West End

There once was a man who decided to build lovely, posh brick houses. But why stop there? He said. There are lovely, posh brick houses left and right in England. And with that he decided he’d take the standard posh brick house and force it down the digestive tract of Seaside Chav Resort Southampton, England until they are all shit out stillborn and left in some fuming pile somewhere around Netto. Then he laughed a baritone laugh, imagining my face every day for the next six weeks while I lived there.

I don’t know why, but for some reason there’s some sort of difference of opinion over what Hell is. Some people have their Nam but that’s likely because they’ve never been to Portsmouth for comparison.

Where I am specifically, which is West End, is a little posh suburb right out of arms reach of both Southampton and Portsmouth. Which probably isn’t too bad, because I imagine it’s a bit like standing in the centre of a long room with your arms stretched out as you try to swipe for the litre bottles of urine sitting at either side of the corridor.

On better days, from West End you can take an hour-long bus and train journey to Gunwarf Quays which is a kind of tourist arcade on the edge of the Ocean; a little time-wasting gem in the centre of a fucking tip that hasn’t evolved since 1971. The surrounding bit of Southampton, particularly right around their university, is like Life on bloody Mars. It’s the sort of place where the blacks still can’t get the vote, and I say that in the very-most P.C. safety of italics.

Overall, West End proper wouldn’t really be too bad if it wasn’t geographically plotted out by fucking apes.

West End is what I’d imagine a gated community would be like if it were built on the shoulder of a fucking open freeway, which it appears to be! It’s a Gary, Indiana or a Coquitlam, BC. A dull, shitwater, cloudy preservation jar of a town. If you walk long enough down the road you’ll reach High Street which holds the shining, nightlife appeal of a pharmacy and a house that’s been converted into some sort of realty station. Walk a bit further to the left and you get a small library stuck on the side of a church that caters almost solely to the under-12 market. On the plus side, the night sky in West End is astounding, but that’s probably because the townspeople haven’t evolved their flame-on-a-stick technology far enough to produce actual fucking light pollution.



Right, let’s try this one again. I’ve spent forty minutes trying to transplant content from my old blog on to this new one to save myself from having to use the useless Livejournal system again. I hear WordPress works a lot better overall, and I think that rumour must be true because there are a lot more buttons to press. I can count at least fifteen on them on this Add-a-Post page. Fifteen?! Fifteen buttons? What are they all for?! There’s a Ratings button, what does that even mean? Where am I?


Hello there, fancy a nice cup of coffee? My favourite part about coffee are the bits that solidify at the top in an extra crunchy layer of mutated cream scum. When cream has the consistency of sand six days before its due date: that’s when you know you’ve spoiled yourself with quality.

Yes, sandcream; that is my favourite part.

The other best bit about being piss poor is how potatoes come with fully functioning eyes

A Series of Links

In a bid to give you bloodsucking leeches something to entertain yourselves with, I’ve raided the internet to find some completely random and all-together useless websites that might occupy you and waste your time for a few minutes, thus diverting the pressure to update for another day.

The Stormfront White Nationalist Dating Advice Community gets my non-existent vote for this round of Internet Spotlight.


If you enjoy survival bunkers, reproduction militaria and warm cups of milk by the fire then warm up your Panzer and travel down to Stormfront to talk about Teutonic runes and umlauts and possibly meet up in some wood-panelled basement with silk-screened SS flags on the walls where nice people will spend a moonlit evening tying you up with electrical tape in their trunk.

But speaking of the deafeningly mental, I was sent a link to the Real Super Powers forum last night. I’m normally pretty inclined to criticise websites for being slightly misleading but this is just awesome. If Watchmen taught us anything it’s that people like anti-heroes, and what better anti-hero than 16 year olds who look like wet Chihuahuas ineptly rubbing their hands together to try and make tornados appear in Boston or something. If you love powers and you’re sick and tired of things ‘super’ or ‘magical’  and are instead looking for people who left a promising career at Circuit City in order to regularly wear capes then this forum is for you!

you know i’ve only just noticed after like a year and a half that my body might be set into auto warm-up mode, here in Italy everyone in my school has got sweaters,coats, hats and stuff on…I’m fine with a jumper (which i eventually take off) i’ve also noticed that when this happens and i touch people they scream about how cold I am and i about how hot they are ( this happens everytime, but what’s really scary is that they have no problem touching each other) weird huh?” – Thermoman

Thermoman is a practical supervillain. Thermoman will run you a bath but he’ll make it slightly too cold- because he can. He’ll pet your shoulder when you aren’t watching and laugh as you writhe on the ground, and then hide all of the light jumpers in the house just to spite you. He could fix your PS2 for you, but he doesn’t want to. Godspeed, Thermoman.

Moving on, we ask the question does misery breed art? I’m inclined to say yes because of absolute masterpieces such as this:

Beautiful, no? But not only that, it’s practical! See for yourself! Why, you’ll be the toast of the laundrette. You might ask yourself what’s the point of making a laundry basket out of a slightly non-plussed looking gazelle or whatever it is but I think you’ll find it’s to plumb the depths of the heart of darkness.

Gazelle Laundry Thing is us. Think about it.

The One Where I Learned to Drive

Back in high school my years of being blissfully unaware of the grown-up world were crushed when my increasingly twatheaded best friend decided to announce that I lacked the moral fibre and strength of character to carry on anything more taxing than poking at bits of canned pear with a spoon, and consequently would never manage to leave my parents basement suite.


Well in your face, ANNE. Five years later, for a mere $130 and that ever-so delightful warm rush of saliva you get when you’re about to be violently ill from strangling your wheel in a death-grip lock of terror I managed to finally pass my Driving Test! The trick, as it turns out, is to imagine every possible doomsday scenario that could possibly happen while driving in your car and act them all out simultaneously. Because as my instructor rightly pointed out anything travelling at a regulated 50km/hour has the impact of a dangerous bullet, and as a bullet it’s my civic duty to ignore the natural speed of traffic and instead move at the speed of a drooling, doddering pram baby who is attached to the belly of a glacier.


The best thing about being able to legally drive though is that now I can jump in my car and act like a diminutive Kerouac shouting things like Maps? Maps are for cowards! Just keep driving! Drive until there is no more road to drive on! While making plans to live by the ocean to raise wild geese and eat nothing but dandelions. Only after about half an hour of driving past pylons and residential houses I sort of lost interest and turned around to go home and watch Youtube. Which really is beside the point.



One of my new favourite things about making tea is is the exciting possibility that I will DIE in the process, now that fetching Tetley has become a Russian roulette-style cylinder spin surprise. Only the bullet in this case has naturally been replaced with a GIANT FUCKING SPIDER. So imagine my doe-eyed surprise when I  accidentally pet this bugger as he jumped at my arm the other evening in an attempt to inject more baby-mutant spiders in to my eyeballs.

You wanna play games, I’ll play your fucking games

Obviously I didn’t die in the end. Like Robert DeNiro in The Deer Hunter I wrestled him to the ground and danced on the strewn corpse my tea-captor.

Of course if you want to split hairs I didn’t do that at all, I actually ran in to the living room and cried. My Vietnam is actually a quiet surburban house. You don’t know my pain!

Bad Email

Hello there, nothing interesting has happened to me in the last two weeks. Sorry about that.

However I did have something interesting to write about when last night in the middle of the street my poodle decided to jump in to my face using the force of his entire fucking skull. A less discreet person would have let all of the blood pooling in their frontal lobe spurt out through their mouth and eyes but ever vigilant I kept a tight upper lip and walked right passed the twelve year old twats pointing at me from their yard, using my whole right arm to shield them from seeing my eye slowly drip down my cheek.

Unfortunately with all of the impending brain damage that I’m starting to experience, the pieces of teeth now firmly lodged down in my spinal cord, the flashing lights of pain and agony I see every time I stand up and the drooling, slack chinned joy I’ve gotten from discovering an entire full bottle of Advil in my cupboard I’ve sort of forgotten the rest of the details. Oh well.

In other news mystery emails are brilliant. Ignoring that I’m probably now riddled to my cheeks with Trojans and keyloggers, getting email from people I’ve literally never heard of feels as exciting and confusing as being Gene Hackman in The Conversation or David Hemmings in Blow-up, only with far less saxophones/sex, respectively.

I received this the other night:


Noelle Vainikka ngracev@gmail.com

emilyface emilyface@gmail.com


studioworks is still down!!!!! starting to make me a little pissy, but nothing i can’t deal with, right? whatever. how’s arizona? another beautiful sunny day in mounds view minnesota! i pretended it was actually spring, and wore capris to work… let me know if you hear anything from nicolle… what she wants us to work on, et cetera. feel free to give her my email, or whatever.

xo noelle grace

I think it’s probably unlikely that even after getting hit in the head with a dog I’d forget if I’ve been to Arizona. I’m intrigued anyway; I’m still interested to find out whether she was indeed a human being or a clever virus ploy or something. But I’m not really sure what the typical email etiquette is with emailing people who might be robot virus technology so I suppose it sort of seemed reasonable to write under the guise of Sarah Saschaman, director of the technocult Emily Face Tech which will supply Emily faces to the future survivors of the dark, grim apocalypse who will probably have the misfortune of losing their faces from radiation.

Hello there Noelle Grace,

You have been directed to a representative of Emily Face Tech. This is current director of Emily Face Tech, Sarah Saschaman. It appears you have accidentally accessed the email account of Emily Face Tech, located in the small village Bristol, Germany not Arizona. Yes, that’s the Bristol! Home of the famous cake matches, which I’m sure you’ve heard of.

Are you interested in an Emily Face? If you wish to hear information about Emily Face Tech and our currently unapproved, earth shattering new products please feel free to contact us again! As the trans-grapefruit-effects on what we term the “surplus” quadrant of the brain are still being tested, Emily Face technologies and products are currently being offered for free!

I’m sorry that Studioworks is still down.

Sarah Saschaman,
director of Emily Face Tech


I was hoping she’d reply at some point but it seems unlikely.
God my head hurts. I’m going to lay down and cry BLOOD.

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