When you’re staring, there’s no time to look within or around, to question the limits to which we’re bound.
I’m locked in a room under a screen’s burning glow, ropes knotted around my ankles and wrists, embedded into a chair. My eyelids peeled back in a trap, neck jutted back, consuming all day until I’m braindead by night.
One man’s torture is another man’s cycle. A pain numbed into motion, sticking like rot until I’m nothing but primal. The claw’s are clamped around my sockets, clip after clip after clip, rubbed in like lotion with a finger flick. No break for a light switch. No chance for the mind to slip. Just noise to suffocate and paralyse in an eternal head grip.
Years have passed since this contraption was latched to my skull. Jigsaw’s blow. It’s an easy game to play, one rooted in mass pedestrian sway. I’ll just watch until death takes the static away. All the big questions – why am I here, when did I write this note – kept far at bay.
There’s nothing keeping me here. I can wrestle off these restraints if I had drive to spare. In the periphery, there’s no chainsaw ready to lacerate my spine, or a mechanism twisting my body into disrepair. Uncertainty is my greatest fear, so maybe distraction is the only way out of this. A steady nightmare between extremes, keeping us together at the seams.
In this life, everything rhymes. A slipstream with easy dots. No time to pause, hesitate, pull on the handbrake. Why would I snap out of this? Just look at the seasons I’ve conquered over the summer break. At the end of the day, this life is mine. I’ll resume my freedom after episode nine.
The Taj Mahal fell on March 26. Days before that, the Eiffel Tower. Historical landmarks desecrated by a force invisible to the naked eye, all because we can’t see beyond ourselves and what’s come before. A word tossed around without care, without gravity, at the cost of humanity’s gateways through time.
It’s mostly kids trying to impress friends after dark. A cataclysmic game of Truth or Dare, or an excited exaggeration after watching average pop stars on YouTube. Nobody can comment on Met Gala dresses anymore. Or share memes of sassy put-downs from reality TV. The danger is too high that somebody will slip. Governments can only go so far in slowing the inevitable, so human history is against the clock.
Nobody knows how this all started – whether an alien entity or human callousness. Terrorist groups are trying to claim it. Russia and North Korea are welcoming the suspicions. For the religious, it’s validation. Authors are emboldened by the power of words. Others simply don’t care. Man has toppled statues before, why do a few world wonders matter that most cannot afford to see? Time moves on. A shift from one age to another. A cultural reset.
I write this under Big Ben’s shadow. Police have tried to block off the area fearing it could come down any second, but there’s not enough manpower to monitor it around the clock. The impact of the word is international, with no way to predict which landmark will be next. I’ve seen the word used for superhero movie scenes at the cost of the Golden Gate Bridge. A Kelly Clarkson cover of Bloc Party brought down the pyramids. There’s no way of policing such senseless praise. No way to stop the ease of our satisfaction.
Many have given up on whatever comes after. This is a dividing line in mankind’s occupation of Earth. A sign of the end, they argue. Everybody wants to be on the right side of history though, even if it means burying themselves along with it.
There’s no reality where I’m remembered like these monuments. Nothing outshines those which have stood for centuries. We’re inconsequential maggots wriggling between borders, trying to find purpose on the shoulders of ancestors. These are our pillars, the only gods humanity can see. When they fall, I’ll make sure my blood is etched into the debris.
Recently, I’ve found myself in the unfortunate position of defending Taylor Swift. It’s quite hard to defend someone who is overwhelmingly rich, immeasurably famous, and as agonisingly omnipresent as Swift. Her fame is invasive on everyone – between news headlines, sports coverage, social media bickering, or that club that always plays ‘Cruel Summer’ when your body is susceptible to pop earworm possession. I’m talking to you Two Brewers in Clapham. You have my soul Two Brewers in Clapham.
The problem with defending Taylor Swift is she is certifiably irritating. She’s released seven albums over the past decade, not counting the four re-releases to reclaim the ownership of her back catalogue. That level of productivity is already annoying as hell, but the irritation is amplified because she’s always, just, there. There’s no breathing space away from her presence in the zeitgeist. No chance to anticipate, or even consider, her next move. The surprise announcement of The Tortured Poets Department at the Grammys wasn’t so much met with jubilant enthusiasm, but a chorus of “Christ, again? Already?”
I have my own hang-ups with Swift. For every blinder like ‘Don’t Blame Me’, ‘All Too Well’ and ‘Out Of The Woods’, there’s a dramatic quality tumble which threatens every turn of the track list, where you’re mingling with ‘ME!’, ‘I Did Something Bad’, or ‘Bad Blood’. Her albums are pretty consistent, but there’s always a loitering fear you’re about to step on a cringe landmine – the kind where she tries to make a gay anthem, or when she skips through Brixton, Shoreditch and Highgate in the chorus of ‘London Boy’.
In these embarrassing moments though, I sense we’re seeing the real Swift. Someone who is talented as a songwriter, but can’t help herself when there’s an opportunity to activate her worst indulgences. At the age of 34, she’s still writing about her ex-lovers on The Tortured Poets Department. It’s a universal theme, of course, but aren’t you over this by now? I’m 32 and I’m exhausted by the idea of saying ‘“Hey, how are you? :)” on a dating app. Why are you giving so much oxygen to a two-month fling with Matty Healy?
The crux of Swift’s relatability, I believe, is her manic, messy desire to overshare every part of her life. A cynical individual might argue she’s made bank by writing songs filled with nods to her love life that make headlines. You might be right, I don’t know her. Nobody here does, really. She could be a calculating mastermind, the kind of persona she skewered in ‘Look What You Made Me Do’. Maybe I’m overthinking this entirely. The point is I think there’s an insecurity in her complete, utter inability to vamoose for even a hot minute.
The double-edged sword of Swift’s intense productivity is that, even when she succumbs to her worst tendencies, you’re never far from a reminder of why she’s the biggest popstar on the planet. A self-proclaimed Swiftie then, in my opinion, isn’t so much proud of their fandom, but is someone who has evaluated the pros and cons of this devotion in the face of public scrutiny. An acknowledgement that, to bask in gold, sometimes you just need to eat the proverbial shit.
As the title might imply, I’ve been playing Prince Of Persia: The Lost Crown. It’s the first game in the series for 14 years, mainly because publisher Ubisoft pivoted its energies into spiritual successor, and intense money-maker, Assassin’s Creed. The move makes financial sense, but after playing The Lost Crown, I’m burning up something rotten.
The Lost Crown is a well-designed Metroidvania but playing it unlocked a deep well of memories connected to 2003’s Prince Of Persia: The Sands Of Time – specifically the beauty in its platforming sequences. In that game, you’d jump, flip over bars, sprint across walls, accidentally die on a bed of spikes, before rewinding time so you can have another shot at not bungling the run. Many games are built around nailing tough platforming sequences, but few feel as elegant and rewarding as Prince Of Persia.
While playing The Lost Crown, I had that lovely sense of rediscovering an old joy. The same brutal assault courses are there, the Iranian vibes are still refreshing, and the movement mechanics possess the same fluid and satisfying zip. In short, the experience reaffirmed Prince Of Persia’s place among my favourite games ever.
I don’t know how to explain this transition, but I’ve now started to think I want to fuck Persia itself. I originally wondered if an actual Prince of Persia exists today, only to discover Persia is basically Iran and no royal dynasty has existed there since 1979. The oldest son of the last Shah (aka king) of Iran, however, is alive and his name is Reza Pahlavi. A Prince Of Persia! How my heart sang! He’s 63 and married with three daughters! Fuck.
I started to look at the box art for The Sands Of Time on PS2. Was I secretly into whatever this grimace is? He barely looks like that in the game, I thought. I brought up the fuzzy character model from gameplay footage. A long dormant feeling shivered my toes. Did I just like the way he shimmied across platforms in those shaggy harem pants all this time?
After some mild contemplation, I began watching a compilation video of Iranian/Persian men on YouTube – for research purposes. There’s clearly some cherry-picking involved in the chosen sample, but the vibe across the board is a winner. The closing section puts the spotlight on the Iranian football team. I’m flabbergasted. Why is anyone bothering with Jack Grealish when this man exists? And this man? And THE BELOW man?
By this point – the point where I’m stalking Iranian footballers on Instagram – I’ve concluded I can never visit the country. I would be vulnerable and frankly, in a permanent dreamlike state imagining my life with all these 10/10 kings. Did I just want to fuck the Prince all along? Let’s rewind and never speak of this again.
For the past six years, two cans of chicken soup have lived in my cupboard. A donation from a previous housemate. Tesco brand. I mainly took them as a gesture to prevent waste, but I liked the idea of having soup ready to offset illness or apocalyptic circumstances.
These cans became a monument other purchases had to accommodate. Chopped tomatoes to the left, breakfast bowls wedged in front, with a slanted pack of spaghetti locking the soup into the back formation. Months later, the cans of soup became an immovable wallpaper fixture; a comforting, regular sight when I opened the cupboard multiple times a day.
I’m occasionally terrified of settling into a cycle of comfort – something I’m prone to. I allegedly come off as a people pleaser, which I both understand and despise because of the negative connotations. It’s part of the reason why, I think, I didn’t come out as gay until my late 20s. A hesitancy to rock the boat. An insecurity about overstepping the mark. I’m more confident about occupying space today and stepping out of inoffensive shyness, but I wonder whether that’s personal growth or my thirties naturally moving the gear stick.
I’ve started to question how much comfort bleeds into my media consumption. I’ve been “entertained” by many things, yet little has left a lasting, inspiring impression. It’s not all designed for this but, as I get older, I increasingly value the rush when something does. That sense of something galvanising your brain, or rejuvenating a part of your soul. I’ve started to push back against the idea of watching something dumb to “turn the brain off” – I think this mentality kills curiosity. We live in an age where decades of creativity is at our fingertips, why are you watching Lulu dressed as a piece of cake on The Masked Singer?
Truth is, I know why. It’s chicken soup. An easy background constant. It’s a cheap wank to get through the day. A digestible counter to the complications of life. I write this to stand up for a better life, where you engage with things you’ll smile about when thinking about them at the end times – or something that will inspire you to be creative yourself.
I decided to throw out my cans of chicken soup after watching PsychOdyssey, a 32-part documentary about the making of Psychonauts 2. It’s the greatest document about the art of game creation there’s ever been, captured over seven years. It’s also highly specific to my tastes – something I’ll carry with me and recommend for the rest of my days.
It’s likely I’ll fall into a comfortable fatigue again. Humanity’s curse is being wired to be walking hypocrites. Even so, the slightest awareness of it is better than coasting without it. Challenge yourself, engage in the unexpected, and reach beyond what’s left on the shelf.
The other week, I sucked off a taxi driver. I’m still figuring out why. Yes, I was horny. I was heavily inebriated, the jury will be pleased to hear. But I had no attraction to this man. Zero. Yet I responded to this proposition with a perverse glee – asking ‘you serious?’ on repeat until I was curious enough to vault over to the front seat.
The regret came a minute later when he did. It’s not a brag, his wife doesn’t give him blowjobs anymore apparently, so a change in the breeze would probably set his dick asunder. I keep thinking about the idea that, as a gay man, I provided a public service. A blow to keep a marriage afloat under the cover of darkness. Like Batman, if he was a marriage counselor for the sexually frustrated.
Another part of myself is wondering if he’s asked anyone else. If so, how many? I don’t have an exact recollection of events, but my sexuality was raised and his offer pitched within a five-minute window after dropping off a friend. A clockwork operation or a spontaneous request? Either way, something about it feels off.
YOLO aside, I think I was willing because I’m catching up on lost time. I’m more comfortable with myself now than ever, and I’ve heard stories from friends about similar encounters which I’ve been quietly envious of. I’m not impervious to the basic fantasy of getting with a straight (?) guy either which, I’ve discovered anecdotally, actually happens quite often.
So here’s a post about a blowjob. If you’re aware of my existence in real life, please continue to pretend this didn’t happen. If we’re not acquainted and your sex life isn’t hitting the spot, or you simply drive a double decker bus, please inquire within. This curiosity isn’t going to satiate itself.
This post originally started as a lyrical bitch against Spider-Man: No Way Home. A Marvel movie which induced a 24-hour identity crisis between the current self and my teenage idolisation of Alfred Molina’s Doctor Octopus. Harmless fun is what I expected, but I left embarrassed. Why does this feel so icky? Like a creepy executive so desperate to tickle my generation’s nostalgia glands he’s dangling Dip Dab sherbet and Flumps to distract everyone from creative bankruptcy.
Zooming out from this hyper-specific reaction, 2021 was a year where I’ve noticed a shift in interests. I’ve preferred more obscure games (Loop Hero! Demon Turf!). I’ve jumped back into books, consuming fiction YouTubers on the regular (shout out to Daniel Greene). Musically, I’m rolling into the past – whether The Beatles, The Isley Brothers or something else your mum loves. I also want to wear different clothes, broaden what I’m writing about, flirt like a cheeky fucker, and generally indulge into the person I think I am.
You might cross reference this with the fact I turned 30 last year. A milestone that raised the mortality alarm but also provided a comforting reset button. The messy, exciting twenties are packed away, now I can own everything better and shake off the hesitancy. I like these things, I don’t like these things. He looks like a nice shag, I’ll inform his ass. I’m not enjoying social media, I’ll piss off for a while. I don’t feel obliged to make do with situations I’m not happy with – something that’s liberating as a long-time people-pleaser.
There’s the possibility I’ll evolve into a massive cunt. Slowking instead of Slowbro. This might be the ‘new year, new me’ talk I’ll scoff at when I’m laying in the same room, doom-scrolling the same apps, slurping the same noodles off my chin. Even with potential cunt behaviour though, everything feels new again, which has a special kind of thrill.
So here’s to changing tastes and changing faces. I’m over Spider-Man and ready to indulge in weird hats or an extensive chat about The Expanse novels. I’ll round this off with my top tens from 2021, which might expose this as performative BS. Evolution is a process people, we all start basic.
People don’t talk about music reinstalling grief. It’s a powerful tool for sinking into past memories, connecting to prior versions of yourself, and realigning motivations in the present. Yet, there’s a sadness when those connections are no longer around. Like diving back into a swimming pool with faces of the deceased floating beneath the surface. A permanent frozen fixture in time that’ll never grow or change.
It’s been a few years since my dad passed away. I’m at that ideal stage of grief where it’s no longer a constant sucker punch to the throat, but an occasional, bittersweet presence which flies through every few months. This is the best you can hope for, I’ve been told. The moment it just becomes a scarred crack on the soul.
Nothing steps on old wounds though like your shared favourite band. We went to see The Killers (and their frontman Brandon Flowers solo) live on multiple occasions, a band I’d grown up with that became a generational crossover for us. It was triggered by ‘Human’, which felt like the band’s big winner in swinging for the dads. He subsequently loved the album ‘Day & Age’ (special mention for ‘I Can’t Stay’) and everything from there was history.
I’ve been listening relentlessly to their new album, ‘Pressure Machine’ – the second they’ve released over the course of the pandemic. I’ve settled into the fact every new release will carry a poignant heaviness, yet it’s something else when it’s unbelievably great. I’ve had to shake off my own nostalgia for ‘Pressure Machine’, which, after immeasurable thought, I think takes the crown from ‘Sam’s Town’ as the best record they’ve ever released.
I don’t think my dad would agree. ‘Sam’s Town’ wasn’t his favourite no matter how much I argued otherwise. He’s less in tune with guitars, more the pop screamers and synths. The fact I can’t have this conversation though is a kicker to the chest. He’ll never know how The Killers released two of their best albums within a year of each other. Their story carries on without him. He’ll never feel ‘In The Car Outside’ rattle his bones.
It’s a weird sadness when something you love can’t be shared with someone who cares. A line of recommendation that’s been severed, a feedback loop with only dead ends. Music ties us to people, yet it’s sobering when that connection lingers in sounds they will never hear.
Some say mainstream culture has been dumbed down over the decades. You might be defensive about this, throwing out some variation on the ‘old man yells at cloud’ meme from The Simpsons. This response is understandable, the rhetoric typically comes from the raggedy scrotes who miss the “good old days” and would bring back hanging to chastise the neighbour’s cat. Humans are capable of enjoying hot bodies on Love Island and the prose of Fyodor Dostoevsky, thank you!
I’m not a scrote but I am concerned about chat shows. Looking back, the days I spent as a child watching Parkinson and Friday Night with Jonathan Ross are the reason I work in the media today. I wanted to ask questions to famous people. I wanted to know about the people I admired, understand how they did what they did, where it came from, what drove them. As someone from the middle of England, chat shows were a gateway into a glitzy spotlight which always felt out of reach.
Since then, they’ve become more disposable. The Graham Norton Show and The Jonathan Ross Show aren’t places for probing or insightful interviews, but a vessel to generate viral content with games or meme reactions. This isn’t strictly the fault of TV broadcasters, who are probably hamstrung by tight PR restrictions and the need for clips which will translate to social media, but they aren’t excusable either. They’re the reason ‘hard-hitting’ chat shows come out like Piers Morgan’s Life Stories; a cold, repulsive circus fuelled by the tears of its guests. We made Mel B cry! Piers takes no prisoners! Yuck.
A benefit of modern life is having access to old shows via YouTube. I’ve spent countless nights watching clips of people I admire on Parkinson, The Dick Cavett Show, The Charlie Rose Show and more. They have a quality we rarely see on TV today; a natural, flowing calm not butchered by stringent edits. The host isn’t there to catch them out or stage goofs for headlines (not obviously, anyway), but to have a conversation. A lengthy one too, where the camera lingers on filler which often tells you more about a person than the big subjects.
I have a strong memory of watching George Michael’s 1998 interview on Parkinson at my gran’s house. It was a special dedicated to him following his arrest for sexual shenanigans in a public toilet in Beverly Hills. At seven-years-old, I had no grasp on the context — I just really liked the song Outside and thought the video was funny. Looking back, it’s easy to see why the interview left an impression. George Michael is incredibly honest, open and charming; the dream interviewee. It’s almost alien watching it against today’s standards. Parkinson doesn’t get in the way by purposefully pushing buttons or trying to get laughs himself, he just thoughtfully prods when required. It’s so refreshing.
This fascinating, extended candidness isn’t limited to this one-off special. George Michael returns to the show years later, where he stumbles into a tangent about the merits of capitalism. Not every popstar has George Michael’s smarts, but the format and conversation is a bleak contrast to today’s standards. On ITV’s The Jonathan Ross Show, for example, you’ll more likely see repeated segments dedicated to splatting cream on faces over anything illuminating about the guests.
I blame the internet for stripping away the interesting, thoughtful edges from the mainstream spotlight. The best interviews with anyone are tucked away on specialist podcasts or YouTube channels, away from the gaze of the masses. Social media has changed connections to famous people too, giving us greater insight into their personal lives than most promotional interviews.
TV chat shows need to do a better job of booking guests pulled from different corners of life. I’ve been fascinated by the amount of authors on chat shows during the 50s, 60s, 70s and 80s, all the way from Jack Kerouac and the Beat Generation to Stephen King. They’re always interesting and entertaining, and important too for publicising books to a wide audience. It’s baffling that, when Game of Thrones dominated TV, George RR Martin wasn’t featured on any UK chat show. He’s the writer of the biggest medieval fantasy series since JRR Tolkien, and you want to just speak with Kit Harington? It’s absurd.
Why wasn’t Terry Pratchett booked when he was alive? Why hasn’t Neil Gaiman, whose stories have been adapted into countless shows and films, made an appearance? I could continue with TV writers like Jed Mercurio from Line of Duty fame or Vince Gilligan from Breaking Bad. I would kill for a show where these rubbed shoulders with Little Mix, Noel Gallagher and Love Island voiceover Iain Stirling. You can have that line-up for free, TV execs.
There’s the possibility authors don’t want to answer the questions mainstream TV might propose. After watching Stephen King quizzed countless times about his mental well-being — like trauma is a requirement for writing horror stories — I wouldn’t blame them. I’ll always admire Clive Barker, who jumped headfirst into a dumb-fuck avalanche on current affairs show Open to Question back in 1987. He answers every conservative question with dignity, intelligence and respect, even when one audience member compares him to serial killers Myra Hindley and Ian Brady.
It was a different time in culture, but without authors dispelling fears with rational thought — this circus might have evolved into something damaging for generations. We need thinkers outside the vapid on-screen promo circuit back on TV chat shows, who can show a different path to success and prove intelligence is valued to the next generation.
Common sense tells us human beings are the dominant species on the planet. We’ve terraformed the world to our liking, put other creatures into zoos for our pleasure, while leaders over centuries have dictated the land boundaries we’ve come to define as countries.
We’ve ascended to this position through our emotional and imaginative intelligence, a quality which makes us believe we’re smarter than other life forms. This however isn’t necessarily true, other animals simply have different skills and instincts adapted to their own survival. Dogs have an incredible sense of smell, bees are built for pollinating plants, food crops and creating honey, while the chameleon can change skin colour to suit their mood and situation.
For all our perceived superiority, we’re actually quite unremarkable. Art is arguably our greatest asset, whether through monuments, music, buildings or anything else. When we’re sitting atop the food chain, it’s easy to forget we’re driven by the same survival instincts of any other animal. We want food, shelter, sex, and something to do on the weekends. It’s the natural cycle of desire and survival, spinning on rotation until we’re dead.
I find comfort in acknowledging our basic urges. We pretend we’re sophisticated; clinking glasses at cocktail parties and laying napkins on laps while eating at restaurants. All the while, we’re pissing and shitting in cubicles the next room along. We do our utmost to prevent spillages while eating braised lamb shanks, yet a sweaty hump in the early hours has no such etiquette. Everyone is trying to look respectable when we just want ice cream and fucks.
Our needs, like rainfall, are the perfect equaliser. Anyone I admire or idolise, I envisage them taking a massive dump to slap my fascination back into normality. This human being isn’t a talented god but a skeleton stuffed with fleshy organs just like me. Sebastian Stan, for all his chest, has probably accidentally pissed on the bog seat and messily cleaned it up. We’re all one and the same.
I write this as a message of reassurance. We’re going to encounter people throughout life we find intimidating, despicable, attractive, or perceive as better than ourselves. Throw all that to the wind and imagine them at their most primal. You might find empathy along the faecal brick road.
StarkTreatment 