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).
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.
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.
The End Times are approaching, as always.
Bad luck- conditions of the planet. Nothing you can do about it, just let it wash over you…whatever ‘it’ might be.
So, what are the End Times?
Is it a time when you don’t want to be? A time where you no longer fit as you once did previously?
Really- I think it’s relative.
It’s time when we wouldn’t be comfortable anymore, like a 19th Century Klan member walking down a modern New York street, or a time in the distant future from now when the eating of the elderly is an essential and a jolly pastime.
Or perhaps if a Tudor man was to see an average car advert (the neon green car with models flipping in night-glow paints and coloured contact lenses). He doesn’t want to exist where this car is from- such bright colours and flipping are aspects of the devil. He doesn’t like it here in this advert.
Take for example, the situation of the cow and the ants.
Sounds like a moral fable doesn’t it? Maybe it is. Actually, no- better not say that in case this turns out to be an immoral fable and bastards start to refer to the story of ‘the cow and the ants’ when they’re about to be dastardly. Got to watch out for bastards. They’ll fuck up your fables.
So this cow’s trotting down the street next to eight million ants.
They look at each other and realise their mutual hatred and the fact that they’re going to wipe each other out. So they go about it.
And, following a ‘moo’ and a…’scuttle’ (?) and a thud- the cow is no more. Nothing remains- not even the eyelashes. How could you ignore the eyelashes of a cow? I want some- I could put them on the rim of my shoes, and therefore have nice shoes. I can’t think of another way to improve them.
This has little to do with why people are going to have to be eating ants instead of cows (aside from the mass of resources that a cow consumes compared to how much it takes the eight million ants to say “No thanks- truly I’m full, but the cow was delicious thanks”), but I think perhaps it’s a testament of class that we only eat the superior creature. “I only eat the victorious”- a pompous saying for pompous people, an essential aspect of the world- otherwise there’d be a lot less fancy French food critics- something I believe only exists in comics and film.
Therefore, being a little pompous is alright- it creates a food-market for victorious creatures, and acting roles for people with high-brows and large noses. Ants win on mass. They’re good at mass.
You could tell your children that. And then it’d be there turn to be confused.
A another aspect to this would be that cows cry when they’re about to be murdered, and ants…might, I don’t know, but at least the fact that it’s too hard to tell equates to the other fact that I therefore don’t really care. Maybe ants cry, but because we don’t see it, we don’t cry for those tears.
So ultimately,’ bye-bye beef’. Feel free to weep.
‘Good morning chewing antennae’- the essential cornerstone of any breakfast when there’s not enough resources to feed an oxen.
Besides, fewer oxen mean that there are fewer things to covet. You’re going to have to try to sin with beetles now, and I wish you well with that. They don’t cry, you know.
The next aspect of the End Times is that you’re going to need to get a boat and die on it.
Because aside from fishing, nice neighbours and sunsets, that’s all that there’s going to be left to do.
You see, you’re going to need a boat owing to lack of living space on land, and possibly because you prefer what mutated, radioactive Fukushima tuna is left over from what the fishing industry abandoned compared to seeing pickled grasshoppers in a jar on your supermarket shelf.
Not only due to this, but also owing to the fact that, aside from there being too many children to have a space to stand, there’s also going to be no room to fuck. And a large amount of pressure to stop making other humans.
There’s no way to ensure that enormity of a mass sterilisation process, and so fucking will just be frowned upon and in many cases prohibited by those with weaponry exclusively designed with reproductive organs in mind (they are either long, thick, with terrifying balls on, or they are wide and soggy with a horrific ability to totally encapsulate you, as well as hypnotise).
When you have to move onto a boat owing to lack of space, maybe you should stop fucking, but trying telling that to anyone with both the ability to fuck and nothing wrong with them. In most cases of anything, fucking is the best bit, so telling people stop is going to be met with a disregard most apparent when they start to fuck in front of you on the poop-deck.
By the way- I like to say ‘fuck’ instead of ‘intercourse’ or ‘sex’, because ‘fuck’ suggests a confidence to do as such in any mood (joy, hate, hilarity, shame). ‘Sex’ suggests merely and regrettably procreative motives, whilst ‘intercourse’ is used only in writing, by those with a fear of saying it aloud in case it suddenly happens to them and stains their clothes and upsets the cat.
So you’ll be on a boat, with little chance to fuck (aside from the mutant fish). And you know you’ll want to die. Either that or make it a weird religious thing.
Religion is going to have some issues when we’re all on boats and eating grubs.
People just aren’t going to have time to pretend this piece of bread is His flesh. You’d just be amazed that you have some bread that you’re lucky enough to be able to spend some time with.
I think that people being tormented by the abundance of salt- water and the lack of non-soggy bibles to bash is either going to send the religious among us overboard…in a good way. Maybe overboard is where Jesus. I know it’s where God is.
Not to mention that when the End Times come, the people who have been enthusiastically waiting will have a terrific anti-climax.
Waiting and waiting and then finding out that ‘fire and brimstone’ doesn’t really happen anymore is going to suck for them. And then the lack of an ‘arc’ and a ‘Noah’ is also going to sting when you realise that you’ve not been invited.
“Who the fuck needs lions!? We don’t need a lion- let alone two of them! I could be sitting where that lion is right now! That’s it- I’m going…out!”
Even the bible will fall into a crack in the ground.
And then there’s the situation with the art. Where will it all go?
Things that were of such highly valued importance- the Mona Lisa- will drift into oblivion like a fat-guy downwards.
The Mona-Lisa is going to fall off the wall and stay there, eventually be eaten by ants still not full from the oxen (sharing between eight million never works well), before finally being shat.
All things will be shat at some point. Just be glad you’re on a boat, not being shat.
Some things will last longer than others. Is that what will matter in the End Times? Should the things that matter therefore have been made of plastic?
Plastic art probably exists, and now that I’m all for it I’m going to have to find a way to become a patron of it. It’d be nice to have a wing…
In the end, will all that combing of hair have mattered? All haircuts will be forgotten aside from the now-and-forever style of ‘Fukushima-baldness’- you shouldn’t have eaten the tuna that couldn’t swim. You should have eaten the crickets- it’d be one less thing to hear in the silence of your hairless nights. On a boat.
Full stops will be done for- and that’s the end of it.
Disney Land and Auschwitz will only be remembered jointly as: “places people used to go to. One was better”.
The Beatles will become an entity that never existed and that people distinctly don’t dance to, and wood will be one of those objects that has no source. You might be able to get a piece of wood, but chances are you can’t climb it. Unless you have a forest on a ship, but then you’re getting into Studio Ghibli territory, and I’m not that good of a writer to keep up with myself.
The End Times are coming…as always.
Your End Times are coming.
Remember that, and maybe you can get some more stuff done. Get yourself down to that boat yard…install an ant-farm.
Otherwise- I’ll see you next time, at the End of Times…