And though that may sound like the most brutal of chimeras to someone in your delicate position, the diamond core of your brain holds off on the retching long enough to force a thoughtful nod and a counter-offer, and said counter-offer must be ridiculous enough to further cement the impression of precocity that apparently landed you there in the first place because while there’s an audible intake of breath there is no discernable frantic tapping on sub-deskular buttons and no sudden rush of thick-necked security, and the diamond core presses forward and starts dictating terms and before you know it your brain is seizing your hand and you’re watching your fingers start to dribble out what looks for all the world like your signature on a piece of paper.

… but the diamond core takes a fatal moment to congratulate itself, which lets the more mushy and belligerent hinterlands of your brain out for the party, and the kinetic energy of the fingers somehow transfers into the lips. And you hear things like, how about we go for a bit more specificity here, how about we not take verbal shortcuts? Let’s not patronise the viewer, and when you think about it wouldn’t it be more accurate to ask Are You More Knowledgeable About Certain Things Than These Particular Privately-Educated Ten-Year-Olds? And let’s make some bold leaps re: merchandising/promotion; let’s, for instance, up the punchability of both t-y-o’s and contestants, up the irritation and baffling illogicality and sheer lack of thought by all parties and make a show that will if there is any sense in the world be well and truly buried inside the first season? But hear me out not without attracting the goggle-eyed attention of a certain sub-section of the college-aged demographic, such attention as may be enhanced through the airing of re-runs in the post-2am witching/insomniac/ironic appreciation window, and which may be capitalised upon in any number of ways by a savvy production/marketing team.

… which is a discussion that no doubt seems lucid and excellent at the outset, but which if you think about it will probably end up being something the diamond core will be vocal about later on. Something about which it will, in fact, take pains to communicate an almost viscous displeasure. And maybe yeah when people start to cough and stand up and avoid eye contact you kind of regret, to some degree, what has pretty evidently become a lost opportunity.

But on the other hand, you walk out and realise it’s not even past lunchtime yet, and the sun is out, and there are licenced premises every way you look, and to be honest who ever listens to that part of their brain anyway.

1. Or, I suppose, more kind of lurking at the edges of a beer garden. Perhaps reclining in some bushes. And to clarify, there’s only beer in this garden because it happened to be in your hand when you got lost coming off the N11 at 7 in the morning.

Ok, losing track. The thing in question, which is a secret project that I managed to not entirely realise I was part of until it turned into a public project, but courtesy of the estimable Billy here is a thing for you to read. Start there, read forward, enjoy.

1. or maybe it was the week before. I keep telling you, high-powered. No time to piddle about with timekeeping.

Ill Repute is an online fiction project by myself and David Maybury concerning the adventures of estimable men-about-town Eli Mordino and George Fournier. We update more or less once a week (for a given value of “more or less”) and we’re currently in the middle of our first story arc (story arcs: just like you see on the television). Any more description I try to give will descend into noncey apron-wringing so I shall link you to the first post and leave you it.

The facts, as they stand: a taste of stale apples for the third morning in a row; trousers full of change from money I don’t remember spending; a growing habit of waking in an armchair. Also, a bitter kind of sense that dirty jokes at 4am is becoming a main event.

Today’s chair is somewhat towards the leather end of the spectrum, and it takes a few attempts to peel myself up. The balance isn’t the greatest and the sleeping bodies on the floor make for tricky navigation. A homeless man I dragged along is curled up to a radiator, arms twitching, no doubt still off his arse on rubbing alcohol. I leave him to it.

The sunlight is a little too much and necessitates some casual leaning in the doorway, arms folded and a certain level of cold sweat… but no one seems to notice, or they give no indication. The vision clears far enough to surmise that we’re somewhere over Ranelagh direction and I edge towards what could be a taxi.

The driver watches me crawl in, yellow teeth cracking out of a black smile.

“Where to?”

…

It’s a decent question.

Going commando, the act of not wearing undergarments in popular culture

That’s pretty specific. What if you don’t wear underwear at, say, an opera? Is there a different name for that? I suggest something along the lines of “going commandeau”.

Via reddit: Wikihistory by Desmond Warzel, a very good flash piece about fictional science.

Please finally note that, after some arse-aroundery, we have decided that from now on Ill Repute will update twice weekly: Eli’s post on Monday, George’s on Thursday. Do have a read.

Edit: Make that George on Monday, Eli on Thursday. Arses are still mildly rotating.