Before I begin, bear with me.
It’s a lot easier to die for someone than it is to live for them.
Tell me I have to die so my wife and child can survive some terrible and clichéd doom, and I’d step forward in an instant, stepping over the edge – if that somehow helped.
However, tell me that I’ll need to be tortured for 50 years so that my son can keep a respectable hair-line with no bald spot…then fuck that guy’s hair. He has my genes any way, and I have zero hair loss on my back.
Taking the time out of my day to put some substance into yours is a lot to ask. And, if you’re as lazy as me, you’ll feel it ring true that there are times when I’d rather die for you than live for you since that amounts to having fewer tasks bothering me.
Dying is a one-time thing, minimal effort, job done, round of applause.
Living can seem to drag on forever when you’re not enjoying it, and then someone tells you you’re going to have to listen daily to the bullshit anecdotes based around their relatives and a punchline-you-really-had-to-be-therefore-but-ultimately-are-glad-you-weren’t. Those are the times you’d rather pass-on then let it drag on.
Maybe I could just donate a leg, or some teeth, or back hair?
If I could donate my left hand to ensure my son will live a life of happiness, I’d wonder what where my left hand was going to end up, but I’d get sawing. If you presented me a banana to do the job, I’d manage to cut it still, albeit hilariously.
If I could donate the same hand so as to not have to be told by wedding planners that I need to have this more-pricey version of the basic floral chair covers (otherwise we’d look back and the wedding day just would seem like a sham), then I’d cut it off and then slap them with it before handing it over to whoever’s asking for it.
That’s my son.
I don’t know why I call him that, but it’d make perfect sense if you met him.
There’s something pre-formed about Joey, as though he was born with a degree of personality and is just flinging that charming personality at the Earth as he makes his way around it.
And the manner in which this resonates with me is to call him Joey Meatballs.
He’ll age and comprehend, and slowly come to realise that his Dad is calling him “Joey Meatballs”, sometimes “Joe Meatballs” to save time and oral effort.
How he’ll respond is a matter of his upbringing, though I’ve a suspicion that he was born with an upbringing that he’ll keep bringing up and respond to “Joey Meatballs” accordingly. I’m not trying to suggest he’s the Chosen One, I’m telling you that he is.
When I write, I prefer to really focus on the typing as opposed to the narrative, and I tend to find I’ve circled back on myself anyway, as though a 1000 word article is an unwieldly palindrome.
Have you ever heard of a ‘palindromemordnilap’? It’s the term used when someone is trying to be clever but its bollocks. Remember that as we continue.
You’ll be familiar with the “Godwin Argument” – the premise being that all online arguments will eventually culminate with an accusation/suggestion that the counter-argument is “exactly what the Nazis did!”
Rather than building up to that, I feel it’s best to get such accusations of National Socialism out of the way in the initial terms of what we’re arguing about.
For example, before arguing about Brexit, its best to agree that we both have the potential to do as the Nazis did, namely – to invent Fanta.
You could invent Fanta, as could I (save of course for the fact that it has already been invented by the Nazis).
Maybe from there, having gotten accusations out of the way early, we could build to both exchanging our points, and if that fails, we can just punch each other until we can’t.
The last person to be punching can be considered the loser of the argument because this is a civil society and violence is wrong.
And that’ll teach both of us.
I hasten to add that although this is entirely my own idea, if you try to punch my son, I’ll take a step beyond punching and burn your mother down and change the fabric of society so that everyone else alive thinks this is a positive thing.
Perhaps, you’ll feel the same retaliatory way regarding your own children, but never fear; for I do not punch babies.
Let’s end this there, if I feel the need to move beyond stating that I don’t punch babies, I’m opening myself other areas I feel I need to clarify.
It could be, by reading the above, that you have come to realise why I call my son Joey Meatballs.
It’s just how things go when you have a father that says and does things like calling you Joey Meatballs.
And, as my Literacy teacher told me in regards to not beginning a sentence with “And”, is just the way things are.
Much has happened since May.
Love you boyo.
You can’t disparage a grizzly bear.
Neither of us have permission for this.
You might see it tumble down a river bank, sniff its own balls or some they’ve gathered from ‘bearing’, and perhaps even go cross-eyed; but ultimately a grizzly bear has a final reality that cannot be countered.
Teeth and tonnes.
A grizzly bear will squash you with its sharp teeth and tear you both apart and a new one, with a look.
That’s why I respect bears; they have the self confidence that overcomes looking foolish.
I could watch a grizzly bear get its head stuck oh-so adorably in a honey pot, proceeding to wander and bump about until a kindly friend provided some jar-removing empathy; and all the while I’d be sporting a cold sweat and nursing a frighteningly ineffective piece of any weaponry ever made at the prospect that this creature might one day have intentions towards some honey pot of my own.
Lions don’t do that to me.
Catch a lion attempting any of the above and you’ve got a pussy cat you can mock and give a good kick up the arse.
Shooting a bear is your very best hope (seeing as this is how you can irritate it to finish you off more mercifully quickly), whereas lions have very little to say in response to a shotgun blast.
You can bop a lion on the nose and you’ve gone a significant way towards undoing its legend and usurping leadership of the pride. Two bops should do it.
Not that I’ve ever fought either; I can’t. PETA won’t allow it.
Of course, grizzly bears requiring nothing from nobody, whereas lions are such pussies that PETA has to stand up for them.
A lion at full charge can be disposed with a stern: “STOP IT. You’re embarrassing yourself.” – causing it to slink away.
Grizzly bears cannot slink. Try that same method (vary the wording if you like) with a grizzly bear and you’ll simply hear your words echo decreasingly within the animal currently digesting you.
Bop a grizzly bear on the nose and you’ll never bop again, and you’ll regret not having gotten more bopping done in your time.
Note, I will be referring to the grizzly bear as a ‘grizzly bear’, rather than as a simple ‘grizzly’ as I feel to shorten it would be overly familiar and I’d like to maintain as much formal ‘Mr’ and ‘Sir’ as I can with my host (host – because wherever you are, that’s a bear bit of place to stand and be a bear).
To make it short, shortly before continuing at length: grizzly bears are large roaming landmarks, whereas lions can simply fuck off.
When you’re selecting for your apocalyptic battle team, and you’re choosing from nature’s bounty (try not to choose lemongrass or wheat -they’re useless in a fight, of all floras you should utilise cacti and coconuts, or a suitably angry hedge), you’re going to realise that the grizzly bear is a team by itself. It’s back-half is on its front-half’s side, and its left side is predictably on its right side’s side. Its teeth work in coalition with its claws, its eyes with its mouth, its hunger with its need to take a dump a few hours hence.
A lion might leave you a carcass, but a bear will turn you and all you were into a turd in North America. This victory is total, as the bear might feel some parental satisfaction of having transformed the irrelevant you into a colossal amount of faeces; and as such become something the bear has a greater regard for compared to the living you, flailing limbs and awfully widened eyes, screaming something about a “good bopping, Mr Grizzly Bear sir”.
Lions can be dispatched with a finger up its nose.
I also predict that a stiff kick in its balls, the kind of impact that gives testicles arthritis, would also demise a lion to pieces. If it is a female lion, then I’d kick her in her male lion’s balls and then I’d spray her with cold water whilst making a screechy noise.
Being a cat, I imagine a lion would find acute embarrassment something it struggles with. Bears would roll with it, indeed – they would roll in it and enjoy whatever that sensation is. I once said (to quote myself – apologies) that it is hard to make a mountain look foolish.
Bears are wandering mountains that chew, shite, and impress you with what they can do with a salmon. You can’t make them look foolish, whereas a lion can look dopey as sweet hell.
And what are you going to do about it?
Lions have had movies made about them, songs dedicated to them, goodness knows how many wanky tattoos of their image, as well as those t-shirts that people wear in which lions give an ‘Far-out dude’ look on an ethereal background of stars and other such strange things to associate with an animal of which I am quite confident I could beat in a debate, an arm-wrestle, and a good-old fight to the death.
Don’t speak poorly of grizzly bears, because if there was one in the room with you right now, the walls would tumble, you’d vanish in a cloud of bloody mist, the eaves-dropping neighbours would gasp “oh my!” and all that would remain would be a thoroughly more impressive turd and the smell of satisfaction Mr grizzly bear emitted before wandering off as mountains do and forgetting about you entirely.
If there was a lion in the room with me right now; I’d ask it to leave.
And leave it would, because I might also happen to mention I have (Mr) grizzly bear associates that might be interested to meet a pretty young lion such as yourself.
In addition to this whole subject; a bear would easily dominate a gorilla, for the simple flaw that gorillas are too much like us to really get anywhere in nature without the instinct to bang things together until a (hindsight) good idea happens. Plus sex and humour.
Now, I like to take an overwhelming degree of responsibility for the human species (somewhat possessive perhaps, but it is mine) and I urge none of you be flippant with a grizzly bear. I do not give you permission, and you should presume none. I don’t have permission to disparage a grizzly gear, and I wouldn’t want such permission, as this would be invitation to turdation and the kind of improvement I don’t find overly flattering.
That being said, leave lions be too. They can’t help being a bit crap, even if they do try to show off with the regular roars and scraps and impressive hunting statistics.
I wonder how they taste.
Don’t hunt them unless they’re getting out of hand and give people a hard time.
Under no circumstances whatsoever are you allowed to attempt to hunt a grizzly bear, if only for the reason that the apocalyptic team battle circumstance might come about and you don’t want to be looking to a team of your mate Harry, an utterly unwelcome lion, your mum, and a mind-bendingly large gap where your grizzly bear talisman team mate was meant to be.
Feel free to hunt chickens as I don’t care for them, plus I’ve a feeling we should keep them in check in case an uprising should happen. I can handle a few hundred chickens coming at me all at once, but a flock of 19 billion is going to seriously affect my lawn.
I really don’t want 19 billion chickens realising they have a slight advantage over us in numbers and feathers, before finding out my address and coming to ‘get’ me. I don’t know what it’s like to be ‘gotten’ by chicken en-masse, but I can only hope it’s preferable to what we do to them.
I image it would tickle, in a manner only a grizzly bear would be able to enjoy.
Some people don’t have it, others are ravaged by it, and if you can’t tell already – I am referring to the ability to wiggle ones eyebrows independently.
I don’t mean they can wriggle their eyebrows free from express command by higher authorities, more so that they can make the right eyebrow wriggle, as well as it’s sister.
Yes, I do believe that each eyebrow has a gender. My right is a dude, my left is his female fellow.
They are both entirely independent from each other, with separate social circles and professional squares.
Some people can’t do this. But they can dilate their nostrils.
I cannot dilate my nostrils, despite a vast amount of time doing…something (let’s call it ‘effort’) at the bathroom mirror (poor thing).
Both my wife and my boss can do this.
I however, can belly dance; whereas they can’t even watch.
I remember realising I could make my belly roll at a dinner party of my parents. The conversation was flowing, which was a shame as it was so dull, and I found myself as a last resort (forgive me, only being a young child, I was not mature enough to be so bored).
So, I just wondered if I could command my stomach to flip-flop in a manner that might cause halt to the conversation that was flowing like the dribble that such drivel rhymes with, and then I did it.
Soon I was on the table, feet amongst potatoes (as a young boy should – though normally not mashed), and tummy in the air, like a patriot of physiology and very keen to continue.
And things really haven’t changed since.
The belly dance is a tremendous tool as it is both as conversation stooped and starter – this being why I call it ‘corking’.
Some fellow of mine might be conversing at me, very face-first, about Brexit. I then say “Hey pal, look at midriff” and he’ll respond with: “Wowee Sam, good for you! It’s like Brexit, right? And another thing…”
I must admit my belly dance has been ineffective against Brexit and its constant production of dull argument, though I persist.
I belly dance in the face of democracy.
The problem with democracy is that it enables a majority of people to make a really bad decision.
That follows with a response to my theory, with the counter: “Are you saying that the majority of people are stupid?”
Of course they are, have you met people? Have you met the modern person? The average man in the street…doesn’t. Choose your topic of purposeful action, any at all, because the answer is ‘no they don’t’.
And we’re sinking into a quagmire of circumstance in which the talent of the nation is buggering off, and those that got us into this mess are expecting those whom voted Remain to get us back out of it.
Nevertheless, talent like this guy and his stomach aren’t going anywhere.
Particularly when I want to take a swipe at Remoaners too.
Uninformed of a separate selection of facts, those that berate the majority of the nation, such as I just did, could really do with a bit more experience outside of their preference.
Snobbiness is the worst failing of the British people, and the Remain campaign demonstrated that from the beginning. That is why it failed and that is why it is inherently unlikeable.
One thing that is guaranteed about the Brexiteers is that it has that feeling of blind romantic adventure. “Let’s do this and see what happens! We can make the best of it! Freedom!”
Whilst these sentiments may be based in untruths, the attraction remains – more so than the UK has within Europe.
European membership should have been celebrated whilst we had it. We all benefited, and could have improved our standing too, and now we are without, divided, and horrified by the fact that both sides were right and wrong in an ugly blend of uniformed ignorance and inexperienced ignorance.
Nationalism can be a wonderful thing if we could all have just gotten along.
Your loss. I’m a patriot to the side, proud of the best bits and eager to improve the rest, whilst unashamedly keen to make the most out of things for my neighbour and me.
Britain will be easy pickings for a belly dancer like me, beginning with the number one industry in the UK.
Not just a rainy mist apparently named by Snoop Dog, but a source of national unity akin to red phone booths, bizarre humour, bad teeth, and a reaction of chat-ceasing awe in the face of my belly dancing.
The drizzle industry is going to make a killing this year, and I want a piece of that soggy pie.
Patriots will have it shipped in, using it to obscure their neighbours, keep the laundry soggy like a Briton, and mystify the Mrs in association with a stiff upper lip and stiffer stiffy.
And it is during this kind of conversation you and I are having (thanks for contributing) in which I as a youngster first found cause and ability to belly dance.
I’m sure, whilst taking part in this conversation today, you’ve already found yourself trying it too.
Good job, see you on the drizzly other side.
In times past, my writing has been referred to as “irreverent” and this infuriates me.
My writing is not irreverent.
It is IRRELEVANT.
And that matters.
As follows are some other statements of things that matter.
Testosterone is qualifying.
Flying liquid is frighteningly free.
And capitalism is sexier.
Decreasingly important to people however, is faith (bear with me; even if you’re not a bear).
I’ve been toying with the idea of Catholicism. Not that I wish to be a part of the family of utter horrors for much of Europe’s history, but rather more because I do enjoy the pageantry.
Hats that have forever out-done their protestant competition (a protestant hat might be more suitable for a job interview though).
‘Carnal sin’ (the good kind) and ‘Cardinal purple’ both outstrip (literally) the Protestants’ ‘Stop smiling!’.
There is something very assured and cool in the gaze of a senior catholic priest that suggests: “You know all that fucked up shit outside the cathedral door? That was us.”
My dog and I walk one another when either of us is in the mood and is prepared to do what they’re bloody-well-told by the other.
We walk through orchard and bramble, flushing out the rabbits and restraining one another from giving chase because that would just count as snacking before our evening meal.
It was on one of these dashes that I saw a glare of silver in the mud, and stooped to examine.
The shimmer was a saint, Saint Roch, winking at me with his knee exposed; as sultry as you like.
“Pray for us, Saint Roch, Italy”, said the small pendant, likely inadvertently dropped by one of the European pickers in the orchard.
A man flashing me with his knee, whilst his own dog watched on irresponsibly, had been found in the orchard and I could not leave it there, nor at that.
So I pocketed St Roch, and took him home for a bath.
A little further research disclosed much about the canonised fellow, chiefly that he apparently posed for many a painting with his trademark sultry pose of leaning on his staff, hoisting his lower robing to reveal the revelation of a rather smashing knee.
And a dog.
Still further research unveiled that St Roch is a patron saint of many other reasons I wish to become Catholic.
The falsely accused.
Bachelors (as he lifts his robe to share his knee with me, I always imagine him saying “Hmm. A bachelor hmm?” I wish I didn’t).
And many more.
The dog as it turned out, favoured St Roch during his plague days by bringing him bread (not the Jesus-body kind), therein earning him the title “Good boy”.
At some point there was a baker, burgled by a dog soon to be immortalised as the saviour of a saint, but that just doesn’t put money in the till, particularly during paltry plague times.
According to the Golden Legend, a compendium of these stories, this same dog licked St Roch’s unfortunate knee wounds, undoubtedly adding just that little bit of extra flavour to the pilfered loaf.
His popularity and legend caused Roch a sainthood, a brotherhood, a mass following, and before all of these, his death by starvation in a jail cell. I presume dogs were not permitted visits. Nor were loaves.
And I found him in the mud of my local orchard.
I don’t know how regularly he is idolised these days, particularly considering the lack of truly species-ending plague that we used to handle so poorly, in addition to the fact that those with knee problems are unlikely to bend onto them to begin praying.
Perhaps St Roch is making the underdog (sans bread) come back – ala St Rocky of Philadelphia?
I’m not a Godly person, but perhaps it’ll help to worship something I feel sorry for, such as St Roch and his dog. I could end each dedicated prayer with “Awwwwmen”, but then again my knees are dandy and I’m not a bachelor, though I do pity diseased cattle.
I just feel I need some religion in my life.
Not spirituality though, because that amounts to an unseemly mix of both being haunted and bullshit, and I’ve no time in my day for either.
I need religion, a quiet place to be, a solemn thought to think, a good thing to remember, and preferably a view.
I need a saint, someone in the ‘something’ category of people that I can send good wishes to. Although, unlike the archetypal prayer maker, I don’t really want for anything, nor doing I fear eternal damnation as I’m already a Crystal Palace fan. Therefore, it would be nice to send a prayer to someone, such as St Roch, just to check in on them and see how they’re doing for a change.
Do they need anything? What have they been up to recently? Did they catch the match (bloody Palace)?
All before signing-off with the aforementioned “Awwwwmen” and then returning back to Earth with a sense of civic saintly duty done, and hopefully with less diseased cattle (if you ever find yourself with cattle, now you’ve got something to hope they’re not).
And that’s why I’ve really brought you here today; pity.
Have a little pity and give an irrelevant writer with an irrelevant saint a break and give us both a Like and a Follow. Just think of that poor little dog, unable to woof properly owing to being corked with bread, just wanting you to Like and Follow the Lateral Column.
Sometimes all you need is something to say
And whilst I may be without a thing to say, I’ve got plenty to write about.
I just need to remember.
I’d love to escape from prison; I just need a crime to be sent down for long enough for, preferably in the 1930s.
Naturally I don’t want to hurt anyone, nor take things that don’t belong to me, as I really am quite pleasant upon first impressions (just don’t meet me twice).
Or parking tickets?
Its time like this I wish I was in the USA, able to commit some devastatingly trivial infraction that would escalate to a prison sentence upon crossing state lines.
I would love to be imprisoned for smuggling, or piracy, so long as I could ensure a positive working environment with equal opportunities for the all (not just the physically impaired – who I presume are the majority on a pirate boat. I’ll be calling it a ‘boat’ rather than a ‘ship’ by the way, as I know this will irk some and I want to give a fair chance to those that don’t get to meet me twice).
I’m a Man of Kent, owing to having been born East of the Medway river in Kent, thus giving me a fair grounding in the history of my county. And it turns out Kent is a county of hop-pickers and smugglers, both historically enjoying one another just fine.
I could pick a hop, and I could pick it well, but I doubt I’d get to enjoy the thrill of being chased along the estuary, whilst the orchards are a place for high-speed fuck-alls. Orchards a are place where even hurrying takes most of the afternoon.
So smuggling it is.
No smuggling of people though, as smuggling people is immoral and dangerous, as well as a crowded market at the moment – the number of Brits looking to make a get-away buoyant on a sturdy enough inheritance of the family turd to float their way through the sewers and away to the continent; is simply silly, as well as intricately silly too.
I’ll have to smuggle something noble, like medical supplies, or knights.
Which knight of the realm would be best to smuggle to the continent?
Sir John Major deserves something nice to happen to him, providing the canoe is broad enough.
Sir Michael Caine and Sir Lenny Henry could do with a voyage to the mainland, though I have to admit I’m struggling to name knights at this point and wouldn’t want to tell these chaps they were only invited because I couldn’t think of more noble folk.
They’d still have to pay-up, of course, I’m not providing free rides here; I am a smuggler after all. But what fee for a canoe ride to Europe?
Some sort of pardon for doing it in the first place seems a worthy price for such a crime. A nice written pardon, quilled onto parchment (not one of those tacky plastic ‘get-out-of-jail-free’ cards), that absolves me of whatever you’re talking to me about. The sort of parchment you can really waggle in a coastguard’s face. I appreciate already that there is peril in this becoming soggy in my working environment, but that makes it all the more of a pleasure to waggle.
I think Sir Major and Sir Henry would keep my pardon safe, not sure about Sir Caine though, and I can imagine him getting all upset about having let me down and worried I’ll ditch him mid-Channel.
To be honest, all three of those knights seem particularly ‘overboardable’, not that to criticise them, I just picture them tipping backwards and hearing the splash – they’d all make a good one, and would be a good way to loose passenger weight for the get-away.
Each of those knights is a notable amount of weight to lose. To be able to say: “I’ve lost almost Sir John Major in weight since January” is good for your health (presuming you were massive to begin with) and good for your smuggling career (presuming you’ve been undergoing a getaway since January).
I could ditch them all, irrelevant as to their clutching of my pardon parchment, particularly considering that my main aim was to be imprisoned in the first place.
Presuming imprisonment, I’ll just need it to the 1930s so I can go about this properly in a grown up fashion.
So, naturally we’re talking about time travel (I say “naturally” as though it’s still fashionable. Isn’t it? Could one travel through time to a time when time travel was still fashionable? If so, why aren’t we all there? Could it be that time travel is simply dorky? I think…yes. Napoleon, Jimi Hendrix, and Joan of Arc in the year 3000 are all dorks.)
And frankly I’d prefer not to, so will save the 1930s prison breakout for another time.
To end, upon checking, I do have something to write about, and you’re just lucky you weren’t reading this, because I went with what I had – you had better options. ‘Moby Dick’ for one.
I’ve written about smuggling knights into Europe in reward for a pardon for that very crime, in the hope of being imprisoned anyway in the 1930s, and all the while you were distinctly not reading Moby Dick and elected to read my words instead.
Pride and Prejudice too – something else you could have read instead of this.
Sir Billy Connolly; there’s another knight.
Today I think I’ll crush the writer’s block with an irrepressibly positive mood.
I’m in an irrepressibly positive mood.
I’m in an irrepressibly positive mood, twice.
As infinitely infantile as it may be, I refuse to deny my first sentence as true.
I’m still writing after all…
Perhaps if I were to let loose another easy-to-choke-on opinion, I’d be forced to continue writing as I’m too stubborn to be incorrect.
And in the spirit of such irrefutable (just try me) logic (an opinion can’t be wrong, therefore in my opinion; my opinion is logic), I am making it known that adding three or more parentheses (like this) to a sentence (also like this) constitutes good writing.
This is not good writing.
This (with reference to the prior sentence), in my (being me) opinion (with reference to a previous prior sentence), is.
Speaks for itself really, or rather I wish it did because that’d be a great deal easier than writing about writer’s block and overcoming with some seriously dangerous writing.
Can you imagine if someone actually read this?
It’d be lethal for their Sunday afternoon, encouraging debauched sentence structure and with zero contribution the rational of overcoming writer’s block.
However, say someone were to read this and be so inspired by how simply frightful and (even more simply) shite this writing is, that they felt obliged to do the planet a favour and improve the global literary quality that’ve I’ve sought to reduce in these few (heavily parenthesised) sentences.
Maybe a young writer of good breeding and healthy stock will see what I’ve gone and done (apologies for that by the way), take pity on and give mercy to us all in the form of a really cracking diary entry, or perhaps the great-Earth novel, the text we’d use to really dazzle the inter-galactic literary critics.
And then everyone would think I’m great; really rather applicable in helping with the writer’s block and contributing to the planet’s standing (revolving?) in the intergalactic literary circles (definitely revolving).
And then maybe I’d get a like on my blog.
(Hint, hinty, hint hint).
Have you ever been in St James’ Park tube station?
Does it give you the impression that it should have a crab problem?
I’ve asked; it doesn’t, but I can’t help but step off the train when passing through to wonder if I can hear the sea waves echoing down the tunnel, or the crunch of sand sifting between my smart work shoes.
I think Margate affected me.
Something about St James’s Park underground causes me to reminisce of the seaside.
Perhaps it’s the wall tiling, perhaps it’s the colours; it’s probably me.
And it probably is me because I would love so very much if you were to offer me the seaside as opposed to the capital.
London is not adorable, nor whimsical.
The most whimsical it gets is a degree of pomposity that endears it to the Japanese.
London at its most charming is the fact that the river leads elsewhere.
Unless of course we want to drool a little on the dreams of empire, with colossal great white buildings, lathered with muscular nudity and lions, British flags and stout-hearted pigeon poo.
During the empire, British men had muscular feet don’t you know, whilst our women were pleasantly plump as might be bespoke of some great artist of the era, conveying nobility, fertility, and justice via a patriotic curve of the hip.
Hardly the seaside though, is it?
A bucket and spade no use in these gold-paved streets.
Still, I picture little crabs earnestly busying themselves sideways, creasing me to a smile as I hear in my head the sound of shelled scuttling on gold.
I wasn’t meant to get off at St James’ Park tube station.
Nor did I mean for a moment to step off the train and out of London.
But there you go, and there I went.
Like a grotto.
Back to the crossword.
Well who’d have thought, I’m actually writing.
Sorry for the delay and even greater apologies for the delay ending and writing resuming.
I know I don’t write articles for everyone’s tastes – that’s why (as well as a distinct lack of writing talent), they’re not overly-well received.
For example, I was walking down the street the other day (it doesn’t matter which street or which day because this is fiction) and I noticed I wasn’t a millionaire.
And to think; I was really in the mood for a Rolex…
Still, no pounds equals one impetus. Lack of millions of pounds gives one glorious idea, to become a millionaire.
Not even a millionaire – that comes across as ideal hostage material – but instead ‘comfortable’. Such as having a house and no concerns about it.
I would like a house, all mine, my walls and my windows, preferably my own ceiling, I don’t give a fuck who the potted plants belong to, so long as I get my necessary verticals and horizontals.
And I’ve a good job, with a good wife enjoying a good pregnancy, a good future filled with good prospects, and a good urge to write, as well as a good thesaurus filled with good synonyms and I can apply anytime I like (but I’m comfortable now and the book is just out of bother’s reach).
So, aside from the typical life of typical pleasantries, I might just indulge in this writing habit I’ve tried my best to give-up and start actually writing.
So, now, I’m actually writing.
I tried writing as a practise for this yesterday.
I thought I’d try writing about my hair.
It went so well I burnt the first draft, not realising I only had one good (thesaurus still out of reach) draft in me and I’d put too much effort into burning my laptop to sit down with remaining stoker (pen) and surviving kindling (note-pad) to let loose another masterpiece in one evening.
Thus we’re here, writing about writing and progressing just as I’d hoped.
I’d like to write for my supper, though I think writing for my breakfast would be greater inspiration.
Sure, at supper time one has a day’s worth of worth to pen down with a fire-stoker, but in the morning you’ve got a wonderfully blank piece of paper to ruin perfectly with just the kind of prose that can set a day right. This is a metaphor.
What a metaphor!
However, I’ve missed breakfast and have moved onto a mid-evening port, in the glow of a newly borrowed laptop and the warmth of a reason to write.
Or rather being a home-owner/house-holder/property-possessor/abode-abider.
Since I’ve moved onto alliteration, I might burn this laptop too, but I don’t think my pen could last to stoke another fire.
Still, this is breakfast writing, and perhaps since this is now a great (wife passed me thesaurus) post-port time in the evening, I can write about that which has happened across the planet as of late.
I was reading the other morning that we’re all fucked.
Whilst I enjoyed Al Gore’s somewhat more bar-chart method of translating the complex data, I do prefer an image of inferno and the prose that practically smell with the sheer excitement of the author.
Sensationalist writing is like fascism. It gets things done when they’re ready to be done.
If I hadn’t been in the mood to like-totally freak out, then it wouldn’t have been successfully sensationalism. If 1930’s Germany hadn’t been in the mood for a snappier uniform and literally snappier mode of marching, they wouldn’t have done what 1930’s Germany did (lose).
With another reference to writing about writing, we have now arrived at the point at which the author has drawn parallels to the Nazis, with very little reason to. And whilst that’s fine in these-and-thus days, if you’d have tried that in 1930’s Germany, you’d have been writing as a contemporary.
I’ve realised I’m feeling silly, and here we thus-hence-and-therefore are (this thesaurus might now be deemed too-near. That’s writing, I’m “deeming” things).
Besides, upon the news of the planet being universally fucked, I’m more inclined to take things a tad more jovially.
For this reason, I’m mixing tales of hair, being a millionaire, Nazis, and Al Gore.
BBC News has a ‘Top Ten Most Read’ section, and the number one point for a recent single day was the end of the world being very much so ‘nigh’. The following day, perhaps even the afternoon of the day prior, the nation’s focus was on Taylor Swift at long last revealing how she feels about US politics.
I don’t want to say that how Taylor Swift feels about politics in the US is not important. But the lack of verbalised opinion in regard to the viewpoint of “FUCK how Taylor Swift feels about politics in the US” gives rise to the righteousness of the previous day’s number one story.
We’re fucked, and the following day we were slightly more fucked, and slightly more deserving.
With a baby on the way, I’ve impetus to de-fuck the world, but Taylor Swift doesn’t listen to me and she’s the one with millions of many things.
I’ve very few things totalling in the millions.
I’ve millions of atoms of course, but I tend not to count them (it’d take ages).
I do have a son on the way though. And whilst he’s not a million things either, he is one thing that could be more than a million things and it up to people like me (the fellow that caused him into being about, along with his culpable mother) to take action.
Unfortunately for my son, the particular action I’ll be taking is writing about my hair.
Who knows? It might pay for a house for him to grow up into a fucked-up world.
I’ll keep typing, tomorrow.
It’s good to be back
All the best,
I’m not the kind of guy that regularly quotes Chandler Bing (‘Could I be anymore of a Friend’s nerd?’) but the character was rather on-the-nose with the statement:
“The bottom line is smoking is cool and you know it.”
He wasn’t wrong, and you know that too.
Smoking is cool.
This is undeniable.
One can gauge this from the perpetually fag-in-hand look-at-me nonchalance that the greatest heroes of our age have espoused because…they’re cool.
John Wayne (plus denim jeans).
These outstanding instances of masculinity/cool are the benchmark for our performance as a species. If we’re never going to be as cool as these guys were when they were smoking; shall we bother continuing?
Thus, we keep smoking.
Still, there are reasons as to why smoking is so darn cool, and I’ve just taken my dog for a walk and mulled it over aloud to him.
He agreed with me completely; and who are you to deny my dog?
So, to begin, it is chemical – smoking is a drug.
There is a BBC documentary in which the presenter investigates the pleasures of smoking.
He states he in his forties, never once having smoked and is now about to partake; sat in chair with multiple leads connecting him, shirt-off and via those sucky things, to computers that beep as though they’re pretending they know what they’re doing.
He ignites and is immediately coughing and spluttering (the only two things that are ever mentioned whenever smoking is initiated by the uninitiated) as though he’d never smoked before; which he hadn’t.
It cuts away and then back to him a moment later, reclining casually and with the smoke-filled lackadaisical grin common of those realising that this pleasure is relatively cheap, thoroughly enjoyable, completely legal and suddenly making him feel a good deal more-cool than he had ten minutes earlier.
He is converted to the factual pleasure of smoking by sheer experience. Well done him.
The rush of nicotine is one thing, but also consider that when smoking you’re not breathing and the lack of oxygen makes you a tad sleepy till the second second’s blast of nicotine hits again, the heart pumps and the pupils dilate and you take a moment for a breath of fresh and freeing oxygen before plunging back to the depths of the sedate-party that keeps you up all night.
If you hadn’t noticed by my prose, I used to be a smoker.
And now I’m distinctly less cool.
Then there is the pop-culture aspect.
Hemingway and John Wayne (plus denim jeans) – those guys, via TV, film, and the occasional strangely erotic magazine centrefold, emerging out of the mist, accomplished and horny (yikes) and ready to either gun you down like the script says to or write the script that says to gun you down; either way they’re smoking. And utterly cool.
And then one cannot deny the impact of the local popular minority, whom (at the typical teenage age) smoked themselves to blackened pieces in an effort to be an even more popular and more minor minority to such a degree that you wanted to be a part of it.
Their smoking was influenced and an influencer of all of the above and all of the below and if you didn’t start smoking because of other people standing near you then you’re an individual and I tip my hat to you.
There is also the mind’s being influenced by the physicality of smoking.
Don’t forget: sticks, stones and humankind were born perfectly for breaking politician’s bones and they’re wary of this.
One day, like guns and knives, the daily walking stick will be considered (rightfully so) a lethal weapon and shall be controlled by the central powers.
Holding a stick or a stone fills one with a sensation of capacity to affect.
With a stick or stone in hand, things happen as you decide them to, and the ancient feeling born from this is of confidence.
Have you ever held a handgun?
I have, and I felt distinctly un-fucked-with for those few minutes.
Smoking slots into this category, in terms of sensation akin to holding a gun/phallus and in terms of being removed by central powers.
Psychology all comes down to waggling your stick and waggling your phallus, in a smoking area or not. Man and woman, the cigarette is an emblem for the masculine phallus and it’s a pleasure to waggle.
Not only that, but a cigarette is a penis and a nipple.
Like a fish or a fat guy, having something in our mouths creates the illusion that we are safe according to the fact that we’re apparently eating.
The illusion of eating makes us feel better, and a cigarette re-enacts for us eating at our most secure; in our mother’s arms, sucking on her nipple.
In other words: smoking feels like home.
In additional other words: smoking feels like home and you also get to waggle your phallus around.
Cigarettes are one of the only things that you light on fire and then proceed to place in your mouth. And that’s cool.
Not to say that things are improved once aflame, but there’s no denying things become cooler when fire is involved.
It is natural too.
We are the sort of species to find something, plant it, grow it, eat it, wear it, smoke it, inject it, and plant it again. Ancient cigarettes, entirely made of leaf, are something I can create and thus relate to.
I cannot, however, create a vaporizer. And so, accordingly, I want nothing to do with them.
Plus they remove the masculine/slightly acrid flavour of old shag and replace it with the doing-no-good-for-anyone marshmallow-rainbow-blossom flavour whilst you also look like you’re sucking a robot’s dick.
And that’s not my kind of cool.
They’re not our overlord’s just-yet. Let’s hold fire on the robot-dick sucking. Your toaster doesn’t hold such sway at the moment.
Finally, don’t smoke; it’s not cool for people who don’t smoke.
“Oh I simply must have my noxious intake in which I brood; a 48-year old cool kid that’s standing up against THE MAN (who doesn’t want cancer)” is the pro-smoking argument and it can simply either grow-up, fuck-off, or fuck-off in a grown-up way.
It’s not so much the fear of cancer, or even the wimpy argument that comes from a determined smoker…it’s the large smelly stage effect that you’ve just heaved out of your insides floating its way towards me down the street as I exit the building.
And that’s not cool.
Ultimately, despite being distinctly uncool, smoking is perhaps the coolest things a person can do; and that is why it’s still here.
Whaddaya gonna do?
Apparently it’s also bad for you – so perhaps it’s best to avoid.
Either way; LIKE and FOLLOW 🙂
As I write this upon my commute to work, there’s a woman on this train whose whole head looks exactly like a fish.
Not just a fish’s face, but a whole fish.
Now, I’m not classless enough to take a public photograph of this woman to share it over the internet, so I’ll do what I can to tell the tale of her face.
You’ve probably already arrived there already when you read “looks exactly like a fish”; enormous lips.
What can you do? Enormous lips are a mixture of what you think of when you picture a fish-looking-female, add some DNA, a dash of cosmetic surgery and perhaps a whole splodge of poutiness; it’s just a matter of business between your nose and chin that is different for all folk.
I’d love bigger lips, for mine are very mere – thin and the part of me that even the neighbourhood cat wouldn’t start eating if it found me dead (he’d probably start with my cheeks – I’ve got plenty of those).
Although, it’s probably beneficial to have the thin lips I do as I’ve a smile slightly broader than my face and to have lips on a par with this fish-headed woman would result in confused headaches for all who happened to look at me.
Again; what can you do?
Aside from the obvious lip-factor, next come her ears. Her ears are like a fish’s fins and obliques, bejewelled with earrings and make-up like some precious fish’s shining and glittering scales.
Her eyes are bulging and yet fishily-expressionless; shaded with tropical blue and green. I can’t tell what’s nearer to the tip of my nose from ten feet away; her what-can-you-do lips or her ‘are-you-livid/aroused/hungry/bemused/amused//confused/proud/excited-eyes’.
Her hair colour is irrelevant; but the shape was not.
Both blonde and brunette hair, raised in a pony-tail (whilst looking entirely unlike a horse – to her credit…and mine; I’ll take credit for anything) yet dangling out the back and finishing with an upwards jaunty flourish…………………like a tropical fish tail.
Again; her whole head is shaped as though a whole tropical fish. And I’m not finished yet.
The shape of her head.
It was fish shaped.
I’ll leave this description at that point; the point I’ve ran out of things to and enthusiasm with which to describe and am pleased at this.
She looks like a tropical fish, but here’s the rub.
What is she like?
Is she extraordinarily nice, intelligent and funny, self-mocking of her tropical fish shaped head?
Does she hate it, does she laugh at it, does she do both?
It’s a common factor, I feel, that people look a certain way yet are in and of themselves not that certain way but rather another.
Caught her eye just then, shared a moment’s gaze.
Is she delighted at the prospect of an admiring glance, the prospect of someone finding her attractive? Or does she wonder what the fuck this ugly guy is staring at her for, eager to, rather than be stared at, head home to her local pub and grab a handful of the lined-up and dutiful boners awaiting her?
Maybe they think she’s gorgeous and there’s no real sign that she isn’t. Just, also fish-like.
Beauty is in the eye of whomever is going to fuck this fish-headed woman. I’m sure there’s a market for this sort of thing; and if she’s got a clever brain she’ll dip her toes in it.
Perhaps she’s a decade ahead of me in this thinking; she’s been herself for longer than I’ve considered her on this one-hour and 15 minute train journey.
Good for her.
Some folk are born to look a certain way, and we need to deduct that from our perception of their potential personality.
Imagine Brad Pitt growing up, if you weren’t already doing so as you became bored throughout the fish-head description.
Picture Brad trying desperately searching to find self-critical flaws, as is the habit of teenagers’ the world over and through time, yet he encounters a reflection of a chap so handsome he simply realises his life is going to be ok.
Maybe he’ll try acting.
With looks that good, one must presume that at some point you’ll be handed a large sum of money; just on principle. Ever seen a Brad-Pitt-good-looking homeless guy? I’m still looking.
Perhaps that’s because there is no one of Earth that comes close to Brad Pitt good looking.
I considered a young Johnny Depp, and then realised this was folly. The only person who comes close to Brad Pitt as he is now; is Brad Pitt at other points in his life.
He is a standard of good-looking guy that is unattainable for all others.
If you have a baby boy, you might imagine he could become President of the USA, be an astronaut and walk on Mars, maybe even be Bill Gates rich; but you’ll never even for a moment entertain the insane thought that he’ll match Brad Pitt in the face.
If you concentrate on the idea of beautiful women, 10,000 rush into your head, blurring and merging into the basically the same image.
Angelina Jolie looks like Gal Gadot, looks like Natalie Portman, looks like Keira Knightley, looks like Winona Ryder.
The most beautiful woman in the world; and there’s five of them.
When concentrating on a handsome bloke; you think of Brad Pitt. Sometimes you do it just for the enjoyment of it; why not? I do. It’s not gay, it’s human, like watching the Northern Lights.
No one on Earth is better looking than that guy, and he has to live with that.
Face it – there was only ever Brad Pitt.
And here, ‘face-it‘ doesn’t mean confront the situation, it means: do what Brad does.
Insert your extraordinarily-godly-good-looking face into your woes and watch shit get solved.
Brad Pitt got divorced from one of those many most-beautiful-woman-in-the-Hollywood-world, a real high-quality sort of wife that’s worth keeping for the kudos alone. A tricky divorce, kids, money, tabloids, and no-doubt some heartbreak to bitter-sweeten the hurt.
Know how he got over it?
He looked like Brad Pitt, and now all’s well.
It’s much later in the day now, and the fish-headed woman disembarked and went about her London day, and I mine.
I wish her well and hope she looked kindly on my ugly visage.
Here’s to her.
A whole new standard of fish-headedness.
And, honestly, kind of cute.
My beautiful wife has those same lips.
And I’m not Brad Pitt.
But, then again, no one is.
Only Brad Pitt was Brad Pitt and, really, Brad Pitt is all there ever was.
His face; onto the rocket it goes.
See you next time,