Why It Matters If Shakespeare Was Gay

Posted: November 30, 2014 | Author: | Filed under: Uncategorized | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

To begin; good day to all those people out there that hoped to begin reading this to find an article spouting hateful ignorance. Apologies for my lack of consideration here- maybe I should have been a little weaker as I grew up. Maybe my parents should have been wankers to placate you.

“Wankers to placate”- welcome to samsywoodsy.com- the home of very, very really good writing.

As for why it matters if Shakespeare was gay, the answer is twofold.

Firstly, we are extremely fortunate.

Shakespeare lived in a time when homosexuality was lethal.

A ‘cure’ for the condition would have been seen appropriate if the subject were murdered so as to cleanse the rest of the population.

Had his supposed homosexuality been discovered- he would have summarily and excruciatingly murdered by the state and his neighbours, whilst his works would have been as likely to have been recalled as our contemporary equivalent of Jimmy Saville programming being aired.

If William Shakespeare was gay; he was fortunate to survive the 17th Century with as many limbs or as little pain as he did.

Though likely he would have been burned for his ‘crimes’, and his poems, plays, sonnets and even correspondence would have been just as likely to live on as if they were wrapped in a parcel atop the burning pile at his feet.

Therefore, if William Shakespeare was homosexual then we, as the ever grateful audience, must be thankful that we have what we have- it may have been maliciously lost.

The second importance of the suggestion that Shakespeare was gay is as follows.

It matters if William Shakespeare was gay, if it mattered to William Shakespeare.

This is to say: as it may have been an inspiration for what must have been an already inspired soul.

His appreciation of love, hate, brotherhood, hate, death, womanhood and manhood, not to mention unrequited love, would have been exacerbated by the fact that he was living in a time when the world accused him of evil and his nature plead him to be himself- and yet he could not.

Perhaps Shakespeare found love, and was compelled to keep it secret, or perhaps the love was for another man with whom he could not bring himself to confess of his love to. The guys wore tights all the time back then- shapely legs were on display and erections were ridiculous to attempt to hide- unless you pretended it was some kind of prop.

Shakespeare may have been an entirely different subject for us had he been heterosexual. Perhaps he would have been dull, uninterested in the world and uninspiring in prose.

That being said- I find no suggestion that he may have been homosexual, but perhaps that is a natural thing.

Why should I be able to?

Shakespeare, of men, loved to write about the bright young things.

Take Prince Hamlet. Clever, upper-class, great sense of humour but…what can I say; Norway.

Then, let us examine Lysander and Demetrius of A Midsummer Night’s Dream fame.

Demetrius. A man of formal haircut with some sort of sensible-recommended birth to his name, likely military and with starch in his shirt collar, his thin moustache, and his wallet. Altogether a starchy male. Demetrius would agree with the statement: “Sit up straight and you have a better life”. I told that to a child once. I was only partly right.

Then you have Lysander. Likely confused yet politely grinning, with a Hugh Grant ‘Flopsy’ of a hairstyle (which his mother always SO adored) and, if he is wearing something, it is probably all of it undone.

Summarising, as I tend to towards the end, if Shakespeare was gay then it matters as follows.

If it mattered to him; it matters. As an inspiration for his talent and for forging his soul into what seems as though otherworldly appreciation of love, hate, fear, brotherhood, friendship and all other grand components of all tales- in a time when homosexuality was lethal.

Secondarily, if Shakespeare was gay, then we are extremely lucky to have his work survive, for had is nature been discovered then he would not have lived to astound us via quill; his words and thoughts would not have survived the 17th century.

This is why it matter if Shakespeare was gay; because it may have made him who he was and we love the man and his work at least to the fairly moderate degree of hoping he lived long-enough to avoid execution.

A fairly reasonable level of love in my opinion.

Bravo.

Sam.

The Christmas Day Truce is OURS and the Sainsbury’s Forgery

Posted: November 18, 2014 | Author: | Filed under: Uncategorized | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

This November of 2014, in the usual early run-up to the Christmas advertising frenzy (and I do mean ‘frenzy’- this term referring to the rushed absurdity prevalent in promoting the push), there have been the regular additions to the regrettable art form.

These have included the rather sublime idea of inserting a penguin into the scheme of things- meaning that sheer adorability is prevailing as it should not (when the panda’s gone- you really won’t care compared to the loss of your hair, or democracy). Thank you John Lewis.

Another has been the suggestion of ‘Christmas Dinner Tables Across The Nation’- with a cleverly-cut panning shot along several dinner tables- suggesting that Christmas is a time to be around the dinner table eating ‘our’ products with the people you care about, and that if you’re not– then something’s very wrong with you as you’re not part of our advert. Thank you Aldi.

Then Sainsbury’s did something for which I hate them.

And let’s not confuse ourselves with some minor definition, as though I find their actions really rather awkward for me to watch, possibly even to the point of annoyance.

I refer to hate of the romantic kind. I now detest the supermarket brand with a power inconceivable to those persons without any serious genital damage. After another fashion- I hate Sainsbury’s as though they sort to make profit from tales of the actions of my terribly-late ancestors.

The Christmas Day Truce- 1914

On the 24th of December, 1914, a century ago this year, there was a tragically temporary and soul-shakingly inspiring truce between the war-devastated men of Germany, France and Britain for several hours.

The Christmas Day Truce, as it came to be known, began as the realisation of the time of year dawned upon the entrenched soldiers in some field in northern France.

Hearing the German troops singing, the soldiers of all sides came to know that though different words were being sung in strange accents, they were in fact being sung to a comfortingly familiar tune.

There was a great deal of carolling across No Man’s Land on this day.

Time passed, and eventually a German soldier clambered from his hole in the ground, to stand tall as though as natural a thing as breathing-in deeply on a beautiful day, and began calling to the opposing side.

Startling courage, and utterly heart-breaking, when considering the likelihood of murder in the process.

The French and British slowly climbed from their own hellish holes, to stand as men in greeting a friendly neighbour they’d been sharing the same few square meters of land with for the past many weeks.

What followed was a mass evacuation of all trenches, as the soldiers walked through No Man’s Land, to meet their brethren on Christmas Day. The beginning few minutes of awkward niceties gave way to utter unity between all men there, with football being played (score unknown to us and probably debated by those in the know), barbers attending to all customers- no matter the language of their home, and exchanges of gifts, laughter and honest thoughts of the war that each nation’s generals would have ordered execution upon those “stirring up trouble”.

It was fear of this latter aspect of the day, as well as a grotesque concern that the men would not fit back to fighting well following such jovial meetings as football and spirits in No Man’s Land.

Therefore, as the light began to fail, troops from both sides were ordered to return to their trenches; the Truce was over.

Soon after, those troops involved in the Truce were replaced with battle-ready troops fiercely instilled hatred for their opposing nation’s mankind.

The war continued. Several years, and several million deaths down the cold and lonely road, the war came to an end.

The Truce of Christmas Day in 1914, however, was not forgotten.

It was remembered, as it is to this day, as a shining definition of humanity.

The men on that day made a choice, in the midst of horror, chaos and the ugly-probability that your most proximate friend would suddenly explode, to disobey orders and to lay down their arms, shake hands, exchange pleasantries and play football.

Haircuts and fears of not returning home. Madness of war was put aside by some outstandingly courageous men, so as to demonstrate unity as a species.

Note also that this was no event of Christianity ‘poking’ through the fog. This was humanity arching over No Man’s Land, certainly singing Christian hymns, but uniting over circumstance and shared traditions of their homes and their current circumstance across the continent.

They united in hope against our thus-far perpetual insanity of leaders in war, and that is not forgotten.

And this…THIS…is where Sainsbury’s needs to fuck off and read a book.

The Sainsbury’s Foul Forgery

The Sainsbury’s Christmas advert shows handsome, clean and apparently un-embattled men missing their loved ones at home, whilst they sit in a fairly well-kept trench.

One of them opens a care package from home to find a photograph of his best girl back home, and a fucking huge bar of SAINSBURY’s chocolate.

He smiles this tedious little Mona Lisa smile to demonstrate that he’s handsome and just like you…you cute little consumer you.

The hymns are then sung, followed by a BRITISH troop emerging from the trench first, to wish a Merry Christmas to the Germans.

Note, just fucking-well note, that in the Sainsbury’s forgery it is a British soldier to emerge first from the trench. This is historically inaccurate, but having a German being brave and leading the noble way probably wouldn’t have sold so well.

Nor would having the French present either, as no French are apparent throughout.

I feel that either Sainsbury’s doesn’t do business in Germany and France, or that this advert simply won’t be aired there.

From here on the handshaking is shown, the barber giving shaves is displayed, as is the famous game of football.

The day, as in history, comes to an end, and the two sides go back to their holes in in the ground.

A German soldier climbs back down his trench ladder and places his hands in his pocket. In there he finds a fucking huge bar of SAINSBURY’s chocolate.

Then something appears on the screen.

It is a logo.

It is a brand logo.

It says…SAINSBURY’S. #Christmasisforsharing

………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………Eeew.

EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEWWWWWWWWWWWWWW.

The revulsion was hard to fight through as I made efforts to vocalise my anger.

Branding The Christmas Truce by Sainsbury’s

In this advertisement Sainsbury’s have taken an astonishing example of humanity in history, in which men laid down their arms to shake hands, have haircuts and play football in the midst of the horror and chaos of war, and Sainsbury’s have smeared their logo over it- claiming this historical event for their own and inserting their own definition of the event over the top.

The meaning of the Christmas Day Truce, in the eyes of Sainsbury’s is: “Buy our shit. We’ve just played a touching piece of historically inaccurate footage prior to our brand name…so buy our shit.

Taking a truly inspiring historical event and smashing their brand name into it is the worst advertising I can think of. Those men that laid down arms to shake hands and play football that day, to later live or die, have been USED by Sainsbury’s to sell turkeys.

Can you think of a time when a company has perpetrated a lowlier act?

This is typical Association Advertising- the motion of airing a piece of footage, often totally un-relatable to the company paying for it, and then ramming a brand/product name on the end of it in the hope that the viewer will remember the name whilst enjoying the emotion instigated by the footage.

This is weak, uncreative, and in this case- thievery.

The Charity Effect- The Buying Of A License To Sell

There are those in favour of the advert.

There are those that feel that since Sainsbury’s are donating a portion of their Christmas profits to a charity dedicated to serving those suffering from the effects of war, that this is all therefore tolerable and decent.

The monetary amount donated to charity is not comparable to the amount of money Sainsbury’s will be making this Christmas.

The effect of the money donated is that Sainsbury’s have bought a licence to brand the historic event with their own name and to play with the facts and the heart of the tale in favour of selling their own Christmas products.

Sainsbury’s here are flogging the cuteness of the humanity out of the Truce so as to flog products. Flogging to flog, as it were.

If Sainsbury’s were donating money purely for the sake of commemorating the Truce and donating money to charity, then they wouldn’t put their brand name on it.

A beautiful event in history has been stolen to sell Christmas products.

It is in no way respecting the event- it’s about nothing but profit- otherwise they WOULD NOT HAVE DONE IT.

Sainsbury’s wouldn’t hashtag #christmasissharing, they wouldn’t put their name in the commercial and they wouldn’t alter historical facts for any reason other than to use the event for profit.

“The Christmas Day Truce- brought to you by Sainsbury’s two for one Christmas Crackers and Party Food.” Eeeew.

This is nothing but the most cheap and lowly thievery of an inspirational event that belonged to all of us…and still does.

From Here Onward

Now, I am extremely hurt by Sainsbury’s- but that is irrelevant.

I do not want that advert banned, nor do I wish to receive an apology from Sainsbury’s supermarkets.

However, I do feel that due is an apology to those simple men whose actions prior to their deaths have inspired people around the world for 100 years, and whose deaths Sainsbury’s have used to encourage greed and profit.

I will no longer enter a Sainsbury’s as I can Taste the Difference in morals here and there is a distinct muddiness that goes even deeper than that on the boots of the boys in their holes.

All that is left is to remember that the Christmas Day Truce is ours- being as it is a beautiful example of dignified humanity that must be taught to all. No generation must suffer to go without this essential demonstration of unity in the face of dictated madness.

And no company can claim what belongs to us all.

The Christmas Day Truce is OURS. And we will never forget it.

Sam

How to Use a Pumpkin Instead of Latin.

Posted: October 26, 2014 | Author: | Filed under: Uncategorized | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Some say that “these days” (urgh) teenagers are a waste of life- a blotch of folk in the human tapestry- a clumsily-bred generation that do not know how to work hard and are satisfied with sitting-down as a pastime.

I can’t disagree, the only difference between myself and the elderly complainers here being that I’m not confused by new things.

In previous generations, the dead language of Latin was forced onto the young minds of school children who were to listen, repeat and bloody-well learn it if they didn’t want to receive the birch to the palm or buttocks. I feel…I’d have to choose the buttocks.

I suggest that the lack of option in having to endure this unpleasant practise of useless Latin, with no reason other than the fact that it built character, may have actually…built character. I’m not about the suggest that the benefits of Latin were the architects here, but rather the fact that no option but to proceed with the boring and inapplicable did.

Whether there is a decline in constitution over the past few decades or not, I recommend that those amongst us with the necessary true grit with which to achieve a little personal ambition…do it.

It must be easier whilst the competition is watching a dog do what it’s told. Think of it as reacting before the rest of the population was clever; their choice being not only one of lack-luster experience, but also favourable stupidity in the view of those looking to achieve.

As long as reality television exists; intelligent folk with be paid more than their dull neighbour.

I have found some personal reasons for living that I am particularly fond of. I am, however, unfortunately tragic in my outgoings owing to repeated attacks of that well-known opponent to progress (yet loving ally to sofas) known as procrastination.

Now whilst I might, should such a furry-occasion arise, be able shrug-off a tiger bite to the ready-to-shrug shoulder, it does not mean that I’m going to have the personal fortitude to keep retrieving that anti-tiger spray from my bundle as long as I can find something slightly less productive to do. Like brushing my hair. Or having a good hard think. Or watching that tiger get fascinatingly near.

Perhaps this is owing to my upbringing. I was only hit once, in a vicious attack by my father with a rolled-up copy of The Radio Times, which really did not hurt but the message was well conveyed. As it turns out, he wanted me to stop talking. The fact that he was wearing a kimono at the time made the incident doubly amusing, if only with a decade of hindsight to aid my guffaws.  My parents were and still are liberals in kimonos. They’re why I wear jumpers and they’re why I know who Desmond Morris is.

Oh…the middle-class…

I have wanted to find something to do that is hard, like the old days of hard Latin- for the sake of doing something monotonous and tough, mostly pointless, save for the strength gained from regularly doing something un-enjoyed.

So, I began to carry a pumpkin around with me. It’s fairly weighty, is a great conversation starter, can be applied to various situations (footstool, medicine ball and a humorous fake-head) and makes me stand out. And it has its restrictions; being that I have to place it done carefully before I vault whatever I seek to vault (I’m one of nature’s vaulters).

In the vein of making a difference, I think I’ve found a tactic for tackling obesity (a term I love if imagined to be happening physically. Picture those Greys on the television speaking with grandfather-clock sternness about the need to “tackle obesity” as though they have an urgent urge to knock the tubby to the ground and proceed to mount).

As a personal and, perhaps therefore, short-lived campaign to integrate my own idiosyncrasies with the sheer suggestion that I’ve had a tough-time at some point, I went about carrying a pumpkin with me whenever I went hither. And sometimes thither. Usually both.

‘Usually both’ was the point of it in entirety, as by injection some discipline into my life (via such means as a powerful wife that would offer me and my pumpkin no quarter to be left sitting, as well as colleagues at my place of work who are undoubtedly ‘wifey’ according to many pros and cons) might accomplish something a little further than my list up-till-now. Till now, the best of me had been realising that there’s no shame in scratching yourself with what you’re eating.

Two days back and forth I made the experiment last, with a somewhat weary arm and a multitude of gazes in the street, before I finally lay her down (leave me with an object for long enough and I’ll give it an appropriate gender for my ambitions) upon the 7th stair down of the flight in my house.

Then, the weekend began, and I somewhat ended. Responsibility and procrastination likely grin to one another, as one departs via the window and the other slams it behind them on entry. The pumpkin was ignored for the following two days, whilst I slept and ate- at times enjoying becoming confused. Then push-ups. Followed by more confusion. Pleasant.

The little black hole, which I had two days earlier considered something like a beauty-spot for her, had not merely ‘widened’ but… ‘gapened’, and this was sad. The pumpkin had wept.

This was saddening because by the evening of the Sunday, as I made my way downstairs to shine my shoes (I’m a good boy)- I could smell pumpkin in a way that I never had, nor had ever yearned to, before.

Fishy.

Fishy…to the point of anger.

The black-hole beauty spot, some form of puncture I was neglectfully ignorant of and likely responsible for, had leaked and streamed down her side and down, down, down the stairs of my home.

Fishy is a smell pleasant only when realising your nose finally works once again, after all these years. My nose had been operating well within its regular confines of appropriate sniffing, and so the fishy smell was both unwelcome and overly-pungent.

Of course, this was not actual fish- rather the stench of a penetrated vegetable rotting on the stairs.

As I said earlier: “Fishy to the point of anger”…and so I took it out the back of my house and taught her a damn good lesson.

With all my might, which is considerable when versus a pumpkin, I threw her (who was hurriedly returned to ‘it’) against the brick wall with a squelched thud so satisfying that I was tempted to purchase another pumpkin.

And here, sublimely, I was reminded of my childhood. A bag of shabby old golf clubs and a bushel of broad green apples.

The squelchy thud brought it all back.

My father, brother and I (and more lately my friends and lovers) have, with three-wood, baseball bat and at least 1 sword, brought a distinct lack of mercy to various fresh and rotting fruit over the past 17 years.

There is an excitement in the splash and spray of the fruit, as well as a taste to the debris which can delight or repulse you, good sportsmen or not.

The weapon becomes sticky, as do your hair, glasses and more-proximate friends. For a while, you are all flavoured. My preference is apple. Or pineapple.

Plus it spreads seeds in a natural, if irregular, way. My natural, if irregular, way.

Good exercise too, and- as again previously stated: the exhilaration is tremendous to the point of this…

You don’t want a cake.

Now then, now then, now then…here we are in a position where you are pumping your heart, your are eating a literal spray of fruit (albeit of varying freshness) and…you have the idea of burgers by far removed as a thing to eat as it has been violently usurped by being ‘a thing to do’.

So my suggestion is this:

  1. Take your cuisine-vice and then make your way to either a field or some disused location.
  2. Along with this bring a bat of some form- I recommend baseball.
  3. A music player of any kind, for this shall make it all the more jolly, though you may find yourself jolly enough.
  4. Be it pie, burger or chocolate cake, toss it high into the area, whilst your brethren stand back, and SMACK THE SHIT OUT OF IT WITH A BASEBALL BAT.
  5. Retrieve your breath. Remove remnants from your hair. Ensure your friends are coping with this well.
  6. Do it again.
  7. Enjoy the sensation of your heart in full motion and of cake, the now repugnant luxury of wasters, being far from your mind, mouth, stomach and baseball bat.

What you have there is a free tactic to override the enjoyment of eating unhealthy foods with the ludicrously good-feeling of beating it to smithereens.

With your friends and family it is a tremendous movement and celebration of not-eating-food together. You’ll think to yourself: “Damn I’m hungry, but it’s going to be so good when I go whackamamy with the chocolate pie! Gosh! Just gosh!”

And my conclusion is therefore that by the tough-time of carrying a punctured pumpkin to the point of it weeping juice upon my stairs, the vengeance distributed against a wall, and a memory recalled from a distant creative childhood…I have detailed an extraordinary exercise and weight-loss programme that is free for all.

There, is how to use a pumpkin instead of Latin.

Smooch,

Sam

The Case for a Lovely Dictatorship

Posted: September 30, 2014 | Author: | Filed under: Uncategorized | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

I think I’d make a lovely dictator.

It’s all in the elbow and secret police.

Beautifully folded arms and brutality in the case of people not celebrating your birthday and, congratulations, you’ve won.

So, I’ve written on the subject of fascism before (https://samsywoodsy.com/2012/12/13/im-a-nice-guy-but-i-cant-deny-the-fascist-in-me/) and this time I’ve got some evidence. The burden of proof is a wonderful thing when you have some.

Looking through annuls (as well as the anals…HA!) of history I’ve discovered the good deeds of dictators.

Naturally, mostly there is some an over-whelming degree of horror and unenlightened hatred from a few bullish men that feared losing power…but, my word, could they get things done…

Essentially- picture King Kong telling the trains to run on time. That train would arrive smiling because it was told to, with a faint whiff of not-big-enough banana just as you are ready to board for your morning commute into New York- avoiding the congested area around of the Empire State building owing to some sort of Great Ape in a uniform encouraging trains around from on high.

Picture this, and then picture your dead children, and you kind of get the idea as to why dictators can get things done.

Evil.

Evil is a method perpetrated against others to ensure fear, and that fear is then used to sustain a very physical grip over the inhabitants of a state. As one famous US general once put it: “Get ‘em by the balls and the hearts and minds will follow”.

This is the method- often…and fuck it.

However, this is not the only method- for we also have Julius Caesar, Dictator with a capital ‘D’ because that was his actual role of office, and it suited him wonderfully.

Although Julius certainly had people killed; it was his politics (and wealth) that brought him the position of power in Rome, and the position giving to other by which to argue lay purely in how numerous you were in a knife fight. Act alone? Commiserations. 40 of you? Good for you- you’ve just done some ‘disposing’, not an easy thing to do and an awful stain to get out of your toga.

See Franklin Delano Roosevelt!

See his apparent wonderfulness, and forget-you-not that he ensured that whatever he sought to enact would become so by creating for himself: ‘Emergency Powers’.

FDR obtained his immense powers whilst the US was in the proverbial ‘shits’ (and…possibly literal…possibly- I expect that shit was a major aspect for someone in the depression era) of a grand-old, we-don’t-have-them-like-we-used-to depression…where the dungarees were dusty, the dust was the dinner, the dinner was the dog and there was nothing for dinner. Where’s the dog? In the dust. Yummy.

FDR created a great deal of benefits to the unemployed working-man that were necessary to bring the US out of the dark-depths of the depression, prior to the outbreak of WW2. And when that world conflict finally had itself a Pearl Harbour- things really got easy for FDR.

However…what matters here is that he was a nice guy.

Some might argue that he indulged in numerous and constant affairs whilst in office and whilst in wedlock to his (or rather: the nation’s) First Lady Eleanor…but she indulged right back at him. Indeed they would both appear to be rather good at indulging in the genitals of their chosen sexual partners. A gift for the extra-marital indulgences also seems to have served them well, whilst their actual marriage was rather more of a superb working partnership as opposed to a matter of the boring-old ‘love no other’ horse-tripe that so infuriates those more well libido-ed amongst us.

Maybe it meant they were more in-tune with their feelings following the ‘training’ of adultery.

“Once I was aware that I was feeling horny, upon which I acted. Another time, Pearl Harbour has Japan happen to it and I knew, as I did before, that I must fuck shit up…one…more…time”

He never said that, but I said it once whilst pretending to be him. Does this count? No, it does not.

They were good people.

And he was a great man.

Wonderful at affairs: foreign, domestic and extramarital.

A lovely dictator.

In his shoes- could you ask for more? Aside from the paralytic illness obviously (I hear he achieved that illness by falling off a boat. Paralysed and wet…never again).

Then there was all he achieved from the beginning of his Emergency Powers- such as working towards what would become the United Nations and a universal declaration of human rights. It took a dictator to get that done.

Prime Minister Harold Wilson, a man that acted upon the good council of academics and researchers to bring about the litigious roots for the legalisation of homosexuality 1965.

His actions, though tremendously unpopular in a land when one feared a gay man as something akin to anything that was a predator with an erection- bizarre and an enemy, brought us to where we are now, a place in history where homosexuality is celebrated as a joy and regarded by many (thankfully the younger of our over-crowded generations) as a social norm.

Who gives a fuck if the elderly want to maintain a world to their liking? Even if they gave a great deal during their lifetime- that is no entitlement to dissuading good people from harmless actions. Besides, a popular component of the meaning of life is: leave where you arrived a little more cheerful than how you found it. And stop being such a cunt.

Prime Minister Harold Wilson may or may not have harboured his own fearful grudge against his homosexual neighbour, he may have secretly yearned to bring sexual liberation to the masses that was frowned upon in the backbench of the Houses, but either way- he acted upon the informed and considered council of his chosen band of minds to ensure that what was right occurred.

At the time he was seen to be committing his nation to a moral danger, even in the sixties that swung, and it took a little time and far too much sadness to bring us about to where we are now. Fairly gay.

Before I select my final example of dictator-done-decent, I will quickly bring up that old chestnut of how Hitler’s military scientists did two things.

It is hard, in an article such as this, when on must bring about the sentence of: “And then there’s, you know… Hitler. And I’m sorry about that”.

I really am sorry about that. Not for mentioning Hitler, but for the results of him.

Although I really can’t take much responsibility for the Third Reich, I still feel an overwhelming urge to apologise for what they did. I’m not even blonde- but somehow I feel like I should have done more.

The positive effects of Nazi science today, amongst others, include:

  1. Research into nuclear experimentation, which would go on to be as applicable as we find it today.
  2. The negative effects of smoking.

Hitler’s scientists worked under his orders to discover and improve. Of course, there were other scientists working cold and malicious evils upon patients long-doomed to the Nazi dream, and these have been well documented and appropriately hated.

The effect now, however, is that we are a Nazi-scientist better off in research on smoking, inducing a ‘grand-stop’ of people partaking in the flaming sticks, and it is now seen as an item of ‘lacking’, as opposed to obtaining.

Essentially, smoking isn’t as cool as it used to be, and we have the potential to obliterate the planet as many times as we like until someone says: “Ok…I think they’ve had enough. Lessen up on the nukes”.

I guess it’s a bit of give and take, but at least we don’t have nuclear cigarettes- because those little stick of power would be really popular. Imagine the stains on our teeth.

Smoking is not as cool as it used to be and you have the orders of Dictator Adolf Hitler for that. And nuclear weapons are doing just terrifically.

Siad Barre was the fascist leader of Somalia throughout the 70’s who did some typical, African-leader, I’m-a-bastard, things. Yet forgive me, for there are some acts of his that fought the popular model to please the people and instead did what he felt was right via looking around the world to gain a better view.

Somalia, at the time of 1975 and for a good while of Barre’s reign, was essential a land of Islam and Sharia Law, the burqa being the only choice for women’s fashion and men felt a heavenly-condoned compulsion to carry a large rock in the hopes of seeing a woman doing something adulterous; like being seen.

Siad Barre, a murderer and tyrant, introduced the 1975 Family Law, permitting women to divorce their husband by their own choice, as well as being permitted to an equal share of inheritance from a dead male relative.

This was a good thing to do for women and although I doubt a Muslim woman trying to enact this right would rarely have been allowed out of the cellar, and may have in fact led to a great deal more death-by-gravel perpetrated some sort of religious ‘flock’ of cunts, it was a thing intended to do good, for good.

And it stayed this way for a while. Any trouble? Quash it. That’s right- not even ‘squash’ it, we’re not going to waste that extra lick of the tongue on these dissenter, not when we could be quashing them.

10 Muslim clerics stood in their mosques following the announcement of the Family Law and called for it to be ignored and urged rebellion.

They were all killed.

Not that Siad Barre was a pleasant fellow or anything of the sort. All I’m trying to convey here is this: the good act would have been rebelled upon had it not been for the hands of a dictator working their brutal magic.

And then there’s me…I’m a nice guy, but I can’t deny the fascist in me. Given the chance I wouldn’t permit religion in a nation state, owing to the matter of the millennia of devastation, and when I would be told that this was unjust…I’d hit them with a shoe. I’m a fascist; don’t judge.

Doubtless there would be those demanding several of the UN’s freedoms of speech and religion, brought about by my dictating colleague President Roosevelt, and I would have to impose a stance against this right, and I wouldn’t have to explain why because I’m armed. (In reality, of course, you may find my answer to such a question soon to come. Let’s just say I’ll alarm you to its presence, as well as for the sake of it).

“You’re entitled to your opinion but only here. Elsewhere I’d be following you home and liberating your wife”

I was about to conclude my piece here with the pronouncement encouraging action upon one’s ambitions for the world, and then pro-democracy protests began in Hong Kong (28/09/14). I feel piteous anger for those suffering such a thing as China.

China is a body ravaging its heart for the sake of its brain- a state that learned to eat its feet as fuel to march. Elimination of the of human rights has been remarkably beneficial to productivity- a lesson learnt long ago, at least as far back as realising how a whip can bring about pyramids in Egypt.

And so it is that I must concede the point, which is good, out of sheer good fortune for ourselves: the world is inhabited by folk hoping for much the same as you and I…a happy life with little to fear.

Looking into the faces of the very young protesters of Hong Kong, I see no fear, but a righteous anger and pride that so often swells when the very threat of fear has been laid upon the land’s table and the generation about to encounter it decide, or rather realise, there is no alternative but to stand up to a bully.

So, there, my case for dictatorship falls to the ground, with a self-inflicted bullet to the brain, a pill still fizzing mid-way down the gullet, and the petrol still currently being doused over it. There must be no body.

However, though I am regrettably confident that the actions of the Chinese dissidents (I love that identity- a Chinese dissident will never be out of vogue) will soon be…quashed…I am equally confident that like every other leader, from dictator of Rome to tyrant of 20th century Europe, that which is evil shall fall, to be either gloriously forgotten or solemnly learned from.

Fuck China; it’s really good at oppressing people.

Here’s to democracy in Hong Kong…not that there’s any chance of anyone there actually reading this…

Sam

Hats. An On Again- Off Again Relationship.

Posted: March 15, 2014 | Author: | Filed under: Uncategorized | Tags: , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

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.

Sam.

I’m a nice guy, but I can’t deny the fascist in me.

Posted: December 13, 2012 | Author: | Filed under: Uncategorized | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | 2 Comments

Of course, I don’t actually have a fascist inside me. No. Of course not. If I did then he/she wouldn’t allow me to blog about it.

However, opinion-wise (maybe not ‘-wise’, more…’opinion-esque’) I have to say that fascists always seem to be the way to go for me. Removal of free-will tends to mean that things gets done.

Let’s look at the Nazis. Apart from the war and the moral side of things, they were tremendously successful. Happy families, smart uniform, and a jolly rally every now and then.

Then there’s China. A super-power with little going against it apart from everyone else, yet everyone’s money is very much so in China’s favour. They’re doing rather well these days. China, you may have heard of it? It’s usually Eastwards. Unless you’re Japan…in which case IT’S COMING…

It’s a pleasant change to be able to say that WW2 Germany and China are good examples of anything apart from Ming pottery, black leather, and very, very neat hair, amongst other evil and pointless things, so this shows just how good they were/are at fascism and that’s not something they teach in schools. There’s no ‘Fascism 101′ in which you turn up to class the fuck on time, have your shirt tucked all the way down into your shoes in case it should escape, and do your homework to avoid being blindfolded against the wall and shot whilst your parents are glad to be rid of you, you rebellious little shit. Hmm. Taking a nasty turn with the allegory here. Maybe this is another negative side of fascism. Unpleasant allegories.

But I want to focus on the fact that if any of us become ruler of the world; we would want to run it our way, according to our opinions and abilities. With the world’s resources behind you, the only people against you would be the rest of the world that wants their resources back unless you’re pleasing them, an odd thing to try to do unless you’re ruler of the world.

However, no matter what, someone will be against your way of running things, and here is the crux of the matter. If you were to simply take a leaf out of Nike’s book of slogans and say: “Just Do It”, then maybe, things might get done. And all you need after that is time. And maybe bare in mind that Nike are being really rather rude and insistent. You don’t have to do it if you feel like it, unless of course you’re being told to do it by the local fascist, in which case you’d better remember that they can be pretty determined. And that you’re just a rebellious little shit.

Some people will become freedom fighters and terrorists, and all you have to do is outlast them. Gradually, people will forget that they are under a fascist state and will assume that things are as they should be, and that’s all.

I say, just take power and then fuck ’em. Now I’m prepared to give this a go, but don’t do it if you’re evil, that’d be extremely unfavourable to my game-plan here since people will assume I’m encouraging you. Unless of course you’re a fascist and think I’m being rebellious. You’d better oppress me before I get out of hand.

How would we take power?

Well, normally I’d suggest T-shirts, you walking propaganda you. Wear your political mantra and strut. If people begin to throw things, let it get stained with battle-wear. The red of the Union-Jack represents blood spilt- I hope your new stains will be just as romantic. Otherwise…umbrellas.

Umbrellas, rather than towels, are what I feel Douglas Adams should have recommend all travellers should never be without.

They can be propaganda, they can shield you (unless being it with anything harder than water), they can be brandished– yeah- brandished…before wither being used to fling, strike, thrust, adorably poke and, of course, gesture with. All this, and they are terribly English. The English do wet hair- we do wet-woollen shirts in summertime ponds.

Right. So there you go. Umbrellas and fascism: it’s probably been done, but at least you have something to do now. You fascist.

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