World Mental Health Day

Happy world mental health day
I hope you had a good day. This years mental health day emphasis is on mental health at work. 
It is an important area of consideration for both employer and employee. I’m grateful to my place of work holding a mental health awareness session today.

It’s something that will likely effect us in our lives. The brain, like any other organ, is susceptible to abnormalities. As a lung can get infected, or a liver diseased, the brain has its own tribulations that manifest in many forms. Many of those forms is a whole conglomerate of mental health issues.

Bringing your mental health to work is something that appears daunting, but something so incredibly important for employers to encourage. Now we have a culture of people willing to speak, employers must be willing to listen. If we are more able to talk about our mental health at work, there must be an onus on a dedicated group of people willing listen.

Today I encourage you to talk to whoever you like at your work place about anything on your mind, both mental health and otherwise. It’s truly incredibly in this country, in this epoch, many of us feel unable to express our thoughts. Employers can encourage this be being able and willing to listen. 

In order to ease the burden of mental health in ones mind, one must not feel guilty in sharing their thoughts. It’s a delicate ying yang balance; one should live neither a wholly good, nor wholly bad life. There is no shame in sharing how you feel, especially if it is within a guilt free environment. If we listened, anonymously and judgement free, the social health of our society would be much better than it is now.

On a more personal level, it makes it easier love with yourself if you can shake the shackles of guilt away when you talk about yourself. It’s not a feeling that’s rational but a feeling that comes with the life of a depressive mind. 

This is not to say I would live without it however. In a rather strange manner, depression and other mental health issues have forged, good, bad or otherwise, who I really am. This element of me, the depressive, self absorbed worrier who thinks about the complete and utter death and destruction of life, has its upsides. 

On the good days I can notice the beauty and happiness in pretty much anything. I can look for the good if I know the bad. The smile of a homeless person, the joy of a child in the most simplistic of actions, the mad running of a dog in a field after a ball, the unquestionable, unfathomable beauty of a commuter. Beauty can be found everywhere, and I wholly testify my mind has become more attune to this beauty in the beautiful sadness that comes being me. Jacques Lacan had a word for something like this; ‘jouissance’. It loosely means enjoyment from French, but is truly lost in translation. 

Sometimes I am in love with my life, and sometimes I do not want to be alive. This Jungian duality is what makes me, and at work or otherwise, that’s just who I am.
All of what I’ve spoken about can be found in this blog. What better a way to describe different situations from my point of view than a blog about anxious pigeons? Seriously though, this blog is unreal, tongue in cheek but incredibly sincere and even informative. Check this blog out, it makes all my words seem so unnecessary when a talented illustrator can sum it up in 4 or less pictures. Check her blog here and please like the page and spread the pigeon love.

If you ever feel like you need help, just talk about it with; 

999; 111; Samaritans; Night line; family; friends; your work. 

You’ll be fine


The girl on the train

A very short story

She sat opposite me vacant with meticulously structured cheekbones that reflected and refracted light so subtle so fragile off her ebony skin that so wonderfully stuck out in a sea of ordinary white faces i thought she cant be real as she stared expressionless in a trance so morose so azure i was sure she was crying yes she was leaning back in her seat amongst the normality of the tube train a declaration of sadness rolled slowly oh so slowly down a cheek so metallically reinforced by a structure of bones ever so fine carved from serpentine i thought do they know that she is crying no one looked nobody paid attention does she know she is crying this cant be real not on the tube but she grew sadder and withered into her broad but slight frame in a perfect black dress she sank ever so glum are these tears real why is she here who is she i mean who is she really

the morning isnt a time for crying

Sleep 2.0

Another dream I had

This is another dream I had, that was kinda mad fucked up. Here it is:

I was sent to test a crane in a fish tank where the workers and professional staff around me were monitoring my progress.

My consciousness permeated every life I had so I knew If i kept killing myself in every one only to wake up once again.

I kept killing myself in painless bizarre ways and shoving pencils through my throat and i could feel myself choking on the the non existent pain and gurgling on robot blood until I lapsed only to gain consciousness in the same life somewhere else as a robot sent for testing.

It appeared I was the only one aware of the consciousness until the group I was working with kept talking behind my back about me.

It appeared they knew and were just monitoring how my consciousness kept handling these deaths only for my consciousness to be kind of put into a different body and re animated with the same thoughts aware of a life I had before.

I was a simulated consciousness, a self aware AI that scientists had created that had kept deciding the best cause of action each time was to keep killing myself for what seemed like no reason what so ever.

I climbed one of the cranes to the top and tried to make it out of the tank in order to experience the world but all became clear: I was in no tank, just aware of my own consciousness to the point I could reanimate at a different point along my own timeline in some sort of infinite loop experiencing no physical pain.


I want to release some

So this has been bubbling away in the back of my brain for a while now. I have always wanted to release music, and maybe soon I will. Song ideas and guitar parts come up weekly and I keep them noted in my journal.

It’s incredibly cathartic and therapeutic and the feeling you get when you conjure a new riff or line is second to none. So yeah, I want to give something back to you.

I have a couple of ideas. I want to do a cover of ‘But Breathing’ by Defeater; which by the way is a wonderful song which you all should listen too. Maybe a covers EP and one of my own stuff, just to keep it interesting. My pal Alex and I have been working on Ukulele mashups of songs and we reckon we can fit 50 into about 3 minutes, so that’ll be interesting.

But the problem is I only sing to myself, and I am far too shy and unconfident to let you hear my voice just yet, so there is that. Also, I don’t even think I can sing all that well, so sorry in advanced. It’ll be shite.

I am a huge believer in the greatness of the local music scene and releasing, independently, your own music if you feel like you should. My pal Jon is in a band with his uni folks, and you should check them out. I’ll chuck a link for their dropbox at the end of this post.

Also, if anyone wants to contribute/work with me/has any ideas feel free to contact me and we can get something together. I’ll be on the hunt for recording places, and seeing as I don’t have anything other than a phone to record on, I’ll be hitting up any local studios for a little session.

Stay well, thanks for reading x


It’s mad fucked up

I had this brief thought whilst sitting outside the doors to the first class carriage on the way to work this morning. Some guy gets on the train and sits in first class without a ticket. He goes to the guard who tells him to sit down he’ll be round in a bit.

Would the same happen if I got on this train and sat where I am now? 

Each one of those sitting in first class doesn’t work any more or less hard than anyone else (at least not my dad for comparison, who is an incredibly skilled landscape Gardner and current single parent to two), yet I guarantee they wouldn’t let us sit in first class with them. They definitely would not buy someone’s second or first class ticket for them in order to sit with them in first class, in a comfortable seat with a good amount of leg room.

It seems like this door is metaphorical of the glass ceiling that separates many of us from the higher echelons of society. I’d go as far as to say half of it is entitlement, the other half greed. 

Ethnic cleansing 

A legacy

Just a quick one this. But something that has enraged me recently. Myanmar is currently in the midst of the genocide and eradication from their borders and otherwise of the Rohingya Muslim people. The UN is recognising this as ethnic cleansing but has not devised a plan to stop this, and stents pressuring Myanmars leader who, in her silence, is as bad as those carrying out the cleansing actions. In her acts of nothingness, thousands are facing death each day.

The holocaust of world war 2 was an ethnic cleanse of millions of innocent jews. These shocking actions still happen today. 70 years later, thousands are being killed each day or displaced and forced out of areas purely because of either chance in birth, or choice in religion. This has to stop. 

We shouldn’t live in a world like this. We can’t live in a world like this. We can’t sit by and do nothing because it doesn’t effect us. We are one people, we are equal. 

It’s not a case of domestic politics, it’s a case of immediate action.


Language is silly

Language is based on attributing a word to an object/thought/action/abstract. An apple is called an apple in English not because of its properties but because that is what someone, somewhere down the line has decided that it should be called universally by English people.

‘look here bob, this roundish, lumpy hard thing that tastes like piss and is textured like a sponge that’s been sat on I think should be called an apple.’

I know it’s a bit more complex than that – English being so heavily derived from other languages has its roots in a great number of old words that have been squashed together to create a simplified version. Languages have been brought together and words amalgamated to create these ‘English’ words.

But then, these old languages had hideously complex or strange sounding words (Latin/ancient Greek anybody) that once again were universally decided and concocted by mostly men, then attributed to things.

What we know as the ‘pineapple’ in English is known as something along the lines as ‘ananas’ in pretty much every other major language. I guess that’s the best example of probably a really brainless dude picking up this exotic looking pinecone fruit and being like ‘fuck yeah this pinecone lookin fruit that tastes like juicy nectar and has the consistency of a hella ripe mushy apple must be a form of apple, even though it has FUCKING MASSIVE LEAF THINGS protruding from the top, right?’. So Mr Ian McFuckhead took the ANANAS and named it the PINEAPPLE for his English speaking fellows because if it’s not an ‘English’ looking plant it is now.

(That isn’t the case but I kind of like to think it is. Columbus stumbled upon it in Guadeloupe, naming it the piña de Indes, roughly meaning pine of the Indians. So not only was this an Italian man finding a fruit he completely misnamed, he was also a racist.)

Simply because of his own ignorance and lack of knowledge of other languages, old Chris here took a majestic sounding name, dropped it and named it something that the ‘new world’ people could understand. Besides, the pineapple is actually a gathering of multiple berries, making it actually rather different from an apple. What a moron, eh?

So when I have my kid, she’ll be sitting there, staring at this big leafy thing that looks a bit like a nutsack with thorns. Next to it, on its right hand side, is what we have come to call as an apple.

‘What’s that daddy?’ Bernadette will ask, pointing to the piss fruit.

‘That my dear, is what we know as an apple.’

‘What’s the other one papa?’ she asks in her chimney sweepers cockney accent, pointing at the majestic tropical thornucopia.

‘That’s an ‘ananas’ my sweet.’

‘ A what?’


‘But dad it looks more like a pineapple’.