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

This List

18 December 2003
George will check it twice

All I want for Christmas is your two front teeth, gilded and hanging around my neck as a sign of ownership.

What don't I want? I don't want peace on earth, and I certainly don't want your fucking pity. I want things to be actively sorted out without any half-smiles and bright "Gosh! Wow, I'm really pleased for you!" (subtext - because it's been so fucking long since XXX happened). I wouldn't mind some peas though, especially with gravy and mashed potatoes. I don't want smiling children holding hands; their tiny faces and fingers scare me. Glee worries me. I don't want that.

Reindeers, snow, mulled wine: I wouldn't mind those. Reindeer jerky is meant to be really tasty and would probably go well with the wine. I like snow fights. An early moment of sexual awakening is being wrestled into the Tyrolean snow by - well, you don't need to know his name now. He played rugby. More of a macho macho man than you'll ever be.

I want the New Year to come quickly. I feel as though this holiday season has lasted ten years already. I want this itching on my back to stop.

I want your bones ground up and presented to me in a silver phial by terrified nubile nymphettes. I want to sail out to sea in a fantastic ship manned by pirates and throw the dust into the waves in the moonlight while the drums beat on.

Speaking of music, I wouldn't mind an iPod. There's loads of stuff that's scattered around the place and it'd be great to download it all into one box. Eliza Carthy, Leftfield, Johnny Cash, early Liz Phair, the drumbeats from my pirate ship, all ready and available whenever I want to listen to them. And so shiny too!

I don't want vengeance. But, bitch, if you think that's because I'm a good and sweet person, think again: I don't want it because I don't think it could be enacted. Vengeance in this light would be as effective as burning every last pair of those gingham knickers you had or saying that your roots are greasy.

I want to decorate the tree and the cake when I get back, but I don't think that counts as it'll happen anyway. I need, not just want, some new boots with tougher zips and buckles than the last pair, which will last through the coming year and the afore-mentioned snow. Black, shiny, lots of buckles and expensive enough to be able to wipe the mess off them when I'm through. I want your blood on the walls and under my fingernails.

I don't want mercy, forgiveness, or wacky trinkets that people buy in a last minute because "You're so kooky! We saw this and thought of you!". Actually, more tights and underwear would also be useful as I always seem to lose and ladder what I have.

I want carnage, I want blood, I want screaming in the cathedrals; I want begging and repentance and the look on your face when you realise that I'm not budging an inch. I want every neuron in your body to tell every synaptic gap exactly what I've had in my head and I want it to fizz like sherbet. I want enough gore to fill my fleet, and a zombie army to clean it up afterwards. I want messages in the stars so fearful that every astrologer cuts their throat rather than transcribe on, leaving blank columns in newspapers and magazines to be filled by tea-leaf prophesiers. I want kittens to have nightmares about what will happen. I want folk songs to be written about your fate that are so terrifying that only the strongest bravest fiddlers will play them. I want papercuts on your fingertips. I want the sky to fall.

I want a new hot water bottle. Like I said, I'd really like that iPod but don't worry about it if it's too expensive.


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:

1 December 2003. George writes: Charm
10 November 2003. George writes: Dead beat
20 October 2003. George writes: Shortening
29 September 2003. George writes: Manhattanites are Cleavage-Starved
11 September 2003. George writes: How to Bring Us in Line With the Future
18 August 2003. George writes: Slashtastic
28 July 2003. George writes: Underground Independent Small Press Comic Fight Club
7 July 2003. George writes: Careering
16 June 2003. George writes: Choose your own adventure
26 May 2003. George writes: Revelations
8 May 2003. George writes: Picture Perfect
14 April 2003. George writes: MetaPirate
24 March 2003. George writes: Preparation X
3 March 2003. George writes: F of x
13 February 2003. George writes: Three is the magic number
23 January 2003. George writes: Recorded Delivery
30 December 2002. George writes: Meat Bingo or Death
12 December 2002. George writes: Royal Inquisitor
21 November 2002. George writes: This Clown is Cancelled
28 October 2002. George writes: Shopping with God
3 October 2002. George writes: SaferSpoony
16 September 2002. George writes: Supercalanthropomorphicexpealidocious
26 August 2002. George writes: The deformed animal menagerie
5 August 2002. George writes: Plaice that Funky Music, Whitebait
15 July 2002. George writes: Safe as Houses
24 June 2002. George writes: Two Lions (DB/DS)
30 May 2002. George writes: Series 8
9 May 2002. George writes: Market Stall
11 April 2002. George writes: I, the Enlargened, Crunchy Product
18 March 2002. George writes: Cakexterminator
21 February 2002. George writes: Fiction Suit
28 January 2002. George writes: Spunk Gunk
31 December 2001. George writes: Fairytale of New Pork
10 December 2001. George writes: Circular
15 November 2001. George writes: A Man With No Ass Is No Man At All
22 October 2001. George writes: One Night in Heaven
27 September 2001. George writes: Uncut
3 September 2001. George writes: Porn Pants
9 August 2001. George writes: Names of the Roses
19 July 2001. George writes: No Fun Here
21 June 2001. George writes: All Your Elections are Belong to Us
28 May 2001. George writes: Pierced as Fuck
3 May 2001. George writes: My Lovely Horse
9 April 2001. George writes: Eight Hundred and Forty-Three
12 March 2001. George writes: Kill 'Em All
19 February 2001. George writes: Formal
25 January 2001. George writes: Sticks and stones
11 January 2001. George writes: A Thought on Morality
11 December 2000. George writes: You can't put that into a soufflé
13 November 2000. George writes: Lyrical Genius
19 October 2000. George writes: Wet wet wet wet wet
25 September 2000. George writes: Built on an Indian burial ground
31 August 2000. George writes: This Way
31 July 2000. George writes: Runt of the Litter

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