As you can probably tell, I'm still mired in the happy fun la-la land that is my own editing hell. And yes, 'tis a hell of my own making, but that doesn't make it any less filled with porcupines in lime green Speedos signing Whitney Houston's greatest hits at the top of their spiky little lungs.
On the other hand, things could be worse. They're not, but they probably could be. Especially if one was to liberally apply creosote to ones personal areas.
Certainly I've been a bit lax of late (too many prunes) and not linked to the reviewy goodness that is Jim Winters as he gets to grips with the semi naked form of PC John Rickards in BROKEN SKIN (he was naughty and interviewed me for Crimespree magazine as well - the saucy minx!). Nor have I directed you to the lovely Donna Moore's review of the event on Monday evening with myself and the inestimable, intellectual, and inscrutably incorrigible Allan 'Horror Bollocks' Guthrie TOPCNOTY-2007 (there are pictures too). Oh and I've also been Wikipedialised (no, I didn't do it myself, unlike some people...) I think this means I can now legitimately say to people, "Don't you know who I am?" in a high-handed and imperialistic manner. And when they quite rightly tell me that they don't have a clue, I can direct them to the interweb with all it's shiny informational goodness.
But such is life. Now, if you'll excuse me, I shall return to the singing of the porcupines. Can't you hear them warbling in the background, like someone's nailed their genetalia to a wobbly washing machine? That's what HELL sounds like. You'll probably find out soon enough yourselves...
Labels: Broken Skin, events, Flesh House