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.
I thought you’d be asking me this at some point.
I like that.
It’s not so much that I enjoy being asked questions; rather more that I cannot help myself answering…things.
Mother Nature’s Champion on the field of sporting combat. That’s quite a compliment to pay to myself. Thanks.
Of course, your questions will revolve around football because it’s distinctly not deadly; whilst my expertise are the precise means of dismounting a foe upon horseback.
Who doesn’t joust; I mean really?
And my trick is simple.
Ride underneath the horse.
A good sturdy knot and a love for the risk of being kneed by your steed; that’s all you need to succeed in jousting.
Plus a slingshot, shiny pebble and as much hand-eye coordination as is required to clap.
Why a slingshot? Christians love it.
It’s good to please the ecclesiastical market; and they love themselves a hero with a slingshot, particularly if they’re diminutive and diminutive is a natural state of a good fellow saddled beneath a horsey.
By the way, horsey is the correct term for your mount. It shows your childish-side and this is key in fooling your opponent into thinking they’re lancing a child strapped to the belly of a steed whilst they bellow “Faster horsey! Faster!”
And then they find themselves slingshotted directly in the heart by a damn fine actor beneath a horse; plus an exquisite choice in pebble.
As I said, Christians love a slingshot-hero. The villains tend to go about their dastardly deeds with a hammer and nails (typically 3).
Oh, you want football?
Breathe these next few sentences in; why don’t’cha.
To begin with; boots are for pussies.
Barefoot your way to victory.
Take no prisoners but do take their boots (because you’re a helpful chappie).
Next up comes some actual tactics.
Don’t do it.
Do this far more regularly that shooting.
Don’t do it. This could be valuable time spent scoring.
How to score…
Real men of manliness don’t casually tuck the ball in the net, with a whooping and looping curvy bastard to delicately arrive like a really rather helpful and hopeless fish into a fisherman’s net.
Instead, please, break the net’s heart with nothing deceptive.
A ball that moves in the air is dishonest; and that’ll never do.
A real man’s kick is like a cannon.
Not a cannon that fires cannon balls, but rather more like a cannon rocketing through the air, causing defenders to scatter and wish that one day they might grow up to become a cannon kicked by me.
Also a real man doesn’t run; he chases.
And he doesn’t chase balls either.
Balls, though full of breath, neither breathe or bleed.
I require both of these facets in order to justify a chase.
Besides; we’re in no position to be in any position but a Goalkeeper.
The Goalkeeper should allow the opposing team to approach as near as they like and then, once a shot is shot (a shot being all it’ll amount to), he shall simply swipe away the ball with casual reproach, uttering extremely quietly to himself (and the ball): “No.”
That’s how I’d play football if I weren’t so occupied dismounting baddies from their horsies.
I always take their boots.
That’s how you play football; by taking the spoils.
You know you all desire the plunder.
So go get it; with superior kicks.
Keep up the sports guys and girls; it’s good for the success story.
Like me; because I’m the greatest human to ever live.
And so are you.
Well, since it’s the 30th June and I am rapidly losing time till midnight – cutting it fine indeed in terms of my thorough discipline of writing an article at least once a month (I don’t know why I do this and neither do you so I’ll insist on laziness being permitted) – I am reaching for a topic to blow my load of verbiage upon.
And I’m going to do so with the following:
How to Get Over the Girl
Now, I know what I mean by this, and although you might not you should therefore consider yourself lucky.
Prior to beginning however I’ll make clear that this shall be a writ in reference to the love of my life; by no means my wife, and my attempts to deal with the afterwards.
My wife and I (myself about to become a divorcee at the succulent age of 25 and 10/12ths) are irrelevant to the topic in my manly hands so; forget that aspect (just an aspect).
By the way, don’t marry out of sympathy.
I am instead in reference to a girl that has thus far been the image of point in my life. The thought of her is why I do things and this is my point.
Or at least up till fairly recently in our relationship of on-again-off-again lovers and friends, for within the past year I have come to think of her as a loving part of my still young youth for which I am as of yet unable to compare and humble, but am proudly aware of my growing understanding that the girl will, perhaps, be replaced by another aspect. Maybe this one with event prettier eyes.
I’m getting ahead of myself on account of my need to say what occurs and have some words written, so I’ll return to advice rather than feelings (Eew).
So, when looking to get over the girl, do the following:
- Bite Someone.
Now, this may seem a little fucking crazy (just a tad) but I truly recommend it.The biting of another simply places oneself into an entire new realm of people who would wish to go about some business with you.
Now it may be, as I’m sure you will have considered in the few short seconds since reading, an aggressive attitude that comes forth from either the limb or appendage of the person you have encountered tooth-wise.
Let’s see where a little aggression goes, but by no means enter the combat zone with this person, just tickle her/him with your teeth and explain why you did so…
“Why? Because I AM NOT A WEIRDO!” is what I would go about with, audibly.
Explain that this has never occurred to you before but the moment you saw this person you were overcome with an urge to nibble, and so did. Because you’re a natural kind of guy. Or girl.
And this part is crucial.
Much in the same way as you ask a lady for a dance or a drink or date, it depends rather very much so on who you ask.
There is of course a chance that this will fail most uproariously in a manner which shall bring about your eventual crying (By the way; don’t cry. Wail and hump. And bite) over how ridiculous you were for biting someone so as to take your mind of a girl…but it could work.
“Look. I feel bad, it’s kind of hot out here and I’m sure we all have places to be. All I can offer you is a chance of revenge and, judging by my currently placid demeanour – it looks like this will not negatively escalate – that’ll be the end of this.”
Offer them your credit card and passport, your workplace information and the most disappointed-in-you family member’s contact details; make clear you apologise entirely and with depth, but also be sure to enlighten with a proposal.
- Bite Someone Who Looks Like They Could Handle a Biting.
If they appear as though your teeth and their completely unrelated lives should remain as such…bite them not.If they look like they might take part in a little biting back…have at it. I hope you enjoy it.
Be sure to yourself that I make no course for romance here; just something else.
And something else can be one of the greatest things of all you ever needed.
Not that I’ve ever tried it of course for, although I am a biter, I am also a tickler; and that’s why I’m getting divorced.
By the way, this new girl, with the tickling; massive victory.
Maybe I should have bitten instead.
- Don’t Tickle Someone. That’s My Move.
I could drift further in some meandering montage of well deliberated thought entwined with a stream of consciousness brought about by the hour and that it is due, but I shall save more advice for recovering and succeeding from the girl at a later date.For next time on samsywoodsy.com however…” I Am THE GREATEST HUMAN TO EVER LIVE and Why”
See you then, you clever folk you.
And apologies for the inconsistency, but forget ye not I am the greatest human to ever live. Because that equates to leeway.
So hand some over.
(P.S. I’m not even going to proofread this am I? Fuck.)
It’s good to have a phrase. And this one’s mine.
I was thinking about the state of the planet and I concluded that the best means to go about saving it would be to place its inevitable destruction in the hands of someone profoundly pleasant – like me, baby.
Not that our negatives outweigh anything much at all, let alone our positives, but at least I came out of the thought process with a phrase to my name.
The scenario would go as such:
“Hey – you guys with the demolition equipment, and you fellows over there with the sticks and stones, and you gentle-folk with the vast amounts of crude oil running down your suit. Stop it. Stop it or I’ll melt you. Stop it before things get awfully radioactive around here. Stop it, because I’m a nice guy with a nuke…and one hell of a phrase.”
‘Nice guy with a nuke and one hell of a phrase’.
I’ve come out with a fair few number of these – as I’ve said before; I was born to write T-shirts.
Should the world begin to spin a new axis and send us whirling off into a grand and beautiful playground of planets – I’ll have the perfect T-shirt phrase for you.
Something like: “The Earth flung me into space and…it’s not too bad actually.”
I would wear the shit out of literature like that.
I’d blend in with all the super-cool inter-stella types who feel the planet’s disassociation with them was a good move.
Sometimes all you need is something to say.
Here’s an example.
I’ve begun to annotate Gideons bible, wherever he leaves it.
Having stayed in multiple hotels recently, I’ve found the few blank pages by the final cover to be too tempting to leave looking so pale. So I’ve taken to inking them up a tad.
Largely, the text has revolved around why one feeling the need to reach for a bible might first consider being waylaid by my words – words which suggest a little self-help.
I’ve gone about it in points. 7 points made to waylay the reader seeking some sort of prophetical depth and meaning from a book famed for causing perpetually self-flagellation/immolation/canonisation and instead offer them some means of self-help largely focusing on gratitude of being a species member easily able to flood one’s own being with endorphins.
That this is possible is reason to be cheery enough, even before we indulge in our sexually explicit, intellectually stunning, physical-adrenaline seeking brethren of folk intent on having a good time seeing as how we’ve all discovered how great clothes are and why it’s so jolly to remove them.
This is the sort of thing I write in the bible; I recommend you flip to the back.
On the subject of religion, I had a thought or two more about what I would like to return as.
Not in any sense of reincarnation, but rather to what purpose I would like my overly willing body to be charitably donated to following my grizzly passing (if my passing isn’t grizzly then I’m not entirely sure what the point of being there for it is at all).
Death by most means seems applicable to me. Likely suicide since it yields a tremendous degree of satisfaction drawn along with the identity of ‘my way’ and ‘on my terms’. I prefer the far more teenage phrasing of it, being: “it’s my life. I do what I want with it.”.
However, as amusing as possible would perhaps be the most communally-minded a way of departing our way to “dusty death”, particularly if able to spread myself over an enormous surface area and knock seagulls out of the sky and wake the dog up.
I’d quite like to explode.
Hot air balloons seem most appropriate for this.
So appropriate I’d put it on a T-shirt; “How do I want to die? Hot air balloon.”
Still – there is the question of what becomes of my leavings.
I like the idea of my dick being held in a trophy case by an enthusiast. Blue Peter badge holders only have access, must be this high and over 18 to ride.
Otherwise, I think I’d make a great bow and arrow.
I’d be a better bow and arrow than you.
I’ve often described myself as just sinewy and bendy enough to be deadly unto game at 18 yards. That’d be a heck of a thing to be considered my remains. Plus I’m an uncle and I like the idea of my niece being able to say she killed an elk using her uncle. I’d like that; it’s good to be useful.
Or a wallet. It’s also good to be a wallet. I like the idea of all my tattoos being flayed from what once was all I physically was and then being made into nice purse for a special gal in what was my life. That ball bag of mine would be perfect for this. Quite an inheritance.
Or a candlestick. This way I could still attend family weddings since I’d be part of the wedding gift list.
Now then, now then. There’s no masochistic tendencies being written about here – rather a sincere query into what’ll happen in the most final of moments. I’m not overly keen to experience the sensation of being pulled and twisted into the candlestick design drawn by a family member, but if I’m on the way out I might as well make it memorable. I’d be a candlestick who had seen a thing or two. Getting lit.
People at the wedding would bicker and quarrel and would lament how the wallet made of their mother and the pew made from Uncle Hugh (“He did love his rhymes!”) are better than one another – citing history regarding why the cousin-made mantelpiece and sister-made skirt never liked each other anyway.
And then I’d stroll in, nuke in hand and phrase on tongue – about to indulge in a large surface area following a suspiciously nukey bang.
I’ve been thinking for a while of my time lately that what I need to get myself going would be the threat of nuclear annihilation.
It’d get me out of bed. And into the meadow.
Just look at the breadth of creativity born from people believing the looming green glow of the most horrible afterwards was perpetually at a 2 minutes to midnight proximity to the end of their lives in the 1980’s.
We could do with that.
Just imagine the haircuts we’d have.
If the common man thought tomorrow’s weather was going to be particularly murderous for the skin then he might go about his next pre-nuke hair-styling with the mantra of: “More dolphins. More pinstripes. More tooth-trophies. These have been missing from my hair thus far.” and then we’d stare at him and enjoy his head.
The liberation is head-bound. We’d be buoyant because what we do to our upstairs growth is going to be somewhat without consequence…and with dolphins.
I could offer you access to the mentality to inspire a hair-do such as this. Just give me the nuclear key to turn, and then help me with my fragile wrists (I’m flawed when it comes to twisting things).
Knowing that somewhere out there there’s a pleasant man with a nice (NICE!) smile who might lean to the East a tad too, oh so too much and nudge two things: (1) a bulbous button into action and (2) you…into either oblivion or next Thursday.
Naturally one argues against this point that this imminent reality is a real reality and we should take inspiration from the probability of a vehicle’s rapid insertion of itself (via a driver) into your physical frame of somewhat-now irrelevant bones and meat (at which point you went from a pedestrian to a mess in a horrific neatness of time) into several poorly compiled heaps of person. People being described as heaps always equates to things having turned sour on a level great enough to be mentioned.
My response to this is as such: yep, but knowing everyone else is going to die will treat you to a level of comfort in how you wear your hair which you cannot be granted by merely being struck by the typical example of speeding driven metal. You lazy fuck – get thee to a nunnery and prepare for the heavy bomb full of nukey-goodness.
Having one more day of neighbours will grant you a piece of peace one can only achieve otherwise by spending a plentiful amount of your time attempting to realise that not only are you going to rot – but you’re going to start before you even die.
So let down your hair (and your parents), find yourself a phrase to your name, and prepare thyself for the dropping of bombs by a man so pleasant you’re going to wish you’d gotten him a going-away gift before the day’s sky began to quickly darken.
Oh well, at least we had the haircuts.
You’ve been great,
Tomorrow I’m going Skydiving.
That’s not the odd part.
The odd part is that I feel relatively fine…and I’m about to jump out of a plane.
I thought I’d give a commentary as much ‘as it happens’ as possible, so am starting with the night before the jump so as to give some insight.
I have a feeling I’m about to be develop a deep and loving relationship with parachutes and meeting the ground slowly, but am also sure that a sincere freakout is on the way, at 12,000 feet.
I’m hoping that the adrenaline and sensation won’t cause me to say something stupid afterwards when asked “What’s it like?”: “Uhm. Er. I…It’s like having the fan on”
I’ve heard that you’re supposed to scream as you jump- so I’ve been thinking that I might as well sing a song on the entire way down, it’s just a matter of fixing onto which song for the journey down.
Now, it’s about 10 minutes from plane to Earth, so I’m thinking either two songs with some supreme guitar solos (‘Freedbird’ or ‘Stairway To Heaven’) or three sweet songs to help with the plummeting.
Other than that I’m pondering the following: ‘Afternoon Delight’, ‘Breath’ (Pink Floyd) and ‘Why Do Fools Fall In Love’. For a 9 AM jump at this time of the summer- they should go down hopefully just as well as I do.
Other than that- all I have to do is make sure I’m wearing clean underwear (in case of post-mortem) and bid my loved ones farewell.
As I said before- I still feel fine, but have a sense I’ll be feeling distinctly unusual in about 12 hours time. I’m going to have to get up early. Maybe being sleepy will help with the fear. Sure as hell is a good way to wake up- don’t think I’ll bother with coffee.
See you tomorrow.
Day Of The Jump.
I was supposed to wake up at 6 and awoke at 5 instead.
Last night my wife asked me very nicely not to die “Please?”- I shall do my best to do as she asks, as a favour to her to be later called in.
I have bid my friends a facebook farewell and now feeling pleasantly excited about the forth-coming experience, though I am also glad that it is apparently over and done with in the grand total of 20 minutes.
There were some thoughts floating about my head in bed as I tried to sleep, thoughts reminiscing my bungee-jump from a year ago. A feeling of missing a step for about 6 seconds and, far from a scream, a deep guttural lurching sound from my depths. Not quite ‘Afternoon Delight’ as I am hoping. We shall see.
Although I am fully confident that by mid-afternoon today I will either be sipping a celebratory drink with my co-jumpers or sitting back here in my living room do much the same as I am right now…but there are still those necessary nerves that I hope will be quashed by the adrenaline I know is also soon on the way.
So, until afterwards guys…
I’ve Been Skydiving.
I feel goooooooooooooooooooood.
Feeling good with a capital ‘fuck yeah’.
Let’s run through what happened to me a few hours ago.
I arrived early at the air-field, signed in to at the front desk, was made a provisional member of the Parachute Association (“I got my provisional!”) and promptly made my way to the nearest lavatory so as to use the hell out of it. I think I lost about a kilo in there.
I was weighed and measured and told to wait for a long time- about an hour, at which point I was sent to a post-jump briefing for those first timers amongst us.
Much like the ride for a roller-coaster, this was the most terrifying part of the experience. About an hour in all went by until I was called to be suited up and to meet my professional.
The suiting up, the brief plane-ride up to 12,000 feet and being tucked up into a flying tin with a dozen other leapers was of little consequence to the experience. Aside from when the winks and handshakes began making the rounds- bringing with them about a little comradery as though we were of some fellowship bound together to return to Earth smiling and alive.
I felt fine until my pro wished me luck- which I felt a tad disconcerting. Why would I need luck when, if the worst and squishiest were to happen, that would be your responsibility and, my word, my mother would make knowledge of your name and pursue you. I didn’t tell him that.
“When you get to the rim of the door, tuck your feet under the plane and scream”
Quite an instruction, which I looked to heartily obey.
We sat with our legs out of the plane, the noise furious, the wind awakening and the view endless, we rocked back…and then forwards…
The screaming, they said (and as I discovered), was very necessary as not to do so would result in a sky’s amount of air cramming its way into your lungs as you go hurtling.
I found this to be true, only the scream I made was not a conscious effort (on my part anyway), whereas the breathing certainly was.
The sensation of the free fall (lasting about 20-25 seconds) is about as much as you can feel with the entirety of your being. You don’t think- you can only feel. Feeling is all you can do, aside from the scream. “Remember to breathe” was not a sentence uttered in my head- it was an equation grandly smashed together within my noggin which activated my nerves and made my upper-torso go: “Breath now”.
This was not just a matter of air rushing in and your lungs trying to cope with that- it’s also because you’re getting distracted by the 130mph plummet that’s happening to you right now.
You fall fast. You really do. You fall so fast you forget things, like breathing. I descended so quickly I forgot I had brown hair and am male. That is some good falling.
As I was a tandem jump- I was required to have a stern pensioner strapped to my back, whilst this same poor gent was made to wear me as a belly and crutch warmer, a lifestyle I hold very little merit in. No one told me I would have to sit on this man’s lap as though he was an armchair. He was so armchair like, he was even pleasantly leathery with reasonable wear and tear.
This man was my pro and his name was Clem- a former cabbie who was convinced by a military friend of his to jump out of a plane for charity in 1981, a thing apparently unheard of at the time. On that first jump of his, Clem immediately arranged a sudden change of career and has been doing this ever since.
“It’s a good deal safer than being a cabbie” he told me whilst winding up the parachute. “I’ve never had a knife pulled on me in this job”. I felt inclined not to change this- Clem being a lovely guy and I didn’t wish to disrupt his quality leatheriness.
Following the jump, and the immediate manner in which one attempts to explain the sensation to others, you realise just how over used superlatives are. The sensation of the fall was far beyond such now-meaningless words as ‘Amazing’ and ‘Incredible’, this being why all I can think of for it is to say perhaps “Unreal” and to encourage others to try it. As I said earlier- all you can do is feel. At 120 miles per hour. Powerful.
My throat still hurts- the fact that I could hear my own scream (and I swear I could hear myself laughing as well) means that I must have been loud and my sore throat qualifies this as likely true. It turns out that your own personal volume is surprisingly easy at 12,000 feet. Why was I laughing- some sort of jolly hysteria perhaps, but I am left to assume that this speed is just funny.
Like when you receive, with no invite, a swift shin to the bollocks and your being is screaming at you: “SAM?! ARE YOU STILL IN CONTROL BECAUSE THIS FEELS LIKE YOU’RE NOT!” and all you can do is reply: “AAAAAARRRRRRGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHH THIS IS HUMOUROUS!”
And then Clem let loose the parachute and we slowed down incredibly and the only uncomfortable moment of the experience occurred- not the sudden grabbing action upon my testis, but the potent realisation of how fast my heart was pounding. Struggling to get one’s breath back and to allow time to process what just happened- you are bound by only one thought which cancels all worry: this is lovely. Messing about with parachutes.
Clem allowed me to steer as well- doing what are called ‘fast turns’: “Pull the right handle to turn right, turn the left handle to turn left, do not pull them both or we will crash, and don’t look directly down”.
To give an idea of the height and speed, four of these ‘fast turns’ (lasting about 5 seconds each) equated to dropping the height of Canary Wharf from top to bottom.
It was following the ‘fast turns; and now on the slow decent that Clem casually stated in my ear: “By the way, we’ve lost a highly important piece of equipment”
“Oh. Oh, okay, well it was a pleasure knowing you Clem…”
I realised that the ripple of terror throughout my being was surely lessened by the adrenaline I could still taste on my tongue, before Clem assured me the equipment was missing from the air-field only- not from us.
Upon landing and returning to the canteen the taste was stronger and I felt compelled to combat this with an orange ice-pole. At this point, with my certificate for jumping in one hand, my dripping ice-pole in the other and the enlightening sense of potential in myself and in the world made me feel as totally complete as I have in many years.
As it turns out, for future reference, I’m a jumper.
And ‘face-first’ is once more proven to be the preferable way to go about something.
On the ground Clem and I embraced, folded up the parachute, and enjoyed a brief debate about how natural this all was.
I argued that the Skydive itself was unnatural, but that skydiving was like a joke- the fear of uncertainty and shock followed by the relief of the enjoyable comfort that makes you laugh, and this was natural. That and the 130 miles per hour that happen to your face-first whilst you’re essentially just lying down, mixed with the accomplishment of curiosity- once more- a natural aspect of the dive.
Clem argued that super-markets were also unnatural and so we left it there.
“Is that the fastest I’ve ever travelled?” I asked Clem.
“Not if you’ve ever travelled in a commercial plane before, but it is the fastest you’ve travelled without mechanical assistance” he replied.
“Didn’t the plane help quite a bit in getting us up there then?”
I countered, for the sake of it really, and the debate began to ensue once more before the bus back from the field to the canteen arrived to collect us. As it turns out, squeezing an unfolded parachute into the front compartment of a bus is one of the more amusing things to watch someone attempt to do. Poor old Clem.
There we go, that should do it.
Maybe it will feel different next time, which will surely happen soon.
Thanks to Skydive Headcorn.