Fanta$tic Mr. Fox

Fantastic Mr. Fox. On the 22 bus I passed a poster for the upcoming screen version of the classic Roald Dahl book. Roald, is that a name? Anyway, what I saw was so off the point I must comment. Mr. Fox is a story about poverty and the need to forage for whatever he can to feed his family. He was not a swave ganster. In the movie he demands his gang to wear hoods on their missions. They have taken the title 'fantastic' and completely misinterpred it. To me, and I may be wrong, the story is about greed and poverty. Revelent? Yes.

Don't get me wrong, I love the book. The upcoming movie disgusts me though. Fantastic Mr. Fox was scavaging for what food he could using his cunning to outwit a buch of oafs. Anto has enlightened me that in the book we are also made to feel sorry for the bad guys. They have been personalised and their existance itself is sad. The movie does not convey this or the plight of those living in poverty. The film makers have also signed a deal with McDonalds for promotions. Surely KFC if anything?

Edinburgh Tramps Works

Part time traffic lights. What do they do the rest of the time? Do traffic lights have other commitments? Maybe a gap year traffic light working to get a big job in the city. Temporary traffic lights too. "I'm only temping as a traffic light, looking for something a little more permanent." Temporary traffic lights do look amateur to be fair. This particular one has character though.

Plenty of temporary positions around Edinburgh at the moment. The market is pretty saturated and most will be redundant in a few years. Sadly, there will always be some other detached city council ready to cut the arterial artery of another fine city.

"MONORAIL! MONORAIL! MONORAIL!".

Dirty Money

When I was a kid I accidently swollowed a pound and as nature goes I shat it out. I was 8 so my granny made me shit in a bucket and she fished it out. It was meant to be a momento but I spent it on sweets. What I'm trying to say is somewhere out there is a pound that has been right through me.

Lonely, Crying Only

I turn the key and with a creek the door slowly opens. The flat that once welcomed after work is an eerie wasteland of emotions. Something is missing, but I haven't been burgled. Today I didn't need a daily ancedote, such as the photcopier jam. The post skidded across the floor as I stepped in. Someone usually lifts the post and places it thoughtfully on my bed, or even more knowingly, on my part of the sofa.

Nachy, my flatmate, is away home for a week. Yes, I can bring a minger back and shag all day and night, walk around naked and rent his room out to buy drugs but I do most of those things when he's here. I just need someone around, and then it hit me... I will make my flatmate. Time is short so I can't make it talk or do anything. That is not important, but as long as I sit on my sofa and can see something resembling Nachy in the corner of my eye I might make it through the week without herion.

I begin to move him about when I leave the room. Before I know it this is part of my life and I love him. Then I hear a key turn in the door and Nachy is soon undressing his work trousers from my creation and I go to bed confused and in tears again. The photcopier jam was delicious by the way.