#instantly thought of my deranged lads

[chippedcupwrites]

[professordrarry]

Prompt: Drarry are locked OUT.

I WANT TO WRITE 10 K OF THIS. I NEED TO KNOW WHAT HAPPENS NEXT AND I’M THE ONE WRITING IT. CURSE YOU NONNIE. 

*Technically, pre-drarry :D I apologize for nothing* 

“Potter, remain calm when I tell you this,” Malfoy was saying in a quiet, sure voice that instantly made Harry not calm. “I seem to have misplaced the keys.”

“The keys,” Harry replied cautiously under his breath. “As in, the keys to the flat where we are currently working undercover in order to remain inconspicuous while investigating the very dangerous criminal organization who are currently watching us from their balcony?”

“Those’d be the ones, yes,” Malfoy sighed. “I’m assuming from your reaction that you also don’t have the keys?”

“Of course I don’t have the keys!” Harry said, slightly louder and angrier than he’d meant to. “I never have the keys, because someone banned me from having the keys because he thought I’d...what was it again, Malfoy?”

“Forget them,” Malfoy mumbled, rubbing his temples. “I could just…” Malfoy made a sweeping motion with his hands and Harry’s eyes widened.

“No, you fucking can’t, you moron. You know they’re watching for magical signature. You’ll jeopardize this whole—”

“Hi, there,” Malfoy said loudly, his whole demeanour changing instantly.

“You gentlemen okay?” a gruff voice called from behind them. “My wife sent me down to check. Seems to think you’ve been out here arguing for a while. I tried to tell her it’s none of our business, but you know how it is sometimes.”

“Yes, we’re fine,” Malfoy said genially, shoving Harry on the shoulder playfully.

 Harry’s stomach lurched. It did that whenever Malfoy touched him these days, but Harry correctly took it for the sign that it was. He turned around and beamed at the older gentleman now standing on their porch. 

“My boyfriend here just forgot the keys to the flat so we seemed to be locked out,” Malfoy continued with an uncharacteristic chuckle. “He’s lucky he’s cute, I always say.”

Harry tried not to let his grin falter as he blushed in what he hoped was an explainable way. “You know, running out in the morning, work and all that. Just forgot. It’s okay, we can call a locksmith.”

The man across from them chuckled. “No need for that,” he smiled. “Let me just go grab my tool kit and I’ll have you in in a jiffy. Can open the window there. You’re lad here, he’s skinny enough to fit, I think.”

“No amount of butter seems to put meat on his bones,” Harry teased. “He’s a beanpole despite my best efforts.”

The man laughed again and headed back to his own house. Malfoy whipped around to Harry.

“He’s going to break into our house for us?” he hissed. “Is that enough evidence?”

Harry laughed humourlessly, “No, Malfoy, it is not. We gave him permission to break into...our house.”

Something about the phrase gave him pause. He had to avert his gaze, and irritatingly, Draco ‘I don’t miss anything’ Malfoy noticed. 

“You alright?” he asked Harry gently, a look of concern on his face. “You’ve gone paler than me. It’s going to be fine. I’m not stupid. I promise not to do anything rash.”

“Yeah, I’m fine, leave it,” Harry said gruffly as Paflaw came sauntering back up the walk.

“Here we are,” he said jovially. “We’ll have you in in a minute. The missus also says you two are invited to dinner anytime you’d like. apparently, she’s been meaning to come over and ask you herself.”

The window was, indeed, open in a jiffy, and Draco shuffled himself in, headfirst while Harry resolutely ignored his backside shimmying inside. The look of triumphant joy on his face as he peeled the front door open made Harry blush again and he pushed past, thanking Paflaw and assuring them they’d be over for dinner in just a little bit. The case was more open than the door now, what with a perfect excuse to enter the mobster’s home, and Harry could not reconcile the distress that was causing him. He practically ran upstairs, swiftly closing the door to his bedroom and leaning against it as though he may be attacked at any minute. 

Three weeks. That was not long enough to have developed this inconvenient little crush, and yet here he was, blushing in front of Malfoy like a teenager. He felt like an idiot. There were too many pieces of evidence available to him to deny it now. He’d been very intentional about continuing to call his partner Malfoy, even as the latter had started slipping in a ‘Harry’ every third conversation.  

Like right now. 

“Harry?” Malfoy was saying from the other side of the door. “You okay? What the hell is wrong with you? This is good news! Have you not realised this, you idiot?”

And that was that. The idiot. The intentionally joyful tone behind Malfoy’s taunting. It was different than before, before this assignment even. And Harry was noticing. He wrenched the door open, shocking the blonde man from where he had been resting on the door frame.

“I’m bloody fucking brilliant, Malfoy!” Harry shouted, sounding as deranged as he felt. “This is fucking fantastic! We’ll get this arrest and we’ll go home and I won’t have to spend any more time pretending to be able to be civil around you or to enjoy your cooking! Is that what you wanted to hear? Well? Is it, Malfoy.” 

Malfoy’s face shifted. It was subtle, as were most things the man did. He stood upright and faced Harry dead-on and sighed. The sigh was not dramatic or even all that loud. But it was there. And it hurt. 

Harry moved his hand to close his door again, and Malfoy put out an arm to stop it at almost the exact same time. 

“I’m pretty excited, actually,” Malfoy said quietly.

“Because if we get to go home, my partner change goes through. And if my partner change goes through, I can ask you out properly without breaking your little Gryffindor ethics code.”

Harry opened his mouth. He had a retort ready, in theory. If he let himself speak, something would certainly come out. He didn’t actually want to say the thing he wanted to say. So he didn’t. He closed his mouth again and stared at Malfoy for a moment.

“What will you say, Harry?” Malfoy murmured, taking a step towards him and letting his arms fall to his sides. “What will you say when I ask you out?”

“I think we both know the answer to that, Draco,” Harry whispered in response. 

[shysheeperz]

Random thoughts about the newest batch of shonen jump series bc i'm too tired to compose my thoughts any better:

Overall, it's a bit of a subpar batch imo??? Like, they aren't bad per say, but there's nothing that instantly stands out?

Best of the bunch is Nine Dragons' Ball Parade imo.

The Elusive Samurai:

I do like the art and i like how it fills the entire page; it's rather pleasing to the eye. The mc's super special power is the ability to run away basically. He's slippery like an eel in terms of being able to dodge and weave around the battlefield and enemies, etc. It's certainly a unique gift but i'm not sure if it's something that'll work long term?

Idk.

Most intriguing character is Suwa Yorishige (a shinto priest). He's a total troll but you can tell he knows what he's doing. Pretty much sticking around just for him as of right now.

I Tell C:

Basically the main gal has a mysterious and weird schtick where she falls in love with the culprits of the crimes and helps two brother detectives solve cases bc of it. Kinda want a crossover with deranged detective considering she has her strange 'affliction' and Ron (one of the detectives) has his. Lol.

I actually like the main gal pretty well (design and character-wise). There's also this backstory they keep hinting at about the brothers' father that i'm kinda interested in finding out about.

Witch Watch:

I've never read Sket Dance but i loved Astra Lost in Space, but this...is very...meh? The first chapter was okay at best and the second didn't do anything to improve upon the first. Also i'm not the biggest fan of main gal Niko and her romance nonsense.

Nine Dragons' Ball Parade (aka Kowloon's Ball Parade or NDBP if u want something a lil shorter):

I enjoyed this one the most by far. Is it your basic sports underdog story? Yes. But the two leads are likable and easy to root for imo. Good chemistry to boot. Some good lads to adopt. Nice easy read.

My preference:

1. NDBP

2. I TELL C

3. The Elusive Samurai

4. Witch Watch

Granted, we're only four chapters in max for the oldest of batch so my feelings could change.

[archdovah]

When night falls - part III

(Brynjolf/ f!dragonborn) 

My Archive of our own Part 1 Part 2 The tunnels below the city were dimly lit, smelly and by all means even less pleasant to hang out in than most of the crypts she had visited. She had heard rumours. A draugr wouln’t be caught dead here, but plenty of people seemed to have found their death by roaming the tunnels she had just entered. Bandits, undead, necromancers… they all seemed predictable to her now. Some deranged sadistic serial killer? Not so much. She swallowed hard before she drew her shield and carefully moved forward. A blazing atronach would draw far too much attention.

A few bandits, skeevers and some men in rags who attacked her on sight. One had bear traps all over the place, forcing her to summon an atronach who floated just high enough to be unscathed while she got her leg out of it. All in all, this was going better than expected. Until a creaky gate opened and she found something which sent shivers down her spine. A tree stump with an axe wedged into it and a basket beside it. She saw no body in the eerie light shining down from above, a spotlight on the scene, but she took a step back and felt her legs start to shake.

“Snap out of it. You’re not there. You’re fine. You’re alive, there was a dragon. You’re okay.” A single lunar moth gently fluttered her way and she took a step back, determined not to let it touch her. Whatever it was, the ghost of the dead who had fallen there, an omen of something worse or just a bug… she did not want to find out. She ran past the area and found a table with a man in front of it. He attacked on sight as all the others before him, whit a mace nonetheless. The atronach took care of him after Mara had managed to swing past her target entirely. Her heart was still beating far too fast. Her hands still shaking. "Get yourself together."

Then there it was. The Ragged Flagon.

She was greeted with a “"Dying breed, eh? Well what do you call that then!" from what sounded like Brynjolf. “ Hold up, are you placing bets on whether I’d make it here alive? Well that makes this decision so much easier. I’m out. I’m not working for someone who bets against me.” A bald, broad man yelled back. “He was betting on you actually!” She rolled her eyes and stomped back to the door, ignoring Brynjolf’s protests until he had closed the distance and grabbed her arm. He took a step closer to her and looked at her arm. She was shaking. “ Are you all right?” Mara yanked her arm back and hissed back “I’m fine. I’m also leaving. And don’t you dare break into my home again, I won’t miss this time.” She walked through the door and heard it shut behind her. That and footsteps. “ Hear me out, lass. You don’t know why I said that.” She kept going at a steady pace until she stopped in her tracks.The lunar moth was gently fluttering around on the air current right in front of the entrance to the tree stump area.

Brynjolf carefully moved in her direction and drew his dagger. He was not sure what had sparked this woman with fire in her eyes to stop in her track like that. When he reached her he sheathed it again. “ Are you afraid of moths?” She shook her head. He looked at the background. The axe. The basket “So the rumours are true… you are…“ he reached for her and dropped his arm again, not sure if she’d want him to touch her. “Come back with me. There’s another way out of here. A safer one, too." He noticed she nodded slowly and reached for her hand. She first recoiled at the touch and then looked back at his face, a hint of recognition, then tears, then she was in his arms. She didn’t look at him anymore but just clung to him with her head on his chest and her hands grabbing onto the back of his shirt. As gentle as possible, he held onto her. One hand on her back, the other on the back of her head. “I’ve got you. I’m sorry, I swear nobody placed bets on or against your life. Ve… the bartender… had just claimed that thieves like us are a dying breed.”

He looked over her head to see ashes on the floor and swallowed. “ I’ll bring you back home. Just follow me. Ignore the others.” She let go of him and looked up. The hue of her irises seemed a brighter blue against her reddened eyes, no longer a blue-grey mix. She looked up and exhaled loudly. “Okay. But I can’t just walk in and walk out again. They will never accept me back if I walk in as a sobbing girl now.” She was right. Any sign of weakness would be perceived as caused by something else than trauma without an explanation, weak-heartedness out of rejection perhaps. Mara grabbed a bottle from her backpack and handed it to the rogue in front of her. Cupping her hands she nodded at him. He uncorked the liquid and smelled it before he poured the liquid onto them. She splashed it onto her face. “It's just cooled water. Again.”

Her eyes looked less puffy when she was done with the splashing. “Give me a minute or two and I’ll look okay again. Feel free to go inside, I’ll come after you.” He looked at the door, then back at her. She was slumped down on the floor with her back against a wall. looking at the entrance she had failed to pass.

He sat beside her. “ Does this mean you really were at Helgen when the dragon attacked?” “ Yeah. But somehow dragons don’t have that kind of effect on me. And you will tell no one that this does. “ “ Your secret is safe with me.” She scoffed. “I find that hard to believe. But I have no other choice. You could have warned me by the way. About the bandits, skeevers, those damn bear traps…”.

Brynjolf noticed the holes in her pants and some dried red liquid on them but no wounds. “How’d you do that, lass?” She glanced at him sideways and turned her body towards him. “Give me your arm.” He hesitated but did as she asked while she grabbed her dagger. “ You trust me?” Brynjolf eyed the glimmer of the metal. That blade looked a lot sharper than what he had seen on her table the night before. Her grin was not helping.

“ No.” She lifted his sleeve but he didn’t yank back his hand at all. “Tough luck, 'lad'.”

She cut into his arm and immediately poured a liquid on it which stung like mad. “Healing magic works to mend any type of rupture but doesn’t fend off all nasty infections. This does. ” She then lifted her hand over his arm and a warm light enveloped it. It felt good, warm and comforting. The wound healed instantly, with no visible scar. “There. I just can’t mend armour with it. Or cloth.” “ I thought mages train to master one school of magic. Aren't you a summoner?”

She closed her eyes, leaned her head against the wall and sighed. “ Conjurer. Same thing I suppose. But I am a bit of everything and master little. It keeps me and my allies alive.” Brynjolf looked over at her. Her eyes were still closed, her lashes no longer glued together by tears. Her brown hair reached just past her shoulders, her aquiline nose was in the air by how she had tilted her head and so were her slightly chapped lips. He noticed the corners of her mouth going up. “Did nobody ever tell you staring is considered impolite?” “ Aye, somewhere alongside that breaking and entering is. What can I say, I see something beautiful and I keep my eyes on the prize.” She laughed and he smiled at the sound. “ See? That was much better than your line at the market place. There is hope for you yet.” “ Who said it was a line, lass?” She opened her eyes and looked at him. Neither of them looked away for several seconds, until she looked at her hands in her lap. “What happens now?” “ I’ll introduce you to Delvin and Vex and you will get your first job.” “ Then?” “ Then you will meet Mercer. Our guild leader. He will… be sceptical but he tends to be.”

She got up and he looked up at her with an arm on his knee. “You sure you’re ready lass?” “ Can’t sit around here. You may not have any plans tonight beyond this, but I do Brynbryn.” “ Already on nickname basis, are we, lass?” “ Let's see... you call me lass all the time... you know of my past trauma, broke into my home, drank my wine and stared at my face for several minutes. Yes, Brynbryn. We are. So… you coming or what?“

[tuneoftyourdeath]

So I wanted to show people this

I wrote this story some while ago and never really showed it to anyone, but I’m somewhat proud of it. I miss writing so much and I guess I still cling onto the old stuff I’ve written BUT ANYWAY I hope you (whoever is reading this) enjoy it!!

A Report of Time 

By mightytime.

      I’ve always been impressed with the abstraction with which people define me. The use me, make the most of me, throw me away, and some don’t even know what to do with me. I can go by faster or slower; therefore, they keep on trying to keep me organised. Pathetic. For some, I’m the most precious thing in the world; for others, I’m just a heartless bastard weighing on the shoulders. But not this fellow in particular, whose story I’m about to tell you. This one simply couldn’t make up his mind.    

      John was his name. Not very tall, not very rich, not very lucky, not very much of anything, really. He lived in London, God Save the Queen!; and despite looking like an ordinary man, worried about the weather, the traffic, the bath temperature; only two things took hold of his thoughts: Alice and me.    

      Each minute of each day he thought of us two, his thinking about her entwined with his thinking about me. It’s a funny thing, I’d say. It had been quite a while they hadn’t seen each other, John and Alice; they met at school years ago when I was still an ally and my permanence didn’t seem to interfere. Naivety, I’d say; allowing yourself into such substantial feeling, regardless of the damage that my prolonged stay might cause, is one of the sweetest innocences I’ve ever encountered.    

      She was, humbly saying, what you’d imagine an angel looks like: Beautiful, generous, caring, delicate and strong at the same time, clever and cautious, capable of making any lad fall head over heels, and specially John. He felt lucky. “How come me?” he thought; “Why me? Why the shy, unnoticed, so messed up me?” Maybe she was just as misunderstood as him, or maybe she regarded a sense of wholesomeness in him that fit perfectly into whatever was missing in her life. It doesn’t really matter, what only did matter was that they must have found something in each other that made my presence insignificant, till then, the war.    

      John had been sent to war, Vietnam. He had left Alice in tears but he had no choice. Two years in combat had been inflicted to him and it was the best offer he got, believe it or not. There was a goodbye party, friends, drinks, lots of speeches and hugs. And as before the altar and God himself, Alice and John promised themselves to each other for as long as they were apart. The makeshift wedding ring, a brooch that was gently threaded upon Alice’s coat, vouched for their hasty, yet true, vow.    

      Bombs, chaos, unceasing firing and fear. John had never seen anything like it; he’d never been capable of imagining how far the eyes could behold such horror. I’ve seen worse, in all my raging unstoppable existence, but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t turn my guts or makes me sickly miserable; but to him it was immeasurably worse; to bare it all, the sweet tender John; and I must admit that my having been there didn’t help him very much.  

      John counted me, constantly thinking and avoiding thinking about me. He couldn’t decide whether to ignore me or if to just endure my lingering about would make it hurt less. Which somewhat made me upset, because it’s not nice at all to know you’re part of someone’s suffering.   

      In spite of always mailing letters to each other during their separation, as to help with coping, he had been yearning acutely to see her again since the day he left. In his words, he’d put it the same way: “Still alive, still for you”. And every night he used to sit on the edge of his bed, looking at the brooch, flipping it through his fingers, imagining her smile and the soft warm touch of her lips pressing onto his once again.    

      Given that I never, and could never, stop, he eventually came back home, thank The Lord. He had a rendezvous with Alice in a nice charming restaurant downtown London. He could just picture it: She would walk in through the double doors and ask the waiter for John, but no answer would be necessary, because before the waiter could even conclude his sentence, Alice’s eyes would meet John’s. She would then rush to his arms, and dive into his embrace; finding in it again the ease and reassurance of John’s clasp; and like in a movie, they would kiss as if it were the last time.    

      It was around midday and John was already there. He had bought her flowers. Daisies; her favourites. Even forgot to throw the receipt away, so it was still in his pocket, staining his pound notes. He was dressed up in a military uniform, sharp, and even had a dog tag tangling down his bruised neck. Was he trying to prove something to himself, to make up for the war frenzy, or was it just pride? Go figure... And again, he insisted upon thinking of me, awful things really; that I was stalling Alice’s arrival; that I had some sort of problem with him. Not fair, for neither John, nor me. They say I can drive people quite unhinged, and there are a few times I do believe that, the way they derange themselves around me.    

      By the table, John was a grenade with its pin pulled off. He would explode at any moment. Affliction took hold of his senses. At the table behind him, an old lady tried to convince her husband that The Bahamas were the best place to spend this holiday season. A bit ahead, a mother was hopelessly trying  to make her fretful baby stop crying. To his left, two parents were telling their daughter off for getting home late the night before.  

      There was a silent nervous breakdown. The shrieking sound coming from the coffee machine when filling another cup hit his ears the same way a bullet does when it grazes the scalp. Each piece of cutlery dropped onto the floor made him shiver; they reminded him of a projectile brushing the surface of his helmet. The yelled words between waiters and cooks were as unclear as those between soldiers and their commanders resonating midst the disarray of bloodshed.     

      He was back in the battle field, sifting through in his head, instructions he had received whilst in training, searching for an evasive manoeuvre: In case of running out of ammunition, check the bottle temperature before giving it to the baby. No, wait. If an air raid menaces, then we won’t have to buy any presents this year. What? What was it again? “AH!! LOOK FOR SHELTER!! “But dad I’m already fifteen!” “AH!! HELP US!!” 

      He couldn’t bring himself to hearing himself think with so much going on around. Praying for the mayhem to cease at once, he glared at his watch, that stupid little thing people use to... how is it again? Oh, right, measure me. He swore he could hear me laughing at him through it. And how heavy it was, it trapped and squeezed him like a handcuff, straining him away from his girl... 

      ...his girl.     

      Suddenly it all went mute; John could only but hear his heavy breathing when his gaze fell upon her visage. There she was, waiting across the street for the lights to go green, distracted, almost ditsy-like; and staring wistfully at a piece of paper in her hands. Alice looked beautiful, gorgeous, flaring; the breath-taking usual Alice. She’d had her hair cut, and a locket was perfectly visible around her neck. The sun reflected vividly on her golden locks, aiming straight at John’s astounded eyes, who had broken free from the trance he was deep plunged into and was now moving towards the door.    

      Stepping out onto the pavement, he tried to come up with what to say to Alice, but there were no words to express what he felt, what he had been feeling, how bad he missed her. His feet led him while he crossed the street.  “That’s odd”, he thought, “Why haven’t you seen me yet? I mean, I’m right in front of you, and the lights are already green! Why are you still looking at that silly piece of paper? What on earth is it!?” And then he saw. It was a picture he had given her before going away, so she could remember what he looked like, in case she’d come to forget it.    

        She looked over, her distracted feature was instantly undone into such a smile I swear, not even I could ever forget it. John stuffed his lungs with air: 

      - Alice! I…    

      He was swept off his feet as his legs were disassembled by a sudden bumper, tossing him away, making him soar in the air like a leaf adrift in autumn. Alice was speechless for a moment, and I must admit, so was I. People who were passing by turned at the scene. Some were shocked, some disgusted, some dismayed; but they all felt sorry for the dead man and the sobbing girl who lied hunched forward on what was left of him.  John’s soul, and then of course, his body, was withdrawn amongst the cars, that opted to just swerve the mournful scene, rather than to properly stop and demonstrate a shred of respect for our unfortunate lovers. All because they couldn’t wait; apparently, they were also worried about me...

...but that’s never done any good to anyone, has it? 

Well that’s about it, folks! :)

[changspain]

Getting arty in Barcelona

I woke up the next day to the Spanish woman’s bare boobs and was suddenly awake. Her partner, who I could see in the reflection of a mirror, was still lounged in bed and laughed when he saw my reaction to her. I had been forced into their sex life whether I liked it or not. She then looked up to see me looking at her and she gave me a dirty stare – I felt that this was a grave misjustice considering they had openly had loud sex in a room of 12 other people, at that point she may as well have asked me to get involved.[1] Luke then came to my bed and said that we should go out and do something. I quickly showered, changed and joined the others in the communal area. I asked the receptionist where the best place to get a cheap bite to eat was and she directed us to a café round the corner. This was our first opportunity to speak Spanish in a real life situation, JUGB entered first and was essentially told what he was having by the waitress and I’m pretty sure he had no idea what it was. The rest of us sat down and she came over to our table – we ordered the sandwich of the day without meat and Luke was annoyingly congratulated by the waitress on his flawless Spanish. My attitude to speaking to someone in Spanish is to blunder in with a huge amount of confidence and leave the conversation utterly bewildered with a deep sense of shame. Whereas Luke carefully prepares the conversation in his head and is patient like a sniper in a nest – he then strikes with precision and accuracy. I’m not quite sure what JUGB plans to do but it always seems to be: say something, panic, say the phrase again in English but with a heavy Spanish accent so thick nobody involved in the situation knows what he is on about. Luke is most definitely the best with me and JUGB lagging behind, but we are still better than Seamus’: “Can I ‘av a botlle of warta mate?”.

After breakfast we went back to the hostel to plan our day. We decided that the best course of action was to head to Sagrada Familia then to Park Guell and finally to the beachfront. We walked to the Sagrada Familia which took about 15 minutes (under my careful leadership and map skills). It is hard to describe our reaction to the Sagrada Familia other than: “Yep, there it is.”. It’s a strange feeling when you actually see a heavily photographed and documented place in reality – I always think it will be somehow better or more awe inspiring but turns out pictures are pretty good at capturing reality[2] so I always find it slightly underwhelming. The Sagrada Familia itself is interesting, it feels like it should be placed at the centre of a theme park or on the set of an alien apocalypse blockbuster. Whatever Gaudi wanted to do the city of Barcelona clearly let him like some sort of Sim City player. I thought that the modernist curves and slightly abrasive spikes represented the Catholic Church more effectively than the regimented and bold architecture of British cathedrals. I felt there was a symmetry between the surrealism of the Sagrada Famila and the surrealism of a fictitious set of principles controlling much of society – just as the Sagrada Famila felt like a governing alien mothership, the Catholic Church very much fufilled the same role. My musings were interrupted by a man selling fake Ray-Bans on a cotton cloth; he said they were very nice and they weren’t bad to be fair to the lad.

We then took the Metro to Park Guell. Whilst on the train Seamus nearly fell asleep, he was working off the back of a 3 day trip to Canada during which, there is photographic evidence of him drinking champagne on stage with DJ Quik. On top of this I’m pretty sure he was battling a stomach bug which he had contracted whilst jumping off bridges – I’m painting a very dynamic character for Seamus but it’s also important to know he spends almost every day sat in a small wooden cabin making music. When at Park Guell we found out it was 7 euros for entry which sickened me to the pit of my being, we all agreed this was a decadent luxury we could ill afford on our budget 20 day trip. As we meandered towards the park we found that you didn’t actually have to pay to have a walk around, only to be let into a sort of inner circle a bit like that circle at the Pyramid Stage at Glastonbury that cunts pay for. As we weren’t cunts nor rich we simply walked round the free part of park. As we passed more Gaudi art, men were selling various tat on the side of the path which ranged from bird whistles to a dancing Spongebob[3]. Ivy was enticed by everything they were selling but, like a kid in a candy store, she didn’t possess enough individual wealth to splash out. We reached the centre of the park and were confronted with a brown, contorted set of pillars and, to a certain generation, they were inescapably similar to the Jungle Run set[4]. I did my best kids TV host impression and welcomed the participants to the challenge, then shouted “Right guys let’s go!” and sprinted into the distance. 20m further ahead I turned, expecting to see at least 2 of my friends but was faced by a stony scowl from an elderly American woman and thought that neither she nor my friends were going to get any sick personal games consoles. I waited on a ledge for the four of them to catch up, to be fair to Seamus he was an absolute husk of a man by this point and the going was slow. We gradually hiked up to the highest point. At the zenith of the park was an ant hill shaped raised platform with a path circling it and a crucifix at the top, tourists gathered to take pictures of the Barcelona skyline as the park overlooked the entire city. Dusty rooftops stretched towards a glistening blue sea, an occasional modern skyscraper or spire burst through the desert of red tiling. At the water front a leviathan cruise liner basked in the sunlight surrounded by glass buildings and beaches. Right in the centre of Barcelona was a wooded hill with a magnificent 1800s building sat upon it, I assumed it was some sort of palace or old government building.[5] In the foreground a slightly rundown building had anarchist messages scrawled all over it and women’s faces painted on the walls in the style of British fun fair rides’ art; the style where all the bikini clad women are slightly blurred and heavily airbrushed but really get you in the mood for adrenaline when you’re 2 bottles of Frosty Jack’s deep.[6] The anarchist logo took centrepiece whilst “Fuck the Police” and “Capitalist slaves” lay either side of it. I found it ironic that the people inside the anarchist housing association only knew the cultural significance of the phrase: “Fuck the Police” because of globalist capitalism but if I met them I wouldn’t have mentioned it due to the possible repercussions of getting a lit cigarette rammed in the eye.

Whilst taking in this view, behind me the men selling bric-a-brac had been replaced with a middle aged man wearing zebra leggings playing the guitar. There was never really a tune as such, more of an improvised musical stream of consciousness; like a deranged Miles Davis he would use the chance procedure of different audience members to dictate his performance. This improvisation normally took the form of calling a woman beautiful then screaming “MEOW!” at her for 30 seconds – if you search ‘Turkish man yelling at egg’ on YouTube you will very much get the flavour of this musical display. After taking some pictures and literally running past Miles Davis we took the Metro down to the Dessannes station and walked out onto an avenue right next to the ocean. Me and JUGB saw a signpost for the Maritime Museum and thought it would be a good idea because it would firstly be cool and would be a good opportunity for Seamus to have rest because at that point, around 3pm, he was only present physically and his mind had left him somewhere in the maze of underground train tunnels. Before this resurrection, we needed lunch. We headed for a small supermarket and bought some bread and cheese, Ivy had a liquid lunch of an Estrella which set her back a whopping 85 cents. After walking out into the street I wondered why everyone wasn’t rolling around on the floor knee deep in their own excrement and vomit with alcohol prices so low. I also wondered about the rehydration qualities of beer considering my refreshing orange juice was a whole euro more expensive than Ivy’s beer – I assumed they weren’t very good but a euro is a euro. We ate lunch to the sound of what we assumed was a heroin addict on a heavy come down’s screams. Somebody gave him some juice and he fell asleep shortly after. Luke explained that if he was rich enough to be a heroin addict he would be, I looked at the passed out man and wasn’t so sure.

After lunch, we attempted to head to the Maritime Museum but on our way we passed a modern, white building with its doors open, I’m not sure how or why we entered it we were just drawn to it and we slowly filed in then past the reception then past a curtain into an enormous dark room. Green and purple lights softly scintillated across the room from spotlights way up on the ceiling. Atmospheric ambient music reverberated around the cave room. Seamus identified one of the songs as belonging to Flying Lotus but other than that the music sounded alien. In the centre of the room were 4 leather sofas. Me, Luke and Seamus laid down and Seamus instantly fell asleep. The whole room was entirely peaceful, the experience would not be out of place in an art film about existence or a stylised educational depiction of the beginning of the universe – I wouldn’t bat an eye if I found out the room was based on a Kubrickian vision of death. JUGB and Ivy either became bored or curious and took a glass elevator to the next floor or more fittingly: transcended to higher state of being (that was located on the second floor). After maybe 20 minutes me and Luke rose from our dazed state, decided that trying to wake Seamus from his coma would do more harm than good also transcended to the second floor. The first exhibition was a series of subverted mathematical graphs, the antithesis between pure artistic expression and numerical boundary was interesting but didn’t change my life. The next room consisted of frosted plastic boxes on walls containing gradually changing light schemes. The overall effect was one of harmony and it was aesthetically pleasing but after 30 minutes of atmospheric tranquillity you probably could have shown me and Luke a bouncing ball and we would have came in our pants. The next room was in the same vain as the previous room filled with coloured boxes except this time the pattern of colours projected onto the walls were remotely controlled by two iPads that patrons could play with. None of mine and Luke’s creations were particularly meaningful but the immersion of the installation was enjoyable and we stayed for maybe 10 minutes just smashing our fingers on a bit of glass. The final room was a 45 minute film that seemed to explore the relationship between eye and camera. The entire film was subtitled in Spanish but half of the voiceover was in English and the other half in French. The film itself was a Victorian style physiological autopsy assessment in which a doctor mechanically examined a naked bearded man. The bulk of the film was broken up by shots of a roaming modern camera and other cameramen also with cameras. The English voiceovers were clearly intended to be placed together to form an intellectual essay from a machine’s point of view. The essay included humorous truisms about the fallacies of human experience and an unrelenting rhetoric of technological superiority. It was difficult to understand what the French essay was about but it dealt with many of the same issues, perhaps from the human perspective. The nature of the film was relatively poignant but the thing we all took away from it was the naked guy had massive balls. We went back to the ground floor and found Seamus where we left him, picking him up was similar to the climax of a Studio Ghibli film where the hero must find somebody’s soul deep within a dreamscape and return it to their body – we gave him the kiss of life and left for the beach.

[1] I probably would have.

[2] Who’d have thought it? Not me, personally.

[3] These items were equally impressive. I still don’t know how the Spongebob was dancing.

[4] Not sure exactly which series this specific set item appeared in but I know it was when the angry white dude hosted the show before Michael Underwood got involved and it all went a little bit soft – if those kids aren’t getting those monkeys quick enough they need to fucking know.

[5] This isn’t a travel guide and I am not an expert.

[6] I assume this is the case because there MUST be a reason for this art choice.