Paul Goodman's Blog: life worth living

Hey humans: alongside the new and improved (the same) liwoli I have just started the podcast One Good Thing with my good friend Paul from Nerds Get Bored.

So, the podcast is called One Good Thing and is available on iTunes here, here and here. Every fortnight we take a cinematic flop and ask ourselves: what’s the one good thing? It’s got some laughs, some thoughtful criticism and it’s absolutely packed full of hairy, sweaty Pauls.

Please rate, subscribe, get on board @ogtpod and give us your worst possible movies! We believe no film is totally worthless, so if you have a challenge for us we’d love to hear it.

As ever, thanks for reading, thanks for listening and keep supporting independent artists.

P.G.

P.S. The amazing artwork is courtesy of Dave Keep. He’s really captured the unease we’re feeling about this entire project. It looks great. If you agree go check out his comics on http://whatkindofday.com/ and get art in your face NOW.

I’ve heard this one before SHUT YOUR FACE

So why are the old happy? It comes with benefits – bus passes and pensions hang out of reach for the rest of us of like a carrot swinging comically off a medieval rod – and the elderly are (on paper) treated with respect and reverence according to their age. The catch is that you have to be young for a long time before that one comes a-calling.

Why? Well, suppose that most people work relatively hard their entire lives to earn a pension. This is what life is: hard work, then reward. My life’s work is wondering why I can’t just take the reward then run away. The very concept of continuous hard work is alien to me, and death scares me more than any god. No matter how I look at it, it feels a lot less like a reward and much more like someone kicking in my window then sulking when I decline their offer of cake.

Cruises, too. If you’re old you get to go on a lot of boats.

There’s a lot going on in general, and if you have to work a little to get big back, what’s the problem? Life plays out like a video game: put in the grind and you unlock the special tuxedo at the end. You might even see her naked in the shower, which just to clarify is another video game reference and not about old people.

All except one thing: that second playthrough, when Solid Snake has his tux you start again, anew, with better weapons and more health – but now this doesn’t work as an analogy for life. If anything, things get worse as the years go on – roughly from the age of twenty-five – and you don’t get a second go. Or extra lives. Only Walt Disney gets those. As noble as working your fingers literally to the bone over a meat packer, beer thinger or punching lathe (I don’t do labour) is, it’s not going to do you any favours once you’re fumbling the new PS10 controller and your grandson is screaming at you because you can’t even tear off your own face and incinerate Noob Saibot with a breath of flame. “What’s a Noob Saibot?” you ask. Oh, he was only big in the noughties, you old idiot.

[image error]

You start shrinking

No matter how robust you’re feeling now or immaculate in your self-care, the roulette of affliction guarantees only death. Things start to flake and peel away, like your face. Organs get tired, and the brain? Well, things start to flake and peel away, like your face. Organs get tired, and the brain? Well, things start to

One of those things is memory. As if it’s not bad enough that you inhabit a nightmare present in which you routinely forget details like the name of your children and where you keep your poo medicine, no one believes you anyway. You have one weapon left – and that’s rinsing your retirement fund before your children can benefit from it. After all, you worked for it. Maybe all you’re lacking is a sense of perspective.

Things change, but not that much. Not really. There are more black people around now. True, there are 100% more screens around and young people are a bit hunched nowadays. But they’ve always been stupid. It can’t be helped. Now we just have different ways of communicating it.

It helps of course that the old – who were young once – were young without screens connecting them to the big wide sexy world. The world today is one of transience and impermanence; it’s scary and it’s overbearing and moves at such a pace that you don’t interact anymore, you upload. And you can’t upload quickly enough. Unless you’re a racist or misogynist everything you say is forgotten immediately. And you only properly become those things when you get old and you stop understanding things like technology anyway, the irony so thick you could spread it on your toast.

And a bit about political correctness

How do you reconcile yourself with growing old? There’ll come a point in most of our lives when not just technology but ideas race ahead of you like the pack of wolves that raised you from birth. Most people lose the vim with which they hunt for new novels or bands; they trek their way into the middle of the great plains, plop themselves down somewhere around 1999 and eat crisps until they die. There are parts of the world that have already passed the point of visibility far, far on the horizon. L.P. Hartley said “the past is a foreign country”; well, there are whole continents no longer relevant to most of us. It’s only with the greatest effort that we cling on to everything else. Ten years from now, what’ll cause you to roll your eyes and utter the unutterable, Littlejohnable catchphrase “political correctness gone mad”? You’re only human. Mostly you’re an idiot. In fact, if you’re in any way intelligent you’re probably totally insane.

Time for bed

Not that it’s your fault. Change happens by default – you either embrace it or you don’t. If you’re expecting to stick to your morals until the very end then hold on tight, because as the external world undergoes some of the most amazing changes, the galaxy, the universe of neurons and electrons in your brain and the various cells and organs in your body will twist and buckle under the pressure, they’ll adapt, and they’ll hold out for all they’re worth. Sometimes things change without you noticing, and then whether or not you have that same grip on the world outside is left very much to chance. So take note of the way things are. Take note and try not to forget when you tell your stories to the people who will have their memories a little longer than you.

Art by Snook

Walt

Facebook

@worthlivingblog

We could all learn a thing or two from Bryan Adams. Ever since Eric Idle and Ben Elton approached him with the idea for a ‘Summer of Sixty-Nine’ rock opera, a last-ditch attempt to appease the Hive Queen and her encroaching swarm forest, the general populace has become obsessed with confusing and nostalgic ideas about the past, specifically that summers in Britain used to be hot, men didn’t hug other men and murder was rarer than the Apocalypse Circus – who, sadly, only come once a year.

Golden Oldies

Of course, the sweetest thing about being old is having been alive long enough to see how radically everything has gone to shit. The old are the worst. They’re so smug. And they’re right to be. Life was just better back then. Certainly safer. That’s a fact. Back in the old days you could play on the streets and leave your front door open and no one would walk in and steal the bread from your oven. Nowadays people don’t have ovens; they buy their sausage rolls hot from the Tesco and eat them standing over a bin. Back in the golden olden days you could dive headfirst into a jet engine with a dog under your arm because for God’s sake people just respected each other and that’s the way things were done. Back before all those immigrants. Talking wrong and taking all of our good bunting for curry bibs without even washing their hands in the circular motion approved by the NHS.

Lost in Time

Look up. See that marker, the one hovering over your head? Now look at your wrist: your smart watch cheeps like a bird in an earthquake when you get too close to the lard, reminding you grimly of your pulse like a pimp who insists on standing in the corner of the room and pointing at the clock as you make sweet love to one of his angels. We’re walking databases. In the past life was more of a local affair (which is also where you had your affairs), the end result being when an old person was given a book they could read it without skimming it or jabbing the words in the hope that they’ll open up a top ten list about celebrity tits.

It’s normal to be envious of that state of mind – in other words, one not hardwired to respond to the sounds of a phone vibrating on different surfaces; the same goes for the hour’s writing every day that I consider a “good effort” and a free pass to spend the rest of the day facing the wall, nervously fingering the small change in my pocket and thinking about lard.

[image error]

Time and Again

The problem with time is it rubs off on people. It’s a well-trodden path, and if you get too close to someone old they just open their mouths and start speaking. But it’s true: people had community values back then, and community values are better than individual values because lots of people agreed with them. Back before the time that everyone had a phone and unlimited web access, the people of a community actually spent time together – face-to-face. They looked out for each other. If a bad thing like a rape or a murder happened, which it never did because things were better back then, community spirit prevented it. Nowadays the lights are brighter. Sounds louder. And it’s distracting. Have you ever tried to build a house with someone jabbing you in the face with an electric Swiss Army knife? It’s basically the same concept, and either way you’re going to need to get those eyes looked at because now they’re full of knives. Ouch!

Not that the women were so lucky. Now that porn is obligatory, women are finally free to get their clitorises slapped with all kinds of penises, faces and open palms – some of them are even mildly aware of the orgasms that pass them by like McDonald’s signs in the night. Truly a utopia. And Richard Littlejohn approves.

But all ‘old’ means is that death is closer. Not just closer but close. When elderly people in literature or film (or Jon Bon Jovi songs) remark so sagely that they are ready to die, or at the least are not afraid of death, literally everyone else in the world calls it as unbelievable nonsense and doesn’t stop screaming until the old person gets back in the toilet. So what’s the deal with aging? Sure everyone’s doing it – but what’s the catch?

Artwork by James Snook

Science by me

Life updates hopefully soon

Facebook

@worthlivingblog

We could all learn a thing or two from Bryan Adams. Ever since Eric Idle and Ben Elton approached him with the idea for a ‘Summer of Sixty-Nine’ rock opera, a last-ditch attempt to appease the Hive Queen and her encroaching swarm forest, the general populace has become obsessed with confusing and nostalgic ideas about the past, specifically that summers in Britain used to be hot, men didn’t hug other men and murder was rarer than the Apocalypse Circus – who, sadly, only come once a year.

Golden Oldies

Of course, the sweetest thing about being old is having been alive long enough to see how radically everything has gone to shit. The old are the worst. They’re so smug. And they’re right to be. Life was just better back then. Certainly safer. That’s a fact. Back in the old days you could play on the streets and leave your front door open and no one would walk in and steal the bread from your oven. Nowadays people don’t have ovens; they buy their sausage rolls hot from the Tesco and eat them standing over a bin. Back in the golden olden days you could dive headfirst into a jet engine with a dog under your arm because for God’s sake people just respected each other and that’s the way things were done. Back before all those immigrants. Talking wrong and taking all of our good bunting for curry bibs without even washing their hands in the circular motion approved by the NHS.

Lost in Time

Look up. See that marker, the one hovering over your head? Now look at your wrist: your smart watch cheeps like a bird in an earthquake when you get too close to the lard, reminding you grimly of your pulse like a pimp who insists on standing in the corner of the room and pointing at the clock as you make sweet love to one of his angels. We’re walking databases. In the past life was more of a local affair (which is also where you had your affairs), the end result being when an old person was given a book they could read it without skimming it or jabbing the words in the hope that they’ll open up a top ten list about celebrity tits.

It’s normal to be envious of that state of mind – in other words, one not hardwired to respond to the sounds of a phone vibrating on different surfaces; the same goes for the hour’s writing every day that I consider a “good effort” and a free pass to spend the rest of the day facing the wall, nervously fingering the small change in my pocket and thinking about lard.

Time and Again

The problem with time is it rubs off on people. It’s a well-trodden path, and if you get too close to someone old they just open their mouths and start speaking. But it’s true: people had community values back then, and community values are better than individual values because lots of people agreed with them. Back before the time that everyone had a phone and unlimited web access, the people of a community actually spent time together – face-to-face. They looked out for each other. If a bad thing like a rape or a murder happened, which it never did because things were better back then, community spirit prevented it. Nowadays the lights are brighter. Sounds louder. And it’s distracting. Have you ever tried to build a house with someone jabbing you in the face with an electric Swiss Army knife? It’s basically the same concept, and either way you’re going to need to get those eyes looked at because now they’re full of knives. Ouch!

Not that the women were so lucky. Now that porn is obligatory, women are finally free to get their clitorises slapped with all kinds of penises, faces and open palms – some of them are even mildly aware of the orgasms that pass them by like McDonald’s signs in the night. Truly a utopia. And Richard Littlejohn approves.

But all ‘old’ means is that death is closer. Not just closer but close. When elderly people in literature or film (or Jon Bon Jovi songs) remark so sagely that they are ready to die, or at the least are not afraid of death, literally everyone else in the world calls it as unbelievable nonsense and doesn’t stop screaming until the old person gets back in the toilet. So what’s the deal with aging? Sure everyone’s doing it – but what’s the catch?

Artwork by James Snook

Science by me

Life updates hopefully soon

Facebook

@worthlivingblog

For those of you who are finding the internet a little short on content, I’ve blown the dust off of my composing cap and taken to GarageBand to let off steam between writing sessions, so, once again, if you’re, you know, interested:

Most of these are d&d inspired. Mostly it’s just chiptunes. All illustrations by my d&d buddy Dave Keep at Penguin Panic.

At any rate, my Soundcloud page will be updated more regularly than liwoli for the time being.

Thanks again for your support so far and keep backing independent artists – with those smiles you all have. I feed off your smile-joy.

P

Like all of your favourite bands, liwoli is going on hiatus as I work on my next novel.

For your comedy fix, now’s probably the time to go somewhere better. If existentialism’s your game, take a look out of that seeing window you’ve got there. The one in your house. Look at the sun. You’re going to die. We all are. Don’t worry about it. Hope this helps.

Anyone looking for a slice of their meta pie, don’t forget you can still check out my novel Dockhead on Smashwords. It’s free to download, it uses a good balance of big and little words and it’s literally got some jokes in.

Thanks, and keep supporting independent artists. Some of them are good.

Bye!

We had the ingredients for a great night down the old Hackney Picturehouse. Aromas of cheese and popcorn mingled, excitement thrusting trouserless in the air at the prospect of Gaspar Noe’s unsimulated sexual adventure LOVE 3D soon to be playing on the screen – a screen in front of which Ben Mendelsohn had been pacing for fifty minutes, screaming alone.

Thrilled as I was by the latest release from the gifted but French auteur, I looked down at my popcorn for a second and when I looked up, it was to find Ben Mendelsohn no longer before the screen. This worried me, until I realised he was sitting in the chair directly in front of mine. He faced me with his muscular nose resting over the top of the chair, like a reminder of a nose; his eyes, bleeding only a little, were curious on me.

Then he stretched an arm over the chair, hand bisecting sight like a rising sun before entering into the cool, sugared surface of my film snack. It twisted left, then right, after which Ben Mendelsohn penetrated my treat, meaning that now most of his trademark hand was submerged in the greasy sediment below. From that vantage point only, he began on me, his hand insisting on that twisting show, so every subsequent detail I’ve had to try quite hard to recall lest it become lost in that upsetting image.

“Alright?” he wondered Australianly.

“Hugh Laurie?” I said.

“Ben Mendelsohn,” he said, like he’d imagine a Cockney would.

“Oh,” I disappointed in his direction. “Ben Mendelsohn from Animal Kingdom?”

“Yes,” he screamed. “And on top of that, I’ll let you call me B.M, like a mate.”

B.M. then smiled his trademark smile, his eyes hurting my face as he continued to twist his hand through my popcorn.

“Um, so,” I said. “I was just about to relax in front of the critically-acclaimed French English-language film Love 3D. My phone is on silent and I am wearing the glasses, so you see, I wasn’t expecting this.”

“Oh, sure,” he mouthed. This below the volume of a human hand merrying around in wet popcorn. “We all love films. Why d’you think I became one?”

I looked at him questioningly.

“Oh sure, SURE,” he murmured. “The thing is, not everyone here’s on board, if you catch my meaning.”

“I’m,” I said.

“Well,” he said. “Put it this way…”

This B.M. took his hand out of my popcorn and held it up in front of my face, as if to say, “See?” turning it in the soft theatre light like a cooked pig, admiring the bits and pieces that clung to his skin and hadn’t peeled away. He began jabbing me in the chest with one of these fingers, making a sort of ‘crushuhuhuchu’ sound upon impact. More than once per syllable, which means at least three times every sentence his finger needled between my ribs like a needle, and made the sound of a thousand snakes sliding down an oily lift tower.

I looked up from the point of impact and into those trademark staring eyes of Ben Mendelsohn. Sensing my unease, B.M. slipped the same finger into his mouth, sucked the popcorn from its length and then, whipping it out with a pop, slid it between my lips and resumed the twisting motion he’d demonstrated previously, only now it was with a finger scraping my tonsils.

“Better?” said Ben Mendelsohn, grinning like a house.

“I’m not sure what you’re trying to tell me,” I said badly, because of his finger.

“It’s simple,” said B.M., now knuckle-teasing my jeans and humming like a bird. “Why, this guy over here knows the deal.”

Ben Mendelsohn extended his free arm and the finger on the end of that. I looked up and along at the man it was pointing to. He was a Cockney. He had no throat.

Suddenly it made sense. As the neckless man twisted, collapsing forward like a den on fire, Ben Mendelsohn’s fake Cockney throat peeled away. Before it had slapped the floor, he had spread his wings and was rising into the air with a cheeky grin on his face; they were good wings, with a foreboding leathery tan the span of a family jet.

“Impressed?” he said, and I nodded so that he wouldn’t murder me.

“And… might I say what… a glorious… mane…” I struggled. Ben Mendelsohn was morphing into a chimera and his shrieking was upsetting me.

Ben Mendelsohn wasn’t listening, busy as he was swooping over perverts masquerading as arthouse cinema enthusiasts, sometimes clutching them in his mighty paws and crushing their watermelon guts out; his snake tail was pocking the screen, so I couldn’t even see the two actors banging each other.

I turned back in my seat. A mouthful of popcorn confirmed that it had indeed been ruined by human Ben Mendelsohn. Every bite tasted of Ben Mendelsohn. The kernels stuck in my teeth would forever remind me of Ben Mendelsohn, and I would never get used to that.

He never did explain himself. It was all I could do to turn back to the huge three-dimensional cock and balls and dynamic ejaculate coming at us in our 3D glasses and hope that the staff of the Hackney Picturehouse would arrive with their nets and poles.

Ultimately, Gaspar Noe’s Love 3D was ruined by a one-note joke that didn’t work the first time. It was gratuitous, crass and it ruined the memory of Mark Thomas. Is that the fault of one man, namely Ben Mendelsohn, just for being a mythical beast under human skin? Fortunately, as an artist, no one expects me to answer these questions. I merely ask them.

Illustration by Nathan at Channel Guernica.

BM

BM

BM

Dockhead

Facebook

@worthlivingblog

nb. I really like Ben Mendelsohn.

I have a short story available to read on the Mechanics’ Institute Review website. It’s called ‘The Don’ and it would be wonderful if you went and had a look. It’s less depressing than this rubbish and nobody even dies.

Thanks!

P

So, oh my gosh, like, would you believe it they only came crawling back on their hands and knees to beg me to do a one last job before retiring, and they were all like, but Paul, your so good at blogging that you make everyone feel like their lives can be better, plus your the prettiest an most heavily sexualised web personalley out there, and I was all like, well, yeah I am, as if I don’t already know that, but whatever, doucheholes, like, douchever, whatholes, like treble up yours with a big hard douche in your hole because

relaxing at home on bed of silver

i know, Im the bomb, and thats why im back with the blog to end all blogs and it’s not like anyone else is even up to scratch, there’s the scratching post over there, how many claws do you count, and before I let you yes ok you cn answer Im gonna give you a hint and tell you its just one pair, of claws, and theyre mine, okay, get over it, you douche-hungry lesbos, delicious douche in my big stupid face, but when you run a blog, life is just different, you know, and in a big and kind of realistic way that makes me better than most people without even trying, thats, like, the thing, thats how it gos, when the, like, facts are laid down straight up, that Im just better, and, you know, that doesn’t come easy, you can’t just bend down straight up over a douche and say GIMME A BLOG because I earned it, im the genius here, and you’r’e not… not a genius, like, you8re the anti-genius, meaning you hate geniuses and I’,  like, one, one genius, okay, one whole one, but as I said before, a retiring genius, one last job kind of like Danny Glover, I’m like the veteran blogger here with all the life experience and the skill cumin out the eyeholes in my douche, putting his toolbelt back on for one last interactive blogging experience, then its time to sit back and watch that

i had this lying around

hit contt6er tick in the upwards direction, one by 1, eight, nine, 10, like that, and ill count every single one of them until, like, fifty maybe, because after that long I’llget hungry and you know what they say about geniuses, they, you know, need to eat, that counter can hit sixty-5 by itself, no skin off my intellectuals nose, I’ve got a CASH COW roasting in the “millionaire’s oven”, and it’s rare meat, like my talent, which is better than raw talent actually because when things are raw they bleed and are more likely to harbor disase haorbu BE SICK AS FUCK and yeah I mean my style is ill like the flow of Vanilla Ice’s but actually im pretty resilient because yes I do yoga and pilates sometimes at the same time, which is called yolates, which is also my favroite drink

, but my points, like, i am pretty good, and thats more than you can say for some people isnt it, and besides the sight of blood genuinely makes me want to vomit whether a douche is present or not, and theres no way of coming back from that kind of defeat, so actually best to leave raw pieces of meat where you find them, once again unlike my talent, which is now available on iPhone Im told by the president apple, thats right, losers, I did a deal with Apple, they said of course it’s available on our web-integrated browser and it wasn’t necessary to email everyone in the company, just apple@apple.com would do, which as far as I can tell is like the red phone that my peer and good friend Barack Obama has directly linked to the end of the world, which, now I think about it, is

this one was easy

a lot like my creative output in a lots of ways which unfortunately I dot have the space to go into here, becayse its a story for another day, for another year mayhap, when humans once again learn to accept genre-smashing, no hooks, no punchlines, certainly no pandaring to convention or any consensus on what makes a piece of writing good or dare i say briliant, but good and honest self-confidence that has spiralled out of control on a wide and some migt say disgusting scale, that asks one too many questions for anyone’s good, but the most important of this is like, what makes life worth living,

i fukin hate you jethro

so in answer to your original question how to write a blog that gets the BIG G’s and the like. it’s that easy

Images here, here, here, and here. (Thanks/sorry)

Dockhead

Facebook

@worthlivingblog

Anti-Social Behaviour Disorder IT’S WORDPLAY  

Forget writing: until recently most humans couldn’t even see out of their faces. They were too busy having rickets or yanking loved ones from assembly line fires. Learning was a luxury.

When you read about Romans you’re reading Cicero, not Dave the Roman; when you hear about the British people it’s not from ‘people’ but learned and wealthy men who had about as much in common with the common man as an exploding sun.

After a while, working-class humans got book smarts enough to keep records of their own lives. This is social history. History otherwise (the practice of telling and teaching it) ignores the contribution of the working classes, the uneducated and… who else? Oh yeah, immigrants.

Of course, British students learn all about the derring-do of sticking swords in children (probably) but not about the migration of these people to the British Isles. Nor does it so much as doff its cap to the in-flow of non-white immigrants that’s been going on for at least five hundred years, thanks in all to the slave trade what white people did; presumably because the slave trade is bad, and Britain in history is resoundingly good, and by God that’s the way it’s going to stay.

The problem with this is it paints immigration as this event that happened within the last ten years, as opposed to forever, which does skew your average human’s idea of what it means to come from places. And it doesn’t half make some you really racist.

Sorry. No. Really. It’s good to come from a place!

Mongrel Horde

So now it’s been established that a nation’s ethnic makeup isn’t fixed, and the idea of national identity most certainly is, it’s worth asking the question of why it matters to come from a place when that place is mostly a figment of fallible (stupid) human imagination, and more importantly, why humans cling to it.

Change happens by definition. Between beginning this sentence and right now the world has changed. In fact, its survival is dependent on this ability for constant and confusing shifts, sometimes in line with human sensibilities but most of the time not. When shorelines dip into the sea or cities laid waste by humans (who don’t seem to struggle with the notion of change en masse when it’s a good old genocide) then other humans are forced to move around, into new areas, where they become a minority – a minority that is, for the most part, excluded or abused under the pretence of protecting the status quo.

What sense is there in clinging to a national identity that’s three hundred years old? It was out of date two hundred and ninety-nine years ago. If you’re looking for advice, I’d say “keep up.”

Death Pun

Mary Beard’s recent ball-explodingly wonderful work SPQR analyses Roman attitudes not by revisiting the city’s origin story and studying the trickle-down effect of old moralising – in other words, using fictitious events to justify later attitudes – but by looking at the behaviour of the political elite and working backwards, to discover just how this story was engineered to fit contemporary attitudes towards rape, murder and war. Does coming from a place justify behaviour, or is it the other way around?

In the eighteenth century Carl “my middle name is ‘Caring'” Linnaeus presented his taxonomy of the different races in which the cunning Asian and greedy black were presented as fact; nowadays the fear of the other is couched in more emotional, harder to clarify terms like un-British, un-American, etc. Like a fast-acting yeast the fear of non-whites changing a known way of doing things with their foreignness spread to all kinds of minds. And not just the stupid ones.

Point is, all kinds of justification exists for holding certain views, and considering for a second just who wants you to have these opinions or beliefs, and why, it opens up all kinds of doors into rationality. The adage that history is written by the victors is not self-evident, but it should be; history is not an objective force like the wind but man-made, the product of strange creatures with agendas and prejudices and the need for stories and sense.

So what does it mean to have an idea of nationality, of national identity, of placing significance in a place of origin? The more you try to hold on to it the less relevant you become in a changing world; the more dated your ideas the more offensive new ones appear.

The geographical placement of countries is not an autonomous ranking system; when the world was created by one, none or all of the gods it wasn’t a case of putting the best humans in more temperate climates and sticking the scrag ends in inhospitable hellholes as punishment. The separate continents once clung together like Chinese students on a campus tour but, gradually, over time, they fractured and drifted apart like humans without Facebook. The oceans rose, further separating one tract of land from the next; small offshoots became windy, sodden islands, while vast central swathes endured heat upon heat and grew to be barren and infertile hellholes later, as a consequence of location. Eventually the oceans will rise and those little bits of land that currently mean so much to the people living on them will get smaller until they’re swallowed completely – either that or the sun will give out and the whole planet will just be really, profoundly in the shit – and then that’s it. No more nationality, no more coming from a place. Why not stay one step ahead and sneak a peek at who’s hanging that flag in front of you now?

Dockhead

Facebook

@worthlivingblog