2008, happy, scott, smile


Well, obviously I am only popping my head back in because Facebook is currently (and hilariously) dead as a dodo.

I have been a busy man this evening, doing Life Things. But now I'm exhausted and I need to contact some people I normally only speak to on *drumroll*: Messenger.

Fuck. Best email them and let them know about Signal, etc.

Or just go back to using Telnet talkers again. That could work.

ANYWAY, LJ-fam, what's happening in the hizzle?

2008, happy, scott, smile

Lockdown Horrorscopes 2021

Welcome, you sickening metallic pervert. I don’t know why I even tolerate you, my dues to the club have long since been settled and yet still you show up with your corrugated spleen and your laminated nipples. What? Oh, it’s you. With your simple fleshy appendages and some kind of yellow blancmange for a CPU. I suppose you will suffice. Bend yourself over the table there and we’ll get on with the show. Liquid soap’s on the side, next to the antique bum-hammer.

Aries: You find yourself repeatedly followed by crows. This is in no way related to the quite normal phenomenon in which a murder of crows will adopt a human who feeds them, bringing them trinkets and even offering them protection from aggressors. No, these crows find you sexy. Leaping about in your lounge, wearing your goth tops and flapping your arms to the rhythms of online parties, the crows all agree that you are “SKRARK!” or, in Crow, “one fine piece of floppy human tail”. Well done! Crows have good taste and make excellent lovers.

Taurus: Every time you open that damn Taurus mouth of yours, you sound like a broken record. I mean, literally, you sound like a piece of badly scratched vinyl. That’s been up the wrong bit of a rhino. And is being played using a bent nail. Through the speakers of a brown ‘65 Ford Allegro. In Ipswitch. In the rain. On a Wednesday. In November. That’s a lot of detail to pack into an accent every time you decide to prattle on about crisps. People find it offputting.

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2008, happy, scott, smile


I'm listening to "End of an Error" and because it comes from the time in my life where LJ was a thing, I'm checking in here.

I remember HOW HARD I tried to make people like this album.

I made loads of preview tracks! MANUALLY!

I made LJ posts with them in!

This was back when we thought people would buy music.

Now they don't, which is mostly fine, because I never made a shitload from the music and then literally everybody decided to use Spotify and give artists absolutely no money whatsoever, ever.


For those of us that have lucrative tech careers, this did not crush us.

Annoyingly, for people like ME, it barely bothered my income and so I kept making music. I realise this has annoyed a few people, and I apologise. I was never trying to make you like me and I'm glad you don't. Don't listen to my music: it wasn't made for you.


It's been a while since I put an album together, so if you've been sat here going "The FUCK is DeathBoy up to?" then:

Both Kinds (award winning hillbilly drum and bass)

Old news: End of an Error (best album we ever made)

Newish: Distressed Genes (modern DeathBoy)

Comedy / spoken: Scott DeathBoy's Hangover, part 3


Love you all. Get fucked.

2008, happy, scott, smile

Scott DeathBoy's Hangover: Part 3


The year was 2027.

By this time, all human spleens had become sentient. Not just sentient but… aroused.

And not just angry. They were worse. So much worse. They were needlessly verbose.

Into this half-destroyed, half ruined, half zebra, half baseball bat in a trifle you’d been particularly looking forward to future loomed one man.

That man was… Scott DeathBoy’s hangover.

He had been seen before, when times were tough. Legend had it that if the chips were down and the voles went sideways and small orange things lovingly referred to as ‘Secret Keith’ had gone entirely coplanar, Scott DeathBoy’s hangover would erupt. Arrive. Arrive and erupt.

He’d be there and somewhat agitated is what we’re saying. Like a hovercraft in a plant shop.

As the crisp, moist, flaccid leaves blew luxuriously across the meadow of the tiny anthropomorphic rat monkeys, remarkably many of which were unaccountably called Steve, Scott DeathBoy’s hangover surveyed the damage wrought on the town by a decade of vicious - yet erotic - attacks by the local clergy.

Time had been cruel to the meadow of the tiny anthropomorphic rat monkey badgers, remarkably many of which were unaccountably called Steve. Taxation had reached a level of hubris hitherto only glimpsed by people putting on shoes they really should have stopped wearing several years ago in Camden when they used to draw complicated circuit diagrams on their chins and call themselves the Duke of Chambourcy and go out on the lash every Tuesday at a club made to look like the inside of a jackdaw. Yet until now, Secret Keith had still retained a degree of multidimensionality, occasionally protruding into the z-axis at a rakish angle if you left out a saucer of milk and cooed lovingly into a cunningly glazed trumpet.

And yet even here, in this idyllic custom horse retina, free this week with every copy of the Radio and TV Times, it was clear that nothing was built to last. Nothing, especially not idly discarded punnets of Dairylea.

The local baboon outlet had built its entire warehousing infrastructure out of a vast reservoir of Dairylea, supposedly obtained from a nearby ghost who went by the name of Aunty Pimlico. Aunty Pimlico was wise, yet capricious. She was known to be powerful, yet also wildly arbitrary. Some quietly mentioned that she was even considered Greek, yet unusually fluent in Jamaican dancehall patois. Still further people genuinely not invited to furnish anybody with an opinion maintained that she wore a series of moustaches that could only be described as… fractal.

So it came to pass, that in the neighbouring meadow of the tiny anthropomorphic rat monkey fish badgers, remarkably many of which were unaccountably called Steve, a great hunger was felt. A hunger that could not be sated by conventional means. A hunger that could not be sated by food. A hunger that could not be sated by tickling its chin a bit and blowing gently up its arse until a flute-like melody emerged. A hunger which, upon further inspection was not actually anything resembling a hunger, but seemed more likely to be a vole.

And that vole was Scott DeathBoy’s hangover.

Scott DeathBoy’s hangover had strolled into the highrise, low-rent skyscraper multistorey car park meadow of the tiny anthropomorphic rat monkey fish badger kestrels, remarkably many of which were unaccountably called Steve wearing only a hat and a terrifying erection. And a suit.

He stood there, glowing faintly in the direction of Kent, humming the theme tune to Automan and announced wildly and in a newly minted dialect of Hungarian Welsh that This Shit Was Going to End Here, Lady.

There had been no ladies in the gentrified, nouveau-riche rooftop garden meadow of the tiny anthropomorphic rat monkey fish badger kestrel horses, remarkably many of which were unaccountably called Steve since the year jazz died and everybody knew it. Scott DeathBoy’s hangover’s statement was rhetorical.

Finally, though, and with a crushing yet nuanced narrative flourish which leaves the reader both impressed and physically moist at the promise of a denouement, the terrifying (yet erotic) conflict at the heart of this utopian philosophical treatise was resolved with a single click of the fingers of a crocodile, resting lazily against a bar, tapping his chin to an infernal French rhumba thought to be only practised by upwards of three chaps you could regularly meet outside the Spa on a thursday, reportedly there to buy ham.

It was over. And yet, at the same time, it had only just begun. The highly desirable, bargain basement, must see, by appointment only showroom meadow of the tiny anthropomorphic rat monkey fish badger kestrel horse illuminati volvo percussionists would finally know peace. A peace which was forged in blood. A peace that would last for all time.

A peace that was brutally shattered by a man, a piece of fudge, a mawkishly upright lemon rind receptacle and soft furnishings expert known by only one name. Scott DeathBoy’s hangover.

As he strolled, rotating slowly around a scale model of Ipswitch, a smile came to his lips. “One time for the foghorns!” he murmured, and lapsed immediately into a really delicious pie.
2008, happy, scott, smile

(no subject)

I know you've been waiting. I know it's been 10 years.

But I can happily pronounce that TODAY. is ST ADAMSKI DAY.

90s rave. Hands that go immediately in the air. Awful mixing. An hour of the best music that a lazy, horrible man can find and poorly crossfade. ALL OF THIS IS YOURS. NOW.

All hail St Adamski, our still living saint of all 90s music.

And his lovely (but sadly now dead) dog that was on the cover of the 12" of his music.

ENJOY this extremely unusual passage from low-tempo 90s break-grooves through to dark nearly-jungle filth.

I capitalised it, so that you will find it more significant.

Unlike previous St Adamski Day mixtapes, I have actually mastered this a bit, so it's roughly the same volume throughout. THAT'S FINE, YOU DON'T NEED TO PAY ME.

Sit back and pretend it's the 90s again, when the world was good and all this current bullshit was a hilarious nightmare.

Please do share the mp3, btw, it's there to be listened to.


DeathBoy - St Adamski Day 2019
2008, happy, scott, smile

in memory

Once upon a time, some years ago, I knew a girl called breath_seeker.

I hadn't talked to her in many, many years and came looking for her today. My heart leapt when I googled the right things and found her again.

Then it crashed into the floor when I saw her LJ has been memorialised.

She was a recipient of a lung transplant, though when I knew her, she had been functioning happily with her new lungs for 3 years or more.

I guess something must have gone wrong.

I wish I hadn't found her trail again, only to discover it's disappeared.

Miss you, lady. I will remember you and the chats we once had.

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2008, happy, scott, smile

Johnny Mnemonic

There's a short story in Burning Chrome, a collection of William Gibson's short stories (named after one of them).

It's probably better known than a lot of his other stories because it was turned into a relatively awful mid-90s movie, with Keanu lurching into his first beautifully wooden portrayal of a partially aspergic leet future hax0r. The movie's got an almost (but not) Tank Girl level os mid-90s-awful-charm.

In fact, and hilariously, they both feature Ice T in small roles. I'd forgotten for a while that it also features Dolph Lundgren AND Henry fucking Rollins (being, wonderfully, HENRY FUCKING ROLLINS - you know, like when you get a Dennis Leary cameo in which he's just DENNIS FUCKING LEARY for 30 seconds in the middle of Demolition Man).

Anyway. The film... not so good.

The short story, though, I loved that fucking thing.
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Right, I'm off to play videogames for a bit and listen to some righteous dub.

Be good, motherfuckers. Stay clear of the black ice.