Christian allegory and me.

I do get it, but honestly I’d rather not.

I’ll leave it at that.


There are ballerinas out there. Somewhere. Boiling eggs.

I give you my word on this. Ballerinas are heavy.

By God, you know when a ballerina’s leap is finished. They land visually like nobody else – dainty and flowery. But they land audibly like the best and rest of us. “Thud.

Though I’ve not been landed-upon my many professionals, I’m sure ballerinas would take the biscuit, even more than a bakery burglar.

I think they have to be weighty – as a matter of function.

One can’t twiddle one’s toes incessantly, to the point of being able to launch an entire human through the air just by toe-power, without becoming immensely and densely muscular from the ankle down.

That’s why ballerina’s thud.

They’re paid to thud.

They’re trained to thud.

And they bloody well do, thud.

However, the thud is only so thuddy thanks to the silence with which they float through the air, but this is where it depends on what you attend a ballet for, because I really think the thud lasts longer than the floating.

Whilst floating is for some, and thudding is for others, I’m not a real fan of either in the context of ballet. Devastating news, I know, for the thousands of ballerinas reading this, but I’ve a priority I must ask.

Where are you? And what are you doing?

It’s it strange to think that there are ballerinas out there in the world, in society, being ballerinas.

Catching flights, boiling eggs, breaking up with partners, forgetting their cat’s name till the third attempt, and perhaps maybe even two or three other things, but all whilst being a ballerina.

I’d presume they need to stub their toes continually too, simply to ensure hardiness, so any opportunity to kick something hard would be taken too. I presume. I don’t know as I’ve never met a ballerina, but they must be out there somewhere.

Probably, though hopefully not, you’re presuming I’ve a weird focus on wanting to find a ballerina.

I don’t want to find a ballerina at all, and I’ve no intention of seeking them out. I just don’t want to be surprised by one all of a sudden when out in public.

DO you catch flights? DO you boil eggs?

And do you read a script for your feet?

The Nutcracker is a ballet over 100 years old, and there is a much beloved score that is performed note for note, as per the sheet music.

Where’s the script for the feet? Or is improvisation of the feet expected?

Are ballets scripted per flourish of the limb? Is it written somewhere, or does a choreographer tell people when to move which leg where and in what manner once the Rat King turns up?

When to thud, and when to float? And in which direction, and – remember this – with a facial expression?!

Maybe I should meet a ballerina, just to dispel these ignorancies of mine, but till I do I’ll simply have to remain vague in understanding, though I’ll tell everyone that asks that I expect ballerinas are out there somewhere, and that they do boil eggs when necessary.

And that’s just the primary ballerina, which I think is a ‘soloist’, but there are extras too, and what the hell do they spend their time doing apart from practicing to over-react to a ballerina’s floating whilst pretending that a thud isn’t about to happen.

I suppose it is like much of stage theatre – a matter of over-reacting until you’re paid, in costume, at matinee and evening performances. Acting can be brilliant, but to really pull of being a stage-extra, you’ve got to get the knack of over-reacting subtly.

Like a parsnip chip pretending to be a potato chip. Very convincing, and quite irritating too.

I’d rather be the bear that pursues the rest of them off-stage.

I could make a good bear. I’d look better anyway.

I always do when I look like someone else.

Sam




I’d look better with a broken nose. No thanks, though.

Everyone likes a scar.

I’ve got two.

I got one from accidentally cutting my arm with a knife my friend brought me back from India. I was playing with it, like a teenager does, and thought, “I bet this won’t even cut my arm”. So I tried it.

And it didn’t cut my arm.

So I sharpened it……..and then – here’s the really idiotic point – I tried to see if it would slice my arm this time.

I thought it didn’t, for a second, and then when I saw the white skin part and reveal some very red flesh beneath, I became very cold and started hopping from one foot to the other, grabbing some kitchen-towel and making my way to the nearest room in which blood stains are less of a problem to clean up.

I doused the cut in strong alcohol, anti-septic cleanser too, wrapped a whole tube of toilet roll around it, and went for a walk to pretend it hadn’t happened. It healed, but the scar was broad (AKA, a good one).

The other time, I put my hand through a plaster wall at high velocity (I thought it would be pretty cool, but I now I look back, the wall didn’t really deserve it).

As a quick third, I’d forgotten about that time with that squirrel in Central Park, but that’s a bushy tail covered in my own blood for another time.

It’s good when a scar has a good origin, like a career-wound.

I like a list of occupational injuries, though I have to admit, when I’m quite unaware of what a particular job really consists of, I might get a tad cartoonish.

In the newspaper recently, I read a story of a storm chaser (something which is apparently now not a mental hobby but something for which you’re reimbursed).

Internally, I wrote the following likely occupational injuries for a storm chaser:
1 – dusty lung (on account of so much of it being in the air)
2 – street-sign through the head (on account of so many of them being in the air)
3 – messy hair (poor souls)
4 – just….gone. Blown the fuck away like I was after hearing the Red Hot Chili Peppers’ iconic 1991 album ‘Blood, Sugar, Sex, Magic’.

Careers are lives, and you want a couple of good injuries and scars to boast about on the way to the grave.

Most likely for me, presently, it is what the worst thing that can happen to you whilst typing.

Personally, I like the idea of being landed on by a whale that mistook sky for water but mistook-to-it very well indeed for a while, until approximately somewhere over my house.

More likely, it’ll be to do with posture, which is lame, lame, lame. Like me, eventually, in this line of work.

I’d like an occupational broken nose. Like Rocky.

Some dude: “What do you do, man?”
Moi: “I work in an office.”
Some dude: “Oh yeah, I can tell by the nose.”

I’ve always thought I’d look good with a broken nose, but I’m too likeable, apparently, or more probably just out of reach.

There’s something geographically historical about a broken snozzle. Like granite, hither and thither, with a crookedness that would be used in nursery rhymes if it weren’t for the fact they’ve all already been written.

Doesn’t hurt that as I’ve gotten older, I’ve begun to appreciate bigger noses.

There’s nothing like them.

Being able to pull-off a really big hooter, and still be found cool and/or attractive, is where I want to be in life.

Nasally successful. Nostrilly fortuitous. Sneezily exemplary. Sniffily…never mind, that’s enough.

And as such, I’ve got potential, not just to enjoy my own nose, but also to enjoy it being a broken nose with has a certain…I don’t know what (but French).

The French have great noses and not to be Francophobic, but I’ll leave it at that, and the bread.

“Sniffily nevermind”.

Sam


Rational fear – there might be sharks in the soup.

My main problem with sharks is that they’re fucking real.

It would be like someone in a fantasy novel asking why you have a problem with fire-breathing dragons.

Sharks are monsters. Total monsters. Perfect monsters.

Monsters to the point that if one were stranded on a mountain top, flailing and gnashing atop a peak with me in close proximity – it’d still be more of a danger to me than I would be to it.

Consider then, how fragile I am when in their natural habitat.

Underwater.

I’m bad at ‘underwater’. I can’t do it.

I won’t do it. Primarily because of the lack of oxygen and potential overabundance of sharks – even at my local heated swimming pool.

That’s why I’m perpetually spinning in my bath tub, ever fearful of the chance there might just be space for a Great White to have snuck up behind me to attack (from behind as they’ve got no class).

That’s why I avoid water, especially the sea but including my local heated swimming pool, as the chance of there being a shark might occasionally be zero, but that’s also suspiciously low a chance and therefore there probably is one. At my local pool, lurking in the deep end.

As far as I know, if not in water (as they tend to be most of the time), they’re otherwise inhabit soup in the Far East. So I also avoid Far Eastern soup, in case it’s a trap.

If, atop that aforementioned mountaintop, I were to kick a shark as hard as I could in its face – the result would be a loud and quiet combination of nothing happening and me having a foot bitten off.

I’m not naturally designed for a mountaintop, compared to a shark’s perfection in the sea, but I don’t think moving the shark to the forests, prairies or office spaces would make much difference.

And they’re not frightened of us, like spiders.

They’re more likely ambivalent, even whilst chewing my leg.

Do sharks chew? Or do they just rip and swallow

I’ve swam in oceans before, but that was inspired by giddy youth and pretty girls, so since losing both those things I look back on those open-sea occasions with bewildered fury as to what the hell I thought I was playing at.

I have the same regret after baths, or swimming in heated pools, below ceilings, with my family and the local community.

Supposedly they’re just curious, but they’re never without hunger. So no – I don’t want to be nudged by a shark, or embezzled by Tiger shark, or defamed by Hammerhead. I want zero interactions with them.

Especially though, I don’t want to be eaten by one.

I don’t want the last thing I see to be the inside of a shark, in chilly water. Headfirst inside a shark, in that context, might be the way to go, rather than foot-first and having to bugger about with the drowning too.

As such, to all shark, please leave me alone.

You’ve got your space, I’ve got mine.

If you’ve got a problem with shipping lanes and ocean pollution, that’s not my fault, and the revenge is not to be taken out on me and my body parts.

Lastly, whilst this make no sense to any sharks reading this, and less so to any other living creatures that can actually read: stay the hell out of my bath!

It feels wrong to end on a sour note, so here’s some credit to them. They might have cold dead eyes, but it does suit the scene they’re aiming for, and would you really rather they had warm, smiling eyes that winked at you as if to say “Nice lower half….it’s mine now.”

Sam


This place needs a new smell. Or a window. (Also a vendetta against God).

I don’t do ‘deep-dives’ into topics for these writings, so what follows might be best described as a ‘splash’.

Or maybe a ‘plop’?

I was about to suggest ‘tinkle’ too, but I really need to focus, especially as that’s what I didn’t seem to be able to do last night.

I went to a pool-hall last night and lost 7-0 to my wife. I don’t think I played particularly badly, but luck wasn’t on my side and my wife’s simple superior in everyway.

You’d probably imagine that I was feeling a little low from this felt low, which I was after the first loss.

By the 4th loss I was trying to start conversation on I’m knowledgeable on so I could retain a degree of….something. I don’t know if being down 4-0 has a counter equivalent, especially intellectually.

It’s never the case that something doesn’t matter because: “yeah, well, I’ve got a degree…”

My wife had even started being sympathetic, which made the whole thing worse.

As I said, I wasn’t playing badly, just bad luck after bad luck. I seemed to pot the white after every shot and every ‘cert’ I hit bounced back out of the pocket.

I could be tempted to say there was something else at play here. Because there was, and it might have been Jesus.

No matter the deity, I needed to get something out of the evening so decided it might as well be a religious experience.

And this pool-hall setting suited a religious experience down to the ground.

Full of men, mostly bearded, with one woman doing really well and making them all feel uncomfortable (“shouldn’t be allowed. she’s got tits to lean on. unfair advantage. dependable tits.”)

No windows too. And that is a bit odd – I don’t think my pool game is worsened by sunlight.

And a smell that wasn’t really there. Vaguely cleaning fluid – but it could have been so much more.

It could have been the sort of smell you can see. Wherein part of the ceremony involves wafting it.

What else does one waft, than a visible whiff.

There was no clear dress code (they even allowed trainers), but I feel some particular garb would have been appropriate. Something oddly stiff in certain areas, made from the faux-version of an animal that doesn’t exist any more. Or a fish.

With all that in place, the stiff garb, the visible whiff, the lack of sunlight and no women – then I could really get mad.

7-0, someone has to pay.

And they will. So now I’ve decide to launch a campaign of annihilation against God.

Surely it was He that guided my white balls to the pockets, He that caused every good shot to reject gravity and bounce-out instead, He that encouraged my wife to be extra-nice to me, making me feel all the more minimal.

That’s probably why he created the world; so I could lose at pool last night. That’s how it felt, anyway.

Having a vendetta like this, especially against the Divine, is very liberating.

Very freshing.

Why did I get out of bed today? To wreak sweet vengeance on the creator!

Why did I go back to bed shortly afterwards? Because I forgot it was a Saturday and we all felt fancied a lay-in, but the urge to destroy heaven is still there.

I’ll give you an update on the progress of that soon.

Quickly to clarify before signing off: pool-halls are religious but could be more so, and that ‘God’ – oh he’s going to get it.

Sam


“Yeah, and it’s not as romantic when you use the hoover.”

The sentences we say…

Humans say the darndest things. In fact, I prefer not speak without guarantees that it’s the darndest thing being said in the room at that moment.

The above title is something my wife replied with to me.

Context aside (and I’m absolutely not going into the context – it’s too hilariously arousing), it was at least amongst the darndest of spoken word.

A year ago, I was washing the dishes at my kitchen sink, and my son rushed in with a grim look on his face to say “Daddy, two of The Beatles are DEAD.”

We’d been to Liverpool a fortnight earlier and the news most have only then sunk in about John and George.

I suppose The Beatles said the darndest things too.

So did Idi Amin.

Maybe the darndest things are just things people say, but perhaps only he darndest people say them.

Like children, Scouse rock stars, and Ugandan tyrants.

And my wife, as I interrupt the housework with contexts I shan’t go into.

Sometimes all you need is something to say.

Just try not to be repetitive.

Yours darndestly,

Sam


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

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?

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

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

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