Post 141 is upon us. It is here and now and hip and happening!!
The last time I was hip and happening was, well, never!
This may be a weird mix of ideas this week.
For some reason I was thinking of fashion and how fucked up that is. It’s an industry within an industry which has evolved incestuously. Most of the pipe-cleaners who model look as if they need a bloody good feed.
I used the line that I was bulimic but I just kept forgetting to be sick on many occasions. I think a lot of the models are anorexic and they keep forgetting to eat. They must be on some sort of dust diet.
The only reason that I thought of this was when I put on my new Bakers Whites for the first time and I realised that due to my stature I looked like an avalanche. The only good thing about this is that a big hairy dug keeps bringing me brandy. For some reason they are all called Bernard.
I get a bit of a break this week as we have another one of those now and again Saturday Posts.
I’ll get the reviews done first and then I’ll introduce our special posting.
The literary legend we know simply as Hugh Cron is taking a well-deserved break from proceedings this week and has entrusted me, his faithful Welsh sidekick, to come up with a few choice words to sum up the week that was at LS Towers*
* not an actual tower – more of a chateau really.
I can neither confirm nor deny if Hugh is adding something extra to his Irn-Bru over the course of the weekend but I can at least confirm that from a roundup perspective what I lack in wit I more than make up for in lack of wit.
I’ve began far too many of these posts with this type of comment:
All of us at Literally Stories send our thoughts to those affected by the atrocity in Manchester.
Our football season is coming to an end and that is normally a sign of summer finally turning up. Only in our country does it make sense to play sport in the rain and snow.
Anyhow back to the summer, we don’t handle those three days in June very well. As soon as it’s bright we put on our Speedos and head to the beach. The men don’t dress much better.
Unfortunately a bright day doesn’t necessarily constitute heat here in Scotland but our NHS services are wonderful and on that bright day they are well geared up with survival blankets and hot soup.
From the first thing of recorded history, that is, the first thing he could remember, Evelyn Jones wanted to be a writer. He didn’t know what he wanted to write and, at not quite two years old, that was to be expected. But he’d seen people writing things. Adults, his older siblings and anyone else that happened to hold a pencil or pen and place it against paper was fascinating. The mere act of passing a writing instrument across paper seemed so extraordinary that he felt he somehow had to try it.
I’ve been thinking on insecurities and what fun they are to write about. You can have a laugh and rip the pish out of other folks and you can do the same with your own but that isn’t funny.
I would rather use it as a self-help exercise, ’cause lets be honest, if you can write about them and put them out there, you will never need to pay a therapist.
Now paying a therapist seems to be something people in other countries do. We don’t. Us Scottish people would never dream of doing this and that has sod all to do with the very false stereotype of us being mean.
We wear our madness as a badge of honour. To be sectioned is the top accolade but it very seldom happens. The only way this can happen is if you sexually assault a lamp-post and it complains to the authorities.
In a Tel-Aviv writing workshop I became friendly with another aspiring writer who, it turned out, lived two streets away from mine. Proximity and vocation synergized to cement our friendship. We commented – politely—on each other’s work, as well as that of the others in the group. We both were practioners of the soft criticism school, as opposed to some in the group who favored a hard-line approach to stimulate writing improvement.