drunk when i get on the bus and the driver is looking at me weird.

‘good morning, you alright?’

he smiles then, lucky me

upstairs, floor smells like dank

always a consistent feeling up here

everything tired, sleepless eyes

like my own, staring at myself in the reflection in the mirror

maybe today is gonna be my day

no need to sleep

bus driver still driving

led screen tells me i’m close

sterling corner, sterling evening

still stinks of dank up here

i’m a wreck a bastard scum

still stand up and shout out a request

‘yo, any of you lads got some dank?’

blank faces

disturbed the


one more attempt

‘so no one got any dank?’

blank faces, i think i’m drunk

must be, floor looks like a swimming pool

can’t stand straight so i

hold onto the bar

supporting myself as a bird sings

soft melody in c major

added 7th

top of the charts in mind

off the bus into the cold

breathe like i’m steady

wave to the bus driver and thank the lord

he waves back

down my road, i’m almost home

back inside my comfort zone

one more piss before i enter

using up the time i have alone

breakfast time calling

something along the lines of bacon and eggs

go for a shit in the toilet

forget to wipe

upstairs friend sleeping downstairs

wide open mouth, a useless cavity

talk is cheap that’s why i’m writing


Good Thought

And good thought was perished ,
Quickly and moderately in self doubt.
And good thought did not come to fruition,
Good thought was interrupted.
Quickly, and moderately.
In Self doubt.

And good thought is laid to rest,
Buried under self doubt, laziness too…
And good thought is remembered and reflected upon.
Bones of good thoughts, remembered in verse.
And verse came. Quickly and moderately.

The Fear

Where has the motivation buried itself?

I’ve got to say, laziness is mighty deadly; but more so, as is written in Frank Herbert’s super classic Dune:

‘Fear is the mind killer…’

It was an odd place to find relatable notions of ethics, morals and personal philosophies.
But upon finishing it a week or so ago I’ve had opportunity to think over this gargantuan space opera of sci-fi delights wrapped within mythology, theology and prophecy; and I must say, it casts a flirts in a romance of oh so very deep philosophical and existential pursuits, cause and effect.

Fear is crazy. It’s a senseless rebellion against you.

It’s natural, but that doesn’t stop it from being rather crazy, frantic like a cat trapped in a room with a hundred Henry hoover’s switched on high. (The Henry hoover is an English domestic staple).

It’s one of our prominent survival instincts, fear, not Henry...It keeps us alive. Or perhaps,  (I use this word ‘perhaps’ far too much)…or at least that what it was previously for, you know In times of matters of daily life and death. (I use brackets and italics too much too)

Those times of constant violent fight or flight situations have been on the steady decrease for a while, with the occasional hiccup or nuclear hiccup; contrary to popular belief or perception, we are moving toward more peaceful times, it will be a while before we are ‘truly’ there though.  What we face now is fear or shattering the ‘self’ the ego, which is a perilous

Now it prevents us from such basic things as approaching that desired man or woman or both or a combination of the genders, it prevents us from applying for that job or taking that chance. Whatever the fuck it is!

It sounds cheesy and corny but it does, we all fear doing something. THAT very something, most of the time.

You know, THAT PLAN…

Fear declares our dreams dead on arrival often at the first consideration of failure; so we convince ourselves in our infinite pride and fragile ego, don’t change. Don’t even attempt it.

Don’t you dare motherfucker!

True motivation is sapped efficiently by fear; I for one am terrified of not only trying but to really put 100% of me in to something and put up for everyone to see, especially something as intimate as writing. Fuck me.

What will people think of me? There are twisted things that make the page but only that far.
And that’s a big one for me – massive pussy, yes.
It’s definitely a cliché, everything is, even saying that. And that probably etc. etc.
How do you put yourself out there?

(Start a semi-anonymous blog for a start)

Walk in to the hellfire rain of bullets that is the 21st century system, the information age, the weirdest fucking time of all time ever. 2016 is testimony to how strange things really are getting. Almost contradicting previous point.

But walk on, and be liquified and born again, and again, and again, and again.
People are mean, everyone is mean, you’re a fucking mean cunt. We all are! Let’s be mean and not be sensitive just fucking take the shit you get thrown at you, bag it up for later. Then get your own shit and throw it back if it makes you happy.
Shit slinging IS the internet so you’ll have all sparring partners you could possibly want 24/7. Or you could just think about it, in this context. It is a person, behind a keyboard. That’s it.

Fuck the crowd right?

So to all the twenty-something year olds stepping out into the world, maybe fresh graduates: There is no shame in not knowing what to do in life.
Who is to blame you?
Holy fuck, you know are there too many choices, industries, companies – and maybe not quite enough stock of those dream opportunities; for every day we sit back not shooting for our stars, someone else somewhere has their sites trained on your dream. It’s theirs too.

What do you want?

What do you need?

Health? Wealth? Youtube fame? Insta-model? Nice cup of coffee and oral sex? Fat bags of green and a Playstation 4?

Have you got a start up that is ready to take on the modern market?
You know what I’m talking about.

Yes, let us talk about it.
No, no. I insist, its better this way.

We need to talk about that plan honey. Let us place hands on each others’ knees and share adoring glances for security comfort. Kiss me.
For me, writing is heavily tied to THAT PLAN. But does this effort right here right now contribute to that? Probably not. Most likely not at all. It’s not enough to me; I should be recording daily, scripting daily, reading and writing thousands of words every week.

Produce copy, send everywhere. Produce copy, send everywhere.

I often have a hard time keeping the attention span or keeping the faith in the ‘PLAN’ to want to write or keep up with these long ones. Especially on a given topic; the ones that don’t get finished are the ones I consider real work, and typically have evaded for a while. Sometimes, occasionally paying them attention and cowering upon realising there is much ticker-tackering to be doing on the old QWERTY keyboard there; thus convincing myself there was no point in the first place.

I should be spending every other hour I have spare away from the day job chasing
THAT PLAN. Giving it the attention it needs, dive the fuck in headfirst.
That’s what needs to happen. But by Christ I don’t have the power! Excuses, not true, sometimes true.


What a tough cookie.
An ever changing double-what-the-fuck chip cookie. Cluster crumble fuck of a cookie.
Or a cluster fuck crumble. Either.

THAT PLAN is so hard to execute, the discipline and patience are the only real key and well, if you have it, i.e  you can make it, and if you don’t you keep doing what you’re doing, but never lose faith and never stop doing it just because it didn’t make you rich and famous. Not being bitchy, but this is just how we are becoming in this day and age. We are so used to overnight successes, even the losers of big game shows eventually win. We are a society obsessed with personality, the west especially.

We ‘see’ or perceive the rapid rise and fall of so many celebrities that it almost feels like a lottery, some may think that is just how it is. That is how it goes. You either get to be in the club or you don’t.

I’m not quite sure that is the case – there are more lanes opening up all over the place in this information age. Sometimes it feels like there is no point to even trying, the world is saturated with dreamers, but fuck it! You just have to go and do it. It’s never easy its fucking shit and it hurts but it needs to be done. You can tell I’ve hit a positive frequency today, it’s almost disgusting.

Even those fifteen-minutes-of-fame fuckers took a chance, did it and got ALL the hate available. So why don’t you go get yours and go beyond that ceiling of imagination, take it up a notch.

Everyone is trying to get THERE and you and I are stuck HERE.

Where we can get the ticket to catch that ride is anyone’s guess; so start walking and hopefully, make it there regardless of how we do it.

Blue In Greece

It’s just after midnight in Alimos, a small suburban part of Athens and I’m locked in the throngs of a time-warp. The weather is mild, as it always in Greece during the summer, and my wet head rests upon a pillow, still chilled from the cold water that came tumbling out of the communal showers that belong to the marina. In the morning we will set off on a short sailing trip around the Saronic Gulf, but right now, I’m struggling to figure out whether I’m in 2016 or 1998.

Take your phone out of your pocket and open whichever application it is you choose to listen to music. If you can, load up Eiffel 65’s ‘smash-hit’ Blue. This is a song that came out when was perhaps eight. I can remember, hazily, watching the video on MTV. The 3D rendering looked incredible then, as the little men danced around the screen regaling their tale of a world so blue, dabadedabada. I clapped along and danced at an age where novelty was all I sought in music. With little to worry about in my life, save for the prospect of Manchester City spending another season in Division Two, I had no need for music with any real message. The bounce of the beat was enough.

Blue is currently blaring out of the speakers of the marina nightclub. It’s quickly followed by Destination Unknown and then Tom Jones’s Sex Bomb. You can load these songs up too if it will help you drift deeper into the scene I’m describing. Better yet, take your phone and place the speaker in front of your mouth. Open and close your mouth, wide and then pursed so that you cut the lows and the highs, and give it that sweeping effect. That’s the sound ringing out over the harbour, past the masts and halyards and carefully through the hundred or so hulls that sit resting on the water. I’m at a loss to figure out why it is these songs are being played. I would put it down to some kind of themed late-nineties, early-two thousand nostalgia night. But just yesterday, whilst swimming in Aegina, I walked past a group of small children playing a type of volleyball in the water and together, as a group, they were all singing Blue. Then it hit me. It’s still 1990 in Greece, and they have no will or reason to change. From my cabin, if I stare out the portholes, I can see a row of cars. There’s a BMW 320i from the late eighties, square and rigid. I took a glance inside and it had only done forty thousand miles. There’s an old Golf GTI, cubic once more, but with fresh leather seats. Whilst the miles were slightly more, one hundred thousand in this case, it still looked as though it were a car recently released from the factory. This theme is consistent across Greece, and is not simply confined to Athens and the surrounding islands. In fairness, if something isn’t broken there is little reason to go out trying to get it fixed or replaced. The only reason we do so in England is this perpetual fear of appearing to stagnate. You must always be on the hunt for your next car, your next pair of shoes, your next dream job. Feeling content is a feeling for fools and slackers.

The DJ plays something from 2010, it might be that Party Rockers track, but then again all those songs sound the same. Quavers on the snare for four bars, then semi-quavers for four bars, then a further set of sub-divisions before finally a drop of the one and BANG, distorted, compressed 808 kicks and a female voice, autotuned soul. Woah, oh, ohhhhh. Each song almost identical, employing a kind of triplet, expertly designed to match the swing of a female bottom.

You know the sad thing about all of this is, as I was walking back from my shower, I stopped to take a look at the party that was taking place. It appeared to be a function for a group of young sailors I’d seen wondering around during the day. Their hats screeched in white letters MAKE AMERICAN YACHT WEEK GREAT AGAIN, a tongue-in-cheek reference to everybody’s favourite presidential candidate Donald Trump.

The DJ is playing a song with a chorus asking everybody to take a selfie.

The DJ is playing that song that sounds like Stephen Hawking is singing the chorus that goes ‘Push me, and then just touch me, so I can get my, satisfaction. That song wasn’t too bad and I masturbated to the video several times.

I paused outside the party and looked on in. Everyone inside was beautiful. The boys were tall and handsome, with tanned biceps that bulged in their t-shirts. Their golden legs were mostly hairless. Their sunglasses didn’t make their heads look small, even when their heads were disproportionally smaller than the rest of their bodies.

The girls were all stolen from advertisements for white teeth, spray tans and bondage gear.

In my pockets sat seven euros, probably just about enough to buy myself a neat brandy. But I know that I never would. Music like this depresses me. Without meaning to come across as a knob, its lack of soul eats away at me anytime it enters my ears. The DJ keeps wrecking the mix, fading too early or too late or not at all. Everyone there doesn’t care. They just want to have a good time and music is beside the point. As long as there’s a beat, there’s no problem. I would only go in there, get my glass of overpriced liquor, stand at the side looking moody and hope that someone would come over and speak to me. I wouldn’t go over and speak to me, with my sour face, judging everyone in there just because they’re enjoying themselves. I would avoid me. I would talk to the chap who’s pouting and pointing to the sky, whooping in rhythm to the build up and then trying to start a chant of OI OI OI OI when the beat kicks in.

I retired to bed just as that song with the sax at the beginning started. I still have to listen to their shitty playlist, but at least here I don’t have to feel sad watching other people revel in commercial chart music and overpriced alcohol.

Notes on the launch of Slumped

Over the summer, I got talking to Eddie about the prospect of starting a website together that would act as a home for some writing that we wanted to do. In his typical way, he agreed readily, which brought me great happiness because I wasn’t sure what it was he would be up for doing. He’d not long returned from university and I feared he might be interested in focusing on his career. That would have made two of us, and that’s not conducive to getting things done. It’s better to have one guy who can just about squeeze a thousand words out every two weeks and one guy with his heart bent on getting things up and running. Together you have two guys.

That was the original name for this site. Twoguys.com. The link was already taken and it directs to a site selling sex toys for men. We decided to stay clear of their domain for now. We don’t want to tread on any dicks.

We chose Slumped because of the connotations of sleepiness and laziness. Both Eddie and I have been involved in projects before that have eventually slumped. Some faster than others, granted. And heck, I might just be speaking for myself. The idea is that we keep putting things up here for you all to read and if one day we forget or grow lazy then you only need to look at the name of the site and you won’t feel so hard done by.

What a pitch eh? Come to our site. Maybe find new content. Perhaps we’ve forgotten. Up to you to find out.

This is going to be the home of the ideas that spunk from the mind of Eddie and Alex. There’ll be writing, pictures, videos, audio recordings, confessions, admissions, observations, there’ll be night writing and day writing, scans and copies, quotations and conversations, there’ll be interviews and nonsense that will maybe make you laugh.

Whatever it is, it’s an explosion.