“Barack Obama has the worst possible surname for an American presidential candidate. It’s a cross between ‘Osama’ and ‘a bomber’. He might as well be called Muslim O’Gunbomb.”
“Mic Wright has been made the new front section editor at Q Magazine.
Wright has held a number of editorial positions since leaving university and was most recently news editor at Stuff magazine.
His advice to those wanting to make it as an editor: “Work hard, drink moderately.”
”
from Journalism.co.uk
I really didn’t think they’d use that quote.
1. The Good News
He stood on my doorstep with a curious look on his face. He was wearing a suit and a badge and I could practically smell the religious fervour. “Have you heard the good news?”
I took in the words but my hangover head caught them like flies on paper and I just stared.
“Have you heard the good news?” He said again, with his head tilted a little this time.
“No thanks, not today,” I averred. “It’s just I had a long night and I’m not feeling too good.”
“Have you ever thought that you drink too much?”
It was a low blow but then the tube map of my bloodshot eyes and the telltale shake of my hands gave him all the clues he needed. “I’m a social drinker.” I said, justifying myself a little too much. “Now I must go. I’ve got things to do.”
“But have you heard the good news?” he said again.
“Is it Jesus?”
“Of course.” He beamed at me with the shit-eating grin of the righteously self-assured.
“Oh.” I said. I had a craving for prawn cocktail crisps and Ribena. I remembered that Jesus was more into loaves and fishes.
“He loves you.”
“No. He really doesn’t.”
“We all feel like that sometimes but he really does and he offers you the gift of eternal life.”
“That’s modern capitalism for you. Everyone’s offering a free gift. I’d rather it was a pen or a teasmaid really.”
“That’s funny.” he said his face fixed with the same rictous grin as before. “Let me give you a pamphlet.”
“I really don’t want a pamphlet. Jesus doesn’t love me. But I’m ok with that. He has his reasons.”
“But you can atone for your sins.”
“It’s nothing like that.”
“We all have sins. But the Lord is forgiving.”
“I don’t think so.” I said. He was the most persistent one yet. This required desperate measures. “Come in and sit down.”
“Do you want to see a pamphlet then?”
“Well, if you insist, but I don’t think it’ll be necessary.”
I led him into the flat and sat him down on the sofa, pushing last night’s takeaway cartons to one side.
“Now listen to this…”
I went to the answer-machine and pressed play. It’s an old machine so the tape crackled a little as the messages began.
“Hello dear tsk it’s your mother tsk just phoning for chat beeeeep…”
“I don’t understand” he said “what’s that meant to mean?”
“Have patience.” I snapped a little, my head was starting to ache again and I needed some paracetamol “Isn’t that meant to be a virtue?”
He looked a little shamed.
The tape was still playing: “Hi Johnny, this is Jesus. I want my money. No excuses, you fuck.”
“See.” I said. “He definitely doesn’t love me.”
“But that’s not Jesus.”
“It is. He’s back all right.”
“Our lord has returned and you owe him money?” He looked a little perturbed. Sometimes I think they don’t really expect the story to be true. When they realise he’s back it’s quite a shock.
“Yes,” I said “And he’s not as forgiving as you’ve been led to believe.”
2. The Angel And Arsehole
Hair of the dog. Off to the pub forthwith.
I dragged the doorstepper with me. I figured he’d like to meet Jesus, being such a big fan. But then, it’s never really a good idea to meet your heroes. When I met Mark E Smith, he stole my chips and called me a ‘piss-weasel’, which by all accounts is an excellent insult.
The Angel And Arsehole is an old man’s pub. It opens at 10 most mornings, unless Hooky sleeps in. When he does the old guys line up with their Racing Posts tucked beneath their arms and suck hard on their rollies until he turns up. He gets a cacophony of insults and has to give them their pints super quick. They’re vicious those old geezers. It’s all the practice they’ve had, sponging off the state since they were tadpoles in the pond. You’ve gotta love them, they’d survive a nuclear war and scavage the remains for Guinness.
I knew Jesus would be there. He’s been in the Angel at 11am every day since he made his return. He says he likes the atmosphere, by which I suppose he means the oppressive air of catholic guilt and stale cigarette smoke, that, even now, after the ban, clings to every surface like a patina of writing on an old tablet.
He drinks lager and smokes out the back near the bins with Old Tommy, a drunkard of impressive vintage, who Hooky swears was drinking in the Angel when his grandad was the landlord. Tommy smells of vinegar and dead foxes and swears like a navvy who was raised by wolves. He’s got four teeth left in his mouth and they’re so yellowing that they can only be held in place by sheer force of will. Jesus loves Tommy. He makes him tell stories about the old days like the one where he had a fist fight with some American soldiers and ended up in prison on VE day watching the celebrations through the bars or the time he called Simon Le Bon a cunt. Tommy likes Jesus because he gives him free wine. I once asked Jesus why he couldn’t conjure up lager. He told me it isn’t as easy as it looks and asked me when I last performed an act of alcoholic alchemy. I demurred and bought him a packet of nuts. That seemed to diffuse the situation.
As we stood at the bar, me using my barking cough to get Hooky’s attention, I could tell the doorstepper was nervous. He was biting his fingernails and looking around the place with wide rabbit eyes like a nun in a brothel, frightened but fascinated.
“I’ll buy you a drink.” I said. I was feeling magnanimous. His faith was about to fall apart before my very eyes and I thought the least I could do was soften the blow.
“I don’t drink.” he said. I should have guessed. He was the type. Usually I don’t trust that sort but I was willing to make an exception. He might not know any better.
“Two whiskies.”
Hooky raised his eyebrows: “Bit early, innit?”
“Just pour ‘em” I said, doing my Clint impression.
He chuckled and gave us two glasses of house hooch. If you’re looking for a way to get marks off your driveway, that’s the stuff to do it. The doorstepper took the glass from me and sniffed it.
“It’s not a wine tasting.” I muttered and polished mine off with a grimace. I had a feeling this’d be a long day. I watched him sip at it fitfully as I ordered two pints and made my way out to the beer garden. Well, that’s what Hooky calls it. I think that’s a bit of a posh name for three picnic tables wedged in an alleyway but what do I know? I’ve not been on the brewery’s branding course like him. He got a certificate to prove it and all.
Jesus was sat with Old Tommy and Wee Mack, the kind of Scotsman that makes stereotypes seem subtle by comparison. 5’2 with stacked heels on, Mack was like a hobbit with an anger management problem. For him, booze was like rocket fuel and once he reached the perfect concentration, he was likely to lift off, fists flying and feet kicking. We called him the Giant Killer after the time when he nutted a squaddie square in the bollocks and sat on his chest punching him until he passed out. It was safe to say you wouldn’t mess with Wee Mack if you ever dreamed of fathering a child.
The doorstepper was staring at Jesus. He looked the part, with his long hair, that beard and the robes, but the scriptures never mentioned a 20 pack of B&H Silver or blood shot eyes.
“Oi Johnny, where’s my money?”
“Good to see you too, Jesus. What’s the crack?”
“Don’t give me that. I want my money. No money, no small talk.”
“Yeah.” Chimed in Old Tommy, who was already three sheets to the wind and listing like a boat with a hole in its hull.
“You’ll get it.” I said and sat down beside Wee Mack who was busying himself with the crossword. Despite his penchant for violence, Mack loved nothing more than the quick crossword, which he felt gave him a much needed sprinkling of sophistication. The fact that he used a pen from the bingo and swore violently every time he couldn’t get a clue was entirely beside the point.
Jesus looked up from rolling a cigarette, tobacco ground in the muck beneath his fingernails, and spotted the doorstepper.
“Who’s that guy? One of your dwindling band of friends Johnny?”
I squeezed a half hearted laugh from between my lips: “He’s one of yours.”
“Fanboy.” Jesus muttered under his breath with an acid mix of derision and turned back to his rolling papers. He usually got this way when admirers came to the pub. There were so many of them they became like gnats circling his ego. He swatted them away without a glint.
(via patlutz)
I like a tagger that knows the correct way to use a semi-colon.
Justice - ‘Stress’
If I wrote for the Sun I’d call it an ‘orgy of violence’ but I don’t so I’ll settle for say that the gang violence and brutality of this video reminds me of Kidulthood and La Haine. It’s arguably irresponsible - racial and generational tensions in Paris have been running high for years - but it’s unquestionably a great piece of film making. The most troublesome aspect? Soundtracking the gang’s rampage with one of Justice’s coolest and darkest songs conveys an anti-hero like cool on them. We’ve got the same kinds of gangs rampaging through the estates of West London, they’re not cool, they’re bored, brutal thugs.
OMG CUTEST/BEST THING EVER!
Feist on Sesame Street (via BobbyBenson85)
I officially ove her 32% more.