Having fallen off the wagon then my bike last night, my self-loathing and sore jaw is mitigated somewhat by the illustrious company I keep.
You're drunk. Step away from the vehicle. That includes bikes, you gash-chinned lush. It's unseemly.
Rain on the way, at last. London swelters, the parks are like scrubby deserts with trees and little oases of flowers, which it is permitted to water. No wonder there's wild-eyed crazed with thirst bunches of hydrophobes lurching about the streets. Times are tense. There's no need to amplify.
Saturday, July 29, 2006
Wednesday, July 26, 2006
Horse Feathers
First off, sorry about the fonts in the previous post. It was supposed to be a moderate level rant, not ALL SHOUTING from about half way. Blogspot not doing what I wanted: as in typo/ blography, so in global human interaction. Ho hum.
So: Last few days, there was a flurry in the sports pages over a jockey, Paul O'Neill, who was thrown by his apparently troublesome horse, CityAffair, after a race [at the start of which he [O'Neill] was reprimanded for whip use]. The jockey responded by appearing to headbutt the horse. He got caught on camera, stewards' enquiry, apologia, possible ban, etc.
There's this undertow of humour to the episode that's irresistible. I mean, jockeys - they're not big lads and lasses. And there he is, O'Neill perhaps thinking 'Stitch that, you awkward bugger' and dropping the nut on City Affair. City whickers menacingly. '"Whoa" yourself, little fella! Take it easy! You were hitting my arse with a stick! DO YOU WANT SOME? I'LL KILL HIM! I'LL KILL HIM!' and two other horses pile in, a hoof round each foreleg, pulling him back. 'Leave it, Citz - he's not worth it,' a warning shoe held up to keep away the furious little fellow, hopping with rage in his dinky, sparkly costume, a cross red-faced pixie shaking his fist. Two mounted police arrive and one of the horses says 'Evening all, what's going on here then?'...
Et cetera. I don't draw so well, but if I saw that animated I'd about piss myself laughing, proper wiping away of tears. Humans can be so preposterous such a lot of the time. And herewith the proof: The news from the RSPCA is that actually, no, we are being proper bastards to the animals, with a sizeable increase in deliberate, or at least careless, cruelty to animals, by people. [I find it hard to talk about 'animal cruelty' without thinking of the time I watched this cat I knew take two hours to play with, kill and eat a rabbit - one Easter Sunday, no, really! - and dolphins are psychos, and killer whales with their seals and so on and so on... Plus I do eat some animals... Hmmm... ]
Anyway, abuse, cruelty, the wide catalogue of mistreatment meted out by humans on, well, everying else... not feeding animals, keeping them locked up, using violence on them, and this includes a headbutt of a racehorse... Yes, yes - it's a ludicrous scenario in some ways, comical, but actually, there's the wee guy in a prominent sporting role with beasts, resorting to violence on the beasts, the daft sod. It highlights the wider issue, I suppose.
Also just been at an Old Blue Mark Thomas reading/interaction, interesting and wordy, for his new book, As used on the famous Nelson Mandela, interesting and wordy, about the arms trade, arms traders and accountability, weapons development... [Taser firing land mines?! No, really, and go here for the excellent suggestion that these are designed to 'protect non-combatants'...] Couple that to the RSPCA horse's mouth and away we go again on the aversive reactionary gallop from homo sapiens's unpleasantnesses, Swiftly does it. The horror of self and community generated by the continuing amplification of all narratives, shrinking globe and so on and on.
So, excuse me, please, for a quick moment, while I sneak another peek through the Cartoon Network/Norman Thelwell filter at O'Neill windmilling his arms, flailing blows, connecting only with air as City Affair holds him at leg's length, a hoof planted derisively in the middle of the jockey's hat, pushing the peak down over his face and hooting with near helpless horsey laughter, tears springing from the eyes.
So: Last few days, there was a flurry in the sports pages over a jockey, Paul O'Neill, who was thrown by his apparently troublesome horse, CityAffair, after a race [at the start of which he [O'Neill] was reprimanded for whip use]. The jockey responded by appearing to headbutt the horse. He got caught on camera, stewards' enquiry, apologia, possible ban, etc.
There's this undertow of humour to the episode that's irresistible. I mean, jockeys - they're not big lads and lasses. And there he is, O'Neill perhaps thinking 'Stitch that, you awkward bugger' and dropping the nut on City Affair. City whickers menacingly. '"Whoa" yourself, little fella! Take it easy! You were hitting my arse with a stick! DO YOU WANT SOME? I'LL KILL HIM! I'LL KILL HIM!' and two other horses pile in, a hoof round each foreleg, pulling him back. 'Leave it, Citz - he's not worth it,' a warning shoe held up to keep away the furious little fellow, hopping with rage in his dinky, sparkly costume, a cross red-faced pixie shaking his fist. Two mounted police arrive and one of the horses says 'Evening all, what's going on here then?'...
Et cetera. I don't draw so well, but if I saw that animated I'd about piss myself laughing, proper wiping away of tears. Humans can be so preposterous such a lot of the time. And herewith the proof: The news from the RSPCA is that actually, no, we are being proper bastards to the animals, with a sizeable increase in deliberate, or at least careless, cruelty to animals, by people. [I find it hard to talk about 'animal cruelty' without thinking of the time I watched this cat I knew take two hours to play with, kill and eat a rabbit - one Easter Sunday, no, really! - and dolphins are psychos, and killer whales with their seals and so on and so on... Plus I do eat some animals... Hmmm... ]
Anyway, abuse, cruelty, the wide catalogue of mistreatment meted out by humans on, well, everying else... not feeding animals, keeping them locked up, using violence on them, and this includes a headbutt of a racehorse... Yes, yes - it's a ludicrous scenario in some ways, comical, but actually, there's the wee guy in a prominent sporting role with beasts, resorting to violence on the beasts, the daft sod. It highlights the wider issue, I suppose.
Also just been at an Old Blue Mark Thomas reading/interaction, interesting and wordy, for his new book, As used on the famous Nelson Mandela, interesting and wordy, about the arms trade, arms traders and accountability, weapons development... [Taser firing land mines?! No, really, and go here for the excellent suggestion that these are designed to 'protect non-combatants'...] Couple that to the RSPCA horse's mouth and away we go again on the aversive reactionary gallop from homo sapiens's unpleasantnesses, Swiftly does it. The horror of self and community generated by the continuing amplification of all narratives, shrinking globe and so on and on.
So, excuse me, please, for a quick moment, while I sneak another peek through the Cartoon Network/Norman Thelwell filter at O'Neill windmilling his arms, flailing blows, connecting only with air as City Affair holds him at leg's length, a hoof planted derisively in the middle of the jockey's hat, pushing the peak down over his face and hooting with near helpless horsey laughter, tears springing from the eyes.
Monday, July 24, 2006
People of Earth: GIVE IT A FUCKING REST.
O Lebanon, O Israel. O hapless and absent Anglo-American culture mine.
I was going to write a well-reasoned critique, all balanced historical research and culturally sensitive theory in conjunction with neatly phrased rhetoric and insightful commentary.
What I actually want to say is GAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!
PUT THE FUCKING ROCKS DOWN FOR A MINUTE!
AND YOU! GIVING THEM THE ROCKS AND GOING 'WHAT?' YES, YOU! STOPPIT!
SILENCE! - SILENCE, I SAY!
Thousands of years on the planet as a species and still fucking trying to kill each other.
Is that it? Swinging jawbones at our age? WE ARE RULERS OF THE WORLD.
It won't get any more overlordy than this - indeed, it's pretty much downhill from here, unless we start developing gills or spacewings presto pissing pronto.
Now can we all just GET SOME SORT OF GRIP, for fuck's sake?
GAH!
I was going to write a well-reasoned critique, all balanced historical research and culturally sensitive theory in conjunction with neatly phrased rhetoric and insightful commentary.
What I actually want to say is GAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!
PUT THE FUCKING ROCKS DOWN FOR A MINUTE!
AND YOU! GIVING THEM THE ROCKS AND GOING 'WHAT?' YES, YOU! STOPPIT!
SILENCE! - SILENCE, I SAY!
Thousands of years on the planet as a species and still fucking trying to kill each other.
Is that it? Swinging jawbones at our age? WE ARE RULERS OF THE WORLD.
It won't get any more overlordy than this - indeed, it's pretty much downhill from here, unless we start developing gills or spacewings presto pissing pronto.
Now can we all just GET SOME SORT OF GRIP, for fuck's sake?
GAH!
Saturday, July 15, 2006
Peter Tatchell Misreads Sun Pro-Gay Sex Orgy Item
In what proved to be a tempestuous spat of considerable brevity, Cristiano Ronaldo of Portugal 'got Rooney sent off' during the 2006 World Cup. Rooney had extricated himself from two tenacious man-markers, and his final foot-setting was either intended for balance or to get the opponent in the nuts - perhaps a touch of both, just one of those things.
The initial tone of the media response, reflecting the group disappointment, seemed to be full of hate, bile and in The Sun in particular - according to one note samba band Peter Tatchell - homophobia. Yet it became clear, as the news emerged that the young lads had put their tempers behind them and swapped conciliatory texts, that there was, in the events and the reporting of the events, indeed, the whole of the World Cup tourney, an undercurrent - nay, roaring overcurrent - of enthusiastically encouraged, extremely gay, very dirty man love more torrid because of its occlusion than anything from the more overt works of Tom of Finland or Pat Califia.
A close reading of the Sun's "offending" page, from top to well-slicked bottom, ilustrates the hands of masters. The banner at the top in the print version was: 'line up to lash the rat', a phrase dripping with associations, allusions. A line-up, gang-bang, 'lash the rat' also appears to be a masturbation euphemism, which given the page's pin-up potential and its proximity to the peaks of page 3 was clearly an incitement to priapismic pulling. There is also the idea of corporal punishment for the pretty young boy who is considered dirty, verminous... lashing with its suggestion of knots, the British naval tradition - 'One in the eye' like Admiral Nelson, whose own 'column' towers over the centre of London - a tradition which, as Winston Churchill once remarked, was naught but 'Rum, sodomy and the lash'.
The phallic tones continue. The headline is underlined by a dart bigger than the actual dart board. Coupled with the military fetishes suggested in the preceding words, we are clearly embarking on a dangerous s&m fantasia with suggestions of uniformed men exacting humiliating revenge. Portugal's small population producing a team capable of beating the better paid and resourced English squad is an affront, the contemporary trope of disproportionate response dictates the unleashing of missiles to 'give Ronaldo one in the eye...' The dart clearly also represents the penis, with the chiselled oval of the flight suggesting both dynamism and a bulbous techno-scrotum of war... We are BETTER, BIGGER, HARDER than Portugal.
The 'Portuguese nancy boy' Ronaldo is the'world's biggest winker', a specifically English wordplay joke, which yet also suggests the other perennial News International favourite topic of cruising men identifying themselves with a brief flutter of the eyelid. Vada that omi-paloni. Ronaldo's eye is the bullseye, the 'bull's eye' connoting associated rural virility, Pamplonic danger... And again the collision, the coupling, of technology with organism. The target with its radiating filaments is overtly a stylised wire and rubber facsimile of the anus. For numerologists and da Vinci code acrostic enthusiasts: the numbers 9, 12,5,20,1,18 and 4, arrayed around the winker's head in a halo, add up to 69.
There is the fact that the 'nancy boy', the Portuguese mince-o-war, his pouty, smirking insolence repellant, got away with it. These sordid, sordid practices succeed. The overall tone of the piece leads one ineluctably to the Carravagian image of Cristiano Ronaldo as the kneeling recipient of a healthy English six gun salute in the bukkake mode.
The trophy is the phallus in excelcis, like Pele's forearm holding a grapefruit. The reaction of the eventual winners, Italy, was supremely fetishistic, an admixture of lingam worship and Roman Catholic ritual, all stooping to kiss the cup, to caress, to lay hands upon it, to revere the trophy-cock. The bitter seeds of frustration crust on our lips. Here's what we could have won, says The Sun, wisting: It should have been us...
Tatchell just isn't trying hard enough!
The initial tone of the media response, reflecting the group disappointment, seemed to be full of hate, bile and in The Sun in particular - according to one note samba band Peter Tatchell - homophobia. Yet it became clear, as the news emerged that the young lads had put their tempers behind them and swapped conciliatory texts, that there was, in the events and the reporting of the events, indeed, the whole of the World Cup tourney, an undercurrent - nay, roaring overcurrent - of enthusiastically encouraged, extremely gay, very dirty man love more torrid because of its occlusion than anything from the more overt works of Tom of Finland or Pat Califia.
A close reading of the Sun's "offending" page, from top to well-slicked bottom, ilustrates the hands of masters. The banner at the top in the print version was: 'line up to lash the rat', a phrase dripping with associations, allusions. A line-up, gang-bang, 'lash the rat' also appears to be a masturbation euphemism, which given the page's pin-up potential and its proximity to the peaks of page 3 was clearly an incitement to priapismic pulling. There is also the idea of corporal punishment for the pretty young boy who is considered dirty, verminous... lashing with its suggestion of knots, the British naval tradition - 'One in the eye' like Admiral Nelson, whose own 'column' towers over the centre of London - a tradition which, as Winston Churchill once remarked, was naught but 'Rum, sodomy and the lash'.
The phallic tones continue. The headline is underlined by a dart bigger than the actual dart board. Coupled with the military fetishes suggested in the preceding words, we are clearly embarking on a dangerous s&m fantasia with suggestions of uniformed men exacting humiliating revenge. Portugal's small population producing a team capable of beating the better paid and resourced English squad is an affront, the contemporary trope of disproportionate response dictates the unleashing of missiles to 'give Ronaldo one in the eye...' The dart clearly also represents the penis, with the chiselled oval of the flight suggesting both dynamism and a bulbous techno-scrotum of war... We are BETTER, BIGGER, HARDER than Portugal.
The 'Portuguese nancy boy' Ronaldo is the'world's biggest winker', a specifically English wordplay joke, which yet also suggests the other perennial News International favourite topic of cruising men identifying themselves with a brief flutter of the eyelid. Vada that omi-paloni. Ronaldo's eye is the bullseye, the 'bull's eye' connoting associated rural virility, Pamplonic danger... And again the collision, the coupling, of technology with organism. The target with its radiating filaments is overtly a stylised wire and rubber facsimile of the anus. For numerologists and da Vinci code acrostic enthusiasts: the numbers 9, 12,5,20,1,18 and 4, arrayed around the winker's head in a halo, add up to 69.
There is the fact that the 'nancy boy', the Portuguese mince-o-war, his pouty, smirking insolence repellant, got away with it. These sordid, sordid practices succeed. The overall tone of the piece leads one ineluctably to the Carravagian image of Cristiano Ronaldo as the kneeling recipient of a healthy English six gun salute in the bukkake mode.
The trophy is the phallus in excelcis, like Pele's forearm holding a grapefruit. The reaction of the eventual winners, Italy, was supremely fetishistic, an admixture of lingam worship and Roman Catholic ritual, all stooping to kiss the cup, to caress, to lay hands upon it, to revere the trophy-cock. The bitter seeds of frustration crust on our lips. Here's what we could have won, says The Sun, wisting: It should have been us...
Tatchell just isn't trying hard enough!
Tuesday, July 11, 2006
The Way We Live Today
So, I was surfing about trying to find the appropriate links for an article in the Metro [scum free paper made by the same Nazis that sneeze out Daily Mail etc]. Doesn't matter what, the moment's gone. Anyway, their 'latest metrobloggers' links led me on a sorry five minutes of lunch hour infuriation. Check out this moany cunt.
This blog is one of the principle reasons I shied away from joining in ['entering the blogosphere', dear sweet mysteries of the universe you fucking what?] for so long. It's just so boring, isn't it? 'Check my massively privileged life, and how stupid and frustrating everything else is by comparison. Those pesky beggars! Tennis on TV, what's that all about?! I smoke weed me...'
I try, I really do, to make my intemperate rants at least leavened by a sprinkling of self-awareness, even discomfort, that this is really the best response I can manage.
'DJ Quarry', what's your beef with 'northerners'? Who are, in any case, a semi-mythic breed invented by 'Londoners', fucking hateful also semi-mythical geographically sneery people who think the sun shines out of their arse-city. YOU LIVE IN A TOILET. And more to the point, it's a toilet with a miliion miles of antiquated plumbing. People come here for the money then fuck off home. Every single day. Because it does atrocious farts and then pushes your fucking head under the covers.
Furthermore, lads mags should be the subject of legislation, because they're shit.
This blog is one of the principle reasons I shied away from joining in ['entering the blogosphere', dear sweet mysteries of the universe you fucking what?] for so long. It's just so boring, isn't it? 'Check my massively privileged life, and how stupid and frustrating everything else is by comparison. Those pesky beggars! Tennis on TV, what's that all about?! I smoke weed me...'
I try, I really do, to make my intemperate rants at least leavened by a sprinkling of self-awareness, even discomfort, that this is really the best response I can manage.
'DJ Quarry', what's your beef with 'northerners'? Who are, in any case, a semi-mythic breed invented by 'Londoners', fucking hateful also semi-mythical geographically sneery people who think the sun shines out of their arse-city. YOU LIVE IN A TOILET. And more to the point, it's a toilet with a miliion miles of antiquated plumbing. People come here for the money then fuck off home. Every single day. Because it does atrocious farts and then pushes your fucking head under the covers.
Furthermore, lads mags should be the subject of legislation, because they're shit.
Thursday, June 22, 2006
My Nightmare
One day, one of the cave dwellers slips free of their chains, haltingly makes their way, blinking, to the mouth of the cave, then stumbles back to report that the shadow on the wall is indeed that of Vernon Kay.
Wednesday, June 21, 2006
Giant Ass Police Sniper
New cartoon series, 'Assy McGee'. Completely brilliant... but, no, really, seriously, is this a spoof or not? Someone got money for THIRTEEN episodes of this? Really? A GIANT ASS ROGUE VIGILANTE COP SNIPER?!?!?! [voice getting higher and higher with incredulity...]
No, probably not. The internet is a tissue of lies and distractions. Look, a sleepy baby cat. Now get back to work, fuckheads. Money never sleeps.
No, probably not. The internet is a tissue of lies and distractions. Look, a sleepy baby cat. Now get back to work, fuckheads. Money never sleeps.
World Cup: A few preliminary points of irritation...
World Cup! Football excitement. A few preliminary points of irritation...
1. Soccercentric advertising. Beverage companies in particular really like the 'crowd holding up bits of card to form a picture' image - Bud[weiser made by Anheuser-Busch] and Coke in particular in particular. The idea of mass-participation is obviously going to give an corporate enterprise a stiffy, so couple that with actual mass participation imagery... and you have a recipe for CGI-drenched fakery, on every level. NO ONE WHO LIKES BEER LIKES BUD, IT'S PISS. And I like a soft drink, but I don't regard it as a communal rite. Supporters: there for the football, and a bit thirsty. There's nothing else to buy, and you're not allowed to take your own bottles into the stadium. So don't crow about this triumph of informed and enthusiastic consumerism, because it isn't one, it's a triumph of strategic sponsorship arrangement and the illusion of choice.
Further to this: adverts like the Honda 'Impossible Dream' one, which I watched with jaw hanging last night. Ok, I'm English-speaking, English-born British, living in London - I want to see England do well. There was, however, something particularly irritating about Honda's long-winded absurdist take on this - a moustachioed Anglo-type [possible elder brother of the 118 twins] races in various modes of conveyance, all in Eng-er-land team colours, while singing 'The Impossible Dream' - crashing over a waterfall to emerge in an England-coloured hot air balloon, rising through the mist.
Honda. That bastion of aspirant Anglitude. Well, if there's going to be a cynicism pissing contest, they started it. 'Hot air', 'impossibility'... the tropes of the advert represent absolute insincerity, ambiguously phrased mockery of everything, a waste of money. EVERYONE is doing it, I single Honda out for ire due to the elaborate and entirely misplaced triumphalism of their adverts. Hate something, change something, hate something change something FOOT THROUGH THE TELLYYYY!!! [Extended breaking glass FX followed by blissful silence] No, I can still hear the sounds of gridlock and a slowly asphyxiating planet... oh, this is the real world, isn't it? No flying cartoon engines here. Still, they support England! ENG-ER-LAND! That's better.
2. Commentators losing the plot.
Wayne Rooney as football's eternal youth, a young scruff in from the park perenially clamouring for a kick about. Last night it seemed like the pundits were queuing up to have a tug onto the acne-pitted digestive biscuit that is 'Wayne Rooney' - the talismanic figurehead, the carrier of a nation's dreams, the fotballer's footballer... the sulky-faced cunt.
HE'S NOT THE MESSIAH! AND he's not a tousle-haired, cap-askew, ruddy-cheeked schoolboy, you slavering perverts. He's 20 years old and a multi-millionaire.
If - IF - England are lucky, they have a potential ambassador for Viagra in thirty years' time. Thank fuck Theo Walcott's not played yet, or we wouldn't be able to see the pitch for all the tissues discarded from the commentary box.
I'm honestly not that annoyed. The multiple refractions and representations of Popworld [which Soccerland is one mighty nation of] seem so numerous, and yet they all fit into one shrinking white dot in the middle of my screen with such ease!
1. Soccercentric advertising. Beverage companies in particular really like the 'crowd holding up bits of card to form a picture' image - Bud[weiser made by Anheuser-Busch] and Coke in particular in particular. The idea of mass-participation is obviously going to give an corporate enterprise a stiffy, so couple that with actual mass participation imagery... and you have a recipe for CGI-drenched fakery, on every level. NO ONE WHO LIKES BEER LIKES BUD, IT'S PISS. And I like a soft drink, but I don't regard it as a communal rite. Supporters: there for the football, and a bit thirsty. There's nothing else to buy, and you're not allowed to take your own bottles into the stadium. So don't crow about this triumph of informed and enthusiastic consumerism, because it isn't one, it's a triumph of strategic sponsorship arrangement and the illusion of choice.
Further to this: adverts like the Honda 'Impossible Dream' one, which I watched with jaw hanging last night. Ok, I'm English-speaking, English-born British, living in London - I want to see England do well. There was, however, something particularly irritating about Honda's long-winded absurdist take on this - a moustachioed Anglo-type [possible elder brother of the 118 twins] races in various modes of conveyance, all in Eng-er-land team colours, while singing 'The Impossible Dream' - crashing over a waterfall to emerge in an England-coloured hot air balloon, rising through the mist.
Honda. That bastion of aspirant Anglitude. Well, if there's going to be a cynicism pissing contest, they started it. 'Hot air', 'impossibility'... the tropes of the advert represent absolute insincerity, ambiguously phrased mockery of everything, a waste of money. EVERYONE is doing it, I single Honda out for ire due to the elaborate and entirely misplaced triumphalism of their adverts. Hate something, change something, hate something change something FOOT THROUGH THE TELLYYYY!!! [Extended breaking glass FX followed by blissful silence] No, I can still hear the sounds of gridlock and a slowly asphyxiating planet... oh, this is the real world, isn't it? No flying cartoon engines here. Still, they support England! ENG-ER-LAND! That's better.
2. Commentators losing the plot.
Wayne Rooney as football's eternal youth, a young scruff in from the park perenially clamouring for a kick about. Last night it seemed like the pundits were queuing up to have a tug onto the acne-pitted digestive biscuit that is 'Wayne Rooney' - the talismanic figurehead, the carrier of a nation's dreams, the fotballer's footballer... the sulky-faced cunt.
HE'S NOT THE MESSIAH! AND he's not a tousle-haired, cap-askew, ruddy-cheeked schoolboy, you slavering perverts. He's 20 years old and a multi-millionaire.
If - IF - England are lucky, they have a potential ambassador for Viagra in thirty years' time. Thank fuck Theo Walcott's not played yet, or we wouldn't be able to see the pitch for all the tissues discarded from the commentary box.
I'm honestly not that annoyed. The multiple refractions and representations of Popworld [which Soccerland is one mighty nation of] seem so numerous, and yet they all fit into one shrinking white dot in the middle of my screen with such ease!
Saturday, June 10, 2006
Thanks Be To Bill
Thanks indeed be to Bill. It must be pretty obvious to anyone reading this [post, blog] that the late/early Bill Hicks has been an influence on the writer - well, not so much an influence as pretty much a constant feature in the life of for about the last 15 years... yes, in an influential way but also in an antithetical way... Articles and critques which centre on speculations about a Bill Hicks of the Now seem a bit pointless. His work can be criticised. However, he remains unable to update his philosophies to encompass theoretical trends and modes of thought of the years since his death for a pretty conclusive reason.
Anyway, he's not a leader, that was one of his points, isn't it? For me, extrapolation was always what it was about... and I suppose the last few posts have been proper Randy Pan the Goat Boy...
Heh! What can one say... look abashed... gah! There's no outrunning the goat sometimes. And essentially I'm able at this point in the morning to put it down to the whole of modern western culture being seen as the flight from astral and physical gnosis by religion... [exhales, passes] - what started that one off? Oh, the Tuesday of the Beast, that was it. So conjoin cosmological background, smut, universal awe and frustration at the posturing required... and that I have been currently reading the Bill Hicks - Agent of Evolution biograph by Kevin Booth, which is pretty good and makes nice "man for a'that and a' that" reading.
And outside the sun beams down, the skies are blue, a bird sings at my window, and it's the weekend. So why am I sat in typing this shit again?
[sound of computer closing down, door slamming, sandals shuffling samba-style to the park]
Anyway, he's not a leader, that was one of his points, isn't it? For me, extrapolation was always what it was about... and I suppose the last few posts have been proper Randy Pan the Goat Boy...
Heh! What can one say... look abashed... gah! There's no outrunning the goat sometimes. And essentially I'm able at this point in the morning to put it down to the whole of modern western culture being seen as the flight from astral and physical gnosis by religion... [exhales, passes] - what started that one off? Oh, the Tuesday of the Beast, that was it. So conjoin cosmological background, smut, universal awe and frustration at the posturing required... and that I have been currently reading the Bill Hicks - Agent of Evolution biograph by Kevin Booth, which is pretty good and makes nice "man for a'that and a' that" reading.
And outside the sun beams down, the skies are blue, a bird sings at my window, and it's the weekend. So why am I sat in typing this shit again?
[sound of computer closing down, door slamming, sandals shuffling samba-style to the park]
Wednesday, June 07, 2006
Science vs Faith: The 'debate' continues
So in the Metro today there was report on the latest edict from the Pontifical Council in the Vatican, which said " 'Never before has human procreation, and therefore the family, which is its natural place, been so threatened as in today's culture.' " It blames feminism, same-sex unions, IVF, the use of contraception and abortion. [The edict, not the Metro report.]
Contrast this opinion with these figures from the Earthtrends website, United Nations Population Division, and the US Census bureau, via Infoplease.com [I heart the interweb]:
Population of Earth 1950: 2,556,000,053
Population of Earth 1930: 4, 32,602,000
Population of Earth 2005: 6,453,628,000
The bra-burning faggots running the abortion clinics have got to be stopped! We've only multiplied the population of the planet by 39.6% in just over fifty years! THIS THREAT TO PROCREATION IS EVIDENT TO ALL BUT THE HEATHENS BLINDED BY REASON!
FOR FUCK'S SAKE.
'We're a virus with shoes, ok? That's all we are.'
Contrast this opinion with these figures from the Earthtrends website, United Nations Population Division, and the US Census bureau, via Infoplease.com [I heart the interweb]:
Population of Earth 1950: 2,556,000,053
Population of Earth 1930: 4, 32,602,000
Population of Earth 2005: 6,453,628,000
The bra-burning faggots running the abortion clinics have got to be stopped! We've only multiplied the population of the planet by 39.6% in just over fifty years! THIS THREAT TO PROCREATION IS EVIDENT TO ALL BUT THE HEATHENS BLINDED BY REASON!
FOR FUCK'S SAKE.
'We're a virus with shoes, ok? That's all we are.'
I'm coming back... I will return... [Beastmania 2]
from the Revelation of St Mark the Peripatetically Enthused
4,xi: And o thankfully did the 6th of the 6th 2006 diminish, taking with it lots of quasi-religious beast-larks.
4,xii: Which was a small bird which did have colossal boots its tiny legs appended thereunto and though it would take off in flight these boots would cause the playful little thing to crash to the ground crushing the people flat thereby.
4,xiii: And with it did 06.06.06, 6th June 2006, June 6 2006 and other even less numeralogicalistically significant combinations thereof ['Tuesday'] take documentaries about the remake of The Omen, explanations of how 'www' is '666' - look you verily unto this contentious and to me thoroughly plausible alternate explanation of 'who the beast "really" is', which did remind me of the contextually contingent nature of words, words, my favourite thing [apart from food, sex, trees, cats, larks, etc].
4,xiv:And with it did depart all the Da Vinci Code Hysteria and tremulous fingering for understanding or distraction in an apparently indifferent cosmos, which gladfully did fade back to a mumbling as of devouts with their face an inch from a wall or floor or a copy of the Metro or the computer monitor as of lunch breaks, for they knew that time was short.
4,xi: And o thankfully did the 6th of the 6th 2006 diminish, taking with it lots of quasi-religious beast-larks.
4,xii: Which was a small bird which did have colossal boots its tiny legs appended thereunto and though it would take off in flight these boots would cause the playful little thing to crash to the ground crushing the people flat thereby.
4,xiii: And with it did 06.06.06, 6th June 2006, June 6 2006 and other even less numeralogicalistically significant combinations thereof ['Tuesday'] take documentaries about the remake of The Omen, explanations of how 'www' is '666' - look you verily unto this contentious and to me thoroughly plausible alternate explanation of 'who the beast "really" is', which did remind me of the contextually contingent nature of words, words, my favourite thing [apart from food, sex, trees, cats, larks, etc].
4,xiv:And with it did depart all the Da Vinci Code Hysteria and tremulous fingering for understanding or distraction in an apparently indifferent cosmos, which gladfully did fade back to a mumbling as of devouts with their face an inch from a wall or floor or a copy of the Metro or the computer monitor as of lunch breaks, for they knew that time was short.
Tuesday, June 06, 2006
beastmania
Thanks to a confluence of the western calendar and the number six, everyone seems to be talking superstitious bollocks today.
A close reading of the biblical text reveals the number of the magic mushrooms taken by St John on Patmos to be approximately 6.66 dried grammes... Through a glass, very darkly, etc.
More on the beast when I've done at work... proof we're in the endtimes, it's the hottest day of the year and here I am in the basement slaving. Gah!
A close reading of the biblical text reveals the number of the magic mushrooms taken by St John on Patmos to be approximately 6.66 dried grammes... Through a glass, very darkly, etc.
More on the beast when I've done at work... proof we're in the endtimes, it's the hottest day of the year and here I am in the basement slaving. Gah!
Monday, May 29, 2006
Your emotions...
I was going to write an extended self-directed diatribe consisting of hair-shredding despair at my feeble and reactionary statements. Reacting against the worlds that intrude so rudely into mine day by day.
Then I remembered that Jello Biafra and the dead kennedys had already formulated this:
You're so boring boring boring
Always tape machine recording
You're so boring boring boring
I've heard all this before
I've heard all this before
I've heard all this before
Your emotions make you a monster
Your emotions make you a monster
Your emotions make you a monster
Your emotions make you a monster
and felt much better.
If 'popular culture' wants to dance round the pile of shiny coins, if we want to parse our lives out with distractive media and obfuscatory rhetoric of scientific progress that in fact deludes us further into believing we're the arbiters of a totalised reality that we're not, even,THAT'S ALL OK. But I'm bored, bored, bored shitless with it. My only saving grace is that I'm not a fiend or monster, to use the Sun argot. I understand a bit of cookery, I love my girlfriend...
...and words and concepts, tropes, memes, hopes & dreams seep about, mixing, melding, melismatically extrapolating from my brain like the fucking big sparking sensation sponge it is. Ready to drip back onto the drained canvas arcing all Dali foreshortened. And balls to you if you think this is indulgent shit - that is the point. Language is reductive but also expansive. Campfire stories, chants, sparks from aboriginal fires saving astronauts in The Right Stuff. fanciful human representations spanning more dimensions than we currently believe proven.
My uncanny x-man power could be beams of words, scratchety lines of script arcing from my fingertips to beat back the bad bastards of Babylon and keep the landing strip clear for the UFOs.
CAN YOU HURRY UP PLEASE ALL YOU E.B.E.s? I'm on my last set of knees here...
this post brought to you by bank holiday hangover, x-men 3, Aliens - why they are here by Bryan Appleyard and an enduring belief in the enduring possibility of enduring evolution in a chaotic universe. Proving we exist by saying stuff and writing it down so we can later reflect and say, look we were thinking about this shit. Passed the time, eh? [etc]
Then I remembered that Jello Biafra and the dead kennedys had already formulated this:
You're so boring boring boring
Always tape machine recording
You're so boring boring boring
I've heard all this before
I've heard all this before
I've heard all this before
Your emotions make you a monster
Your emotions make you a monster
Your emotions make you a monster
Your emotions make you a monster
and felt much better.
If 'popular culture' wants to dance round the pile of shiny coins, if we want to parse our lives out with distractive media and obfuscatory rhetoric of scientific progress that in fact deludes us further into believing we're the arbiters of a totalised reality that we're not, even,THAT'S ALL OK. But I'm bored, bored, bored shitless with it. My only saving grace is that I'm not a fiend or monster, to use the Sun argot. I understand a bit of cookery, I love my girlfriend...
...and words and concepts, tropes, memes, hopes & dreams seep about, mixing, melding, melismatically extrapolating from my brain like the fucking big sparking sensation sponge it is. Ready to drip back onto the drained canvas arcing all Dali foreshortened. And balls to you if you think this is indulgent shit - that is the point. Language is reductive but also expansive. Campfire stories, chants, sparks from aboriginal fires saving astronauts in The Right Stuff. fanciful human representations spanning more dimensions than we currently believe proven.
My uncanny x-man power could be beams of words, scratchety lines of script arcing from my fingertips to beat back the bad bastards of Babylon and keep the landing strip clear for the UFOs.
CAN YOU HURRY UP PLEASE ALL YOU E.B.E.s? I'm on my last set of knees here...
this post brought to you by bank holiday hangover, x-men 3, Aliens - why they are here by Bryan Appleyard and an enduring belief in the enduring possibility of enduring evolution in a chaotic universe. Proving we exist by saying stuff and writing it down so we can later reflect and say, look we were thinking about this shit. Passed the time, eh? [etc]
Monday, May 22, 2006
football and women
Like some hapless fuckwit character in 'Two pints of lager and a packet of crisps please' [note for people who don't watch British shit-coms inexplicably enjoying series after series despite toe-curling lack of humour: TPOLAAPOCP is about young professionals, their lives and loves. It's arse. In fact, that TPOLAAPOCP initialism is an accurate onomatopoeic representation of a robust stool impacting with the water in the toilet beneath the straining defecator, the closest and most unpleasant correlative I can think of for the show] I trekked across the UK to witness Leeds Utd FC get inexplicably tonked 3-0 by Watford [actually quite explicable, they wanted it and we didn't turn up[and actually while i'm heaping disdain on BBC product by way of deflective ranting, Chris Moyles, 'cuddly' motormouth DJ and Leeds fan failed to turn up to work this morning, the workshy lardbucket. I made it in, porky, make a fucking effort, for Christ's sake.]] on sunday, a scant 24 hours after being dumped by my girlfriend.
As David Hume once noted in a letter to Rousseau: 'Fucking rat's cocks.'
Still eh? You've got to laugh. I came to work [I edit transcripts of things for people] and a government employee, in the context of an open meeting on London's impending drought crisis, actually said 'Water is the lifeblood of life.' Unlucky in love and football I may have been this weekend, but there always remain some consolations.
As David Hume once noted in a letter to Rousseau: 'Fucking rat's cocks.'
Still eh? You've got to laugh. I came to work [I edit transcripts of things for people] and a government employee, in the context of an open meeting on London's impending drought crisis, actually said 'Water is the lifeblood of life.' Unlucky in love and football I may have been this weekend, but there always remain some consolations.
Monday, May 15, 2006
The criiime isssss life.... the ssssentence isssss DEATH!
Judge Death
Tony Blair
spot the difference comp #2
Well, I don't know if anyone else feels an uneasy sense of impending DEAD PLANET POLICE STATE when articles like this, detailing a Leader's plans to deliver 'speedy, simple summary justice' appear... populist rhetoric always a sign of impending dead political career.
'He tells new Home Secretary John Reid he wants to see whether new laws are needed to tackle the issue of courts using human rights laws to over-rule the government. ' Yes, new boy, make some new ones up! I want to see a new one forbidding politicians. Not from doing anything, I just want shot of them completely. Bah!
Friday, May 12, 2006
So what is 'hard to beat', exactly?
Hard-Fi article in the Grauniad 'film and music' section, The Hard-copy version of which I just endured in the gentlemen's reading room on a quick five minute comfort break at work, on a friday where the arguments for a mandatory four day week seem more compelling than ever.
Working for a cash machine indeed. Alex Petridish talks about them being 'social realists', 'like' Kaiser Chiefs etc. Just as 'the communists' [sweeping collectivisation] then used 'socialist realism' as the only 'valid' mode of art, what we actually see now as a dominant and approved mode is 'capitalist realism', whereby the notion of questioning that we are engaged in a hamster wheel pursuit of a more comfortable wheel is removed in favour of grinning acquiescence to a grinding monotony, a celebration of our enslavement to The Money. And now their posters are everywhere I go, billboards calling them The Band of This Or Any Possible Future Lifetime, must-have DVD footage of a couple of the Gig of This Or Any Age... hmmm.
Spot the difference competition:
Ian Brown, Stone Roses, at Spike Island: 'The time is now, do it now.'
Richard Archer, Hard-Fi, in Manchester: 'It's a Sunday night! Back to work tomorrow!'
Well, cheers, you cunt. For making everything a little bit harder to beat. By adding to this school of corporate approved weekend release, egomaniacal fools like Hard-Fi crush while locked in a doomed pose of uplift. They are a statue of a dictator. Distractive twats who 'want a Mercedes'. And here I am further validating it. Well, if 'western culture' is a stand-up comic, I am an angry heckler and I want my fucking money back.
Working for a cash machine indeed. Alex Petridish talks about them being 'social realists', 'like' Kaiser Chiefs etc. Just as 'the communists' [sweeping collectivisation] then used 'socialist realism' as the only 'valid' mode of art, what we actually see now as a dominant and approved mode is 'capitalist realism', whereby the notion of questioning that we are engaged in a hamster wheel pursuit of a more comfortable wheel is removed in favour of grinning acquiescence to a grinding monotony, a celebration of our enslavement to The Money. And now their posters are everywhere I go, billboards calling them The Band of This Or Any Possible Future Lifetime, must-have DVD footage of a couple of the Gig of This Or Any Age... hmmm.
Spot the difference competition:
Ian Brown, Stone Roses, at Spike Island: 'The time is now, do it now.'
Richard Archer, Hard-Fi, in Manchester: 'It's a Sunday night! Back to work tomorrow!'
Well, cheers, you cunt. For making everything a little bit harder to beat. By adding to this school of corporate approved weekend release, egomaniacal fools like Hard-Fi crush while locked in a doomed pose of uplift. They are a statue of a dictator. Distractive twats who 'want a Mercedes'. And here I am further validating it. Well, if 'western culture' is a stand-up comic, I am an angry heckler and I want my fucking money back.
Friday, May 05, 2006
Digit Al
Little Britain comic Matt Lucas is starring in a £200m campaign to publicise the switch to digital TV.
Look, I'm just back off holiday and have yet to gather my thoughts properly. But if this is already the single most annoying concept in the world, can you possibly imagine what levels of discomfort it's likely to provide in seven years' - SEVEN YEARS' - time? I don't want to get all biblical here - my coat is rather shabby and unnecessary in the clammy heat of London town today - but I see seven years of wailing and gnashing of teeth.
And which ad company got the money for this ten seconds of cigarette break inspirational idea?
'Hmmm... I've got it! Digit Al. We'll have Matt Lucas do the voice.'
'You're a genius!'
'Twenty bubillion pounds please.'
Friday, April 14, 2006
Mank Wolfenstein's Weekend News Digest
Heh! This news item about a recalcitrant feline had the best headline...'Therapy and kittens fail to move trapped New York cat'. Someone at the BBC enjoying their job - dig that hip satire on those voguish modes, baby!
Tabloid & TeletextPopworld communique of the week had to be 'OH MY GOD! Preston and Chantelle to wed'. Oh my god! No, i'm actually on my knees imploring here. My god stands next to your god which is a building which is on fire, as Talking Heads once nearly suggested.
Stop telling me about these people for the sweet, sweet love of all that's pure and good and right. The new Posh & Becks, or perhaps our very own Pammy & Tommy Lee, Peter Andre & Katie Price renewing their vows in some sure to become nationally feted annual celebration, vernal equinoxe ... alongside suggestive spring is in the air heteropolitan achiever couple template, Just the two of us, Vernon Kaye & Tess Daly, their very names dripping with connotations of vigorous and enthusiastically frequent hormonal secretions. It's all just so... unseemly. :-/
couplings and recouplings subplot of megapixellated i-podtainment lingering century of the self amplified chav Austen doubtless masks sinister agenda to encourage breeding in docile prole population... ah, wrong forum.
Now this - robot football, yes!- is much more like it.
Tabloid & TeletextPopworld communique of the week had to be 'OH MY GOD! Preston and Chantelle to wed'. Oh my god! No, i'm actually on my knees imploring here. My god stands next to your god which is a building which is on fire, as Talking Heads once nearly suggested.
Stop telling me about these people for the sweet, sweet love of all that's pure and good and right. The new Posh & Becks, or perhaps our very own Pammy & Tommy Lee, Peter Andre & Katie Price renewing their vows in some sure to become nationally feted annual celebration, vernal equinoxe ... alongside suggestive spring is in the air heteropolitan achiever couple template, Just the two of us, Vernon Kaye & Tess Daly, their very names dripping with connotations of vigorous and enthusiastically frequent hormonal secretions. It's all just so... unseemly. :-/
couplings and recouplings subplot of megapixellated i-podtainment lingering century of the self amplified chav Austen doubtless masks sinister agenda to encourage breeding in docile prole population... ah, wrong forum.
Now this - robot football, yes!- is much more like it.
Wednesday, April 12, 2006
SPAAAAZZY! Spazzy spazzy spaz spaz spaz
Tiger Woods has been forced into making an apology for using the word 'spaz' cazually.
Cerebral Palsy is an inconvenient condition to have. Spaz is a derisive and offensive term. One of those sentences is factually accurate.
SCOPE forbid anyone from using the term 'spaz'. SCOPE used to be called the Spastics Society. But not any more. Now they've rebranded. SO NO ONE CAN USE THE WORD, OR ITS DERIVATIVES, EVER. IN ANY CONTEXT. Let that be a lesson to everyone.
Next time you fuck up a putt, remember to say 'Goodness! I played that shot like a CP sufferer. Who's not very good at putting.'
And next time you say something you wish you hadn't, why not say 'Oops, what a Tiger!'?
That'll show the insensitive cunt.
" It's the suppression of the word that gives it the power, the violence, the viciousness."
Cerebral Palsy is an inconvenient condition to have. Spaz is a derisive and offensive term. One of those sentences is factually accurate.
SCOPE forbid anyone from using the term 'spaz'. SCOPE used to be called the Spastics Society. But not any more. Now they've rebranded. SO NO ONE CAN USE THE WORD, OR ITS DERIVATIVES, EVER. IN ANY CONTEXT. Let that be a lesson to everyone.
Next time you fuck up a putt, remember to say 'Goodness! I played that shot like a CP sufferer. Who's not very good at putting.'
And next time you say something you wish you hadn't, why not say 'Oops, what a Tiger!'?
That'll show the insensitive cunt.
" It's the suppression of the word that gives it the power, the violence, the viciousness."
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