The Creative Process Blog Tour

Emma Jane Unsworth is about to launch her new novel Animals. She has been tangled up in a blog-web entitled ‘The Creative Process Blog Tour’ in which you answer four questions about your writing process and then pass the baton to two more writers. I am one of Emma’s chosen two, how flattering! Below are my answers, here are Emma’s answers, and I have scored two terrific contributors for my part: Zoe Lambert, poet, and Alex Niven, poet and music writer, who will post their responses soon. And the chain goes on! It's lovely to be part of it. Hope you enjoy!

What am I working on?

I’m tweaking my novel The Shakespeare Girl. At this stage the notion of second and third drafts is no longer applicable. It feels finished but I suppose I won’t be able to leave it alone until an agent wrenches it from my badly paper-cut hands. So what I’m really working on is finding an agent. In terms of writing, my blogging and arts work is ongoing and thankfully about to increase. I’ve started the research for a non-fiction project which I’m already very excited about. I’ve finished the research for another novel about the Blitz Kids and black magic. But the next thing I’m actually writing is a play. I sound like Daisy from Spaced now I realise… Trust me, these things will materialise though! I recently saw two of my ideas turned into finished pieces by somebody else and it made me realise with a start that you can’t sit on your ideas for too long because they are all floating around out there for other people to pluck out of the air…

How does my work differ from others of its genre?

This is definitely a question for a more seasoned and experienced writer than myself. If I knew what genre The Shakespeare Girl was I would be able to find a home for it much easier I’m sure! Literary-comic fiction perhaps? And a bit of pastoral. Maybe ‘tragical-comical-historical-pastoral,’ to quote Hamlet. I have a good idea of who my readership might be at the very least, if not the genre of the writing.

Why do I write what I do?

It’s really the strength of an idea that compels me to get something down. The first thing I ever wrote was a silly novella about a couple of temps who fall in love and win a huge amount of money and go on an adventure to experience life all over the world. I was lonely and broke at the time, no passport, no girlfriend, no boyfriend, and the fantasy of the story was a comfort so I ended up writing it all down and it proved to be great escapism. With The Shakespeare Girl the idea of digging up the playwright’s grave is so tantalising, not just because of what we might find but because of how it might make the world react. The idea never fails to fill me with curious energy and it was sufficient to construct an entire narrative and cast of characters around it.

How does my writing process work?

I’m still very much learning the craft but for the most part I know what the final point of the story is and I try to move the story methodically towards it. For instance, character A needs to learn something about character B: what’s the best way to unfold that discovery? The funniest or saddest or most unexpected way? I try out various scenarios in my head, often involving dialogue that I say to myself. When I’ve settled on the ‘method’ I map the chapter and fill it with detail and then I write that in one sitting and edit the following day, and then it’s done. It won’t get edited again until a larger chunk of the story is written because the context is such a big part of it, you can’t edit in isolation. I’m a very good editor but a nervous writer; the initial writing incubates for a good while before it hits the page.

Manchester Literature Festival, 8–23 October

A typically packed and dizzyingly varied roster once again from this year’s Lit Fest. Manchester is book capital for the duration of this autumn city festival. Coupled with the annual boost in the concert calendar, you might find you’re out and about in the next few weeks more often than you were in the drizzly summer.

My top picks this year are these:

city-pick Manchester

Tuesday 9th October, 5.30pm

Manchester Town Hall, Banqueting Room

Iain M Banks

The Hydrogen Sonata

Thursday 11th October, 7pm

International Anthony Burgess Foundation

Pat Barker

Sunday 14th October, 6pm

IWM North

Kei Miller

Sunday 14th October, 2pm

Whitworth Art Gallery

Simon Armitage

Walking Home

Tuesday 16th October, 7pm

International Anthony Burgess Foundation

Is the Editor Dead?

Lee Brackstone, Peter Hartey, John Mitchinson, Michael Schmidt & Erica Wagner

Wednesday 17th October, 6pm

International Anthony Burgess Foundation

Fifty Years of A Clockwork Orange

with Dominic Sandbrook

Thursday 18th October, 7pm

International Anthony Burgess Foundation

Blog North Awards and The Turing Text

And the Turing Text

Wednesday 17th October, 7.30pm

The Deaf Institute

Manchester Poetry Prize Gala

Ian Duhig, Frances Leviston & Adam O’Riordan

Friday 19th October, 7.30pm

Baronial Hall, Chetham’s School of Music

Sex and the Cities

Anjali Joseph, Grażyna Plebanek & Noémi Szécsi

Friday 19th October, 7.30pm

International Anthony Burgess Foundation

Books that I got for my birthday

Speed Reading: Part 1

I’m devouring novels for my MA in Creative Writing. I’ve been on a heady journey from a post-War US college to the foggy streets of 1950s Dublin, from Trinidadian streets to harsh South African farmland, from genteel Edinburgh to tempestuous Malaya. I’m going to do some microblogs about the novels I’ve been reading, starting with …

The Prime Of Miss Jean Brodie by Muriel Spark (1961)

‘This is nineteen thirty six. The age of chivalry is past…’

So says Jean Brodie, progressive schoolmistress of Edinburgh, trapped between the romance of a Renaissance past and a brave new Continental future. The novel dramatizes a dilemma: when you foster independent thought, how are you to cope when those minds independently begin to disagree with you?

‘You will get used to our ways. What religions are you?’

Not even Maggie Smith’s note perfect rendering of the on-screen Brodie can overshadow the powerful eccentric charge of the book. I quote it endlessly. Brodie is no heroine but the novel in its cruel way makes you yearn to turn her into one.

‘It is seven years, thought Sandy, since I betrayed this tiresome woman …’

The style is classic Spark: droll, precise, bathetic. Fay Weldon adopted a similar style for the duration of her career proving its endless, wondrous durability.

Pnin by Vladimir Nabokov (1953)

‘In the beginning Pnin was greatly embarrassed by the ease with which first names were bandied about in America…’

Pnin is a towering comic creation. Pnin himself does not tower, he is ham-fisted, wonkily self-translated, a klutz. But under the blissfully comic veneer of the character lies the sadness inherent in exile literature. Pnin’s Russia is far away and perhaps no longer existent. When he is among exiled countrymen he flourishes, his language asserts itself, it’s a joy to witness.

‘Now a secret must be imparted. Professor Pnin was on the wrong train…’

The narration is a lesson in control, the narrator attempts to coerce the reader into a mockery of Pnin but the writing gives you the space to resist, and you do. The narrator too relents eventually. An evening spent witnessing a drunk colleague unkindly aping Pnin leaves him with ‘the mental counterpart of a bad taste in the mouth.’

Sometimes the writing is so lyrical that it’s a sorrow when the line ends:

‘There are some beloved women whose eyes, by a chance blend of brilliancy and shape, affect us not directly, not at the moment of shy perception, but in a delayed and cumulative burst of light when the heartless person is absent, and the magic agony abides, and its lenses and lamps are installed in the dark…’

It is also a campus novel, and a good one. Pnin’s University department is to be phased out, the coming of Cold War hostilities places a Russian professor in something of a new and unsettling light. The image of Pnin driving away from the town and off the page, befuddled and alone, is a unique modern tragedy. If you love John Kennedy Toole’s A Confederacy Of Dunces, you might find its spiritual parent in this novel.

The Millstone by Margaret Drabble (1965)

‘The thought of marrying Roger was pleasantly exciting and most unattractive…’

The fact this is an ‘issues’ novel alone can explain its presence in the repackaged ‘Penguin Decades’ series. Thin writing can’t evoke the sympathy sufficient to bear the narrator Rosamund, who charts a largely sexless and uncommitted single life, followed by her pregnancy and the birth of her child as a single academic living in her wealthy and absent parents’ flat in mid-sixties London.

‘I felt ashamed of an emotion as irrational as dislike…’

If you’re not sure what kind of feminist you are, read the novel. If you find yourself shouting a great deal, you’re probably a socialist feminist. The novel is not completely without merit. Lydia, the protagonist’s best friend and lodger, breathes fiery energy into the passages in which she appears. Her life runs parallel to Rosamund’s but free of the sour mixture of self-pity and self-importance that makes the latter more or less unbearable and appears to function little in the story.

‘I could not rid myself of the notion that if Octavia were to die, this would be a vengeance upon my sin…’

Even Elaine Showalter’s introduction seems unsure of the novel’s merits. Given that ‘A Taste Of Honey’ had played twice in London in the years prior to this novel's publication it seems as if working class versions of these stories are of only prurient and not literary interest if Drabble’s work is to be considered innovative (Drabble’s version conflates the gay man and the black man from Delaney’s play into one white gay man who fathers Rosamund’s child). Some time capsules are best left in the ground where they can be better built upon. Two short years after The Millstone saw the light of day, Fay Weldon (her second mention in this blog, I realise) publishes The Fat Woman’s Joke, rendering Drabble’s type of novel mercifully unnecessary for the foreseeable future.

On writing ...

Every person who is writing a novel at some point compiles one of these lists in the vain hope that it will somehow contribute to their writing project. It won’t and it doesn’t and here is mine …

Situationist slogans from May ’68 …

Write everywhere!

Before writing, learn to think!

I don’t know how to write but I would like to say beautiful things and I don’t know how!

I have something to say but I don’t know what!

I don’t have time to write!

‘As every dullard knows, the historical novel is neither history nor a novel. History means footnotes and careful citations from others tenured in the field, while the “serious” novel is about the daily lives of those who teach school and commit adultery.’

Gore Vidal

‘Only bad writers think that their work is really good.’

Anne Enwright

‘Dinginess is death to a writer…the damp small confines of the mediocre and the gradual corrosion of beauty and light, the compromising and the settling; these things make good work impossible. When Keats was depressed he put on a clean shirt. When Radclyffe Hall was oppressed she ordered new sets of silk underwear from Jermyn Street. Byron, as we all know, allowed only the softest, purest and whitest next to his heroic skin, and I am a great admirer of Byron … To do something large and to do it well demands such observances, personal and peculiar, laughable as they often are, because they stave off that dinginess of soul that says that everything is small and grubby and nothing is really worth the effort.’

Jeanette Winterson

‘Never use a verb other than "said" to carry dialogue.’

Elmore Leonard

‘From an early age they knew what little value the world placed in books, and so didn’t waste their time with them. Whereas I, even now, persist in believing that these black marks on white paper bear the greatest significance, that if I keep writing I might be able to capture the rainbow of consciousness in a jar.’

Jeffrey Eugenides

‘Rejection slips, or form letters, however tactfully phrased, are lacerations of the soul, if not quite inventions of the devil - but there is no way around them.’

Isaac Asimov

‘He didn't even know how some of his books ended. That's part of what makes those books existentialist masterpieces.’

Bret Easton Ellis

‘[T]o write is to practice, with particular intensity and attentiveness, the art of reading. You write in order to read what you've written and see if it's O.K. and, since of course it never is, to rewrite it — once, twice, as many times as it takes to get it to be something you can bear to reread.’

Susan Sontag

‘No poet or novelist wishes he were the only one who ever lived, but most of them wish they were the only one alive, and quite a number fondly believe their wish has been granted.’

W.H. Auden

‘Every writer I know has trouble writing.’

Joseph Heller

‘A man will turn over half a library to make one book.’

Samuel Johnson

‘I do not like to write - I like to have written.’

Gloria Steinem

‘It's like driving a car at night. You never see further than your headlights, but you can make the whole trip that way.’

E. L. Doctorow

Man at a party: I’m writing a novel.

Peter Cook: Oh really? Neither am I …

Quilt, a novel by Nicholas Royle

Quilt is ostensibly the story of a man dealing with his father’s death. The death occurs in the opening pages and follows that of his mother two years earlier. In some kind of beleaguered response to these events, the protagonist, with the help of his long-distance girlfriend, installs an aquarium in his parents’ lounge, housing four rays. The creatures become the starting point for metaphysical considerations that seem eventually to detach the protagonist from reality.

The rays are not the first metaphysical fish in literature. Those who’ve read Steven Hall’s The Raw Shark Texts can draw comparison with that novel’s ‘word shark’ and its representation of trauma. Hall‘s novel is a more fantastical endeavour; Royle’s is shorter and more tightly focussed, and perhaps more effective because of it.

The inside cover image alerts us to a visual comparison to be made between a shoal, or ‘fever’, of rays, and the design of a patchwork quilt, setting up metaphorical possibilities from the outset.

What do we know about quilts? They are domestic and familial, often heirlooms. One tradition sees quilts pass down the female line, each recipient adding or decorating a panel. They are used in times of illness and bequeathed at death. (The famous AIDS remembrance quilt extrapolates these ideas into a vast personal memorial). This all seems to tally with the theme of generations and mortality in Royle’s novel. The prose is also punctuated throughout with the Omega symbol, connoting death and an ending, another thematic link.

In some respects this is a fitting book to complete our unit, relating as it does to a number of other works studied. The significance of the house compares with The Rain Before It Falls. The weird metaphysical angles are reminiscent of Amaryllis Night And Day. The importance of material objects and memory is also seen in The Blindfold. The detachment of rationale, and possible metamorphosis, harks back to The Horned Man.

Language in Quilt is remarkable, the vocabulary is rich and unusual. Early on we come across ‘aporia’, ‘lachrymosity’, ‘analepsis’, ‘lexemes’ – but it’s sometimes colloquial too: ‘gubbins’, ‘clobber’, ‘no-brainer’. Sometimes it’s a great pleasure to read with a dictionary, and this is evidently a novel not just to be read but to be studied, but it has drawbacks. The pleasures of a bold vocabulary can intervene on narrative flow. At times the prose suggests it is not meant for those of us with a less than highly-advanced grasp of the language, even while its themes assert themselves as universal.

But it is enjoyable. Royle uses linguistic quirks such as alliteration, double meaning, rhyme, anagram. The writing is reminiscent of poetry more often than prose, and in some cases of specific poets. These lines from page 5 might invoke Dylan Thomas:

‘…softer, gulping, an immeasurably beautiful strange ancient fish glopping glooping groping grasping rasping for air…’

… page 14 suggests the poet Tony Harrison:

‘What has made it possible in the past between us, to keep away weeping, all these years, is gone. Because it is going it is gone already. In his esoterically Buddhist way, he has always stressed the joys of silence, the turns of taciturnity. To tire the sun with talking and send him down the sky was never an option. Conversation with my father has always been a minimalist art. And from his eyes in all these years unwitnessed, it now occurs to me, even a tear of sadness shed.’

… page 93 might invoke Sylvia Plath:

‘Neither fish nor fowl, they move like moles in the gravel of the substrate, burrowing and blowing up air, like animated pancakes, or stay at rest on the bottom, half-hidden dark moons.’

The protagonist and his father shared a love and command of language and it is the disintegration of this that signifies life or reason ebbing away. In his final days his father is reduced to cliché: ‘These things happen from time to time,’ he says. The protagonist moves from etymology, that is, the breaking down of words, to language itself breaking down. He is misinterpreted and difficult to understand. There is a sense of relief and surety when the narrative passes to his girlfriend, his head and language are confusing places to be.

The novel incorporates numerous viewpoints. Present and past tense are both used, while the narrative moves between first, second and third person, with three characters plus an occasional fourth omniscient voice in evidence. The structure is complex in those terms while the story itself moves simply, if bizarrely, from death to funeral to aquarium. It is the consideration of rays that adds complexity, introduced early on with the phrase: ‘The ray seems to figure what is magical and uncanny about philosophy’. The creatures become a focal point of thought and language, and also perhaps of a literally unfathomable response to death.

We are invited to draw an analogy between the rays and the dead father. The rays are something to be kept alive in a house of death. The father is likened to a fish when he splutters for breath. The tank is likened to his grave as people gather around it. At some point in the novel it occurs to me his father’s name may even have been ‘Ray’. The vicar is said to use ‘the affectionate diminutive version’ of his name; perhaps ‘Ray’ from ‘Raymond’. The name ‘Raymond’ itself appears in the list of names on page 147 with the instruction that it not be shortened to ‘Ray’, perhaps to keep his father’s name separate and sacrosanct.

Incidentally, the rays themselves are named; Mallarme at least significantly and fittingly so, after Stephane Mallarme, the symbolist poet whose work influenced both the Surrealists and the Dadaists.

The end of the novel invites interpretation. Having anticipated the protagonist drowning in the aquarium, not least because of his earlier recital of Clarence’s speech from Richard III (Clarence is murdered by being drowned in a vat of wine), what we in fact discover is a new and larger aquarium in the house containing a single giant ray with the protagonist nowhere to be seen. Whether this is metamorphosis or symbolic substitution, the sheer uncanniness of the vision is a pleasingly perplexing final image. Humanity has been shrugged off in favour of a form that predates language and so predates the anguish of things that might be painfully inexplicable.

New fiction endeavour in Manchester: The Hidden Gem Press

Manchester has a small but formidable publishing output. Carcanet has made its home in the city for forty years as one of the foremost independent poetry publishers in the country. Manchester University Press has been publishing leading academic research for a hundred years, third only to Oxford and Cambridge in terms of output. In the world of fiction, Comma Press continues a fruitful love affair with the short story, unearthing talent and winning awards along the way. And now joining the fold is The Hidden Gem Press. About to be launched by husband and wife team, Brian and Sherry Ashworth, the press has a perfectly simple and ambitious remit, ‘to publish good quality novels from the best of emerging writers – and we have a distinctly north-west flavour.’

Manhattanchester spoke with Sherry Ashworth ...

How long has your idea for a Manchester fiction house been incubating?

Sherry: Forever. My experience as a writer has typically been that of long trips via Virgin down to London to be lunched by Camillas and Chlamydias who have no idea of life up north. It struck me as a real pity that there wasn't a fiction house here in this far more exciting city. But also more recently it's becoming very clear that the publishing industry is going the way of the music industry – away from big labels/multinationals towards indie – indie publishers all over the country are scooping awards and selling books – and we want a piece of the action. And also as a creative writer tutor at MMU I see so much talent and don't want it to go to waste.

Do you think it’s harder than it might have been in the past for new voices to find their way into print?

Yes it IS harder for new writers to break through – in these recessionary times the big publishers aren't taking risks. Or they need to make megabucks in order to justify themselves to the men in suits – hence the great success of Susan Boyle. But indie presses will change all that.

How will The Hidden Gem fit in with your day jobs?

Easily. Brian is retired so he actually WANTS to dash here, there and everywhere in the interests of promoting good fiction. I just love reading new writing and shouting about the good stuff I find – this isn't work – it's fun, fun, fun!

Whose idea was the name, it’s terrific!

The name was my idea – came to me in the middle of the night. It IS a nod in the direction of the church, but will also describe out books and our writers.

Are you optimistic for the future of The Novel as a form?

Yeah – while people are still literate there'll always be an audience for a good read. They may be reading on their Kindles, but they'll still be reading.

What will be the first title from The Hidden Gem stable?

Our first title is *ta dah* Hungry, The Stars and Everything by the wonderful Emma Jane Unsworth. Emma is a freelance journalist who's had her short fiction published in a number of places. Hungry is her debut novel. It's stylish, funny, and absolutely delicious. The heroine – Helen Burns – now where have we heard THAT name before?? – is a restaurant critic, with a loving partner who cooks her gourmet meals and now she has an assignment to review Manchester’s latest and best new restaurant, tipped for a Michelin star. But who is the mystery chef? And how come each morsel on the tasting menu is so exquisite, and triggers Helen’s memories of a not-so-perfect past? Hungry is not so much chick-lit as chic-lit – and I know it will be to everyone's taste.

The Hidden Gem Press will officially launch at the International Anthony Burgess Foundation on Thursday 25th November at 6.30 pm. Admission is free and the bar and café will be open for the duration. Emma Unsworth will be reading from her novel Hungry, The Stars and Everything alongside Zoe Lambert, who'll be reading from her new short story collection The War Tour.

Hungry, The Stars and Everything will publish in 2011.

International Anthony Burgess Foundation, The Engine House, Chorlton Mill, Cambridge Street.

Map here.

The Blindfold by Siri Hustvedt

‘I haunted the Upper West Side …’

The protagonist of Siri Hustvedt’s The Blindfold is, for the bulk of the story, aged about twenty two, a period of life in which certain things – art, lust, ideas – can seem to needle more prominently at your conscience. This is one of the things Hustvedt’s debut does well, outlining the youthful need to define things and be defined. The novel rings with the urgency of conversations, events and thoughts, but equally frustrates with inertia and the inability to make things happen, which of course is just as youthful.

Iris is a grad student, an eye through which we see New York and its difficult parameters, where she attempts to bring herself to life in a number of guises. Iris is also the author’s first name reversed, inviting an autobiographical reading of the text and, told in four temporally-fudged parts, the story does operate as a convincingly fragmented exploration of the way memory and recall work, and how slippery they can be. The migraines that trouble and eventually hospitalise Iris add another veil of frustrated perception to her tales.

Whether posing for a photographer or translating an obscure German novel, interactions with art and artists colour Iris’ sojourns through a city that’s often masterfully indifferent. She is negotiating not only the streets and their heavily masculine terrain, but her identity. She attempts to forge some kind of rewarding path there, all the while striving to obtain a self-image she can trust. This is almost always done in relation to difficult and inappropriate men. Set in the late seventies, it’s possible this is a woman who literally does not know what to do with her own liberation. In fact, the possible liberating effects of fluid personalities means reality itself is frequently wrong-footed. At one point it seems a posed photograph of Iris has taken on a life of its own. The power of self-image can be too great.

Hustvedt interrogates a number of female stereotypes in The Blindfold: woman as model, as muse, as student smitten with older male intellectual. These scenarios aren’t subverted as you might anticipate, rather our protagonist is left sprawling and helpless beneath their sheer accumulated power. The subversions she does undertake, such as cross-dressing for the purposes of safely bar-hopping in the small hours, liberate her in terms of social barriers, but come at the cost of her own body; she literally begins to wither away. When negotiations with identity break down, so eventually does Iris. The last and most affecting of the female tropes the novel deals with is of women gone mad. The scenes set on a female hospital ward, with its array of bedraggled outcast women, showcase best what a terrifically powerful writer Hustvedt can be.

Texts are the new novels (Part 1 in an occasional series ...)

I’ve had it with facebook. Eight hundred pictures of me red-faced and drunk, a format change every few months that makes it look ever more like the wretched Twitter, I can’t find any events I’m meant to go to … no no no. I’m back to texting and emailing in a big way.

Being a terrible horder of most things I hate to get rid of messages but I’ve discovered fantastic software that allows you to download all your texts and save them as Excel or Word files. Reading them back in this disjointed and decontextualised form is confusing and frequently hilarious. I can no longer attach a story to most of them and it makes them all the more intriguing. ‘What kind of odd life is that?’, I wonder. ‘What strange people’. Below are some of the ones I like the most. One day far in the future cultural anthropologists will look back at such documents and say, ‘Umm … what?’ Apologies if you recognise your life in here somewhere …


Eating cheese in bed. Yes or no?

Been invited to birmingham by beautiful french cellist.

How can we make katy perry die? I don't know what she's for. Did you get called a dirty stopout? You are one.

Cruising the guys in the pound shop.

Tell him to turn up drunk.

Club flyer for student venue: 'Please respect the club and yourself by drinking responsibly. All drinks one pound.'

England would be rubbish without gay men doing all this.

Seeing or typing the words ‘ped egg’ is making me boke.

Get a job!

I feel underdressed in Preston station.

Dressing gown, crisps, sex and the city, no boyfriend. I'm perfectly happy.

Rob him!

Don't remember getting in. think i snogged some bloke in front of his boyfriend. Oops.

Watching old corrie fights on youtube. Suggest you do the same.

I can't deal. I want my hair like that NOW.

I spent my last red cent on a v v brown ticket.

I left the cheese out overnight and now it's orange polystyrene. Fail.

I'm a leopard and a social piranha.

About to eat a jaffa cake with dairylea on it. I'll let you know how it goes.

Do you sometimes forget some people are straight? I do.

I'm cringeing and watching with my back to the screen.

I'm crying and dancing at the same time.

I'm in temple doing the jukebox. Can't BELIEVE you're not here.

I'm playing it right now, complete tune, grace jones meets black box.

I've bought thirty pints of milk and taken the rest of the week off work.

Ick re your hideous daughter. ABORT!

Teen sex quiz in MEN. Filled in accordingly. Question 2: Can you have a laugh together without anything sexual being involved? Answer: No.

'I took a lethal overdose of drink and drugs' 'oh no what have you had?' 'five blisters of paracetomol and a cup of tea'

that adidas advert with beckham estelle ting tings missy elliot has given me cancer

You would do a poo-wee all one word at my shamaze outfit

Put the rest in the bin and spray fairy liquid on it. Nobody wants to fuck fatty.

I hate being let down. It really bothers me. Its because i'm notes on a scandal and construct entire weekend around returning a library book.

So Much sex and aggro in town today i love it. Just been butchered by budget hairdresser. Not a word when we meet. Can't wait to get it under the tap.

The next train at platform 2 is the 18.49 north western service to blackpool north calling at Shitsford, crapton and misery-on-sea.

I've put that i'm a bisexual chinese lady with black twins who speaks farsi and writes kinyarwanda. That'll show em.

The support band are making my pants vibrate.