Oh Mighty Pitchfork Of Catalonian Massif

I feel desiccated from another night
of boutique 4-star hotel air-conditioning
The great outdoors, I tell myself, despite the
ungodly hour, must be doing me some good.
The make-up girl’s breath carries with it
the stale aroma of cigarette smoke and
the first thick black café solo of the day.
And when she leans in close, I can tell she didn’t
have time to take a proper shower this morning.
My sneakers, for the record, smell of day old Pyrénéean sheep shit.
In the grand scheme of things, I guess that makes us about even.
The make-up girl asks if I’m okay with her
touching and prodding my face and
restyling my hair this way and that.
And as she asks these questions, I can hear the
West Wind whistling through the gaps in her teeth,
from here all the way to the tiny principality of Andorra.
My head nods my approval, but what She doesn’t realise
is that I’ve long since left my physical form behind
and stepped onto a different plain of existence entirely.
My soul has passed through 7 stages of consciousness.
Many hands of light are busy dancing in front of my eyes.
White spots of light dance in front of my eyes.
Indigo spots of light dance in front of my eyes.
Maya blue spots of light dance in front of my eyes.
Bright green spots of light dance in front of my eyes.
Orange spots of light. Yellow spots of light. Red spots of light.
A pincushion of colours and a taste of ambrosia on my tongue.
Pyrene was a nymph who took courageous Heracles as a lover.
But she died alone, in the woods, after giving birth to a serpent.
The demigod piled-up stones to make for her a tomb,
and thus formed this great mountain range upon her corpse.
The twin forked peaks of the Pedraforca above me.
Vapour trails above me. The Dog Star above me.
The halls of Mount Ólympos always above me.

Enjoy the SEAT idents for The Europa League

Every Red-Blooded Man's Dream Date

I’m hardwired a little differently
from your typical red-blooded slavering
heterosexual male of the species. I must be.
Otherwise this would all feel like a much bigger deal.
Hard to believe, I know, but she wasn’t the first choice for the role.
Kate Moss was unavailable, and Peaches Honeyblossom
Michelle Charlotte Angel Vanessa Geldof was far too busy.
Or somesuch. My inside information only stretches so far.
Behind the tinted windows of the silver MPV,
there’s complimentary sugarless chewing-gum
and the bottled water is strictly carbonated.
I’ve been instructed to program the number of
today’s Close Protection Officer into my Nokia.
Just in case. Though it’s not really me that
Johnny Paparazzi is going to be interested in.
Afterall, tomorrow’s celebrity gossip pages are hardly
likely to lead with the headline; “How did a sweet girl
from Ladysmith in British Columbia, end up stepping-out
with the 1994 UK National Student Playwright of the year?”
Although, wouldn’t it be refreshingly
less jejune of them if they did?

My "date" with Pamela Denise Anderson

Tortila Chip Risk Assessment

Actor (late 30s) is advised to warm-up prior to action.
The stunt co-ordinator will assess the actor
and only allow him to work within his ability.
The shelving unit might need to be dressed with a soft facing.
The cardboard display case might require some light scoring.
As for the stepladder, that may need to be wedged to prevent kickback.
If several takes are required, the co-ordinator
will monitor the actor’s condition throughout
and advise accordingly. The nearest hospital
is Barking General on Upney Lane.

"Start Rocking With Doritos"

The Lithuanian Act Of Independence

It’s Independence Day in Baltic Lithuania.
The yellow green and red is flying high all over town.
Today’s drive southwest to the manor house at Traku Voke
is with a new unit-driver. One I’ve not ridden with before.
He has a face like a bag of fresh turnips and he’s not wearing a seatbelt.
I tell him I’m here to film a new version of ‘Frankenstein’.
I tell him it’s a take on the true story which helped
inspire Mary Shelly to write the original gothic novel.
I point out that I’m playing the role of The Doctor, not The Monster.
It’s important, I feel, to make that distinction clear at the outset.
“Doctor Frankenstein was Lithuanian you know”, says the driver.
“Really?” I reply. Knowing full well that he was actually from Switzerland.
I don’t mention Peter Cushing. I don’t bring up Boris Karloff.
I say that in our version, Doctor Frankenstein is Italian;
a physicist called Giovanni Aldini, who came to England in
1802 to perform theatrically spectacular galvanic experiments
upon the body parts of animals and the corpses of executed criminals.
I say that in our version, this thoroughly-modern Prometheus
wears a frock-coat, some knee-breeches and a pearl earring.
The unit-driver nods and allows this information to sink in for a moment.
He looks me up and down and changes gear, before saying; “you look Italian.”
“By this”, he continues after a pause; “I mean you look like a negro.”
There is silence in the vehicle for a little while.
Snow falls effortlessly on the road in front of us.
And then, smiling like a frightened chimpanzee,
I ask through exposed gums how much further it is
to our intended destination.


Trailer for 'True Horror: Frankenstein'

"It's Alive!"

Herman Munster sings 'Dem Dry Bones'

Elstree’s First Human Hungry-Man Dinner

That’s me. The Mafiya wiseguy
being slowly cooked alive in the
industrial-sized microwave on Stage 5.
The prize jamook with the rose tattooed on his chest.
I’ve been working hard on my dentalization.
Placing the consonants at the back of the front teeth.
Keeping the tongue thick and forward.
Making the L-sounds dark and heavy.
Giving the H-sounds plenty of air.
If in doubt, pout. If in doubt,
push the lips forward and think
good strong Russkaya thoughts.
Think Gorky Park. Think Vladivostok.
Think Astrakhan Oblast.
Think Sputnik 2 and Vostok 1.
Think Chechnya, Bolshevik and Stolichnaya.
I must’ve missed that day at actor’s school
when we worked on how best to simulate
having your internal organs
dielectrically superheated from the inside
by a constant stream of non-ionizing radiation.
But this much I know for certain; they forgot
to prick my skin before tossing me in here.
Think Glavnoe Upravlenie Ispravitelno-trudovykh LAGerej.
Think Komityet Gosudarstvennoy Bezopasnosty.
Think Constantin Sergeyevich Stanislavski.
An average human body is between 60 and 70% water.
That’s well over half a person’s total bodyweight.
My black polyester suit is clearly Dry-Clean only.
It’s gonna be one helluva problem getting all the viscera out.

Official 'Kick-Ass' Website

'Kick-Ass' is a real-life superhero

Doing A 7th Earl Of Lucan

When Lucky Lord Lucan disappeared
into the ether back in November 1974,
his Ford Corsair was found abandoned
on a residential street in the coastal town of Newhaven.
The interior of the vehicle was stained with fresh blood.
In the boot, detectives discovered a length of lead piping.
No-one knows for certain what happened to Lord Lucan,
but there are many theories. Some more fanciful than others.
Today, we’re filming on Lawes Avenue;
a carbon-copy residential street
not 5 minutes from where that
Ford Corsair was left marooned.
As daylight slowly ebbs, so the locals begin
emerging from the pebbledashed brickwork.
Shuffling and groaning as they come.
Steadily growing in number.
Armed with their mobile phone 3G technology,
their Mackenzie sportswear
and their Staffies-on-a-string.
White Cracker fireflies, attracted
by the buzzing lights of the Kino Flo
and the smell of human flesh from the big city.
Like something out of ‘Night Of The Living Dead’.
Like something with ‘Duelling Banjos’ as a soundtrack.
No-one knows for certain what happened to Lord Lucan.
But there are many theories. Some more fanciful than others.
Perhaps he took a ferry to Dieppe and became a scallop fisherman.
Perhaps he was simply eaten alive by the good folk of Newhaven.
Face facts, stranger things have happened.

The Lord Lucan Mystery

The Olympic Motto Is: Swifter, Higher, Stronger!

All eyes are on Beijing National Stadium.
An estimated one billion TV viewers worldwide.
The opening ceremony for The Games of the XXIX Olympiad
features an estimated 15,000 performers
and lasts for four-and-a-half spellbinding hours.
The Chinese, may Shangdi bless them, have pulled out all the stops.
Elsewhere, away from the media glare and the much-maligned smog,
there’s another opening ceremony going on
in the city of Hermosa Beach in Los Angeles County.
Here, in the Beach Volleyball Capital of the world,
they’re holding their very own three-day independent short film festival.
There’s a large inflatable cinema screen set-up on the manicured sand.
And the film they’ve chosen to open proceedings with, is my film.
Sure, it’s not a Silver Bear or A Golden Lion or a Hugo or a Palme d’Or,
but the organisers of this three-day independent short film festival
have chosen to award my film the gong for this year’s "Best Screenplay".
My good buddy Shawn Tyler Dufraine has kindly agreed to
jump in his Chevy K5 Blazer and drive the 5 blocks from his condo
to pick-up the prize, in my stead, from the Playhouse on Pier Avenue.
He’s no Sacheen Cruz Littlefeather, but he’s the closest thing
to an Apache Indian civil-rights protester that I can find at short notice.
The temperature in the city of Hermosa Beach today is 80°F.
Humidity is 52%. Visibility is unlimited. The wind is reportedly calm.

Hermosa Shorts Film Festival

Sacheen Cruz Littlefeather's Official Website

Tim Plester: Director's Notes Interview

With One Final Finger In Dane's Dyke

Upon this pebbled beach is where our story ends.
This is where I hang up my langseax knife.
Now am I housecarl. Now have I earned mine spurs.
July 1066 was a cruelly hot summer by all accounts.
July 2008 has proved itself to be anything but.
Yet we have persevered. Yet we have remained resolute.
Men of great spirit stand either side of me.
These proud men of the Shires. These plucky sokemen.
This brave Band Of Brothers beneath the banner of the wyvern.
No hairy star hangs overhead this night. No portents of doom.
Only a silvery Hay Moon rising high above the salty whale-road.
Illuminating the great chalk spur of Flamborough Head.
Reflected in the faces of those warmed by campfires.
I shall fight to the death for my king.
If my king or my earldorman shall die,
I shall take his place and fight
just as he would have fought.
If any man here see me taken with weakheart,
and run away, he shall remind me of this pledge
made here before my kith and my kin.

A Day Out For All The Family At Murton Park

This recreated Dark Age settlement
just beyond the walls of Jórvík
took volunteers 9 years to construct
- using wattle and daub and plenty of elbow grease.
Today the dwellings are standing-in for the hamlet of Crowhurst;
an insignificant boghole, 8 miles from the beach at Pevensey,
where William The Bastard and
his conquistadors first put ashore.
Crowhurst and the hinterland surrounding it
were razed to the ground. Its tiny population
put to sleep by sword. And borne to their Maker.
Today's a Sunday, and the abattoir next door is closed for business.
Now, I’m not an expert on these things, but it certainly smells
as if a couple of cadavers may have been left to rot overnight.
The fetid aroma, it has to be said, only helps add to the authenticity.
It’s just a shame about the constant rumble
of traffic pounding the A64 dual-carriageway.
I’m not an expert on these things,
but I suspect I'm right in thinking
that this vital trunk road
wasn’t quite so busy back in yee olden times.

Murton Park Danelaw Village

Vivat Harold Rex Anglorum!

The world sure is a big place;
full of many people seeking an escape
from the pressures and anxieties of everyday life.
Some choose to play World of Warcraft.
Some choose to learn Klingon (or tlhIngan).
Others still choose to dress in chainmail
and spend their weekends bashing 57 shades
of Living History hell out of each other
in muddy fields the length-and-breadth
of this Merry Olde Kingdom Of Enga-lond.
With a worldwide membership of around 600,
Regia Anglorum are one such organisation.
They're like the Sealed Knot "on acid". Or maybe bogmyrtle.
There’s Nigel and Roland and Big Joe.
There’s Johannah and Christine and Grace.
There’s Mike the field-archaeologist from South Wales.
And there’s Wōden-lookalike Kim, their self-appointed Eolder
(who doesn’t fight anymore, but takes 40% of all earnings).
Head shots are strictly banned in re-enactment combat.
As are all strikes to the hands and the feet and the joints.
When not skirmishing, members like to whittle wood,
drink mead and sew inside seams and undergarments
in a manner entirely appropriate to the period.
The gentleman playing King Harald Hardraada of Norway
is a systems-analyst from Nuneaton back in the “real world”.
He’s taken the day off work today.
Platted his hair before calling in sick.
Painted the skin around his eyes black with grease
whilst drinking a cup of tea from a polystyrene cup.
He’s promised to take a look at the stunt coordinator’s
broken laptop when we break for lunch.
But first, the small matter of the Battle Of Stamford Bridge...

Join Regia Anglorum

Ten Sixty Six And All Of That

Welcome to the Shieldwall fellow fyrdsmen.
Chin up. Stand firm. Parry and thrust.
You're suffering from both constipation and hayfever.
Your hauberk armour is hanging wet and heavy on your shoulders.
Your Spangenhelm helmet is digging into your nasal bridge.
Your kite-shield’s rough wooden surface is skinning your knuckles.
As we all know, The Battle of Hastings
didn’t actually take place in Hastings at all.
As we all know, the area surrounding
Senlac Ridge came to be known as Battle.
And not the other way around.
Long, fierce and bloody-beyond-belief
they began fighting at dawn on October 14th
and fought for as long as the daylight lasted.
And then they fought some more.
Neither side willing to concede.
The Anglo-Saxons refusing to yield.
The Normans refusing to give up the ghost.
The sandy stream transformed into a sanguine lake.
But don’t believe everything you read on a Bayeaux embroidery.
Tall dark and and handsome, King Harold Godwinson
was only identifiable from tattoos found upon his torso.
He was beheaded and gelded. Though not in that order.
And there was likely no arrow in his eye.
Whilst the king’s body was carried from theatre
and buried beneath stones in an unknown location,
the corpses of the 5,000 Englishmen who’d died in his name
were left to rot in the open-air for the next 10 years.
As a warning. As a deterrent. Like so much cheap manure.
The wyrds remain wholly inexorable.
The wyrds go ever as they will.
Where’s a Russian linesman when you need one?

The Smelling Of The Greasepaint. The Roaring Of The Crowd.

Over the past 4 weeks
I’ve developed something of a routine.
Between curtain-up and my first entrance,
stage-right, I like to make myself
a cup of fairtrade gold blend tea
and sit on my own in the basement, listening
to the crackling ripples of laughter over the intercom.
After my first exit, stage-left, I push through the
double set of heavy doors marked; “Push This Door Only”
and follow the signs for; “Toilets, Studio Bar, Cloakroom”.
Whilst waiting for my second entrance, stage-right,
I find time to plan my escape route in the event of a fire.
Our designated Assembly Point is Trafalgar Square;
beneath 1st Viscount Nelson’s Corinthian Column
and across approximately 6 lanes of fast-moving traffic.
In the gap between my second exit, stage-right,
and my third entrance, stage-left,
I return Understage to collect a bunch of flowers
and a pair of sunglasses that I bought from
a Premium Outlet Mall in Cabazon, California.
Leisurely re-ascending the 10 concrete steps,
I push through the spring-loaded door marked;
“Private, Authorized Personnel Only”
and tippy-toe through the crossover and vomitory
back to the airlock between off-stage right and the thoroughfare.
Past the photograph of Samuel Barclay Beckett (1970).
Past the photographs of Alan Bates (1962) and Brendan Behan (1952).
Past the photograph of Sir Obi-Wan "Ben" Kenobi CBE (1960).
Inbetween my third exit, stage-right,
and my fourth and final entrance, stage-right,
I undress and lay down on the rough dark blue carpet
to pull some sit-ups in my American Apparel underpants
and my UNIQLO vest. My record is 161 (during a Thursday matinee).
After my fourth and final exit, stage-right,
I pull my clothes back on, tuck myself in,
and fasten my belt using the Flash Gordonesque buckle
I bought from a hipster store in Williamsburg NYC NYC.
I return the flowers to their vase of water downstairs.
I return the sunglasses to the prop-table.
All this helps kill a little more time.
Whilst waiting backstage for my curtain-call,
I’ve been known to skin a rabbit or two.
Sometimes I turn an imperial unit of base metal into gold.
Sometimes I fold a thousand multi-coloured origami cranes.
Sometimes I memorize Pi to its 722nd decimal place.
Mostly I remotely update my social networking status.
On a good night we can be in the pub by a quarter past nine.

Breaking A Leg

It’s opening night at Whitehall’s Trafalgar Studios,
and someone’s seen fit to hang a noose outside the stage-door.
On the winding concrete stairs down to the basement,
I pass the acclaimed American film-maker Neil LaBute.
I recognise him from his thick wirey beard,
his Mormon lumberjack shirt, and his two wedding rings.
In passing, I wish him well for his show this evening.
As I do so, I’m careful not to let out a whistle
or to mention the names of any Scottish plays.
Trust me, it’s so much easier that way.
It means neither of us have to waste time
spinning around, spitting over shoulders
and reciting lines from ‘Hamlet’ Act 1 Scene IV
or ‘A Midsummer Night's Dream’ Act 5 Scene II
or ‘The Merchant of Venice’ Act 3 Scene IV.
Down below, in the bowels of the building,
me and Bill Juniper are sharing a dressing room.
Bill’s busy tucking himself in
and rolling down the sleeve of his pink
Marks & Sparks "easy-iron" shirt
to hide the Trojan Records tattoo
on the inside of his right wrist.
I can tell that he's nervous about tonight.
I can tell by the bead of sweat on his upper lip.
And by the way he keep combing his hair and brushing his teeth.
Bill’s about to make his West End theatre debut.
Which makes two of us.
It’s opening night at Whitehall’s Trafalgar Studios,
and someone’s seen fit to hang a noose outside the stage-door.
Still, It could be worse. It could be a green noose.
Or a noose made entirely out of peacock feathers.
I draw a tree-of-life upon my belly button
using mascara, and prepare to tred some boards.
Trust me, it’s so much easier that way.

'Lifecoach' at Trafalgar Studios

The Things We Do To Pay The Mortgage # 1

You'd never think it to look at me,
but pin a wild grey periwig to my head,
affix a salt-and-pepper
moustache to my top-lip with spirit-gum,
place me upright upon an electronic
personal assistive mobility device,
and in a certain light,
I begin to bear an almost uncanny
resemblance to noted theoretical physicist
Professor Albert Einstein (1879-1955).
Voted "Person Of The 20th Century" by Time Magazine,
Professor Einstein's brain was removed
upon his death by a man called Thomas Harvey.
The grey matter has since disappeared,
and is supposedly still out there somewhere;
along with Percy Bysshe Shelley’s heart,
the cock-and-balls of Grigori Rasputin
and The Arc Of The Covenant.
Give me a break. It was either this or the new Pot Noodle.

Northeast Veering Northwest 6 Or 7 Occasionally Gale 8 Later

I’m been out chasing cumulonimbi
in the lowlands for the past four days,
and eventually they’ve led me here.
To the so-called Fun Coast.
To the very brink of the North Sea.
A bracing north-easterly gale is howling along the sand.
Beaufort scale 8 and rising.
Bottons Pleasure Beach is closed for the season.
The donkeys have all been sent to the glue factory.
I park the SAAB 900 Turbo near a low coastal wall,
squeeze on the handbrake, and open the automatic sun-roof
to allow the polar breeze to swirl around the cockpit.
According to the Met Office, the odds of being struck
by lightning in your lifetime are about one in three million.
Higher than your chances of ever winning the lottery.
However, between the years 1942 and 1977,
U.S forest ranger Roy Sullivan was struck
on no less than seven different occasions,
and always survived to tell the tale.
Minus a toenail and a eyebrow or two.
Not once did this man from Shenandoah
go off in search of the lightning bolts,
and yet always, the lighting bolts seemed to find him.
I watch through the windscreen as the squall line
moves off in the direction of the Dogger sandbank.
Heligoland was renamed German Bight in 1956.
Finisterre became Fitzroy in 2002.
With any luck, this will all make some kind of sense in the end.
Though it’s true, I have my doubts.

No Commercial Value. Non-Pornographic. For Cultural Use Only.

So, there’s this short film I made
which has been travelling the world.
It lasts for 18 minutes and 20 seconds.
Except, occasionally, it lasts for 19 minutes and 3 seconds.
Depending on the speed of your projector.
25 frames-per-second as opposed to 24.
For the record, I’ve never had a Scandinavian girlfriend.
That part of the film’s narrative is entirely fictional.
But much of the rest of the film’s storyline
is inspired by things that really happened.
I guess “based on a true story”, is how the
freelance tagline writers of the world
might choose to describe it.
The names have been changed to protect the innocent.
You know the score.
Thing is, somewhere along the line,
this offbeat little romantic comedy of mine
also began proving itself to be
somehow wonderfully miraculously
prophetic too. Life imitating art, imitating life. Or somesuch.
The girl came back. Just like she does in the movie.
If that’s not giving away the ending too much?
She sat next to me in the darkened auditorium yesterday.
Her hand-in-mine. And she saw the
heart-on-my-sleeve dedication to her
up on the big-screen for the first time
as the credits rolled, white text over black.
The screening lasted for 18 minutes and 20 seconds.
Not that either one of us was counting.

"Pop-Promo" from 'English Language [With English Subtitles]'

We Are Born Naked. The Rest Is Drag.

My hoofs are aching. I’ve pulled up lame.
It’s these new high-heels of mine. I’m just not used to them.
The girls in the costume truck tell me
I’ve got “nice legs for a fella”. Whatever that means.
The trick, I’ve been reliably informed,
is to tuck the genitals between the legs
and allow the lipstick
the Nicole Farhi
and the silicone in my bra
to do the hard graft for me.
The verb, as I understand it, is to "do drag."
You go T-Girl!


How To Walk Like A Woman

'Criminal Justice' on the BBC

Le Long Weekend/Weekendje

Tail firmly between legs,
I return to the Mainland smelling
of waffle syrup and stale cigarillo smoke.
My stomach distended by humble pie.
My backside feasted upon by lions.
Like a lemming to the slaughter.
Like a burro donkey in search of a carrot.

I'm In Control

The exterior of the terraced house in Macclesfield
is the real exterior of the terraced house in Macclesfield,
(where Ian Kevin Curtis was found hanging on May 18th 1980).
The exterior of the employment exchange in Macclesfield
is the real exterior of the employment exchange in Macclesfield,
(where Ian Kevin Curtis worked a day job whilst gigging in the evenings).
The exterior of the crematorium in Macclesfield
is the real exterior of the crematorium in Macclesfield
(where the remains of Ian Kevin Curtis lay buried beneath
a small memorial stone inscribed; "Love Will Tear Us Apart").
‘Control’ is being hailed as the coolest British film of the year.
It’s been nominated for 10 British Independent Film Awards.
And whilst my false beard doesn't exactly steal the show,
it does help enhance proceedings. For all of 90 seconds-or-so.
After spending the day up an old oak tree in Rochdale,
I now find myself at the film's low-key Madchester premiere;
fittingly, given the film's subject matter, a mere stone's throw
from the city's once legendary Haçienda Club. Now luxury flats.
First-time director Anton Corbijn has a personal connection
to the doomed life of Ian Kevin Curtis and the band Joy Division.
And the stellar beauty of the movie’s monochrome cinematography
betrays his background as a rock photographer of some repute.
In 1979, Corbijn left his home on Hoeksche Waard Island,
south of Rotterdam, and set sail for the North Of England.
There he first met and famously photographed Ian Kevin Curtis
Bernard Sumner, Hooky and Stephen Morris for the ‘NME’.
He claims he could barely understand a word the band said to him.
His English, it seems, wasn’t not so very good back then.
Corbijn took a chance casting Sam Riley as his leading man,
but Riley has rewarded him by managing to get
that iconic epileptic foxtrot just about pitch-perfect.
Corbijn has proved himself a Dutchman of passion.
A Dutchman of energy. A Dutchman of vision.
Corbijn, like Francis Ford Coppola before him,
remortgaged his own home to keep the wheels of production turning.
He has chosen to wear a pair of silver sneekers for his big night.
I think they might be Nike’s, though I can’t be sure.
Either way, he must feel like he’s walking on air right now.

A Vilnius Autumn

There are dried dark blood stains
upon the concrete steps at Taurakalnis park.
An extra, dressed as a member of the Prussian infantry,
and wearing a tunic from a Prague costume house,
had a seizure here yesterday afternoon
and went down like a grouse on the Glorious Twelth.
Maybe he had time to take in the panorama as he fell?
Gedimino Castle. The Hill Of Three Crosses.
The snaking banks of the River Neris down below.
The old red rooftops and the many church spires.
Somewhere in the region of 40 church spires.
None too bad for a city which didn't officially
embrace Christianity until the mid 14th century.
A steady parade of sightseers drift overhead in
baskets propelled by the Archimedes principle.
Heading west towards the setting sun.
Heading west towards Poland.
Floating over fields where the occupants
of the ghettos were marched like diseased cattle
and “liquidated” by the guns of the Nazi Einsatzgruppen.
Floating past the the hypodermic spike of the TV tower,
where the tanks of the occupying Soviet forces
rolled over the bones of 14 unarmed protestors,
cracking skulls, splintering bones, spilling civilian blood.
All of which brings me back to the dried sark stains
upon the concrete steps at Taurakalnis park.
22,000 were killed or wounded
at the real-life Battle Of Waterloo in 1815.
So one minor head-wound’s probably about par for the course.


'Battle Of Brian' Beechams commercial