Posts by Patrick Lenton

That time I cut my hair and blamed my grandma

I used to have all this hair, back when I didn’t like looking at the future, back when everything was super new and fresh like cold wind on bleeding acne. I liked to wash my hair and condition it so it would be soft and sleek, and I’d spent the day patting it and digging my fingers in and just kinda humming happily to myself. I didn’t brush my hair, so it looked like maybe I had curls. A hairdresser once told me I had fine hair, which for many years made me believe I’d go bald in my mid-twenties like my dad or my uncles or my cousins. But then we went to a wedding and all the men in the family booed me during a family photo because amongst all the sleek bald heads there was me, a weird puff of blonde hair that’s forgotten how to be blonde, a big mass of something non-descript like ‘light brown’ or ‘tan’. If I were the best friend of the protagonist in a YA dystopian novel, my hair would be described as ‘mousy’, but it would be ok because I’d be really smart and supportive. But irl I am not very smart or supportive, which is why I’m glad the world is not a YA dystopia. But my hair is mousy. Continue reading


 In the bowels of the Bellagio, the new Archbishop of Canterbury refused to play his hand. His whisky remained untouched and his eyes stared past the undulating bodies of beautiful teenage dancers. Perhaps he struggled to withstand the lures of the flesh and thought about God and Jesus and stuff, or perhaps it was just all the chloroform he’d recently been forced to inhale.

‘Ratzinger, you fucking pervert!’ screamed the Dalai Lama, his face flushed red above his orange robes. The chatter of the room died down to watch the former Pope Benedict XVI walk into the top-secret gambling room.
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For Jack Vening who wrote this story in a dream of mine and now I’ve stolen it.

Liam Payne’s hair felt like fibreglass. He kept turning clockwise instead of anti-clockwise while practicing the last verse of ‘What Makes You Beautiful’. His pants, a kind of beige chino, matched Harry’s and Niall’s, but not Zayn’s or Louis’. He wondered if that meant something.

“Tonight is going to be off the hook” repeated Zayn, emphasizing the word ‘off’ harder and deeper than the rest of the twenty times he’d said the same thing.

“Man, performing with Justin Bieber. Our lives, huh. Bieber.”

Harry Styles reclined on a velvet couch and smirked at Zayn.

‘Isn’t he, I dunno, a bit passe? He’s probably grateful for a chance to perform with us. Be cool, Zayn.’

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