A writing exercise: you have two minutes to write about a picture that I'm about to show you from my mobile phone. Are you ready?... Go.
The picture is of a sculpture of some kind- perhaps made of material that has been sewn together. I guess I could 'fabricate' a story out of it. Ho ho.
I suspect the sculptor may have sabotaged some outdated trousers to make the man-shaped figure- the material is adourned with diagonal lines, a chord-like surface that reverses direction on each adjacent body part.
He even has a walking stick, I think, as if he's hobbled himself into what I assume is the art gallery, and posed, still, for the array of tourists to gaze at him and contemplate, like I'm doing now.
All he needs is a little sewn-up dog on a lead, maybe a collie or something smaller. If the artist wanted to go all-out, he could even make the dog out of dog-hair. Art reflecting life, or whatever it is they say.
Sunday, 9 May 2010
Saturday, 8 May 2010
Vasquez's Blackpool Extravaganza
“And we can do this until we pass out...”
-Tinie Tempah, Pass Out
It seems impossible for me, now, to visit Blackpool without doing something highly illegal. It seems that drugs of some kind will find their way into the excursion arbitrarily. Someone will always bring something potent, and I'll indulge. Before I put whatever it is into my body, I'll think to myself, what's the point of not doing this? I'll feel more regret if I don't.
As a result of this indulgence, the weekend will be a weird one. These parties are usually spectacular. However, something crushing will occur at some point that forces me to question the point of my existence. Something will piss me off eventually, normally once alcohol has entered my system. The drugs don't really bother me that much. some people feel great once they are on coke. After a line, I normally feel like I've drank a gallon of Red Bull without getting bloated- instead I'm a hyped up, arrogant cock. And once I'm on it, there will always be something absurd to document later- without fail. But it won't make me feel particularly good. Eighteen hours on, the tip of my tongue is still numb after snorting two short lines of coke, lining my gums with the remnants and then manically trying to lick the powder off the back walls of my teeth.
Vasquez turned thirty this weekend. About twenty of us trekked to Blackpool to celebrate, including a guy I went to primary school with. I hadn't seen him since he left in about 1991. As nobody in this group uses my real name, Primary School Guy must have recognised me, presumably from when I was about eight. How the hell he did, I don't know. If there had been a Facebook event for the party he might have noticed my name in the 'attending' list- everyone remembers my real name- but there was no such information on Facebook. I guess I've just got one of those faces that never changes, even after two decades.
Vasquez had chosen a Mexican theme for the proceedings; Hudson had aquired a poncho, 'tache and pointed hat for me so I matched my latin-styled cohorts, all wearing the same brand of outfit. He had also aquired a vast quantity of Columbia's finest that he divvied out into a series of short, white lines. Once we were fully Mexican-ised, the fifty was handed around and, one by one, we picked a line and hammered it.
Hicks, Ferro and Apone had cross-dressed for the occasion. I had driven down with my seniorita passengers, whose outfits were complete with wigs, dresses, stockings and heels. Hicks had found what appeared to be a porn DVD in the glove compartment of my mum's car, mixed in with Simon and Garfunkel and the Bridget Jones Diary Soundtrack. I'd like to reassure the world that none of these discs were mine. How the porn got there, and how long it had been there, is beyond my knowledge.
What followed was only a blur- I can recall a karaoke bar just off the pier in which I did a duet of Robbie Williams' “Angels” with another Mexican that I'd only met that day. We drank lots of tequila, of course. Half of the shots were administered by a Mexican with a semi-transparent orange water-pistol, spraying it straight into the mouth of whoever was nearby. In the toilet I found Ferro who, as far as I was aware, hadn't done any coke but was on the way to being steaming.
I dug into the pocket of my jeans. “You want some poppers?” I held out the bottle of Pure Gold alkyl nitrate.
“You fucking gay bastard,” he said. Then, “Here y'are, give us that.”
He inhaled the bottle's fumes hard through each nostril. I did too, and walked back out to the bar, chest stuck out like I owned the place. And maybe I did.
Later, back at the hotel, we pigged out on chicken dippers and oven chips, devouring tray after tray of steaming food brought in by the hotel manager. More karaoke followed as we were eating. People were dropping out, disappearing into the night. Hordes of us had taken over the likes of Brannigans and Tower bar (the latter of which was also populated by painfully hot air stewardesses), but most had drifted off into the night. Some had driven back home.
We changed into jeans and t-shirts and prepared for the clubs. Still drunk and wired, with the floor shifting under my feet, things were getting worse. Apone was dishing out his trademark cynicism- the banter had now crossed into spite. He's a big, dangerous guy, and my patience with him was wearing thin. He was drunk too, and the more he drank the worse his tone became. His exact words are a blur, but there was no point arguing. I walked out of the room to calm down.
Where do I go from here, I thought. He knows everyone in this group. I'm close to these people now. Ferro and Hicks went to school with him. If they had to choose between me or him, I'd be out in a flash. Do I address it? Does it have to come to this? Should I tolerate it? Am I just not getting the joke?
Within moments (and after another line) I was bundled into a taxi with Ferro and Hicks and Apone of all people, and I found myself in Walkabout, Underbar and finally Sanuk, a multi-roomed club on the Blackpool seafront. I recognised a few of Vasquez's friends who'd found their way there, but Vasquez himself was nowhere to be seen. He had a lot of guests to buy him birthday drinks. Maybe he just hit his limit.
I was stood sipping pineapple juice and trying to control my breathing when Ferro put his hand on my shoulder.
“What the fuck is that?” he asked, staring at my drink.
I quelled self-pity. “Dude,” I mumbled, “I just get a bad feeling every time...”
“You're with us,” he said. “Nothing's going to happen.”
“It's not just that,” I said. I'd joked about people wanting to batter me because I stare at them when I'm pissed. Not a total lie, but not the reason I don't like beink drunk. I paused. “I can't explain it.”
In one of Sanuk's rooms, both versions of Tinie Tempah's “Pass Out” played alternately between every other song to the point that his lyrics were just an urban, melodic mantra. I pulled some girl with an impressive cleavage in a prohibition-style gangster outfit, and she took me to the smoking area where her friends were dressed in the same theme. One of them asked me if I am of Asian origin, although not in those words.
I glanced down at my arms to check. “No,” I said. “No, I'm not.”
One of her team got a phone call. Their minibus had arrived. I swapped numbers with the girl that I pulled- it turned out she lives a few miles from me- and she mentioned something about sexual fantasies her possible bisexuality before kissing me and disappearing into the night.
The club connected to a takeaway selling burgers, chicken and pizza. I found my team in there, with Hicks laughing his arse of.
“I turned around and she was stood behind me,” he said. “I just looked at her and went, ewwww!”
“Hicks got lamped off some girl,” Ferro said.
“It was a fucking good shot as well,” he admitted, eyebrows high.
*
The next morning I awoke, ravenous, the tip of my tongue still numb from the coke, my teeth feeling like dentures: senseless, alien. A decision needed to be made, once I was level-headed. I was hoping that the giant fry-up would cancel out the booze and drugs, and I'd be cool to drive. Well... you're reading this...
-Tinie Tempah, Pass Out
It seems impossible for me, now, to visit Blackpool without doing something highly illegal. It seems that drugs of some kind will find their way into the excursion arbitrarily. Someone will always bring something potent, and I'll indulge. Before I put whatever it is into my body, I'll think to myself, what's the point of not doing this? I'll feel more regret if I don't.
As a result of this indulgence, the weekend will be a weird one. These parties are usually spectacular. However, something crushing will occur at some point that forces me to question the point of my existence. Something will piss me off eventually, normally once alcohol has entered my system. The drugs don't really bother me that much. some people feel great once they are on coke. After a line, I normally feel like I've drank a gallon of Red Bull without getting bloated- instead I'm a hyped up, arrogant cock. And once I'm on it, there will always be something absurd to document later- without fail. But it won't make me feel particularly good. Eighteen hours on, the tip of my tongue is still numb after snorting two short lines of coke, lining my gums with the remnants and then manically trying to lick the powder off the back walls of my teeth.
Vasquez turned thirty this weekend. About twenty of us trekked to Blackpool to celebrate, including a guy I went to primary school with. I hadn't seen him since he left in about 1991. As nobody in this group uses my real name, Primary School Guy must have recognised me, presumably from when I was about eight. How the hell he did, I don't know. If there had been a Facebook event for the party he might have noticed my name in the 'attending' list- everyone remembers my real name- but there was no such information on Facebook. I guess I've just got one of those faces that never changes, even after two decades.
Vasquez had chosen a Mexican theme for the proceedings; Hudson had aquired a poncho, 'tache and pointed hat for me so I matched my latin-styled cohorts, all wearing the same brand of outfit. He had also aquired a vast quantity of Columbia's finest that he divvied out into a series of short, white lines. Once we were fully Mexican-ised, the fifty was handed around and, one by one, we picked a line and hammered it.
Hicks, Ferro and Apone had cross-dressed for the occasion. I had driven down with my seniorita passengers, whose outfits were complete with wigs, dresses, stockings and heels. Hicks had found what appeared to be a porn DVD in the glove compartment of my mum's car, mixed in with Simon and Garfunkel and the Bridget Jones Diary Soundtrack. I'd like to reassure the world that none of these discs were mine. How the porn got there, and how long it had been there, is beyond my knowledge.
What followed was only a blur- I can recall a karaoke bar just off the pier in which I did a duet of Robbie Williams' “Angels” with another Mexican that I'd only met that day. We drank lots of tequila, of course. Half of the shots were administered by a Mexican with a semi-transparent orange water-pistol, spraying it straight into the mouth of whoever was nearby. In the toilet I found Ferro who, as far as I was aware, hadn't done any coke but was on the way to being steaming.
I dug into the pocket of my jeans. “You want some poppers?” I held out the bottle of Pure Gold alkyl nitrate.
“You fucking gay bastard,” he said. Then, “Here y'are, give us that.”
He inhaled the bottle's fumes hard through each nostril. I did too, and walked back out to the bar, chest stuck out like I owned the place. And maybe I did.
Later, back at the hotel, we pigged out on chicken dippers and oven chips, devouring tray after tray of steaming food brought in by the hotel manager. More karaoke followed as we were eating. People were dropping out, disappearing into the night. Hordes of us had taken over the likes of Brannigans and Tower bar (the latter of which was also populated by painfully hot air stewardesses), but most had drifted off into the night. Some had driven back home.
We changed into jeans and t-shirts and prepared for the clubs. Still drunk and wired, with the floor shifting under my feet, things were getting worse. Apone was dishing out his trademark cynicism- the banter had now crossed into spite. He's a big, dangerous guy, and my patience with him was wearing thin. He was drunk too, and the more he drank the worse his tone became. His exact words are a blur, but there was no point arguing. I walked out of the room to calm down.
Where do I go from here, I thought. He knows everyone in this group. I'm close to these people now. Ferro and Hicks went to school with him. If they had to choose between me or him, I'd be out in a flash. Do I address it? Does it have to come to this? Should I tolerate it? Am I just not getting the joke?
Within moments (and after another line) I was bundled into a taxi with Ferro and Hicks and Apone of all people, and I found myself in Walkabout, Underbar and finally Sanuk, a multi-roomed club on the Blackpool seafront. I recognised a few of Vasquez's friends who'd found their way there, but Vasquez himself was nowhere to be seen. He had a lot of guests to buy him birthday drinks. Maybe he just hit his limit.
I was stood sipping pineapple juice and trying to control my breathing when Ferro put his hand on my shoulder.
“What the fuck is that?” he asked, staring at my drink.
I quelled self-pity. “Dude,” I mumbled, “I just get a bad feeling every time...”
“You're with us,” he said. “Nothing's going to happen.”
“It's not just that,” I said. I'd joked about people wanting to batter me because I stare at them when I'm pissed. Not a total lie, but not the reason I don't like beink drunk. I paused. “I can't explain it.”
In one of Sanuk's rooms, both versions of Tinie Tempah's “Pass Out” played alternately between every other song to the point that his lyrics were just an urban, melodic mantra. I pulled some girl with an impressive cleavage in a prohibition-style gangster outfit, and she took me to the smoking area where her friends were dressed in the same theme. One of them asked me if I am of Asian origin, although not in those words.
I glanced down at my arms to check. “No,” I said. “No, I'm not.”
One of her team got a phone call. Their minibus had arrived. I swapped numbers with the girl that I pulled- it turned out she lives a few miles from me- and she mentioned something about sexual fantasies her possible bisexuality before kissing me and disappearing into the night.
The club connected to a takeaway selling burgers, chicken and pizza. I found my team in there, with Hicks laughing his arse of.
“I turned around and she was stood behind me,” he said. “I just looked at her and went, ewwww!”
“Hicks got lamped off some girl,” Ferro said.
“It was a fucking good shot as well,” he admitted, eyebrows high.
*
The next morning I awoke, ravenous, the tip of my tongue still numb from the coke, my teeth feeling like dentures: senseless, alien. A decision needed to be made, once I was level-headed. I was hoping that the giant fry-up would cancel out the booze and drugs, and I'd be cool to drive. Well... you're reading this...
Friday, 7 May 2010
Broken Scene in the Student Village
It's 2002.
I've made it back to the student halls, hungover, after a painful lecture. I want to go to bed. Right now. I got past the first door when someone opened it for me, but now I've got to swipe my pass at the second door- and the pass is in my pocket which is stuffed with keys and money and other crap weighing me down.
There's a growing queue of students behind me, waiting. I could let them swipe me through, but just to prove that I actually live here, I have to find this damned pass.
There are no guys in the queue at the moment, just girls, and they're pretty good-looking.
This is my chance to make a good first impression, I think.
I'm digging into the pocket forcefully, prising out my wallet like I'm a dentist extracting a tooth. It loosens slowly and breaks free, and my hand jerks up, still grasping the wallet. Unfortunately, the luminous yellow condom I'm carrying flies out with it, sailing past the eye-line of about eight hot women. It lands on the black tiled floor before us all. The girls look at the contraceptive- then back at me. They smirk collectively. The girl at the front shakes her head, swiping herself through.
I still just want to go to bed.
Thursday, 6 May 2010
A Dream of Snails and Purdah
“The year's at the spring / And day's at the morn; / Morning's at seven; / The hillside's dew-pearled; / The lark's on the wing; / The snail's on the thorn; / God's in his heaven - / All's right with the world!”
Robert Browning, Victorian poet.
I come home from work to find giant African land snails crawling all over the living room. I'm following their slime tracks, streaking across the wallpaper, intersecting like aeroplane vapour tails. When I find a snail, each as big as my outstretched hand, I pluck it off tentatively- it retreats instinctively to it's shell- and I set it down in the garden. My stomach flips as I evict them, one snail after another.
Later, I'm in work. My blog is getting me into trouble- I've mentioned my job during Purdah, a period when we cannot be seen to be promoting ourselves as an organisation. It constitutes a breach of employee behaviour, and now I'm securely up shit creek. So instead of staying for a disciplinary... I run. I run out of the town and into the country, down small back roads that split giant fields. Still in a suit with no tie, I'm roasting under the summer sun and sweat soaks my shirt in snail-track streaks.
Monday, 3 May 2010
Hunger Writing
Automatic writing exercise.
My God. I am starving. The time for the writer's group was advertised wrong in the paper, so I turned up an hour early. I've not had tea yet. I was hoping someone would have brought some cookies or chocolate just to tide me over for a few more minutes. But no. My handwriting is deteriorating, my stomach is empty and my head is starting to pound.
In the middle of the table, there's a giant pile of Ian Rankin books, donated by one of the group members. Rankin is the dude with two names- he sticks an 'm' in his name whenever he writes SF, but does not for crime. I'll check these books out. Have a peruse. Then stick it on the “to read” pile in my house, on top of the James Ellroy, Carl Haissen and Stephen King.
Rankin is a Scottish writer. Another Scottish writer is Irvine Welsh. (Fluid transition, there. Amazing.) I met Irvine Welsh in, what, 2008 maybe? He was signing copies of his new book, Crime, in the back of Waterstones Deansgate. Welsh also read a funny segment of the book- involving a coked-up cop flirting with two old American women.
And then the timer went. I was going to say: I got a signed copy and a photo with him. Crime is good book but not for the faint of heart. Very different to Trainspotting and its sequel, Porno. Much more dour and very, very dark. I recommend all three.
Saturday, 1 May 2010
Be A Fan!
There's nothing wrong with trying to reach out to new fans.
-Carrot Top
Power is a State of Mind is the “Flagship” blog by Oldham writer Matt Tuckey. It's a place where anyone can access accounts of his ridiculous escapades, read his opinions on life and find links to his published work.
Http://www.powerisastateofmind.blogspot.com
The blog is making waves in the grand metropolises (metropoli?) of Oldham and Huddersfield, allegedly. And those waves are due to break on your shore... any time now.
Honest.
Ever wondered why 98 sheep got thoroughly hammered off cheap beer while touring Saddleworth? Want to know which are the weirdest and most depraved bars in Manchester? Want a step-by-step guide to inducing a female orgasm? Can you guess which England footballer Matt had an 'altercation' with in 2003?
The answers are all here.
Http://www.powerisastateofmind.blogspot.com
You'll also find opinions and views on films, politics and the world in general that you won't find anywhere else. Here at Power is a State of Mind, Matt takes a different slant on the burning issues. What did BBC's Panorama forget to mention when they filmed in Oldham? Why are there so many divorces in Britain? What did journalists forget to ask Jaqui Smith's husband after the porn debacle of 2009?
As with every other groundbreaking, absurdly amazing and universe-altering piece of literature (cough) Power is a State of Mind now also has its own Facebook presence- in particular a fan page. You can become a fan here:
http://www.facebook.com/?ref=home#!/pages/Power-is-a-State-of-Mind/72024826811?ref=ts
I look forward to seeing you on the fan page. Matt does too, in a big way. And, of course, don't forget to check out the actual blog.
Thanks for reading,
Fluffy Oakes
Zooological Interspecies Consultant
Oldham Zoo
Friday, 30 April 2010
Superb Letter from Esquire
I've just been rooting through my Hotmail account and found something that I think could be blogworthy. In December 2008 I polished up a piece of creative nonfiction that I had written and sent it to a few lifestyle magazines. I emailed “Access Denied”, a tale of being booted out of a girl's house by her mum, to Dan Davies of Esquire UK.
Here's the story:
http://powerisastateofmind.blogspot.com/2008/10/access-denied.html
I was really pleased to even get a response. Here it is:
Matt
I really like it and wouldn't think you will be an amateur for much longer. I am not sure how or whether it could work in Esquire but I will show it to the editor and features director and get back to you. Thanks for the submission in the meantime.
Best wishes
Dan
Dan Davies
Deputy Editor
Obviously you're having to take my word for it that this is real, unless you fancy coming 'round and looking at my hotmail. Much respect to Dan Davies and his team at the awesome Esquire magazine.
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