Mick Lynch
I went to an RMT workshop at TWT a few weeks ago and they were passing around a box of pastries to share. I was the last person in line so I kept the box on my knees only for Mick Lynch to walk past and say I wasn’t being “very comradely” keeping the pastries to myself.
This has kept me up at night every night since
Taking Your Audience With You
On October 5th 2023, I gave a talk at Magazine Street about applying independent web principles to independent publishing.
Bibliography
Nick Srnicek, Platform Capitalism, 2016
Van Dijck, Poell and de Waal, The Platform Society
An Airbnb in Copenhagen: how I went TikTok-viral and teens from the UK said I had the affectations of a cokehead
The second time I went interrailing I booked a reasonably-priced Airbnb in Copenhagen as a stopover on my way to Norway - the date of my stay coincided with my birthday so I decided not to go for the cheapest option.
I knew something was wrong as soon as I turned up: there was a 3ft Buddha statue in the window looking outwards and a TV hanging above him. Stepping inside, my spacious one-room condominium was split in two by heavy-duty curtain. There was a copy of Hokusai’s Great Wave (it was, at least, 6ft on the diagonal) hanging on one wall and a full-height mirror leaning against the wall opposite. The light switches by the door only turned the TV on to display a massage price-list.
Behind the curtain was a massage bed and accompanying accoutrements. Behind the mirror was a light switch, hanging, its live wiring exposed.
The true kicker was the bathroom: there was no bath, there was no shower. It wasn’t even a wet-room. I messaged Anna, my host, to ask about the lack of any kind of washing facilities and she answered with a simple “I left you a bucket”. And there it was, under the sink. The tap was extendable: I had to pull the tap out of its socket to turn it into a quasi-shower head.
I recorded the whole thing to upload to my Instagram for my friends to see and laugh at it, and then a few years later I uploaded it to TikTok because I’d remembered what happened. The video went viral and the main takeaway a frightening number of those hundreds of thousands of viewers had was that my sniffle betrayed my raging cocaine addiction.
It was my birthday the next morning and I spent it crouched in a small plastic bucket showering with a bendy sink tap. There was water fucking everywhere and I didn’t actually feel that bad about it.
A Nigerian-German in Liechtenstein
I stayed in a hostel just off Liechtenstein’s one and only main road - it was flanked by meadows and mountains on either side. There was a bloke unpacking in my dorm and I gave him the usual “you alright mate?” and he shot back with a “fucking hell! you’re not from around here, are you?”. It turned out that he was in Liechtenstein for an international martial arts competition. Later, it also turned out that during this same weekend was Liechtenstein’s Independence Day. The two seemed linked. Maybe the international martial arts lobby was desperate for tax relief.
Later that evening I met my two other roommates: a Dutch lass living in London and writing a book and a lovely bloke from Berlin with Nigerian-German heritage. While our martial arts friend was out scrapping with the locals, we drank a lot of white wine and tried not to melt in August heat.
The next day I went to watch the Independence parade and followed it up to Liechtenstein’s castle, where I had a pint with the Prince of Liechtenstein. He even paid for it :)
I was the first back at the hostel and could hear the kindly Berliner arrive before I could see him; he got on a bus to a nearby Austrian town where a group of old Bavarian women accosted him and pressured him into buying a set of authentic cream-coloured, leather lederhosen. He considered it for a second, remembered that it was Liechtenstein’s independence day and thought to himself: when in Rome. Mind, the Liechtensteiners don’t wear lederhosen.
His lederhosen squeaked as he walked and he had to peel himself out of it in the evening. He came back to our room streaming with tears of laughter at the mistake he’d made walking around the richest, whitest parade in Europe as a black man wearing cream-coloured lederhosen.
Oral Tradition
In the third year of my filmmaking degree I realised that my screenwriting lecturer was a bullshitter. What’s worse is that I also realised I kinda admired it; it didn’t really matter if the stories he told were true, only that remembering them makes me howl.
One week, he needed a last-minute sound recordist for his PhD project. Having zero interest or experience in sound recording, but having quite a lot of interest in spending the day with this man, his 15-years-junior fiancee, and their baby, I decided to volunteer.
On the day I wore my brand new white trainers. Experimental musician-slash-actress Keeley Forsyth was there, too. We spent the day driving around Halifax and walking through fields, and alleys, and ginnels, and mud.
At midday, on a staircase running up the side of a pub and towards an overpass above it, he bent over to tie his shoes. His glasses fell off his face and into a tidy pile of literal shit. He picked them up, gave them a sniff, assuredly proclaimed “this is human shit”, and threw them aside.
During the drive back, he explained to me the one time someone had cursed him. Famed actor Donald Sutherland, specifically, had cursed him because he refused to foot the bill for a £150 bottle of wine. Donald ordered the waiter to open the bottle and pour a glass; he dipped his thumb in the wine and leant over to draw a cross on my lecturer’s forehead. Whether the curse has come to pass I don’t yet know.
My brand new white trainers were fucking ruined and, in retrospect, I think I got cursed by proxy.
But that was one of the lessons of film school I’ll never forget: stories are fun. I love to embellish and pretend and reframe and bullshit, sometimes. All you have to do is call it oral tradition and nobody bats an eyelid.
The Wachowskis
A few weeks ago I tweeted this:
want a game that's gonna emotionally ruin me - obvious runner up is disco but I don't have the time to commit to it right now, so I'm thinking kentucky route zero instead
— 🕊 Eryk (@peregrine_coast) August 12, 2023
The last few months have been pretty intense so I’ve not really been able to just sit down and take a day off. Until today! I decided to go through a bunch of my fave games/shows to experience a bit of catharsis and maybe have a bit of a cry. I watched the first two episodes of Sense8 and played the first episode of Kentucky Route Zero again.
Sense8 is an odd show which I adore completely. I think a lot of it stems from how thoroughly it reflects the Wachowskis’ liberalism; a liberalism which I’m guessing is closely linked to them being queer and of a certain age. Will is a cop, but he’s one of the good ones! White people can wear dreads because, like, we’re all one people, man (also: yellowface in Cloud Atlas)! That said, the milquetoast politics are contrasted by complete sincerity in almost everything else: every character feels everything deeply, every character is honest and justified and vindicated.
I went to a talk Lana gave at Camerimage, Poland in 2018/2019 and I still think about it semi-regularly. A few key members of the production team were also there, and the one thing they talked about was the intensely close bond they all developed while shooting both seasons. The whole thing was filmed on location in eight countries and featured 8 key cast members. It’s wild! I’m not sure that anyone other than the Wachowskis could have pulled it off. Going from Sense8 to probably the best sequel to the Matrix we could have got is such a clear progression of a singular creative voice.
There’s no great point to this other than to gush about Sense8 a bit; despite the sometimes shoddy dialogue, wonky performances, cinematography which screams shit-we-have-this-location-for-one-more-day-and-three-days-of-scenes-left, and a slightly nonsensical central premise… I absolutely love it for the tenderness and honesty and sincerity and weird orgy scenes.