I still need to write a great deal of my travels, from the time I completely devastated the good-grief out of a completely innocent squid aboard a boat in Hao Long Bay, to the time the Lady Boys of Chiang Mai dressed me up and very much so down again.
The issue is that these experiences have become like cardboard boxes in the house of hoarder, mounting ever higher and further to the point of which I don’t know where to begin.
Some might say beginning at the beginning is the natural place to take the first step, but the natural thing to do is simply not how I write.
Being home is still yet to stimulate that strange sensation of ‘home’.
It is as though the my travelling never took place and I am simply as I was, 7 months prior, with relationships and routines falling right back into place like a two-piece jig-saw.
There are sure as heck some pleasant benefits to being home.
Clear, clean, unoccupied water out of a tap, merely a matter of feet away, in multiple locations throughout my house, with the possibility of fruity squash cordial as an option; is a delight of a right (well – perhaps there is no ‘right’ to tasty fruit cordial, but imagine the effects of a proletariat without taste-bud stimulus; the world needs tasty).
This, added to the fact that the merciless heat of Oz’s red-centre and the suffocating humidity of Vietnam’s jungles are but a memory that causes me to sweat in only a few regions, means that I wander around feeling hydrated; and this is dandy.
I dehydrate and overheat easily; a problem I’ve suffered since turning all-apey as a teenager, with hair sprouting all over me whilst a thick frizzy mop of the stuff rides my head and keeps all that heat in (unfortunate in that I’m largely sane and see no benefit to keeping alien mind-probes out).
I recall terribly (in that really I wish I wouldn’t recall but YOU brought it up) an occasion of heat stroke as I leaned against the wall of the Vatican, wondering if years of devoted atheism were condemning me and, should that be the case, was I now a believer and so free to walk?
Heavy sun, penetrating heat and really far too much hair for a gentleman to be able to hide beneath anything less that poncho and parasol, I suddenly staggered towards a lamp post, clutching it and feebly fondling the idol of Baby Jesus I’d liberated from a shop’s wicker basket (like a battery of mass produced Messiahs all wishing someone less meek would come along to break a commandment or two) and held on.
The world swirled as it feels when one is drunk and in love, though on this occasion I was touched only by the sun on my overly exposed brain, confusing me via heat, rather than love’s devastating effect on via chemicals of the swooshing and panging nature.
I hailed a cab and escaped the Vatican, the near 40 degree heat have defeated me so that I was humiliated by it, with the sun having it’s hat on and then taking it off owing to it being such a scorcher of a day (I’ve always though the sun a tad slow. The moon seems far more with it, more subtle, more nuanced. I’d definitely rather take the moon to dinner than the sun. In Paris. The sun deserves fast food and wheat, whilst the moon is quite appetized by the mere glory of wine and music. The moon drinks red, or an ‘eau-de-vie et limonade’, can’t dance but does, a wears killer shoes as a matter of morality. I feel I’ve found in myself a most wolfish adoration of the moon this evening – how appropriate – or perhaps I’m simply to grudged-up about the sun and that sweltering day in Rome).
Scarcely returned to the room, I spun a dial to bring the room to a more pleasing freezing temperature and stationed myself in the shower for what was then the foreseeable and what became the rest of the day. Still swirly, still delayed in vision and thought and speech, I just wanted to be laying down in the Antarctic, with my head in the soothing cool jaws of some abominable snowman.
I don’t like the heat.
I do, however, adore water.
Water is medicine, cures when you’re ill and saves when you didn’t realise you were ill.
I feel water could honestly raise a fellow’s IQ and improve his standing in life; such is its power.
Therefore it’ll surprise none that on many days, through jungle and desert and canyon, beach and mountain, city and hut; that I longed for a tap’s worth of easy, bargain priced water.
Slosh me with it.
Drown me slightly.
All I wanted so nearly every-single-moment was nought but a familiar glass of the delicious tasteless water that is home to me.
And I haven’t even begun to talk about squash – or ‘cordial’ to those who wish to continue a use of a fine word that isn’t in much use unless supping the elderflower variety.
Whilst I might love water as a matter pf product and principle, I’m afraid I’m a terribly 21st century boy and I tired of the taste of water decades ago. I need a bit of jazz in my glass to encourage it down; otherwise it can become just a tad too dull to really become an option.
That is, unless of course you throw me into a large Mekong-sized river of the stuff (such as the Mekong River). There – with floorboard-stiff dogs floating past you, bloated enough to really flatter your own figure, and with waterfalls strong enough to take your spectacles from your face (as happened to my good pair) so that they might wander down stream and inadvertently choke some innocent swimming dog, there – with squid hunting your fishing line and then becoming latched about the hook, through the brain, before being accidentally spun by in attempted to release so that it should revolve like a frigging roulette wheel as it ejaculates ink over everyone there but me….in these cases water can be a little more fun than a tasty fruit cordial; although it is the latter you’ll when reading a sentence this long out loud.
What else am I glad to be home to?
I think that might be it.
Although I do miss the bum guns.
My issues with monkeys and apes (I think it might be the beard).
I’d bring that chap back and have him stand in my kitchen.
I don’t know how I’m going to go about that by any means other than confidence (I’ve no time machine…why’s it always a time ‘machine’? Why not a ‘time plant’? It could grow older and younger and so on and so forth…If you’d like to steal this idea that’d be great as long as I don’t have to deal with it anymore.) but I’m going to get that smelly defiler of the ages into my kitchen and have him look out the window.
Whilst I can’t deny that Genghis’ methods were efficient (if altogether too runny) I’d love for him to see the progress that ‘nice-chapping’ can afford.
By being fairly pleasant to one another, with a “Good morning” here and a “That’s a lovely blouse, Mr Smith” there, we’ve got ourselves green lawns, fluffy cats, milk on the doorstep and families playing in the streets whilst soft, warm sunlight lands on all. Such loveliness you can see through my kitchen window.
Genghis might not see my point. It could be that he’d look out my kitchen window, murder it, murder me, make his way through the frightened door and proceed to take out his predisposition for upsetting a picnic all over the family picnic, sunshine and milk bottles.
Follow this up with a quick bit of back and forth about world history, wars, government, sociology, poetry and how to slurp soup without annihilating the fellow sitting next to you, and I think he’d calm down with the conquering.
Really, I expect he was a consequence of his circumstance: “Kill (the Chinese) or be killed”, similar to the rapacious conspiring by the royal/nobles of medieval England; looking to one another only to magpie how to be exemplary in sinister, Machiavellian machinations.
This being so, I’d still berate him, make him sit in special spot to look out the window.
Then maybe he’d use his powers of annihilating for good, such as by…murdering…traffic incidents…Then there wouldn’t be any more traffic incidents because Genghis Khan had kindly murdered them all for us. Just trying to be helpful, eh?
Look, I know he was a genius of strategy and governance, and that’s really another addition to my point; what if he’d used benevolence more widely? A man such as him using this in ancient times; would we be even lovelier today?
I’m not sure who I’d bring back from history and berate next.
Definitely Pol Pot, so that I could really rub it in his face about how crap he was at what he devoted his love to. That’d satisfy me to some level.
Perhaps Thomas Edison for being so bitchy…eurgh. Poor Tesla. Poor elephant.
We’ll find out, me included, next time on ‘Bring Back And Berate’!
I may be a fool (perhaps it’s best to presume this prefix to all my articles), but is there a less inspiring sport than Tennis?
With every ‘POCK’ sound across the court I hear the seconds passing me by, much like the point of this game, as well as any fleeting ambition to discover any.
Perhaps it’s the lack of applicable skills.
In the event of a nuclear holocaust, in a time when we are riddled with zombies in the pantry and climate change up the wazzoo; I’m not going to be pleased to have a Tennis player with me in the bunker, demanding all the canned beans for their metabolic rate to burn through and picking up my cat to see if there’s room to swing it.
Plus, Tennis is hardly transferable in a fight.
Armies of white-shorted men with rather stunning time-pieced wrists, delivering nothing but backhanded slaps to their opponents, most of the blows colliding with one another; resulting in those bird-brittle bones in the back of the hand crunching together and even damaging those marvellous European-made watches.
It’s just uninspiring, even with the grunts and screeches that emit from the battlefield, disturbing the body-clocks of local livestock and making it seem like this is all much more demanding than it really is.
Perhaps the skills could be transferred to the hunting grounds, wherein players could swipe post-nuclear bats from their mid-air flocks before feasting on them with all the grunts and screeches they can muster in an attempt to confuse and pacify the poor radioactive animals. (If a bat hears a screech; does it just presume “WALL!”? Because in that case, being eaten alive by a Tennis player must feel being beaten up by a house.)
Not to mention that male Tennis players fall victim to fashion-aging worse and far faster than most athletes.
Just take Caitlyn Jenner; she worked out how unfashionable manhood could be and got with that hip be-who-thoust-wishes trend. Penises are not ‘in’ at the moment. Ahem.
Golfers from 30 years ago are still terribly in-vogue, whereas the insistent urging of an all-white outfit, with wrist and headbands, and way too much upper-thigh for a hairy fellow like me to get away with without harnessing all sorts of pollen and debris in it…oh my.
Nuclear pollen is not something you want to get tangled up in your body hair; you could become riddled with full-body cacti perms which everyone’d find hilarious and your cat won’t want anything to do with you anymore – even with the Tennis player chasing him about.
And I should know of these worries; I’m a spectacularly furry fellow and have inadvertently captured many things in my body hair but am still yet to discover anything of worth; like a penny.
Most common thing I’ve found in my body hair?
Other people’s hair…normally the long hair of a lady amidst a moulting.
I’ve longed for a more productive offering, alas, no luck.
Which is why I’m even less keen to share an eternal after/half-life with a short shorted Tennis player; thigh hair fluttering in the radioactive breeze.
Bunkers are adorably petit, but what about the hourly appointed strolls down THE corridor for morale? Awfully cramped in that corridor. Barely enough room to squeeze past with two people, and no room in the slightest for a Tennis player in his itty-bitty shorts and yourself wearing even a suit of armour; although somehow you’ll still get tangled pubics. Tragic, but a surprisingly effective method of surviving those chilly nuclear winters; albeit with an uncomfortably tickly throat.
I’d like to state a change of my opinion towards Tennis players in the event of a nuclear holocaust.
Maybe we’ll need more psychos; and that is the definition of Tennis players in a nutty nutshell.
Perhaps we’ll need maniacs with a superb backhand, swiping aside the hordes of green-glowing grizzly birds and bees (who – having become tragically literate following the nuke’s increasing of their intelligences; have read all about the birds and the bees and find it cruel that the Great Green Creator should keep such elusive, vital and baffling info from them) as their whirl themselves towards our bunker as an alternative to the honey bees actually trying to mate with an ostrich and vice versa.
His disturbing affinity with whacking balls whilst grunting and then waiting for you to take your turn doing the same to him whilst he stares you down with furry green and white eyeballs, his very expensive European watch whirring at 100 miles per hour though all the number melted off, his pure white short shorts riding ever higher as the Tennis player grunts and swipes and screeches and then finally lets loose a different sound, one of such placid serenity that it undoes your trousers and shivers your spine:
Perhaps we won’t need a Tennis player in the bunker.
Not to mention the things they’ll do for a goblet (just give them the goblet).
I’ve always felt there’s a good deal of character to letters, and as a means of filling the blankness I shall now detail the alternative uses for letters and aspects of their character.
This began when is watched a chap fishing and consciously thought he was in need of a lower case g to hook them. A lower case q would preferable but only when armed with that delightful acute flick of the tail, as opposed to the droopy trailing disappointment that this font offers.
Let us continue.
Due to reading-aid picture books as a child, lower case ‘a’ perpetually remind me of apples and are consequently appear delicious to me, lower case only. Capital A looks like a truly broad letter that’d have its hands on its hips and speak confidently as per a pokemon and say “…A”. Capital A could were a cloak and look reasonable, whilst encouraging children to stay safe and always eat their lower case a’s.
Capital B looks like something you box with, but it also has breasts which somewhat diminishes the pain and tenfolds the impact. Pummeled and cheered via bosom. If not this, then handcuffs, again with bosoms, again intolerably sufferable. Lower case b, just looks like a nice guy, like a thumbs up. I can picture the b leaning on a lamppost, tiny wee cigarette alight and then b sees me walking towards him and…continues to be a b. Character development is non essential in a character, especially so early on in this alphabet epic.
Capital C is suspiciously communist, looking worryingly good in wearing red, whilst lower case c is adorable, like a cat curled up. I try to walk past these two quickly, in case I mistakenly wake the cutely sleeping and purring lower case c and also in case the capital Cs gang up on me a reclaim my property in the name of the proletariat. Not sure how to fight a C, but it looks rude enough to have a sensitive area to kick and I’d never forgive it for nationalising my pet c.
Capital D is for slicing cooking herbs. It looks appropriately slicey as you roll it back and forth across your herb, whilst also possessing a fortuitous handhold. Happy cooking. Lower case d is for propping your eyelids open whilst you continue through this article. There are some out there in this world that might suggest that the sole intended use of D is denouncing the positives of a fellow they consider a ‘Dunce’. Fuck these folk. It’s not meant for nastiness; it’s a for slicing herbs.
As for capital E, you can do as I do and either comb your hair (which, to be honest, I don’t do) or simply use it (as I do with a brush or, even better a cat) to scratch your back. Would it make an ‘EEEeee!’ based sound as you scratched back and forth with it? Probably not, because that’s silly.
A lower case f always appears to me (largely when hand written) as though one should be able to play music with it, as though it is to be strummed by a pale lady in a classically classless restaurant. It also looks it should make a longer sound than “fuh”. A melodic and elongated “fuh” – that’s what I’m trying to get across to you Dear Reader. Meanwhile the F’s capital is best dressed in pink and looking swollen like a proud marshmallow. Capital Fs always seem swollen. Shame but everyone’s got to be good at something; even letters, and capital Fs are absolutely top notch at swelling.
Both the capital G and lower case g looks like a hip place to hang out, either by reclining in the Capital whilst hunched over a chessboard (coz how hunched you are determines your passion for the game of chess. It’s all in the back) whilst the dangling tail of the g looks a fine locale for a dandy to hang about; somewhere suitably comfortable and dangerous…something adults wouldn’t approve of.
H is the contrary to the Gs, both lower and capital, as it seems the place that a responsible father would purchase to ensure his family lived in a secure home with a staunch roof. Both h and H appear to me as though they should been surrounded by a tidy little garden and neat lawn. There’s no doubt that H and h are the most financially responsible letters of the alphabet.
‘I’ looks bloody lethal, just a sharp jut of a letter, careful not to wave it about otherwise one might take another’s eye out with an I. And that’s weird. Lower case I seems as though someone examined the capital and thought…”Needs more dot” like a child proof version of the deadly I; welcome to i.
It would appear I’ve written alternative uses for letter all the way up to I.
And it’s been a pleasure, though I swear I’ll never do it again, no matter how kooky I’m feeling.
Although I would like to add for the record that I think lower case q is an unceasingly flirtatious letter and i wish it’d stop looking at me like that.
And a capital Z is an extraordinarily uncomfortable sleeping position, though it does sum up the journey via the finality of things, such as this twenty minute article, what with its zig-zagging nature, despite being in alphabetical order.
I’ve gone and gotten an urge to bulk up and bulk out lately.
Perhaps I’ve been standing too near the mountains. The show-off “look-at-my-snow-tufted-peaks” mountains. Those “ooh-I-bet-you-wish-you-were-as-riddled-with-goats-as-I-am”mountains. Mountains with an entourage of Sherpas playing fifes in their immovable wake.
Maybe I’ve been too long in the too near mountains, but that’s New Zealand for you…and for me. Still better than the old Zealand.
Perhaps it’s not ‘Zea-land’, but rather instead ‘Zeal-and…’; thereby leaving you with fact that Kiwis are espousers of zeal and…whatever else you’d like to add. It’s pleasant when national identity is a matter of, first, enthusiasm and, second, whatever else you’d like to add.
Like laziness. One could be be enthusiastic and then lazy, 100% dedicated push towards not really being bothered about it. Enthused lethargy.
Not that I’m saying Kiwis are vehement recliners, because that seems a tad racist and if I’m going to be racist I’m going to save it up for a good one (brace yourselves…Scandinavians).
Scandinavia…that’s another common hangout for mountains; the sort of mountains that once did terrible things to handmaidens or gave birth to longboats, or other ancient Scandinavian strangeness.
But to be like a mountain; I’ll give it a go.
I’m beginning with lifting some heavy shit, but not actual weights.
I’m going to improvise variously, such as by lifting a shipwreck’s timber or a conveniently proximate boulder.
However, best place to find a new heavy thing for up-and-downing is a farm. Sure, armfuls of bundled hay and discipline-inducing muck for shovelling, but mainly livestock, for the best things to lift for applicable strength are things that wiggle, and wriggle is rampant in the farmyard.
For there lay the beasts that have the ancient instinct of not-knowing what being lifted up is, but know in their gut they must not allow it to happen to them by any and all means deemed appropriate at the time of departure from the ground. It should be one of those situations in which the animal is so pissed off that the majority of noises it makes are coming out of its nose. An articulate snort of sorts.
If they don’t wiggle or kick, then it’s one of those animals that naturally climb people, like scenery.
Complimentary though it maybe to be considered vast enough to be a place to spend an afternoon (“I think I’ll have tea at Sam…perhaps the elbow region.”), it doesn’t count as lifting. Even if a horse climbs you; that’s down to the horse, not you.
And when the animals become willing to be lifted…rotate your sheep, sir.
Keep an unwilling yet steady procession of animals a’coming, thoroughly unprepared for being hoisted and lunged at the sky as though eager contrary proof against the cloud’s accusing suggestion that you don’t have any sheep to hand.
And the method works! My biceps nowadays…they’re why animals think of me as scenery, like a valley.
You know when the show-off body builders kiss their biceps? Well, I can’t help but do that, because mine are near my lips perpetually, being a bit of a sizeable bother to be honest.
My biceps are so large; they’re near. Near the dog, near the hat stand, near the computer, my wife complains when my biceps get in her light whilst she reads…and her soup.
More importantly…Forearms. You’ll want nice manly firearms, naturally the kind that make your daughter’s suitors know that you can…just…keep…hammering, in a rugged checkered shirt, whilst your beard looks on sternly and bushily.
How illegal is a hammer anyway?
Hammers give me confidence, less son-in-law strife and and forearms that bulge like I’ve got a problem.
Bulging is either a sign of the absurdly healthy (healthy to the point of arousal) or desperately done-for. And I’m the former.
You don’t even need nails, though some earplugs to hand and ear might be advisable. And then, thoroughly deaf, you can show the ground why you live on top of it. Make it pay for abandoning those sheep and other livestock to your lofty ambitions of cloud collisions.
Hammer, mallet, axe; all these are tremendous for the forearms and greatly decreases the proximity of those you want, increases the distance of those you don’t want, and adjusts the altitude at which you prefer your sheep to be.
I say sheep, but there’s nothing more biblical than ‘oxen’ to lift.
When you go ‘oxen’; you’re too-too-much in general terms.
Like as a wedding gift. Once an oxen would have been an ideal wedding gift, sitting patiently as a future grandchild’s inheritance, between the toasters and bed sheets. Now though, that oxen is too-too-much.
‘Biblical’ is a hell of a method of overkill though.
5000 people for dinner and serving just fish and loaves of bread? With some suspiciously watery wine? And then retaliating to a rude comment at the water-wine bar by flooding the Earth? Rounding things off by killing yourself to one of the worst torturous deaths imaginable and then saying to people as they walk back to their seats from the bar: “I’m doing this for you, y’know. How about some applause!? If it’s not to much to ask?! Can’t do its myself obviously, can I?!”
Biblical is one way, but medieval is quite another.
Like chucking down a gauntlet and expected other folk to be suitably insulted by it, thereby picking up the gauntlet prior to you both killing each other’s employees.
If you’re going to take part in that daftness, at least make it a heavy gauntlet.
That’ll do for today’s…whatever this is. I wouldn’t call it advice, as I’m more that chap your teachers and parents warned you about regarding being told to jump off a bridge.
Variety and weight. Every day. Check the farmyard.
Conditions are perfect.
This is the beginning of the end?
The end of the beginning? I think not…
This is the interval, the intermission, in which you can pop out for a tiny tub of ice cream and swiftest of halfs before dashing back, on ringing bell’s command, to the theatre of war in which we all are about to get a front row seat (aka splash zone).
Apocryphal writing certainly is the most enjoyable! Perhaps it because of the confidence of correctness. There’s nothing better than the burden of proof than occasions on which you’ve got some proof.
And when writing about the end of the world; you’re correct.
In so far as it as an eventuality, at least. The end of the world has been about to arrive since the amalgamation of those two other twirling balls of matter in space collided and, in doing so (and with an admirable degree of spinning), created Earth.
The beginning signifies the end.
But at least the end signifies a new beginning, be it terrible or perfect.
This has been the size and shape of things for our species ever since we became self aware and our grandparents died.
Where on Earth did they go? Is being 99 and riddled with as much disease as can be squeezed in and out of a human body any excuse to go all stiff and allow the rats to nibble at you?
It would seem so.
But now we have a different reason to pass away promptly.
Nuclear war is the war of the most privileged people to ever exist. Only the premiers of nations and the wealthiest of individuals can survive the burnt out horror of the post nuke age.
One bomb can be lived with, as can a thousand more. It is the possession of these bombs by two opposing sides that causes the Earth’s mantel to tremble and turn a shade of green (from pre-nuke nerves, as we all have, to the post splash radiation and tremors).
‘People’ are what really spoil nuclear bombs.
Not merely owing to being the species with the necessary articulation of fingers to be able to raise the middle one in rudeness and then push down on that now infamous yet never seen big red button.
We also spoil them because of the reaction we have to them; all that ghastly melting business, and the smell we give off. Fireman supposedly dislike pork products owing to the similar stench humans waft from within as they burn. I can’t imagine the smell of the atomic bacon we’d whiff off in the fallout age.
Most of the world doesn’t have the means to protect their individual selves from the day to day turbulence of life on Earth; we can’t afford the sheet metal, concrete and luxury of height. Tsunamis and volcanoes wreak as much devastation for the modern Italian as it did for the Romans.
Nuclear war is a pastime of the privileged; those in command of prime real estate bunker at a fashionable depth of 2 miles below sea level with canned caviar to last them till their own stiffness sets in and they can find themselves conveniently pre-buried.
A war of the 0.0001% and New Zealand; wealth and geography, social position and distance from ground-zero.
I used to be a fan of Mutually Assured Destruction.
I believed that those who rose to positions of power had taken a route of hard effort over many years all whilst inspired by the ambition that drives those easily lured by the mix of power and comfort that wealth and politics brings.
These days (oh ‘these days’ aren’t what they used to be), I find myself not trusting the politicians.
A stupid comment perhaps, but my trust in politicians used to be in their ubiquitous self-preservation. This is harder to witness than ever.
North Korea is one thing, but paired stubbornly with Donald Trump…we only know what we don’t know and we don’t know what the fucks going to occur.
Two megalomaniacs, two walking (albeit one with severe gout and one with several solid gold sticks of his own choosing up his arse) definitions of megalomania, in contest. Both with the capability and, potentially, the will to ruin life for all others so long as we can all finally agree that HE is the BEST person.
We are in a popularity contest for ‘Best Person’.
Both knows he is the best person, both are in contrary opinion of the other.
What is unique here is that both would undoubtedly love to be the other.
Kim Jong-un would love to live in America, in palaces suffering from an architect with Midas’ Touch, and the thrill of eating nothing but Emmentile cheese and watching US films all day, smoking and widening; isn’t he just great…
Trump on the other hand would kill (obviously…) to lead a rogue nation in which national edict was to praise him as a god, have every wish granted to him on pain of death, and be able to watch parade after parade of high footed stamp-down marches all in honour of how smashing he is; isn’t he just great…
And these two are locking their squelchy and floppy horns together in a deadly contest of grotesque will and self importance.
The Royal ‘We’ (and all other ‘we’s come to that) are the battle field.
Here’s a transcript of a recent telephone chat between the two Dickheads of State…
Trump: “Do what we want or we’ll kill everyone on earth!”
Kim Jong-un: “Yeah? Just try it Mr; and WE’LL kill everyone on earth!”
Trump: “Aside from you and me of course…”
Kim Jong-Un: “Naturally.”
Because, of course, there’s no chance either of them will die in this nuclear exchange.
Bunkers are the Versailles of the future.
They could turn their keys and introduce a far more proletariatless existence.
Of course, it’ll be an existence of easily imaginable torment and toil.
Proletariat grow potatoes and beef, proletariat guard you whilst you sleep, proletariat lift the heavy goods and hurt their backs, and the wars of the world are fought and died by them, their parents and their children.
Inherent wretchedness made more tolerable via good wifi.
This being as this is being, it by no means infers that the proletariat are about to start being thought and cared for by their nuclear-proof Dickheads of State. Nor are these wretched about to demand their rightful lot.
I have no faith that they shall.
For this brave new world encourages you to stay the fuck in, sit the fuck down and eat, smoke, drink, breed, diminish and die after allotted working hours. You deserve to be distracted from the political process by the noble deeds of Saturday night television, and it about time you treated yourself to some diabetes-on-toast.
We’re just going to keep rolling forward, like a fat man trying to emerge from a sleeping bag (I could poeticise with such words as “slumber” and “dream touched dozing” but “fat man trying to emerge from a sleeping bag” works better) until the leaders are heroes.
Because ‘these days’ are what ‘these days’ used to be, but I have one hope.
I hope these men realise the horrendous enormity of what might be about to occur.
For if they push the button of infamous bigness and redness…they might never enjoy a drop of finest cognac again, for who would brew it?
An extremely well-done steak of prime male beef (I’m sure they’ll only eat males because even dinnertime’s a contest with what’s on the plate) won’t be available…for who’d raise, slaughter, cook and serve it?
After a hard day’s dictating…you want to come home to the finest things in life, and you can’t have that without the more unfortunate specimens in life…like you.
So, in theory, I suppose we’re saving the world, so long as Donald and Kim realise this.
And I sincerely hope they haven’t stockpiled canned caviar and crates of Hennessy; those Bunker Kings.
Here’s hoping to see you underground,