Albion's End: Today's Rain/Tomorrow's Whiskey

January 30 2018

My last blog post was used for a zine, I've been sent a few copies and it looks fucking rad. The guys over at chump have a zine and a mailing list where slices of hot spicy prose is sent direct to your inbox. Find the link the Chump Zine here or hit them up on insta. I wrote a little something in the same vein below for the next issue and check out the pictures of Issue One underneath,

Winter on the Molly Coast and I’m sitting on the pebbles watching the funfair lights of the pier play over a sea that is radiating a cool blue light as if we drowned the sun some time ago.

Winter is a mean time and not everyone makes it through, but its a proving time too, triumph against the dark. If you can keep your diet when your body is screaming for the solid layers of fat against the cold, or if you can wake in pitch black to tear your body on the ice pavement jogging, or even keep your last nerve when you brain is near dead dry of vitamin D, then you've cracked it, the rest of the year a cakewalk. But if you can't, then give yourself a break. Don't give up giving up. Celebrate the small victories and let yourself up from the rack about the small stuff. and, of course, remember its all small stuff.

The stones here are more comfortable than you think but the the earth will suck the warmth from your body.

Goddamn I love this city. Still managing to sprout weird through fifteen layers of coats. In less than five minute walk I passed a rollerskating busker, a fancy dress dog, and a woman selling art in plastic shopping bags.


I’ve moved to a favourite bar a seagulls fart away from the beach. It’s styled after CBGB’s but the toilets are usable and contain only a fraction of the diseases. But its relative cleanliness means any smooth surface is covered with a fine layer of whatever go-go powder is cheap this season. What little self respect I have and the fear of a surprise random drug test at work keep me from dragging my gums over the tilework.

Its early evening but you wouldn't know it from the curtain of night. There's only one couple here. And they’re occupied. Necking so hard her afro keeps pushing his flat cap off his head. Must be the slap funk soul theremin and red neon lighting giving the bar an atmosphere of a high budget porn VHS. Fuck it, more power to them. A candle of pleasure in the season of dark.


It’s my birthday tomorrow or ‘Drinkmas Eve’ as i'd like it to be known , how old am I? Old enough not to care.

Old enough for my bones to ache, but young enough to dance.

Old enough to know better, young enough to do it anyway.

Old enough to remember when ‘apps’ were called ‘programs’, young enough to google ‘google’ if Google isn't set to the default search engine.

Thankfully I’m comfortable in my skin and, daresay, proud of the mutant I’ve become. And I'm old enough to know that aint nothing.

So be weird, but know that weirdness is not only the heraldry we paint on our shields to find the others in this upcoming battle. Its is the shield itself. The shield, the lance and the drums we bang to honour our dead, tremble our enemies, and let the others know were still fucking kicking.

So be kind, to yourself, and others. Be kind, but be ready, because from on my beach I can see the tide is turning.

Molly Coast, Albion.

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