The Invisible Man Strikes Again
“I want you to notice, when I’m not around”
“Football season is over” opined my literary hero before he blew his brains out across his kitchen counter and days before Johnny Depp made good on his promise to blow his ashes skyward via a cannon in the desert.
“No more games. No more bombs. No more fun” he continued “I am always bitchy. No fun — for anybody” before he assured himself “Relax — This won’t hurt” and Hunter S Thompson, the greatest writer of our age, was no more.
I wish I had the guts and fortitude of my old friend Hunter.
During the past 48 hours I’ve released 8 articles here and on Substack and aside from a kindly young lady and gentleman from Canada and a couple of other ladies from otherwise unknown locations, these 8 articles received less readers than the combined number of the articles.
Hilarious isn’t it?
8 articles. All lengthy original content written by a human being. Personal anecdotes. Youtube videos. All created single-handed. A passion project. A life lived, with a plethora of real, actual photos dripping with sunshine and history from William Shakespeare and Stratford-upon-Avon, Shrewsbury and a Salvador Dali exhibit and my spiritual home of Ironbridge, full of vibrant life in the sunshine surrounding the oldest iron bridge in the known world.
Response from the world? Fuck all.
Zero use of chatgpt or any other humanity destroying AI. Zero use of vacuous “stock” photos or cut and pasted gibberish copied and pasted from the internet so in vogue of the children of The Matrix too fucking stupid to compose a genuine piece of writing of their own. Cut and pasted dog shit rules in a sea of effluent.
Bar-coded humans in a QR Coded world.
Less readers than a combined number of articles posted?
Bodes well for the selling of my books doesn’t it?
9 books. All original content. More books than most people could write in 10 lifetimes. All fucking pointless. All a complete waste of fucking time. No one cares. No love. No life. No future. No fun. No hugs. No cuddles. Purgatorial limbo. A pointless existence for a pointless life. A life that became a life sentence a long time ago.
Football season is over.
I wish I had the guts and fortitude of my old friend Hunter.
Anyway, here’s my spiritual home of Ironbridge on 19th June 2024 with all images captured by an invisible man.
Thanks for reading.