and so but i am angry and sad and i never even knew the guy

http://www.newsweek.com/id/158935

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mVzhhvCRTCo

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tTLx_B7iOIM

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MsziSppMUS4

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=u8aDTrU4ffk&feature=related

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GwS5pEfcQNk&feature=related

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fwN9I-biM8s (36ish onwards)

lame. lame lame lame.

alice and alex in 5 years time.

Alice and Alex kissing one another on the cheeks. Alex has a baby in a carrier attached to her chest. Alice is dressed in a pencil skirt with birds embroidered over the material covering her left thigh. She wears eyeliner. They both order coffee; Alice black, Alex a cappuccino. Alex is still self-effacing, but no longer to a shocking degree.

‘How is Claire?’

‘She rides the bears, every day now. It is much talked of.’

'Really?'

'Yes. She fires her gun skywards as the police give chase, laughing maniacally'

'Golly'

patronising paean.

you are sexily plump and uncomplicated, not stupid, all life and pleasure in things that are neither wholesome nor corrupt – just life things, too much of which hurt, too little of which hurt, of which you will probably have too much , but will recover from well enough to settle down and take pleasure in things of a different quality. you will get fatter, and this will upset you, but will give you a source of stop and chat complaint

INCIDENTALLY

i'm yet to receive any fan mail. what's the matter, fans? shy? don't be shy. mr ccl treat you nice.

i wrote this by mistake.

THE LAST WILL AND TESTAMENT OF CCL: SCAFFOLDER, ALARMIST, TUMMY PUNCHER, BELLETRIST, PROPER DOCTOR, GENERAL, TIT, AND SOMETIME NASTY PIECE OF WORK (UNMARRIED). WRITTEN ON THE SECOND OF SEPTEMBER 2008, BECAUSE THEY ARE CLOSING IN AND I CANNOT STOP THEM.

1.I REVOKE all previous testamentary dispositions, along with anything pleasant I might have said to or about anyone.


2.I APPOINT as executors of my will CLAIRE LINDSAY and JOW LINDSAY, if they haven't died by the time I do. If they have, then they have lost, and all my money and possessions, contrary to what follows in sections 3-5, should go to NAMBLA (North American Man-Boy Love Association) to punish their spineless capitulation and bad haircuts.

3. I MAKE PROVISION of TEN POUNDS (£10) for The CCL Foundation For The Promotion of Vicious Sibling Rivalry, Backward Farming Methods, Lead Piping, Oil Spills, Misunderstandings, and Racism. I also make provision of TEN POUNDS (£10) for the CCL Memorial Prize, awarded annually to the pupil of my alma mater who swears at their teacher the most in a school year.

4. I BEQUEATH the following:


To MARY COOTE, because she asked first: a jar with the word 'BISCUITS' written on it, a Joni Mitchell record, and a pair of glasses that make her look like the kind of man who voted Republican because he was afraid Russia would invade and force him to own just one car if he didn't. She may not under any circumstances have my ship in a bottle or my braces - these are to become the property of whomever is her bete noire at the time of my death.


To ANDREW MCEWAN: my baseball glove. Whoever is giving him the glove should put a hand on his shoulder and stare into the distance, jaw clenched. This tableau should remain unchanged for at least ten minutes. If Andrew attempts a premature withdrawal, he should be beaten around the face and told to 'pull yourself together, for God's sake' because I'm 'dead and histrionics won't change that fact'. The beating may, if deemed appropriate, progress to violent, unlubricated sodomy, at which point he/she may 'lose' himself/herself, breaking down into wails and sobs and screams of 'WHY?!' with every deep, fissuring thrust.

To ANDREW BAZELEY: a pair of ginormous talons dripping with viscera. Also, a small red bouncy ball and a pair of dice, that finally he might fulfil his ambition of being known everywhere he goes as 'Bounce and Chance Bazeley'.

To A R B DEERY: a pile of stinking, rotten bones, and all the flies coming off it that he can catch. He also gets all my Aylett paraphernalia and my ladder made of candy. He cannot have my sister, because without reciprocity, we are nothing but beasts.


To FRANK LAZARSKI: My Copy of The Dream Songs, my shaving brush, and all my legal troubles. Frank should also be put in charge of ChrisFest - an annual Mass Games celebrating my life through song, dance, gymnastic feats and ritual slaughter.

To ANNE MEADOWS : my radio, because she is radio greedy, but that is fine.

To JOSHUA SEIGAL: all the philosophy books he can carry - seriously, a one-trip library plunder with no bags or help from anyone - and a stern beyond-the-grave admonishment to 'tap that shit whenever and wherever that shit be tappable'.

To HELEN SIVEY: a cascade of unwanted greasy tupperware, all the gross things I've collected in jars, Biddy White's Leaving Home Cookbook, a pair of my tighties, AND A BAG OF JEWELS! JEWELS! JEWELS!

5. I GIVE the following:

a) The sum of TWO HUNDRED POUNDS (£200) to the Democratic People's Republic of Korea ('North Korea') as tribute to leader KIM JONG IL

c) The sum of TWENTY POUNDS(£20) to WARREN BUFFET, from whom we could all learn a thing or two. Way to go, Warren.


6. I EXPRESS the wish that following funerary arrangements be carried out. Upon my death I should be dismembered. My limbs, head and torso should be dragged along by pieces of string tied to the back of a limousine with a banner on the bumper reading 'just dismembered'. My pulpy, road-bruised flesh should then be gathered up and dumped into an inflatable paddling pool, along with my internal organs and any colostomy bag waste gathered in the last few weeks of my life. My two closest surviving relatives should then wrestle in the slop, surrounded by mourners throwing wads of dirty money into the action. The moment a winner is declared, a bag of maimed, half-starved doves should be opened to the sky. The ones that can still fly should be shot down with BB guns; the flailing remainders should be stamped to death and tossed into the wrestle-mulch, which by now will need a little blending for what's to come. This should be done by the mourners, each of which will be issued with a Krups hand blender before the service begins (not, I repeat not a Moulinex Optipro blender - the handling is atrocious, and if we want to get this thing done before Bodyshock : Guy with Fucked Up Face I Mean Totally Fucked Up Man, I think we're going to need a little more horse power than the Optipro provides!) The resulting batter should be poured into a mould of my face and baked, and then eaten. Everyone must enjoy themselves - not just pretend to.

living with coote.

We burnt a cake and decided never to speak of it again. We flew a shit kite and decided that it’s all we’d talk about for months. We considered what would be the best way to manipulate our mental states to produce the best body shape outcome. Once we ordered fresh fish that came with lemon juice and salt crystals. I should point out that the majority of this is fictitious. Following government legislation, this blog operates under flexi-truth, an initiative introduced to help working families deceive one another. Down at the docks we prank the sailors with me in my dress, pudenda surly and small. I would let her teach me dance if I didn’t fear nuclear holocaust and the subsequent destruction of Shakespeare’s language. (Television has come to dominate a life that once stretched ecstatically towards the good things in life.) Her attitude towards libraries merely overlaps, rather than corresponds. The first few days were, I now discover, awkward. 'Thank you' to my bland enemy for revealing a truth about conversation and her. The pancake was politely eaten with knife and fork. Study time, nap time, bath time (solo, of course). Daily recommended jazz intake exceeded every hour. Too much foot tapping makes you go blind - you think it's a coincidence? BRACING REVEILLES raise us.

The one upside of priesthood – sadistic, power-hungry old fools who teach iron-age lies to children don’t get to pass on their genes. Fear reform, my Brights. That said, I'm probably becoming a Christian. My cognitive faculty for perceiving God is smothered in sin like a steak in cheese sauce, trying to breathe. I know nothing of my own delicious meatiness. My meaty flavours are smothered in all this goddamn cheese.

I just want to meet a nice ex-Farc militiawoman and settle down to a life of domesticity and PTSD and daily news of, yes, another family member being murdered to punish her desertion and deter others from acting similarly. This is not so much to ask, I think.

a poem i wrote whilst other people were reading their poems

i didn't listen to marta because
i was gulping back sluicing spit that threatened my competency.
my competency is very important to me. sorry marta.
i was competent.
josh is a surd. a surd is an unforgivable sin. [TURNS OUT IT'S ACTUALLY A NATURAL EVIL. YOU GONNA BREAK MY BALLS OVER THIS? I WAS UNDER PRESSURE. SELF-IMPOSED PRESSURE, BUT PRESSURE ALL THE SAME.] josh is the kind of unforgivable sin i like to commit whenever i have the necessary equipment - harness, chaps, misogyny, llamas.
rare gentle tanya, clear quavering neologist
'silent not subtle understated' -
stuttering on the beautiful lines is GOOD GAME.
the parrot was superglued to the hat. dan's hat
looked super-purfluous under lights, but he may just be a man crush;
i always go for stubbled heteros with talent & sincerity & penis dysmorphia.
primal thumpy scratchy
high-lingering shu
is good for me & good for you
& good for me & good for you
echo slime nightmarish beauty-clink
as cool as a white girl is ever gonna get.
i'm glad marta's back.
i felt bad about the first verse.
i kind of need to take a leak, though...
kat is the kind of girl i hope will find the notes i leave in books down at the south bank. her boyfriend is kind of guy i encourage to participate in dangerous sports, & to intervene in knife fights.
i did not have time to write
anything good about sam. this is to his credit.
there is nothing so noble & sublime
as gathering to share what we have.
marta - you aren't even my lover,
but i miss you in bed.

first in a while, on a familiar theme.

I'm in the John Soanes museum wearing trousers with too much crotch. I'm jogging past his grave by mistake. I'm lying down with a vest on and sucking in my gut. I'm listening to a gay man sing about every little facet of love. I'm determining my better profile in the bathroom mirror and cursing love rivals, wherever they may be. I'm learning to bake and listening to snigger-giggles interspersed with the occasional 'oh very good!' I'm reading 'Top Ten Mistakes Men Make With Women' and sighing, very heavily.

Things I've started doing.

Using 'money' as a synonym for 'cool'.

Calling the Dutch 'an excitable race'

Telling girls they smell like pencil shavings, smirking all the while.

Interjecting with "If you want a picture of the future, imagine a boot stamping on a human face... for ever".

Breaking my day down into a minute by minute schedule, becoming increasingly frantic with each moment improperly passed, eventually grabbing fellows by the lapels and bellowing into their faces ' I haven't timetabled this breakdown'.

Demanding 'white man's wages' everywhere I go.

Asking directions and condemning the responses as 'cowardly fence-sitting'.

Calling my Mom and Dad.

Writing letters of complaint to cereal companies when my experience falls short of transcendent. Applauding good efforts that come close (Tea for Me honour roll: Cinnamon Grahams, Ricicles, Just Right).

Looking for grammatical errors in the newspaper and circling them. Looking around for someone to show. When I find someone, I proudly thrust it into their hands, chest out, blowing hair out of my face all cavalier and satisfied. When I don't find anyone, I eat until I can't eat any more, and then I force myself to be sick.

Watching movies at the BFI, which is bloody brilliant, mate. Bit of film for you mate? BFI's for you mate. Get yourself down the BFI. That's where the films are mate. Bloody brilliant.

How not to teach.

I think it’s quite safe not to listen to this man, a good natured Polonius, words falling dead, stillborn from the mouth, see-sawing (umbilical swinging) from one uncontroversial statement to its equally uncontroversial opposite. Anything, for the love of God, say anything substantive. Watching others teach to learn how to teach is useful, and if nothing’s going in yez may az weel. What makes him so terrible? Qualifying and digressing before the point has been made, I think. It forces the brain into an irritating balancing of unimportant side-issues, a regressive back-burnering for stuff that turns out to be useless. Some vexing mannerisms, too; stuttering; the eyes-wide, multi-nod to solicit assent, (for nothing); the trundling, tea-cosy regionalism that makes life seem an interminable bore, all grandfather clocks and old sweets for guests. Get some goddamn charisma.

Me, I’m going to be such a classroom badass. Written by a dead white man? Tear that shit out. Wanna say ‘irregardless’? Fuck it, man, say ‘irregardless’. The only rule is ‘express yourself’. If Mr CCL spent 70 clams on hookers and 376 on rum, coke and methamphetamine…

Nobody puts Cancer in the corner

two things i read and liked enough to write down

'The greatest thoughts are accessible to the least of men. Why do we have to struggle so? Because understanding is a function not of ratiocination but of the psyche's stage of growth. There, Brother Ass, is the point at which we are at variance. No amount of explanation can close the gap. Only realization. One day you are going to wake up from your sleep shouting with laughter. Ecco!'

- Pursewarden in 'Clea' by Durrell

'It amazes Elisabeth that I'm not ambitious; but that's precisely why. I don't want to cut out a special place for myself in the world. I feel that I am already in it'

- Francoise in 'She Came to Stay' by de Beauvoir

Mate your a ledge (SICK!)

This is a list of all the things I don't like. People who can't spell 'legend'. People who too easily award the honorific 'legend'. People who describe fairly ordinary behaviour or events as 'legendary'. People who abbreviate the word 'legend'. Witless graffiti. Girls who scowl when they are uncertain. Men who play team sports of any kind, with the exceptions of cricket, wrestling and doubles table tennis. Men who only know how to display affection for other men by abusing them. Failure to obey library laws. My inability to score in the library. The conflict that arises within when considering whether or not to break the unwritten 'no rutting in the library' rule were I to score in the library. Performance poets with moron politics. People who complain about political correctness. People who huff, sigh, or place their heads in their hands when someone is addressing them. The absence of universal liposuction for every man, woman and child, on demand, regardless of financial means - this is fight worth fighting. Advertising that tries to be my 'friend'. Brain fug. The necessity of massive exertion. That the preferred way of having fun, meeting people, making friends and generally living life for my demographic is really unpalatable to me. That this is how I get my kicks.

This is a list of things I like. Treacle.

'Pathological specimen - extreme danger of infection'. How would you handle finding this piece of tupperware on the kerb?

A chips & dips subsistence.

I'm chemical-drenched and anxious. Sense and reference (GODdamn it) will wait, I'm sure, until some tension - smooth as fingernail clippings through a narrow-as-it-is urethra- gets cyber-spaffed. Increasingly I understand that the pleasant morning-warmth of exclusivity is incompatible with anarchic, devil-may-care roguery. You simply can't hold hands and tell her she's a boring little dumpling at the same time without it being a mild sort of rape. Burns night - impossible to judge success when your room is as thick as that, but it seemed like we all stretched beyond our adolescence a little. From where I was splayed, anyway. Wool on pelt is a very good look for me. Nothing daring is possible without a little Joekaying. Steve Aylett happened, Ezra Pound happened, Larkin, Thomas, Deery, BURNS!, and an address that went unanswered. Making people laugh stimulates the very worst glands, shooting out pathetic youngest child brain juices, attention-flavoured and unnourishing.

Ok.

My blog has been generating a lot of media interest lately. As is the way with these things, blogosphere chatter about the new voice of anonymous, internet-based disrespect was quickly picked up by the mainstream press, and now the question is everywhere being asked: just who is this guy? Initially I was content to sit back and watch the speculation fly like rumour-shrapnel from a gossip-bomb, languorously squeezing my chew toy and laughing in that hollow, desolate way of mine. But a recent series of profiles were so wildly inaccurate that I've decided to finally set the record straight. I single out articles in The New York Times ('Tea with who?') and Haaretz ('I'll have some biographical FACTS with my tea, thank you very much') for particular opprobrium. Both of these rags had the gall to suggest, without a shred of evidence, that I am a white male in my early twenties! What follows is a brief bio which I hope will put an end to this shitstorm of misinformation.

The story of blog-sensation CCL in an unlikely one. The early particulars bear a striking resemblance to those of his non-namesake Abraham Lincoln. Born to a family of traveling bidet salespeople, CCL spent his early years gazing up at his mountebank father as he preached the merits of his product to skeptical onlookers. Following a brief bout of Downs Syndrome in his early teens - cured, like all diseases, by sex with a virgin - it was decided that the peripatetic life was taking too great a toll on the family's health. Settling down in Niverville, Manitoba, a town remarkable only for its ordinariness and flesh-eating zombies, the family prospered in their new business as Canada's premium supplier of disposal slacks.

After graduating top of his class at the local madrassa, aged only sixteen, CCL entered the cutthroat world of international high finance, landing a CFO position at Mayfield & Wesson. Nauseated by the bleeding-heart liberalism he encountered there, he resigned within months to form his own a cappella quartet. Currently, CCL works as a freelance masseuse and nutritionist to the stars.

He is the author of dozens of books including Congratulations On Your Orthodoxy and Please Make Your Face Seem Smaller. His first foray into stage writing, Animals Laugh At Me, recently premiered at the Globe Theatre in London, where he demanded the traditional programme of Shakespearean and Elizabethan drama be overhauled in perpetuity as a prerequisite for granting the performance rights.

Adjusted for statistical error, CCL has committed suicide three times.

CCL has a chequebook made of wool. Often as not cashiers are unable to bear the pressure of a lengthening queue as he painstakingly knits the business' name, allowing him to walk out not a penny the poorer for his 'purchase'.

CCL is omnisexual. Since 1985 he has been attempting to enjoy sexual intercourse with an instance of every concrete noun in the dictionary. Recently quizzed on the meaning of this venture, he responded by impersonating 1996 Republican presidential candidate Bob Dole and aggressively challenging all present to 'bring the facts' as prelude to a 'truth-rumble'.

He lives with his wife, Ganglia, and their four children, Todd, Mary, Tess and Howard, on Judd Street in Bloomsbury, London.

I CONSIDER EVERYTHING YOU SAY TO BE A LIE OF OMISSION

Let's be clear - I'm here to show off. Yes, I'll have some of your approval, thank you. Could you salt that with a little envy? Thanks.

I regret to inform you that your passion is reducible to something that you'd find difficult to follow or care about.

My mother always told me 'Stop being so predictable.'

Dear diary, solipsism can really get me down, y'know?

I'm out.