This is what a reference should be like.

This made me smile a lot. This is me according to a very awesome funky lady I happen to know. If only all personal references could be like this.

“I’ve known Da Rhiani since she was a foetus in the womb of her surrogate elephant. We always knew she would be tall.
During her time on this planet she has only eaten five babies, but they all deserved it, so I still think she is worthy of a reference of gleaming shiny sparkle with chilli sauce.
Da Rhiani likes cats and also has made friends with one dog therefore she is good with children, as she can skilfully use mice or sticks as incentives.
I think she would be most support to a boy as she’s happy to talk about boobs and has a nice pair of her own.”



In order to survive cycling London, I really, truly may as well become a cyber fag. No seriously, it makes sense.

For one, in order to not gag, wretch, constantly gob and want to vomit, you’ll need a gas mask. After cycling three miles and back, you find yourself unable to shut your mouth for the taste of ROADEATH wanting to come out your throat.

The Cyber bicycling: CYBLING

Next, there is the problem of visibility. A front and back light is not enough. In order for all the other bastards on the road and streets to see you, let alone pay any attention you need to cover yourself, your bike, your helmet and bag in flashing LED’s.

Then there is the problem of the colour of your clothing. Fluorescent yellow and toxic lime green clothes would suit this perfectly, combined with everything reflective. Unless said other drivers are colourblind, then there may be a problem.

May as well go all out and buy some cyber/moon/padded hotpants from cyberdog too – bike saddles and potholes are not kind to your ass.

Also invest in some energy. If you aren’t as fast as the mopeds and taxis, you get pushed out of the little space you have to squeeze between buses threatening to knock you off and small angry men with fast cars who are too impatiently shouting into their phones to pay enough attention to other people on the road.

To summarise, you need:

  • Gasmask
  • Many LEDs
  • Padded pants
  • Day-glo clothing
  • Amphetamines
  • Guns. They’d help.
Bicyling. Cyber. CYBLING.


Summertime means summer wine, musky sticky goose-bump evenings, barbecues and sunburn. Dawn keeps breaking just before I wake up after passing in  and out of too-hot half sleep. I keep hoping things’ll become fun; life focused and ready to pounce on every little bit of it I can. Thats  not so when there is no-where to go, no reason or want to fight on.

I keep trying to find a life direction, plan an adventure that is not just a few months floating about, return to Uni or find an internship. Do something with a little meaning and use to myself and the/my world.

There is not enough concentration in me to complete and organise any of the above. This really bothers me. Failure is currently the situation.

For someone that always tells other people to stop talking about there ideas, and start doing them, I am a massive raging hypocrite… Writing this just adds to this some more.

There were so many ideas, ambitions in me. I was on track to getting some of them off the ground and floating into reality. Moving to Southampton was never intended as a permanent thing. It was a transition into the future. I had forgotten this.

Then last year happened. I’m still a tad stuck.


I have been back from a 48hour escape, for roughly 13 hours and 18 minutes.

There is an overwhelming urge to escape.

I  must get out.

I have to move around: see places, dirt, people, things.

I am trapped.

I am not unhappy. Just so trapped in what I know and do every single day. No variety, nothing new, not me.

Questions with no answers. Although I appreciate answers

Sometimes  you see someone, with life bursting out there eyes like they are trying to commit eye-suicide and jump right out of their face.

These are the people that seem alive. These are the people that have not lost the childlike curiosity that gets squashed and squashed and squashed away, the older you get as if some greasy belly-button fluff.

Why do people lose this spark and curiosity? How can life be so uneventful and unexciting and dreary that morbid existence takes over and that spark is gone. Then suddenly they are in their forties, fifties, sixites saying Fuck. What the hell have I done with my life.

My questions…..

What makes you feel alive, truly alive?

What do you want to do before you die?

(which is something you should do now, today, if feasible. Who know’s whats outside right now. Endless chaotic possibilities and scenarios)

The White Rose and Wandervogel

Yesterday I stumbled across Hienz Ruther – an influential if somewhat unknown German architect, politician and active amongst the Wandervogel, creating his own sub-group, Jungenschaft. Rutha, Wandervogel, same-sex German youth camps and homosexual influence is fascinating. I have discovered The White Rose – an anti-nazi student political group. This is a tiny short post as i’v been awake on and off all night after a fuckin brilliant surprise gig (Devin Fuckin Townsend!:D) with this going round and round my head. so this possibly isnt the clearest post ever… However I am going to research Rutha, homosexual influence in German Youth groups and The White Rose – THIS IS FASCINATING! I need to know more. And more. If anyone has any good books/research/info about any of these – please let me know..

I want sleep

Beautiful, gorgeous, dead sleep/.

Ha. Work. Unlucky.

Just her

So she got up one day, just her and herself, she awoke to the world, she awoke to the day

She didn’t know where or what she was; nothing she wanted, nothing she missed

Just her and her and her head and her thoughts, her life stretching up like a tongue licking corners of the sky

Her eyeballs bubbled, her eyes so wide the corners split

She lost the memories, she lost the heartstrings, she lost it all


Just her and her and her head and her thoughts

Team her

Just her

Only her

Some things you stumble across and remember.

This is one of them.

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