Fitz Fitz Fitz

There’s something about Fitzrovia, I’d call it a neutrality. There’s a vague sense of transition from an area defined by property, to one defined by ownership of ideas. This seems like a wonderful transition, until you realise that the property is still owned and the ideas generally relate to selling things. The neutrality is born out of the lack of a scene, or any events disconnected from work. The galleries seem like another lunch time activity and the music shops seem like places for spending. The second hand electronics shops carry a higher quality product that than those in other areas. Everyone forgets that they’re two minutes away from Oxford Street. Everybody carries themselves methodically. Your takeaway coffee cup defines you and the casual dress sense of your office identifies your liberal roots. The lobby of your office means more than the chatter in the canteen. You’re company wouldn’t dream of forcing you to wear a uniform (unless you’re a cleaner), but they do provide you with branded hoodies for attending a team building event, which you choose to wear most days. 


Fitz, Fitz, Fitz; I’m here every bloody day. 

Book Clubs: Where Can They Go?

I want to start a book club, more broadly, a zine and book club, with design and illustration and art featuring also. But where can book clubs go today? The instant image that is generated by the thought is: read, review, discuss. Read the book, review its meaning to you, discuss it with others. There’s purpose to this, but in my experience, whether it be in university seminars or casual pub-chats, it all becomes passive, or just boring. This could be my fault, or the fault of the others in the room, but more likely, it’s due to a lack of engagement or a lack of fun. 

Where can book clubs go?

Well, firstly they should be hosted in varying and provocative locations. What can you think of in a library, other than books? So, vary the location and make it interesting and at times connected to the material.

Secondly, vary your forms. Don’t stick to long-form American male novels (my tendency, sorry). Look at self-published, look at the work of the people in the room, look at adaptations, consider adaptations. Don’t finish the novel and decide whether you like the characters and then draw a conclusion. Draw some of your conclusions at the end of the discussion.

Thirdly, create work before, during and after the book club. Record opinions and produce work that reacts to what you have seen and use this to describe your opinions.  

Fourthly, have fun and don’t be upset when people disagree with you. Disagreement should validate your opinion. 

(Source: melonshrub)

#londonriots

Give me the hash tags and the glamour, I’m thinking about the London Riots of August 2011. I’m thinking about the way people are worrying about the way that people (around the world) are thinking about us: it sucks. Walworth Road has seen looting, the bookies are smashed and the Argos has been done in. It took me longer than usual to get to work and people were screaming at the bus driver when the bus terminated early. I saw some people sneaking into the taxi office opposite — didn’t do anything. Doubt they did. I’m troubled by the differing reactions to similar events in Peckham and Clapham Junction. I think at least a few people are worried about the ‘invasion’ language being used across social media and in the press. I felt a little bit excited when my commute home seemed like it could become treacherous. I saw an amateur photographer chase a number 12 bus because of its smashed windows. I tried to distract myself with dinner. I was all over the internet, chasing everything up and (almost) indulging in the unverified madness of Twitter, from the London Zoo break-in rumours to the bullshit about #manchesterriots. The impact of these events is partly about the mystery isn’t it? And the chase? Is it happening/isn’t it? Is it in my area? When will it be in my area? I’ve never seen so many questions on Twitter and Facebook. I saw memes emerge as quickly as new riots broke out, I saw the Hackney Woman and the Brave Sky Reporter rise and fall. The rush to split into good and bad worries me, it is not that clear. But, I fear the plain talk is over, it’s time for vague metaphor and excuses and a lack of decent discussion. It’s the way we’ll cope; the good, the bad, the OMG and the meme. Why would you ask ‘Why did London riot?’ when you can state ‘Boy, did London riot!’.

The New News of The World Manifesto 0.2 

-The New News of the World exists to fill the void left by the News of the World with independent conversation, writing and imagery. 

-The New News of the World does not exist to profit from or sensationalise the events that took place in July 2011 and before.

- The New News of the World seeks to interrogate the impact of the News of The World in unconsidered areas. 

- The News of The World Saga Dump will be constantly updated with new material.

-The New News of the World’s core focuses are accessibility and independence. 

-The New News of the World’s content is engaging and worthwhile. This does not exclude the fun or the basic. 

Word Checker: Language Play: Bad Jokes →

wordchecker:

A more subtle aspect of the examination of language is the almost passive interrogation that both language fiends and phobes participate and learn from.

By almost passive, I mean that the interrogations are intentional but not in terms of linguistic study. The example I relate to most…

(Source: )

E-mail Archives - 21/08/2008

Characterisation

Top Tail Excuses


Red Somerset soil rolled from the shoulder and rain ran from the hood as Alibi dripped back in. A tidily consistent lack of mobile phone signal surrounded the hamlet house. It was broken by the tree house. Drawing water from the kitchen tap she settled without signal and fell asleep above the brandy pool of her plimsolls.
 
With an unsubtle splash-and-run in mind the lad looked both ways seeking spotters as he emptied his bladder. I had noticed the dysfunctional toilet at the train station and equated the two; surely the rucksack he was carrying featured a portable bed pan.
 I sat waiting for Akt. Oxford was rustling and I spotted professors and students with excessive friendliness between them. Akt’s burgundy car rolled up like a taxi, it rolled up a little more and I placed my arm on the roof and swung in.
  “Well the thing is son, it’s flawed from the start, if you haven’t seen somebody for that long I mean- she should have a cigarette holder permanently attached to her hand.”
   “Because you haven’t seen her for time?”
   “No I caught a picture of her dressed as Audrey Hepburn. Top notch on the tape player, what’s with the inventiveness Akt?”
   “Dad had to disconnect the whole dash from the battery. It was shorting out or something.”
   “Reliable old red. Remember how powerful that thing was throughout last summer?”
   “Tunes, with treble and mid, and bass occasionally. Strawberry milkshake. Tune!”
Akt talked about his latest role and the apprehensions he had with Charlie. He powered through some mediocre fog and dug his heels in at a few red lights he could’ve missed. His eyebrows thickened each time he had to dip his beams.
  “She was dripping in booze right away I think. Drinking with your Dad is always a little uncomfortable; I mean family, friends and alcohol, together, the bloody little four year old zeitgeists running around the joint. And then I mean she’s just stood their dripping with a half whiskey half coke with a drawling red sheep element to her. And as my sister was sent in to watch me, and check I hadn’t done anything stupid, I noticed my parents laughing. And then a little camera comes out of nowhere and Chard’s waving his hands, pushing us together with the wind they’re producing and we take one photo, repeat, another photo and it’s nearly there. We’re all clinking glasses and then Ali picks up her chin and glances. And all of a sudden, as sudden as two years is, her favourite place is Thailand and she’s trying to turn our mutual red sheepishness in to slyness. If your Dad has lost three stone it’s a bit demoralising mate.” Akt snapped out of another red light concentration, snapped his eyebrows all over his head and nodded knowingly.
 “Ali agreed, rose tinted whiskey I feel, but she equated this with her under achieving. Apparently my eyes are small, she had average sized eyes; they’d be bloodshot. And I mean as deep as possible in to the evening, as late as she could dwell with it, she’s staying in Taunton.”

Alibi slipped her feet out of the brandy pool and walked from the tiles to the carpet before dashing up the stairs. She span round looking for dry feet, she removed the soggy plimsolls and replaced them with red wool socks. Her hand tapped quickly on the lime desk and she reached up and pulled a film from the shelf. She ignored her bed and walked towards the sofa bed. She turned the sofa in to a thinly cushioned bed and angled it towards her television screen. The film began, and some signal returned to her phone. She turned on to her side and then rolled all the way over in to the night before. Grinning, and topping, and tailing.

“And Sam had a sofa bed in his front room. Me and Ali could top and tail. The seventies set of flats, his first joint since home was concrete and its views delved down the slope in to Taunton.” Akt shook his eyebrows around. “After the others went to bed, Alibi picked out a film on my advice. I returned from the toilet and Michael Madsen was half way through some ear cutting and I made an effort to create a good joke with the words to the film’s score. She laughed and referred to the sound she made when giggling as a ‘squark’. We swapped the film, and I picked something inappropriate for the time. We battled right the way through the harsh scenes. Alibi’s complexion appeared to bounce from the noir lighting on the screen. The whiskey was still in us and we were equally blurry. The whiskey was in her skin, and she rolled over tired. Apparently there’s an old person who goes by the name of ‘Caveman’ in Taunton?” Akt laughed and mouthed ‘legend’. “The ending ended. She tapped her hand on my shoulder and wrapped some burgundy hair around her thumb. I noticed that I had walked some of the Somerset soil in to Sam’s carpet. I snatched the remote control and turned the volume down. A handful of morning light bundled through the curtains and hit the red earth. I switched off the television, turned off the lamp and we settled briefly, topping and topping.”
  
 
 

E-mail Archives - 20/06/2008

Red Eye.
 
CHAPTER 1
 
i.
To top ice cream with water based lemon slush is not usual, the watery and the dairy are disjointed and misleading when brought together on the top of a light wafer cone. The beach at Redcar held a high tide and the wind did much to diffuse reasonable heat. If the strangeness of the location approached Ren – he would turn and smash it.
 The high tide left ten metres of dry sand and ten metres of wet.  The front at Redcar was interestingly construed. Topless rumours of ‘Sulks’ and the now knocked down ‘Club on The Pier’ knocked about the visiting heads. The truths and the soothing afterthoughts of planning, drinking and replanning were the foundation of Redcar. The sea and the lemon-top ice cream could of developed into a decoration, but there was little relevance with them in winter:
 “I was saying on the way in – can’t remember the last time I went to a British beach. Ha.”
 “Well…we don’t get much chance here either, with the weather.” If upon leaving Redcar, a character forgot the lemon-top and the sea, they would only forget the decoration; their hands would curl up inside their pockets and pick at the ridged seams.

 “Was the…err…ticket office open at Redcar?”
 “It doesn’t open on Sundays.”
 “Okay…that…is, two pounds and ninety pence please sir.”
 “Here you are.”
 “Thank you very much.”
 “Thank you. Have a good journey.”

Commuting between Redcar and Middlesborough for the first time, Ren removed a curled up crossword from his back pocket. An afternoon nap coupled with claims of ‘accidental’ sleep had affected his afternoon. The late train option appeared simplest, albeit longest. The short journey before connection at Middlessborough accepted blurring and weekend-functioning industry. As Ren crossed out six down he stopped and leant across the table. There was dirt along the inside of his sleeves. As tradition dictated, he wore shorts early in the summer and possessed the freckles of tan that worked in tandem with the lemon-tinted (winter brown) hair that was skewed at the front by oversized glasses. The glasses were temporary – Ray Ban originals sat in Wiltshire waiting.
 The bus-train arrived at Middlesborough Station, Ren departed quickly through the ill-opening doors and walked towards the arrivals screen. The limestone brick rewarded him with an image of Bath Spa and a memory of an initial submarine sandwich. In citing Bath, the station inadvertently distracted Ren from its own information services. Obtrusive announcements and interesting arrays of Sunday couples dropped down, the platform became quiet, and Ren proceeded in recollection.
 Bath as first city is troubling. The small size and hilly surroundings are endearing, but the situation of Bath is clearest when described by passing train users:

 “Ah, this is Bath.”
 “Really, ah Bath, beautiful but pricey housing. Is this really Bath?”
 “Yes. Ah where are those lovely cresent things?”
 “Pheasants, around somewhere probably?”
 “No, crescents?”
 “Crescent moons. Ha. Ah yes, I’ve seen them, is it Victoria Crescent?”
 “Perhaps.”
 “It’s very hilly…at least London’s flat!”

Bath as second city was simpler. The short journey along the A4, especially at night, passed you through Chippenham, Corsham and Box. Of course departing from Calne. Most often in red Volkswagens or a variety of Minis. Persistently Ren commented on the length and degrees of intrigue tied up in the famous Box Tunnel. A back ear-popping tunnel, at one point it provided access to emergancy, Royal quarters. Aptly, the cars were generally divided into four quarters. Driver, front passenger, rear passenger and rear passenger. The Royal quarters entered from the tunnel were divisible by more than four.
 As second city, Bath also provided both primary, nationwide food outlets, secondary local chains and tertiary one-offs. Switch Brothers provided crafted burgers in light, white paper casings. Milkshakes, chips and chilli sauces accompanied. Practical music shops were easily utilised in Bath.
 The train arrived at Middlesborough Station three minutes before due departure. Ren moved through the sliding doors and secured a coveted table seat. He moved his feet to the seat opposite, flattening his legs. He removed the fragmenting crossword and began to tap his pen against his forehead. To the headphone wearing brunette across the central passage, Ren’s tapping was persistent and non –rhytmic. Ren found her tunes abbrasive. He continued tapping his forehead and thought hard.
 In crossing out eight across, Ren completed the crossword. He screwed completion up and threw across the table. He committed an unintentional  volley with his right foot and the puzzle fell beneath the table. There were two minutes until departure.
 In the sliding doorway, two conversed in the purposeless murmurings of an unwanted goodbye. To decipher their meanings the headphone brunette stopped her music. Unfortunately the murmurings were not different without musical interruption. Ren pulled a book from his rucksack and commenced where he had failed several months previously: a page long sentence. The brunette continued to listen to the mumbling pair in the doorway. She struggled to decipher:
 “Eyyoo, whennwoo going. Mmmm. Eh?”
 “Heehee. Reaway?”
 “Schw schw, schy.”
 “Ohhh, whee?”
 “Okeee. Gimmee a woosawee once you’re in!” The door closed and the train departed. The headphone brunette restarted her music. She turned it up, Ren heard it more clearly but persisted with the sentence. The brunette leant back and listened to the looping music. Ren understood that the music was guitar based and instrumental. The prog-rock mantra hit him. He’d stopped reading. He searched for the last understandable part of the sentence.  He continued to read at pace, attempting to decrease the likelihood of interruption. The brunette continued to listen as she reached beneath the table and pulled a pad and pen from her satchel. Ren was maintaining interest in the long sentence. She flipped through the pad until she found a clear page that was without both words and doodles. The headphone brunette peered out of the window whilst Ren stared intently at the final lines of the sentence. Ren finished the sentence and moved onto the next.
 

E-mail Archives - 13/06/2008

Avon Cottage 

James E. Anderson 

Jack Burston 

Simon Weeds 
 

Couple of gnats, playing under the lemon tree: 

  “Heard aboot AC?”

  “AC?”

  “Yeah, Avon Cottage?”

  “Nah.”

  “Tunes bruvray.” 

Right, and alongside the gnats, we find a man pulled from a top hat, he develops through shreddin’, near the shed, just in behind there. Begins to grow through self-penned numbers. Secure in the rural - aware of the airborne masses. Man from the hat begins to play some tunes. The gnat shouts to his mate: 

  “The tunes bruvray, just over there, JEA.”

  “Ah. Chonnn.” 

Living in wilting, JEA is flanked by Sprat and Mon. Through a series of ‘Garden Wars’ a comfort develops. Drummer and songwriter create a new drink: ‘Montreal’. YNS is played for a bit, buffets become victims of fraud and we begin to see a house in the shed, a house in the shed. No, a cottage, living in wilting. Tunes in waiting, living in Wiltingsher: 

AVON COTTAGE: 

We want this killing done on the A4. To the right a white horse, to the left stone circle and finally: ridge way huge. Kings of all Erland, awaking fine walks and pressings of ‘tunes’ and ‘chonns’. We want to confrannnt the man, who we cannot understand anymore.  

Fine song-pressings, covering:  

Hospital visits.                          ‘Mystery House in Autumn’

Airports.                                    Terminals.

“Chickens without heads.”        Diminished.

Insped by: 

Zim                                            Slint.

James Joyce Mv.                      Pmc and Len.

The actions of Zaza.                 Terminal trillness.

Capn Beef.                                Pixeens.

Blue-kerton.                               B. Wilson.

The ‘ment.                                 Primmers 
 

Avon Cottage, picturing surprise, by taking the guise of JJ and RZ, and mutating them in their small Porte Marsh factory. Tune-chon-tune. See you in Zurich.