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Gelatine Eddie

Wib Wibbled down the street

To the beat of Biomehanika

Mechanical chickens at his feet

Replete with decals of Dido,

Dictators and Dundee United.



Melodic Melanie

Hum Hummed up the lane

To the strains of Tori Amos

Most famous pianist in earnest

and sweetest of voices

Inspired by Chopin and Slayer

Everyone had heard of his reputation. From Draco to Degobah, Longsight to Libra IV, this was the proud legacy of Cardinal Argonauts, Conqueror of Canis Minor and Warrior of the stars. He had fought and defeated the Venomous Vampyre's of Vela, captured and tortured Titan the Tortoise of Taurus constellation and emphatically decapitated the Bitch of Doom. His fleet of Golden Gandhi Warships™ reined the highways and byways across the Galaxy, though nothing could prepare Cardinal for the Wrath of the Clockwork Chicken.



A small pleasure planet lay outside the Arms of Orion. Vast blood red beaches reach stretched out wide for kilo-miles on end before joining the slooshy lap lapping of the waves of a light yellow sea. The horizon defines between ocean and sky on which rests two magnetic suns, one orange, one blue. The sky is a sweet haze of silver and lime; the clouds are a misty grey hue.



Cardinal sat slurping a 'Cool Cocktail Cream' ™

With Skior's Squak Squakking above.

Chalice in hand, he was king of the land

That he ruled with his digital glove.



PHZZZZ went the ray-gun.

Thud! (A Skior in the sand).



Alone on the beach under twin setting suns, Cardinal basked in his own magnificence; destroying the serenity, wallowing in the winnings of his dastardly dictatorship & blasting poor Skiors from out of the silvery-grey. Apart from the slooshy lap lapping of the sea and slurping of 'Cool Cocktail Cream™' there was nothing but silence once all of the Skiors where dead, until the faint whit whirring and confounded click clucking, emanating from a dot on the distance sands. It was drawing nearer…



“Ah…more sport!” announced Cardinal to himself, alone on the beach under twin setting suns. “What’s this we have here with a click and a whir? A chicken and one made of metal at that! One stamp from my foot and soon he’ll be gone” he was right about that, ‘cos the chicken’s a bomb.



Entrails went flailing up into the air; his bones became broken and brittle and crushed in the BOOM! That emitted from the clockwork chicken. His skin was so scorched that the stench in the air could be smelled for a day and the biggest remaining chunk of his sickly red corpse was the digital fist he killed so many for. And the legacy Cardinal left by his hand? A bloody great smear of burned guts on the sand.



Everyone had heard of his reputation. From Draco to Degobah, Longsight to Libra IV, this was the proud legacy of Cardinal Argonauts, Conqueror of Canis Minor and Warrior of the stars. He had fought and defeated the Venomous Vampyre's of Vela, captured and tortured Titan Tortoise of the Taurus constellation and emphatically decapitated the Bitch of Doom. His fleet of Golden Gandhi Warships™ reined the highways and byways across the Galaxy, though nothing could prepare Cardinal for the Wrath of the Clockwork Chicken.

Despite the grey clouds and drizzle of the Manchester skies, we, that is Trent Reznor, the founder member and creative force behind Nine Inch Nails and I persevered through the dank cold October showers, past Duke's and Bar Ca in Castlefield to find a nice quiet spot beside Manchester's historical and famed water highway, the Ship Canal, to fish for Trout for supper.



Marilyn Manson lunchbox in one hand, fishing rod in t'other, Trent grumbled through the gloom like an industrial goliath casting a dark silhouette against the converted cotton mills of Joy Division land. The weather and the environment seemed quite an appropriate backdrop for the writer & producer who crafted such atmospheric works as 1994's masterpiece The Downward Spiral and incidentally, the Joy Division cover, 'Dead Souls'.



I traipsed behind Trent juggling 2 collapsible stools and a flask of hot Bovril, leaving the merry mirthmeister to his angry, black thoughts that no doubt mirrored the autumnal climate in a poetic kind of way. We finally rested and were seated in a secluded spot by the bank of the pitch coloured canal.



For the first time all day Trent finally spoke.



"There's nothing in here! Fucking nothiiiiing!!" he exclaimed after an hour without a bite.



"I beg to differ man, there's a johnny bag floating by that Stella can over there" I replied, pointing to weird clump of sewage that resembled an inside out hemorrhoid.



"I feel like I'm staring straight into the heart of the abyss", he returned before mumbling something or other about a crown of shit.



His anguish at the lack of a catch was electrifying as a dark storm gathered above his God like head. He picked up a stone to skip across the placid surface though it managed just one jump after narrowly missing the johnny bag & sunk into the depths below disturbing the calm. "If you stare at those ripples for long enough you feel like they are pulling your soul down into the darkness", observed Trent, staring at the ever-increasing spirals formed by the aborted stone throw.



And God damn it he was right... I could feel all the emptiness inside me grow in a myriad of loss, from the slow death of my mother to the time that guy got the last Roast Chicken Bake in Greggs the other day, the fucker! Trent gives poetry to these moments of utter desperation.



By 6pm we had begrudgingly eaten our 'Marmite' sanwiches, even though neither of us actually like the shit but I think that was the point. It was obvious we were not doing to catch any trout in the Manchester Ship Canal today, or any other day for that matter. The clouds briefly cleared on one section of the deep, dark blue and a big red scar in the sky revealed the existence of sunshine.



And then it was over...



For that one fleeting moment we had hope within our grasp and it was gone inside seconds, just as quick as it came there was nothing, and as suddenly as he had appeared Trent was sauntering off into the distance with his head bowed low.



Maybe catching trout didn't mean that much me, but it meant everything to him



Next week: Morris Dancing with Morrissey

I have a strong feeling that I am Manic Depressive/Bi-Polar though I cannot be bothered become addicted to legal drugs prescribed by a Dr. I have a tendency to drink too much alcohol as it is and I do not need any other addictive substance in my life, especially after I just quite smoking.



My reasons for feeling fucked up are thus: I have always thought too much and thinking makes me paranoid and feel down. I have periods where I feel that I hate this life for no reason at all and I want to die and then suddenly for a short burst everything is amazing and I have so much energy. There is rarely an inbetween though when there is it's ike limbo, grey and cloudy.



I cannot get out of bed at the moment, I go to work 2 hours late sometimes (it's not a problem with work or my boss, but I hate the indiscipline) I feel like I want to sleep forever.



I am not suicidal and the funny thing is I'm kind of content with this feeing now, maybe I've just got used to it?

There is so much ugliness in your beauty