When September Ends.

The clock is rushing towards the last quarter of the year again. Is it me or does it seem to be ‘the days are getting shorter, the days are long and dark, the summer’s ages away’ more than it’s ‘spring time!’ I’m sure Stephen Hawking could explain some clever time dilation theory that would make sense of it all but until I hear it or read it I’m firmly of the belief that time isn’t constant. It’s faster, or we get less of it when we want it; then we have a surplus of time running very slowly when the rain is falling and all we have to look forward to is shite TV, traffic that seems to get worse with low air pressure and snowmen and Santa teddies at the tills in the supermarket – which I’ve already spotted in Morrisons, you stay classy Mozzas!

“Excuse me I’m looking for Halloween costumes and fireworks?”

 “Yes sir, they are in aisle seven next to the reindeer statuettes, the window de-icer, the 2016 calendars and the Easter eggs.”

But to keep us happy our corporate overlords and media capitalists have managed to drag together enough entertainment to keep us from doing a Captain Oates this wintertime, more of the same old brown starfish burps. Downton Abbey, X-Factor (which is actually better scripted as a piece of fiction than Downton), Strictly Come Dancing, Doctor Who, sprinkled of course with over emphasis of such important sports such as the Rugby World Cup and some tennis bollocks that Britain hasn’t qualified for, for seven hundred years but now we have, IT’S THE MOST BESTEST, GREATEST AND IMPORTANT THING – EVER. Especially to people who never talk about tennis but now have encyclopaedic knowledge about everything from the history of rackets to Andy Murrays mums tits. Oh the Christmas countdown has begun with these shows, shows that only exist to force the masses out of the shops so they can close on time with minimal fuss. It’s easier to con the masses into thinking they need to run home to watch this pap, than tell them they simply have to stop shopping and go home, WE’RE CLOSED!

But what is really going on is the monetisation of the season that is Xmas which when I was a kid was a week maybe two when you put up a tree, wrote a list for Santa and then checked the TV Quick (the special two week edition) for what films you wanted to watch on all four of the channels we had back then, it was a simpler time, it was a better time.

If like me, you’re a common, working class, hoody wearing, drinking, poor, scumbag, liberal ass-hole who dares to want a broken leg fixed at the countries cost at a hospital even though you’ve already paid for it, and have a guaranteed 40 hour working week then the idea of spreading the cost of Xmas over many months is actually what we kinda peeps have to do to get by and even when the day itself arrives we’ll have forgotten something that we really wanted to make Xmas just right – like mint sauce or a turkey; or you, as I often do, might look at what you have and think, ‘I wish I was rich, its taken me 3 months to have a Xmas this destitute’ – so I’m certainly not having a go at you with my rant here.

My ultimate quarry is those other more fortunate people, who take the nod from the supermarkets in late September to start consuming and buying and purchasing, and then consuming some more, those assholes who go on and on and on about it, and how much they’ve spent and how much they’ve got left to spend – and then spend you do, again and again and again and more and more and more, buying a gift for someone now and then buying them a better one later and then just having a gift going begging and then wrapping it with little thought for someone you’d forgotten because you never knew your mate Cindy had a new fella so he can have ‘that piece of shit’ that was just right back then for Darla but was overlooked when the even bigger luminous SALE sign caught your eye and you had to just indulge in another blue cross event at Debenhams. Spend, spend, spend. Consuming for the sake of it because it’s what you think people should do, no, HAVE TO DO at this time of year. 90 days of endless shopping and stressing and EVEN MORE shopping and then Costa for a shitty-fucky-cock-a-mocha chino with fluffy marshmallows and sprinkles of YOUR JOYLESS LIFE in seven different flavours of cocoa.

I fucking hate it. Christmas has had the joy ripped out of it and the fact a furry Snowman in a supermarket made me write this blog post in September underscores that fact.

But assholes, keep consuming, keep feeling the need to spend what you don’t have on shit you don’t need and keep buying gifts for people you never see or speak to unless tinsel is clogging the vacuum and the kids are laugh-drooling Quality Street and Hersheys all over a sofa that you barely let people look at, let alone sit on most of the year, cus – it’s Xmas! Give the kids a break until the Vanish and Fabreze is 2 for 1 in January.

When September ends the insanity begins, but when will we all wake up and realise that people are more important than presents? Gimme my loved ones, a bottle of brandy and some good rocking tunes. That’s all I want. That shits achievable all year round. Why wait for this corporate cockfest to force us to do something nice for people we love, rather than worry about people we don’t see or like much of the time? We could just wait until we break up from work and just do what we want, when we want, for a fortnight with the people we love.

Now that’s Christmas, you can shove your sleigh bells and ho, ho, ho’s up your arse for me.

The clock is ticking, the silly season is upon us, just wait until September ends.



Writing isn’t hard, I’m doing it write, I mean, right now.

But I’ve noticed, especially online there are two kinds of writers.

There are writers.

And there are people who are in love with the idea of being a writer.

Writers. Well they write stuff.

They don’t talk about it.

Writers. Read stuff.

Not gloss over their own words ignoring other writers.

Writers. Write when they earn nothing, they keep writing, because they like writing.

They don’t dream of the big pay day that’ll happen when they start writing but for now, something’s come up.

Writers. Enjoy writing. It’s a pastime, a hobby, something fun, something they feel the need to do because it’s in them. Like some people play the guitar or go fishing.

They don’t sit down for five minutes every two months and force out worthless pap and then consider themselves a writer. ‘This novel is my pay day, 300 words every 8 weeks means I should be getting published and rich in time for retirement, sweet!’

Writers. They see other writers as kindred spirits.

Not enemies or people taking a slice of the pie that is rightfully theirs.

Writers. They don’t expect success but embrace it when the dice land sixes up.

They don’t curse the dice every time they get a two/five. If you roll the dice often you will get sixes up eventually, but you’ve gotta roll those dice more than once a year.

Writers. They know, almost stupid to say, that if you don’t write you won’t have anything at the end of your journey to read.

Rather than talk about the novel that they’ve tried to write before and is in them but just won’t come out. Get some WordLax man!

Oh yeah…

Writers. They edit. Once they’ve written the first draft they edit, they might re-write and then edit but its all fun cus it’s still writing.

Rather than tapping out a few thousand words, off the bat, and expecting it to sound like Shakespeare rather than reading like shit. (re-write and edit folks!)

Well, that’s me for tonight, I’m off to write for fun, and I can do that shit drunk. It’s the only way for me.