Sometimes all you need is something to say
And whilst I may be without a thing to say, I’ve got plenty to write about.
I just need to remember.
I’d love to escape from prison; I just need a crime to be sent down for long enough for, preferably in the 1930s.
Naturally I don’t want to hurt anyone, nor take things that don’t belong to me, as I really am quite pleasant upon first impressions (just don’t meet me twice).
Or parking tickets?
Its time like this I wish I was in the USA, able to commit some devastatingly trivial infraction that would escalate to a prison sentence upon crossing state lines.
I would love to be imprisoned for smuggling, or piracy, so long as I could ensure a positive working environment with equal opportunities for the all (not just the physically impaired – who I presume are the majority on a pirate boat. I’ll be calling it a ‘boat’ rather than a ‘ship’ by the way, as I know this will irk some and I want to give a fair chance to those that don’t get to meet me twice).
I’m a Man of Kent, owing to having been born East of the Medway river in Kent, thus giving me a fair grounding in the history of my county. And it turns out Kent is a county of hop-pickers and smugglers, both historically enjoying one another just fine.
I could pick a hop, and I could pick it well, but I doubt I’d get to enjoy the thrill of being chased along the estuary, whilst the orchards are a place for high-speed fuck-alls. Orchards a are place where even hurrying takes most of the afternoon.
So smuggling it is.
No smuggling of people though, as smuggling people is immoral and dangerous, as well as a crowded market at the moment – the number of Brits looking to make a get-away buoyant on a sturdy enough inheritance of the family turd to float their way through the sewers and away to the continent; is simply silly, as well as intricately silly too.
I’ll have to smuggle something noble, like medical supplies, or knights.
Which knight of the realm would be best to smuggle to the continent?
Sir John Major deserves something nice to happen to him, providing the canoe is broad enough.
Sir Michael Caine and Sir Lenny Henry could do with a voyage to the mainland, though I have to admit I’m struggling to name knights at this point and wouldn’t want to tell these chaps they were only invited because I couldn’t think of more noble folk.
They’d still have to pay-up, of course, I’m not providing free rides here; I am a smuggler after all. But what fee for a canoe ride to Europe?
Some sort of pardon for doing it in the first place seems a worthy price for such a crime. A nice written pardon, quilled onto parchment (not one of those tacky plastic ‘get-out-of-jail-free’ cards), that absolves me of whatever you’re talking to me about. The sort of parchment you can really waggle in a coastguard’s face. I appreciate already that there is peril in this becoming soggy in my working environment, but that makes it all the more of a pleasure to waggle.
I think Sir Major and Sir Henry would keep my pardon safe, not sure about Sir Caine though, and I can imagine him getting all upset about having let me down and worried I’ll ditch him mid-Channel.
To be honest, all three of those knights seem particularly ‘overboardable’, not that to criticise them, I just picture them tipping backwards and hearing the splash – they’d all make a good one, and would be a good way to loose passenger weight for the get-away.
Each of those knights is a notable amount of weight to lose. To be able to say: “I’ve lost almost Sir John Major in weight since January” is good for your health (presuming you were massive to begin with) and good for your smuggling career (presuming you’ve been undergoing a getaway since January).
I could ditch them all, irrelevant as to their clutching of my pardon parchment, particularly considering that my main aim was to be imprisoned in the first place.
Presuming imprisonment, I’ll just need it to the 1930s so I can go about this properly in a grown up fashion.
So, naturally we’re talking about time travel (I say “naturally” as though it’s still fashionable. Isn’t it? Could one travel through time to a time when time travel was still fashionable? If so, why aren’t we all there? Could it be that time travel is simply dorky? I think…yes. Napoleon, Jimi Hendrix, and Joan of Arc in the year 3000 are all dorks.)
And frankly I’d prefer not to, so will save the 1930s prison breakout for another time.
To end, upon checking, I do have something to write about, and you’re just lucky you weren’t reading this, because I went with what I had – you had better options. ‘Moby Dick’ for one.
I’ve written about smuggling knights into Europe in reward for a pardon for that very crime, in the hope of being imprisoned anyway in the 1930s, and all the while you were distinctly not reading Moby Dick and elected to read my words instead.
Pride and Prejudice too – something else you could have read instead of this.
Sir Billy Connolly; there’s another knight.
I have never been more proud of my species than the occasion on which I watched the video of an Australian man squaring up with and punching a Kangaroo.
To begin, this was not one of those cruel kangaroo-boxing charades as per the Victorian era…it was a kangaroo that deserved to be punched and man that deserved to do the punching.
To set the scene of this wonderful moment, it begins sadly.
A young Australian man has been diagnosed with terminal cancer, meaning that his life is a great deal more ‘over’ than the rest of us currently walking around.
This being so, the chap is still luckier than a fair many people; because he has his friends who are insistent on taking him out to live life whilst it’s still liveable.
So this friend takes his very ill pal out to do what they both enjoy most; hunting with their dogs in their jeep.
Here is where the video begins.
A shakily held camera (a shakily held camera is forgivable considering cancer) atop the jeep, Aussie outback whizzing past and distressed calls of the men looking for their dogs which appear to have disappeared.
As it turns out, they had a fear of what had become of their hounds, and the fear was confirmed.
The motor pulls to a stop and a man, the friend, leaps down and begins walking towards what we can now see; a large dog in the unfriendly embrace of a very large Grey Kangaroo (‘the big kind’).
The man is walking towards the two animals with manly purpose; and here’s why that’s brave.
A Grey Kangaroo is about 5-feet-something tall and filled with testosterone and all the muscly meat that entails.
Have you ever seen a shaved chimp? Whilst casually reaching for a banana you’ll see their arms ripple with all sorts of unnecessary-yet-insisted-upon-by-nature muscles, and a kangaroo is no different.
In a permanent ‘look at my muscles’ pose, a lone male Grey Kangaroo is highly aggressive and will happily consider your garden as it’s new pot to piss in.
Along with this, the kangaroo is deadly owing to one weapon in its arsenal; the tail.
Usually seen as a mere aid to its hopping about the wilderness, it is in fact like a crocodile’s tail; filled with muscle and unyielding bone, not prehensile but it’ll make you apprehensile (but only if you’ll excuse poor puns) when you discover it’s trick.
When fighting, kangaroos might look as though they are indulging in a bitchy little face pushing fight, with scratching being the order of the day, but this is not the end all. For the deadly strike, the kangaroo will lean back on it’s bewilderingly now-leg-like tail (currently holding its entire bodyweight) and proceed to kick out with its legs into the abdomen of the opponent.
Picture a tripod bouncing across the Australian landscape, only you didn’t realise this until too late and now its going to involve that third leg most unfairly in a fight.
The force breaks bone, and should claw catch flesh: the belly can easily be carried off and away.
To tackle this takes guts, as it is your ‘guts’ that can also quickly be staining your bush shoes and the kangaroo’s toes.
That is what this man is walking towards, with oh-so-perfect a purpose.
The kangaroo sees the approaching Aussie male, and let’s the dog escape (with which it appreciatively flees).
The man is now right up to the kangaroo, and there is a hell of a lot of testosterone in the air this afternoon.
He and the kangaroo both square up, with the Roo bulking out and the man shaking loose like Bruce Lee as he adapts to a boxing pose.
And then, the man promptly puts his hand though the kangaroo’s chin.
Through it’s chin.
Like UTTER BUTTER.
And I’m standing up and yelling “YEEEESSSS” at this, in my cosy bedroom at home, thousands of miles away and two weeks later.
The kangaroo waves is arms in pathetic yet vital little spirals in effort to keep balanced whilst it leans back dependently on its deadly secret weapon of a third leg.
The look on its face is of be-fucking-whilderment.
It does not have the processing skills demanded of it now to understand the tuned ability of this incredible species: humanity.
Exactly how to stand so as to generate adequate power for the punch, precisely where to aim and land the blow through the now-since-buttery chin of the kangaroo, and the compassion of heart to not have your mate’s trip spoiled by the loss of another great friend to our species: dogs.
The kangaroo is entirely and irrevocably undone by the chap’s species, his knuckles and his good form.
The standing up for your species and your mates is the pinnacle of what we should be spending our time doing and this could not have been better (like BUTTER) exemplified here.
Kangaroo defeated, humanity the victor, this Australian man nods his head in appreciation of the occasion (“Yeah.” would fit well here) turns, and walks away, back to his dog and his mate to enjoy the rest of their trip together.
My hero and yours.
The statement is ultimate.
The next time we have a chance do this this it might be Aliens…so get your shit together, do some push-ups and hug your mates.
Well done sir; bravo humanity.
Video here: http://youtu.be/FIRT7lf8byw
(Disclosure: A kangaroo WAS mildly hurt during the making of the article, but it was being a bully dick and deserved it.)
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.
Third article in a row.
Third article in a row hurts.
With the get-go of the first and second I was enthused with such an efficient tempest of productivity, less than 24 hours ago, that now I gaze back upon it wistfully.
To begin, after an efficient cup of tea, I exercised in the manliest of manly ways.
That’s not to say I lifted the weightiest (owing to being medically buxom) femme fatal I could rescue and kicked in bolted dungeon door after bolted high-tower door whilst cloaked in a sexy sheen of man sweat and musk that made me both glow like a golden god and reek like the best bits of a bear. I did however, do some push-ups and then acted like I wasn’t breathing at all heavily – no big deal (I did 15 and 1 for luck; I promise).
To follow I made some notes, something I can reassuringly ignore later, like a comfort blanket in the form of a sheet of words that I can tug over my guilt of not wanting to write at that time.
This can be a pickle as time passes. And not a good pickle, like a summer’s day pass-me-the-pickle-jar-darling kind of pickle. Rather more the bad kind, is-it-a-pickle is-it-a-Victorian-baby-with-too-many-noses-and-not-enough-heads kind of pickle.
You might know it as a gherkin (oh the joys of language!).
Then I travelled by Greyhound bus from Byron Bay to Brisbane.
This is normally a tremendous chance to begin ignoring my notes, and I indulged heftily, though my ignoring was interrupted by the need to I wiped the drool from my wife’s chin, blouse, and allocated seating area (when the drool flowed out of this area; I considered it free to roam).
I then finished reading my book, a galant little number about a cheeky doctor and his silky ilk, before beginning a comic-tragedy the Jehovah’s Witnesses had whipped up (featuring some worryingly enthused illustrations, such as a reanimated-to-life woman who appears so jolly at what has befallen her she just might bite every living motherfucker out there).
Briefly Brisbaned Brisbane and bought the brand of noodles that taste just swell out of the sheer knowledge you’re saving money by having a mediocre time. The joys of discipline (feeling good about a bad time) are a treat we’re having to rely on these days.
I don’t care how, but I feel we should also say “noodles” more frequently.
It’s bound to help somehow, unless the osmosis effect is of people becoming more ‘noodley’ and that’s all too easy to envisage. The prospect of shaking hands with a ‘noodley’ man upsets me and my digits. Let’s cease this noodleyness.
Ate the noodles and spent the next hour wallowing in the few cents I’d saved in an attempt to stave off the oncoming nervousness I could feel in my thankfully ‘not-noodley’ bones.
Why was I feeling so? Noodles? Was I not feeling good enough about my bad time?
So I charged away and fled back again; meaning I exercised back and thither, hither and there across the apartment floor, waiting for the good feeling of discipline to take hold.
I would begin writing any second now.
There’s a tarnishing habit in myself and others in which we swerve in attempts to begin work by assuring ourselves we’d be far more productive at a more inconvenient time; translating to “we’ll wait till midnight to panic, by which time we’ll be far too slumberous to give the panic the performance it deserves so…might as well ‘beddiebyes’ it”.
Midnight was still a way away and so I tuned my efficiency once more, as a means of procrastination.
I washed my body and washed my clothes, became diligent in both, to the point of folding my socks and working out the creases by my eyes.
Currently…too much coffee, perhaps the inner conflict of procrastination against a righteous little hobby, or maybe the noodles let me down; in any case I’m beginning to find all actions and choices to be a slope well buttered and I’m sliding.
And now it’s tomorrow.
I’ve slept, awoken, watered and walked, before chasing my bed all the way home upon the discovery of my being unhealthy and not fit for public consumption.
And following a day in bed, I am exhausted, tired and getting the knack of being knackered (testicles are also commonly referred to in the British Isles as “knackers” and this is funny, if a tad tricky to work into this tale…goodness knows why but my testicles were not of tremendous feature this day).
Now my lass is home with me, drooling and occasionally sleeping, whilst I type this out to you feeling sad.
Third article this year and it’s a sick note from my self-created inner-mother (whom I’m finding worryingly attractive…hopefully due to her looking like me) excusing me from my tardiness and signed with an adorably audacious yet shaky signature.
I’ll write two now to make amends.
Consider it as writing lines.
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.
Vote for the same ol’ shtick; Mrs Hillary Clinton.
Whilst once there was a time in which politicians were acceptably immoral and had private agendas for which presidential powers were sought to necessitate; we are now in the perilous epoch of activism and public power.
The sway of the influence no longer is cast by those climbing by ambitious claw and tooth to the top of the perpetual foothills; for the era of personal politics is upon us.
People looking to gain an attribute beyond power are named upon the ballot slot.
Whilst we have Clinton; from the elderly school of dangerous dogs ready to bark and bite a jaw-shaped hole through their enemies in vainglorious effort of keeping the course, we also have Donald Trump – the irrelevant.
Trump has travelled through 7 decades without experiencing negative consequence, living on the accumulations of Trump the Greater and Senior – a Republican and a businessman. The father, one of the potent individual by which the United States came into fruitful fruition, died with an empire ready only to crumble.
From a 7 billion dollar legacy of concrete and formidable zeros, we look into a future of rubble and a single zero.
With Father’s empire to cushion his every failure, Donald has only one successful promotion throughout his life and this is fact that he inherited his name and fortune.
“My name is Donald Trump and I am extremely wealthy” is the successful fact; compounded by his repetition into being something he himself conjured.
And with this being his only success; Donald seeks to push the saturating idea to the hilt; “My name is Donald Trump and I am so extremely wealthy that I became President of the USA”.
A lonely failure, prisoned by his father’s success, the fortune that should have blown doors from hinges before him has constricted him to having one single phrase and one simple point: “My name is Donald Trump and I happen to be wealthy”.
For an individual without the backbone of solid achievement, and with only one thing to say, we now have the ambition that goes beyond seeking power and focuses its aim directly at legacy: Donald Trump wants to be more successful than his incredible father.
Donald wants approval that he has done something without his father, independent from the legacy that shackles him and free from the burden of his own mediocre 70 years.
Upon victory, Donald will seek another – now an international appeal, once more without substance and with the style of an ill-educated celebrity; whereupon he will be met and matched by the world of rabid politicians ferocious in their attacks to gain ground and influence.
A legacy of rubble comes tumbling towards us now, of which Donald Trump will insist on being voted most popular by those who remain.
Clinton is the antithesis of this.
For those denouncing her successes as being a matter of inheritance from her husband’s career, we should remember that she became a Senator and Secretary of State despite her husband writing her off as a figure he sought alternative company from; orally.
Hillary Clinton inherited high intelligence, few sociopathic tendencies and a moral upbringing from her parents.
With so adept a brain and education (in career as well as through a high-standard of schooling) saw her to the role of Senator and White House Secretary of State.
Her femininity, husband’s adultery and the portrayal of her as a frigid career woman caused Hillary to sharpen the teeth and strengthen the grip to hold fast until the ambition was met with completion and another challenge.
Hillary is an old-school politician with the evident will to surpass the standards tossed at her feet by challenges throughout her life; she has made selfish actions and thoughtless mistakes and these in her past are astoundingly rare and accounted for.
Clinton is spectacularly qualified as a politician and leader, whilst that sharpened ruthless edge makes for a President the nation and world is in need of.
And above all; she is a good person. Seeking changes in the world that are essential, though not easy, and changes that are right, though unpopular.
With Hillary Clinton as President of the USA, the world would have a typical leader, more of the same, spouting the day-to-day jargon we’ve come to expect and that many are revolting against.
She would do the job and well.
Donald Trump as President will be the result of a popularity contest with such self-absorbed fear that it shall supersede the point of the entire electoral process; to anoint a leader to do right by the United States of America.
Clinton now portrays what people most want changed: a removal of the jargon, of the old elite, of the dynasty, of the nepotism.
And I expect the removal of this to come profoundly so; following the defeat of Donald Trump in November.
But this depends on the will of the people.
Some vote for Hillary against Trump and vice versa.
Some vote for Hillary because of her policies and the high probability of her proficiency in the role.
Some who vote for Trump are not voting for policies or his qualifications for the role; they are voting for his personality.
And this is weak.
And for a comment on fear; I am afraid that the people of the United States are becoming beyond holding aloft as an example of how to lead the world.
I fear the United States is about to finally disappoint the world beyond reconsideration or forgiveness.
So in aggressive Western response to the economic and expansive rise of China, Brazil, Russia and China, aligned with the decline of the USA and the European Union; I’ll be keeping my chin up and sense of humour alight…I hear Canada’s popular as of late.
I suppose now I’ll need to carry a show-handkerchief and sprout a moustache for folk to tell whether they should respect me or not.
That way I’ll have two things to weep into as I think of the Queen.
I was enjoying a five pound note on Bonfire Night and came away from the experience a Monarchist.
There are only a few years left of the goodest girl, so why not be a Monarchist for the remainder?
If we were to take up republican arms and cast her out onto the Mall, I’d feel wretched.
It seems too easy to picture; the Queen dazed and confused and wondering where to make her way to now she’s without a household to come thither with a blanket and tuck her in…somewhere.
I’d have to relieve her; scoop her up in my messianic middle-class arms and take her home to meet my children. Put her in a shoe box beneath the bed where she’ll eventually die because we miss-fed her dog food.
She may be largely redundant; but it is the strict cohesion of everyone taking this redundancy too seriously that makes her too vital for the nation for us to permit her to pass away.
This being said, I also feel the rise in me of the notion that she has the will for survival as such the daughter-of-mother-nature it becomes macabre.
Butlers, maids and chauffeurs must know they are useful in their current application though also qualify too easily as eventual arrow-fodder and food source. Matter and masses; as it were.
The sensation I’m suffering in two-way tides is that of a masculine/gentleman’s urge to protect the Queen with my English manhood, and to allow her to lead me to my death in use as a barricade and elevenses’.
I’m an individual sort of chap but I’m happy to dive my head into some of that “Dear Leader” complex and feel like I’ve achieved something because I have a Queen.
I’ve got a Queen; what’ve you got?
Pfft. Don’t make me laugh inside (I’d never denote external emotion beyond “ooh what a lovely bouquet of flowers. My house is simply desolate of posies; thank you so awfully much for standing in line today”).
Democracy is for pussies and men who don’t love their grandmother enough.
Let’s talk in terms of granite here.
At war, your senate will discuss which of each of them gains possession of the fallen’s body parts, so as to knaw upon in their final few cannibalistic moments, whilst MY Queen will be standing on the beaches; with crown askew and rabid corgi by her side in delicious anticipation of being used as a by-the-tail-club-to-be-swung, sharpening her own knuckles and daring ISIS to take another step towards her.
I’ve got a Queen.
And I’ll apply her to the affected area liberally.
Why do this? What is she good for, sir?
To become a tad more staunch, perhaps sir?
The Queen makes me stiff, not only in my upper lip, but in every appropriate body part that could do with a wee bit of starching, as well as subjugately flaccid in the single area of pride and shame and irreverence to both penile emotions.
She makes me stiff like a patriot should be; stiff for my country and stiff for my Queen.
Stiffer than a millennial knows how.
The Queen is one of those few things I’ll someday cry about, simply because…she won’t cry in return.
Much like how she wept a sturdy gallon of tears for her retired battleship; she wouldn’t do that for me and I love her for it.
I know that, deep in the belly of Buckingham and Balmoral, she will let loose a lonely droplet for a corgi and she’ll never do that in front of me; and that makes me want to blubber into my stiff moustache.
The Queen is a battleship and I adore her because she sank Nazis and kept us buoyant.
What did your congress do?
Did they gather?
I’ll tell you what the nation’s ‘MRS’ did; she continued as she was bound to.
So quietly dignified that everyone knew about it.
She would wail a piece of aristocratic pottery deep into the noggin of a petulant and “awfully presumptuous” intruder and then proceed to not understand why the nation’s papers are making such a fuss.
Don’t intrude upon my Queen.
And I’ll let her loose on you if you don’t staunch up.
Come be stiff with me.
Oh well chaps. All in good spirits; I’m sure your senate and congress are a charming collection when only one gets to know them.
Here’s a scheme; how about the matinee of Comus at the Globe next Saturday?
You bribe and collect the Senate and Congress to be there for 14:30. They can each have a cushion.
I’ll bring the Queen and her throne; you fucking loser.
I can’t think of a worse way to depart.
Head first down a shark, with the smell of distinctly unbrushed shark breath, rotting fish, blood and sea water, as well as digestive juices, seeing fellow prongees: fish that are also pronged upon a miserable shark tooth and give you a look which you return; the realisation that you are both in the same situation and your future isn’t as brief as you suddenly wish it would be.
Imagine sharing a petrified glance (whilst the rest of you flails in appreciation for the final few minutes you inhabit) with a fish.
Imagine being in the same situation as a fish.
The food chain is a horrible thing not to be paramount of.
This is why we should eat lions and sharks; so they know and there’s no confusion.
All sharks should find themselves tinned at some juncture.
And don’t animal rights me, oh reader darling.
You must understand that if we weren’t land lubbers (ohhhhhhhhh watch me lubber you cunt of the ocean) then those dim-eyed bastards would be the center of our nightmares, waking or a’slumber.
Here’s a challenge.
Watch someone being eaten by a shark next to you and then proceed to relax.
I double dare you to enjoy your day following the toothing of the neighbour you once neighboured in the water.
I avoid the neck-deep ocean, but I do have a contingency plan for the event of a shark assault (probably a sexual assault at that; with the wandering teeth).
Should I see the faintest suggestion of a protruding fin or flipper in my own personal piece of ocean, I will calmly wind my way back to shore (at a leisurely speed of sound) and proceed to kiss the first grain of sand I encounter and then climb the nearest sturdy tree, clutching a collection of carefully sharpened berries.
It has to end with a tree well climbed as that way, in the off-chance of any sudden evolutionary advancements in sharks being able to walk, I’ll at least have a few million years of life to enjoy before the flippers become proficient tree climbers.
And when they shake my fruit from their branch, we’ll have a discussion-most-stabby with these sharks of the tree.
Not in my fucking tree mate.
A man’s tree is like his body; keep sharks out of it.
Not only are they the greatest threat to humanity, aside from our own propensity to procreate ourselves into to starved, traffic-tired and generally pissed off people, but they’re a tad dainty in the ole’ dramatics.
Have you seen the way they leap out of the water?
“Ooh la la, feel my splash!”
Fuck them for that too.
They do in the wild what orcas are trained to do at Sea World.
It feels as though they’re attempting to merge their way in and amongst us, slowly enjoying the privilege of being inland rather than outfield in the wetter world, just biding their time until the chance to bite our species, figuratively and literally, in half…you’ll find me in my tree.
They say you should punch them in the nose if they dare to get too curious in the chewiest sense of the word.
I’d prefer to be eaten by them on the grounds of it being a somewhat less fucking stupid idea.
That being so, I still appreciate the fuck-you-final-fight of the fighting/deceased.
You have to kick and thrive in the mouth because there’s not much else to do at this juncture.
Less so kill or be killed, more so kick ‘em in the tonsils as they seek to swallow.
I could go on by I’ve an overwhelming urge to make clear this following position, though I may already have:
Fuck you sharks.
Fuck you all.
Here’s to Japan, go get’em.
Land Lubbers for Life…although I also feel comfortable taking to the air as I feel I could fuck up an eagle (ruffle its feathers and cute little talons).
Has anyone thought that the most appropriate thing to do when they see a clown is to laugh?
We’re discussing a fucking loser, a ranked and certified loser, a loser who excels at loserhood.
How will you find something to do with your life? How about dousing your throat in makeup, putting a mask on, finding the most creepy looking knife from your mum’s kitchen draw and then hanging out in a cornfield until some teenagers come along?
And your primary objective?
You’re trying to impress people, aren’t you?
Doubt not, right along with me, that these honkers are the sort to go home after they’ve hung out in the wheat field for a few hours, feeling satisfied with their contribution to the zeitgeist, like those Anonymous arseholes.
There’s a good deal of arseholehood in wearing a mask, especially if you say you’re a good guy.
Not quite as arseholehood as a guy running at your car, hoping you pull away just in time.
They must plead in your head that you make it away in time, otherwise they’re going to be so embarrassed at the point of capture they’re going to have to murder someone because…they’ve gone this far and can’t back down now.
It’s like Trump only with slightly less ridiculous hair.
Imagine the picture as the clown loses his nerve, whilst a car full of adults with children and mortgages (positively riddled with children and mortgages), maybe with an alpha male whose been longing for an opportunity to protect his family.
There are men with cubicle jobs, dealing with traffic every morning and every night, coming home to an aging wife, expanding waistline, a despondent south facing penis and decreasingly enjoyable children, being told by his boss that he needs to try harder if he’s truly serious about this junior role, and he can’t even play cricket anymore because his daughter’s soccer class is more important and he has to visit his wife’s dad who calls him a pussy whenever he’s out of the room…any then he sees a clown staring at his car.
Walking towards him with that “Trust-me-I’m-disturbed-like-in-the-films” angle of the neck, with his mother’s most Hollywood kitchen knife dangling down at his side, his pace quickening. And then DAD remembers he’s still got his cricket bat in the boot of the car.
Oh he’ll be thanking the strange-ass culture of the world that has brought this clown into his life.
And he can’t wait to see what amusing noises will eminate from this clown.
That’s a good point; it excuses people from devastating a clown’s joke.
I’ve never actually met a clown, but I’ve reviewed the history and it would seem you’re supposed to laugh at them. Not that that’s the point; you should laugh at these losers with a honk noise because this is their Friday night.
Having a honk doesn’t make you a clown, it makes you a loser in a mask who, because of that, feels like they’re free from consequences; and the consequence of running at towards me wearing a mask and holding a machete whilst a honking noise emits from you is – I’m going to whip out my pocket baseball bat and ruin the joke.
Clowns: laugh at them.
And keep a cricket bat handy in case of potential losers trying to get a personality.
I would also like to say a quick “Hullo” to MI5 who are reading in currently.
Do you think that when you chaps drop by it could be a tad less clandestine; as I could really do with the views.
And I plan to achieve that by mentioning what follows.
I am holding a smoke grenade and just so happen to also currently be feeling fairly flippant towards the establishment.
I DON’T CARE IF IT’S A LEGAL SMOKE GRENADE BOUGHT AT A PAINTBALLING SESSION…you should still click on my page.
The smoke grenade is mightier than the pen, so sayeth the struggling writer holding a smoke grenade for maximum effect.
I am qualified.
Flaunting the potential of a terrorist threat should do get the hordes of admiring MI5 agents flocking to my page and ‘Liking’ it.
It’s almost as dreary as asking trying to impress people by wearing a clown mask.
I hope MI5 like me.
Or I’ll let off this smoke grenade in my room and show everybody.
That’ll do for today; next time I’ve got some choice words for sharks and why Hemmingway was right to machine gun them.
So these celebrities are still present.
Following the rush of celebrities passing by and away, the flood has stemmed.
Who was the last one? Prince?
And since then; I can’t think of one and it’s been months since the last.
And now I can’t even stroll down the street without colliding with some C-Lister, busying up my route on the pavement and urging me to know their name.
I am of course being ridiculous.
And why not; I’ve got enough celebrities on standby to risk being a tad ridiculous.
Who do we have left?
And she’s worth at least 70.
A regal 70.
Mick Jagger’s worth 80.
This is all relative.
Besides, Shakespeare’s dead. Whatever will he think of next?
Who’s left from the good days of our timely lives?
We’ve got Paul McCartney…
I’ve always liked Paul McCartney; the only Beatle.
Ah that’s not true, I just feel that without Paul McCartney, who is (by the way) a real whole-name kinda guy – doesn’t feel correct to say merely “Paul” or “McCartney”, is the reason the Beatles showed up on time.
One of those chaps you could rely on to wear a proper coat no matter what weather. Or who thought it’d be nice for us all to have some sandwiches and just happens to have some with him right now.
Not that he’s a sap, ole’ Paul McCartney.
I wouldn’t want to bully him.
I reckon he’s the sort of fellow to get picked on and, then, right in the middle of the scuffle, it turns out he can elbow you supremely hard somewhere convenient for him and inconvenient for you. And then he’d stagger back, looking hurt with his nice shirt collar all ruffled.
“I didn’t want to elbow you really hard there but I asked you to stop! I’m being nothing but reasonable! Well I’m sorry your private parts are hurt Sam but you really did ask for them to get a good elbowing you know.”
That’s a collision of two gross skin patches.
The elbow skin and the ball bag skin, meeting at last in an epic encounter of whose surface is the weirder, bumpier kind.
Like fried chicken skin.
Paul McCartney would be sure to pack natural remedy cream in his suitcase, explicitly for ragged elbows: “Please give it a go Sam, I want to see your elbows free to breathe again!”
Perhaps he’d be against elbow skin because of the fried chicken similarity.
Poor old vegetarians.
They have broccoli to rely on.
And that’s sad.
Broccoli is no companion. Plus it only keeps you warm if you rub yourself with it hard enough.
Rub yourself with a chicken hard enough and it’ll get you arrested, though you will easily find some feathers to fill your shitey jail pillow with.
I’m running low on time, plus my wife’s looking attractive in a fascist attitude; like she’s withdrawn my choice as to whether or not I find her hot and am simply now erect and servile.
What else do I have in my notes?
I’m not sure what that was relating to. But I brought it up.
“Nipples for the inner circle only.”
Again, I’ve not the slightest, foggiest clue as to what I was referring to when I wrote that one down, but…mentioned it!
“Fuck the Naples Mafia; who heisted those Van Gogh pictures.”
Yes. Fuck the Naples mafia verily.
I’m a fair-enough-fan of Van Gogh and consider those flat-capped, shoulder-braces, tiny cigarette smoking, just like mama-used-to-stealia-the-artworka, youa-nota-make-it-into-the-inner-nipple-circle mafia motherfuckers to have stolen that artwork from me personally.
How conceited can you be to steal a Van Gogh? That’s like stealing Mount Everest; it’s everyone’s. It’s Humanity’s; don’t touch my mountain.
Oh I would love the Naples mafia to come for me. Pussies. You ruined Naples.
Ok then, to wrap up today’s Brief Therefore Witty with hopes of mafia war (I’d win; I’ve got Paul McCartney), I’d just like to say with a tad more cultural insensitivity that fucka-the-Naples-mafia-boopidy and next time you can look forward to reading all about what to do when a clown comes running at you.
Here’s to celebrities lost…