Is It The Beard? (Monkeys Don’t Like Me)

In my travel about the globe I’ve had many marvellous encounters with animals of a wondrous array, from the soft-shell turtles of Laos, with the enormous dangling Flying Fox bats of Adelaide, to the happily splashing elephants in the jungle baths of Thialand, and every encounter has been more than memorable.

Some have been pleasantly engrained, whilst others have been permanently scarring; sadly not in the attractive/romantic sense. No eye-patches.

Two monkey attacks, one gorilla and one squirrel.

These are the animals that have taken to me via fist and tooth (amongst sundry).

That seems like a tad too many monkey attacks for someone who isn’t looking to be attacked by a monkey.

Let’s rundown the bitter, bitter memories.

Why bitter?
Because I love apes (this reason is so applicable. Yes – I don’t have an example of how it’s applicable…because I love apes).

And I love monkeys.

And I was ambivalent about squirrels, until what happened in Central Park happened to me and now I really, really want to do all kinds of venting unto the squirrel population of New York. I wish they were vermin; then I’d hire a professional, not to exterminate on my behalf – but to teach me.

Onto the attacks.

Monkey Attack 1

Year: 2011.

Location: Dharamsala, India (Tibetan Government in Exile).

Here’s the scene.

Dharamsala is a mountain town in the foothills of the Himalayas, the home of the Dali Lama and the exiled Tibetan Government.

It is here you’ll find the views of the world that cause you to stop, say no words, and feel the beauty of where you are. The immeasurable enormity of the mountains, those shards of planet Earth that surround you, acres of snow and ice atop, with goats passing their time on the lower slopes as the brightest of sun rays lands upon them and their strange coats, eagles flying purely because it is appropriate, the bustle of the market filled with the indomitable monks, vibrant locals and in-the-know tourists of all varieties…and a background hush; as though every sound and every moment is echoing through the valleys and the mountains – making all so clear and yet so fleeting.

In Dharamsala the air is exciting, the people are even more-so, the world-shattering explosions in the night that everyone else seems fine with (I still don’t know what they were but I genuinely feared the Chinese were coming) are only another aspect of typical wondrousness and the monkey blowjobs are everywhere.

In the taxi to the town from the airport, up the mountain slopes; monkey blowjobs on route.

Outside the restaurant where the monks pass to turn prayer wheels and the youths race ancient motorbikes high and low through the streets; the monkeys are blowjobbing.

And right on my balcony, the view that broke my heart as it was so beautiful; epic insignificance of little old me whilst the mountains continue as they were, the snowy peaks glistening, the prayer flags fluttering, and the monkeys blowjob on my balcony.

Here’s an important fact regarding Yours Truly.

I’m a Sthilly Goosth.

And I get involved in things that are really none of my business.

(E.g. A hotel manager smashing up his Lovely Jubbly Hotel and putting me off my drink. I got involved. My fiancé is still angry with me over this but we were staying there that night and I didn’t want the owner waking me up and taking his anger out near my pillow.)

One such thing that I shouldn’t get involved with, and I can’t state strongly enough that you also don’t get involved with, is a monkey blowjob.

But it was on my balcony.

And in my world, a balcony is a sacred place (don’t say bad things about balconies near me; just don’t – please).

There is an alpha male, with greater fur around the head and neck, reclining back on the balcony wall, enjoying the view even more than I was I’d dare say, whilst a younger acquaintance of his saw to his genital dryness.

To which…I immediately leapt out onto the balcony, waved my hands in the air excitedly and growled happily: “MONKEEEEEEYS!”

Having made this experience of monkey oral sex an interspecies situation all of a sudden; both the monkeys acted accordingly.

The male, one of those baboon-looking sons of bitches, rolled onto his side, appeared to suddenly grow by about a foot, and then, seeing as he wasn’t needed here (and perhaps he’d heard the monkey blowjobs were preferable higher in the valley) strolled off.

I, meanwhile, was in a terrified stamp-battle with the screeching, screaming, clawing, gnashing female that had only seconds early been, to at least one living being, the loveliest thing in the world.

When I say “stamp-battle”, this is due to two things.

The female monkey was venting largely (albeit with a few swipes involved – thankfully missing) by hammering the ground at my feet – a condition wittily brought on by the removal of my feet from said area only a fraction of a second earlier.

As a result of lifting my foot out of the zone of conflict, I was perched upon one foot, looking rather zen for a fellow seeing his life pass before his eyes (featuring far too many monkey blowjobs).

That is until the female monkey, having seen the object of her masticating affection slip away, realised my remaining balcony-based foot was fair game for some further mastication (this time with a good deal more chewing).

She swiped again, I removed my foot again; resulting in my previous foot having to stamp down so as to regain balance…near the female.

And that really pissed her off.

So much so; she swiped at my offending foot, causing a cyclical circumstance that was only resolved with the introduction of the House Maid who saw the female monkey off with a tea-towel.

This was all my fault entirely.

Monkey attack 1: Complete.

The Gorilla Attack

Year: 2015.

Location: Denver Zoo.

Cause: I teased it and it charged me. Peakaboo with a Silverback Gorilla, through the ape-proof Plexiglas, whilst it is in its home of straw, females and unfathomable testosterone, is a cruel and bad idea and I wish I hadn’t done it.

But there was absolutely no denying that this gorilla didn’t like me anyway.

HE STARTED IT with the eye contact; I just escalated it with the raspberry blowing whilst peeking out from behind walls and columns.

Ultimately, with a sudden charge and a thud the likes of which I have never felt before (and it wasn’t even on me – he’d clubbed the glass) this gorilla taught me that he was pretty angry with my joviality and the difference between this and the Dharamsala incident was: he couldn’t walk away.

He charged, thumped, walked away without looking at me and then attempted to hide himself under a handful of straw whilst he ate a banana.

I feel bad about the whole thing and would like to buy him a banana someday to make amends.

Sad story, really.

But to this day, the power of the attack, such as it was, shook me. I am a flimsy, dainty, la-de-dah human and that testosterone-filled living erection would have buried me with one thump.

Monkey Attack 2

Year: 2017

Location: Laos, near a dried-out river, near a forest…geography isn’t my forte, whilst the English language deffo-proper-is-like, y’know?

Cause: Monkeys are bastards.

I fell asleep that night with images of an ever widening monkey mouth, filled with darkness, blood and banana, consuming all of everything whilst I lay there; feeling rather irritated.

I’d been bullied.

Bullied by a little monkey that I’d given so much to and had proceeded to be embarrassed by it oh so thoroughly.

As part of the tour, we had stopped in a village who’s economy, colour, flavour and identity was bananas.

Bananas further than you’d want the human eye to be able to see, and not a typical bunch either.

Like the fingers of a particularly swollen child; plus jaundice, with each entire banana amounting to one single mouthful, for man and monkey alike.

Having loaded up on these bananas, something like 20 for the price of half a brown and pre-peeled English-shop version, we made our way to the river bank, keeping eyes peeled for the soon-to-onslaught monkeys, as well as the plethora of creepy crawlies emerging from our banana bouquets.

One monkey, two, then in the collective plural of monkeys – the term of which I am unaware of but I’m willing to bet in called ‘an unneccesary of monkeys’.

These were the darty variety, the type of that steal your wallet, girlfriend and pride, yet is still somehow endearing to people still waiting to be attacked by them.

We disembarked the bus, walking down into the forest and keeping to a dirt path well-worn by the feet of multiple species, whilst our guide encouraged us to make hooting and squeaking noises (we excelled) in response to the odd shake of foliage and light-brown blur across the path ahead of us.

And then, having reached a clearing in the forest, we were massed-upon by the pack of monkeys that came meandering out and up to our shins; whereupon they were met by what they expected – a proffered banana – which they took off with by a few yards and quickly peeled open and devoured.

Being me, I met the alpha – the biggest fellow there and the one with that ‘fuck-you’ footfall, taking my bananas without even looking at me and, suddenly, seeing off nearby monkeys that were decidedly smaller than this big guy.

It was becoming apparent that this monkey was an unpleasant one, but I was still enthralled by the experience and proximity to these incredible little beasts and so kept proffering bananas that were continually accepted; for a while.

I crouched, keeping the bananas coming, ignoring the sudden dashes a weaker rivals, ignoring the rudeness of taking the fruit without so much as a look in my direction, and turned to my fiancé who was ready with a camera.

“Sam…”

Saying my name was meant to alert me, but was said in a tone that seemed frightened for herself, understandably, and I switched my gaze to look to where the monkey had been cheerfully munching bananas…no longer.

Eye-contact.

Too much eye contact, too near bite-level, (too much beard?) too close to a monkey for a monkey’s comfort and my health, and a mouth that was widening like an endless black hole, filled with consuming nothingness and blood and banana, eyes staring deep into and through mine, about to teach me a lesson by eating me.

Why was there blood? I still don’t know; maybe it was an opened cut on the lip, but it sure as sweet heck added to the drama of the scene.

The full force of an alpha monkey flying towards me, covering entire body lengths in a single bound, has been the cause of tremendous embarrassment to me in all these months since.

Remember that my fiancé was standing there to take a picture. She did.

And we are left with a blurred photo of a light brown hell springing towards me with canines extended eagerly, whilst I, with my shoulders hunched and knees together, am vaguely turning my body away from the mental mass of monkey unpleasantness (incidentally – completely successful).

With some scratches to my clothing and – thankfully – none to my skin, I scurried away like a monkey should, my bananas snatched like my school dinner money and my shame riding how in red upon my face, whilst any remaining pride I had remained dead in the dirt where the monkey still stood; eating my bananas and looking smug in the canines.

I wouldn’t say I’m a petty chap, but I sure as sweet heck did launch a banana directly into the central back of that monkey from a distance of 12 feet, eager to show him that now, having smuggled my courage past my brain and out into my sleeve-living heart, I was ready to tangle in the Laos forest.

And the banana bounced off, of zero effect to the millennia of genetic insistence by nature that this monkey was made of sturdier stuff that can withstand a blow from an Englishman’s fast-bowled banana (he didn’t even turn his head), and it was promptly scooped up by monkey-minor and I never saw it, the minor-monkey, nor the bullying alpha again.

That night, thoroughly bullied by a monkey and wishing for a round two, I was ultimately thankful that I hadn’t fallen into that gaping mouth with hideous eyes, and not only been eaten but been rabies-eaten (the kind in which your dinner starts to foam).
I can still see that all-encompassing darkness of mouth, tinged with red and yellow.

Yeesh.

The Squirrel Attack

Year: 2017.

Location: Central Park, New York.

Cause: Nuts.

With the most recent monkey attack a fair few months and many thousands of miles behind us; what could be finer than a sunny day’s stroll through Central Park?

And, in all eventuality, it was still a lovely day for an afternoon walk through New York’s enormous greenery, although there was the issue with the squirrel.

I’m an adorable kind of guy, I rock (placidly) babies to help them sleep, love giving a dog a good old belly rub, and buy my Mrs flowers every now and again (especially after a few romantic lonely drinks).

I see a squirrel, and I get involved; as you might expect of me at this point.
A very hithery-thithery species are squirrels, and they seeeeeem like they’re approachable.

Almost as adorable as me, we watched them bury their nuts and nestle up and into one another, shake their big bushy tails and scurry in a fashion that isn’t derogatory. Maybe even ‘scampering’…

So, I feel just fine about kneeling down by the pathway’s caged fence, and poke a pinch of the contents of my fruit and nut bag through it, initiating those calls that, only in the moment, one feels are somehow effective in gaining and animals trust beyond any circumstance such as sheer luck or the fact you’re waggling food at it.

I proffered nuts to the big bushy grey squirrel (aren’t I adorable?) and committed to those petit squeaks and kisses and waggles and so-ons-and-so-forths, watching the squirrel catch my nut’s eye and edge closer, and a little closer…and then too close.

This was a large chunk of fruit and nut, the sort that can catch a squirrel’s attention and, apparently, rage, and whilst I must have subconsciously thought of it as some form of buffer between myself and the squirrel, it was – in the moment – all too easily brushed aside (actually, more like ‘fucked’; ‘fucked aside’) by the squirrel.

And then I was witness to the most horrific mauling I’ve ever witnessed; at the end of my finger.

The squirrel, with clawed feet clenched upon the wire of the cage, kept my finger prisoner whilst it gave a retaliatory waggle of its own; this being of it’s head rapidly side to side as it burrowed its teeth deep into my fingerprints.

And then I made that sound I make when something particularly upsetting and even more so uncivilised is happening.

A brief, short and sharp, “GGGGRRRRRRRRRRRRRR”.

This might seem like a growl in text, but its not when truly verbalised and you actually here me sound it. Just imagine the sound of a growl, only with the octaves varying all over the shop from high to low and back and forth again.

From what I’ve learned, whatever I’m trying to do by making that sounds; it doesn’t work.

I was realised by the grip of squirrel tooth to survey the horrid sight; with blood all over its bushy tale and my finger pulsing blood like it was entirely entitled to on such an occasion, fruit and nut here and there, with all the surrounding people and squirrels having hushed themselves in response to my own strange noise and the visuals that accompanied it.

Having sounded-off and given the end of my finger a good staring, I decided that revenge was the best option.

Only, I’m not very good at revenge owing to being such an adorable fellow; and I only really tend to end up giving those who have wronged me a break as I always try to see through to their dainty side.

This, plus the fact I was lacking resources of combat, chose to douse the little grey bastard in all that I had; the entire bag of fruit and nuts.

As I began pouring the contents over the psychotic squirrel, I realised that this was essentially giving it everything it had likely ever wanted from its life up till now…and this wasn’t necessarily a happy thing for it.

Looking up and seeing a blood soaked fist pouring forth an eternity of dried fruit and varied nuts was quite a revelation to the critter, raising its little arms high and opening its mouth wide like all its dreams had come true in some nightmarish form, with the hail of the bag’s contents causing it to flee, constantly hounded by the pelting of the delicious healthy snacks, it finally scurried beyond my reach.

Here, I made my way with my fiancé to the nearest McDonald’s, using the free Wi-Fi to quickly research how prominent rabies is in the New York squirrel community.

Thankfully, rabies is not flourishing through the city’s population (of squirrels at least); a fact that caused us great relief so that we wouldn’t have to explain to our insurers how I’d taken a tumble onto a yawning squirrel whilst enjoying a jolly good bit of pointing.

Every website we checked stated: “No. Central Park squirrels do not carry rabies, though we do get over 50 cases each year of patients desperate to know. Please stay away from the squirrels.”

I now shall.

And through monkey attacks, gorilla charges, more monkey attacks and a psychotic squirrel; I’ve one rounding question that might bring some insight into why this keeps happening to me.

Is it the beard?

This old friend on lower half of my face has been a real source of comfort over the years; something to stroke, something to feel total lack of concern as to manliness, and something which is also handy for getting the attention of furry folk from around the globe.

Could it be the beard; this statement of masculinity, dark black and thick to the degree that it could be legally considered to be rude?

If so…I’m keeping it.

I’m no fashion king, but I do know that nothing goes finer with a beard than a fair few jostles with an animals of some variety.

And there is no doubt in my mind that close calls with animals are very much so ‘in’.
And hopefully, soon, squirrel fur hats will suit it too. Maybe with some fruit and nut to accompany it throughout my hat and beard.

No, that’s silly.

There have been other animal encounters, other close scrapes, other incidents in which I’m sure you’d find some enjoyment in reading over, but they’ll stay for next time.

Stay indoors perhaps; but DO NOT SHAVE.

Sam


Back In Blighty (A Toast To Water)

I still need to write a great deal of my travels, from the time I completely devastated the good-grief out of a completely innocent squid aboard a boat in Hao Long Bay, to the time the Lady Boys of Chiang Mai dressed me up and very much so down again.

The issue is that these experiences have become like cardboard boxes in the house of hoarder, mounting ever higher and further to the point of which I don’t know where to begin.

Some might say beginning at the beginning is the natural place to take the first step, but the natural thing to do is simply not how I write.

Being home is still yet to stimulate that strange sensation of ‘home’.

It is as though the my travelling never took place and I am simply as I was, 7 months prior, with relationships and routines falling right back into place like a two-piece jig-saw.

There are sure as heck some pleasant benefits to being home.

Clear, clean, unoccupied water out of a tap, merely a matter of feet away, in multiple locations throughout my house, with the possibility of fruity squash cordial as an option; is a delight of a right (well – perhaps there is no ‘right’ to tasty fruit cordial, but imagine the effects of a proletariat without taste-bud stimulus; the world needs tasty).

This, added to the fact that the merciless heat of Oz’s red-centre and the suffocating humidity of Vietnam’s jungles are but a memory that causes me to sweat in only a few regions, means that I wander around feeling hydrated; and this is dandy.

I dehydrate and overheat easily; a problem I’ve suffered since turning all-apey as a teenager, with hair sprouting all over me whilst a thick frizzy mop of the stuff rides my head and keeps all that heat in (unfortunate in that I’m largely sane and see no benefit to keeping alien mind-probes out).

I recall terribly (in that really I wish I wouldn’t recall but YOU brought it up) an occasion of heat stroke as I leaned against the wall of the Vatican, wondering if years of devoted atheism were condemning me and, should that be the case, was I now a believer and so free to walk?

Heavy sun, penetrating heat and really far too much hair for a gentleman to be able to hide beneath anything less that poncho and parasol, I suddenly staggered towards a lamp post, clutching it and feebly fondling the idol of Baby Jesus I’d liberated from a shop’s wicker basket (like a battery of mass produced Messiahs all wishing someone less meek would come along to break a commandment or two) and held on.

The world swirled as it feels when one is drunk and in love, though on this occasion I was touched only by the sun on my overly exposed brain, confusing me via heat, rather than love’s devastating effect on via chemicals of the swooshing and panging nature.

I hailed a cab and escaped the Vatican, the near 40 degree heat have defeated me so that I was humiliated by it, with the sun having it’s hat on and then taking it off owing to it being such a scorcher of a day (I’ve always though the sun a tad slow. The moon seems far more with it, more subtle, more nuanced. I’d definitely rather take the moon to dinner than the sun. In Paris. The sun deserves fast food and wheat, whilst the moon is quite appetized by the mere glory of wine and music. The moon drinks red, or an ‘eau-de-vie et limonade’, can’t dance but does, a wears killer shoes as a matter of morality. I feel I’ve found in myself a most wolfish adoration of the moon this evening – how appropriate – or perhaps I’m simply to grudged-up about the sun and that sweltering day in Rome).

Scarcely returned to the room, I spun a dial to bring the room to a more pleasing freezing temperature and stationed myself in the shower for what was then the foreseeable and what became the rest of the day. Still swirly, still delayed in vision and thought and speech, I just wanted to be laying down in the Antarctic, with my head in the soothing cool jaws of some abominable snowman.

I don’t like the heat.

I do, however, adore water.

Water is medicine, cures when you’re ill and saves when you didn’t realise you were ill.
I feel water could honestly raise a fellow’s IQ and improve his standing in life; such is its power.

Therefore it’ll surprise none that on many days, through jungle and desert and canyon, beach and mountain, city and hut; that I longed for a tap’s worth of easy, bargain priced water.

Slosh me with it.

Drown me slightly.

All I wanted so nearly every-single-moment was nought but a familiar glass of the delicious tasteless water that is home to me.

And I haven’t even begun to talk about squash – or ‘cordial’ to those who wish to continue a use of a fine word that isn’t in much use unless supping the elderflower variety.

Whilst I might love water as a matter pf product and principle, I’m afraid I’m a terribly 21st century boy and I tired of the taste of water decades ago. I need a bit of jazz in my glass to encourage it down; otherwise it can become just a tad too dull to really become an option.

That is, unless of course you throw me into a large Mekong-sized river of the stuff (such as the Mekong River). There – with floorboard-stiff dogs floating past you, bloated enough to really flatter your own figure, and with waterfalls strong enough to take your spectacles from your face (as happened to my good pair) so that they might wander down stream and inadvertently choke some innocent swimming dog, there – with squid hunting your fishing line and then becoming latched about the hook, through the brain, before being accidentally spun by in attempted to release so that it should revolve like a frigging roulette wheel as it ejaculates ink over everyone there but me….in these cases water can be a little more fun than a tasty fruit cordial; although it is the latter you’ll when reading a sentence this long out loud.

What else am I glad to be home to?

I think that might be it.

Immediate water.

Although I do miss the bum guns.

Next time?

My issues with monkeys and apes (I think it might be the beard).

Sam


Bring Back And Berate – Genghis Khan!

Genghis Khan.

I’d bring that chap back and have him stand in my kitchen.

I don’t know how I’m going to go about that by any means other than confidence (I’ve no time machine…why’s it always a time ‘machine’? Why not a ‘time plant’? It could grow older and younger and so on and so forth…If you’d like to steal this idea that’d be great as long as I don’t have to deal with it anymore.) but I’m going to get that smelly defiler of the ages into my kitchen and have him look out the window.

Whilst I can’t deny that Genghis’ methods were efficient (if altogether too runny) I’d love for him to see the progress that ‘nice-chapping’ can afford.

By being fairly pleasant to one another, with a “Good morning” here and a “That’s a lovely blouse, Mr Smith” there, we’ve got ourselves green lawns, fluffy cats, milk on the doorstep and families playing in the streets whilst soft, warm sunlight lands on all. Such loveliness you can see through my kitchen window.

Genghis might not see my point. It could be that he’d look out my kitchen window, murder it, murder me, make his way through the frightened door and proceed to take out his predisposition for upsetting a picnic all over the family picnic, sunshine and milk bottles.

Follow this up with a quick bit of back and forth about world history, wars, government, sociology, poetry and how to slurp soup without annihilating the fellow sitting next to you, and I think he’d calm down with the conquering.

Really, I expect he was a consequence of his circumstance: “Kill (the Chinese) or be killed”, similar to the rapacious conspiring by the royal/nobles of medieval England; looking to one another only to magpie how to be exemplary in sinister, Machiavellian machinations.

This being so, I’d still berate him, make him sit in special spot to look out the window.
Then maybe he’d use his powers of annihilating for good, such as by…murdering…traffic incidents…Then there wouldn’t be any more traffic incidents because Genghis Khan had kindly murdered them all for us. Just trying to be helpful, eh?

Look, I know he was a genius of strategy and governance, and that’s really another addition to my point; what if he’d used benevolence more widely? A man such as him using this in ancient times; would we be even lovelier today?

I’m not sure who I’d bring back from history and berate next.

Definitely Pol Pot, so that I could really rub it in his face about how crap he was at what he devoted his love to. That’d satisfy me to some level.

Perhaps Thomas Edison for being so bitchy…eurgh. Poor Tesla. Poor elephant.

We’ll find out, me included, next time on ‘Bring Back And Berate’!

Sam


Fewer Tennis Players, Please

I may be a fool (perhaps it’s best to presume this prefix to all my articles), but is there a less inspiring sport than Tennis?

With every ‘POCK’ sound across the court I hear the seconds passing me by, much like the point of this game, as well as any fleeting ambition to discover any.

Perhaps it’s the lack of applicable skills.

In the event of a nuclear holocaust, in a time when we are riddled with zombies in the pantry and climate change up the wazzoo; I’m not going to be pleased to have a Tennis player with me in the bunker, demanding all the canned beans for their metabolic rate to burn through and picking up my cat to see if there’s room to swing it.

Plus, Tennis is hardly transferable in a fight.

Armies of white-shorted men with rather stunning time-pieced wrists, delivering nothing but backhanded slaps to their opponents, most of the blows colliding with one another; resulting in those bird-brittle bones in the back of the hand crunching together and even damaging those marvellous European-made watches.

It’s just uninspiring, even with the grunts and screeches that emit from the battlefield, disturbing the body-clocks of local livestock and making it seem like this is all much more demanding than it really is.

Perhaps the skills could be transferred to the hunting grounds, wherein players could swipe post-nuclear bats from their mid-air flocks before feasting on them with all the grunts and screeches they can muster in an attempt to confuse and pacify the poor radioactive animals. (If a bat hears a screech; does it just presume “WALL!”? Because in that case, being eaten alive by a Tennis player must feel being beaten up by a house.)

Not to mention that male Tennis players fall victim to fashion-aging worse and far faster than most athletes.

Just take Caitlyn Jenner; she worked out how unfashionable manhood could be and got with that hip be-who-thoust-wishes trend. Penises are not ‘in’ at the moment. Ahem.

Golfers from 30 years ago are still terribly in-vogue, whereas the insistent urging of an all-white outfit, with wrist and headbands, and way too much upper-thigh for a hairy fellow like me to get away with without harnessing all sorts of pollen and debris in it…oh my.

Nuclear pollen is not something you want to get tangled up in your body hair; you could become riddled with full-body cacti perms which everyone’d find hilarious and your cat won’t want anything to do with you anymore – even with the Tennis player chasing him about.

And I should know of these worries; I’m a spectacularly furry fellow and have inadvertently captured many things in my body hair but am still yet to discover anything of worth; like a penny.

Most common thing I’ve found in my body hair?

Other people’s hair…normally the long hair of a lady amidst a moulting.

I’ve longed for a more productive offering, alas, no luck.

Which is why I’m even less keen to share an eternal after/half-life with a short shorted Tennis player; thigh hair fluttering in the radioactive breeze.

Bunkers are adorably petit, but what about the hourly appointed strolls down THE corridor for morale? Awfully cramped in that corridor. Barely enough room to squeeze past with two people, and no room in the slightest for a Tennis player in his itty-bitty shorts and yourself wearing even a suit of armour; although somehow you’ll still get tangled pubics. Tragic, but a surprisingly effective method of surviving those chilly nuclear winters; albeit with an uncomfortably tickly throat.

I’d like to state a change of my opinion towards Tennis players in the event of a nuclear holocaust.

Maybe we’ll need more psychos; and that is the definition of Tennis players in a nutty nutshell.

Perhaps we’ll need maniacs with a superb backhand, swiping aside the hordes of green-glowing grizzly birds and bees (who – having become tragically literate following the nuke’s increasing of their intelligences; have read all about the birds and the bees and find it cruel that the Great Green Creator should keep such elusive, vital and baffling info from them) as their whirl themselves towards our bunker as an alternative to the honey bees actually trying to mate with an ostrich and vice versa.

His disturbing affinity with whacking balls whilst grunting and then waiting for you to take your turn doing the same to him whilst he stares you down with furry green and white eyeballs, his very expensive European watch whirring at 100 miles per hour though all the number melted off, his pure white short shorts riding ever higher as the Tennis player grunts and swipes and screeches and then finally lets loose a different sound, one of such placid serenity that it undoes your trousers and shivers your spine:

“That’s LOVE.”

Perhaps we won’t need a Tennis player in the bunker.

Not to mention the things they’ll do for a goblet (just give them the goblet).

Sam


Little White Squares Of Essence

When sitting down to write about Contemporary Art, there are two things to consider of the audience.

1: Prior to the first letter being inked (or in this case – pixelated), the reader will have dug their heels into the ground, before quickly whipping said heels off altogether and preparing to stab those stilettos between the authors eyebrows.

This is true of the coupled viewpoints on the matter, from the admirers of the form, to those who are adverse to it, or rather – in quote form: “How much?”, “Load of bollocks!” And “My two year old could’ve done that!”. (Indeed, then why didn’t your genius little two year old do it then and bring his postnatal worth up into the seven-figure bracket? Two years old and such an under-performing disappointment already…)

2: They’ve already gone.

Contemporary Art is to them confusing, accusatory, kind of funny, exceedingly odd, uncomfortable and alright-I-guess, to which is added the viewpoints of the above category and thereby making their lack of presence on the gallery floor more than understandable.

I’ve been all over the world and have walked into many an art gallery in my few years, so I feel I’ve a good handle on whether or not I’ve got a opinion on the matter.

And I’m pretty sure I’ve got an opinion on the matter.

And I’m about to share it with you.

Any second now.

There’s a great deal of art that floats my boat and splendid. Well done world. Good idea on all that art you did.

And some of the art I like provokes powerful emotions and thoughts within me, and that’s also fairly smashing.

When I take a good long look at the later work of Vincent Van Gogh, I am filled with a very sad understanding of the artist; who and how he was before his thoroughly documented end.

Of course I would, I believe, feel differently (indeed – potentially not feel at all) if I were unaware of the documented (by art historians via pen and Van Gogh himself via thick globules of emotive colour) decline of the artist as a fellow.

If it weren’t for my parents, some minor schooling and a jolly good book or two, I’d think ‘Sunflowers’ was but a painting of sunflowers and that ‘Starry Night’ was a painting of a village with low light pollution.

Had it not been for all that prior knowledge, I’d have no idea about that distinct hue of ‘I-want-to-shoot-myself blue’.

It’s the same with art in a gallery, particularly Contemporary Art.

There are two facets to Contemporary Art, as follows:

1. It looks cool.

Like guns and smoking and smoking guns (and, I don’t know if you can ‘gun smokes’, but if you can, that too).

I saw a piece today that was a wooden mallet, nailed to a wall.

It looked tremendous, suited the wall very nicely, and was unforgivably cool; giving the poor mallet some of that ‘juxtaposition-medicine’. The sort of thing I’d wear on a t-shirt, although preferably inked on – rather than nailed.

Sometimes art can be cool and at other times it can be pretty, like singular strips of highly expensive wallpaper by a renowned wallpaperist.

To bring up Feng Shui (because I feel bringing it up here will really focus the article’s inner energy and help with my flow), I’d say that art can really tie the room together (as per Lebowski’s rug).

Not much to think about, like a simple absurdist joke; the point is in the silliness.

There are worse things to walk past; worse things to ignore.

2. The second facet is that they have a tremendous given explanation typed on that vital little white plaque next to the art work, detailing what you should be understanding and how you should be feeling, all whilst speaking in the definite.

You may have seen the Damien Hirst piece: ‘The Physical Impossibility of Death in the Mind of Someone Living’. It’s a shark, preserved in formaldehyde, in a tank suspended from a ceiling, whilst you look at it and think about how you cannot really configure death, only ponder about how you can muse upon it.

The use of the shark as an image of death having died, paired with the image of it frozen in time whilst we are not, gets you oh-so thoroughly.

This is an example of a sturdy bit of art, something which stirs you deep down in THERE and gets you whirring away up THERE. Just like ‘Sunflowers’, just like ‘Guernica’.

And a good deal many people know how they feel about it and these other pieces I because it said what to feel, just next to it, on a little white plaque.

That little white square of essence.

A picture paints a thousand words, but I’ve got a thousand and one words and a whole load of capital letters and exclamation marks! See!!?

This is by no means the rule of all Contemporary Art: the nice art made for walking past, the art that looks cool whilst you ignore before wearing it on a t-shirt and the art that is utterly visually moving. But for the rest of Contemporary Art…those little white squares of essence are the only tale teller.

I could say that they go hand in hand, and that one cannot live without the other, like conjoined twins sharing the heart, but although I tried understanding some of the lesser communicable pieces of Contemporary Art prior to reading the plaque beside it…I think I preferred just reading the plaque.

The thousand-word-worthy image to accompany that plaque; I can conjure that on my own in my head.

Because that’s what words cause us to do.

The writer does the hard work for these guys and gals, so I’ll keep on reading, but I want the author of those little white squares of essence to get some credit.

Perhaps the main plaque could come with another, minor, plaque, detailing the intents of the main plaque’s author and listing his or her’s previous work.

Or maybe they could really broaden the genre, and squeeze some Romance, perhaps a little Sci-Fi, maybe even a good dose of innuendo (and out-your-endo).

Either way, all I’m really trying to say is that I went to an art gallery today and I emerged opinionated.

Objective complete.

‘Guernica’ is heart-wrenching, ‘Sunflowers’ are heartening and the little white squares of essence are at times just as informative and emotive as the art whose meaning they attempt to convey.

Here’s to Pablo, here’s to Vincent and here’s to the authors of our art.

In related otherness, sunflowers are my favourite flower; I’ll tell you why soon.

Sam


How To Win A Fight Without Dignity

I wonder how I’d win a real fight.

I hate to think of the victor merely being the superior shover.

Punching is very hard to accomplish with any degree of accomplishment. It really takes two to tango, and an equal number to punch and be punched. And if that other guy doesn’t want to be punched, it’ll take a lot of convincing or a monumental favour to be repaid.

Sure you throw a punch, or perhaps more likely you’ll proffer a soft and awkwardly angled set of barely curled knuckles in the direction of his personhood, but you’re more likely to be aggressively flailing.

And this is ineffective.

Stop being ineffective.

Particularly when considering his response to your flailing is to flail back.

Retaliatory flailing is the assured way of no punches being thrown and no punches landing because you’re all to busy enjoying a nice flail against each other’s wrists, necks and lapels.

I don’t want to flail, but it’s better than successfully landing a blow and then suffering the depressing lack of positive consequence to it.

Imagine having the ideal draw of elbow with which to fling your perfectly crunched-up fist with utmost accuracy against and into that sweet spot on his chinny-chin-chin.

And he proceeds to look at you with all audacity it takes to remain standing and the lack of decency to even have a next-day bruise. He bruises like a brick; hitting him hurts.

Then consider the utter failure of your apparent zero knockout power is equalled by the stinging pain of fractured fingers that’ve suffered the distinctly bad time of colliding with something altogether more impressive and coming off, not only worse, but pitied.

The punched-yet-smiling chap proceeds to proffer a rugged hand whose strength you feel as it shakes your wrist to the very point of being registered on the Richter scale, that it could send you and your inconsiderable chin through the door, floor, ceiling, family dinner, town hall meeting, santos grotto, or whatever else is in the same direction as his punch.

You know what’d be worse than the punch; the fact that the watch you see following up behind it, like a bride’s wedding train, is nicer and more expensive looking than you car, house and wife combined and there’s no way he’s going to do a swapsies.

This kind of chap could punch through even your finest flailing and then he’d save your life with that utterly masculine First Aid he learnt on a business course in which he really did rather impress the former army guys doing the training.

Despite the testament of cannibals, people don’t taste good and even that dopey dose of adrenalin that powers you to nobly bite his ankle isn’t going to persuade your taste buds that this was a good idea. Whilst biting works, especially when eating, it is a move that will gain you no fans, only a wide community of people who prefer to know just how close you’re standing to them and their ankles.

Plus, this chap would simply ‘ankle’ you into the ground, charisma his way into convincing your teeth into changing whose team their on and, ultimately, punch you on-in-and-up the nose.

In a fight, the nose is a place to be, and brother I’ve been there. Or, more accurately, I’ve hosted visitors.

And whilst the nose holds that stinging and shocking sensation of pain that also handily blinds your foe for a mo, it falls pathetically in comparison to kicking a swaying pair testicles. Testicles, surprisingly, tend to mind their own business in most matters, and are hence utterly surprised themselves by the intended collision with whatever you’ve elected to swiftly introduce them to.

I mentioned how this fellow would ‘ankle’ you, at will. Don’t try this yourself. It’s like attempting to Adam’s Apple a fellow into submission and pretty much comes down to an embarrassing and ineffectual rub. He might even enjoy it. He might even pay a woman to do it for him, though without the Adam’s Apple.

Hair pulling is one of those things you don’t want to happen to you, especially in a case it turns out you enjoy it and enjoy it too much too. I’ve no doubt sudden arousal can be an intriguing aid in combat, especially if you have an heavily armoured and sharpened penis, but the distraction of enjoying the hurt would certainly be a disadvantage. Plus you’ll need that blood for pulsing around your body, not to flooding it all into one brand new 6-inch limb.

And in such a case, why not tug his hair too, for you both might get a literal rise out of it and could bring a cessation to conflict

My advice is this.

Run away and prepare to show him who’s boss when he’s not looking, develop a limp as an excuse to carry a walking stick (strolling shalaylee) and proceed to be ‘the funny guy’ for a good long while onward so as to avoid the slightest possibility of conflict.

He’s probably more than agreeable anyway, especially when he’s standing behind you as backup for when your jokes aren’t going down so well.

All the best,

Sam


Alternative Uses For Letters (I’ve Always Wanted To Eat An ‘a’)

I’ve always felt there’s a good deal of character to letters, and as a means of filling the blankness I shall now detail the alternative uses for letters and aspects of their character.

This began when is watched a chap fishing and consciously thought he was in need of a lower case g to hook them. A lower case q would preferable but only when armed with that delightful acute flick of the tail, as opposed to the droopy trailing disappointment that this font offers.

Let us continue.

Due to reading-aid picture books as a child, lower case ‘a’ perpetually remind me of apples and are consequently appear delicious to me, lower case only. Capital A looks like a truly broad letter that’d have its hands on its hips and speak confidently as per a pokemon and say “…A”. Capital A could were a cloak and look reasonable, whilst encouraging children to stay safe and always eat their lower case a’s.

Capital B looks like something you box with, but it also has breasts which somewhat diminishes the pain and tenfolds the impact. Pummeled and cheered via bosom. If not this, then handcuffs, again with bosoms, again intolerably sufferable. Lower case b, just looks like a nice guy, like a thumbs up. I can picture the b leaning on a lamppost, tiny wee cigarette alight and then b sees me walking towards him and…continues to be a b. Character development is non essential in a character, especially so early on in this alphabet epic.

Capital C is suspiciously communist, looking worryingly good in wearing red, whilst lower case c is adorable, like a cat curled up. I try to walk past these two quickly, in case I mistakenly wake the cutely sleeping and purring lower case c and also in case the capital Cs gang up on me a reclaim my property in the name of the proletariat. Not sure how to fight a C, but it looks rude enough to have a sensitive area to kick and I’d never forgive it for nationalising my pet c.

Capital D is for slicing cooking herbs. It looks appropriately slicey as you roll it back and forth across your herb, whilst also possessing a fortuitous handhold. Happy cooking. Lower case d is for propping your eyelids open whilst you continue through this article. There are some out there in this world that might suggest that the sole intended use of D is denouncing the positives of a fellow they consider a ‘Dunce’. Fuck these folk. It’s not meant for nastiness; it’s a for slicing herbs.

As for capital E, you can do as I do and either comb your hair (which, to be honest, I don’t do) or simply use it (as I do with a brush or, even better a cat) to scratch your back. Would it make an ‘EEEeee!’ based sound as you scratched back and forth with it? Probably not, because that’s silly.

A lower case f always appears to me (largely when hand written) as though one should be able to play music with it, as though it is to be strummed by a pale lady in a classically classless restaurant. It also looks it should make a longer sound than “fuh”. A melodic and elongated “fuh” – that’s what I’m trying to get across to you Dear Reader. Meanwhile the F’s capital is best dressed in pink and looking swollen like a proud marshmallow. Capital Fs always seem swollen. Shame but everyone’s got to be good at something; even letters, and capital Fs are absolutely top notch at swelling.

Both the capital G and lower case g looks like a hip place to hang out, either by reclining in the Capital whilst hunched over a chessboard (coz how hunched you are determines your passion for the game of chess. It’s all in the back) whilst the dangling tail of the g looks a fine locale for a dandy to hang about; somewhere suitably comfortable and dangerous…something adults wouldn’t approve of.

H is the contrary to the Gs, both lower and capital, as it seems the place that a responsible father would purchase to ensure his family lived in a secure home with a staunch roof. Both h and H appear to me as though they should been surrounded by a tidy little garden and neat lawn. There’s no doubt that H and h are the most financially responsible letters of the alphabet.

‘I’ looks bloody lethal, just a sharp jut of a letter, careful not to wave it about otherwise one might take another’s eye out with an I. And that’s weird. Lower case I seems as though someone examined the capital and thought…”Needs more dot” like a child proof version of the deadly I; welcome to i.

It would appear I’ve written alternative uses for letter all the way up to I.

Ha.

And it’s been a pleasure, though I swear I’ll never do it again, no matter how kooky I’m feeling.

Although I would like to add for the record that I think lower case q is an unceasingly flirtatious letter and i wish it’d stop looking at me like that.

And a capital Z is an extraordinarily uncomfortable sleeping position, though it does sum up the journey via the finality of things, such as this twenty minute article, what with its zig-zagging nature, despite being in alphabetical order.

Sam