Identity Verified Thinker in Arts / Literature / Contemporary
Sean Urquhart
Sean Urquhart
I am an experienced writer who has worked across a variety of mediums including: screenplay, script editing, prose, poetry,and novelization. I am particularly interested in psychogeography and the scope it gives both academics and creative writers to effectively trade elements of their fields.


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Apr. 20, 2009 5:19 am
It's time to turn the wine to water and back to wine again. In a sense we're all alchemists of one sort of another. The new triumverate. The Professor in his Helsinki lab; The Rev in his urban jungle making sense of the extant madness. Me in the leafy suburbs scribing away and hoping for the best. And the doyenne, Jimmy Ballard. RIP. You shall be missed. By us all and many more. But especially to...  Read More
Apr. 18, 2009 5:52 am
Gordo and O'Toole were deep in confabulation when I entered the boozer. O'Toole had his eye on some Lebanese woman who had a dangerously attractive cast to her, Gordo was beavering away at some notes and keeping the action flowing, I was heading for hangover hell part two: The heady sequel with Mickey Rourke chain smoking fags and pouring whisky down my neck, and me unable to refuse on account of...  Read More
Apr. 17, 2009 4:00 am
O'Toole's furiously rising from his chair and I'm putting the squeeze on his taut shoulders. Gordo is telegraphing concern and Kendal's menfolk are doing fuck all. A woman is on the deck, took a sucker punch from her partner in grime as their little kids look on. Saturday. July weather. 530 PM racing results are called in this boorish drinking school and we have to exit. We're fucked in this...  Read More
Apr. 17, 2009 1:32 am
An afternoon with Jimmy. Pints chased with rums and pep. Answers sought in his unblinking stare of intense sorrow and good humoured anti-English rants. We put each other at ease as my documentary is stalled by late night intransigent cameramen, I'm footloose in the town, easily swayed by an offer of a Guinness. Jimmy orders with decent manners and is castigated by the silent hard stare of the...  Read More
Apr. 17, 2009 1:16 am
Margate. "Mr Winkle needs to tinkle" Mr O'Toole proffers a neat request among the July holiday throng as Gordo and I try to hold in the incredulity. 33 degrees or thereabouts and still clad in winter wear leather suit jacket and plaid shirt. Aviator shades at a jaunty angle. Doc Martens with a high shine. We depart Margate, 3 or 4 hours here was enough. It's like Ayr without the couthy humour or...  Read More
Apr. 15, 2009 11:55 pm
Canterbury: home of the scene and the stuff of my daymares. Some block had nearly stabbed me there in 1987 and I'd never forgotten that, despite the wonderment-inducing music that flowed like mercury from there throughout the 60s and 70s and beyond. Anyway, here I was tipping back the black stuff in The 3 Tuns and looking for a fight. No...I got some Jock pumping my mitt and rabbitting about...  Read More
Apr. 15, 2009 4:10 am
He was at it again. Pub after pub traversed chasing women in optics, bottles, cans and draught as the man says. I stared at his Old Testament mugshot profile and had a quiet smile to myself. We had done 20 pubs in an hour and my speed was wearing off. I trained it home to Bayswater, stopping off at Jodie ODs for a late night ramble about contemporary Irish golfers and Winston Churchill's...  Read More
Apr. 15, 2009 3:32 am
Company. Sometimes the only factor between you and the hereafter. Even when you're dead inside, as I was when I took the film that sealed the fate of a certain politician, it was company that swooped in on wings of intervention and prevented the certain demise of a certain Ivan Anthony McGhee. MI5 spooks may come and go, but the caberet of friendships goes on forever. Moorcock had been impressed...  Read More
Apr. 14, 2009 8:46 pm
The drones. Always hammering away at the backbrain. Primal fear drummed into my wiped mental slate. Patinas of shifting realities competing for attention. The drones. It was coming: the end point, in a heavily quilted sense. I was being suffocated in white noise and cotton wool-mouthed I raised my eyes to the strip lighting as the DMT took effect. I was acceding to the madness. Capitulating to...  Read More
Apr. 12, 2009 3:05 pm
I am crazy. Good family. Oxford main chance. But no, shoot yersel' in the fit, wee man!. What shite! I was a 22 year old dude in an unusual academic setting. I mean, these dudes thought Gerry Rafferty was fucking American! Jesus! What rot...all the time thinking of poor Sean Sheridan; dead at 36, my uncle's best mate and a good mentor o' mine... Then Floyd kicks in with its bad-time blues...  Read More
Apr. 12, 2009 6:44 am
Fountain of Salamacis creeps out of massive speakers as Vol. Con and I down pints and wrestle with the existential horror of essay deadlines whilst keeping a weather eye on the ladies. Dipso-wide bhoys floating on a sea of prog and Guinnesses. Vol. Con makes a quip about my straggly barnet, saying I was becoming a white Rasta, and why didn't I go the whole hog and get some dreads? I choked on the...  Read More
Apr. 11, 2009 6:02 am
Free aether. Solar energy assails my pellucid Gaelic skin as me and The Rev traverse more of the forgotten and erased, trying to compose a homage that neither stoops to conquer nor soft soaps; a difficult doxology. Old Lady Time is never kind to the navel gazers. Quickly we rush through over an hour of footage and I tootle off for an early bath. I'd prefigured Ayrshire so wrong: my childhood...  Read More
Apr. 11, 2009 4:32 am
Through the verdant fields, Thoughts of you spin in the light, Not too much hurry; In the good thoughts of an April daze. Painting the landscape, Through the camera lens, Soliloquies uttered, Love on the air. Frequencies tweaked, Ayr floats by, Fresh ozone breathed, And more stirring of good old ghosts. Time for another small beer, And off for the dreamless sleep...  Read More
Apr. 11, 2009 2:53 am
Paisley to Kilwinning: I feel my guts roll slightly, is it the HP parasite or something more sinister? The travelogue/documentary/psychogeographical jaunt that The Rev has proposed, I leapt on, early filming 3 days previously a blur of improvised jazzy prog ramblings and infected with the Guinness enthusiasm that I'd poured into the mix on the last trip to Auld Ayrshire. This was different, a...  Read More
Apr. 9, 2009 5:55 pm
I never expected it: I should have taken more care, I trampled my feelings and hers, In a stew of hallucinated, over-medicated fury. And now I feel as bereft as can be: Losses that I find; a heavier Atlas-burden, A Sisyphean task. Love waits in the wings, I still care.  Read More
Apr. 8, 2009 5:08 am
Broughty Ferry was a starting point: a liminal place, where I stepped over the edge and found that the terrain was as rocky as ever. As for Greater Dundee, I'm glad it's becoming a distant memory, a tracery on my mental tapestry. The experience is one I don't want to repeat. It was self-atavism. It was recapitulating to an old self: the self of the Id, the blind and lusty lovers believing...  Read More
Apr. 8, 2009 4:19 am
I've had enough of chasing the ace: The incarnate boozer in me retches. I've been to the fringes of it all, And it's never pleasant, The Who vs The Beatles: The terrible analogy that hits the spot, And pisses the company off. I'm in tune, right in tune, And I'm off the scale, Again; feebly warding off The Reaper  Read More
Apr. 7, 2009 5:46 am
Pastimes rattle in my open mind; Summoning new questions, Providing antagonism for only me: Solitary mind games...  Read More
Apr. 7, 2009 5:44 am
Why: that's the bugbear, Try as I may, It is never enough, So I recede, Watching you pulled under by the alcohol undertow, No ship to shore, my friend, No anchor to hold you fast.  Read More
Apr. 7, 2009 5:42 am
Too much is not enough: Too little is the stuff of nightmare, I pick at the scab, And reveal the canker below.  Read More
Apr. 7, 2009 5:41 am
Nuclear attack conversation: An end in itself. Unfortunate, but hating me will ease conscience, It really will, I planned it that way  Read More
Apr. 7, 2009 5:39 am
Price of torment? Agony in optic, On draught, In can, Bottle, Safely delivered to your liver: Killing yourself by painful inchworm, Down the line, you won't thank me, My misplaced faith will bite you, More than it will bark at me. Shaving mirror optimism is no good...  Read More
Apr. 7, 2009 5:36 am
The cheque's in the post, old friend; Misery is on its way, By increment; Every misdeed multiplied by ten, The danger of misguided amateur voodoo.  Read More
Apr. 7, 2009 5:33 am
It's a subtle violence: Words wasted on the unwitting. Runes cast by occult youth day night trippers, Easily cut human meat is left raw, Another innocent suffers, Another arsehole copper incriminates, Another wasted sunset, Another miscreant escapes, For a time...  Read More
Apr. 7, 2009 5:29 am
Heavy eyes in artillery jackets: Long distance lunatics on parade, Soldiery retired and on the lash; Fools disappearing into bunglalow futures, Rum chappos with doctor's 'scripts and hungry guises. Reapers at the door, ushering you on; Time for another? Last call, Late Call; Televised sermonry for the tired masses. Heady lines and heavier boots, Feet raw, slip away, ...  Read More
Apr. 7, 2009 5:22 am
The alcohol-drenched advert is a far cry from the sober main feature  Read More
Apr. 7, 2009 4:04 am
Now as I grew, I tossed caution to the 4 winds: And threw myself into the heady mix, Of hedonism and cant, And promptly failed.  Read More
Apr. 7, 2009 3:15 am
Sun dapples through the hazy lens of a 1969 Super 8: The only film I've got of him. He was looking well, the whole cast assembled. Future millionaire Cousin Declan. Poor Tommy D. Gone :Colin and most of the decimated neo-family. Grandfather in morning suit and delighted expression. Other grandfather consigned to barracks; ill, invalided for an age. Future grandmothers in Sunday best as both sides...  Read More
Apr. 7, 2009 3:09 am
No one knows: Hiding behind the united front of the nuclear family. It's quotidian; the crazy infected situation, They always will be, Alive, unwell, living in....  Read More
Apr. 7, 2009 3:05 am
With you there, I had no chance; Shot down, wounded. With me there you had a half-chance; Vultures circling as we made plans. With you there I had every chance; Capitulating to ordinary madness, Everyday insanity, the crazy now, Days spent erasing pasts. And Further On: The truth on the High Road North, You never really exited the Passion Play; Simply changed the rules when The House called...  Read More
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