* 200 articles. Two years. Whelk. The best of Upsideclown. Might be reprinted.

You're not going to put this in a clown are you?

23 July 2001
Victor kisses, tells and gives marks out of ten.

Hang on a second. I strongly advise against inserting anything into a clown. As much as they deserve it. And I'm not that practised in things anal. See Matt's Up the Arse, Or Not At All for that. I do like resting my nose in other people's bellybuttons (note, 'people's' - no discrimination whatsoever thus far. I should perhaps have drawn the line at the vagrant who sells the Big Issue outside Brixton tube station, who claimed that his pregnant girlfriend had died in the Marchioness disaster and who forced me to wear one of his earrings). As my yoga technique improves I will in due course be able to nuzzle my own navel (and suck my own cock). Problem solved.

There remains the social cloud that hangs over the seven of us now that we are 'writers'. As far as we are aware there have been no biological side effects of our yearlong involvement in clown. But I'm now starting to wonder: is it possible that midnight stealth monkeys have abseiled through the skylights of our cityliving shagpads, loaded with branding equipment with which to mark us as creative pariahs? Possible. But who would do such a thing? Not one of us - the culprit could easily be identified as the one who still has close friends. As in too many B-Movies the finger points at our monstrous spawn as it turns on its creators, screwing their personal relationships.

I'm not surprised that clown has an organic quality: it was always going to be bigger than the sum of us, an individual entity demanding nourishment of varied quality and exposure to a public as bright as the 60 Watt bulb on a wire you use to illuminate your loft when you decide the lawn's trim enough for a game of badminton. I didn't bank on its ability to breed mistrust.

For some months now I have been aware of people looking at me differently, strangely. Perhaps it's the new glasses, the built-up shoes, the scarring. It could be any number of things. But maybe it's because I wake up every morning with the words 'Don't talk to me - I'll write you down' tattooed on my forehead in permanent marker pen.

No longer does my mother tell me about her escort work and credit card fraud. Our conversations now typically revolve around the search for the 'real' Diana and the prospects of 'Tim Hinmin', the first and last Brit ever to win anything ever.

My father has refrained from regaling me with his stories of youthful calvados-fuelled date rape in Seventies Normandy. We now engage only by means of a protracted evaluation of the relative merits of the great British folk/rock bands - Fairport Convention or Steeleye Span?

My sexploits are increasingly unpredictable and divergent: partners that err on the timid side are paranoid that they will be newsworthy. Of course they're right. I have it all stored in my head ready for use at an appropriate juncture. Remember that next time you feel like winding me up. Those who are self-serving endeavour to pleasure me further in order to get a good write up. By all means carry on - I'll even name names if it makes you work harder.

Work colleagues are hard to get on with at the best of times. In their inferiority they quite reasonably fear that I will discredit them in front of the powers that be. As a result they are very inquisitive but not very giving.

Sexploits with work colleagues are somewhat problematic.

I am not a whiteboard, I'm a human being. Trust me. Look into my eyes. Come on, you know me. I have ample material for my writing without having recourse to my private life. Why would I compromise what I have with you? It's soooo special.

So, to conclude - 8.


This is the fucking archive

Current clown:

18 December 2003. George writes: This List

Most recent ten:

15 December 2003. Jamie writes: Seven Songs
11 December 2003. Dan writes: Spinning Jenny
8 December 2003. Victor writes: Rock Opera
4 December 2003. Matt writes: The Mirrored Spheres of Patagonia
1 December 2003. George writes: Charm
27 November 2003. James writes: On Boxing
24 November 2003. Jamie writes: El Matador del Amor; Or, the Man who Killed Love
20 November 2003. Dan writes: Rights Management
17 November 2003. Victor writes: Walking on Yellow
13 November 2003. Matt writes: Disintermediation
(And alas we lost Neil, who last wrote Cockfosters)

Also by this clown:

8 December 2003. Victor writes: Rock Opera
17 November 2003. Victor writes: Walking on Yellow
27 October 2003. Victor writes: Our Tune
6 October 2003. Victor writes: Sucking face (in a public place)
15 September 2003. Victor writes: You got any ID?
25 August 2003. Victor writes: Blood on the Boulevard
4 August 2003. Victor writes: In (paren)theses
10 July 2003. Victor writes: Island Fling
19 June 2003. Victor writes: Back (back) and forth (and forth)
2 June 2003. Victor writes: 300 clowns, 13 eight-year olds
12 May 2003. Victor writes: The swings and roundabouts of outrageous fortune
21 April 2003. Victor writes: ...just sitting there quietly contemplating suicide
31 March 2003. Victor writes: Victoria
6 March 2003. Victor writes: Relevant experience
17 February 2003. Victor writes: You will eat chips and go nowhere
27 January 2003. Victor writes: A bushy fish for fishy Mr Bush (after Juvenal)
6 January 2003. Victor writes: The Accidental Voyeur
16 December 2002. Victor writes: Gripper goes bang
25 November 2002. Victor writes: Bediquette
4 November 2002. Victor writes: Where have all the spastics gone?
14 October 2002. Victor writes: An Immodest Proposal
23 September 2002. Victor writes: Fastscan masterplan
2 September 2002. Victor writes: Dry Humping Social Club
12 August 2002. Victor writes: Beat the Mongol
22 July 2002. Victor writes: What life is not
1 July 2002. Victor writes: Stupor heroes
6 June 2002. Victor writes: Dry
13 May 2002. Victor writes: Muppet Suite
18 April 2002. Victor writes: gingermingeninja
25 March 2002. Victor writes: Sodomize with Pukka Pies
28 February 2002. Victor writes: Dave's problem
4 February 2002. Victor writes: King of the Aisles
10 January 2002. Victor writes: Here come the decorator gimps.
17 December 2001. Victor writes: Make war, not supper.
22 November 2001. Victor writes: Cough
29 October 2001. Victor writes:
4 October 2001. Victor writes: Green Gauges
10 September 2001. Victor writes: Blind weed
16 August 2001. Victor writes: Snout!
23 July 2001. Victor writes: You're not going to put this in a clown are you?
28 June 2001. Victor writes: What is a droll?
4 June 2001. Victor writes: Burt Pakamak
10 May 2001. Victor writes: Board to Death
12 April 2001. Victor writes: Tricolon with anaphora?
22 March 2001. Victor writes: Point of View
26 February 2001. Victor writes: Goth's Dinner
1 Feburary 2001. Victor writes: Les Miserables
4 January 2001. Victor writes: Flat-packed furniture
14 December 2000. Victor writes: Deliverance
20 November 2000. Victor writes: Bottomry: Exorcising Ghosts
26 October 2000. Victor writes: Body Art
2 October 2000. Victor writes: Disney must die
7 September 2000. Victor writes: Ice-cream in Offworld
14 August 2000. Victor writes: I like sweets that taste of medicine
26 June 2000. Victor writes: I've seen the future, and it's feathered

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