Scheduled For Tomorrow At 10:15am

Benign camaraderie in the Metrolink as people cram themselves into the carriage, laughing, smiling, shrugging and rolling eyes, ‘Oh we are so British with our stiff upper lips, even as the air sweats with our breath’. The young BBC professional next to me is listening to the new New Order record loud – loud enough for me to hear it as the beating of helicopter blades.

I’m leaning against the tram door to write this and imagine myself falling out of the tram at the next stop. Destined for FAILBLOG. If I were feeling more cycnical, I’d create a slideshow of all the photos of me between 2008 – 2014 when I wasn’t wearing some outlandish outfit because I looked better when trying to be a flamboyant show off than when I tried to dress normally. King of the Fails. But that’s OK, I’m past that now. I can present myself in a way that doesn’t make me cringe + wilt like a starving plant.

Is there a word limit on a Facebook status? Could we all be so self-expressive at the same time that we made the internet fall over? Paralysis of the bared soul. If you’re still reading at this point, grab yourself a complimentary Lucozade and splash it over your face because we are in it for the long haul motherfucker, stream-o-consciousness post in response to commuter misery.

I remember the woman who crashed her car filming herself singing to Pharell’s ‘Happy’. I wonder if anyone has won the lottery whilst playing ‘Heaven Knows I’m Miserable Now’? Probably not, but I bet you any money someone making contemporary theatre will be lifting it. There will be party hatz and confetti falling and one huge scowl on a face that’s not seen the sun for sixteen years and has bags under the eyes as droopy and wrinkled as scrotal sacks.

Look out the window: we’re in Castlefield. Used to be my favourite part of the city because it has no soul. You can walk around it on a foggy morning and pretend you’re in some up-market version of Silent Hill. And when the air raid siren blows, the brickwork peels away to reveal mounds of cash, and entitled city types clamber out of the canal to spew beery vomit all over the nice paving stones. And there’s a huge, muscle-bound guy with a deflated football for a head dragging a giant sharpened golf club around. You can hear the shriek of metal against stone as he trudges after you.

Someone is talking about white jeans. Now that is something I’ve not seen for a long time. I miss that kind of sheer audacity. Yeah yeah, you can strut around town in pock-marked hose and a crop top with glitter in your eyebrows but if you really want to go bad taste…actually, what am I saying? White denim is just bad. See, this is the kind of siren call that threatens to shipwreck me on the shores of FAILBLOG again.

2015-10-08 10.02.10

Published by Gareth

London-based artist

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