The trailer for my show this summer’s up! I am EXCITED.

*bounce bounce bounce*

My ticket for tomorrow night. DJ Kev? Cannot WAIT.

Some hardcore truths from rookiemag.com, the kickass online teen magazine I wish I’d had 12 years ago. The last few weeks/months/year seems to have been pretty shit on a lot of the people I care about. This article’s about romance-type heartbreak, but I think tough times are tough times. Maybe we should listen to what teenage girls have to say about being upset. They are very good at it.

Once I get it it’s strange as I imagine this is what being hypnotised might feel like.
This cold weather makes it worse.
Of course. I am glad I came.
I told you before
This would be the route we were going to be taking.
I surprise myself when I talk about stuff and remember
I don’t really know the words to explain how I felt.
Few people have been on my journey from the start.
I’ve learnt so much.
Please do not use my name.
When I was getting introduced
On a daily basis.
Between 5 and 6 in the morning
I wonder if they have come back to breed again.

I edit a newsletter for prisoners trying to take up yoga and meditation. This is a found poem made up of all the lines I cut from the letters page today.

Look at this poem, written by fellow poet and booze appreciator Paul Askew. I like it a lot. For anyone reading who doesn’t live in Oxford - this is the kind of shit that happens all the time around here.

paulaskew:

I used to be in a band with a farmer called John.
Once when we’d gone for practice at his house,
he showed me his ducks.
He kept them in an air-conditioned barn
where they each had a little bed.
He went round and introduced me to all of them,
taking their eggs while they were distracted by my pleasantries.
They were all very friendly and chatty
except for one.
‘That’s Mabel,’ John told me.
‘As you can see, Mabel is my most beautiful duck
but she is also mute and never produces eggs.
She looks great in photos though
which is good for my promotional material.’
He smiled and gave her a wine gum.
‘In a way you know,
I think she’s my favourite of all.’
I wasn’t sure if she understood
what we were saying.
We left the ducks
and went into the house.

After practice, as I was leaving
I heard a little
‘Psssssssst…’
I looked around me
but couldn’t tell where it had come from.
‘Over here.’
Mabel was by the barn
motioning me towards her.
‘I’ve got something to show you.’

All the other ducks were asleep.
Mabel put her wing up to her beak.
‘Don’t wake them,’ she whispered.
‘Follow me.’
She took me to her bed
and moved it
revealing a trap door underneath.
She opened it and lead me down some stairs.

‘I thought you were mute.’
‘No, I just need him to think that.’
‘Why?’
‘Look over there.’
She was pointing to a corner of the room
in which I saw an enormous pile of eggs.
‘I don’t know what they are,’ she said,
‘But I know they’re mine
and he wants to take them,
so I hide them down here.’
‘Why are you showing me?’
‘There are so many of them now,
I don’t know what to do with them;
but I can’t let him have them,
I just can’t!
You seem like a nice guy,
do you have any ideas?’
I thought for a moment.
‘I might do.’

I took three of the eggs home with me
and boiled them for seven minutes.
Once that was done,
I painted pictures on them
depicting stories I’d seen in the news.
I showed them to an art dealer friend of mine
who said they were amazing
and he knew someone who would pay
at least twelve thousand pounds for each.
Apparently it was the kind of thing
the art world was crying out for right now.

I went back a few days later to see Mabel
and told her what I’d done.
She seemed unsure at first
but soon changed her mind
when I gave her her half of the money
and an assurance that this was the safest way
to ensure they were away from John.
She gave me sixteen more eggs.

I repeated the process.

The set sold at auction for one point two million pounds.

The next year made us very rich.

Then one day, John phoned me
saying Mabel had hung herself.
I went round straight away.
She hadn’t left a note.
John was distraught
and in floods of tears.
As I put a hand on his shoulder
to comfort him,
I noticed on his mantlepiece
an egg that I had painted with
‘The Death Of Michael Jackson.’

I found these roses made out of old books at an event last night. They smell of stories.

lullabiestomakeyourchildrencry:

A lot of the show is about my feelings about fairy tales and feminism - how the stories that mothers used to tell their kids to explain the way the world works have been appropriated by men and used to shore up a very different agenda.

Feminism isn’t fashionable. It’s not something you always get a good response from when you talk about. I think that some people think that feminists are only interested in tearing down men, which they’re doing just because they hate them, plus possibly because they’re a lesbian or something. This poem is my response to that.

Woop woop, a video! It’s of ME. Also, this blog is the home of my new Edinburgh show - there’ll be mainly cool stuff I find out about fairytales and the occasional picture of my producer holding some sort of fluffy animal.

meandrant:

Time seems concentrated.

Compressed and condensed
like sweet milk.

Each second
Ticks the tock
Of seven.

And each minute
Has six more
Stacked within it;
A Russian doll of understanding.

Each hour
Is seven fold with
Tales told of experiences
That by location were divided but
Through emotion were shared.

And each week
Stretches time further.
Back before the gig when we first kissed
Beyond the corner table and
Folk inspired cider
In the pub where you thought you worked.

Our paths have crossed before
As we laughed together
Drank together
In a cellar bar years ago
Before I even knew you.
And I still don’t believe in fate, or gods or qi,
But you… I believe in you.

I went to Amsterdam and found a shop that only sells LPs, turntables and apples.

Just the essentials.