Every night, Dave Gahan out of Depeche Mode visits me in my sleep.
Fame? On its own? It’s useless. Trust me on this one. Now, fortune, on its own, is nothing to be sniffed at. In fact, you could say it is to be positively encouraged. You wouldn’t catch me amongst the morons who fail to tick the “no publicity” box on their winning lottery tickets.
Continue reading "How to Build a Mass Murderer by Liam Hogan" »
Geoff began sweating as soon as he was in his seat. The studio lights fried him more than they dazzled him, and they dazzled him a great deal. The blaring music, the suddenly unleashed audience noise, the horrifying realisation that the cameras were actually rolling! It was all he could do to lift his arm, let alone move it about. But this was what he’d chosen, wasn’t it? To be rich! And famous, of course. It was all about choice.
I saw Scott Free alive again last night. A dead man sauntering, joking and smiling. Except it wasn't him, just that portion of his soul captured and released, mere shadows of light flickering across the TV screen. It was only a short clip, and as they cut back to some opinion-for-hire telling us how important Scott had been, he disappeared into a volley of applause. He'd have liked that. He’d have hated it too.
Continue reading "The Clapping of Unseen Hands by N.D. Gomes" »
It’s in a hotel – no, in a series of expensive and discreet hotels, that they meet – no, that they meet, chat briefly, drink, undress, and have sex. It’s a classic pattern, time-honoured. It’s worked for years. So Melissa is more than a little annoyed when Gary throws a spanner in the works.
