They’re going on my rocket, with or without a highlander to blast upon them. Or perhaps we can just position them near the rocket’s main window as we leave it open for a breeze.
Wind-chimes, meanwhile, will not be welcomed onto the rocket, as whilst there might be no more magical a sound than metallic wind-chimes doing what they do in the breeze as they introduce a fairy or a spell takes place, there is no greater relief than when the chimes are grabbed and silenced at long last.
Because it stirs us up from beneath the kilt and makes you wilt like the pansy alien you really are.
Plus tartan kilts.
Plus salted porridge.
These’ll need some development…but, yes, I am ultimately putting Scotland as an entity on my rocket.
And very few nations are going to get that good favour.
This is the series of articles in which I detail all the things that I feel deserve a place upon the rocket we send into space so as to impress aliens, for good and bad (below the waste or not). There are items and concepts that I feel represent us well as a species and as hosts of a planet, either by summing us up well or simply being awesome enough that I want aliens to know about it; which is why the Maori Haka and Abba’s Mamma Mia made it onto the rocket in the last article.
Tartan has a place aboard the rocket, in every single format that it could possible take.
The kilt (obviously), trousers, tea pots, tattoos, shoes, lingerie and total-tartan-suits…all are a bewildering exclamation of proud nationalism via a pattern resembling the London Underground map coloured in by Microsoft Paint.
It also looks like a futuristic and complex array of wiring/programming that would hopefully be as incomprehensible to aliens as the distinction of tartan from clan-to-clan is for me.
Perhaps we could have tartan rocket? Just crack open the tartan paint.
So, whilst the tartan might not be the most worthy of things on the rockets, it still fits in with the theme of today.
Look, I’m struggling to continue with this seeing as that although this article has this Scottish theme and its worthiness for a place on the rocket, I simply want to write about something else now.
I prefer to urinate in the countryside.
That’s what I’m writing about now.
I imagine it’s like golf – the main benefit being that it’s outside and one can enjoy the scenery whilst peeing in the sunshine or moonlight.
However, I have an ulterior motive for when I pee in my garden, and the woods, and the meadow and ever-elsewhere with particular focus on being near a fox den.
I believe we must take pride in our species in terms of output, essence and achievements, and promptly rub it in the face of all other life on Earth (before then doing all this again on a space-bound rocket).
So, I pee outside with the hope that a fox, or a deer or a badger might come along, sniff my abandoned puddle and realise in their mind: “Hmm. That guy…”
And whilst I enjoy being natural amongst nature, it’s mostly the fact that I want to be of some effect in the daily life of a fox I’ve never met. Perhaps they’ll pass the knowledge of that Sam-Man-Pee down to their cubs and I’ll become alike to the boogieman; which is fine by me.
I’d consider it a healthy level of respect for local foxes to sniff my pee and move on.
And nobody need nibble the other, I’m not eliminating the food source of discarded pizza boxes and stolen hats, and I don’t write disparaging comments about foxes on Facebook. It’s all rather mature and long may the pee sniffing continue – especially on the rocket (another reason for having the window open).
Wearing a kilt would make peeing outside easier. A pleasure even, though perhaps not a charming one.
The additional benefit of the kilt is the incredibly effective method of lifting it and waggling the highlander’s lowlands at opponents across the valley, causing both sides to become either truly enraged with a willy-inspired bloodlust that can only be satisfied with a nice bowl of cooling porridge to dip oneself in, or suddenly discovering that you have a tremendous amount of genital-respect for one another which can only be satisfied another cooling porridge dip, though this time without salt.
Drizzle would, I once assumed, be a natural soother of highland tempers and a subduer of spikey temperaments, until I realised on a drizzly mountain side one winter that I was going to severely impediment the progression to future birthdays of all those dryer than myself at that point.
Drizzle has a funny way of making the drizzled-upon people redheaded and tartan and the drizzled-upon flowers purple and spikey.
The Thistle will be the official posy of planet Earth, unless somebody can provide a Sunflower prior to blast-off, as I feel still that a Sunflower is the flower of Earth with the best chance representing flora in a fight against fauna (Venus Flytraps excluded owing to being sneaky and dishonourable). A Thistle might be a more honourable flower, but a Sunflower looks like a 3-year-old drew it and it could feed a family of 8.
The salted porridge deserves a place upon the rocket too, more so as a metaphor than as a meal in and of itself.
“Thank you, but does that house provide any salt to top with?”
“If you’d be so kind, as it’s just that I do so adore porridge, but I do too tend to find that it’s just not bloody horrible enough!”
Sometimes, it’s worth doing something hard purely on the basis that it’s hard.
I once carted a pumpkin around for a few days with the sheer hope that doing a tough-to-do thing would benefit me in terms of true-grit, but I forgot about the idea and left the pumpkin on the stairs (unaware that it had been penetrated and the snails I was saving to cook has escaped and had a jolly good go at it).
My forearm power grew and I’ll swear those snails tasted a tad of pumpkin, but on the whole I became (following many other similar contributions) perpetually prepared to have a bad time for no good reason.
Salted porridge is much the same.
Horrible now, not so horrible next time.
And the alien life would see this through our rocket’s open window, as we waggle our tartan erections out into deep space from beneath our kilts, a bowl of salted porridge somewhere near the mouth – making us grimace in drizzly determination; all to the tune of the magnificent bagpipes – making us grimace in ecstasy as we realise that Earth (in particularly Scotland) is better than your pathetic and weedy little excuse for a planet.
And now we’re taking Mars too.
You might be familiar with the entrenched British radio stalwart entitled: “Desert Island Discs” in which prominent folk from various fields are interviewed on the hypothetical pretence that they are going to be marooned on a desert island.
On this island they are permitted 8 songs (usually music), 1 book and a single luxury item; and this is to do them till eternity isn’t eternal anymore on this desert island.
A charming concept and a wonderful way in which to see more into a person as they unveil themselves via the vital songs in of their life.
A tremendous way to sum up a lifetime, but a hard task when summing up the Earth.
What songs could sum up the Earth and all its previous? Are we stuck with 8 songs to detail our planet’s past? Do the dinosaurs get any sway in our say?
It’s probably worth explaining why I’m bringing the planet into this.
I can remember being told that one day all life in the entire universe was going to end, but not before our sun gave up the galactic ghost and Earth went bang.
I was very young and slightly shaken (almost crapped myself) until it was explained to me that the Earth was not due to explode in a whirl of mountains and continents and pets until millions of years after my own comfortable bed-bound death.
Though quelled, I still held the knowledge that all this was temporary and that there was going to be a final day.
And so, from those young days to this, I have pondered at times about which things would be a good way to kick off the final day; activities and playlists, guest lists and buffet items.
And then, as my understanding of probable alien life came into being, I realised the need to broadcast our best and brightest to the cosmos; for a whole host of reasons including but not limited to: scaring the sweet shit out of Johnny Alien and ensuring they heard the lovely melodies of tales about getting-the-girl, being-so-glad and telling-all-the-world.
And I’ve been narrowing it down.
Yes, it’s another series from me, and whilst a new one comes, please don’t assume the others are dead. Perpetually IN is not quite out of vogue, Matters That Matter still matters and Brief…Therefore Witty still has some epigrams to launch before lunch, although it has become increasingly clear as to my answer in that famed personality quiz question: “Do you find it easier to start new projects or finish up the details that’ve been passed on to you?”
Never pass things on to me.
Especially a trumpet (I hate it when a person plays a brass instrument and holds eye-contact with me. Gives me the willies. Woodwind doesn’t seem to bother me though).
Especially when you’ve just blown it at a group of post-conch-blowing Mauri in the 1600’s.
Onto the rocket goes:
Having viewed much of the world with a fairly sturdy stomach, it was not till I watched true Maori of New Zealand perform the Haka, barely a few feet from my face, with as much intensity as a human can muster and hopefully as much as an alien can bare to stand.
The tattooed face isn’t really an important factor in this, because we’re talking about a wielding of the face that is such a tradition that I truly believe that it has become a genetic blessing on the traditional Maori people.
The bulging eyes, the enormity of the limbs of the ilk that might not grace the cover of GQ but would certainly cause a fellow to quiver in recognition that this is a matter of dashing brains upon the beach, and the tongue that whips with every sincerely meant gasping inhalation of the imminence of battle in which you simply can’t wait to take part.
The slapping/clawing of the legs and chest, the slight and delicate motions between in which genuine respect is given to some hairy sun-stealing deity, the waving of weaponry and the warrior’s deep-shrieking vernacular of a people that have no issue with your puny European musket because we’re used to hunting giant 12-foot Moa birds with huge glowing green rock-clubs, so beware me as I blow my conch (put the trumpet down).
There is something so utterly awe-inspiring about the Maori Haka that I truly believe it is amongst the best of what our species has to offer, and we must look at things in terms of an entire species from now on, otherwise the aliens won’t take our rocket seriously.
I can easily believe the Haka can make you fearless. For how can an expression such as that pictured (just look at the picture…) have any concern over so fleeting a complication as a Martian death-ray?
It is, however, crucial that this Haka be performed only by Maori. Even if they’re 1/24th Maori; that’ll do just dandy too, but it’s not going to be a European guy doing it.
I’ve seen the Kiwi rugby team with their Haka, and the Maori contingent is all of what I have expressed above, but the tall blonde guys joining in too – it just doesn’t work for me. I don’t believe their Haka. It seems too ‘awfully-hope-this-isn’t-too-much-of-an-inconvenience-if-score-a-try-awfully-very-much-sorry-thanks-sorry’. I’m sure they could do a marvellous Scandinavian/Viking battle cry, standing all moody whilst the rain runs from the battle-axe, plus I’ve never seen an Asian or African guy do the Haka, but I’m going to have to choose a Maori guy (and girl, sure) for the Haka here.
I’m not saying European guys shouldn’t do it, I’m just saying it’s not getting onto my rocket.
I’m trying to make inter-galactic friends here.
There is also that message of the Haka, which is the indomitable threat of an ultimate victory expressed via the eyes and lashing tongue in the Haka, but written here it is:
“The worst thing you can be is shit. And I’m going to defeat you in battle, kill you hence, I’m going to eat you, and I’m going to turn you into shit. I will turn you into shit. And I’m keeping your boat.”
A powerful message we can all relate to, especially since I’m in favour of eating some people. Not all people, but explicitly people who continue walking towards our planet once having seen the Haka (because we’d better eat them; they must be insane to keep marching after seeing that).
You might now be starting to see how Desert Island Discs and my rocket deviate from one another.
Next up, onto the rocket goes:
‘Mamma Mia’, by Abba.
Perhaps this is the battle cry the Scandinavians could be doing whilst the Haka’s happening next door?
Of course I’m referring to the single song, not the entire musical. Not the musical at all in fact, but undoubtedly that glorious piece of lyricised human condition known as ‘Mamma Mia’.
Crickey it’s a corker.
A tale known by those who have loved, lost, and rekindled, lost, loved some more, and therein having actually done loving properly; it is a shame of our childish species for which we are very happy to indulge in this equal to the many times we like to put that record on and get all excited at that opening piano staccato that is in imitation of a tick-tocking clock that only tick and tocks onwards and past you whilst you’re still standing there – very much so still fallen for that person and very much so still hopeless to do anything about it.
Mamma Mia – here we go again, a mantra for those about to whirl about in a familiar romance once more, as well as those about to put ‘Mamma Mia’ on again.
Here we go again.
Lyrically, it sums up the side of that human condition that the poets try to nail and the scholars try only to avoid, whilst musically it is simply very fucking-on-the-nose as a song everyone likes.
It could always simply be that I’m a tad of a nostalgic romantic at heart and this is sheer indulgence on behalf of myself, but I don’t see how that would matter either way as it’s my rocket and you’re all my species (I’m fairly possessive) and this is the way we’re doing it.
I just adore that moment of hushedness, in which the staccato returns and the humble “Mamma Mia, here I go again, my-my how could I resist ya” – in which the hushedness represents that intimate chat with oneself in which you’re too stupefied by love that you’re unable to answer your own internal monologue. And the culmination, the CULMINATION that …..CULMINATES to the point of saying simply: “I should not have let you go”.
I feel that “Awww” is a splendid way of summing this song up, and in doing so, goes a great length in summing us up also.
The human species: “Awww” and (Haka-induced) “Arrrggghhh!”
That’s what goes onto my rocket.
When you love something immensely, you put it on your head.
I do at least.
In a manner of sheer ape-ish enthusiasm, the object of my delight is on my head and I am proceeding about my day. I do it in the bakery all the time (bagels).
I don’t seem to be able to help it. When entranced by an object, I have it as close to my head as I can whilst trying to keep the situation from getting messy, whilst also enjoying it when the messiness comes to a head…my head.
So I wear it upon my head, like a King wears his crown out of either love for the power or love for the duty. Or perhaps just the love of looking lovely in a crown.
Things I have put on my head owing to enthusiasm.
Buckets are an obvious example I’m sure we can all relate to, and this is probably owing to the fact that we get so content with a bucket around. A bucket- the archetypal vessel- has never been able to be replaced, and so in the presence of such perfection- we are happy, and we put it on our head.
You can’t beat a nice, warm bucket on a Saturday afternoon in the summer time.
In my opinion, seeing as how harsh the world is going to become in terms of surviving the future…buckets are going to become more in vogue than fucking, and that’s been popular since before there was a word for it.
So we put it on our heads (both buckets and fucking)
Why on our head?
Because it is notable about us- what we wear upon our head is an obvious statement of what we regard as important at the time of being viewed. Such as the king’s crown, such as when I am jubilant about apples (I also wear apples…because I’m really, really happy about them).
It is as if we are stating: “Yes- it certainly is on my head, just as it deserves to be. What are you going to do about it?”
I left the previous many paragraphs for about two weeks. This was owing to drunkenness. Not from being drunk for two weeks, which is beside the point, but because when I was writing last- I was somewhat hammered. Which did not help. Which is a shame because at the time it felt like it did
I was waiting for something to say, but now I know I shouldn’t wait. Nor should you.
I swear that sometimes you just need something to say and that you shouldn’t pussy around with the intimidation of the blank page and the feeling that “I can only write when it comes naturally”. Force those words and then you’ll be able to do whatever you want with that once blank page.
So that’s the situation. Write whatever you feel like and if a point comes out of it then that can turn out to be the good reason for it. Other than that- just continue doing things to keep that page from being blank. I mean- I started out talking about hats for fuck sake, and now here I am giving the down-low on writing ethics.
It’s not just about writing, as the philosophy translates easily to leaving your front door.
I caught a frog within seconds of leaving my front door three days ago, the broken toe I temporarily had was all forgotten for the moment, and the wish to only capitalise on the moment being lived was all that existed, aside from the frog.
It took a moment to pick it up, but other than that it was docile as toast.
What do you mean by that Sam?
Well, thanks for asking and let me get right down the brass tacks of answering your question.
‘Docile as toast’, which I have referred to this frog repeatedly as, is a nod towards the fact that the sheer amount of resistance the frog put up against my ‘carpe diem’ sensibilities of the moment was the act of being apparently buttery and falling.
Which is what toast does. It can be vaguely slippery and fall.
And then when it falls, it lands, and typically it simply remains. Which is what the frog did.
I couldn’t really call it a ‘get away’.
And so the simile works.
‘Docile as toast’- use it.
But I still had to repeat and utter and acknowledge and repeat the fact to the people that I encountered that day that I had caught a frog and that it was docile as toast.
The brilliance of the situation, the entire surge of the ‘carpe diem’ momentum that had willed me palm-wise towards a frog seemed lost on them, as was the simile- which I still maintain is worth anyone’s time.
To share the victory (called as such because I realised that technically I hadn’t lost anything) was a fubar point to these people.
I had to carry the joy that was temporary with me so as to make it from my front door of that morning until the next victory occurred.
Sometimes, that has to happen.
No one else ‘gets’ the joy, and so you have to be a little more joyous- not that you should keep smiling too much otherwise it will ruin everything you. Looking like a psycho only works is a few stabby little circles.
To re-iterate though, you should not forget that when you were putting that frog on your head because you were happy about it- it was more than an act of doing what you wanted with the blank page of your day- it was an act that might have led to a good reason.
Your ‘good reason’, your ‘point’, is our own meaning of life, and it is only likely to happen when you push and smile.
Do whatever you want to that blank page, discover if a ‘good reason’ happens afterwards and then put the consequences on your head because you love it. And keep pushing and smiling, but don’t smile too much.
If you want…
So, that’s where you get to with a blank page that you bully into being whatever you want, then talk about the importance of putting that pride and joy on your head, followed finally by saying you should apply this to your waking life as well. You get a blog, and you get that blog because you weren’t being a pussy.
Here’s another point, applicable to some other subject if not this one…I like the wording of it though- I might use it next time:
Sons and daughters of the land, throughout your lives, every proud moment of yours that your parents have rejoiced in, your mother has deep-down experienced the ultimate ‘emotion’ of “my-fanny-did-that”. Well done her.
That’s it- I found my good reason…I might print this and put it on my head. I hope you find your good reason too.
Don’t be a pussy with a blank page.
So, we all have a time of hate in our lives. I have to admit that when mine gets going it’s normally when I haven’t received enough compliments in a while.
Whenever such a lack of such things occurs- I’ll find a reason for removing you from my life as soon as possible. It is a very negative situation and I apologise in advance and for earlier.
I also swear that a little bit of that hate-like substance called retribution will do great things for you, mainly get you out of the habit of holding that chair with your arse and instead place the chair within your grasp, then through a window, and then you and the chair are gone. If you’re angry enough, it’ll be hilarious.
A censorship is a badge of honour to all the right people- almost as if there work has been ‘okayed’ back-handedly by the admins-that-be. I am still waiting for some people to want other people to stop reading my work. I truly hope they are flaccid-dicked enough to have a go at me. I could make a living and a death out of that kind of recommendation. They just need to be a little more flaccid.
What is important is my lack of pride.
Humbleness is an ability not to be fucked with. Beware the humble just as much as you might never turn your back on the quiet ones. Humble fellows make you eat their brand of pie. And when someone can make you eat any kind of pie, even if you want to eat it, they are the ones in charge. You are too busy eating pie, humble or otherwise.
That fact that I am not proud to say what I feel is reflected in the idea of true equality in reference to race. If you do not notice a person is a different colour than you, then you are very sweet and deserve a promotion from whatever it is that you sweetly do, but this is rare and hopefully a matter of the times. To be able to say what you feel, and as that, say what you feel rather than what you feel you should be permitted to feel- is a similar box of frogs. We are now just bargaining over the legs- because we are French (and I, personally, am racist).
Say what you want, and let them say that you can’t say what you want. The battle of dignity is won, and for our species that is a constant war so therefore you might as well win a few battles. Go ahead and shit your pants, but don’t cry. If you cry- you have done something far worse. You’ve soiled your eyelids.
To be proud of what you say might be a swipe at your own existence. You could instead be proud of what you are doing, as opposed to what you are saying. What you say and what you think is not something to be boastful about: “Enjoy my company because I told a risqué joke about bamboo and rude locations in my twenties”. Your actions are at times to be relayed, and all the time they are to be done, had, in process, in action- KEEP MOVING. Activity- don’t let them take it from you.
However, if those flaccid-fuckers enter your sphere of influence and try to adopt it into their own sphere of influence of telling people what to do because they actually want to tell you what to think, then all that’s happening is two spheres pleasantly colliding into one another, and two spheres doing that look like tits and that’s just marvellous.
Partly, mostly, marvellous owing to looking like tits, but also owing to the fact that making things breast-esque is exactly what they hate the most.
So let it be.
However, I feel that my work might not be the sort worthy of a decent dose of censorship. To end with an example, please allow the following:
I realised recently that if you take the French word ‘bisque’, and then you take the French word for ‘and’, which is ‘et’, then all you have to do is put the two together to make the sound similar to ‘biscuit’.
And then all you need is a reason to say ‘biscuit’.
But until then…please censor me… or…get fucked.
And drug-themed pornography criticising the government.