Subscribe: Stick It To The Mand...
Preview: Stick It To The Mand...

Stick It To The Mand...

Updated: 2018-03-02T17:08:54.371+00:00




Hello Blog, old friend, old buddy, old pal. It has be a long time. That's because I dropped off the face of the Earth. No. Seriously. I did. Quite an adventure actually. Swimming around in the big black, disconnected; the ground not able to touch nor feel. Just weightlessness and the occasional heavy pull of gravity from a small rock passing by, which was real difficult to pull away from; having nothing firm to hold onto and aid me as I attempted with all my strength to fight against. You don't believe me? Well, that's understandable. The main and most importantest thing, the whole point of this story, as is contrary to my usual opinion, it's not about the journey: it's about the ending. Which is where we're at right now: I'm back aren't I. And to prove it, I've gone and started rebuilding my website again. For now it's an ugly old wonky thing containing nothing but a new piece of short fiction. So this post serves for a second thingy which is this: go read the story. So do it!

 W  W W .M AN  D IG O  ODI ER  . C  O.U  K



Sometimes I Have Something To Say...


Performed at the Whitechapel as part of the ongoing MFA Art Writing Residency:

(object) (embed) Sometimes I Have Something To Say by mandiocious

This is an extract from an ongoing piece which was rewritten for a voice. That is all that I will say.

I'm a victim of this song.


Pipolotti Rist perhaps my favourite artist and maybe has been for the last 5 years.
Fresh from the hayward gallery exhib "Eye Massage" (and then a few drinks and discussions with the superb Lucy Vann) I must urge you to see this, so feminine and wonderful and erotic and grotesque and so incredibly beautiful. Perhaps the master of desire leading perception/anamorphicly wonderous perspective. Not that these two are any sort of hint as to what to expect but actually Pipilottis has great taste in music/is a sweet recording artist...

(click on the image above and go to youtube I urge you!)

src="" allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" width="420">

I'm not a girl who misses much...
(+ love of the beatles whilst decapitated - YES!)

src="" allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" width="420">





The Reading Room at The Kenton is now a regular thing. Every 4th Wednesday of the Month (excluding December)

The Reading Room would like to invite the avid readers, the casual readers, the curious minded and the tactile natured to browse our collection. We present a selection of unpublished works, hand made books, zines, manuscripts and texts from writers and artists with a D.I.Y. mentality. Grab a drink, pull up a chair and relax with a book you may not have the opportunity to engage with otherwise.

The Reading Room is always looking to expand its collection, if you have something that you feel we may be interested in - whether you're an artist book maker, a zinester, a writer, whatever - if you have something which you may wish to donate (or loan out if it's a little bit precious) then please email


Language + The Flesh + Artaud (+ Spero)


(image) (image) (image)
(image) Musings:
When the pen pierces the page does it penetrate the skin. When the words cover the face does it become disfigured. When the mark marries with the body, is the trace erased or does it burn deeper. When language and the body are at one, does the father die?

All writing is pigshit, because it bares the mark of something else, because it becomes an object outside of the body - a partial object that survives its start point - at the authors throat. That lingers and becomes autonomous, that seems to "out grow the natural limitations of the organism affected by it". What of autonomy and the written word?

Where is the body that escapes me. Where is the body that is alien within me. Where words become the signal for the anamorphic real, where signs are permitted with enjoyment, with jouissance, which is replayed but never touched.



src="" allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" width="420">

Wish I could be in this band

"No one knows who the Beattle-ettes were. They were one more answer record knocked off responding to the maelstrom of the Beatles’ invasion of New York in 1964. (It was rushed out so fast, in fact, that they got the spelling of the boys’ name wrong, with an extra ‘T’!) But it is sure that they were produced by “Shadow” Morton just before his breakout success with the fabulous Shangri-La’s. Because of this, and the definite New York moxie of the singers, many believe it might actually be the Shangs! This would be cool as all hell, of course, but no one knows for sure.

What we do know is this is a rockin’ two minutes of punky Beat music that sticks in your head all day."

Then I wish I was this band

.... Which turns out to be suzi quatro and sister patti and arlene...

src="" allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" width="420">

I also wish I would have wrote A Lovers Discourse, but I didn't, Roland Barthes did.


And I wish I could have wrote The Unbearable Lightness of Being. But I didn't

(image) These both written by men but I consider to be feminine in a lot of respects.

And the reason I didn't was because I wasn't born yet. Everyone got there first. I may be too old to be in a teenage girl band, but I'm making moves on all the other things. Now the main dilemma is plagiarism, iteration, or envy? "Let's start over," is a mode of Art Writing according to Adrian Rifkin. He could be very very right.

poor, lonely, but not down.


width="420" height="315" src="" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen>



The hilariously insightful philosopher and (Lacanian :) psychoanalyst Slavoj Zizek guides us through the real (super ego) symobolic (ego ideal) and imagined (ego) in cinema.

src="" allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" width="420">

Possibly my favorite ever movie scene, Charlie Chaplin you beautiful man:

src="" allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" width="420">

src="" allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" width="560">

Out of practice/Return to practice/Lacanian Paradigms...


A good strong woman, as if anyone needs to be convinced of that, has mirrors fixed to a wall in every room of her house. They are positioned unusually, awkward to stand before, easy to walk past and catch a glimpse at another potential being, present, absent, unknown, a glimpse. Her head rests upon good strong posture in a fixed forwards position, it is only the eyes that betray good strong posture and head held high tautness. They stretch themselves to the furthest corners, painfully but briefly, springing back to forward facing, correct positioning in order to aid with navigation and general observation. When out in the street she maintains correct postulation, sure footed strides, flowing sweeps of her arms through the air, masterful composition. But a smile forms in those disobedient eyes at passer-bys and reflective window displays close circuit TV and distorted images upon vehicle bodies. They turn and glance from left to right, but head strong strolls on.A good strong woman, no proof required, shows signs of weakness, where perhaps her strength is not tested but highlighted. Upon darkness's descent the surfaces which held the figure of her constant companion depicts a new shadowed creature haloed by the glow of street lights, moon light, head lights, stop lights. Go, go, go. Her pace is quickened her posture flails and she fights against the invisible hands stiffening her legs. Her chest is tight, her head turns slight - determination prevails and curiosity does not get the better of her. She is not alone. As she progresses between street lamp after street lamp a shadowy figure looms ever closer, only to fall behind when absolutely beneath their glare. And cars which pass cause the shadowy creature to gain ferocity, increasing velocity and to pounce upon the next shaded area - allowing her to catch up. She is a strong woman who feels terrified by the figure that creeps her, that won't leave her within the lightness of night. Upon returning home all lights are turned on and she races to her sanctuary. She sits at an empty desk. Hands pressed together between her thighs. She raises her head. Corrects her posture. Before her is a sheath of mirrored glass. The remnant of one once shattered.One once shattered then walked over in bare feet, sharpened edges digging into her penetrating her souls, her spine jolting backwards then stiffening as if a pole were shunted along side it, straightening her out, displacing the weight of her body, opening up her lungs, widening her mouth for the cries of pain they were expected to carry. Not a sound was heard that night nor any other. Good posture = self sedation. Primitive war tactics passed down unknowingly from generation to generation, when human recognised itself, an animal, and instinct determined everything else. The glass remained in her feet until scabs formed embracing them, welcome to the family. At this point she stood up reenforcing her good posture, pressing the shards into nerve endings and reopening the scabs of good intent. She lifted herself so as not to further the injury to her feet, a strong woman can carry her own weight, metaphysically heavy. She placed her body into a hot bath and watched the sweat drip from her forehead, sometimes joining the bath water, sometimes evaporating into the surrounding steam. She took hold of her submerged foot caressed each protrusion of glass before sharply removing each and every piece. Never once did she tear her eyes from the surface of the water; did the back of her head leave the nook it rested upon. Once the last shard was removed she rested in red waters.At her desk she looks into the remaining sheath positioned at eye level. Too thin to see a full image of her face, wide enough to gaze into her companions eyes. And in those eyes she is fixated, she stares desperately into them,[...]

Les Grande Mains...


Warrington secretly harbors A LOT of musical talent. This is particularly great!

width="420" height="315" src="" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen>

width="420" height="315" src="" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen>

The Reading Room II


Things that are happening. In non-chronological order...

Another reading room in the Kenton.

Yes I've bagged me a regular home in the back room of The Kenton (Kenton Road, Hackney) on Wednesday 28th Sept. The Reading Room provides a valuable service, enabling you to indulge in some lovingly hand crafted artist books, zines, manuscripts and writerly objects that are not available in waterstones or your local library. Come along, relax, engage, don't be shy.

Manchester Print Fair. Three fifths of Parlour Press will be representing with a cozy reading room just like granny used to make.

Manchester Print Fair is a happening thanks to the wonderful Mill Press ladies at the Night and Day Cafe (Northern Quarter, Manchester). Parlour Press will be occupying the stage (naturally) from 11-5 on Sunday 25th September. More information here.

And this thing...
(image) Myself and Rebecca LaMarre will be in residence in the locker room of the Old Police Station for the Open Studio Day on Friday 30th September. We will set up yet another reading room... But slightly huger. Many publications - self published, Artist and otherwise. Also we will be experimenting with format and attempting to keep you entertained with some projections and impromptu readings.

The Old Police Station (OPS) is situated on Amersham Vale, New Cross. More info here.

Sorry for the last minuteness.

Salford Zine Library...


Coming soon...

cartoon crush



Deconstruct this anomaly...


I look unrecognisingly, at my emancipated reflection in the mirrored door of the wardrobe, lean forward, pull a face and 'ha' on the glass. I put my fingers in the condensation as if ro stroke my neck, staring into the unknown eyes of this stranger. I kiss the cold flat glass, open mouthed, my tongue snaking about on the ice, feeling for warmth.
'What do you want?' I enquire of myself, looking into the reflection of my tired eyes. But I refuse to allow myself to be led by this silly question to which I have no answer.
I shout at myself and stare into my yellowing teeth. I grimace and snort, purposely fogging up the mirror with my hot breath, then pull a silly face and answer myself in an idiotic little voice that I scarcely recognise.
'Meeeee,' I squeak.
'talking to yourself is stupid,' I say, subtly trying to change the subject, but I carry on bullying myself regardless.
'Who is "meeeee"?' I cross-question myself, intent on tripping myself up and making myself a laughing stock....
The wardrobe door swings open and once more reveals a twisted hideous body that I don't recognise as mine; the paleness of my limbs; my hollow cheeks and purple rings under my eyes; my teeth already tobacco stained and broken. I see myself as ugly and despise myself...
It's funny how mirrors hold an interesting dynamic in relation (and reflection) to ourselves. We are so desperate to catch a glimpse of ourselves through the eyes of others but, being unable to take up the position of the other, with each attempt we fail fail fail. We then rely on mirrors, photographs, a passing glance in reflective shop windows (hoping if I can turn my head fast enough I may catch myself off guard). The mirror as deeply flawed as skin, smudged and imperfect, the eyes we stare into, a cold dead reflection. The camera grains, pixelates, we are not made up of tiny little squares, we chose to ignore that which we are made up of, further still, out of sight out of mind... Perhaps we may faint upon opening up - this is just an avoidance of truth. So we rely on others for a true image... Another false image. It is easy to feel alone inside your own body, sometimes the company of others only serves to exemplify this lonelness, then again it they may be only opportunity to truthfully gaze upon ourselves. It is true that I have fallen in love with people off the back of the reflection I caught of myself in the glistening curve of their eyes.

Just yes billy childish, yes.

I try to stand but fall twisted to the bed, my calves and knees locked in cramps. I straighten my legs, screaming in pain, cursing and rubbing my calves vigorously until at last the cramps subside and I can stand on my numb and tingling feet. On reflection, it might have been wiser for me to have sat in my brother's blue nylon sleeping bag. But comfort is not what makes great literature.



Reading room tonight. Come, come. It'd be good to see you there.
It's at the Kenton up in Hackney.

another extract...


Time to catch up with the past which has somehow found itself far beyond our present. General chitter chatter and gesting and then a name is mentioned that doesn't quite sit right. Something bodily crosses the eyes of the other, blatant, dramatic - perhaps, but completely unrehearsed. Perception, on both parts, becomes interesting here. What the body conveys is not necessarily what the conscious mind picks up on. So what we had there was possibly a squirm or a look of dismay, a flash of hatred, or a reaction through discomfort. Once it is picked up on by all there-by present, the word "hate," in some form or another, is placed in the mouth of others and spat out carelessly, but you know that is not true. Not at all. It has happened twice on two separate occasions, with two separate parties. Hate was the last thing encasing the mind, uncertainty was the major - an unwillingness to settle on any type of extreme emotion, an incapability even, the only thing that was committing itself was the body and it's reaction. When asked to reflect on such obvious distractions, extreme contemplation comes to mind, not hatred. Just uncertainty. Any negative response merely turns a mirror onto oneself. It could only be perception and experience (or lack there of...), the failure to assimilate the actions of another, although bothersome, are not necessarily the fault of that particular other. Hate is a reflection or perhaps a deflection of the self. You can not answer with hatred, "Yeh, something happened there. I don't quite know what." or "it'll be a long story" are better deflections than the uttering of irrational words such as 'hate'.
"Besides that's not true. I hate my bodies reaction to 'the name'." The name is signification, the body is electricity, the signified is a short circuit, the reaction is a signal failure. And you realise that you quite like that other, or the way the name arouses the body, the attention it draws towards yourself, "It blushes and squirms, and it reveals something inside. Like it is caught out. You see hatred. Or anger. Maybe possibly even love. But all of those things are incredibly wrong. And all of them are absolutely right. But all of them are not true and require a deeper contemplation." Nothing here can be explained. Silence is a sign of contemplation but the mind doesn't think on the same frequency as the body, which is a shame. Complete understanding only occurs when she leaves consciousness behind and attempts to read her body without the mediation of language, then her body gives up, it will not work to order, you cannot force these things. An image serves as stimulant. But there is a whole universe between the self and the printed/projected/imagined image and the body refuses to act. Something is missing. The manifestation. The real. The symbolic betrays. The imaginary nurtures. The real never occurs. So as a temporary solution she will settle on this sentence as the only truth she can muster up, that she can coerce both mind and body to unite upon, through the silence: "I think I miss him."

Killing (In the Name Of) the Father... Extract


The following are extracts from a much longer piece. It's a work in progress...2.“I killed him.” This is a confession. He is dead and it wasn’t easy. The pressure of my V7 Pilot Pen (favored to the 0.5 Uni-ball for its keen nib, thick stokes, ease and comfort) firm against the skin,over and over, back and forth, repetitive strokes. When the skin finally broke, blood was met with black ink and tears of relief. It took months, through severed veins and arteries, through bone and marrow, through the rigor-mortis of repetition and sedative euphoria. Then there was a dead man with a stigmata-esque injury through each wrist. I contemplated mourning over him. I contemplated worshiping him. I did love him. I loved him more in his death than was ever permissible in life. I do mourn, not because of the space left empty by him, but for myself and the earth. I died too. It wasn’t easy, no it was not. Liberation is like new skin, sensitive and vulnerable to surroundings; the atmosphere more easily absorbed through painful oscillations of needle like air altering my typically jaded state to a dizzying new suprasensual. The earth softened with every step and I pulsated with the breath of the wind, totally aware of every single cell, every single molecule that amounted to universal being: myself. Every step fully combined, my mind, my body at one, all that it touched and it was as beautiful as that. But it wasn’t easy. Everything shook as I collided continuously with the ground, with the eyes of passer-bys. The tyranny of such devices. They looked and judged, how limp and 'unaware', oh how wrong their impressions. I killed him and transgressed the tyranny of the eye. I killed him and entered into constant orgasm with the Earth as phallus. I killed him. I killed him: he is earth. I took a life. I took control.The eye. That initial pusher granted me this downer, that gave me access to this language, to the pen, to the earth. My muscles once kiln blasted clay now soft and indiscernible from earth. It’s brave of me to admit all that isn’t it, that sort of sensitivity leaves me vulnerable and you know where my weakness lies, but you must be edged by fear to know that I could take a life under my hand; under the pressure of my V7 pen. Quite a weapon.It wasn’t easy and now everything is out of focus, and everything trembles when I touch it but nothing touches me. “I confess to you, it wasn’t easy, but now it is all over. Now we are dead, now we are earth.”3.“You and I are earth,” There is an old man in the corner, he is stood on a soap box where girls once gathered around, held onto his words and collected them, wrote them in journals, savored them, revisited them, resisted them, repeated them, ruined them, lost them. He now preaches to the air. He thinks he is a wise man, he glares into his own future and reckons that this justifies his position, but his future is littered with aged memories and we have chosen to forget our memories as they deceive us, as they cause us to ignore inherent dangers whilst irrationally fearing the appearance of butterflies and moths. He directs himself at the naive, like they are idiots but a there is a new word on the street counteracting his stale air. He cannot access this word as it is uttered behind his back, outside of his generation, it breaks in the new kids who deceive their next of kin. So there is a rebellion and his words wreak of otherness and decay. He is channeling, disseminating the dead. We kill the dead. There is talk of killing the old man but we all feel so sorry for him and he happens to be someone's father (a[...]

We Know Don't We...


...and we'll dream won't we...

width="480" height="390" src="" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen>

I'm not going to tell you about a girl...


width="480" height="390" src="" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen>



2.35 - 2.54
Merry Clayton.

width="480" height="390" src="" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen>

Prosthesis: Written Jouissance


or how to find the self in text.

Theory as prosthesis
The fallible phallus
Written Jouissance
Reader as parasite
Author as Frankenstein
Book as a coffin
Identity Theft
Paraphiliac tendancies
Écriture féminine
Subjective subjectile
Revival of the mark
Survival of the mark
Symbolic substitution
signified signification
Binary oppositions
I only exist because you exist
I stink therefore I am
Sex is Death
Autoerotocism as alienation
Suggestive Tautology
Mystic preservation
The cuckoo kills the cat
Missing links

Marquis De Sade
The Count Censored
The White Album
Paul McCartney
Stefan Sagmeister
Charles Manson

yes it's nearly hand in time!

Deteriorating quality of blog...


It's that time of year again. I am completely chained to my work at present, editing and rewriting and folding and making and chopping significant chunks of flesh from my fingers (it would seem!) When I return expect snippets of prose, images of new lush books, critical writings of the latest internet memes, details of forth coming exhibitions (that ones a little bit 'out there'...) and many more exciting things relating to..... me! In the meantime you will just have to settle for the occasional youtube video. Or if you really love me (and I know you do!) please participate in this project:
It maybe the only way for your love to be reciprocated.
Lots of love

(p.s. I have removed all images of penises from my blog so you are now in the drastically reduced company of people that have landed here not wanting to look at a penis. Seriously there has been a huge reduction of hits! But it's all about quality, not quantity.)

He hit me....


(object) (embed)
Adam Curtis. Sound track to match!



You should buy (or submit to) snap zine because of Andrew Moss' cute floppy hair:
src="" width="400" height="225" frameborder="0">

SNAP ZINE issue one advert from Matt Sidebottom on Vimeo.