Sometimes All You Need Is Something To Say

Sometimes all you need is something to say

And whilst I may be without a thing to say, I’ve got plenty to write about.

I just need to remember.

I’d love to escape from prison; I just need a crime to be sent down for long enough for, preferably in the 1930s.

Naturally I don’t want to hurt anyone, nor take things that don’t belong to me, as I really am quite pleasant upon first impressions (just don’t meet me twice).

Maybe sedition?

Or parking tickets?

Its time like this I wish I was in the USA, able to commit some devastatingly trivial infraction that would escalate to a prison sentence upon crossing state lines.

Smuggling.

I would love to be imprisoned for smuggling, or piracy, so long as I could ensure a positive working environment with equal opportunities for the all (not just the physically impaired – who I presume are the majority on a pirate boat. I’ll be calling it a ‘boat’ rather than a ‘ship’ by the way, as I know this will irk some and I want to give a fair chance to those that don’t get to meet me twice).

I’m a Man of Kent, owing to having been born East of the Medway river in Kent, thus giving me a fair grounding in the history of my county. And it turns out Kent is a county of hop-pickers and smugglers, both historically enjoying one another just fine.

I could pick a hop, and I could pick it well, but I doubt I’d get to enjoy the thrill of being chased along the estuary, whilst the orchards are a place for high-speed fuck-alls. Orchards a are place where even hurrying takes most of the afternoon.

So smuggling it is.

No smuggling of people though, as smuggling people is immoral and dangerous, as well as a crowded market at the moment – the number of Brits looking to make a get-away buoyant on a sturdy enough inheritance of the family turd to float their way through the sewers and away to the continent; is simply silly, as well as intricately silly too.

I’ll have to smuggle something noble, like medical supplies, or knights.

Which knight of the realm would be best to smuggle to the continent?

Sir John Major deserves something nice to happen to him, providing the canoe is broad enough.

Sir Michael Caine and Sir Lenny Henry could do with a voyage to the mainland, though I have to admit I’m struggling to name knights at this point and wouldn’t want to tell these chaps they were only invited because I couldn’t think of more noble folk.

They’d still have to pay-up, of course, I’m not providing free rides here; I am a smuggler after all. But what fee for a canoe ride to Europe?

Some sort of pardon for doing it in the first place seems a worthy price for such a crime. A nice written pardon, quilled onto parchment (not one of those tacky plastic ‘get-out-of-jail-free’ cards), that absolves me of whatever you’re talking to me about. The sort of parchment you can really waggle in a coastguard’s face. I appreciate already that there is peril in this becoming soggy in my working environment, but that makes it all the more of a pleasure to waggle.

I think Sir Major and Sir Henry would keep my pardon safe, not sure about Sir Caine though, and I can imagine him getting all upset about having let me down and worried I’ll ditch him mid-Channel.

To be honest, all three of those knights seem particularly ‘overboardable’, not that to criticise them, I just picture them tipping backwards and hearing the splash – they’d all make a good one, and would be a good way to loose passenger weight for the get-away.

Each of those knights is a notable amount of weight to lose. To be able to say: “I’ve lost almost Sir John Major in weight since January” is good for your health (presuming you were massive to begin with) and good for your smuggling career (presuming you’ve been undergoing a getaway since January).

I could ditch them all, irrelevant as to their clutching of my pardon parchment, particularly considering that my main aim was to be imprisoned in the first place.

Presuming imprisonment, I’ll just need it to the 1930s so I can go about this properly in a grown up fashion.

So, naturally we’re talking about time travel (I say “naturally” as though it’s still fashionable. Isn’t it? Could one travel through time to a time when time travel was still fashionable? If so, why aren’t we all there? Could it be that time travel is simply dorky? I think…yes. Napoleon, Jimi Hendrix, and Joan of Arc in the year 3000 are all dorks.)

And frankly I’d prefer not to, so will save the 1930s prison breakout for another time.

To end, upon checking, I do have something to write about, and you’re just lucky you weren’t reading this, because I went with what I had – you had better options. ‘Moby Dick’ for one.

I’ve written about smuggling knights into Europe in reward for a pardon for that very crime, in the hope of being imprisoned anyway in the 1930s, and all the while you were distinctly not reading Moby Dick and elected to read my words instead.

Pride and Prejudice too – something else you could have read instead of this.

Sir Billy Connolly; there’s another knight.

Nice one.

Sam

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Sam Wood; Lately

I holidayed in Denver, began a new year, moved to London, boated about in Oxford, was profoundly English in Iceland, got engaged beneath Northern Lights upon a different boat, moved to Kent, got promoted and remembered I write articles on the internet and that I should really probably at some point like actually (“totes”) get around to that one day soon with a little bit if “ish” on the end.

How’ve you been?

You inactive pussy you.

Only joking; I’m sure you achieved a great deal.

Like winter.

Congratulations on winter. If you didn’t make it through; you should have tried nudity.

Nudity is a barebones means of communicating to the elements that there’s no real point in trying; your penis can get no smaller and nipples no stiffer. Taking all the puff out of the wind as it were.

I did winter twice and only fell twice, entirely clothed both times just to show how tough I am. Perhaps I should have been naked; just to make a point; a means of ‘point-making’ I am only too happy to put across.

Denver is tremendous; I caber-tossed in the Rockies and defeated every Texan I met at Beer Pong.

Aside from that I have to say a UFC competitor is an extraordinary occupation to hold.

Stepping into a shape (let’s not quarrel over squared circles, rings and octagons) and professionally punching faces. A bad day at the office consists of not punching the other’s face enough; in which case either try harder or yoga. Now; before more fists happen to you.

Plus sponsorships.

Why not sponsor yourself? If you don’t then you have no self-belief in the product.

Upon your trunks should be an emblazoned “ME….motherfucker…”

What a point that emits and a good one at that: “ME….motherfucker…”?

“ME.…motherfucker…” speaks scrolls of worthy output that “Nike” can only dream of.

Oxford is superb; if you haven’t fought a woman in terms of boating and actuality then you haven’t done what I did that day. Maybe this is a recommendation; perhaps it’s just an admission that I fought my now-fiancé with an oar.

As for Oxford…….that’ll do. Plus breakfast was lovely; as were the locals.

I moved lived in South London for a while, commuting into Swale every day.

Commuting is a profitable hobby, for it was whilst I made my way most merrily (and…not really) at 5am from Belvedere (BBEEEEEEEEEELLLLLLLLLLLVVVVVVVVVVEEEEEEEEEDDDDDDDDDDEEEEEEERREEEEEEEEEEE!) to work; I remembered reading was an option. I now intend to indulge fully in the art form.

The art form of reading, that is, as opposed to writing (as you can tell).

I’m not a hushed reader; I like to encourage the author along; offering a whoop of appreciation and excitement as the chapters come to peak. It is a robust and healthy method of reading, although the rest of the carriage did turn against me and I was forced to begin to smoulder with intensity in retaliation.

I recommend you do the same. Otherwise I’d be weird and alone on a train.

Plus self-sponsored.

Plus becoming somewhat over-excited about my own enunciation of “Belvedere” (BBEEEEEEEEEELLLLLLLLLLLVVVVVVVVVVEEEEEEEEEDDDDDDDDDDEEEEEEERREEEEEEEEEEE!).

Oh I’ve sighed in my life; but I’m a superior screamer.

So…Iceland was engaging.

Because I got engaged (fuck puns today).

I asked my girl, the focus of my dreams and the bewilderment of my reality, to be mine for the rest of our lives and she said “Yes.”

Beneath the Northern Lights which danced for us as though tumbling from the heavens and upon us, purely so as to exacerbate the point that life is distinctly going my way and I have no excuse for this.

Perhaps it’s because I just kept smiling.

I don’t deserve any of this; but I’m not giving up a second of this for a lifetime as any tiger-like living there could be; likely since I’ve found my tigress.

And she lays with me.

I intend to write in detail about all of Denver, Oxford, Iceland, engagement and other vital subject matters such as have been scarcely penetrated here (poor buggers); but this will do for now.

Forgive my absence; I’ve been deservedly busy and inexcusably cheerful.

Smiling helps.

Plus I’m the Greatest Human to Ever Live.

And so are you.

Mwah,

Sam


Meditation and Home-Defence.

How do you make a donkey reverse? You make the carrot frightening.

Anyway…

I’ve had an urge, for a long while now, to arm myself with something beyond the pale of civilised means- such as doorlocks and kung fu.

Hence, I’ve now a bow and set of arrows lying atop my coffee table- making it a much more appreciated ‘bow and arrow’ table- which I hope to make available soon in a superstore near you.

Why would I acquire a bow and arrow?

Big cats.

Where I live, a county called Kent in England, we have ourselves a local legend about a puma-like big cat- that people of the area see the arse-end of as it, yet again, disappears- or they find the wreckage of a partially eaten, mostly dead chicken.

And, obviously, I need a new rug/pet and so will be seeking this massive feline out so as to ‘achieve’ it as such (I feel that ‘achieving’ could be a much more possessive and aggressive act…”I achieved you mum”), as well as to have some degree of vengeance for the chickens that I’ll never get the chance to meet.

Hunting. I’m here to hunt.

I have to admit that I’m much more of a gatherer though. I tend to pick up things as I make my way around the Earth, and then leave a little trail of items I’ve discarded owing to a matter of lacking pocket space.

However, the natural instinct that I feel within me to hunt is potent, and enjoyable.

Hunting. It makes eating a little spookier owing to the activity frequently revolving around murder and digestion in the forest. Not only this, but it also tends to mean you can wear what was your dinner after eating it.

This is harder to do as a gatherer in the more-traditional sense; wearing what you find, as opposed to wearing what you’ve killed, doesn’t work so splendidly.

Doing that with watermelons is frowned upon by most people who have a brow to frown with. Why? Because helmets, which is at the most what a watermelon can be, are only supposed to go on your head. Maybe feet. Not buttocks. Not testicles- no matter how scared you are of sudden impact to potential descendants, and dick/and/or/vagina.

I like hunting and, though my current kill rate is zero, my aim is improving.

My current aim tends to be at suburban pigeons, and they are as surprised as sweet hell to find an arrow swishing past them. They don’t need to dodge it, but they move anyway. There’s nothing quite like making a pigeon’s eyes widen.

Naturally, in the same fashion as in the United States, my weaponry is for hunting, but it undoubtedly has a practical purpose in defending my property and wife.

I would like people, and yes…of course…zombies, to know that if they should attempt to crash through my door as part of the massive horde…then they be met with a volley of whatever I can find when I’ve let loose all my arrows. Probably the longer items in my cutlery collection- meaning that people, and yes…of course…zombies, will find themselves impaled by the most mundane of domestic items.

And that’s why we need to relax.

Zombies at your door with a collection of arrows and broom-handles sticking out of where you aimed should not be something to look forward to for such a collection of us as we are.

Why do we feel the need to do this? Why do we feel as though we need a zombie apocalypse?

A chance to start anew.

Year zero.

From the moment that begins, you’re are 90% more interesting because finally something happened to you- and you’re likelihood of being some sort of hero in your own story is multiplied to a degree that matters to you.

Credit history lost, the waste of years lost, all that time in traffic gone, no longer such a thing as a migraine because you don’t have time…

With less people, you feel like this Earth is suddenly a whole lot larger and the chance of you making it yours are finally nearer to that 100% that you have always secretly craved.

And though this is not a flawed feeling, it is a lack of understanding.

The chance for you to rule the Earth is perpetually immediate, although obviously easier for some than others- but still ‘achievable’ (growl).

You just needed to meditate first…and then move along with the home-defence.

Ten minutes a day of silence, eyes closed, lovely posture and a focus on what you want is a way towards the wonders that you are meditating for. You will think more clearly, and you will be more self-aware and open to whatever comes your way, you will be willing to start something…a challenge is an opportunity to become and to learn. As for the soul, and all that…whatever- I feel it is a placebo that works for the personality.

The only aside of this from home defence is that you allow people in as freely as a public park- possessions will fuck you over and eliminate your pocket space. So let them go, in and out, forget your things so as to remember your people and yourself.

If you’re being attacked- then be equally violent back: meditation is a personal thing that is relevant to whatever you conjure up in your life. If your decision is to punch a violent attacker, then maybe a little mediation will aid you and your knuckles.

Defend yourself- certainly, and hunt often, but do not be prepared to shut yourself down and away as though the rest of the world is contaminated.

As much as we are our own species greatest predator, when one of us is endangered or infected, we are all our saviour and our cure.

I have a bow and arrow, for home-defence, hunting, and for acquiring that enormous feline that makes myths about my locality.

I also have a C# key, liberated from an abandoned glockenspiel.

I have realised that when creating a great impact with this key- it makes a deep vibrating sound much like that of a Buddhist gong

This reminds me of the time I travelled in Northern India, Himachel Pradesh, Dharamsala, McLeod Ganj, and I am temporarily transported to that place, by the temple, over-looking the valley of the lower Himalayas, and I am peaceful.

I am also ready to defend myself- which I had to as was attacked by monkeys shortly before hand, which is far less amusing than you are probably imagining right now. You might find it slightly funnier now though, as I tell you that they attacked whilst I interrupted their oral sex.

Fucking tourist.

So when I am attacked- I have a meditative aid to deliver a blow to the forehead of my unfortunate aggressor. It goes “Dong”, whilst the forehead makes an altogether crunchier sound.

What home-defence offers you is a feeling of preparation to deal with what is coming in your life. Meditation is an actual way of preparing to deal with what is coming in your life.

Mediation is a means of defending your true home- your mind, and herein is the link between the two, but the distinction between them is still constant: home defence encourages keeping others out whilst mediation espouses a yearning to enjoy other people so as to either invite them in or knock on their door.

Prepare your mind, not your doorstep, unless you are expecting some of those guests you’ve gone and acquired.

Host the world, neighbour to all.

Sam