Tuesday 14 December 2010

So what Have I been doing?

Greetings

Been a while right?

ADVERT

I had a fun afternoon filming in Camden for this Body Shop seasonal viral campain

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8xVeI7r2IRA

LITTLE PEOPLE

I've been quite busy of late. I'm working on an excellent show called "The Great escape (A Borrower's Tale) http://www.bac.org.uk/whats-on/great-escape-borrowers-tale/

It's probably the most fun I've had in a long time and new challenge to work with youngsters aged 7-11 but I'm enjoying it, a lot!

FINAL'S

I recently competed in both the Manologz and Farrago UK slams. The manorlogz slam is yet to be decided and goes to a public vote on December 29th, you can watch the show on Sky channel 203 on Tuesday 21st when voting begins.

I had to qualify for both slams and go through a further extra round in each, in the Farrago slam I made it as far as the semi final, congratulations to David Morgan who took the crown.

2011

With 2011 fast approaching I'm looking head. The Rubix are pressing ahead with the writing for our imminent scratch show "House Party" in April, I'm also working on some extended spoken word pieces which I'll be looking to test the water with soon.

Laters for now

Paul

Night Night Sleep Tight

Night Night Sleep Tight
Hollywood seems to be struggling for ideas again. Mine won't stop coming, though they only seem to arrive at night-time, inconveniently, when I'm conveniently tucked up into bed, safely imprisoned in the knowledge that come 6 am the following morning I will wake up and go to work.
My idea's are like a curse upon me, which is ironic, because it seems the latest flavour of the production month in big budget American T'V studio's is all things vampires and werewolf’s. After a quick search on Wikipedia it seems that werewolf's arise after a curse has been placed upon a human, as well as the more conventionally known method where one is bitten by another werewolf, which just about justifies the Hollywood and werewolf comparison several sentences ago, with my own curse being the stream of internal imaginations palmed off as creative ideas. I don't ever remember anyone biting me.
I assume that by suggesting my brain transforms into a highly productive ideas factory when the rest of the normal world is sound asleep, rudely interrupting my own quest for precious sleep, could possibly make me sound as if I not only have my head firmly wedged up my rear end but that I'm also harbouring a werewolf and a blood sucking vampire, who happens to be feeding on my capillaries. However , I'm too self absorbed in the mania of my creative ego to notice the growth of the beings inside my bum before they get so big they burst out in an Alien style birth sequence, ending this seemly endless perpetual cycle of creative misery and making me realise why I work in a crap job and am not employed by a Hollywood film studio. Believe me that is not the case.
Some of my late night ideas have been downright ridiculous, like the one about using wooden transport crates tied together to form a small base upon which a tent can be pitched, with the wooden crates effectively becoming a buffer between the ground and the canvas, thus reducing the risk of mud and rain from entering the tent form underneath when one is camping. I went as far as writing this one down as as if it was some sort of Eureka moment, probably damaging my eyes in the process as I immediately flicked on my bedside lamp which I'd recently fitted with a 60watt bulb, which is the equivalent of having a stadium floodlight in your bedroom (of course, only an old-school free standing stadium floodlight though, whatever happened to those?)
Often, these ideas are just continuous trains of thought. Like those ridiculously long industrial trains that transport concrete and similar materials. Or even worse, like that endlessly massive gang of rudeboys that ploughed through Notting Hill carnival single file, depriving people of goods, such as my mobile phone, that disappeared down a street in the world's most unfriendliest conga train before I'd even had a chance of finishing writing my text message, which no doubt was an epic piece of abbreviated prose.
Effectively, the thought trains previously mentioned are exactly what is happening now, at this entire moment. It's a Wednesday night, well, actually it's now Thursday morning, 2.47 am to be precise, and I have to be at work by 8:30 am, where no doubt, due to a lack of stimulation, these useless thought trains will continue their relentless commute, travelling though my mind until they disappear and another service begins again.
Here's another pointless thought, costumed vigilantes like Spider Man roam around at night, yet Peter Parker holds down a full time job, surely he must get tired at some point? Or do you think he has 3 or 4 tactical 45 minute toilet breaks at work to catch a sneaky kip like I do?
I can now see the first cracks of day light sneaking through my curtains, and I can here the birds outside chirping. My eyelids feel heavy. Goodnight.

Friday 22 October 2010

Buried Instinct

BURIED INSTICNT

I watched a cat in my garden attacking a bird.
2 separate species surviving on instinct.
Going about their business as the creator intended.

It's gone 10a.m and I'm peering at the world,
through a french window,
via dehydrated eyes,
burning images in the back of a mind,
lacking stimulation and exercise.
A mound of muscle and membrane slowly giving up the ghost.
Receding into the decline,
like the hairline,
on the head of the host.

The who stares vacantly,
as a cat attacks a bird,
wondering,
where's MY instincts gone?”

Monday 18 October 2010

RUBIX ON THE ROOF

Yo

Chima Merge, mighty member of the Rubix Collective, filmed both Zionite (also a member of the Rubix) and myself on the roof of East Lonodn office...

and here it is

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PKVisdSEb00 

Sunday 10 October 2010

Manorlogz Spoken Word Competition

Hey

I had a busy day today filming 2 pieces for the Manorlogz spoken word slam here's the link http://manorlogz.co.uk/profile/paulcree

If you like it (or anyone else on there for that matter as I've seen a few and they are really good) then please vote.


I also did some people today with fellow Rubix members Zionite and Chima, at Chima's creative layer in Shorditch.


A lot of fun


A good days work


Paul

Thursday 7 October 2010

TAKING THE CHRIS

 TAKING THE CHRIS (Reece)
“Birds and Cats don’t get on Chris, she’s a bird of prey and you’re a pussy. That’s why you buy her Kit Kats and Coke everyday and still haven’t even got as far as holding her hand. By stringing you along, she’s merely sub-contracting the puppetry strings being pulled by the older boy she thinks is in love with her. Just tell her to jog on mate. If all you do is feed birds, they’ll gladly accept your offering then just fly away, leaving you lonely, hungry and skint. It’s the nature of that particular beast”
Of course I’ve never said this too Chris, his 15 year old heart is as delicately fragile as the egg shell of a new born chick, which is sadly ironic.
Chris steps off the scales in the bathroom, with the digital screen beginning to flirt dangerously with the 13 stone mark, I tell him to try and put this Abi girl to the back of his mind and concentrate on revising, girls aren’t worth the effort, etc etc etc. He doesn’t say anything and just scuttles away into his room to play X Box. The only reason I managed to get him on the scales is because Mum was out, gallivanting somewhere. Only on rare occasions will he admit to me that he has a problem with his weight, and this acceptance of the truth is never displayed verbally. Just a silent agreement between him and I that he gets on the scales, I take a reading, then he goes back to his room to daydream about Abi, play games on his xbox and daydream about Abi whist playing games on his x-box.
Chris is a smart lad, smarter than me. It’s partly why I feel so false each time I tell him to forget about this Abi girl, he knows I’m just paying him lip service. He also knows that I know that it’s nigh on impossible to eject a girl from your head when you’ve already surpassed head over heels and your now kissing your own arse, which is made even harder when you have an arse the size of Chris’s, and a self esteem the size of the full stop next to the word “sentence” at the end of this sentence.
The bathroom is pretty small; the scales are next to the sink which moulds on to the end of the bath. There’s just enough room to swing the door open without hitting the bath tub. The Ikea dream. There’s a window with a sill which is populated with products, mostly belonging to Mum. There’s my few bits, a razor, aftershave and some Lynx shower gel I bought for Chris about 2 months ago which has hardly been used. Next to the bathroom is the toilet; next to the toilet is Chris’s room. I can step out the bathroom in one stride and be outside his door, which is mostly locked shut. Years of coming in late also taught me the where the creaks in the floorboards are. I do the one stride thing and knock on his door. “Chris mate, I’m making some dinner, you want some? Just burgers, chips and a bit of veg?”
If I get an instant reaction after I’ve knocked, that normally means he’s knocking one out, as I normally receive an involuntary “NO.......................THANKS” within milliseconds of knocking.
He was knocking one out. I was already half way down the stairs when I heard the “THANKS”. Sure enough in five minutes he’d be down stairs saying he’s hungry.
This girl, Abi, the one that keeps coming round. She’s in his class and seems friendly enough. Young enough to not know what she’s doing, young enough to think she knows what she’s doing and by now, most definitely old enough to understand and harness one of the greatest powers a female can ever possess, the manipulation of a pussy, which is sadly ironic.
Anyway, this Abi girl, who is quite pretty, so I can see where Chris is coming from (though I’m probably not allowed to say that, as a 23 year old male I’m sure that makes me a sex case and the tabloids would metaphorically burn me at the steak If I was vaguely famous or interesting) comes round a few times a week to revise and chat. They watch DVD’s. Chris likes DVD’s. They eat Ice cream and look at random silly stuff on the internet then she does one.
Recently it seems she’s been spending a good deal of the time she spends with Chris either texting or talking on the phone to this older boyfriend of hers (on Chris’s phone no doubt) who I know is 17, works at a mobile phone shop in town, has just passed his driving test, and is called Brian, who’s the sexcase now?
They started hanging around each other probably about 6 months ago, I think they were paired together on some coursework and have remained friends ever since. From what I can dissect of their friendship, I think there is a genuine part of Abi that feels sorry for Chris and wants to help him, as I do, but this unfortunately is only a reserve team player in comparison with the multi-million pound international striker that is Abi’s insecurity, which like any pre-Madonna teenage girl who thinks she's older than she is needs constantly satisfying. It's the dick in a glass scenario that the comedian Chris Rock talked about, break in case of emergency. Chris is most certainly locked into the glass cabinet and Abi is wheedling the axe.
Chris stumbles into the kitchen, hands in the pockets of his jogging bottoms, shoulders hunched, looking at the floor, belly handing out from under his red England shirt that he clearly outgrew, but still insists on wearing. He stands next to the sink. Like the bathroom, the kitchen is small, an all in one unit with cooker, sink, fridge freezer and surface unit. The Ikea dream.
“You changed your mind about dinner mate? There’s plenty here for you?”
He nods his podgy head, resembling a slightly deflated beach ball. I take that as a yes. He heads over to the bin where I see him put an empty kit kat wrapper into it. With his foot on the lid, the bin remains exposed, revealing more Kit kat wrappers and junk food packaging. Chris quickly snaps the lid shut with his podgy right hand. He looks at me, I look at him. He knows. I know.
Birds and Cats don’t get on, but it never stops the Cat from chasing. I don't tell that to Chris, but I remind myself of the fact, as I know only too well.



RAIN ON ME

 RAIN ON ME (STUART SIMMONS)

I find solace in melancholy. When Summer becomes Autumn, and the leaves drop and turn brown, I retreat inwards. Burrowing deep into layers of misery, I bore through unhappy memories, examining and analyzing their content. Memories of being dumped, girls I was too afraid too ask out, disappointing Christmas presents, England world cup and Euro exits, being dumped, girls I was too afraid too ask out, grandparents passing away, being dumped and girls I was too afraid too ask out, dropping out of School, being dumped....... I keep on tunneling deeper and deeper until my gormless head pops out at the other end (my arse most probably) and I feel back to normal, until it rains again.

A cycle of suffering. Pointless, but I can't seem to stop it. I don't want to stop it, I like it. Sort of. Presently, I'm sat in the kitchen by the back door, observing the rain. Switching my focus between the lines of liquid descending from the sky into the garden and the rain drops on the window doing what looks like some obscure contemporary dance piece as they slowly make there way to the bottom. I'm glad I'm not at work, that would remove the solace and amplify and distort the misery already present.

A hot cup of tea embraces my hand and radiates to the the tips of my long boney fingers. It's like the modern day equivalent, or the slightly poor man's but never the less pressed for time and space equivalent, of having a roaring log fire in the living room, whilst one is perched in the comfiest of Grandad style arm chairs, sucking on Whethers Originals (or fizzy Chewits in my case, whatever happened to them)? listening to Vivladi (or speed garage in my case, whatever happened to that?), reading the collected works of Shakespeare (Or in my case Essential Punisher, yes, he's still going strong)

I'm not at work today as it's my loo day. My assertive, communication and team player skills are not required until tomorrow. The customers will be missing my service, the service I give, as a customer service assistant, assisting the customers. The center of a squillion callers will miss my presence, I'm sure a shrine will be placed at my desk where my body was last seen, yesterday, until tomorrow, when I return. A minutes silence will held at 11 a.m.

Truthfully, work don't even know If I’m coming or going. My team-leader / boss / nemesis / stalker, Noel phoned me up this morning on my home number asking where I was. I told him I was at home, hence I was able to answer the home phone. Plank. I reminded him it was my day off. He paused for 3 seconds (I counted) and mumbled something I just about made out as an apology followed by another pause (4 seconds this time) breaking the silence with a sudden enforced injection of some pathetic authority, to hide his blushes. The kind my Dad once used when Mum walked in the front room just as he was looking at porn, barking something about trying to be creative and his privacy needed to be respected or else he would loose his concentration. Noel decided to remind me I had an appraisal due in 2 weeks and 3 days. I told Noel I'd be looking to seek compensation for the medical damage caused when I had to suddenly awake from a deep slumber to answer the phone. The dramatic rise in blood sugar required to get out of bed and answer the phone caused my heart undue stress. He hung up the phone. Bellend.

Being that I was awake after that phone call, I decided I might as well remain up and have some breakfast. It was an opportunity to sit down and watch the Holy-oaks omnibus I'd recorded on Sunday. The wonders of the recordable SKY box. As I loaded up the episode I remembered as a young child recording a WCW title fight between Sting and Ravishing Rick Rude (WCW was the slightly poor mans equivalent to WWF which was on SKY, we only had terrestrial back then). I'd eagerly anticipated this fight for weeks and was heartbroken when the VHS tape chewed halfway though, ruining the picture.

I'd finished the omnibus having only just noticed that 2 sugar coated and now dry cornflakes were stuck to my dressing-gown, from where Id been eating breakfast on the settee, when the rain started to pour. I then abandoned the spilled surgery milk on Mum and dad's settee and dived, like my life depended on it, straight for the kettle.

Since I was a young I've always watched and listened to the rain, and ever since, I'd always stop what I was doing and take a moment to let the gray clouds sing to me. Stop. Look. Listen. I never did listen in School. Much. I was probably looking out of the window at the rain (those windows with the black square grids inside, apparently they made them shatter proof). Information goes in one ear, with only partial amounts of it being captured by the nerve endings associated with memory which seem to scramble it and store it in the wrong place, while the majority of the information floats through unchallenged to my other ear and drifts out into the abyss, only to evaporate into air molecules which get absorbed into gloomy looking rain clouds who then spit it back straight towards earths floor, where it gets trodden on, by me. Grey clouds pissing out my education, as I stop, look and listen. Swimming in my own downpour of educational downfall.

The mug of tea in my right hand is empty. The rain appears to have halted and there is a threat of sunshine, possible rainbow action. I had a vague arrangement to go and meet my friend Reece and his chubby little brother Chris. I look at the clock, then at the kettle, then at the clock, then at the kettle again. My dressing gown stinks of soggy cornflakes, and that general morning smell. Rain starts lashing back down again. On autopilot, I walk straight to the kettle. I was supposed to have met Reece 10 minutes ago. I can hear my mobile phone ringing.


RICKY'S RETURN

Here we have our protagonist
A young looking male
slim cut figure
short brown hair
unkept face
in contrast to a neck looking immaculately shaved
wearing grey tracksuit bottoms exposing his bare feet
a plain white t rests is in touching distance of his torso
and drops just below his waist

Placed perfectly between two speakers
his two ears appear primed to receive the rap rhythms
being delivered from a Klashnekoff CD
he's currently on track number 6,
and hasn’t moved an inch,
since the intro on track 1
rattled the 2 small PC speakers,
side by side a opened laptop
like 2 servants flanking a king,
failing badly at masquerading as bass bins

The speakers emit a distorted rattle
struggling to deal with the low-fi frequencies,
the young man's hand grabs a cd placed next to the right speaker,
scanning the cover he tuts and shakes his head,
throwing the best of genesis cd onto to an empty bed near to the chair
the bed is stripped bare no blanket duvet or pillow case

lying next to the chair is a plastic crate
stacked full of cd's
a further independent CD tower sits delicately balanced next to his right knee
behind the chair 3 large cardboard boxes are stacked on top of each other
the flaps of the top box are open exposing the contents to the ceiling

enter the antagonist
possibly mid forties
5ft something female
long blonde hair trying to shine with fading highlights
minimal amounts of makeup
she wares a turquoise fleece jacket and blue jeans
bare feet slipping comfortably into well worn maroon slippers
she completes the look with a steaming mug of tea
standing in the doorway of the room she looks at the young man,
with his back to her sat in the chair,
eyes fixed on the laptop screen,
she then looks up and down at the stacked cardboard boxes,
she breathes
and raising her voice she says

"Ricky love, would like a cup of tea"?


THE LIP SERVICE INDUSTRY

THE LIP SERVICE INDUSTRY

I've probably become DE-sensitized to everyday lies,
but accept there existence and place in my world,
and that's the truth.

When politicians say they want to make a difference
I don't believe them.

When schools have slogans proclaiming they want to empower their students
I don't believe them

When companies state customer service is their priority,
I don't believe them

When employers state their interested in the personnel development of their employees
I don’t believe them

When tabloids write riotous columns proclaiming right and wrong
I don’t believe them

There seems to be a very thin line between diplomacy,
and honest truth.
Real truth.
The line has been eroded,
along with truth and diplomacy,
and replaced with,
lip service,
and tick boxes.

But it's ok,
I understand,
I accept that's the way it is.
I just don't believe the hype.


Monday 27 September 2010

MEMORY LANE (MARCH / APRIL 2010)


MEMORY LANE

I was taking a stroll down memory lane
3 and 4 bed detached houses singing in silence
Taking a sharp right at the newsagent
I stood outside the British Legion,
struggling for breath,
clutching my chest with heart pain,

Familiar faces stared out of window panes twitching the curtains
I got to number 17 and tripped up,
falling face down in to the gutter

Regaining my composure I rolled over
Stood up and found myself in the middle of the road,
thinking that I was heading in the right direction
but really not knowing where to go.

If I stayed where I was I knew I'd be in trouble
Reluctantly I dragged my feet
and scuffed back towards the pavement
Carrying on walking past a School on the right,
not giving that school a second look as it disappeared out of sight.

My journey took me to the job center,
where I caught myself starring at my reflection in the window

The air felt humid
Inside my belly I sensed a storm was brewing
This was confirmed when i heard the squawk of a few seagulls flying above
If a seagull is 25 miles in land,
Mum always said that must mean there is a storm at sea

With a sense of urgency I quickened my pace
My foot steps rapidly tapping about 170 beats per minute
I remember passing a large house
With some exotic plants in the front garden
resembling a jungle,
overhanging a garage,
which had a large union jack sticker on the door

Behind the garage I could see into the garden where a minute football goal stood as the center piece
Lurking at the back in the shadows was a shed
I was pretty sure smoke was coming out from under the door.

I looked down at my feet
I noticed I was wearing a box fresh pair of Nikes
On closer examination I saw they were made of plastic
in fact,
all the clothes I was wearing,
which all happened to be brand new,
were made of plastic.
I put that observation to the back of my mind,
and carried on walking,
almost tripping over,
a dusty carpet casually discarded on the pavement.

I passed a red letter box,
as a police patrol car passed me,
the house on my right had an unkept front garden full of weeds,
the smell was strong.

I was beginning to become frustrated.
Stopping at a bustop I Looked at the timetable,
all the bus routes went round in circles.

The haze in the air was partly obscuring my vision.
The humidity was giving me a headache
Out of the blur a pub came into my focus
A Large grubby white St Georges Cross sat isolated on the roof
I popped inside and bought myself a watered down pint of gassy larger
In every corner of the pub big screens were showing boxing
Each telly screening a different fight

I finished my pint
wiping my lips with the back of my hands,
Stepped outside,
then inside
the conveniently placed kebab shop next door
Ordering a large donner and chips
I repeated that process several times.

A Ford Escort van stood parked on the side of the road
Again I checked my reflection
again I was wearing a brand new set of clothes
again I was wearing box fresh trainers this time they were Adidas
again,
they were all made of plastic

I continued on with my journey,
passing another red letter box
A parade of shops came up with on the left.
Next to the dream bed superstore
was a stationary shop full of posters saying "we sell Bic Biro’s"
A lone cash machine was blinking at me on the end of the parade.

The pace of my feet had dropped from a swift 170 beat
to approximately 140 beats per minute
walking at a half step

The seagulls from earlier had disappeared
I assumed they'd left me and gone back to the sea
The storm must have passed through I still had the feeling in my belly

The architecture of the buildings began to change
Semi-detached and detached houses
had been replaced with high rise tower blocks and housing estates.

I saw another red letter box
I had on another new pair of plastic trainers
A brand new set of plastic clothes
Sensing something wasn’t right I quickened my pace
My walk turned to a run,
then a sprint
until another red letter box stood in my way
Tripping me up
Falling flat on my face

I got up,
dusted myself off
Checked my reflection in the reception of a smart glass paneled
office block
This time my clothes were plain and simple
I felt I had renewed energy so i resumed my walk
Until i came across a dead end
I looked too my right,
a no through road
to my left,
road works,
with a sign saying road closed.

This was the fifth dead end I'd come across that day.
I turned round to go back the way I came
What stood in front of me was not memory lane
but mum and dad's house
I sat on the back door step and listened to the sound of thunder lightening and rain.

Saturday 25 September 2010

About Me

I grew up in a musical family and played the drums as a child, developing a love and obsession for rhythm.

Though I was exposed to many different types of music from an early age, it wasn’t until I began listening to Jungle / Drum and Bass that I felt inspired enough to write lyrics.

I spent a few years Mcing at various parties and nights around the Gatwick area, as well as Brighton, High Wycombe and latterly London.
After doing this, I was beginning to find that I enjoyed the expression that writing lyrics afforded me, and moved to Brighton in 2004 where I recorded various Hip Hop and Grime tracks as a rapper, under the name of Kase One.

It wasn’t until around Easter 2007, having recently left Brighton to move to London that I first went to a poetry night, at the suggestion of my father. I knew very little about poetry, and never would have expected it to be something I'd end up being involved with.

I began to write short poems and came to enjoy what I saw as freedom. I felt I could write about what I wanted, and was not restricted to a particular flow, rhythm, tempo or subject matter as I'd found with rapping.
I attended the Poetry Unplugged at the Poetry Cafe in London, and was inspired by the likes of Nial O'Sullivan, and visited on and off for a year or two. Through writing poetry I took an interest in short stories and enrolled on a course at Birkbeck College introduced me to many different writers and helped me devolved my craft.

After completing my writing course, I by chance one day, having had a loose arrangement to meet my Sister on a day off from work, saw a flyer and enrolled in a Young People's Theatre (YPT) term at Battersea Arts Centre (BAC).

Like Poetry, I knew very little about theatre and never envisioned myself being involved with it. The theatre course was one of the best experiences I've ever had and gave me confidence as a performer I'd never felt as an MC, rapper or performing poetry. Since that first YPT term I went ton o perform in 4 shows, went to Edinburgh in 2009 and 2010, and have helped a co-ordinate a major young people's festival.
I
t was BAC who made me aware of the Poetry Collective at the Roundhouse (I'd never heard of The Roundhouse.....) who was mentored by Polar Bear, whom I heard great things about at the Poetry nights I'd been too. After looking at Polar Bear's myspace page and website (and listening to “Moves” several thousand times on repeat) I signed up at the first opportunity.
Since being involed in the Roundhouse, and having regular writing sessions with Polar Bear and the rest of the collective, it has helped push me to levels I'd never thought I'd reach, and the best thing is, I feel I am only at the beginning.

In the last year I've won slams at Farrago, Lyric Lounge and Bang Said The Gun, and performed at places such as the Roundhouse, Battersea Arts Centre, Lyric Theatre Hammersmith, Richmix, Shunt, Oxford Universtity, Edinburgh Fringe Festival and many more.

Having grown up in the home counties, under the shadow of London, had several jobs and moved around so many times I've almost lost count, all of this, inspires me to write.

I sometimes have to take a reality check, and pinch myself, when I look tat he amazing people I'm so fortunate to be associated with, particularly since I became involved with both Battersea Arts Centre and the Roundhouse Theatre.
Everything I have done, every place I've been, and every person I've met on this so far windy back road that I have taken is an inspiration.

When I look around the room, at the other members of the Rubix, and take a second to observe how talented each member is, it only drives me on, and inspires me to work harder, keep pushing my ideas, and above all, keep enjoying it, because at the end of the day, I love writing and I love performing. There is nothing else I would rather do.

Paul Cree, September 2010



Welcome



Hello.
Welcome to my blog. I just got here, well, I actually 'got here' yesterday, but whilst sitting in some muggy Starbucks near London Bridge my laptop crashed and I lost the epic piece of prose that was the first blog.
Well, it wasn’t epic, and nor was it probably prose, just an introduction to whom I am and why I'm doing this.
I've started this blog because I would like to have an outlet for some of the stuff that I write. At the moment, this blog is only for me, because no one is following me, nor am I following anyone, I Havant figured that out yet, Rome weren’t built in a day though right? Not that I'm aiming for Rome though, I'd probably get sunburnt in a climate like that, and I'm not a fan of continental breakfasts (those muggy one's you get in hotels as cultured equivalent’s to cornflakes). Most of the stuff I write at the minute, which in due course will appear on here, is short stories, poems and the occasional rant. I'm an aspiring spoken word person, and writing and performing is what I love doing. This sight is more about the writing though. Yea? Cool.