James S Murphy

A Tiny Icing Vincent Prince feeding a critic his beloved dogs from Theatre of Blood.

Found this old cake my wife made in 2014 of little Theatre of Blood. What a delicious Vincent Price forcefeeding a critic his beloved dogs.

Thanks, you're right on time.

36/33.

Etymologicon Mark Forsyth. The Celts Alice Roberts. Hamilton Chernow.

Birthday books. Playing the Tossers. Drinking good coffee. Getting it together.

Psychobilly Vegas
Tipperary cottage kitchen
Island Hemingway bathroom toilet
G-Funk Monticello bedroom
Corleone Office
New Orleans Voodoo living room

The place we're moving into not only has much cheaper rent, the landlord also won't decorate or repair anything. So I'm going to, very gradually, decorate where I live to my tastes for the first time ever. Turns out, on checking in with myself, I want a kind of series of themed rooms. They include:

Last night double bill had some unintentional reflections. The Adventures of Robin Hood (1938) and They Live (1988) both get to discuss class struggle by externalising the aristocracy to invaders. The Normans and the aliens can be defeated because they're other. There's a status quo to return to.

Waiting for the surprise twist ending for all the adults smiling in the carriage.

It's really drawn out the homoeroticism beautifully.

Pete Seegers Greatest Hits

Tiny LP purge for the move. Have managed to discard five. Niomie and I were both sad to concede that we'll never play this very nice man's very dull music again.

'Surrey Street Market, Croydon' (2018) by Matt Bannister
bannisterimages.com

A moving box thats awkwardly crammed with books in a way to make Euclid weep.

Enough of this Tetris shit. Time for an impractical and unenforcable agreement on all book widths.

Feel sorry for yourself, sure. Bemoan. Bother your friends because you need an ‘attaboy’ like the good soldier you are. But for Christ’s sake, keep moving. Keep doing. It's hard to kill a verb. You’re exhausted. I know. Every day has a new hell to navigate right now, but you've made it this far.

There’s a little satisfaction in overcoming self-pity. When your weakening spine is whining for a lunchtime lager and you boil the kettle for another strong coffee, you're exercising your power over what's trying to push you down.

Your do-to list is massive, but grab something and tick it off.

Alright. That's all I need to say in public. If any of Kaleb's family or partners see this and I can do anything, please let me know. I'm deeply sorry for your loss and, while I don't feel like it's my place to actively intrude, I'd love to help you with anything at all that I can. God bless.

I can't believe you're dead. It's unreal. I'm sorry for the ill I did. I forgive any harm you did to me. The good far outweighs the bad. On both sides, I hope. I wish you'd had all of it easier. I wish you felt more of the pride and acclaim your talents deserved. I'm glad Norm liked your writing.

We know those things, all of us, but we don't feel them. Not enough to make their consistent action the work of our lives, so I'll say words to my old friend he won't get to hear. I suppose that's what a therapist would suggest.

Life is so unfair and so short. I suppose the rhythm of this vomit coming to an end demands I close my thoughts with something that might be meaningful. An honest lesson. But it's all stuff we all know so well it's banal. All we have is this moment. Look after people you love. Create. Improve.

There's no fucking future where he sees the flowers he'll get. There's not going to be a day when we're on the same continent and share a beer and a laugh and talk about the ways Rick Rubin deliberately misrepresented Johnny Cash. I'm proud to be here for my friends these days.

He seemed to have a better class of supporters, still. People he had long respected. People who's eulogies I've taken comfort in seeing today. In the future, he'd surpass even his previous peaks. It didn't even need thinking about. He'd had it hard and sad before. A survivor. Well, guess what, man.

My brother struggles with mental health issues. I have finally worked to start to become as good a writer as I can be. I have a great friend group who are just as inclined to difficulties anr better with my emotional attention. I could get back to my mate Kaleb at some point in the future.

From afar, I saw his life get harder and the work get quieter. All lives have difficulties and I have my own rows to plough that drain me. Checking in with my old friend was a thing of the past. I have a job that had finally got passed minimum wage. A chronically sick wife. A slowly dying mother.

We traded jokes and ideas and imagery as if I was in my Mum's house at 2am. Riffing and playing. That's fitting, innit? Some of the best writing I ever did was to him in DMs. There's some stuff I love in the MacGowan piece that came from us talking about the dude endlessly back then.

After this point, I knew Kaleb more as a fan than as a friend. Raced to check out his writing, support him with a few signposts when he asked for them. Hope you're well, we should catch up, man. Our last real conversation with the ghost of the old back and forths was his Shane MacGowan obituary.

It's a lie they told to harvest more ad revenue, but they were still seen as honest actors as the time. Overnight, Pivot to Video erased legacy writing. Killed dozens of great outlets. And knocked the few opportunities a non-nepo baby could reach for into the fucking dirt.

The trajectory seemed assured. There would be dips and peaks, but the dude was going to make an honest, maybe even comfortable living from writing. Then, and I'm confident that this is when the train was knocked off the tracks, Facebook started to lie about how many views videos were getting.

Which made me even less comfortable with chatting bullshit the way we used to or even suggesting we get the mics back out to go again. I didn't want Kaleb to think I was using him for his newfound profile. I was content that he was finding the niche that was right for him.

There weren't any opportunities where he lived. He took himself, by smarts and pleas and grifts, from Buzzfeed to MTV to Rolling Stone and beyond. I couldn't even feel jealous. It was natural seeming. I loved it for him. He was growing as a writer, he had someone great in his life, & a real career.

I watched it happen, man! Watched him go from from as good as I then was to, step by methodical step, learning how to put words in front of eachother to achieve exactly what he intended. I let a natural talent atrophy while he put the time in to a) get good & b) grab any networking opportunity

I hadn't yet learnt how to be a good a friend. We both seemed to get busy after the show ended. Paths diverging
The messaging moved from daily to weekly to monthly to annually. Busy, busy, busy. It was then he set his mind on becoming not only a professional writer but also the best one he could be.