Read Wildlife for Free Online

networking sites were taking off. Every individual could follow simple programming instructions and build an all-singing all-dancing web page dedicated to the details of their very own life. The door to the market had been slammed in the face of Roger Hart. It bust his nose. That’s when he started blogging.
    Roger is still pirouetting round his room to ‘Do You Hear the People Sing’, track 2. He sweeps by his computer, uploading more words as he does so.
    Allow me. I’m dancing to ‘Death by Design’ by Tit Kill. It’s fucking late but time doesn’t bother me. I might go out. My plan is simple: drill an eye socket. Allow me.
    SUBMIT.
    Blogging, like shopping, is essentially like shitting. Except it’s a little bit more public. I suppose it’s like shitting in a bag and showing it to people who’d rather not see. Everyone is blogging. The problem with everyone blogging is that everyone is too busy to read. Only a few lucky individuals have the pleasure of being read, of having an audience. Roger is becoming one such individual.
    The truth is, Roger hasn’t left his flat in months. It is his apparent ability to blog constantly that has led to a small army of young fans subscribing to his site. He has developed a reputation for
telling it like it is. Telling it like it is
is a much-loved activity in human civilisations. People love being told it like it is. No nonsense. No flowers. Just reality in all its faded glory.
    Roger lives a virtually sleepless life. He will occasionally doze off at the computer. When he wakes he is quick to describe his dreams to his readers. Research has shown him that most of his fans are aged between twelve and nineteen. They are the teenagers. The same dot bollocks generation that made him redundant. It also seems, judging by their clothing, their eye make-up and the comments they leave beneath his blogs, that they are fans of a genre of music called EMO. EMO is shorthand for emotional. They are the emotional teenagers. EMO is commercial metal with soaring, melodic vocals and sentiments ranging from loss to heartbreak. Its followers hide their heads in haircuts and hoods. A fashion followed by other fragments of British society.
    â€˜Empty Chairs at Empty Tables’ is the one of the saddest songs on the
Les Misérables
soundtrack. It is the lament of a young man who has lost all his friends to the revolutionary siege. The vocal is accompanied only by a piano and themelancholy call of distant violins. Roger Hart slumps down in front of his computer the moment it begins.
    Allow me. Allow me. The people in the streets are behaving like robots. When it rains, their circuitry will get wet and malfunction. I hate the way I always have black dirt under my fingernails. El Rogerio says, let the heavens open.
    SUBMIT.
    A pop-up pops up on the computer screen. AND WITH THE WILD WORLD, A BEAUTIFUL PROPHECY, A BEAUTIFUL FUTURE, A BEAUTIFUL DICKHEAD.
    â€˜. . . hiccup . . .’
    At times Roger regrets that he never sleeps and never leaves his flat. He regrets that he has made a recording of himself saying, ‘Whatever it is, just leave it by the door’, which he plays on full blast whenever anyone knocks at his door. The postman with a parcel usually, or the Tesco delivery man with more crisps. His only interactions are with the thousand or so fans that read his continuous blog on the Internet. His audience that grows each day. They are fascinated by his comedy and lurid detailing of life. My life has taken an unlikely turn, he thinks, his fingers hovering above the keyboard. Tell it like it is, Roger. Tell it like it is.

5
    JOE ASPEN MISSES the little crumb of shit when he’s separated from it. He is walking down John Dalton Street in the direction of the Royal Exchange. His mind is fixed on the area of porcelain to which the evidence of love and Life still clings. He can’t wait to get back home to check on it. He