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I woke up with a swimming head, and my phone watch ringing in my ears. This was it!
Something unreal was about to happen. I was about to face a new destiny. Something that would be close to what I have written about. This was just a pit stop on the way. But still a dream of something new and stable in the meanwhile. I am a soldier of fortune.
Long expeditions have a tendency to wear me out. What disappointed me was that neither the management nor anyone in the office had left a message in the reception about what time I was supposed to be there. I had to guess. I had to guess my way to the office, and I had t guess the time. The only thing that the taxi driver gave me was screwing me for 20 quid for the ride from the airport the night before. And the nigh on my arrival, my new editor was giving me a call. And I was all fired up, but this is what I came here for! The adventure and a new horizon. Energy to start over and continue what I started 12 years ago. To move on from the disaster in Belfast with Kim Andrew, the woman I thought loved me, and left me in a ditch somewhere up in Botanic while she had all my things outside her door to give away, while planning to fuck someone else.
My room was chilled at 8 in the morning. My sweat left me shivering while I tried to get some will to go into the shower. A hot shower. I decided to take the time I needed to get clean and shaved. Better give them a semi good impression appearance wise than stench of booze and a long flight.
Ten to 9, I was in the hotel restaurant all dolled up for the occasion, munching two croissants with ham and cheese, two orange juices, and a cup of tea. Better hurry!
Betsson! One of half a dozen companies thriving on this island. I wonder what for. The tax exempts? A paradise for cheats and scoundrels like myself? Who knows? Would this be a treasure hunt for soldiers of fortune, or would this be another call centre nightmare?
How soon would I find out whether this would be a long and beautiful journey as I had at times in Belfast, or a nightmare from the start?
Observe the management, and how they behave and talk. Listen to what your new co workers would behave and what they would talk about.
As I walked down the Strand towards the City of Valletta, I got lost. Where would I turn off? Someone was fucking with me even before I came down here! With the heart up my throat, I found Atlas Insurance to give me the direction.
-”Just go back, and find a building with Opel on it, and you’ll be right there”, the young lady informed me. Fine, I could do that. 20 minutes after 9, I was in the elevator up to the 3rd floor. But the reception was at the 4th. Another minute wasted, I thought to myself.
Eventually I was in the conference room together with the other greenhorns, a boss of some sort, and a trainer.
I knew this was different from what I was used to the past two years; selling bloody fish! A completely different gig. This was clean cut, and rule abiding wee zombies where the bosses’ word was law! Not at all like my old boss, who would welcome me back any day if I needed some drug money. This was in shapely forms where as in a concentration camp where all had to conform. In my days with the fishing mafia, we were our own bosses. I used my boss as a daily wallet and bank. I’d come to work stoned, and sometimes even with a beer on my breath. He didn’t care as long as I made sales, and had money in my pocket at the end of the day.
And I would smell fish, eat, fish, live fish, and actually chain-smoke during the afternoons and sometimes late at night in freezing cold. Some days I would be so pissed off at my boss, Christian that we’d chew each others heads off. But for him, my daily well being was more important than his stupid pride. As long as I made a sale, he’d be happy, and we’d both be happy.
Here in Malta, at the gamblers paradise, the manager’s rule was law! It’s like this everywhere when they have blue collar jobs in a white collar environment.
My nerves lay thick outside my clean body, and shaven face. I still had my goatee. I’ll never give that one up for anyone! Not even my ponytail!
At 9.30, I was sitting in a conference room with 6 completely strange faces. Four greenhorns, one trainer, and the Big Boss of the daily business. Since I was late, and all of them acted like nice little pupils at first day of school, I tried to compensate by actually participating actively.
Five of us we were in the new group.
Jutta from Finland. A silent blonde who probably have a fire hidden deep inside. She must hide it well. Or maybe she had gotten a bit stuck up on herself coming from a language school after a year here, and screwing some local dick. I won’t judge her either way. It’s not easy getting wise on Finns. Especially when they’re out travelling. All I know is Juha and Jakku. They’re both a bit introvert… Until they get a bottle of vodka.
It was Thoami from Greece. But nothing about her gave her away her nationality. She looked and sounded like she just landed from London’s West End, both in language and appearance. She was sick and tired of Londonium and it’s weather. Don’t know much about its people. Except that Londoners have very stiff upper lips. And she had gotten some of that in her accent. Like an over sensible mother goose of some sort.
It was Gregory from France. Living here for more than 10 years, it’s almost a miracle how pale he would be. With a shaven head, a five day old five o’clock shadow, he might as well come from another time and place… Like Bergen-Belsen or Natzweiler. He was skinny just like me.
Andreas is from Germany. He looked like a true hobbit. Haven’t missed a luncheon since the days of the bombings of Dresden. Also he was a smoker like Jutta and me. At least I would be entertained during smoke breaks. And some ears to chew on. We shared some common interests: Ireland and Guinness. Some stories we would be able to share. But there was still something about him that made me think.
Our trainer was a beautiful young Maltese with Algerian blood. According to the supremo, she knew more languages than most mortals would be able to say “hello” in. I started to count how many languages I have learned frazes in myself to make sure. Would this girl know how to insult people in more than 11 languages? I never bothered to find out.
She might know 4 or 5 languages; which is impressive enough. She might know everything about her job. Something everyone would be able to learn, given time enough. Even an imbecile would be able to do that. And I have experienced many imbeciles making it quite far in their business. Would she know about life? Love? Getting screwed by power mongers? Fighting against all odds? Would she be able to handle me after a few night of savage love making? Would she then be able to look back at her old life after tasting some true wild game?
I was pondering on that if she could blow me in as many ways I as I would know how to tell people to fuck off in 11 languages…
The Swedish representative is a story of their own. They looked like they all had their VIP lounges somewhere in Stureplan in Stockholm the lot of them. Well, they were only two, plus the owner, talking to us directly from Sweden. They were all clean cut and shaved. My exact opposite as Kim Andrews might say. Even if she would hate my guts now, she’d still walk home with me than with these jokers.
A long haired hippie with more battles lost and won than most people here would have years lived.
And then there was the daily manager. Like most hallelujah people about their own job, was as fake as any televangelist. Though as much as she tried to make us feel welcome. She gave me vibes I didn’t like. And for a long time, I have started to trust my vibes more than I trust what comes out of people’s mouths.
Megan Casey is from South Africa. A perfect specimen for the Master Race that used to rule the country about 20 years ago. How fun is that? A tall blonde with an uncertain sexuality and the behaviour of a nightmare substitute teacher that would never leave.
At the end of a long and exhausting day, she calls me into her office. She had a few issues with me already. And I was not in the mood to get pissed on so soon.
“I’m just concerned that you are the right one for us” she said.
“I thought we had settled this a month ago on the phone. You hired me to do a job. You hired me because I am the best”…
She continues… “You dominate the group, and then it’s your tardiness”…
I tried to make an excuse.
“Everyone else managed to show up here at 8.30″ she proclaimed. Somehow I knew she was lying.
“I know it’s supposed to MY responsibility to find out when we start” I reply. Almost with a sarcasm in my voice. Never in my entire life would I have ever had to ask when I’m supposed to start on a new job. Not even Charles Bukowski's most hideous tyrants of bosses let that bastard guess on when in the morning he was about to start. I get humble. I’m too tired and to weary to get in a clinch with the daily Supremo of Betsson already on the first day.
I would let her know, that they hired me. But they haven’t bought my loyalty. And I can be as illusive and treacherous as any hired brain. Loyalty I will give once they give me a reason to do so…
“I am empathetic about your situation”…
I never told her about the last shit in Belfast. But I soon let her know that I’ve been in a battle that has given me scars for life in Belfast.
As our conversation goes by, I do a quick recapture from my first days in Belfast. 10th August 2004, before going to work for GEM, I was picked up at the airport late Monday afternoon by Stephen Robinson, the company clerk as I called him. They read my CV. They knew I was the Wizard. And they accepted me. There was nobody trying to screw me already upon my arrival back then. But they didn’t buy me any ticket or a hotel room either. This was something different again.
Stephen and I drove to work so I could meet some of my colleagues and have a look at my new slave station before getting me a ride directly to my new home. My housemate was back then a young Dutchman who was mostly too busy to screw his Swedish girlfriend from work to be at the house. He was there the first 2 weeks, and he was gone, leaving me all to myself to enjoy my private jerk offs.
That time, he and I went to sign a contract with the letting agent. And there were no hidden fees and charges as I would find here in Malta. We went there around 9ish, and got to work around 10. About the time he’d normally show up at work. Those were the days. A bit more free back in those days.
As long as you didn’t show up for work completely drunk out of your skull after noon, everything would be OK. In those days, they would give me a few days to get settled in, and then the normal days at 8 or 9 would start.
Fair enough… So can anyone tell me a difference here?
I tried to give her an example or two. But she wouldn’t listen. A blonde South African used to have only her voice heard!
A model for the Master Race, and Daily Supremo for Betsson, Malta…
My letting agent Adrian Huber met me after work. My hotel bed was calling me; I knew I had to get something sorted asap by the end of the week. His female sidekick from Scotland in the back seat drove me around for a few hours showing me some awful places that made me want to hurl. Except for the last place. The cheapest place and the best place. But I don’t want to have to wake up to a bloody highway every morning in the inland.
The places were either too expensive, or too freaky or something rather.
My bed was calling for me, and I needed some time to think. For the first time in 18 months, I seek comfort in a whisky bottle. My Celtic Women made me quit one way or another. And now, I’m taking a deep dive back into it again, as if John Lee Hookers song is calling me from the grave.
The only thing that would keep me from getting liquored up is my pipe weed. And the last one I took was the morning before…
The sizzling prawns from the Chinese Garden next door from my hotel are bloody tasteless. The rice is too fluffy, and I dig my head into the lovely story about the Nacht und Nebel prisoners of Natzweiler. A book I haven’t read in almost 20 years.
Bay view Hotel gives me some great views. But tonight, I got too many things on my mind to enjoy anything except the views of the insides of my eyelids. There would come another day tomorrow.
Before midnight I was fast asleep. Knackered.
My first day in Malta is over…
Sunday, 12 April 2009
Fear and Loathing, the Malta Experience
PRELUDE
Know this: I’m sitting at Sidewalk Bar on the Strand in Sliema in Malta when I write this. I drink! And I miss my drugs…
I got this job, you see?
In a bloody betting company in Malta! Last month they gave me a few phone calls wondering if I were the right man for the job. Being a gambler at heart, how could I refuse? I was broke and hungry for a new horizon. To forget the shit from the past and even finish my Belfast book. You know, the kind of book that ex. wives, girlfriends and fiancées would dread. Because the Truth hurt. Nobody knows that better than a bloody writer who’s taken more drugs and booze in 5 years than most mortal people would do in a lifetime. And paid the dues for it as well. With broken dreams and the shit to go.
I was broke, and they wanted me to come in 5 days. Impossible I told them. The fact is that I wouldn’t even be able to afford a ride to the airport. So I let them wait for me yet another month.
So, the 22nd of March, at 09.45 in the morning I wake up to a new world, rolling a joint, getting ready for the ride. And the right drugs will in fact enhance the experience of going to a destiny unknown. High as a kite, my best friends try to keep the conversation alive as I’m having a constant out of body experience. Trying to stay focused on not screwing things up even before check-in at the airport. The drugs have been taking a hold even before we got in the car.
Not knowing what idiots who would hire me, I would meet the next day, my nerves were hanging in thick layers outside my body. As we were closing on to the airport, with the signs and all, I said “Shit! Let’s turn around and drive back!” The truth is, that Ståles marihuana and a safe couch where I could do my ranting in between my passing outs was a lot more tempting at that moment.
It’s like when you’re born. You get squeezed out of your mommy’s tummy, and you’re spending most of your life trying to get back in again. Or inside someone else’s opening.
I checked in through a bloody automat, threw my luggage et the check in counter. With 6 kilos overweight, it was no problem. I guess I charmed the chick behind the counter with my red bloodshot eyes and my Aussie hat.
Or maybe an assembled population was just so glad to get rid of me that they’d pay to get me the hell out of the City of Python. Which is a lot worse than Bin City (Belfast). And right now, it feels as if I can never go back to the city I love. All because of one woman: Kim Andrews. The love of my life that got me kicked out of the Arts council because of some harsh emails. Well? She bloody asked for it! No one kicks me in the nuts and gets away with it! And now, it’s payback time!
I didn’t think about these sore facts, as I travelled from airport to airport. First stop was Frankfurt. I’ve never been to Frankfurt. Not even the airport. But I’ve seen so many, that one doesn’t make much difference from the other. As soon as I found my seat on the plane, I shut my eyes to wonder of in wonderland of dreams and visions. IT takes away the actual pain of having to deal with shitty passengers, and my thirst for alcohol. The drugs were still working strong.
As the plane landed, I was dying for a cigarette. Why do these smoking laws exist? Are they in fact preying for some crazed nicotine slave to go mental 30,000 feet in the air?
After another check in, I hasted towards a lunge where smokers could stand as apes in a cage and puff their legal nicotine. People where hasting by, and I craved to pass out again. But I couldn’t. I’m a traveller. And have been all my life. And I still can’t get used to it. Especially not the expectations on what will come next. What will come around the corner or far off in the sunset? And this time, I wasn’t sure how long this journey would last until it would come to a crude end. My last trip to Belfast that went disastrous was fresh in my memory.
How could I make it different this time?
I repeated my procedure at Air Malta as I did Lufthansa. Found my seat, and immediately turned around to inspect the inside of my eyelids. Praying that not some fat git would sit next to me and squeeze his blubber over me.
I was soon half asleep again. The drugs were wearing off, and reality checked in again. The flight attendants woke me up about an hour into the flight for food. I haven’t had a free meal on a plain since they actually had some service. Or maybe I was getting used to Ryan airs sloppy service and dry sandwiches that cost more than the ticket itself.
I ate half of the bun, all the ham and the cheese before I passed out again. I could sleep anywhere. I may be a traveller. But I dread the notion of not being able to fire up a joint to make the trip more interesting. Shit! I’d have a journey through the desert on a camel for weeks instead of this! Or on a long ship across the sea to a new place to pillage just to blow off some steam!
The plane was starting to go downwards. We were getting closer. To a new place I have never been to. That’s what makes the experience more interesting. And I was wondering if they have gotten my two bags checked through all the way as they promised.
Somehow they did. It’s a wonder. Every time I have to go on these dreaded flights, it always goes smoother than I expect. Maybe it’s because in previous, something has always happened. That’s when my old mother was making the decisions, and we were travelling stand by, or good bye. When I’m travelling, it’s like they pull me through with no hassle. It’s when I get h0me and carry with me my medicine they give me shit. I hate the laws! I hate anyone who’s trying to stop me from doing what I’m supposed to do!
And soon, I’ll be the most infamous man on this island….
Know this: I’m sitting at Sidewalk Bar on the Strand in Sliema in Malta when I write this. I drink! And I miss my drugs…
I got this job, you see?
In a bloody betting company in Malta! Last month they gave me a few phone calls wondering if I were the right man for the job. Being a gambler at heart, how could I refuse? I was broke and hungry for a new horizon. To forget the shit from the past and even finish my Belfast book. You know, the kind of book that ex. wives, girlfriends and fiancées would dread. Because the Truth hurt. Nobody knows that better than a bloody writer who’s taken more drugs and booze in 5 years than most mortal people would do in a lifetime. And paid the dues for it as well. With broken dreams and the shit to go.
I was broke, and they wanted me to come in 5 days. Impossible I told them. The fact is that I wouldn’t even be able to afford a ride to the airport. So I let them wait for me yet another month.
So, the 22nd of March, at 09.45 in the morning I wake up to a new world, rolling a joint, getting ready for the ride. And the right drugs will in fact enhance the experience of going to a destiny unknown. High as a kite, my best friends try to keep the conversation alive as I’m having a constant out of body experience. Trying to stay focused on not screwing things up even before check-in at the airport. The drugs have been taking a hold even before we got in the car.
Not knowing what idiots who would hire me, I would meet the next day, my nerves were hanging in thick layers outside my body. As we were closing on to the airport, with the signs and all, I said “Shit! Let’s turn around and drive back!” The truth is, that Ståles marihuana and a safe couch where I could do my ranting in between my passing outs was a lot more tempting at that moment.
It’s like when you’re born. You get squeezed out of your mommy’s tummy, and you’re spending most of your life trying to get back in again. Or inside someone else’s opening.
I checked in through a bloody automat, threw my luggage et the check in counter. With 6 kilos overweight, it was no problem. I guess I charmed the chick behind the counter with my red bloodshot eyes and my Aussie hat.
Or maybe an assembled population was just so glad to get rid of me that they’d pay to get me the hell out of the City of Python. Which is a lot worse than Bin City (Belfast). And right now, it feels as if I can never go back to the city I love. All because of one woman: Kim Andrews. The love of my life that got me kicked out of the Arts council because of some harsh emails. Well? She bloody asked for it! No one kicks me in the nuts and gets away with it! And now, it’s payback time!
I didn’t think about these sore facts, as I travelled from airport to airport. First stop was Frankfurt. I’ve never been to Frankfurt. Not even the airport. But I’ve seen so many, that one doesn’t make much difference from the other. As soon as I found my seat on the plane, I shut my eyes to wonder of in wonderland of dreams and visions. IT takes away the actual pain of having to deal with shitty passengers, and my thirst for alcohol. The drugs were still working strong.
As the plane landed, I was dying for a cigarette. Why do these smoking laws exist? Are they in fact preying for some crazed nicotine slave to go mental 30,000 feet in the air?
After another check in, I hasted towards a lunge where smokers could stand as apes in a cage and puff their legal nicotine. People where hasting by, and I craved to pass out again. But I couldn’t. I’m a traveller. And have been all my life. And I still can’t get used to it. Especially not the expectations on what will come next. What will come around the corner or far off in the sunset? And this time, I wasn’t sure how long this journey would last until it would come to a crude end. My last trip to Belfast that went disastrous was fresh in my memory.
How could I make it different this time?
I repeated my procedure at Air Malta as I did Lufthansa. Found my seat, and immediately turned around to inspect the inside of my eyelids. Praying that not some fat git would sit next to me and squeeze his blubber over me.
I was soon half asleep again. The drugs were wearing off, and reality checked in again. The flight attendants woke me up about an hour into the flight for food. I haven’t had a free meal on a plain since they actually had some service. Or maybe I was getting used to Ryan airs sloppy service and dry sandwiches that cost more than the ticket itself.
I ate half of the bun, all the ham and the cheese before I passed out again. I could sleep anywhere. I may be a traveller. But I dread the notion of not being able to fire up a joint to make the trip more interesting. Shit! I’d have a journey through the desert on a camel for weeks instead of this! Or on a long ship across the sea to a new place to pillage just to blow off some steam!
The plane was starting to go downwards. We were getting closer. To a new place I have never been to. That’s what makes the experience more interesting. And I was wondering if they have gotten my two bags checked through all the way as they promised.
Somehow they did. It’s a wonder. Every time I have to go on these dreaded flights, it always goes smoother than I expect. Maybe it’s because in previous, something has always happened. That’s when my old mother was making the decisions, and we were travelling stand by, or good bye. When I’m travelling, it’s like they pull me through with no hassle. It’s when I get h0me and carry with me my medicine they give me shit. I hate the laws! I hate anyone who’s trying to stop me from doing what I’m supposed to do!
And soon, I’ll be the most infamous man on this island….
Why the fuck bother?
I’ve been back to Oslo for about 9 months now, and things are not going well.
When the love of my life left me, and got my membership at the ADF in Belfast cancelled, I’ve gone to the rats and further. I’ve seen the Devil in the eyes, and spat in them both.
I can’t remember when I was sober last. I vaguely remember the last time I had my last orgasm and a smile on my face. I can’t remember when I haven’t been either pissed off about something, or wanted to blow my brains out.
And I ask myself on a daily basis why do I even bother putting up with this shit? Why can’t I turn back time and right the wrongs and the mistakes that got me into this crap?
Okay, I admit it! It’s like living through Groundhog Day without having the chance to do things different! I got another poetry collection written, and another one on the way. I even got a story from my last trip to Belfast written. Well, at least a first draft. This may be the story that will kill me? Why do I still care about this anymore?
Why don’t newspapers hire true Writers anymore? Why the drugs here are shit? Why has free speech become a swearword? Why doesn’t Kim love me anymore? She’s the one who got me to believe in love and life again. Why am I human with mistakes haunting me on a nightly basis? Why do I hate the World?
Why can’t I go into an editors office with a flamethrower and a story, and the editor is getting a hard on with a blank check and a credit card just for me to find out how many hookers and drugs I can buy for them?
Why can't I just put a gun to my brain and blow off with a curse on my lips, “See you later pricks”?
I will tell you why!
It’s because I’m a bloody warrior with a pen in my hand and a keyboard with my head full of poisonous thoughts! And an anger to blow off entire cities!
Just give me a reason! This reminds me of something. Never give power to any artist whose brain is fucked up on drugs and booze with a huge chip on his shoulder. Look at Winston Churchill and Hitler! Both excellent demagogues, both of them painters and authors. Both of them just insane enough to face each others fears. Churchill was a drunk and an old war horse with imperial interests. Hitler was a painter without talent whatsoever with a hatred towards anything not German. Especially the Jews, gypsies, queers, communists, democrats, and all who were not blond and blue eyed.
Churchill just hated Moslems. I’m no fan either. Well, it’s the whole concept of Islam I can’t stand. Equally am I sceptical to Christianity. Hitler was Christian; at least officially. I don’t know about Churchill. He acted more like a rabid dog in a prayer room than what I would consider a man of “Christian values”. He had he’s own demons to fight though. And when he didn’t fight a war half drunk, he escaped into painting, writing and more booze, while taking a piss every stiff upper lipped women he would meet.
Hitler escaped into mad Messiah complexes and tried to steal all the art that was superior to his own scrabbles, and burn books and people for the pleasure of gullible idiots with inferiority complexes. Do you see the picture here?
An artist should never be given the throne for whatever reason! Artists should be the ones outside the shit and have a voice against the Power. Not collaborating with it! Artists must suffer and go through shit to get their points across! In due time be fed with a silver spoon. But they should never forget where they come from!
I certainly will never forget the hard times that has lead me here. Neither will I forget the creeps that didn’t give me another chance.
When the love of my life left me, and got my membership at the ADF in Belfast cancelled, I’ve gone to the rats and further. I’ve seen the Devil in the eyes, and spat in them both.
I can’t remember when I was sober last. I vaguely remember the last time I had my last orgasm and a smile on my face. I can’t remember when I haven’t been either pissed off about something, or wanted to blow my brains out.
And I ask myself on a daily basis why do I even bother putting up with this shit? Why can’t I turn back time and right the wrongs and the mistakes that got me into this crap?
Okay, I admit it! It’s like living through Groundhog Day without having the chance to do things different! I got another poetry collection written, and another one on the way. I even got a story from my last trip to Belfast written. Well, at least a first draft. This may be the story that will kill me? Why do I still care about this anymore?
Why don’t newspapers hire true Writers anymore? Why the drugs here are shit? Why has free speech become a swearword? Why doesn’t Kim love me anymore? She’s the one who got me to believe in love and life again. Why am I human with mistakes haunting me on a nightly basis? Why do I hate the World?
Why can’t I go into an editors office with a flamethrower and a story, and the editor is getting a hard on with a blank check and a credit card just for me to find out how many hookers and drugs I can buy for them?
Why can't I just put a gun to my brain and blow off with a curse on my lips, “See you later pricks”?
I will tell you why!
It’s because I’m a bloody warrior with a pen in my hand and a keyboard with my head full of poisonous thoughts! And an anger to blow off entire cities!
Just give me a reason! This reminds me of something. Never give power to any artist whose brain is fucked up on drugs and booze with a huge chip on his shoulder. Look at Winston Churchill and Hitler! Both excellent demagogues, both of them painters and authors. Both of them just insane enough to face each others fears. Churchill was a drunk and an old war horse with imperial interests. Hitler was a painter without talent whatsoever with a hatred towards anything not German. Especially the Jews, gypsies, queers, communists, democrats, and all who were not blond and blue eyed.
Churchill just hated Moslems. I’m no fan either. Well, it’s the whole concept of Islam I can’t stand. Equally am I sceptical to Christianity. Hitler was Christian; at least officially. I don’t know about Churchill. He acted more like a rabid dog in a prayer room than what I would consider a man of “Christian values”. He had he’s own demons to fight though. And when he didn’t fight a war half drunk, he escaped into painting, writing and more booze, while taking a piss every stiff upper lipped women he would meet.
Hitler escaped into mad Messiah complexes and tried to steal all the art that was superior to his own scrabbles, and burn books and people for the pleasure of gullible idiots with inferiority complexes. Do you see the picture here?
An artist should never be given the throne for whatever reason! Artists should be the ones outside the shit and have a voice against the Power. Not collaborating with it! Artists must suffer and go through shit to get their points across! In due time be fed with a silver spoon. But they should never forget where they come from!
I certainly will never forget the hard times that has lead me here. Neither will I forget the creeps that didn’t give me another chance.
Going the extra mile… Fear and Loathing
To drink and do drugs in a week non stop while writing bullshit is what legends are made of. It’s even ancient history. Artists have gone insane while trying to cope with bullshit since the dawn of history.
Take a step away from reality and create your alternative one. You know you’re closer to the Truth than any sober pundit that spews out cheap lies on TV every night.
Nothing is new under the sun. Another honour killing. Another perverted sex maniac exposed in Austria. Bush got his will again in Congress. Obama is a bloody hypocrite and flip flopper who runs against an old semi- fascist who still endorses torture despite his own experiences in Vietnam.
Norwegian politicians are lying through their teeth as usual and play the personal vendettas to cover up their complete ignorance towards reality and incompetence in real life.
How can I put it?
Every thinking man is almost forced into alcoholism and an extraordinary drug use just to cope with the bullshit that he’s being fed with on a daily basis.
And then, when I go into the forums and feeds, and read more bullshit from amateur writers whom are buying into these lies, I just feel like jumping into the bottle or the bong and stay there.
If you creeps didn’t think otherwise, I am on an agenda here. Starting to think in the same terms as my dead editor. I don’t mind a dead editor, but the bastard shouldn’t go and die without my knowledge, screwing up book promises, and being so political correct that it makes me want to vomit. At least I’m keeping my own promise to him, and start my own blog. This is homage to him. My old publisher. This is also a direct message to Shabana Rehman whom also used to get me paid for writing articles that I could get death threats for. Those were the days…
Now, I’m just going the extra mileage to survive the next few weeks of insanity and drunken poetry and fear and loathing of a world that seems hostile and self absorbed in shallow thoughts and cheap lies, where everyone have become media whores.
Read my daily rants, and keep out of my way! There are periods where I want to fuck with anyone who looks at me funny.
Does it sound familiar?
Take a step away from reality and create your alternative one. You know you’re closer to the Truth than any sober pundit that spews out cheap lies on TV every night.
Nothing is new under the sun. Another honour killing. Another perverted sex maniac exposed in Austria. Bush got his will again in Congress. Obama is a bloody hypocrite and flip flopper who runs against an old semi- fascist who still endorses torture despite his own experiences in Vietnam.
Norwegian politicians are lying through their teeth as usual and play the personal vendettas to cover up their complete ignorance towards reality and incompetence in real life.
How can I put it?
Every thinking man is almost forced into alcoholism and an extraordinary drug use just to cope with the bullshit that he’s being fed with on a daily basis.
And then, when I go into the forums and feeds, and read more bullshit from amateur writers whom are buying into these lies, I just feel like jumping into the bottle or the bong and stay there.
If you creeps didn’t think otherwise, I am on an agenda here. Starting to think in the same terms as my dead editor. I don’t mind a dead editor, but the bastard shouldn’t go and die without my knowledge, screwing up book promises, and being so political correct that it makes me want to vomit. At least I’m keeping my own promise to him, and start my own blog. This is homage to him. My old publisher. This is also a direct message to Shabana Rehman whom also used to get me paid for writing articles that I could get death threats for. Those were the days…
Now, I’m just going the extra mileage to survive the next few weeks of insanity and drunken poetry and fear and loathing of a world that seems hostile and self absorbed in shallow thoughts and cheap lies, where everyone have become media whores.
Read my daily rants, and keep out of my way! There are periods where I want to fuck with anyone who looks at me funny.
Does it sound familiar?
Culture differences and the death of a publisher
I have spent some years in Belfast.
The city is not like you read about in the news. It’s much better. Even though I have many chips on my shoulder regarding the whole city of bins and garbage, I have even more when it comes to Oslo, and the cultural life here.
When Oslo have something called “Literaturhuset”, where all the famous bigwigs come to write their critically acclaimed books and toilet poetry, run by a bloody “socialist” politician whom are not a fan of freedom of speech, just thinking his moronic elitist friends and contacts, I have become a name in certain circles in Belfast where no other Norwegian writer have ever gone before.
When all the PC pundits and “writers” get things in their laps, I used to get death threats 7 years ago for columns I used to write in Dagbladets “Fundamental”… In Belfast, I swore never to write more poetry after writing my short story collection “The Birds the Bees and a Bottle of Whisky”… Until I met local poets and writers in a completely different setting than here in Oslo.
I cannot emphasise how much I loath this city, and how much I miss Belfast, for good and ill.
In Ireland, poetry and arts is a lot more socialized than in Norway. In Ireland, there’s practically one artist pr. family.
I know this. At least if I should count the women I’ve been with there.
Artists and writers in Belfast have almost a carte blanche when it comes to getting fucked up on booze and drugs.
I remember vividly an experience I had in a NI drunk tank in Newry. Look up Newry on the map. I drank a bottle of cognac on the train down there, and completely lost my memory. Somehow I managed to blubber out that I was a writer and had just finished writing a book, and I had just broken up with my 1st girlfriend there.
They gave me full understanding the next day, even after I made a bulb on the door kicking and yelling half the night. They told me to relax, and gave me smokes when nerves were getting to me. They only gave me a warning, a small slap on the wrist. No fine.
This is something you won’t experience in Norway! An ingrown respect for creative artists. Norway is a fascist country with elitist ideas that sickens me.
After I got home to Norway after some hard times in Belfast, I’m being met with a soulless official apparatus. What’s even worse is that my old editor in the “Street Parliament” had kicked the bucket. Andreas Tselentis, (may he rest in piece) had the bloody nerve to go and die just when he had promised me a publication on my writings in book form.
Many times I ponder on the circumstances over his death. *If someone can give me some information on this, I will be very appreciative.
If any one of you wants to read my shit, contact me directly on my email, or give notice on this forum. As a writer, I must charge a small sum. I hope you understand.
The city is not like you read about in the news. It’s much better. Even though I have many chips on my shoulder regarding the whole city of bins and garbage, I have even more when it comes to Oslo, and the cultural life here.
When Oslo have something called “Literaturhuset”, where all the famous bigwigs come to write their critically acclaimed books and toilet poetry, run by a bloody “socialist” politician whom are not a fan of freedom of speech, just thinking his moronic elitist friends and contacts, I have become a name in certain circles in Belfast where no other Norwegian writer have ever gone before.
When all the PC pundits and “writers” get things in their laps, I used to get death threats 7 years ago for columns I used to write in Dagbladets “Fundamental”… In Belfast, I swore never to write more poetry after writing my short story collection “The Birds the Bees and a Bottle of Whisky”… Until I met local poets and writers in a completely different setting than here in Oslo.
I cannot emphasise how much I loath this city, and how much I miss Belfast, for good and ill.
In Ireland, poetry and arts is a lot more socialized than in Norway. In Ireland, there’s practically one artist pr. family.
I know this. At least if I should count the women I’ve been with there.
Artists and writers in Belfast have almost a carte blanche when it comes to getting fucked up on booze and drugs.
I remember vividly an experience I had in a NI drunk tank in Newry. Look up Newry on the map. I drank a bottle of cognac on the train down there, and completely lost my memory. Somehow I managed to blubber out that I was a writer and had just finished writing a book, and I had just broken up with my 1st girlfriend there.
They gave me full understanding the next day, even after I made a bulb on the door kicking and yelling half the night. They told me to relax, and gave me smokes when nerves were getting to me. They only gave me a warning, a small slap on the wrist. No fine.
This is something you won’t experience in Norway! An ingrown respect for creative artists. Norway is a fascist country with elitist ideas that sickens me.
After I got home to Norway after some hard times in Belfast, I’m being met with a soulless official apparatus. What’s even worse is that my old editor in the “Street Parliament” had kicked the bucket. Andreas Tselentis, (may he rest in piece) had the bloody nerve to go and die just when he had promised me a publication on my writings in book form.
Many times I ponder on the circumstances over his death. *If someone can give me some information on this, I will be very appreciative.
If any one of you wants to read my shit, contact me directly on my email, or give notice on this forum. As a writer, I must charge a small sum. I hope you understand.
Hello World!
Hello pissants!
I want to tell you about gonzo literature!
Somehow, it seems that gonzo is dead! Or is it?
Did the whole concept of Gonzo die with Hunter S. Thompson and the ending of Warren Ellis wee take on the future of America die peaceful deaths as to an ending of a good story of Spider Jerusalem or a bullet through ones brain?
I think not!
For more than 10 years I have been doing the exact same shit as these two with my own take on life and injustice! Have I gotten any good shit from it back? Oh yes!
Gonzo is NOT dead! It lives and breaths and hates within every mouthful of booze and drugs I take!
And with every line I write or snort, I take it upon my goddamn honour to be in accords to the Truth!
Once I had my own column in a major newspaper. Underpaid and overworked! Now, the wee witch whom was my “editor” is not giving a damn!
What the hell do I have to do? Storm into the office building armed to the teeth just to have access to write the Bloody Truth?
Do I have to fear monger the suits and ties into submission and beat the Truth into them so they’ll look like train wrecks?
Do I have to pour heavy hallucinogenic drugs into their coffees just to have them see it my way? Do I have to exposé these bastards for being hard porn whores of Big Lies?
Where newspaper editors are deeply engaged into hard core sex with “our elected representatives”, the big cover-up is a must! Hence, true journalism is being swallowed up by corruption and silencing of true voices of Freedom!
I may be poor! I may be persona none grata in certain circles! I may have been on my death bed many times! Does it look like I’m being intimidated? Fuck that! I will come in with a flame thrower and a pen!
I have been in a battle more than once! I will to you little creeps tell you things that official sources will not tell you because they are media whores and prostitutes of their corporate garbage…
Are you ready for the uncompromising Truth people?
I want to tell you about gonzo literature!
Somehow, it seems that gonzo is dead! Or is it?
Did the whole concept of Gonzo die with Hunter S. Thompson and the ending of Warren Ellis wee take on the future of America die peaceful deaths as to an ending of a good story of Spider Jerusalem or a bullet through ones brain?
I think not!
For more than 10 years I have been doing the exact same shit as these two with my own take on life and injustice! Have I gotten any good shit from it back? Oh yes!
Gonzo is NOT dead! It lives and breaths and hates within every mouthful of booze and drugs I take!
And with every line I write or snort, I take it upon my goddamn honour to be in accords to the Truth!
Once I had my own column in a major newspaper. Underpaid and overworked! Now, the wee witch whom was my “editor” is not giving a damn!
What the hell do I have to do? Storm into the office building armed to the teeth just to have access to write the Bloody Truth?
Do I have to fear monger the suits and ties into submission and beat the Truth into them so they’ll look like train wrecks?
Do I have to pour heavy hallucinogenic drugs into their coffees just to have them see it my way? Do I have to exposé these bastards for being hard porn whores of Big Lies?
Where newspaper editors are deeply engaged into hard core sex with “our elected representatives”, the big cover-up is a must! Hence, true journalism is being swallowed up by corruption and silencing of true voices of Freedom!
I may be poor! I may be persona none grata in certain circles! I may have been on my death bed many times! Does it look like I’m being intimidated? Fuck that! I will come in with a flame thrower and a pen!
I have been in a battle more than once! I will to you little creeps tell you things that official sources will not tell you because they are media whores and prostitutes of their corporate garbage…
Are you ready for the uncompromising Truth people?
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