Archive for June, 2013

walkin down the street. pretty chick, she aint my type but not many are and i dont go by looks but shes obviously made an effort. theres at least an hour on that makeup. there are flowery bobbles in her hair and the dress is nice, not that im an expert, but its no coalsack.

As she draws nearer there’ss a strange gurgle sound in my ear, which at first i think might be coming from me but there’s a doppler effect and i realise its coming from this chick. well, i think, females do make some funny noises from time to time and its usually best ignored. but the noise carries on rising and soon sounds like a tractor engine with a stuck ignition. her buccal cavity rumbles like an awakening monster as she drags all the mucus in her skull to one point at the top of her throat. she pauses, takes a breath, and then hocks again. the noise is fantastic, and shes almost falling off her heels with concentration.

Then it comes – a ball of phlegm the size of my fist. just straight down, not aiming at the gutter or anything. about ten percent of it hits the ground, but the rest is suspended steady halfway down by a green cable of twisted protein. all of a sudden she tries to do several things at once: along with reeling back in disgust she tries for a split second to slurp the thing back up, but the tension is shifting and she starts shaking her head trying to dislodge the enormous dangling booger. again, she fails and the surface tension teams up with the vibrations causing an explosive release of pressure from inside the glob, which pops like a stuck balloon. snot splats her literally from the face to the feet, and i am lucky to have been just out of range. bits stick to her skin and settle in her hair but she carries on walking, as do i. she passes, and i say nothing

– there’s nothing to be said. she said it all.




I am a little hung over. No, please, don’t waste your sympathy on me. I know you care, and it fills my heart with joy, but I’m not looking for your pity. Your pity makes me sick. No, wait. That’s the hangover…

Last night I was at Comedy in the Basement – a weekly night of free mirth put on by the marvellous Marta Adamowicz. Yes, I know that’s a weak ass adjective, and there is alliteration, but like I said – I’m hung over. What do you want? a delicious metaphor wrapped in a golden fucking bow? I’m doing my best here.

The basement is a great venue; small and intimate, perfect for a cozy night of comedy. And it’s weekly, so easy to remember that it’s happening. If you’re available, enjoy laughing at people and like not spending money to get into places so you have more mullah for booze you should totally come check it out. I won’t be there next week cuz I’m in Cardiff catching up with family and friends but I’ll be there the week after. Probably. No, wait, think I’m at a writers group. Look, I promise the time will come when you get to buy me a pint, you just have to be patient.

Meanwhile, on the other side of town, A night of noise was unfolding in another basement – that of the 13th Note. I wasn’t there, but I do like noise. I have it on good authority (I was talking to some guy outside the venue one time, having a cigarette, and he told me) that Glasgow once had a glorious noise scene, and that it is once again on the ascension. Stay tuned for further details.

Playing were…

Young Philidelphia

American Television





Like I said, I wasn’t there, but do enjoy the links. Some of them point to places other than Facebook.

Here’s kabobo’s set. It was their first gig. Nice, huh?

The paralysis was sudden and accompanied by a feeling of dull sickness. A great desolate expanse in head and heart, lapping on the distant, a forgetful numbing of affect and care.

Took on all the appearance of a joy division song.

The problem may be nutritional or chemical. Certainly an imbalance. A failure to address certain essential needs.
He knew he’d never be well again. No flu was this, a viral intrusion that would be denatured by antibodies. The invader was part of him. Like his skin was.

When he thought about removing his skin, of peeling it from his flesh, it only partially felt like a cure.

Them ratpack bastards
with their fuck-me smirks.
Didn’t pay no dues
got mafia handshakes and greasy palms.

In the house of falafel the deck is stacked
as the greybeard muslim
strokes his salt and pepper
The secret is to lose all dignity, let your face ache.
Only then will you notice the truth.

The people in the botanical gardens made him nervous. The casual ease with
which they reclined smiling on the grass or walked the meandering lazy
pathways – Like the landscape had be sculpted just for them and their
hand-crafted sandals, their wicker baskets and designer sunglasses.

You needed something to protect your retinas. To keep on the cruel
radiation. All he could do was strip away clothing to the bare minimum and
move with half-closed eyes; hope he didn’t bump into one of these smiling
horrors or walk carelessness in front of a car.

The light made the streets heave and vibrate, bodies and metal, cacophony
of internal combustion and chatter. The things you overheard in the westend
would stricken you if you let them. The breeze was a small mercy, too
small, the din and ease made his nauseated but he couldn’t bring himself to
go back to the hotel they’d stuck him in. The room too much like an
oversized coffin, The acute angle of the ceiling and suffocating agony.

Holding his breath he ducked into the gardens.

Exotic pollens bombarded his eyes, making them water and itch. He fought
the urge to rub them as he wound his way along the tarmac. People
everywhere. The wrong kind of people. Leisure people. Tourists and students
with well to do parents. Young professional couples on waitrose picnics. A
sense of privilege so foreign in these days that he could barely comprehend
it. When had he become so limited in faculty?

Press onwards. Away from the hotspots. Sound of children playing. Find the
recesses. The unkempt shades.

Finally, some distance, among the hanging leaves. Despite the pollen he
breathed deep. Not even the plants and flowers wanted him there. He didn’t
give a fuck. Needed this bad. To hide amongst the trunks of trees. To
pretend. He pushed his fingers into the soil, took it to his lips, into his
mouth. Just a taste, feel its texture. He smeared it over his face,
dragged his stained hands down over his neck, beneath the hem of his ragged

He fell back gasping, breathing in the soil.

I’m back.

I still don’t have an internet connected but I have a roof. Actually, I kinda have an internet connection, via my phone, but it is a shit phone.

I got that and the library for now.

Shall we get started?

Cat Hepburn

scriptwriter | spoken word artist | arts facilitator


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