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Horseradish and its demented cousin, Wasabi. Hateful to the mind and brain and is guaranteed to make me violently angry that I even have to be anywhere near it.
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I am abysmally out of touch with doing any real music. I fell out of habit when I got to university due to a complete lack of time and energy... and then I never got it back. Sad, really.
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The banks, my dear. Always start with the banks. And then the transport systems. And then... the moon.
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Good question. Berlin. For seventeen thousand reasons that I'm not sure I have enough time or space to go into here...
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Goodness gracious bloody Jesus no.
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Myself.
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Denim. Black denim. Oh god. Mm.
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Being stuck in a conversation with boring people who are being boring. Makes me murderous.
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Whichever one gets the most complex uniform, shiniest, scariest boots and the ability to make the most younger men do exactly what he says.
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The sort of dragon that turns things to glass when it laughs at them. Their name would be Clarity. We would storm the houses of parliament together.
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Jake Gyllenhaal, because I am 85% sure he'd struggle free, don a cape, and we'd gallivant through Cambridge town like proper maniacs. And then there would be bumming. While still wearing the handlebar moustache.
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It would be called "The Major General's Dirty Secret" and would involve at least two comprehensive gropes of your (or someone else's, of you find yourself lacking) scrotum, and a nine-minute mime of fellating a tank gun.
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Never mind accidentally, I've done it on purpose and then went out to buy carrots. It was a handlebar moustache. In biro. Do you have any idea how hard it is to remove biro?
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You know, I don't know. I can't choose anything of mine, obviously, because I don't like a lot of what I've drawn, but if forced, it'd be probably ...no, I don't know. Maybe the comic of Jack and Weiss on the plane. Maybe the Front Room. I get stuck on how technically shitty I am.
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It will end with the glorious swoop of faceless oily things from on high, and the scream of unholy fire from the mutant mouths of creatures incomprehensible. Black salt will rain down on tarry earth, and iridescent glass will grow like trees. The ones that are left will be the true chosen ones, my child, and their lives will be beautiful.
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All of my photographs are bollocks. A better question would have been "what's your favourite drawing and why?", but it wasn't.
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You're assuming that I'd want to be anyone else. No, no- I'd want to be SOMEWHERE else. And I know exactly where that is, and it'd take me a single button press. And I wouldn't come back.
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Oh yes, my child. Yes, you can. And you will. With a robotic pseudo-clone with a fascination for labradors that borders on the fetishistic.
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I'm pretty sure there's a cream for that, but in the short term, you could always try a mild dermal abrasion. If it's still there by tomorrow, call an exorcist.
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Lucian’s Bio
I am a neon shame.
