Life can be hard if you live in South London. Life can feel much harder if you live a few miles south of South London proper, in one of the interminable suburbs where nothing much ever really happens. And imagine how much worse it could be if your best friend was a steroid chewing moron, you lived in a house designed by a five-year-old, and the closest you got to a job was delivering kebabs from a push bike. From this harsh existence, Diet Croydon conjures a romantic comedy about nihilism, drinking too much and communicating through excessive punctuation. Oh, and kebabs.
"..human action continues, as a whole, to be nothing but pure obedience to the brutal spur of an immediate necessity; only, instead of being harried by nature, man is henceforth harried by man." Simone Weil
Blood coming down the windows. After a while everything smears together, the lights on the other side of the glass, the lights inside, the sounds, the pain, the tastes in your mouth. Your own mouth doesn't belong anymore, to you or anyone. It just smears into everything else, part of the tapestry of pain, soaked through, washing away into everything else. Only the little details remain. The pointless, tiny things. The human hairs that grow out of the wall over the toilet. The cut on your face from shaving two mornings ago. The curious ringing that accompanies having somebody stamp on your head. All the rest just smears together.