Ode To Failure

Words - Kane Horspool Photos - Ryan Grant Clip - Michael Drake

Life’s to be lived, not endured. And nothing comes to you, you gotta go out and get it. Walk these streets and you’ll no doubt just see people wasting away. Living day to day, fad to faze, faze to fad. Self-identifying with products, promoting their personal brands. You’re not a brand, you’re a person. Brands can be bought and sold, meat in the market. Fucking slaves. Pure fucking capitalists all the way down to the carotid.


It’s the social media syndrome, panic attack from the peer pressure paranoia. Everyone’s a fucking model with a selfie stick. Narcissism overload when your entire feed is stylised self-portraits, pixels pushed through spray tanned filters. Hash tag blessed.


Have you ever walking in on someone taking a selfie? Like caught them in the act? Its like walking in on someone masturbating in front of the mirror. Shits awkward. Just put your head down and wait for them to finish.


We don’t take selfies; we take photos of our friends. Kill your fucking ego.

Only way to fix it, a fair share of grit. Eat some dust, slam on the ‘crete. Bit of dirt in the sweat lines, blood in the beard. Fuck the path less travelled, bush bash where no ones been. Nothing like slamming on your face to realise what really matters. Slamming on the deck, no better reality check.


When your stinging in the shower from the hot water scorching all those open wounds just consider how lucky you are. Seriously, most people exist through their entire lives avoiding anything with the mildest chance of injury. We seek that shit out. Every single time we step on the stunt wood we know there’s a slam coming. Because there’s nothing like pancaking your body into the cement to wake you the fuck up and stretch out these old bones.


We have the ability to slow time, bleeding seconds from seconds. Those split seconds when you’re on a collision course to being crumpled can last an eternity. When you’re free falling towards imminent disaster you can hit a higher heart rate than joe jock in the middle of a bikrim cross fit boot camp.


Straight after a good hearty beating there is usually one of two thoughts going through your head. Its either “I’m Fucked” or “That wasn’t so bad”. It’s the later that fires you up, fills the tank and gets you hurtling at it once more. That’s fucking living.

Wear those wounds with pride, carry that limp like medals won in battle. And just like Tyler Durden always remember to smile when the blood gushes from your gums.

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