Meeting Veronica for the first time is like coming face to face with a flesh-and-blood icon. She could be the Veronica who wiped the face of Christ, or, with her titian hair and creamy throat, the one who graced movie screens of the Forties and Fifties. Read the rest of this entry »
(Editor’s Note: these interviews date 2001-2009, so some information may not be current)
He reached the place just before nightfall — a seaside town chosen by closing his eyes and sticking a pin into a map. It had actually landed in the sea, but drowning himself would be a futile exercise, so he had dragged the pinpoint to shore and bought the train tickets. The evening sky was a sodden, heavy grey, producing a thin, listless drizzle which soaked into everything. If the rain wasn’t bad enough, anyone foolhardy enough to walk along the promenade would find themselves drenched by salty, cold spray from a sea the colour of wet concrete. Read the rest of this entry »
Okay, people. Here we go. Let’s do it by the numbers and get it right. Don’t forget, this is going out live, and any mistakes certainly will be seen. Camera one, focus on Slippery Dick. Adjust that white balance; get that tooth glare down.
“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen, and welcome to Miss Undead 2003. My name’s Dick Wetting and I am your host for this evening of old-world grandeur and tradition. Read the rest of this entry »
Trisha was, without doubt, the worst housemate I’ve ever had. When I think of her, I damn the ludicrously inflated property values that left me at the mercy of this lottery, that force me to share my home with strangers. Sure, I’ve met some great people through houseshares, but mostly it’s been two-legged nightmares wearing human faces like masks. There was the guy who used to get drunk and try and get into my room late at night, the graduate chemist who smoked the place out with homemade fireworks and kept brewing up great reeking batches of something in the bath (I never found out what), the conceptual artist who would ask the kitchen’s Instanator for stuff like fifty-seven blue marzipan cupcakes and two-score mock spare ribs to make some kind of installation, so that it would be tied up for four hours solid and the Deli-Paks were always running out (I mean, I hate Instanator food anyway, but it’s the principle of the thing), the alcoholic who ran up a £700 phone bill and left without paying it, the cokehead who decided to remodel the kitchen with a lump-hammer… and then there was Trisha. Trisha and her toys. Read the rest of this entry »
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