Wednesday, 15 August 2012


Just home from Ilfracombe, famously described by William Shatner as “laced with prostitution”.

No ladies of the night, but it’s got a fair share of strange. Like it’s fantastic museum; started by a genuine “collector” and full of weird carvings, drawers of massive beetles, and a few two-headed things in jars. Which is what a museum should be really; a place to give you nightmares, reeking of preservative.

Could be what inspired Damien Hirst’s decor (lots of pickled fishies) for his restaurant in the harbour? Who knows, maybe that museum played a part in building his formaldehyde and butterfly fixarion, would be cute to think so!

More horrible things included Chambercombe Manor, massively haunted (apparently), with its secret room where a skeleton was found walled up. A local sculpture park that I wouldn’t want to be left alone in, ever. And Watermouth Castle, which I still insist on going to even though it’s for children; I love the underground dungeons with all their terrifying old animatronics.

Might do a photoset, “things I saw making kids cry”.

Holiday reading was mostly Lovecraft, who’s great to read on the beach because you imagine ancient monsters rising from the sea, or that the fly who’s after your scone is a trapped occultist, trying to convey some secret message. The more I read, the more I realise how much horror owes to him.

Really in the mood to write some, or even just do some art or something, but where to start! It can be a very subjective genre, and ridiculous things spook me.

Anyway, it’s lovely to be home, I’ve missed my boy.

(I’m actually quite sappy at heart)

Friday, 3 August 2012

Oh Lympics.

Boris Johnson stuck on a zip wire, amazing.

Laughing with Jake about how England’s basically the Mr Bean of countries, bumbling about and getting it all wrong with it’s North/South Korea mix-up.

“No don’t invite Britain, it’s a right useless plonker!”

This whole Olympic thing makes me feel queasy, it’s like a glorified Sports Day, giving me flashbacks of tripping over my own feet and crying in the mud.

Really hope one day us clumsies get a sport of our own, I can’t remember anything more esteem-shattering than P.E. lessons.

Of course being a bit thick or uncreative is fine, it’s just those bastards who can’t catch a ball you’ve got to watch out for, because it’s totally acceptable to humiliate unfit children (Hairy Dieters struck a chord tonight).

Guess I’d be less bitter if schools had an Arts Day, complete with little medals and departments that weren’t falling to bits.