Warren Ellis
British author of comic books and graphic novels.
Do yourself a favour, you tragic-looking old pisspot... go someplace and eat a lightbulb.
We crisscross the world, making it right, making it strange, and the people never see our coming or our going.
What a classy plane this is. I can almost hear the cellophane flapping in the windowframes.
And the end result is that at least several thousand people get exposed to the creativity of female readers for a change. Which I think is a good thing. And I get pretty pictures out of it, so I win. As ever.
Now, I am not a stupid man. I am aware that I am not dead. Believe it or not, this has not improved my day. I mean... there I was, laying in the empty shop that scally twatcoffin and Bloody Jack dragged me into to be eaten by rats. And that is a separate fucking conversation I'm going to be having with some people. Dead. And I thought... This is a bit shit, really.
Stopping off in the pub to recharge before heading into town to complete Phase Two Xmas Food Shopping. Phase Three is tomorrow, when we go to our butcher to pick up the goose, and stop off at the local beer specialist to get a case of heather ale and maybe some Samiclaus (sp), the superpowered Christmas beer that pours like treacle and paralyses the brain.
I will accept death as an alternative to the pain of being awake, at this point.
Does the Emperor wear no clothes? Or are you simply imagining him naked?
I have decided that I'm going to drink myself into a coma tonight. Join me?
I want fucking points for upgrading Wordpress myself when I still can't program the fucking video recorder properly. Points, and, I dunno, dancing girls and streams of whiskey and cigarettes that won't give me cancer. See to it.
on the continuing success of the comic series "Fell": Fuck everybody. I won.
The sky's gone the colour of death. Big storm coming. I'm going to be trapped in the pub. Very bad.
I really need about six more hours in every day. Ten past two in the afternoon and I can barely keep my eyes open already. I miss dexies, I really do.
After this there's nothing. Do you see? There's no sin, no Hell for our bastards to burn in. No great punishment in the next life for the killers and rapists.
I don't drive, myself: couldn't afford to learn when I was a kid, and discovered by the time I was 18 that girls drove. For years, when people asked me if I drove, I told them that that was what girls were for. This means, however, that I'm totally stranded when in California, where taxis are apparently considered the work of the devil or something. New York; there's a civilised town. London, of course, has the best cabmen in the world.
In cultural news from here in the old country, Pete Doherty is apparently still a "genius," which presumably means we have a hidden race of intellectuals who express their sheer brilliance by rubbing crack rocks into their eyes, stealing all their mates' stuff and failing to get it up for their girlfriends. Oh, and Kate Bush is making a comeback, which I would imagine means that Tori Amos will have to go into some kind of witness protection scheme.
Spoke briefly with my family after the interminable service, during which the priest manfully ignored the fact that I wasn't singing or praying (they don't always), and then took off. I don't do the after- funeral. It tends to be a bunch of old people you don't know drinking all the booze, and then a lot of messy drama.
On convention appearances: I actually thought about attending San Diego a couple of years ago, and talked to a publisher about it. I told them I'd need a business-class flight (better air filters — otherwise I spend a day on an inhaler) and a decent-sized hotel room. They said: "But if we give you that, what will Neil Gaiman ask for?"
Shots of whisky between finishing a magnum of champagne? Don't do that again. I think I've woken up with motor neurone disease.
So fuck 2005 right in the eyesocket. Horrible year. Will 2006 be any better? I'll settle for not having to bury any more of my friends for a year. Hoping to travel more. Also, forming a religion of some kind would be good. Embracing my destiny as Internet Jesus. (Or, at the very least, Wise Man Of The Internet Forest, who appears half-clothed at the treeline every day to make Proclamations And Propheses. You all want to fuck me now, eh?)