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.
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.”
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.
It’s got to be vinyl.
Because we don’t need the Earth as much as we once so crucially depended on it.
I was very intellectually viewing a Vice video recently, in which the news was studied that Jack White (once a White Stripe) has purchased a vinyl record factory in Detroit, wherein he has a workforce devoted to bringing back about the tradition of music being heavier in the hand.
Throughout the interview, White gave his reasons for this endeavour, citing the enormous sales of vinyl in the UK and how music audiences have tired of the “invisibility” of music.
White also mentioned that folk liked moving mechanical parts to their music; which is nice.
I can see the appreciation of vinyl being a visible pleasure, for it was the same when I first purchased my first cd; Blood Sugar Sex Magic by the Red Hot Chili Peppers.
The album art system is lost, with the purchased song now having the visible identity of a postage-stamp sized irrelevance in the corner of your screen.
Whilst one could claim that this gives the audience no illusions other than the sheer product of music itself; album art was and can be tremendous.
With Warhol and The Velvet Underground having the audacity to bend minds with a banana, the ludicrously luscious lips (even the tongue is still swaggering) of the Rolling Stones and world starting Big Bang of Sergeant Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band (by the Beatles; a local Liverpool based group); these album covers gave an added appropriate kick in the teeth to authority and kick in the arses to those young folk whose attention had yet to be garnered.
Memorable to the mind, and our first contact with the album; the cover art mattered and it still can as it gives the artist another dimension the express and the audience an added bud to with which to taste.
The theme of dimensions plays again when regarding the idea of making music “heavier in the hand”.
The song you’ve downloaded from ITunes, is THE song. You’ve got it and so do your companions.
With the vinyl album, just as it was for me when I bought my first cd; what you hold in your hand is now YOURS.
That’s YOUR Appetite for Destruction. That’s MY Are You Experienced.
Of course, one’s chums had it too, only theirs was theirs, whilst yours was yours.
The album would be clenched to the strangling point of anticipation whilst you listened for the first time, studied diligently and blindly stared at as it revolved in ones hands as you felt what the songs gave you to feel or found a feeling within you.
I can tell because it’s in my hand. Yours is in yours.
As well as this, there is the factor of also listening to this music, should you care to.
“Crisp”, “clear”, “acute”, “sharp”, “sterile”, “cutting” – All words describing why you should purchase the latest model of audio technology.
“Cold” is another and is, for me, the definition of digital sound in so far as a pleasure.
It has a place, of course, with Metal and certain Dance and Techno tunes, but people are drifting towards the future of vinyl for the welcoming, wistful “warmth” that it breathes.
A pleasing, deep groove of a song comes from the speaker of a turntable. The familiarity of sound that resonates like that of ones father coming home from work whilst your mother was reading and you were really rather busy in the womb.
The sound of ‘next door underwater’ has, in my thoughts, a direct link to our first hearings from within mum’s tum; a resonance from before you were born.
That’s quite a selling point.
Why choose vinyl?
Because of this, that, and the other; especially those last three.
It’s also tall and wide and round and it spins, all highly pleasing attributes to most physical things and a record is no exception.
The flaw in the proud procession along the groove of vinyl’s victory parade over digital music is that leads to the inevitable and irreversible end of the Earth.
It is a physical thing, and physical things take up space about the planet.
They require a great deal of energy to create and distribute, both of which cause ice shelves to melt as quickly as teenage hearts to a sweet pop melody.
A vinyl record can be found lodged in the corpse of a once highly determined and regrettably dense seagull or tortoise, who took to biting and swallowing once the young chap on the brow of the boat impressed everyone immensely by demonstrating just how well a vinyl record could fly with the correction application of “spin”.
Sharpened well, a vinyl record could be the weapon of choice; whilst the digitally downloaded song is notably omitted from current editions of Cluedo as a method of murder.
And so the Earth will close for business and eternity; awash in seas of plastic discs and enormous and quality album art.
It’s a good thing Mars has all but invited us to call in soon.
I’ll pack in advance I think…must remember to bring my IPod.
The Lateral Column.
That’s about all there is to this.
I’ve a title, better than a peer’s Lord or Highness, but with the downside that I have no friends; what with my not being a peer to anyone.
The Lateral Column.
Oooh, just HIRE me why don’t’cha?
Travelling has hit this website hard, unlike me or you, both of whom haven’t hit it in the slightest.
These four months of travelling, with six remaining (new kangaroo-skin wallet permitting), have gifted me an appreciated banged-about-brain within which all I’ve seen and pondered is stored, in glaring contrast to my notepad, which lists items of shopping, the names of several Asian chaps whose names it seemed vital to recall, and the title of this column (The Lateral Column…..hire me).
Once I had intentions of being the famed writer that history’s greats would reanimate themselves purely to get their remaining fingers on the my latest epic (the kind of book that’d causes birth rates to drop…if it weren’t for the ultra-arousing prose of my shopping list and the authentically phallic font I’ve in mind for using), shortly before re-popping their pre-popped clogs at their sheer sight and humiliation that they never thought of a title that darn emotive and marketable.
My ego has taken, shall we say, a hearty heaving over the shoulders of humanity’s more subtle waves and been dashed most enlightening upon a humble shore.
I deserve nothing.
I deserve nothing more than you, actually, and it took some time to note that this was inherent and is ever onward.
It shall take some mighty doing to appreciate that the ego that came to this realisation at first saw humbleness as an audacious affront. There is no doubt that ego is fun and it shall have its place; as a humble tool of a meek man.
All there is to do is practice something I enjoy doing; here – writing.
Once a day, for as little as one half to one hour, I will be expressing myself all over Dear Reader, in as enigmatically and preposterously prosperous a manner as I can conjure…for that would appear to be my style.
And I like it.
One can tell from the website’s former name: Alternative Literary Output for the Soul.
And now; The Lateral Column.
I’ve a great deal to story to you in our little I’ll-write-you-read establishment, but those tales will wait till impatiently till a later article and an earlier hour, since I’ve only a few hours till hostel checkout and I’ve not slept yet.
It’s worth it all though, even through the moped-crashes, drag queen molestations, monkey attacks, waterfall blindness, hotel manager fights and cuddles and the time I discovered the third best feeling in the world is to hand puppy so cute that I’d both gobble it up and die for it to a pair of highly attractive and even higherly flirtatious german twins whilst laying/dangling from a hammock whilst a rather dopey grin dangles all the more danglier from my face.
The second best feeling?
The greatest feeling I’ve felt?
I brought a large pink ruby donkey home with me from work the other day.
I’m telling you this because it’s looking at me right now.
Rather; it’s not looking at me, more so to the window and away from me. But it has an expression on it’s long, slapped-lobster- coloured-face as if to say: “I swear I wasn’t watching you! But I can if you want…”
This pink donkey’s beginning to have a presence in the house.
I keep finding it in rooms. Nothing creepy, aside from the Mrs (who’s mine by the way– all mine!) transporting him from room to room. And suddenly there he is; causing me to stop stirring my tea and wonderful half in my head, half spoken: “Why the fuck is he in here?”
Salvaged out of the bins of a nursery I work with, I’ve always has an appreciation for solid toys that don’t break easily.
Breaking easily is what I find to be the critical aspect of most things around and about me; prior to them being in pieces.
This large pink donkey however…this thing is Russia-proof.
The sort of toy that is immune to both knives and teasing. It’s probably emitting some noxious gas as I write this; some reliably-1970’s-gonna-get-ya product this.
Too solid rubber to be devastated; too mentally dense an expression on its face to absorb any kind of bullying as anything but pleasant comments about its complexion.
Lucky pink donkey.
I’m far too sensitive, you see; and that hurts to say.
Perhaps I can learn a thing or two from this donkey.
And maybe that’s a depressing fact; that I can learn a thing or two from a donkey.
Or, maybe again, it means I’ve reached a level so high I can only learn from inanimate objects. Sun Tsu, Marx and Shakespeare are all just a tad too easy these days; I need a good sturdy rubber donkey to keep me thinking about my diet.
Well…that was meant to simply be a sentence; and it turns out, upon closer recollection, that this is true.
I haven’t had a walk home like that since I was an obese baby.
Even the weather was improved; to the degree that my memories of it seems as though the golden sunlight was added later, but no – it was that glorious.
Smiles and laughter everywhere; with plenty of pointing – the good kind.
The good kind of pointing is polite, and you can tell how it is not just by the facial expression behind, but also because I reckon that finger’s a little floppy.
What would you rather have in your face; a sturdy index of a flaccid forefinger? Let alone a penetrating pinky?
Apparently a pink donkey’s what most folk want in their face; forget the pointing, good kind or bad.
Well; I got the polite kind, as well as so many smiles and warm expressions of: “Enormous pink donkey eh? Good for you; I can relate to that – It’s about time!”
More pink rubber donkeys for everyone.
This things has it’s very own sunshine and when it hits; you grin with the pinkish vitamin D you’re being beaten about the head with.
I got home that day and found myself improved.
I could learn from this donkey.
We’ve already bathed together; it went really well.
The train’s ticket conductor on the journey home and I had a charming liaison in which he wrote out a toy-ticket for the donkey.
How absolutely motherfucking charming!
I’m 27 and he was at least twice my age, and here we were both being jollied by a pink donkey.
This is an even more effective a way of meeting women than holding a baby.
You might be familiar with the way chaps can hold a baby as they meet women; holding it out in front of them as proof of procreating potency and niceness.
A fellow with a baby, strapped on to his chest like body armour, speaks to the world: “My penis is accomplished and I make up for that by being fatherly and mopping up the consequences and the consequences’ consequences.”
Those strap-on babies unnerve me, being as it seems like a make-shift “don’t shoot me” shirt.
You can’t lay a finger on that guy whilst he’s wearing one of those.
He’s immune to society touching him; law officials won’t risk the law suit, other men won’t risk the leaking baby, and the women want so desperately to get to know this sensitive chap with an accomplished willy.
Take all that; and this pink donkey trumps it all.
“Trumps it all” – damn.
Can’t we alter the terminology here?
Why not give Trump the word “Trump” and proceed to change our definition of it to a guy who has everything wrong with him – a bloke for whom money is working.
Money is evidently making Donald Trump all the more unhappy to the point that he is engaging in political warfare with the most vital nation on Earth because his daddy never loved him.
He’s a fellow with such a huge bill for sating his appetite that he’s going to make Mexico pay for it.
I have a tremendously unsubstantiated feeling that Donald Trump is looking forward to diplomacy in China because their coins have ickle-wickle holes in and he yearns to get that Yen home and start fucking the dignified history out of it.
That hole-in-the-arse/pain-in-the-arse/Donald-Trump is apparently in need of a large rubber pink donkey prescription.
If it worked for me; it can work for Trump!
I’ve just realised that Donald Trump would, without hesitation, strap a baby to himself to avoid being assassinated. I hope, should his assassination come about, it’s in a child-free area; though I feel children tend to avoid him anyway.
Kids are like dogs.
They don’t like arseholes.
And they love giant pink donkeys.
Me too; for all the three above.
See you tomorrow,
An enormous gaseous globe rose from the sea’s end and illuminated my world in moments more beautifully than much I have seen, much as it has succeeded in so for eons, epochs, millennia, all of time and yesterday.
High hopes for tomorrow too.
So I didn’t get much done that morning, although my land was golden green, ruby blue, sun fire yellow and a purple only the cosmos can lay upon us.
Am I a good person? Because I’m guilty thus.
Bullfighting is something I would, if so empowered, flick a switch to end the elderly and embarrassing sport, yet I would also pay to see it if opportuned so.
It is an experience this world offers, and with life being so short and all the more apparently so since watching following watching this; how can I yield myself?
Yet still I would end it, with that switch of mine.
I would eat dog when offered and well cooked.
Dogs are amongst our oldest and greatest tools, the species would not be where it is if it weren’t for our identifying of the tremendous power of canines.
This remains with us today.
For amongst those great powers is the intelligence of personality, providing us a companionship of such strong and loving bonds that one cannot be called a “master”; but perhaps older brother will do.
It says so much for both our united species in that throughout all the monstrosity of ancient living in prehistoric life, these two great groups found each other and the inter-species bond proceeded from there.
My children will grow with a dog, my wife and I will die with one, and I would still eat the roasted flesh of one simply being that it is an experience to experience.
I would not kill a man to eat him, but should it come to combat I would like to give him cause to never wish us encounter again.
I would cut off and eat nothing vital, yet something he’d miss.
Not his heart or vitals. Not his eyes or brain. Perhaps just an ear, or a pinky.
What is missing, taken, leaves a mark and I jolly well just might.
In Samoan history the greatest threat and then insult was to say to your enemy: “you’re shit, I’m going to make you shit”, defeat him in battle, butcher him into entrees, eat some and turn him into shit.
No greater defeat.
No greater insult.
I’d eat your pinky, so don’t fuck with me or I’ll shit you.
I don’t know if the ancient Samoans had a ceremony for the first poo following the post battle brunch. I wonder if they looked forward to it, presuming this poo was once you? I just don’t know.
This went through my head as the sun rose.
Perhaps I should have laid in.
Watching the sun rise is unproductive.
Bowties should be taken back by the lower classes who never had them.
I just want the aristocrats to have one less thing.
They’ve got so much.
They have horses.
Just ask yourself: “Where the fuck are all the horses?”
My answer: “Near the aristocrats! Want to go get some with me?”
And you can reply with: “No bitch; I’m bow-tying tonight!”
You know those horses will go splendidly with your bowtie; but you’re not at that level yet. The horse and the bowtie will clash and you’ll just be standing there; being ridden and worn (EVERYTHING’S GONE WRONG!)
Though I do like the idea of bowties being some you do; just as much as wear.
If you BOWTIE; you assume permission owing to morality.
You don’t ask a lady if she’d really-rather-awfully-wouldn’t-mind if you were to perform the Heimlich manoeuvre mid-choke. There’s only so much a good woman can do as far as multi-tasking goes. She’s already trying to breathe whilst simultaneously and distinctly not breathing; it’s a wonder she can flail so much as she is!
So your course of action?
You grab her like you’re going to educate her in the ways of the windpipe and heave.
Heave so hard you forget why you’re heaving.
And when she regains enough of a lung-full to launch some appreciate your way, just utter: “Madam, surely you could tell by the way I wear my bowtie?” and leave her feeling charmed and ashamed for not acknowledging your BOWTIE a little earlier.
Pre-choke appreciation is the kind I’m looking for.
All else is too earned to be considered real manners.
That’s about it.
Does the BOWTIE make the man? No, but not all men can make a BOWTIE.
How shall we be able to discern them apart?
A little lower than the chin and most of a foot higher than the nipple; see there.
One of my favourite bodily areas since it gets such little praise.
If you need me; I’ll be in my BOWTIE.
(PS. Why? Because I’m moral.)