social gatherings and listening to “music to lie down to”
Taylor is justifiably aghast at a recent report in their school Newspaper describing the group as ‘pop-punk funsters’.
“Where the Hell did they get that from?”, he laments.
And it does seem rather difficult to say. Punk? Occasionally. Possibly. Funsters? Anything but. The band’s music is the antithesis to funsterism, their songs have depth and intrigue, a masked antagonism and several killer hooks which sporadically threaten to thump you spinning into next week. Each lyric has resonance and meaning, with no examples of forced fitting rhymes or Liam Gallagher poetry. They range from high pathos, through haunting isolation arriving somewhere around mild aggression, beautifully illustrated in Taylor’s lyrics.
Q: So what’s you’re favourite lyric then?
Rory: Um there are so many to think of! “I need you more than want you, and I want you for all time” is pretty heart wrenching and “There was a band playing in my head, and I felt like getting high. I was thinking about what a friend had said, I was hoping it was a lie.”, in After the Goldrush by Neil Young. That’s pretty perfect in every way.
Greig: “I am the resurrection and I am the light. I couldn’t ever bring myself to hate you as I’d like“. I like to follow that philosophy.
From the lyrical choice we take a lot of what both members are really like; Milligan is a thinker, a soul man, a cynic, he’s seen it all before man. Taylor on the other hand is a blasé kind of man, so unconcerned he’s lying on the floor man!
The overriding feeling you get from talking to the band is that they are ambitious only in their desire to earn a crust from playing their music. I’ve seen them perform at various stages and receive praise for their music and performance but particularly Milligan seems to take it all in good humour as if unconvinced by the seriousness of the situation. The thought of him swaggering about Morrissey style proclaiming his genius is as ridiculous as it is unlikely.
This is not a group with a marketing department nor a demographic in mind. They are strictly take us or leave us and it doesn’t seem like their musical direction will be swayed or manipulated by attempting to second guess a potential audience.
Even the name ‘Crash and the Bandicoots”, suggests that the band consider themselves secondary to the music they create. The official story is that a copy of their favourite pre-pubescent, time wasting activity was lying on a table in a room where they were practising and the name just stuck. When pressed further, Taylor offers perhaps the biggest insight into the bands attitude, “ A brilliant game was sitting in front of me at the time. In my head I’d like to say something like ‘it represents two young men who are so caught up in an artificial world that they have lost themselves in the real one’ But that’s bollocks and I’d never say that out loud”. He can let the music do that.