HEY, 1800s USA, get your own huddled masses

Posted: October 5, 2025 | Author: | Filed under: Brief...therefore witty. | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Being European – I can assure you we worked jolly hard to have the huddled masses we’ve earned over the millennia, to the point that we’ve begun to enjoy huddling en masse.

We call it ‘a nice get-together’ with everyone ever.

And huddled masses don’t come easy.

You need to prioritise turnips, parsnips and several other bullshit vegetables that are fantastic long-term (shelf-life, if you’ve a shelf to be able to implement such a phrase) but are sadly lacking when it comes to reasons for living.

That’s the formulae for masses and huddling.

And frankly the United States should know better – especially in the century in which it was actually happening. Plus it is simply audacious to covert another continent’s huddled masses – it simply generates traffic for ferries and that is most unbecoming.

And the 1800’s USA isn’t the only historical era of a country that requires a good telling-off.

It’s easy to pick-on 1930s Germany for obvious reasons, but how about the pre-Christ Rome? Can you think of a nation with a greater need to get a grip that the one that decided ‘outwards violently’ was the means to a comfortable life?

Yes, it certainly did lead to a comfortable life for many Romans at the time, but not the ones required to be violent and certainly not for the ones required to have violence visited upon them like some grotesque form of stabby-tourism.

Remember the Franks? No-one does, they became both forgotten and French – and Rome should apologise for the latter.

Then there’s everything China did to the Chinese for a period of time that exceeds the history of the planet.

I believe ancient Chinese politics was interrupted, rudely, by evolution of the original mammals at some point, according to the most excellent of Chinese record keeping (the Tang period suffered an economic disaster as fish became land-dwellers: the fisherman were furious about all the time they’d wasted being on a fucking boat).

And then, of course, Genghis Khan needs a good rebuking too – primarily on the grounds of murder.

But when it comes to the USA sidling up to my – MY – huddled masses and treating them with the lack of contempt they deserve – that’s an overstep that I cannot ignore.

Therefore I wrote a blog, and now really must move on to other things.

All the best to you, huddled or otherwise,

Sam

Covered in crab and grinning: the bad decision of the week

Posted: August 3, 2025 | Author: | Filed under: Adventure Forever | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Yesterday we were at the Brickfields in Lower Halstow, Kent. There’s an intriguing history to this place, but finding out more about that is up to you – I’m busy blogging.

My family and I go there every once in a while, to be outside, watch the boats and the herons, and mainly to scroll through the mud and shells with our eyes and fingers, looking for preferable pottery.

‘Preferable pottery’ is what stands out most to you at the time. There are a million fractured segments of all kinds of earthworks there: the classic blue and white (which you can still find far from the estuary shore – in fields up hills), to glass bottle heads, brown jug handles, and pieces of pottery with an array of colours – depicting floral scenes, boats and ships, and sometimes words.

I like reading pottery – that’s my kind of preferable.

Yesterday’s preferable pottery read: “….ING THE TEETH & GUM…”

Underneath is featured what appears to be a glorious hair-do, or equally glorious wig.

My wife picked up one bit, for the obligatory fun of it (you could tell because she said so), my daughter picked up a few pink pieces, and my son a few hundred. My youngest daughter chose not to get involved, being 5 months young.

We only keep a few, sprinkling the rest back along the shore line, telling first-time visitors that we do this every week with our own supply of broken china to supplement the shoreline pottery becoming depleted.

Whilst my wife, son and youngest withdrew to eat M&Ms, my eldest daughter and I continued to search for pink pieces, and were quickly diverted in attention upon discovering we could explode crabs.

The long-dead, sun-dried crab corpses, which if you give a little finger-flick can cause them to explode in exactly the way you’d want a crab to explode.

We had a really great time, and my wife was horrified.

As my son raced over to take part too (who wouldn’t, aside from my wife?), I found a larger crab claw that was, I now know – regrettably, fresher.

Fresher – not fresh.

It wouldn’t explode, but giving it a little squeeze in the right places, you could penetrate the exoskeleton (most unpleasantly – this is all awful), and tug what I supposed to be tendons and make the claw pinch.

We all smiled.

And then a memory from the depths of our DNA, that crawls from the soul – up the spine – and straight out through the brain in all directions, said GET AWAY FROM THAT SMELL.

We all ran. Pursued by the stench.

The smell of rotten, long-dead-but-not-long-enough crab flesh was now all over me, my children, and worst of all – my finger tips, potentially ruining everything I was forth-hence to touch and even-more worst of all: type.

We all did that thing fathers, sons, and daughter do, which was to run separately in different directions whilst simultaneously arriving at ‘destination mother’ and, my word, we were loud and smelly.

My children demanded direct attention in some vague form, whilst I knew what I needed – babywipes, anti-bacterial gel, and for my wife to smell my fingertips.

Two out of three ain’t bad, but even as I write this 24 hours later, the pong is being bounced off my keyboard with every letter and I’m reminded of my bad decision of the week.

We went out for lunch afterwards, at a garden centre, whilst I walked like a surgeon post scrub-up, till making my way to the toilets and washing my hands multiple times before I caved in to desperation and slathered my hands in pure vinegar.

Nothing worked. Even time, known for decimating empires, wasn’t making a dent on this particular fragrance.

I’m going to be that guy who stinks of seaside-death, and slightly of vinegar, from here-on.

Still, at least the kids got to see the way a crab’s claw works. And the importance of hygiene.

Even from the worst decision of the week, there was an upside.

At some point we were covered in crab and grinning, albeit before the whiff.

Adventure forever.

Sam

25th anniversary of a new millennia – China has dragons!

Posted: January 1, 2025 | Author: | Filed under: Brief...therefore witty. | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Happy new year!

I hope you had a good one. I didn’t really have ‘one’ – having slept through the celebrations.

I’ve had worse – such as the beginning of the year 2000, which today is the 25th anniversary.

I poked myself in the eye with a Union Jack flag, which was a crap start to the millennium.

And since then I’ve felt unappreciative of the timing of NYE.

It’s always 1000 years since 1000 years ago. Today is just 25 years since a particular 1000 years ago.

Tomorrow, a different millennia will have passed.

Whoops, there went another just then, but that might have been an adorable little century.

There are beginnings and ends across eternity, and I find focusing on only one beginning and end is just a little meagre.

All that time, all those stories, happinesses and sadnesses, era defining events redirecting courses of a trillion ships, and reliable irrelevancies, the things we’ll never know but still happened and will continue to tomorrow onwards…. saving consideration of that solely for each 31st December is a disservice to the time that has passed.

Plus, and more importantly, firework shows are dull.

It’s hard to get a good narrative going with a fireworks show.

They’re very samey – very quickly – so once you’ve seen the first minute of a fireworks show, you’ve already seen the rest. The first 60 seconds is all you need.

After that, you start to feel a bit dopey realising you’re part of a crowd all looking up at the same thing, like a cow in a herd only you’re doing something far less exciting than eating grass.

And it’s not just in-person. If watching-back the following day, you really needn’t watch a New Year’s Eve firework show specific to that year. I can watch 2008’s show and it’s genuinely much the same, as is 2010 in Paris, 2015 Sydney or 2022 NYC.

You also needn’t re-watch just on New Year’s Eve – August is doable too in case you want to insert some boredom in your summer.

I think the narrative issue is because a NYE firework show has to start with a relatively big bang and it struggles to temper its storytelling from there – unlike China’s drone-show last night.

Starting slow, building-up a story, with fewer bangs meaning you could hear the softer music, unleashing the fireworks towards a crescendo featuring a dragon which was so cool that I’m now delighted to announce it was real.

Yes it was.

They had a real dragon.

A real dragon, made in China.

Still, firework shows remain a broadly dull engagement.

I can picture someone in Ancient China living their Ancient Chinese life, attending a firework show for some national celebration, slowly realising they’re board too – partaking in an already old-age custom continued down the line to me as I watch London’s 2024 firework show above the Thames – also bored.

As well as the lack of dragons, I think the issue is the setting.

A dark night’s sky is a perfect blackly-blank canvas to hit with all those colours, but its a bit distant. If you go to a fireworks show, the fireworks aren’t actually there where you are.

A firework beneath your duvet first thing in the morning however – that’ll stay with you, and yes – so will the burns, but let’s focus on the memories.

Real dragons beneath the sheets would also result in burns, but perhaps this is something we just have to appreciate in the passage of time.

Anyway, happy new year.

But remember: millennia happen every day. As do their 25th anniversaries.

Sam

The Syrian Civil War – remember?

Posted: December 8, 2024 | Author: | Filed under: Matters that Matter | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

I wrote recently about these times being the times to write, and to write about.

We can pause, briefly, and quickly we realise these are just about to be the ‘good old days’.

In 20 years, when this world is a new one, will we look back and wonder what we were thinking? In 100 years, will other looks back and try to understand not only what we were thinking, but also what we had for breakfast (this is a blog after all. Toast, by the way.)?

It’s odd to consider myself a very distant bystander to world events and only as involved in them as I am with Countdown (barely, and eager for less).

But I am.

Seeing it on a plethora of screens, on the radio and even, yes – still, in print…these are the times to write and write about; but also to keep one’s distance from.

The Syrian Civil War is a conflict which, I expect, will come to be known by new names in time. Preferred terms of the victors, either romanticised by traditional historians or made technical by other historians eager to sell books by clarifying that everything is in fact very dull.

Maybe a more romantic name would have kept it in my memory.

I can’t be alone in the West in realising I’d forgotten it was happening.

There’s been lots of wars and conflicts in my 35 years of life, and throughout each I’ve slept well with a fully belly and total expectation of waking for the next morning.

This war, like so many others we’re made to know of, doesn’t seem to be of effect in my life.

Would I like it to be of effect? No. But it would make it real.

Is it not real already? Yes of course, for those living it.

But for me…I’d forgotten about it. Or at least, I was surprised to understand it was still going on.

S’cuse me while I quickly go Googling.

Best part of a million people have died in this war since 2011. It is hard to fathom how extraordinary that number is over that amount of time. It’s a lot of violence.

Maybe too much violence, but not ‘too much’ in the way it should be.

It is too much violence after too much violence. Too samey. Repetition is not good. Repetition is not good.

And that’s not good for viewership.

And I expect that’s why the war and it’s hundred of thousands of deaths fell out of my mind.

Recently though, we have an odd celebrity/fraud scenario in which ‘Hawk Tuah Girl’ became popular following a street interview regarding oral sex, coined a phrase, became a viral sensation (the Syrian Civil War was still happening prior, during and after all this by the way) began a podcast (apparently hard not to) and released a form of crypto-currency in a manner broadly considered to be fraudulent to investors.

Out of the two, the scam and the Syrian Civil War, I prefer the scam as general news. Whilst tempting to say it is depressing too, I think it’s actually affirming.

Not of the fact people will genuinely invest vast amounts of real money into vast amounts of no money, but that the girl provided something with which people could elect to be stupid.

And it’s my right to select something stupid to do.

Other people would have done that for free, but this young lady has made real money from the nothingness (nothingness with a catchphrase).

All the top people are calling for justice in this case, all whilst – I can’t stress this enough – the Syrian Civil War is still going on.

Although, I now understand the Syrian President, Bashar al-Assad, has gone missing whilst rebels occupy the streets of Damascus.

How and when did this anti-government push come about? Was it via a sudden injection of fictional-funds in the form of HAWK dollars?

Would the government forces have faired better if they’d had an obscene catchphrase?

I don’t know.

Repetition is bad, but I don’t know.

Ultimately, I suppose all this – the war and the scam – could have been continuing on their respective timelines. It’s just odd that one seems to have become so prevalent.

Maybe that catchphrase idea isn’t a bad one. I know if the ‘Post Office Scandal’ didn’t include the words ‘post office’ – it wouldn’t have deterred so many from wanting to know about it.

And of course, I’m glad to be at a distance. I just don’t think I should be forgetting about the history that’s about to be.

These are still the times to write, and write about. I think we need to know more about the Syrian Civil War and the experiences of those living it, and the lives of those who no longer are.

I’d invest in that.

Sam

Now’s the time to write about it.

Posted: November 30, 2024 | Author: | Filed under: Brief...therefore witty. | Tags: , , , , , | 1 Comment

In 50 years, those there and then will wonder why there wasn’t more first-hand accounts of the 2020s.

There are lots of ‘accounts’ – but these are largely bots, or worse – idiots.

And whilst I always take a certain pride in ticking that ‘I can confirm I am not a robot’ box, I am accordingly an idiot too.

And the issue with idiots is brevity, which is why they’re so well suited to social media.

However, if you listen to an idiot for long enough you come to realise one of two things:
1. Actually, they’re not an idiot after all
2. Actually, you’re an idiot along with them

One or two, you’ll realise whichever depending on your idiocy.

We have people who aren’t idiots – journalists, who are inevitably historians.

But what does the typical Brit consider of the Russian ‘military operation’ (aka – definitely a ‘war’) against Ukraine?

What does the average French woman think about Queen II dying?

And does anyone know how the people of Papa New Guinea feel about the worsening lack of fish generally?

Who is talking? Who is taking notes?

There seems to be, as I myself feel, a reliance on Google being around tomorrow.

It probably will be, but also – who knows?

Do you keep a diary?

I don’t, because naturally I feel all my opinions are worth sharing in blog form, which is like social media but more of a long-form idiocy.

The difference between a blog and a diary however, is consistency. Like a a good cake.

Diaries are quality cake.

This blog is shop-bought.

However, we can increase the output to the point of being disciplined – it’s just going to require everyone being ready for a greater stream of idiotic thoughts and feelings from me.

For some, that might be a blessing.

One shouldn’t compare oneself to others, but only to oneself yesterday.

Or, you can compare yourself to me – and feel pretty great about yourself in contrast.

Think about it this way: at least you aren’t saying this.

So brace yourselves, for a torrent of inane and mundane is on the way.

Why? So in whatever tomorrow may come, the people may know what a truly average person thought and felt about things.

See you there.

Sam

P.S. For breakfast, I had eggs. And this climate crisis really is getting a lot of attention now. Hmm. Think I’ll some more eggs.

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

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.

Genitals in a tornado – and other topics that don’t get you far as a writer

Posted: April 12, 2024 | Author: | Filed under: Brief...therefore witty. | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

‘Whirly whirly whirly‘ they’d go.

There’s something to it as a topic….the topic being genitals in a tornado.

It’s got depth, and history. It’s also metaphorical, but that’s not as important as literally having your genitals in a tornado.

Which genitals? You name them, they’re there. In fact, bring your own! BYOG!

Which tornado? I don’t know – I don’t any tornados. Obviously they’re all named, but I don’t know the depth of their character in the same way I do genitals.

Either way, I like the idea of genitals in a tornado, because that implies being naked in the elements.

And being naked in the elements, the wind and the rain, the sun and the snow, that in itself implies something too.

There’s depth to these genitals, especially hers.

I think it’s an epic representation of how tiny you are, an insignificant little human in a slightly larger universe, which is entirely indifferent, but the stars are out and pretty, and though you might be insignificant – feeling the rain and the wind and the starlight proves you’re alive.

Which is nice.

You might be able to picture the scene:
A person (perhaps yourself) looking up at an unending sky and appreciating all that living can be, whilst the turbulence of life on Earth increases – the wind rises and makes the person sway and lean into the now-raging storm threatening to rip them away, the will to be and live swells greater than the storm, and proof of living is undeniable and powerful, and all the while their genitals are going round and around like the clappers.

I’ll bet it’s good for them.

Doctors should recommend a tornado for your blood pressure, variations of hair-dos, and for your genitals. Or perhaps, just for the experience – why shouldn’t a doctor want you to have a fun time?

These. These are the topics that don’t get us far as writers. Probably because they’re so interesting, we don’t want to move.

There’s history to these genitals.

Well, really pre-history, but mostly guesswork and even statistics. There’s no way you’re the first person to have genitals out and about in a tornado.

And there’s absolutely no way in hell that you’re the first person to helicopter your penis hands-free but elements-dependent, such as a tornado provides.

The likelihood of this happening goes back further than even helicopters, further back than lassos, further back than any other things you might consider waggling round and round. A penis was doing it first – and I’ll bet there was a tornado right alongside it.

This is history that wasn’t written down at the time it happened, but I bet there’s an undiscovered cave painting somewhere in the world, with storm clouds and rain depicted – with a focus feature of a simple human figure encumbered with a penis so overly large it upsets other people’s balance, surrounded by motion lines to indicate rapid revolutions, and other members of the tribe keeping an awed-whilst-embarrassed distance.

That’s art that I wouldn’t pay for, but I would paint it.

I think they have something similar in the Vatican. Maybe on the walls that hold the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel up.

Turns out – there’s art and architecture to this.

I don’t know about breasts, since they seem to wobble most of the time anyway, but when it comes to history, I’m sure I’ve heard the term “like tits in a wind-tunnel” is one I’ve heard before. I just can’t recall when. I can recall why though – things were going extraordinarily well at the time – like tits in a wind-tunnel.

Vagina-wise (which is a theme, not a given-title for experienced gynecologists) – I’d have to imagine that whilst the tornado might make one’s ovaries a tad chilly, the hollow vagina in a tornado would emit a pleasing ‘toot‘ sort of noise – like when blowing into a half-finished bottle of beer. And you’ve finished the second half, first.

These are the topics that get one nowhere, not even preferably lost.

The important point here, is that writings on topics like these are the guarantee of successlessness. In addition to the creation of unreal words such as at the end of the last sentence, they are not what you want to read about.

But by golly, they’re enjoyable to write about.

And I write, to write.

Doing it this way is to ‘other’ yourself, which gets you attention such as I’m not getting, but the potential is still there.

These are the topics, as you’ve seen above: history, depth, metaphors, art, and architecture – who could possibly be interested in such subjects as these?! Thank heavens there was a unifying theme.

Maybe ‘genitals in the breeze’ would be a better title?

Sam

Bread. Where did the inspiration come from?

Posted: January 8, 2024 | Author: | Filed under: Brief...therefore witty. | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Because I don’t have it.

The inspiration for bread is beyond me. Especially the ‘yeast‘ bit.

I have no idea what yeast is to be honest with you. And should I ever find myself holding a lump of it in my hand and was told to get some of the local crops to make bread, I’d seriously have to consider leaning on magic to get the job done.

And that’s with magic being real, which it isn’t, but then again I suspect yeast might not be either.

Take some wheat, squash it in a dry manner – don’t let it get wet in the squashing process.

Find some yeast, if you believe in such things, and just add it. I’m not sure how, maybe throw it at the dry squashed wheat. How thick a crust you get depends on how hard you throw it.

And where to find said yeast?

I’d imagine a cave, or the underside of a mighty boulder, or behind a waterfall at the mermaid lagoon – what does it matter? It doesn’t exist anyway.

When hunting the mythical ‘yeast beast’, search the forgotten realms of some dark bakery, where it continues to both give decent, hard-working folk infections, whilst simultaneously remaining imaginary.

Back to whatever ‘baking’ is:

It’s possible you then contribute an egg to the proceedings, but that might result in a cake and cakes are simply ridiculous – look at them. They have cherries on top.

Heat, the hot stuff. Put it in the mixture. On and around too.

With that done, it’s just a matter of time.

Time to wonder what the hell you were playing at, throwing yeast at things and hoping there’d be a positive outcome because you made it hotter.

What the hell were the first people who actually made bread trying to do? From whence did their inspiration come?

From whence?!

There’s only one possible explanation for bread.

And I do believe it’s the creativity of idiocy, curious to see what happens when you do something to something and see if something happens.

In this case, it was bread. But what was the first baker trying to achieve? Food?

Because and no point in the bread making process does it look like food.

It looks like matter with no future, regardless of if it gets hot or not.

What could they see that I can’t?

Did they have any idea it would become the basis of poetic metaphors for religious and socio-political economic movements, or the far more serious daily status is holds for the French?

Probably. Most of my actions are based on how important the outcomes will be for the French. Such as this blog, which I’d presume they’d refer to as “hors-de-propos” – the opposite of bread.

Sam

“Let’s get current” (an idea I once had)

Posted: November 16, 2023 | Author: | Filed under: Matters that Matter | Tags: , , , , , , | Leave a comment

I had an idea once to make this blog a big success – of the acknowledgeable sort – where people would stop and say “Hey – look at that big successful blog…”

Part of the plan was to ‘get current’, which I didn’t.

However, building on that from back then, I’d like to bring things to the here and now, keeping the finger to the pulse and the front page journos paying attention to me for the next scoop.

And, to be inclusive of events I’ve missed since I had then, I’ll be beginning with the current events at the time I had the idea: in February 2022.

So, apparently there’s a massing of Russian troops at the Ukraine border.

I hope everything turns out alright.

Imagine if Russia invaded Ukraine – that’d make a lot of noise.

This isn’t working.

Maybe being current isn’t where it’s at any more.

Perhaps I should turn to historical events, and cover with insights into yesteryear that entice the reader into re-reading and re-reading till at the ultimate heights – generating advertising revenue.

I just need an historical event to with which to begin.

How about this – way back in February 2022? I had an idea to ‘get current’ and make my blog the next fresh thing about to hit the big time, at which people would say “Hey, look at that blog, in a minute”.

This idea coincided with outbreak of war between invading Russia and Ukraine, so I quickly for became distracted.

This isn’t working, again.

Reconsidering this plan, it could be that the war in Europe outweighs a nice little idea for my blog, in terms of being regarded a ‘historical event’.

Still, having a blog not only gives you the chance to stand out unique from the crowd and draw attention to yourself and be admired.

It also gives you the chance to say what millions of others say and think daily, which is due no greater regard than being praised for noticing your legs are in the same room as you.

In that theme, to echo something worth echoing, Fuck Vladmir (I hate him on a first-name basis).

Vladmir has no class.

Vladmir is incompetent at many things.

Vladmir’s handshake is so gross, it feels like someone is wanking your hand and looking you in the eye with a Russian accent.

Vladmir has a smelly face and a fat personality.

Vladmir ain’t welcome round these parts.

Vladmir looks like he should be sitting sadly at a bus stop in the rain, holding a carrier bag with nothing in it.

Vladmir, Vladmir, Vladmir….

Go fuck yourself, Vladmir.

Apologies, this may have descended into cyberbullying the Russian President (“Vladmir…..something”), but judging by what I’ve read happens to his enemies, I’m sure I’ll get my comeuppance – so everything should work out well for everyone.

In which case, to echo again: go fuck yourself Vladmir. You ruined February 2022, you ruined my blog, you wrecked and ended lives forever, and worsened a troubled world in need of what Russia can really do.

Go fuck yourself Vladmir. I checked in with School No. 193 at Baskov Lane, which you attended, and they all thought you were a wanker. They could tell by the handshake.

Sam

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