The Burgundy Fog The Burgundy Fog swooped through our rooms, our streets, our civic centres and our empty amusement arcades. None of us saw it coming. In its wake it pulled the best of us: our aspirations, dreams, hopes, fears and Livejournal posts. The Burgundy Fog resisted nothing and forgave no-one. It razed our landmarks, polished our tarmacs and wiped our histories clean. It erased our cookies, cleared out our caches and left our safes and save slots empty. We buckled under its tremendous weight and collapsed under its intense scrutiny of our hygeine regimes. When the Burgundy Fog was finally done with the brutal slaying of our Skyrim characters and the tidying of our eBay logins, it left a simple message etched in the grey sands of our beaches: "You Were Here" Those of us that could still walk scrambled for the last of the Capri-Suns, so that we might freeze them, and in doing so reclaim a part of our history, for our descendants to hack away at with a juicy spoon.

I'm Not Steven Moffat I'm not Steven Moffat, Although folk have told me otherwise. 'Folk' is not a word Steven Moffat would use. Not least in the context of a #poem about himself. I'm not Steven Moffat because he is a writer of exceptional skill and, dare I say it, mystique. Steven Moffat would never stoop so low as to write a #poem about himself. No, Steven Moffat would have a bad, yet illuminating, experience in his sexual career and then attempt to make light of it through one of his many colourful characters: Sherlock has erectile dysfuction. Doctor Who lusts after Asian waitresses. Jack Davenport from 'Coupling' likes it backwards. No, I'm not Steven Moffat, because Steven Moffat has better things to do than write arrhythmic poetry and pass gas by an open window while his girlfriend sleeps beneath a colourful, stripy duvet. But this is partly because Steven Moffat hates childish excitement. And childish duvet covers. And children. Steven Moffat could probably write something much more complex than this attempt at a prose #poem. It would have bad blokes and good guys, It would have mega-mums and bolshy bitches. Steven Moffatt would have woven a well-wound web of wistful wonder. Not this crap. No, I'm not Steven Moffat. Steven Moffat is over by the swings, selling knock-off DVDs of 'Taggart' and the first series of 'Reboot'. Steven Moffat has the hots for the history teacher, And he only lives a few miles from our college.

She Feels Sick I wrote the title Then I figured I'd decide what to write about. But she feels sick. So I should write about that. We drank a bottle each at the pub. The pub we've ruined ourselves at for over three years. The same pub. The same offers, deals, discounts. The same order. The same smell. I can't blame her. Her undulating orifices plunge desperately into a vortex of empty efforts. The make-up runs down, down into her gob. Post-pub chicken bits dangle in her hair. But damn to the fucking balls do I love her - snoozing in the loo, snoring the flushes. Meanwhile, I watch as Ian Beale fluffs up yet another marriage.

Sevice Station Enthusiast So it's okay To spell things how you want Like the Dictionary is just a suggestion A guide A vague road map, open To interpretation. So it's alright For the BBC The British Broadcasting Corporation To completely foul up even the simplest of words that appear on our screens? So it's fine for the person whose one job is to actually write the description of a person's occupation on the TV screen to continually, royally, fluff it up? I bet you know EXACTLY how Whitney From Eastenders is spelled. And I bet you spell the hashtag correctly. #youabsoluteplonker

The 'About Me' Section My passport photograph looks like a pissed-up silkworm. My graduation photo is all velvet tentacles and dark rags. My first memory is of the credits sequence of the Sweeney Todd remake. My internet banking password is all eights. My CV says I studied at Goldsmiths but actually I just watched a lot of documentaries. My first job was as Pest Controller for the borough of Hamelyn. My birthday is close to the third of August. My tea of choice is lapsang suchong with a hint of parsley oil and fibs. My favourite pop song is the one where the woman from No Doubt sings about shit and bananas. My only regret is that I should have put more Zovirax on that cold sore. My hopes and dreams are a bucket and a napkin. My house has remained empty for over a decade. My name is Tori Amos and I'm still here, waiting in the pipeline with Sheryl Crow and the rest of the gang.