The League Of Mongrel Messiahs

There are somethings that are missing from yesteryear (which was apparently at some point in the mid-fifties) that this world is in dire need of.

Sense of community (“sure”).

Being able to fix your own car (“uhuh”).

Children playing in the streets (*yawn*).

And the only food that was bad for you was too much for it (“and who really gives a basket of warm, fluffy fucks?”).

Not to mention that there’s no real music anymore…

Perhaps the problem is that these are issues whined by those who came from those times and are now, regrettably, dying to the tune of some K$sha ballad whilst their grandchildren are too fat to get out the door and play in the streets where they will be preyed upon.

What we need are some new things to miss from the past.

Such as Leagues.

Why aren’t there any Leagues anymore?

There used to be Leagues bombarding your front doorstep with still-warm prints of their latest campaigns to do away with this or to bring for the that and many other times simply stating their existence as any good League surely has the right to do.

And I refuse to permit any form of online gaming groups to be classes as a League on the grounds that they are useless (thus far), proffer not even a single leaflet and really are simply not the sought of people you’d want to be stranded with in a dark zombie-strewn forest.

Keyboard skills do not translate well to activities that do not require keyboards.

More activities without keyboards; they’re long missing too. I’m now at the stage at which writing with a pen hurts my hand after only a few sentences and I – being cursed with verbiage – am left feeling overly impassioned by the toll and toil of my inky craft in what amounts to a the longer nouns on my shopping list. I’ve stopped buying croissants as a matter of…it hurting.

Croissants are the food of the typing-types.

And Messiahs. There used to be tonnes, as though it was raining with Messiahs and we were up to our blessed ears and had our holy hands full with the constant barrage of those who had come from as elected by their own relative Almighty and were seeking my salvation and bank account details (plus free cool-aid).

I can cure you.

Especially your sciatica.

Just kick my dog in the face, like I do.

Of course, don’t kick my dog in the face as I’ll consider that an invasion of my personal property (as well as an invasion of my best friend’s face with your foot). And when I say ‘kick’ – I mean: nudge him in the face with your foot whilst he nibbles you. And when I say ‘dog’ – I’m referring to my Lurcher/Greyhound of whom it requires a good deal of height so as to foot-nudge properly; the effect might not be the same on your pug. But kick that too; it’s good for the species (ours).

And the species matters to me, just like it should to a Messiah.

I’m not the Messiah to canine-kind, but they’re welcome in the healing process of your sciatic nerve.

Dogs are another thing that used to be done better.

Mongrels were proper mongrels; full of salty beans and with a hint of wolf and whiff of poodle mixed together into something that wanders down the street with as much swagger as any worldly millionaire that knows that one day its steak and women as an evening’s entertainment – the next its soup for dinner and soup for romance.

The League of Mongrel Messiahs.

I’d take their leaflet.

This might be a little beside the point since you’re not in the room with me but – gosh my typing sounds good today. Although at times it can be a little stalted as I try to remember the spelling of “stalted”, as though it were a pleasing piano melody that contained an unneighbourly and offbeat pause that could ruin the piece altogether.

Perhaps that’s the key to good writing. But how should a scribble sound?

Short sharp dashes aplenty, with many pleasing whooping whirls too; just like a good signature. I’ve always felt that when writing with the passion of really writing, it should be a highly physical and audible thing with just the right amount of shoulder pulse and groove amongst the melody of those nifty little z’s and capital N’s that the young folk and Nazis are so fond of (whilst also including some woo’s for the older pups and owls; for I’ve also always felt that ‘woo’ looks like an owl laying down and imitated).


A tad off topic but somehow more to the point.

How very me.

I imagine the League of Mongrel Messiahs would have their leaflet written only by the most audibly-pleasing of writing techniques.

But which sounds most musical?


The only form of writing that provides a “whooooosh!” throughout; such an essential aspect that emails and texts insert it onto a sent message just in imitation of those fabulous flying machines.

But all I’ve got is a keyboard.

And a croissant.

And a large dog.

And what more would you expect from my League of Mongrel Messiahs?


What could be more hopeful than a chap looking to be your Messiah with croissants and a dog as such vital aspects of his arsenal?


Whilst a good-looking slogan (especially on a sash and even more especially on a slash and keeping the question mark) – I hardly think this is something to be provided by a Messiah. Promised, perhaps, but not provided.

A manner in which to wait until the final finality?


I can do that.

It’ll involve sticks and shouting, large amounts of general things, landing hard, smoking a pipe, a large ego with just cause, meadows, fishing via the stabbing method, boulders and some saintliness.

Or just some occasional blog-articles.

Either way…

At least we have some new things to reminisce about now.



Onto The Rocket Goes… (Part 2)


They’re going on my rocket, with or without a highlander to blast upon them. Or perhaps we can just position them near the rocket’s main window as we leave it open for a breeze.

Wind-chimes, meanwhile, will not be welcomed onto the rocket, as whilst there might be no more magical a sound than metallic wind-chimes doing what they do in the breeze as they introduce a fairy or a spell takes place, there is no greater relief than when the chimes are grabbed and silenced at long last.

Because it stirs us up from beneath the kilt and makes you wilt like the pansy alien you really are.

Plus tartan kilts.

Plus salted porridge.

And drizzle.

These’ll need some development…but, yes, I am ultimately putting Scotland as an entity on my rocket.

And very few nations are going to get that good favour.

This is the series of articles in which I detail all the things that I feel deserve a place upon the rocket we send into space so as to impress aliens, for good and bad (below the waste or not). There are items and concepts that I feel represent us well as a species and as hosts of a planet, either by summing us up well or simply being awesome enough that I want aliens to know about it; which is why the Maori Haka and Abba’s Mamma Mia made it onto the rocket in the last article.

Tartan has a place aboard the rocket, in every single format that it could possible take.
The kilt (obviously), trousers, tea pots, tattoos, shoes, lingerie and total-tartan-suits…all are a bewildering exclamation of proud nationalism via a pattern resembling the London Underground map coloured in by Microsoft Paint.

It also looks like a futuristic and complex array of wiring/programming that would hopefully be as incomprehensible to aliens as the distinction of tartan from clan-to-clan is for me.

Perhaps we could have tartan rocket? Just crack open the tartan paint.
So, whilst the tartan might not be the most worthy of things on the rockets, it still fits in with the theme of today.


Look, I’m struggling to continue with this seeing as that although this article has this Scottish theme and its worthiness for a place on the rocket, I simply want to write about something else now.

I prefer to urinate in the countryside.

That’s what I’m writing about now.

I imagine it’s like golf – the main benefit being that it’s outside and one can enjoy the scenery whilst peeing in the sunshine or moonlight.

However, I have an ulterior motive for when I pee in my garden, and the woods, and the meadow and ever-elsewhere with particular focus on being near a fox den.

I believe we must take pride in our species in terms of output, essence and achievements, and promptly rub it in the face of all other life on Earth (before then doing all this again on a space-bound rocket).

So, I pee outside with the hope that a fox, or a deer or a badger might come along, sniff my abandoned puddle and realise in their mind: “Hmm. That guy…”

And whilst I enjoy being natural amongst nature, it’s mostly the fact that I want to be of some effect in the daily life of a fox I’ve never met. Perhaps they’ll pass the knowledge of that Sam-Man-Pee down to their cubs and I’ll become alike to the boogieman; which is fine by me.

I’d consider it a healthy level of respect for local foxes to sniff my pee and move on.
And nobody need nibble the other, I’m not eliminating the food source of discarded pizza boxes and stolen hats, and I don’t write disparaging comments about foxes on Facebook. It’s all rather mature and long may the pee sniffing continue – especially on the rocket (another reason for having the window open).

Wearing a kilt would make peeing outside easier. A pleasure even, though perhaps not a charming one.

The additional benefit of the kilt is the incredibly effective method of lifting it and waggling the highlander’s lowlands at opponents across the valley, causing both sides to become either truly enraged with a willy-inspired bloodlust that can only be satisfied with a nice bowl of cooling porridge to dip oneself in, or suddenly discovering that you have a tremendous amount of genital-respect for one another which can only be satisfied another cooling porridge dip, though this time without salt.

Plus drizzle.

Drizzle would, I once assumed, be a natural soother of highland tempers and a subduer of spikey temperaments, until I realised on a drizzly mountain side one winter that I was going to severely impediment the progression to future birthdays of all those dryer than myself at that point.

Drizzle has a funny way of making the drizzled-upon people redheaded and tartan and the drizzled-upon flowers purple and spikey.

The Thistle will be the official posy of planet Earth, unless somebody can provide a Sunflower prior to blast-off, as I feel still that a Sunflower is the flower of Earth with the best chance representing flora in a fight against fauna (Venus Flytraps excluded owing to being sneaky and dishonourable). A Thistle might be a more honourable flower, but a Sunflower looks like a 3-year-old drew it and it could feed a family of 8.

The salted porridge deserves a place upon the rocket too, more so as a metaphor than as a meal in and of itself.

“Porridge, sir?”

“Thank you, but does that house provide any salt to top with?”

“Salt, sir?”

“If you’d be so kind, as it’s just that I do so adore porridge, but I do too tend to find that it’s just not bloody horrible enough!”

Sometimes, it’s worth doing something hard purely on the basis that it’s hard.

I once carted a pumpkin around for a few days with the sheer hope that doing a tough-to-do thing would benefit me in terms of true-grit, but I forgot about the idea and left the pumpkin on the stairs (unaware that it had been penetrated and the snails I was saving to cook has escaped and had a jolly good go at it).

The benefit?

My forearm power grew and I’ll swear those snails tasted a tad of pumpkin, but on the whole I became (following many other similar contributions) perpetually prepared to have a bad time for no good reason.

Salted porridge is much the same.

Horrible now, not so horrible next time.

And the alien life would see this through our rocket’s open window, as we waggle our tartan erections out into deep space from beneath our kilts, a bowl of salted porridge somewhere near the mouth – making us grimace in drizzly determination; all to the tune of the magnificent bagpipes – making us grimace in ecstasy as we realise that Earth (in particularly Scotland) is better than your pathetic and weedy little excuse for a planet.

And now we’re taking Mars too.


Male Pattern Baldness, Hunter S Thompson And Shaved Freedom

I’ve long had a reaction to the claims by your typical racist chap that harps on about how black people look like apes.

The problem is that some black people do look like monkeys and apes, but this is in the same sense as the fact that there are people from all races who look like the FA Cup owing to a prominence of ear in the East and West of their head.

And in another similar sense, you then have those white people that look like chimpanzees; like my Northern Irish American-Film Lecturer: Ken Somethingsomething.

All in all, people look like things; it’s a human tradition.

Some look like dolphins, some look like insects; ultimately the fact that you look like our closest relatives throughout the Animal Kingdom (fellow humans aside) is probably a good thing.

This is just a thought I’ve had throughout the years, since meeting Ken.

And it’s not as though Ken wasn’t a handsome chap.

He had a desk-bound ruggedness, a man filled with poetical passion that let itself loose as he lectured the sweet-protestant-Jesus out of me and gave some rather fabulous ticks as he marked.

He was a ultimately an attractive man, if attractive men are you’re thing, and it was just the sheer shape of his face and the recession of his hair into full-blown male pattern baldness that made him appear more monkey-like than your average American-Film lecturer.

Also, for the record, male pattern baldness (MPB) is not a cause for unattractiveness.

Since we’re talking about it, yes, I do have an example.

Hunter S Thompson.

Thompson is an icon, a man who has transcended the mortal world and become a literal folk-legend; one of those historic men of whom there are countless anecdotes of his presence at scenes and his actions that caused scenes.

His works inspired generations, with 40 crucial years of extraordinary output that forged a new genre of literary journalism, and this is his writing alone. His attitude, the demeanour with which he strode the Earth is legendary.

He is amongst those men, such as his hero Hemingway, who made writing one of those very masculine occupations – not a world in which women were not equally capable – but one in which miners and welders and other such grizzled and anti-intellectual stereotypes wouldn’t be able to call them pussies.

Because Hunter S Thompson was not a pussy.

His into-the-fray technique of gonzo journalism evokes those terms that just feel masculine in this context. Much like my favourite Monty Python sketch in which good ‘woody’ words are discussed (not ‘tinny’ – “sorry old horse”).



Novelist (bit tinny…).

And Hunter changed the world from behind a type-writer and a cattle-prod, dousing the reader in the glory of the righteous crime of ‘not-giving-a-fuck-with-intent’ and wearing long white socks and with male pattern baldness.

And the male pattern baldness is only relevant here by its irrelevance.

Thompson changed the world, and my life, with utter and total freedom and male pattern baldness, and all whilst looking slightly like an aging chimpanzee.

And what I also adore is the fact that he took the helm of his head; echoing the essence of him being Master of his Fate and the Captain of his Soul by shaving his scalp and changing the world.

But still, I catch my Dad eyeing me fondly from the eyebrows-up, missing my hair that was his.

But to his fortune, he doesn’t look like a monkey. Or an ape.

They’re different, you know.


A Nice Big Nose

I’ve a nice big nose.

It’s useless.

But it’s nice. And big.

It’s quite handy for obscuring either facial cheek from the opposing eye above.

This skill hasn’t really lent itself to the everyday, or even the exceptional life, at this point.

I do use it to turn off light switches when my hands are full.

I’m glad I haven’t seen any of the other apes doing this yet; I guess that what comes from being too stupid to have a big nose. And thumbs.

People can’t tell I’ve a big nose from straight on though; only when I turn, and knock pedestrians over with the nostrils.

My sense of smell is abysmal.

I can only tell if there’s been a gas leak when I hear the sound of the fire-brigade (plus the intense burning sensation that I can’t do much about because my hands are full and I’m not trying to turn on the light with my nose).

My voice isn’t nasal, it’s just a regular, nothing-much-about-me voice.

My nose in profile looks like it should belong to a pickpocketing villain who overhears your plans of escape and warns the dodgy policeman in exchange for some sort of nose-pleasing rub.

My nose looks suspicious, but I can promise you it’s not up to anything at all calculated.

It’s a nice big nose though.

Would I have it removed?

No – unless I could flip it upside down, attach it to my wall and keep two joss sticks in it.

But then I couldn’t smell them…

Could there ever be the chance that an acid attack might genuinely improve my nose?

I can imagine the compliments…

“Well, I can see all his teeth at all times and his eye keep dangling out, but his nose really is much improved in terms of distance to me.”

That’s the thing about my nose – you never quite realise just how close to you it really is.

It’s like rats.

I feel I can’t impress enough upon you how ridiculous the size of my nose is in relation to how bad my sense of smell is.

I have an exceptionally average-sized hanky.

My sneezes are mediocre in volume and spray.

There is nothing large about my nose other than the size of it.

And it is at this point when once comes to realise that some facial components are simply genetic traditions of your family, passed down from large-nosed grandpapa to large-nosed mama, until it lands in your lap and quickly works its way up to the centre of your visage: the bulls-eye of what people look at of you.

My nose looks like an Easter Island head, only – not just the nose – the entire head is the epicentre of my face.

And it inhibits me zero-percent.

I do, however, have the natural benefit of having a big nose, large thick-rimmed glasses and a big moustache; meaning that I can appear perpetually disguised as though I’d just walked out of a joke shop and wished to vanish into the midst of a ‘Generic Disguise Convention’ (filled with burly burglars in delicate dresses and sneaky chaps wearing a particularly suspicious hedge).

Are there any benefits to having a large nose?

Being easily describable in a witness statement.

Were I to commit a crime and the victim get away; you’d find it easy to describe me to the police.

Because I’ve got a nice big nose.

You can even tell when I’m wearing a full face mask because the mask looks like it’s pivoting constantly from a central location.

And it’s not a particularly sturdy nose either. I’ve been cracked upon it multiple times and shriek as nasally as the next chap.

There’s really not much more to it than that.

I’ve a nice big nose.

But then, so does my Mum, and her Dad.

Go figure.

Maybe it’s a gift.

And perhaps it’s a gift because, as I’ve said before, sometimes all you need is something to say.

And with such a large conk as my face possesses, I’ve had something to write about.

I didn’t need to write about it, but I did.

Go figure again.


Onto The Rocket Goes…

You might be familiar with the entrenched British radio stalwart entitled: “Desert Island Discs” in which prominent folk from various fields are interviewed on the hypothetical pretence that they are going to be marooned on a desert island.

On this island they are permitted 8 songs (usually music), 1 book and a single luxury item; and this is to do them till eternity isn’t eternal anymore on this desert island.

A charming concept and a wonderful way in which to see more into a person as they unveil themselves via the vital songs in of their life.

A tremendous way to sum up a lifetime, but a hard task when summing up the Earth.

What songs could sum up the Earth and all its previous? Are we stuck with 8 songs to detail our planet’s past? Do the dinosaurs get any sway in our say?

It’s probably worth explaining why I’m bringing the planet into this.

I can remember being told that one day all life in the entire universe was going to end, but not before our sun gave up the galactic ghost and Earth went bang.

I was very young and slightly shaken (almost crapped myself) until it was explained to me that the Earth was not due to explode in a whirl of mountains and continents and pets until millions of years after my own comfortable bed-bound death.

Though quelled, I still held the knowledge that all this was temporary and that there was going to be a final day.

And so, from those young days to this, I have pondered at times about which things would be a good way to kick off the final day; activities and playlists, guest lists and buffet items.

And then, as my understanding of probable alien life came into being, I realised the need to broadcast our best and brightest to the cosmos; for a whole host of reasons including but not limited to: scaring the sweet shit out of Johnny Alien and ensuring they heard the lovely melodies of tales about getting-the-girl, being-so-glad and telling-all-the-world.

And I’ve been narrowing it down.

Yes, it’s another series from me, and whilst a new one comes, please don’t assume the others are dead. Perpetually IN is not quite out of vogue, Matters That Matter still matters and Brief…Therefore Witty still has some epigrams to launch before lunch, although it has become increasingly clear as to my answer in that famed personality quiz question: “Do you find it easier to start new projects or finish up the details that’ve been passed on to you?”

Never pass things on to me.

Especially a trumpet (I hate it when a person plays a brass instrument and holds eye-contact with me. Gives me the willies. Woodwind doesn’t seem to bother me though).
Especially when you’ve just blown it at a group of post-conch-blowing Mauri in the 1600’s.

Onto the rocket goes:

The Haka.

Having viewed much of the world with a fairly sturdy stomach, it was not till I watched true Maori of New Zealand perform the Haka, barely a few feet from my face, with as much intensity as a human can muster and hopefully as much as an alien can bare to stand.

The tattooed face isn’t really an important factor in this, because we’re talking about a wielding of the face that is such a tradition that I truly believe that it has become a genetic blessing on the traditional Maori people.

The bulging eyes, the enormity of the limbs of the ilk that might not grace the cover of GQ but would certainly cause a fellow to quiver in recognition that this is a matter of dashing brains upon the beach, and the tongue that whips with every sincerely meant gasping inhalation of the imminence of battle in which you simply can’t wait to take part.

The slapping/clawing of the legs and chest, the slight and delicate motions between in which genuine respect is given to some hairy sun-stealing deity, the waving of weaponry and the warrior’s deep-shrieking vernacular of a people that have no issue with your puny European musket because we’re used to hunting giant 12-foot Moa birds with huge glowing green rock-clubs, so beware me as I blow my conch (put the trumpet down).

There is something so utterly awe-inspiring about the Maori Haka that I truly believe it is amongst the best of what our species has to offer, and we must look at things in terms of an entire species from now on, otherwise the aliens won’t take our rocket seriously.

I can easily believe the Haka can make you fearless. For how can an expression such as that pictured (just look at the picture…) have any concern over so fleeting a complication as a Martian death-ray?

It is, however, crucial that this Haka be performed only by Maori. Even if they’re 1/24th Maori; that’ll do just dandy too, but it’s not going to be a European guy doing it.

I’ve seen the Kiwi rugby team with their Haka, and the Maori contingent is all of what I have expressed above, but the tall blonde guys joining in too – it just doesn’t work for me. I don’t believe their Haka. It seems too ‘awfully-hope-this-isn’t-too-much-of-an-inconvenience-if-score-a-try-awfully-very-much-sorry-thanks-sorry’. I’m sure they could do a marvellous Scandinavian/Viking battle cry, standing all moody whilst the rain runs from the battle-axe, plus I’ve never seen an Asian or African guy do the Haka, but I’m going to have to choose a Maori guy (and girl, sure) for the Haka here.

I’m not saying European guys shouldn’t do it, I’m just saying it’s not getting onto my rocket.

I’m trying to make inter-galactic friends here.

There is also that message of the Haka, which is the indomitable threat of an ultimate victory expressed via the eyes and lashing tongue in the Haka, but written here it is:

“The worst thing you can be is shit. And I’m going to defeat you in battle, kill you hence, I’m going to eat you, and I’m going to turn you into shit. I will turn you into shit. And I’m keeping your boat.”

A powerful message we can all relate to, especially since I’m in favour of eating some people. Not all people, but explicitly people who continue walking towards our planet once having seen the Haka (because we’d better eat them; they must be insane to keep marching after seeing that).

You might now be starting to see how Desert Island Discs and my rocket deviate from one another.

Next up, onto the rocket goes:

‘Mamma Mia’, by Abba.

Perhaps this is the battle cry the Scandinavians could be doing whilst the Haka’s happening next door?

Of course I’m referring to the single song, not the entire musical. Not the musical at all in fact, but undoubtedly that glorious piece of lyricised human condition known as ‘Mamma Mia’.

Crickey it’s a corker.

A tale known by those who have loved, lost, and rekindled, lost, loved some more, and therein having actually done loving properly; it is a shame of our childish species for which we are very happy to indulge in this equal to the many times we like to put that record on and get all excited at that opening piano staccato that is in imitation of a tick-tocking clock that only tick and tocks onwards and past you whilst you’re still standing there – very much so still fallen for that person and very much so still hopeless to do anything about it.

Mamma Mia – here we go again, a mantra for those about to whirl about in a familiar romance once more, as well as those about to put ‘Mamma Mia’ on again.

Here we go again.

Lyrically, it sums up the side of that human condition that the poets try to nail and the scholars try only to avoid, whilst musically it is simply very fucking-on-the-nose as a song everyone likes.

It could always simply be that I’m a tad of a nostalgic romantic at heart and this is sheer indulgence on behalf of myself, but I don’t see how that would matter either way as it’s my rocket and you’re all my species (I’m fairly possessive) and this is the way we’re doing it.

I just adore that moment of hushedness, in which the staccato returns and the humble “Mamma Mia, here I go again, my-my how could I resist ya” – in which the hushedness represents that intimate chat with oneself in which you’re too stupefied by love that you’re unable to answer your own internal monologue. And the culmination, the CULMINATION that …..CULMINATES to the point of saying simply: “I should not have let you go”.


I feel that “Awww” is a splendid way of summing this song up, and in doing so, goes a great length in summing us up also.

The human species: “Awww” and (Haka-induced) “Arrrggghhh!”

That’s what goes onto my rocket.

What else?



28 Going On ‘Missing, Presumed…’

I just spent 4 hours being unmanly.

Manliness is easier when sitting down, but therein lies the flaw of the matter – video games, despite all their sword-flailing/bullet-busting/gore-for-all enthusiasm, are not a manly way to spend ones time.

Stewing up a stench, gaining body fat in every region aside from the virulent thumbs, and alienating myself from my own inner dialogue, is not an effective use of my Monday; nor is it a good reason for all those cavemen predecessors to have procreated and died in a long line of folk known for their good thumb-work all adding up to me; eating more calories than I could possibly spend because I feel like it, with booze before noon, and a disdain for the unfashionable sunlight because it creates glare from my television screen.

Video games are a waste of evolution.

I can think of other species that would have died to have had those thumbs (in many cases – they did die – Dodos with thumbs would’ve vanquished those pirates); and here I am – wasting them like any other comparable metaphor that I can’t think of.

4 hours devoted to pixels is probably a major factor as to why I can’t do the proper word thinking no more.

Nobody looks back from their death-bed and wishes they’d spent more time wasting their life.

Oscar Wilde committed his last words as an epigram, proper sturdy wit that has lasted the ages as a bit of throw-away excuse-me-for-being-so-hopelessly-charming-and-acutely-smashing via the line: “Either that wallpaper goes or I do.” And he did.

Upon my own deathbed, surrounded by the failures of my life – obvious my omission – I shall advice this of the young: “Get ahead in Candy Crush early; it’ll save a lot of living”.
I don’t know why I don’t do things.

It could be the fear of failure. It could be the fear of success.

When I look back on the manner of living by which I have conducted myself, I could cry.

I’ve had a high-flying job, travelled the world, wooed fierce women and defeated great men, I’ve a formidable gang of friends and family that is quite simply better than yours, with a woman by my side whose perfection and reciprocated love for me is unutterable by any common tongue as it seems only constant and fiery devotion to one another will do.

I have a dog.

Fairly charming.

Me – not the dog.

My ancestors will die and leave me enough money that I will never have to work yet I can still envision myself being ignored by the people on the street as I begin to worry about eating that day and having very cold feet.

I was raised with my head in books and only the most-lofty of clouds, my arse in a theatre and my feet on the pitch. I was accused of being able to do anything I wanted in life, and so began a fear of taking those few short steps are all that require me to do so.

I have taken steps; no strides.

I could do anything, and it terrifies me.

Not deserved, what some would have killed for

I need to take no more steps, as I feel only strides will do. That great single stride that begins every great adventure, only it must be one that cannot be stepped back.

I’m not sure if its anxiety or simple stage fright (on that stage that all the world is, and all the people merely players).

Being an egomaniac is a terrible thing when you’re on your own, with nobody to make laugh and only the cold stare of your disappointed self, wondering why you haven’t made it great yet.

This ‘second coming’ wasn’t worth all the hype was it?

Time to be a man about this.

First, a good hardy slap to the right (upper) cheek.

Glasses off.

Ow (Damn I’m good at that).

Second, a promise to be immediately fulfilled.

An article, written post-hence, to be properly proofread and fully uploaded to all available media.

The subject: the greatest aspects of Earth I we need to flaunt to all alien life for two reasons:

1. They are intimidated by the Haka and learn a lesson in fucking off.

2. They hear the immortal tale of the human condition of lucky suffering – ABBA’s Mamma Mia.

3. Well, read the article and you’ll find out.

I have to say, writing is a marvellous thing, as reading is also, and I think you’ll find that together we can get a bit of both jolly well done, eh?

And remember, “do not go gentle into that good night”, but make sure you give the dawn a good kicking too.

With strides only,


Another Man

The Poetry Tinderbox

Another Man

Another man once said a phrase which I forget

He was a great man

His words of wisdom changed me

But for the life of me…I cannot remember how

It seems so sad that I have misplaced his memory

But as he was so gentle and kind I am sure he would understand

If he were still around

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