Making your brother King of Spain, just to show him who is boss

Posted: September 17, 2023 | Author: | Filed under: Brief...therefore witty. | Tags: , , , , , | Leave a comment

I was reading about Napoleon and Waterloo and Wellington, and their brothers and household expenses, and the monarchy, and becoming emperor, and Josephine, etc, and more etc, last night.

Or, I was reading about the ‘Napoleonic period’, if you’d prefer to read a better-written sentence?

There was a particular take-away for me, which was that at some point the Emperor Napoleon decided to make his older brother the King of Naples (which is nice), and then the King of Spain (which is also nice).

I cannot conceive of the bragging rights that allocates you, when you’ve made your older brother the King of two different things.

I’d love to make my big brother the King of Spain, just to show him.

Just to show him that whilst he once made himself King of the Castle, pushing me in the face back down the climbing frame, I’ve now gone slightly mental enough to make him King of Spain and there’s nothing he can do about it.

You’re King of Spain. No backsies.

And he’d have to sit on his throne and send me reports when I ask for them, and host banquets for important guests that I can’t be bothered to meet because I’m Emperor, bitch.

It’s also Spain, so I can regularly intimate that whilst I’m made him King, this is also a very easy kingdom to have bestowed on you by your younger brother.

However, for me to do this today would require a lot of paperwork, and quite frankly an invasion of Spain that I am just not up to right now.

I have a baseball bat and one of those flashlights you can strap to your head.

Spain might not be seen as a military power anymore, but I expect they can outdo me on the advanced military technology front.

If their army is two people, then they’ve outdone me on the manpower front too.

Two-to-one.

My brother tried to inflict a nobility on me once, by purchasing a square foot of land in Scotland that somehow entitles me to be known as a ‘Lord’.

It was a wedding gift, and I’ll have my vengeance, for that and for the climbing frame incident of 1996.

Now if you’ll kindly excuse me, I need to raise an army to overthrow the monarchy, become tyrant of Europe, lose it all, gain it all back again, have a really, seriously bad time in Russia, go down in history and one of the greatest generals and leaders of all time, and, most importantly, get one over on my big brother.

Sam

Why do those without legs insist on running marathons?

Posted: September 9, 2023 | Author: | Filed under: Brief...therefore witty. | Tags: , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

I saw a news article on a Ukrainian teenager whose legs had been blown off by Putin.

And, after that, wonderful things happened because of wonderful people, and so she’s not dead and she now has prosthetic legs.

So now she’s running a marathon.

Why not archery?

Or, anything else that wasn’t a metaphor for overcoming all those naysayers, like Putin, who said she couldn’t run marathons anymore because she’s got no damn legs.

If my lower half left me, I’d regroup and set about working out how best to achieve sitting-down from now on, but I’m not going to take up tap dancing just to show ‘them’.

Maybe I’d tap dance against Putin, but not if he told me not to. Because he’s a limb-deducting psycho.

Good for that teenager. Good for Ukraine.

But remember you’re not bound by tradition to run marathons just because you’ve had your legs blown off.

You can do anything.

Even archery.

I dislike the idea of a PR agency suggesting that there is traction to be achieved if you go down the no-legs marathon route. And if you’re with-it enough to note “but I’ve never liked running, and I’d much prefer to do some other things”, they’d respond: “Oh dear, I don’t think you realise the full benefit of having your legs blown off.”

I dislike that a lot.

Being obliged is not my business.

Just as when you’re having a nice menstrual cycle (as my wife and I call it – having a ‘runny egg’), you’re not obliged to wear ghost-white clothing and go for a vagina-stretching bike ride in front of men in the park.

You could have a period and do archery.

It’s your choice, you’re not bound by narratives.

If you’re a grouch throughout the year till Christmas Eve, you’re not obliged to have a soul-searching experience that causes you to unfold in favour of the whimsy and spirit of the season the following morning. You can just read the paper and stay home with your tin of cold beans for lunch.

Your choice. Make it. Your paper, read it. Your beans, eat them.

Avoid Putin, and enjoy your choice, paper and beans. If he allows it. Or get your legs blown off again.

If you have no legs and want to run a marathon……fine. As long as you actually want to do it.

You could alternatively take up dentistry.

Speaking of which, if you’ve sensitive teeth and have recently begun using a new toothpaste to counter the sensitivity, there’s no law, no ruling, no enforced doctrine that means you must now drinketh only ice-water, and eateth only hot food stuffs, just to show you can.

You’re as entitled to tepid food as anyone.

I’ll bet Putin has sensitive teeth, and that’s what this is all about.

Hey Putin, got sensitive teeth?

“No. Only judo.“

‘Only Judo’, what are you talking about Putin?

Sam

Bring and Bless in Bulk – a Google Maps religion

Posted: August 11, 2023 | Author: | Filed under: Brief...therefore witty. | Tags: , , , , , , , , | 1 Comment

Bring it by to my house and I’ll bless it for you.

In bulk.

I’ll bless mounds of just about anything, just bring it by.

In bulk.

I’ll bless a large pile of poorly dogs.

I’ll bless your collection of wardrobes you’ve suspiciously just ‘inherited’.

Bring your babies by in bulk, and I’ll bless ’em.

Between the hours of 9:00-9:30, Monday-Friday. Closed on weekends.

On weekends, and after 9:30 on weekdays, keep your piles of poorly puppies to yourself, and don’t come near me with your wardrobes and babies.

I offer good rates (preferably donations, maybe even a pleasant sacrifice or two), but not after 9:30 on weekdays.

One evening I discovered that you can add businesses and places of worship to addresses on Google Maps.

This is very handy, as you can save it as a location, but you can also simply google search your house and then set directions to it from there. Easy.

Plus, you can build a business/worship empire by advertising on Google Maps that you specialize in blessing what people bring in bulk.

I still haven’t made millions in donations or sacrifices yet, but at least I can get home easier.

Also, I’m not too sure how to bless something. I can fling water at what I’m supposed to bless (in bulk, just bring it) but I was doing that anyway.

And I’m not too sure what kind of water to use.

There’s a tap on the wall in Westminster Cathedral. I reckon the priests there bless the tap, amongst other plumbing, so all water passing through is instantly blessed too.

So I could fill a bottle with that, but is that the luxury service I want to provide?

I should be able to offer still or sparkling holy water, chilled or boiled to remove toxins.

I could freeze it too, and so that you really, really feel the blessing when it bounces off your forehead.

But that might damage your wardrobes.

Either way, I’m on Google Maps now, but don’t come near my home for trouble as I’ve also blessed my baseball bat collection and will bless your brains out.

Donations and sacrifices still welcome, of course.

Between 9:00-9:30 on weekdays, anyway.

Sam

My Mud, good for your face, and wallowing

Posted: July 29, 2023 | Author: | Filed under: Brief...therefore witty. | Tags: , , , , | Leave a comment

There are only two things I am familiar with in which one can wallow.

The first is depression.

The other is mud, and I’ve got some mud (and depression!).

I also got myself a mortgage and house to go with it several years ago, including a garden.

We’ve had a few heatwaves recently, and as the grass burned away from the sunshine, the mud that is mine became apparent to all.

So I sat in it.

The shame was that it hadn’t rained in weeks, so what was mud was more like dirt.

But that gave me time to consider what this really was, instead of enjoying it for a good wallow.

How deep does this property of mine go? Am I able to dig deep down vertically and still be home?

Can I scrape away a few inches beneath the top layer and get some mud that I can place in a jar, give a good shake with rain water, and then rub it into my face for fashion reasons (not health, just fashion).

Or I can dig deeper, deeper, deeper still.

I need a shovel, for fashion purposes.

I think the glory of my mud is that it is inheritance, though I don’t know from who.

Dinosaurs, mammoths, cave people, medieval peasants, and my great-grandad Arthur.

All of these things, and many more varieties, pooped their way through history, unrecorded, spoken, and written, and with a mix of rainwater, sunshine, and millions of millennia, and probably something else, became my mud.

Ancestral poop, mixed with the cosmos, in a jar, or on my face.

That’s inheritance.

Inheritance you can scrape off your boots after a good game of footy.

Inheritance I’ve lobbed at a sibling all in good fun but still hoping I got him right in the face.

Inheritance that I’d like to see my descendants enjoying, throwing at each other and wallowing in.

It’ll probably be good for the blood pressure too, because generally doing general things is generally good for your blood pressure, but this one features mud.

Probably not that great for your eyes though. Don’t put it in your eyes, but don’t let that discourage you from throwing it at a sibling.

Maybe wallow in goggles.

Sam

I’ve achieved so much less than Henry VIII

Posted: July 15, 2023 | Author: | Filed under: Brief...therefore witty. | Tags: , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

The above title might read as though I’m eager, so eager, to behead more of my wives, and I won’t deny that I am definitely behind Henry VIII there.

He’s ahead in the beheading.

But I’ve got better wifi than he did, although that’s not really my doing.

In fact, I think beheading as a competition is a dead-end, much like Anne Boleyn’s neck.

It’s all very unpleasant, but at least they didn’t die from being be-footed. That’s not something you can walk-off.

Henry VIII was very accomplished prior to being notorious (when he was – it seems – lovely). More so than me anyway, and I’ve been notorious since the 90s.

This is making me feel inadequate. Regally.

Henry was a well-regarded jouster (I don’t even have my own Herald – so embarrassing), he wrote poetry and studied philosophy, spoke French and Latin, and established the Church of England – which I didn’t do.

In fact, I was raised CoE, which is also embarrassing. Of course, now I’m Catholic, just to spite him.

I need to get busy living if I’m going to catch-up with that dead monarch.

He lived till he was about 55, which means I’ve 22 years to out-do him in at least that regard.

I could start with Latin, but splitting from Rome and establishing my own religion seems a lot easier.

I’ll develop it from Taoism, and since I don’t really know what that is, and I’ll be the only practitioner, it’ll maintain a degree of ecclesiastical mystery. Then I’ll need robes, a big book, and something golden to hold and waggle about to convince people I’m informed in that ‘post-death’ sense.

Next up, the wives thing.

Just checked with my wife and she says that’s a no-go area. Zero divorces, zero beheadings. She was happy with the ‘survived’ prospect as a wife, but despite being a founder of my own religion – I’m not stupid enough to overrule my wife.

Lastly, poetry.

“Roses are red, violets are blue, good poems are short, so I think that’ll do.”

The second I click ‘publish’ on this blog, I’ll be a published poet. Genius.

So, since it’ll take a while to learn Latin, I’ll plow away at that until I’ve gotten the gist of it – at least to the point of being able to throw a few phrases at people.

“YES I KNOW TIME FLIES SAM, THANK YOU! AND YES I ALREADY WAS SEIZING THE DAY – LEAVE ME ALONE!!!”

Jousting though.

I’ve still no Herald, nor a horse.

But I’ve got loads, an enviable amount in fact, of long sticks.

And a big dog.

This may be a problem, even if it goes according to plan.

I also am without an opponent.

But I do have a wife, and she’s annoyed with me due to the divorce and beheading discussion from earlier, and she has her own collection of long sticks, so she may be well up for it.

She has a bicycle she can use, but I’ll stick with the dog so I’m less lonely.

Henry VIII probably was lonely too at times.

I wonder if anyone knows his dog’s names?

Anyway, 22 years to go.

Sam (the first)

The Vitamins We Don’t Know About Yet

Posted: June 4, 2023 | Author: | Filed under: Brief...therefore witty. | Tags: , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Naturally, I’m talking about witchcraft.

Or maybe that’s “unnaturally”?

At a zoo this past weekend, I made a grab for some buffalo hair, which was laying beside a buffalo that I supposed had finished with it.

Frankly it was still too near the buffalo, and I don’t think we as a species have the right vitamins yet that reverse being gored by a buffalo. Being gored and launched high and far, landing on the hard and sharp bits of myself that no one would want to land on – would require a lot of vitamins.

Strong vitamins. Big vitamins.

Y’know – witchcraft.

I do have some crushed beetle. That was entirely accidental though, but I’ve still got the crushed bits and if I could apply them I’d feel less guilty about that step I took.

My figuring was that I would take these bits, mix them together with some flora, probably some water because hydration is important even in witchcraft, and create a brew, the like of which witches would gather around on a dark and stormy night on a hilltop.

Despite stereotypes, they wouldn’t cackle at my brew, because I wouldn’t invite that sort of witch.

Such a brew, essentially a potion, is invariably, actually, soup of many varying qualities.

Carrot soup – is a potion to combat poor night vision.

Lamb soup – is a potion to combat that local lamb overpopulation problem you’ve been having.

All potions are soups, all soups are potions, some with particular benefits (garlic soup would be good for your immunity) and most have an overall benefit of ending your hunger for a few hours.

Once this was witchcraft, now ’tis science. That’s the order; magic until proven by someone with a degree.

That’s why I want to make a potion, or a ‘spell-soup’, out of some other ingredients, to see if there are some vitamins we don’t know about yet.

So I may take some buffalo hair and crushed beetle, perhaps some chicken stock for flavouring, and whooooooooosh, one sip and and a full, thick head of hair can be yours again tomorrow.

Or your penis will stay hard during whatever occasion you need it for. Probably not rock-climbing.

Or some foul luck will befall that person you dislike (like a horrific rock-climbing accident in which an appendage became lodged in a crook, or a cranny).

Or we keep mixing it together and realise it isn’t so great for swallowing, but is simply fabulous for building houses out of, like horsehair plaster.

Now those are some vitamins.

I like this path of having begun going about witchcraft, progressed through to cooking, had hopes of medicine, ended up in construction.

First things first though, I’ll be needing a cauldron.

And a big spoon.

So do you.

Sam

More family than I thought

Posted: May 29, 2023 | Author: | Filed under: Brief...therefore witty. | Tags: , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

I’d love for ‘family’, in my context, to mean a little more mafia than it currently does.

My family are simply my family, of the traditional context – father, mother and a brother.

But I wish it meant people who worked in the concrete shoe shop.

Perhaps it’s in the enunciation: “The Fairmily”. Maybe then people would give up their train seats for me, or just bring their train seats to me at my family compound, so it’s more convenient for me that having to be on a train for them to give up their seats.

And I’d have a plethora of brothers instead of the embarrassingly singular sibling I’m stuck with, and their names would be ‘Paulie’, and ‘Joey’, ‘Tommy’ and ‘Mikey’. My brother’s name is Ben.

And we’d have nicknames. Like ‘Sam the Nose’ – which would be appropriate because of what I’ve got.

My brother would likely be ‘Big Ben’, because he is enormous. But that wouldn’t make me ‘Little Sammy’, because I’m only really slightly less obese.

Anyway.

Family. I’ve come to realise I’ve more of them than I previously realised.

I have long disliked large crowds, which I presumed was due to coming from a small family. Both my parents were a single-child, whilst both my brother and I are both single-children too according to how we feel about one another.

But at a family dinner yesterday, my father invited his only living blood relatives (aside from me and my brother, which is weird as one tends to picture a ‘closest living blood relative’ as being an appropriately distant and appropriately many-times-removed grandmother of an ancient generation, instead of it being me).

And there was a pile of extra family, all ages, many types of clothes, basically all one colour, and they all had no idea who each other was, least of all me.

“Here’s Sam, the less obese one I was telling you about” says my father, “and his equally less obese wife and two kids – both of whom are also single-children”.

And everyone looks at me and my family, each of them agreeing vaguely and approving the description. There’s some handshaking and pecks on cheeks, and then I left the room because I’ve got a problem with large crowds.

I didn’t feel any kind of interest towards these people and so didn’t engage (nobody’s loss), but my father was keen to get to know them, because he really didn’t know them, nor they him.

As I played with my kids, I saw him leading them in comparing old photos, the black and white ones, followed by the later coloured photos that have now gone a 1970’s shade of nicotine-brown.

And then, my father told his stories to the new lump of distant family we’d discovered, detailing his upbringing (some family remembered his childhood address – which was nice), his family and career.

I was listening and realised something I’d suspected before.

My dad is really, really super-cool.

He’s a cockney-rebel, a cage-shaker, and the new next big thing in the classic style, a rebel with many causes (in fact, he’s a Rotarian), but he’s always been willing to do what he can do get jobs done and to achieve so with flair. He’s my hero.

And looking through the photos, the variety of hairstyles and scenarios in which he had those hairstyles, were astonishing.

Meanwhile, I have a blog, and literally piles and piles of distant family that I’m about as related to as everyone else is related to the Cheddar Man.

I’d best look to emulate him. My dad I mean, but also the Cheddar Man a bit too.

They’re both fairmily after all.

Sam

“If there are any spirits listening…fuck off.”

Posted: May 28, 2023 | Author: | Filed under: Brief...therefore witty. | Tags: , , , , | Leave a comment

Fucking spirits, get a grip.

You really have to be a bit of a loser to refuse to die and pass away.

‘Away‘ being the key word – bugger off please.

I don’t mean this in terms of refusing the next great adventure (most likely returning to dirt), but more so: read the room.

You died, and now frankly you’re bringing down house prices in the vicinity because you keep nudging chairs slightly and turning the lights off, both of which are super-duper inconvenient – both when wanting to sit on your chair and read a book, and when you’re trying to sell your home to someone timid.

I could sell ghost tours of my home, I suppose, but no one wants a spooky walk around a semi-detached on a suburban street in which the neighbours are clearly watching ITV programming, the least spooky of all programming (too much smiling and purple).

Woe betide you if you are one of those spirits that keeps blowing candles out. I’m middle class – I need many, many candles – and frankly each puff you conjure to blow mine out only makes me more tempted to burn the house to the ground in fury.

Maybe that’s you trying to force me to the point of fury via your demonic methods, meaning ultimately that you’re winning, but I prefer to see it post-event. Once I’ve burned down my own house, due to you continually blowing my candles out, I like the idea of you trying to haunt all that remains – my partially charred lawn.

A haunted lawn? Get a life mate.

You’re a ghost, you’re out of vogue, and to be brutally honest this is the era of the zombie apocalypse – something we’re all looking forward to.

I can picture all the people at approximately my age with the same generational intake of horror media, all making our way to the local DIY store and heading to everyone’s favourite bit – the zombie apocalypse aisle, filled with axes and chainsaws and sledgehammers and other heavy sharp things you don’t want to approach your head at speed.

With trolleys and car boots filled, they eagerly head home and start hammering down (with brand new hammer, nails, and wooden boards) the hatches, loading up their bows and slingshots with ammo (because this isn’t the US so we’d actually be doomed), and watching the sun set glinting off their years of tinned food through the window to their bunker.

And then as the apocalypse is about to begin, with the hoards beginning to roam down the street, either casually or sprinting (it doesn’t matter in this example), the final night is about to truly kickoff into a happy and very gory ever after, and then from the attic they hear…..”wwwwwwhhhhhhhoooooooooooooooooo”.

They can’t believe it.

It can’t be…

Ric Flair, is in the attic.

Not really, its just a ghost, but everyone is now really pissed off because whereas zombies offer us the chance to live a new life as a super cool zombie hunter in the post apocalypse in which we’re, for some vague reason, totally fine without having the internet any more, all that’s happening instead is a ghost is reducing the value of our home property.

“But we have a Ric Flair in the attic!!”, you might suggest to realtors.

But they don’t want to know.

Because no one cares about ghosts.

Which makes sense, since ghost are the most attention-seeking of Halloween baddies. They’re the supernatural equivalent of a still-living person standing in a room with a white sheet over their head and presuming everyone thinks they look impressive.

If there was a ghost here right now, I’d play Van Morrison’s ‘Brown Eyed Girl‘, the greatest song to kill a spooky mood and therefore hopefully ruin the ghost’s evening, and vastly improve my own.

That’s enough writing for today.

Next time, maybe, we’ll discuss werewolves and their cuddliness.

Until then, in case there are any spirits listening…fuck off.

Sam

Top Ten Fun Things To Do This Summer’s Heatwave

Posted: May 26, 2023 | Author: | Filed under: Brief...therefore witty. | Tags: , , , , , | Leave a comment
  1. We’re all going to die.
  2. We’re all going to die.
  3. We’re all going to die.
  4. We’re all going to fucking die.
  5. We’re all going to die.
  6. We’re all going to die.
  7. We’re all going to die.
  8. We’re all going to die.
  9. We’re all going to die.
  10. Treat yourself and take a trip down to the ol’ swimming hole (if the ol’ swimming hole is still here and you haven’t died yet).

Picking a fight with the wrong wall.

Posted: May 20, 2023 | Author: | Filed under: Brief...therefore witty. | Tags: , , , , | 1 Comment

The ‘right wall’ was one I knew in Australia, a long time ago.

It would have been perfect to lose a fight against, with spikes along the top and obnoxious graffiti of classics such as “fuck” and “fuck off”.

Perfect.

If I were to fight a man, a real human with real knuckles, and he had “fuck” and “fuck off” scrawled on his forehead and eyelids, I’d happily lose a fight to that guy.

However, a wall that says such things, in luminous red, whilst wearing spikes atop it and the kind of rough, granite-like texture which (again similar to the human version) suggests: “don’t lick me. I said DON’T lick me.”

Best of all though, it was wobbly.

It was like someone built a few feet of wall, as a sample for an exhibition; a piece of wall to hand out to curious passers by.

And it had been left, leaning up against another wall for structural, and perhaps emotional, support.

I could have given that big bad Disney-villain of a wall a good smack in wherever its ‘chops’ might be considered to be in the moment, and then, clutching the remnants of my fist, looked up as it wobbled a little more but far more unendearingly, towards me, and finally upon me.

Obviously, I was (and generally am) in no mood to win, as losing is far more romantic, especially if it kills you.

But rather than seizing the moment, and I instead ripped my hand open putting it through a drywall several years later, because of some silly business with which I shan’t bore you (but if you’re really interested in being bored – it was something to do with mathematics).

It didn’t even tell me to “fuck off”, let alone “fuck”. It was pallid-looking, wholly passive, forgettable and yet I wish I really could forget it as I regret the exchange entirely.

It was just the most easily-accessible, convenient wall within striking distance.

Ho hum, never mind. I’ve a lovely little scar on my knuckle now, which really impresses people when they take very, very close examination of that particular knuckle, usually at my insistent invitation.

And I don’t have hugely high standards, as though I’d settle for nothing less that that beast they have only in bits now across Berlin, or that mean old King Kong of a wall in Jerusalem, but it’s good to feel good about the walls you pick a fight with.

Still, I’ll never forget that true blue beauty of solitary architecture, staring at me from across the street in Bondi, winking at me (not really – that’s a lie) and saying sweet somethings of “fuck” and “fuck off”, a classy mess of spikes casually laid on top with an ‘I just woke up like this’ attitude.

One can get by doing very little, so long as the ‘very little’ is done, or attempted, with attitude.

Exhibit A, see above.

Sam

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