Joey Meatballs – Much Has Happened Since May

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.

Joey Meatballs.

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.

Sam

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The Crabs of St James’

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.

Good form.

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.

Hmm. 

Back to the crossword.


Writing With Impetus, Before It’s Too Late

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.

How embarrassing.

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.

Millionairehood/millionairedom/millionairity.

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,

Sam


Onto The Rocket Goes…

You might be familiar with the entrenched British radio stalwart entitled: “Desert Island Discs” in which prominent folk from various fields are interviewed on the hypothetical pretence that they are going to be marooned on a desert island.

On this island they are permitted 8 songs (usually music), 1 book and a single luxury item; and this is to do them till eternity isn’t eternal anymore on this desert island.

A charming concept and a wonderful way in which to see more into a person as they unveil themselves via the vital songs in of their life.

A tremendous way to sum up a lifetime, but a hard task when summing up the Earth.

What songs could sum up the Earth and all its previous? Are we stuck with 8 songs to detail our planet’s past? Do the dinosaurs get any sway in our say?

It’s probably worth explaining why I’m bringing the planet into this.

I can remember being told that one day all life in the entire universe was going to end, but not before our sun gave up the galactic ghost and Earth went bang.

I was very young and slightly shaken (almost crapped myself) until it was explained to me that the Earth was not due to explode in a whirl of mountains and continents and pets until millions of years after my own comfortable bed-bound death.

Though quelled, I still held the knowledge that all this was temporary and that there was going to be a final day.

And so, from those young days to this, I have pondered at times about which things would be a good way to kick off the final day; activities and playlists, guest lists and buffet items.

And then, as my understanding of probable alien life came into being, I realised the need to broadcast our best and brightest to the cosmos; for a whole host of reasons including but not limited to: scaring the sweet shit out of Johnny Alien and ensuring they heard the lovely melodies of tales about getting-the-girl, being-so-glad and telling-all-the-world.

And I’ve been narrowing it down.

Yes, it’s another series from me, and whilst a new one comes, please don’t assume the others are dead. Perpetually IN is not quite out of vogue, Matters That Matter still matters and Brief…Therefore Witty still has some epigrams to launch before lunch, although it has become increasingly clear as to my answer in that famed personality quiz question: “Do you find it easier to start new projects or finish up the details that’ve been passed on to you?”

Never pass things on to me.

Especially a trumpet (I hate it when a person plays a brass instrument and holds eye-contact with me. Gives me the willies. Woodwind doesn’t seem to bother me though).
Especially when you’ve just blown it at a group of post-conch-blowing Mauri in the 1600’s.

Onto the rocket goes:

The Haka.

Having viewed much of the world with a fairly sturdy stomach, it was not till I watched true Maori of New Zealand perform the Haka, barely a few feet from my face, with as much intensity as a human can muster and hopefully as much as an alien can bare to stand.

The tattooed face isn’t really an important factor in this, because we’re talking about a wielding of the face that is such a tradition that I truly believe that it has become a genetic blessing on the traditional Maori people.

The bulging eyes, the enormity of the limbs of the ilk that might not grace the cover of GQ but would certainly cause a fellow to quiver in recognition that this is a matter of dashing brains upon the beach, and the tongue that whips with every sincerely meant gasping inhalation of the imminence of battle in which you simply can’t wait to take part.

The slapping/clawing of the legs and chest, the slight and delicate motions between in which genuine respect is given to some hairy sun-stealing deity, the waving of weaponry and the warrior’s deep-shrieking vernacular of a people that have no issue with your puny European musket because we’re used to hunting giant 12-foot Moa birds with huge glowing green rock-clubs, so beware me as I blow my conch (put the trumpet down).

There is something so utterly awe-inspiring about the Maori Haka that I truly believe it is amongst the best of what our species has to offer, and we must look at things in terms of an entire species from now on, otherwise the aliens won’t take our rocket seriously.

I can easily believe the Haka can make you fearless. For how can an expression such as that pictured (just look at the picture…) have any concern over so fleeting a complication as a Martian death-ray?

It is, however, crucial that this Haka be performed only by Maori. Even if they’re 1/24th Maori; that’ll do just dandy too, but it’s not going to be a European guy doing it.

I’ve seen the Kiwi rugby team with their Haka, and the Maori contingent is all of what I have expressed above, but the tall blonde guys joining in too – it just doesn’t work for me. I don’t believe their Haka. It seems too ‘awfully-hope-this-isn’t-too-much-of-an-inconvenience-if-score-a-try-awfully-very-much-sorry-thanks-sorry’. I’m sure they could do a marvellous Scandinavian/Viking battle cry, standing all moody whilst the rain runs from the battle-axe, plus I’ve never seen an Asian or African guy do the Haka, but I’m going to have to choose a Maori guy (and girl, sure) for the Haka here.

I’m not saying European guys shouldn’t do it, I’m just saying it’s not getting onto my rocket.

I’m trying to make inter-galactic friends here.

There is also that message of the Haka, which is the indomitable threat of an ultimate victory expressed via the eyes and lashing tongue in the Haka, but written here it is:

“The worst thing you can be is shit. And I’m going to defeat you in battle, kill you hence, I’m going to eat you, and I’m going to turn you into shit. I will turn you into shit. And I’m keeping your boat.”

A powerful message we can all relate to, especially since I’m in favour of eating some people. Not all people, but explicitly people who continue walking towards our planet once having seen the Haka (because we’d better eat them; they must be insane to keep marching after seeing that).

You might now be starting to see how Desert Island Discs and my rocket deviate from one another.

Next up, onto the rocket goes:

‘Mamma Mia’, by Abba.

Perhaps this is the battle cry the Scandinavians could be doing whilst the Haka’s happening next door?

Of course I’m referring to the single song, not the entire musical. Not the musical at all in fact, but undoubtedly that glorious piece of lyricised human condition known as ‘Mamma Mia’.

Crickey it’s a corker.

A tale known by those who have loved, lost, and rekindled, lost, loved some more, and therein having actually done loving properly; it is a shame of our childish species for which we are very happy to indulge in this equal to the many times we like to put that record on and get all excited at that opening piano staccato that is in imitation of a tick-tocking clock that only tick and tocks onwards and past you whilst you’re still standing there – very much so still fallen for that person and very much so still hopeless to do anything about it.

Mamma Mia – here we go again, a mantra for those about to whirl about in a familiar romance once more, as well as those about to put ‘Mamma Mia’ on again.

Here we go again.

Lyrically, it sums up the side of that human condition that the poets try to nail and the scholars try only to avoid, whilst musically it is simply very fucking-on-the-nose as a song everyone likes.

It could always simply be that I’m a tad of a nostalgic romantic at heart and this is sheer indulgence on behalf of myself, but I don’t see how that would matter either way as it’s my rocket and you’re all my species (I’m fairly possessive) and this is the way we’re doing it.

I just adore that moment of hushedness, in which the staccato returns and the humble “Mamma Mia, here I go again, my-my how could I resist ya” – in which the hushedness represents that intimate chat with oneself in which you’re too stupefied by love that you’re unable to answer your own internal monologue. And the culmination, the CULMINATION that …..CULMINATES to the point of saying simply: “I should not have let you go”.

Awww.

I feel that “Awww” is a splendid way of summing this song up, and in doing so, goes a great length in summing us up also.

The human species: “Awww” and (Haka-induced) “Arrrggghhh!”

That’s what goes onto my rocket.

What else?

Soon.

Sam


Another Man


Around My About!

Just a few moments ago I updated my ‘About The Lateral Column’ page and I feel it goes a good way into explaining what I’m doing here.

Therefore, I’m laying it out for you here too!

After reading, don’t forget to Like me and to think of me constantly. Tell your attractive friends about me too, and your boss for good measure.

Here you go!
Thank you for reading!

I’m a writer (see!) and I’ve come to realise that, through many years of neglect and lack of confidence, I’m not about to be the next big thing.

I’m not going to change the world and the revolution does not start here.

However, I still do love what was my calling and I enjoy the feeling of discipline and steady (so, so slow) improvement and so I keep it up here.

For the most part I write when inspired, but my true aim is to write (and upload) at least once a day with something silly and also less regular pieces with a tad more passionate oomph.

I’ve got two main themes:

‘Matters That Matter’ (in which I discuss, debate, diatribe and use real CAPITAL LETTERS) on subjects from all areas which have me feeling that old urge to write).

‘Brief…Therefore Witty’ (wherein I write as a stream-of-barely-consciousness on whatever strolls across my blank mind at the time of writing. It might get a little weird. Brevity is the soul of wit, and these are brief as fuck).

I have a third theme: Lists. This will feature lists. I could tell you what else this’d feature; but you’d need to check the ‘Lists’ section for that.

I can’t explain how much Likes and Comments cheer me and irk me to keep it writing. Please do.

Thanks again,

Sam.


Oh I Could Just Eat You Up

I want to eat my wife’s legs.

It comes from a place of love, I can assure you of that, though there is also a chance some small percentage of inspiration comes from a small breakfast.

We have an agreement, you see, in which, as our hearts, lives and bank accounts have become entwined, as have our shared ownership of body parts.

Those are OUR bosoms and that is OUR foreskin, so on and so very much forth.

There are limbs and sundry which have special ownership, however, such as my ready greediness for my wife’s legs.

I’m not sure why, but as time has passed in our whirlwind of passionate going-steadiness, my mouth has passed from open mouthed awe at my wife’s physical form (along with the very decent form of being eager to involve me upon it) to closed mouthedness – with teeth bitten down and much attempted chewing upon a choice buttock.

Probably just arousal, though I feel sure there are connotations of good old cannabalistic adoration…eating the hearts of one’s enemies can only fall more pale to the good etiquette of eating that of a lover’s, whilst I am also confident it’s simple good forward thinking.

Plane crashes were an awfully ‘2016’ thing to occur, but this year might decide to replicate with me dangerously strapped in to my seat.

I can envisage plowing down, cockpit first into the scorched ground of Saharan desert, peanuts and hostesses flying every which way, before blacking out holding my wife’s hand.

Coming to, still with a hand to hold but no wife in sight, I would eventually come about to find her, and seeing this am overcome by grief and an attack of the munchies.

From then on it’s something to chew over whilst considering my future in canabalism.

Of course, this is all nonsense.

Whilst I do encounter a peculiar urge to nibble upon my wife’s legs when I stumble upon a glimpse of them, I don’t want eat my wife.

Perhaps I should simply eat a trifle more (as two trifles evidently isn’t enough…actually, please help me with my trifle habit) prior to our bath time.

This being said, I still do have a degree of autonomy of regions of my Mrs.

We’ve agreed, I get her thighs, whilst my forehead is all hers.

I want her thighs because they are too pure a specimen for her to spoil with some form of “I’m a spiritual wanderer and foot-first hippie” tattoo involving ‘swishy’ lines as if you’ve really got a David-Bowie-starry-summer-breeze on your leg…and a horsie.

Plus they’re simply a smashing pair of pegs.

And she has intentions on my forehead. Not sure why. To hang art from it at some point possibly; it is a rather large forehead and we all have a calling…even foreheads and I.

All this about eating my wife is merely how I feel regarding munching on the public, but I’m not so sure, not so sure at all, about grandmothers.

“Oh I could just eat you up” they’ll say.

And, yes, they jolly well could, but not without a fight and a retaliatory chomp.

Do you have the fortitude to beat off a granny of steadily advancing years and worryingly advancing nashers?

Whilst I’m confident of being socially comfortable with belting a granny about the nose and ears with her own handbag/Yorkshire terrier, I know all too well of chums falling to the dentures and hideously successful gumming of a starved granny who thinks they’re adorable.

Not to mention, these old women are riddled with spare teeth, meaning that they could eat you with dentures in both hands AND with the mouth.

“Ooh ain’t he lovely Doris!?”

“Oh yes Marge, but try him with gravy.”

Most unagreeable.

Personally, I’d have to view the whole encounter as a fine selection of fellow-filled grins from which to elect the most helpful to knuckle heavily before running home to my wife and urging us to eat more before babysitting any potential future grandchildren.

I truly-doodly-do write some strange things throughout my articles.

However, I’d like to remind everyone not to eat anyone and vice versa, unless you find them in a prime state for eating, just remember to wash all hands before cooking. And feet. And sundry.

And don’t forget, canibalism leads to larger larders but fewer friends…not a pleasing alliteration when realising one is a direct result of the other.

So; not chewing, but nibbling.

Sam