I don’t think about the Romans once a day. Fish heads though – unforgettable.

Posted: June 2, 2024 | Author: | Filed under: Brief...therefore witty. | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

And if you do, don’t.

The Romans, however, did.

The Romans were entirely obsessed with the Romans; either in the form of making more Romans or removing (violently) those who stubbornly weren’t.

It’s quite something to have an obsession with greatness, such as the Roman empire. I like that. It must be nice, but I don’t have the know-how to be obsessed with helpful things.

Perhaps people, apparently mainly men, look to the Romans for some form of inspiration. ‘Getting things done’ – like the Romans.

Roman roads are still here, a fair few feet down perhaps, but they remain and seem to remain serviceable as a road, despite the millennia. That’s something to aspire to.

The famed military strategy of the tortoise defense (‘testudo’ – leave it to the Romans to make it sound more testicular): positioning a group of soldiers with shields above and at all side, is one that makes sense to a lot of people. So much sense that it makes us presume the Romans were particularly clever, because they put shields on top and all around; the kind of genius idea that everyone thinks of.

And of course, there is the sheer size of the empire, which went forward and conquered at will before sensibly stopping at Scotland and building a wall.

I suppose they also stopped at a lot of other places – like Africa. Having colonised the northern-most reaches of the continent, they must have decided that was enough and that there was no need to start hacking at the undergrowth.

So they stopped. And that, like stopping at Scotland, was probably a good idea in terms of ensuring longevity.

A solid option – longevity.

That’s not me though. I don’t get it.

I’m not Mr Longevity. I’m a breaker.

The Romans built roads that have lasted thousands of years.

I have, however, just failed with fish heads.

£1.50 for two large salmon heads. What could go wrong?

There was a suggestion that it might lead to the contents of a stew, or a stock. Not that I’d be keen on either of those things as an actual outcome, but I was determined to at least do something well.

Not only did I make a proper meal of it (in the perjorative) but it ended up looking like a dog’s breakfast (again -perjorative) that I wouldn’t even feed to my dog, for breakfast or any other meal.

I really gave it a go. I did.

In anticipation of my nature overcoming my ambition, I watched YouTube videos before beginning, trying to understand the right cuts, and the meat to aim for, and the endless cartilage to avoid.

But whilst those Japanese chefs and fisherman (and whatever the profession in between those to is – very Japanese) were samuraing the whole salmon with an array of exquisite and bespoke weaponry, I just had a steak knife.

By the time I was done, I wondered if animal rights still applied post-mortem. Judging by what I put it through, and by what I put through it: no dead thing should have to endure that.

I literally made it deader.

I hacked, I sawed, I made it talk like a puppet mannequin to see if that would cheer me up, but nothing worked and I remained buyouyed only by the fact that, despite not being able to actually get any flesh off the carcass, my son’s wish at being able to see inside the heads was granted.

Well, truth be told, I did manage to lift some flesh from it, but that was:
1. Weird because the limited variety of knives I employed weren’t effective and I resorted to pinching and tearing (perhaps even teasing) the meat from the constant cartillage with my fingers.
2. It resulted in such a demur little mound of meat that it in fact demoralised me more than the fish would have if it could ghostly re-visit it’s earthly remains and understand its longest lasting legacy would be the whiff.

The whiff.

Oh, the whiff.

It was the first thing my wife said to me when she came home. “Sam, what’s that smell?!” followed by seeing what I was doing: “OH MY GOD“.

Then she shut the kitchen door on me and led the children away to not be tainted by it.

It reeked, even overcoming the stench of my own failure.

Abandoning the project, I took the fish heads and the many pieces of fish head outside to the bin so that it could become the neighbourhood’s problem.

I then washed my fingers, sprayed them with aftershave, antibacterial gel, soap-shampoo-shower gel, bath-shower-basin, until after a couple of days I had to resort to chopping onions to overcome the salmon’s legacy.

What would a Roman have made of this?

Something longer-lasting, probably.

Like a temple dedicated to when the fish heads were easily and violently defeated and turned into fish-stock.

The Romans, and I, we’re not the same. So, I tend not to think of them.

But, and this is obviously the ego in me speaking, whilst the Romans were highly accomplished at most things – I’ll bet no empire on Earth could such a mess as I did with those fish heads.

We’re fumigating the house on account of the whiff.

All doors and windows open.

I think I’ll think about those fish heads till the day I die.

Maybe my kids will too. Sorry; legacy.

Sam

It’s all about the environment. Mine, not yours.

Posted: May 22, 2024 | Author: | Filed under: Matters that Matter | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

MAYBE, it’s about everyone’s environment, but that’s only if it turns out to be more helpful than I am currently intending.

Also, I’m not talking about the environment in that ecological, greater-crested newt, save the wales, sense.

Of course, I’m all in favour of saving the wales. Unless they cross me, in which case I’m moving to Japan.

I’m talking about the environment in that personal sense. MY environment.

The price of a pint of beer is important for this.

I tend not to drink in pubs on account of the cost. I drink at home, a lot, to the point of not going to the doctor in case they give me bad news and I can’t do it anymore.

However, there is a time (maybe, who cares) and more importantly there is a place in which the tipping of the bank balance is more acceptable, on account of really enjoying the environment.

The pub.

The pub is an environment, and it is very important because it is exceedingly lovely.

But what makes it so lovely, and therefore important?

I think it’s:

holding the glass of local beer after a long morning in town staring at classic cars on behalf of an enthusiast to whom I’m related, in the sun-trap garden with a breeze passing through, and a friendly greyhound coming up to sniff hello whilst children are playing and pleasantly misbehaving with the fish in the pond because of something I demonstrated earlier (“the fish bite if you put your fingers in – see?“), folk nearby talking about things I feel are not fascinating but are still something to which I could contribute in an emergency, another glass of increasingly local (is it? Who cares?) beer, my wife suddenly remembered that she’s stunning and is keen to share that with me, my children ask me adorable requests akin to wanting to sit on my knee or have a peanut, I make a political point to my wife and she responds just “hmmm, yes babe” but I’m still glad I said it, before heading inside to the tiny bar in the cooler darkness that reeks of British tradition, where there is a hat perched on a hook in the wall beneath a plaque saying “DAD” with a degree of loving aggressiveness one really had to be there for, and I’m asked if I’d like another, “No, water please” I counter but add that I’d love a pickled egg to accompany , that sates us both (him – my money, me – his egg), and I wrap said-egg in a tissue and place in my pocket and this is all marvelous, just marvelous, and I’ve spent here on two pints and an egg (that everyone hated) what would amount to much beer and many eggs from elsewhere to enjoy at home, but you’re then basically just at home – drunk with eggs.

That was all environment and also, I’m sorry, exquisite grammar.

Really, the importance of it was that it mattered at the time.

And then I realised I couldn’t escape the concept of environments. Such as the fish in the pond with fingers poking-in for the hope of being nibbled – that’s an environment.

Or the pocket with a parceled pickled egg in it – now I had the choice of pocket environments. One to act as a pocket in the traditional, common-or-garden sense, whilst the other now became an environment in which I could put things that I wanted to become smelly.

Naturally it didn’t end there, as we made our way back to the car park (another environment? No, probably not that one) we noticed a nearby shrine to St. Jude.

Here, in the sanctified silence broken only by the taps of my daughter’s feet as she danced in the kaleidoscope of colours from the stained windows and the summer sun, and of the whispers of my son asking “what’s a shrine?“; we felt another environment.

This one was of the kind with the mix of emotions that often comes when religion really matters to people on a daily level – a mix of hope yet desperation, glory yet pity, endless mercy and love, and a donation box in every possible eyeline, a place to place your intimate prayers, and a giftshop.

That’s what you pay for, much akin to two pints of Spitfire and a pickled egg. Plus a copy of the Catholic Herald that I stole (they’ll forgive me). Anyway, I donate to churches every time I light one of their candles, which I do almost every time I enter one, including this of St. Jude’s shrine.

I do go to church fairly often. Often, but not religiously.

There was a woman who sat alone and away from the shrine, in the chapel, who was fervently seeing-to a colouring book as though it had wronged her and she’d have her vengeance in primary colours. She looked up and asked my 5-year-old son if he’s like to colour-in too. He declined politely* and she looked back down to her traumatic colour-scape and never looked up again.

Her head. That was an environment; a very busy one that I don’t want to visit.

Exiting can be a lovely thing when it is stepping out from the gravitas of a softly sounding, aroma-filled cellar environment that pubs and chapels can share, into the relative outer-space of a blue-skied day. So we did, and it was.

A whole new environment. Stepping out into this, I thought as my son and I peed on a nearby secluded wall, was a matter of perception creating a new environment, whilst at the time of stepping into the shrine – the point had been vice-versa.

We arrived at the car, buckled up and cranked the air-conditioning to as low and powerful as it could be; creating another environment in which we controlled the climate, the radio, the view (depending on where we drove), and all with the feeling of togetherness that comes when a family in a car knows that everyone else is strapped in there with them.

This last one, the environment of the family bubble, I realised was the one that had been there throughout the day, and was the one I was taking home.

My advice is to alter your environment to make it what you want, therein making your self think and feel as you’d prefer – or to at least give yourself a better chance to.

Some might try beer, others religion, some are for summer, some for wherever the air-conditioning is best.

Mine is the lot, all, with varying intervals and different levels of intensity, before moving onto the next as per whatever the hell I feel like. It gets me thinking, appreciating, and moving.

What’s my gift though, that I’ll treasure beyond the wagers of the mercy of saints or the business of a barman, was being able to go home with and to my family.

Cheesy, I know, but that’s nothing compared to that pickled egg. Maybe this blog might have turned out to be helpful after all.

*Much as I have been for the past 20 years; in polite decline.

I’ve got some tickets to Shakespeare! Can’t wait to meet him.

Posted: May 16, 2024 | Author: | Filed under: Brief...therefore witty. | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

A few centuries ago, having some tickets to a Shakespeare play would have been the hottest in town.

On 24th May 2024, the approaching date I have tickets for, there is a different perspective on the price of the ticket and the opportunity it represents.

Much Ado About Nothing has been performed more than a few times prior to the current run it’s enjoying at The Globe.

Over a few centuries there’ve been many thousands of performances, but really the appreciation for whether it’s a hot ticket or not is affected by the greatly reduced chance of bumping into Will Shakespeare in the queue for an ice-cream in interval.

But he’ll still be there. Not in essence, or in spirit, but physically. Is laughing not physical? Is the inner recoil of dread that comes when you know someone’s about to be cooked in a pie – not an ‘in the room’ feeling of physical?

Not really no. But he will still be there in in essence – whatever that means.

I think it means – ‘it would be nice if he was there’, but he isn’t really there. Though he is. Obviously.

Then again, for most of the time for most of the world, Shakespeare wasn’t there.

Perhaps, if it weren’t a good chunk of a millennia later, we might not ‘get‘ the meaning of his plays.

Without the insights of Shakespeare experts, with tremendous artists and producers, Shakespeare’s best might be only as good as a joke told by someone who doesn’t get why it is, or isn’t, funny.

Intonation is a tricky thing to express through a blog, but the point I’m making is that without it – well applied by actors (indeed – thespians) – Shakespeare isn’t so good.

Obviously, Shakespeare is good (maybe even great) – but how plebs like me come to realise that is thanks to other people realising that, and studying and rehearsing over years and decades to culminate with me thinking “oh, actually this is better than ‘good‘.”

And all the emotions around that.

The best thing a writer can do is strike recognition within the readers, and elevate from there. That’s the basis of comedy and tragedy. And Shakespeare did this then, but continues to do so now thanks to the interpretations of the experts today.

They’re ‘Thespians‘ – don’t’cha’know (using way more apostrophes then Shakespeare would have ever had).

I know this, from life.

I saw Two Gentleman of Verona at the Marlowe in Canterbury a few years ago. They took the stand by departing from script to laugh at anti-Irish joke, and bringing the audience with them in appreciating that anti-Irish isn’t really something people want to get behind any more.

Kenneth Branagh’s ‘Much Ado (About Nothing‘ – but it’s much cooler with just the first two words) – was intonation HEAVY and including a deck chair. Shakespeare didn’t include a deckchair, but Branagh did – and we’re better-off for it.

Then again, I had a bad time at Regent’s Park Theatre once, with Director portraying the tale A Midsummer’s Night Dream as one of much social discontentedness. Which was a semi-bad translation. Yes, such tyranny over a daughter (Hermia) is awful, but “though she be but little she is fierce” is spunky-enough to bring us through it.

Ultimately , we need to bring it back to the Thespians returning Shakespeare to the stage on the evening of 24th May 2024 – with his essence filling a theatre. We do get to meet him – the world-changing professional writer and personal poet that could cobble together a history to please a paymaster and Lord, whilst summarizing the variety of human conditions with soul-shuddering prose and a donkey’s head.

It’s a matter of hope.

Shakespeare was hopeful. He shared that with us. And it is a wonderful thing with which to leave a theatre.

And it only cost a tenner for standing room. Sore feet. Would recommend.

Summer is coming all over a town near you’s tits.

Posted: May 9, 2024 | Author: | Filed under: Brief...therefore witty. | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Vulgarity gets you everywhere.

The people love it.

They love it in Buckingham Palace, they love it in the White House and in the Hamptons, they love it in on airplanes and under the sea.

‘Undiscovered‘ tribes that haven’t discovered us yet – have discovered vulgarity and they love it.

Now, naturally you need to be vulgar in a very classy way.

And that’s not writeable by people like me. I don’t know if anyone can write about it – or even begin to explain it.

Saying “fuck” (which, incidentally, is very rude) can be learned, but it can’t be written.

“Fuck” – see?

Approach the King of England and say “fuck” is a non-classy way, and it won’t go down too well. They’ve got ‘people‘ to deal with your sort of ‘person‘ that isn’t saying “fuck” as they jolly-well should be.

However, say it to Charlie with class, “fuck” with panache, and you’ll find yourself knighted.

He might even say it back to you, with even more panache – since he’s a monarch and divine, etc.

‘Panacheier‘ you might say, alongside “fuck“.

And this works in job interviews, contract negotiations, and social relationships.

Well not really, but it does work well after those scenarios.

Vulgarity is broadly applicable, in love, war, and blogging (fuck).

It’s not a good way to raise your kids, but aside from that – I strongly advise you say “fuck” a regularly, between meals, and get vulgar. There are other words of vulgarity I could demonstrate, but since I’ve really latched-on to ‘fuck‘ – I’ll perservere.

But the joy of variety in vulgarity is yours.

For instance, exhibit A – summer.

I write this in May 2024 and it’s getting warmer, lighter, longer and happier in that way that comes even before the promise of summer. I could get poetic of the smells and the touches and the living and the music, but I can also say “summer is coming all over a town near you’s tits” and that’s fine.

There’s no doubt – the grammar seems to be a bit off, but it’s technically not. The perception of the grammar being off makes it appear all the more vulgar, and that’s a positive.

Because vulgarity works. Ask the powerful.

Ask the influential in politics and communications.

Keep it classy, but a well timed “fuck” can get you ahead in life, and whilst living that same life – “fuck” can really personify how you’re feeling as the seasons become less dreadfully ‘seasonal‘ and instead suggest once more that total myth we all love to believe of summer once again coming for us.

Coming to re-embolden our souls as we make the choices that define us.

Coming to remind us of the point of life and the joy of living.

Coming….all over a town near you’s tits.

Yes, that’s not how you spell it. And yes, it’s so egregious that you forget the word “tits” is in there – but this……this is all the above.

And the below.

This is Shakespeare.

This is Aaron Sorkin.

This is Hunter S Thompson.

Three writers that I’m sure would have a great evening (to the point of breakfast) together.

The “fuck” is intrinsic to all we are and all we aspire to be. It brings us back to the horizons we aim for, all whilst enjoying the informal trepidation that comes from knowing “fuck” is acceptable to say in present company, and that now we can really get down to business.

The business of vulgarity.

The business of summer.

Fuck. In a classy way.

Sam

Local football – the difference between quality and enjoyment

Posted: April 21, 2024 | Author: | Filed under: I've been about | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Before I begin – I’ve looked up the rules of WordPress (by which this blog is generated) and whilst I can’t play music over the top of these words – I can link you to websites that play music – meaning you can enjoy sounds from one tab whilst reading words on this tab .

So I’m linking to some suggestions I’ve had from YouTube: Deep Space Banjo Ambience, A playlist to feel like you’re inside a Monet painting, and Rest Here a Moment.. Tomorrow We Start Again. I don’t know if you’ll like them, or if I do – but the internet seems to feel these pieces summarise me.

My dad and I travelled to watch Gillingham FC play yesterday. The Gills are a Kent-local team with a respected regional history that is over-shadowed by an incredibly devoted fanbase that reminds you that people are dedicated to all sorts of things, including screaming.

I find going to the stadium quite intimidating due to the crowd all around – especially behind me. There’s something about a mob that hasn’t realised it is one yet – it really makes me stay home.

I’m not really frightened of having a fight because no ones tends to start fights with me. However, I’d be quite tentative about starting a fight because I don’t know how to do it.

At what point am I allowed to punch you in the nose?

What happens if we’re exchange insults and threats, and I punch first? And then, everyone gasps and suddenly my wouldn’t-be opponent sobs with hysterical confusion, questioning what drove me to do such a thing – and then I’m politely asked to leave?

Unthinkably embarrassing and really not what the beautiful game is all about.

There are other aspects to the game which is beautiful. Elements that one can’t perceive through the screen watching premier league fixtures.

For one, the litter

There’s litter on the pitch and trundling down the stadium steps.

I think this comes down to two issues.

One – the stadium is draughty, being a stadium, which facilitates litter blowing into the goalmouth and clattering against the fanbase.

Two – the local stadium doesn’t have a two-deep line of hi-viz staff constantly trawling through the square footage to clamp down on the litter that risks being a form of unlicensed advertising (“a Snickers wrapper?! I didn’t approve that flutter by!?”).

Plus, everyone keeps dropping litter, which is likely the most crucial cause of littering.

Pigeons are fucking on the stadium roof

It’s spring, and nature is springing, which is beautiful.

Pigeons, fucking on the stadium roof, is also beautiful, but is that kind of beauty nobody really wants to see. Or hear.

If they could smell it, this sport wouldn’t exist.

It does make one feel lucky to be alive though. Spring is here!

Football! Sunshine! Pigeon eggs (eventually)! And god knows these past few months of dark winter, we’ve all been looking forward to more pigeons. The thought of that got me through Christmas.

The elements are real, not like on TV

I remembered to bring my hat this time, as previously I’d spent the entire 90 minutes saluting the spring-time sun in a vain effort to protect my eyes and see a single moment of play. And I don’t like saluting.

I could probably take eye-damage more seriously though. We all could. But I’m still not going to.

The sun hit my forearm for a long time that afternoon. Feeling something, as opposed to that dulling sensation of generally sitting – in which one only feels anything when they’ve been sitting for too long – I don’t get that at home watching TV.

It’s good to feel something, from the sun on my forearm, to the breeze that helps the litter along.

THUDS

Sitting 3 rows back from the field – you can hear the real thud of the game – thuds of players colliding, landing after tackles and the ever-thwack of the ball.

The same ball that everyone cheers as it makes it way by means of foot-empowered-flight out of the stadium towards brown top-hat chimneys of houses just feet away; it thuds when kicked, it thuds when it hits the roof, and it thuds and beep-beeps when it lands on a car just outside the stadium.

That ball is what makes me feel even more on edge than the mob around me and the procreating pigeons above me. There is a constant feeling, sitting so close to the pitch, that the ball is going to be kicked (perhaps…passed) right into my nose with such power it would colonise my face in the name of football.

It’s brilliant.

Fear can be a good thing, especially when it only relates to cosmetic issues and minor brain damage.

‘THUD‘ personifies that.

Money where it can be found

Each goal was sponsored – something I’ve never encountered before.

I wasn’t sure after the first goal, thanks to the roar of the crowd, but after the second – I’m sure the stadium announcer declared: “In the 47th minute, goal scored by JOSHUA ANDREWS!!! This goal was sponsored by Mr and Mrs Potts, of Twydall.”

Not only did this hyper-localise the local football game, but it made clear that ways to make money are discovered through ways to spend money. In this case, hyper-local; to donate money.

Outstanding.

Unbalanced and loving it

With my Dad – I think we were too balanced to fit in properly. When the ref judged a handball, we’d quietly agree with each other, whilst all about us let there position known not so much by direct disagreement, but by calling the ref a cunt.

It’s a matter of passion over facts. Everyone’s got a football opinion, because that’s the point. If you’ve got a football fact – that’s nice, but one hardly screams it at the opposing fanbase.

All about me were the folk who came to slightly decrease their overall long-term blood-pressure by drastically increasing it for a highly vocal 90 minutes (with a quick 15 minute break for liquids – in and out).

The referee represents the villain in the pantomime – you just know you’re supposed to boo them, regardless of what they actually do on the field/stage. The Gillingham-devoted have no idea of this ref’s name, they just want to enjoy the hour and a half of absolute love and total hatred; football.

The greens are greener

You can see the blades of the grass.

Not just general greeness – like on TV, but actually blades, and flying tuffs as boots dig in deep to the pitch whilst missing the ball somewhat.

It’s the same with the players’ hair, the swish of limbs, and – again – the pigeons fucking.

It’s spring!

Glory. Real glory

There were children asking for autographs from players in case they’re not nobodies, and the players were dutifully signing them. It’s wholesome – live with it.

But whilst they’re potentially not nobodies in the future, right now their names are revised and celebrated by the kids who have this hyper-local passion that is, I expect, replicated up and down the country and probably the world.

And then there is that particular moment of glory, when it comes – as it did for Joshua Andrews (sponsored by Mr and Mrs Potts) in which the ball came to him, he paused for a moment and thought (visibly) – “why the fuck not? I’m supposed to aren’t I?!“. And he kicked it, almost a punt on a punt…and it went in.

And a collective of associates who either know one another by name of the fact that they’d also die for this football club, felt every theme of joy conceivable – and they showed it.

By god, or more importantly – Gillingham FC – they showed it.

That’s a glory that cannot be compared.

But it can be beaten, by this:

There are other nobodies, ones you’ve not heard of and I’ve since forgotten, who played with this club for years and may have enjoyed times such as Joshua – the current number 9. Decades later, they passed away, and yesterday, they and their name received a standing ovation over 60 seconds in honour, absolute honour, of their life and service to this club.

There’s glory on these Saturdays, and dreams come true on the field, but it is in the stands that the living of life can be found. It’s excitement – and it is contagious.

All in all – you might get a bit of it, but there’s no way you get all the above from watching the Premier league on the TV.

Some, not all.

3-0 to the Gills it was.

Me and my Dad went.

Sam

The internet isn’t sexy, and it isn’t helping

Posted: April 6, 2024 | Author: | Filed under: Matters that Matter | Tags: , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

I was distracted after writing the above title, by brief segment from a chat-show featuring a guest speaking about why having core stability is important for Formula One racing.

Apparently, it’s very important. For Formula One racing.

I don’t like Formula One racing, though I admit I’ve a soft spot for core stability.

The time I spent on the…….sorry I became distracted again and started browsing for cigars online.

The internet – it is distracting, and not in a good way.

The internet is only as wonderful as it is – and that’s about it.

When I think of the internet being most useful and worth keeping, I picture vital research being finalised in a lab in Australia thanks to some AI programming, then being discussed on a video-conference-call with Europe-based colleagues, and then shared with a children’s hospital when it saves a baby’s life in the nick of time. And then the news is celebrated amongst Facebook friends.

Yes, there’s also music, online communities, access of life-saving information, and occasionally – OCCASIONALLY – a funny video of a cat having a slightly bad time; all of which is tremendous.

Otherwise, it is a unsexy place – location undetermined but seemingly everywhere – and stopping people from approaching one another normally. Of course, ‘normally’ for humans – online or ‘off’ (I like that term – I am “off“) will remain as strange as it ever was before, thanks to people having it within their DNA to make things interesting.

These engagements don’t need to be online. It is preferable to take a single step out doors and try it thus instead. It’s better for your cardio.

The internet is not good for your cardio.

Cardio is sexy, leads to sex, and actually is sex too.

Whilst the internet might lead to sex – it certainly doesn’t do so in a sexy fashion; a click of a button is neither romantic, or attractive. ‘Sexy’ is almost as important as sex itself.

‘Sexy’ is a reason I am involved in things and with people, but aside from my wife – they’ve nothing to do with sex, but they sure as hell are sexy.

Indeed, I have many sexy friends that I don’t find remotely attractive, which I tell to the remaining few of them all the time.

In fact, the benefits of the internet, as broad, varied and accurate as they may be, seem to be proven in the individual instead of en masse.

The individual – who used internet forums to lose weight. Most are gaining weight from lack of movement.

The individual – who developed their friendship circle of like-minded folk to enjoy happily. Must feel more alone than ever, especially when self-judging in comparison to the beautiful people online.

Beauty is important a point that the internet has hammered-home and lost altogether. Once, physical beauty of a person was an exception. Of course everyone is beautiful but no they’re not. Quite a few are pretty, or kind of handsome, but few are beautiful.

The internet has reduced the unique advantage of beauty as something special. Beautiful is now ‘just-another-beautiful‘.

Naturally, everyone wants to breed with someone that is actually attractive – and all the more so if beautiful. I do, anyway. But now that physical beauty is everywhere, thanks to an online ubiquity, it’s not quite the same selling point as it once was.

Therefore, I predict now that in soon-years, physical beauty as a focal point will be replaced in favour of a unique face, one that suggests character over symmetry; balls over cheekbones. Smells good.

The internet has no scent.

It is whiffless, and this should tell us all we need to know.

But there’s more.

Dogs do not approach the internet, despite being such as prominent feature on social media and veterinary sites. If a dog doesn’t trust it,

If the internet were to attend parties, it would be the rather uncouth character fraudulently telling everyone about ladies he’s been with, attempting to sell you a variety of essentially unnecessary items but primarily penis enlargement pills, and speaking in acronyms and then delightedly rolling his eyes when older folk don’t understand.

The internet ain’t got no class.

Oscar Wilde would not invite the internet to one of his soirées, nor would he have need to use the internet as I just did to spellcheck “soirée”.

Another subject I needed to check with online help was the names and faces of the original 150 Pokemon.

I’ve wondered for a while if my two young children (3 and 5) would have their attention held by the programmes I watched when I was their age. So I gave the original pokemon series a go on YouTube.

Sure enough they loved it, but whilst they enjoyed the stories – laughing and silent at all the right moments – I was squirming with resistance to the urge to search online for the full 150 names and faces of each Pokemon.

I succumbed.

This is the data I do not need, but in that scenario I felt I could not do without it and now, in my brain, its there.

150.

So many minutes.

Afterwards, and indeed at the time, I preferred to spend the time with my children, watching them enjoy the cartoon, or I could have turned to this blog and make it a little better, or even dropped and given a solid round of push-ups. But instead, I had to have the instant knowledge, and it is distinctly unsexy.

Yes, of course the internet is fantastic when it’s needed, but we don’t need it as much as we use it.

There’s nothing wrong with a healthy thirst for knowledge, but there’s nothing wrong with not knowing something every now and then, let alone immediately.

And yes, this blog is on the internet, but nobody is trying to suggest this blog is a good thing. I could take it offline, and just comment your address below so I can post each blog to you in the mail.

The internet isn’t sexy. I don’t like online banking, which is remarkably more convenient and cost-effective, because I prefer bank tellers. I dislike home online-streaming services, but really want to go to the cinema and smell the popcorn. I prefer not to order online goods, as I really enjoy getting lost and confused in a department store, hoping my wife will come and find me.

It makes the world something you view, rather than be party to the people in it, and with head full of the kind of inane you don’t want. And I know what kind of inane I like – it smells like popcorn and is trusted by dogs.

If you haven’t got people – you haven’t got much.

And I’ve got some.

Sam

Can’t I just donate a foot and have fewer worries?

Posted: January 16, 2024 | Author: | Filed under: Brief...therefore witty. | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

I wish sacrifice was real.

Not that form of sacrifice we see every day, in which people sacrifice (meaning ‘dedicate’) their time and efforts to something for others; time and efforts that might otherwise have been enjoyably spent on more selfish endeavours.

People do that every day, and that’s wonderful. Good for them.

I mean the kind of sacrifice that currently doesn’t work. The other…..other….kind of sacrifice.

Don’t worry, I don’t want to sacrifice my children or pets or anything like that.

Just one of my feet.

To the gods.

If I could lop off my left foot (I need my right foot for work) and throw it into the fire of heavenly donations (like an ethereal footbank) in exchange for just a little less woe – I’d do that.

Let me put it like this: you can retain your left foot…..or…..your mortage is paid off by the gods. Which would you choose?

I’d be hopping to the bank with a right-footed glee not seen since I hopped for genuine joy as a child.

Then I could spend my money on things I really want to buy. Like a shoe.

And I mean no offence to those out there without left feet, but this is my view and whilst I’m sorry right now – I’ll happily apologise further when my mortage is paid off by the Gods and I can consider sacrificing some of my remaining toes in exchange for free wifi.

My children get ill, you see.

And if you’ve children too, then so do yours.

Consider this – plus war, climate change and taxes, and you’ll realise – your not as attached to your left foot as you once thought. And you’ll feel this all the more following the ‘procedure‘.

All in exchange for a little sacrifice. Just a little less woe, would be nice

Fewer feet, less woe, a fair compromise.

And what will the gods do with my foot?

None of my business, but there’s no doubting that it’ll all come down to procreating with it and birthing angelic hordes of demi-god feet that can march or tap-dance at will.

Not that it’s any of my business.

Sam

The News. Interesting, irrelevant or 80 years old.

Posted: January 1, 2024 | Author: | Filed under: Brief...therefore witty., Today's paper. | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

I am sitting here, trying to remember what articles I read now. Thankfully it was the Daily Star, so there were lots of pictures.

Pictures are good memory joggers, especially as they make words standout in the first place, and the Daily Star nails this, mainly through images of massive interest and zero relevance. Like this one:

Its a beaver. Doesn’t really need the words actually, though I do like the “Hey“.

“Hey” indeed.

The Daily Star might be what we’d hand to the extraterrestrials to give them an idea of what our focus really is, or we’d roll it up to bop them on the head (nearest equivalent) to shoo them out of our atmosphere.

Either way, we’d still say “Hey”.

If they ever come at all, but in the meanwhile….we’ve clouds.

We’re just not dangerous enough yet. Or cool enough either. I’m doing my bit, but you should all really be a bit more dangerous.

Perhaps like the warrior in the garden, rather than the gardener in a war. But I’m frankly more interested in a dangerous gardner.

With big, purple and suggestive-as-hell vegetables. Mainly purple.

It’s nice to have a goal which accommodates climate change, since the UK is going to have no aims to avoid it.

And, purple vegetables. Very ‘in-vogue’. Very ‘end-times’.

It’s getting hotter. Leave the heating off, especially if you’re in the pub.

I like a cold pub. It’s a chance to wear your coat indoors, as though you’re at ski-resort in South London (great place to drink and ski but not actually the latter).

Or you can wear loads and loads of fashionable outfits, like the music video for ‘Only You’ performed by The Flying Pickets.

THAT’S fashion. THAT’S a chilly pub.

It’s scenic. Looks good. You can’t take it away from chilly pubs, from The Flying Pickets, and from magpies.

Take a magpie. Take two, they’re free.

Now flatten it.

And you’ve got yourself the flag I’ve always thought would suit me, and my inevitable nation-state, very well indeed thank you.

Of course the black, of course the white. But those two; with that blue……if not the heights, then certainly the depths of fashion.

The last thing I noted in this paper was an advert. For a book of a tale from a witness to warcrimes they endured as a child in WW2.

I’ve tried to write about this theme but I’ve struggled to summarise in my irreverent style.

WW2 is still the news. Because we still can’t quite believed it happened.

Probably a book worth reading. Like a newspaper worth enjoying the pictures of.

Sam

Mindful destruction and me (I’m a baseball bat kind of guy)

Posted: October 1, 2023 | Author: | Filed under: Matters that Matter | Tags: , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

I’m not an artist.

And I’m certainly not a creator (my kids and debris aside).

I’m a smasher, a breaker of things, a “that’s not supposed to be in there, Sam” kind of guy.

No, actually I’m a baseball bat kind of guy.

Baseball bats are the place to be, a way to dance and the means of rhythm that coincides with deep and hearty impact in the soul.

Here’s one of my former favourites (once named ‘Old Slugger’), which caught fire one enchanted evening:

It’s natural to enjoy a stick, a good stick, a stick that makes your walk home from work a good one.

And aiming approximately at the planet, swinging wildly (the only way to do it) and bracing yourself for your own impact, this is about enjoying a collision that reminds you of who you are.

I prefer apples.

Preferably slightly rotten (for the spread) but I’m prepared to again spend to have the freshest ingredients.

Baseball bats and apples.

Also bananas, pineapples and occasionally a roast chicken.

This is the relationship I have with fresh fruit and poultry.

Impacts so deep I feel like I’m part of their diet. An unnecessary 5-a-day.

I can’t fix this smashed plant pot in the shape of a classic VW campervan. I can’t superglue it in the right places, and I can’t marry up the many pieces to be flush.

I can smash it again though, and we can all enjoy the pieces (or I buy a new one, most likely).

I moved onto a chair today, two big wicker inherited buggers that took up more room than the total mass of my family combined.

With hammer and axe, as well as sinew and love, I tore them to pieces, and have just finished. There’s sweat, foul language and bits of wicker everywhere. My children were told to stay out of daddy’s deconstruction area.

I now have pieces of the wicker chair up on my wall. Does that count as what you’d want to consider creation?

I didn’t build the wall, but I did nail something I broke to it.

Really, I need to learn how to use superglue.

But I can’t deny in me the ‘back home’ sensation of laying a baseball bat into something. It’s the future, and I’d like to think I’m a part of that.

It’s not helpful, but it does, I believe, make us feel better.

So let’s strive for this measured mindful destruction in the long-term, and meanwhile, let’s pay attention to those who now how to superglue, build walls and fashion wicker chairs.

I suppose, someone needs to make the baseball bats, but till then there’s always sticks on the way home from your walk.

Thanks for reading.

Yours, swinging wildly at the planet,

Sam

Perpetually IN – a solid handshake and lava

Posted: May 15, 2023 | Author: | Filed under: Perpetually IN | Tags: , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

It’s been a while since I noticed that some things are invariable and persistently popular.

It’s easy to forget, because it’s all so everyday, but when it comes up in the everyday, it is lovely to remember that it’s happening right now.

Remembering the present?

Makes sense to me, but then again – maybe I ‘get it‘ because I can’t be bothered to dwell on it any more.

And frankly, I’ve other things to be confused about.

Not this though. I do feel like I’ve understood this following topic brilliantly.

Good, solid handshakes.

You’ve got to have good grip strength to have a reliable handshake.

Ballerinas have excellent handshakes, so I’ve come to understand.

It’s probably all the tiptoeing.

Tiptoeing, which is also perpetually IN by the way, take a lot of grip strength.

Try it. Try to tiptoe without holding your hands in a slight pantomime-creep manner, pinching nothing but your lack of dignity between your index finger and thumb.

Impossible. In fact, it is also impossible to tiptoe without thumbs.

Toes aren’t essential for it, however.

And that pains me to say, as I’ve a fondness for toes – they’re harmless and dopey. And I’d hate to take tiptoeing away from anyone, least of all an innocent toe. A promising young toe. A toe with gumption.

Toes are admirable as they’re the silliest body part after genitals, and therefore the second best.

And whilst we know toes aren’t essential to tiptoeing, we should appreciate that a penis or your favourite labia, ‘tween index finger and thumb, is indeed entirely vital to the procedure.

That being said, we should also remember that having a penis can debilitate your grip strength due to adolescence.

Thus, things have gone somewhat full circle with this initial premise, but with a lot of sudden corners.

I guess that’s my writing style, which is a ‘sudden corner’ in and of itself, as I had no clue I had a style.

I haven’t even started talking about handshakes properly yet, let alone lava.

“Let alone lava” – lovely.

A nice phrase, a little like the words ‘tiptoeing’ or ‘after genitals’.

I suppose the handshake could be improved via other means, such as living a long gritty life in a grey gritty part of a flat gritty country, raised by simple gritty parents.

But if you don’t have all that going for you, and you really want to improve your handshake, you’re going to have to start tiptoeing.

And I can understand why you’d want to improve your handshake – because a good sturdy (gritty even) handshake never wanes in popularity.

Even if they don’t shake your hand, folk like to know you’ve got a good handshake. It’s like hearing positive credentials of other people.

“Have you heard about Sam’s quality handshake?”

“Yes, I have, stop going on about it, it’s not news.”

But maybe even more perpetually IN is the dislike of a weak handshake.

I shook a chap’s hand once, though it wasn’t so much a ‘handshake‘ as he put so little effort in I may as well have just grabbed his wrist and waggled the hand so the fingers flapped about in the breeze I was causing.

The shake was so bad, I think other people could overhear the flapping and started to stare.

Fair enough though, as I was starting to stare too.

His hand was so limp, it felt wet.

Flaccid to the point of liquid – that’s a negative and no mistake, especially in the realm of body part functions.

‘Body part functions’ – sounds like there are galas and dinner parties taking place across your body. I might suggest to my wife, “say, darling, I’m having a bit of a shindig in my groin area – fancy bringing a bottle”, and she’d say “no” because even in absolute fiction I have the capacity to revolt my most beloved with utter nonsense.

However, a banquet in the hand – that’d be superb for your grip strength, and if there was music and dancing afterwards, you could even squeeze in some tiptoeing.

So, yes a mighty handshake is what the people want, and they never shan’t.

A bit like volcanoes.

Great for the garden is a volcano, and really super duper if you’re in need of some very new rocks.

That’s a thought, as how often do you encounter a rock that is a matter of a few minutes old, depending on how long it took to cool?

That’d be excellent for the Pet Rock industry.

Visit Hawaii, wait for the regular traffic of lava to make it’s way down your street, don’t touch it (just don’t touch it) and once it has stopped and begun to cool, you can actually witness your Pet Rock being born.

By golly that’d be a tradition I’d heartily invest in. Perpetually, in fact.

All the best,

Sam

← Older Entries
Newer Entries →