Dear Holly,

I am a bit gutted that an article I wrote especially for PULP magazine, to your specifications, wasn't used - along with both of the comics I've drawn, the illustration you asked for, and the article about snail mail.
Being on the website would be a nice consolation, if it was actually on there like you said (which it's not), and if anyone knew about it.

As such, I'm a bit loathe to make anything else for PULP. Which is also gutting, because I've had fun writing and drawing (and sometimes helping edit) for PULP under Jamie, and under Elli before him.
It's not that I don't want to do the work; I've got two Christmas comics on my desk right now, to send as gifts, with four more on the way. It's not that I don't want to. I just don't like the idea of me having to throw work at you until something sticks. I hope you can see where I'm coming from when I say I'd rather not.

Jason


I put my foot down. I was just going to ignore her asking for a monthly comic, asking for more articles, apologising for not putting up my stuff each month, but when they keep emailing... what the fuck.

It might read like I'm just saying I'm gutted to make her feel bad, but I feel pretty crap right now. I loved writing for that magazine. The new editor's a former design student, and while it looks a lot better, all the content is about fashion, design, photography and pretty things - ostracising most of the 30,000 students at my university. Myself included.
Maybe it's for the best. Out with the old.





also, here's an article that broke my heart today.
http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/programmes/from_our_own_correspondent/7754684.stm

The sentencing of popular Burmese comedian, Zarganar, to 59 years in prison. For making fun of the ruling party.

edit:

Not a problem Jason, I totally understand.
But I AM NEW to this editing business... plus I am trying to run a much tighter ship than maybe Ellie or Jamie ever did as this
year I have to win a guardian media award, which means I'm being extra cautious on what goes into PULP. I am sorry it just so
happens that your work keeps getting cut, I can't apologise enough and I do appreciate what you are saying.

Alsager SHOULD be on the website. I'll chase that up right now!
As for the illustrations, you just sent them to me and the pizza illustrations was for my article in the last issue, which I had
to cut last minute.

Hold on to your comics then Jason, if its on a matter of principle, I would probably do the same!
Shame I've burn this bridge.

Holly

Aawwww now I feel bad.

"Hi, I'd like to find out my MAC code, please. I'd like to switch from Sky to a different broadband provider"

"That's a different department, sir, I'll connect you"

*opera music*

"hello, broadband services"

"I'd like to find out my mac code please"

"We don't have the facility here, sir, I'll connect you"

*pop music*

"hello, technical support"

"I'd like my mac code now."

"aaah sorry sir, you've been taken to the wrong department. I'll connect you."

*looping sky adverts*

"yes hallo sir I am broadband department for you yes sir how may I be helping you today sir"

"hi, I'd like my mac code please"

"yes what is your mac code"

"no, I'd like you to tell me it"

"i do not understand"

"I need you to tell me my mac code so I can change to a different broadband company"

"ah I see. that is not my department."

"right"

"you will need tadal a denun bara call them"

"sorry, what?"

"(sighs) I said you will need to dial a number to call them sir."

"oh. sorry, it's hard to understand your accent"

"pardon?"

"nothing, nothing. what's the number?"

"the number is 08042 414141 for that department they are waiting for your call sir"

"can't you connect me?"

"no sir"

"why not?"

"(sighs) I'll connect you now sir. thank you"

"thanks"

*long pause*

*click*

*droning beep*


MOTHERFUCKER HUNG UP ON ME
AND THE NUMBER DIDN'T WORK

Notification!
Citation Info!
Into a Fiction!
Titanic of I'on!
If taco in on it...

Here's a review I wrote for GameBrit.com

I've had my comics all-but-dropped from my university magazine, as they're taking it off in some direction that the graphic designer editor wants it to go in, so there's been no more of those.

I'm 8 scenes into a screenplay about a glam band trying to make it in late seventies London, "Spandex", which is keeping me nice and busy.

Things are going swimmingly with the girlfriend. I'm off to see her in LA at New Year for a couple of weeks. Slowly realising the realities of a serious relationship, after years of girl-a-month nonsense, and it's difficult but wonderful. I get to hear her say "I love you", in that twinkly, breathy little Californian voice. I hear it and I'm all floaty and warm. She's perfect.

Wrestling with a short story set in the frontlines of WW1, in the trenches during the 1915 stalemate period, and reading a lot of war literature so as to respect the topic. That's plodding along alright.

Drinking a lot of coffee.

Waiting on the go-ahead to sell t-shirts a few times a week at the Manchester MEN arena. Pocket money and that. I turned down over �4000's worth of tours in October alone, so I feel I should be making some money.

Stopped lurking the /r9k/ board on 4chan. It was eating my life, discussing things all day. Am now more productive.


Excuse my lackluster attendance on here. Here are some '6-words-or-less' stories I've been making.



Never trust a Gorgon sculptor. Fuck.

"Arise, Cthulhu!"
"Nah."

Awful lover. Great raft, though.

Goldilocks sipped kool-aid. "Much too-"

Stephen Hawking, Sat-Nav; forbidden lovers.

Tell my wife, "Refasten flux capacitor..."

and my favourite,
Aliens archivers find sole artifact. Dildo.



I think that last one will be my dissertation piece. Once I've added 5994 words or so.

I maded 'nuther one!

I'm sorry I haven't been replying. I'm also sorry I've been using the SG blog to paste and copy text to isolate html-unfriendly punctuation, and leaving a blank blog in my wake. Things is crazy.
I'm sitting eating lime-flavoured doritos and catching up on University work, trying to juggle it with IMing with my girlfriend too. Things be extra crazy.

Here is one of those snails I mentioned:




Damn these Doritos. Shit tastes like limes and I don't know how I feel about it

I'm writing a tragicomedy about trench warfare. Here's the beginning:

I’ve never been an observant person. Not at all interested in people, or the world around me. You could call me selfish, but I wouldn’t listen; I’d be busy being gullible, unobtrusive, complacent, and all the other problems that being unaware provides.
This is why I was so surprised when a hand grenade rolled over the top of our trench, trundled down the wall, and settled between myself and Private Watson, who promptly threw himself across it, gritted his teeth, and exploded.
As I sat there, blood-soaked, clutching my ploughmans roll and quivering, it struck me as an amazing thing that this man had nobly reduced himself to nothing, to protect my gullible, unobtrusive, complacent little life. I didn’t even know his first name. That was when the war started for me, I think.

Made a new comic.

Right click and view to see it properly.

IDEAS TO STOP MODERN LIFE KILLING YOUR SOUL


#1: 'Snail Mail'

By this I don't mean you should post long, heartfelt letters to your friends. You could, but it's a bit pathetic. 'Oh, Tina's sent me another letter about her undying platonic love. Certainly won't be inviting her to the pub.' No, no, I'm talking about messenger snails. That's right! Grab your Tipp-Ex, find yourself some window ledges, because it's confusion-bombing time!

Part 1: Finding your snails.

Local children are great at two things: destroying my bins and fences, and labour. Picture it: You're six years old. All you want in the world is enough money for sweets. You dream of being locked in the local Spar. And then you walk by some kindly stranger who offers you 25p for every one of those slimy bugs crawling around your garden. It's like God has reached down and pushed a chocolate bar into your mouth.
Before you know it you have at least five snails on your doorstep, and you're actively contributing to the paranoia of the modern parent.
"Where'd you get that money? WHAT man gave it to you? WHAT did you do for him?!"
Possible side effect: Getting beaten to death by enraged parents. Maybe ask friends' and relatives' kids, as opposed to any old child

Part 2: Painting your snails

Now we see where I've been going with this: we are going to paint messages on snails, and leave them where they are likely to crawl into someone's house.
Ready? Okay! First you're going to need something to write on them with. I already advised Tipp-Ex, but any paint (bar watercolour) is appropriate, as long as the brush is small enough. I wouldn't use the brush that comes with the Tipp-Ex, as you're working with a small, uneven surface, and a smaller art brush works best. And you wouldn't want to paint onto our little slimy pal, would you.
Now, what to write? What indeed. What do you want to say to a stranger? Is it a message of love, of hope, or a snail-guided threat? Maybe you just want to confuse them. Here are some ideas:

- "Cock"
- "Lock your doors"
- "Plant a tree"
- "Help, I'm a snail" (on the other side, "call my family on [your phone number]")
- "Sup"

You could find the first name of a person, and leave a personalised message to crawl into their house. Maybe alter the worldview of Gary at No.32; "You're still dreaming, Gary."

Note: 'Animal cruelty' may spring to mind, upon reading this. However, snail reproduction is not affected by shell colour, and once they're on your table you can paint them without having to pick them up again. That is the slow, graceful beauty of painting snails.

Part 3: Placing your snails

Window ledges are perfect; snails seek shade, and usually won't slither off in the wrong direction. Sunny days and terraced housing both make for great snailplacing; open windows and a lack of driveways allow you to place them as you walk. Maybe slip them through a letterbox, or just leave them on your roommate's wall. Now you're thinking with snails!

Tom was hit by a car, and time stopped.
His breaking ribs paused on a single note of pain, which rang out through the glassy stillness of his body. The bonnet of the red estate car stopped wobbling, mid wob. Suspended in mid-air, he stared into the sky.
After a moment, he allowed himself to think.
‘Ow,’ he thought.
After a pause, or as much of one as is possible without time, he felt embarrassed; legs akimbo, dumb expression frozen. He wished time would start again. This feeling began to slowly recede, with the unlikelihood that anybody else was around this far into the countryside, until footsteps crunched into the gravel to his right.
‘You look ridiculous,’ said a voice.
If Tom could have told the voice to sod off, that he was busy, he would have. Instead he hung stiff and mute, staring at a fixed spot.
The footsteps slowly crumbled away, quieter and softer, until Tom couldn’t hear them anymore.
‘How odd‘, he thought, just as time burst back into play, slamming him into the car’s windscreen and popping his head open like a wet vase.
His dead body rolled off the car roof, and the red estate ground to a hard stop, casting grey dust into the summer air. Its bonnet wobbled back into shape, with a wob.

TEXT MESSAGES

- I think I left my iPod at yours
- Yes, you did. I'll bring it to the coffee shop.
- Sweet, thanks.

- Shit! I forgot it. I'll have Sam bring it.
- Don't fret. I'm not some kind of music-loving pinko hipster wankarse.
- Wait a minute, was there some sort of hidden implication there?
- Pinko means communist, so don't take it too seriously.
- I'm calling the lawyers! Racism!

EMAILS

Mr Jason,

Observe the following: a spider monkey. It has 4 fingers on each hand (of which it has two). To compensate it has a flexible tail, its tip coated in leather-like skin which it uses to handle things with a dexterity that equals ours.
Without this "thumb", it is powerless against the hardships of nature.

We have been provided with proof, Mr Jason, that you insulted Mr Zieler (Dane)'s complexion, beads, hairdo and exquisite music taste.
Insulting a foreigner is racism.

What I'm trying to say, Mr Jason, is that if my client, Mr Zieler, does not receive a formal apology in the form of several lumps of gold and the occasional back rub, we will take further action.

This could mean we'll take your thumbs.

We'll take your thumbs.

Ash Porter, Wiindigookaanzhimowin Lawyers (a Family Enterprise)



RESPONSE


Dear Sir/Lawyer,

Thank you for your informative and succinct correspondence.
The phrase "Go and Eat your Aunt's Arsehole"� is thrown around a lot, lately; and your recent missive, for me, justifies its wide utilisation.
As I sit here, majestically, in my sweat-mottled boxers, I consider the implications of my actions:

-Prison?
-More emails?
-ePrison?

With the imminent prospect of legal action dangling over my head, 'the limp-handed slap of Damocles', I consider my options. Give me a minute.

All done.
Your case against me shall be held up as heretical profanity before my new brethren, in the dankest Northern pubs and smokiest working-men's clubs, as I join and augment the ranks of the British National Party. I have always considered myself a budding racist pariah, or a Buddhist raping a liar, or something of the sort, and whatever that means spells DOOM for you and your kind (read: FOREIGNERS.) With this legal might (read: money) behind me, I shall divide your prosecution and outlaw equality in British schools. Retina-scanning tesla coils shall strike down even the lightest of Bronze skins, the subtlest of Baltic jawlines, the merest lilt of voice. You have sown the seeds of your own electrocution!

First thing's first: imma get me one of those beautiful right-wing foxhunting ballerinas. And a farmer's cap!

Fuck you,

Lord Jason of Racismshire




The case continues.