How I made a swibble from positive paranoia in my spare time..
Category: Dreams and the Supernatural

This blog has been removed due to it's excessive stupidity content.
Thank you for your time.
  

10:19 PM - 16 Comments - 8 Kudos - Add Comment

Incontinent nostalgia
Current mood: I need an Inflatable parrot.
Category: I need an Inflatable parrot. Dreams and the Supernatural

I was really tempted to haul my arse up to London for the end of this week. However, various real-world concerns dictate that I must stay here on the desolate coast instead......
    The Cannibals are playing their final gig this coming Friday. Though it's a long time since I was a member of the band, I still regard them with a healthy mix of contempt and nostalgia, and was hoping to get to the gig purely for the fun of heckling Mike Spenser, and hurling rotten vegetables at him. Tinned ones, preferably.

    Yes indeed, the days of touring Germany and France in a clapped out Commer van with a top speed of forty miles an hour seem a long way off...mainly because they are. Nearly twenty years ago, in fact. But I still have happy memories of little details....like the exhaust pipe falling off the van, and our collective hunt for beer cans to build a replacement....which was later mounted on the wall in Spensers' house as a kind of trophy.
   Richard (the drummer) and Spenser stopping the van on the autobahn so they could get out and have a fight....they didn't get a chance to actually throw any punches, as the police turned up immediately to mention that stopping on the autobahn is illegal. The police also cast unfavourable glances at the collection of german porn mags that littered the dashboard, and the haggard scruffbags that were the other musicians in the band....but they let us on our painfully slow way, and we once again got to experience the joy of inhaling the engine fumes which permeated the back of the van.
   The engine was neatly situated between driver and passenger seats, and had a fibreglass cover on which the rubber seals had long since eroded....but the carbon monoxide couldn't build up to fatal levels, the rusted holes in the doors provided more than adequate ventilation.
    Spenser would often boast that the dodgy MOT had cost more than the van did. But it got us where we going....usually two hours late and at each others throats from the discomfort and carbon monoxide poisoning.

  Ah yes, I remember it well....the No Schleep 'til Hammerschlag tour.

  I always regarded my days in the Cannibals as a kind of apprenticeship. That's where I learnt how to drink insane quantities of weird local booze while retaining the ability to play my bass. It's also where I learnt that there are a lot of dodgy fucks in the music world who will happily rip you off. Another valuable lesson was that sometimes, even bullshit artists tell the truth.
          Some of it was annoying, lots of it was boring, but sometimes - just sometimes - it was bloody good fun. So I'll be raising a tin of rotten vegetables to the memory this Friday, even though I won't be there in person.
_____________________________________________________________

          No, I shall just have to content myself with watching "She Devils On Wheels" again -  It's an excellently trashy film with a real boss theme tune; it's about an all female biker gang. The only thing that might improve it would be a rival biker gang of zombie nuns, led by Christopher Lee in drag. Singing. I'd pay good money for that.


              Currently Watching: She Devils On Wheels (1968).

8:24 AM - 20 Comments - 8 Kudos - Add Comment

Ain’t no cure for the suppertime blues.
Current mood: Skanking, ranking, wan...oh. Maybe not.
Category: Skanking, ranking, wan...oh. Maybe not. Dreams and the Supernatural

 Right, that does it...I'm giving up drinking, as of now. Well, maybe I'll finish this rather tasty and inviting beer first.... it's a tin of Becks, and I still want a sponsorship deal. Are you listening, Becks brewery?
     Waking up on the sofa, still fully clothed and with the cord for the headphones wrapped neatly around my neck, I noticed the computer was still on. Then I found the blog I'd nearly posted last night, unfinished and still on the screen....oh dear, oh dear, oh dear....
   Some of it was written in a language which approximated English, but only just...
 I had to check the various blogs I subscribe to to make sure I hadn't left a trail of unintelligible comments - only to find that I had drunkenly commented on a few of them. As luck would have it, the comments very nearly made some kind of sense  to the shrivelled and dehydrated blob that I used to call a brain, even through the leaden weight of a grade 2 hangover.

    Anyway. This has prompted an idea for an invention - and if anybody takes up this idea, I want some money for it. I live on carers' allowance, and believe you me, fifty odd quid a week is not sufficient to keep me in the style to which I'd like to be accustomed. The idea is this : a modem with a breathalyser built in. It would first take a reading of your alcohol levels, and then decide whether to let you onto the internet. The advantages would be many - no more embarrassing and financially crippling credit card bills from all those pay to view marsupial porn sites; no more lawsuits from sending hate emails to ex girlfriends and breaching the restraining orders; no more posting webcam pictures of your arse ..rek forums....yes, I can see the benefits already.

   Some of my previous great ideas have ended up being used by other people, which has, (variously and depending on which way the moods have been swinging at the time), caused me consternation, vexation, provoked a wry and amused grin, and/or the ingestion of huge quantities of hallucingenic drugs.

   I still regret not making furniture porn. The idea was to have, in stop motion animation, items of household furniture having sex with eachother. "Desires within young Chesterfield sofas" was to be my debut in this particular field of artistic endeavour, but it was not to be. Every single bastard that had offered me the use of an appropriate camera found an excuse to change their minds....I still don't know why that happened, but I took the hint and gave up. Quit while you're ahead...or, in my case, a brain in a jar. But, ideas being what they are, somebody else grabbed the same thought from the ether and furniture porn now exists, though not made by my own shaky hands.

   My guess is that, as usually happens with my best ideas, the breathalysing modem will become a very lucrative idea for somebody, but it sure as shit won't be me - I'm used to this by now. But it doesn't stop me indulging in the national sport of complaining.
   Actually, I've changed my mind. If I can't get rich, at least I can get drunk....mines a Becks, cheers. Now, where's my sponsorship deal?


    Currently Listening : Trojan Ska Box Set. Because I can.
    

3:14 PM - 32 Comments - 10 Kudos - Add Comment

Drink and the devil took care of the rest....
Current mood: Proper narked
Category: Proper narked MySpace

This maybe a little premature, but I figure it may also be prudent....

   In the last few weeks, I've noticed a few people dropping off of my myspace friends list. Mostly, I've assumed that these were people who had tired of my usual lack of interaction outside of blogs, but one or two of these disappearances struck me as a tad unusual - Discouragement Kitten, for example, (whose heart warming words of wisdom were an inspiration, though possibly not ideal reading for the thinner skinned among us), vanished entirely from myspace a few weeks ago. I figured at the time that this was most likely to be the result of myspace censorship, but couldn't see what could be done about it. We all know that the main concern of the corporate whores who own this site is to keep the advertisers happy,  not to provide a platform for free speech; neither is it unheard of for users to have their profiles deleted after a malicious complaint has been made about them. So it seemed likely that DK was missing because somebody took offence to her blogs and complained.
   The rights and wrongs of that are a subject for a different debate, but I'm guessing that most of us don't pay much attention to the small print when the terms and conditions get updated...but here's one paragraph that's worth paying attention to -
   
"MySpace reserves the right, in its sole discretion, to reject, refuse to post or remove any posting (including private messages) by you, or to deny, restrict, suspend, or terminate your access to all or any part of the MySpace Services at any time, for any or no reason, with or without prior notice or explanation, and without liability."

 
    You got that? That means that if Tom and Rupert or their lackeys decide that they don't want you on here, you're out the door and no questions asked. It's a little like finding yourself suddenly ejected from a club by the bouncers for no reason when all your friends are still inside wondering where you've got to. (Last time that happened to me, we didn't have mobile phones, and it screwed up my evening so badly that I'm still complaining about it eighteen years later...)
    The problem is, there are also hackers that like to hack myspace accounts just to delete them. (Nice people, huh? I'd like to introduce folks like that to my steel-capped boots, I think they'd get on famously).

      At the time of writing, the latest casualty in the mystery disappearance department is my old chum Flug, whose profile is now "invalid", though his previous comments are still scattered through earlier blogs on here. As it happens, Flug is one of the few myspace people who I know in the real world - so I shall be asking him for his side of the story very soon indeed, and will update this blog when the answers are forthcoming . Unless, of course, I get deleted first, or the world ends (not with a big bang but with a wimpy) later this morning when they switch on the LHC at CERN.

   In the meantime, should you wish to, you  can also find me over on youtube with the same name I use here, and I have a rudimentary blog of sorts under the general title of the Bemusement Arcade over on blogger. So if I vanish, you'll know where to look.

                 Currently : Preparing an email to Flug ...watch this space.

ADDENDUM: Email correspondence of today:
 
      Kes : Good morning,
Your profile has disappeared from myspace and questions are being asked, both Mark and Dire have commented on the sudden unexpected absence - is it safe to assume that you didn't delete it yourself?
Do tell...anyway, must away and catch up on kip, take it easy -
   Kes.

     Flugs' reply :  No recollection of deleting myself (but wouldn't entirely rule it out) . Am fairly sure that I got done in, yes, a rum thing to be sure, most annoying. And I haven't posted any phoetus-porn in ages. Ho hum. I MIGHT be back... Maybe as a Myspace mass-suicide cult, we shall see. But nice to know I was missed, cheers,
Toodle pip...

          
     That's the story so far....and despite the fact that Flug and I are probably the only two people on myspace that use the phrase "ho-hum" in our everyday discourse, I can categorically state that we are not the same person, just in case of confusion. More later, must away and listen to some horrible tunes from the sixties round about now....laters, y'all.

1:51 PM - 14 Comments - 8 Kudos - Add Comment

The Hoarse Whisperer....needs throat pastilles, obviously.
Current mood: Ni!
Category: Ni! Dreams and the Supernatural

  Weirdness has always been one of my favourite things. Those rum and uncanny moments of synchronicity where it seems as if the laws of probability are ganging up on you in order to get across some deeply obscure message - those are the points at which I've always felt most connected to existence.  In small seaside town life, they are few and far between...but there are still times when, with the correct procedures, it's just possible to tune in to the right perceptual channels for happy accidents to occur.

    This afternoon, struck by the sudden inexplicable urge to visit the charity shops of Bexhill, I decided on an impromptu shopping spree. Which proved to be surprisingly successful...that may not seem unusual to you, dear reader, but trust me - most days, you can find nothing but Jeffrey Archer novels in the second hand bookshops, and nothing but terrible Hollywood blockbusters in the second hand dvd gaff round the corner. Today, however, luck was on my side, and I had the sense to listen to the inner voice that was telling me so.

   That's why I've arrived back with dvds' of Fritz Langs' "Metropolis" and the first "Tetsuo" film - didn't occur to me until I got home that both are black and white films, and neither has any CGI elements at all, but they're both excellent films despite (or perhaps because) of that. Happier still, on the book front were  a volume of H.P. Lovecraft short stories and a collection of the first four Hitch-Hikers Guide to the Galaxy books. I did have all of those before, but have been looking to replace the battered/missing/stolen volumes for some years now. You know how it is, the VHS tapes get chewed by temperamental machines, the books get lent or lost or eaten by a friends' dog....and there you are with nowt to show for it. But now, as we used to say in my old manor of North London, I'm Sorted.
  
  Re-watching Tetsuo, and checking the date on it, (1988) I have to wonder if the writers ..rek had been delving into extreme Japanese cinema when they invented the Borg. While the Borg have obvious antecedents in other science fiction tv, (not least the Cybermen of Dr Who), their more nightmarish aspects could easily have been lifted straight from the more visceral metal-machine-man of Tetsuo. Indeed, the dehumanising of humanity at the expense of the machine is also one of the themes of "Metropolis"; it is in fact a recurring theme throughout the fiction of the post industrial age - it's even a subplot of the Matrix (which is in iteself a vastly derivative work - just check out "Counterfeit World by Daniel Galouye or pretty much anything by Philip K. Dick if you need any further explanation).
   If the fiction of a society represents its' collective cultural dreams and fears, what is it that our collective unconciousness is trying to convey through this apparent mechanophobia? Is there some traumatic event lying in wait for us as a species, caused by "mechanisation" and causing a strange psychic pre-echo via some uncanny transcendence of spacetime? We can't rule that out as impossible - to do so would be to claim knowledge of the full range of possibilities in a vast and largely incomprehensible universe... and I think most logical folks would have to agree, that kind of thinking is nothing but blinkered and arrogant, when subjected to logical analysis. But then again, whoever said the universe had to be logical? Logic is but one more perceptual filter, and is much smaller and mopre limited than the universe it attempts to describe.....

    This week will see the switching on of the Large Hadron Collider at CERN in Switzerland. One of the scientific aims of the experiment is to discern the (currently theoretical) existence of the particle that gives mass to matter. In laymans' terms, they're trying to work out why our world of solid objects appears solid, instead of just being undifferentiated energy. Or simpler still, why  the universe contains anything (matter), instead of just being a cloud of stuff (energy).
 The experiment involves trying to recreate conditions just after the Big Bang - theoretically, it would be impossible to recreate the Big Bang itself, for a number of obstinate and unfortunate reasons. For starters, time as we understand is a consequence of the Big Bang, so to reconstruct conditions that obtained in a framework that did not contain time to begin with would be fiendishly difficult for us tediously four dimensional critters. Remember, the fourth dimension that we inhabit is that of time itself....see what I mean? Pesky. Not to mention irksome, and indeed vexatious.

    So, is it within the realms of possibility that the Large Hadron Collider will finally provide us with a machine based nightmare worthy of our fiction? Probably not...and, to be fair, the invention of silicon based "intelligence", while being a better candidate on which to hang our fears, is also likely to be a damp squib. As long as we, as a species, have the ability to reach for the "off" button on any new technologies, we are unlikely to be usurped by a new, mechanistic order of being.

  That said, there is - in this uncertain universe - at least the possibility that the Large Hadron Collider could create a black hole, and that artificial intelligence will outsmart us into the grave,  but it's still more likely that you will win the lottery without buying a ticket....and the very act of dwelling on a fear only ever feeds it.

   So for now, I'm keeping one ear on the weirdness and the other on the phone, just in case...the other ear I'm ignoring completely, for it it the final front ear and does nothing but get in the way of my hats.

    That is, in the immortal words of Mel Blanc, all folks....


        Currently Listening : Naked City, various old tapes thereof.   
                                       Must get round to checking out
                                       Painkiller, one of these days.....

 

4:04 PM - 39 Comments - 10 Kudos - Add Comment

Burn, Hollyoaks, Burn! - An excerpt.
Current mood: Phuqued.
Category: Phuqued. Dreams and the Supernatural

 The Department of Applied Theogenesis was, once again, facing a funding crisis.
 Adam Charles, acting head of department, sat at his desk and reflected that it was not a good time to be researching the mechanics of creating new gods - there was too much opposition to the very idea, and not just from those who believed that one god was one god too many. Cradling his chin in one hand, the other idly playing with the Newtons' cradle which sat atop his computer, he wondered - not for the first time - what new argument he could possibly find to support his case in the funding meeting with the University Dean later that afternoon. It was extremely unlikely that Professor Mia Culpepper, a pragmatist at heart, would be easily swayed by Dr Charles' continued assertion that the departments' work had the potential to end thousands of years of sectarian bickering. She was, in his frustrated opinion, a stubborn bloody cow with the temperament of a bureacrat, and had regarded all his previous attempts to secure funding with deep suspicion.
Her own viewpoint departing so radically from his own, she had thought his arguments to be sophistry, and had not hesitated to tell him so.
  "Oh well",  he muttered to himself as he reached into the desk for the hip-flask of vodka which he kept there strictly for emergencies such as this one,
  "It looks like I'm well and truly fucked, this time.".

______________________________________________________________

(To be continued....probably).


                    Currently : Now.

11:21 PM - 9 Comments - 7 Kudos - Add Comment

Too Much Too Jung
Current mood: Stinky Beads
Category: Stinky Beads Life

 It's been a funny old week....
  Since blogging last, I've managed to see a band that I actually enjoyed, spend some time in the company of an old friend, and drink my entire alcohol quota for the year. The sooner I can discover the psychic secrets of liver regeneration, the better my chances of actually making it to my fortieth birthday.....they say it's all in the mind, but I like to argue pedantically and tell them that no, the liver is definitely in the abdomen. We make our own amusement here in the sleepy seaside resort of Nowhere-On-Sea.....

       As discussed last blog, there was live Bank Holiday music at the De La Warr Pavilion. To cut a tediously lengthy story down to easily digestible size, nobody harangued me for smoking, and the best band of the day were The Brute Chorus.
Shades of many garage and -billy influences there, including (but certainly not limited to) Nick Cave and Sun-era Johnny Cash; you can hear them on their myspace page but I have to say they are one of those bands who sound much better live - cliche I know, but what else do you expect from a middle aged, one time psychobilly/punk?

     There was, naturally, a fair bit of alcohol consumption on the day itself....which turned into a veritable marathon of indulgence the following weekend. Old friends often encourage old habits, and in the case of my dear friend Kevin the Nun, this means that we sit up til dawn, drinking and chatting about utter nonsense -so, following her visit last weekend, the local off licence is now devoid of Becks beers....I really must try to get the Becks brewery to sponsor me, when I sober up again.
  Kevin has an enviable capacity for striking up conversations with strangers - so, when she arrived at the train station and we repaired to the nearest hostelry, it was less than five minutes before a fellow drinker was passing spliffs in our direction.....I have been here nearly five years, and had previously been offered nothing but the odd fight - which, for the record, I politely declined.

  Kevin, besides being one of my oldest real life friends, is also one of the fellow founders of the "Lower The Tone Posse" - between us, as a group, we are tremendously skilled at bringing lofty intellectual discussions down to the level of the gutter, and reducing grown men and women to vomiting wrecks with our nauseating banter - It's a hobby which amuses us a great deal, presumably because we are, at heart, complete bastards.  For that reason, there are a great many people who no longer invite us to social gatherings, and who can really blame them? Our conversations can veer from quantum cosmology to disgustingly horrible sexual disasters with astonishing rapidity, and this never fails to put off the uninitiated newcomer - particularly when they wish their dinner to remain blissfully unevacuated through oral orifices.
 
  There are other reasons why talking to strangers is not one of my skills - my face has a tendency to adopt an expression of sullen and scowling resentment whenever my mind leaves it unattended, which is probably too frequently for my own good.  Personally, I'm convinced that this default facial expression is the result of growing up in London. That's where I gained the habit of trying to avoid random attacks by psychotic tosspots, via the gift of  adopting a permanent demeanour suggesting  "don't fuck with me or I'll rip your lungs out with my worryingly yellow teeth"; but the fact remains I still glare when I think I'm smiling, and that doesn't exactly encourage friendliness. Still, it usually keeps me out of trouble. Indeed, that particular expression is still useful on the rare ocassions when I find myself in the nightmarish shithole that is Wood Green Shopping City....but not as useful as my genuine smile, which is guaranteed to terrify children and those suffering from nervous infirmities.

    Anyway, I expect you're tired, I know I am....so, sleep well, children everywhere....and beware of the snot monster that lives under your pillow. Pleasant dreams....

          
  
      Currently Listening : "I'll wager 300 Quatloos on the newcomer..."
 

12:48 AM - 12 Comments - 12 Kudos - Add Comment

Blank Holiday Weekend.
Current mood: Damply depressed
Category: Damply depressed Dreams and the Supernatural

  As I may have mentioned before, I live in a sleepy seaside town. Not entirely through choice, I hasten to add - when I left London I had every intention of moving back there as soon as I had the funds, but life had other ideas on the subject...
     Five years later, I've finally come to the conclusion that I'm going to be here for a while.

     Yesterday, there were live bands playing at the building across the road from me - but I knew nothing of this until the late evening, when they'd all packed up and gone home. The last time I went to see live music at the bandstand, I was accosted by an old biddy asking me to stand somewhere else because my smoking was aggravating her asthma - as I wasn't actually smoking at the time, this pissed me off more than a little. The fact that the bandstand is in the open air, with the wind blowing straight in from the English Channel, seemed not to occur to her. And besides, some of my oldest mates are asthmatics, and smoke like veritable fucking chimneys....but that's the quality of audience I have come to expect of Bexhill.  Tedious old fucks without the sense to mind their own business...In London, she would've been stabbed and dumped in a shopping trolley for such petty infringements of other peoples personal space. As it was, I spat on the ground at her feet to indicate my displeasure, but moved anyway - the red mist was beginning to descend, and that's never a good thing. When it does, the results are not pretty, and I can live without the terrible guilt that kicks in when the adrenalin fog clears, and is replaced by a dawning awareness of blood, screaming and sirens....but I digress.

Late last evening, while out for a brisk stroll, I could dimly make out pictures being projected on the sea-facing side of the De La Warr Pavillion. As I drew closer to the place, I could make out the silhouettes of a crowd, seated on deckchairs in the dusk and facing the projection - for a moment, it reminded me of those pictures you see of nineteen fifties cinema goers, all wearing 3D glasses. They seemed eerily still, but then I guess it's not often you stumble upon an unexpected cinema audience from that distance and perspective.
  The side of  the building closest to where I live has a large illuminated sign at the moment, glowing green letters informing us that "we must cultivate our garden". It may be some kind of art installation, or perhaps just some generic horticultural advice. The De La Warr doesn't have a garden itself, so it seems unlikely that the proprietors have put the sign there as a giant post-it note to remind themselves of jobs that need doing. Every day when I pass the place, I'm secretly hoping that the letters will have been re-arranged in the night to spell something vaguely insulting - like the sign in Fawlty Towers....though whenever I try to think of witty and amusing anagrams of the existing letters, I only get as far as finding the word "cunt" in the before I drift off into a quiet reverie of swearing.  Bexhill seems to have that effect on me.
     Today, there is supposed to be more live music playing at the bandstand, though at the moment the weather is, typically enough for a bank holiday in England, grey and wet. When the bands start up, I'm sorely tempted to stroll over there and persuade the holiday makers to join me in a rousing chorus of "I do like to be beside the suicide", in best cheery British tradition. What's more, I intend to smoke at each and every one of them, until the live music is drowned out by a cacophony of coughing. It seems only fair to me.

                         Currently: Sulking. It's a very attractive quality.

11:32 PM - 21 Comments - 10 Kudos - Add Comment

Clockwork Oranges Are Not The Only Fruit.
Current mood: Clerihewical. So there.

 Too distracted to blog properly, this will just have to suffice in the meantime. Not sorry particularly, just very busy trying to think about other extraordinarily mundane crap. You don't want to know, trust me.

   Poetry Corner : Vol.1

Beatrix Potter
Takes a blotter
Now she thinks
She is an otter.

(reprinted from Fyth Dimension)

  Poetry Corner Vol. II

I danced the tarantella with a creamy Mozarella,
With a Parmesan I learned to do the twist:
Lambada Gorgonzola with a Roquefort rock'n'roller
Was simply far too tempting to resist;
Cheddar, Camembert and Brie were close dairy friends to me,
'Til they stole my clothes with ne'er a backward glance;
From experience I've learned, advice to stop you getting burned,
Remember this and don't give cheese your pants.

    Wise words, I trust you'll agree. And I wrote them, just in case anyone still cares about copyright.

    Anyway.  Two other, presumably unconnected things - first, Discouragement Kittens' profile has been deleted. Don't know if she fell or was pushed, but her warm-hearted advice was one of the high points of myspace for me. Anyone know whence the kitty has gone?
 Secondly, I was rather taken with the story of the Canadian bus journey that ended in decapitation. The idea seems to have been that one passenger decided to behead a fellow traveller shortly after a cigarette stop; after which he - the decapitor - strolled to the front of the bus and deposited the freshly severed head at the feet of the bus driver.
    Why did this story grab my imagination? A few reasons. I used to work in a canteen used exclusively by bus drivers, and some of them were insufferable hellpigs. I'm also a frequent user of public transport, and have often had to bite my tongue and ignore the urge to murder a vexatious commuter while travelling to or from work. Imagine a city full of people who have been drinking coffee all day to stay awake in the terminally dull offices in the centre of town. Then imagine that all these caffeinated commuters have to leave their pens at roughly the same time. Stick with it....tax that imagination a little further, and imagine that when the coffee fuelled hordes converge on their preferred method of homeward transport, they are packed into tin cans far underground. The temperature is a good ten degrees centigrade above that at street level. The cans are overcrowded, and prone to stopping between stations with no explanation and no air conditioning.
If you want to simplify the equation, it helps to think of it thusly:
    Heat(H) + Overcrowding(O) x Temper
                       Patience (P)                           = Bloody Murder. (BM)

            That, and annoying ringtones, seem justification enough to me. The unhealthy fascination with serial killers is just a minor aside at this point, and doesn't really apply to most commuters anyway. Except the habitually homicidal ones, and they seem to be in a minority.


                    Currently : Raisins and sultanas. Well, you asked.

3:31 PM - 28 Comments - 12 Kudos - Add Comment

Clint Eastwood in fake head shock
Current mood: Fucking Noddy?
Category: Fucking Noddy? Dreams and the Supernatural

"Badoing....
 Badoing...
 Badoing...
     That is the sound of one ball bouncing.
 
 See, I already know. I know that the instant you saw the word Ball, you were thinking of testicles. You have a filthy mind, that was obvious from the start. I know you didn't stop there, either. You're mental image of a bouncing ball is most likely just a shadowy replay of a cumshot from a cheap Eastern European porn flick.  My life, honest, I could tell from the moment we met, you're a dirty little fucker, intcher? You met my bird? Oi, Trace, you met my mate 'ere yet?"

   The next morning, sober and hungover, the footage on the lcd computer screen seems less flattering than it did after the fifth line and second bottle. But what the fuck, you win some you lose some.

   It is only later that day, as the muddied waters of memory begin to filter the alchol induced logjams of amnesia, that you suddenly recall, with nauseating clarity, the existence of "youtube". This time, the arse on the line is your own....
_____________________________________________________________

    This week = Call centres. That's all I'm saying. That and "Dante".
_____________________________________________________________
 
   Who am I, who are you, who are they, who are we, and who is the walrus? No really, I need to know who the walrus is. Well, nobody's leaving this classroom till I find out who the walrus is. The walrus is obviously a very selfish boy or girl or they wouldn't want to waste all of our time.
   No, that does  it, I'm getting  annoyed now. Look, whoever the Walrus is, just own up now.
  Well, Look....John? JOHN! I',m talking to YOU, John. Are you the walrus, John? No? Well do you know who is?
   Nobody? Well, thank you, John. Thank you very much.
  Really, I can wait here all evening if I have to.

  Why should you all suffer for the actions of just one person? If anybody knows who the walrus is, would they please put up their hand and tell me?

            (Repeat scene for at least one hour; with last repetition
             culiminating in sudden and unexpected stage invasion
             by young children dressed as kitchen utensils, all making
             highly unconvincing chicken noises. Repeat until death.
             Then bake for twenty minutes at Gas Mark 140, or until
              cold fusion occurs with reliable witnesses. Have fun.)

______________________________________________________________

 "Badoing....
  Badoing....
  Badoing..."
______________________________________________________________
 
      Currently : ......Or am I?.......
        

2:22 PM - 4 Comments - 4 Kudos - Add Comment