Thursday, 4 August 2011

Gin-Soaked Boy

My body is rebelling.

It has been a long week of random partying, and every cell of me is screaming that I've had enough and think the debauchery train should be derailed, if you please. This is possibly because of post-festival fatigue that I haven't recovered from, or because I've been running around planning minor projects, or my body planning its eventual revolution (where I'm dragged against my will to some kind of draconian detox clinic where the gruel is plentiful and wiry Chinese men beat me with sticks) but I do not feel quite kosher.

Still going out tonight though. I can rest when I'm dead. Which is looking more and more likely to be quite soon.

On the upside, I have spent the day delving into the mind of one Graham Tugwell. He writes vicious little stories about broken hearts and lack of God, and then we go and perform them at various venues. There are plenty of links on his site to stories he's written, all appearing in various places, and you should definitely investigate. Or if you happen to be in Dublin, we will be telling a horror story entitled 'Soundless Walk The Fallow Men' at the Milk and Cookies storytelling initiative on Tuesday in the Exchange in Templebar. It will be several types of worrying. You will probably never drink milk again afterwards.

I'll also be performing a story by my lonesome, although I'm not entirely sure which one to do. There's a weird little Neil Gaiman story about a troll that I may tell (giving credit where credit's due, obv) or I may get a chance to sit down and write something original before then, which would obviously be preferable. Come anyway, if you're Dublin-based. Free cookies! 

I'm still processing the events of the festival. It was quite the amazing, and I've got my ticket for Electric Picnic, which is presumably going to be precisely 400 times the fun. I'm seriously considering going on a massive clean-living streak before then, because otherwise my body will collapse in on itself. Maybe an extended sojourn in Cavan, where I get the story I'm planning down on paper, and start looking at a one-act play that a comrade in arms wishes me to pen. 

busybusybusy.

Currently obsessed with this song. I can't help it. Put me down.



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