So, I have terrible terrible handwriting, bad enough that I really should have been a doctor. I didn’t always, I used to have fairly neat handwriting, but over time it became messier and messier as my writing sped up.
My standard writing looks something like this
Often I get told it’s unreadable, and if you look at it as a block that may well be true, but when you focus on individual words it soon pieces together.
However, when I get a few pints inside me it all goes wrong
Still if you focus on individual words it’s still readable, but it’s starting to become a scrawl.
A few pints later you’re in real trouble
The scrawl is fully established and it’s essentially unreadable without completely focusing on sections at a time and making sensible guesses and hoping you’re right.
I’m hoping I’m able to read it to translate it to the blog, so fingers crossed. But I may need to work on my handwriting if I’m going to write and drink at the same time
So, I joined in on a warhammer 40k role play on a website for a bit of writing inspiration (and an opportunity to actually do something). It was rubbish, you spend so much time waiting for other people to do something only for them to either not react to your writing or do something dull, but this was my post list.
Intro post (not mine)
Hey everyone! So similar rules to the first one, You get one commander and a group of support characters, All factions are available, you have one “Get out of death free” card, use it by post “miraculous survival at the top of your post. No god-modding, and the maze is basically player designed, you encounter what you wish, with a few presets to be encountered and announced later. Anyways… ON TO PLOT!
A section of Trazyn’s collection museum is losing power. You were frozen in it (or maybe you are part of the forces who are knocking out the power) everything living is escaping, you want to leave/knock out power/ kill things.
His swing finished and connected cleanly. It had felt like an eternity in the making.
The xenos beasts head hit the wall and sergeant D’Antine of the Thousand Sons lowered his force sword.
It had been an eternity. D’Antine had encountered all ten thousand years of his incarceration at the hands of Trazyn the infinite. Ten thousand years staring into the bestial eyes of the xenos creature he’d been battling when all had frozen. Ten thousand years in which he’d not been able to finish the hit. But now it was done.
And he was free, ten thousand years had passed, it was time to find his Primarch Magnus and rejoin him in the Emperors Great Crusade.
D’Antine paused, no, the great crusade was over, it would be ridiculous to think war would still be raging after so long, his brother marines wouldn’t have failed.
So what would be his purpose? He must make contact with Magnus.
D’Antine was steadily moving up a corridor with alcoves all around, each had a different occupant, or some had many occupants all arranged in a diorama of battle.
Seeing so many potential enemies of the emperor was almost enough temptation to kill all, but D’Antine knew he was currently alone and even a mighty space marine had to pick his battles occasionally.
Coming upon an alcove with a familiar silhouette inside D’Antine stopped. The armour was clearly a brother space marine but the marking weren’t right. This was clearly an imperial fist, but gone was the proud yellow, this armour was a dark blue and the fists were marked red. Perhaps a specialist? Perhaps tastes had changed in all the time away? D’Antine didn’t know, but he knew a fellow space marine would be a reliable ally.
Reaching out he hit a rune on the alcove door, green light spread away from his gauntleted fist and the stasis screen released the space marine inside
The marine took a second to adjust to movement he could now make and then threw himself bodily at D’Antine.
Both marines slammed into another alcove- crushing the occupant.
“Heretic scum” spat the marine in blue
“Brother space marine, what are you doing?” A shocked D’Antine replied fighting off the red gauntlets.
“Quiet scum, you are of the heretic thousand sons, I will destroy you.”
“Heretic…? No, we are loyal only to the emperor.”
“Chaos scum, you will be destroyed!”
“Chaos? What chaos?”
Something about D’Antines answer stopped the marine from fighting to reach his neck.
“You really don’t know do you?”
“Know what brother?”
The red fisted marine stood and offered his hand to D’Antine, he grasped it and was pulled to his feet.
“I am Brother Sergeant Lorenzo of the Crimson Fists, it would seem you are honest in your confusion. There is much you must know.”
“Sergeant D’Antine of the Thousand Sons, I’m not familiar with your legion, yet your livery is of the Imperial Fists.”
“There is much you need know, but my feeling is now is not up the appropriate time for it.”
“Very well, let us find a secure location, i need information.”
D’Antine stopped his advance and turned to Lorenzo,
“I feel something, an.. Emptiness.. And hatred…”
“Your legion disgraced itself with it’s warp powers, I don’t want to hear it.”
“I really need some new information from you.”
“Never mind right now, look.”
A green glow was approaching, several green glows.
Both marines readied their bolters and opened fire
*thousand son, not emperors children*
In the face of inexplicably returned fire both marines threw themselves down and scrambled for cover.
“D’Antine these are necrons, focus fire, one at a time, they regenerate”
“Thanks Lorenzo, watch this”
Responding to a taunt from the machine in front of him D’Antine rose from his cover and allowed the warp to flow through him, his armour iced over as flames enveloped his hands and a stream of flames blasted towards the necrons
Necrotic flame washed over D’Antine scorching red paint from the ceramite armour.
D’Antine stumbled back to Lorenzo who’d stopped firing at this point.
“D’Antine fall back,” Lorenzo shouted across the Vox, “we aren’t enough for this.”
“Not a chance Lorenzo, I can burn these to nothing.”
“No D’Antine, they regenerate, we need to find the source of their power.”
“Agreed, let’s go.”
D’Antine rose again, opening his mind to the warp and unleashing concentrated power at the nearest necron
there are some missing posts where I was attacked by a necron
So, this is my final man and boy (by tony parsons) reflection- at least until my partner decides she wants to talk about it. This ones less about the book and more about the ending it went for
There was something of a ‘positive Hollywood ending’ to it, everything slotted nicely into place, despite the depth and potential desperation of the story up until this point it all felt far too convenient and unlikely.
It’s tough of course to end a book satisfactorily without it being convenient and crap, and really the ending was nice, but it wasn’t the ending the book needed.
As it was his life had completely changed, and after all the changes and his growth as a
person father he’s given everything up and lost his girl, only for him to race after her and miss her. But then- shock horror- she appears, having changed her mind about leaving.
So how did the book make me feel? I enjoyed it as a story, but as a parent (not a single one thankfully- though it could be argued I have three children sometimes) I felt a variety of things, from disbelief to anger to empathy. I think it’s a credit to tony parsons that he’s been able to write something that can ring true to a dad, even when the situation is completely different. In an interview in the back of the book he said it’s mostly women that bought it, so I’ll be interested in hearing my partners thoughts. She read the book in two days but so far hasn’t mentioned it beyond “aw wasn’t that nice” so we’ll see how it goes.
The problem with finishing a book satisfactorily and not being too convenient and crap
So, I didn’t stop there, as my observations of john changed my opinion slightly as he opened up more to poor Derek.
John, part two
Yes, I know. My life pathetic, my wife is a bitch, she’s fucking the gardener, but I’m still better than you.
You have a car? Great, I can buy a better one
You have a dog? Bet it’s a mongrel
You own a house? Mines bigger
Oh and I have a cleaner, and a gardener.
Your wife’s a bitch? Yeah mine too, and she’s fucking my gardener.
You work? I’m retired
You’re retired? Iv done it younger
Oh, you’re my gardener?
So, this one came to me whilst i was judging people in the pub.
“So, what now?”
“Hmm?” Jase replied, clearly lost in thought.
“What do we do now?”
“I don’t know, fancy a pint?”
“A pint? A fucking pint?”
“Yeah why not?”
“A fucking pint? My wife left me for some fucking surgeon and you want to go for a fucking pint?”
“I’m an alcoholic, of course I want to go for a pint, probably more to be honest.”
“And that’s going to help?”
“Help? Yeah if you like, short term we get pissed; medium term we philosophise and plan the way only drinks can; long term will come from there.”
“That’s fucking stupid..”
It’ll come back.
Yep. Here it is.
Spill someone’s drink.
Ah, shit, this isn’t my bed…
“Oh wow, my fucking head.”
It’s female, yes, I remember. She offered to clean me up, we skipped the cleaning and fucked.
Curse my photographic memory.
Jase was wrong.
How the fuck can I work out the next step if I can’t forget why she left.
24 hours earlier
“You know why, because you can’t keep your dick in your pants”
“That’s how we met.”
She’s no lady, a fist.
Solidly into my nose.
The tears are blinding and the blood isn’t far behind.
“You fucking prick. I gave him a disease, which I guess came from one of your dirty fucking husseys.
Iv made a mistake.
I’m still here.
“Um, hi… Uh?”
“Ah shit, you don’t even remember my name.”
Fuck off, I don’t know yours either, it’s just sex. I’m surprised you’re still here.”
“Ha, yeah me too.”
“So what now? You want something more or are you going to fuck off?”
I fucked off.
Six hours later I’m sat in a bar with Jase. He’s back on the beer, I can’t stomC anything more than a shandy just yet.
“So the plan?”
“For fuck sake Jase!”
“What? Don’t fuck sake me you prick. I’m very hungover. Good night eh?”
“Good night? We were supposed to work out a plan to get sarah back.”
“I like sarah, good tits.”
“Will you shut the fuck up and tell me the plan.”
“What plan? And how am I supposed to tell you if I shut up?”
“Oh fucking hell.”
“Will you chill, we did it. You got some didn’t you? Twice if I wasn’t seeing double.”
“That’s sex, that wasn’t the plan.”
“No, fucking hell, I want her back.”
“Then why’d you fuck about?”
“That doesn’t count.”
“No? I’m fairly sure you’ve fucked more women since you got with sarah than you managed before.”
“Right, but that’s just fucking. I want her.”
“Look at this pint…”
“Oh fuck off Jase, I’m not drunk enough for one of your philosophically pissed moments.”
“There’s a simple solution to that. Get a drink.”
I do, why the fuck not.
“So, look at this pint.”
“Oh fucking hell I got a drink, I still don’t want to have to hear your shit.”
“This pint.” He continues regardless, ” this pint is my love. But you see, at any point or at any time I could get up, leave it, move on…”
“Fuck off, you’d never leave a drink.”
“True, but the option is there. Anyway, when I want some I drink some, when I fancy a change I try something else- whiskey, vodka, even cider. The pint doesn’t complain because she knows I’ll be back.”
“Why do I feel like this is an analogy of my life?”
“No, no. It’s not. You see, your pint- sarah- isn’t ok with you having other drinks. She wants you to drink with her. Always.
“But, as I was saying, occasionally she hurts me. Hangovers, getting too drunk to fuck, sometimes getting beat up and arrested. But it’s no issue, because she’s always waiting.”
“Right so beer is better than a woman, I get it. But your pint is empty, so she’s left you. Now can we talk about me for a minute?”
“Precisely my point, my pints empty, your woman’s gone. Let’s get another.”
“Another? No, Jase, I want her.”
“Ah, but don’t you see, if I want my last one I’d be drinking my piss or eating my vomit. Not as pleasant as the original. A fresh ones better.”
Jase is at the bar, solving his lack of pint.
He’s a fuckimg drunk, he can’t help me.
Fucking full of shit.
Sarah isn’t piss or vomit.
I’m going to get her back.
I stand, not bothering to wait for that drunk fucktard.
As I step into the street I don’t see the truck.
I hear voices.
All saying the same thing.
I’m a prick.
I lost it all.
I’m fucking stupid.
Jase was right.
And now it’s all fading.
I wasted everything.
All goes black.
So, another backstory, also from the pub
Rita, the barmaid. She’s pretty good. Good at her job anyway.
Life? Not so much.
She’s single, not really an issue
She’s 50, still ok
She’s never been in love. There have been men of course, many men. She’s fifty and an barmaid, there have been plenty of men eager to take advantage of an easy lay. But never love.
Men have been revisited, often multiple times, rarely on consecutive occasions. Given the numbers you’d wonder why she isn’t a mother.
She doesn’t use condoms, she wants the feeling
She’s not a mother, maybe it’s her body, maybe it’s the smoking, maybe it’s the drink, maybe it’s luck. It doesn’t matter, she’s childless and she wants one. Two. Three. Any. But it’s getting late, her clock is ticking, she’s 50 and single, what else can she do? Without a child her life’s been wasted, pointless.
She wants children
She has none
She’s getting old.
Tonight will be the end of it, it cost her her job but she did it, enough free drink for the youngest, fittest guy in the bar, enough free drink to make him want what she can offer. It cost her her job, but tonight’s her chance.
She’s fifty, he’s twenty two.
Tonight was it, if she’s capable, she’ll be pregnant.
She needs it, needs kids, tonight’s the chance.
Tonight she gets pregnant or she doesn’t
Tonight leads to happiness or it doesn’t
It’s been two weeks, two weeks of no sex, no smokes, no drink, two weeks of crossed fingers and crossed legs.
She’s desperate, she wants kids, she needs kids.
The stick is there, soaked in her piss
Pissing on a stick, so classy
She’s not pregnant
Nothing else matters but the stick
Here she sits, in a grotty cubicle, in the grotty pub she worked in until so recently.
Pissing on sticks
She has everything she needs here
She’s not pregnant
This is her last chance, her last attempt at creating life.
Or she’s dead.
The stick starts to change…..
So, another helping for you
You know, were I to write a diary it’d be empty. I have nothing to say and nothing to write. My life’s empty, it’s fairly pathetic, but here I am; at the pub. Drinking with Derek. Because Derek’s here and so am I.
Wouldn’t it be a wonderful thing, truly wonderful, if I could tell you my life was normal and average or tolerable and acceptable but it’s not. I’m too old, my wife’s too ugly, she’s probably fucking the gardener. She’d leave me if she had a decent lawyer. The fact is we’re going through the motions, she’s a bitch and I’m a loser.
I’m in my forties, too old to start again, too young to just accept it and settle. Yet here I am, rich enough to stop caring. Poor enough not to be able to change things.
Here I sit, my clothes worn, colours faded, jeans patched up. If I were smart I’d spend the money; new clothes; new car; new woman.
I’m John, I’m pathetic, I’m a loser, my wife’s a bitch, I’m in the pub, she’s fucking the gardener, I wish I had something.
Anything more than sitting here with Derek. I’m drinking with him because he’s here, and because I’m here, but he has nothing to say either, he has no story. He’s just an old fella with the shakes. He’s probably had as pathetic a life as myself….