Anyone who’s seen City Lights by Charlie Chaplin will remember that heartbreaking final close-up when the Tramp realizes he’ll never be loved. He chews his fingernail, scrunches his eyes and smiles pleadingly/pathetically at the woman he longs for. We’ve been laughing for 80 minutes as he’s endured homelessness, beatings, persecution, all hilarious in wide shots
‘We asked one hundred people to name a source of family conflict – ’ In my mind: In-Laws But I didn’t say that. At the end you’re supposed to smile and wave moronically. Some teams get silly and pick up Les Dennis like he’s a roll of bargain carpet. Bugger that. I shuffled left and
Bastards all. Self-righteous, narcissistic, self-pitying, craven, cringing, oleaginous, vile, dribbling, deluded bastards. They all think they should win; they all think they deserve to win. And here they are. And here I am. We’re sitting on a platform; we’re waiting to read. They will read from the ghastly excretions that they have forced before the
I’m having an affair with an older woman. It’s not an extramarital affair because she’s not married. She’s actually a widow. She’s been a widow for as long as I’ve known her. I went to school with her son. We were in the same class. Sometimes, he would come over to my house after school
Gerald Spokes was Sabrina’s landlord and lived in number three, across the hallway. His father had bought the faded Georgian townhouse after the war and converted the over-large rooms into single-bedroomed flats. Sabrina had never married and couldn’t seem to keep a boyfriend for much longer than a season. They came and went with the
Ronnie Babes rolled over to the other side of the bed, and through the dark he could see Cheryl standing over him, already in her scrubs, blonde hair in a ponytail. Leaving so soon? he asked. Same time as always, hon. Yeah, but feels like you just got back home. I’ll be back around 7:30.
You better watch out You better not cry You better not pout I’m telling you why Santa Claus is Coming to Town Haven Gillespie, 1933 I’m the other side of that coin, the boogieman parents use to frighten their children, the Krampus from old
Pompadour, Caesar, Undercut, Crew. French Crop, Ivy League, Mid fade, Buzz. I guess it starts with the smell of American Crew and sweat. At least, that’s what my mind stretches for as I look back- I’ve no sense for certain, what with the throbbing drum in my head and the hallucinatory quality of my vision.
The parrot squawks, “Smell like crrrap, farrrt, farrrt, farrrt.” “You’re silly,” Aunt Elvira tells me. “He’s a sweet bird and would never say anything inappropriate.” Aunt Elvira is my favorite human but she forgets a lot, and her hearing is worse every day. Sometimes she calls me Vlado. That was her husband, who used to
The Letters Page, Vol 3. edited by Jon McGregor is a celebration of handwritten correspondence. This epistolary journal features letters from established and emerging writers on the theme of departure. Its smart design boasts a fold-out mailing package combined with all the nostalgic features of handwritten letters. There’s a red wax seal on the cover,