Guest Blogger #13: Becky Craven - "The Other Room"

I first went there when I was seven. It always happened at night when I closed my eyes. And suddenly I would be there.

I close my eyes and I’m there, at the bottom of the stairs, in my pyjamas, looking up into the dark. The brick of the stairwell has eroded in places over the years and the moonlight is breaking through, dashes of blue-white collecting in the angles of the wooden spiral staircase. I reach out my hand and touch the wall but I quickly pull away. It’s damp and if the light permitted I’m pretty sure I’d see a violent shade of green smeared on my hand. I wipe my hand on my top and turn to look through the door, back into my bedroom. I can see the light from the landing striping its way along the floor and imagine my parents sleeping in the room below me. I can still feel the warmth radiating from my duvet. A sharp screeching returns my attention to the stairs; nightjars, birds with a call that resembles a woman crying out in fear and pain, fly metres from the roof of the house. Still, I’m not scared. Just excited. I know I shouldn’t be here, on these stairs and I know I shouldn’t climb up to the room either but I do every time.

I take my foot off the carpet and place it onto the first step, the rotten wood gives slightly under my weight, in some ways I’m not seven anymore. I climb higher still, the stairs seemingly endless, until I start to feel the difference. It’s warmer once you get nearer to the room. After a few more steps I put my hand out in front of me it makes contact with something solid. The door. I crouched down to open the door, it’s getting to be a squeeze these days and as I kneel down to crawl through, I know that this will be the last time I will be able to come here. My dismay registers only for a second because now I am inside.

I reach into the darkness for the candle. There isn’t much of it left, I’m not surprised, how many candles last for twelve years? My other hand goes in search of the lighter and seconds later I smile with my mouth and my eyes as I feel the cold metal rectangle. I warm it slightly in my hands before flicking the lid open and breathing in the scent of the petrol, I pull my thumb along the wheel but nothing happens, I try again but still nothing. I shut the lid and open it, then try again, nothing. No spark. I begin to panic. I know this is the last time, I want to see everything before I go. I need one last chance to remember it all. I mustn’t forget. I can’t begin to imagine what would happen if I did. I slump against the door, the eagerness turning quickly into frustration, tears, the thick feeling in my chest and my ragged breath catching on my tears every time. I must try to breath normally, mustn’t let it take over. I stare down at the blackness that is my hands, one still clutching the candle, the other; the lighter. Something snaps inside me and I flick the lid of the lighter once more, a new type of anger grips me and I roll the wheel repeatedly under my thumb, I can feel the skin blistering but I’m rewarded with a spark and then suddenly a flame, which wavers as I take it to meet the stub of wax and wick.

The room. I can see the room. I gaze round, nothing seems different but I know that once I have looked around I will notice new things, recent things that I have put here without my knowledge and things that others have left behind whilst passing through me. A sudden pain taps sharply on my thumb and I look down to see that I have been dripping burning wax onto my skin. I carefully place the candle inside the top one of the brandy bottles on the floor and take another look around. There are shelves filled with cardboard boxes and although I’ve never been able to look inside them, I know what would be there if I did. I walk across the room and look up and down the shelves. I spot an old pack of photographs and fall into the usual trap. I reach for them but they fall through my hands. I can’t pick them up, but I can still see them in my minds eye. This is what I do here. I look at every box and book and bag in this way, I can’t see inside but I almost test myself to see if I can remember what is there. Tonight it’s more important than ever because it is the last time I can come here. After this all these things will not be here anymore, I can’t hold on to them any longer, I’ve never been able to hold them physically but I can try to hold them mentally. There’s no way I can store these things here now. Since I can’t stop disappointing them and him I have to take all this out to make room for something else. Something I don’t want there but it’s already growing inside me, and yet, at the same time it’s shrinking me. Soon, in one way I will be seven again but not in the way that I am seven today or in the way that I was seven when I first came here. I will never be seven years old again and after tonight I can’t think like that anymore. So tonight I must try to commit as much of these things to memory as I can. Then I must find somewhere new to put them where they can’t be forgotten or shrunk. So this is what I am doing.

Singer sewing machine, airfix model plane, car pencil sharpener, Mr Men sing along record, fossils from Lyme, rocks from Yorkshire and the Lakes, shells from all over, brass ashtray and the cowrie shells. Hold them up to your ear and you can hear the sea. The baby things, the soft toys and dolls the boxes of paintings and exercise books and ladybird books. Photographs of parents and grandparents. The time I drew on a hot radiator with wax crayons. The day I pulled all the clothes out of my wardrobe. The week Mummy kept me off school so we could read The Lord of The Rings…..

The candle started to flicker so I got myself ready to leave. I can never come back here. I tested myself quickly, checking I knew what every box contained then I knelt down and opened the door to the stairs. I crawled backwards onto the stairs and watched the last few seconds of wick burn away, as I shut the door I saw the candlelight disappear. Things would be harder now. I have to hold onto all of these things until I find a place big enough to store them all. The problem is that I am shrinking.

Written & e-mailed to the potato farm by Becky Craven. All rights reserved.

Guest Blogger #12: Fat Chan - "Lazy Ass Blogger."

Hello all Fat Chan reporting for business after a hefty long leave of absence. I say hefty.......it was long enough to actually get Axl to delete my blog from his links as he feared my bodied had been ravaged by ne'erdowells and left me unable to perform my blogging duties, the truth while similar involved less ravaging and more being a lazy ass blogger who constantly forgets he has a fan base (so he likes to think) to attend to. So this guest blog is an unturndownable opportunity to get a post on the deity like blogspot of the potato farm and hopefully compell some followers to come witness my babblings for laughs or other purposes. And those that have been there before and want some more of the infuriation will be glad as I have much to vent.............been storing up for a good few months now.

So onwards.....to the blog......what the fuck do I write here? Everytime I read the potato farm I laugh hartily at the inward musings of Mr Axl and certainly miss his presence in my vicinity and thus pooing all over his potato farm with my rubbish brain thoughts is not something I wish to do, thus if you are all reading this then I have been found worthy and that gives me freedom to write whatever the bloody wank I want. I shall tell you about the night out in Camden I experienced. Saturday night I was due to meet my girlfriend in Camden with some fellow ex Oxford friends to see Bruises play at the Purple Turtle. I've never seen them yet but definately enjoy them (www.myspace.com/wakeupwithbruises), however I had work til 5 and despite getting straight on all the trains etc I managed to miss them play but I did get there eventually. Never been to Camden before and was much of what I expected............every person trying to make an individual statement with what they were wearing........but lo and behold they were wearing the same things as all their friends. Still coming out of the station to witness all possible fashion stereotypes in one street was certainly amusing. So upon my wanderings around Camden in hopes of finding the pub.....passing clubs, goth pubs and kebab shops ahoy I finally got there and met up with all. Then proceeded to try and catch up with the others for drink, a feat I found out I was never going to achieve. Dammit am I waffling again? I always do this, ok on to basic bullet points:
-the female lead of the band when I got to the purple turtle had the biggest guns (unfortunately I mean arms not tits) I have ever seen.
-my attractive friend Amy (g/f of Bruises guitarist) kept touching my very attractive girlfriend most of the night and I wasn't the least bit unhappy about the situation (Sorry Ben, but I can't help that lesbianism holds a certain interest for me.....I'm sure you understand).
-Amy fell over holding her friend James nearly knocking him unconcious.
-Playing 'Twat or Legend' is a great game.
-Met my friend Nathan who I haven't seen for too long, which was good because I wasn't drunk enough to finish the night when he turned up.
-Onions in a hot dog bun doesn't really classify as a vegetarian option from a hot dog stand, just say it's onions in a bun, OK!
-A cunt bounder at Koko (supposdly a hip Camden place to be) managed to fail to not let most of us in for free and then was a cunt about it when we decided to leave 'cos it looked shit.
-Snakebite is difficult for me to down.
-Jack Daniels is fucking disgusting, especially to down.
-I love punk rock/pop and I'm proud (i'm the peter pan of the music loving people).
-Wembley Park is a LONG way from Camden and the 'taxi driver' mostly deserved his large fee.
-I love London.

That is all, I feel I should cut things short I get carried away, I need to be more sucsinct and less waffley but then that goes against my belief of writing your thoughts as they come, no editing, it's not real dammit. Look forward to seeing y'all in the near present. Love you. BYES!!

Written & e-mailed to the potato farm by Fat Chan. All rights reserved. Fat Chan is the author of the recently reactivated blog "The Blog Of Ineffable Exasperation" which is now back up in the Axl Approved list or the adress is http://fatchansexasperation.blogspot.com/
Fat Chan may think his style is waffling and overlong, but that's exactly why we at the potato farm like his blog and wish he'd bloody write in it a bit more often. Hopefully he now will.

Something I love.

White middle/upper class male Oxford students rapping along to hip-hop.

AAAAAAAAAAAAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Tribute.

The other day I was picking a return at work - i.e. stock to be returned to the suppliers - when I saw in amoungst the music dvd's a live concert by The Complete Stone Roses.
Is it just me, or is this totally baffling?! A live dvd of a tribute band?! What the fuck?! Who's gonna buy that?! Seriously, who in their right mind would want it? Who thought it was a good idea to release it? What went on in the board meeting for that one?

"How can we make a few more bucks then guys?"
"I know, why don't we film that Stone Roses tribute band and put that out?"
"Fucking Hell, that's crazy enough to work!"

Surely the whole point of a tribute band is that it's a chance to see something or someone you wouldn't normally be able to. Did it not occur to anyone that you can by a dvd of the actual fucking Stone Roses in concert? Did they not realise this?
Mind you, maybe they think it's some sort of novel new idea, quirky enough to appeal to fans of the band. They obviously didn't learn the lesson taught to us by No Way Sis.
Remember No Way Sis? Remember them on Live & Kicking? Remember them being signed up for a 5 album deal? Remember their single totally flopping and never hearing from them ever again? I sure as shit do. I remember thinking to myself "This is really rubbish. What a stupid idea.", and I was a kid! How a grown adult mind could think that that's anything approaching a good idea is totally beyond me.
Yes, I'm sure seeing a good tribute band is very enjoyable, The Smiths Indeed played in Oxford at the weekend and from what I hear it was a good night, but really, would you really want to own anything by them? Wouldn't you surely just rather listen to the real thing? Wouldn't that actually be a lot better?
Of course it fucking would.
Leave the tribute bands where they belong. On the stage. Not in your home.

I Reckon..

Arnold Schwarzenegger and Renee Zellweger should do a film together.

Anyone got any ideas for a title and/or a plot?

All I can think of is Bridget Jones' Terminator.
The tales of an unlucky in love woman in her early 30's being pursued by a futuristic robot whos sole goal is her assassination.

But I'm sure there's better.....

HAPPY BIRTHDAY!!!!!

Today is a very special day, for today marks the first year of the potato farm. A year of ups, downs and sideways glances. We're all gonna eat cake until we're sick. Then Clarence is gonna eat all our sick coz he's already drunk. It's gonna be gross.

Here's some sort of representation of what our party will be like:

EVERYONE!!! HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO ME......

Guest Blogger #11: Matt Lewis - "Axl's Moustache."

Written & illustrated by Matt Lewis. All Rights Reserved. Matt Lewis is the author of the blog "Good Natured Slacker" which is in the "Axl Approved" list or can be found here http://goodnaturedslacker.blogspot.com/
Matt Lewis is a fucking legend.

Axl's Quick One.

Ok. I have about 5 minutes to write a blog before I go out for a booze with a girl and then other humans too.

I looked up a book on Amazon just now and the amount of people selling it for 1 penny was ridiculous! Seriously 1p + postage & packaging (of about 2.75)! Unbelievable. It got me wondering, in the age of downloading and the everything-all-of-the-time'ness of the internet, is art becoming less valuable as a result? Are we becoming less appreciative of creativity and the effort that goes into producing works? Has the quick-fix generation degraded the idea of creative arts as something to be appreciated, replacing it with the idea that it is something merely to pass the time that we want at our convenience almost no longer even having to think about it at all?

What do you think?

Guest Blogger #10: Schmemma - "Giantest Wimp."

hello..schmemma here. i too have been asked to write something for the potato farm, and i felt very honoured indeed..but the honour then gave way to unease, and then to downright panic over what exactly i was going to write about that would live up to the good name of the potato farm..

the only thing that i've considered writing about was something that happened on the bus home yesterday..there were 2 little girls (when i say little, i reckon they were about 8) dressed entirely in pink sat at the front on the top deck, playing hideously bad garage music from their mobile phone speaker..this is always very annoying, but happens so much these days that i just sighed and dug my ipod out of my bag..

no sooner had i plugged myself than i saw the man in front of me, who had been fidgeting in a somewhat agitated way for a while, get up and politely ask the girls to turn their music off..and they did! amazing..i half expected the whole top deck to burst into applause..when it didn't, i was tempted to pat the man on the back in a congratulatory fashion when he sat back down. instead i did nothing but smile to myself and turn my ipod back on. then, however, i started to get paranoid that said man, suddenly on a roll, was going to turn round and tell me to turn my own music down..not wanting to be told off by a stranger, i pre-empted him by turning it down myself..which reminded me that i have always been the sort of person who will do anything to avoid getting told off by people who are not members of my close family..why is this? what would have happened if the man had indeed turned round and told me to turn my ipod down? well, dear readers, i will tell you..i would very probably have burst into tears. yes. i am the giantest wimp in the world..

when i told owlhead that i was thinking of submitting this story to the potato farm, he said that it was the rubbishest story he'd ever heard, and that i had to think of something better. but i didn't. maybe i should have told you all about when the young knives came to visit newcastle last week, an evening which ended very late and very drunkenly, and resulted in owlhead being over an hour late for work the next day (for the first time ever, apparently)..or maybe i should have told you about the awesome youthmovies gig we saw the other week..but i thought you'd all prefer to hear the bus story, because it is obviously good and owlhead is obviously wrong. so there.

Written & e-mailed to the potato farm by Schmemma. All rights reserved. Schmemma is the author of the blog "Molly Ringwald Blues" which is in the "Axl Approved" list there, or the address is http://mollyringwaldblues.blogspot.com/
Owlhead is some sort of meanie or something, I dunno, he sounds a little like he should get his act together or something. I mean, he's a pretty unsavoury character, I reckon he's got a shady past. I've never seen his body, but I bet it's all scarred up and that from working for t'northern mafia or something. He probably used to sell drugs to kids, and I heard a rumour that his nickname Owlhead, comes from when he was caught giving an owl head in his local aviary. That's why he's barred from there. Apparently, he now spends much of his time trying to attract pigeons so he can have his wicked way with them. Filthy bastard.

Guest Blogger #9: Pipsywoo - "Brainsick and Usual Shit at the Potato Farm."

Hello all, Pipsywoo popping by with a triumphant hiya!
Axl, like many others asked myself to do a guest blog, I was overly flattered, with some ego stroking I said yes yes yes and here I am.

I've been thinking about what to write about but I've no real ideas? Serious is probably out, funny is shit when forced, life stories are funny but I have none of those currently, maybe I could give you synopsis' of my favourite films within 5 seconds long but that would be no fun, as my favourite films are either well known block busters or shite bollocks that i should be ridiculed for liking, although no one would bother, it's rubbish. So I popped by The Potato Farm for some inspiration.

Outside of the front of the office, is concrete, concrete and some more concrete, the front door is bright red with the graffiti of a small penis walking down the street about to slip on a banana skin, rather fitting. Ring the buzzer and in I go...

...as I walk up the stairs, the first thing that hits me is the smell of stagnant whisky and the brightness of the office. The office opens out to the right. At the top of the stairs is a waiting area, with brown battered leather couches, a small glass coffee table and a collection of magazines. Currently, Axl appears to be in slumberland, snoring away with a little puddle of dribble accumulating on the cushion, while the hubbub of the office carries on regardless. I believe that his sleep explains the smell of whisky.
To the right of the stairs are two sets of double desks and opposite that and next to the waiting area is another set of double desks.
The walls are the imaginative magnolia, with quite high sloped ceilings, posters of cult films on the walls and press cuttings of the blog and the space is well lit from the skylites.
The bins are over flowing with discarded jokes and stories, from here I can see one that involves an elephant, an English man and a golden carrot, if this is the sort of stuff being discarded, I can not wait to see the new stuff being created. The double desks have personal dividers of posters of the staffs favourite stars or family members and they all have a certain individual flair.

The first desk to come across next to the stairs are Alice and Oscar (Creative Consultants) who sit at the same desk, they are inseparable and it appears that Oscar has a liking for semi-nude actors, not sure if Alice has actually noticed, she seems a little oblivious to say the least. Their chosen actor is Orlando Bloom - loads of him everywhere, no ladies, all him - I would say that maybe Alice is a little more persuasive than Oscar in the poster selection but I doubt it, due to Oscar's slightly flexi wrists, a copy of Queer as Folk running in the corner of his mac and his comment about my scarf and how beautiful Pucci's creations are, also the well thumbed copy of Vogue hidden inside his FHM could be a small give away but I'll try to keep my mind open, after all he does work in a creative field.

Opposite them is Clarence (Alcoholic PR guru?!), I understand that the posters of Orlando blocks out Clarences drunken stupor and general abuse. Clarence doesn't really have any posters, he has a liquor cupboard with a selection of whiskeys on one side and in replacement of his bottom drawer is a small fridge of various tins, his desk is under a skylite which appears to be constantly open and the toilet is right behind him. Also he has a complete lack of papers or computer on his desk, just a copy of Pub Weekly, the yellow pages and a telephone. Regardless of his lack of paperwork, he appears to do his job well enough, no one complains and apparently throws an incredible Christmas party.

Next to this desk at the end of the office you'll find Jenny (Finance) and Garfield (HR), their desk is full of laughter and old photos of each other, you would have thought sitting opposite each other would have been enough but i guess that they like to be surrounded by each other 24/7 or maybe they like reminders of the earlier years, where the sags, bags and wrinkles didn't exist...or maybe they haven't had time to update the photos due to how quickly the Potato Farm's success shot off. Jenny does happen to have one photo of someone else though, it's a signed photo of a chap called Odie, no idea who he is but he seems like a bright looking mutt.

The final desk is on the other side of the office, here you'll find Foxy and Badger (Research), since Clarrisa (still no job title) is new here, there doesn't seem to be a space for her, i assume she uses the coffee table and the sofas as a base but due to Axl's slumber she is currently sat at the top of the stairs with papers strewn around her.
Anyhow, Foxy and Badger' desk is covered in papers, magazines, gadgets, condoms and other crazy objects that appear to have been posted to the office with some hope of making it in to the blog. Badger appears to have a liking for Scarlett Johanssen, or so the 50 pictures of her would lead me to believe...Foxy' desk has one photo of Badger and is covered in beauty products and underwear. Badgers is covered in blokes mags and gadgets.

While here i get offered numerous cups of tea by Clarissa (maybe tea girl would be a fitting title) and a tin of cider by Clarence. I had a lot of fun and was surrounded by laughter and chatter all day long. Axl finally arose to visit the toilet at around 2pm, he waved hello and then went back to complete his slumber, no one mentioned the piss dribble on his trousers but I felt it was better to be mentioned here, I'm not employed or polite enough to not say something. The cleaner popped by to apologise for not having been there for a while. She didn't do any cleaning but did smoke about 10 cigarettes while apologising, which appeared to me to be quite a feat, due to her stay only being about 5 minutes long.

The day also saw some blogs being dropped by, from avid Potato Farm readers and I thoroughly enjoyed my stay, I'll happily pop by some time in the future very soon. Although I've one point to make, it's called a Potato Farm, yet I saw no Potatoes? None what so ever...no where, not even outside, as it's allocated on the Cowley Road, there is no vegetable patch in the back garden and the nearest allotment, I believe is on Iffley Road, which is quite a walk away...unless the dying herb box is full of potatoes, I've no idea where the name came from, unless they all turn in to potatoes after midnight?!


Written & e-mailed to the potato farm by Pipsywoo. All rights reserved. Pipsywoo is the author of the blog "Usual Shit & Brain Sick" which can be found via the "Brain Sick" link in the "Axl Approved" list there, or the adress is http://pipsywoo.blogspot.com/
She also wrote the "40 Days Without MySpace" blog about her attempts at giving up said social networking site for lent. It is also in the "Axl Approved" list or can be found here http://www.40dayswithoutmyspace.blogspot.com/


Additional: After a week of clicking and hoping, we have to sadly say goodbye to the blog "Just One More Slice", as it appears to have been deleted by the author. We wish Lardy Big Bot well in her attempt at becoming slender and svelte and we at the farm will miss her blog.