Wednesday, June 16, 2004


Right then.

My cartridge of Stray Bullets have been spraying infrequently and erratically in the last few weeks. There’s nothing wrong with short, controlled bursts of grouped shots, but my aim has been about as consistent and accurate as that of an overweight businessman with high blood pressure on a paintballing weekend. Fuck that. So, here’s where I’m at.

Yes, I know I stopped my devastating exposé of film journalists, leavened with random personal observations about why I love films and writing. I know you all, dear readers, realised how phenomenal and groundbreaking it all was, but my life intruded and curtailed my ability to write for protracted periods of time. This will resume at some point. I don’t know when. But there will still be all kinds of good shit for you to wrap your heads around here at the AKA Corral.

Right, my financial stability has recently faced something of a crash, whilst my professional obligations (my Clark Kent “day” job shit, not my more-powerful-than-a-locomotive film writing stuff) increased dramatically too. They take away from me with one hand; they punch me in the solar plexus with the other.

Maddeningly high pollen levels in London; irregularly scheduled bouts of blind, frenzied nationalism brought on by bellends with soccer balls; 12 media wannabes locked in a “house”, taking a dump on their self-respect and smearing it all over their future, whilst fighting for the right to ensure they are heckled in the street for the rest of their piss-poor lives; severe sleep deprivation…. it’s just a conspiracy to test the limits of my patience, isn’t it?

Lock and load. Make sure you aren’t standing on a plastic sheet. More Stray Bullets coming soon…

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