Anger to the point of fudge. Don’t make her fudgy. I don’t speak Fudgish.

This week my wife mothered our kids (including two baths nights), cooked all our evening meals (getting better all the time), worked her job in the Justice policy sector (one day commuting to London and back), sold our car (made a heavy note wad at it), studied evenings for her post graduate degree (late into the nights), hoovered (for fun apparently) and otherwise generally put up with me.

Forgiveness is important with this kind of wife, as it’s no wonder she didn’t have time to thank me for doing the washing up one evening, which I did do fairly loudly.

I would have done more this week, but I was too occupied watching her in astonishment. In honesty, I would have been watching her regardless of how many tasks she was doing, as she is invariably my favourite thing. I even like her handwriting, and I know I like her handwriting, which is an odd thing to know you like about someone.

What don’t I like about her, aside from her husband?

She’s got a bit of a temper. Only a bit, because she tends to leave the lion’s share of her temper about my head and neck following a dispute, such as me suggesting post-graduate education is less important than washing up, by me.

Then again, it is that same temper that I find oddly charming, on those rare occasions I see it make its way towards other poor unfortunates.

It’s somewhat as I’d imagine it to be, if I were the Arizona deserts watching little planes flying very fast towards and even faster away from little island in the French Polynesia sea.

I remember in an Australian town called Hahndorf, we’d been to a local petting zoo to pet some lambs and camels, ostrich and emu. Both ostrich and emu, this is important.

Afterwards, we were in a little sweet shop on the main road, and my wife mentioned in conversation with the owner that we’d been at the zoo.

“What did you see?” he asked.

“Well, an enormous ostrich!” my wife remarked.

The owner paused, leant back in his chair and looked out the window in a manner that suggested he just read the gospel of instructional manuals of ‘how-to-be-arrogant’, and said with his hands behind his head:

“Yeah, we call ‘em emus over here, love.”

He ran a sweet shop. Once. Who knows what’s become of him since?

He’s probably being arrogant somewhere, deceased.

All the same, I all but giggled as I clutched my candy canes in a trembling and sticky fist, watching my wife slowly lean over the counter in an all-encompassing manner and gently ask him:


“Fucking idiot?”

Good question, if confusing in that way questions you’re not meant to answer can be. He answered, and he was incorrect in and of his very being, dialogue aside, though I’m pleased to say I did my duty as a husband and global citizen of sweet shops and coaxed my wife out of the shop with the promise of there being some enormous ostriches out there someone which might match her temper, so she should try it. Also, I had some fudge.

Fudge heals all wounds. Apart from those that happened to that sweet shop guy. He needs hypnosis.

My wife then shared the fudge with me, and it was brilliant, in-Australia-and-not-in-trouble, fudge. We ate it together.

She has many other qualities I also adore, but now I’m hungry and the washing-up really needs doing loudly.

Sam


Bananas are the punchline fruit. Give them a break.

Sometimes a thought enters your head, and then you hear yourself saying it to someone.

In some of these ‘sometimes’, you might find yourself muttering it aloud, causing others to get off the bus quickly.

Other ‘sometimes’, the preferable ones (unless there were no spare seats on the bus), mean you do what I did, which was to say it to my wife. In a museum. There were many seats.

In fact, there were so many seats, you could tell that some people weren’t sitting down, but not due to seeing anyone standing. Just, lots of chairs really.

You might also find yourself typing such things on a blog, causing people reading it on smart phones to get off of buses all the same, but perhaps it’s still best to revert to my what was going to be my original point.

I said something to my wife. And now I want to share it with you.

“Jenny, which fruit looks best in mid-air?”

My wife has a wonderful capacity to both humour and wither me with a look. She doesn’t do that for just anyone, but perhaps not many other than myself can draw such infuriated pity. Especially in a museum (lots of chairs).

Choosing the ‘humour-him’ route (there were children present), she indulged me, saying “I don’t know Sam. Bananas?”

I had hoped she wouldn’t say that, because I worried she might be right, which meant I was too with my first thought.

Bananas.

The punch-line fruit.

A very applicable fruit, certainly, but still the go-to fruit in the historical contexts of people using a fruit for something a fruit shouldn’t be used for, and for things that don’t actually need to be done.

I think it’s a blend of the shape, colour, peel, consistency and pronunciation. Everything else is just legend.

Certainly over-relied upon, and as such, I didn’t want it to be the answer to my question; I didn’t want banana/s (singular or plural it really doesn’t matter at this point) to look good in mid-air.

But, damn it, they do.

I expressed this all to my wife, who by this point had chosen her well-practiced alternative to humouring me.

“Pineapples?” she ‘fuck-offed’.

Unfortunately, perhaps more of the same with Mr Pineapple. Certainly not the jobber of mid-level fruit expectations, but they’ve at least been put forward for their obvious attributes.

Pineapples, really are just trying too hard.

A silver-placed friend with the wacky green hair-do, trying to talk to women at a party where women are really in-to fruit but getting ignored in favour of his friend shaped like a big penis with a healthy yellow glow.

I wanted to tell my wife this, but she’d been through enough today, even though earlier we’d practically had a bus to ourselves.

So I continued my thoughts and settled on a fruit (phrasing you can’t use in reference to bananas or pineapples because it is inappropriate and, more so, already been done) with a degree of subtlety.

The lime.

Bear with me.

A lime, emerald green, backed by the bluest of baby boy skies, suspended in mid-air, just for us to see.

I thought that was nice. I told my wife that I’d concluded, and this cheered her up immensely.

Then again, maybe all fruit are pre-determined to look good whilst falling. If they drop from a branch, with few-enough leaves, on a clear autumn noon with strongly sunlit blue skies, any fruit looks good, because they’ve been doing it for centuries.

Bananas, pineapples, limes, maybe even a tomato.

A sense of style, doing as the ancestors did it. Dropping, and looking good.

THAT is good museum conversation, but I couldn’t continue as my daughter needed help eating her apple.

It was a good one. You should have seen it go.

Sam


A reliable citation…

It is a widely regarded fact (on this website) that the Canadian rapper Drake has zero involvement in the origin of pirate (privateer) accents in the 16th Century.

Don’t believe the rumours.


How to bear-proof your home against pollen.

I’m having a think about this, and its never not-worth your time remembering that flowers are inadvertently trying to fuck you each spring time.

And that’s just flowers, let alone pine-trees. Imagine that. A cum shot that bruises you and also makes a good dinner table centre-piece in spring.

We’re just lucky they don’t gasp when they do it. And then snore.

Hayfever is what it is, and what it is is flower pollen landing on your face and in your eyes and down your throat in the sort of ways that should only be viewable when renting from the back section, behind the curtain, of a video shop.

Maybe video shops don’t exist any more, but the flowers are still trying to fuck me.

And to their credit, bears, great white sharks, and vultures have never tried to fuck me. A few dogs have, sure – but I’d rather not talk about that.

I’m not sure if flower-proofing my neck and face would be so effective against bears, sharks and vultures. But bear-proofing my neck and face (better include genitals too) against flowers is a strong, strong game plan against hayfever.

How to do this though? First step, you’re going to need a flame-thrower.

Obviously. We all need flame-throwers, but this time (and for tax-reasons) its personal.

Once acquired, it’s a matter of aim and enflame the pettaled bastards, which is also very just because enflamed is the current status of my eyes due to sunflower sperm.

Second step, concrete.

I’m in a position in which I’ve discovered that concrete is something you can buy, mix with water, and proceed to ruin your back garden. I’ve done this. I’ve done this hard, and I’ve taken a little bit of pride – not in how much I’ve fucked it up – but in terms of realizing with delight how easy it is to fuck up, and so monumentally. It was a negative, but a negative very well done.

So the tips for concrete are: get some concrete, mix it with water, and then pour it all over your home. Start with the roof.

You see, I want to bear proof my home.

There’s a strong chance of a bear home invasion in my neighborhood, we just need someone to vastly increase the local bear population one day. Then we can get weather-PERSON updates, like we do with the pollen count.

Lots of grizzly bears today, better bring an umbrella.

I’ve hayfever so my nose itches with pollen, but this may be better than having a bear up my nose.

Getting back to the point, once your home is covered in concrete, resembling a gritty suburban mountain, be sure to include just a little hole for poking your flame-thrower through (in addition to using it for achieving a career, intimate relations with others, and hopefully loafs of bread and tinned water, tinned meat/vegetables/fruit and then tins of sunlight, plus flame-thrower fuel).

Then, if it’s a bear that invades your home, you should have no clue that this is what’s going on.

If it’s a flower that’s trying to fuck you, they’d better have dreams of impregnating a gritty suburban mountain in which the only hole shoots fire, otherwise they’re just wasting their time.

And what more could we really hope for than for a flower to waste its time?

I don’t know. Ask a better writer.

Sam


Kids say the darndest things, thank god spiders don’t.

So, with two young children running around and beginning to say things (my one year old daughter said “Love you” for the first time today whilst I put her to bed, whilst my son sought me out in the kitchen whilst washing up to tell me “Daddy, two of The Beatles are DEAD”), I’m reminded that having something to say is a matter I really enjoy talking about.

It wasn’t long ago that I noted publicly (as public as a blog can be…public if any cares enough to give a damn to look at it) that sometimes all you need is something to say.

This has served me well, with interviews, romantic dates, speeches, parental lessons, and perhaps most especially when I would like to blog but don’t have anything to write about.

It’s akin to penning a novel about how nice it would be not to have writer’s block.

Writer’s block.

That’d be a woe far more begrudgingly acknowledged if it was a granite block in the center of the town, which writers could bang their head against to clear the haze. That’d have miners and sailors nodding across the pub at writers, heads heavily bandaged, but at least now having something to write about.

OH MY BABY JESUS (I love that baby) MY WIFE JUST CALLED ME OUTSIDE TO OUR GARDEN SHED TO SEE A SPIDER SLIGHTLY LARGER THAN OUR GARDEN SHED.

We’ve locked all the doors.

If that spider wants into my house, it’ll have to learn to climb up the drainpipe or something ridiculous like that.

I don’t like spiders.

They don’t like me, but that’s usually ‘afterwards‘.

This one in the shed was a big bulky bugger too. One of those ones with a lot of body – like its got some sass.

It’s sassy-sense was tingling. BBW – Big Black Widow.

It wasn’t really a black widow, just a common-garden-terrifying-spider with mandibles it appeared to be able to lean on.

Then it moved. And at once the whole world felt as though it was made from spiders, where even the concrete beneath my feet felt like the suspicious tickle of WHATTHEFUCK…ITSINTHEFOOTKILLTHEFOOT.

‘Tickle’ is a good description of how a spider moves. Combine ‘tickle’ with ‘stalk’, and we’d be hitting the nail on the head. Or we could just hit the spider and just make do with ‘splat’. Maybe ‘tickle’ is how they feel when there aren’t actually any around but you’re still dwelling on them.

I don’t like spiders.

And they still don’t like me.

Maybe because they’ve read this.

Maybe they can’t read.

Spiders are illiterate, sure, but I wouldn’t throw that in their face. That’s what my slipper is for.

My wife kept calling the spider “he” to begin with, before each time quickly correcting (wrongly) to “she”, whilst I had been quite happy to make do with “it”, then to do away with “it” and never think or worry about “it” again from behind a locked door.

However, my thinking towards pronouns changed too as I kept watching it. It was so big, I feel like only a collective noun would really be appropriate for this singular “them” of a spider.

Crows are known as ‘murders’, hyenas are a ‘cackle’….this spider in my shed should be an ‘punchitinalegtwice’.

I don’t know if their legs are the worst part, nor the mandibles, nor the eyes. I think it’s the silence.

‘A silence of spiders’. That is way, way too eerie a collective noun than I’m going to permit then, no matter if it is perfectly appropriate.

Something isn’t appropriate if I’d rather it wasn’t.

I’ve seen bigger spiders before this one though. Not just seen them. Heard them.

This might counter my earlier point about silence (also in turn upsetting my second point about appropriateness – making it inappropriate, which according to the flip of that exact point might make it appropriate….going on and on about this same point just isn’t….now’s not the time), but I did once encounter a common-garden-terrifying-spider that was so huge I could hear it coming.

It ran around the corner of my windowsill and waved its legs at me, like a yobbo. I shut the window sharpish, but could still see it waggling its oh-so-too-many limbs at me.

I don’t like spiders.

Spiders don’t like me, most evidently.

I do like writing this way, reacting to what is occurring – like my wife calling me outside to see a spider.

I’d better make sure the doors are still locked. It might try to get in, plus my wife.

At the start of this piece I began by sharing something that my children had said to me today. Here’s another:

My wife went to get a tattoo today, a real beauty – a snowdrop flower on the back of her neck. I never thought her neck could get any lovelier (why the hell would anyone thing such a thing about necks?), but now it is, and it is forever.

I told my son this, that his mummy was going to the tattoo shop to get a new tattoo, and he replied with concern: “are her other tattoos broken”?

All you need is something to say, but sometimes its nice to have something said to you too.

Sam


ISIS propaganda and the best of smells. Together at last.

I like having something to say. It gives the teeth something of a last hoorah before I forget about them entirely.

We don’t need better dentists, we need better prehistoric DNA and frankly I think the Tories are failing us on that point.

I’ve been limitedly successful over the past few years. I’ve had a succession of jobs that have to some extents supplemented my lifestyle, and to better extents have secured happy lives for my family. Mainly, this has been working in education and PR.

I now no longer like either.

In education, children are done an incredible disservice by some utterly dedicated and dutiful people, and PR is a mix between actual experts being inefficient in communicating, good vs bad luck, and a heavy heap of bollocks that revolves around typical journalism.

The good stuff of journalism is “once was” and “hopefully later”.

I hasten to add that I’m not referring to war zone correspondents. I’m talking about the more minor chit chat that takes up a greater portion of the lives of us that aren’t living in war zones.

I read a VICE article today, and it was really bad. Bad in the sense of making me worried I was missing a hip point due to the confusion I gained from reading it. It focused on a cool new drug and that’s a pretty lame use of brains and fingertips. They looked to insert laid back humour, which was a funny thing to do.

I’ve considered this, and considered other mediums, from the Daily Express to the Independent, and I think that if you’re going to aim poorly for a bad target, you’d better do so well.

Therefore, we’ve a choice here in what we do with this blog and how we live our lives hence. First, I think we should list the best smells that we can make use of. Second, let’s get some propaganda going that benefits me and fucks ISIS and the like. I don’t see how you can come to other conclusions than this.

So, first again, we’ll begin with smells. How about woodwork and American air-conditioning. That’s a nice succinct beginning to a list, from which we can start a separate list.

Now that’s begun, let’s tackle some anti-ISIS, pro-me patriotism.

I’m a golden glorious god of benevolence, I play with my children regularly and am pretty good when it comes to reasonably simply acoustic guitar songs, whereas ISIS is a pile, puddle and column of both wank and whatever wank would be if it came from under the sea. Nautical wank.

Back to smells.

Cookies and the forest. These a crucial in continuing the list of nice smells. Without them, the list would have stopped already with American air-conditioning. In addition, these smells smell nice.

Propaganda.

I slept with ISIS’ mother, both literally plural and metaphorically singular (and anal).

Smells.

Sunny concrete in the city and babies. These, much like the second set of smells, are crucial to the list, but we must remember that they only make it on of they’re true. And if you’re denying that sunny day city pavements smell nice then you’re a monster.

Propaganda.

ISIS can’t read good.

Smells.

Those old books that ISIS can’t read smell terrific, as does that European continent chocolate they don’t get in Northern Syria anymore because ISIS are bastards with small everythings. My everythings are bigger. My everythings can read. My everythings’ get Euro chocolate with the Euro milk of Euro cows that Euro moo, which you might not realise because this is text and not audio, but I’m saying “chocolate” with a French accent. ISIS can’t do a good French accent and have no Euro moos, which is possibly why they’re so angry in the first place.

Propaganda.

Just plain ol’ fuck ’em.

Smells.

Just plain ol’ fuck ’em in the nostrils.

It may be at this point that you’re starting to realise the kind of journalism I had in mind for celebrating. Not the gross nitter natter of the tabloids, nor the informed, investigative and dutiful inkers that reveal crime and call out bullies. My kind of journalism is far more aligned with that focus of sincere adoration for the mundane that matters most, and the propaganda we’ve all been missing since World War 2. I might not have actually been alive during WW2, but nor was Hitler for a part of it.

If we went to war with Germany (unheard of, I know), which would be a tragic shame as I know some lovely Germans, I’d illustrate the worst of them, caricatured in characters, with focus on their worst as their only. I would entwine this with some neat information about my which accents are most suitable for meeting live on Mars and why a Frankfurt accent wouldn’t be suitable at all (I’d find a reason…may it would echo worse than an Italian accent. I don’t know because it’s bollocks).

That’s what I want to write, in between occasional pieces that are important in that they have meaning, but my primary output should be these assaults of viciously uninformed propaganda and the boggiest of blogs.

Accordingly: ISIS need nuking into glass before they get their hands on our nuns. I had some toast for breakfast.

There we go, two sentences, both alike in dignity, summarising the key points of today’s propaganda and the key aspect of blogging (telling of my breakfast).

Were it not for the latter, I don’t think I’d have the confidence to take on ISIS as remotely as I am now. Without the former, it’s almost as though regularly updating the internet about what I had for breakfast don’t matter.

Sam

(P.S. Grandpa’s pipe tobacco and probably Ewan McGregor).


All the conspiracy theories are true – I’ve checked.

I’ve been doing some reading on YouTube and I’m sorry to break it to you but whilst Covid-19 is undoubtedly a hoax designed by Bill Gates for some unconfirmed reason, it’s also real and it’s all Bigfoot’s fault.

Criticism of this argument can at the most be that Bigfoot doesn’t upload regularly to YouTube, but any other criticism should be dismissed as irritatingly-informed.

More importantly, Bigfoot did it.

I’ve also some bad news about Priests being infected by flying saucers with monkey-aids to benefit the illuminati. That’s if you ‘believe’ in bad news.

I could go on about 9/11 and what I’ve studied on Twitter about the involvement of the Bush family, but it is actually more bizarre to know what you’ve already been told by journalists and those that were there at the time.

It is extraordinary to consider that Jihadi Extremists hijacked commercial flights, having been trained by a Saudi millionaire that had in-turn be trained by the CIA to fight Soviets, and flew them into the New York skyline with an ambition for total death.

That is completely unbelievable.

Perhaps that’s why there are so many conspiracy theories surrounding it in the first place.

The real word and history and exceptionally odd, with so many random mechanisms bouncing off one another, like bubbles – some popping instantly whilst others swell and swell to a point that Donald Trump is elected President and then rather suddenly isn’t.

It’s already absurd enough for reasons that, albeit not good, are at least what make sense when we follow the breadcrumbs and listen to the people present.

My only real worry is whether Bigfoot is going to listen to my advice, or if he’ll instead go-off the deep end, arrange a UK-tour, swing by my house, eat and insult me profusely, close my front door whilst bidding my wife a ‘bon soir’ because he’s a gentleman and surprisingly French, and return to the North American tall trees with some new must-share insights into why UK bloggers like me funded the Nazis to build the pyramids. A long sentence, but a better one than this.

Also, whilst I did fund the Nazis to build the pyramids, I now donate to numerous anti-pyramid schemes and consider myself absolved and the matter closed.

Another area to address would be a matter to be seen to by the postal service.

Otherwise, it’s a pleasure to be back on the internet and hope to return with more; more.

To quote Bigfoot: “Bon soir.”

Sam


Yes, I have a vengeance cabin

I’m pissed off so it’s probably a terrific idea to start casting my opinions online.

One thing that I’d like to do with the fury within me is to spill the beans on my masterplan to put myself in a position of power to right those that’ve wronged me.

There won’t even be any degree of “= profit” about this, it will in fact come down to making a vast amount of money from the advertisers that want to sell news of their product on comedy, satire and pornographic websites.

The blend might be unique, but that admittedly does equal a little bit of profit.

The website would be hosted in my cabin, with a camera placed on top of a ladder, a laptop shivering in the corner from the content to be uploaded via it, and a large amount of plastic sheeting that can be easily trashed.

Vengeance cabin prepped, I would kiss my wife and son goodbye, hop in my car (for ‘engineheads’ – it’s a red car, thus faster), and drive down to the local shop to grab some pristine, buxom, and very flirty fish and chips.

Then I’d drive it back to my cabin, sneak past my wife and son who’re hopefully not too powerful in the noses, shut the vengeance cabin door behind me, and pull the blinds down (note to self, or to any reading benefactor: buy black-out blinds) so that nobody can see inside – either for their own wellbeing or because they should be paying for this.

With the steaming fish and chips laid upon the floor, I’d de-robe my lower half, squat, and make a vast amount of money by taking an enormous dump over the surf-meets-turf.

Once done, I’d take a photo of it.

Then I’d put it on the internet, you’d click on the link, revisit, revisit again as I update the variety of subjects shat on, revisit repeatedly (yes you will) and alerting advertisers as you do so that this is a place for advertising to be placed, they’ll get in touch with me, I’ll take their second offer, and the road to power and vengeance begins.

I mentioned earlier that I’d be looking for advertisers eager to engage with comedy, satire, and pornographic websites.

I could chef that blend, with a healthy series of things to take a dump on, like a mask of Trump, or a an Apple Iphone, perhaps a novel or building materials (I’ve got bricks bro.

Got some mortar too – maybe I’ll dump on a wee-little wall), and if I leave a hundred words or so of description, the kind that gets the SEO flowing and the laughter true, I’d undoubtedly get the money.

Then comes the power.

Then comes the women, I presume – I don’t know, my wife won’t tell me.
So we’d go back to the power, increase it so smartly that it’d have a crease, and get some vengeance.

Why fish and chips to begin with?

Because, you’d click to see it.

Because, deep-down, you’re just as normal as everyone else. And that means you want to see what different things look like with poo on them. Even better if it makes you laugh about politics.

This should hit all the targets I’m hoping to hit, and I admit that this will include quite a lot of people logging on and wanking to my photos of poo on objects (like Saturday Night Fever VHS’, bottles of milk, and the Chinese flag), but that makes money, which is capitalism, which is freedom, which is patriotism, which are still not enough for me to ever tell me son about my masterplan. Either way; fair enough.

I feel less pissed off now that I’ve revealed my masterplan, but I might feel different tomorrow once I’ve realised I’ve said these emotional plans online.

One last thing, I’d do…I’d clean up my vengeance cabin, take my vengeance money, and buy some flowers and fudge and global monopolies, improve the days of those that have wronged me, and sit back down with my wife and son, pat the dog, smoke something expensive, and sleep a more peaceful sleep than the people out there who can’t stop thinking about the guy who bought them fudge, flowers and their place of work.

It’d need a name, no puns (like ‘Splatire’), so how about…………….

I may have outdone myself with ‘Splatire’.

Looks like I’ll just have to settle snuggly on my own limitations and rule the world from my vengeance cabin, waggling ‘Splatire’ like it something I’m actually proud to admit on the internet.

That’s better.

Sam


My son is my lightbulb

My son is my lightbulb.

It’s not his fault, but he exceeds in illumination and has effect on my life in which I feel as though I’ve had a bright idea whenever I’m in his presence.

He’s like being on a diet.

When dieting, I’m perpetually stuck with the ingenious prospect of keeping at it, head down and mouth hollow and shut, or to indulge in that enlightening option of gorging until I realise the need to diet again (which is a brilliant solution as dieting is should really be encouraged).

When I hold my son, or when I come through the front door, poke my head around the corner to see if he’s there, to be met with the inquisitive tilt of the head and resulting smile of a little fellow who loves me, I have the idea of making everything perfect, just for him.

It’s a good idea, no?

I thought so anyway, and so I surveyed the globe for things that need tidying.
It seems, I’ve quite a task ahead of me.

It occurred to me that religious people have been looking to correct the wrongs of the world since the dawn of things like dawns being given names, but to no long-term success. Considering they had God on their side (according to press releases), and bearing in mind that I’ve distinctly less divine powers than the average kids party magician, I feel any ability to introduce a white rabbit from a hat is unlikely to see things peacefully concluded in Syria.

Certainly, I could overload each opposing force with white rabbits until all combatants were incapacitated with the drowsiness brought on from gluttony of a certain delicious stew, and all armies were made unidentifiable from one another owing to the shockingly speedy new trend of all clothing being made from cosy white fur, but despite my being a carnivore, I wouldn’t want to send a billion bunnies to their war-ending ruin.
Just imagine the emails I’d get.

Rather more, if I were to engage the electives from either side in a simple magic show, I think I’d be amongst those shot, my wand being nothing more than not really a wand.

There would be those who would argue that despite all my previous promises of world-revolutionising changes to the planet in the name of my son, this is all clearly bollocks as I wouldn’t send a billion rabbits to die in the Middle East.

To which I’d say: “fair enough, I guess I’ll have to then”, and would proceed to load myself comfortably into the back of the latest air-strike capable bomber and then go about vomiting white rabbits from out of my hat at the speed of magic.

Why doesn’t God do this, I don’t know, and neither do you.

Either way, I’ve still an urge to improve the world in every manner I can.

I feel that will include fighting for changes and fighting for traditions, which are all going to be according to what I deem best for my boy anyway.

I’d produce one rabbit perhaps, from a pet shop rather than from one of my hats (which I’m actually going to wear later and don’t want smelling of a rabbit with stage fright), and give this to him so he can hold it and smell it and feel little life in his little hands.
I think that would help him in some way.

We’ll stay clear of Syria until it gets too close, at which point we’ll go away from it, because I don’t ever want him to go through what children and the children-grown are suffering over there.

I’m not divine, and can’t change too much around Earth. I’ll love my son until I’m gone, hoping only that he’ll have known how much I loved him, tried to keep him happy and safe, and to remember that when the times like those in Syria come to him, he remember the preciousness and wonder of life before he takes his next step.

He is my lightbulb. On.

Sam


How to Arm Wrestle with your Legs

To begin, it is crucial to develop a thorough understanding of the rules of arm wrestling, so as to be able to disregard them and apply one’s feet to your opponent.

Of the crucial rules to be appreciated, the fact that it is illegal in arm wrestling to use your feet unto your opponent is paramount. This is because they are essentially not expecting it.

Whilst you, reader, may be expecting me, writer, to get stuck straight into kicking your opponent in the face, you’re mistaken; as prior to that I am going to finish this prolonged sentence any moment now.

Kick your opponent in the face as soon as possible, the results of which will become obvious a moment after impact.

However, be sure to kick their face towards their own arm so as to achieve victory, otherwise you’re just kicking them in the face – and there’s frankly no need for that.

This is not about kicking them in the face, it’s about arm wrestling with your legs.

Having kicked them in the face, plus having aimed their face towards their own arm, be sure to capitalise on this by slamming their hand down towards the matt. Do this with your feet.

It’s quite simple when you remember your ability to jump.

To put it at its most simple, post-kick you must stand upon tip toes, leap as though looking to bounce, become mid-air horizontal over your opponent’s hand, and land with maximum gravity.

It is at this moment, upon regaining your feet (you’ll need those for later rounds) that you must assume that stance of victory whilst maintaining a visage of absolute innocence.

Indeed, you must fuse your victory roar with a hint of “Who me?”

A key factor in this tactic of using your legs to win at arm wrestling is this: when asked if you kicked you opponent in the face and then landed like an ironing board upon his hand, you say “No.”

And that’s the long and the short of it.

Feel free to bring a Legs Coach to the competition, only remember that instead of them shouting “Now’s the time to kick them in the face!” – they’ll need to translate this to “Use your legs!”

If anyone at the competition has a problem with this tactic, state plainly that they’re against evolution and whatever your ethnicity, gender, or religion you happens to be.

I hasten to add here that this isn’t exactly a tested technique of mine, but I wholeheartedly support you in utilising it (feel free to say I said it was ok – I gave you permission).

Remember to use that using methods such as these is only fair for those who want to liven up and evolve what is otherwise a traditional practice; at least it’s not cheating.

Sam