It’s Time To Travel

It’s time to travel.

Question mark?

It’s time to travel because you have time to read this and, whilst this might be shooting myself in the world-dusty foot, travel is far more worth your time than anything I have to say.

And travel is worth your time, because you are worth your time.

All you ever really had was yourself and the Earth.

I think I’ll try some larger font sizes to encourage you to do it; maybe if the writing is thuddier – you’ll get to it.

Travel.

Besides the talent, brains, good looks and whatever else you thought others had to their advantage, you still had yourself and you still had the Earth.

So go plunder and soak-up the soak-up-ables of this world, because of the greatest regrets the occupants of deathbeds claim (other than not learning another language – which’d is hardly comparable to travelling: you’d just end up saying you regret not-travelling in stunted Francais) – the most claimed and most rued truth is the road most travelled having been merely stomped on by yet another.

Travel.

These are the times you need to think back in history, when the Earth was slightly less ancient and joining/being press-ganged into the military was your best chance of seeing the world and therein giving some kudos to the definition of ‘living’.

Travel, please.

‘Living’ isn’t in the cubical, nor is it the job title on the door to the office you’re yet to occupy.

Nobody looks back on their life wishing they’d played more Candy Crush, unless of course it were whilst whiling away the hours in the back of a tour bus – but that’s a real waste of scenery.

Travel, now.

I’d done a fair bit of here-and-there-ing in my 27 years of life, and whilst those times were tremendous – it was my 7 months of travel through South East Asia, Australasia, New Zealand and North America that really sealed the deal as to how I felt about Earth and why I was strolling around upon it.

Get gone and (no offence) just go away.

Now I’ve been home for several months now and have gone about day-to-day life as best I can, and thus I’ve had the time to process the experiences of my travel and what they now mean to me.

And here’s what’s key in my thinking: travel is not my everything, but my everything is very different now I’ve travelled.

It’s hard to return to the corporate world and give two tupenny tosses about the printer machine’s new button and how only Bodoni MT Condensed is the only font capable of truly expressing us as a company.

Instead, I remember flying…on a bus.

It’s an easily achievable method of motion once your driver realises that (1.) he is incredibly late for the tour’s scheduled arrival and (2.) you get more job satisfaction when you’ve put your passengers in surreal danger and gotten them out from it because you were dangerous.

We were hurtling our way through some ethereal mountain roads in Vietnam – heading north to Dalat at speeds illegal outside of South East Asia.

The view was typical of Vietnam; four feet away and consisting of a thick grey mist that a bus’s headlights couldn’t penetrate (but the rest of it certainly could at top speed) – with intermittent splashes of wondrous valleys and awe-inspiring mountains of that dark green that speaks such a wealth of nature one can only feel a little hurt at how the Earth has got so much going on besides you.

And despite our 10-moutains-per-hour speed – some corners required the nuances instilled from days as an experienced mountain bus driver. It was on one of these two-minute turns in which the passengers clenched their stomachs, buttocks and Candy Crush drenched Ipads in preparation for the imminent through-the-floor pedalling that our driver was treating us with, that I looked out of my window to see what locals were nearing the bus.

Three young children, looking very cold and very wet, took steps towards us in crappy plastic shoes, their hands upturned and out-stretched in the international sign for begging, though with that hurried professional assuredness that comes from knowing the passengers on board had gold to spare and the indulgence with which to sprinkle it like fairy dust all over Vietnam.

We knew they would act upon our pity, big eyes and little feet in even crappier plastic shoes than the last sentence, calling to us: “Please!” whilst we did our best to ignore; knowing that a dollar now meant it was less likely they’d ever be sent into school and have a chance to learn their way out of those shoes and down from the mountain.
Seeing life like that makes you put down the donut.

But what I saw next as we sped away from these three children made me want to throw a donut into the sky, thump it with a baseball bat with all the strength I could muster into the mouth of anyone who wanted to join the game, all due to the sheer fact that satisfying hunger is fine, but some things are eternally fun.

Another corner, another three children come into view, utterly and completely uninterested in the potential for making out-of-school money from enormous tourists…because they were – gleefully as I’ve learnt only people doing this can be – playing with a fireball.

They didn’t have lunch, but they sure as sweet hell had a fireball. And it was satisfying.
I don’t know where they got it from, but they had gotten themselves a fireball and were being entirely appropriate with it – picking it up barehanded, throwing it at (not ‘to’; fuck ‘to’) one another (the drizzle cooled them down), kicking it up and down the mountain and smiling their teeth into another dimension.

I’ve never seen humans do anything better than how those little Vietnamese children conducted themselves with their fireball guest of gusto, their small bundle of vibrant, amazing joy that excited them so much that hunger could go and fuck itself.

Additionally, I promise you that this is not metaphorical. They were holding a fireball and lobbing it at their friends.

I wish I had a fireball, and sitting at a desk, reading a snooty email either complimenting or complaining (I can’t be bothered to find out which) about my choice of font, I remember the two trios I encountered in those Vietnamese mountains.

The three hungry children and the three fireballers. Both living total alternatives to the life of a typical Englishman, and now I step forward knowing of them both.

That’s progress, that’s healthy, that’s an experience you tell the grandchildren about and that’s travelling.

And again, this experience was not my everything, but now my everything means something very different to me.

Travel – either do that or cure cancer with video games; one’s more likely and one’s possibly even more enjoyable (not that I’ve cured cancer with video games).

Fireballs and hunger, hunger and fireballs.

Travelling.

Sam

(P.S TRAVEL)

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How To Win A Fight Without Dignity

I wonder how I’d win a real fight.

I hate to think of the victor merely being the superior shover.

Punching is very hard to accomplish with any degree of accomplishment. It really takes two to tango, and an equal number to punch and be punched. And if that other guy doesn’t want to be punched, it’ll take a lot of convincing or a monumental favour to be repaid.

Sure you throw a punch, or perhaps more likely you’ll proffer a soft and awkwardly angled set of barely curled knuckles in the direction of his personhood, but you’re more likely to be aggressively flailing.

And this is ineffective.

Stop being ineffective.

Particularly when considering his response to your flailing is to flail back.

Retaliatory flailing is the assured way of no punches being thrown and no punches landing because you’re all to busy enjoying a nice flail against each other’s wrists, necks and lapels.

I don’t want to flail, but it’s better than successfully landing a blow and then suffering the depressing lack of positive consequence to it.

Imagine having the ideal draw of elbow with which to fling your perfectly crunched-up fist with utmost accuracy against and into that sweet spot on his chinny-chin-chin.

And he proceeds to look at you with all audacity it takes to remain standing and the lack of decency to even have a next-day bruise. He bruises like a brick; hitting him hurts.

Then consider the utter failure of your apparent zero knockout power is equalled by the stinging pain of fractured fingers that’ve suffered the distinctly bad time of colliding with something altogether more impressive and coming off, not only worse, but pitied.

The punched-yet-smiling chap proceeds to proffer a rugged hand whose strength you feel as it shakes your wrist to the very point of being registered on the Richter scale, that it could send you and your inconsiderable chin through the door, floor, ceiling, family dinner, town hall meeting, santos grotto, or whatever else is in the same direction as his punch.

You know what’d be worse than the punch; the fact that the watch you see following up behind it, like a bride’s wedding train, is nicer and more expensive looking than you car, house and wife combined and there’s no way he’s going to do a swapsies.

This kind of chap could punch through even your finest flailing and then he’d save your life with that utterly masculine First Aid he learnt on a business course in which he really did rather impress the former army guys doing the training.

Despite the testament of cannibals, people don’t taste good and even that dopey dose of adrenalin that powers you to nobly bite his ankle isn’t going to persuade your taste buds that this was a good idea. Whilst biting works, especially when eating, it is a move that will gain you no fans, only a wide community of people who prefer to know just how close you’re standing to them and their ankles.

Plus, this chap would simply ‘ankle’ you into the ground, charisma his way into convincing your teeth into changing whose team their on and, ultimately, punch you on-in-and-up the nose.

In a fight, the nose is a place to be, and brother I’ve been there. Or, more accurately, I’ve hosted visitors.

And whilst the nose holds that stinging and shocking sensation of pain that also handily blinds your foe for a mo, it falls pathetically in comparison to kicking a swaying pair testicles. Testicles, surprisingly, tend to mind their own business in most matters, and are hence utterly surprised themselves by the intended collision with whatever you’ve elected to swiftly introduce them to.

I mentioned how this fellow would ‘ankle’ you, at will. Don’t try this yourself. It’s like attempting to Adam’s Apple a fellow into submission and pretty much comes down to an embarrassing and ineffectual rub. He might even enjoy it. He might even pay a woman to do it for him, though without the Adam’s Apple.

Hair pulling is one of those things you don’t want to happen to you, especially in a case it turns out you enjoy it and enjoy it too much too. I’ve no doubt sudden arousal can be an intriguing aid in combat, especially if you have an heavily armoured and sharpened penis, but the distraction of enjoying the hurt would certainly be a disadvantage. Plus you’ll need that blood for pulsing around your body, not to flooding it all into one brand new 6-inch limb.

And in such a case, why not tug his hair too, for you both might get a literal rise out of it and could bring a cessation to conflict

My advice is this.

Run away and prepare to show him who’s boss when he’s not looking, develop a limp as an excuse to carry a walking stick (strolling shalaylee) and proceed to be ‘the funny guy’ for a good long while onward so as to avoid the slightest possibility of conflict.

He’s probably more than agreeable anyway, especially when he’s standing behind you as backup for when your jokes aren’t going down so well.

All the best,

Sam


Watching the Sun Rise is Unproductive

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.

Sam


How to Play Football Like Messi, Pele…ME (I am the Greatest Human to Ever Live. Part 7)

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.

Shooting.

Don’t do it.

Scoring.

Do this far more regularly that shooting.

Passing.

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.

Like me; because I’m the greatest human to ever live.

And so are you.

Champion.

Sam


How to Get Over the Girl

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.

    Good.

    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.

    Bite.

    It’s endearing.

    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.

    Sam

    (P.S. I’m not even going to proofread this am I? Fuck.)


Nice Guy With A Nuke

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’.

It’s mine.

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.”

There.

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.

Also T-shirt-applicable.

You’ve been great,

Sam


Everyone’s dying…even Hamster

Famous folk have been multiplying for the past 20 years.

In a sense- everyone could be famous with the internet being such a method and audience for ourselves; talented or hilariously-otherwise.

However, the fact that the pop-culture hero has been an increased branding for an overwhelming number of people, it also means that those famous individuals of the past 20-30 years are starting to pop-their-clogs…and die.

That’s what’ll happen if you watch things as opposed doing things. Not that there’s anything wrong with listening to your favourite band or viewing a black-and-white classic, it just means that you’ll know who we’re talking about when we say a person has died. You’ll know the year of their screen debut, the theme-song of their most popular series and you’ll say again and again: “I remember him! He had that thing with the actress, you know her name, the one who had that thing with that actor. And that cult!”

These people become a part of your life; either as important cultural aspects for enjoyment or as alternative babysitters.

The twentieth century- with the arrival of great archival technology (the damned internet) we are now, all of us, far easier to remember. So long as we have a computer.

As far as we can see, our digital footprint is eternal.

So: well done us. I suppose we’ve achieved what the alchemists of immortality never could- we are forever.

Good.

If all of Peter Cook’s comedy had died with him then I would not be the man-child I am today. Shakespeare would merely have been a dead-man who lived with inky fingers and Robin Williams would simply be a man who appeared to be in quite a hurry. Rather, Robin Williams was a man who taught me to laugh at such things as death (such as by suggesting that Robin was one of those rare men suffering from too many belts).

Looking back at his stand-up, post-mortem, I know that he might not have laughed owing to the joke being a tad-shit, but he wouldn’t have minded the cause. Humour is here to be forgiven.

These days, death is not quite the disability that it used to be. Communication ‘during the grave’ (since ‘beyond’ the grave might not be as far as some presume) is a lot less spooky than we might have thought.

But what of those without a computer or a Top 10 Hit? Like a Tudor electrician- a man who didn’t have much to do and didn’t know how to do it anyway. He is not remembered (not just due to him being fictional), but neither is the ancient caveman who had no talent for murals.

I’m afraid their memory must be only that the species is currently where it is. Without them, we would not be. And that’s all. Almost seems hardly worth being a peasant really. Other than this, all the tales and experiences of their lives simply fall in the beginnings and ends of eternity. Extraordinarily private moments and lonely thoughts in forgotten actions. Or joyous- yet still alone.

I have a hamster. His name is Hamster.

He’s just the best. My little champion. I’d trust him with anything- I’m sure he’d be on my side when the teeth begin to bite all around me.

He’s dying.

We’ve even got the shoe-box ready.

My wife made a point of putting it next to his little enclosure, to which I objected. You wouldn’t start digging the hole in full view of your almost-deceased relative; it’s hardly encouraging and equates to yawning and continually peeking at your watch towards the end of an evening with colleagues. To yawn and peek at my watch in front of Hamster with subtle nods to entering the shoe-box prematurely would be of no effrontery in the slightest towards him since he only hopes that I will continue to put him on my head when in high-spirits, though I could not bear to appear rude to such a comforting friend.

However, I’m sure to bury him somewhere smelly- he enjoyed busy nostrils. Plus I’m sure the foxes would appreciate the corpse to nibble on. I’m sure they’ll enjoy his once-busy nostrils too.

Or….or….I could use him for something. Like lobbing him at an enemy. That’d be pretty insulting.

Or I could render him for fat- that’s something I’ve heard you can do with the dead.

Personally I’d like to leave my body to science. Rocket-science.

But I’ll probably just bury him. In a shoebox. Old fashioned.

The only alternative would be that he didn’t die, in which case there’s no reason that anyone should die and now we are being wishful and fictional. I don’t know about you, but personally I adore to be able to swing cats, and the thought of that right being taken from me owing to the elderly-gentleman on my right eating up my elbow room with his sheer mass and numeracy freaks me out. That’s not how swinging a cat should be. It’s should be noisy, but it should not be compact. It’s expressive for all parties; just listen to it in motion.

With too many people comes too many problems, like we’ve always had. Our social-species is programmed to be concerned over how many of us there are. I’m not sure what the perfect number would be but whenever we dip below or rise slightly above, we worry we’re going to run out of oxygen or there aren’t enough of us to overwhelm a bear.

This is the ultimate issue however- running out of oxygen because too many new or old folk are inhaling.

This is one of those situations that can be solved either by murder or sex- thankfully not as one.

My advice to you all is to stop procreating. As politely as possible- we don’t want anyone to be offended by our sudden genital removal.

Although we’re not running-out of anything yet, we no longer have too-much as we used to. Remember all that buffalo and tuna? Well, although I’m sure you could go and get yourself a buffalo and tuna sandwich, the bread is becoming the easiest part of it and this is a negative.

In all seriousness, bread is peasant food and none of us are peasants.

Fuck bread. If you don’t pull it out of the ground or pounce on it from a super-secret hiding place then I shall remain uninvolved.

If this hamster dies then I’ll have to insist that this plant keeps the ghost going.

My last plant- Claire- had a massive stroke and died. If I’d have stroked her a little less heavy-handedly, she might still be blooming and green, rather than barren and an unpleasant shade of “You-did-this-to-me-Sam’ brown.

Hamster’s starting to turn a little that colour. A colour you can smell before you can see.

The new plant is a southern beauty named Barbara. And she will survive.

It’s what Claire would have wanted.

But what else is there to do aside from to die?

The ‘meanwhile’ is all that exists between now and then, so whilst I implore you to politely cease all procreation- remember that it is for the joy of swinging a cat as fervently as one’s human nature allows.

Be sure to live prior to what is likely unending-death.

Swing the cat and rub its tummy afterwards. Permit it to nuzzle into yours if agreeable.

Dance, sing, laugh, love and ‘all that’- but remember the point of man in the enlightened definition is to die upon your own terms: following the life you chose to have led or had died fighting for.

Either die fighting or loving, for that enormous shoebox coming to claim you will give no glinting eye nor slightest smile in concern for your words and deeds. Only those remaining on the blue-green rock have a concern for your passing, aside from one more: you. You are the greatest judge of a life well or poorly spent and my recommendation is that you give less of a damn considering the end and more of a moment exploding yourself all over everything you want to do prior.

If a man can choose and enjoy his poison then he is so: a man. Have you any idea of how much your body would prefer it if you were to continue what you’re doing: sitting? Even exercise is bad for you in the singular; only when it is regular is it of decent consequence. Your body craves for lack of danger in the form of you sitting most contently and eventually procreate. Sitting till procreation would be the dictation of your genes if only those predators would stop blending in with the Savannah-sofa and doing that splendidly provocative pouncing they do.

Why is it that only bad things (predators) in nature pounce, whilst pouncing is in all appearances and phrases a good thing? There’s nothing better than a physical pounce to make an argument memorable. Pouncing was how I met my wife. All of a sudden.

The people you love are on the final call of the stage, your parents and pets share a similar fate and you are sitting there- vaguely wondering.

Cease wonder and attack with all the ferocity that our species is known for, with aim focused mightily upon the experience of living with…only one more recommendation. Tolerate no tyrants, and enjoy the weather.

Tolerate no tyrants; forgive and love all weather for… really…weather is all there is.

Pounce.

Sam