To begin with, as we know, everyone’s been dying for quite a substantial period of time.
Nobody’s not died in living memory.
We just keep it up, don’t we?
2016, in four months, robbed the world of mother and brothers, friends and lovers; most of which are unknown to all of us.
Now however, it would seem the entertainers are going.
Victoria Wood was introduced to me by my mother.
I had no idea in the slightest.
This is a very general rule for me, and becoming engaged with a funny looking lass who seemed to be wearing intergalactic clobber made it all the more so; not to mention her referencing to things which were evidently quite dull.
And then I aged.
A sad story, I know, but with these betraying years came the sublime smack of comprehension regarding the world that I had not known before.
I read a little, wrote a little, kissed here and there (once everywhere) and realised a bad time was sweaty and good time doubly-so.
And now I am as I am.
And me being what I am as I am now; I’ve gone and gotten myself and appreciation for Victoria Wood.
And I think she’s an absolute cracker.
Blending the northern grind of suburban mediocrity with the true surreal thrill-filled passion which consumes each and every one of us at our best and worse; she found her comedic niche and worked the hell out of it, building to the paramount point of glorious comedic beauty:
“The Ballad of Barry and Freda”
She, being Freda, approaching the waning years of latter middle-age, whilst also being bloody Northern, is one evening filled with the passion of Greta Garbo’s smouldering glare and Marilyn’s off-the-shoulder-strap cheek.
Freda enquires, demands, pleads, proclaims, beseeches her lover, Barry – likely a chap still working though would rather more sit and scratch – this simple statement of the still-sparkling powerful cheek of she that is forever young (sometimes)… “Let’s do it.”
Barry cringes, is unkeen to go about the act of love making owing to some “it’s not right, s’not proper at ah age, you’re just bein daft y’old blody womun”
As is his right, with the timidity of the years bearing down upon him, though much still very so in love with his Freda, he’s a tad out of rhythm when in the sack.
And he is quite honestly intimidated by his wife.
However, her passion builds, bulges become commonplace in the front room and the crescendo cometh in the form of Victoria Wood bellowing, thoroughly accented like a bloody Northerner should be, with “TONIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIGHT!”
And I’m still listening to her sing it.
Recognition is the means of immortality and thus, for us, Victoria is very much so still here.
Lemmy basses about through a thousand stereos still.
Bowie’s bravery strikes chords in a million daily hearts.
And I’m reminded that I am fairly old for the average 26 year-old.
And I’d better get working.
You can’t take anything with you, but you can leave the world with something to remember you by.
And there they go.
Never forget, we’re lucky to have them…still.
Rest in peace humanity, and throttle life like you know you’re not coming back.
I can imagine it starting with oxen.
Because it’s a shitty story anyway and shitty stories are pre-empted by oxen.
I have no oxen.
No history with them and likely no future with them.
But I promise to each and every single one of you in congregation today…if you tell me what to do with my oxen; I’m heavily inclined to disobey.
And I tend to disobey with my right hand.
It’ll offend you (…as well as myself sometimes).
Everything after that is just a matter of stamina (my word; that’s a toughie to type).
“Yahweh! Oh YAHWEH!
Tell me again; how much must I trade my oxen for?
No, I was asking ironically. Stay away of Dave the oxen.
Hey, by the way Yahweh. That oxen; his name’s Dave.
Because Dave’s my fucking oxen’s fucking name, Yahweh! You better believe it’s biblical!
Just take the fucking compliment and leave your directions out of my Dave.”
When you encounter a supreme-being like this; you’ll just have to wear them out.
Be the bigger entity and get parental.
You’ll need to discipline that deity.
If they get sudden blood all over your nice, clean Nile; just keep scrubbing those crcodiles back to a respectable shade of reptilian unbloodliness, commenting on how pleasant it is to get to spend some quality time with your favourite still-hanging-around-after-the-party-dinosaur.
Of course it’s an awful bother receiving a miracle-full of sudden blood all over your Egyptian cotton.
Deal with it mortal; we only have each other and our dinosaur leftovers now.
They’ll keep vying for your attention amongst the other Gods; promising you honeyed heavens and gushing…whatnots. Multiple women are a guarantee; you need not acquire separately.
Should they start getting uppity and demanding…let them tire themselves out.
They can’t plague you forever.
I find taking it beyond twelve plagues seems to do the trick. After that they get tuckered out.
Especially when you maintain that this is all fiction.
The divine detest that.
They see the ultimate reality of their existence of utmost paramount importance; exactly as their author deigned them to be.
And as a final straw; if they get a tad too despotic in their attempts at world domination (which is just dandy if you do so nicely); take away their offerings.
Well behaved Supreme Beings have multiple oxen sacrificed to them.
Many Daves for dinner.
Nasty ones who can’t keep their warts and boils to themselves have to make do with bread and water, sent to their corner of Heaven…early.
They mainly miss the smell.
Give a god an aroma and then take it away.
That’s the best way to witness a massive and melancholy nostril.
I tried Joop with mine. When the deity got a tad too lippy; I took his perfume the fuck from him and put it where even omniscient eyes couldn’t see. Amusing really; since he was also omnipresent, meaning that it was hidden right next to him.
And from there simply continue to play it out as such:
- Just fucking try and plague me, Yaweh. I’ll rub those frogs on my sores and boils and have a great time. See me Science myself better.
- Locusts are delicious; try some yourself. You created them? You’ll have to give me your recipe sometime.
- Kill my firstborn? Guess I’ll have to raise my pet frog as a son in his stead. He is also Dave. The Dave’s might just plague you back sometime…do things to your crops.
- Turn my water to blood? Although that can have a disastrous effect on my Egyptian cotton; I’ll have to laugh at the fact you go from this to frogs.
Plus frogs are juicy.
Thanks again for the frogs.
God being somewhat thick also aids the rebellion via mortality.
Knowing everything means you can’t actually work anything out; you’re without that spark to conjure because you already know.
If there’s one serious character fault in this Yahweh chap it must be a tragic lack of wit.
A decent portion of wit can get so much done; let’s just leave the plagues out of it shall we?
Us mortals; we should stick together.
Particularly considering that I’m the greatest human to ever live (evidently there’s no God).
And so are you.
Sam (and the Daves)
What about if I were to simply explode?
I don’t think one can argue with dramatics at a time like that.
Plus the mess I make post-pop could provide work for the workless (I will be swept and mopped), meat (a tad hairy) for the hungry (I’m looking at you, lucky vultures) and a reminder of me as I used to be; wet, showing too much flesh and gradually making my way down your wall.
I can only apologise for the mess. If offended; feel free to concern yourself with the less-fine cuts.
Fertiliser is fertiliser after all.
Apologies also for the windows; at least we have people to deal with that for us; window washers. I hope they’re trained to such a degree as limbs on the pane.
If it weren’t for window washers we’d have to go about that extraordinarily simply task all alone with a sponge.
“All alone with a sponge.”
Let these words haunt us like the remnants of me snail-pacing myself down your window.
A real curtain-shutter.
I don’t know about you guys but I want to stab and burrow the little dot of an exclamation mark deeply into the Earth before I depart.
“BOOM” suits me nicely.
Just to be clear here; I’m not advocating any terrorist activity.
Don’t do that.
It’s bad for your health and the economy.
In particularly, MY health and economy.
Don’t touch my economy.
Terrorism in the form of faux-martyrdom (annihilating oneself and as many as possible of the unsuspecting non-believers around you) is cowardice in its most vulgar and blatant guise.
Heroes also suffer the throws of slings and arrows whilst they burden the daily and die slowly in an effort to improve the world (though relative).
If destroying yourself and the lives of those you haven’t even spoken to is your best method; you should really get out of the world-changing game because you are woefully unarmed on a planet currently dealing in and thriving on words and ideas.
Courage is all the more essential in matters that are slow and are accordingly all the more un-noted.
Exploding yourself and killing others is capitulation to the rigours of a worthy fight.
Not to mention that you disembarking a few dozen/hundred/thousand folk from the planet’s surface really is testament to how petty you are.
If all I’d achieved in my life was the murder of others; I’d consider the life a wasted one. Fortunately and tragically never to return.
Blow yourself up; leave the world unchanged (though of course there is now one less cunt in it).
I’d rather be all alone with a sponge.
In the meanwhile; I believe I was talking about my own preferred means of departure.
REAL CLASS is lacing oneself with explosives, enjoying a final meal of rare steak and (please) no lit candles, before making my way out into the desert/mountain top/bridge of your own cute little boat (let’s keep it secluded, eh fellows?) and having a good long think.
Follow that think, whatever it might have consisted of, and push the button.
Probably the red one.
Exploding must be one hell of a sensation; though admittedly brief.
They say a head decapitated is still open to thought and sensation for several seconds.
Perhaps it is alike to the chicken running headless around the farmyard in what it hopes is the least axe-like direction.
Time to kill, post-suicide, eh?
If only my head remained; I think my options would become wonderfully limited and clear.
Can’t say “Ow” (though appropriate). Can’t sing (though appropriate; exploding really is breath taking). No final soliloquy.
Only one thing for it.
Give the sky a big kiss and continue rolling.
Mwah (you get one too).
It won’t change the world, but since it’s your life; do as you choose with it.
Plus; worms need grub too.
Bugger off in the style you deem most appropriate.
That’s what I’d like to do.
That’s how I’d like to go.
I would, of course, fiercely recommend living that life first.
It is ever-so-somewhat the point.
(PS. I likely have much more to say on the variety of topics covered here; I’ll get to them at some point. Probably not sponges and window washers though; I don’t know how they happened.)