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

How to deal with body odour without washing.

Posted: May 2, 2024 | Author: | Filed under: Observe my tips | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

I get smelly armpits on account of the bacteria that eats the dirt within my sweat, which they then poo.

So do you.

Everyone does. It’s a problem.

Finding yourself cut short, without a chance for a bath in immediate sight, the solution is surely deodorant, right?

No! Wrong, stop being wrong!

The solution is aftershave!

Or, to say it louder in written form: AFTERSHAVE!

Why?

Alcohol!

Why alcohol?

Well, aside from “why the hell not alcohol?” – it’s because the alcohol content of aftershave actually kills the bacteria that eats the dirt in your sweat and poos it into the smelly smell.

It kills the bacteria – and isn’t that something we can all get behind?

So, just about 6-8 squirts around each armpit and you’ll find not only is the bacteria defeated, but you can’t smell anything else but the aftershave.

Because you’ve overdosed on it. Or, more like a scorched Earth policy for your armpits.

Deodorant doesn’t do dat.

Anti-perspirant stops the sweat, but it doesn’t kill the bacteria that is still in your armpit, currently pooing. Probably sniggering as it does so.

Now, naturally, another solution is to bathe. But we’re all busy writing blogs and reading THIS one (I simply cannot fathom another way to spend one’s time) to be expected to wash our crevices.

Plus – it takes a lot of water to bathe properly, and that’s frankly killing the planet.

And I get it – “killing the planet“: sounds kind of cool.

“Hey – I’m a planet killer. Well, that’s what a blog called me once.” – there’s no better way to introduce yourself to people.

But do you want to risk introducing yourself to people with smelly armpits, which you can’t undo because you didn’t read this blog featuring the tip about aftershave?

Of course not.

So, save the planet, wear aftershave on your armpits when smelly, kill the bacteria, and read this blog.

Dear god – you’d better read this blog.

Apart from the other things I have; it’s all I’ve got. This blog, my family, career, home, health, and a vast array of tips – that’s all I’ve got, nothing else.

Hope that helps.

Sam

How to optimize your synergy with holistic bandwidth to disrupt hyperlocal customer journeys. Ping.

Posted: April 25, 2024 | Author: | Filed under: Brief...therefore witty. | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Buzz words, don’t really buzz.

They stab, in the eyes – sure.

But they don’t buzz with that warm, buzzy feeling.

I’ve no doubt they help articulate something people in corporate structures appreciate. But corporate structures also don’t have that warm, buzzy feeling.

Do bee hives have corporate structures?

Do corporations have honey?

Ping?

Would optimizing your synergy with holistic bandwidth disrupt hyperlocal customer journeys? And would that be a good thing? Sounds to me like the sort of buzz-words in action that help bees get lost on the way home to the hive.

Bastards. Leave the poor bee be.

Lost and confused, and pollen sacs full of the heavy stuff.

And it’d think: “Damn! They optimizzzzzed their synergy with holistic bandwidth to disrupt my hyperlocal journey as a customer. When will they learn!?”

All bees ever wanted to do was sniff the flowers, make honey, and otherwise just generally contribute to the overall jolly and peaceful ambience of the countryside in summer.

But we just had to go and start optimizing synergy, and that was totally uncalled for. Distasteful, even.

Buzz-words should be kept away when everything is fine. Absolutely fine. Fine – absolute.

Bees were fine, until optimization.

So were the dinosaurs, until their hyperlocal journeys were disrupted by a meteor that suddenly became holistic as hell and set the sky on fire, which was fine thanks to the global tsunamis, which were convenient since the earthquakes weren’t so troubling when everything was drowning.

Toxic, choking atmosphere though. That something the bees can also relate too.

And let’s bear in mind that whilst we’d all like dinosaurs to still be around – it is phenomenally fantastic that dinosaurs aren’t around any more.

They might have been a good source of a comically-large steak. But as far as I understand, or at least as far as I’m willing to imagine: dinosaurs proffered no honey.

We might not have bee steaks (someone should probably look into that) – we do have bee honey.

In fact, we’ve honey from nothing but bees.

Ergo; optimize it not.

There’s one positive to buzz-words. They might make more sense than everything I’ve just written.

Apart from “ping”. I saw it on Google. No idea what it means. But to give my above words any credibility – I hope it doesn’t mean “honey”.

I’ve just re-Googled and can no longer find “ping” has a buzzword. Great. Now my blog, my darling blog, is littered with “pings” and it looks far more stupid than I could have hoped.

Ping.

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

My favourite flower (which I might also beat-up)

Posted: March 20, 2024 | Author: | Filed under: Brief...therefore witty. | Tags: , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Sunflowers.

The same flower that every single child draws when they draw a flower.

The most undeniable of flowers – they shall not be denied.

When a sunflower is put to you (and I can only imagine having a sunflower ‘put to you’ amounts to one being waggled and smushed in your face) – you’ve got no choice but to acknowledge that flower.

It’s not the most floral of flowers, nor the most flowery, but it the most ‘flower’ of flowers. The capo dei capi of flowers.

I love ’em.

I love ’em so much I abbreviate “them“.

I love the fact that a field of ’em wake up, as the sun comes out, and they worship it adoringly as it dawns and sets across the sky.

And then they droop all depressed-like, when the sun is replaced by a grey day.

They emit a lot of differing moods, from glorious, shining pride to “oh no it’s cloudy”.

There’s a lot to love about ’em.

But how would you feel if a sunflower suddenly looked at you?

You’re sitting on a bench in the park one evening, and along comes an enormous sunflower.

It sits next to you.

You decide to be cool about it. It’s just a sunflower, no prejudices from your side, it’s probably a decent flower in its own way.

And then it snaps its head sideways to look right at you.

Staring deep into your soul.

So deep into your soul, that your soul is technically your genitals.

Putting up with that, are you? Or are you going to smash its face is and shove its petals up its rootholes.

Sure, it might be a sunflower and you know it might have its own problems going on, but staring at you to the point of molestation is a step too far, and it still hasn’t broken eye contact.

So you stand, and so does the sunflower. This escalated wordlessly and the pair of you are ready for action.

You wallop it.

And nothing proceeds to happen.

And then nothing proceeds to happen again.

So you give it another go, knuckling the sunflower right between where its eyes would be.

And slowly, a trickle of sunflower oil comes from where its nose would be, and it wipes it away and brandishes its tiny little leafy arms up into little green fists.

It takes a step closer.

And it sunflowers you.

It sunflowers the shit out of you.

No, I don’t know what that means either but going by what I’m feeling, and what you’re probably feeling too, it’s likely to be fairly unpleasant if you suffer from hay fever.

Hay fever that gives you a brain bleed.

There’s only one option.

Your brolly.

Naturally, you’d considered whipping this out earlier, but that was on the basis of battering the sunflower about the stem and petals with it.

Judging by the lack of success punching it had, assault with a brolly won’t weather much better, so that’s out of the question.

What’s in the question though, is photosynthesis. A lot of it.

You unfurl your umbrella and hold it over the sunflower’s head.

A moment of confusion follows, and then surely enough it begins to droop.

Congratulations, you’ve just depressed a flower.

Vincent Van Gogh might have appreciated, as I do, the glory of a sunflower, but we simply got to make sure they know their place and don’t get too big for their pots.

Sunflowers.

I love ’em.

Fuck ’em.

Sam

If not seizing the moment – at least go for a walk (Perfect Pub Walks with Bill Bailey).

Posted: March 17, 2024 | Author: | Filed under: Matters that Matter | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

First of all, walking and talking was my idea first.

Before The West Wing, before Adam Buxton’s podcast, before that other guy near LA who hikes into the hills with celebrities, there was me. Walking. And talking. Entirely to myself.

But this show – Perfect Pub Walks with Bill Bailey – does it very well indeed. Mental health, accessing nature, exercise, fresh air, sunlight, and perhaps being slightly ‘on camera‘ – this is how interviewing should be.

A discussion. With motion.

But I am worried about Paul Merton’s knees. I don’t often, because I don’t every really see them, since he’s been most regularly sat behind a panelist desk on HIGNFY for the past 3 decades. I saw them even less when he appeared on Just a Minute.

And I’m coming to realise, the comedy old guard that I grew up with; Merton, Bailey, and most importantly – etcetera – who I like to imagine is still youthing it about the place, is actually getting older to the point of being…old.

And nobody seems to be guarding any of them, least of all Merton’s clifftop knees.

I’m sure this has happened before, but my only frame of reference for this was when Matthew Corbet stepped back from the Sooty programmes. I was a child when that happened, and as an adult I saw Matthew return for a spot in a much later series and found he’d not only grown old, but I’d become an older person too – albiet one that still watched the Sooty Show.

Inclined to remedy this feeling, I did as I often do and gave my father a ring to get it off my chest.

Bad idea – as this only uncovered that he’s now in his 70s and at the stage in life, even in 2024, at which old people die purely on the grounds of being old. He’s not dying, but everyone would basically not complain too much if he suddenly did because it’s what’s supposed to happen.

This upsets me.

And this’ll be the same for many people. I’m in my mid-thirties, and as far as I’m concerned I’m going to live as long as I please – which is very much down to how good the customer service of life goes on to be.

If I’m not satisfied with your tone, I’m going to take my business elsewhere, thank you very much. This mortal coil never suited me anyway.

But I don’t expect to age myself, nor my heroes to age ahead of me, be that the comedy greats, or be that my dad.

That phone call, and this programme (about walking and talking, which – remember – was my idea originally) gave me a moment of realisation – I need to go for a walk.

With family. My wife. Dad.

My friends too – though they are fat, lazy, awful and won’t talk to me for some reason – and it’s mutual.

It was a good moment to have and I know I need to seize it.

Basically, these moments accumulate to suddenly becoming yesterday, and a fair few number of them amounted to ‘years ago‘ and the debt we owe for letting them slip-by can’t really be repaid.

So, I’m going to go for a walk with my father, and I’m sure I’ll tell you all about it. My Dad’s not a famous fellow, but he’s my fellow and I know he loves me very much. It’s nice to know that.

We can talk about the years of evenings we sat next to each other watching The West Wing, or laugh about the surreal satire Merton may have delivered on a most recent HIGNFY. Plus the latest developments on the Sooty Show.

I’ll give him the low-down as to my creation of walking and talking – which I really did invent.

I even created a phrase for it: “the walk and talk” but I forget why I called it that now.

Sam


An unromantic hotel room.

Posted: March 6, 2024 | Author: | Filed under: Brief...therefore witty. | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

I think a good hotel room is unromantic.

Same as how a happy life, without conflict, drama or the overcoming of both, doesn’t make for a good story.

Happy stories are for the birds, unlike the movie ‘The Birds’ by Alfred Hitchcock, which is a fantastic idea about birds attacking rooftops and that being an issue for some reason (the cure for zombie apocalypse, human or avian, is baseballbats directly into the blood stream – just not your bloodstream).

I’m in a hotel room as I write this and it’s fine.

Quite nice actually. Comfy bed, door locks as it was built to, TV televises, and the window offers a vista of one of England’s more breathtaking carparks.

All rather nice, all rather dull. Nice. How nice. Very nice.

No one likes a good experience be relayed to them, it’s uninspiring.

You don’t pull your closest friends to the side to tell them that there’s no need to rise to the challenge because it turns out everything is nice and the TV works, therefore they’ll be no righteous battles, mountains hurdled or passionate shagging tonight, thank you.

People like a good story about a bad time, preferably overcome but not vital to the hopes of battles, hurdling and shagging.

This hotel room has vibes, and they’re comfortable.

I didn’t realise it’d have vibes when I booked it.

I just wanted a bad time, every now and then, to keep things interesting and to make sure there’s a tale to tell.

Oh well, maybe the room service breakfast will be subparr.

I’ll be sure to let you know

Sam

PS: Next morning. There was only one sausage. Hilarious! But still, regrettably, nice.

I can’t be alone in thinking this. I’d like to be though.

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

There’s always a risk of being honest online.

One must tread (type) carefully with the expectation that one is racist or something equally unpleasant and therefore not deserving of having a blog anymore.

Now, I probably am racist, but I’ll leave that to folk more qualified than myself to diagnose. I can’t think of any specific views or prejudices at this time, but I’m sure they’ll surface on my commute home through traffic.

Less so focused on the likely-racism for today though; I want to talk about feeling sad.

Because I do feel sad.

I’m sad right now.

Oh look, I just got sadder.

And this has happened before with me, and it’ll likely crop up again, but I do keep reverting to this perpetual option I have to wander into a field and die.

Not suicide – I don’t have a violent bone in my body – but definitely not trying any more.

I don’t know if that counts as ‘giving up’, or ‘no longer putting up with the planet’s negative sides any more’ (can a planet, being round, have a side? When I’m in a bad mood – yes it can. A temper-dependent, partially flat Earth).

Either way, I like the idea of having the option to wander into a field, sitting down, and worries ebbing away as one of two things happen.

  1. I master meditation and Zen the shit out of myself.
  2. I abandon the premise of hunger, ambition, regret, loss, hope, fear, glory, pride, and especially having a numb bum from sitting in a field for too long.

Hunter S Thompson made clear is his view on suicide, ultimately by shooting himself in the head (really showing his conviction) and in what he left behind – his words.

Beautiful words on the matter.

“I would feel real trapped in this life if I didn’t know I could commit suicide at any time.”

And then the note – ‘Football season is over’.

It was his final note. We probably shouldn’t know about it – I doubt it was ever meant for us.

But still, his point remains now as true as then.

It’s a weariness. I cannot be bothered with the blue bells and bird song.

I’ve had enough of the laughter of children and the company of friends.

Women aren’t what they used to be, nor am I.

Bye….along those lines.

The sort of things that are why you want to leave a dinner party that’s gone on too long, but you don’t mention because everyone thinks you’re suicidal, and that reflects awfully on their hosting skills.

I’ll cheer-up, I’m sure. Maybe not tomorrow, but hopefully before the weekend.

And whilst in this mood, I still like to ponder walking into a field, harmlessly, carelessly, and should I die then I shouldn’t care, because of the careless happiness I’d feel about being in a field.

On a sunny day, obviously.

Not too sunny, either – that won’t work for me.

For this I’d have that kind of particular preference that comes from a mix of memory and imagination and won’t ever actually happen – that’s my kind of weather.

It’s good for the soul.

Sam

Sandwich ingredients – can’t we all just get along?

Posted: January 31, 2024 | Author: | Filed under: Brief...therefore witty. | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Say you’re a slice of cheese, with all the crucial memories and opinions that a slice of cheese would have.

You want, specifics? Fine you’re brie.

Actually, no – you’re cheddar. Being cheddar is important for this.

It matters to me.

Anyway, you’re a slice of opinionated (cheddar) cheese – and someone places a slice of ham on top of you.

Opinionated ham.

Ham with a mother.

Ham with hopes (not dreams though – it’s just ham).

And that slice of ham is laying on top of you face to cheesy face – how would you feel?

Perhaps you’d nod politely at one another, like businessman bumping into each other on a crowded train, but then again, that doesn’t often happen when they’re both horizontal.

It’d be really neat if you’d both simply get along. No need to shove.

But that’s not all – next is the disappointment that comes from the comfortable slice of bread you yourself had already been placed on.

You’d been enjoying it being as soft and convenient as it was to relax upon, though weirdly, it was particularly buttery. As buttery as anything you can think of as being buttery.

Not many things are buttery. In fact, its likely that most things that are buttery, aside from bread, are not intended to be buttery.

Buttery.

Albeit buttery, it was a pleasant place to find yourself as a slice of cheese, even when a slice of ham is pressed against you.

Then, you see over the slice of ham’s………………. shoulder (?)……a second slice of bread descending its way towards you.

Now I can’t pretend to have ever heard cheese before. But if I were then, like you are now – a piece of cheese about to be imprisoned within the kind of butteriness that you’d honestly begun to trust – I think I’d have a lot to say. And even more to scream.

Meanwhile, the slice of ham is still squished up against you, face-to-face, unable to move because it’s inanimate (AKA “thoroughly well-cooked”) and is desperately asking what you’re freaking out about, but can sense the darkness looming up from behind it.

As I said, I’ve never heard cheese, and I’ve never heard the inside of a sandwich either, but I’ll bet its muffled.

Now I don’t want to be grim here. There’s no pain in the life of this cheese (can’t guarantee same for the ham) so have no fear of me describing the agony of teeth coming together through you – some cheddar cheese.

But, the idea of being chewed cheese basically just occurred to me and I wanted to share consideration for the sensation with you.

My favourite part was the suggestion of the cheese and ham nodding politely at each other. Its nice to get along.

There might be a metaphor in there somewhere, sandwich ingredients getting along and so on.

But I’ll leave that to you to be interested in, I’m just curious about being a piece of cheese.

Sam

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